#this chap is very johnny-heavy

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [4]

series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines w.c: 4.2k tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol

You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.

Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.

A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.

“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”

He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.

Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.

“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.

A little like dried blood.

“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.” 

He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”

The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.

“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.

“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”

You nod.

As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.

Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.

Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.

But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.

Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you. 

Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.

Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.

“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.

You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing. 

“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”

 “Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.

It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.

The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them. 

You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.

“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.

“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.

“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”

You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force. 

There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.

“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.

The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.

“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”

The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.

“How are ye, Kari?” 

“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly. 

You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament. 

But still, you admire Kari. 

“And you?” her eyes soften.

“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.

“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.

Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.

They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.

It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.

Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.

He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.

“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.

Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.

“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks. 

“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”

“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.

“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.

“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”

You pause.

“A hunt?”

Johnny nods. 

“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”

Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.

“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.

There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent. 

A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.

You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.

That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.

Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening. 

They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless. 

Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent. 

Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green. 

You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.

You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.

Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.

“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”

“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.

“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.

“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.

Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.

“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”

He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.

An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.

The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in. 

But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.

That would make you the other side of the coin. 

The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.

You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat. 

Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.

An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.

It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?

Hadn't you willed this?

Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.

And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.

They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.

You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving? 

Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you. 

No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.

The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.

You wanted to live, you think. Even then.

A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.

The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.

Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.

What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.

“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.

You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?

“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”

When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.

Provocative.

“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”

He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.

“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”

And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.

“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.

“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.

“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”

“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.

Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.

“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue. 

“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.

He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.

“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.

You’re wet.

“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.

Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.

Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.

“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”

And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.

He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.

“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”

He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–

He stops. 

You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.

“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.

He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.

“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”

You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.

Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.

When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.

Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.

God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?

“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.

And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.

All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy. 

Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.

The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.

“One more,” he grunts.

“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.

You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender. 

Boneless.

You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.

You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.

Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.

“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.

Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.

Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator. 

What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.

Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.

Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.

You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.

You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.

You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.

Dawn breaks.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

05 — THESE THINGS EAT AT YOUR BONES

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3.

<- previous part | next part ->

You were seventeen when you enlisted.

Obviously, you had to lie about your age – just a year off, not a drastic difference. The recruiters wouldn’t care enough to double check, anyways. Anyone willing to join their forces was good enough in their books.

You’d been desperate, desperate for a sense of community, for a home, for something to occupy your time with.

Things hadn’t been easy after your mother had passed.

She’d raised you on her own; having taken you from your father before you could realise what a father was. Said he was a bad man, didn’t deserve an angel like yourself. Sometimes, you wished that you’d known him, or at least had a father figure to look up to.

That was rare, however. Your mother had done a great job in raising you – making sure you had morals and looked out for others. Always had a roof over your head, food made with love in your tummy.

It was only three months prior to your enlistment that she passed.

While you were at school, she was shot and killed in your childhood home. The day you walked through that front door, backpack a hefty weight on your shoulders, and saw her wide-eyed corpse on the living room carpet, was the day that a piece of you died.

That night, with the cool fabric of the paramedic’s shock blanket around your frame, you looked up what happens after you die with shaky, blood-stained hands. A question you hadn’t had to consider. Not until then.

The police wrote down your stilted words in their government-issued notepads, attempts of sympathy on their faces.

All you could focus on was the tap tap tap of your foot against the carpet, the chewed up flesh of your inner cheek, and the burning of your eyes.

You had, thankfully, managed a choked up explanation of what you’d seen.

“I came home. From school. She was just. There. On the carpet. Her eyes were open,” you managed to whisper, eyes remaining in your lap.

“How did you feel when you saw her?” The officer asked.

You had half the mind to ask him that very same question. You didn’t, of course.

“I felt that she deserved a better death than this. Sir.”

The time after that passed in quick, blurry memories. A hand on your shoulder here, a trauma nurse there, all the while your mind could only supply you with the image of the one person you had. Gone.

“Here.”

You’d looked up with bloodshot eyes and chapped lips. The man looked to be in his late forties, with greying hair and saggy features. In his hands was a steaming cup of tea – extended towards you. With trembling fingers, you took it from the man.

“Thank you,” you’d murmured, before blowing across the liquid with a soft breath. It rippled with the flowing air, tea leaves simmering on the bottom. If you looked hard enough, you could make out a tree.

“Is it alright if I join you?” He asked, gesturing to the chair in front of you. You nodded, and he moved to get comfortable in his seat, eyes remaining on you. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

That was, funnily enough, the first time you’d heard those words said to you. 

“I’m Herschel Shepherd,” the man supplied, with a small, comforting smile. He extended a weathered hand to you, and after a moment, you accepted it with a light shake. “I think I might know who’s responsible for your mother’s death.”

You swallowed. “What? Are you,” you worked your heavy tongue, “Are you in the FBI?”

He loosed a hearty chuckle at that, before shaking his head. “No, kid. I’m a bit higher up than that.”

You didn’t have it in you to push. Not then, not with the smell of blood a consistent rot in your nose. You just nodded, accepting that explanation, squeezing your hands together for comfort.

“There’s been some rumours,” Shepherd leaned his elbows against his knees, lowering himself to meet you at eye level. “Of a secret organisation, searching and killing those affiliated with the army. Especially those who served, and then ran.”

Your brows furrowed, mouth opening and closing around nothing. “What does this have to do. With anything – my mum, she wasn’t –”

“She was, kid,” Shepherd interrupted with a raised hand. “She was a renowned Lieutenant. Served for ten years.”

Tap tap tap, your foot goes.

“She would’ve told me,” you managed out, throat choking up and nostrils flaring. “She wouldn’t have hid that from me. I’d know. You’re lying.”

“She didn’t tell you to keep you safe,” he urged, resting his hand on your bouncing knee in comfort. “But… This is more than just her. This is an attack on our country, on you, kid. I’m investigating this group, their ideals, their plans. You can help.”

You shook your head adamantly. “No. This has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you,” Shepherd immediately retorted, and you felt your chest caving in, your shoulders deflating. “It’s up to you. I hope to see you in my regiment, kid.”

Then, he’d stood, and dropped a card onto your lap. Without another word, he left.

It was later that night, when you found yourself near passing out, that you’d read his business card. It had his name, his title – Lieutenant General – and a regiment. You weren’t sure how any of it worked, if you could do this, if you were made for something like the army. That night, you’d studied and watched and learned everything you could about his regiment.

Three months later, you’d stood before him, gun in hand.

He just smiled, knowingly, and clapped a hand on your shoulder. He leaned down and whispered, “Together, we’ll avenge her.”

And you did, under his wing. You set things right.

*

Your ears ring, the bumps of the vehicle doing nothing to snap you out of your daze. It’s like your insides have turned inside out, every molecule of liquid evaporated with a single name.

“He’s a good man,” you manage to say, breaking the stunned silence of the 141. You don’t dare to look up, to see their expressions, their apprehension. “He saved me. Multiple times. He wouldn’t hurt anyone without a reason, he wouldn’t.”

Even as you say the words, try and plead, you find yourself losing faith. It’s a devastating thing, one that has you wanting to wretch your near-empty stomach.

“We did some digging,” Price murmurs, sounding sorrowful and almost guilty. “We found the truth.”

The entire time that Price retells the intel he and ‘Laswell’ found, you find yourself falling deeper and deeper into your pit of despair. Like you’re clawing with your nails to get out, yet all you’re finding is unrelenting stone, breaking the keratin with every scratch.

By the time that all the information has been told, your body feels as though it’s frozen. 

It isn’t until you feel a thumb wipe against your cheek that you realise you’re crying. Finally, finally, you look up, and meet Soap’s mirthful eyes. His thumb is rough where it wipes away your tears, gathering the salty liquid against the ridges of his fingertips.

Could it get worse than this? Worse than being told that the only other man in your life – the only other person you’d trusted – was a bad man? Working with Graves? How hadn’t you known? Why hadn’t Graves told you –

Why. Why. Why?

“He was the closest thing I had to a father,” you manage, feeling almost manic with it. “He – he and Graves, they’re all I have, I can’t, you can’t–”

You barely manage to open the small window before you’re hurling your empty guts, nothing coming out but air and some bile burning the back of your throat. Your throat, eyes, your entire body aches.

Two large hands rub at your back, and you can hear words being said, but you can’t understand them, can’t hear anything but a low buzz in the back of your mind. Your breath comes out in loud, sharp pants, and you can’t help but sniffle as tears roll down your cheeks and drip from your chin.

Your entire life has just been flipped on its head, and you can’t handle it. You are a Colonel, you’re supposed to be impenetrable, but this, this is everything you ever had. Gone with a few words, a single mission.

“It’s okay, lass, fuck,” you can finally make out Soap saying, recognising one of the hands as his. It’s an, admittedly, comforting weight, one that you find yourself leaning back into. “Steamin’ Jesus.”

“Kyle, do you have water?” Price calls out to the front, and soon, a hand directs your head to enter the van once more, an opened water bottle being pressed to your lips. Price holds it, his hand stroking the back of your neck in support. “Have a drink, darlin’,” he encourages, tilting your head back as you swallow the ice-cold water. “There we go,”he murmurs, his touch unrelenting.

“You good, love?” Gaz calls from the front, brows furrowed where he’s half-watching in the rearview mirror.

All you can give him is a small, weak nod, but he seems to accept it. 

Your mind is spinning at a mile per minute, shuddering when Price pulls the bottle away and Soap continues to rub your back in calming circles. This is, you think, the one time you’ll allow yourself to be comforted by them. This was already crossing too many of the boundaries you’d put up in your head, a clear violation of the separation you’d planned out.

Ghost, true to his name, remains still where he sits in front of you, calculating as he stares you down.

“What are the chances,” he begins, focus remaining on you even if everyone else’s is suddenly on him, “That General’s personal pet is also Graves’ girl who had a change of heart?”

“Si–” Soap begins, before Ghost cuts him off.

“How do we know she’s not a fuckin’ spy,” he spits out, glaring at you with everything he has, “And we’ve been too fuckin’ stupid to figure it out!”

You’re not in control of your body, at this point. Your emotions are.

With one breath, you pull out the blade hooked to your hollister, grip it in a fist, and grab the scruff of Ghost’s uniform and pull him close. Grabbing his hand, you slide the knife into it, grabbing his wrist, pulling it forward so the knife is pressed against your neck.

“Kill me,” you breathe, chest heaving, eyes burning with rage, “Kill me if you think I’m a spy. Slice the knife through my fucking throat, Lieutenant, do it.”

His irises are blown black, the white of his eyes stark against the grease paint smeared over his visible skin. You can feel his heavy breaths through his mask, brushing against your snarled lips. You pull him even closer, your fist unrelenting against the fabric of his uniform.

There’s an uproar around you, Soap yelling something to you both, Price trying to tug you away by his grip on your upper arm, Gaz trying to both focus on not crashing and whatever the hell is happening behind him.

You’re strong, however. Trained and built for hand-to-hand battle, and you don’t move an inch. Not when you’re so determined, so stubborn.

“Kill. Me.” You hiss, the words quiet enough to only be heard by the man holding a knife to your throat. You lean in closer, and you can feel a small trickle of blood fall down your bared neck, but it’s a thrilling type of pain.

“You’re a crazy bastard,” he spits back, but he notably eases the knife away from your skin. You just lean into it further, more blood being let. “If you keep tryna call bluffs like this, you’ll be sent home in a casket.”

“What home, Lieutenant?” You ask, almost desperate for his answer, a demand. You narrow your gaze, refusing to break eye contact. “If you can find where the fuck I belong, I’ll be happy to die within its walls.”

The two of you standoff, your eyes doing all the speaking, before Ghost allows the blade to fall from his grip, hitting the floor of the van with a clunk. “You win, Sweetheart,” he taunts, the words being breathed against your own mouth, mere millimetres apart. “Congratulations.”

You finally allow yourself to be pulled back, Soap shooting you a shell-shocked look, his jaw clenching as he looks between you both. Price finally eases his grip around your arm, barking, “Don’t pull that shit! One wrong move and –”

“My whole life has been one wrong move,” you grit out, falling back into your seat with shallow breaths. You drag your hand down your face, before resting against the sticky heat of your blood, pooling at the dip of your neck. “What’s one more?”

There’s no response. You don’t hope for one, don’t expect one, but it still leaves you unsteady. Unsure. Even when everyone just sits in an odd sort of limbo for a few minutes, you struggle to come down from that high, that overwhelming need for control.

“Here.” 

When you look up, it’s to see Soap, a medkit in his lap. Price is sitting on the other side next to Ghost, talking quietly to him, stern expressions displayed on them both. They seem lost in conversation – a serious one, considering your current situation.

“What’re you doing?” You find yourself asking, watching as he rips open an alcoholic wipe and takes it out, your leg bouncing. He gives you a friendly smile, this side of hopeful.

“Patchin’ ye up, Sweetheart. Goes both ways,” he explains, and your eyes go glassy once more. “Can aye fix ye up?”

You don’t trust your words, so you simply nod, tilting your head back. You find yourself rocked by the rhythm of Gaz’s driving, finding solace in the comfort of semi-safety. Although not as safe as you would’ve been at Graves’ base, there was a sense of… protectiveness that came with being with the 141.

Wincing, you grit your teeth as Soap cleans up the blood from your throat, his gentle ministrations so at odds with his bumbling, charismatic character. He’s precise, careful to not hurt you too much, delicate movements made by harsh hands.

“You sure do like playin’ with fire, lass,” he murmurs, swiping the last bits of drying blood from the hollow of your throat, the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips.  “Can respect that.”

“I’m sorry for… that,” you sigh, watching as he deposits the used wipe into a hazard bag. Good practice, you think, prioritising avoiding any bloodborne diseases. You’re silently impressed. “Didn’t mean to lose my shit. Just. A lot.”

“I know,” he returns, earnest, opening a bottle of sanitary cream and swiping some onto his finger, bringing it to soothe over your small wound.

“I don’t know who to trust.”

Those words aren’t exactly good ones to say, not to a borderline enemy with his hands on your neck. But it feels like an otherworldly force makes you say them, makes you expose yourself even further to this man. Maybe a taunt, maybe a small punishment for saving his life.

He pauses, but quickly covers up his hesitation with returned fervour. “I don’t envy ya, hen. It’s an absolute shitshow. But…” he grabs some medical tape, cutting it to length to put over your wound. Apparently it’s worse than you’d thought. “Ye heard what happened. Shepherd, Graves, they’re not worthy of ya.”

That gives you pause. Worthy. What made someone worthy? What kind of clarifications?

Did he think he was worthy? Ghost? Price? Gaz?

“You think I’m better than the General?” You raise a brow, attempting to goad him, spark that flame of banter that always seemed to haunt the Scot.

“I know ye are. Seen it with my own eyes.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“We’re nearly back at the safehouse,” Gaz calls from the front, tapping his hands against the steering wheel to a silent rhythm. Price grunts out a reply, and Ghost remains silent, watching. Always watching.

Finishing up his quick first aid job, Soap tilts your head back down with a grip on your chin, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip. “There we go, Sweetheart. Good as new,” he whispers, the corner of his lips tilting into a kind grin.

“How’s the arm?” You find yourself asking, looking to the bandaged ligament. “Feeling alright?”

“Definitely better than if aye’d let it get infected,” he hums, looking down to his arm. “Once this blows over, nurses on base will sort it out.”

You hadn’t noticed before, but you realise that his thigh is pressed against yours, and your leg has stopped bouncing. No more tap tap tap. Just… the feel of fabric against your own, heated by the flesh underneath. The comforting touch of another human, not sexual, not for any reason but to simply… exist.

Ten minutes pass of comfortable silence between you both, before the vehicle comes to a stop, Gaz turning off the engine with a turn of his keys, unbuckling his seat belt and hopping out of the car.

“Out we get,” Price says to you all, gentler than he’d been before. The doors burst open, Gaz flinging the keys back to his Captain, urging the four of you to hop out and head in.

You’re the last to get out, Gaz extending a calloused hand for you to take, ever the gentleman. Accepting it, you jump down, looking to the awaiting men. The Los Vaqueros are rushing inside, talking amongst themselves, relief thick in their words, hands being slapped against each other’s backs.

Price is looking at you as he says, “I think we have a call to make.”

As it turns out, the call is to the last person on Earth you want to talk to right now. In the middle of the same table you’d stood beside Rudy at, mere hours ago, is a computer.

One with General Shepherd’s face on it.

Price had given you the mercy in deciding whether you’d show yourself or not. You still hadn’t made the choice, instead standing off to the side, Gaz and Soap at either side of you. Alejandro stands at the right of the table, and Ghost has his arms folded over his chest at the left.

“You hid this,” Price grips the table, livid, “Why.”

Not a question, not really, more of a command than anything. An order from a Captain.

Shepherd’s response has your blood running cold, reality finally cementing inside of yourself. You claw at your palms when he responds, drily, “We all keep secrets, Captain.”

And, oh, what a slap in the face that is.

“Why the hell wasn’t I informed?” Price snaps, his shoulders rising and falling with each barely restrained breath. He seems to fill out his uniform more than he had before, in the dim light of the room.

The boarded up window allows for a small sliver of sunset to cast against all of you, a small joy in the darkness of the safehouse. And the situation at hand.

“Consider yourself well informed now, John,” Shepherd’s tone lowers, more grating, forceful.

“Oh, that's really fuckin' helpful, General. Thank you. But you're a day late and a missile short. There's three of them – we only found two.”

“Then point yourself in that direction, and fix it,” Shepherd booms, and you can’t help the instinctual flinch of your body. You’d grown up being frightened of his raised voice, the threat that came along with it. Even in the safety of this house, you can’t help your response.

Price scoffs a laugh with no humour, his mouth falling into a grim, dangerous line. “And who fixes you, eh?”

You can hear, more than see, Shepherd’s returning snarl. “I don’t need fixing. I’m a patriot protecting my country.”

Gaz and Soap share a look above your head, but you don’t care, not now. Not when Price stands up, slamming his hand against the table, not when Alejandro curses under his breath.

Not when all you can think about is the empty promises Shepherd made.

“You’re protecting your own ass,” Price cusses, turning back to glare at the man on the screen.

“I do what needs to be done, and no one holds me down with a roll of red tape. I know what's best for the cause.”

Price chuckles, eyes a fire of fury, leaning down once more to the laptop. “You’ve lost your mind, General.”

“And you've forgotten what you're fighting for, John. To do good, you gotta do some bad. When we shit, we bury it, that's how it works,” Shepherd replies, hard and strong in his belief.

You’re at the verge of losing it.

“Yeah,” Price begins, before pointing his finger to the camera, “But we don’t bury each other with it, do we?”

“You need to turn off that side o' your head and face down the real enemy,” Shepherd warns, and it’s the final straw.

“Isn’t that what you told me, Herschel? That the organisation was the real enemy?” You quip, and for a minute, you wonder if he’s ended the call.

That is, until, a choked off voice filters in, “Kid?”

Rushing forward, you turn the laptop to face you, and your entire system seems to revolt as you see the man you once cared for like a father. 

“Tell me that you didn’t betray them,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your entire face filling the screen. “Tell me that you didn’t ruin lives – tell me you didn’t make a deal with my Commander behind my back. Tell me, Herschel.”

“You wouldn’t understand –” he begins, but that’s all you needed to know.

Stepping away, you give him a final, cold smile. “Was it worth it?”

“What –” he starts once more, before you grab the handle of your gun, pulling it up to rest as a comforting weight in your hand.

“Was it worth ruining my life? Was it worth ruining this mission?”

“You’re just a kid.”

“I am a Colonel!” You shout, emotions bubbling over as you slam the gun onto the table, eyes blazing. “And when I find you, you’re going to wish you never fucked me over. What was your favourite method? Flaying? Dismemberment?”

“You’ve always been too soft and easy to manipulate,” Shepherd snaps back, voice booming through the speakers.

Your voice is as dangerous as you’ve ever heard it.

“Immolation? That was your favourite, wasn’t it?”

His eyes widen on the screen, seeming to understand, to seemingly take you seriously. Too late. Too fucking late.

“Let’s see if it’s still your favourite when it’s your turn to be the victim,” you slowly say, annunciating every word with clear speech. “Thank you for your teachings, General.”

With that, you slam the laptop screen shut, and prepare to face the fire.

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. im so hyped for all of the future plot points. and romance. ohmygod. yes, ghost does eventually come around. yes, he's the longest slow burn. yes, he's the most intense enemies to lovers. wbk. i also got covid so i have a lot of time to rot in bed and suffer while writing!! ALSOOO there is so much fire symbolism... ;)

your comments mean soso much to me, every time iread one i squeal and feel all excited!! thank u for ur support commenters, i DO read all of them. more than once. &lt;3

[fullsunrise]

Masterlist

Welcome to my fanfic masterlist! I’ll be updating as frequently as possible

Guide:

M = Mature (18+)

Delicate (M)

Chapters: Preview, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Pairing: Haechan x Original female character Minor characters: Jaemin, Jeno, Yuta, Johnny, Mark, Jisung Genre: Angst, University AU, Slow Burn Warnings: Alcohol consumption, smoking, brief mentions of abuse, sexual themes, light smut Summary: As she lifted the unlit cigarette to her chapped lips, Haechan realized right then and there just how delicate she was. He wouldn't dare say this to her, though. Not when she was only one step away from shattering before him. He knew deep down that he would pick up the pieces without a second guess. That's what he always did. Clean up her messes over and over again. It didn't matter how many times he would try to mend the damage, he was only a temporary solution to numb the pain.

Playing With Fire (M) - Preview, Final

Pairing: Johnny x Original female character  Minor Characters: Jaehyun Genre: Office AU, Light Smut, Angst Warnings: Heavy sexual themes, light smut (non-explicit), alcohol consumption, Johnny is a bully Summary: Johnny from Sales. Even thinking about him made Nari’s eye twitch. Ever since she was forced to work with him on her latest project, he made it his sole mission to make her life a living hell. Never once in Nari’s career has she had to work with someone so egotistical, cunning, and above all else, annoyingly attractive.

Into a Dream (M) - Preview, Final

Pairing: Mark x Original female character Genre: Fluff, smut Warnings: Descriptive sex, CNC elements (Characters are both consenting adults!), somnophilia, basically no plot whoops Summary: All Mark wants to do is fall asleep with his arms wrapped around his love, but the late night hour plagues his mind with a burning desire that he can't ignore.

Midnight Dare - Final

Pairing: Haechan x Original female character Minor Characters: Johnny, Mark Genre: Humor, Romance Warnings: Sexual themes (very suggestive), mentions of alcohol, Haechan has a big dick (oops) Summary: New year's eve one-shot inspired by the prompt, "Their friends dare them to kiss a stranger at midnight and they are just tipsy enough to actually do it."

[tif0nes]

@TIF0NES. writing blog for jack sparrow from the pirates of the caribbean trilogy, mainly adhering to the trilogy canon and the novel titled the price of freedom, hc-based with a fully original portrayal and fc. previously @spervier. sideblog to vinduri, refer to main blog for rules etc. additional portrayal-specific info under the cut.

NAVIGATION # INSP / # HCS / # STORYBOARD

STATS. jack sparrow, born mid-june 1690 exact date unknown, pob a pirate ship in the indian ocean, south-asian (indian), 178cm/5'10, speaks english, fractured spanish, scattered bits of other languages such as portuguese, french, yucatec maya and japanese, cis man (he/him), bisexual.

OVERLOOK. jack has a tendency to stand out, in appearance/mannerism/fashion choices; while not particularly tall he is slender on his waist and legs, has a generally toned swimmer's body with fairly broad shoulders and defined but not bulky muscles, slightly underweight but soft on his hips and belly due to an unbalanced and alcohol-heavy diet. an oval face with a big, straight nose and an angular jaw that is partly concealed by a thick, dark beard. his complexion is an even, warm, saturated brown—his skin is marked, on his face, by a pair of dark sickle scars and a very faint spray of freckles, almost indistinguishable if one isn't paying very close attention. his eyes are deeply hooded under the arch of his thick eyebrows, of a beautiful, pale shade of jade green usually darkened by black-pigmented kohl on the inner and outer rim of his lower lids. plump and wind-chapped lips, dry, cracked by salt. very long and thick hair, reaching his mid-back, of a rich and luscious black but damaged by saltwater, wind and sun exposure; some of it intricately styled in cuffed braids and dreadlocks and adorned with various trinkets/hair rings/bone pieces etc. smells like salt, with a faintly traceable smoky undertone of gundpowder and a sugary hint of alcohol. a richly melodious voice—tonally over the edge out of some quirky necessity to always overperform but measured, almost warm when relaxed, his speech is flamboyantly artificial and utilizes a strangely sophisticated vocabulary for a pirate; also his speech pattern also bears the influences of various languages that he's come in contact with during his voyages, somewhat obscure but colorful, and coated with formality ... unless a distraction makes him slip back into pirate vernacular vernacular.

PERSONALITY. quirky, passively dangerous, flamboyant, an intriguing man; boundless and free but from the shackles of his own resurfacing conscience, good-hearted but terribly skilled at masking his kindness behind the facade of occasional slip-ups. adventurous, reckless in a way only those who have stared into the eye of death can afford to be, stubbornly fun—guarded against any introspection that does not bring an advantage, any intimacy that isn't purely physical, treats serious matters with casual lightheartedness but shut people out when he is directly/personally involved. an exhausting chatterbox. impermeable to shame, chases his pleasures freely and with a toothy grin. a liar, a betrayer, a cheater.

PORTRAYAL NOTES my faceclaim for jack, from appearance down to voice, is ranveer singh (specifically in his role in padmaavat), i do not use johnny depp, i do not reblog anything with his face on it, he doesn't exist in my head and at this point the use of ranveer’s face is integral to my portrayal so please do not refer to johnny depp while in or out-of-character describing my muse. while staying true to the fable of the franchise, i aim to portray a more mature version of jack, his struggle with imperialism and piracy as a whole. therefore, some of the more comical aspects of the original canon might be toned down in favor of a slightly grittier and more realistic approach. i do not acknowledge anything beyond at world’s end. *imp according to my portrayal jack was sacrificed to the titan typhon as a newborn babe, his father's cynical attempt at saving his ship and crew; currently hosts the god within himself.

VERSES. (#potc) set in the first half of the 1700s and specifically at any point before, during or after the events of the trilogy; works as a historical verse and can be stretched backwards and forwards in time until about the 1800s. sub verses include jack’s youth + anything around the events narrated in the novel the price of freedom and his time serving under the east india company. (#dragon age) of rivaini heritage, jack sparrow grew up in a pirate settlement along the coast of seheron. he started serving on his father's ship until he eventually ran off on his own and privatereed for some time for a powerful tevene magister, until his former employer turned on him, leaving him shipwrecked and nearly for dead. in a state between life and death jack was visited by a demon who made him an offer—he would live for fifteen more years, at the end of which the demon would take over his body and possess him completely. based in inquisition/veilguard, loosely affiliated with the lords of fortune. (#asoiaf) jack sparrow is an infamous pirate from tyrosh, born during a sea storm in the summer sea. son of the legendary ed teague, jack made a name for himself as a great sailor and a pirate lord—a title of nobility made up by the brethren court, which is a confederation of pirates based in braavos. jack is renown for his eccentric personality and his largely coveted compass, which is said to point in the direction of the thing one desires most. sparrow is an adventurer who goes on perilous quests for ancient treasures, but after a raid on a royal ship in the narrow sea gone terribly wrong, he becomes more and more involved with mainland politics.

[muutosarchive]

❝ don’t you know how much i care about you? ❞ words that come whispered through chapped lips, a heavy body on its knees at the medical cots side. both hands grip onto his sergeant's hand, tear stained eyes left bleary, voice broken and raw. blames himself. screamed. cried. fought. knuckles are bloody, bruised. he remembers the glass shards being pulled from his fists and the lectures given to him. all ignored. the only thing he cared about was johnny. with him in a bed, not awake, not smiling, laughing - it digs a fucking hole into simon's chest. one not even ghost can save him from. i didn't say i love you enough, johnny. i'm so fuckin sorry.

MAYBE HE SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL. granted, that's never been a part of a soldier's job description. in johnny's mind, it's always been 'get the job done -- by any means necessary'. if not because it was important to him, then because it's what price would have wanted. what he would have done. looking up to him as a man who could do no wrong, &. a bloody hero. a legend. someone he's honored to have been recognized by. to have worked with, &. to have been chosen by. to serve.

&. then there was ghost. simon. his simon. he'd always been a show off when it came to the lieutenant. always felt some kind of pull, as though they were meant to be together. whether it was professionally or romantically, as it turned out. always finding himself doing things that were particularly reckless just to impress him. just to show him that he was capable -- that he was good. such landing him in the medical tent with those worried eyes never leaving him an inch to breathe. leaving him with a broken heart every time. beating himself over the bloody head about giving his big man a scare, with that knot in the middle of his chest that housed his guilt. offering apologetic smiles, &. all he could write off with too-jovial excuses about how he can't get rid of him that easily.

this time he had really fucked up. this time he'd gone too far. he'd almost went and got himself killed. knocked out cold, still to this very moment. almost ended up an example of what not to do, &. the shame would be palpable. it always seems more &. more impossible to laugh off his mistakes &. face everyone like it's all okay. but in the end, he supposes there's nobody to blame but himself.

in the present though, he only has to worry about one face. or, lack thereof. a soft wince as consciousness hits him like a bucket of cold water (or steaming coals). his head hurts like a sonuvabitch, &. it's all he can feel at first. he must have fallen on it, or at the very least, hit something on the way down. or, actually . . . from what he can recall in the small flashes, he remembers getting swiped, &. beaten bloody on the fly for pertinent intel. luckily for him, ghost had got there before they decided he was out of chances. of course he'd kept his mouth shut -- well, about the intel, that is. perhaps another mistake.

his fingers twitch around the hands currently clutching his, with a low moan of pain. he tries to move said hand whilst his fog begins to clear, but he doesn't dare open his eyes, even as neck tilts upwards -- bad idea -- before his other hand begins flying around in search of an iv. known to rip them out &. stop the drip of pain killers. but it doesn't feel like he's taken any... had ghost stopped them? he does locate something taped, but he pauses. something bringing him back to why he was awake in the first place as he settles back on the blades of his shoulders. arm raised in the air carelessly as he finally peels his lids apart. "--- simon?" he breathes, groaning as he tries to shift again ". . . ouch -- my 'ead fookin' kills!" his accent is heavier than normal &. in his current state he's not at all concerned about his slang, nor his enunciation. not like he usually is. "where's th'bloody drip? i dinnae wan' it, y'should know tha' . . ." yet he's complaining about the pain.

of course he won't be so lucky forever, but he's okay now. eyes squinted &. tired as he tries a lame squeeze at his hand. even half out of it, he can still see the softness of simon staring back at him. &. the guilt builds familiar nausea. or is that just medicine on an empty stomach? soap smiles. small, apologetic. but he knows it'll help. " hey -- before ye' star' yellin' at me t'settle down . . . i'm sorry, aye? an' i love ye." he purses his lips for a beat, lifting his opposite limb. "now would ye get this bloody thing ou'a my arm."

🍒 @designedparadigm 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃 ↪ don't prompts

[kulturegroupie]

May 1969: Jimmy Page and John Bonham begin sessions with Screaming Lord Sutch at Hollywood's Mystic Studios. The album "Lord Sutch & Heavy Friends" would also feature Jeff Beck and Noel Redding. Page liked the studio and returned on May 6th to record Moby Dick. (Sessions for the Lord Sutch album were held between April 24, 1969 to May 5, 1969. The Page/Bonham appearance occurred in early May.)

Bonham and Page appear on: "Wailing Sounds", "'Cause I Love You", "Flashing Lights", "Thumping Beat", "Union Jack Car" and "Baby, Come Back".

“Well, I've known Sutch for years and years, and he's been in the business for 12 years and he's never had an album out. Last time we were in L.A. he came to me and said, "I wish you could help me out, I've got a chance to make an album and I've been in the business for 12 years," and he started citing other people who had been in the business for a long time, and even died, as did one particular chap, Johnny Cato, but you wouldn't have heard of him. He was in the business for about 12 years and he got killed in a car crash, I think it was, and he didn't have an album out.

So, Sutch is telling me all this, saying, "Oh dear, I must have an album out, you've got to help me," and I said, "Look, I'll help you if I can."

It was all fixed that I'd go down there and just do a bit, so we went down and played and I just did some backing tracks to numbers like "Good Golly Miss Molly" and "Roll Over Beethoven." You've got the picture, right? I didn't do any solos, no solos at all. I did a little bit of wah wah on one track, but I didn't do the solo in the middle, which isn't a wah wah thing. Somebody else put that on.

So, to cut a long story short, he rewrote all the tunes and he put another guitarist on over the top. But, and this is where the criminal side of it comes in, he didn't put "Extra guitar: So and So" or "Lead guitar played by so and so"; he put "Guitar: Jimmy Page," so everybody thought, "Oh, Jimmy Page played that heap of crap," and it became more than an embarrassment. He also wrote me in as producer, which was very nice of him (Jimmy laughs). I wasn't interested in that, I just went down to have a laugh, playing some old rock and roll, a bit of a send-up. The whole joke sort of reversed itself and became ugly.”

— Jimmy Page, 1970

[focsle]

In which William Abbe characterizes two of his shipmates:

“Happy Jack and Johnny Marlinspike—This last is a thorough sailor in feeling + habits — so is Happy Jack—but Johnny is the merriest chap alive hardly for a moment forgetting to play some fantastic trick or make some ludicrously foolish speech — while Happy Jack laughs at everything + seldom says anything himself. Both can growl in good strong language, when the grub or mate don’t please them — + both when in port would sell the shirt off their backs for rum. Happy Jack takes anything he wants no matter from whom + makes the weakest possible excuses to the owner when caught. “I couldn’t help it” “I hadn’t any myself” “You wouldn’t refuse a poor fellow that would you” + with a laugh disarms all resentment. He turns in and sleeps during all his watch below day or night — has a very knowing look + makes the most sagacious remarks about the weather + whales + dreams most prophetic dreams— but though about as correct as an old almanac— yet he always explains away his mistaken prophecies by the aid of some superstitious omen or some unlucky event. He is firmly convinced that we shall take no whales this cruise — + goes to the masthead with all the air of a martyr + shakes his head knowingly when ‘thar blows’ is sung out. A more indifferent, careless, reckless, superstitious, good for nothing happy wretch doesn’t live than poor Happy Jack — light fingered — good natured — laughing singing Happy — a glass of rum seized by thee with trembling-eager hands + drunk ravenously as by a parched + way-worn traveler transforms thee from a light hearted Jack to a sorry drunkard — and thou drinkest long draughts of fiery liquor that blazes in thy eye + makes haggard thy look — gives to thy cheery voice a piteous moan as thou beggest of any friend a drink, or changes thee at times from the best natured to the sullenest ill-tempered of companions.”

[Now, of Johnny Marlinspike] “From beneath an old velvet cap stuck on the back + side of his head — where it is in perpetual danger of a fall, Jack’s—for we call Johnny + Happy both Jack — Jack’s rugged weather-beaten tanned face with round eyes full of a comical sly light + a mouth always in a grin disclosing tobacco stained ivories + a porthole he calls it where one his teeth has been knocked out + through which as a convenient porthole he spits his tobacco juice — from beneath this cap his face looms out - while beneath supporting his comical head is a bare neck and breast — hairy + brown —the upper timbers to a stout hull of a boat that boast a pair of arms all covered with India ink tattooings — the figure of American Liberty — Christ on the cross — an American Tar holding a star spangled banner in one hand + a coil of rope in the other — a fancy girl — + anchors, rings, crosses, knots, stars all over his wrists + hands — the memorials of different ports he has visited — for Jack has been in all kinds of vessels from a man of war to a blubber hunter — + has consequently been to many ports. An old shirt wide open in front — with the sleeves rooled up — covers Jack’s stout hull - while an old pair of breeches supported by a belt—quilted and patched—like the old  Constitution they have very little of the original timber left—encase Jack’s legs — and such legs surely never before did dungaree or duck grace — Jack’s upper works seem too heavy for his lower— for his legs are spread like two back stays with a spreader between + Jack goes rooling about as if he carried all his ballast in his head — while his feet are like his hands large + awkwardly pointing towards each other — But for all this, Jack is not an unhandsome fellow — with a blue shirt + light pants he looks a neat, tight sailor + if from his own accounts he has done no little damage among the girls he left behind him.”

Happy Jack was a man named Andrew Kimbank from Leroy NY, 23 years old at time of sailing in 1858. Abbe spoke with him at length about his history earlier on in the voyage. Jack had worked on packet ships, steamers, and the railroad, making a fair amount of money but finding himself spending it all on drink and traveling and finery (as well as being robbed on one instance). His well off family members offered to help him out of his debt but, saying he was ashamed of his actions, he didn’t accept. He then killed a man in a drunken brawl, fled to Canada and was caught there. He spent 11 months in jail before being discharged as the jury couldn’t agree on his case. Was betrothed during this time and spoke of the woman’s ‘beauty + gentleness + power to win him from drink’, and she visited him in jail. However, on being discharged he never went back home, showing up on the whaleship drunk and remaining in that state for several weeks. His aspiration was following gold in California to make enough money to settle, with the whaler being his passage there. Abbe said “his ambition is humble but that his decision seems sincere to settle down and become a good man” but Abbe also doubted his resolve to hold to it. Jack’s predictions of a poor voyage would prove true, as the Atkins Adams would only take 281 barrels of oil over a 5 years’ cruise.

Jack Marlinspike was a man named John Hews from Buffalo NY, also 23 years old at time of sailing- For a time his nickname was ‘Johnny Come Lately’, known for his musical inclinations and dancing. He got the name ‘Jack Marlinspike’ more recently when he accidentally dropped a marlinspike from aloft and almost hit someone in the head with it.

[little-diable]

Bonnie and Clyde 2.0 - Biker! Bucky Barnes (smut)

Witten for @firefly-in-darkness movie challenge (I chose pulp fiction) and my own 9k challenge. @band--psycho created the moodboard. You’ll find some parallels to the movie and a few quotes. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Two fugitives on the run, two lovers that live out of a suitcase, leaving their hometown behind to strengthen their connection.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, robbery, guns (nobody gets hurt tho), some good ole’ angst, but a happy end (kind of) 

Pairing: Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (2.4k+)

“Are you ready?” His voice dropped with each syllable that spilled from his chapped lips, metallic arm shining in the bright Los Angeles sunlight. Her pupils slightly got wider behind the dark pair of sunglasses, gaze flickering between her lover and the waitress that tried to calm a pair of unsatisfied customers.

(Y/n) reached for her suitcase with one hand, while the other one tightened its grip on her gun. A slight nod of her head signaled him to rise from his seat, clearing his voice before he raised his own gun, metal just as shiny, just as mysterious as his arm.

“I love you, doll.” Bucky turned towards his girl, smirking as she blew him a kiss.

“I love you too, you crazy motherfucker,” she settled behind him, cocking her gun as Bucky’s voice echoed through the diner, speaking to the confused and scared customers.

“Everybody be cool, this is a robbery.”

--

The wind was blowing through her hair, arms tightly wrapped around his middle, squeezing him with each turn his machine took. Alpine was roaring through the night, rattling as the moon was standing high, guiding the two through the rough land, protecting them from the darkness that lingered behind thick clouds of rain.

Both trusted the road to take them where they would be safe, hidden from the cops that looked for the two that got called “Bonnie and Clyde 2.0” - a cheap nickname the newspapers came up with. Two fugitives on the run, two lovers that live out of a suitcase, leaving their hometown behind to strengthen their connection.

By now it almost felt too natural, too easy to rob one diner after another. It was always the same routine, he’d tell her how much he loves her before drowning his cup of coffee, rising from his seat with a gun in his hand, not planning to kill anyone but the register full of cash.

Not once would they doubt their motives, two lovers that needed money to survive, to make their way through the land, highs, and lows that kept them on their toes. At the end of the day, they’d just be themselves, a suitcase and a bike that swore to take them wherever they planned on driving to next.

Late at night, as they’d crash in a motel on the side of the road, he’d make love to her in the most intimate way. Caring, soft and sweet, kissing promises into her skin, silently apologising for the unstable and dangerous lifestyle he had pulled her into.

Bucky would fuck her on the bed, against the wall, or in the shower, sometimes - just sometimes - he’d pull Alpine over, would stop the engine to fuck her on his bike in the middle of nowhere. His cock would twitch deep inside of her, holding onto her as the burning heat would engulf them, sweaty bodies would meet, kisses would get pressed against their swollen lips.

He was addicted to her, urged on by the adrenaline that would rush through him while he’d speed through the streets, hiding from the cops that kept on looking for the two. They were careful enough, ready to lay low for days on end, parting ways for a day and a night, just to meet again at the end of the road.

They’d dance to Johnny Cash as the sun was setting, whispering tunes only the dead knew by heart. Where the gun is cocked as the bullet’s cold, where the miles are marked in the blood and gold - they’d always meet up further on up the road. 

“I’ll see if they have a phone,” (y/n)’s feet tingled, legs quivering from sitting on Alpine for way too long. His metal hand clamped down on her hand, pulling her against his front, not giving her a chance to leave the dark and dusty hotel room. Bucky’s cold breath met her neck, hairs rising, hyper-alert to her surroundings.

“We talked about this, you can’t.” Her heart ached, desperate to hear her mother’s voice again, to talk about the ones she had left behind, sick and poor, healthy and rich, caring or not about her sudden disappearance. She turned around in his embrace, ran her hand through his hair, scratching his burning scalp.

“I just miss her, you know?” A kiss got shared between the two, lips meeting hers to stop her from talking, not used to seeing her this fragile and confused, with waves of sadness crashing through her system. Impatient hands tugged on the zipper of her leather jacket, watching the heavy piece of fabric tumbling to the floor.

“Maybe we just need to distract you for a while,” Bucky’s rough voice sidetracked her from the loud thoughts that screamed at her to run, to rip herself out of his claws. His metallic fingers danced up and down her throat, softly squeezing the skin, a simple reminder of their arrangement, she was his, till handcuffs would tighten their grip on his wrists, ready to convict him for his wrongdoings.

Swiftly he had her pressed against the wall, forcing his hand into her trousers, rubbing her clit through her panties. She panted his name, (y/n) was fighting a war inside her head, holding onto the last strings of sanity that kept her focused, trying to ignore the silent whispers of the darkness, pulling her further into his trap, chaining her to the criminal.

Heavy breaths spilled from their lips, the temperature kept rising, begging them to finally undress themselves, to give into their cravings. Bucky watched her step out of her trousers, working on the dark belt of his, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his clothes. He slipped into her before she could say another word, roughly fucking her as the pictures on the wall began to shake, about to crash to the floor.

“You feel this?” His metallic hand disappeared beneath her shirt, pressed against her lower belly, feeling his cock deep inside of her. Bucky fucked her like it was their last night of freedom, facing the cops that were betting on the two lovers, watching them fall apart as the world was closing in on them. “I’ll always be right here with you, we belong together.”

Her teeth nibbled on his lower lip, hands tugging on the hairs at the nape of his neck, keeping him close. Their orgasms were creeping closer, ready to rock through them, to distract them from the life they were living, allowing them to take deep breaths without worrying about curious eyes.

“I love you,” were the last words she spoke before her walls began to clamp down on his cock, squeezing him, begging him to fuck her through her orgasm. Bucky seemed to understand the signals her body was sending out to him, he kept on snapping his hips against hers, cock covered in her arousal, the sweet drops of her release.

The moment his warmth began to spread through her (y/n)’s legs gave out, body tumbling against his, almost knocking him off his own feet.

Late at night when she was asleep he’d lay next to her with a racing heart. Bucky couldn’t help but feel guilty, hating himself for tainting a pure girl like her, she could live a life filled with love and success, no longer having to sleep on dirty mattresses, to eat cheap meals. She could live the life she deserves. A life without a criminal by her side, though with a man that would cherish and love her just like he should.

---

“You never can tell” played from the jukebox. A few people danced through the diner, moving to the song, singing the lyrics. (Y/n) watched them with a tight smile playing on her lips, sipping on the cocktail she had ordered an hour ago. Bucky was absorbed into the newspaper he had stolen from a gas station earlier that day.

(Y/n) studied him, he was biting down on his lip, eyebrows furrowed, trying to figure out if they were in danger if the cops were truly as close to them as the newspapers kept on telling. Words were burning on her tongue, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed and jealous, of the ones that got twirled around by their lovers.

“Don’t you hate that?” A sigh left her, eyes still focused on Bucky, waiting for him to finally lift his gaze off the white paper.

“What?” Just for a second, he placed the newspaper down, waiting for her to speak, to explain her random choice of words. He couldn’t waste any time, had to figure out if they still had enough time to eat before having to cock their guns.

“Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?”

“I don't know. That's a good question.” Bucky tried to stop his eyes from rolling, slightly shaking his head, averting his gaze once again.

“That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, (y/n) was spitting each word, placing her glass down, finishing the way too expensive drink.

Her hands tugged on his, pulling him out of their booth, straight towards the dance floor. She felt her gun moving with each step she took, burning into her skin, preparing for their old routine, the one she could talk about as she was barely awake. In this very moment, it was just the two of them, dancing with one another, sharing kisses, not worrying about the road they’d have to take in a few minutes.

“You need to promise me something, doll.” Bucky’s hand found its way to her jaw, holding onto her as she danced to the beat. “Do you see the door back there?” He twirled her into the right direction, eyes focused on the barely alight door, the one where a lazy waitress had scribbled “exit” onto the wood.

She only nodded her head, didn’t reply to his question, wondering where he was going with this.

“The second I tell you to run, you’ll take off through that door, understood?” Her mouth opened and closed, thoughts racing, trying to figure out if he was coming up with a new routine, anything to set the cops onto the wrong track. But the dark eyes of his told a different story, the almost painful expression he wore explained everything she needed to know.

“I won’t leave you.” Tears welled up in her eyes, hands trembling, reaching for the collar of his leather jacket. Her lips found his, he could taste her tears on her skin, the drops that were as salty as the ocean, rocking his boat back and forth as the sun was setting, painting the dark water in a red shade.

His heart burned, trying to understand that this was the last time he’d see her, the last time he’d get to hold her. She had been like a dream, too good to be true, too colorful for his dark world, a splash of color he was about to wipe off his soul.

“Call your mom for me, tell her I said sorry.” Bucky dried her tears with his lips, kissing along her cheeks, anything to remember the feeling of her skin, the scent of hers he’d hold onto as life has lost its meaning.

Bile pooled in her mouth, insides churning, finally understanding that he was saying goodbye. He was waking her from the dream that had clouded her mind for months, pulling her back into the harsh reality of her life. She couldn’t live without him, couldn’t survive if she wouldn’t breathe the same air as Bucky.

“Take the suitcase and run.” A soft push ripped her off his chest, hands no longer holding onto him. (Y/n)’s vision was blurred, tears kept on streaming down her cheeks, dripping onto the dirty diner floor. Bucky disappeared in the crowd of dancing people, he didn’t spare her another glance, didn’t stick around for long enough to see if she’d make it to safety.

---

Rain was falling from the sky, pitter-pattering against her window. Different polaroid pictures were placed on her blanket, memories she had kept in her suitcase, hidden away for months. The reminders of him had been too painful for (y/n), she barely looked at the pictures she had taken of his handsome face, but she couldn’t make it through the day without touching the necklace he had gifted her, hoping that his scent was still sticking to the metal.

“What’s that?” Her chuckles rumbled through her, naked body placed in front of him, waiting for Bucky to finally give in. He had been teasing her for the past hours, keeping her at arm's length, barely touching her.

“A promise,” his voice dropped, hands finally reaching for hers, “a promise that no matter what, you’ll always have my heart.”

The silvery necklace he pulled out of his jacket got placed around her neck, twinkling in the faint light. (Y/n)’s fingers traced the pendant, smiling at the man her heart had chosen to love. The kiss she pressed against his lips grew raw and hungry, pulling him closer to her naked frame.

Bucky’s fingers ran through her folds, collecting drops of arousal that dripped from her heat, begging him to finally fuck her. She reached for his length, pumped him a few times, silently asking him if he was ready to make love to her all through the night.

Both moaned in unison, holding onto one another, settling for a calm rhythm, trying to get adjusted to one another’s body. Her walls fluttered, feeling the thin, velvety skin of his, exploring every inch of his glorious self, ready to burn her touch into his soul.

“Here, this came for you.” Her mother entered the room with a smile on her lips, placing a card down on (y/n)’s desk. She had left before her daughter could ask any questions, leaving her behind with her loud thoughts. Cautiously she neared her desk, fingers running along the slightly worn-out paper of the card.

“Greetings from Rome” had been printed onto the paper, next to a few pictures. Her hands trembled as she turned the card, a single chuckle left her lips, glassy eyes reading through the words that had been scribbled onto the paper. 

No matter what, he’d always have her heart, even oceans apart.

Marvel Taglist: @jensenackles512​ @princesspumpkiin​ @cuddle-stuff​ @mrs-salvawhore​ @thenightperson​ @jellybean-22 @writethelifeyouwant @band–psycho @23victoria @huntheimpossible @positionsfyou @missryerye @lowilaufeyson​ @gothicxbarbie@bluesclues-1234 @miraclesoflove @coldlilheart @pandaxnienke​ @cherieweasley @wittysunflower @your-hispanichufflepuff @angelusviate @savior-adriana​ @mbjackie @belladonnablackwood @abookishpineapple​ @doasyoudesireandlive​ @mbjackie​

Fallen Angels: @mgkbabygirl​ @shrekboobies​ @ivelveti @honiebee @itstaylorcale​ @mcira​ @megamieversole-blog​ @amelia-song-pond @bwbatta​ @damianoaf​ 

Add yourself to my taglist

[mr-dwight-dwicky]

[ Previous Post ]

@just-call-me-johnny

Dwight finds himself trying to keep his breathing steady as Johnny fingers trail down his torso, deftly plucking each button open one by one. He swallows thickly, unable to help how his muscles twitch and tremble when they feel the warm brushes of Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s hands are cold at initial touch, but it’s not a deterrent, not does it quell the growing warmth in his lower abdomen.

He keeps his eyes on Johnny as his boyfriend peels his shirt off of him with impressive delicacy. The air feels heavy but he’s certain it’s just him because Johnny is ill and shouldn’t be thinking of things like that. He licks his lips and then finds his eyes falling on Johnny’s chapped one. He still wants to kiss them. Again and again and again.

It’s also now that he notices the slight bulge between Johnny’s legs. The smaller man is wearing leggings, so it’s not hard to tell. His face flushes and it seems his own boner takes that as a signal that it’s okay to wake up. Luckily his slacks are a little more forgiving, but now he’s even more tense for entirely different reasons.

The fog settles for a moment when Dwight sees something change in Johnny’s eyes. Like he’s lost in thought or staring at nothing. A mile long stare of sorts. “Are you alright?” His voice feels too quiet, like he’s afraid of breaking this closeness.

However he’s humming in pleasure once more as Johnny’s hands knead into his tense and sore flesh around his shoulder. There’s a stray thought where he think he doesn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t be allowed such lovely treatment, especially from a spot where the injury was inflicted by someone who had more than ever right to hurt him. However, it’s hard to linger on, when he’s too busy slowly relaxing into the soft, warm movements.

He shivers at Johnny question, at his tone, and one of his hums becomes a more of a deep rumble. He meets Johnny gaze as his boyfriend meets his own, and he finds his own pants are terribly tight.

“Very good,” he answers with a purr of his own. His eyes keep darting to Johnny’s lips.

[dreamiesdotcom]

[2:03] Long drives with Mark from a tiring day always feels like a reward, but not at this moment with the threat of rain and the lingering memory of his ex on your mind

"You didn't tell me she's that lovely…", you smile at the window, watching the dark looking clouds clump together to swallow up the remaining sunlight, "Had I known she would be that gorgeous, I would have at least put effort on my looks even just for today."

The cold breeze from the open window meets your face and you can't help but close your eyes. Mark keeps his eyes straight ahead, but his hands intertwines with yours tightly to at least try to assure you that 'it's okay, you're okay, I love you'. You nibble on your lips.

Today, you met someone who plays an important role in Mark's life. You made it through the day without feeling a bit of jealousy, even made sure to leave some space for her on tables and not stick to Mark throughout the whole thing so they could catch up without you sticking to him like an octopus. You spent most of the day with mostly your best friend Haechan, Johnny and Yukhei, but you're glad that Mark is catching up with a friend. Even if she wasn't just a friend before, it's clear to you that she is now.

She looked nice. Very pretty, with her long legs that complemented the short, flowy dress and the pumps she's wearing, compared to your short ones that you prefer to cover with jeans and a much more comfortable button-up. She wears her make-up nicely, her eye makeup a perfect symmetry and her long hair. She smells of flowers, her lips look perfectly hydrated unlike your chapped ones — how many times did Mark kiss her? — and her eyes shines like stars. Her aura screamed confident and sexy and fierce, contrary to your shy and gentle one. When they stand together, they look like a real matured couple — unlike you, who always looked like you're Mark's little sister when you two go out. You chuckle at your own ridiculous thoughts, the cold breeze freezing your lips a little. You sound jealous right now, but really, you're not. Maybe you're just insecure of yourself, but can anyone blame you? She looked just like his sweetest dream, she is totally Mark's ideal girl and the worst is that she is completely, utterly different from you — only one question is on your mind, "Why did you settle for me when you already had the best?"

The car comes to halt, and you snap back to reality and see the empty road. You feel his gaze burning on you, and you can't help but close your eyes and think of it all as just a dream. Maybe you can play it off as sleep talking, yes, maybe you could. At this moment, you don't want a confrontation, not when you're feeling this vulnerable, hell, you don't even want to look at him right now. Maybe you should've told your boyfriend that you're gonna hang out with Hyuck, catch up with your best friend, maybe cuddle and just sleep. You feel drained — maybe you did feel a little jealousy. And maybe it's what's draining you right now.

Contrary to what you expect to see when you open your eyes, you are met with his gentle gaze, and his once tight clasp on your hand is now firm but soft, as if you're a fragile little glass figure that needs to be handled with care — and really, that's how you feel right now — vulnerable, and nearing destruction.

Mark pushes the seat so it leans further back, and he leads you to the driver's seat to a straddling position. He fixes your hair, delicate finger tips scraping against your cheeks and he wipes a stray tear that you never even knew fell, "What do you mean? You're the best for me."

"But I am not," you shake your head, "Before we met… when I was just Hyuck's best friend and nothing else… he always rambles about you and your ideal girls. Long hair, tall, beautiful — just overall perfect… that's her," you take a deep breath, "and that's not me."

The sound of raindrops fill the place, and Mark presses a button to close the windows. He just stares at you intently, his eyes gloomy and full of regret, "Today must have overwhelmed you, Y/N. I'm sorry, I should've took things slower."

You swallow as he leads your head to nuzzle on his neck, and despite the unsettling feeling of the two things you hate — jealousy and rain — a sigh of satisfaction leaves your lips before they turn to a sad smile, he's walking around the topic, why? Whether it was the haze at this sad moment or the sad nostalgia this weather brings, you feel gloomier than the skies.

It was rainy when your parents separated, it was rainy when the dog you grew up with passed away, it was rainy when your Grandma looked at you in disdain at the glaring 89 of your Math test that should have been 100, and it was also rainy when you fell on your knees, tears on your face, screaming at how the world is so unfair — it was rainy when you decided to give it all up, only to stumble onto a pure ray of sunshine drenched in cold rain water. The only good thing the rain brought you was Lee Donghyuck, and he isn't even here to comfort you. Instead, you're looking at your boyfriend, in a confrontation between you and him and your jealousy that you don't even want to be in, and all your mind does is ask you, 'Is your first heart break going to be under the rain too?'

You hate rain. Maybe it was the memories, maybe it was the heavy atmosphere, maybe because everyone seemed to love it and you can't understand why — but at the moment, it was the silence. It hurts more than anything, you believe. Silence hurts so much, especially if in that silence you wished that person held you close and whispered all the things you want to hear in your ear.

"Do you ever miss her, Mark?", you feel sorry that you're doing this to him but you really can't stand it, the thought of trapping Mark in a relationship that he no longer wants, "D-do you wish you never left her?"

"No," is the sharp reply that escapes his mouth, "Yes, I missed her, but no, leaving her was the best thing I ever did besides joining NCT because it's one of the reasons that lead me to you," You push yourself up to meet his gaze, his expression screaming of confusion, or heart break — maybe both, "There's a reason I am dating you, Y/N. I wish I never had to hear these words from you, because you mean the world to me and hearing you compare yourself to someone else hurts me more than you could imagine — but I am sure it hurts you more. Have I done such a poor job at loving you that even through three years, you still feel like you're not good enough?"

Your head is already shaking even before he completed his sentence, a panicked no comes out of your mouth and you just don't know what to do so you place a finger on top of his lips to stop him from speaking, "No," you say in a broken voice, "You were good to me. You are good to me. But she… she's everything you would want — it's as if God customized her for you — and she's completely the opposite of me."

"Would it make you feel better if I tell you that I am with you for that exact reason, Y/N? Because that's the truth, and I hope it does", he says, cupping your face, "She knew my favorite food the first date. She guessed my favorite number the first try. She perfectly fit in all my ideals. She got everything correct, and at that moment, I believed we were soulmates."

Mark has always been the one more experienced between the two of you as he had more relationships before you — he is your first love, and it doesn't even matter if you aren't his. It's just a number, but when it comes to relationships and all the other things, he's more experienced than you and that makes you feel a little worried. Even if you don't want to admit it, you lost several nights of sleep thinking about this — how Mark might've been feeling like he's babysitting a child throughout this relationship, and how much of a newbie you act despite you dating for three years.

He laughs, still cupping your cheeks and your heart breaks again at the reminiscing look in his eyes. What have you put yourself into? How many times will you break your heart tonight? The moment over powers your hate for the rain, you closed your eyes and listened to the sound of the sad, loud and terrifying heavy raindrops because at this moment, you feel as though nothing is scarier than Mark choosing her over you. It is too possible. Whether it was the truth or just your insecurities whispering at you, you didn't care — it feels too right, it feels too possible.

"But you… I forgot my own favorite food when you looked so happy seeing yours and from then on I called it my favorite too. I was so full of you that my favorite number is the date of the day I first saw you," he chuckles in disbelief, "You barged into my life like you owned me, crushed all the ideals I set and changed everything I want to you. You made me rethink my reasons of declaring her my soulmate but you didn't have to replace her because you made me realize I never, never really gave her my heart to anyone like I gave mine to you, Y/N. You had me even before I met you, as if I knew that you'll come along, and saved every part of me for you," he strokes the side of your face gently, drying you of your tears, "You made my parents cry the night I brought you home, while you were fast asleep up my room, and they told me, 'Mark, you have such a lovely girl', made me promise to keep you forever and treat you right. Have I failed to do that, Y/N? Was I that lacking of love?"

You shut your eyes, no, you want to say, but you can't. It's like your paralyzed by his gaze and touch, his words making your heart flutter and shatter at the same time, "Because I can try again, be better, Y/N. I can be better. Until you don't even think about other people's names, until you remember how I love you the same way you can't forget your name."

"No, you're perfect, Mark," and millions worth or praises as well, but you don't want to say that. Not now, you'll save them for the next million years you'll spend loving him, "You're perfect and I love you. I won't trade this for anything else. I'm sorry for letting my insecurities get the best of me and I'm sorry for making you feel like your lacking, Mark, I'm—"

Your words get cut as your lips meet in a bittersweet kiss, the first kiss of today, one after a fight that could've torn you apart — this one tasted like honey, this felt like coming home, back at his arms. It's soft and insistent, warm and giddy and child-like in a way that is free. It felt like high school, it felt carefree, it felt so right that it's almost wrong. You smile at how similar it is to that one day in Vancouver, that one morning in Santorini, that night in Paris and this.

"I love you." He says with a peaceful smile as he pecks your lips on more time before he buries his face on your neck, "I love you so fucking much, Y/N, like my heart is so full of you and it's about to explode. I love you."

"Even if I'm a little bit insecure and a whole lot sensitive?", you ask him, basking in his warmth and you feel his lips curl against your neck as he says, "Yes, even if you're a little bit insecure, and a whole lot sensitive, love…"

You stay like that for a while, and the rain calms down as if it's finally sated. Several minutes were spent, lying like that, listening to each other's heartbeats before he decides that it's time to go home, the bright 2:36 am glares at the two of you alongside the 8 a.m schedules the two of you have. So, he starts up the car once he made sure you're wearing your seatbelt, and you have a sudden epiphany that his face is a better sight — even better than the city lights passing like a blur outside the car window. You smile to yourself, it's still an hour drive waiting for the two of you.

Even until then, he doesn't let go of your hand, and that's enough to keep your heart content. Mark Lee is always enough to keep your heart full, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[irtza]

MEADOW BOYS

PART ONE

The fights stopped for a while, and eventually, so did the manager's attempts at getting them to talk. Mark point blank refused to look at Donghyuck, which was easy in a team of ten. He always had someone else to be with, and so did the younger. Mark found himself latching onto Johnny and Taeyong the most, drowning himself in projects and practice and work.

It was a useful distraction, because he wouldn't have the time or the energy to spare and glance in the direction of his meadow boy. The chit of paper with Donghyuck's name weighed down his wallet heavily, tucked away in a corner along with a family photo he kept of his parents and his brother, and a receipt of the first guitar he had bought with his own money. He convinced himself to not get rid of the chit, because it was a memory with all of Dream, not just him.

And then came the announcement for the Dream comeback. With that came the heavy tension and worry from 127's side. Mark overheard several conversations Taeyong ended up having with the managers or Doyoung, where he reassured them that Mark and Haechan were responsible, that they would never ruin a comeback with their tussles and arguments because they both cared too much about their careers for that, and the 127 dynamic was still going great despite the obvious disconnect.

But then he remembered all the times he felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart when Donghyuck said something too mean or looked away just to be healed when he would throw an arm around his shoulder and walk out the doors of the company building and he wondered if Donghyuck even knew what he was doing to Mark.

It was times like that when Mark wondered if he'd made the right choice, every time he paused outside Jaehyun and Donghyuck's room on his way back from the kitchen to hear either yells of victory with overwatch in the background or low voices talking about something, or just steady breathing.

Mark hated to admit it, but he missed Donghyuck. He really fucking missed his meadow boy, with daisies in his hair and scintilla in his eyes and sunshine bouncing off every sharp plane of his face. He missed his smaller frame that would forcefully wrap itself around Mark, the chapped lips he would try to avoid pressing against his skin because he was scared he'd want to feel more.

Maybe not.

And so came the Dream practices, where Mark had his own room, small and cramped but still his own. The walls were thin and he could hear Jeno and Donghyuck laugh at jokes or just talk about things in muffled low voices.

He would feel alone so he'd curl up under the blanket or go find himself a snack in the kitchen, where he'd find Jisung rummaging through the cabinet at some ungodly hour and then they'd watch a Korean dubbed version of Captain America and fall asleep on the couch. They'd wake up the next morning with stiff limbs and sore necks but hks heart would feel considerably lighter until he would catch sight of Donghyuck clinging onto Chenle who would screech and shove him away, but because he couldn't be in a bad mood he would go hang around Jaemin who would greet him with a low good morning and the bowl of cereal he was filling for himself.

They would go to practice or to events with their masks up and bucket hats drawn low and sometimes Mark would stare at the retreating figure of Donghyuck, who usually walked between Jeno and Renjun, and sometimes he would see fan taken pictures of him doing the same and curse himself, and stay up till three am wondering if Donghyuck saw those pictures too and hated him or scoffed at him for looking so longingly when he was the one who refused to talk it out.

He would sometimes pass Donghyuck in the corridor in the living room or on the dining room late at night and would ignore the rising wave of concern when he noticed the purple blooming eye bags under his eyes but refrained from asking. The tension would be too thick in the air and if Donghyuck ever opened his mouth to say something, Mark would run out of the room because he was terrified of looking at him in the eye and wondering what he would see.

Other times he would accidentally look to the side during practice and make eye contact with Donghyuck in the mirror, but he wouldn't see anything except hollow eyes that stared back at him, before they would shift away. Donghyuck was scared of Mark, he realised with a twist in gut. Donghyuck stopped trying to talk to him, became as still as a statue when he moved too close and his expression would become a tabula rasa.

And Mark would be downright cruel to ignore the fact that Donghyuck was about as okay as he was - which wasn't good. There was no denying the boy was losing sleep and losing weight and losing energy, but he would look fine everywhere else, glowing with happiness.

He would tell Renjun this, and Renjun would blink at him and sigh, before cussing him out thoroughly. "Oblivious fuck." He'd say, before ushering Mark out of the room with false promises that slid off his tongue with such ease that he would talk to Donghyuck and help him, but Cleary Donghyuck didn't want to be helped because he'd hear yells of "Mind your own business, Huang!" And it wouldn't be the friendly kind.

Mark couldn't figure out for the life of him what was wrong with Donghyuck or why he was acting like this, and even if the little demons in his head told him it was his fault and if he just manned up and apologised to Donghyuck it would be all okay, the other voices would tell him it can't be him because the boy would certainly hate him by now, heck, he would hate himself by now.

And Mark cursed himself for ever being proud of being able to tell the limits of anything when he couldn't even tell Donghyuck's. He cursed himself for being a tad bit too slow at catching the boy when his eyes rolled back into his head and his legs had given out in the middle of a choreography.

He cursed himself for everything under the goddamn sun because if he hadn't been such a senstivid jerk, such a whiny idiot, such a starstruck boy who even decided to audition, none of this would have ever happened and they wouldn't be standing in an empty hospital corridor, where he paced up and down the length, apparently white faced.

Jeno told him calmly to sit down, and when that didn't work, Jisung told him that he was scaring him and that snapped Mark out of it because the younger knew how to manipulate the soft spot the older had for him. "I'm sorry." Mark whispered, but he didn't know who he was saying it to or what he was saying it for, merely collapsing onto the bench with his face buried in his palms in an attempt to muffle the ragged breathing that came before a storm of tears.

He heard the creaking of the seat beside him, and suddenly he was enveloped in a warm hug and gentle whispers of, "We don't blame you, hyung."

Mark broke that night. He finally broke, caving into the pressure of his mistakes and pain and cried into his arms, cried into whatever shoulder was offered to him, cried until his eyes were dry and throat was raw, and then cried some more because he knew no amount of tears would ever be able to bring back Donghyuck to him, and he just wanted to be able to apologise.

"It's okay, hyung." He would hear Chenle say softly, and it would fade out to Renjun gently pressing a bottle of water and forcing him to take a few a sips which would then turn into Jaemin wiping his tears and offering his shoulder for him to sleep on, which he denied out of pure guilt because he was supposed to take care of them and be there for them, and he was being a shitty leader.

"You were suffering too, hyung." Jisung told him lightly, forcing Mark to rest his head on his shoulder, holding his hand. For his sake, he insisted, and Mark was weak so he allowed it. "You both were egoistic idiots who clearly cared about each other and not enough about yourselves. I'm sure if this hadn't happened, you would have collapsed instead. Have you seen yourself?"

No, he hasn't, but he had overheard the stylists worrying about how a few costumes were a bit looser on him than expected and fussing about how they were sure they had the right measurements and that Mark couldn't have lost weight in such a short amount of time - he thought it had been a good thing.

"Just talk to him when he wakes up, okay?" Jaemin told him soothingly. "It's been long overdue." And maybe it had, because Mark finally told the demons in his head to shut the fuck up and clear it out with his best friend.

"It's just exhaustion." The doctor told them and their worried manager, who looked equally exhausted. "The boy hasn't eaten or slept properly for a while, by the looks of it. It's possible he was under too much stress. A week of complete rest at the minimum should do him some good." The doctor peered at Mark and the others over his clipboard with narrowed eyes, before saying firmly, "I understand you have a comeback ahead of you, and I wish you the best of luck, but I'd rather not see you boys here again. While this may be your job, your health is far more important, and you boys don't look too far off from collapsing either."

To be very honest, Jisung looked like he was going to burst into tears at that comment, and Mark could only just hug him, because to have someone care in an industry that wished for you to mold your body to their expectations was rare and it was heart-warming to the point they felt their heart was burning in flames.

"When he will he be awake?" Mark croaked out, looking up at the doctor who gave him a weary smile. "Soon, I'm assuming. We'll let you know when he's awake."

And just like that, within a few hours, a nurse came hurrying down the corridor maybe at about two am, looking tired. "Mark Lee." She called out, and Mark jerked out of the light sleep he'd managed to fall into, standing up dazedly, blinking. "The patient specifically called for you." The nurse said, covering her mouth with a yawn. Renjun stirred beside him, being a light sleeper himself, and gave Mark an encouraging nod. "Don't fuck it up," He called out, and Mark winced at the echo, but nodded anyways as he followed the nurse towards the room. She stayed out, keeping the door partially ajar, and Mark turned to look at the boy on the bed, sitting up with his gaze on him.

He walked over quietly, the only sound being the clacking of his shoes against the tiled floor. He drew up a chair and sat down silently, eyes focused on the blanket that Donghyuck was bunching up in his hands.

"You should take care of yourself." Mark said quietly, immediately wincing at his own words. Donghyuck let out a dry chuckle, raw and bitter. "That's the first thing you've said to me after months, and it's a scolding."

The first thing that came to the top of tongue was a defensive retort - how it applied to all of them, how it was more important than ever because they had a comeback and how this would hold the team back.

When Mark looked up, finally looking Donghyuck in the eyes after months, (had his eyes always been the color of coffee?) he saw from the fractured, defeated look that it was what Donghyuck was expecting from him. An attempt at reconciliation that would end in defeat, just another part of the cycle Mark tried to end but unknowingly started a new one of ignoring and then pain.

He didn't want that. Don't fuck it up.

He clenched his fists, swallowing, before lowering his gaze. "I'm sorry." He choked out, the words coming out muffled at first over the lump in his throat, but the the dam broke and a tear rolled down.

"I'm so fucking sorry," He sobbed, the heels of his palms coming to cover his eyes but Donghyuck caught his wrists and pulled them away from his face. Mark was vulnerable in front of him, red and puffy in the face, and for the first time in ages, Mark managed to actually look at him, seeing the tear tracks and the eyes bags and the chewed up lips and everything else visible and not. He reached over, and pulled him in for a hug. "Hyung loves you, Hyuck - ah." Mark sobbed as he held on tightly, as if the thin figure of bones and skin would disappear like sand through his fingertips if he wasn't careful, and when Donghyuck let out a muffled cry, his heart broke.

He didn't know how long he had spent there, holding the tired boy for ages until his arms ached and even then he pushed through because it was the least he owed Donghyuck.

He held him tight and promised he'd never let him go because even after everything, Mark wanted to see his smile and hear his laugh and press his lips to his own, even if he could never do the latter. Mark still loved Lee Donghyuck, and would give up every organ his body and every idea, thought, anything of value in his soul for the boy, whether it be for something trivial or something huge, because he realised that without Donghyuck, he was sad, hurt and angry.

He loved Lee Donghyuck, and it had taken them a while to fall back into a new dynamic, where they would talk and love and tease but cherish, and that was what mattered. And Mark was grateful it worked out in the end, because here he was with his best friend on the midnight of his twenty second birthday, being asked about one of his favorite memories of all time.

"Of course I remember that." He huffed out, and Donghyuck laughed lightly into the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, making goosebumps rise on the bare skin. Suddenly, Mark wished he hadn't worn a tank top to bed.

"You never told me who your meadow boy was." The younger said quietly, fiddling with a loose thread on the front of Mark's shirt, and Mark was sure the other heard his breath hitch. "Wasn't that the point, though?" He asked after a pregnant pause. "It's supposed to remain a secret."

Donghyuck snorted. "You know me, hyung." He batted his eyes innocently at the older. "I always want to know everything. Plus, I already know Jaemin's and Chenle's." "They still remember it?" Mark asked, impressed. Donghyuck looked up, an eyebrow quirked up as he looked baffled. "Of course they do," He said incredulously. "We still use the nickname all the time. I'm pretty sure we follow around our meadow boy all the time, too."

Mark shrugged as much as he could in the compromising position, arms still tightly wrapped around Donghyuck. After his reinstatement to Dream, although he had visited them, he'd never lived with them like he had before. It wasn't a huge surprise he was out of the loop.

"Jaemin's meadow boy is Jisung." Donghyuck giggled. "It's so obvious, if you think of it. No wonder he got attached so far." Mark hummed out a response, fingers tracing out patterns on the other's back absentmindedly. "And Chenle's is Jeno."

"Who was yours?" Mark looked down at the younger, who snuggled closer, every ridge and valley lining up, and he didn't feel so cold without the blanket anymore. "Renjun." Donghyuck whispered. "Mhm." Mark hummed, eyes fixed on the wall behind the younger.

"Yours?" Donghyuck asked again, and Mark stiffened, before relaxing. "You." He breathed out. He felt Donghyuck tense in his arms, before he was shifted lightly, the younger squirming out of his grasp and pushing him flat on his back, making Mark let out a noise of surprise. Donghyuck swung himself over, knees planted on either side of Mark’s hips. “Donghyuck-” He breathed out, but the younger was faster. “Can you give your meadow boy one wish, then?” He asked softly, fingers intertwining with Mark’s. The older felt his breathing speed up, swallowing lightly as he nodded.

Donghyuck smiled, leaning down slowly. "Can I have a kiss?" He asked softly, hot breath ghosting over Mark's lips, and he exhaled softly. "Yeah." Mark got out, fire racing up his limbs, heartbeat picking up, hands coming to grasp the younger by his waist as he leaned down.

Donghyuck pressed their mouths together tentatively, almost like a gentle breeze that was gone too fast, before Mark tugged him down again, a hand now cupping his face.

The younger tasted faintly of the hot cocoa Johnny had made as dessert after finding some random recipe on Google and the minty tang of toothpaste. Mark really didn't mind it at all, fingers carding through his hair as Donghyuck balanced himself by placing his arms on either side of Mark's head.

When Donghyuck pulled away, breathless his pupils were full blown, dilated save for the outer ring of coffee, a rosy tinge to cheeks barely visible to Mark, and red ears.

"Happy birthday, Lee Mark." He whispered softly. "I love you." And if Mark even notices that his heart skips several beats, he gives no sign of recognition, merely staring at Donghyuck dumbfounded and tongue tied, a hand still in his hair and the other on his waist, and he wondered how he still had a hold on the boy's heart.

Don't fuck it up.

He let out a breath, surging up and capturing the other's lips again in a deeper kiss, all tongue and teeth and everything else, trying to say everything he couldn't for years in one simple gesture. When he pulled away, he was breathless too, resting his forehead against the Donghyuck's, eyes briefly fluttering shut before opening again, as he stared in coffee ringed eyes, claiming his lips again with the ghost of a whisper.

"I love you too, my meadow boy."

[harryandmolly]

desperado

A/N: a continuation of “she got the moon in her eyes” -- recommend you read that first!

summary: Shawn and Catalina deal with the aftermath of their night together

warnings: Language, NSFW in a big way holy cow (unprotected sex, wrap it before you tap it), dom!Shawn comes out to play

WC: 4.4k

-------------

The morning is dark and cold when he leaves her bed, her tangled navy hair, her chapped rosy lips. It’s like the day itself is telling him to turn around and get back under her sheets, nicotine stained and perfume scented. The idea of it sets something off in his gut, a sharp tugging leading in the opposite direction of his heavy stride toward his bike.

He slings a leg across and settles in, pulling his helmet on, careful to avoid his still tender black eye. When he checked in her mirror in the early blue light of dawn, it was starting to go a sickly green-ish around the edges. He’s lucky, he guesses, that Catalina took him home last night before this started. He looks a little gross.

He revs the engine, takes one mournful look back at the little craftsman house and sighs, taking off down Greenfield toward his place.

+

You can’t hear the tinkling bell over the door at Plucky’s Pub, the one meant to signal the arrival of more customers. Catalina doesn’t know why it’s there. But as she’s learned, Plucky’s regulars don’t like change. If the bell was gone, they’d surely notice somehow, the way they notice when Bonnie changes anything -- the price of two fingers of whiskey, the ratty-ass curtains over the south window, even the fucking bar polish they use to clean the damn place.

Catalina doesn’t need the bell, anyway. She can feel it when people walk in, even when the line for the bar is five deep and she can’t see the door. She’s been doing this a long time. Plus, when certain people walk in, you can feel it.

Shawn is the last of his crew through the door. He’s the one they turn to look at. Not even just the straight women -- everyone. He’s just eye-catching. Catalina knows. She understands. He caught her eye, too.

She turns on the block heel of her slingbacks. She doesn’t even want to be tempted to look up at him. It’s been three weeks since she took him home and he left without a word. Things like that just… don’t happen to her.

This one stung. For one thing, she’s not usually the one hosting. She prefers it that way. She can control her exit without the fuss of having to kick someone out. It also means she’s never in the position of having someone leave her to wake up alone.

She didn’t have, like, plans or anything. She wasn’t going to wake up and put on his t-shirt and make him pancakes, for fuck’s sake. That’s so not her style.

It’s the principle of it. He left. He left her. Nobody does that.

Why the fuck did he do that?

She knows it was good. Fuck, she knows it was great. It’s never been like that the first time, not with anyone. She thinks of the way his body stuttered, the groan that sounded like it was coming out of his gut when he came inside her. Her toes tingle thinking about it. She grits her teeth and rocks the cocktail shaker harder in her warm hands.

She does finally turn around because she has to to hand off the drink. It’s admittedly not the best martini she’s ever made. She abused the ice in the shaker for too long, which chips it, which makes it melt faster, which makes it watery, which makes her tip smaller. She grits her teeth, accepting the small bills, tucking them into her bra.

The loud glassy clinking of beer bottles being delivered to a table has her looking up before she can remember to stop. Shawn and his friends are starting with Molsons tonight. Shawn isn’t looking at his bottle as he positions the edge of the cap over the end of the table, slapping the heel of his palm down without flinching.

He’s looking straight at her.

It takes all her self control not to sneer before she turns her gaze down to the next customer. She has to blink a few times not to see his face. She also has to have the poor girl repeat her order three times before her fingers know where to reach to make a gin and tonic.

+

She used to be good at ignoring his eyes on her all night.

Well, that’s not strictly true. She just used to enjoy them a lot more.

She’s not sure why they’re on her now. The curiosity has been well and thoroughly satisfied. He had her, he left. Yes, that makes him a fucking moron of catastrophic proportions, Catalina knows. But why is he still looking?

Every time she glances up, he’s already watching her expectantly. What exactly is he anticipating? Does he expect to see her bursting into tears at the sight of him, or panting over the idea of fucking him again until he comes over and takes her?

If that’s what he’s waiting for, it’ll be a while.

She’s busy, anyway. She has a cling-on tonight.

A cling-on is a term Bonnie uses for guys that latch onto a hot female bartender and attempt to woo her. Catalina’s very familiar with them. She got a lot more when she started at Plucky’s, when her take-no-prisoners reputation wasn’t yet known. But every so often, some poor sap will stumble in and think if he’s persistent enough, he’ll get in her pants. She has half a mind to let him if it’ll run Shawn out of her rattled brain.

But this particular guy is aggressive. She stopped serving him fifteen minutes ago after he knocked over the drink of a biker chick Catalina once took home, but he’s still here, trying to talk to her every time she delivers a drink down to his end of the bar.

She drops a rum and coke onto a coaster for the woman next to him, who looks sweetly concerned. Catalina winks at her assuringly and turns to head for a group of college guys that have just made their way to the bar after a wait.

Before she can move, she feels a tug on the thin strap of her dress. She whirls around, eyes skimming past the horrified look on the woman’s face before she settles on the bleary-eyed fuckwit who just laid a hand on her without her permission.

Then something weird happens.

Catalina’s history of chucking assholes out of Plucky’s for different varieties of bad behavior is long and storied. She’s hardly ever needed help to do it. When she has, it’s been because the losers have had back up, so Shawn and his friends, the de facto security team, stepped in to even the count.

Catalina knows the situation calls for her angriest face, for her to bark “OUT!” loud enough to embarrass the fucker and get him stumbling out the door. She can do it. She doesn’t need help.

But she looks up. Shawn is watching her carefully, beer bottle halfway to his perfect, pillowy lips. She swallows and blinks at him, and it’s enough for him to come running.

In a few strides, he’s there, hustling around the crowd to get behind the bar. His eyes are dark and solid, his jaw is tight. He’s squaring up, looking ready to scream in this guy’s face, but it’s not what Catalina wants.

Instead, she grabs him by the wrist, pins herself to the wall and drags him in.

Shawn doesn’t take long to respond. He sinks one hand into the soft, sweaty hair clinging to the back of her neck and wraps the other around her hip, nipping hard at her lower lip to get a moan vibrating his whole body.

Some patrons cheer. Bonnie casts them a confused sidelong glance from the other end of the bar as she dumps bourbon into a lowball glass. Shawn’s friends exchange amused looks.

Shawn and Catalina don’t see any of it.

Shawn tips his head, pressing his tongue between her lips with a deep sigh that makes his shoulders drop for the first time in weeks. The hand on her hip works his thumb into her hipbone, pulling the loose skirt of her little dress up with every purposeful stroke. Catalina holds him close, massaging her long fingers against his scalp to make his eyes flutter.

She’s the one that breaks away to breathe first. Her lips are wet, parted with the heaving effort of her breath. She looks up at Shawn, eyes wide, expression unreadable. While he stares down at her, she angles her head to look over his shoulder. Her cling-on looks vaguely disgusted, pitching himself off the counter to amble heavily toward the door.

He watches her mask slide back on when she looks back up at him, clearing her throat.

“Thanks.”

The muscle in Shawn’s jaw pulses. He eases off to let her slide out from around his hulking form. She doesn’t bother looking back at him again.

+

Catalina’s not the least bit surprised to see him refuse his friends’ invitation to leave with them after closing time while Catalina is refilling bottles and twirling on her toes to “I Wanna Be Your Lover” by Prince -- one of Bonnie’s favorite post closing time clean up jams.

Catalina is dawdling. Bonnie and Shawn have both clocked it. She’s singing along under her breath, rinsing the funnel leisurely as Bonnie locks doors and gathers cash into a bag for the bank.

Wizened Bonnie with her spiky red pixie cut and her toned, tattooed arms shoots Shawn a look before announcing she’s out for the night. Shawn answers it with a nod. Bonnie hits the stereo on the way out.

It’s quiet. The only sounds left in the dark, empty bar are the splashing of booze as Catalina refills handles and the squeaking of her heels on the sticky floor.

Shawn takes a deep, shaky breath. He runs a hand through his hair and drops the last gulp of Johnnie Walker down his throat before standing, shucking off the Dolly Parton leather jacket. He takes his glass and heads for the bar to return it to Catalina.

She looks up briefly from her careful pour of Jim Beam.

“What’re you still doing here?” she murmurs. It’s gentle, not accusatory. It makes Shawn’s lips curl into a smirk.

“Figured I’d stick around in case that creepy fucker comes back.”

Catalina wets her lips and stands, shaking her hair out over her shoulders. She doesn’t look up from her bottle.

“You know I don’t have a problem handling those losers,” she says breezily. Shawn sees right through it.

“Oh, I know. That’s why it was so cute that you used it as a way to get your tongue in my mouth earlier.”

That gets her attention. Her gaze snaps to his. She tilts her chin up defiantly.

“Some guys don’t respond to my pushback unless they think I “belong” to somebody,” she explains unnecessarily, quirking her fingers in air quotes around “belong.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully, twirling his glass in his fingers before he sets it down on the bar and steps around it to hunch beside her.

“But you don’t belong to anybody, baby,” he purrs in her ear, watching with a rush of heat in his veins as goosebumps pour over her sweet, fragrant neck.

“That’s right,” she snarks back, twisting the cap of a bottle. She turns to put the bottle back. On her way to grab another, Shawn hooks an arm around her waist and lifts her to perch on the edge of the bar counter.

He takes his time looking her over as he makes his way between her thighs. With heavy lids, he watches her breathing quicken. He strokes his broad, rough palms down the outsides of her legs. He pauses. Catalina holds her breath, sure she’s getting another bruising kiss. Instead, he steps back and skillfully hooks his fingers under the ankle strap of her slingbacks, slipping them off and dropping them with a clatter.

“Dunno why you wear those to work,” he comments, gently lowering one leg to focus on the other. He plants her foot at the center of his chest and draws his fingertips teasingly up and down the length and breadth of her moonpale leg.

Catalina grips the edge of the bar and stares at him unblinking. He admires the dips and curves and swells and valleys of her well-used leg, slipping his fingers under the sole of her foot to pluck it off his chest and press his thumbs into the sore tendons.

Catalina’s eyes slam shut. The moan that leaves her throat is beyond obscene. It makes Shawn chuckle. He takes his time, working his fingers with varying pressure around the ball of her foot to the arch to her heel and back again. When he’s satisfied, he lifts her other foot and repeats the massage, intricate and detailed and so tender it makes Catalina’s mind swirl.

“I… they make my ass look amazing,” she answers finally, his question almost forgotten.

Shawn looks up from her eggplant-lacquered toes. “Your ass already looks amazing, Leens. You might as well be comfortable while you look so damn good.”

He lowers her foot and stares up at her. Without removing his gaze, he lifts her claw-like hand off the bar and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss over her knuckles.

“You know, you’re allowed to want to be a damsel in distress sometimes. I won’t think any less of you.”

Catalina balks, her insides twisting. “I don’t need you to save me, Shawn.”

Shawn steps closer, dropping her little hand onto his shoulder.

“I know. But it’s ok if you want me to.”

His lips are soft, plump and whiskey-wet. She gasps into them, her knees falling automatically open to welcome him closer. He takes the invitation happily, pulling her hips tight against his torso as he loses himself in the taste of her sweet mouth. She’s immediately needy, dropping her pretense to take as much of him in her hands as she can. She squeezes the bulk of his shoulders, the swell of his biceps, the soft skin of his neck, the curls behind his ears that have him growling into her lips.

She pulls back. He grunts and chases her down, lunging in for another searing kiss. She lets him take it, the wrinkle between her eyes softening as she rocks her hips against his abdomen and gathers him ever closer. Soon, before she can entirely lose her train of thought, she pulls away again, this time to suck on his jaw to pacify him.

Through wet, biting kisses, she pants, “Want to show you… want to thank you…”

Shawn’s intrigued. His stomach flips. He pulls back and holds her face in his hands.

“How are you going to do that?” he coos, cocky and curious.

Catalina inhales and nudges him back enough to slip down to her feet. She turns him, props him up against the bar and lowers to her knees. His head tosses back. He breathes harder in anticipation.

“Remember how hot and tight my throat was for you?” she breathes, her voice already fucked as she unbuckles his belt and skillfully works his jeans open to free his hard cock, “Remember how good and wet I felt when I was sucking you?”

“Jesus, baby,” Shawn hisses. His cock gives a twitch at her words. She smiles and takes it in her soft hand, stroking it firmly. His eyes flutter.

“Want you to fuck my mouth, Shawn,” she tells him, planting a sweet kiss on his tip. His hips shift forward, searching for her.

“Open up then, princess,” he sighs, shooting her a crooked grin that has her squirming.

Catalina, for once in her life, obeys. She lifts her hair over one shoulder and parts her flushed lips, staring up at him. Shawn groans, easing his cock into her willing mouth slowly. He wants her to enjoy this as much as he knows he will, so he doesn’t go shoving in all at once. He rolls his hips gently, letting her adjust, slick him down with her soft tongue. When she gives a short nod, he rocks harder, a little deeper, until he feels her throat restrict around his shaft.

She’s looking up at him like she doesn’t want to miss a second. Her small hands cling to his hips like she’s afraid he’ll bolt if she doesn’t hold on. Fat fucking chance.

Her mouth really is almost as good as her pussy. Or maybe his stupid horny brain just thinks that right now because he hasn’t had her pussy in weeks, even though it’s all he’s been thinking about when he’s alone, his tight fist failing to bring him the same ecstatic feeling. She’s not afraid of what he’s giving her, even when he reaches down to curl his hand around her thick sheet of hair to control the angle of her wet mouth. She seems hungry for him. It makes his toes curl in his boots.

“Your fucking mouth, Jesus fucking Christ,” Shawn pants, shaking his head with a short, overwhelmed burst of laughter. Catalina groans, scooting closer on her knees. The whine that whistles from Shawn’s nose would embarrass him if he weren’t half gone.

“You like this, don’t you, baby? Like the way I fuck your pretty mouth,” he whispers, awed.

She manages to nod, still looking up at him reverently.

Shawn’s fingers curl into his free fist. The hand in her hair eases her back gently until his cock bobs against her bottom lip.

“Don’t wanna come in your mouth,” he grunts, “Need to feel you come on my face first.”

He watches in delight as her thighs tighten under her pretty skirt. He takes her hands, helping her back to her feet.

“How do you want me?” she asks, glancing around like she’s looking for ideas.

Shawn thinks fast on his feet. He grabs a step stool out from under the bar and positions it beside the counter, helping her to stand on top, facing away from him. She looks back over her shoulder when Shawn’s hands lift the skirt of her dress, his thumbs pressing greedily into the smooth skin of her ass.

Catalina’s eyes drift shut. She’s soaked straight through her lacy baby blue thong. Shawn tugs at it teasingly, letting it snap against her lower back.

“C’mon, Shawn,” she hisses impatiently.

Shawn hums from the back of his throat, amused. “Think you’re gonna get what you need by being a brat?”

He pulls at her panties for real now, watching as they hug her close, clinging to her wetness until they drop around her ankles. He steadies her as she steps out of them, kicking them off the stool.

“Maybe if you ask me nicely,” he suggests, lifting one of her legs so her knee rests on the edge of the bar, spreading her open for him, “I’ll give you what you need.”

Catalina’s vision is blurry. Now that he’s got her where he wants her, ready to give it up if she says the words, even her swollen pride can’t stop her.

She keens loud and looks over her shoulder, watching him drop to his knees so he’s level with her slick wetness.

“Please, Shawn. Fuck. Please. Need your tongue.”

Shawn grins wolfishly and lurches forward, using his gigantic hands to anchor her against the bar and press the flat of his tongue to her dripping pussy.

“Fuck, so wet already,” he laughs after his first taste, “Soaked from sucking on my cock.”

She mewls in agreement, wriggling her hips. He lifts a hand to bring it down against the white flesh of her ass, watching her arch, hearing her squeal.

“So pretty,” he groans before nuzzling his lips back where they belong. His tongue plucks at her clit, wanting her as wet as he can get her. She rocks her hips gently against the bar, stretching her arms out to hold tight to the other side of the counter as he starts fucking her in earnest.

Shawn’s tongue is unforgiving. He flicks it hot and fast against her swollen button, his thumbs sweeping in toward her center, flirting with the idea of filling her with his fingers. He concentrates on suckling at her until she’s bucking so hard against the bar that he can’t hold her still.

“Didn’t take long,” he pants, licking his lips, “Gonna come for me already, princess?”

“Please, please, please,” she chants, “Need to fucking come for you.”

Shawn is smug, landing another harsh smack on her ass, a second red handprint to match the first. “Yeah, baby. Come on my tongue.”

He thrusts his stiff tongue in between her pulsing walls, adjusting his hand so his finger can rock tightly against her clit. She can tell by the pressure mounting against his mouth that she’s almost there. He moans in anticipation and it’s the thing that drives her home.

Shawn holds his mouth fast against her, pressing his tongue in and out as she shakes and screams. He lifts his hands up around her hips, letting his palms be the cushion between her hipbones and the bar counter. He revels in it, in just how long it takes for her to even out and bring her crying whimpers down to ragged gasps.

Shawn hesitates, but pulls back when he feels her shivering at his touch. He straightens up behind her, helps her ease her leg down off the bar and climb off the stool to slump in his arms.

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are unfocused, and Shawn has never felt so accomplished. He cradles her against his chest, smiling as she presses open-mouthed kisses through his t-shirt.

“Want more, honey?” he rasps, nosing at her fragrant hair. She nods eagerly.

Shawn reaches down to scoop her up, her legs lifting to twist around his waist. Her body is weak and soft against his as he carries her around the corner, pressing her back into the walk-in fridge door. She hisses at the cool steel before the sound disappears between his lips.

Catalina lifts her limp hands into his hair, squeezing when she feels his hips pin hers into the door and cant, driving his still hard cock against her pussy. She tastes herself, warm and heady on his lips. She writhes, desperately trying to angle herself in a way that will get him nestled up against her entrance for when the next rock of his hips comes.

“Shhh, I know,” he chuckles brusquely, holding her up with one arm so he can maneuver them together, spanking her clit with the head of his cock while he’s at it. She squirms, whimpering and tossing her head.

“Tell me,” he pants, telling himself he’s not begging, “Tell me you want to feel me.”

“Oh god, Shawn,” she moans, “Yes. Please. You make me feel so good.”

The tips of his ears go hot. With a grunt, he thrusts up into her, feeling a ghost of the memory of last time shrug around him. He’s never felt anything like her before. He thought it would’ve worn off after the first time, after he came so hard inside her he truly saw stars. But it’s here again and it has him by the throat.

His breathing is ragged as his chest presses against hers. She’s not mocking him this time, though. She’s brushing her nose over his, wetting her lips to speak, quiet and sweet.

“Nobody fills me like you do.”

Shawn’s instincts return and any remaining sense goes out the window. He growls again, vibrating her around his dick as he starts to set a rhythm that has her bouncing between his hips and the door. She gasps, eyes flying open as her head slams back into the steel. In the quiet bar, the sounds their bodies make together are viscerally filthy. Shawn squeezes his eyes shut to try to ignore it for fear of ending it all too soon. She feels too good. He’s had her once and now, as he has her again, he knows he’s addicted.

Her hips roll with his in perfect time, giving and receiving. Her hot breath on his face makes him feel like he’s buried in a cloud with her. Maybe they won’t have to come out this time. He doesn’t want to.

He shifts his hips to pulse the head of his cock against her g-spot. As badly as he wants to hold her here against him forever, he’s desperate to feel her come again. He knows how good she can do it.

“Lina,” he hears himself murmur, his lips so close to hers that they brush when he speaks, “I know you’re close. I can feel you.”

She’s sure he can. Her whole body is throbbing for him. She’s been holding on by her fingertips, unwilling to end it. She knows when she comes, he’ll follow. And then what?

She groans and shakes her head. “I… I--”

“I know,” he pants, “It’s ok. Just come for me. Want you to come so hard.”

He plunges his face into the crook of her neck, licking and sucking at the spot that got her so crazy for him last time. She cries his name, thrusting her hips harder just before the dam breaks. She soaks him, her body sputtering and stumbling through a fierce orgasm. She chokes on breath and grips his hair so hard she pulls some strands free in her fingers. The pleasure-pain she gives him sends him off the cliff behind her, pulsing hot and fast into her welcoming cunt until he’s spent and barely able to hold them both up.

Shawn eases back, tucking himself into his jeans. Catalina adjusts her skirt and clears her throat, sore from crying out for him.

She drops her head, unable to look at him. Her chest feels tight. The shame of it is seeping in through every pore.

She was so willing to spread her legs for him again after he left her naked and alone in her own bed. She put her desire for a good fuck over her pride. She let him know she needs him.

She can’t think of anything worse.

With a jolt, she heaves off the door and grabs at her panties and the purse she left on the counter, leaving the shoes behind -- they’d only slow her down. Without another look back, she hurries out the door, taking off at a run, barefoot and crying.

-----------

Part 3 coming very soon! Please support my smutty ass and buy me a Ko-fi (link on main page)!

Taglist: @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte

[isitgintimeyet]

Letting Go

AO3

Previous

i know this sounds repetitive, but I am very grateful for you all taking the time to read this and comment, reblog etc.

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta, and @happytoobservenolongerdistant for continued encouragement

Chapter 6: It’s My Party

Play all my records, keep dancing all night But leave me alone for a while Till Johnny's dancing with me I've got no reason to smile It's my party and I'll cry if I want to Cry if I want to Cry if I want to You would cry too, if it happened to you. John Gluck/Wally Gold/Herb Weiner/Seymour Gottlieb

“So, this Saturday, we’ve decided to have a party,” Anna announced as she entered Claire’s flat.

“It’s not a party,” Mary clarified, following Anna into the living room. “It’s a gathering.”

“What’s the difference?” Claire asked.

“Half the people, half the alcohol and zero sex.” Anna replied, pulling a face at her sister. “But, apparently, that’s all I’m allowed. Anyway, if you want to invite anyone from the hospital, feel free. Especially if there’s any of those ‘Dr. McDreamy’ types floating around. Love me a man in a white coat.”

“Or in a flannel shirt and jeans, eh, Anna?” Mary laughed.

Claire smiled politely at Mary’s comment. “Unfortunately we don’t have many of those McDreamy types around the hospital but I’d like to ask a friend, if that’s ok?”

“Fine. Is this friend hot and single?”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh at Anna. “Well, I know Joe’s single and I suppose he’s hot, but you’ll need a totally different frontal configuration to pull him!”

“Ooh, maybe blind date for John, then. It’s high time he had a relationship. And what about you, Claire? Have to see if there’s anybody we can invite for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me… not sure relationships are quite my thing.”

Nine years ago

“So, Claire, can I ask… I dinna want tae pry, but are ye courtin’ at the moment?”

“Gosh, courting, that’s a word you don’t hear much nowadays… sorry, didn’t mean that to sound abrupt. It’s a lovely word… full of old values, manners and respect. But no, I’m not courting. I’ve never been sure how a relationship would fit into my life… studying and working long shifts at the hospital.”

“Ah, ok, I see…”

“Jamie, that wasn’t an excuse. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you this evening. I’m glad I decided to come to this party. It’s been…”

“Special? It’s been special fer me. I’d really like tae see ya again. Can I give ye a call, go fer a drink or a meal mebbe?”

“Have you a pen?... There you go.”

“Thank ye, Claire. See ye soon, then.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Jamie.”

**********

Despite Anna’s repeated assurances to Mary that this was not a party... would never be a party... was only a few friends having a few drinks, the overspill of guests out of their flat, onto the shared landing and down the stairs proved otherwise.

Claire peered over the bannister, eagerly awaiting Joe. He had texted a few minutes earlier to announce his imminent arrival. She scanned the people milling about on the stairs -- no sign of Joe yet, just the familiar red curls and broad shoulders of Jamie making his way up the stairs, a bottle in his hands.

**********

The party seemed to be in full swing. Jamie could practically hear the music from the road, the beat of a heavy bass line pounding in his chest as he climbed the stairs. He looked up and caught a glimpse of wild brown curls. The beating in his chest grew stronger for a moment.

Nine years ago

“Mo nighean donn.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Gaelic, means my brown haired lass.”

“Mmm, sounds so much better in Gaelic, far less boring. I sometimes feel like cropping it all off, or dyeing it, or having it straightened. Anything to change this dull curly mop.”

“Och no, Sassenach, dinna change it. Dinna ever change.”

********

Claire assumed that Jamie had gone straight into Anna and Mary’s flat. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her, or just decided not to greet her. She cast that thought aside as she spotted Joe taking the stairs two at a time to reach her.

Joe lightly kissed her cheek as Claire took him by the hand and led him into her neighbours’ flat. Surveying the assortment of wine boxes strewn across the kitchen table, he carefully selected an inoffensive looking Sauvignon Blanc, poured a tiny bit into the bottom of a plastic wine glass and sipped it dubiously. It obviously met with Joe’s approval as he filled two glasses and passed one to Claire.

Settling herself against a kitchen unit, Claire nodded slightly in the direction of the doorway.

“See there,” she muttered to Joe. “The chap in the doorway with the cream sweater and navy trousers? That’s John, who lives downstairs. Anna suggested fixing you two up. You interested? I can introduce you.”

“Hmm. Maybe, although I’m not sure I’ve a chance. He seems pretty taken with that guy he’s talking to. Although... move here Claire, have a look... I’m not getting a gay vibe from him. I think he’s straight.”

“He is.” Claire spoke instinctively.

“Well, that was said with great conviction. And how do you know, Miss?”

Even in the subdued lighting, Joe could clearly see the blush spreading across Claire’s face.

“Aha,” he exclaimed. “It’s the one that got away, isn’t it?”

“Wha… why… no. What do you mean?”

“Claire, darling, I’ve been friends with you for four years now. I know the passion that lurks underneath that cool exterior. You’ve dated in that time, but there’s never been anyone serious, has there? No-one’s managed to cut through that coolness to the passion below. And that’s because you’ll never forget the man that got away. And look at me, quoting Judy Garland songs at you! How cliché! So spill…”

Claire took a large swig of her wine. “Not really much to tell. We dated a bit several years ago, then he went off to America to work, so that was the end of it. I hadn’t thought about him in years, until it turns out he’s a friend of my neighbour, John a.k.a the hottie from downstairs. And that’s it.”

Joe looked closely at his friend, not believing that Claire was telling him the whole truth. “And is there not a spark ready to turn into an incandescent flame? Do your eyes meet across a crowded room?  Are you ready to jump his bones?”

“Really, Joe, that’s all there is. We’re acquaintances, that’s all. Nothing more.”

“Ok, Claire, if you say so. And, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a mingle.”

Claire stood and sipped her wine as Joe headed into the living room, warmly greeting everyone as he passed. Claire envied him his natural ease in social situations. Debating whether to go and find one of her hosts, she was all too conscious of Jamie, just on the edge of her vision. She watched as Anna walked past him, briefly stopping to chat to him. Her hand rested lightly on his upper arm, her face upturned to his. He smiled as she spoke.

“Excuse me, sorry, can I just reach across you for a glass, please?” Claire’s attention was drawn back to her immediate surroundings. She moved slightly to allow the man access to the wine glasses. He reached over for two glasses and moved away to the table before returning with both glasses filled.

Claire looked down at the glass she was holding, empty. The man smiled and passed her a full one.

“I know this sounds like some sort of chat up line, but … do I know you?”

Claire laughed. “You’re right, it does sound like that and no, I don’t think you do. Unless you’ve been at the hospital lately. I work there.”

“Never set foot inside there. Touch wood.” He looked around for something to touch before lightly tapping his head. “I’m Frank, by the way. So what do you do there, er... ?”

“Claire. I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon there. How about you?”

“Wow.” Frank looked genuinely impressed. “That must be incredible. Oh, well, I’m a doctor too, not dealing with the living though.”

“You’re a pathologist?”

“Historian. I’m working at the university. Came up from the University of York about four months ago now.”

“That may be where you’ve seen me… at the university, visiting my uncle. Lambert Beauchamp. Do you know him?”

“You’re his niece? I know Lamb… good man, sound research. That must be it. I knew I knew you. Never forget a face. So, Claire Beauchamp, how come you’re at this party?”

“I’m a neighbour. Live right across the landing. How about you?”

“I know John from his publishing company. I’ve been having some meetings there. They want me to write a book… or series… a crossover between academia and the great unwashed… considering different aspects of life… and death.” He nodded his head in acknowledgement to Claire. “So, you live across the way? Could we move over there, where it’s quieter, for a chat?”

Claire chose to ignore Frank’s last question. “Anna certainly seems to have invited everybody she knows and just as many she doesn’t.”

As she stood awkwardly next to Frank, a somewhat inebriated woman lurched towards the assortment of bottles and boxes on the table, jostling Claire in the process. With a slurred “oops”, the drunkard swiped a bottle of red and stumbled out of the kitchen.

Claire looked down at her shirt, now soaked in white wine. “Frank, please excuse me. I must go and change.”

He started to speak but she moved quickly away before he could ask to accompany her.

Jamie was standing alone at the top of the stairs, holding two glasses, not, she noticed, of tepid wine box wine but whisky... and probably a good single malt too, she guessed.

Nine years ago

“What do ye mean? Ye dinna like whisky? And ye, livin’ here in Scotland fer most of yer life.”

“Sorry, is that a deal breaker? Does that mean it’s the end for us?”

“Dinna joke about that, Sassenach. And dinna joke about the whisky. It’s a serious matter. I think what ye’re actually  sayin’ is that ye dinna like the whisky that ye’ve already tried. There’s a whole world of flavours with whisky. Can I teach ye?”

“Mmm… do that again… I like whisky when I taste it on your lips…”

“Weel, Sassenach, that’s a start.”

*******

Claire hadn’t seen Jamie since meeting Murtagh and Jocasta and felt that she really wanted to tell Jamie how sorry she was about Brian’s heart attack. She’d met him several times and knew how close he and Jamie were. She assumed that hadn’t changed during the time apart.

She walked across to Jamie. He looked up, surprised at her approach, then smiled tightly.

“Jamie… I... ” she spoke hesitantly. “I met Murtagh and Jocasta.”

“Aye, ‘tis a coincidence… in yer house. I sometimes feel…” he stopped himself.

“I didn’t tell Murtagh I knew you, but he mentioned about your dad, having a heart attack. Just wanted to say how sorry I am and I hope he’s doing ok.”

Jamie gazed into his whisky, the exact colour of Claire’s eyes. His traitorous mind always noticed that.

“He’s doin’ grand now. Thank ye fer askin’.” The formal tone had crept back into his voice.

Claire stood awkwardly for a moment. “Well, someone soaked my shirt in wine. I’d better get it sorted. Bye.”

“Bye, Claire.” Already Jamie was looking over her shoulder, waiting for the owner of the second whisky.

*********

Having changed her shirt, Claire checked her reflection in her hall mirror. Hearing the murmur of familiar voices, she paused, her hand on her front door knob. Peering through the spy hole, she could see John and Jamie, strangely distorted, standing close to her door, engrossed in a conversation.

The old adage says that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves, but that didn’t prevent Claire from quietly opening the front door a crack and positioning an ear against the gap. Picking up mid-conversation, it quickly became apparent what, or who, they were talking about.

“I didn’t know that you knew each other.”

“Aye, well, that was a few years ago.”

“But the pair of you never said… never acknowledged each other. Like strangers.”

“Probably better that way. It wasna the best ending.” Jamie's voice sounded flat. “She… er… I moved tae America. She didna. If it hadna been fer ye being neighbours, I would never have even seen her again. Eight years is a long time, people change.”

“And in all that time you never wanted to get in touch with her, or wonder what she was doing?”

“No, never. Ye have tae move on.” Jamie responded quickly. “Anyways, come on, we're due a top up and I'll show ye where I've hidden the single malt.”

Claire sank down to the floor, her back against the door.

She began to reason with herself, trying to be logical about the situation. Eight years had passed, since all had been given up. She was just being absurd, letting her feelings and thoughts run wild. Eight years should really have given her enough time to banish all those emotions and for them not to re-emerge. So many life-changing or world-altering events can occur within eight years.

And yet, Claire realised, logic had nothing to do with it. To her emotions, eight years was as nothing. Time had passed, but her feelings still remained, even after all hope had gone. Note : The last 2 paragraphs are paraphrased/ adapted from Chapter 7 of ‘Persuasion’

[randomisedgaming]

The rather 70s & 80s heavy pop culture filled crowd from the arcade game Mat Mania released in 1985.Top picture includes numbers by the various crowd members bottom picture, we’ve take then out so you can get a full look at the crowd.

Clearly the development team were film and music fans, based on this list of cameos these are, here are the ones we’ve spotted so far. However we think there are more in there and correct us if you think we are wrong as well on any of these:

1. ZZ Top (Band) 2. Stevie Wonder (Singer, musician) 3. Barry Gibb (Bee Gees band, tragedy cover outfit) 4. Not 100% sure on this one, Johnny Rotten & The Sex Pistols (Band) 5. Anthony "Tony" Manero (Saturday Night Fever, played by John Travolta) 6. Batman & Robin (DC Comics) Batman’s head isn’t seen 7. Superman (DC Comics) 8. Popeye the Sailor (Comic Book) 9. Darth Vader (Star Wars, film) 10. Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (Ghostbusters, film) 11. Princess Leia Organa (Star Wars, film) 12. Xenomorph (Alien, film) Very Bottom left, only head is shown 13. Leatherman/Biker from the band Village People 14. Not 100% sure on this one, might be Michael Jackson in his iconic red and black jump suit from the Thriller music video.

The crowd image is flipped in game so we just show it starting to repeat. The character next to Darth Vader looks a bit like Han Solo. Women to the right of Barry Gibb in the white top and black dungarees might be Madonna based on these photos from 1983. The oddly dressed purple chap, below the second Tommy sign, is likely something from a sci-fi or fantasy film we are guessing, but no idea who or what. Wikipedia has a few other suggestions as well.

Unsurprisingly for the follow up game Mania Challenge in 1986, it had all the crowd cameos removed from the background. No doubt fear of being sued by various films studios and music artists was a concern.

Follow Randomised Gaming on Tumblr, for video game, art, reviews, features, videos and more. You can also find us on twitter and subscribe to us on YouTube for even more gaming content!

[kihuis]

W&W e.

Whiskey and Wine

Moon Taeil x Reader

Warnings: strong language Word Count: 6.7k

epilogue.

Loving Moon Taeil isn’t easy.

It’s been three weeks since you last saw him. How you’ve been able to avoid his friends is beyond your comprehension.

Yuta texted you a couple times asking where you were and if you’re still alive and Jaehyun calls you every weekend to check up. You manage to have an excuse any time he asks if you want to do something with him and Johnny.

Last night, he called you again, told you how his week went, how him and Johnny met up with their friend Mark after not seeing him for a while. He told you that Doyoung met a girl, a new one, and that he’s thinking about really settling down this time and tossing his list.

Your tongue fought hard to ask about Taeil, knocking on the back of your teeth for the desperate knowledge of how he is. Your heart was heavy, wondering if he’d met another girl to replace you, if his list was still the same or if he simply crossed your name off. You wanted to ask if he’d found himself a real ‘settling’ down girl like Doyoung. You wanted to ask if he talks about you, if he’s wonder how you’re doing.

But you didn’t.

Instead you talked about Taeyong, how you’ve kept in touch after the group date those weeks ago.

You and Taeyong have become each other’s personal secret keepers. He let you in on the story of the girl whose heart he broke in high school while you told him the true depth of your feelings for Taeil. It’s nice to be able to confide in someone who’s been in a similar situation. Sure, being able to talk to Jaehyun helped, but Taeyong gets you better and can help you in ways Jaehyun wouldn’t know how.

When Jaehyun asked you about Taeyong and the extent of your relationship with him, you assured him you’re just friends. He laughed and told you again how proud he was of you. He still thinks the ‘I’m fine’ you sent him was the truth.

But he has no idea how broken you still are.

Neither of you mentioned Taeil once, you never do when you speak to each other. He probably doesn’t because he may not be sure which wounds are still fresh enough to bleed through. Sure, he may think you’re okay but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think you’re a ticking time bomb. The reason you don’t talk about Taeil is because you know just exactly how much it would hurt. Hell, even thinking about him is almost too much.

You still haven’t had the courage to say his name out loud, not to yourself, not to Taeyong, not to anybody. Yeah, you and Taeyong talk about him all the time, but that’s all he is in the conversation. ‘Him’. You’re too afraid that his name on your lips will sound like a tragedy that can’t be undone and that it would take you back to the night that destroyed the world around you.

Loving Moon Taeil isn’t easy, but trying not to love him is even harder.

A sigh exits your lips as you stare blankly across the courtyard. There’s couples littered across the lawn, one sharing a cotton candy cone form the parlor down the block. There’s one sitting on a picnic blanket feeding each other grapes. It’s all grossly adorable and just makes you feel worse.

Feeling alone isn’t unusual for you anymore, but at least that feeling doesn’t last too long as Taeyong finally appears on the seat across form you and hands you the coffee you’d ordered a few minutes ago.

“I feel like that barista is getting slower and slower every time we come here,” Taeyong quips as he takes a sip of his own drink. Traces of autumn seem to line the trees, the leaves beginning to turn yellow and orange. The air, too, has started to feel cooler, noting the way Taeyong’s hot drink gives off a bit of steam as he breathes into it. Watching him drink, with his nose chapped in red and gloved fingers makes you shiver a bit, despite the warm sun still making it’s way through the trees.

“I think she has a crush on you,” you respond, a smirk on your lips.

“Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter,” he says, looking at you with a smile. “I wanted to talk to you because I did what you said. I contacted Stephanie.”

You widen your eyes in surprise, a grin taking over your features. “Seriously? Taeyong, that’s great.”

He nods looking chuffed. “We’re getting together this weekend.”

The mention of Taeyong’s high school sweetheart weirdly makes your insides turn to mush. She was the girl he’d been so torn over, the one that got away. He’d broken her heart in an unimaginable way and got his karma when he became your pity date, someone you used to get over Taeil and to get back at him. You’d felt guilty once upon a time, but after hearing his story of Stephanie, you didn’t feel so bad.

“Really? That is so great, really it’s-”

“Great?” he asks, a small chuckle escaping his mouth.

“Shut up,” you laugh, taking a sip of your coffee. “Is this the part I get to say I told you so?”

You’d been telling Taeyong he needs to talk to the mysterious Stephanie, that she won’t ever forgive him unless he makes an effort to apologize. 

He’d been very kind to you after that group date, even going as far as flirting a bit and asking you on a second date, just the two of you. But after hearing about Taeil, he decided it was best you stay platonic, which you were thankful for. Plus, you could see it in his eyes that when he revealed everything about Stephanie, that he was still hung up on her, even after years of not seeing her. It made you wonder if that’s how you’ll be in four years time, just pining over Taeil and waiting for the day you get over him, if it was even a possibility.

When you realized how much Taeyong still cared for this girl, you kept nagging at him to reach out to her. Looks like that worked out in his favor.

“Not yet, considering all she agreed was to meet up with me. She’s still probably pissed. Hell, she may even have a new boyfriend,” he talks, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. “Besides, you don’t get to gloat until you do the same thing.”

“Taeyong, I already told you I can’t,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. This is a typical conversation between the two of you. You tell him to grow some balls and talk to Stephanie and he tells you to man up and talk to Taeil.

“Come on, Y/N, I talked to Steph, you can talk to him,” he replies, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I can’t, it’s not the same thing.”

“How is it not?”

“This is new for me, okay?” you nearly yell, tear straining in your eyes. You don’t want to talk about this right now, you don’t want to talk about this ever. With a sigh, you flutter your eyes shut, regaining your composure. “You talked to her, and I’m proud of you for doing that, I really am. But you had years to prepare yourself for that. I just ended things with Taeil last month, I-”

You stop short after hearing his name, not realizing you said it for the first time since you’ve last seen him until a moment later. Taeyong noticed it, too, snapping his mouth shut before he could speak again, both of you stunned to silence.

It felt like you’d been shocked on the lips so you raise your fingers to brush them, as if trying to feel the linger of his name there. Why is it so strange to hear his name after so long? Shouldn’t it hurt more than it relieves you?

Instead of dread filling your body, a blush lights up your skin as butterflies roam around in the pit of your abdomen. Your heart seems to pick up its pace as an image of Taeil fills your mind, his face full of confusion, trying to ask you if he’d done something to hurt you the last time you had sex.

The last time you made love.

“You’re right,” Taeyong sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you ever get over Stephanie? During the time you weren’t speaking?”

The question catches him off guard, but you feel like you already know the answer. He sighs again before pursing his lips, looking for the right words. “I tried to,” he confesses. “I tried dating and tried forgetting, but... Even when I wasn’t always thinking about her, she was there in the very back of my mind.”

You rub a palm down your face, listening to the words you were afraid to hear. How were you ever going to get over Taeil? How would you be happy with yourself by going on dates with different men when all you’d want to do is be with him?

“You don’t have to talk right to him, you know?” Taeyong suggests, shivering once in his coat. You furrow your brows in question, which he immediately elaborates. “Maybe go to one of the guys first. I could do it if you want, I’m going to lunch with Yuta, Doyoung and Taeil this week, I could-”

“You’re going to see him?”

The thought of Taeyong being within the same proximity of Taeil sets your nerves on fire, not because you wish it was you, but because Taeil still has the idea in his mind that you and Taeyong had sex. Well, as far as you know he does. For obvious reasons, you never thought to clear up that rumor with anyone, not even Jaehyun. As far as you know, the only two people who know you and Taeyong didn’t do anything is you and Taeyong.

“Yuta was the one who invited me, I couldn’t just say no. He would’ve asked me why and I don’t exactly have a good reason.”

“He’d understand if you were busy,” you point out, annoyance lacing your voice.

“Yuta?” he asks with a smirk. And he’s right, Yuta is way too stubborn.

“Why am I just now hearing about this anyway?” you question, taking a sip of your coffee.

“You’re not seriously going to be all anal about this are you? We’re all friends, I can hang out with my friends,” he argues, giving you an accusatory look.

It’s your turn to sigh, letting out a hard puff of breath. You’re feeling selfish and that’s not fair of you. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Taeyong stares at you for a moment, turning his cup in his hand on the table. “If it makes you that uncomfortable, though, I won’t go.”

Shaking your head, you wave the comment off. “No, don’t let my stupid problem get in the way. Like you said, you can hang out with your friends.” Your hands work subconsciously at the scarf around your neck, tightening and loosening it over and over again. When did you get this fidgety?

“I won’t say anything about you if you don’t want me too, but I’m pretty sure they all know we’ve been hanging out.”

Nodding, you purse your lips. “Probably,” you agree.

The wind blows around you, sending a chill down your spine, creating goosebumps on your arms. Your nose is stuffed, your teeth are chattering and despite the thickness of the coat surrounding your flesh, you’ve never felt colder than you do in this moment. 

“I’ll let you know everything you need to know afterwards. I promise,” he says, laying his hand over yours. The gesture does little to warm you but you return it with a tight smile, trying to thank him silently for understanding.

The minute you step into your apartment, your phone is in your palm, texting Helen for a meetup. 

You busy right now?

The two of you have been hanging out a lot more lately, something you thought might be helpful after your breakup, for lack of better term, with Taeil. She still has no idea that you were the girl she’d been giving advice on and you don’t have any plans to tell her, but having female company after so long really has helped ease your feelings.

On a date. She won’t mind if you want to meet up.

Her girlfriend is really nice too, always letting you tag along on their dates, although you can’t help but feel like your a bit on an intruder most of the time.

When you first asked Helen to hang out, she was definitely surprised. You’d never been anything other than coworkers and although the term is a bit loose at the moment, you were becoming friends. You told her that hanging out with the guys is fine, but you needed something different. She laughed and said she couldn’t agree more, that men are only tiring and pretty stupid. 

You didn’t have the guts to tell her that you were actually stupid one, so instead you laughed along with her and planned to hang out with her and her girlfriend.

I feel bad at this point :P

After responding, you trail into your bathroom, running hot water out of the tap. Taeyong is hanging out with the guys tomorrow. Apparently it’s not the first time he’s done so, but oddly enough it is the first time Taeil decided to be there as well. When you’d asked, he said Jaehyun mentioned that Taeil had been MIA for a bit, not returning calls and texts. This only made you worry, but Taeyong said that Yuta was persistent, as per usual and finally got him to answer.

He didn’t have any more information than that, just an agreement to hang out. No reasoning as to why he ghosted on everyone and not a word of what he’s been up to.

It also made you wonder why Jaehyun hadn’t said anything. He’d known that Taeil pretty much disappeared without a word, and he didn’t even think to hell you. Was that because he didn’t want you worry or because he didn’t feel it was even necessary?

Leaning over the sink, you gather warm water into your hands and splashing it over your face, trying to wash away as much of the tired out of it as possible. Your phone dings before patting yourself dry.

Don’t lol. We’re at the retro restaurant on seventh. We’ll get you a seat.

Old style hamburgers with Elvis blaring through a jukebox isn’t exactly you’re style, but you respond by telling her you’ll be there in ten minutes. Then, you write a text to Jaehyun.

What are you doing tomorrow? It’s been too long.

His response is almost immediate, always so prompt. It makes you chuckle.

Nothing. Glad you can finally get out! Coffee?

You pretend to think about it for a moment before replying.

Seven work?

Of course, even as you arrive to the coffee shop ten minutes early, Jaehyun is already there waiting on you. You can’t help but smile and feel your insides heat up at the sight of him, realizing how much you actually missed seeing him in person rather than on the phone.

He’s scrolling through his phone, his hands clad in fingerless gloves. You feel a pang in your chest when you see his hair flutters into his lashes, proving it’s been way too long since you’ve last seen him.

You place yourself in front of him, finally bearing a huge smile. “Hey stranger.”

He smiles in return, locking his phone and standing up, immediately enveloping you into a hug. “Y/N,” he breathes, happily smiling. He holds you for a moment before holding you at arms length. “Did you get taller?” he teases with a soft laugh.

“Come on, it hasn’t been that long,” you remind him, but he plays on.

“No, I think it has. Is that a gray hair?” he asks with wide eyes, pointing to your hairline. You give him a playful smack on the chest before you both take a seat across from each other. “Man, Y/N it really is good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you again, too. Sorry I’ve been kind of absent lately,” you start, biting your lip. There’s no easy way to try and explain yourself, but you need to try. “I’m sure it’s kind of obvious why.”

Jaehyun looks at you for a long moment before pursing his lips and nodding slowly. “Did you really just want to see me or is there another reason you wanted to talk?” He doesn’t sound offended or mad, just curious and mildly worried.

“Of course I wanted to see you,” you sigh, tilting your head. “I really have missed you. Everyone for that matter.”

“Then where have you been?” he asks, again, not accusatory, just confused.

You sigh, thinking of an answer to give him that has nothing to do with the real reason, but looking at Jaehyun now, you know he’ll be able to see right past you. There’s no way to sugar coat the truth, you know that and he knows that. No matter what you say, he knows the reason behind your silence, the person behind it. 

“I guess we can just talk about the elephant in the room,” you give in. There’s no way you can say his name without freaking out this time. Jaehyun must know, too.

“When did you last see him?” he asks, stepping carefully over each word, as if saying it too loud and fast will cause you to break. It just might...

“When I ended things,” you say honestly.

Jaehyun nods his head, contemplating what to say next. You wonder if he’s trying to decide to tell you that Taeil’s been off the grid, too, that he’s been just as quiet as you have been. The silence between the two of you used to be easy and comfortable. Jaehyun’s one of your best friends, you never expected things to get awkward between the two of you, and maybe it’s not. Maybe this is in your head right now, but he seriously looks like he’s debating with himself right now.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” you ask now.

The sigh he emits is something you’ve never heard come out of collected Jaehyun. Jaehyun, who has always known how to keep his cool and how to stay calm. He sounds nervous now, like he’s about to burst just as much as you are. When did so much change?

“Since you ended things,” he articulates, leaning forward on his knees. You understand why he’s nervous all of the sudden. This is something he kept from you, sure probably in hopes of protecting you, but he knew you loved Taeil - that you still love him - and he chose not to tell you that Taeil hasn’t been communicating with anyone. He chose to keep Taeil’s absence from you, probably in hopes that it’s all for the best. 

You know you should feel betrayed, but that passed when Taeyong gave you the news. At first, you’d been mad. Mad that Jaehyun didn’t feel the need to tell you or that he didn’t have the guts too. Then you worried, you were scared for Taeil, not knowing where he’s been, what he’s been doing.

A million things run through your head and the same questions you had when you first heard of Taeil’s ‘disappearance’ seem to come rushing back.

“So he’s just... Gone?” you ask.

“He has been. Nobody heard from him since that night, we tried calling him and I think Johnny went to his house once, but he wasn’t there,” he replies. “We almost went to his parents, we were so worried.”

“You didn’t, though?”

“Yuta finally got him to answer. They’re going out to lunch tomorrow. Well, Yuta and Doyoung are practically dragging him out,” he snickers. But his smile is gone in a flash. “They’re just gonna talk to him and see why the hell he’s been MIA.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you finally ask, the one question that you feel like you should know the answer to but you simply don’t.

“I was going to. I guess I didn’t know how. You’d said you were fine with everything and I get now that that wasn’t true. Yeah, I could have talked to you about it, but you could have talked to me, too,” he sulks, looking at you with a tight smile. Neither of you have been that open about things these past weeks and that’s no ones fault but your own.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. You feel weird doing so, but you should have been open about it with Jaehyun. He’d been nothing but comforting back when this mess started. Granted, you only decided to open up to Taeyong instead because it was different have the perspective of someone who’d been through a similar situation. Now you just feel bad for pretending with Jaehyun.

“I’m sorry, too. I should have told you about Taeil,” he responds, lacing his fingers together.

That’s only the second time you’ve heard his name out loud in the last three weeks. Only your mind mutters his name, too afraid to let your lips drag out the syllables in worry of breaking more than you already are.

“How is he?” you whisper, almost afraid of the answer. “Why did he ignore everyone like that?”

Jaehyun presses his lips together and shrugs, indicating he doesn’t have an answer to that question. “Like I said, that’s why the guys are taking him out. Didn’t Taeyong tell you he was going, too?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“How are things with you two?” he asks, not an ounce of suggestiveness in his tone, although you can see right through him.

“We are just friends,” you exaggerate, a small smile on your lips. “How many times do I need to tell you that? Besides, he’s got someone else on his mind.”

You decide not to elaborate. From what you understand, Jaehyun knows about Stephanie. He probably knows everything that happened, too, but it’s not your place to talk about Taeyong’s life to someone else. You can tell Jaehyun knows what you’re talking about because he breaks into a small grin, nodding his head.

“I kind of figured,” he admits. He waits a moment before speaking again. “What about you?”

You know what he’s asking, if you’re over Taeil or if you’re still stuck on him like a tattoo. With a sigh, you lower your head, your silence answer enough. Sure, you wanted to get over Taeil, hell, you still want to get over him. But knowing he wasn’t alright makes your heart hurt again, aching to beat next to his once more. Was he gone because he was hurt or was it because he was angry at you for ruining his list?

You didn’t enjoy being one of his fucks anymore, that’s not what you wanted for yourself. How come, as soon as you had more self respect than you gave yourself credit for, did you end up sitting in a pile of your own misery, just wishing and begging for the pain to be over with? Why did everything have to suck so much?

Why is love such a shit storm?

“Excuse me?” An unfamiliar female voice interrupts your thoughts. You look up to see one of the baristas looking at you and Jaehyun. “We close soon. Do you want to order something before you leave?” she asks kindly.

“On me, come on,” Jaehyun says, standing up. You both follow her to the counter and order some coffee to go.

You’ve been anxious all afternoon.

You texted Taeyong before he left to hang out with the guys in hopes of getting him to relay anything and everything that happened. It’s been a long time since you’ve been obsessed with Taeil’s whereabouts, but honestly you have good reason, don’t you? It’s been nearly a month since you’ve seen him and apparently it’s been just as long since anyone else has seen him. You can’t imagine how nervous Taeyong might have been.

You’re not sure if he plans on telling everyone that you two never did anything or if he’s already relayed the information. You’re guessing he’d tell you if he did, but that’s not to say he one hundred percent would. 

I will let you know what happens.

He sent that message four hours ago, to which you replied with a thumbs up. Your message to him was read and ignored, but you’re sure that’s because he was already meeting up with the guys.

Your mattress feels firm and uncomfortable as you lay on it staring up at the ceiling. You’ve been tapping your fingers against your abdomen for what feels like hours, but your sure it’s only been a few minutes. Just a while ago, you made yourself a sandwich and ate, then you read for a while, then you watched an episode of Criminal Minds. You’ve basically been doing all you can to keep your mind off of Taeil and the guys and the fact that Taeyong is with them.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you sit upwards and run a hand down your face. Should you text Taeyong, ask him what’s taking so long or should you just wait it out and let him come to you first. The silence is so agonizing, you’re almost tempted to text Yuta or Doyoung.

Looking around your room, you debate whether or not to cave, just text Taeyong and see what the hold up is. Surely by now they’re finished with lunch. It’s a group of guys, there’s no way they have enough to talk about for four hours.

You reach for your phone, looking at the stupid emoji you sent Taeyong again. What could be taking him so long?

Without thinking about it, you exit the message, looking through all your old conversations. The ones with Helen, Jaehyun, and Taeyong are all recent, obviously. When you scroll down a bit, you see Yuta asking where you are. Then Johnny seeing if you want to hang out with him and Mark. There’s one conversation with your boss asking to cover someone’s shift.

But then you see Taeil’s name, and just like it always has, your heart stops.

Are you seriously sleeping with him now?

It feels like forever ago he sent that message after you and Taeyong left the bowling alley. You couldn’t bring yourself to reply and for some reason  ever since, you haven’t been able to delete the vulgar message. It’s like you wanted to keep reminding yourself of the last thing he thought of you.

But that’s not entirely true, is it? The last thought he probably has of you is a sobbing mess telling him to leave, telling him it’s over. You ended your friendship with one simple word and he complied, he always does.

“Please.”

He’s never said no to you when you begged, that was his unspoken promise to himself. He would always do as you ask, no exceptions. So you had whispered the word through your tears.

And he left. Just like you’d asked him to.

You’re still unsure of whether or not you regret everything. There’s nothing about your friendship with Taeil that you’d ever take back, but you sometimes wonder how things would have played out if you’s never slept with each other during high school. It would have saved you from the suffering later on in life, surely, but did it mean that you simply wouldn’t be part of his list? Would he still have conquered numerous partners to keep up with his friends or would he have tried to outdo them? Would he even have cared about a sleeping list at all?

These are the types of questions you’ve been asking yourself from the moment you fell for him, wondering how you would have gone about things if you could turn back time. But the past happened, and there’s no way to change or erase it.

Shaking your head, you open Taeyong’s messages back up and type out a quick text, asking him to call you as soon as they’re done. Just as you’re about to hit send, there’s a knock at your door, causing you to delete the words and answer it. Taeyong’s always had perfect timing like that.

You trot over to the door, opening it. “Four hour lunch, I have been freaking out-”

If the last few days did little to ease your nerves, this sure as hell is the icing on the cake. Your heart drops into your stomach and a wave of heat washes over you instantly. You’re rendered speechless upon seeing him.

Taeil.

Your mouth may be hanging open, but words are far from finding their way out, lost somewhere inside your head, too many of them wandering around to form a coherent sentence.

He looks tired, like he just woke up from a deep sleep. But despite the dark circles lining his eyes, he looks stunning, just as beautiful as you always remembered. His hair may be messy and unkempt, but it works on him. His hands, as usual, are shoved deep into his pockets.

Neither of you speak as you look at one another. What is there to say at this point? Why try to fix anything that’s broken beyond repair?

After what feels like an hour but is surely only a few seconds, he speaks. “Can I come in?” Hearing his voice makes you shutter internally, trying to suppress the shiver that runs through you. Without a word, you step to the side, letting him slip past you.

Slowly, you shut the door behind him, listening to his footsteps behind you as you lean your forehead against the wood, too afraid that without the support your legs won’t be able to hold you up. He must not quite know what to say, either, because there’s not a single sound in the room except slow breaths and two erratically beating hearts.

Before you can convince yourself not to, you turn to face him. “What are you doing here?” you ask, looking down at your feet. Instinctively you cross your arms, protecting your hands from reaching out to him.

“I’m just trying to figure you out,” he answers quietly.

Your brows furrow, not knowing what he means, but you don’t have the willpower to ask. Instead you ask the one question you’ve wanted an answer to since Taeyong hit you with a curve ball. “Where have you been?”

This causes Taeil to chuckle as if the situation is amusing to him. Offended, you finally look up at him, shaking your head. 

“The guys said you disappeared. You weren’t answering texts or calls, you practically dropped off the grid, what’s that about?” you ask. 

Now he draws his own eyebrows together. “No, I’m not gonna stand here and answer your questions when I still have a million unanswered ones from the night you made me leave.”

The mention of that night, especially coming from Taeil, is a harder blow than you expected.

He lets out a heavy sigh and you wonder if the memory is too much for him too, if he’s feeling the same amount of weight you are about it. He says he has a million questions, then you have two million. He has no idea how many thing you’ve wanted to ask him since he left, but you never really gave yourself the chance to ask them. You’d begged him to leave and he did. That’s on you.

“Like what?” you ask softly, arms still crossed. You want to look stern, hold your ground. Easier said than done, though.

“Like why you asked me to leave in the first place.”

Feeling tears well in your eyes, you fight to keep them from falling. This isn’t what you want to talk about right now. “Come on, Taeil.”

“Why did you make me leave? Why didn’t you come after me when I left? Why didn’t you try to contact me while I was gone?” Every question from him gets louder, each an octave higher than the last. “Why did you sleep with me right after sleeping with something else?”

“Okay, I never said I slept with him-”

“Then why did you let believe that you had?” he yells, his arms sticking out in frustration. With a grunt he lets them fall to his side. After a moment of silence, he looks at you again. “Why did ever let things get so complicated?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Finally a tear falls. You don’t reach up to wipe it away. Taeil deserves to know how he makes you feel. He should get to watch you cry this time.

“And why,” he starts softly, taking a step closer to you. He takes a deep breath as he takes another. And another. And more until he’s inches from you, finishing his question, “did you not tell me you were in love with me?”

You guess he knew more about how you feel than you thought.

“What?” you whisper. “How do you-”

“So it’s true?” he asks. He’s close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him. You’re close enough to see that he’s shaking, possibly just as nervous as you are. “You did love me?”

You wonder how many tears it takes to drown in them, because the amount you have running down your face is surely enough to fill the ocean. Hearing those word come from Taeil make everything seem more real and even more painful. Yes, you did love him, but...

“I still do,” you hiccup, lips quivering in sadness and fear all at the same time. Taeil sighs and through your blurry vision, you can see a single tear run down his own cheek. “And I never told you because I was scared. You had so many girls with you all the time and I couldn’t handle the idea of being rejected by you.”

“I know,” he says suddenly. You look at him in confusion, but he shakes his head and clarifies. “Taeyong talked to me today. I know.”

You wonder how you should feel about Taeyong confessing for you. On one hand your angry, feeling betrayed but on the other hand, you feel relieved, knowing that the burden of doing it yourself is gone. You’re going to have to have a conversation with him.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for making you feel the way I did,” he says. He reaches up to wipe some of the tears from his own face and then turns to walk away. “I just... I wish you’d just have told me sooner, you know?” His hands run through his hair as he turns back to face you.

Unsure of what to say, you continue to stand there, watch as he cries now. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but you feel like you already know the answer. He feels guilty about the way he made you feel.

“I did this to myself,” you reassure him. “It’s not like you tried to make me fall in love with you. It just happened. And I’m the one who let things between us continue when it did. I couldn’t have just asked you to stop seeing the other girls or throw away your list-”

“Please don’t talk about that.”

Hearing Taeil beg is not something you ever thought would happen. It’s almost an uncomfortable thing to hear from him. It breaks your heart. But the fact that he wants to ignore the one think that broke everything else in you makes you irritated.

“It happened. You can’t erase the past Taeil,” you tell him, standing your ground. “You slept with a different girl every night and just expected me to be okay with that.”

“I didn’t know you had feelings for me, Y/N. I wouldn’t have done if you’d have told me.”

“Why does that matter? So, what, the second you would have known you would have stopped so you could spare my feelings? That’s just great, Taeil, I’m glad to know that you only cared because you didn’t want to see me upset that’s real nice. You didn’t know how I felt so you just continued to sleep with them. You could have just talked to me, you know. It’s not like-”

“I did it because I was in love with you too!”

Once again, you’re shocked to silence.

Taeil’s looking at you desperately, his face contorted into sadness and regret. His cheeks are shining from his tears. You’ve never felt the urge to reach out and touch him more than you do in this moment, but you hold back.

“And I still do,” he confesses. “I feel like such a fucking idiot for what I put us both through. I slept with other girls to try and forget about you I should’ve ended things with you a long time ago but I didn’t have the balls to and I was too selfish to do it. The thought of losing you hurt way more than what I doing. I didn’t know how you felt and I was scared of telling you how I felt because of that.”

He runs a hand through his hair again, looking anywhere but at you. Still not knowing what to say, you watch him and wait for him to talk again. He tried to talk to you before you kicked him out last time and this is probably what he was going to say. Now you just feel worse.

“It was such a stupid thing to do, and I get that. I fucked up,” he says. You’ve never seen him look so pitiful. “And I get if it completely fucked us up. I understand if you never want to see me again.”

You reach up to wipe away your tears, not realizing you’ve stopped crying. Taeil looks worse than you’ve ever seen him and you wonder if you look the same way to him.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispers. He shrugs his shoulders once and starts towards the door. “I do love you.”

When you hear the door open, you feet move on their own. Then your arm does, reach up to slam it shut before he can leave. Without a moments hesitation, you grab his face and mold your lips to his. He reacts a bit later, finally kissing you back. His hands find their way around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

After you pull away you look up at him. He’s smiling now, just a small one, but a smile all the same.

“You don’t hate me?” he asks in a whisper.

“Of course not, Taeil. Like I said, I still love you,” you assure him, running your hands down his chest. “Although I hate Taeyong a little bit.”

“Don’t. Kind of feels like he did us both a favor.”

You can’t help but agree. Taeyong did the one thing that both you and Taeil were too afraid to do. You can’t blame him for wanting to help out.

You also can’t blame Taeil for what he did, either. Sure, he fucked up, but you did too. Looks like everyone’s imperfect in the situation.

Taeil pulls you close again, causing you to lay against his chest. You listen to his heart, the unsteady beating of it. He’s nervous, just like you are. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for the fact that you don’t really know how things are going to go from here considering your history with Taeil. Maybe from the fear that neither of you were prepared for this to happen. Maybe it’s simply because being this close to each other has a completely different meaning than it did before.

“Why did you leave?�� you ask suddenly, pulling away enough to look up at him. “You ignored everyone. Where did you go?”

He heaves out a long sigh, brushing his fingers along your jawline and looking deep into your eyes.

“Crazy,” he answers softly. “I went crazy without you, Y/N.”

Then he kisses you again. And again.

And again.

[wonderlustlucas]

no matter how long - johnny seo

⇢ prompt Saturday’s were always your favorite with Johnny. ⇢ pairing johnny x female reader ⇢ word count 1k ⇢ genre fluff & smut ⇢ warnings none, this is very vanilla :] ⇢ summary You loved your precious sleep, but God, did you love Johnny more.—domestic!au ⇢ a/n sorry to whoever requested this, i was going to include the reader going dom as you included but i decided against it cuz it didn't really fit & this is super short and sweet but i hope u like:))

Saturday mornings within the confines of your quaint apartment were and would always be your favorite.

After a late night of either binging your favorite shows and stuffing your faces with junk food, getting home from work at an ungodly hour, or, on some Friday’s, crashing early in the evening after some other fun festivities, waking up at any time on your relaxed Saturday morning always had your heart thumping with a sense genuine love for the world and, if you were being honest, the absolute love of your life.

Whether you woke up at eight and drove to the diner in your pajamas for two mugs of cheap hot chocolate and two short-stack orders of pancakes with crispy bacon on the side, or slept in until noon and spent the rest of the day in each other’s arms, Saturday’s were always your favorite with Johnny.

This morning, however, is slightly different when compared to your usual lazy routines.

The sudden weight on your left side is what initially wakes you from a dream about visiting an old friend, and you let out a muffled groan and lazily try to turn away, assuming Johnny rolled over too far in his unconsciousness. Lord knows, he was a rock when he was asleep.

However, the open-mouthed kisses all along your collarbone shock you awake. “Johnny,” you grumble, lifting a hand to rub the sleep your eyes before settling it gently atop his head from where it’s cradled in the crook of your neck, “what in God’s name are you doing?”

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he purrs, blatantly ignoring your question as his fingers delicately graze up your sides to push your sleep t-shirt up.

“Johnny, it’s way too early for this,” you grumble, glancing at the digital clock on your nightstand and squinting at the way-too-bright green glow it emits, “you’re telling me that you’re—you’re horny, and it’s not even ten?”

“It’s not my fault you lay across me with your leg like this,” he pauses, voice raspy and quiet with sleep, before swiftly grabbing your calf and swinging your leg around his hip, “and wear such a tempting shirt.”

Your brain, still half-asleep, short-circuits at his confession and your mouth falls open. He takes the opportunity and kisses you quickly before he’s pulling away again to lift your shirt.

“Johnny,” you whine, not because you’re desperate for him, but because you’re desperate to go back to bed. “Hm?” He hums, strands of ebony hair messily tickling your skin as he descends, marking the skin of your exposed stomach with purple flowers and crimson hues. Your breath hitches in your throat and the butterflies in your gut finally blossom to life when his chapped lips whisper against the skin just above the waistband of your underwear and he growls.

In one swift motion, he pulls away to tug your t-shirt completely off, before lowering himself once more. “Jesus,” he groans quietly at your open chest and your leg around his hip pulls him in closer. You kiss him softly at first, barely more than a peck to wish him a ‘good morning’ before tangling a hand into his hair. Within seconds he deepens it as if the world was ending, passionate and heavy as your lips part and his tongue tangles with yours.

“You’re literally killing me,” you mumble after pulling away with a deep inhale because God, he took your breath away, pressing a delicate kiss on his skin, “if I knew this was the plan, I wouldn’t have stayed up waiting for you.”

“Oh shut up, asshole,” he laughs heartily, the beautiful sound filling your ears and you’re smiling against the curve of his pouty Cupid’s bow.

However, the mood switches again when the warmth of his mouth moves to your breast, quickly enveloping a rosebud between his teeth before soothing the pain with his tongue and you’re arching into him at the sudden pleasure, his fingers pinching and rolling your other until it stiffens into a pretty peak.

No matter how long you could and would be with him, every single thing he did made your skin spark. Days, weeks, months—years—could go by and yet his touch still made it hard to breathe, especially when gentle hands peel your underwear off your body and a delicate finger brushes the warmth of your heat before carefully pushing past your folds.

“Tell me,” you pause, quiet noises falling part your lips as a second digit enters, “are we going to get breakfast after this?”

You shiver against him as his fingers push and pull and curl and stretch, brushing that oh-so-delightful spongey bundle of nerves that has muffled moans escaping your mouth. His eyes are charcoal as they rake over your face, your head rolling back onto the pillow and hair flowing like a halo and he’s suddenly full of such passionate love for you when his name leaves your pretty lips.

“We’ll see,” he grunts when he enters you, filling you completely and once more you’re left a panting mess, blunt fingers scratching at the warm expanse of his bare back and legs tangling with his. He kisses you hard enough to forget about pancakes and your thoughts dissolve into the clouds and leave nothing but him and the way he rolls his hips and his fingers grasp your thighs.

His pace steadily picks up until pretty groans fill the room from the both of and you're so undeniably his. You’re seeing stars even though sunlight filters through the blinds, you’re shivering yet he’s impeccably warm, you’re shaking as the two of you come, unraveling around him but he’s there to hold you, lips dancing over your skin and kissing the spots he knows you love the most.

He holds you close, long arms snaking around your waist and pulling you to him until you’re flush against his chest. You’re breathless, the slightest layer of sweat a barrier between you but when you glance up to look at the unusually quiet boy, it doesn’t matter because the adoration in his eyes shines bright like pearls and your heart contracts within its depths.

“I love you,” Johnny says suddenly, calloused fingers tracing your shoulder, waist, spine, hip. You smile against his chest, pressing a light kiss on his hot skin, “I love you most.”

“That’s not true, you love sleeping more.”

“Shut up, Johnny. There’s nothing I love more in the world than you.”