#♜❝ reply. ❞

[pseudomonacarriea]

Tag dump

[architectarcane]

conversational sentence starters // accepting

“sometimes things aren’t alright, and they’re not gonna be okay for a while.  and that’s alright.  as cliche as it sounds it’s okay to not be okay.  give yourself time.”

cerrit always knows what to say. that must be some kind of skill a person unlocks when they become a parent.  even so, that doesn’t mean that laerryn is ready to hear his words of wisdom.

“is that the divorce advice you’re giving me right now?” laerryn says into her third glass of champagne, looking completely exhausted ( in body and in spirit ).  it’s times like these she wishes she could sleep.  four hours of meditation isn’t nearly enough to address this level of fatigue ( and heartache ). she exhales, her gaze settling on something distant, just past cerrit’s head.

“i need to get out of this funk,” she lowers her voice, not wanting anyone but @sightwarden to hear her admitting any kind of fault or weakness. “i thought being married was a distraction,” laerryn tosses her hand aside in a futile gesture. “now that’s over, and it’s the complete opposite,” she groans. “so, go on. tell me to woman up, and get over it, that there’s work to be done–all of that. don’t tell me to just sit here with my shitty feelings.”

[guacamoleroll]

♜ ❛ 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐘 ❜ — FROM EDEN

content. f!reader. kidnapping, canon compliant, mutual pining, enemies and lovers, explicit language, canon-typical violence, murder, and references to suicide. not proofread. 6.2k+ words.

author's note. i'm super excited for the first entry to this series! i wanted to release this days ago, but i wasn't satisfied with it, so it's gone through a couple drafts, and i stayed up way too late to finish it, so i hope you enjoy!

feel free to fill out the separate taglist if you want to be notified about updates!

“They are the only ones capable of defeating him,” you finally met his hostile stare. “Tell me—in a game of cards, what would be the benefit of showing your deck to someone who isn’t your ally?”

Dust twirled and twisted in the air, sparkling in the shine of a sunset that threatened to bleach essential documents with its powerful rays. People restlessly muttered to themselves, filling in the quiet as they tried to finish their last bits of work so they could retire into their nightly routines. There were the outliers, of course. Dazai hardly ever touched paperwork when asked and leaned back in his chair without a care in the world. Ranpo was always in a similar state, though he took the time to devour a new lollipop every couple of minutes, having been gifted a couple of bagfuls courtesy of Minoura and his subordinates.

"We're back!" you exclaimed, propping the office door open with your hip as you adjusted a flimsy tray of caffeinated drinks in your arms, letting Atsushi in with the rest of them. Everyone perked up as if they were rescued from peril, most wandering over in the hopes of snatching theirs before returning to their excruciating endeavors.

You craned your head back towards your newest recruit. "Could you set those down in there?"

"Sure," Atsushi replied, distracted as he labored to balance his tray onto the table without spilling anything. In the end, he relented and decided to remove each individual drink and set them down. You tried not to make fun of his relieved expression—he was probably traumatized from the time he had spilled them all. Despite reassurances from most people that it was okay, everyone had been in a cranky mood for the rest of that day, so you decided to assist him with the task ever since.

While Atsushi deliberated with his task, you decided to deliver drinks to those who had chosen not to leave their work. "One espresso for Kunikida." The man merely waved in thanks with his non-dominant hand, too engrossed in drafting an incident report. "And one abomination for Dazai." The suicide enthusiast scoffed as he snatched the drink from your hands, cradling it like it was his malformed baby. It was a miracle he didn't burn his hands.

"I'll have you know that this is the secret concoction for my beauty."

"Certain it's not another suicide attempt?" And despite his concentration, Kunikida always had time to comment on his partner's less-than-stellar preferences, especially when they always seemed to find a way to obstruct his work.

"Even if it's not one," you covered your nose as a rancid smell started to waft from the cup, "the smell alone makes me want to jump."

"I'm wounded!"

You left Kunikida to handle Dazai, knowing he was likely seconds away from throttling him, and your hands cramped as you balanced not only a drink but a collection of pastries sent from the café manager's wife herself. The drink wasn't much better than Dazai's, though it luckily didn't have a distinct smell. It was just the massive amounts of sugar that made you nauseous as you tried not to imagine the taste of such a sweet drink.

How the master detective didn't have any cavities was beyond you.

"Only the finest drink for the world's greatest detective," you said, amused as you settled it down in front of him. He remained stretched back, legs propped over the desk as he swung them back and forth.

Without an ability, you were often chained to office work—but it was no secret that you thrived out on the field, regardless of whether you had an ability or not. You became the unspoken assistant to Ranpo whenever he was needed outside of the office, functioning as both an equal and interpreter for his blunt and childlike mannerisms. It had created a kinship between you both as the only two "ability-less" agents allowed to solve cases by themselves.

"It's about time," he groaned.

But that didn't stop him from having an attitude with you or anyone else.

"Glad you didn't forget the creamer—unlike someone here."

Ranpo and the resident weretiger locked eyes, with the latter returning the gaze with an unamused glare. There was another unspoken fact about the staff at the Agency—Ranpo was notorious for taunting new recruits, especially ones as reactive as Atsushi. In fact, Kunikida's first months had to have been your favorite time. Despite his inherent respect for his senior, even he had a difficult time and questioned the methods and attitude of the super-deduction genius, but like everyone else, he learned Ranpo was simply that way.

"(Name)-san!" your train of thought was broken, spinning on your heel to meet the brunette woman calling your name, pausing as she pointed at her computer screen. "Can you take a look at this for me?"

She shrunk back from the stern tilt of your head. "You're not asking me to do it for you again, are you?" Her reaction told you everything you needed to know; scrunching back in her seat as sweat started to drip from her forehead. "I told you I can't do your work for you anymore. It's not my fault you're too busy obsessing over your cat."

She fiddled with her thumbs like a scorned child. You sighed. "Fine, I'll check it, but nothing more! Capeesh?"

Her relief sprung forth like a rushing waterfall, uttering 'thank you's' and 'I owe you one's'—as if she ever returned the favor. You rolled your chair beside her, scanning over the documents on her screen, which consisted primarily of the office's activities and expenditures from the past two weeks. From the ambush by the Black Lizard to the serial disappearances of travelers, both the minds and pockets of the staff had run rampant without constraint.

"These dates need to match with the ones on these papers, not those. You've also swapped two of the addresses," you said, pointing to them on the screen, "here and here."

She groaned, throwing her head back as she massaged the corners of her screen-strained eyes. "Thank you. I'd have my head on backward if you weren't here."

You elbowed her, offering her a comforting but cheeky smile. "That's what I'm here for."

RING! RING!

You picked up the phone as you shooed Haruno back to her work. These phones sucked, the speaker crackling to life with the ambient sounds of static. Most of them had been donated or were bought used, obviously on their last life. It made the constant back-and-forth with clients a guaranteed path to a headache, but there wasn't much else you could do about it. Despite the government's proclamations that the agency was a well-regarded and heroic organization worthy of praise, they rarely invested their resources so that it could flourish to its truest potential—that wasn't a surprise, given how Yokohama's Special Division treated abilities that weren't under its thumb.

"You've reached the Armed Detective Agency—this is Kurihara (Name) speaking. How can I help you?"

The voice on the other end of the line was muffled, but it was difficult to tell if that was a fault of the phone or if it was an intentional endeavor on the speaker's part. "Hallo, Ms. Kurihara. Such a charming voice." You pressed your ear closer to the receiver in spite of the pain. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that the man on the other line had an accent—German, you thought.

That was unusual, to say the least. Most people who knew about the detective agency were domestic, or at the very least from Japan if they weren't from the city itself. Contact from anyone outside of that demographic was abnormal, at least if it was in association with an everyday case.

Your reaction seemed to at least catch the attention of one person. "Is something wrong?" Naomi mouthed from across the desks, but you brushed her off as you tried to refocus.

"Thank you, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Straight to the point, hm?" he clicked his tongue. "I'll be quick. You're the agency's liaison, yes?"

"I am," you replied, fiddling with the coils of the phone cord, knotting it around your index finger before squishing it with your thumb.

"Marvelous! I have a message for you to deliver."

The normal part of you wanted to snap back at the man, stating he could have easily placed this message of his into an email, maybe added a GIF or two if he wanted to be theatrical, but the atypical set-up of the conversation left your normal wit at the front door. This man was odd if you had been asked to describe him, and it wasn't because of his accent—no, you had met plenty of people who spoke the same with an assortment of personalities, both good and bad. It was the lilt of his tone that threw you for a loop, like a snake trying to act as the charmer, luring in a mouse with cheese as it waited at the end of a trap. Perhaps that was the reason you decided to take a pen and some paper from Haruno's stationery, fidgeting with the clicker as he continued to speak, an anxious action that did little to appease your watchful juniors.

"You have two hours to hand over your master detective."

You peered over at the aforementioned sleuth out of the corner of your eye, who sat none-the-wiser to his newfound predicament, downing his candied drink as he grouched to himself about his boredom despite the piles of cases on his desk. He certainly wouldn't be bored after this. It wasn't rare for someone to threaten Ranpo—he was incredibly polarizing—but more often than not, it was a prank. This wasn't the same.

"Failure to do so," the man over the phone stopped himself, attempting to contain his amusement as his laughter almost slipped into cartoonish joy, forcing you to swallow the impulse to insult the unseen bastard from head-to-toe, "will result in the premature slumber of the clerks and clients of Chuoshijo Bank. That will be where the handover will occur."

You almost broke the phone as its thinner bridge started to crush in your hand. "I'm assuming you won't say why you're doing this?"

He left off with a chuckle. "That's all part of the fun, no?"

The line dropped, and you were only left with the same static. You were silent and contemplative as you reconnected the phone and stared at the piece of paper in your hand. The next step would be to check if this threat was as legitimate as the man made it out to be and you had your suspicions. Three of your juniors eyed you as you walked over to the agency's beacon of ideals, which only drew the attention of everyone else.

"Kunikida."

No response.

"I think he's a little preoccupied," Atsushi replied for him, though you didn't need a reply as you watched the blonde's hand move back and forth in a rhythm, his focus honestly admirable.

"He won't be for long."

The slap reverberated throughout the office, and if your co-workers weren't paying attention before, they certainly were now. Kunikida took a moment to pause his work, eyes drifting to look at the paper that had assaulted his face, which innocently floated onto the surface of his desk. He scowled at the message scrawled across the page, though it was only noticeable through the subtle twitch of his eye.

"Is this threat legitimate?" He adjusted his glasses with the edge of his finger as if the words on the paper would morph into something else, but they didn't.

"A threat?" Kenji leaned his body to peer around you, trying to take a curious look at the message.

"Whoever this was claims they'll kill the people at Chuoshijo Bank if we don't hand over Ranpo."

It only took a couple of moments before almost the entire office gathered around, staring at the paper with both intrigue and worry. No one had ever attempted to place an actual threat toward the lead detective, at least not since most of the members had joined. Even senior members were a bit confused by it, and it felt like a bad omen.

"It wasn't from a local," you piped up. "The man had an accent. German, if I'm not mistaken."

Dazai was one of the members who didn't bother to rise from his chair, though he had no issue inserting his two cents into the discussion. "He could be a member of the Kanagawa Insurance Agency. It's a front for the Port Mafia, but some of its associates were hired from a German reconnaissance platoon after the war."

It astounded you that people never realized his previous profession, even with the numerous times he had delved into information only a Port Mafia member would know. Kunikida was still left in the dark, but he went with his words without question, which was both admirable since he trusted his partner so much and worrisome since he never seemed to pick up on that detail. There was a secret bet for how long it would take for him to realize it.

"We probably won't receive answers from them directly," Kunikida grumbled, the weariness in his tone palpable. He reflected the temperament of the entire agency, wanting a break from the chaos. "We'll have to conduct an investigation."

"The important question is—what could they want with Ranpo?" you asked, and everyone turned to the detective for the answer, only to find him asleep in his chair, hat awkwardly covering his face with his emptied cup still in hand.

"Dazai, (Name)," Kunikida's sternness drew your attention away, "head down to the bank to scope out the situation and try to make contact with the enemy. I'll inform the Boss of the situation while Atsushi and Tanizaki investigate their headquarters. Everyone else is to remain here and protect Ranpo."

The look in his eyes was similar to that of a hawk as he stared at Dazai. "We don't know if they've released the threat publicly, so watch what you say."

"Aye, Aye!" Dazai exclaimed with a salute. "You heard him, (Name)."

"I was referring to you, Dazai!"

"Kurihara-san!" a voice called from the midst of reporters. "What's the reason for the Armed Detective Agency's involvement?"

"We are strictly here to advise the police. Please disperse from this area."

You grimaced as you and Dazai tried to maneuver through a throng of news crews swarming around the outer reaches of the bank. On a normal day, the neighborhood was tranquil, a scenic location near the harbor with an occasional cluster of families or tourists, but the frenzy of flashing cameras and insistent voices shattered that panoramic atmosphere. The organization that man belonged to likely tipped them off, since there were rarely reporters so early in the case.

"Is the Port Mafia involved in this incident?" one reporter hollered, driving a microphone alarmingly close to your face.

"Can you confirm if this is connected to the string of robberies in Gumyoji-cho?" another piped in, several cameramen competing with each other for the best view. You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as Dazai tried to place himself in every frame.

This was the aspect of your position that irritated you the most, though you were considered the most adept at handling it out of any of your co-workers—but these people so easily ignored the fact that real lives could possibly be on the line, simply because they wanted their next big break. Luckily for you and unluckily for them, this was one of the few occasions when you were permitted to summon a little attitude.

You held up your hand, shoving the microphone back in the opposite direction. "When the police have prepared a statement, they'll let you know." Like Moses with the Red Sea, the news crews parted at the hint of your obvious irritation. Many of them had become familiar with your infamous intolerance for the media's bullshit from several other incidents, and none of them wanted to be the victim of one of your notorious letters to their bosses. The liaison of the Armed Detective Agency was not to be tested.

"Remind me never to cover for you."

You chuckled at the comment from your companion, bumping his shoulder. "You'd have to get out of bed on days you *are* scheduled for that to ever happen.

Dazai gaped at your scathing dissertation of his character, inclined to make chase as he rushed to catch you through the crowd, only to tumble over the police tape, which astonishingly remained secure as he landed on his face. If he hadn't received enough attention before, he certainly was now as cameras turned to him in not-so-subtle attempts to capture the dashing detective, now a pile of bandages on the sidewalk.

Despite your amusement, you had mercy on him, tugging him by the tails of his trench coat as he wept into your arms. "I can't believe this. My reputation—ruined!"

"I'm certain you'll find some girl who doesn't watch the news," you replied, patting his shoulder in a mock attempt to comfort him.

"Detectives!" a voice hollered from further in the taped-off zone. On further inspection, it was Deputy Minoura who waved the both of you over. It allowed for a momentary respite as the crews turned their cameras away from your faces and onto the building itself, but no one seemed to have greater relief than Minoura, though he raised a brow at your unlikely duo. "Where's your master detective? Is he really too busy to get his ass down here? Should've bribed him with more of those damn sweets."

Despite the severity of the situation, you had to try hard not to laugh. "Actually, he's under watch at the office. The same people who've orchestrated this mess are after him, too."

"Shit," he mumbled, and you felt an instant wave of pity for the poor man. He had a lot of shit on his plate already, if you knew anything about his superiors, and was handed a mostly incompetent task force of barely qualified cadets that depended on Ranpo to solve their problems. Minoura gnawed at the inside of his lip, a hand brushing against the small patch of stubble on his chin. "I'll be frank with you: things aren't looking great. The entire place is on lockdown, and no one's be able to make contact with anyone inside."

You and Dazai eyed each other, not wanting to verbally recognize the unspoken aspect of the situation—the possible chance that everyone inside could already be a bunch of corpses. Neither of you wanted to jump to that conclusion, and while it was within the realm of possibility, it would do more harm than good to assume that was the case right out of the gate. However, the two-hour time constraint remained a further pressure as the clock ticked by.

Dazai hummed. "When's the last time your men swept the perimeter?"

"It's been a bit," Minoura replied. "They've been focused around the main entrance and the roof, so I'll leave the rest to you two for now."

You started your search on the side of the building that faced the harbor, pushing on doors and peeking through windows for the chance there was a crack in their defenses. It took a few minutes of investigating, but it was as Minoura had stated—everything was locked and covered. No loose doors and no cracked windows. Banks were always the worst when it came to any sort of terror situation due to their structure, made like a prison under the perfect circumstances.

"There should be another exit connected to the second floor," you said, pointing back to a staircase you both had yet to look into. "I'll check there while you start on the other side."

His eyes followed you as you ran out of sight, and he hated the abnormal inkling that was itching at the back of his mind, refusing to bubble to the surface. It was aggravating for the genius to be left in the dark by his own thoughts, typically a master of his mind, but the situation itself eluded him. The total lockdown of the bank, the lack of contact from hostages, the tip-off of the media—something wasn't adding up.

It took him another minute before a part of his realization set in.

It shouldn't take you that long to check a fire escape.

Your eyes fluttered open, the thump of your heartbeat deafening your ears like an alarm clock. It took careful deliberations to breathe, the air as thick and warm as molasses on a summer day. The dusky radiance of the moon did little to aid your search as you tried to piece together your location.

It was an abandoned warehouse—a cavernous expanse of shadows and echoed sound. Steel beams crisscrossed above, reinforcing the high-vaulted ceiling that was laden with cobwebs in every corner. Wooden crates scattered about, some sealed with others wide open, stacked haphazardly across slick concrete, shaping into a labyrinth of unknown objects. It would've been the place of nightmares if not for your splintering headache, which placed your fearful reaction on hold as you muttered to yourself, tussling with the restraints that threatened to cut off your blood flow.

"Good morning, Dornröschen."

A man sauntered out from behind a crate, and you shuddered to think he had stood there watching the entire time. He was middle-aged and stoutly built, with tufts of sandy, peppered hair that slicked back to touch his crown, not a strand out of place. In other circumstances, you'd assume he was a foreign dignitary—a walking advertisement for the heights of western-European fashion, dawning a Brioni wool suit and Austrian Oxfords. He repositioned his golden cufflinks, the room thickening with the stench of an oud-scented cologne.

"Nice to finally meet face-to-face, Ms. Kurihara."

The blurred edges of your vision cleared away, and your face shined with clarity. "You're the caller."

He oozed with a cartoonesque delight, clasping his hands. "Correct! And I must admit, you are even lovelier than you sound over the phone, herzchen."

You scowled as he attempted to cup your face with those same grubby hands, leaning away. "Don't touch me."

"A feisty one, hm?"

He jerked a stainless steel flask out of his pocket, monogrammed with initials—E.K. You eyed it before you swallowed a groan, having arrived at a worrisome conclusion. Dazai had been correct. The leader of that aforementioned German reconnaissance platoon, as he had informed you en route to the bank, was a man named Eduard Knopf—and it seemed you had the honor and displeasure of meeting him face-to-face. He had a reputation for being a seedy individual, luring people into deals that always fell through on the other end, leaving the poor soul in debt to both the mafia and their front company.

You hissed when he yanked on your ear, forcing you to meet his gaze. "It's fortunate our efforts didn't go to waste. For all their discernment, your co-workers aren't too vigilant when it comes to guarding their most precious asset, no?" Your nose shriveled in disgust as the smell of whiskey was blown against your face. "Left defenseless without an ability."

You blinked, trying to process everything. "Precious?" you muttered as he released his hold on your ear to take another sip from his flask. "I'm just a liaison. They could easily find a replacement for my position if they needed to. And what about Ranpo?"

Eduard spat out his drink, hacking as he punched his chest to cough it onto the floor. You stared with disbelief and disdain as he went from choking to laughing, almost hysterically.

"What's so funny?"

"This isn't about that infantile detective," he said, wiping a tear—if you knew anything about Ranpo, you knew he had probably detected that insult from miles away. "We have our ways of learning about him and every one of your co-workers. No, that's not why we brought you here."

Your lips pressed together in a tight line. "Then why am I here?"

"Do you not know?" he pressed, tilting his head as if you were supposed to ascertain his thoughts from the sky. "That's possible, certainly, but I'd hate for you to disappoint me. You've been so charming up until now."

"Can I have a hint?" you urged, trying to hold back your obvious irritation as your legs pulled against the restraints.

"Your name was at the top of a list."

Thousands of questions swarmed in your mind, but the one at the forefront was exactly who created this list. It wasn't likely the government—out of all your co-workers, you were the least likely to be put under watch. That honor went to Dazai, with Atsushi barely placing as a runner-up. And it certainly wasn't the Port Mafia; they had no interest in an ability-less woman unless it was for a ransom.

"Who made the—"

"It was found in a database that belongs to the Demon from the North."

Oh. Oh.

"Damn it," you muttered, head leaned back as you resigned to your inevitable fate. "Of course, it's him."

"So you do know! Marvelous, simply marvelous."

But with your newfound clarity, you looked at Eduard with an altered point of view. The revelation shattered your initial assumptions, and your ass kicked back into gear, racking over every detail as you sunk back into an older perspective, careful not to fall too far in. Otherwise, you'd be left to crawl out without a lifeline to hold on to.

"How did you gain access to his servers?"

"We had several spies infiltrate the Rats—some professional hackers that breached into his operating system within a week." His pride was palpable as it spilled over. He adjusted the lapels of his suit with the confidence of a man who had not spattered a concoction of alcohol and saliva across the dirty floor. "So I can assure you that your secrets are in capable hands. We both want the same thing, and my men are prepared to squash these pests once and for all."

"Hm, really?" you hummed noncommittally.

"Of course! All you need to do is tell us what you know. I'm certain the agency will understand the mutual benefit."

He drew his phone out from another pocket, fingers aimlessly mashing at buttons as he tried to search for something. Only a few moments passed before his foot began to tap, the heel of his shoe echoing inside this metal tin of a structure as he became antsier by the second. Fortunately, he found what he wanted and turned the screen in your direction. You squinted, your eyes adjusting to the glaring light of a blurred list. The picture was almost indecipherable, as if a high-schooler had taken it—though even the teens in the agency were likely ten times as capable as Eduard's spies.

"Do you recognize any of these names?"

You deciphered the unintelligible text the best you could manage, but after the first name, it didn't matter. The trend was obvious to anyone featured on it, and a part of you didn't want to say anything, but that would probably cause more problems than necessary.

"I do."

"Perfect!" he exclaimed. "Can you remember any addresses? Cities would work, too."

"It wouldn't matter, even if I did." You eyed him, and the next words you uttered drained the life out of you. "They're all dead."

He paused, stumbling over his gestures. "Are you certain? Everyone on this list—"

"Is dead and buried. Six-feet-under."

He bore into his phone, staring at the list with morbid fascination. "So this is a hit list?" The look he made left little room for comfort. You had to resist the impulse to scooch back in your seat. "You must have some important information, then. Anything you wish to share? I have no doubt we could come up with a little arrangement for your release."

"What do you have to lose?" he chuckled, his phone clicking with each stroke as he preemptively started to draft a message.

"No."

.

.

.

"Excuse me?"

Silence filled the warehouse, the wind of the harbor acting as the only sound. He turned on his heel, his phone limp in a loosened hand. You had no reason or desire to meet his eyes; you were merely looking beyond him.

"He's your enemy," Eduard griped, his brow twitching as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. "Why keep his secrets to yourself? Is it 'cause you're not aligned with our methods? You can't pretend the agency is the epitome of morality."

"It isn't that," you replied, watching the moon as it made its ascent above the window line. "It's just that you're incapable of defeating him."

His voice dwindled to a murmur, dripping with the venom of a snake oil salesman. "My organization has ten times the manpower of that pathetic agency of yours. What could they do, hm?"

"They are the only ones capable of defeating him," you finally met his hostile stare. "Tell me—in a game of cards, what would be the benefit of showing your deck to someone who isn't your ally? And what's the chance that they'd rat you out the moment they were inevitably backed into a corner?"

His mouth outstretched into a vicious snarl, and he toyed with his pocket. "Oh, herzchen. And here I thought you were smart." A flash of metal lustered in the moon's brilliance as Eduard fiddled with the safety of an old Luger pistol—not that you seemed that interested, your eyes distant once more. He smacked the muzzle against your forehead in a vain attempt to allure a reaction but was only met with silence.

"I'll make sure to return you in one piece."

BANG!

The sound deafened the warehouse. Hardened eyes subsided into shock before they glazed over as Eduard sunk to the floor, his head hitting the concrete with a hard smack. Blood trickled into a stream out of the wound in his forehead from the bullet that had pierced straight through his skull.

"You've gotten yourself into quite the predicament."

You acknowledged the speckles of blood on your skin with a wince, a familiar silhouette approaching from the darkness. It had been a minute since you had seen his face, but you knew those intense eyes, only veiled by the thin strands of hair that fell between them. He raised a curious brow as you noted the pistol in his right hand, which he turned to conceal back into his pocket. A hush filled the space once more, the depth of your stare only amusing him.

"You don't look too pleased to see me."

"I can't say I am," you replied. "You're bound to bring destruction wherever you trail."

He smirked, fingers smoothing against the scrape on your forehead. "Is that any way to speak to your savior?"

"You mean my actual kidnapper?" your lip quirked up. "You didn't expect me to believe this was all some sort of coincidence, did you? Don't tell me you think I'm an idiot."

"You, моя милая? Never," he replied, his devilish smile flickering into a softer expression before reverting once more. "It was predictable to partner with the Armed Detective Agency, любимая. It's no surprise they've drawn you in."

"Predictable actions can have unprecedented results. You'll just have to wait for my next move."

He lifted your chin with the edge of his finger, swiping his thumb underneath your jawline. "As anticipated. I'd only expect the best from you."

His fingers danced across the surface of an old switchblade's handle, severing the rotted restraints around your wrists and ankles until you were unbound. He braced your shoulders as you attempted to stand on your own two feet, body unused to your weight from the hours of sitting—it was no surprise that he took the opportunity to snake an arm around your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest.

"It's been too long," he drawled, a satisfied smile pressed against the heated skin of your neck as you tried in vain not to melt at his touch. You found yourself subconsciously returning the gesture, a hand drawing circles up his spine in a manner that always made him fold.

"What're you playing at?"

"It's as you said." He raised the palm of your hand to his lips, kisses intricately placed into every wrinkle before they carefully decorated the marks on your wrists. "It's foolish to show your cards to an enemy. And you, моя милая, are the worst person to show my hand."

You hummed as he left a kiss on your forehead, careful not to disturb the bruise that started to blossom. "So cold you are," he whispered. "To take my heart and wield it against me."

And you allowed yourself to lean into his chest, eased by the subtle beat of his heart. "I could say the same to you, Федя."

The warmth of his hands rendered you motionless, a reminder of balsam smoke in the altars of churches that had been ebbed over the years. For the first time in forever, you indulged in his presence and allowed his soft words to soothe your doubts with every caress. He was temptation itself, and he knew what he was doing. It would be so easy to succumb to his sweet delusions. Your chin was lifted once more, and you knew you wouldn't be able to resist him if he kissed you. But as your lips were about to meet, voices could be heard from further in the warehouse.

"What if she's hurt?"

"I'm sure she's fine, Atsushi," a sardonic voice responded. "(Name)'s a tough woman. She can handle herself."

You looked away from Fyodor, smiling fondly at the racket created by your co-workers. He stared for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh, drawing your attention back in his direction.

"It seems our time has been cut shorter than I anticipated." He left one last kiss against your knuckles. "Until we meet again." He left in the opposite direction, his black coat shielding him from sight as your co-workers round the corner.

"(Name)-san!" Atsushi exclaimed, the stomp of his boots echoing until they came to a halt, split-colored eyes widening at the sight of Eduard's body. "What happened to him?"

Your brow puckered as you racked your mind for an excuse—it was obvious you hadn't done this, but could you possibly tell them the truth? And how would you even start?

Dazai knelt beside the corpse, careful not to displace any vital evidence as he moved disheveled hair away to assess the wound. Clean entrance in the back, messy exit in the front—a shot from behind. His face bowed in contemplation, lines of deep thought etching along his face before he perked back into his normal guise, practically bouncing on one foot in mirth.

"Oh, thank goodness!" he cried, practically bouncing as he took your hands into his in an all-too-familiar manner. "I was so worried something had happened to you. 'Such a waste of beauty,' I said!"

Your response was to flick his forehead, chuckling as he shrank down to the floor with his head in his hands, whining about your 'cruelty' and that he'd 'make you pay for such heartlessness.' Atsushi, on the other hand, was left with more questions than answers.

"Weren't these the same men after Ranpo?" he pressed, scratching his chin. "They never appeared at the agency. What'd they want with you?"

"It seems they believed I had some top-secret information on someone," you replied, messing with the fabric of your sleeves. "They used Ranpo as a decoy to bait me before knocking me out when we were investigating the bank."

"What kind of info did they want?"

You would be foolish not to notice the minute tilt in Dazai's head, an indicator for whenever he was attempting to probe someone. But you weren't a fool, and you stood your ground.

"We didn't have much time to delve into details."

You acknowledged him by returning his gesture, and he stared for a moment before relenting for the time being. It wasn't likely that he'd let the subject go completely, but you needed that precious time in order to think about the endless questions you'd be answering—along with which ones to answer truthfully and which ones to cover up. It was a dangerous game to play with the former mafia executive, but what fun would it be if it wasn't?

The two escorted you outside, and a foul order made you increasingly aware of the reason Atsushi had sounded so worried. Bodies lined the outside of the warehouse; armored men piled in clumps like dead flies as they rotted in the summer heat, their weapons unused as they sat, long dead. Had Eduard sat inside the entire time without realizing his men had all perished?

You looked at them with a solemn expression and tried not to think about it too much. "What happened with the bank? How did you manage to find me?"

"As it turns out, no one was in the bank at all."

You turned back to Atsushi, stupefied. "Huh?"

"Apparently, someone pulled the fire alarm." Dazai stared at the corpses with a similar soberness, eyes distant. "Once everyone was out, they managed to lock down the building. There was no proper way to get a headcount, so it took some time for police to realize that the threat was false."

You sighed, feeling ten times lighter. "At least no one was hurt."

"Ranpo-san was the one who pointed us here," Atsushi interjected, seeming equally as surprised as you were. "He said something about sensing someone underestimating him?"

You laughed. "Yeah, that tracks."

"We'll have to report this back to the Boss." Dazai's face twisted into a malicious expression as he wriggled his fingers. You were very aware of Fukuzawa's responses whenever one of his subordinates was targeted, and Dazai was gleeful in reminding you of that fact. "You'll be in kiddy jail for weeks. Think of how light our paperwork will be—!"

"That man."

You and Atsushi shrieked as Kyouka emerged from the shadows. It seemed that she had followed behind, which hadn't been an uncommon habit in the weeks following her unofficial introduction to the agency, but you and Atsushi seemed to have both forgotten about it. You clutched your heart, taking a deep breath.

"I think I might have an aneurysm."

"That man with the weird hat." You froze. "Who was he?"

"A man with a weird hat?" Atsushi asked, mostly in a rhetorical sense that was a product of his own amused confusion. You wanted to smack yourself—she must've been able to watch from the rafters, a skill the small girl had depended on from her days in the Port Mafia.

You looked back at the warehouse with a wistful expression. "He's...just an old friend."

"Was he the one that saved you?"

The words felt difficult to swallow. "It's usually the opposite."

Before Atsushi could question your weird choice of words, you started to make your way back to the office. He yelled after you for you to slow down, but the sinking feeling in your stomach only forced you to pick up speed. Dazai was abnormally silent throughout the entire exchange, hands dipping into the pockets of his trench coat as he followed where your eyes had been, scanning the exterior of the warehouse. He frowned before deciding to follow the rest.

He'd be sure to interrogate you later.

Fyodor stood on top of the warehouse, obscured from the ground level, as he watched you drift further and further away from him. He took off his hat, letting the winds of the harbor overshadow his rueful expression.

"Let the games begin, моя любовь."

hallo = hello dornröschen = sleeping beauty herzchen = sweetheart любимая = beloved (моя) Милая = (my) dear федя = fedya (моя) любовь = (my) love

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @aureatchi @betweensinners @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @crayonssz @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @number1morihater @fyorina @yonseibananamilk @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @vnk91t

© 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 2024 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[signedkoko]

I am so lucky to have so many folks enjoying my writing 🖤

Thank you to everyone who got me here, and continues to inspire me to write every single day.

I've seen so much support from so many people, I try to remember as many names and faces as I can but it feels impossible! I wonder who I've missed, who I haven't thanked or replied to, who every anon thats requested something is.

For now, I just want to thank you, the one who let me write about them and their other lives in other worlds with characters who have cried for them, loved them, befriended them.

Signed, Koko

And to call out those who have kept me going 🖤

@lillithhearts for being so sweet to me every day and matching with me even when I can't do it for long

@iicarused who was one of my first mutuals, whose writing inspired most of mine, who drew Cupid and ARianne together

@thedarkkitten who supported all my fics and was okay with the fact that I don't follow them back because they repost so much (still thankful for you being so kind)

@cupophrogs who I always spot and who brings a smile to my face with their unique requests

@hxzbinwrites who I don't think knows me, but influences my writing style and whom I read every post of

@thatstonedwriter who was one of my first ever mutuals on here, and who leaves me swooning with joy when we message (I'm Rook anon btw ♜)

@monstrousvoice who speaks to me with passion and indulges my rather stupid crush on Wally Wackford

@helluvapoison who I'm not sure realized they dont follow me back but calls me mootie and it makes me laugh almost every day (and of course is just such a talkative sweetheart)

@callmechito who may not realize I see them liking all my posts, and whom I thought the user was Call Mechito, and my friends made fun of me for a while for not realizing it was Call Me Chito!!

@cherryrainn who writes some of the best work I have ever laid eyes on, even if i don't know the characters or some of the fandoms

🎀 anon who is one of the most fascinating anons I have ever met

🐻 anon who was my first anon and kept me inspired for my first few weeks when no one was looking at my work

🐚 anon who talks to me almost every day and writes so much in their messages it makes me smile

🦷 anon who accidentally sent me into a coma with their requests twice (joking! It was a coincidence and I'm still so sorry!)

And to all those who I haven't yet memorized, but I promise I'm thinking of you and hoping you forgive me for not remembering you sooner 🖤

[dontyouworrydaddy]

hi!! i stumbled across ur blog and i loved ur writing so i thought i’d drop a request ^_^

so…. 141 x famous! reader

like…. HEHHEHE

like im talking realllyyy famous

celebrity type

ESPECIALLY WITH SOMEONE LIKE SIMON… POLAR OPPOSITES

ofc there would be some problems but whenever they get on leave reader just immediately frees up her schedule for the time he’ll be back !!

concert? sorry…..

touring? oops…

YK? HEHEH :3

𝐀 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫

Task Force 141 x gn! reader

YOU ARE A GENIUSSSSS!!!! OH MY GODDD I absolutely love this idea and I‘m soooo excited to write about it.

Thank you so much! I hope you love this one💘

♛ ♕ ♚ ♔ ♜ ♖ ♝ ♗ ♞ ♘ ♟ ♙

Simon Riley

Simon had always been the quiet and private person. Just a simple guy in the army who has a high position.

You, known simply as "Little Star" for the world, which you got the name from Simon, are a phenomenal actor and song writer, making millions out of acting in songs you produce.

It was a love that had surprised everyone, including themselves. Polar opposites in every sense, but they say opposites attract, and in your case, it couldn't be truer.

"Hey my little star." Simon murmured as he walked through the door of your shared apartment. He had just returned from a long, grueling mission.

You looked up from the colorful bouquet you were arranging, your face lighting up as you rushed into his arms. "Simon! You're back! I've been counting the minutes."

Simon's usually stern expression softened as he held you close. "I missed you too," he admitted quietly.

Months passed the last time you saw him and it wasn't always easy, of course. Simon's work often kept him away for long stretches, and the secrecy surrounding it meant that there were many moments he couldn't share with you. But whenever he had leave, you had a knack for freeing up your schedule, as if nothing else in the world was as important as those moments with him.

"Hey, y/n.." Simon would say, his voice filled with a mix of gratitude and love. "I can't believe you're here with me."

You'd smile and reply, "Of course, Simon. You're my priority when you're home."

It wasn't always smooth sailing. You were the extrovert, and Simon was the introvert. He preferred quiet nights in, while you loved going out with friends. But you learned to compromise, to find joy in the little things.

One evening, you sat on the couch with a pile of board games in front of you. "Come on, Ghosty, let's have some fun tonight."

Simon raised an eyebrow but couldn't resist your infectious enthusiasm. "Alright, little star. You're on."

The game night ended up being filled with laughter, playful arguments, and a hot make out sessions. But amidst the chaos, there was a connection that ran deeper than any mission or song/show.

Ad you both lie on the bed, out of breath, you notice Simon looking… distracted by something. "What's on your mind, Simon?"

He sighed, looking at you. "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm cut out for this. The darkness, the secrecy... it's a lonely path."

You sat down beside him and took his hand. "Simon, you're more than your job and past. You're a person with a heart, with emotions, and you have me. I'll be your light in the darkness."

Tears welled up in Simon's eyes, and he pulled you close. "I don't know what I'd do without you, You."

Love was the force that held you two together. It was in the simple moments like cooking dinner together, sharing stories about your day, and in the way Simon's eyes lit up when he saw you waiting for him.

Simon looked at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "You mean everything to me," he said. "I don't say it enough, but I love you more than words can express."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you replied, "I love you too, Simon, more than anything in this world."

John MacTavish

The first time you met, it was in a bar on the outskirts of a small town. John had just returned from a covert mission, weary and battle-scarred. You were seated at the corner of the bar, reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. John couldn't help but be drawn to you, the serenity in your eyes a stark contrast to the chaos he had witnessed.

"Can I join you?" he asked, his voice gruff from days in the field.

You looked up from your book and gave him a soft smile. "Of course, you can. You seem like you could use some company."

That night marked the beginning of a connection that would change both your lives. You and John spent hours talking, discovering that you had little in common on the surface, but something profound connected you deep within. He regaled you with stories of his missions, and you listened with unwavering attention. You spoke of your passions and dreams, and he hung onto every word.

Despite the challenges of John's career, you made it work. Your relationship was a blend of late-night phone calls, handwritten letters, and stolen moments whenever he was on leave… and some moments with you and him in his car, somewhere quiet. There were also times when it seemed impossible, the worlds you inhabited so far apart, but every time he was home, you dropped everything just to be with him.

One evening, as the two of you sat on a quiet beach, watching the sun dip below the horizon, John took your hand in his and said, "I can't believe you make time for me every single time I come home. It means the world to me."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You're worth it, John. You make my life feel complete, even in the midst of chaos.. where I‘m stressed with my open life."

Your relationship was a rollercoaster of emotions. There were nights of tears and longing, but there were also days of pure happiness. When John was deployed, your world revolved around waiting for his safe return and it was also the time you weren’t really home because of you tourings. And when he was back, you created moments that felt like a lifetime's worth of love in every stolen kiss and embrace.

One night you whispered to your boyfriend, "John, I never thought I'd find someone who understands me so completely. This is why my upcoming Album is about you."

John held you close, his voice full of love, "You, my love. I can't imagine facing the world without you by my side. I‘ll make sure to listen to it even if I‘m in the middle of a battlefield "

You both laughed as you laid in each other's arms, you both found love and solace amidst the chaos of your worlds.

John Price

In a chaotic city of England, you and John Price were a match that shouldn't have worked, yet somehow, you complemented each other perfectly. Your life, filled with the fame and glamour of the city, was a whirlwind of events and you touring through the UK.

Despite your wildly different lives, your love was undeniable. John would often tease you, saying, "I still can't believe you make time for a rough old captain like me." And every time, you'd respond with a smile, "You're worth every second, John."

In the evening, you stood on the balcony of your penthouse apartment, gazing at the city lights. John wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. "I can't believe you've cleared your schedule for my leave again."

You turned to face him, placing your hands on his chest. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, babe."

He smiled, his blue eyes filled with warmth. "You know, I never thought I'd find someone like you."

"You're my everything, John," you confessed, your fingers tracing his stubbled jaw. "I love you."

His lips met yours in a passionate kiss, and for a moment, the world around you disappeared. In the midst of this whirlwind romance, love was the constant that held you both together.

Over the years, you faced your fair share of challenges. John's demanding career and your busy social life often pulled you in different directions, but whenever he was on leave, your schedules aligned.

As you cuddled on the couch, John traced a finger along your cheek. "You're everything I've ever wanted," he said, his voice filled with emotion.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you replied, "And you're my rock, John."

Kyle Garrick

It was one of those rare moments when you both had some time off. Kyle, exhausted from his rigorous military duties, looked forward to spending his leave with you. You, on the other hand, were in the middle of an art project, but you knew just how much he needed this break. So, you cleared your schedule with a quick text that read, "I'm all yours when you're back, love."

As you waited for him, your mind wandered back to the first time you met. It had been at an art gallery where your work was being showcased. Kyle had stood there, captivated by the vibrant colors and abstract forms on the canvases. He approached you, and your worlds collided in a beautiful mess of colors and light. You'd never met anyone like him, and he'd never met anyone quite like you.

Now, as you prepared for his return, you couldn't help but smile at the memories that flooded your mind. The first time he'd attempted to sing with you, ending up with cringing as he heard himself singing over your instrumentals and how you'd laughed until your sides ached. He, in turn, had shown you the discipline and honor that came with his job, and you admired him for it.

Finally, the day came when Kyle returned home. The excitement in your heart was palpable as you rushed to the airport to greet him. When you saw him walking towards you in his uniform, it was like something out of a movie. You rushed into his arms, your emotions bubbling over.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice filled with love.

Kyle held you close, his strong arms wrapping around you. "I missed you more, you have no idea."

The drive back home was filled with laughter and stories of what you both had been up to. Kyle had a knack for making even the most mundane military anecdotes sound fascinating. You, in turn, shared the progress on your latest album, and he glanced at your creativity.

Once you were home, you cooked his favorite meal, and you both sat down to eat. As you sipped wine and shared stories, the hours slipped away. The love and connection you both felt were undeniable.

Later, you found yourselves snuggled on the couch, watching a movie. Kyle's fingers traced lazy circles on your hand as he said, "I can't believe how lucky I am to have you in my life. You make everything look so normal, even in the midst of chaos."

You smiled and nestled closer, your head resting on his shoulder. "And you bring a sense of order and purpose into my world. Together, we make the perfect blend of chaos and discipline."

As the night wore on, you realized that this was where you both belonged – in each other's arms.

[sanerontheinside]

♜: Shoulder rubs quiobi

Qui-Gon scowled at the datapad in front of him, feeling slightly cross-eyed. He remembered the days of checking over Obi-Wan's astronav homework well enough, but his experience with Anakin was much different now.

For one thing, Obi-Wan had always been considerably neater. He would sooner redo a problem afresh than try to correct his work in the original form. Some of Anakin's haphazard writing was certainly a result of learning Aurebesh writing late and doing most of his steps in his head. At this point, it was becoming difficult to follow the logic.

"Are you all right?"

Qui-Gon glanced up for what felt like the first time in hours, and spotted Obi-Wan standing in front of him with a cup of steaming hot tea. "Force bless you," he breathed, eagerly reaching for the tea.

Obi-Wan breathed out a startled chuckle. "You look like a migraine waiting to happen."

Qui-Gon resurfaced after a deep, indulgent draught. "You might be right." He tipped his head back, suddenly aware of the ache in his neck. "I've been staring at this for too long."

Obi-Wan rounded the table and came up behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Ah. Astronav homework. How's he doing?"

"I'm sure his internal logic is sound."

"Oh, is that all?" Obi-Wan asked, amused.

His hands landed warm and gentle on Qui-Gon's shoulders, and Qui-Gon couldn't help a faint, startled moan.

"Tight as beskar, here," Obi-Wan muttered. "May I?"

"Please." Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. "He'll redo a problem time and time again, but I don't think he catches all the mistakes in the process. I know his thought process must be ordered well—he couldn't program a droid otherwise—but on paper..."

"Hm. Might be worth considering giving him more space to work on than a datapad," Obi-Wan remarked. "He does well when he can spread out."

Those clever hands were rubbing circles into hard muscle, easing the tension in the knotted tissue. Qui-Gon closed his eyes in pleasure.

Already, he felt as though a weight had been taken from him. It had been this way since Naboo: after the repairs to his spine and his ribs, his muscles had done their best to compensate for the replacement tissue and bionics. The Healers had done well with it all, considering the unusual injury. But it was Obi-Wan who knew, better than any of them, how to loosen the tightness that collected there over the course of a day.

And eventually, the daily massages became less necessary—the discomfort could be staved off for days, eventually for up to a week. Now it was merely an incidental thing. But Qui-Gon never turned down the comfort of Obi-Wan's hands.

He took a deep breath, released it, and let his head fall back against Obi-Wan's stomach. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't fall asleep on me there," Obi-Wan replied, with an audible grin. His palm slid to the nape of Qui-Gon's neck, then up to cup the back of his head. "I had plans, you know."

"Plans..." Qui-Gon hummed regretfully. "I'm afraid I can't, Master Kenobi. I've still got homework to check."

Obi-Wan leaned close and nuzzled at the crown of his head. "I'll check it for you, Master Jinn," he murmured. "Come on."

[usermischief]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Kira Yukimura, Lori Rohr ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 8217 ♜Kinktober 2023: Reluctant Sex

ao3

---

this funny feeling

“And, here you go.” The hotel employee pushes the door to the dining room open.

Stiles smiles at her. “Thank you so much. I’m terrible with directions.” And he’s a bit too tired after having to catch a fight at 3 am to navigate a hotel he’s never been to.

“That’s absolutely no problem, darlin’.” The woman smiles before returning to the reception. Luckily, it’s early enough that not too many people are out and about yet.

So, Stiles isn’t surprised when the only people he spots in the dining room are Satomi, Morrell, Brett and Lori, as well as two couples with newborns. He’d have preferred for Kira to be up as well, but he also can’t expect her to crawl out of bed at 7 am during her vacation.

Stiles’ heart jumps when Brett turns to look at him — and a smile blossoms on his lips. Fuck. This is the worst. He thought he’d be over him, still, every time he sees Brett again, his crush on the guy all but punches him in the face. Going to the same university for two years brought them a lot closer together. They were friends, surely. In the beginning out of convenience, but that changed later. They hung out daily, and Stiles’ heart did what it did best — it got attached. He did date other people during and after college, but it didn’t fucking matter. Every time he sees Brett again, he’s right back where he started.

Stiles takes a deep breath and crosses the room. “Good morning.” With a little awkward wave, he drops his bags on a chair next to Brett. “And thank you so much for the invitation. I know this is a pack thing…” A two week long vacation is exactly what he needs after the year he’s had, but he’s still a bit unsure about the whole thing. Part of him feels like he’s intruding on something private.

“Kira and Brett insisted to have you join us.” Satomi smiles up at him.

Brett too?

Surprised, Stiles glances at the werewolf, who jumps to his feet. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You must be starving.” He ushers Stiles away from his snickering sister and towards the buffet without waiting for a reply.

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to tell Brett that he already had breakfast, that usually ended in a very long discussion of his terrible eating habits. During college, Brett had made it his mission to make sure Stiles eats three times a day — even when he was stuck in one of his terrible relationships. Plus, Stiles doesn’t mind to spend as less time as possible with Morrell, who told him she’d kill him the last time they spoke, and Satomi, who still kind of scares him. He doesn’t get a read on her, and he’s not a fan of that.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Stiles asks as Brett pushes an empty tray into his hands. “I don’t want to intrude.” He glances back towards the table and catches Satomi’s eye. Great. Grinning awkwardly, he turns back to Brett. They’ve been close during college, but never meet-the-parents close.

“She likes you,” Brett tells him as he puts a bowl of scrambled eggs and two slices of toast onto Stiles’ tray.

Does she? “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her.”

Contemplating the options, Brett merely shrugs. “You saved my life. She’d marry me off to you if that were still acceptable in today’s society.”

Stiles squints at the French toasts that are added to his tray. “That’s been a thing?”

“Yup,” Brett says, reaching for a bagel before he continues, “provide and protect are the most important features of a future mate.” Deciding against the bagel, Brett adds a couple of waffles before Stiles even has the chance to move away — who the hell is supposed to eat all of that? “It’s a stupid tradition. Nobody cares about that any longer.”

“I’m good.” Stiles grabs Brett’s arm, stopping him from adding anything else to his plate. “You provided me with enough food. More than enough, actually.”

Brett stares at him.

Stiles tries not to laugh.

“Asshole,” the werewolf mutters eventually, flicking Stiles’ forehead. “Keep that up and you’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Sleep on the—" Stiles isn’t entirely sure if he heard that right. That’s a joke. It has to be. “Are we sharing a bed?” Hopefully, that’s not the case. Stiles hardly survived sleeping on a pull-out couch with Brett after a party, how the fuck is he supposed to get through two weeks of not only sharing a room but also a bed?

“Yup,” Brett confirms as if that’s the most normal thing in the whole wide world. “Don't hog the blanket.”

Oh god.

———

Sighing, Stiles sits up and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t exactly fall asleep on the beach often. To be honest, the last time he did that was when his mum was still alive. The fact that basically passed out in public says a lot about how desperately he needs sleep. This vacation has barely started, and Stiles already misses this freedom. But there won’t be a lot of time to sleep once work is starting again.

Stiles crosses his arms over his knees and scans the beach for Brett. He’s not too far away, entertaining a group of the youngest werewolves with a girl Stiles has never seen before. They look awfully… domestic. Like this is a thing that is happening all the time. It hurts watching them. It hurts in a way Stiles didn’t expect. Feeling like this is fucking stupid. He shouldn’t. After all, he threw himself in every relationship he could find. He stayed in every relationship that was convenient enough, no matter how terrible it ended up being, just to keep his heart occupied because he was too afraid to get his heart broken by losing Brett if he told him he loved him.

The girl brushes her hand over Brett’s arm, something Brett doesn’t react to — either because it’s a too common occurrence or because he doesn’t care.

Please, don’t care.

“That bitch.”

“Lori!” Kira is sitting up on her own towel, staring at her friend in shock.

But Lori doesn’t react. She crouches down next to Stiles, arms crossed over her thighs. “You know I’m right.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “Who is that?” He can’t deny the pang of jealousy, or the frustration gnawing at him — and he can’t help but wonder, however briefly, if he’s missed an opening, he’s never been aware of.

“It’s Finch’s daughter,” Kira informs him, propping her chin on her left knee.

Finch’s kid? So, she probably knows Brett well. They must be close with each other since Finch and Satomi have decided to go on vacation together. Maybe they’re close in a way that— Stiles shakes his head and curls his hands into his towel. Best not to think about that right now.

Lori looks as if she’s smelling something rotten. “Quinn thinks she and Brett will bring the packs together one day,” Lori drawls, her voice teetering somewhere between annoyance and disgust, “through marriage.” At that, Lori shoots him an exasperated look.

“Marriage?” Stiles laughs because if he didn’t do that, he might end up screaming. “Brett?” he keeps going, going, going, trying so hard not to let the fear creep in. “He’s never going to marry.” Every time they as much as scratched the topic of marriage, Brett instantly changed it.

Lori stands up. “Not her, at least. Come on.”

“What?” Stiles looks up at her, drawing his brows together.

“We’re going to go swimming.” Clearly not in the mood for discussions, Lori grabs him by the upper arm and quite unceremoniously yanks him to his feet. The Talbots’ bossy nature really is fucking exhausting. “Drop the shirt. Kira, let’s go.” Lori doesn’t wait for either of them to follow them.

Knowing a little too well that any discussion is pointless, Stiles yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it onto his towel. If Lori wants him to go swimming, he will go swimming with her. Kira seems to have come to the same conclusion since she’s joining him on his way to the sea.

That Quinn girl spots them first, her features darkening almost at once. Mrs. Finch disliked him ever since Stiles corrected her once during AP Biology. Clearly, she didn’t speak fondly about him in front of her daughter.

Fantastic.

“Lori, hold on.” To his surprise, she stops dead in her tracks — causing him to almost crash into her — and stares at him with the same intensity remembers very well from Brett. “I don’t want to cause trouble, okay?” For one, it’s the first day of his vacation, he doesn’t need thirteen tense days. His anxiety is going to kill him. For another, Stiles doesn’t need to make shit any more complicated between the two packs.

But Lori merely waves a hand. “You’re here to resolve some issues, trust me.” And with that, the discussion seems to be over for her. Instead, she turns around. “Quinn, the girls want to play mermaid, not sea witch. Feel free to leave.”

Kira covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Clearly nobody like Quinn.

“Yukimura!” Brett bellows from somewhere to their right. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Oh, shit.” Without warning, Kira grabs Stiles’ hand and yanks him around, hightailing it in the opposite direction. Her grip around his fingers is tight, unrelenting, almost as if she expected him to take a moment to tap into his fox again. He’s never been the biggest fan of the remains of the nogitsune still deeply anchored in his DNA.

But his body does remember its powers a lot quicker than he expected. “What’s going on?”

Kira lets go of his hand, probably realizing that Stiles can keep up with her, and scrunches up her face. “I may have made a bet with Brett,” she admits, glancing over her shoulder, “saying that there’s no way they could capture us.”

Us as in kitsunes, Stiles assumes, but before he can dwell on it too long, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. “A little warning would’ve been nice.” He grabs her around the waist and stops both of them in their tracks. Tierney and Jiang have cut off their path now that the beach has gotten a lot emptier. Both of them are brimming with excitement.

Stiles twists around, so he’s standing back to back with Kira.

And Brett is right there.

Fuck.

Stiles steps away from Kira, watching as Brett comes running at him fast. There’s an almost predatory grin on his lips. Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles chances a glance over his shoulder, hating that he can’t see Jiang and Tierney without looking away from Brett. The two of them, however, seem to be focused on Kira. Good. But going up against Brett isn’t exactly the outcome he would’ve preferred.

“Split up,” he says, and Kira doesn’t hesitate a second. She spins on around and dashes back the way she came from. Stiles does the same thing, rushing past Tierney in the opposite direction of Kira. They’re faster than wolves, for the most part, but running in sand is a fucking nightmare for Stiles. He’s more stumbling than running. Finding every fucking hole in the world is really on brand, meaning Stiles’ advantage is dwindling fast— because Brett is not a goddamn klutz while running.

Stiles glances over his shoulder, and instantly regrets his decision. He misses a quite deep hole and steps right into it. His shin smacks against the edge, and all he can do is trying not to eat sand. Cursing under his breath, Stiles pulls himself out. Before he has the chance to get his feet back under him, Brett’s arm is around his waist, and he spins him around, pushing him into the sand.

The grin on his lips is more than predatory. “You can’t run from me, little fox,” Brett whispers as he’s leaning down until their noses almost brush.

Stiles’ heart all but skyrockets. “Is that a threat or a promise,” he asks, and he hates how breathless he sounds, hates that his body wants to stay right here and not move whatsoever. He’s not exhausted, not in the slightest, and he’s here to win a bet.

“A bit of both,” Brett replies, sounding just as breathless. He doesn’t move either and remains kneeling over Stiles’ legs, fingers digging into the sand next to Stiles’ head.

Stiles licks his lips, breath catching in his throat when Brett’s gaze drops down to follow the movement. Despite himself, Stiles holds his breath for a moment, too scared to move a single muscle. What is going on? Why is he looking at his mouth like that? He sucks in a breath. “What’s going to happen now?”

Brett blinks and locks eyes with him again. “Ocean,” he mutters, brows slightly furrowed. It almost seems as if he’s not sure himself if that’s really what’s going to happen. He certainly doesn’t move to get Stiles any closer to the ocean. Instead, his gaze darts back to his mouth again. Brett swallows, licks his lips, and his gaze flicks up to meet Stiles’ again. “I—" Brett cuts off, and he cups his cheek.

Something clicks into place.

Oh god.

Brett is trying to kiss him. Brett wants to kiss him.

And for a second, Stiles considers letting it happen. Because why not? This is everything he wants. Kissing Brett has been on his mind since meeting him again in college. Stiles swallows, parts his lips. But he’s going to leave, and Brett is going to return to Beacon Hills — and he can’t do that to himself. He fucking can’t.

“Ocean,” Stiles repeats softly, but Brett doesn’t even react. His thumb is tracing his jaw, and Stiles’ heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest. Bad. Bad. “Shark!” Stiles yells, ripping his hand out of the sand.

Brett pulls away, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. Which is fair. It’s not like sharks are usually hanging out in the sand, but it’s really the only thing he manages to come up with to distract the werewolf — and open up a chance to push him off.

Something he does instantly, forcing a grin on his face and pretending as if Brett didn’t hear his heartbeat or pick on his chemo signals. “I’m not going to be captured by a wolf.” Twisting away, he gets to his feet surprisingly quickly and doesn’t hesitate to dash back in the direction of the others — in the direction of safety.

———

“You’re up early.”

“Look who’s talking.” Stiles grins up at Kira and pets the blanket next to him.

She plops down, body warm and sweaty from what’s very clearly been a morning workout. Her dedication is admirable. He didn’t make it a week, and he’d especially not do it on vacation. Kira yawns and pulls her legs to her chest. “What got you out of bed? Insomnia?”

Stiles wishes insomnia was the issue for once.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Aside from spooning him and giving Stiles the worst and most awkward morning boner, he’s had since fucking high school.

Kira cocks her head. “But he drove you out of bed at 5am?”

Stiles falls back and crosses his arms over is stomach. Only a second later, Kira does the same. They haven’t been able to do this in years. He’s been so busy working on getting the FBI’s supernatural division up and running, he hardly had time to even miss his friends. But right now, he hates being so far away, hates how occupied he is with travelling everywhere, sitting in hour-long meetings, trying to make supernatural creatures understand that he’s with them instead of against them.

And then he goes home alone, or crashes into a strange hotel bed in a strange town with no one to keep him company.

If everything goes well, Stiles will have another 12 months of this.

Stiles lets out a breath. “I can’t do this.”

“You still love him.” It’s not a question. It never has been a question.

“I can’t sleep in a bed with him for two weeks and walk away with my heart in one piece.” At this point, Stiles can’t even tell if he’s not too far down the rabbit hole already. How the fuck is he supposed to be this close to Brett and then act like nothing at all happened?

Kira turns onto her side, brushing strands out of her face. Her eyes are heavy on him, searching. “What if you tell him?”

“That I’ve been in love with him since college?” Stiles barks out a laugh, cold and humorless, a sound that hurts in his throat.

Kira gently pokes his side. “You’re not unlovable.”

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls onto his side too, facing her, and instantly, he’s transported back to college. How many nights have they spent exactly like this? More than he can count, that’s for sure. He’s never felt more peaceful. “But it’s Brett. Do you remember him ever being even remotely interested in a relationship?”

“But what if he is interested in you?” Kira urges, raising her brows in question.

Stiles pinches his. “Do you know anything?” It’s not necessarily unlike her to be this pushy, but it’s still a little unusual.

“No.” She shakes her head a little before propping herself up onto her elbow. “But Brett wouldn’t give away his right to a single room for just anyone.” That’s phrased very kindly. They both know Kira means that he wouldn’t give up his chance to have sex with various hot people hanging out at the hotel. “When I talked to him about inviting you, he instantly offered.” It’s not hard to see where she’s coming from. Brett wasting two weeks of sex with strangers without a second of hesitation isn’t exactly like him.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Okay, but even if he just so happens to like me back romantically…” he scowls a bit, but he cannot bring himself to say love. Just thinking about it makes him feel nauseous. “What good is it going to do? I’ll leave in two weeks, and there’s nothing I have to offer in terms of a relationship. I can’t even say when I’ve got the time to see him again. Do you know how hard it was to get these two weeks off?” He knows he’s being unfair by making it sound like this is some type of hardship. He wants to be here, but he’s a one-man-team at the moment. It’s a fucking nightmare. “Please, don’t get me wrong—"

“Oh, I know.” Kira sits up, smiling down at him over her shoulder. “But maybe things are easier than you think. You know how a different perspective can help.”

“So what?” Stiles its up too, bumping against her shoulder. “I should just tell him?” There’s no way that’s going to lead anywhere, not when Brett is Satomi’s second in command, and Stiles is the leader of the supernatural division. Maybe things will be calmer when everything is established.

Stiles squints at the storm in the distance, watching it creep closer minute by minute.

That’s a big fucking maybe.  

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t knock it till you try it.” She bumps into him with a chuckle.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll think about it.” But he’ll doubt he’s ever going to admit to his feelings. He doesn’t want to allow himself the type of hope that will eat him alive.

“And if it gets too much for you, I’ve got room in my bed too.” Kira wraps an arm around him and scoots closer, so she can prop her head on his shoulder.

The first rumble of thunder is audible when Stiles leans his head against hers. It won’t take much longer until the storm is right above their heads. But neither of them moves.

———

Instead, they ran inside through the rain, laughing and cursing and probably being a menace for the hotel staff. Stiles does feel a little bad in retrospect. They did leave behind a few tracks, but Stiles only cared about getting into the shower, and now he desperately needs to get some food into him.

But the moment he reaches the dining hall, Quinn steps in his way. “So, you’re this year’s conquest.” She leans against the wall right next to the door. As she shifts in front of him, Stiles has the weird feeling that she’s been waiting for him.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles glances from her to the rest of the room and back again. “Sorry?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Quinn’s smirk is about as pleasant as nails on a chalk board. “Every year, Brett finds someone, makes them feel special, fucks them, and then doesn’t even look at them the next day. Didn’t peg you as one to fall for that.” 

Stiles stares at her, trying his best not to let his feelings get to him. It’s not like there’s a relationship in the cards; they’re living at opposite ends of this country. Stiles’ schedule with the FBI is a nightmare, and Brett, well, he’s supposed to be Satomi’s successor. He can hardly leave the pack. Stiles doubts he’d— why is the even thinking about this again? Only an hour ago, he’s talked this through with Kira, and as much as he’s trying to find it in himself to look for something positive, he can only focus on the negative. Probably because there are so much more arguments for keeping quiet.

Stiles shakes his head, deciding that not deigning this with a response is probably the best idea, and moves to walk away.

Quinn steps in his way.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“An apology.”

Stiles blinks. “For what?” They haven’t spoken a single word since he’s arrived. All she did was glaring at him from a distance.

“You’re ruining this,” Quinn tells him, stepping closer. Her eyes burn yellow, reminding Stiles that he should bring a weapon the next time he joins this type of fun. She looks ready to jump him. “Brett and I are supposed to—.”

“Bring the packs together?” Despite everything, Stiles has never been afraid of most werewolves. He whacked the fucking twins with a baseball bat when they were morphed into one weird as hell abomination, and he very colorfully told one of them what he’d do with a branch of mistletoe. He’s not going to be intimidated by Quinn. Raising his brows, Stiles leans forward a little. “I don’t care about your future plans, so back off before I forget that I’m with the FBI.” Stiles is really good at picking fights with people he doesn’t know. But this time, it’s at least not his fault.

Not entirely at least.

Quinn steps closer again, but before she has the chance to do anything, Brett appears out of nowhere and fits easily into the space between them. “Hey.” His voice is light and charming, but his rigid body speaks a different language. “Is there a problem?”

Stiles lets out a breath. Part of him wants to push Brett out of the way and deal with Quinn himself. He doesn’t need protection.

“You should find a different bitch, that one bites.” Quinn spits, stepping away from Brett with a sneer.

Stiles lunges forward, but Brett is faster than him. Grabbing his waist, he pulls him flat against his side, holding him back with no effort whatsoever. “Call him a bitch again,” Brett says in a low voice that’s so much more threatening than any growl could ever be. “I dare you. See what happens.”

For a moment, Quinn stands stock-still, staring at Brett as if she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is. She flares his nostrils as she takes a breath then gives Stiles a nasty smile. “We’ll continue this conversation probably much sooner than later,” she drawls, shooting Brett a look before stepping away. “Have fun.” Turning his back on them, Quinn walks into the dining hall.

Does she think Stiles is afraid of facing her alone? Because if that’s the case, she’s dead wrong. If Brett weren’t having an iron grip on him, Stiles would show her exactly what he thinks of her.

Fucker.

Brett doesn’t let go of him, holding him flush against his side, fingers digging into his waist, probably sensing that Stiles is very much itching to jump the other werewolf.  “Let’s go outside.” It’s not a request, and he’s not waiting for a response anyway. Instead, Brett grabs him by the back of his shirt and yanks him around so fast, he almost lost this footing. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he informs him in a hushed tone.

Once through the door, Brett lets go of him with a shake of his head.

It’s stormy outside. Rain is pounding on the canopy of glass. The conversations from inside barely reach them here, even less when Brett pulls the door shut behind them. Stiles nudges a chair with his foot, barely repressing the urge to kick it across the patio and into the pool or turn around and snap at Brett as well. Just for good measure. He can’t believe the guy had the nerve to drag him around like a rag doll. Instead, Stiles takes a deep breath and directs his gaze to the dark horizon. “There’s a beach ten feet from here,” he mutters, pushing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “why the fuck would they have a pool?” Stepping right up to its edge, Stiles contemplates throwing himself into the cool water. Maybe that would drown the anger.

Stiles gets the feeling this whole vacation was a terrible idea.

“Sharks.” Brett doesn’t hesitate to reply and comes to stand next to him, so close their arms are almost touching. “But I bet you don’t fear those either.”

Stiles shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Humming softly, Brett shrugs. “Not many people would talk to a werewolf like that. You’d probably punch a shark in the nose before it got too close.”  

“That’s how you lose a hand,” Stiles replies, fixing his gaze on the thunderstorm in the distance. “You want to hit the gills or eyes. Preferably the gills.”

“And threatening a werewolf is how you lose your head.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Brett is probably right. “Noted.”

“Can we go back inside without you trying to kill her?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Stiles keeps staring towards the horizon.

Brett huffs out a breath. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the dark clouds as if they’re to blame for this. “She came at me.” He doesn’t even understand why she’s so upset at him. After all, Quinn said herself that Brett is always hooking up with random people. Besides, if she knows him even a little, she’s fully aware that Brett isn’t at all interested in anything that’s even remotely like a relationship. The guy has serious commitment issues. If Quinn really believes Brett will settle down with her, she absolutely has to rethink her world view.

Sighing, Brett wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him close. “I know.”

Stiles hates how his body instantly melts against Brett’s. At this point, the guy doesn’t even have to be a werewolf to notice that something’s up. But waking up next to him, missing him since graduating from college — part of him is tired of hiding his feelings. Maybe Kira is right. Maybe he should say something. If Brett doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, he might be able to finally move on. “She believes you’ll settle down with her.” Stiles knows he sounds jealous, but perhaps this is another way to figure out what’s what without serving his heart on a silver platter.

“And?” Brett cups Stiles’ jaw, easily moving his head so Stiles has to look up at him. “What do you believe?” 

That’s not the answer he hoped for.

Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat. “I can’t see you settling down,” he whispers, suddenly hit with an awful déjà vu.

“Not with her, at least,” Brett mutters, a smirk curling around his lips, and just like that, he leans down.

Slowly.

Giving Stiles time to react.

Panic floods his veins. The moment he kisses Brett, the moment he allows this to happen, there is no going back. There’s no way to stop his heart from free-falling. But he can’t be Brett’s hook-up for this vacation. He can’t do it. So, Stiles jerks backwards — and loses his footing completely. The pool, he realizes belatedly.

Fuck.

Stiles flails, knowing very well that there’s only Brett to hold onto, but Brett merely watches him, hand now pushes in the pockets of his jeans.

Asshole.

He crashes into the water, deciding that breakfast can very much be happening without him. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving his room today.

———

“Well,” Brett says, kicking the door shut behind him, “that day is going swimmingly, isn’t it?” With the most annoying grin this side of the universe, he sets down a box filled with various breakfast foods on the bet next to Stiles. The guy really makes it hard to be annoyed with him. Then again, it’s hard to blame Brett for letting him fall into the pool after pulling away from a kiss twice.

If not for his stupid heart, Stiles would jump at the chance to hook up with Brett fucking Talbot for two weeks straight. But he can’t do that to himself.

Shooting the werewolf a narrow-eyed look, Stiles pulls the box towards him. “Can’t wait for your full routine, Mulaney.”

“At least I’m not holing myself up in my hotel room to mope.” Brett toes off his shoes and collapses into bed next to him, his mood unbearably good.

“I’m not holing myself up,” Stiles shoots back, ignoring the pointed look towards the drawn curtains. Yes, he went straight to his room after falling into the pool. No, he did not come out to eat breakfast — and he will not leave it for lunch or dinner either. This day is very much over for him. “I hate thunderstorms, you know that.” He hates how accusatory he sounds. The storm is hardly Brett’s fault.

Quinn’s bratty behavior isn’t either.

For a moment, Brett doesn’t reply and instead watches him nibble on a waffle with near uncomfortable intensity. “You got up pretty early today,” he says then. It sounds like he’s been meaning to talk about this for a while now.

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what that has to do with anything, so he merely hums in agreement and hopes that’s the end of it. He’d love to watch IT since he, for one, paid money for it — ha — and for another, he really doesn’t want to go into any details of anything that may or may not have happened.

Not even in the slightest.

“Why? Nightmares?”

Stiles gestures towards the TV with his waffle. It’s not like he needs to watch it, he knows the movie inside out. He still very much prefers it over this conversation.

But Brett keeps pushing, “insomnia?”

Once again, Stiles doesn’t reply. Mostly because he has no idea what to say to get out of this. Because the truth is a terrible start.

“Or the fact that we cuddled, and you woke up horny?” Brett snatches the remote and turns the TV off without hesitation. “You know I noticed, right?”

Know would be a bit much, but Stiles somewhat suspected it. Shit like this is just his luck. “Listen,” he says as his cheeks grow uncomfortable warm, “I just…” what? What could he possibly say to get out of this? “Haven’t been close to anyone in a while.” Aside from sounding absolutely pathetic, it’s at least the truth. “Can I please get the remote back now?”

The gin curling around Brett’s lips is positively wolfish. “I’ll trade it.”

Stiles puts the waffle down and pushes the box of food towards Brett, raising his brows expectantly. Of course, that’s not what Brett meant at all. “I’m so not in the mood for this.” But Brett is a shithead, and there’s absolutely no way for Stiles to get out of this. He’s too drained to try and out-stubborn a Talbot. “What do you want?” For some awful reason, the question tasted bad in his mouth, as if part of him new he is making a huge mistake giving Brett’s stupid idea even a second of consideration.

“A kiss.”

His breath catches in his throat. “What?” Sure, Stiles probably should’ve expected it since Brett tried to kiss him twice already. Hearing it this bluntly, however, is a very different story. “The fuck is this coming from?” It’s also not technically a lie. Brett has never tried kissing him before.

A flash of surprise cuts through Brett’s expression of confidence. For all but a second, it seems as if he questions his calculations — no matter how quickly the grin returns. “You kissed Kira and Lydia.”

“That’s different.” Stiles regrets those words the second they leave his mouth. Why can’t he think before he speaks? Sure, technically, the situations have been a bit different; mostly because they haven’t been alone in a hotel room. He kissed them during a stupid game. It’s never been serious. Besides, he also didn’t have feelings for either of them when it happened.  

Brett’s on his case like a fucking bloodhound. “Oh, is it? We’re friends too, aren’t we? Or is it because—"

Before Stiles can think any better of it, he leans over and presses their mouths together. The very second their lips touch, he pulls back again, not allowing himself to give this any thought at all because if he does, throwing himself out of the window might be the more painless option. “There,” he mutters, not daring to meet Brett’s eyes.

The laugh filling the room is surprisingly breathless. “You call that a kiss?”

“You didn’t specify—"

“A real kiss, Stiles. I thought that’s obvious.”

But it’s not. Nothing is obvious right now. Stiles is two seconds from running away; this time not into a relationship but into Kira’s room. Maybe he should’ve taken her up on the offer the second she made it. “This is fucking stupid.” Stiles sits back on his heels, still staring anywhere that’s not Brett. That, however, is stupid too. Setting his jaw, he locks eyes with the werewolf. “Are people falling for this shit?” He’s angry and defensive, and Stiles knows Brett is more than aware of it — of everything, even the feelings Stiles harbors for him. How could he not? “It’s so stupid.” And it’s certainly not funny.

Brett laughs, tapping the remote against his thigh. “You mentioned that.”

Stiles makes a grab for it. Unsurprisingly, he’s unsuccessful. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“You mentioned that too.”

Stiles wants to smother this asshole with a pillow. It certainly would solved absolutely all of his problems in one go. “Seriously, if you want to kiss me that bad—" stupid, stupid, stop talking “— just do it. Don’t act like a fucking middle schooler.” Stiles snaps his mouth shut entirely too late. With Brett, there’s always a risk that he might do it.

And, of course, Brett doesn’t hesitate.

He tosses the remote aside; because it’s never been about this fucking remote, because Stiles could tell things have been different since the moment he arrived, because Brett attempted to kiss him twice already. He would have, too, if Stiles hadn’t pulled away to protect what’s left of his heart.

But Brett doesn’t allow that this time. He pulls him in by the front of his shirt and crashes their mouths together.

The collar of his shirt digs into the nape of his neck, and Brett’s lips glide over his. He holds him there, doesn’t allow him to pull away again in any shape or form. He wants to, and he doesn’t want to. His body screams for Brett, begs for his hands and his mouth everywhere on him.

But he can’t do that to himself. He’ll have a night, if everything goes well, he has two weeks with Brett, two weeks of living his heart’s desire — and then reality comes crashing down on him.

Brett’s tongue traces Stiles’ lips, and his thoughts evaporate. Stiles cups the back of Brett’s head, holding him close. Brett wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer. His eyes flutter shut, and his heart pounds in his chest.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Stiles sighs softly into the kiss, giving Brett the chance to deepen it. His tongue flicks Stiles’ teasingly. His whole body tingles, and Stiles shudders as the werewolf grabs his ass shamelessly. This fucking guy has a way to consume him entirely too easily. It’s not fair.

Before Stiles knows it, he’s on his back, Brett above him, his body warm and heavy. His kiss is desperate and bruising and eager for more.

So much more.

For something Stiles would rather not give.

Fuck.

Stiles let’s go of Brett and pulls away. “Wait,” he whispers breathlessly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their relationship is meant to remain strictly platonic. There’s too much risk to ruin it, too much risk to ruin himself.

And he can’t.

Not this time.

But Brett clearly doesn’t get the memo. He kisses him again, and Stiles kisses him back because he really, really wants everything that’s happening so, so fucking bad; the way Brett tastes like orange juice, his nose bumps against Stiles’ and his hands are roaming his body, and the way he bites his bottom lip.

It makes him dizzy.

Stiles curls and uncurls his fingers then grabs Brett’s shoulders. “Stop,” he mutters into the kiss. Wait doesn’t set the right signals. “Stop.” And he finally manages to turn his head to the side. “Brett—" He really needs him to fucking stop.

Instead, Brett drags his lips down to his jaw, trails them further down to his throat.

Stiles leans his head back, gasping when Brett sucks on his sensitive skin. It’s so easy to just give in.

No.

No.

“I said, stop!” Stiles gives Brett’s shoulders a shove and finally, finally, the werewolf raises his head, but he’s not moving off him. “I don’t— I don’t want this.”

Brett quirks a brow, clearly not buying it — not when Stiles’ body sends a very different signal. “I beg to differ.”

The amusement rubs him the wrong way, and he gives Brett another push. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you offered me to stay in your room.”

Brett sits up as if Stiles slapped him in the face. “Is that what you think?” His voice is icy, his muscles rigid, and suddenly, the way he towers over him now is terrifying. It’s easy to forget how dangerous Brett can be — and he’s got every right to be pissed. “Do you believe Quinn? Do you really think I’d treat you that way?” They both know the answer to that question — and that’s most likely why Brett hasn’t kicked him out of the room yet.

Shaking his head, Stiles props himself onto his elbows.

Brett collapses onto the bed next to him. “Are you going to tell me the real reason?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t.”

Stiles drops onto his back and squints at the ceiling. “A bit of both, I guess.”

To his surprise, Brett laughs. It’s breathless and soft and everything but angry. “Can I tell you something then?” He rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand, studying Stiles’ face with sparkling blue eyes. He’s so pretty it hurts. “Something only Satomi knows?”

Stiles licks his lips and nods. Slowly. He’s not entirely sure what he might hear. “Sure.”

“I love you,” Brett tells him as bluntly as always. He chuckles when Stiles bolts upright — not entirely sure if his heart is going to stay inside his body in the foreseeable future. But Brett continues talking as he scoots behind him and wraps both arms around his waist, “and I can’t stand another year of being away from you.” His left hand slips under Stiles’ shirt.

A shudder runs down his spine, and Stiles grabs his wrist. He doesn’t stop him, not yet, merely holds on for dear life.

With ease, Brett pulls him closer, running his fingers over Stiles’ lower abs. “I wanted to take my time and try to figure out how you felt.” His lips are so close, every word is painted against the shell of his ear. All the while, his hand creeps lower at a snail’s pace. “But the bed is still drenched in your scent from this morning, and… I overheard you talking to Kira”

“Oh god,” Stiles breathes, not sure if it’s because of the admission or because Brett pushes two fingers past the waistband of his sweatpants.

The soft chuckle paves its way straight to Stiles’ dick. He wishes he could say it’s because he hasn’t been close to anyone in forever, but that’s not true — it’s Brett, all of this is fucking Brett.

“And I just can’t help myself,” the werewolf whispers, grabbing Stiles’ chin to turn his head just enough to brush their lips together. “I want your scent all over me.” He hooks a finger under the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs, tugging once, twice. A question. ‘Stop me’, it seems to offer.

Stiles lets go of Brett’s waist and curls his fingers into the sweatpants instead, blood rushing in his ears.

And Brett continues; he keeps talking, allows his hand to slip further into Stiles’ boxer briefs. “I hated seeing you with others. I hate how they treated you.” Just like that, Brett curls his long fingers around Stiles’ dick — the touch alone makes him almost jump out of his own body. “I knew I could treat you so much better. I will treat you better.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall back.

Another chuckle.

Stiles tugs on Brett’s sweatpants.

“You smell so good,” Brett whispers, free and sliding from his chin to Stiles’ throat. His thumb rests right above his pule. He hums, sounding so smug, so fucking happy with himself.

It should be embarrassing that all it took were a few choice words to change Stiles’ mind, but it’s hard to feel bad with a hand wrapped around his dick. “Brett,” he breathes.

Brett hums again and kisses his temple. “Want me to make you feel good?”

“Please.”

Brett makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a grow. Everything after that is rushed. They’re moving, getting rid of clothes. Brett’s shoe refuses to cooperate. It’s fun to see Mr. Smooth getting frustrated enough over such a small thing. A moment later, the shoe is gone, and Brett is on top of him again, kissing him with a hunger that leaves Stiles lightheaded and painfully hard.

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles watches as Brett rummages through his backpack. He’s hard lines and muscle where Stiles is skin and bones, lack of training and time to eat carving their marks into his body. His dick is long and hard and, apparently, now exclusively for Stiles’ pleasure — well, and Brett’s, but that’s a given.

If Brett told him the truth, that is. Which he did, right? They’ve been friends for years. Brett wouldn’t lie to him just to get into his pants.

Right?

“I can hear you overthinking.” Brett drops the backpack next to the bed, flicking a bottle of lube at him.

Stiles catches it awkwardly. For a moment, he stares at it as if the weight of his future rests inside of it. “Are you sure about… this?” Stiles gestures vaguely around, not daring to look at him.

“You mean the sex thing, or the whole I-love-you speech?” Brett asks, and although he smirks at him, his blue eyes have gone unbelievably soft. “Because I fully intend to be your trophy boyfriend.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious about us. If you let me, I will come with you after this vacation. I’ll travel the US with you. I’ll make sure you eat and sleep, and I fuck you as often as you want me to.”

“And here I thought romance is dead.” Stiles can’t help but grin at the idea. It’s easy to see Brett by his side, to come home to him. Still, “it’s going to be boring for you, though, isn’t it?”

Brett raises his brows, shuffling closer until they’re nose to nose again. “Relaxing by the pool? No way.”

“I’m not staying in hotels like this.” Not usually, at least.

“Stiles,” Brett sounds exasperated, yet he cups his cheeks ever so gently. “I can deal with a year of ratty motels in the middle of nowhere if that means I’m with you, okay?” The moment Stiles opens his mouth for a reply, Brett leans over and kisses him, very clearly done with the conversation, and pushes him back into the pillows. “You’re not going to talk me out of this,” he whispers against Stiles’ mouth. “Stop wasting your breath.” With a chuckle, Brett plucks the lube from his fingers. “And relax, my love.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles runs his fingers through Brett’s hair and pulls him down for another kiss. He’ll allow himself to dream, to imagine this future Brett is painting will have a happy ending. Perhaps it does. He’ll never know if he refuses to try. So, he tries — tries to be an optimist, tries to relax as Brett’s hands and mouth explore every inch of his body, and tries desperately to hold onto his sanity as Brett’s tongue and fingers do their very best to make him fall apart.

Something that gets significantly harder the moment Brett thrusts in to the hilt. He presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily as he stays still for way too long.

Stiles hooks a leg around Brett’s thighs and rolls his hips. The way Brett moans his name makes him almost cum on the spot. “Fuck,” he breathes, “warn a guy.”

Brett chuckles as he captures his lips for another kiss mere seconds before he pulls back out and thrusts back in, fast and hard, yet not quite hard enough. Brett does it again, harder this time — testing how far he can go, or how much he has to hold back.

Stiles moans into the kiss when he does it for a third time, unable to stay quiet any longer.

“Okay?” Brett asks, stilling again.

“Yeah,” Stiles gasps, “better than okay.”

Brett lets out a breath. “You’re perfect,” he mutters, and it almost sounds like a curse. But Stiles can’t be bothered. Now that they’re here, he’d like to feel it for as long as he can, even when Brett won’t be leaving his side anytime soon — or ever, hopefully. God, he wants his marks all over his body, wants to feel this with every step he takes.

Brett seems to be thinking along a similar vein because he keeps the pace, fucking Stiles as if he’s got every intention to leave his mark everywhere. His fingers curl around Stiles’ dicks again, adding more fuel to the fire burning absolutely everywhere inside of him.

Stiles digs his fingers into Brett’s back, feeling his muscles tighten as he rushes towards his orgasm.

They’re hardly kissing any longer, instead, they’re breathing, gasping, moaning against each other’s mouths — lips brushing against each other’s more an accident than purpose.

And then, it hits him. His orgasm cuts to his core, and Stiles throws his head back.

Brett holds him, fucks him, until he collapses on top of him, boneless, skin hot and sweaty, face hidden in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

His brain is still trying to catch up while his heart is already beating in sync with Brett’s. His body truly never fails to disappoint. Stiles lets out a soft breath and runs his fingers through the blond strands. “I could get used to this.”

Growling quietly, Brett nips at his skin.

Stiles flicks his ear. “What the hell was that for?”

Brett chuckles and props himself onto his elbows. His eyes are bright, his lips ever so kissable, and he ducks down and brushes their noses together. “I’m not going to get a quiet afterglow, do I?”

“Have you met me?” Stiles raises his brows, not exactly expecting an answer to a question that couldn’t be any more rhetorical if he tried. “I could offer you cuddles in exchange for the remote, though.” He’s going to finish that movie, even if he has to stay still in Brett’s arms for the rest of it.

Sighing dramatically, Brett kisses him again. “Fine.”

Stiles grins. “I love you.” Three words he’s been wanting to say for years.

“I love you too.” But hearing them feels so much better.

[thethistlegirlwrites]

♔ : Finding the other wearing their clothes

♜: Shoulder rubs

♥: Reacting to the other one crying about something

♦: Slow dancing

For Sierra and Shay (you know why I sent that last one 😉)

Ah my precious human (and non-human) dumpster fire disasters I love them dearly and I know you do too... they got long so once again they're below the cut!

"Is that my sweatshirt?"

"Correction. Our sweatshirt," Sierra replies.

"I didn't realize communal property extended to my clothes."

"I did the laundry this week, so yeah."

"No fair. I can't steal your stuff on my week."

"You could, but it would be kind of funny." She chuckles at the thought of Shay in one of her t-shirts; it would look like a crop top on him.

Between her chronically broke bank account and landlords' (unfortunately still fully legal) refusals to take on a vampire with a criminal record as a tenant, she and Shay had finally decided the most practical option was sharing her place. A one-bedroom apartment isn't a lot of room for two people, but with a coffin of home earth replacing the dilapidated college-purchase futon in the living room, they're making it work.

They're splitting the rent fifty-fifty, Sierra buys food (as the only one who actually needs it) and Shay takes care of utilities. They trade off on the chores. Pete made them a literal actual chore chart for the fridge.

He sure does love his spreadsheets.

"Well, I'm not going to fight you for it," Shay says, grinning and reaching past her to the blood shelf in the fridge.

"I'd hate to have to reset the 'Days Without Incident' board," Sierra says. They literally have one of those too, courtesy of her and Shay's tendency to ruffle each other's feathers and say things that set the other off. If they make it to seven days, it's cause for celebration.

'We haven't murdered each other yet' seems like a pretty low bar for roommates, but Sierra thinks that in this case, it's actually a pretty good one. They're living (or maybe undead, in Shay's case) proof that humans and vampires can co-exist.

And in a world where that's becoming increasingly important to prove, 'we survived another day together' might be one of the most valuable statistics they have.

She's pretty sure, somewhere, Pete has all of this on a spreadsheet. ... "Isn't it a little weird to be visiting a graveyard after hours?" Pete asks, glancing behind them at the chained gate.

"Well, I sort of wanted you all to meet him, and Shay can only come at night. Besides, unless they've changed their tactics a lot in the past couple years almost no one patrols this place. My high school friends and I used to come out here when we wanted to be sure no one would catch us drinking or smoking." She shrugs. "Now it feels kinda weird knowing I could have been sitting on my dad's headstone that time Javy convinced me to try my first cigarette."

Shay laughs, a sort of harsh sound that echoes off the stones. "Okay, you have to admit, that is pretty funny."

Sierra stops in front of a rough-cut, unassuming stone. It's probably from the ranch; her dad was the first generation not allowed to be buried in the family plot on their own land, but his family clearly wanted to leave a piece of his home with them.

It's like some inverted theory of home earth. Sierra kneels down, tracing the letters cut into the stone.

"Hey dad. It's me again. I brought friends this time. Well, better friends than I used to bring." She swallows, feeling warmth running down her night-chilled cheeks. "This is Pete, and this is Shay. Pete's my hunting partner. And Shay's a vampire but I think you might have liked him." She shrugs. "If it counts for anything, your brother doesn't actively hate him."

It's supposed to come out as a laugh, but it's more of a choked sob. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Stoker. Gotta say, you've got an awfully nice grave. Take it from someone that means something to." Shay lays a hand on top of the headstone, and this time, Sierra does laugh.

She knows what he's doing, but she doesn't mind. She'd rather laugh than cry, she thinks her dad would approve.

Pete just shuffles, clearly not as comfortable with the whole joking in the presence of the actual dead thing, but he takes a sprig of mesquite bush he'd found on the ranch earlier and lays it on top of the stone, tied around with a thin bit of red string. Apparently that's something from his family.

"Okay. We have two more to visit before we leave." Sierra leads the way to a pair of low graves with simple small stones at the heads, in a weedy, neglected corner.

"Who's here?" Pete asks.

"These were the graves of the vampires I staked." Sierra traces a finger over the stones. "When they died in a gang war, they were unclaimed and ended up buried here." Their ashes are scattered somewhere in the desert now, but it still means something to her to see the place they should have been laid to rest.

"Most hunters believe, on some level at least, that killing a vampire is simply freeing their soul. Like those stories about ghosts who are only trapped because they have unfinished business, and solving it helps them cross over." Sierra says. "But I didn't know that then. I didn't care about giving them peace, or freeing them. I just wanted them dead because I thought they were monsters."

"So what do you think? Am I a tortured soul you're doing a disservice to by letting me live?" Shay smiles a bit, fangs showing. "Would we both be better off if you freed me?"

"I think you could say the same thing to justify killing a human," Sierra replies. "As long as this life is what you want, I have no right to take it from you."

Pete taps Sierra on the shoulder and then points toward the entrance. "Lights."

He's right, a car is coming, and the way the road curves is going to send those lights right over all three of them.

"Okay, let's get out of here." ... Sierra parks in the lot of the library and glances at her passenger. The sun has been down for at least an hour, but Shay still looks nervous about getting out of the car.

"You still want to do this?"

He just nods.

Cody has been supplementing the LAPL's "Human Library Books" program with his suggestion of "(Non) Human Library" since they got the event off the ground. Robin's gone to almost all of them. Uncle John says Emma has gone a few times, when the events are in the evening late enough for her to feel comfortable going out but early enough she doesn't have to run her club.

But it's Shay's first time.

"I'm pretty sure half of the agency's going to be here. If anyone tries to harass you or pull something we'll deal with it." She's heard stories of people 'checking out' vampires only to try and poison them with garlic or expose them to UV light. There's a security process now, to make sure they're not carrying stakes or any other harmful items, but that doesn't mean someone can't get disturbingly creative.

"I'm not worried about that." He shrugs. "I just...I don't usually tell people about my past. Before I turned. They either pity me or start looking at me like somehow being an addict was worst than being a vampire." He tugs at the cuff of a sleeve. "If they ask what it's like to be me now, I can answer anything, but if they ask how it happened or what that was like..."

Sierra reaches across the car to rest her hands on his shoulders. The tension in his muscles is vibrating like an idling engine, and she rubs her thumbs into the back of his neck, hoping to ease it.

"You told me. And Pete."

"Yeah."

"And we don't treat you any different."

"Well, to be fair, I don't think it was going to get worse than handcuffed in the back seat of a Camaro."

"You are never going to let that one go, are you?"

He laughs. Halfhearted, but still real. "Nope."

"My point is, the people coming here, if they're being genuine, want to understand other people. They're not coming here to judge you. They're coming to learn what it's like to be you."

"Okay." He opens the car door. "Maybe you're right. I mean, I got to ride up front this time."

Sierra slaps his shoulder. "Okay, go on, get out of my car. I'm right behind you." ... "I don't think I fully realized what finding out I was a Stoker was going to involve," Sierra mutters, tugging at the flowing skirt of her gala dress. "Apparently I'm expected to represent my family name by showing up to this shindig in an evening gown." 

"Well, you are basically ribbon-cutting this program," Pete says, adjusting his own tie. "It was your idea."

"I threw it at Maira and ran out her door. Figuratively. I had nothing to do with the past two years." She swishes the extravagant skirt around her ankles. It's not terrible, it's only ankle length and the slit side allows her both freedom of movement and access to the stake holster on her thigh, but she still doesn't have to like it. "They just want me here because I'm the legacy name with a connection to it. I'm going to trip over this thing and make a fool of myself."

"Well, that would certainly liven things up around here," Shay says.  "Stop it." Sierra slaps his arm gently. 

"Okay, go on, they're waiting for you." Pete says, tapping her arm and pointing her toward the stage.

She doesn't trip on anything, or mix up the notecards on the podium, but she's still glad when her speech is over and the actual party gets started. Even if she's not much for the dancing that picks up once dinner is over.

At least John convinced their DJ to include some Tejano in the mix. If she closes her eyes she can almost see her parents dancing to it playing on the Camaro's radio, in some empty field.

She's still in her seat, watching Pete tripping over his own feet trying to keep up with Saanvi, one of his fellow forensic accountants, when Shay pushes his own chair back from the table, stands up, and holds out his hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"Do you know how?"

"Do you?"

"Fair point. I know line dancing." Sierra motions to the room full of people. "And this is not it."

"Then it's perfect. Neither of us knows what we're doing and I think we're both coordinated enough to avoid stomping each other's feet." 

The current song ends just as they step out onto the floor, and the new one is slower and softer. Sierra curses under her breath. She could fake her way through something high energy and upbeat. She's not good at calm and graceful.

She settles for sort of leaning into Shay's arm and swaying, moving incrementally like she's trying to keep the floor from creaking under her shoes.

It's actually not terrible, once she catches onto the rhythm and the music's tone, and eventually, as it grows louder and stronger, her steps gain confidence, until by the last few powerful notes she feels confident enough to spin out to the end of their connected grip and then whirl back to finish the song how they started, leaning against each other but not quite touching.

She looks up, wiping back an errant strand of hair that's escaped her neat bun, to see there's a circle of several feet of space all around them and most of the other people on the floor have stopped dancing.

Shay seems to have realized the same thing.

"Are they all watching us?"

"A vampire and a Stoker sharing the dance floor, as partners no less. This is probably real life 'Beauty and the Beast' to them," Sierra says.  Shay chuckles, and Sierra leans into his shoulder as the song ends.

[rosietrace]

Alright for the Valentines event I request the good ol

AzureCarol and YasuVic as oneshots

At your service! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

Note: Yasuno's oneshot will be a separate post [ Click here ]

Record waltz

Event: Rosie's 2023 valentine's special 💌❣️

Ocs featured: Azure Ekoms, Carol Ann(@fumikomiyasaki), Sumeragi Yuuta(Mentioned)

Ship: Azure x Carol

Summary: As the rain outside created ambience for the two of them as they read their books, Azure suddenly remembered he owned a record player.

Warning(s): Potential ooc moments, Yuuta /j, potentially tooth-rotting fluff

{ Apologies for any out of character moments }

[ Reblogs are recommended/encouraged ]

It was a comforting feeling Carol had.

The feeling of safety, security, and acknowledgment as he had her laying against his shoulder while he narrated the book they were reading together during a rainy day.

Carol was rather embarrassed. She arrived at RSA looking like a wet dog because she didn't bring an umbrella to fend off the rain.

Thankfully, Azure, bless his heart, had an extra pair of clothes for Carol prepared just in case.

Speaking of Azure, Carol noticed the small smile he had on his face as he was reading.

She looked up at him."I…. Admittedly like this." She admitted, feeling a faint blush on her cheeks.

Azure smiled back at her, kissing the top of her head and raising her chin."I'm glad you do, mon tout."

Mon tout. Such an affectionate nickname.

"My everything". The meaning of such a nickname made Carol's heart throb.

They both smiled at one another before Azure continued to read the book, the heavy rain outside acting as a calming ambiance to compliment his voice.

I definitely prefer being here than having to deal with Yuuta. At least he keeps the dorm clean…. Carol thought, relishing in hearing Azure's voice.

What made it even better was that he was reading a mystery novel that relied on romantic poetry to solve the mystery that drove the main plot.

He sounded so analytical, so calming. Yet so comforting all at the same time.

And Carol loved it. She loved him. More than anything else in the world.

So she snuggled against him, an even bigger smile on her face. One that bordered on being a grin.

Azure let out a quiet chuckle, amused by her action before continuing.

It was silent. Unnaturally silent. But not in a bad way.

It was comforting for both of them. To know that despite the silence that filled the room, they didn't need to speak to know that they loved one another.

"A life lived in love will never be dull…. Not in the slightest, Marianne muttered." Azure read aloud, subtly wrapping his arm around Carol to bring her closer to him. Which she happily obliged to.

Azure shook his head, a smile gracing his face."You say that as though you've fallen for someone, Stephenson replied. And Marianne noticed a hint of disdain in his voice."

Carol giggled, noticing that the remaining pages of the book were getting fewer and fewer.

♜♛__________________________________♛♜

When Azure finally finished the book, he let it rest on his lap while he rested his neck after leaving it in the same position for a certain time.

"Well….. We've finished the book." Azure silently rejoiced, allowing himself to relax next to his girlfriend.

Carol snickered."You had a neck cramp… Or two." She joked.

Azure rolled his eyes in a playful manner."Yes yes, you don't need to remind me, Miss Ann."

Carol smiled."So….. What now?" She asked curiously, gently tilting her head to emphasize her curiosity.

Azure hummed, pondering over what they should do together since they'd finished reading the novel.

Suddenly, a smile dawned on his face."I have an idea."

Azure stood up from the couch and left to get something. And that something was a record player.

Carol arched her brow, even more, curious and confused."Um….. What's that for?" She asked.

Azure smiled, picking up a record and placing it over the record player. After adjusting it a little, it began to play music that was likely popular around the 50s to 60s.

He extended his hand.

"I'm not a dancer, but may I have this dance, Mon tout?"

Carol gasped audibly, feeling a dark blush creep onto her cheeks.

Eventually, she shook off most of it and took Azure's hands with a gentle smile. One that was as gentle as his own.

"You may."

Their hands intertwined. Carol's other hand was on his shoulder while Azure's was resting on her waist.

And they began slow dancing to the tune. One that made them feel even more at ease with one another.

It made them feel more comfortable. Feeling safe, and secure.

Although the 50s and 60s weren't perfect, they both couldn't deny how comforting some of the era's music was.

Carol allowed her head to lean against Azure's chest, hearing a faint heartbeat.

Her smile transitioned into a lovestruck grin.

She could get used to this.

Taglist: [ I would like to hear your thoughts if possible! ]

@starry-night-rose @windbornearchon @nem0-nee @authoruio @geminiiviolets @sakuramidnight15 @twsted-princess @oseathepebble

Request by: @fumikomiyasaki

I'm so sorry if it took too long to answer, Fumi! I'm currently suffering from writer's block and it was difficult to find time to write because of my current schedule ^^|| but I hope you enjoy this oneshot!

[subtletruamadumping]

Random Bits; A Game of Chess (5)

______________________________________________________________

"A Game of Chess" was actually the first one I wrote in the series that was based on board games but is supposed to come last in the timeline. It was very technical and pretty boring to write, at points. I played a game of chess against a computer, copied down all the moves, then used each move as a chapter. The brothers are inspired by Thor and Loki, the world mostly from Lord of the Rings, but the story I can't remember.

It started out as throw-away smut from my fanfiction days...

TW: Fantasy Violence

Written at some point in middle/high school.

______________________________________________________________

♔♟♕♞♖♝Middle Game 1♗♜♘♛♙♚

♞ Black takes a Pawn ♙

Kean was not happy when he was told the news. One might have even said he was furious. Arwen was sure the servants did after they fled the room when he threw the goblet he had been drinking out of against the wall. Poor Oddr turned white as a sheet while the king stormed about, shouting angrily and venting his concerns unintelligibly. Arwen waited patiently for the first bout of fire to calm, standing with her hands folded at the back of the room. It was no use trying to talk to him when he was having one of his fits. If he couldn’t even form a proper sentence, he wasn't in the mood to listen to one. Eventually, he sat back down in his chair with a huff, muttering under his breath.

“Let’s not be rash.” She said now that he would actually hear anything she said “There might be an excuse.”

“No excuse is good enough.” Kean said sharply, hitting his fist against the arm of his chair. She sighed and walked over to him.

“Come now, Kean,” Arwen said gently, resting a hand on his arm “Oddr has already explained it all to you. Our man was the first to strike, so we are really the ones who should come up with the excuse. Or, an apology.”

“I will not apologize to that sniveling coward.” Kean growled, pulling his arm away from her.

“There is no reason--”

“No reason? We send men in on a mission of peace and Cian has them slaughtered!”

“Now, you’re being overly dramatic.” She said, crossing her arms “Things have been tense for as long as I can remember. Harsh words were tossed and egos were bruised. It is not unlikely that this would happen.”

“That is why I suggested not to take the boy in the first place.” Oddr pointed out. He quickly shut his mouth when he received a harsh glare from Kean.

“I doesn’t have to go any further than this.” Arwen said “We don’t have to go into war. Kean, just forgive and forget.”

“No!” Kean roared, suddenly jumping out of his chair and making the other two jump “Cian has made me a fool for the last time! My men’s blood has been spilt and I will not sit idle! He will have to pay back this audacity!”

“He has, Kean.” Arwen put in “He has suffered, too. Two of his own perished. You know a death in his kingdom is a much greater loss than in our own.”

“It matters not.” Kean snapped “I will do anything in my power to make him pay for this strike against me.” Arwen tried to speak again, but Kean stormed out of the room before she could get a word out.

“I certainly hope he doesn’t give out any orders before he calms down a little.” She said to herself.

“One can always pray.” Oddr said flatly, then bowed and took his leave. 

♔♟♕♞♖♝♗♜♘♛♙♚

“A raid, Kean?” Arwen groaned, putting her face in her hands. 

“We must squelch him before he comes for us.” Kean said firmly.

“You don’t even know if he’s planning on attacking.”

“He has attacked.”

“He has retaliated against our attack. Sending a second would not bode well for any peace that we try to make.”

“And why should we make peace?” Kean snapped, rising from his throne to look over a map on the long table in front of him “It’s not as if Cian has asked for it or acted as if he was repentant.”

“Repentant for what?”

“For anything, Arwen!” Kean replied “He doesn’t care what he does or who his actions affect. He is selfish and someone needs to put him in his place.”

“He might be your little brother, but you two are not children, anymore.” She said, crossing her arms “It’s not your job to discipline him. He is grown and living his own life.”

“Brother or not, he is a threat to the kingdom. He will be dealt with as such. You would not be so hesitant if your sister was causing the trouble.”

“If Cian is, then she is, too.” Arwen said with a frown “She is a part of this just as much as he is.”

“And you believe the two of them should be left to their own devices?” Arwen was silent. Kean turned away from her and continued looking over the map.

“Then, there is nothing more for us to discuss.” He said coolly “Now, we must begin arranging an appropriate party.”

“I’ll go find Oddr.” She said, then spread her large, white wings and quickly flew to the one of the windows that lined the towering walls. She had to pull them in a little to fit through, but, once outside, she was able to spread out and sore among the clouds. She didn’t forget her mission, however, and scanned the people below her. Where would Oddr be? She could fly around the entire kingdom before Kean could get a horse through the front gate, but flying at such speeds made it hard for her to find specific people. The sooner she found Oddr, the better. She might even be able to get him to dissuade Kean from making the raid he was planning.

She swooped down low over the stables, looking carefully. No sign of him. She moved on to the market place. Nothing. She started for the practice field, when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned sharply, changing her direction towards the object. Soon, she found the thing coming out of the woods between the market and the castle. It was Oddr on horseback, making his way to the castle already. She slowed down to a glide and came to fly above him. 

“Oddr!” She called out, making him jump. He reined his horse in and brought it to a halt as she dropped lightly to the ground.

“Yes, your highness?” He asked.

“The king requests your presence.”

“Has he decided what he is going to do?”

“Unfortunately,” She replied “he plans to raid Cian’s kingdom.”

“To what end?”

“I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead.” Oddr shook his head and frowned.

“I don’t see any good coming of this.” He muttered.

“Neither do I.” Arwen said “He won’t listen to me, though. Perhaps you can help him see reason?”

“If you can’t, I doubt anyone can.” Oddr replied.

“You will try, though, won’t you?” She pleaded.

“Yes, I will try.” He sighed “Though, I doubt it will make much of a difference.”

“Get to the castle as quickly as you can.” She said, then took off again. She heard the hoofbeats of his horse fade as she mounted higher and higher into the sky. She shot up so high that she flew higher than even the great spires of the castle, enjoying her few moments of freedom. She breathed in deep, taking in the cool air. In the back of her mind she knew that Oddr wouldn’t be able to keep Kean from doing what he thought was necessary. He was too strong willed for that. 

Besides, he was right. Cian and Kry probably didn’t have anything good in store for them. A war might be necessary to rein them back into thier control. She sighed and began her descent to the castle. She pulled her wings in, hurling towards the castle and aiming perfectly for the same window she had exited. Once through, she thrust her wings open again and fluttered gently to the ground.

“Oddr is on his way.” She announced as she walked over to where Kean was standing.

“Good, good.” Kean muttered, still looking down at his map “He could help me with this. Most of Cian’s borders are surrounded by thick trees that my men wouldn’t be able to see very well through.”

“That does sound like a problem.” She said unenthusiastically. 

“The only side open enough is the side opposite of where the kingdoms meet.” Kean continued.

“How diabolical of Cian to put such a barrier in your way.”

“We’ll have to figure out a way to get across the border to attack. We want to keep the element of surprise, so we can’t have the border patrol warning anyone.”

“Of course.”

“And that’s the sort of thing I need Oddr’s strategic mind for. He can figure these types of things out.”

“Yes, you’re much more of the brute force type.”

“Once inside, I’d be able to orchestrate the fighting.”

“Yes, that’s my point.”

“Cian shouldn’t have much of a defense, seeming how he doesn’t know we’re coming.”

“I don’t think you can actually hear what I’m saying.” She sighed crossing her arms.

“We should be able to get pretty far before Cian begins a counterattack.”

“Nope. Completely ignoring me.”

“With a little luck, we would be able to do much damage. We might be able to greatly weaken him.” Kean continued to mutter to himself until the doors were throw open.

“You needed me, your highness?” Oddr panted as he hurried into the room.

“Yes, yes, come here.” Kean said, waving him over “I need your help with this.” Oddr glanced over at Arwen who just shrugged as he came forward. He looked down at the map with the king.

“The trees along the border are giving me trouble.” Kean said “I can’t figure out how we would be able to get a party through without Cian’s men finding them, first.”

“I see.” Oddr said carefully “Well, have you considered that a raid might not be in our best interest?”

“Who said anything about a raid?” Kean said, crossing his arm.

“Oh. The queen told me when she found me.”

“And she wanted you to convince me not to, hmm?” He asked, turning to Arwen.

“When you won’t listen to me, you might listen to your advisor.” She said flatly.

“I agree with her, anyway.” Oddr said “A raid is not a good idea.”

“Because of the trees, right?”

“Uh, no. This has nothing to do with trees. I just don’t believe this threat to be as great as you are making it out be.”

“Then, I don’t think I’ll be taking your advice on the matter, Oddr.” Kean said icily.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Arwen breathed.

“The raid is going to happen.” Kean said firmly “I wanted your help in planning it. However, if you won’t--”

“I’ll help.” Oddr sighed “Just know that I do not think this action to be wise.”

“I know it. Now, we need a group to go on the raid.”

~*~

The group had been hand picked by Kean and Oddr. They were the best in the kingdom; people Kean could trust to get the job done. He hadn’t been happy about it, but Arwen had again insisted that he stay behind. She convinced him that the group could do a fine job without him and that he was of more use in the castle. Oddr had volunteered to go in his place and keep an eye on everything. Kean finally gave in, making Oddr give his word that he’d do anything the king would. Oddr didn’t like this promise, but he made it.

So, the group was on their way to the border. Again, for three of them. It was no surprise that Kean had insisted Eoin and Cairbre go on the raid. What use was a raid without knights? Oddr had also insisted that the raid party be much bigger than the party that had taken the letter. He didn’t want to lose one fourth of the party when one man fell. The ranks had been beefed up, taking 10 well trained fighters, Oddr and the knights not included. Oddr had asked for a person of strategie, but he had been informed that we his role. He took it solemnly. 

The party was solemn, too. Unlike Drest, they all knew how serious this mission was. There was no laughter and hardly any words between them. There was nothing to talk about. They were all preparing themselves for what might happen. Cian was a force to be reckoned with. No one ever knew what to expect from him; not even Kean. A raid would certainly come as a surprise to him, but would he already have a counter attack ready? Would he be able to defeat the party? Would he be so taken aback they would have no trouble? Would they have to deal with Kry? These questions couldn’t be answered until they crossed the border. 

“How long until the border?” A man, Seachnall, breathed to another.

“Not long, now.” Aodhán replied.

“Lorcán, do you think we’ll be able to find any of them in the trees?” Seachnall asked to a different man.

“If we’re quiet enough and they don’t know we’re coming.” They all fell silent again. These men had seen many battles, many raids, and many deaths. However, they always knew that they could never truly know what to do until the time arrived. War was not something you could ever properly prepare for.

Aodhán had been correct. The border was coming up fast. The horses were quickly brought to a trot, making their hoofbeats infinitely more quiet. They looked into the deep, foreboding trees as the approached. The thickness of the trees was really the only way to tell Cian’s kingdom from Kean’s. The border had been a little river, but it had dried up. Kean had all the trees on his side moved further back from the border to prevent any dispute, while Cian’s continued to grow thick and tall. Though Oddr doubted that this was with war and raids in mind, it did come in handy for such things. The men couldn’t see more than a few gallops in front of them. They all came to a stop just before the line of trees.

“It’s too still.” Someone whispered “It’s not right.”

“There’s just no wind. You’re overthinking it.” Oddr quickly motioned to the men, then lead them quietly into the forest. The group was silent as the followed. The only thing to be heard was the leaves the horses scattered with each step they took. It was doubtful anyone would be close enough to hear that, though. The men made thier way through the trees, trying to keep as straight of a path as they could through the gnarled trunks and undergrowth. They would make a quick strike, then evacuate. It was just meant to cause chaos in Cian’s ranks. Just to weaken him before any real fighting began. In and out. They were all on high alert, ready to strike down anyone they came across.

They all jumped when they hear a swoosh through the air and a soft smack. There was a soft gasp and Oddr turned back to look at the men. Lorcán had a shocked expression on his face, along with an arrow. As Lorcán fell to the ground another arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing two other men. The party immediately spread out thin.

“Find me that archer,” Oddr growled.

[architectarcane]

conversational sentence starters // accepting

it’s rare that she gets this excited.  normally, she’s navigating the murky waters of an endless trial and error course, battling the inevitable disappointment of falling just short of a goal.  today, however, she has figured out something extraordinary.  

laerryn has just finished briefing both patia and nydas when she flings open the front door of her home.  she has an expensive bottle of champagne in hand and a smile that rides that thin line of madness and genius.  all she has to do now is find him.

“with a smile like that,  i can’t help but want to know your secret.  what’s got you so cheery today?” @avalirherald speaks before she even has to call for them, and the expression of joy on her face only intensifies.  laerryn laughs, exuberant and bright, and sets the champagne bottle down so that she can fold her spouse into her arms.  she very nearly picks them up for a spin, thinks better of it, and instead kisses them full on the mouth.

“i had a breakthrough,” her golden eyes are shining like stars.  she takes quay’s face in her hands and kisses him again. “do you have any plans tonight? cancel them. i want you home to celebrate, just the two of us.”

[nightiingaled-a]

"you're a real life-saver ; no way i could handle today's shit on my own." there'd been an UNUSUALLY high volume at the clinic today, and dox had found some DIFFICULTY in managing it until T34 came around. there's WEARINESS reflected in the bags under the mender's eyes, but a grateful little SMILE on his face that persists even after he places a tender kiss to her cheek ; one he's even too tired to second-guess. "thanks." - @grimesucker​

She smiles softly, cupping her calloused palms over cheek. Tea had done very little, the minor stuff. Bandaging what couldn’t be fully healed, salves, cleaning - a lot of cleaning. She did not have his gift, if anything she didn’t believe she was good at treating the wounded at all. Too abrasive for her own good. But she knew that blood was supposed to stay in the body & that a soft kind voice was sometimes far more important than one thought.

 ❝ All your patients are in good shape for now. You should rest. ❞

[cfdruig]

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘻𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘦 ♟ Looking Glass

𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 ♟ Task

𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 ♟  Event

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 ♟ Reply

𝘪 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 & 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘴 ! ♟  Incoming Message

𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 - 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 ♟ Study

𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 ? ♟ Inbox

𝘪 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 ♟ Outfit

𝘤𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴 & 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴 ♟ Aesthetic

'𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪'𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 ♟ Musing

𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 ♟♗ Kingo

𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 - 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘬𝘢𝘳𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦 ? ♟♙ Makkari 

𝘪 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦 ♟♕ Ajak 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 & 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 ♟♔ Arishem - The Judge. 

𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮е 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 ♟♘ Ikaris 

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪'𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 ♟♖ Gilgamesh

'𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 ♟♜ Thena

𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 ♟♛ Sersi 

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘺 ♟♝ Sprite 

 𝘱𝘢𝘸𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 ♟♟ The Eternals 

[peachyysugaa]

blood castle masterlist || enha 02z

♜ sypnosis: when it’s your last year with the last of your best friends before they graduate, they want you to make new friends. simple, right? well, maybe not when they’re all half-vampires, especially not when three of them seem to develop feelings for you.

be careful about what you want to know…

♜ main pairing: vampire!enha 02z x gn!reader

♜ other pairings: slight namjoon x lisa, slight jungkook x rose

♜ genre: hogwarts au, mystery, fluff/angst

♜ warnings: mentions of blood (13+); to keep the series as gn as possible, select from y/n-ssi, hyung, or noona!; purposefully lowercase; see individual chapters

♜ status: on a school hiatus! will try to update once or twice a month

♜ join the taglist through asks or replying to this post!

teaser: the invitation (?) i. make the most of it ii. start line iii. walk the line iv. transient v. cross back vi. entangled vii. harvest moon viii. revelio ignis updated! ix. tbd x. tbd

extras: who's who? | your hogwarts class schedule | yn's group on twt | post ch. v tweets | mythology 101: vampires | texts with 02z |

[littlenymphie]

.·:*¨ ✘ 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒌����𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒘𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 ✘ ¨*:·.

♜ pairing. professor!bucky barnes x college student!reader

♜ prompt. professor bucky helps you study for his exam, but will you be able to concentrate?

♜ one shot. SOFT!DARK smut || 2nd pov || 1.5k words

♜ warnings. 18+ nsfw. cnc. dubcon. pwp. professor & student established relationship. power imbalance. age gap (early 20s & late 30s). sir honorific. dom/sub dynamics. edging. cockwarming. overstimulation. manipulation. light impact play. degradation & praise. size difference. author doesn’t know a single thing about philosophy but that’s what bucky teaches i guess.

♜ keep in mind. the reader is described as a petite woman in her early 20s, so it’s not an all inclusive fic but everyone is welcome to read it.

♜ author’s note. henlo people. this took me a week to write. this is actually a gift for my friend who had just finished her finals a while ago and, well, y’all are familiar with the vibe of finals week. anyways, shout out to her. and i hope the rest of you enjoy this smutty goodness. (well i hope its good gkskfkks)

──────༺♖︎༻──────

you could not move an inch. your legs straddle his hips and your thighs are pushed past their limit by his knees. all to make it easier for you to fit him.

it burns.

your clothes have long been discarded. you’re clad in nothing but a lace bra. the rest of your lingerie dangles from your right ankle. he almost scorned you when he found out you had dared to show up wearing undergarments after all. but then he recognized the set as the gift for you after you had managed to sit through one of his lessons with a little device sucking your clit and tickling your core.

you did not leave out a whimper then.

you do not let out a whimper now.

even when his hand rests on your bare hip, occasionally dipping forward to caress the buldge on your tummy. he would press on it a little, just to see you jolt, just to draw out a faint moan, just to reprimand you again.

all part of the game.

“focus.” his voice low. his breath hot on your ear. “you don’t want me to punish you, do you?”

“no, sir,” you immediately reply.

professor barnes hums in approval, leaning back.

it’s about concentration. he wants you to break into a whimpering mess that just begs for his cock. he wants you to discard the half written paper and give in. to become the pretty cockslut he knows that you are. you’ve already shown him. but you keep her locked away, handing him the key, albeit not telling him the passcode. he gets to guess.

he loves to guess. his fingers finding new spots that make your eyes roll back. his voice weaving words that make your mind reel. his length leaving you stretched out and filled to the brim.

all part of the game.

you grip your pen harder, scribbling the answer in shaky handwriting. this might be just a mock test, but you knew you couldn’t bullshit anything. he would know. you would lose.

as if on cue, he leans forward again. his eyes flicker from your form to the paper. he tuts.

“this isn’t working.” he lets out a dissappointed sigh.

your eyes widen. “did i do something wrong, professor?”

“no, sweetheart.” he scans the paper. “you’re just not learning anything, but that’s no suprise. you’re just my dumb little babydoll, right?”

“but i was—“

“don’t talk back.” he snaps his hips against yours, making you yelp in pain. “i asked a question.”

“yes.” a harsh slap at your cunt. “yes! you’re right, sir.”

“good girl,” he muses. his fingers lightly grip your chin, turning you to face him. his deep blue eyes lock with your teary ones. his expression softens. “why don’t i ask you some easier questions, then build up to the harder ones. you can finish your paper later.” his thumb strokes your cheek, wiping away a tear.

“ok, sir.” you sniffle.

honestly, you have no idea what you had just agreed to do. your mind feels mushy and dizzy, not really here or there. all you could think about is how his cock splits your folds so wide, how wet and sticky his linen pants feel against your skin, how your little clit can’t help but pulse. it hurts. it hurts so much.

and he doesn’t seem to notice your torture. but then again, of course he does. it’s the whole point. to get you to lose. so he simply ignores the tiny whimpers escaping your soft lips, despite his strict instruction for you to remain quiet. the tightness of your walls against his length. how his tip lightly brushes your core with every slight, sneaky wiggle of your hips, and all he wants is to slam you against the table and fuck you until you’re a weeping, screaming, incoherent mess.

but he needs to hear you beg for it.

you haven’t yet, but he’s patient. he’s been balls deep inside of you for about twenty minutes, but still patient.

he reaches forward, grabbing the review of his exam. he uploaded it on the university’s website a while ago with the intent of giving extra credit to the students who complete it. he usually doesn’t give out “free points”, but anything to hide the special treatment that his babydoll rightfully deserves. besides, you had been the first one to complete it. although, he hasn’t had the time to correct it…until now.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck. his beard scratches your skin. “such a good needy little slut, handing it first.” he nips at your ear. “wanted my cock that badly, huh? well let’s see what you can remember, baby, and i’ll give you more than a stretch.”

you let out a small whine. your walls clench at his words, drawing out a low chuckle from him.

“hmm, what does philosophy literally mean?” he asks.

“its greek for love of wisdom.” you answer with a small voice. he truly was starting out easy.

“good girl,” he purrs, gripping your waist and lifting you up painfully slow. you feel his length slowly slip out until only his tip is trapped by your lips. you wince. his hands pull you down again, his member slowly stretching your pussy until his tip touches your cervix.

you let out a breathy moan, enjoying how full you feel, how deep he feels.

and that’s how the next minutes pass by. he would ask something from the review. you would miraculously mumble the correct answer. and he’d fuck you so slow. so painfully slow.

“look at you,” he praises, slowly thrusting his cock into your cunt, “my pretty little know-it-all.”

“m-more…please, sir…”

“awww, you want more?” he says. you nod your head frantically. “you want more, babygirl? then get aaaaall the questions right and you’ll have more.”

“no!” you whine, speech slurred, “too slow! n-need need more n-now, pl-please!” even your hips buckled on their own.

finally.

he laughs darkly.

“hmm, you think a pretty please would distract me from your disobedience?” he grabs a fistful of your hair and harshly yanks your head back. his beard tickles your ear as he speaks. “because it didn’t, babydoll. you gonna keep begging for more like a dumb fucking whore? then i’ll fucking give you more.”

after letting go of your hair, his hands grip your waist. he starts to bounce you on his cock, rhythmically thrusting up. his pace is relentless. you can’t help but moan and writhe, taking in the intrusion with a face contorted in pleasure and pain. this is what you wanted, after all.

but then, one hand leaves your waist to fiddle with the drawer. you could barely hear the rattle of the wood over the wet slapping of skin.

a low humming sound drowns out the rest of the noise.

your eyes shoot wide open as he shoves the wand against your clit. it’s on the highest setting. you wail and thrash against him, but his arm rapidly snakes across your waist to keep you in place.

“no!” you keen, “st-stop! too much!”

“isn’t it what you wanted, baby?” he replies, malice coating his words, “you said you wanted more. that’s“—he grunts—“all i’m doing.”

you pant, struggling to close your thighs but his knees keep them apart. your hands reach for the vibe to pry it off, but he stands up. immediately, you stretch your arms to prevent slamming against the mahogany desk. your trembling legs slide off his knees, feet landing on the floor but barely keeping you upright. it’s his arm across your waist and his hand shoved into your cunt that keep you upright.

you sob in defeat.

it’s too much.

the coil in your stomach tightens as he fucks you against his desk. your skin is on fire. your limbs shake, even your arms give out and now you lean against your forearms. your forehead thuds slightly against the mahogany, matching the pace of his hips. he keeps rutting inside of you, letting out grunts and moans close to your ear. your moans and sobs have died down a bit as the coil continues to tighten until it finally snaps.

your whole body tenses against his as the orgasm rips through you. he takes away the vibe, but it doesn’t stop the intensity of the high. he wraps his arms around your frame to keep you from falling once you ride out the high.

“shhhh, thaaat’s it,” he coos, feeling your high in the clench of his length, slowing his own pace, “let go, doll.”

you whimper and fall limp against his frame.

he grits his teeth, finishing himself with one final thrust, filling you to the brim. he lets out a low guttural moan as your hips stutter with him still deep inside you, milking him.

“such a good girl,” he pants and carefully pulls out.

you whine in response.

he chuckles, picking you up bridal style. your head lolls against his chest. his cum drips onto his linen pants.

“come on, let’s wash you up, shall we?”

.

.

.

──────༺♖︎༻──────

♜ taglist. @silver-pieces @tom-whore-dleston @hallecarey1 @suchababie @wakingbeauty @honeychicana @bitterqueenofhearts

[usermischief]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Warnings: - ♜Words: 1396 ♜Dialogue Prompt: “It’s only weird if you make it weird.” (for @raksh-writes) ♜Mini Fic Roulette: 25/∞ | ao3

---

lost in thought

---

Again, Brett is silent for a moment. He opens his mouth, grimaces, and looks at his legs. “Well…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Talbot.” This guy should know better, he really should. Stiles shakes his head with a huff. “You gotta vet me properly before trusting me with your pack.”

“But it’s you.” Brett quirks a brow, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You saved me before. I don’t need to make sure you’re one of the good guys. Besides, I know you.” There’s something odd about the way he says it, something Stiles’ heart latches onto — and he hates it. He’s crushing on Brett more than enough already.

---

Stiles rubs his hands over his face. Fucking hell. Fucking hell. He shouldn’t be freaking out like this, he really shouldn’t. In the past week, he’s shared rooms and sometimes a bed with Lydia, Kira, with whoever pack member’s name he picked out of the little black box. It’s a pack bonding exercise, one the Ito pack needs now that so much has changed. For a week, Stiles managed to luck out and not be paired with Brett. Tonight, the young alpha finally picked his name out of the other eight in that stupid box.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Stiles lets out a breath and locks eyes with his reflection. “It’s only weird if you make it weird,” he whispers as if that somehow fixes the painfully massive crush he has on the guy. This couldn’t have happened yesterday? When there were two beds? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Stiles licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “It’s only weird,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes slightly, “if you make it weird.” He’s gonna make it through the night without any issues at all, and tomorrow, he can spend the day with his grandparents and get some distance to Brett. It probably won’t hurt. After all, they’ve traveled through Europa for a week already, and they still have two more to go. They spend every minute of every day together, which is fine in theory, but Stiles has hit the limits of his social battery a while ago — having to share a bed with his crush is not helping at all.

A knock on the bathroom door startles him. “Stiles, you okay?”

That’s a matter of definition. Stiles takes a breath and pushes away from the sink. “Yeah, yeah… I’m fine.” He glances at his reflection one more time, nodding to himself. This is fine. He can do it. Plastering a grin on his face, Stiles opens the door. “Just lost in thought.”

Brett furrows his brows. “You’ve been lost in thought a lot those past three days.”

“It’s just late,” Stiles replies with a shrug and pushes past Brett, “and I could really use some sleep.” Something that’s so not going to happen tonight; not with Brett sleeping on the same fucking mattress.

Brett clears his throat, following him to the bed. “I know Lori’s been on your ass about our stay in Poland,” he says, looking surprisingly guilty almost as if it’s his fault Lori get a little too excited about planning their trip.

Sighing, Stiles folds his arms over his chest. Lying to Brett has never been something he liked doing, and to be fair, beating around the bush right now feels like shooting himself in the foot. “I’m just… exhausted.” Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed as well, realizing he’ll feel every single one of Brett’s movements. “I need time to recharge from all of that social interaction.”

“Oh.” Brett is silent for a few seconds. His eyes dart across the room, and he presses his lips together. “You want me to leave?”

Stiles opens his mouth. This could be his chance to get out of this night without an awkward awakening. But he can’t. “No.” Stiles shakes his head for emphasis. “It’s fine. I can recharge on the train to my grandparents. Maybe I’ll stay with them tomorrow night and meet up with you for breakfast again.”

Tipping a finger against his leg, Brett studies him for a moment. “I don’t know how to feel about you going alone.”

Stiles chuckles, also a little condescending. The guy trusts him to be his emissary yet believes he’ll get lost taking the train to his grandparents. “You know I’m fluent in Polish, right? And that I’ve taken this train from Warszawa to Łódź at least once every year as long as I can remember?” To be fair, he’s not talking about his roots all that much, but he hopes Brett did his due diligence before choosing his first emissary.

Again, Brett is silent for a moment. He opens his mouth, grimaces, and looks at his legs. “Well…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Talbot.” This guy should know better, he really should. Stiles shakes his head with a huff. “You gotta vet me properly before trusting me with your pack.”

“But it’s you.” Brett quirks a brow, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You saved me before. I don’t need to make sure you’re one of the good guys. Besides, I know you.” There’s something odd about the way he says it, something Stiles’ heart latches onto — and he hates it. He’s crushing on Brett more than enough already.

Stiles gets to his feet, allowing his nervous energy to get the best of him, for now, at least. He needs to get his shit under control soon, or Brett is going to pick up on something he’s not supposed to. “This is how you get yourself killed.”

“You’re doing a fantastic job of hearing me while not actually listening to what I say.”

Stiles makes a dismissive gesture. “I’m listeni—“

Brett grabs his hand and pulls him closer. In fact, Stiles finds himself right between the alpha’s legs, shins all but bumping against the bed. Oh. Brett brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand. “It’s you,” Brett repeats a little quieter this time. “It’s been you for a while, and don’t get me wrong—“ he’s not looking at him when he talks, instead follows his fingers tracing invisible lines on Stiles’ body “— at first, I only wanted to get in your pants, but now I really just wanna have you in my life.”

A nervous laugh bubbles up, but Stiles manages to bite it back. “You just want to have me in your life?” He shudders at the touch, at the fingers dragging down his chest.

Brett grabs his waist, two fingers slipping under Stiles’ shirt ever so innocently. Their eyes lock and there’s a thing very new on Brett’s features. “You’re taking my words a bit too literal.” His expression softens.

Stiles cups Brett’s neck with both hands and leans down. He can’t help it. Not at all — and judging by the sound Brett makes in the back of his throat when their lips meet, he’s been waiting for this as well. Fuck. He really could’ve had all of this before, huh? At this point, Stiles should probably stop being so awfully insecure about love and sex and being out of somebody’s league. Because he’s clearly not out of Brett; and honestly, if that’s the case, Stiles is very much in everybody else’s league as well. Knowing that does wonders for his confidence already.

Pressing closer, Stiles explores the werewolf’s body with his hands and mouth, letting Brett do the same until they’re both falling apart in a way Stiles never did before.

Humming quietly, Brett runs his fingers down Stiles’ spine. “I’ll bring you to the train station.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “My train leaves at six am,” he says instead of reminding Brett that he’s perfectly fine going to his grandparents on his own because he has done it more than enough times, on his own too. It’s not that scary when you speak the language.

“I wouldn’t see you tomorrow otherwise,” Brett mutters, and there’s actually an audible pout in his tone — and audible pout. Brett Talbot is fucking pouting. “Let me at least treat you for breakfast.”

Stiles licks his lips, tilting his head back to look at Brett. “If I agree will you let me sleep?”

Grinning, Brett kisses the corner of his mouth then curls around him like an over-sized puppy. “Maybe.”

It’s hard not to find it endearing. “Fine,” Stiles agrees, shaking his head a little. “Breakfast it is then.” And Stiles would lie if he said he’s not excited about it. Even though he’s exhausted, some people are easy to be around despite being mentally drained. Looks like he’s found another one. Closing his eyes, Stiles shuffles closer to Brett and smiles when the arm around him tightens.