#TEN TIMES THE GLASS WASN'T STRONG ENOUGH!

[st4rstudent]

I meant to do this earlier but got distracted… so… uh…

Whabam.

I'm right up against the camera like this . this is how im looking at you btw. im sniffing the canvas like a dog

[reiderwriter]

could you write a fic with a fem reader where spencer’s going through withdrawal and he’s being like snappy and stuff when she’s just trying to help? idk if that makes sense?

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I'm sorry it took me so long ㅠㅠ I hope this is everything you were looking for!!

Pairing: Spencer Reid × GN! reader

Warnings: mentions of drug use, mentions of addiction in the family, and spoilers for Season 2 of Criminal Minds.

You can check out my masterlist here!

In comparison with the other members of the BAU, you had the most experience with recovery. So you knew that it wasn't easy. Spencer Reid didn't. 

The moment you'd noticed him stepping out on the team, spending more time isolated and with a shorter temper, you knew. Tobias Hankel had only tortured Spencer for a day, but he was still inside him even months later. 

The day you realised he was using, you moved yourself into his apartment. 

“Hi,” you said as he opened the doors, bleary-eyed from whatever hit he just dealt himself. “My apartment flooded, and I had nowhere else to go.” 

Spencer Reid would always help others before he helped himself. It took a few more hours to broach the discussion of the drugs, but when you did get him to give in, you could feel the weight flowing off his shoulders. 

“I can't get his face out of my mind. The drugs, they help. And I know they're not really helping, but it's like I'm not strong enough to care.” He'd broken down into tears, placed his supply on the tables in front of you  and picked open the wound that had never fully healed properly. 

Step one to recovery was accepting you needed help. Step two was harder. 

Slowly decreasing his intake until he was free of the drug. Watching him for any negative reactions in the field and at home, dealing with the underlying trauma. 

You had to talk to Hotch about it, of course. But he knew about your father, and to a certain extent, you knew about his. A single shared look was enough for you both to agree that Spencer needed everyone's support. 

So you dropped him off at his meetings. You picked him up afterwards. You watched him in the field for any mention of addiction and drug-related psychosis that could lead him down a dark path of what ifs. 

You held his hand. You kissed his head. You were there. 

Even when he tried to show you he didn't deserve it. 

“Spencer,” you'd started the conversation trying to get his attention, knowing from the far away look that he was missing the numbness that came with the high. 

“Spencer, you look tense. Are you okay?” He'd whipped his head around at the words, a scowl on his face. 

“You don't need to hover over me like I'm a child, Y/N.” 

“I want to know that you're okay.” You said back, pouring yourself a glass of water to calm yourself again. Sometimes, Spencer made every little question an attack, and you had to learn to dodge the blows.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I want to take care of you.” Your calm reply had him angrier though, as he snorted with a single reply. 

“Like you took care of your dad? That worked out so well, didn't it.” 

Ten years and any mention of the man who had raised you still had you freezing in shock. You almost didn't notice when your glass tumbled to the ground, to be smashed into a thousand tiny pieces.

It was almost as if the crash woke Spencer up from his stupor, his gaze growing regretful as he stood and approached you quickly. 

With a hand and a shake of a head, you stopped him, though.

“Let me clear the large pieces on my own. I don't want you to get hurt.” Kneeling, you did just that, picking out recognisable edges and sides and transporting them carefully into the trash. 

“I'm not going to sit here and let you do all the work, Y/N. I'm… I'm sorry.” His voice whispered those last few words as he kneeled next to you  sweeping the glass up, careful not to cut himself on it. 

You wiped the tears from your eyes as both of you worked busily, letting your argument hang in the air between you.

“I know you're sorry, Spencer,” you whispered as the two of you worked, still not brave enough to look him in the eyes. “My dad was, too. He never meant it, though.” 

“I mean it.” He stopped moving, and you finally looked up to his eyes, to the life there that sparked, that had been buried by Tobias Hankel. Motivation. 

With the glass cleared, he stood, reaching out a hand to you to help you up. You took it, letting him assist you. He didn't let go after, though. Not immediately. 

He stepped closer, and you relaxed into his chest, resting an ear over his heart. It was still beating, and that was what mattered. 

“I can't fix you, Spencer. I can't make this better. I can't do that for you, because you have to do it for yourself. That's what my dad never understood.” Your voice was barely audible, but you knew he could hear and knew he was listening. 

“I can't reverse what he did to you. But I promise, I will be here to remind you that you are a good man. To remind you of what you are like when you're you  how much I love you, how much we all love you.”

“I'll stand next to you and look into that mirror every morning and tell you what I see. A good man on the bad days, the same man on the good days. I don't want to fix you, Spencer. I want to love you, and I want you to accept that you're worth it.”

His head rested on top of yours, and you could feel his small wrecks of tears as he sniffled. Inhaling your scent, he could've spent the night wrapped in your arms like that.

“Thank you. For saying that. For being here. I know it's not easy.” 

“It's not. But you're worth it.” Clinging to him, you let the moments tick by, never releasing him from your warm embrace. 

[demon-kumo]

𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐘𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥

➤ 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➤ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞… 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝? 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝.

➤ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

➤ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢'𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡-𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

➤ 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀

No one loves wine as much as CHUUYA. Hell he has a cabinet at home full of it, you were never one to drink though. Yet the minute he stepped into the home the scent of expensive wine reached his nose.

Working in the mafia had never been easy, whether you were a simple office worker or the boss, everyone went home late. Chuuya was no exception, as an executive he stayed longer than most. So the sweet pop in his bones allowed a satisfied smile to come to his face as he stood from the chair.

Finally, time to head home.

The click of the door allowed the corridor to open and sighed at the cool air hitting his face on the hot Yokohama night. His shoes hit the floor with a clumsy clack before it hit him. The strong scent of wine.

Perfect features, in your words "rivaling the gods", scrunched up as he walked through the penthouse and was met with an unfamiliar sight.

You. Hunched over the marble counter with a familiar red bottle in front of you. Soft cheeks hued red alongside your adorable ears, with a dazed look in your eye. Chuuya knew this sight, it had been on his own visage multiple times.

It seems the roles have been reversed.

Blazen blue hues softened considerably on instinct at the mere sight of you as he waltzed over. Placing a hand on your shoulder you looked up with glassy eyes and met the eyes of your lover.

"Hey (Y/n), you good?"

A drunk giggle escaped your lips, "Of course," you waved your hand, "I am perfectly fine, can't you tell?" you said as you were about to take another sip only for your husband to grab the glass.

"Alright love, I think you've had enough." He chuckled, finding your drunken state endearing and amusing. He had never seen you drunk before, you were normally the responsible drinker. It wasn't often that you drank wine.

The smile dropped from his face when you gasped like an overzealous Karen, hand to your chest as you looked at him with mouth agape.

"Sssirr, you may be handsome and k-kind enough to care about some stranger buuuuut don't call me that!" You slurred your demand as you pointed at him.

Chuuya tilted his head, "Call you what?"

"You know exact-ly what I mean you scoundrel! You can't call a w-woman you just met lllovveee,"

Chuuya raised his brows in surprise, "Huh?"

You squinted your eyes at him with a pout, "You heard meee right, I will have you know I am married!" You slouched in your chair.

Chuuya deadpanned, "L-(Y/n), I am the man you are married to."

You scoff a drunk scoff, "Y-you dare lie to me, I know my husband when I see him. And," You pointed at him for the nth time that night, "you look nothing like him."

You look through your blur and see the hazy figure of blue and orange covered in black and red clothes. Yep, 100% not your husband. "Myyy husband is ten times the mannnn you will ever beeee. He would never lie to meeee.... plusss he is-sh the most handsome man I have ever met."

Chuuya flushed bright red at your words but chuckled as he picked you up bridal style, just like he did the day he married you, and smiled at you. The same loving way he always did.

"Well then, that man is extremely lucky to have you. He also loves you more than anything, probably... no he would definitely burn the world for you."

➤ 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔

Being passed out from beer and liquor was a familiar scene to OSAMU. Within the years of hiding from the mafia and laying low, passed out in bars. But to find his spouse in one, now that was a new one.

"(Y/n), sweetie, I think you should stop," Dazai suggested as he watched you call the bartender for another shot. You already were way past wasted.

It wasn't often Dazai was seen with a worried expression but this was one of the moments. He was worried his darling wife would pass out soon and wake up with the largest migraine when waking up.

"Wwwwhatttt, no!" You childishly rejected it as you waved your hand dismissively. "I cannnn handle itttt."

"Sweetie, if you drink any more you will pass out." Dazai sighed, is this how you feel when you deal with him drunk.

He placed a hand on your shoulder and pulled you up, placing his credit card at the bar, and paying for your drinks. Surprisingly he actually had the money to pay for the amount of shots, for her, he will always pay.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

"mhm, nnnooo!"

You push yourself away from the man, stuttering away as you look at him with an exasperated look. Dazai gave you a worried smile, "What do you mean-"

"I tollld you no!" You shook your head, "I have a husband! I am a married w--woman!" You said with a small hiccup as you held onto the counter with your knees bent.

Thank the lords that this bar is empty, Dazai thought to himself as he let out a small laugh. "Sweetheart, I am that husband."

"Nope!" You shook your head, "I know my husband, he would never look like you. You're hideous, my man is the... picture of... beauty!"

You slid to the floor on your knees as your cheeks reached an even more red state while Dazai chuckled though if you looked close enough you could see a small blush.

"Oh is he now?"

"Y-yes, I would never betray himmm, what kind of woman... would I beee, if I went to bed.... with another man!"

Awww, that is so sweet, even if the man who is currently trying to take you to bed is your actual husband.

All of a sudden, tears fall down your face, large fat puppy tears as broken sobs. Dazai's shifted to shock as he quickly bent to the ground and placed his hand on your shoulder.

"Hey! What's wrong?"

"*Sob* It's just.... thinking 'bout Samu.... *hick* He is always sad." Dazai's eyes widened as he remained silent when you started to rant. "He never shows it... *sniff* but he thinks so poorly *hick* of himself... but he won't tell me how he feels.... he thinks he is unworthy of *hiccup* h-happiness... or me... I'm a terrible wife... I can't even talk to him about that *sobbing*..."

You cried on his shoulder, tears staining his sandy coat but he didn't care. He looked down at you with an expression he rarely ever wore in front of someone. No one could really describe it, looked like a visage of self-loathing and pity. Was this how you really felt.

He brushed a hand to your head, who had now fallen asleep on his shoulder, mouth slightly agape. You looked like a sleepy child in an adult body. He placed a soft kiss on your head.

" Sweetheart, I know you can't hear me so it doesn't count but, you are right I don't think I am worthy of you. You are the best thing that has happened to me, which is why I am trying my hardest to make you happy."

[lauren-ce]

All these cute drawings of Mio are great and all, but there's a severe lack of what I think is one of her most important traits: Mio, canonically, is less a kitten and more a fucking feral tiger.

See that? She can run the hundred metri in seven seconds. You know who else can do that? FUCKING NOBODY, THAT'S WHO. Usain Bolt? Fastest person on Earth? Ever heard of him?

Yeah, that's right. Mio's so fast that she finishes a whole 2.5 seconds ahead of him. She has time to grab a sandwich and a glass of Wotah whilst he huffs and puffs his way over the finish line.

Her character model has visible abs!

This girl is weapon-grade!

Speaking of weapons, how about them?

Indeed, Mio's weapon of choice is literally a DOUBLE SPINNING EDGE. It doesn't get more badass than that.

Need more convincing? Well, on the topic of weapons, her cute little paws: What's that, you say? She's strong enough to make an interlinked Moebius duo fly through the air?

That's liftoff, baby! She hits with the force of ten ferronises, and her bare-knuckle strike sends enemies flying. Do you understand just WHAT THE FUCK THAT MEANS??

Sure, Melia can Break and Topple in XB1. Big whoop. Mio can wombo combo all by her goddamn self.

YOU'RE fawning and simping over your cutesy little catgirl Mio-Mio, while I'M paying for her knuckle tattoos that say Break, Topple, Launch, and Smash.

And here, she boops Noah on the forehead with those paws of war, but look again!

Do you see any contact? Of course not! Because a boop from Mio would cave in his fucking skull. Headshot. So, out of love for her boytoy, she stops a cetri short of murdering him.

Now THATS what I call control!

Virgin N, Chad Noah? I don't think so. N is a worm, insignificant even to the Virgin Noah,  and Mio is the Chaddest of them all. "The freedom to choose?" Thats right: Mio HAS the strap, she simply CHOOSES not to use it.

This is the face of a cocky, stone-cold killer. She could've one-shot N if she wasn't held back by a pesky little thing called "weaponry".

All this to say, Mio is a feral animal and there should be more art depicting her as such (:

[confessedlyfannish]

Six Years Ago

Part 1

Part 2

Jon wakes slowly, warm and clean and strong for the first time in weeks. His stomach growls and he wants food, craves a thick juicy cheeseburger instead of feeling nauseous at the thought of it. Breathing comes easy instead of the slow rattle that was making its way through his chest, though the straps going around his face and the back of his head are itchy and the air itself is chilly, a strange icy patch around his mouth and nose amidst what feels like the best heated blanket in the world.

Strong arms shift around him, and the relief is so palpable tears of it form in his eyes as he slides them open, ready not to waste another minute of not seeing Superman, because Dad's found him—

Instead he sees a slight smile, inhuman in the jag of the canines and green eyes that glow in the vast abyss of space.

"Hey there, hey—" the man is saying, white hair drifting around his face, and he's saying other things but Jon is still looking for his Dad, his Dad was here wasn't he, those were his Dad's arms—

Except they weren't. They're this man, this alien's arms, one around his back and the other under his knees, cradling him in the flames of Earth's sun, and he was there, in the lab.

One moment Jon had been hiding from the robot that had been hunting him for days, taunting him as he dodged booby traps and ate leaves that made him sick. He'd grown weaker and dirtier even as Damian's voice in his head urged him to fight, to stay alive, and he'd fallen asleep to a violet sky and the ghost of his mother's hand on his forehead, cool against his warm brow.

He'd awoken inside of a tube, a concave shape of a person, holding his eyes open long enough to see the man peering at him as if he was an exhibit. Don't tap the glass. Or do. Jon wouldn't bite. He couldn't remember how.

And now he is here, threads of plasma tickling his skin, feeling better than he has in days. Behind the man is Earth. Home. Jon is only 93 million miles from home.

He can make it. He will make it.

He stares at the man keeping him from his home, his family, and the tickle in his eyes turns to fire in a matter of blinks. Red light hits the alien straight in the chest and with a shout, he releases Jon.

Jon wastes no time, flying in the direction of Earth. He'd struggle with this, all of this, but adrenaline sharpens his abilities. The mask strapped over his mouth and nose provide oxygen from the pack taped to his chest. He wants nothing more than to rip it off but he leaves it be.

His focus is singular, the apartment in Metropolis. He can feel his Mom's arms around him already. He's formulating what he will say to his Dad, how he will explain about Jor-El. He is worried they won't believe him. Ashamed of what he committed to and then ran away from. He told his Mom to go. He said he would be fine.

He doesn't want to think about the floating island, or talk about it, and he decides he won't. He is a runaway, a failed Superson, but he is not the boy on the floating island. He didn't shiver from fever, tearing at his cape to bandage the wounds from the robot's green metal claws. He did not scream in fear when a trick arrow carved a path down his cheek. He did not give up, covered in bush and counting his ribs like a messed up lullaby.

His Dad can make the trip to the Sun in ten seconds. Jon thinks he flies even faster, and later he will think that is the reason he doesn't notice the Watchtower is missing.

But he does notice Metropolis is gone. Instead of the Daily Planet's gleaming golden globe, he lands in a marsh. Herons fly up and away, squawking in startled choir as he touches down, water lapping up to his knees. He looks to his left but there's nothing but tourists on a floating wooden path in the far distance, taking photos of geese as they weave trails through the water that was supposed to be home.

He looks to his right, and the man from space is there, floating above the water.

Jon flies to Kansas.

By the time the man catches up with him, Jon is curled up in his grandparent's corn field, except it isn't their corn field. He digs a hand into the ground and brings up light, loose soil that tastes like citrus, acidic and unbalanced in a way Ma Kent would never let stand (and he lets it fall from his palm with a shudder, reminded of the mud on the alien island he'd eaten, before the nausea had set in but long after pride had fled). The barn at the far end of the field has a blue door, not red.

"Dad," Jon mumbles into the ground. "Dad."

Feet lightly touch down, but this time Jon knows they aren't his father's.

The man has no heartbeat, nor breath. Even the silver robot softly whirred. But the man is silent as he touches down beside Jon, who will not go back to the tube.

Survive, Damian's voice demands. Jon closes his eyes to the world, this utterly wrong world, and he flies.

[kenny-the-ken]

Alone at Last Pt 1

Kyle's fic should be out already by the time this gets posted, so I hope you guys enjoy it!! This one I am sooooo excited for, I might actually make it a small series, drug dealer Kenny is my weakness, cause he most definitely would sell drugs, and take drugs most likely. Warnings: NSFW content, not suitable for minors, drugs, alcohol and strong language!! AGED UP CHARACTERS

"Let's get the fuck outta hear." Kenny spoke to you on the phone, he'd had another argument with his parents, and this was the final straw.

"They think I'm a like a charity! I sell drugs for a living, I ain't gonna make no money if they keep taking all my product!" He shouted, loud enough for his parents to hear, and you could hear them screaming back at him in the background.

"Ken, babe, come over." Your tone was gentle, calming, and that was just what Kenny needed right now, he physically and mentally couldn't take it anymore. He was trying his best to make the most out of a shitty situation, and once again his parents were ruining it.

"I will babe, not until I pack all my shit first, I ain't coming back to this shithole, I'd rather shoot myself in the head again, it's more enjoyable." He shouted back at his parents, and you knew his frustrations. You and Kenny had been dating for a while now (3 years), and you had lost track of how many arguments he and his parents have had over the years, and how many times Kenny had appeared at your house, battered and bruised.

"My mom's out, Ken. Come over." You said once more, and Kenny let out a long sigh, you could hear rustling in the background, as if things were being put into plastic bags.

"I'll be there in ten. I love you."

"I love you too, Ken."

And with that the line went dead. You knew Kenny's resolve was worn incredibly thin, much like your own. Your mother was no where near as bad as Kenny's parents, but she put drugs and men before you, she always had and she always would. You were just thankful that you were an only child, Kenny wasn't that lucky.

You sat pondering in your own thoughts as you heard a loud knock at the door, and you opened it, Kenny walking inside, his car parked outside, and looking full to the brim with his possessions.

"When's your mom coming back?" Kenny asked, wrapping his slender arms delicately around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Not a fucking clue, she never even tells me when she's heading out, never mind when she's coming back. Why, what's wrong?" You enquired, wrapping your own arms around Kenny's neck, balancing on your tip toes to place a kiss on his lips before he spoke.

"I meant what I said on the phone, y/n. Pack your stuff, we're getting the fuck outta this god forsaken town once and for all. Somewhere we'll not be judged for not being well off, somewhere we can actually thrive together. The only good thing that's came from living here is meeting you, please say you'll come with me?" His eyes were soft, pleading with you to join him, and you smiled back at him, his serious face melting away into one of sheer relief.

"Let's do it. We've got each other, we don't need anyone or anything else. Come help me pack." You spoke, taking Kenny by the hand, leading him to your bedroom.

"We could always get frisky before we go." Kenny flirted, giving your ass a slap, making you jump in surprise, spinning to look at him.

"Or I could suck you off while you drive down the freeway?" You offered, knowing that Kenny would never turn down an offer like that.

"Then what are we waiting for babe, let's get your stuff packed and get this show on the road!" Kenny exclaimed, a smirk on his face as you both began cramming clothes, shoes, makeup and anything else you owned into two large suitcases. You lifted your glass bong and Kenny took it from you.

"I've got a box in the back of the car that this can go into so it doesn't get broken, babe." He said, pulling an unlit joint from his jacket pocket, placing it delicately between his chapped, pale pink lips and sparking it up, taking a long drag of it and exhaling, passing it to you.

"You ready to go, babe?" You asked as Kenny took down one of the pictures from your bedroom wall, and put it under his arm.

"Can't forget our prom photo, now can we? Now get your sexy ass into the car and I'll bring your stuff out and put it in the back." Kenny spoke, as you passed the joint back to him, it now hanging from his lips lazily as he puffed on it a few times.

And finally, once everything was inside, you both smiled at each other, smoking the joint between you both as Kenny rolled down all the windows as the car reached the last part of South Park.

"See you never, assholes!" Kenny shouted from the window, and you let out a few whoops yourself, both of you smiling stupidly at each other on your way to make a new life.

[thevoidscreams]

Hello👋 I hope spring has started well for you✨🌹 Mating Press March is simply unrealistically delicious😍🤩 Can I ask Sanguinius? Let's say there are wedding traditions on Baal. After the groom drinks his bride's blood and she tastes his, the groom tracks her down within the walls of their new home. And when he finds her, he takes her to their bedroom and lays claim to her body🤭🤭 Something like that)

Day 14

Hella, let's do this. Also, this one isn't verysut focused. I'm sorry. I had to rewrite the whole thing, but I like this version better.

Pairing: Sanguinius x reader

Warnings: consumption of blood, predator/Prey dynamics, and getting railed without much prep.

I hissed as the needle pulled away from my arm, and a bandage was pressed into place.

Sanguinius was unflinching as they drew his blood for the ceremony, looking as pleased as anything. I understood his excitement. Once this final part of the tradition was complete, we'd be bonded in matrimony not only legally but spiritually as well

I watched with a soft smile as they emptied the syringes into shotglass sized cups.

Each was passed to each respective partner. Mine to him and his to me. The officiant spoke words over us both, just as he had earlier, but this felt different, more intimate.

Sanguinius met my gaze, and I felt my stomach do a little flip. I was shaking with excitement. Not so much for the blood, but from what I knew came after.

Sanguinius had told me in advance what all would be included in this.

I looked down at his blood. It was so dark, and the coppery scent that wafted up from the warm glass was rich. I wasn't so thrilled to be drinking the blood. But being paired with my beloved was more than enough to make up for that. He'd wanted to partake in all the traditions of Baal. So it was also important to him and I could do that for my beloved.

When the officiant was done, I took a sip. It was like being dunked in molten copper. The flavor was so strong.

I watched as he savored my blood, almost like it was a fine wine. His wings trembled as he finished his glass. And he pinned me with his gaze. The officiant and witnesses left the room quickly.

I set the glass of blood, unfinished, on the small table.

I had the distinct feeling something bad would happen if I drank anymore.

Sanguinius didn't seem to notice, or just wasn't bothered.

"I'll give you half an hour to run and find a place to hide. After that, I'll begin the hunt, and once I find you-"

"You'll make me yours truly and completely." You finished and he nodded with a look of anticipation.

"Your time has begun little dove." He grinned and make a shooing motion with his hand. "Go. Fly."

I did. My feet carrying me swiftly and surely. My heart raced, but I didn't feel winded. I felt like I could run every hall in this massive building and not tire.

I'd never felt like that before. It was exhilarating, but it also frightened me. I stopped after ten minutes, looking around and stepping into a room before the turn at the end of the hall.

The room was dark, and obviously not used often.

There were tables and chairs, set and ready to be used if necessary. But a thin layer of dust coated every surface.

At the far end, there was a buffet table with a thick cloth draped over it.

I went to it, my heart still racing and sliding under. There was less dust, and breathing was easier, but the air in the room smelled stale.

I pressed my head to the wall and was shocked to hear voices. Serfs no doubt, gossiping and joking.

I listened before realizing they weren't on the other side, they were a whole room over. In one of the kitchens.

Just what the hell had happened to me after I drank that blood? Was I becoming more like him? I pondered on it as I sat in the dark. I shouldn't have been able to see all that well, but I found that I could. Yet another oddity.

Sanguinius knew what direction you'd gone, and he could tell with relative ease the directions after that for a short time. Now, it could be a matter of using his imhumanly accute senses to track you.

He watched the hands on the wall clock tick by ever so slowly and was on his feet as soon as thirty minutes was up. The game was officially on.

I sat listening to the serfs talk about whatever drama was going on.

The sound of heavy feet didn't register at first.

There had been astartes walking up and down the hall every few minutes.

I almost gasped when the door suddenly swung open. The air was thick with tension and my body went still as the grave.

Under the heavy cloth, it would have been hard to hear if not for the weird effects of the blood, but there was a soft, snorting sort of sound.

He was sniffing me out. Like some kind of hunting hound. It felt more like the sort of thing his brother would have done.

I knew Sanguinius wouldn't hurt me. But the need to bolt for the door was bone deep. The need to flee from my pursuer.

His steps grew closer still. The fabric of concealing me rustled as his wing brushed it.

I could hear him turning over the cloth covering the table across from the one I was under.

"Dove." He cooed sweetly, I know you're in here. "Why don't you come out so we can continue the ceremony together?"

I felt a surge of adrenaline. With his feather poking under the cloth and the rustling of another clothe, I could gauge where he was facing.

The risk had proven worth it. As I crawled from under the table and under another, he'd already checked just in time.

Sanguinius's hearts were pounding. He could smell her, but he was having a hard time hearing over the racing beats in his chest. Your blood had been exquisite, and he was drooling at the thought of tasting other parts of you.

The underside of the buffet table smelled strongly of you. Which meant you had to be close by.

He turned this way and that eyes looking for any minute disturbance.

The rustling of fabric is what drew his attention. His head snapping in the direction of the door.

The corner of your dress vanished behind the door, and his hearts leapt in his chest. He knocked tables out of his way as he began the pursuit.

I bolted, the first crash sending me down the hall as fast as my feet could carry me.

I heard him calling for me, the unmistakable excitement in his voice she he thundered after me.

I ducked into a serf hall. It was thin, and the ceiling was low. I didn't stop, shouting for people to move as I tried to lose him, the game wasn't over till I said it was dammit.

Sanguinius was a man of many talents, but he didn't have his brother Magnus's skill of shape-shifting. The angel growled as his fingers just barely missed your dress fabric.

He rushed down the hall, taking turns on instinct. He knew where it let out, and he knew he could head you off.

He came to a stop at the door to the serfs quarters, opening it and grabbing the first serf he saw by one shoulder.

"Is she here?" He asked.

Of course he didn't have to tell the poor startled woman who.

"Your bride, my lord? No, but I did see her."

"Where?"

"Down the shute, my lord."

"What?"

"Was the strangest thing. She went down the shute we use for the dirty laundry."

He patted her on the shoulder. "Thank you." He took off for the stairwell leading down to the laundry facilities.

I pulled up the comfort pair of shorts and tossed the dress by the corner of one massive industrial washer. That ought to throw him off a bit. The thing probably smelled like me, given that I'd been in it all day, and I was sure that he'd figured out my where abouts by now. Or was about to.

Landing in the laundry hadn't been as fun as I assumed it would be. But there'd been a fresh change of clothes and I wasn't giving up yet.

I was headed for a service door but heard the telltale approach of my husband. The door was across the huge room, and there just wasn't time.

Instead, I made due with the cover of a rolling basket. I made it by the skin of my teeth as he practically flew down the steps.

"Dove? Come out for me, please? I just want to give you the love you deserve." His pleading sounded so sincere I almost did. But I steeled myself, he'd told me how important this tradition was and how he wanted me to take it seriously...and I was having a blast.

I'd never felt so alive before, the chasing the escaping.

Maybe he'd consider this as some foreplay in the future. I watch him from the corner of the basket.

Watching him sniff around until he spotted the dress's fabric. He stalked it more like a cat then a bird.

I crouched and snuck around the basket. Listening as he cooed sweet nothings. The decoy was working. I made it to the bottom of the steps. The old laundry door was heavy, and I knew that it would squeal badly.

Each step up had me holding my breath as I carefully placed each foot. I was only a few steps from the tip when he sprang, tugging the empty dress from behind the washer.

"Dove?" He called concerned. I couldn't help it, I giggled as I shot up the last few steps.

Oh, so that's how it was. Sanguinius laughed and dropped the dress, running up the steps 5aking them multiples at a time.

"Dove!" He shouted after you. Knowing he had to have you now.

The hall was too wide for me to find shelter anywhere, and the hall was long as well. I may not have been all that tired, but I knew I wouldn't make it. Sanguinius's shadow fell over me. His hands reaching and I got a first-hand understanding of what the prey of hawks felt like.

He forced me to the floor, his body coveringine as I writhed and struggled to get away. The game had been fun while it lasted.

"You gave me a good run, my dove.. but I have you now."

I laughed and was lifted from the floor.

Sanguinius carried me close to him as he made his way towards our room.

"That was fun." I kissed his cheek.

He smiled and chirped. "There is still fun to be had."

He pushed his way into our chamber and locked the doors.

"I'm glad you took your dress off, it makes this easier to do." My husband purred.

"Makes what easier?" I chuckled.

He ripped the clothes from my body and dropped me on the bed.

I squealed as I fell, and Sanguinius did much the same to his own clothes in his eagerness to get down to it.

"I've been craving you all day. Since dawn this morning, I've been dreaming of having you."

He grabbed my hips and tugged me closer to him, his face between my legs as he finally got a taste of what I had to offer.

It was like molten lava in my stomach. He lapped at my pussy, rubbing my clit with the tip if his tongue before he plunged the slick muscle into my tight walls.

"Sanguinius!" I gasped, grabbing a handful of his hair and squishing his face between my thighs.

"Dove." He moaned back fucking me with his tongue, lapping up everything I had to offer him.

The excitement of the day and the hunting already had me soaked, and now the love of my life was getting to enjoy me. What could be better?

He pulled his face away, and I looked down at him, face warm with what I was sure was a blush.

Sanguinius's cock was rock hard, he'd never been more excited to do this.

You looked perfect under him, ready and willing to take his cock. He pushed the tip into you. Rubbing his thighs lovingly as you gasped and grabbed his arms.

"I will be gentle."

I nodded, breathing through the pain. It felt like I was being split in two as he pushed in inch by inch.

Once he couldn't push in anymore, he stopped, and I laid under him panting.

The seconds felt like hours. But before long enough, the pain had dulled.

"Please, go slow." I panted.

"I will Dove, I will." He leaned down and kissed the top of my head.

He began slow, pulling out an inch or two, then slowly sinking back in.

It burned, but I breathed through it again. And as before, the burning ebbed and pleasure began to bloom under it. Slowly usurping it.

At some point, the pleasure became all consuming, and I moaned under him. Fuck it was even better than I thought it would be.

"I love you, Sanguinius." I mumbled into his chest.

"I love you too, my dove." He hugged me close, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he drove us both towards the edge.

I wouldn't last much longer, but I was okay with that. Tonight had been the most memorable one of my life.

Sanguinius was panting, rutting into me faster now as he got closer as well. We came together, both crying out for the world to hear. We held each other, husband and wife, joined fully in union now.

"That was amazing. Can we do that again?"

"Are you good for another round right now?" Sanguinius asked, smiling warmly.

"Yeah, but also the chasing thing. Can we do that again sometime too?"

Sanguinius laughed. "If course my love."

He kissed you again and again as he slid back in, ready to consummate your marriage many more times.

[callsigndragon]

Even if the world ends tonight | Bob Floyd

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x ex-gf!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: uranium mission and all that it implies, protective Bob, and good friend Phoenix <3

Request:

'Even after breaking up. They still find ways back to each other.' With Bob?? He gives me the vibes of still being in love with his ex and the Uranium mission put everything into perspective

A/N: okay so life is getting in the way and I can't write as much as I want to. I'm not feeling like updating the two ongoing series i have rn so you're gonna get a lot of one shots in the upcoming days hahah

This world wasn't for everyone. Bob knew that much. And yet, he didn't ask you if you wanted to be part of it. He just guessed that if you wanted to be with him, you understood and accepted the consequences. 

Being with an aviator means always fearing that every morning when your partner walks out the door, maybe that's the last time you're going to see them. You accepted that in a way, knowing the risks but also that a short amount of time with Bob in your life was better than living a life without him. 

That is what you used to tell him. But Bob knew that it had become too much for you. Because you lost that sweet, precious smile that made him fall for you. Your eyes had lost that beautiful shine, becoming voids of fear and worry. 

You stopped being yourself. And Bob knew that he was the one to blame. That he was slowly and unintentionally destroying you. 

So he did what he thought was right.

He broke up with you without many explanations. 

And boy, didn't that break his soul in a hundred pieces. 

A few weeks later, the empty shell of what once used to be Lieutenant Robert Floyd, set foot in Top Gun again, for a special detachment. He graduated a few years prior to this, but it felt like yesterday. 

Lucky for him, none of the other aviators knew him, so he wouldn't have to answer awkward questions about his partner. 

Or so he thought. 

The night before the mission, Nat and Bob sat down in the flight deck, watching as the last rays of sun painted the clouds with orange and almost red colors. Earth was a beautiful place, and people like him, Phoenix, and the others fought every day to make sure that thousands of people could live to see another sunset. 

"Hey, Bob," Phoenix asked, looking at the wizzo when he hummed in response. "Is there anyone waiting for you back home?" 

And here it was. The dreadful question. 

"There was," he answered, taking off his glasses and rubbing the sore spots. "But I broke up with her." 

"Did she cheat?" Phoenix questioned again, and Bob could almost see how a litany of profanities gathered on the tip of her tongue, ready to destroy that girl who cheated on his friend.

"No, she didn't. She was the sweetest girl." 

"Then… what happened?" 

"This life was destroying her. She didn't smile that much, she wasn't happy." 

Phoenix's frown was as deep as the sea in front of them. "She told you that?" 

"No, I just knew." Bob said, putting on his glasses again. "She never had to tell me."

"Not even when you explained to her why you broke up with her? Weird."

Bob looked down for a second, embarrassment spreading over his body. "I never told her why I broke up with her." 

"You're shitting me."

Bob's sad chuckle confirmed that, in fact, he wasn't lying. And that made Phoenix feel ten times worse. "Bob! You were worried about her, and maybe she was as worried as you were! You lost a girl that loved you because you never sat down to ask and just assumed that she wasn't strong enough to be a Navy girlfriend?" 

"...I fucked up, didn't I?"

"Oh, buddy. That doesn't cover it." 

Next day, after successfully destroying the target, Bob and the other members of the team find themselves in a coffin corner, being followed by missiles. The wizzo realizes that he has messed up more than he can ever put into words. Because right there and then, while looking at the sky in what could be his last living seconds, all he could think about was you, your voice, your touch, and your smile. He wants his last thoughts to be about you, and only you. 

Eventually, they manage to escape and come back to the carrier in one piece, even Maverick and Rooster, who had crashed their planes to save each other. 

After the mandatory celebrations due to a job well done, Bob sits down in the flight deck, thinking over and over about you, and how, maybe, it’s not too late to come back, apologize, and win you back. 

Little did he know at that moment that his team members had a great surprise in store. 

“Okay guys, I think we should all head to the Hard Deck and properly celebrate that the mission is over.” Hangman says, patting Bob’s back. “And you’re coming too, buddy.” 

“I wish I could, but… I have some important matters to attend to.” Retorts Bob, grabbing his bag to step off the carrier. 

“Nope, nope, nope.” Nat insists while getting the bag from Bob’s hands. “I’m keeping your bag so you can’t leave.” 

Bob, who just wanted to get out of here and run to your house, quite literally, so he could ask for forgiveness, is getting a bit mad about his friends’ sudden interest in throwing a party. “Guys, I don’t want to be a dick, but you better give me my bag right now.”

“Woah, hermano, relax! It’s just a party.” Mickey says, placing both hands on Bob's shoulders to make him walk to the end of the deck. 

“I don’t want a damn party, I want to go and beg Y/n to take me back!” 

For the first time since they knew him, Bob raised his voice, noticing the redness of his face and ears. He’s really mad. 

“You don’t need to beg.” 

Bob almost whimpers when he hears that voice coming from behind him. He watches the faces of his friends, from Payback’s small smile, to Nat’s teary-eyed grin. He turns around, slowly, afraid that it’s just a dream, or worse, that this is just the afterlife, that he died on the mission, and he has reached his personal heaven where you, the love of his life, welcome him with open arms, like his own personal angel. 

“Y/n?” He whispers, his wobbly legs moving him slowly in your direction. “Are you really here?” 

“It’s me, Robby. I promise.” You chuckle, and Bob is starting to think that the idea of him being dead is not as absurd as it seemed in the first place. How could he hear the divine cadence of your laugh or see your shiny, beautiful eyes if he wasn’t in heaven? 

“I died in that mission, right?” He mumbles once he’s only inches away from you, your soft hands caressing his cheeks. 

“No, idiot. Nat called me and told me everything you told her about me not being happy anymore and whatever stupid thought you had.” You shake your head and take a deep breath. “Honey, my work as your partner is worrying about you. It’s the only thing I can do.”

“But I don’t want you to always be worried about me not coming back one day.” Bob insists, placing his hands over yours, which are still on his face. “You should be happy.” 

“And I’m happy, love. Because when you get back from a mission, I know that the world is a bit of a better place and that you are safe and home with me. You don’t need to push me away to protect me, okay? I’ll be with you, every day, every night, as long as you want me.” He presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as silent tears wet your fingertips. 

“Even if the world ends tonight?” He asks, a silly question he asked once after too many beers. It became an important thing for you two. 

“Even if the world ends tonight, there’s no other place I’d rather be. Here with you.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” 

“Well, from what I’ve heard, you and your friends saved the day.” You kiss his forehead, trying to make him feel better. “Robert Floyd, I know that you think I deserve better. But, be honest, can I even get anything better? You’re the perfect package!” 

“I’m not perfect.” Bob argues, opening his eyes to see a scowl on your face. 

“You might not be perfect, but you’re perfect for me, and that’s all I care about.” You finally say, a smile accompanying your words. 

Bob sighs, smiling at last, for what feels like the first time in weeks. “I love you so much, angel.” 

“I love you too, honey.” 

“Can you, like, I don’t know, kiss?” Rooster yells from a few feet away, the Dagger nodding to his words. 

“Have you been watching?” Bob asks, his eyes widening. 

“Of course! We brought her, now you kiss her and come with us to party, not only to celebrate that the mission is over, but that you got your girl back!” Javy says, looking at you. “And I’m sure that Mrs. Floyd over here wants to meet all of us.” 

“Of course I want to meet Bob’s new friends!” You nod, looking at Bob’s rolling eyes. “Come on, we stay a bit, and then we go. Just a bit.” 

“Okay, we’ll go to the Hard Deck.” He pauses for a second and tilts his head. “Did he call you Mrs. Floyd?” 

“I like how it sounds…” You sheepishly admit, walking away to introduce yourself to the other aviators. 

“Yeah… I like that too.” He mutters to himself, realizing that you’re not going to be a Navy girlfriend much longer. 

[miasmaghoul]

Any HCs about ghoul Halloween costumes??

OH YES HERE THEY ARE

Swiss is the one who insists on the costumes. Used to be that the abbey would have their usual Hallow's Eve bash, and that was that. Once Swiss discovered the concept of costumes on tour, though, and the idea absolutely tickled him. So now, the ghouls have their own gathering.

Swiss goes all out every year. This time, he's a picture perfect representation of Dr. Frank-n-furter. The hair, the heels, the lingerie - all of it. Even shaved his mustache so he could get the makeup just right; Dew and Aurora are FURIOUS. Swiss does a full on performance of Sweet Transvestite that brings down the house (aka Mountain claps and Rain records it to make gifs for the ghroupchat.)

Speaking of Rain, he usually doesn't put a whole lot of effort into his costumes. He doesn't want to detract from his natural beauty. This year he's been especially lazy, choosing simply to drop enough of his glamour for his skin to be the most stunning shade of shimmering blue. Speckled with scales, rippling fins along his limbs and back, strong tail swishing languidly behind him. Black eyes and pearly fangs. Perfectly unearthly.

But where Rain is lazy, Aeon puts in Maximum Effort. He got Cumulus and Mountsan's help in hand stitching a period-accurate Dracula costume. Frilly sleeves, tight pants, a vest that threatens to crush the life out of him. The boots he wears nearly reach his knees, borrowed from Cirrus' closet. The fangs are his own, specifically unglamoured so only his canines appear elongated. He floats around the party with a cloak billowing behind him for extra drama, and Dew tells him he looks like a gayer Lestat.

Dew, meanwhile, isn't usually one for costumes. Prefers wearing his civvies and taking it easy, saying he's dressed as a metalhead if anyone asks. This year, though, Swiss had dared him into something a bit more...challenging. Never one to back down, Dew accepted before Swiss had even brought out the outfit, and as he stands behind the snack table he has Regrets. He's in a blood red bodycon dress, one that doesn't even reach the middle of his thighs. A strapless number that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The lingerie beneath it had been it's own struggle; a lacy black strapless bra stuffed with socks, black satin panties covering his tucked-back cock, meticulously torn fishnets. He's trying not to move too much, the four-inch heels he's been shoved into more of a hazard than anything else. Dew wishes he wasn't so jealous of how easily Swiss walks in his own pair. His hair and makeup are done too, golden locks pulled into an intricate updo and lips red as his dress. It exposes the long line of his neck, and it's work to keep Aeon's fangs away from his throat.

The real work for Dew, though, comes when Aether strolls in from an impromptu shift in the infirmary. Still dressed in his smart slacks, pale purple button down and slightly too tight white coat. A stethoscope looped around his neck and a pair of silver-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. Dew really has to fight not to pop the world's most obvious boner while he talks about something with Mountain that he's long since lost track of.

Mountain, for the record, has been spending the last ten minutes or so staring at Rain, so he's not all that bothered. His own costume is similar to Rain's, but as opposed to "I'm a water ghoul" Mountain tells everyone he's Poison Ivy. Magickal plants cover him from tits to toes, creeping vines hugging him like a second skin. There are flowers dispersed throughout, bursts of color in the vibrant green, and a braided crown of something definitely poisonous settled between his antlers. Aurora keeps sneaking blossoms for herself, and she knows Mountain won't notice.

She couldn't NOT go as Princess Aurora. It was too perfect to pass up! Complete with flowing blonde hair, a perfectly fitted pink gown that color shifts to blue in the right light, and a little golden crown. She floats around the room on weightless feet, helped along by just enough air magick to make her look angelic and ethereal. The flowers she squirrels away from Mountain's bounty get handed out to her dance partners - Cirrus has the most so far.

Cirrus, who has gone low-effort but in an effective way. She's in her old Era IV uniform, black fabric settling over her curves like it belongs there. Severe in a way that demands attention. She's wearing a mask, but not the one that usually comes with this outfit. No shiny silver or stylized curls. This mask is simple, white, curved and molded over her right eye, cheek and part of her forehead. She spends the early part of the evening at the common room piano, playing the overture from Phantom of the Opera so the others will stop asking what she is.

Sunshine is a clown, but in like a clown-core way. Baggy clothes in mismatched colors and patterns, white face paint with exaggerated red lips and blue triangles around her eyes. She has a whole host of silly little party tricks up her sleeve too; the look of disdain she gets from Rain when she soaks him with the flower on her lapel is absolutely worth whatever he'll to do her later.

Cumulus and Ifrit end up committing a bit of a costume faux pas - they both arrive dressed as Elvira. Skintight black gown with plunging neckline? Check. Massive black wig? Check. Dagger-like nails? Check. They share a good natured laugh before they find themselves being ogled into oblivion by Aeon, who can't decide whose tits he'd rather fuck.

Copia is a sheet ghost.

[shayyprasad]

all you had to do was stay | tom holland

tw: mentions of unprescribed pills and angst. mild cursing- but like, that's in all my imagines... do i still need to put that as a warning? i'm not really sure if i'm great at writing sad stuff like this, so please lemme know if there's anything i can change or make better. as long as it's constructive criticism. (1.6k+ words). angst!

also, this song is "for taylor," and all the credit goes to liv. i do not own this song! disclaimer: not all the lyrics are listed/in order.

it was weird, you had decided, but not really. maybe somewhere deep down you had known it wasn't going to last forever. in fact, you were slightly surprised it had lasted for as long as it did.

one year, ten months, and thirteen days.

that's when he decided you just weren't good enough for him, that you weren't exciting, special, or particularly intriguing. that's how long it took. the saddest part? you were already planning something special for the two year anniversary.

four months and two days.

that's how long it's been since he's left. since you've gotten any decent sleep, eaten a good meal, or even genuinely smiled. since he broke your heart and took some of the pieces with him, and if you didn't have all the parts, how were you supposed to put it back together?

looking back in hindsight, you hadn't seen it coming. every "i love you" he uttered, you thought was true. you believed it and kept it close to your heart, as if those words were the only things keeping you going.

tell me why i thought we were happy i felt the sparks fly

standing there in the empty park, you let the tears cascade down your cheeks, grateful that there wasn't anyone there. it was the same place he tried to let you down softly, telling you that it simply wasn't working. something about clashing schedules. bullshit.

the second he said the words "break up," it was like everything stopped. as if the hands of time themselves didn't know what to do with the world, and so froze there delicately. he had been odd the last couple of days, and you were so stupidly naive to think he may have been proposing to you. it made so much sense to you, the picnic date, stuttering, tripping over his words.

it burned your insides, like whatever was left of your heart was on fire, and there was that funny feeling in your stomach. not the feeling you got when you used to think of him, because those were light and airy butterflies. these were angry t-rexes, rampaging around. it felt like crushed, sharp pieces of glass were scratching your throat, with every breath you took.

everything hurt to do, and even the smallest things reminded you of him.

but now I'm right where you left me i felt it babe like midnight rain our love story began to change

you exhaled through your nose, trying to calm down. your head was pounding and all you wanted to do was sleep. but no amount of unprescribed sleeping pills would push away the intrusive thoughts that poked at your head, constantly reminding you of what the two of you could have been.

it wasn't like you didn't try to make time for tom.

because you did. so much. was it fair to pin it all on yourself? or were the clashing schedules just an excuse for something else? maybe he found someone else. someone better.

at work, perhaps. a pretty actress, one with long legs, beautiful hair, deep eyes, and clear skin. someone who could make him laugh relentlessly, and never gave him a hard time. they didn't fight, or disagree, and had the same movie preference. the two would share playlists or songs, and of course they'd share aux. they would cuddle at night, and whisper sweet nothings to each other before falling asleep, intertwined together. and best of all, they'd never have to worry about making time for each other because they would be on set together so much.

all he had to do was be there. to love you, and if that was strong enough, then everything would have worked out. why? because it had to. or was your love not enough for both you and him? in that case, was it your fault, or his?

all you had to do was stay your name was on my heart but now it's just erased all that left is just a blank space and all you had to do was stay, stay, stay

all you had left consisted of two of his old sweatshirts, that you still hadn't washed or worn, afraid that his scent would leave, and memories. sweet nothings that swirled around in your brain, leaving nothing but a migraine in the end, alongside a heavy heart. one so full of pain and sorrow, it felt as if it was pulling you down.

it was unfair, you thought, that one person could do all this damage.

i thought we had something now its a sweet nothing it's time to go i never saw it coming

and then he had the impudence to ask if they could "still be friends." how can you be just friends with someone you've kissed with so much passion? seen things, that friends haven't, or done things? how can you push all those old feelings away, like they never even existed in the first place? how do you play pretend like that?

so you said no. you told him the truth, that you weren't sure you could do that. and through the disappointment, you saw that he understood. and you were honestly shocked that you had found any words at all. you were crying the second that he had said those words, and instantly left. he had called your name as you walked away, hiding at the back of a pharmacy as you waited for the uber you called to pick you up.

it was funny to think about. not "haha" funny, but a bittersweet, dreadful funny. that the last kiss you had was the morning he broke up with you. really, it was just a simple peck since he hadn't been too touchy the last couple of days. but you realized that that was your last kiss with him, and it wouldn't ever happen again. 

that was it. that was all.

the story of us has an end our last kiss won't happen again

you laid there in bed, gasping and panting as you woke up from another nightmare. or more accurately, a memory. something that had already happened. but you would've preferred a nightmare instead. this was just an ugly reminder of what was. you hadn't been in contact with him lately, but you knew he thought of you.

how do you just date someone for almost two years and then forget about them?

you were sure that he thought of you. that he dreamed of you, too.

but were they nightmares like yours? painful and miserable, happy turned sad?

i bet you think about me i bet I'm still in your wildest dreams

and then one day came, where you sat in a coffee shop, frustrated that you accidently got his order instead of your own. sitting there at a two person table with a disgustingly plain black coffee, you reached a conclusion.

that it wasn't your fault. and that you wouldn't spend anymore months lying in bed sobbing and holding his jacket to your face, upset that you couldn't do more.

yes, you'd probably have breakdowns over him from time to time, but you were done blaming yourself. how would you live like that, with utter self-deprecation eating away at you? it wasn't healthy.

you weren't saying that you were over him, but this was a start. not quite acceptance, but you were slowly starting to greet it. you also hoped that he didn't blame you for this. because if anything, it was more his fault then yours. then why did you feel guilty blaming him? honestly, that didn't feel right either.

and when you're reminiscing you can blame yourself but don't blame me this love is tragic, baby

sitting on your bed, you held a book in your lap, one that had been worn out, being read so many times. you were reading the pages, but you weren't taking them in. just looking at the words, skimming across them. beside you, your phone dinged with a notification, with an update on your boy- ex-boyfriend, it was nothing but a new article. and you hated yourself for opening it. 

there was a picture at the top, one of him kissing a girl on a walk where you used to take out tessa with him. warm saliva coated your tongue and you felt a strangled sob rise up your chest, and you scrolled further down, browsing the words.

a mix of "new girlfriend" and "what about y/n?" was all that needed to be summarized. so you scrolled further down, into the comment section.

user 1

I 

oml that's fucking zendaya

user 2

I

wasnt he dating y/n

user 3

I

cheating??

user 1 (replying to user 3)

I

idk kinda makes sense theyre on the same set so

and in verbatim, that was it. you hadn't bothered to read more, because at that point, ugly cries were already taking over and with the tears that blurred your eyes, you couldn't see anyways.

she won't love you like the way I loved you belong with me

it was a putrid thought, not one you should've had, but you couldn't help but think it. you would always feel that way, and nothing would change it. to you, he would always be yours. and he'd forever hold a part of you, and you'd come to realization with the fact you didn't want that part back. he could have it. tom could have it.

it could have worked. maybe. but that's all it'd ever be. a lingering thought in your head, swirling around, with no other home.

all you had to do was stay your name was on my heart but now its just erased all that left is just a blank space and all you had to do was stay stay, stay, stay

all he had to do was stay.

[imperialstark]

choke on me—chapter ten

breathe me in (prequel fic)

like smoke rings in the air (steve's pov)

chapter nine

a/n: after five thousand years,,,it's finally here. i'm almost free,,,

rating: there's some swearing but nothing too explicit this time

warning(s): just tony being an idiot 💖

—————

When exhaustion finally starts to take a toll on him, Tony decides to crawl out of his workshop and brave the trek to his bedroom. As comfortable as his couch is, it's no match for a real bed. Tony's getting older; he needs the firmness of his mattress lest his back starts screaming at him. And the couch…the couch holds too many memories. Not that his bedroom is any better. Steve had fucked him on his couch but what they had done in his bed…was something else. Something raw. 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the chrome of the elevator and nearly falters. Dark circles, messy hair, and a pinched expression gaze back at him. He looks a little thin in the face, but that doesn't make sense. Hadn't he only been in his workshop for a couple of days? Tony closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. The metal is pleasantly cool to the touch. His stomach clenches, almost as if in protest but, Tony can eat later when he's not dead on his feet. Besides, the kitchen is full of ghosts too.

A part of him knows he can't run anymore. There wasn't anywhere in this tower, anywhere on this earth, that wouldn't remind him of Steve Rogers. Tony was hopelessly, irrevocably changed like shattered glass. Even if you repaired it, painstakingly fitting every piece back together, the cracks would still be there. 

When Tony finally opens his eyes, it's not his penthouse suite, dark and lonely, waiting for him. It's Steve. Steve, who he had run off. Steve, who had stayed, anyway. 

The deja vu hits him hard and all he can think of is the first time Steve hunted him down. His heart jackrabbits in his chest and all he wants to do is run, run, run.

"I just want to talk," Steve says roughly. "Please."

"We talked," Tony says, attempting to shoulder past Steve. All he has to do is make it to his bedroom, then he can lock the door, and—

"That wasn't a talk," Steve says. "Tony, please."

Steve grabs at his arm and Tony lets him because he's weak. He can't, won't look Steve in the face. One look, and he'll crack, and who will be left to pick up the pieces? 

"Fine," Tony says, willing his voice not to tremble. 

"Can you...can you at least look at me? Am I that awful?"

"You're not awful," Tony mutters, still averting his gaze.

"Then why won't you look at me?" Steve squeezed lightly at Tony's arm. His other reached to cup Tony's face, tilting it gently until they were eye to eye and, oh. 

Tony was right. It's too much, looking at Steve this close. His eyes are red and swollen, and Tony is wracked by another pang of guilt. The whole point of this was to save Steve. 

"You're not awful," Tony finds himself repeating, just to get that look off of Steve's face. 

"Then why did you run?" Steve shakes him ever so slightly but it's enough to have Tony gasping. "What are you afraid of?"

Steve leans in and for a moment, Tony thinks he's going to kiss him but all he does is press their foreheads together. His touch burns.

"I thought we were good. I thought..."

Steve trails off and Tony can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

"You left me in the dark, sweetheart."

It's the 'sweetheart' that does Tony in. A kick in the teeth would hurt less. He's shattering again and Steve is picking at the shards with bloodied hands. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm —"

Steve shushes him, a strong hand stroking Tony's hair, the way you'd pet a distressed animal. Maybe Tony is an animal, stupid and relying purely on instinct. Instincts that tell him to lean into Steve's touch while he can. Tony's an animal and Steve is his shepherd and he'd follow him off a cliff if Steve asked him to. 

"We're okay? Made a promise, remember? We're okay." 

Tony wakes up with a sob lodged in his throat. Steve? Where was Steve? And why couldn't he breathe? He throws back his sheets, hot and sweaty as they are and if he could, he'd claw his skin off too. 

He wags his head from side to side, once, twice, like a dog. It helps a little, like he's done a factory reset on his brain and he starts to come back to himself. And so does the pain. 

"Jarvis," he croaks. "J?"

"I'm here, sir." 

Jarvis's smooth, dulcet voice is like a balm to his soul. Tony blinks away the wetness gathered in the wells of his eyes. It was a dream. A terrible fantasy his stupid brain had manufactured as soon as he had closed his eyes. Like Steve would touch him, hold him...

"...Would you like for me to send for Captain Rogers, sir?"

Really? Again? Why would Jarvis suggest that after Tony had made himself clear the first time? Unless...

"Jarvis...have you done that before?"

Jarvis has no body. He is circuitry and code, one of Tony's first creations and there's nothing he could keep from Tony, but as his AI speaks, Tony swears he would be bowing his head in embarrassment. 

Jarvis speaks and a few things make sense to Tony in that moment, particularly the way Steve was always able to find him in those early days. The first night they had truly connected outside the physical. Steve, with his sleep-tousled hair and bunny slippers like he had just gotten out of bed. 

Tony thinks of hot cocoa kisses and red-gold hand-in-hand with blue-white and he wants to jump off of a fucking cliff—

"No. I don't...I don't need him, J. I don't want him." 

What a joke. 

"If you say so, sir."

Tony's made the right decision. He and Steve, it's a bad idea. A ticking time bomb that would have gotten them both killed if Tony hadn't put his foot down. 

Howard, bastard that he was, had had the right of it. Stark men weren't made for love, for a life of softness. That wasn't their legacy. It was blood and iron and an early grave. 

Tony could at least spare Steve the same fate.

***

The next night, Tony makes sure to go to bed early. Surely, it's the sleep deprivation doing him in, making him dream up, stupid, impossible things. He goes to sleep like a normal human being and wakes up screaming because tonight's dream is even worse. It's him and Steve but as they were before. Lost in each other. Happy. And completely blind to the danger around them. They're lying in his bed, bodies and souls so intertwined, Tony doesn't even notice the intruder in his tower until they're kicking down his door, a gun aimed right for Steve's head. 

The night after next, it's Steve falling from the helicarrier with the sea rising to swallow him. 

Every night, Tony goes to bed and every night, he loses Steve in every way imaginable.

The night terrors do him in and eventually, even hiding in the workshop is no option. Going back would be a waste of time, at least while he was running on fumes. Sleep deprivation and mechanical engineering surprisingly didn’t mix well. Instead, he does what he can on his StarkPad, just to keep himself busy. It’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s pulled an all-nighter and surely won’t be the last. Countless sleepless nights at MIT had prepared him for this very moment. 

But…he had had Rhodey then. To be fair, he still had Rhodey. He just wasn’t talking to him right now. Or any of the Avengers. 

It was nothing they did, and part of Tony does feel guilty for leaving them in the dark the way he did—

"You left me in the dark, sweetheart."

Tony flinches, and therein lies the problem. He can’t see Rhodey, or the rest of the Avengers, because then he would have to see Steve, and that’s something he just can’t handle right now. Not when he knows that whenever he was struggling, Jarvis would take it upon himself to contact Steve and Steve would always answer. Like Tony was another mission. A burden. 

Tony goes five more days in full isolation. He doesn't necessarily spend them in bliss. Bliss would imply a sense of peace and he felt anything but peaceful these days. Tony survives on a steady diet of coffee, barely sleeps, and when he does, nightmares of all sorts plague his mind. The Avengers and Rhodey have stopped asking Jarvis about him, Pepper's finally stopped calling, and Steve...Steve hasn't sought him out once. 

It's fine. That's what Tony had wanted. Still, it's hard not to seek Steve out. Tony doesn't even realize he's looking for him some days until he's pulling out two coffee mugs instead of one in the morning or rolling to the right side of his bed to make space for the body that isn't there. The memory of Steve clings to him like cigarette smoke; inescapable and everywhere all at once. 

Tony had forgotten how heavy, how utterly encompassing loneliness had felt. His limbs were stiff with it, his tongue heavy from disuse. And underneath it all, the slow lurching beat of his heart still pumping away. Still, he endured.

On the sixth day, Tony is lured out of his self-imposed exile when Jarvis alerts him of a Code Green. Not the most creative of emergency codes but it got its point across, point being that Bruce was seconds away from hulking out and going on a rampage. 

So far in the six months that they've all been living in the tower, they've never had a Code Green, until now. As much as Bruce may not trust himself, he still had impeccable control. Whatever had triggered a Code Green must have been serious. 

A thousand scenarios each worse than the last cycle through Tony's brain and everything else melts away. The bone-deep exhaustion, the soul-devouring loneliness, none of it matters, not when someone he loves is at stake. And he loves Bruce, loves him like a brother, loves him like he loves Rhodey, and Tony will be damned if he sees him hurt. 

Tony takes the stairs to Bruce's floor—the elevator would be too slow— in what feels like record time and it helps drive away the rest of the mindless fugue he had languished in for the past week. There was a mission to complete and nothing else. 

When he had first renovated the tower after the Chitauri invasion, Tony had created personal floors for each of the Avengers on a whim. On the off chance that they needed a place to retreat to when the expectations of their world got to be too much. He had never thought—never hoped—that it would be permanent. That they would call his tower home. 

As Tony looks around, Bruce has done just that. Bruce's personal floor is bright and airy, sky blues and light woods, and...perfectly intact. Bookcases lined neatly against the wall, pictures safe in their frames, and no sign of a Hulk-out anywhere. 

"I'm sorry,” Bruce says softly, stepping into Tony’s way and Tony understands. 

It’s another betrayal. One he definitely would have seen coming under different circumstances. He doesn’t even have it in him to blow up. He’s too sleep-deprived for that and right now two Bruce Banners are staring at him in concern. He blinks until the other Bruce disappears.

“You’re sorry?” Tony says and he hates how the words come out, all rough and stilted like he’s just learned how to speak. “For what, lying to me? Don’t worry about it, all my friends have at some point.” 

It’s a low jab, Tony knows it is, but Bruce’s responding flinch hurts just as much. 

“We didn’t know what else to do. One second, everything was fine, and we were…we were happy. Then you went ghost on us, Tony. God, we didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

“You thought I was dead? You thought I would do that to you? To all of you?”

“We didn’t want to assume the worse but you left us in the dark,” Bruce says and he might as well have yanked the proverbial arc reactor out of Tony’s chest. Tony lets out a sharp gasp like he’s been punched, but Bruce is still talking, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Tony’s seen him do it countless times, usually when he’s stressed and this time is no different.

“And Steve was about as forthright as you are before he left—“

“Steve left?” 

“He’s been gone since yesterday morning,” Bruce says quietly and Tony—Tony falters. Steve had never come to see him because he hadn’t been there in the first place and that…it bothers him. 

Bruce steadies him with ease, two surprisingly strong hands securing Tony by his arm. He lets Bruce lead him to a nearby chair and collapses into it like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

“Easy, Tony, easy,” Bruce says softly, rubbing circles into Tony’s back. His hand is an anchor to the physical world, and not the melancholia Tony has constructed for himself. 

Still, the nagging thought that Steve was gone—had left—because of him, was persistent. 

“Steve’s going to come back,” Bruce says firmly. “And we’re going to be alright. But we can’t do any of this without you. Both of you.”

Bruce pulls out a chair beside Tony and sits so they're face to face. This close, Tony can see the gray coming in Bruce’s sea of curls, the dark, pronounced circles underneath his eyes. He looks as ragged as Tony feels. 

Here Bruce was, trying to comfort Tony, and Tony could barely stand to look him in the eye. Yinsen had told him not to waste his life and here Tony was, doing just that. 

"Come back to us," Bruce whispers clutching at Tony's wrists like they were his lifeline. "Come back to me."

Maybe it's the lack of sleep and proper sustenance or both, but Tony finds himself saying something he would never admit in a million years under any other circumstances. "I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your—" 

"It's not about whether or not you deserve it," Bruce snaps, sharp as a whip, and cutting Tony off in the process. 

"I'm rotten, Bruce," Tony says and he can taste the rot on his tongue, the dark, worthless part of him that's been with him since birth. What good was he, really? What good was Tony Stark after all the dirt he had dealt? What good was Iron Man? 

"Then so am I," Bruce says and firmly cuts Tony off before he can even protest. "You're so quick to defend me, but won't give yourself the same courtesy. Why?" 

His words cut deep down to the marrow. It's hard to shake them away, and Bruce latches onto the opening in Tony's walls while he can. 

"What is it about you that makes you think you're so awful? That you don't deserve love—"

"Because it's me, Bruce! Because I'm Tony fucking Stark and I was born with blood on my hands. That's my legacy. Nothing I do will ever change that—"

"Then why bother? Why bother with any of this if you don't think it matters?"

"I don't—I—"

"Don't say you don't know," Bruce says. "You're too smart for that. You know what I think?"

Bruce doesn't even give him time to answer. "I think your heart's too big for your body." 

Tony had been called heartless more times than he could count, but his heart too big for his body? Some would say it didn't even exist. 

Bruce reaches out, slowly, carefully, like Tony's going to bite him. He reaches until his palm connects with Tony's sternum. His heart lurches to life then and it hurts, God, does it hurt, like it's trying to leap right out of his chest.

"Yes, you're Tony Stark, and you have blood on your hands, but you also have love in your heart. I know it. I've seen it."

Tony’s eyes sting. He blinks away the tears before they fall but it doesn’t matter; Bruce has already seen them. 

“Your heart is too big for your body, and that scares you. You try to run from it, but Tony you can’t outrun yourself. You can lie to yourself all you want. You can say you’re rotten and you don’t deserve love, but I know the truth.” 

“…And what’s the truth?”

“Agent Romanoff has issued a call to assemble,” JARVIS says, startling them both. Bruce removes his hand from Tony’s chest and Tony feels like he can breathe again. 

“Is this another trick?”

“No,” Bruce winces but shakes his head. “This is real.”

“Then let’s go,” Tony says, rising out of his seat and already headed for the door. 

“Tony—“

Tony freezes in the doorway, and it takes everything in him not to tremble. 

“What?” He bites out. 

“…We’ve got your back. Always.”

***

Tony and Bruce are the last to enter the war room, all eyes immediately hone in on them. Natasha stands at the head of the table, level-headed and alert, Thor and Clint flanking her in their respective seats. Steve is nowhere to be found and it's fine. They'll get through it. He doesn't miss the way their eyes linger on Bruce or the subtle shake of Bruce's head as they take their seats.

He wants to say something, wants to mention the lies, the deceit, but his pride won’t allow it. If he talks then it means that they got to him, that Bruce got to him and he won’t give the others the satisfaction.

“What do we got?” Tony says, in lieu of a greeting and Natasha is, thankfully, business as usual. 

“Larissa, Greece,” she says. “We think it’s one of the old bases they've made home.”

Tony thinks of everything he knows about Larissa. It's inland, but not too far from the coast of Greece…and one of the most populated cities in the Thessaly region. “You think or you know?”

“Same signs as the one in the Alps,” Natasha purses her lips. “Residents going missing, ties to HYDRA’s glory days and…” Her eyes flicker over to Bruce.

“And what?”

“Gamma rays. Lots of ‘em.” 

That had been one of their breakthroughs. The scepter emitted gamma rays to the likes of which Tony had never seen, aside from the Tesseract. He has the strangest feeling that those two things are connected, but the Tesseract is long gone, back on Asgard where it belongs. He could look at Howard's old research notes, see if anything might help them get any closer to locating the scepter. 

It helps, to have a threat to focus on, somewhere to channel his anger and frustration. "You think the scepter is emitting gamma rays to that capacity? And the EPA isn't on top of that?"

Bruce raises a hand. "Well, technically it wouldn't be the EPA. It's the Hellenic Ministry of—"

"Not the time for semantics, dude," Clint says. Tony can already feel the migraine coming on.

"Or maybe it is." 

Tony's throat closes at the sight of Steve, sweeping through the door, right in the middle of their meeting.

It's been too long since he's seen Steve's face and he doesn't know whether to look away or stare dead on.

He's still handsome, outrageously so even with the heavy bags underneath his eyes and messy, windswept hair. He's clearly just come back from wherever he fucked off to, clad in a brown leather jacket and blue jeans that have no right to look as good on him as they do. His eyes rove over Steve obsessively, checking for the wounds that aren't there, that only make themselves known in dreams. A thousand questions come to Tony then: why did Steve leave, why did he come back, why didn't he stay, but all that comes out is "Why?" and maybe he's asking every question at once. 

Steve shifts his attention entirely to Tony and it's overwhelming. The full heat of Steve's gaze is enough to make his ears pop like he's standing at a cliff's edge. "You're the genius," Steve says coolly. "Don't you know everything?" He takes a seat next to Bruce…and right across from Tony.

“You think the government’s in on it,” Tony says, answering one of his questions. 

“It would explain the lack of interference, it being an inside job.” 

“And if it is, what’s the plan here, Steve? Look, we got lucky last time. That base was sequestered away in the middle of the fucking Alps. Larissa’s a city and cities mean civilians—“

“I know the risk, Tony. Don't you think I've thought of that? Just like you? God—"

“Does anyone else feel like they’re missing something?” Thor mutters none too subtly and it takes all of Tony’s willpower not to scream.

“All the time, buddy,” Clint says.

“That’s enough,” Natasha snaps, commanding their attention back to her. It’s not the first time he’s been subjected to her glare, nor will it be the last but it still makes Tony feel like he’s some dumb little kid.

“HYDRA won’t have to send anyone after us,” she continues, looking each one of them in the eye. “We’re doing a bang-up job tearing ourselves apart.”

Her voice cracks like a whip and it’s enough to make all of them flinch. Shame boils inside him and his stomach roils like he’s going to vomit. That, coupled with the ever-building headache behind his eyelids has him ready to keel over. 

“The longer we sit here tearing each other down, that’s another minute the scepter is in HYDRA’s hands. That’s one more person they’re poking and prodding at like a fucking rat. That’s what matters.” 

The scepter is and perhaps always will be a dark shadow looming over Tony’s head. Natasha's reminder is enough to bring him back down to earth. He thinks of Elena Senn burnt beyond recognition and swears he can taste smoke.

"I'm calling a recess," Natasha says, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her forehead. "We clearly need it." 

Slowly the others file out of the room casting lingering glances at both Steve and Tony on their way out, until it was just them and Natasha who remained. Bruce's gaze was especially pointed. Tony tries his best to ignore it. 

"Get your shit together," Natasha says quietly but her words are still deafening in their sincerity. "Or I do it for you." She leaves purposefully shutting the door behind her.

It's just him and Steve, on opposite sides of the table. It might as well be a canyon; Tony has never been further away from Steve. Neither of them makes a move to leave, but what is there to be said between them? Tony had let Steve go and he had no choice but to make his peace with it.

 "I'm sorry," Steve says roughly, all of the combativeness and snark from earlier leaving him as quickly as it came. 

"For what?" Tony says, maybe a bit too harshly judging by the way Steve flinches. "You haven't done anything to me. Hell, according to Bruce, you haven't even been here." And that didn't sound bitter and accusatory at all. 

Steve had left and Tony had been alone and a part of him that he tries to smother to death can't help but wonder, "Why didn't he come for me?" 

Steve Rogers was notoriously stubborn, Tony was more than familiar with that now, so why did he just let Tony call the shots? Why didn't he fight? Why didn't he stay—

"Can you fucking blame me? One minute things were fine. It wasn't perfect, but…we were good. We were so good, Tony, and then…" Steve's voice cracks but he doesn't need to finish his sentence. Tony already knows what he's going to say. After six months, it feels like he knows Steve better than he knows himself some days. 

"I just…I never thought you would run," Tony whispers, mostly to himself, but Steve hears him anyway. 

"It didn't help," Steve says quietly. "I saw you everywhere." 

Tony crosses his arms in front of his chest, but that won't stop him from breaking apart. Not after an admission like that. Steve had haunted Tony all this time, and it looked like Tony had done the same. What did it mean? Tony wasn't the type to believe in curses or destiny, but sometimes, Steve felt like both. Like something sent from the gods to lead him into sin or absolution.

"I don't know what it was like for you," Steve says, locking eyes with Tony. "But I couldn't shake you. No matter how much I tried I—"

"Don't," Tony blurts out, interrupting him. "I can't hear this."

"Why not? It's how I feel. I can't tell you how I feel?"

Tony shakes his head hard. "You shouldn't—you shouldn't feel anything about me."

Steve's rising out of his seat and in seconds he's in Tony's face. Tony plants his feet, stands solid like a tree, and hopes he seems more steadfast than he feels. But God, having Steve this close nearly makes him shiver, after the days, weeks without. There's fire in Steve's eyes, and a part of Tony is desperate to burn. 

"It's not me, is it?" Steve says, and the way he says it, Tony knows it's not a question and for the second time today, someone is seeing past every single mask he's donned and clawing the truth out of him. "It's you. You don't think you deserve it, do you?"

Tony says nothing, but his face must betray him. Steve's face twists into a grimace and he's like an animal, lashing out with the intent to kill.

"God, is that what you think? That you have to fucking earn love like an animal? Like a goddamn dog? Sit, roll over, play dead and someone will throw you a bone?" 

The words hurt, like a kick in the teeth. They hurt because they ring with the truth, and a fever seizes Tony. A bitter burning thing that leaves him seething. How dare he? How dare he throw Tony’s feelings in his face like he was stupid for having them? 

"What else am I supposed to do? This?" Tony gestures between the both of them, poking Steve hard in the chest, in the process. "This is a fucking transaction. I give and people take, Steve. They take and they take and take until I have nothing left. That's how this goes. That's how it's always been. One day I won't be able to give you anything, or—or you won't want it, but either way I'm the one left empty.” Tony blinks, surprised to feel the telltale wetness of tears clumping his lashes together. He hadn’t cried in years, not since his parents had died and all the goodness in his life had died with them. He doesn't bother wiping them. Steve's already seen, the anger seeping through his very pores dying in an instant. The anger leaves Tony too and all he’s left with is a bone-deep exhaustion and of course, the ever-present shame. What was he ashamed of? It’d be easier to list the things he took pride in.

"No," Steve says. He's shaking and fuck, Tony wants to touch him. He wants to be the one who takes, wants to have Steve completely to himself but that would go against everything he had sworn not to do when he broke things off.

"No," Steve says again, more firm this time. "You don't get it, do you?" 

"Get what? There's nothing to 'get'. We both knew this was a horrible idea and—"

All this time, with them shouting at each other, Tony hadn't even noticed them inching closer until he and Steve were damn near nose to nose. He sees the moment Steve snaps, the way his eyes darken, and next thing Tony knows, Steve is seizing him around the waist and it’s like all the times before. Before Tony had known he was in love, before they had fallen apart and it's so. fucking. Easy. It's so easy, Tony could fucking cry at the relief of Steve's hands on him, hot and possessive and exactly what he needs.

"You don't get it," Steve growls, pushing them backwards, until Tony's flush with the table.

Steve kisses him then, until Tony’s breathless, gasping into his mouth like that’ll help him breathe. Like every kiss isn’t killing him. 

Steve slips his tongue into Tony's mouth like it belongs there like Tony was a fool for ever shutting him out. Tony lets him do what he wants. Digs his fingers into Steve's hair, tugging at the short strands, just the way Steve likes. Steve grabs him by the thighs, and lifts so Tony's sitting on the table and Steve's stepping into the v of his legs, spread open as they are. 

He's dying or he's being reborn, but either way, Steve's at the center of it all, beautiful, terrible, Steve Rogers, kissing his lips, his nose, his neck. 

Tony's vision swims and it could be the lack of sleep, or Steve's teeth on his neck, or both at this point, but he finds it hard to care. He breaths in the scent of leather and Steve's cologne, that fucking lemon and pepper and sycamore, and it might as well be a line of cocaine. He's as good as an addict right now, high off every bit of Steve that he can get. Until it all comes crashing down.

"I love you," Steve whispers against his skin.

Every muscle in Tony's body seizes like someone's slammed their foot on the brakes, except it's his brain going ninety miles an hour. Steve withdraws, sensing his discomfort and Tony wants to punch him for it. Sometimes, he hates that Steve can read him so well, can see how close he is to falling apart. He wants to yank Steve back in for yet another kiss and he wants to push him away for the sake of his own sanity.

"I love you," Steve says again and it might as well be a knife, a sharp and precise hit to Tony's guts. How could he say that? How could…how could Steve believe that?

"Don't," Tony whispers. 

"Why not? I'm stating a fact." 

"What?" Tony slides off the table, and just barely stands on shaky legs. "God, Steve, that's not a fact. That's—that's an opinion if anything, and an incorrect one at that."

"If it's an opinion, how can it be incorrect?" Steve asks and the utter audacity of him has Tony sputtering. 

"That's why it's a fact. Water is wet, the sky is blue, I fucking love you." 

Tony shakes his head again and again like that will make the words go away, like it will make Steve go away, but of course that infamous Rogers stubbornness is making itself known. 

"Either way, you're wrong," Tony says. 

"Is this what we're doing?" 

"Yes, because you're an idiot."

"That's what love does, Tony." 

"Please, stop," Tony says, taking a shuddering breath. "Stop saying that word."

Steve cups Tony's face with both hands, until Tony has no choice but to look at him, and bear witness to his confession. His pupils are blown, the blue of his eyes nothing but a thin ring. Steve's lips are pink and kiss-swollen. Tony can't help but commit the sight to memory. 

"Can you look me in the eyes, Tony? Can you look me in the eyes, and say that you don't love me? That I'm fucking crazy, and this thing between us is all in my head?" 

And for the life of him, Tony can't. He can't because it doesn't make any sense, that someone like Steve could possibly love the likes of Tony fucking Stark. It goes against everything Tony's ever known, ever heard. Tony is a man of facts and numbers and all the facts tell him that Steve Rogers is a good man and Tony…Tony isn't. They're incongruent. Two puzzle pieces that will never fit together no matter how much they try to slot into each other's lives. Steve can fuck him but he can't love him. No one can. 

Instead of saying that, Tony closes his eyes. It's enough of an answer.

Steve laughs and it's a bitter thing. Nothing at all like the golden timber Tony is used to. "You're a lot of things, Tony. I didn't think you were a coward." 

He lets go of Tony's face and when he opens his eyes, Steve's leaving the war room, the door closing behind him with a resounding slam.

“Your heart’s too big for your body,” Bruce had said. Tony wants to claw it out.

[trashboatprince]

Given the tardis enthusiasm for landing in modern day london; it appears outside the bookshop, doc leaves, Aziraphale doesn’t notice (it's a perfectly normal police box, you see them everywhere) but Crowley convinces him to investigate. Tardis lets them because idk transdimensional face id accepts crowley or something?

I have a strong feeling the TARDIS enjoys all the silly human-shaped beings that share her thief's many faces (many a poor actor and/or character who happens to be in the UK has almost been kidnapped, I figure).

Warning: don't think about the fact that Doctor Who exists as a series in Good Omens but Gallifrey is also a real planet according to Crowley's Big Book of Astronomy from season one

On with the fic!

--

How on Earth Aziraphale refused to accept that there is no way an 1960s police box just randomly showed up outside of his shop as anything but normal was beyond Crowley, but that wasn't going to stop them from dragging the angel out of the shop to see what was up with it.

Something about that big, blue box made Crowley's alarm bells go off, something wasn't... Earthly about it.

"Crowley, really. It could just be an art piece!" Aziraphale rolled his eyes as they pulled him onto the pavement. "SoHo does have some scattered about, I wouldn't be shocked if it is."

"First off, you need a permit and permission to set up art pieces in locations. Second, I know well enough that you did not sign nor agree to having something set up in front of the shot. If you had, I would never hear the end of it because you love art. Third, it smells..." They sniffed the air as they stopped in front of the box.

Crowley walked around it, sniffing it some more, tongue sometimes slipping out to get a better taste of the air. "It smells like time."

"Time?" Aziraphale frowned. "How does time have a smell?"

"It does, it's... it's a strange smell, like... uhhh... blue, the number ten, affection, and... petrichor. Or at least that's what it smells like to me, remember, I have control over time. For a short while."

"That doesn't explain anything." Aziraphale said. "Crowley, leave it alone."

"Nope." The demon knocked on the door a few times. They twitched when they felt a pulse come from the box and a strange hum. "Oooh... that's interesting."

"What is?"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and grinned. "I think it's alive." Before Aziraphale could ask what he meant by that, Crowley snapped their fingers and the doors opened.

There was a strong smell of time inside of the dimly lit room that was much, much larger than the outside made it out to be, along with the scent of gunpowder and raspberries, the smell of space. There was a strong feeling inside, of curiosity and interest, along with caution.

They grinned and stepped inside, ignoring Aziraphale's protests and looked around. The lights brightened and illuminated the large, metal and glass room. Crowley saw something in the center of the room, moving and blinking, and they ran forward. "Look at all this! Amazing!"

"Crowley, get out of there!" Aziraphale snapped from the doorway. "You have no idea what this is, it could be a trap from Heaven or Hell!"

"But it's neither demonic nor angelic in nature." Crowley replied. "Can't you feel it? She's something else, something different!"

"She?"

"Yeah, just... got a feelin', makes me want to call her a... well, her, she! Come in, she's not gonna do anythin'!" They paused, looking up when they felt something brushed at their mind, a warning. "Well, as long as we don't mess with her stuff or fly off through the time vortex."

Aziraphale stepped inside, carefully, and looked at Crowley in confusion. "Time vortex?"

"Old project from back in the day, some of us were tasked in creating the stream of time in order to, ya know, have time flowin' throughout the universe and all that. Hard to access, but I know some aliens can do it, even some angels and demons have some access, I do. It's how I stop time-"

They stopped and gasped, grinning. "Oh, oh! You're from an alien world, aren't you! One of the old projects for life, I'm guessing!"

There was a positive hum from inside the room, startling Aziraphale but exciting Crowley. "Ancient, living time machine that travels through space as well. This has gotta be a genuine Gallifreyan tech! Where's your pilot, you beautiful thing?"

"Crowley, you know what she is?" The angel asked, looking about the room, his curiosity could be just as bad as Crowley's own.

"Of course I do! I worked on that one! Angels sensitive to time had the task of setting up those plans! Hmmm, we should probably go, Time Lords and Ladies are so weird about strangers in their TARDISes."

"Tar- Crowley, I never understand a word you say when you get all science fiction-y."

"Ha! Now you know how I feel when you try to explain to me about the differences between certain recipes when the outcomes are the same thing." Crowley smirked, stepping away from the console, but not before giving it a loving pat.

Aziraphale huffed and made his way out the doors, Crowley following close behind. They went back up to the steps of the shop, but not before Crowley felt someone run right past them, bumping shoulders with them.

"Hey!" They snapped and the figure, with dark, wild hair and a blue coat, glanced over for a second, startling Crowley.

"Oh, sorry about that! In a bit of a hurry!" They grinned, brown eyes bright, curious, and so very, very ancient. They then ran into the open doors of the TARDIS, which closed with a snap.

Crowley and Aziraphale watched in wonder as it started to fade in and out, with people not paying any attention to it. Then it was gone, like it had never been there before.

"Did... did they have-?" Crowley started, looking at Aziraphale.

"I think they had your face, dear." Aziraphale blinked, eyes wide in shock.

Then the noise that had accompanied the fading returned and the blue box returned right where it had been. The doors opened when it was solid again, and the stranger poked their head out, staring right at Crowley.

"Excuse me, but do you happen to have my face?" They asked.

Crowley made a face. "I think I should be asking you that."

--

Crowley seems like they would be so excited about the TARDIS. Also, Crowley meets Fourteen! :D (It's always Ten or even Tentoo, why not Fourteen, yeah? Especially since David went right from finishing season 2 of Good Omens to starting the Doctor Who specials)

[ellissay-morningstar]

DWC November 2023, Day 2,Success/Sin

Ellissay looked at the bottom of the once more empty glass. She wasn't drunk, but she could feel the effects of the alcohol as it made its way through her system. She rocked the glass back and forth in her hand as if more drink would magically appear if she stared at it long enough.

Finally, she sat the glass down and waved to the bartender, who raised an eyebrow at her, a woman drinking alone on a weeknight. But she didn't owe him or anyone else an explanation. It wasn't like she would pour out her soul to some random stranger who could probably care less.

Despite his seeming trepidation, the man made his way over and poured her more of the snowplum brandy. She swirled the liquid in the glass a few times, watching it spin, which ultimately made her a bit light-headed. Finally, she swallowed the brandy and sat the glass down before turning on her barstool to take in her surroundings.

Not much in the way of a crowd tonight. After all, it was a Monday evening, and most were probably home with their loved ones. She smirked to herself. She would be home, too, if she had a home. Instead, here she was at some dive working a case cause she had to somehow put food on the table and pay the rent for wherever her next job took her.

She heard the scrape of the door opening, and her eyes flickered to the guy who had walked into the room. She didn't have to be told that this was her target. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smile that wouldn't quit had been the description she had been given. They weren't lying. He swaggered in like he owned the place because, from her understanding, he did.

Also, from her understanding, he was using the joint as a front for something nefarious. If her intel was on point. He had become infamous in underground circles known as the heartbreaker. Though he seemed good at keeping his head down and hands clean. SI:7 hadn't found a stitch of evidence on him or his operation in the months they had been tracking him. The only reason she had put two and two together was that she knew a guy who knew a guy. But isn't that how it always goes? And hellfire, she could always be wrong.

She slips off the barstool, moves forward as if she doesn't see the man, and bumps straight into him. He seems for a moment that he will yell at her until his eyes graze over her features, and she sees them soften. "You alright?" he says instead of whatever harsh words had almost come out of his mouth.

Pretending to have slipped, she had grabbed his wrist, her nails biting into the skin, though he seemed not to notice. Ellissay pulled back, and for a moment, his eyes caught hers, and damn it, but she felt herself stare back. Immediately, she broke the stare, genuine heat coming to her cheeks. "My apologies. I should watch where I am going or perhaps have a little less to drink on an empty stomach." She lets herself chuckle slightly.

She straightens herself up, and her hands slip from his wrist, and his lips curl into a grin as if she were a canary and he was a cat. She might have enjoyed the attention any other time, but not tonight. Tonight, she had business to take care of. She composed herself and once more apologized, trying her best to play coy, which, truth be told, wasn't her strong suit. Thankfully, he seemed to be in a hurry and didn't seem to notice.

She realizes he is speaking to her. "You sure you are okay, miss? Can I call a taxi service for you?" Ellissay shakes her head and tells the man it won't be necessary, and he nods and bids her good evening. He is gone, disappearing down the stairs. Which is just as well. The poison from her nails would take hold in about five to ten minutes. The plan was to ensure he was in his office when it took effect and passed out.

She turns toward the bartender and feigns a bit of embarrassment. "Your restroom, please." He points downstairs and to the left. And just like that, she has a reason for going downstairs.

She makes her way down into the dimly lit hallway, but instead of turning left, she makes her way right, following a sliver of light shining from beneath a closed door. She takes a deep breath, calculates how much time has passed doing the mental math, and takes several deep breaths before she pushes the door open, hoping it is the right room.

And there he is, passed out in the big chair behind a rather large desk covered in papers. Ellissay rushes over to the desk and scans the documents. She wouldn't have much time. Either he would wake, or the bartender would get suspicious if she didn't return. She pulls a small camera from a bag at her side and starts taking picture after picture. She would have to review the documents later to see if any were useful.

He stirred, and she knew she was running out of time. For a moment, she feels guilty about drugging a man who may or may not be innocent of any wrongdoing. But she had at least succeeded in tonight's plan. Perhaps tonight would prove him innocent, or maybe it would condemn him of the sins he had committed. Either way, her job was done.

@daily-writing-challenge

[hecatemoon87]

Eames Wins a Bet

Read the introduction → Eames Hires a New Recruit 

Warnings-mentions of sex, undertones of smut. minors not allowed.

Part I

"This is ridiculous," Lila muttered, folding her arms and frowning. She was wearing an elegant green ball gown, looking beautiful but pissed. 

"You're just upset because you lost," Eames said, adjusting a cufflink as he looked himself over in the hotel room’s mirror. 

"I lost because you cheated," she said, flipping her silky black hair over her shoulder.

“There’s nothing more unattractive than being a bad sport, Lila,” he said, turning to face her. 

"Oh, shut up! How would you like a vibrator that isn't under your control stuck up your pussy," she said, walking over to poke him in the chest. 

"I don't see how that's my problem, darling," he said, pulling out a small remote from his left pocket. "I think it’s time for a quick test.”

Lila's eyes widened and she lunged for the remote in his hand. The vibrator was big enough to fit snugly inside her opening, with an extension resting on her clit. But not large enough to hinder her from natural movement. Eames moved his hand out of reach and pressed the button.

A strong wave of vibration titillated her pussy and nipped at her clit, causing Lila to gasp. "Fuck…oh, god…Eames!"

“I do love it when you moan my name, dear Lila,” he said, teasing.

"I wasn't moaning your stupid name! I was cursing you! What setting is that thing on?!" she demanded. 

Eames glanced down and chuckled. "Oops, it was on high, terribly sorry. Let's test it on low, shall we?" 

"Eames, don't you dare-ehhhhuhhh," Lila said, trying to stop him, but it was too late. A softer, but no less arousing current passed through her delicate womanhood. Eames released the button, allowing Lila to regain her composure. She took a deep breath and looked him squarely in the face. “I hate you.” she said with conviction. 

Eames looked deep into her eyes and replied, “You know what darling, I don’t give a damn.”

The two thieves glared at each other with mutual frustration. They had once been lovers, more of a fling than an actual relationship, yet it had been fueled by unbridled passion. That had been ten months ago. Recently they had been reunited through a job that Cobb had extended to them both.

Two weeks prior to the job, which was starting that very evening, Arthur was bored. He knew full well the dynamic between Lila and Eames. He considered them very much alike and that’s why they clashed at times. They would argue about how a job should proceed and Lila always thought she was smarter than Eames. It amused Arthur to watch Eames get so flustered over her. 

So Arthur concocted a bet, in hopes that Lila would win. But surprisingly, Eames had been successful in the matter. The terms of that bet weren’t privy to Arthur, but between the two contenders it went something like this.

“What happens if I win?” Eames asked, an arm stretched over the length of a leather booth.

“Absolutely nothing, because I will win,” Lila said, sipping her brandy. 

“There it is, that fucking annoying thing you do,” he said, pointing a finger at her accusingly. 

“What thing? You mean being smarter than you?” she said, smiling innocently. 

“No, being cocky,” he said. 

“Oh, please. You are the cockiest man I’ve ever met,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Look, I know what I want if I win.”

“Pray tell, I’m just dying to know,” Eames said with mock interest. 

“I get to peg you,” she said, leaning forward and skimming the brim of her drinking glass with her index finger while staring at him intently. 

Eames blinked and then laughed softly. “Jesus, of course you’d want that. Little miss, I have to be in control of everything.” 

“That’s what I want. And yes, in hypothetical terms, if you win, what do you want?”

Eames took a deep breath and thought for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “The gala, the one that Cobb wants us to do the job. You have to wear a vibrator during it.”

“That’s silly. So what if I’m wearing one?”

“I’m in control of the remote,” Eames said, locking her firmly in his gaze. 

She squirmed a little in her seat then nodded. “Fine, but it’s not like you’ll win anyway.”

In the end, Lila lost the bet. During their competition, the two had not gotten along well. They were constantly arguing and Lila accused Eames of cheating. That had royally pissed Eames off because he had not cheated. He hated being called something that wasn’t true. Sure, cheeky bastard or English cunt, that was fine. But a liar or cheater? No, absolutely not. And so the two former lovers were at odds.

“Now, why don’t you start acting like a big girl, hmmm?” Eames said, wagging the remote in front of her sharp emerald green eyes. “And come along so we can get this night over with.”

Eames had to admit, she was looking rather stunning. He wouldn’t have minded a quick shag back in the hotel room, but he had a feeling Lila wasn’t in the mood. She was too busy sulking over her loss. If she would have won, it would have been disastrous. She’d probably have found the largest dildo and would have made the whole pegging ordeal unbearable. It was better that he was in control. 

During the cab ride they sat in silence. Lila refused to look at Eames, but it didn’t matter. He’d have his fun either way that night. Once they arrived, Eames got out of the cab and then opened Lila’s door. He extended his hand to her and she eventually took it because it was difficult standing up in the dress. 

Now on her two feet she pulled her hand away from him in annoyance and glared at him. 

“That won’t do,” he chided. “Where’s that beautiful smile?” Eames slipped his hand into his pocket and pressed the button. He watched her shudder, closing her doe eyes, her long lashes pressed upon her chestnut skin, a plump red lip drawn into her mouth as she bit down on it. 

Eames watched her intently, she looked devastatingly alluring as she held back a little moan. He let the button go and she sighed. Taking a breath, she smoothed out the front of her dress and then gave Eames a pleasant smile. “There, is that better?” she asked, mockingly. 

“Good girl,” Eames said, placing his hand on her lower back and guiding her up the museum’s marble stairs. As they stood in line to enter the gala with their invitations Lila whispered, “You are such an English prick.”

“And you’re a Yankee slut who, if I recall correctly, enjoyed giving me head,” he said under his breath and smiled to the front desk as he provided his invitation. 

Upon entering the main hall, Arthur, who was on his first drink spotted Lila and Eames. He sauntered over for some entertainment. 

“Well, hello,” he said, raising his glass and then drinking from it. “How’s everything?”

“It couldn’t be better,” Eames said, smugly. 

Lila smiled and gave Arthur a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you, have you been working out?” she said, smoothing a hand over Arthur’s lapel. 

Eames knew she was overselling it, probably to make him feel jealous. But he’d remedy that. As she pulled back Eames hit the button. Lila inhaled sharply and bit her lower lip and shuddered. 

“She’s perfectly fine,” Eames said, smiling as he released the button.

“Um, you alright Lila?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, give it a rest will you!” she hissed. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked, confused. 

“Nothing, she just has her knickers in a twist over the bet she lost,” Eames said. 

Arthur was about to inquire for more information, but Cobb had come up through the crowd to join them.

“Eames, Arthur,” Cobb said, patting them both on the arm. Then upon seeing Lila, Cobb gave her a hug. “Good to see ya, kid.”

“Hi Dom. I know, I know. You told me to call, but I got caught up in some things,” she said. 

“Yes, you did, didn’t you, Lila?” Eames said, giving her a cocky smile. 

“Oh…you son of a bitch,” she said, glaring at him. “I need a drink.” She turned abruptly to go find the bar. 

“Uh, Whisky on the rocks, you remember the brand, don’t you, darling?” Eames said. She spun around and glared at him, but he arched his eyebrow as if to say, “Do you want to test me?”

Lila faltered a moment then said, “Of course, anything for you Ian.” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm and then she headed over to the bar. Both Arthur and Cobb looked at Eames and asked, “What did you do?”

“I won a bet, and she’s paying for it,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Paying for it, how exactly?” Cobb said, putting his hands in his pockets, a look of concern on his face. He had been friends with her father before he died. He watched out for Lila like a little sister. 

“I think considering the nature of the relationship you have with her, I’m not going to tell you,” Eames said. 

“Jesus, Eames. I need her for the job, okay? Don’t piss her off too much,” Cobb said, sighing heavily. 

“What about me? You can tell me, right?” Arthur asked, curiously. 

Cobb shook his head, “I’m going to wander off and scout out some of the merchandise, please don’t fuck this up, Ian.” With that said, Cobb drifted back into the crowd. 

Eames took a deep breath and simply looked about the party. Arthur stood impatiently, waiting for Eames to divulge what he had done to Lila. 

“For christ sakes, what did you do?” Arthur finally said. 

“Oh? You want to know?” Eames said, teasingly. 

“Fucks sakes,” Arthur said under his breath, then louder he said, “Yes, Eames. I want to know.”

“She’s wearing a vibrator and I have the remote,” Eames said, pulling it out of his pocket. 

“Are you serious?” Arthur said with disgust. 

“Don’t be so judgy. She wanted to peg me. I think what I’m doing is only fair,” Eames said, defending himself. 

“She wanted to peg you?” Arthur said, laughing. 

“Yeah, now shut it,” Eames said, watching Lila make her way back to them. 

“Here,” she said, handing Eames the whisky tumbler. She took her own glass and chugged it. 

“Easy, darling. Don’t get drunk on the job, hmmm?” Eames said, pushing back a stray lock behind her ear. 

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, pushing his hand away. Although, secretly liking his attention. 

“So you were going to peg Eames?” Arthur said. 

Lila shrugged, “Yes, so? Many men enjoy that sort of thing. Eames would have liked it…eventually.”

“Yeah, let’s stop talking about my ass being pounded, cheers,” Eames said, then took a deep drink from his own glass. 

“I think you should at least consider it,” Arthur said, still laughing, tears forming in his eyes. 

“Fuck off, Arthur,” Eames said, unamused. 

“And yet it's perfectly acceptable for you to be controlling my public orgasms?” Lila said, with the same unamused tone. 

“Yes, it is,” Eames said, without hesitation. 

“And why is that?” she said, annoyed. 

“Because you need to learn a little humility,” Eames said, taking another drink. 

“Why? Because she’s smarter than you?” Arthur said, knowing full well it would stoke a fire within Lila. 

“Is that what this is all about?” she said, folding her arms and glaring at Eames. 

“Fuck…shut up Arthur. Don’t you have something else to be doing besides getting her all riled up?”

“No, not at the moment,” Arthur said, smiling. 

“I am smarter than you, does that upset you, Ian?” she said. 

“First of all, you’re not. Well, maybe just a little, but that’s not the point. And secondly, you lost the bloody bet so stop trying to get out of it!” Eames said a bit too loudly. 

Some people glanced over, but they gradually moved on as the noise in the crowd muffled most of the heat in Eames' voice. 

“Well if you hadn’t cheated…” she started to say, but Eames growled and hit the button. He moved in close, pulling her into him. He held her against him as she clutched at his suit and released a sexy moan into his shoulder. He held the button a bit longer, then released it. 

“That should cool you off,” Eames said. Arthur blinked and then looked down, his cheeks slightly red from hearing her moan. 

“You jerk!” she said, embarrassedly. 

“Deal with it, Lila. If it had been the other way around, you’d have been worse,” Eames said. 

Lila pushed out her bottom lip and pouted. “This isn’t fair.”

Part II coming soon

[madaboutmunson]

Hell Raiser - Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 |

"Ok, ok, you know what. You got me, 'm drunk. But theeee only-eee reason I am, 's becuz of your stoooopid carnival. So you can lemme in, orrr you can call the paramedics and have a big ol' scene when I try'n scale the barriers." Eddie slurred and swayed at the window reflection of the person in the ticket booth. 

The tooth-braced, acne-riddled teen rolled their eyes, "You know what? They aren't paying me enough to deal with this. I'm gonna let you in, but just go in, get your shit and leave. Otherwise, I will call the cops!" Eddie followed the sound and actually faced the kid in the booth. Narrowing one eye and slapping his hand on the window, he pressed a kiss against the glass.

“May the gods bless you in this life and the next, kid!” Eddie yelled back as he tried to vault over the barrier that, unfortunately, the kid had opened at that precise moment, and there was a rapid meeting of Eddie’s whole body and the ground. He quickly jumped back up, well, if you could call it a jump, and swayed on the spot for a moment as some giggling girls passed him by. He pumped his eyebrows at them, “Ladies,” He said with a low bow that almost sent him careering towards the ground again. He gave them his most charming smile, or at least that's how he thought it looked, but it was useless. They just kept walking.

Eddie reached into the front of his jeans, retrieving his hip flask.  He had decided that pockets would be stupid in case he got searched, not thinking that hiding it there would also look highly suspicious, possibly giving them more reasons to kick him out.  He took another huge swig of vodka, which honestly might as well have been paint stripper from its aroma and taste, and began the trek to the tent that had ruined his life.

The walk over was a dizzying mix of emotions for Eddie. He was pissed, first and foremost. This fucking scam had othered him so that even the guys that looked up to him now pitied him, and that would not do. No way. Eddie was the leader of the Hellfire Club. Eddie was the leader of Corroded Coffin. No lack of a girlfriend was gonna change that. That weird guy was gonna fix this, he’d get his girl, and everything would go back to the way it was. And that was where the second strong emotion consuming him from the guts up came into play. Every girl that passed his way, he’d give them a sweet smile and flash them his big soulful eyes hopefully, but all he got in return were looks of disgust, patronising laughter, or for a guy to step in between them. He didn't have to do this if he could find her before the tent. Each rejection fueled Eddie’s anger, not at the girls but at this carnival guy. Eddie was more than aware he wasn't a pin-up for the Hakwin’s female population, but at least he wasn’t an asshole. At least he wasn’t some hump-em-dump-em guy. At least he gave you who he was from day one.

By the time he got to the tent entrance, he had planned at least ten ways to ruin this guy’s life. He stopped for a moment, for a smoke, before he would unleash his wrath onto this creep. His eye bore holes into the ground. He wondered if he made them big enough, it might swallow him up, and this embarrassment would be over. He felt a nudge in his ribs, and a sweet smell filled the air around him. He squinted his eyes a little to find Donna, a recently graduated member of Hellfire Club. He gave her a sloppy salute as he swayed involuntarily. "Ho-ho, well, If it isn't Donna, the Delinquent," he chuckled, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. It's all a bit of show for her, "Thought you would have left this shitpit by now, dearest, for more accommodating shores," he dropped his head into a tilt. Her happy-to-see-him expression dropped to concern as her eyes studied him.

"Yeah, was gonna, but er, can't resist a carnival, you know?" She dragged her words out, still analysing him, "You ok? Because you look like hell, Ed," she said, shuffling closer.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine, just sauced," he work-laughed and tapped his hip flask.

"Well, I'm not blind, buddy. I can see that. You're just… on your own," she frowned, draping an arm around him, and it caused a wolf whistle somewhere off in the darkness.

"Even The Freak is getting his girl back," a distant voice dripping with minimal IQ shouted, and if that didn't punch him in the guts again, because he knew that absolutely wasn't true at all. Donna wasn't interested in him. She never had been. Donna wasn't interested in anything remotely like Eddie, but for appearances and comfort, he leaned his head on her shoulder. He wasn't about to tell her what was wrong. That's not how it works when you're the leader. The problems come to you, not the other way around.

Eddie still remembers the day he'd seen Donna at the cafeteria table, entirely not herself. No make-up. No zingers. No innuendos. No grand scheme for the upcoming gaming session. She stuck out at the hellfire table. She looked like she belonged elsewhere in the cafeteria and could have. She was on the cheer squad. She was stunningly beautiful, which had not escaped Eddie's notice, but people didn't often ask to join Hellfire. They'd recruit them. Except for Donna. She arranged a business exchange for drugs she didn't want just to ask Eddie privately, and for a few minutes, he couldn't believe his luck. A girl, a beautiful, popular girl, wanted to join his team, and though that wasn't impossible, it was against the odds, and there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, so though he might flirt a little, he never pushed it, or asked her on a date. Eddie thought for a while, maybe she had a little crush on him, she absorbed his mannerisms, started dressing a bit like him on non-squad days, and Eddie wasn't above being charmed by imitation, the highest form of flattery, and as time passed, she grew more vibrant and outspoken in her own version of Eddie's shell. Until the day she made a discrete pass at the wrong girl. Looked at her a little too long and touched her arm a little too softly, and when confronted with disgusted homophobic slurs, Donna told a lie. A whopper and she was too embarrassed to tell Eddie until he'd dragged it out of her. 

Donna liked girls. She'd never had a crush on a boy. Sure, she said she'd had them, but she learned quickly her boy crushes were not romantic. They were idolic. She didn't want them. She wanted to be like them. So she had gone on dates to keep herself safe, claiming she was saving herself for the right guy or marriage, whatever kept her current beau at bay. Lucky for Donna, she wasn't the first non-straight person Eddie had ever met. Quite a few of his little flock had confided in him over the years, so though a little disheartened, he took no issue. Then she'd told him that to defend herself, she'd told the locker room, she was actually dating him, so what the other girl had rightly accused her of couldn't possibly be true, and Eddie, true to his role in the Club, simply said Ok. So they played pretend for the rest of her last year, holding hands in the halls, pretending to whisper sweet nothings to one another, but really telling the crudest joke they could, going on dates, which were really just friendly hangouts, but because of the level of their friendship, to an outsider, they looked like the most connected couple in school.

It was easy to play the part. Eddie was a great actor, as was Donna. She'd been playing a role her whole life. If he was candid, he loved the way he could see it eating away at the jocks when he'd be allowed to plant a kiss on her cheek, and they'd never been granted so much as a greeting from her. It wasn't hard for Donna to gaze lovingly at Eddie because she did love him, platonically. No questions asked he protected her in whatever way she needed, and when the time came for graduation, they staged a very meticulously planned and scripted public breakup. Releasing both of them from one another before prom, that due to not graduating, Eddie had no intention of attending, but Donna was. Then he received a worried phone call from Donna two days before the event, which made him reconsider or rather gave him an excuse to go back on his statement. On the condition Eddie could "win her back" in the most theatrical way possible. Which he did on a "borrowed" horse and a costume suit of armour when Donna was on the field for practice. Flipping the bird at the coach and the other people on the field as they rode back to the stables giggling. Despite the occasional sneer or whisper, they'd had the best time at prom together, and then Eddie had thought she was gone.

"You're not here for a carn'val," Eddie slurred. "You got scared out there didn' ya." He put his hand to his heart, "Without your Sir Edward, righ?" She smiled, shook her hair, and Eddie knew he was right on the money.

"I did. It's much different when you can act on it. When you can go somewhere and approach the people you’re actually into…in that way…when it’s allowed, or at least tolerated. You know how it is. So I came here tonight for some normalcy, but that didn't work out" She looked around nervously, her eyes landing on the tent, which currently had Van Morrison blaring out of it.

Eddie frowned. You know how it is. It swirled in his head, and slowly but surely, his drunk little brain cells started stumbling around, putting together the jigsaw of words and their meaning. Then, finally, he sat up straight, his frown deepening, "I do NOT know how it is!" He thundered, and Donna frantically tried to calm him down or at least to quiet him. "I'm not like that!" He defended.

Donna quickly tried to shush him, as he sparked up a cigarette which illuminated the anger in his eyes, "Eddie, I'm sorry I got it wrong. I just thought because, you know, you were never in a long-term thing, and then you helped me, I thought we were…in the same boat," She said quickly in a panic.

Eddie looked furious, "You know what?! I'm sick of this shit. Sick of everything. I'm sick of being the leader. I'm sick of being an outsider. For once, I just wanted what everyone else had, but guess fucking what? I couldn't have it. Not even magic can break my curse." He pulled the plush monkey out of his pocket and pushed it into her chest, not as hard as he wanted to. He still didn't hate her entirely, "Here, take everything." He says, emptying his pockets into her hands, "Eddie doesn't need it. He's nothing, right? Doesn't deserve any of it anyway." Donna stared at him with pity in her eyes.

"Eddie, sweetheart, that's not true," she said sadly in an attempt to make him see he was so wrong.

"Well, you know what. If I'm gonna be the freak show, I may as well give the people what they want, right?" He said with a sarcastic smile and bowed to Donna, whose face contorted into pure sadness, and she ran back into the tent. Eddie turned to face the entrance to his latest nemesis and started barging people out of the way until he got through to the creep and his book of songs.

As he stormed towards the book, fueled by pure ire, the strange vendor leered over their lecturn and unabashedly sniffed the air as Eddie stomped towards it.

"Ah…Mediocre performance Munson has returned," the caped one hissed into the air like a snake tasting the air, "You think loading yourself with alcohol is going to improve anything? Tut tut Edward, you know that's not the problem. The problem is you and your barricades."

Eddie glared up at him like he was trying to set him ablaze with his mind, "Give me m' song. I sang and I got nothing. You're othering me. You're-you're pushing me outside of everyone." Eddie's pickled mind couldn’t find the words, but it found the rage as he gripped onto the podium, shaking it.

The eyes of the peculiar man above him widened impossibly large, and an unnervingly thin grin stretched their mouth wider than it should go. Eddie should have been afraid, but he was too furious and glared back, not budging an inch. Then, above, he tilted his head so sharply that Eddie was surprised his neck didn't just snap, "Oh, is little Eddie Munson finally ready to give them a real show?"

"I did last time! I sang for ya sssstoopid crowd las' time!" Eddie bites back.

The voice above him began to warp. It seemed to have added creaks like old floorboards, "No, Eddie, No. You gave me a performance with a mask, with restraint, with nothing of you in it, and that's precisely what you got in return!" He almost seethes the words at Eddie, like he's the angry one now.

Eddie thumped his fist down on the book, "I'll give you a fucking show! A show so electric it will tear the roof right off this fucking place!" He expected the angry eyes still on him, but instead, he saw the man above him nodding along with Eddie's every word, his tongue at the corner of his mouth, and much to Eddie's disgust, he noticed he was drooling. A string of it began to travel down until it hit the table the book rested on below. Eddie's eyes locked back onto him with renewed gusto.

"Then…choose, but no faking this time, else you will get more of the nothing you already have," The man said delightfully and composed himself finally. 

Eddie closed his eyes and let whatever and whoever appeared in his mind to come and go as they pleased. This time he heard the flurry of pages that he must have been flicking through so fast they began to heat up until suddenly his eyes sprang open, and between his fingertips, he was holding a page of the book, the edges of which were burnt and the man above him squeals with delight and claps his hands.

Eddie reads the paper.

 Hell Raiser by Sweet

Eddie smirked up at him and crumpled the still-hot paper in his hand, "Buckle up, freakazoid. I know this one front to back." 

Eddie pushed past the curtain. Did not wait in line. His chest was heaving. He felt charged with something, but it was not the alcohol anymore. If anything, his mind felt razor-sharp, like something had sobered him up but left him with all the bravado booze provided.

He stomped onto the stage, grabbed the mic from the person singing and bared his teeth, so they ran off down the stairs. The multicoloured Christmassy-looking lights of the tent cut out for a split second, and he heard the crowd gasp. When reilluminated, the place was bathed in a red glow, and smoke filled the floor at his feet.

Eddie stomped a foot out slightly to the side and adopted a solid stance. The crowd was enraptured. All eyes are on him. He lifted the mic to his mouth, screwed his eyes shut and screamed the opening line….

“LOOK OUUUUUUT!”

[dragonsarecool]

Febwhump Day 21 - Unresponsive

A/N: Unfortunately for Marty, it wasn't an uncommon sight to see in their house. Set a few weeks prior to Part I.

Marty knew his family wasn't the most dysfunctional one out there, but sometimes it sure felt like it was. Once again it was just him and his mom at home; his dad was probably being bullied at the office by Biff, Dave was working the late shift at Burger King, and Linda had run off to meet whatever boyfriend she had this week as soon Marty had come home from school. It meant that the TV was off, the radio was silent, and the house felt soulless.

He'd been hard at work finishing his latest English essay when he'd heard three familiar sounds: the opening of the liquor cabinet, the wine cork doing its work, and the agonising sigh of relief his mom gave upon sipping her treasured alcohol. Great. Guess it's gonna be a shitty night then.

As Marty had grown up, it hadn't taken long for him to learn to recognise when his mom had had too much to drink. Partially because he was usually the only one home when she was at her worst, and partially because she tended to do it so often that he became very adept at managing her hangovers until his father or one of his siblings came home to take over.

They never thanked him for it, but Marty he liked to pretend he was being appreciated.

The eerie silence flooding the home also meant he knew the exact second his mom's head slammed into the kitchen table, with the heavy thunk and subsequent shattering glass making him jump. He leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. God, Mom, I was almost finished with this!

He jumped out of his seat and walked quickly towards the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the strong scent of spilt wine. He'd learned at around age ten to keep a spare pair of slippers near the dining room so that he didn't tread on any broken glass, and the accessories came in handy once again as he treaded across the pieces scattered over the tiles.

Lorraine was slumped in her seat, her chin and cheek resting on the wooden table being the only pieces of flesh stopping her from tumbling to the floor. Her skin was deathly pale, with her hands covered in dark red stains from the spilt wine. Constantly drinking hadn't helped her with the ageing process, and Marty realised he could see more wrinkles today than the last time she'd driven herself into this state.

The first time Marty had seen her like this as a child, he'd thought she was dead. Once he'd learnt what a hangover was (with the assistance of some kind ambulance officers), he'd continued to follow the same process of caring for his mom that he'd watch them do all those years ago.

He shook Lorraine's shoulder aggressively, watching as her head simply lolled to the side. Grabbing a piece of paper towel, he wiped the drool that had dripped down her chin with disgust, tossing it angrily into the sink. "Dammit, Mom…not again…" She hasn't been this shit for a while…

Marty pressed his fingers against his mom's neck, feeling around for the artery whose name he could never remember. He tensely waited before he felt the agonisingly-slow beat of his mother's heart thump weakly beneath the skin. At least you didn't kill yourself this time.

Satisfied that Lorraine wasn't about to die on him, Marty quickly set about cleaning the evidence. In the time that it took him to wipe down the table and sweep away the broken glass, his mother hadn't moved an inch. The only sounds she made were slow, rattling breaths as she continued dozing in her drunken state, blissfully unaware of the pillow her son had slipped under her head.

Marty grabbed his essay from his desk and returned to the kitchen table, staring despondently at the pathetic form of his unconscious mother. Only a year until I can move out. Eighteen can't come fast enough…