#and for some godforsaken reason everyone's rolling with it

[poorlittleyaoyao]

TFW your ex’s shitty dad tries to inaccurately mansplain his backstory to you.

“Yes, I know all about your bastard son whom you acknowledged yesterday for clout. :) I also know about the subtle insult of a courtesy name that you gave him. :) He lived at my house for several years after you bowled him down the stairs :) and I’m still processing our acrimonious divorce so I truly cannot believe :) that you are trying this right now. :)” 

[tomriddleslove]

What’s left of me?

✩Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: The one where your pursuit for excellence leads you down a path of self destruction, and you’re slowly loosing yourself. You didn’t expect a certain boy in your year would be your saving grace. Alternatively: Mattheo makes you realise you’re more than what you think you are.

A/N: I guess this could very easily be like a prequel to the other mattheo one shot ‘i’m here’. This is definitely a bit self indulgent but we all have our things 😻😻

Warnings: Allusions to overdosing (brief), mentions of not eating.

Songs: Nothings New - Rio Romeo

18 days.

18 days till you would be finished with all of this.

Technically, it would actually be 408 days till you finished school and graduated from this godforsaken place, but 18 more till you finished with exams.

You weren’t sure how many more hours you could spend hunched over indecipherable handwriting, pouring over text till your eyes stung and your back ached. Surrounded by a stack of books and rolls of parchment, you couldn’t even begin to figure out where you ended and the library began. You had taken up a huge table (that could seat at least 4) for the better part of 17 hours, sat on the same chair since 6:00 am.

You stifle a small groan of pain as you roll your wrist, stiff and sore from the hell that was ancient runes.

There are ink splotches all over your skin, and you’re sure the amount of work you were pouring into this stopped being effective nearly 5 hours ago.

Your eyes flicker up and scan over the once-packed library that had slowly dwindled down to a few students, half of whom were in the same boat as you.

To you, being the last person in the library was a huge sign of success. It meant you were more dedicated and more hard-working.

In reality, the truth couldn’t be any further from that, but in your mind, if you weren’t milking yourself over every last piece of work it simply wasn’t being done right.

The hushed murmurs and sounds of parchment being unfurled fade into the background as your quill scratches furiously against the parchment, mind running at a million miles an hour.

You ignore the pang in your stomach as you work; you haven’t eaten today. You didn’t want to get up at any point to get food, for fear of your place being taken.

Now, you didn’t want to get up for another reason. It was well past the library's open hours and Madame Pince was angrily fussing about, bustling around everyone as she got them to leave. A testament to how long you had been there, she didn’t even seem to notice you, and you were worried getting up and walking about would break this sort of invisibility shield you had going on.

Come to think of it, you hadn’t really drunk any water either. You brought your bottle with you but had forgotten to fill it up. It was fine though, the human body could last for 3 days without water - it could wait. Your upcoming exams were far more important.

In Scandinavia, the Elder Futhark remained in use until some time around the eighth century (the time of the Eddas), when drastic changes in the Old Norse language occurred, and corresponding changes in the runic alphabet were made to accommodate the new sounds. However, unlike the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc, the Younger Futhark (as it is now called) reduced the number of runes from 24 to 16, and several runes came to represent multiple sounds. The forms of the runes were also changed and simplified.

Gods, you couldn't take this anymore. You felt sick and exhausted. You ignore the hunger that gnaws at your stomach, rubbing a hand over your face as you contemplate finishing off and going to bed.

But every time you think of stopping a horrible feeling emerges in your stomach, consuming you with anxiety. The weight of impending exams and the fear of not doing well gnawing at your determination. You glance at the clock, realizing it's well past midnight, and the library is now completely empty except for you.

Madame Pince, finally noticing your presence, approaches with a disapproving look. "You know, the library does close at a certain hour. I can't have students staying here all night," she scolds, but her tone softens as she sees the exhaustion in your eyes.

“Sorry. I lost track of time” You mumble, haphazardly cramming your stuff into your bag. You get up, and the room spins for a second. You stumble but manage to catch yourself, holding onto the table as Madam Pince reaches out a hand to help you recover.

“You need to take care of yourself. No exam is worth this much stress,” She says, eyeing you with concern. If only she knew how far that was from the truth. You felt as though you had so little to your name. Performing well, overachieing. That was what you were known for. It was the only thing you felt was yours. Everyone else had character, they were distinctly themselves. They had hobbies, interests, and friendships that defined them. But for you, it was always about excelling academically. Without that, you became nobody. You were no more than the number on your papers, and the reminder weighed down on you like an unrelenting burden.

By some miracle you manage to stumble down the empty halls of the castle into the Slytherin common room, which seemed paradoxically warm considering its grandiose stone structure and dark, moody lighting. You carelessly drop your bag onto a table closest to the fireplace, trudging up to your room as you battle the sleep that threatens to consume you.

It's dark, and your roommates have long gone to bed.

“Lumos” You murmur, hiding the blinding light that emerges from the tip of your wand with the lining of your school robes, dimming it slightly. You grope blindly at your bedside drawer, stopping when you feel the familiar smooth glass bottle, that fits perfectly in your palm. You slip it into the pocket of your robes, slowly shutting the drawer as you make your way back down to the common room. You dismiss the light that shines from your wand, tossing it onto the sofa as you take a seat on the floor, in front of the low table. You read the instructions on the back of the small bottle as if you hadn’t been consuming this religiously for the past month.

Wideye potion User Guidance:

Take no more than one teaspoon every 6 hours. Effects will last for up to 8 hours. Excessive use of this potion may lead to adverse effects, and in rare cases, severe bodily harm. Users are advised not to use the maximum dosage for a consecutive 72 hours.

You’ve read it so many times, you were sure you could recite it by heart. Choosing not to heed any warnings, you pop open the cork and down the whole bottle in one go. The rancid taste of the potion burns, eliciting a shudder down your spine as you swallow down the bile that threatens to emerge. Pocketing the empty glass bottle, you stretch your arms before retrieving your books, ready to continue working.

If you were lucky, the potion might give you a boost of energy for about 3 hours or so. You had been taking it so much you had developed a sort of immunity to it, and the effects were not as potent as they used to be. The sacrifice of your well-being for the sake of productivity had become a routine, a desperate attempt to squeeze every ounce of time and focus out of your exhausted mind and body.

You have attempted to brew a stronger concoction, in the misplaced hopes that increasing the potency would counteract the effect of the immunity. However, the violent cramps and palpitations it had given you very quickly told you that wouldn't work.

You knew it was bad. It was causing irreversible damage to your body, killing you at worst. It simply wasn't sustainable. But you couldn't drag yourself out of that mindset.

Failure. Nobody.

You gritted your teeth and carried on working.

You managed to get through another potions essay, and the time on your watch read 1:00 am.

You could carry on for longer, right?

You zone out for a second, staring off at the orange embers that emerged from the fireplace, shining bright for what seemed like a millisecond before falling to the floor, turning into nothing but ash.

The orange embers flicker, and for a moment, you see yourself in them – a fleeting brightness that threatens to be extinguished. The battle between ambition and self-preservation rages on as you grit your teeth and carry on working, oblivious to the embers slowly falling into nothingness, much like your own fading sense of self.

“Why on earth are you up at this hour doing work?” A voice calls from behind you, and the momentary intrusion shocks you, sending a burst of energy through you as you spin around.

Flopping down onto the sofa next to you, leaning back with his legs lazily outstretched, was none other than Mattheo Riddle. Clad in a plain grey sweatshirt and black jeans, he eyes you with curiosity, smelling distinctively of smoke. He had most likely been out, as he so usually was at this hour. You shrug, turning back to your work.

“Exams. Need to revise” You mumble, voice cracking. You swallow, massaging your dry throat as you grimace, trying to get back to your writing.

“Revise? Merlin, you're the smartest person in our year. You don't need to be revising” Matthep leans forward, plucking a piece of parchment from your pile and examining it with a raised eyebrow.

You snatch it back, a protective instinct kicking in despite the fatigue. You hated that sentiment. Despised it, even. People always assumed your performance came naturally. That you were simply born with the ability to do well. No one seemed to consider what you had to do to get to that point, how you wore yourself down, day in and day out, till you either passed out from exhaustion or pain, neglecting your most basic needs.

"I might be the 'smartest' person, but that doesn't mean I can afford to slack off," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. The adrenaline from the sudden interruption starts to ebb away, leaving you feeling even more drained.

Mattheo leans back, momentarily caught off guard by your defensiveness. He had never seen you this on edge. He was so accustomed to seeing you as this familiar presence during the school day his partner for the many lessons that he didn’t have his friends in. The two of you would work together and on rare occasions, hang out with one another in the common room as well. It was a rather unlikely duo, the king of Slytherin and the academic prodigy. Yet, More often than not Mattheo found himself seeking out your presence. He never admitted it outright, but he hugely admired you. Your intelligence, your drive, it all captivated him. There were times when he hoped he could be only half the person you were.

How funny it was, for you felt the very same thing when you saw him. He seemed content. Happy. He was loved by nearly everyone. Popular, with a fun social life. He had everything you wanted without putting in any of the work.

You wanted to be like him. But you weren’t. And if you wanted anything like what he had, you had to work damn hard for it. So that's what you did. With a small sigh, you turn back to your work.

“Hey,” He says gently, his voice softening slightly. "I’m sorry. I say stupid things sometimes.” He apologies, brows furrowed as he looks at your back facing him.

“It's fine. I should be saying sorry. You didn't say anything, I just…. I’m just a bit tired, that's all.” You mumble, apologising as you get up. You stretch, a yawn escaping your lips as you wearily rub your eyes.

“I'm gonna run up to my room and grab some more parchment. I’ll be down in a second,” You say, shrugging off your school robe as you turn to walk away. You ascend the stairs leading to your dorm, tossing your robe onto the sofa next to Mattheo as you do so.

Your robe slides off the sofa and hits the floor, a faint clinking sound echoing through the empty room as you disappear.

Curious, Mattheo looks down at your carelessly discarded robe. He reaches down, picking it up. It weighs heavier than it should be, and Mattheo can't help but feel a twinge of curiosity, He eyes the now empty staircase before reaching into your pocket, fingers brushing against a smooth glass vial.

Not just one, but a few.

Frowning, he turns out your pocket, and four identical glass vials tumble into his lap. Picking one up, his frown only deepens as he reads the label.

“Wideye potion?” He mutters to himself, the confusion on his face morphing into something else as the pieces fit in place.

He had admired you for your intelligence and drive, and now he was confronted with the reality of your struggles. The contrast between your achievements and the seemingly carefree moments he sought with you becomes stark. He berates himself for not having noticed early, for having let you fall down such a destructive path.

Jaw clenched, he gazes at the piles of books you had been working through, rolling the empty vials between his fingers as the sound of your approaching footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts.

You pause in confusion, noticing the scrutinising depression plastered on his face as he looks up at you, rolls of parchment bundled in your hands.

"What's the Wideye potion for?" Mattheo questions, his voice cutting through the silence with an uncomfortable heaviness. He holds up the empty vials as evidence, his gaze piercing through the exhaustion in your eyes.

Caught off guard by the confrontation, you glance down at the vials and then meet Mattheo's eyes. A brief moment of silence hangs in the air, the crackling embers of the fireplace filling the empty silence.

“Research. For uh, potions.” You respond, internally berating yourself for coming up with such a weak excuse.

Mattheo's expression remains stern, a mix of frustration and genuine concern etched on his face.

"Don't bullshit me," he says, his tone direct and uncompromising. "I found these in your pocket, and 'potions research' is a shit excuse. I’m going to ask you again. What’s the wideye potion for?"

You shift uncomfortably, feeling small under his scrutinising gaze You clear your throat, speaking.

"It's just to stay awake, you know? To keep going. I only take it in extreme circumstances" you explain, your voice betraying the exhaustion that has settled in.

Mattheos jaw clenches, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he looks to the side with a sigh, visibly frustrated.

“Extreme? And what would that be, hmm? Because right now I'm looking at four empty bottles, and God knows how many more you’ve thrown away.” He snaps, his expression softening as he looks at you.

You feel a lump forming in your throat as you struggle to find the right words. Why on earth were you close to tears? Why did you feel like crying?

“I-” You start, trailing off as you stare at the floor.

Mattheo cuts through the silence, his tone still stern but laced with concern. "This isn't okay. You're smart, and you know better. You can't keep doing this to yourself. What if something happens? What if you collapse or get seriously sick? It's not worth it."

After a moment, Mattheo's expression softens, and he exhales deeply. "When was the last time you ate?" he asks, the concern evident in his voice.

Shit.

You pause, hesitating before admitting quietly, "Breakfast...yesterday."

Mattheo's features tighten at your admission, his eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration, anger, and genuine worry. He rises from his seat and strides towards you, his footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent room.

"Yesterday? Are you serious?" he says sharply, his voice carrying a weight of both concern and disbelief.

You remain silent, unable to meet his eyes, feeling the shame and vulnerability washing over you.

“Seriously? Fuck, what’s wrong with you? Why would you do that to yourself?” He chastises you, and you snap.

“I have to! You don't fucking get it, do you? I don't have anything else to fall back on.” You start, dropping the parchment onto the table in front of you.

Mattheo's expression shifts from concern to confusion as you lash out. "What are you talking about? You have plenty more than just academics. You're talented, you're smart, and people care about you. Why are you reducing yourself to just grades?"

You scoff, a bitter smile playing on your lips. "Talented? Smart? What does that even mean? It's just a facade, a cover-up for the fact that without these achievements, I'm nothing. I don't have friends; I don't have hobbies or interests. What am I without my grades?"

Mattheo tries to interject, "You're a person with-"

But you cut him off, "No, you don't get it! I'm just a number, a ranking, a test score. Everything I am is tied to how well I perform academically. Do you know what it's like to feel like the only thing you're good at is studying, and even that's slipping away?" You snap anger evident in your tone as you spin around to face him, your weary eyes meeting his.

“It’s the same thing every single day. I wake up, bury myself in books, and push myself to the brink just to feel like I matter. I don't eat, I don't sleep, I don't talk to anyone. I’ve spent my whole life isolating myself and neglecting my most basic needs for this! If I stop now, then what's left of me?”

Tears start to well up in your eyes, and you hate yourself for showing such vulnerability. Mattheo's stern demeanour softens as he watches you unravel.

"I can't stop, Mattheo. I can't afford to. Because if I do, what's left of me?" Your voice trembles.

Mattheo's heart drops at your words, guilt and hurt clawing at his insides. He can’t fathom the idea of you suffering so much, and him being blind to it. How could you not notice how incredible of a person you are beyond all of this? He’d give anything in the world for you to see yourself through his eyes. For you to feel the way he feels when he's with you, even for a second. To know that he’d do anything you asked him to because he cared for you. Not the one who gets outstanding on all their tests.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mattheo finally speaks, his voice softer, genuine concern written across his face.

You shake your head, a mix of frustration and desperation in your eyes. “Because you wouldn’t understand. No one does. They just see the grades, the perfect student. They don’t see the mess behind it all. And I can’t let them. I can’t let anyone see me like this.”

Mattheo moves closer, his expression shifting. “You’re wrong. I do understand. Maybe not completely, but I want to. You don’t have to face this alone.”

You scoff, wiping away a tear. “Why? What do you care? You have everything, popularity, friends, a life. I’m just the study partner, the smart one. I can’t burden you with this.”

Mattheo remains silent for a second, before he speaks.

“Every other Sunday, you go down to Hogsmesde and buy a hamper of sweets form Honeydukes. You take it to the children’s school and volunteer there for an hour. Everytime you visit, you make their day.” He starts.

"You're not just grades," he says, his voice gentle. "You have quirks that make you who you are. Like the way you absentmindedly tap your foot when you're deep in thought. Or how you always carry a small notebook, and I bet it's filled with more than just class notes. I've seen you doodle in the margins."

He continues, "You have a wicked sense of humor, even if you don't show it to everyone. I've heard you snort-laugh during our study sessions. And don't even get me started on your taste in music.How you call that dastardly jazz music, i’ll never understand, but you can’t resist humming along to the tunes of the Wizarding Wireless Network when you're studying. Your fondness for Chocolate Frogs and your inexplicable aversion to pumpkin juice.”

Mattheo's eyes light up, a small smile tugging at his lips as he recalls more details. "Remember that time in Charms class when you made your quill dance across the room just to see if you could do it? Or when you brewed a prank potion that turned the water in the Prefects' bathroom blue for a week? You have a mischievous side that not many people get to see." He continues, looking down at you sincerely. He remains silent for a second, eyes scanning over your face before he steps back, sighing.

“I don’t know how to do this emotional, sappy bullshit. I don’t do it. But with you, I do. I want to. Other people want to. That’s what you do.” He says, voice quiet.

You remain rooted to your spot, somewhere between disbelief and gratitude as you stare up at Mattheo. How did he know all that? Why did he know all that?

“You noticed?” You speak up, voice alarmingly quiet.

He looks at you as though you’ve just asked him whether the sky is blue.

“Of course i’ve noticed. It’s impossible not to.” He murmurs, and you know he’s being honest.

Tears prick in your eyes again, and it’s as though all that exhaustion and neglect has come crashing back down on you tenfold after Mattheo had called you out. You try blink them away but alas, you simply couldn’t. Before you can even say anything, Mattheo steps forward, pulling you into his chest as he wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. He holds you tightly, not even entertaining the thought of letting go as your tears soak his sweatshirt, tentatively accepting his embrace. His heart clenches at every tear that falls from your eyes, and he can’t tell if he’s horrified or accepting of the fact that he’d give up everything to relieve you of your burdens, even if only for a day.

He rubs your back soothingly, and you can’t help but let it all out.

It’s rather cathartic, really, because you've held onto this weight for so long, and now, in Mattheo's arms, it feels like a moment of release.

As your tears eventually subside, you pull back, both embarrassed and utterly shattered. You look down, sniffling as you wipe away your tear stained eyes when Mattheo hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

People often said that the eyes were a window to the soul. You never really understood that, but in this moment, you felt as though you were gazing into the very depths of Mattheos being.

With a tenderness that betrays the boundaries of ‘just friends’ , he wipes away your tears with his thumb, looking down at you.

“Come on. Let’s get you up to rest, yeah?” He hums, quietly. You nod, having to tear yourself away from his touch.

He leans down to pack away your stuff, not letting you handle a thing as he throws your stuff over his shoulder.

“You can stay in my room, if you’d like. Theodore’s out for the night so I can take his bed.” Mattheo says.

You consider it for a second. You didn’t particularly fancy heading up to your room with Mattheo, for fear of your roommate awakening to see you in such a state. You nod, speaking.

“Yes please.” You say, voice embarrassingly hoarse from having cried so much. You pray Mattheo didn’t notice.

Of course he did. But, he chose not to draw attention to it, instead resolving to run down to the kitchen to get you a cup of tea.

You follow Mattheo into his room, which you were no stranger to. Having projects together meant endless hours of collaborating, and opting to avoid being pestered by your roommate and her friends (who had a rather amusing infatuation with Mattheo), you worked in his room instead.

“Help yourself to some clothes if you’d like. They’re on the right.” He says, carefully draping your school bag and robe onto one of the desks. You thank him, smiling softly as he cleans the mess he had left.

“Go lie down. I’ll be back in a second” He says, turning away as he exits his room. Swiftly walking down to the kitchen, his head is reeling with thoughts of you.

He chose not to confront the feeling gnawing at him in light of your breakdown. He didn’t want to deal with that just yet. In no less than 10 minutes he’s carefully treading up the stairs to the dorms once more, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand and some small crackers in the other.

You hadn’t been eating, nor drinking, and the idea of you neglecting yourself so much sent Mattheo into an uncomfortable state where he found himself riddled with anxiety.

Just friends, right?

He clicks open the door to his room with his elbow, precariously walking over with the tea and crackers in hand as he goes to set them down on his bedside table. His eyes flicker over to you, and a small smile tugs at his lips as he sees you already fast asleep, curled up under the covers. The sight of your slumber brings a warmth to Mattheo's heart. He watches you for a moment, taking in the soft rise and fall of your breath, the delicate features that are usually tense with stress now softened in sleep.

The sight brings him more peace than he wishes to admit, and the looming reality that he had to eventually confront only pressed down on him further.

But for now, he didn’t care.

Because in your peace, he found happiness. And he’s sure he’d never find anything else more beautiful.

Possessed by a wave of sentiment that betrays his usual self, he can’t resist reaching out to tuck a stand of misplaced hair behind your ear. Before he can even comprehend what he’s doing, he leans down and presses a soft , brief kiss to your forehead.

He pulls back and finds himself slightly taken aback by his own actions. The quiet room, filled only with the soft sounds of your sleep, almost seems to amplify the beating of his heart.

Mattheo stands there for a moment, looking at you with a mix of tenderness and confusion. Then, shaking off the unexpected surge of emotions, he retreats to Theodores bed , slipping out of his clothes as he goes to lay down. He had to resist the urge to turn around and catch a glimpse of you once again, and lets out a small sigh as he shuts his eyes.

Mattheo Riddle was not a man of sentiment. He was not soft, and he most certainly did not go out of his way for others.

You had changed that. And he couldn’t figure out whether the prospect was one he was ready to welcome.

[haespoir]

cave me in: mkl.

⨯ pairing: plug!mark x reader

⨯ word count: 1.3k 

⨯ summary: haechan introduces you to his dealer friend, and mark lee makes it so hard to keep the relationship strictly business. not that you minded anyways. 

⨯ warnings: mentions of drugs (weed), some suggestive content, i think thats it enjoy :3

⨯ playlist: cave me in, gallant / half moon, dean / wfm, realestk 

⨯ extra content: part two

⨯ a/n: im completely normal about mark lee i swear ty @markonthemoon​ for furthering my completely normal feelings about mark lee... there might be a part two. 

. . . 

It had been at least 3 hours since you had picked up edibles from Mark. Three whole ass hours, and yet he was still laying on his bed feeling less than whole. Who did you buy them for? Were you getting high with someone else? Was it a guy? 

The first time Haechan had introduced you to him he didn’t pay it any mind. You were a close friend of the younger male’s situation-ship… Whatever the fuck that was. But it was no more than that in his eyes. You were someone who occasionally bought from him, and you were always so polite about it too. And for some unknown reason, or at least unknown to him, that bothered him. A few weeks later, a not-so-sober conversation with Haechan revealed that Mark had a crush on you. One he denied vehemently. Though he guessed out of everyone he sold to, you were the most ideal to date. 

Who the fuck said anything about dating? 

Mark shakes his head as if to rid himself of such wild thoughts. “I’m just hungry,” he says to himself, thinking of ways he could fill that empty void in his stomach. If only he knew, there was no amount of food that would help him feel whole. He grabs his phone, shooting a quick text to someone who knew would also be high at this time. 

mark [11:48 pm]: ramen?  jungwoo [11:50 pm]: and netflix?  jungwoo [11:50 pm]: mark… are you asking me to hook up?  jungwoo [11:51 pm]: say less baby i’m otw!  mark [11:53 pm]: dude what mark [11:53 pm]: no, just ramen  jungwoo [11:55 pm]: mark lee you want me so bad  mark [11:57 pm]: hurry before i change my mind

Jungwoo’s texts cause Mark to roll his eyes, but he grabs his keys. “Yo, Haechan,” he calls out, peeking into the male’s LED-lit room. On his monitor, he sees a discord call and what he believes is your profile picture. Why were you on call with him? “I’m going get ramen with Zeus, want anything?” 

“Nah, I’m going over to my girl’s in a bit,” Haechan replies, smoothly muting the call as he gives his roommate his attention. “I’ll just see you in the morning?” Mark hums, and he’s out the door quickly. He doesn’t want to even think about the relationship between you and Haechan, not when there’s a green little monster creeping through his veins. 

Once Haechan is sure Mark is gone, he’s unmuting the call. “Personally, I think he’s into you.” 

Though he can’t see it, you’re rolling your eyes. “Haechan, you’re just saying that. You’re tired of me third wheeling?” 

“Listen... Your words, not mine, sweetheart,” he says simply. 

“Whatever dude,” you sigh, rolling onto your side on your bed. “Have fun with your shawty. I’m going to sleep.” 

“Just ask him to smoke you out or something,” Haechan says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. “I’m leaving.” 

You hear the noise of him leaving the call before you can even reply, and you’re once again rolling your eyes. You didn’t understand how your friend was into Haechan. What a fucking brat. 

I mean, you can’t just ask someone to smoke you out, right? Isn’t that something that’s offered? You groan loudly at the thought, locking your phone and tossing it on the floor. “Fuck you, Haechan,” you think bitterly. Why the hell did he have to put that godforsaken idea in your mind? 

Because the idea doesn’t leave your mind for weeks after that night. Every time you buy from Mark, you find it harder and harder to deny your attraction to the male. His actions don’t help much either. In fact, you’re convinced you’re delusional. There was no other reason. 

You had mentioned you liked rice krispie treats, and suddenly Mark has rice krispie treat edibles. With extra marshmallows no less.  

One time you heard your friends complaining that Mark had increased his prices. Which was odd because you were spending less on weed than you ever had before. Maybe they were just buying more? 

Or sometimes there’s a small baggie of only the clear gummy bears with the things you buy from him. It’s not like you had told him that the only valid flavor of gummy bears was the clear ones. 

These things weren’t just coincidences, right? Or were they? Haechan also liked marshmallow treats, so maybe they were for him. You had taken a liking to edibles, so you weren’t smoking as much as you used to. Meaning you were spending less money anyways. And Mark said that he liked the red gummy bears the most, so surely, you were just getting the ones he didn’t like. 

You let out a loud groan, ignoring the call from Haechan on Discord. Instead, you opt to shove your face into your pillow before letting out a small scream. Mark Lee was driving you absolutely crazy. 

Perhaps if you picked that call up, the text messages that flashed on your screen 30 minutes later would not have sent you into the panic that they did. 

mark [12:20 am]: yo mark [12:20 am]: i got a new strain  mark [12:20 am]: let me smoke you out? 

Maybe Haechan wasn’t a brat, and maybe you would thank him for this at your wedding years later. But none of that matters when Mark Lee is asking to smoke you out. 

you [12:29 am]: uh yea you [12:29 am]: my place?  mark [12:32 am]: say less mark [12:32 am]: i’ll bring your favorite gummies

He does bring them, and he does smoke you out. Which is why you find yourself in the position that you do. You’re sitting on the floor in your living room, your cheek pressed against Mark’s knee as he sits on your couch. You swear he looks perfect from this angle; his hair is pushed back by a headband he had stolen from you a few days ago, claiming he thought it was like a personal head massage device. You can see the way his eyes are slightly red, and you’re sure yours look exactly like his. Most importantly, his neck is on display, and you want to do nothing more than mark it up. It takes everything in you to not climb into his lap and do exactly that. 

“You look like a puppy,” Mark says, running his fingers through your hair, stopping when he reaches your ear. He’s rubbing small circles on your earlobe with this thumb, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. “My puppy.” 

God, Mark Lee was dangerous. Absolutely lethal. You groan at his words, pressing your face into his thigh to hide away from him. Unfortunately for you, this has the opposite effect, and there is no such thing as hiding from him. The sight of you nearly burying your face into his lap like this does wonders for Mark’s confidence. 

“Come here.” It’s a demand from him, and it’s one that you quickly listen to as he guides you to straddle his lap. In this new position, Mark’s hands quickly go to your thighs; the grip he has is almost bruising. But you don’t mind it, not when Mark’s got his head resting on the back of your couch and he’s staring at you in a way that makes you nervous. 

“Sorry for making you wait,” he says, and you’re feeling a bit confused. “Haechan might have given me a hint or two.” 

The confusion is gone quickly; you were going to strangle that kid. 

Mark laughs at the look on your face, easily reading the emotions as if you were an open book to him. “Don’t think about it, we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” 

And when Mark Lee presses a kiss against your jaw, his hands traveling under your shirt, you know you’re done for. 

[impala-dreamer]

Save Me - Part Two

A Short Story

~ Sometimes, when life seems the brightest, shadows creep in. After announcing their engagement to the world, Jensen's fiancé is kidnapped. With the help of a friend, she tries to fight her way back home to him.~

Jensen Ackles x F!Reader, Dean Winchester (cameos by Misha Collins and OCs)

7,160 Words Total. Part Two: 3,950

Warnings: My kind of Super Angst. Blood. Injury. Kidnapping. It's really sad...

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo "No one's coming to save you. Get up!"

PART ONE ~ PART TWO

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Snow was falling from a gray sky. Big flakes landed on his shoulders, dusted his hair, melted on his cheeks. His lips were frozen; his fingers numb. 

The cherry of his cigarette fell to the icy sidewalk and he huffed. He fumbled with the lighter and lit back up, pulling at the filter as if he were trying to set his lungs on fire. 

Maybe he was. Maybe he wanted to set the hotel on fire, the police station, the entire city.

Jensen tipped his head back and exhaled, sending the smoke to mix with the clouds overhead.

“When did you start smoking again?” 

Misha appeared next to him, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding a jacket. He was visibly cold, bouncing a bit for warmth even as he settled next to Jensen. 

“I don’t know. When did the world implode? Four days ago?” He licked his lip and then took another drag. “Then.” 

Misha shook his head sadly and Jensen rolled his eyes. 

He flicked the butt into the street and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Put your coat on at least,” Misha suggested, tapping his shoulder with the jacket. 

Jensen looked down at it as if he’d never seen anything like it. 

“No.” 

Misha sighed. “It’s freezing. You’re gonna get sick.” 

“So?” 

Not wanting to fight, Misha draped the jacket over Jensen’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze. 

“Y/N needs you to be strong. You can’t go off and get pneumonia.” 

Jensen turned his head and glared; green eyes narrow and angry. “She doesn’t need me to be strong. She needs me to fucking find her.” His jaw clenched so hard he could feel his pulse beat in his temples. “She needs me to save her.” 

Heartbroken, Misha closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I know. But there’s nothing you can do right now.” 

Jensen scoffed. “Isn’t there?” 

“No. The police are-” 

Enraged, defeated, hopeless, Jensen spun away, kicking at the snow and pushing Misha’s care away. “The police aren’t doing shit! It’s been four fucking days!” 

“I know…”

“They can’t even figure out who took her. The fucking- the security cameras in the parking garage weren’t fucking working! What the fuck good is that!”

The louder Jensen’s voice grew, the smaller Misha felt. There was nothing he could say, no way to comfort his friend. 

Jensen wouldn’t be comforted even if Misha knew how. He wanted to rage at the universe. To put his fist through the brick wall behind him. To drive a truck through the Starbucks across the street. To run away from everyone and everything in this godforsaken city and find her. He had to find her. 

A snowflake landed on his nose and he batted it away, slapping himself in the face. 

He calmed. 

His heart ached.

His voice crackled with tears. 

“Odds are,” he whispered, “She’s dead already.” 

“Don’t say that.” Misha choked back his own pain and cleared his throat. “The detective said there’s no reason to assume-”

Jensen laughed bitterly. “Forty-eight hours, isn’t that what they say? If you don’t find them in the first forty-eight hours you’re not going to. Or they turn up dead on the side of the road or in a shallow grave behind some psycho’s house.” 

“Jensen…” 

Green eyes closed to the world. 

He was trembling, shaking from the cold and the pain of uncertainty and loss. 

“I just…I don’t know what to do.” 

They stood there in silence, letting January seep into their bones. There was nothing to say, nothing either of them could do. 

It just was what it was. 

And it was impossible. 

A deep shiver moved through Jensen’s body and he shoved his arms through the jacket sleeves, thankful that Misha was looking out for him and the little things. He was too shattered to care about staying alive. Not right now. 

He turned back to his friend and the revolving doors, deciding it was time to go back in and shake away the cold. 

Flashing lights pulled his attention to the street and he held his breath as the police car turned into the hotel lot. The world moved in slow motion as the car parked in the nearby handicapped spot and Detective Lassiter hopped out. He held a clear bag in his thick fist and his countenance was heavy. He looked at Jensen and shook his head. 

Jensen’s universe cracked. He bit his tongue, needing to feel the pain to keep himself conscious as the detective explained what had happened. 

“They’re not asking for a ransom,” he said, speech rushed and emotionless. “Not yet, anyway. But this- this is good.” He handed the bag to Jensen. 

Y/N’s diamond engagement ring glistened in the dim gray light. 

Jensen closed his fist around it. The platinum prongs dug into his palm. “How?” His voice broke. “How is this good?”  

“Means they want something. They’re not just going to kill her and be done. This is the kidnappers opening a line of communication.” 

Jensen couldn’t hear him, couldn’t follow his words any longer. His fist tightened and the diamond cut through the thin evidence bag. He squeezed until it hurt, until his skin broke, until he could feel the warm trickle of blood. 

A drop fell from his fist and painted the freshly fallen snow.

It was hard to stay awake, hard to think. 

The pain was still there, but she couldn’t feel it much anymore. It didn’t feel as intense, as if she were getting used to the constant stabbing and shredding of her insides that accompanied every breath she took.  

She couldn’t feel the cold anymore either. Her flesh had simply become part of the concrete, all of her warmth had been drained into the darkness. 

In and out of the dreamless sleep of unconsciousness, she lay on the dirty floor, barely able to think let alone move. 

“Why you?” she whispered, watching burgundy flannel pace back and forth by the steps. 

Dean stopped short, his boots making a dull thud on the floor. 

“What?” 

She lifted her head, cringed at the hurt that erupted in her shoulder. 

“I said, why is it you?” 

His forehead creased and he shrugged. “I don’t know. Who else would it be?” 

Y/N rubbed her right eye. It was dry and it hurt to blink. She was dehydrated and starving; her body was failing, her mind was slipping. 

“It’s just odd, I guess.”

Dean sat on the bottom step, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t think it’s that weird. You need someone to talk to, you need someone to help. I’m pretty good at that shit.” 

Y/N sighed. “But you don’t exist. I’m just talking to myself.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Not really.”

“There should have been way more demon Dean.” 

Jensen laughed and shot her a look that would have knocked her over had she not already been sitting down. 

The couch cushion between them seemed as wide as an ocean, but neither were ready to swim across. 

“You like bad boys, huh?” He licked his lips and watched hers as she answered. 

“I guess everybody does at some point,” she said. “But there was something special about Dean as a demon. It was like… he was finally free for a little while. Like he was on vacation. Just hanging out and getting laid-”

Jensen grinned. “And murdering innocent people.”  

She dipped her chin and looked up at him flirtatiously. “Is anyone ever truly innocent, Jensen?” 

His smile faded and he stared harder. His lips parted slowly. “Are you?” 

She blinked, painted lashes fanning over enchanting eyes. “I can be when I need to be.” 

Her hand slid across the space between them and she bit her lip, daring him to match her move, begging him to meet her halfway. 

He dropped his hand to the cushion, fingers landing a breath away from hers. 

“What about right now?” he asked, leaning close. 

She could feel the heat pushing off of him, smell the lingering scent of his faded cologne. 

“Honestly?” she smirked. 

He nodded. “Always.” 

Y/N leaned in dangerously close. “I’m not feeling too innocent right now.” 

A tentative kiss. The first taste of his lips; the first feel of her skin.

There were footsteps above her head. Someone running; heavy shoes falling on old wooden planks. 

Y/N lay on her back and stared up at nothing. There were long beams above her and she wondered what it would take for them to come crashing down and crush her to death. 

It wasn’t that she wanted to die, she’d never want that, but she knew it was happening. She could feel her body giving up. Her skin was hot but she shivered. Her blood had dried but the wounds wouldn’t stay closed. Her thoughts were fuzzy and shadows played tricks on her.

She couldn’t tell how long it had been since they’d tossed her down the steps; didn’t know how far from help she was. Time meant nothing. It could have been hours, a month, a week mostly likely. There was no way for her to guess. No windows to help count the sunsets, no ticking clock to pace her breaths to. 

Sometimes, she counted her heartbeats just to have something to do, but they were unsteady. Too fast at times and then far too slow. It scared her to pay attention to the erratic pulse of her blood, so she tried to ignore it. 

Mostly, she remembered things. 

Mostly, she remembered him. 

In moments when the pain overwhelmed her and her eyes refused to stop leaking, she would pull up his face, try to remember the placement of every freckle, count each thick eyelash. She could still feel his hands on her skin, smell his breath first thing in the morning. She could taste the salt on his neck after a workout, hear his delicate whispers in the heat of night. But his eyes were fading away. She couldn’t get the shade right in her mind; couldn’t remember what shirt made them darker, what time of day they looked the lightest.  

The green was washing away. 

Last winter. A break in filming. Sand beneath their feet; ocean breeze filling their lungs. 

The sun was so bright it hurt her eyes, but she refused to close them, unwilling to miss one single second of time with him. 

He was already burning in the sun; his shoulders tanning, his chest turning red. Every now and then, he’d take off and run into the water, dip below the perfect blue horizon and cool off. She loved those moments the best, when he came back to her dripping and laughing, his hair wet and slicked back behind his jet-fin ears. 

He’d always come back to her, always fall down over her, hold himself up on his big arms and let the ocean water dribble down onto her bare stomach. He’d block the sun for a few precious moments, and all she could see was the halo around him and the love in his eyes. 

“Y/N…” 

She couldn’t open her eyes. They felt so heavy, so dry. It was all so pointless. 

“Y/N, wake up, sweetheart.” 

Dean was hovering again, crouched down at her side. His giant hand was hovering over her forehead as if checking her temperature like a mother would for her child. 

“Don’t- don’t call me that,” she croaked. Her eyes fluttered open and she was met with his worried smile. 

“What should I call you then?” 

“A cab.” 

He laughed softly. “You’re still funny. That’s good.” 

“Is it?” 

She tried to sit up but her spine felt like gelatin. She tried to speak but her throat was ripped to shreds. She tried to cry but her eyes were dry and nothing came out. Her shoulders shook and she moaned pitifully. 

Dean’s jaw clenched, dimples popped above his lip. “You gotta get out of here. You’re not doin’ so well.” 

Y/N curled in on herself, knees and shoulders meeting somewhere in the middle. “Go away.” 

“No.” 

She covered her face. 

He shifted onto his knees. “You gotta get up and find a way out.” 

“There is no way out. We’ve looked a hundred times.” 

He exhaled hard, frustrated and desperate. “You gotta try again. You gotta get out.”

Her eyes fell closed again, her breathing slowed. “He’ll find me. He’ll save me…”

Y/N was still confused when the elevator door opened. Jensen had refused to tell her where they were going or why they were dressed like they were being photographed for GQ. 

‘Wear that purple dress,’ he’d said on the phone with no explanation why. 

Her hand clasped in his, they stepped out into a large empty ballroom. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a gray morning; the L.A. smog was thick and hung like rain clouds in the sky.

Jensen led her deep into the room and turned to face her. He was nervous, she could tell. His chewed his bottom lip, rubbed his thumb over her hand quickly, breathed a little too fast. 

She laughed gently. “What’s going on?” 

He took a big, calming breath. 

He licked his lips and smiled. 

“Eighteen months ago, we were both here for that HBO after party. You wore this purple dress and I was wearing…” He looked down at his crisp black button down and charcoal slacks. “Well, this.” 

She smiled. “I remember. It was the first time we met.” 

He swallowed hard and held her hand in both of his. His palms were damp. 

“But what you don’t know is that I saw you the very second you walked in.” He bit the corner of his mouth and took a second to collect his racing thoughts. “I was over there by the window talking to Eric and you walked in… It was like the crowd opened up for you. Every head turned; the music stopped.” 

“I don’t think it was that much of an entrance,” she laughed. 

“It was for me.” 

Her heart raced. 

“Jen, what’s going on?” 

He smiled and bent down to kiss her lips. He held her face in his hands, ran his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. She kissed him back, licking at his plump lips.

“I wanted to do that the moment I saw you,” he whispered. 

Her eyes fluttered open and all she saw was green.

“And this…” 

He let her go and dropped down onto one knee. 

He took her hand. 

She held her breath. 

“Marry me, Y/N…”

“I need you to calm down.” 

Detective Lassiter was tucked behind his messy desk, his beer gut smushed against the edge. 

Jensen refused to relax. He paced in front of the man’s desk, his hands rushing through his hair; fists beating at the stale air. 

“I can’t fucking calm down, OK!” His face was red and his jaw hurt from holding his tongue for so long. “You people can’t do shit, you know that? It’s been six fucking days.” 

“Mr. Ackles, please-”

“No. No. No.” He turned to the detective and slammed his hands down on the desk. He leaned in, close to growling. “You need to save her.” 

The older man sat forward. “We are doing everything we can. They’re working on the emails right now. Still hoping there’s traceable DNA on the ring. We will get these bastards. We will find her.” 

Jensen closed his eyes, felt a thousand more tears brewing in his chest. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on without having a complete breakdown. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the world to soothe his soul. 

Only one thing would do. 

Only Y/N.

He was coughing so badly she was sure he was dying. She could hear him from the kitchen, his wet cough rattling above the sound of the screaming kettle. 

She poured the boiling water onto the tea bag and grabbed some Tylenol from the cabinet. 

The room was dark but the light from his cell phone guided her across the soft carpet. 

“Hey…” 

He groaned miserably. 

“You feelin’ any better?” 

He shook his head. “I feel like death.” 

Y/N set the mug of tea down on the nightstand and switched on the lamp. 

He cringed at the light and shielded his eyes with a forearm over his face.

“You better not die on me, Ackles. I’ve still got plans for you.” 

He smiled and sat up a little bit, reaching for the tea. “You can’t get rid of me this easily. Even if it is your fault.”

She gasped in mock offense. “It is not my fault!” 

“You got me sick,” he chuckled and took a sip. 

“Yeah. You’re right. It was all part of my master plan to steal the Impala from you.” She pressed her fingertips together and gave him an evil grin. “Everything is falling into place.”

He laughed. It triggered a cough and she took the tea from him as his body shook. 

“Oh, god, Jen.” Her brow creased with worry and she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I think we should get you to the doctor.” 

Jensen shook his head and grabbed her wrist. He closed his eyes and kissed her palm. “Just stay with me, please.” 

She smiled and settled in next to him. “They couldn’t pull me away…” 

There was screaming coming from above. The words were muffled but the emotion was clear. 

They were coming for her. 

Y/N lay face down on the floor, her fingertip tracing a crack in the concrete. She was tired, so tired, and cold again. The air touching her skin hurt, the strands of hair that touched her forehead felt like knives. 

Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his body locked in a tense defensive pose. He listened to the shouts, eyes narrowed and ears struggling to understand. 

“That’s it,” he huffed, spinning around toward Y/N. “You gotta get up. You gotta go. Now.” 

Boots pounded above. 

Y/N sighed. “It’s fine. He’s coming for me. Jensen is coming. He’ll save me.” 

Dean grit his teeth and knelt down beside her. His voice was deep and firm. “Listen to me. You can still fight. You can get up and fight.” 

She laughed. “I can’t. Look at me. I’m… I can’t fight. They’ll kill me.” 

“Then you go down swinging. You’re not some damsel in distress, Y/N. Get up and fight!” 

Gingerly, she rolled over and looked up at him. “Maybe I am. Maybe I just have to lay here and wait for the cops to show up.” She sighed and closed her eyes, waving him away. “I’m tired, Dean.”

The fight upstairs was growing louder, the boots getting closer to the door. 

Dean slammed his palms against the floor by her head, making her jolt awake. 

“No one is coming to save you. Get up!”

Navy uniforms blurred in his vision. People rushed past the big window, but he stayed put, frozen in the chair beside Lassiter’s desk. 

Jensen was in shock; tired and lost. He had barely heard the detective when he explained the situation. 

They’d tracked down the kidnappers. The S.W.A.T. team was on their way. Just a few more hours and Y/N would be home. 

He just had to wait. 

Finally, Dean got her to stand. Her legs were shaky, but her head was clearing. She knew what had to be done. 

Behind the staircase was an old, rusted tool box. Inside it, a hammer. 

She gripped the wooden handle tight. 

Dean urged her to stand in the shadows beside the staircase. He held her gaze, reassuring her every second that she could do this. She could fight her way out. She could run. 

The boots above stopped. The kitchen light turned on, illuminating the seams around the door at the top of the stairs. 

Y/N steadied her breathing. She bent her knees, planting herself on the spot. 

The door creaked loudly as it was pulled open. 

Her hand trembled. 

Dean nodded reassuringly. “You got this.” 

Heavy footsteps bounded down the stairs and a large man appeared, gun in hand. 

Y/N’s blood was racing, adrenaline coursing through every cell. 

The man turned to the right and Y/N leapt from the left. She lunged forward, swinging the hammer with every bit of strength she had. 

She missed his head, striking him in the forearm. 

The gun fell. 

She pulled her arms back and the claw of the hammer dug into the flesh beneath the man’s chin. He screamed and doubled over, taking the old tool with him. 

Y/N stared down at him, eyes wide with shock and terror. 

“Now!” Dean clapped his hands, stealing her attention back. “Run!”

She could still feel the warmth of the lights on her face; hear the cheers from the crowd. 

Jensen pulled her close and kissed a trail down to her lips. He kissed her forehead, her nose, the top of each cheek. By the time he met her lips, she was laughing into him, so warm, so happy. 

His arms folded around her, his beard tickled her cheeks. 

She clung to his shirt and sighed. 

“I won’t be long,” he whispered. “Just gotta go smile for a thousand photos or so.” 

She groaned. “I don’t wanna let go.” 

He laughed and squeezed her tight. “Me either.”

The kitchen was bright, the lights burned her eyes. She stumbled into a chair and hit her foot against the island. 

Dean was there every step, calling her name, leading her through the worst pain she’d ever experienced. 

“You can do this,” he shouted, urging her to move faster. “Just a little farther. Come on!” 

She pumped her arms, dodged the sparse furniture in the living room, raced for the front door. 

It was locked, bolted and chained. 

“Almost there, kid. Almost there.” 

She focused hard, willing her fingers to cooperate. 

The man shouted from the basement, loud and angry. Dean looked back over his shoulder, and flinched. 

“You gotta hurry, Y/N-”

The chain was the hardest part. Her fingers were numb and tingling; she slipped more than once. 

Boots thudded on linoleum. 

“Come on!” 

She wrenched the door open and tumbled out into the cold night air. The moon was full and bright, the sky clear and inky black. 

She took a breath and steadied herself; bare feet sinking into the snowy lawn. 

Dean was across the street already, silently urging her on with a waving hand and desperate expression. 

Flashing lights pulled her gaze away and she smiled. They’d found her. 

Sirens blared. 

She took a step toward the street. 

Dean shouted her name. 

She smiled. 

A shot rang out and her world fell into darkness. 

Jensen collapsed. 

His knees hit the ground first, then his hands. His palms scraped against the gravel but the sting was irrelevant. 

Someone was touching him, grabbing at his shoulders, trying to help him up, but he shouted and pushed them away. He didn’t want help. He didn’t need comfort. He didn’t want anything. 

His chest burned, his heart raged against his ribcage. The earth beneath him opened up, shattered like his soul. 

“Jensen…” 

He looked up into his own dark eyes. Eyes he’d seen in the mirror for years. Eyes that he’d cried with, laughed with, died with a thousand times. 

Dean sighed. A single tear slid down his cheek.  

“I’m sorry.”

Jensen closed his eyes and Dean faded into nothingness, swept away by the freezing January wind. 

“Keep her safe, Dean,” he whispered. “Stay with her.” 

“Always.”

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[beanghostprincess]

Been thinking about teenage Shuggy for some godforsaken reason trying to hide that they are dating from the rest of the crew. Maybe they are still shy about this entire thing, maybe they are afraid their crew dynamic will become “weird”, maybe they are just daft teen boys who think they can keep a secret like this for longer than a week and feel slick doing so. Crocus knocks on the door and all he hears is a muffled thud and an “oof”, before he opens the door to Buggy trying to look like he’s laying casually in his hammock and Shanks under said hammock, also trying to look casual as he blinks away tears of Pain. “Hi Crocus!” “Hello….” “… I was reading.” “And I was listening to him read!” And Crocus just rolls his eyes and tells them they are needed on deck in twenty minutes. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with teenagers anymore. After every successful raid the crew knows these two will suddenly disappear for about half an hour, before one of them comes back visibly more flushed and mussed up and the other one conveniently follows suit just about five minutes later. Shanks thinks he’s being sooooo smooth when he sends a flying kiss towards Buggy when nobody’s looking, only for Buggy to huff and flip him off before just making the tiniest heart hand motion back at him. Meanwhile Rayleigh and Roger are just looking at their dumbass boys from the forecastle “… should we tell our sons we know that they are an item?” “Aaaaah. Let those brats have their fun thinking they are getting away with something… the look on their faces when they tell us and we tell them we already know is going to be priceless anyways.”

This is actually my favorite flavor of Shuggy!!!!!! Teenage Shuggy hiding their relationship because they're just stupid like that and genuinely think they can pull that off without being caught is the funniest but sweetest thing ever. I think they just wouldn't be ready to tell the others because it's embarrassing. Because they're the only kids and the rest of them are, well, it's either the men that raised them or adults, and of course, they are not telling them they are dating. They wouldn't understand. The only situation they're possibly confessing this is if they've had a huge fight and need advice from Rayleigh and they genuinely don't think he knows, but everybody knows, because they're not subtle.

Teenage Shuggy is so funny and cute to me because they'd try to sneak out to make out and often get caught because there is no way they can do this quietly. They're always arguing even when they're being romantic. Shanks is too obvious and is too much into PDA not to get noticed. And Buggy gets unbelievably angry and possessive when a girl talks to Shanks on whatever island they're at. Shanks is always too close and they always end up sleeping on the same bed, so of course everybody notices.

But as I said I think they'd have one of their fights but this time is one of the bad ones, and Shanks goes to Rayleigh for advice. And he "confesses" he's been dating Buggy and makes him promise he won't tell anybody. And Rayleigh is like "yeah, kid, I won't tell anybody. You keep the secret so well. I had no idea" / "Really???? :D" / "No. You two suck at keeping secrets and everybody knows and maybe the reason why you fight so much is because you're always on and off. Maybe try to be normal teenagers for once, huh?".

Of course, Buggy finds out and thinks Shanks told everyone and gets even angrier BUT at least after that fight they don't hide anymore. But they still suck at trying to sneak out to be on their own.

[priestessame]

CAN I REQUEST CEO CHILDE X SECRETARY FEM READER??? like they're in a relationship and they fuck privately

AHAHAH aren't we all suckers for that bossXsecretary roleplay. I made a little spin on the trope tho^^ hope you like it~

Warnings: Fem, AFAB reader, shameless smut, dirty talk, mean rough sex :(, penetrative sex, fingering, public sex? slight voyeurism, praise kink.

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What stood before you and your lovely long weekend was an obnoxious six-foot mass of pure muscle.

You were already kissing your drinking plan with Keqing goodbye when his head peeked over the doorframe of his cabin. The only splash of autumn in your painfully monochrome office, his blue eyes swept past your colleagues, settled on you and you knew you were in trouble even before he opened his mouth.

"Y/n," he said, his voice full of amusement.

This time you tried not to let him get to you, "Yes?" you replied sweetly.

His eyebrows rose lightly, deciding not to respond to that at all. He gave you a knowing look and you gulped down the profanities you wanted to scream at him.

You smiled painfully wide, "Yes, Sir?"

Tartaglia grinned, satisfied. "You sound surprisingly chirpy for submitting an incomplete report."

"That can't be right." You said at once before you could catch yourself.

You regretted it immediately, but obviously, he didn't. Tartaglia feigned surprise, mouth forming an 'o' as he dramatically placed a hand on his chest.

"Is that so?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, knowing that you had already thrown him a bone.

"Then am I to believe the report was complete but the numbers just magically evaporated off the file? pray tell, did the report also alter itself in an attempt to get home early?"

You pursed your lips, "No."

"No?"

"No Sir."

You watched the satisfaction of winning settle on his face, "Then you better get to it," he said not even trying to hide his smile. His eyes shifted toward the watch on his wrist. "If you can finish it by today that is."

His tone made your deskmate shuffle with concern. Lilian poked your arm the moment you saw his cabin door close behind him.

"Why do you test him?" Lilian wailed out.

You just rolled your eyes. Your deskmate (which Tartaglia most definitely only assigned to torture you more) was new. With a jumpy personality and a perpetually anxiety-stricken face, she seemed to actually take Childe seriously.

Unlike you.

"He's not even our boss." You said, and he wasn't really. Well, he was Now, but only because Zhongli was out on his business meeting in Inazuma. For some godforsaken reason, he had decided to hand over his duties to him.

"He is now," she said, big eyes watery with concern.

"not for long." You muttered under your breath. The arrangement was only until Zhongli came back... you hoped.

"That doesn't matter." She told you. "If you get in trouble with him, you're gonna get in trouble for real."

You sighed, pressing your fingers into your temple.

"I'll help you finish up your report!" she continued, "We should be done by 6, then just go to him and apologize and he'll overlook it!"

Lilian gave you an empathetic smile. Her fear of you getting in trouble with your 'Boss' was often endearing but it was starting to get under your nerves now.

It was just Childe, you wanted to tell her. Thick-skulled and dense, nothing you couldn't handle.

"Don't bother." You said,

The problem was that you were actually expecting Zhongli to give the title to you and not that attractive bastard. So as much as you hated to admit it, you were a little… jealous. So you couldn't help but be salty and mean about it.

You and Childe butted heads all the time, hazardously competitive with everything the other did. So much so that Zhongli had suggested (Threatened) to sign the two of you for a week-long HR program if you two couldn't find a way to productively work together. Thankfully for the mental health of everyone else in the office, you and Tartaglia had found a non-conventional way of doing so.

Like the time you tried to just stay out of each other's way, tried more open communication, or when you had ridden him in his office chair until he came in his pants- yeah. Were you proud of it? Not exactly, but had it fixed your little competition problem? yes, yes it had.

So when zhongli had introduced the new arrangement, Tartaglia's grin had been nothing short of demonic. The hard stare he had given you later wasn't exactly that of gloating. It felt as if something about being your boss had seemingly awakened something in him and it had made you squeeze your thighs together. You gave Lilian a shrug, "I'll handle it myself."

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Just entering his cabin sent chills down your spine. Archons, why did he like the Aircon to be that low? It was freezing in here. It really was a beautiful cabin, wide-spaced and high-rise, carpeted with the best rugs from Sumeru and other luxury items only the head of imports and exports of Lieuye harbor could ever afford. But the best part was the view of the glistening blue of lieuye harbor stretching before you as far as your eye could see.

The entire cabin smelled like him. His smell crawled up your body, going straight to your core, making you lightheaded. Tartaglia stood there in all his glory against the backdrop of the ocean. His unabashed smugness somehow made him look even more attractive. You tried to focus. Still hoping to catch up with Keqing for drinks.

"What about the issues with the report?" you squabbled. Childe gave you a small wink, "I just made that up." He practically pushed you over his desk. You yelped at his sudden action, looking back at him bewildered, "Here?" you squeaked. His palm spanked against your ass and you bit down your hand to keep from screaming.

"Embarrassed are we?" He chuckled, "Where does it all go when you're creaming around my cock?" You shot him an angry look. Well, he wasn't wrong but he didn't have to make it this fucking obvious. Not to mention you had never done it in the office especially with you bent over Zhongli's precious mahogany table he spent hours talking about. Oh, archons you were about to ruin his cabin.

"People" you gasped out, "still here." You said eyes pinning on the opaque walls of the cabin. Anyone could easily walk in-

"Oh please, acting all honorable now?" He mused, hiking your skirt up already. "You were literally sucking me off under the table yesterday."

"That was after hours." You chastised him quickly, "no one was outside." You said annoyed at how easily your face heated up with his words. Your eyes still wandered towards the blurry silhouettes you could see walking outside.

"it's almost time to go home." He said, pulling your attention to him again. Like that was any reassurance. "Everyone will leave soon."

"Not to mention-" This thump rolled over the dampness of your panties, "You seem to quiet like that thought." The cold air of the cabin kissed your exposed skin icily. He pressed into the curve of your ass and you groaned as you felt his warmth. His touch was still teasing as he dragged his fingers along your sides settling to knead into your hips. Your body caved into his familiar touch, relaxing as his fingers massaged into you slowly. He leaned against your back, pinning you on the damn mahogany table before you could interject. You hated how you became absolute putty in his hands.

You could feel his abbs as his torso lined with your back. The warmth radiating off his body almost blistering hot against your skin. He curved into you like he was carved out for you. You couldn't help but arch back into him, your body reacting naturally.

"so impatient?"

"Shut up" You bit back without an ounce of fire.

Tartaglia just chucked at your reaction. His fingers traced out your entrance through the fabric momentarily. Letting you buckle under the sudden stimulation, before hooking under the cotton fabric of your panties and pushing them aside.

His fingers brushed against your folds, "Seems like I just excited you. little voyeur"

He grinned down at you. he was so attractive it was physically hard to look at him. Still completely clothed, while you were exposed to him like the recreation of a pornographic video. Obviously Childe was eating it all up, practically gloating about how ridiculously wet this set up made you.

"T-take something off," You said breathlessly, "This is embarrassing."

"Sweetheart." he said looking down at you, "I don't think you're in the position to make that call anymore."

His fingers practically slipped from all the slick. He ran his fingers along your folds, lighty, still barely touching you. You squirmed under his teasing touch. He pressed his palm against your cunt, "Such a slutty cunt-" he mewled out, cupping your sex as he continued to degrade you. "Getting this wet for your boss." The whine formed itself from your lips, but you couldn't care anymore. The pads of his fingers getting sticky at he continued to grind his palm against your folds.

You were still bent over the table, half naked. You couldn't help bury your face in your arm and moan softly, the humiliation of the situation getting you wetter than you'd like to admit.

With his fingers stuffed in your cunt but it felt so good. Maybe he was right, you really were a sad little pervert and Tartaglia just knew how to make that side surface. "Getting shy again?" He said, noticing your gestures, "You see sweetheart, sluts that go this dumb just from fingers don't get to act all shy."

His palm slappedagainst your pussy and you saw stars. The tight coil in your stomach finally snapping from the pleasure as you came messily on his fingers. Your body trembled slightly as his fingers continued to fuck you through your orgasm.  He looked at you with such passion you thought his gaze would actually sear into your skin. Parting your sensitive folds, he fucking loves how soft and mushy you feel, all he really wants to do is roll his tongue over your glistening core, eat you until you came on his tongue again.

But he had been ignoring the tent in his pants for too long, the binds of the clothing getting painfully irritable. The way he was grinding into you was going to chafe him if he didn't undress at this point.

But there was still one thing he wanted to do. "What are you..?" Your voice trailed off as pulled your wrists roughly, you yelped under your breath as he pinned them together. You looked up at him annoyed, but he just kissed your cheeks.

"I cannot believe you." You said as he coiled his yellow-gold tie, the one that you had gifted him, around your wrists.

You could practically feel his grin as he kissed up your neck, "can't have you squirming too much now."

Finally satisfied, he flipped you down on your back, sliding his fingers under your shirt reaching for your breasts. His slightest touch seemed to set your skin on fire. you gasped lightly as his thumb rolled over your areolas. This torture was getting too much, you yourself were 3 seconds away from begging, already feeling your core squeeze needily around nothing. So badly wanting to feel his fingers again. "Ajax-" you started But he shut you up again,

"Little voyeurs don't get to whine."

He said, slotting himself between your thighs. His fingers gripped your hips as he dragged his cock along your folds, slipping from your slick. The length kissed so deliciously into your clit before drawing back to your entrance.

his leaky tip teased your entrance and you cried out from the frustration, Archons you wanted to milk him for all its worth. "J-just put it in." You said, trying not to come off too desperate.

"Hmm?" I thought you were too embarrassed to do it here." He said, pulling onto your wrists, making your back arch into a painful curve. The build up was just too much.

You gulped down your pride, "please." You whispered out, you threw you head back to look up at him,

"Please put it in Sir~"

The way his gaze shifted told you, you had got him exactly where you wanted him.

"Oh girlie-" he started, his voice going so low it had you squirming again.

There was a sudden beep and you jumped.

"Easy~" Tartaglia growled out, pressing his weight ontop you lower back to keep you from falling off.

"It's just the intercom~"

Your eyes widened, Did he just say-

Tartaglia flicked a button before pressing his hand on your mouth. You gave out a moan just as Kaeya's flirty voice called out from the receiver.

"Childe, did you get the.... he voice drowned out as Tartaglia continued to get meaner by the second. you cried out into his hands as Tartaglia bottomed into you suddenly. Kaeya's airy voice suddenly halted erupting an uneasy silence from his side.

You couldn't help but tear up from the pleasure, shame long abandoning your body as your mind went foggy chasing your orgasm. Childe continued to set a harsh pace, pistoling into you. He seemed to have lost all the composure now that he finally finally felt your walls clamp down around his cock. The lewd sound of his hips slapping against your ass was anything but quiet. You were sure kaeya could hear it clearly through the phone, making you wonder why he even bothered clamping your mouth shut at this point.

"Just mail me back, once you're... done." Kaeya said breathily . The beep ended the call, but it didn't even matter to either of you.

"Sounds like we got him riled up too~" he mewled out. But the drag of his cock along your walls had you seeing stars, you could feel his shape inch ny inch.

"Fuck-" he growled out, "squeezing my cock like that, when I was talking to him."

As you neared your release you couldn't care anymore. Your back arched up to meet his hips.

Even if someone randomly came in only to see you sprawled out like that. You knew the humiliation of being caught fucking into you like this only made his cock harder. But at this point you couldn't blame him, you were getting just as ridiculously wet.

Couldn't have fallen for someone nicer.

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He snapped his hips back into yours and you whined out, your mixed juices dribbling down on the mahogany table, practically ruining the pants he had so smugly kept on. He grew more whiney as he came down from his high, his crude words turning into honeyed praises.

"Oh fuck I love your pussy so much, you're so perfect for me sweetheart."

he kissed down your neck, whispers still breathless as his mouth tried to find any skin it could. Your skin felt flushed hot as you came down from your own high. At this point you wanted him to peel off the unnecessary layers of clothes you had on. You rolled back into your back, looking up at Childe.

Of course he was just as hard as before, cock coated with a mixture of your releases. You could practically feel t twitch insatiably, aching to be inside you again. Sliding his throbbing cock back into you at a leisurely pace. The way he rubbed along your overstimulated walls made you curl your toes with pleasure. you threw your head back, letting it hang over the edge of the table. , but there was a sudden pause. you looked up confused.

At that point, you couldn't tell if you were hallucinating or ajax had actually fucked your brains out. Because you were staring back at your actual boss.

Zongli stood at the door frame, any concept of shame long abandoning you. Arms crossed across his broad chest. The slight twitch of his eyebrow was the only loss of composure he allowed himself.

The ends of his mouth were turned down, you realised this was the first time you had ever seen the man frown. If you didn't know any better you'd say he was fucking pissed. Despite the absolute humiliation of the situation you couldn't help but squeeze around ajax harder under zhongli's gaze.

Tartaglia's grip around your waist only tightened. "You're back early."

"We broke your rock." you babbled out, using your tied wrists to point at the paper holder that had rolled over.

He unclenched his jaw taut with anger, his gaze softened as it pinned on your face. Even sprawled out for that rascal, your clothes in a disarray, you looked that beautiful. He was almost guilted by his own thoughts, Of how much he hated how the rascal had found his way, if he must be so crude, into you before him.

"I see."

Your eyes wandered up to meet Zhongli's as the man neared you, cupping your face with a gentleness Ajax had denied you this entire time. His thumb brushed over your cheek lovingly, eyes almost overwhelmed with emotion. They shifted from your face, pinning Tartaglia in an angry stare. The other man just smiled back at him shamelessly.

You couldn't help but tremble at the softness of his touch, realizing you were not quite done with your working hours yet.

Not to mention, this might actually get you a raise.

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[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Burt the Ball

Debut: Yoshi’s Crafted World

Today’s post is very special, because we have a very esteemed guest joining us in the audience! Spikey’s very own grandmother is here, having heard so much about our posts, and she is delighted to attend this live post viewing! Everyone, it is my pleasure to introduce Mrs. Spikeworth!

“Oh, why, thank you, dearies! You’re too kind.”

(Now, just between you and me, I made sure to choose one of the most innocuous enemies I could, from an extremely family-friendly game. We need to make a good first impression! Anyway, on with the post!)

We all know and love Burt the Bashful, he is such a silly guy! A round guy with a big ol’ nose and funny striped pants. That’s our Burt! The poor guy is shy, though, so let’s give him his space. He is sheepish. Burt the Baaashful!

“Oh ho ho! How droll!”

Thank you, ma’am. Where was I? I wonder if people are tired of big Burts as Yoshi bosses. They sure do appear often! I think it’s good, because they are funny, but maybe there are some no-nonsense Yoshi fans out there who sigh and roll their eyes upon seeing the goofball pictured above. Oh well. Too bad. Yoshi’s Crafted World makes history by having a Burt boss NOT in the first world! And this one is a literal goofball!

Normally, a boss Burt is a small one enlarged by Kamek’s magic, but this case is a little different! Burt the Ball begins as a fresh, deflated beach ball, and is dropped into these big ol’ pants that were just hanging here. Are these even his? I don’t think we have conclusive evidence! It must be bad enough to be made aggressive against your will, but it’s downright insulting to get put into somebody else’s pants. What if they saw?! So embarrassing!

“My, I do like that the kids still get to see clothespins in their games today. My grandson is always trying to get me to use that new drying machine, but I swear my petticoat shrinks unless it’s dried the old-fashioned way!”

Yes, Mrs. Spikeworth, thank you for the, um, timeless wisdom.

I think Burt the Ball’s transformation is quite a sight, as we get to see him inflate his appendages one by one, and he is rendered so realistically! Get a load of those seems! I can feel him. I imagine holding his hand. It is so easy and you should imagine it too, and we will all be connected through our bond with him!

In true Burt fashion, though, he needs to pull his pants up! Silly fellow, but it happens to the best of us. Maybe he needs to buy something to hold those pants up. Burt the Belted would be unstoppable! Anyway, we’ve dwelt on this silly cutscene long enough, let’s let the poor guy get his pants up already!

Oh! Oh. Oh my. I swear this game is rated E. Can we, um, get that off the screen, please?

“What’s that, dearie? Dreadfully sorry, I’m just wiping off my glasses, I’ll look in a jiffy!”

Nothing, nothing! Just a, bug on the screen. NEXT SLIDE PLEASE

Here we have Burt the Ball and his adorable little apprentices! These are the Beach Burts, and they are in fact the only “normal” Burts in the game, as Burts only appear in this context! Not only that, these are the first ever Burt Variant. Big win for Burt fans!

As with all big Burts, the pants recede as he takes damage. Unlike other Burts, though, they for some godforsaken reason decided to actually depict- oh? Oh, it’s not there? Thank goodness. I do wonder where it went, but at least I don’t have to try to explain it now!

“I’m sorry, sweetie, explain what?”

Oh, just that... bug again, it’s, um, an invasive species, a lot to get into, wouldn’t be on-topic.

Anyway, that’s all today, and everyone please give a big hand to our special guest, the lovely Mrs. Spikeworth! We are honored she made the time for us on her way back home to the naturist resort!

[pookacangetit]

villain!disney song yuu brainrot (i apologize in advance)

disney song yuu is mostly written with a disney prince(ss)-esque personality, with the occasional villain moment, but imagine them with a more,, morally gray type personality

a yuu that, as soon as they realize the power they hold, immediately starts thinking of ways to use it to their advantage. i mean- they’ve been dropped into a different dimension, with no magic (which, by the way, is a very necessary thing here), and everyone at this godforsaken school has enough baggage to match their egos, and absolutely no emotional intelligence whatsoever. who says they can’t level the playing field a bit? they deserve a bit of fun.

this yuu is craftier, more self serving, and egotistical with the wits to match. who knew their passion for singing would become such an asset? a little hum and a few lyrics could get them an A+ on their potions assignment, or finally get grim to shut up, or sick a murder of crows on their enemies! Fun!

oh, i have admirers? a fan club? a literal cult following? some people actually think i’m a god??? all according to keikaku “how peculiar! i’m flattered, really, but i don’t think i’ve done anything that notable! i’m only doing what i can, just like everyone else~!” *bats eyelashes innocently*

that graceful, charming act might fool a stranger, but anyone that knows yuu knows. they may be calm, and collected, they may be reserved, they may be polite, so unlike many of the brash and bold students of nrc, but yuu isn’t harmless. people listen when they speak, they’re charismatic, sharp, they could talk anyone into a corner with that melodious, alluring voice of theirs. they’re beautiful in the way that a rolling tide or a waning moon is, almost unnoticeable, they simply blend into the background, until suddenly you see them and you can't look away. 

animals of all types seem attracted to them. sometimes they’re songbirds, or woodland creatures, but most of the time they’re crows, snakes, vultures and insects; cawing and hissing along to the prefect’s smooth, rich voice. 

the sun seems to slink back into the clouds when they sing, the wind blows, cool and soft, the birds stop chirping and all is silent, as if nature itself was listening intently. their voice is heavenly, angelic. ghostly, haunting, and almost inhuman; cold as ice, dark as ink, reverberating through the air like a lone, howling breeze on an otherwise silent winter night. yet strong and firm, rumbling like thunder, seeping through your skin like a burning warmth, echoing through your ribcage and electrifying your very own heart. 

but this yuu isn’t evil. that’s the reason they’re so popular, yuu may not be nice all the time, but they’re kind, they’re not weak, but they’re forgiving. they return what they are given- grace for grace, malice for malice. despite their cocky jabs, they love their friends, despite their seeming coldness, they help those in need.

mysterious, powerful, captivating, endearing, a little bit intimidating, and entirely unique, that’s the ramshackle prefect.

just don’t piss them off.

----

idk if this made any sense i kinda just word vomited :( cringecore

Oh Yuu has plenty of reasons to be a rogue villian, and NRC doesn't mind this feral god commiting world domination if they wanted to (Malleus will hands down let Yuu be his emperess if they expressed interest in the Thorn Kingdom).

They liked this morally grey Yuu using everything in their arsenal to survive because it shows off how NRC they are and HA TAKE THAT RSA BASTARDS YUU'S OURS THROUGH AND THROUGH.

[stratossphere]

off the menu | v.v

(ville valo x male!reader) you’re not going to feed into ville’s games. at least…you don’t think you will.

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, fingering, blowjob, inappropriate uses of coconut oil, drinking, ville is kind of a douche

word count: 5.4k

a/n: first ville x male!reader fic! sorry i took so long to write for male reader and hope you enjoy ;)

tags: @asskickedbygirl @lieutenant-cinnamon-roll @kissofdawn666 @brandons-wife @valos-venus-doom @ghoulishguns

— —

You were nervous. You were never nervous, but right now you were sweating. Anxiety was pouring down your neck in waves, and you couldn't understand why. Maybe the joint you'd smoked before you'd showed up to this godforsaken party was bad, or maybe, and more likely, it was because he was there.

You weren't scared of Ville Valo. A lot of people were, and you could tell by the way the seas of people infesting this shitty house party parted way to give him space to walk where he held his head ridiculously high, but you weren't. In fact, you were more inconvenienced by his general presence than anything, as he had a habit of finding that last nerve you had in you and toying with it while a smirk played on his face the entire time.

But tonight, for some reason, things were different. Maybe it had something to do with the way Ville's shirt was about three times too small or the fact that his jeans were way too tight considering he definitely wasn't wearing anything underneath, but that was forcibly kept at the back of your mind for now. For now, you were focused on avoiding the Finnish god of a man that seemed hellbent on getting his breath down your neck in any way he could manage.

"Nah, none of us really jam with those guys anymore. It's been a long time since we did anything like that." You were talking to some girl who had glued herself to the spot next to you on the couch in an attempt to clear your head, but all you were doing was getting more annoyed with the questions she continued to ask you. She spoke English. Ever since HIM had grown in America, it seemed everyone spoke English at these parties now.

You were a drummer a band of your own that you'd been in for years now, but all anyone could talk about was Ville's band. Funnily enough, you’d been in a band with Ville once. A long time ago, before you had even grown old enough to start smoking cigarettes. It's how you had met each other in the first place. Even then he'd been an insufferable control freak with a mouth that just never stopped when it needed to, and it had only grown worse since.

Especially because, as much as you wanted to ignore it, Ville was obsessed with you. He was obsessed with the way you wouldn't let him have you, and despite how many times you'd tried to push him away and out of your life, somehow he'd stuck. So, as it seemed, you were chronically stuck with Ville Valo trying to work his way into your pants with his sly tongue and sharp eyes for...the rest of your life.

"Hello?" The American chick snapped her fingers near your face, which made you even more annoyed, but effectively snapped you out of your trance of irritated thoughts as she looked at you expectantly. You needed a drink.

"Huh? What?" You couldn't even bring yourself past sounding inherently bored. She didn't seem to be able to sense it, however, because she jabbed a thumb towards the hallway that was just past the couch you were sitting on.

"I asked if you wanted to find a bathroom or something." She repeated, a coy grin on her lips as she spoke. You felt bad for doing it, but all you did was abruptly stand up at that moment.

"Uh...no. I'm going to go get a drink." You muttered, not sure how to properly apologize for your refusal and instead just turning and heading towards the kitchen. You'd run out of the whiskey in your cup long ago when the girl hadn't let up on her pestering questions, and you were in need of something to soothe your frazzled nerves.

However, just as you were passing the entryway out of the living room, you were dosed full of about the opposite of that. Because suddenly, without warning, Ville was right at your side.

"How's your little date going? Did she offer to suck you off yet?" He questioned right in your ear, his breath hot on your skin as he talked through the cloud of cigarette smoke he had just exhaled right in your face. You elbowed him away.

"Yeah, she did. I'm about to go right back over there." You said dryly, thankful that the kitchen was a little clearer of people and gave you room to breathe. Well, as much room as you could get with Ville as close as he was.

"Oh, yeah? Pussy is your thing now?" Thankfully, Ville had enough humility to lean right into your ear instead of blurting it out to the whole kitchen, but your ears still went red regardless. "I didn't know you switched teams."

Ville was bisexual. Proudly, loudly so. There was no one that he couldn't have, and he was very obvious about his boasting the fact. You were not bisexual, nor did you like showcasing your sexuality to every living being on the planet, and he knew it. He knew it, and he played into it at every opportunity he possibly could.

"Will you shut the fuck up? I'm sure she'll stick her hand down your pants if you ask nicely." You shot back as you poured some of the dwindling bottle of whiskey into your cup. You were silently wondering if it was possible to drink enough to where you would go deaf and not have to listen to this anymore.

"Nah, that's too easy." His tone was sly and sure, and you couldn't help but look over at him with an unimpressed stare. God, he was a fucking piece. An egotistical, relentless piece. "I was actually planning on stealing you from her. That'll really me going."

"I'm off the menu. You're pissing me off." You said dismissively, taking a long sip of your whiskey and raising your eyebrows at him over the rim of your cup. You were around the same height and build, but for some reason, in his completely black outfit and caked-on eyeliner, he seemed bigger somehow. Maybe it had something to do with the way he had set a hand on the counter right next to your hip to half-cage you in.

"Why? We're just talking." He was acting like he couldn't see his own actions, and he was also lying out of his ass. You scoffed and got around him to start heading out of the kitchen.

"Because you're so goddamn horny all the time. Relax." That was your last piece of advice before you made your escape, suddenly becoming aware of how fast your heart had been beating due to Ville's close proximity.

Okay. You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn't find him attractive. You actually found him extremely attractive, as did everyone else in the entire goddamn world, but his constant cocksure attitude annoyed the shit out of you. Mostly because of how worked up he could get you with, say, a single hand on the counter by your hip. God fucking damn it.

You decided that going outside to sit out in the fresh air would be your best bet for calming down a bit. Your body felt overheated and your chest felt tight, so the first breath of sharp air where it was still cold during the nights immediately began to soothe the irritation hot on your skin. There was almost no one outside, so you were able to light a cigarette and stand on the edge of the deck in peace as you let your thoughts run wild.

You knew Ville had an end goal in mind tonight, and you knew that end goal was you. And, if you were being perfectly, completely honest with yourself, you weren't exactly sure how strong your will was. You hadn't seen Ville in a while before tonight, and as much as it was embarrassing to admit, you'd been thinking about him. A lot. Not because you missed him or anything...you just liked to think about him sometimes. He was a very interesting person, after all. Ville knew perfectly well how to be slightly more than bearable when he put some effort in.

You knew he was going to come find you, so all you did was sit down on the porch swing, light a second cigarette, and wait. It couldn't hurt to talk a little more, right? Besides, maybe he'd actually used some common sense and took your advice for once.

You got around ten minutes to yourself before you heard the door open behind you, and then footsteps on the deck signaling that someone had come outside. You didn't look back just in case it was just someone leaving, but it wasn't long before you were met with the smell of Marlboro Lights and then the feeling of Ville dropping right down next to you on the porch swing.

"That party fucking sucks. Everyone's stoned and no one wants to drink." He grumbled, and you turned your head slowly in his direction to see him with a deep set frown on his face. You tried not to laugh, because no one drank enough when they were compared to Ville Valo.

"I think a little weed would be good for you." You muttered, half-aware of how close he was to you as your arm brushed his when you lifted your hand to take a drag off of your almost-cashed cigarette. He huffed out a sour laugh at that, head fully turned so that he could shamelessly stare at you.

"You know, I like it when you're in a bitchy mood. Makes you hotter." Once again, he was close to your ear again, and your breath caught in your throat when he slid his arm over the back of the swing so that it just brushed the back of your head. When you didn't have a quick retort to his words, he let out a baritone hum. "I want you."

"You just haven't gotten any in a few days." You accused tightly, fighting hard to keep your eyes on his and off of his lips as you spoke. But you couldn't hide your gasp when he suddenly leaned even further in and pressed his lips to your neck, his tongue touching just slightly to your skin as he inhaled against you.

"Even if I hadn't, it wouldn't matter. You know how bad I fucking want you." He was still kissing at your neck, and even though you were practically shaking under his touch, you were letting him. He didn't seem to mind that there were still a couple of people outside that could've easily seen the two of you, and you were too startled to pay attention.

You knew he was right. You were more than aware of how much he wanted you, and how long he'd wanted you, and now that you'd crossed the line to where you'd allowed his lips on you, that same want was starting to rise in your own chest.

So for once, you made the move. You forced him back from your neck, and as soon as he looked at you with burning hunger in his pretty green eyes, you kissed him, setting one hand on his thigh. Your heart had gone right back to pounding in your chest, but he did nothing but deepen the kiss, his hand that wasn't over the back of the swing setting over yours before pushing it higher up his own thigh.

"I wanna fuck you. Now." He breathed against your lips, his eyes now plagued with desperation where he had looked so incredibly sure of himself before. It was clear that Ville Valo only had the upper hand until your hand was anywhere near his dick.

"Do you actually want to fuck me, or do you just want your dick sucked?" You weren't going unless this was going to be something more than Ville proving that he truly could have anyone he wanted. Even if you could see him getting hard in his jeans an could feel yourself reaching the same status.

"Who says I'll be the one getting my dick sucked? Do you think I have no manners?" It didn't take him long to find his footing again, and then he was catching you in another kiss, his hips pushing unconsciously towards your hand. "Come with me."

You kind of felt like a teenager again as you both simultaneously shot out of your seats to rush back into the house, you with desperate need no doubt plastered all over your face and Ville with a satisfied smirk on his as you shoved yourselves back into the mess of people inside. You were glad that it was pretty packed and that everyone was too intoxicated to pay attention to anything other than themselves, because you were a lot less cool with walking through a large group of people with a raging hard-on than Ville was.

The second that Ville located an empty bedroom, he was yanking you inside and the door was being slammed shut loudly. You were then pressed right up against it, Ville's hands tight on your hips as his lips crashed back to yours.

"I'm so fucking hard right now. Please." You groaned as he purposely ground his hips against yours, holding you in place so that you could do nothing but feel how equally hard he was through the fabric of both of your pants. He let his lips trail down to your jaw, one hand moving from your hip to the button of your jeans.

"Look how nicely you beg. Who would've thought it would be that easy." He crooned, easily undoing the button before he was pulling your zipper open. He then groaned right over the sound of your defiant huff as he slid a hand into your jeans and cupped your aching cock through your boxer briefs. "You're off the menu, huh?"

"Shut up. It's not my fault you never—never leave me alone." You were having an extremely hard time forming full sentences as he continued to rub his hand against your hard-on while he pushed your jeans lower on your hips with his free hand, but you were managing. "Stop playing with me."

"Fine. Be that way." And then, with an elegance that only Ville Valo himself could muster, he dropped right down onto his knees in front of you, his fingers staying at your waistband before he was pulling both your boxers and your jeans down to free your cock. "Fuck."

You were frozen as you watched him intently, lip drawn between your teeth as you waited for him to make his move. You then let out a whimper when he looked up at you before dragging his tongue along the underside of your cock, shooting harsh shocks of pleasure through your stomach.

As he began to press kisses all along your cock, his lips smearing precum and being left with a thin sheen as he did so, your hand made its way tightly into his hair. It had grown considerably since you'd last seen him, and you liked how it looked on him. You also liked how his lips were looking all over your cock at the moment.

Just as you were about to open your mouth and tell him to stop teasing, because you could tell by the glint in his eyes that that was exactly what he was doing, he finally wrapped his hand around your cock. You gasped a lot louder than what you would've liked as he began to pump his hand, your voice only going louder when he wrapped his lips around your tip after his hand.

"Holy fuck. Holy fuck." You mumbled as he swirled his tongue over your slit, your grip in his hair holding him in place and making sure that he couldn't pull back and tease you any more if he tried. He only hummed before letting his hand drop and taking you fully into his mouth, his head bobbing slowly and in turn pulling a full moan from your lips at the feeling of his warm mouth completely enveloping your cock.

Ville was talented in a multitude of ways. First of all, he had those eyes that always made people look twice no matter how hard they tried not to, and he knew how to use them. He was staring up at you now as he took your cock almost all the way in his mouth and sucked with a talent you knew you didn't have, and somehow, despite your best intentions, you couldn't seem to stop yourself from shallowly thrusting into his mouth as a result. He had also been extremely successful in getting you to what felt like the most desperate you'd ever been in record time.

"Feels so good. Don't stop." You breathed, head falling back against the door. You felt a little bad considering you were staring to essentially fuck his mouth, but you couldn't help yourself, and he didn't seem to care too much. In fact, he had both hands on your thighs, and was still bobbing his head to suck you down further despite the fact.

Until he wasn't.

Your eyes shot open as suddenly his head wasn't in your hand and his mouth wasn't on your cock anymore, only to see him getting up off his knees and taking his shirt off. At your devastated look, he just snickered.

"Don't look at me like that. I don't want you to cum until my cock is in you." He said boldly, tossing his shirt to the floor before he was reaching out to grab your wrist and pulling you away from the door. "C'mon. Do you actually want to fuck me, or do you just want your dick sucked?"

Using your own words against you. How incredibly Ville of him.

You allowed him to pull your shirt over your head as you simultaneously kicked your jeans and boxers the rest of the way off, your chests pressed together and your lips on his the second that space allowed for it. You kissed him sloppily as your hand pushed between the two of you to get his button open and his zipper down, your head eventually dropping out of the kiss so that you could focus your shaky hands while Ville's lips just fell to your shoulder instead.

"You smell good." He said coyly, a sigh of slight relief falling from his lips as you finally got the zipper of his pants down and, in turn, freed his hard and leaking cock where he wasn't wearing any underwear. "You fucking tasted good, too."

Your kisses only got sloppier as the two of you messily fumbled onto the bed, mouths never separating as Ville landed half-on top of you with his hand low on your hip. When you finally broke apart for air, you looked around the room you were in, which definitely looked like someone's bedroom and not a guest room. Oh well.

"We don't have any lube." You pointed out, looking to him for what his magical solution was going to be considering he looked nothing but relaxed. He also looked around the room then before settling on the nightstand on his side of the bed. He leaned over and pulled the drawer open, clearly trying his luck.

"Can you put...coconut oil in your ass?" He asked as he came back with a small container in his hand, amusement playing on his features as he waved it towards your face. You shrugged.

"Good enough." You kissed him again as he unscrewed the jar with his free hand, savoring the taste of his tongue in your mouth while you pushed your fingers back through his hair. "Hurry up."

"Easy, easy, easy, sweetheart. I just want you to feel good." He cooed, coaxing your leg up over his hip before his hand was brushing down your hip and then over your ass.

When you felt his fingers push gently at your hole, you gasped against his lips, your whole body startling slightly as he shushed you and began to circle his finger slowly. The coconut oil was thankfully warm, and before long he was pressing his finger into you, nipping at your lip gently when you moaned and let your cheek fall to his shoulder where his arm was resting under your head.

"More. Feels so good." You breathed, dropping your hand to cup his cheek as he ghosted his lips over yours but never closed the gap. You knew he wanted to look at you, because at his very core Ville was a voyeur through-and-through, but your head was spinning under the intensity of his gaze, and you needed him. When you gasped his name softly as he continued to pump his finger inside of you, he dipped his head to instead kiss and suck along your jaw, his lips dragging smoothly across your skin with every kiss.

"Stop whining and I'll give you whatever you want." He said just as he pushed a second finger into you, leaning back to give you that coy, self-assured look again before you pulled him in for a kiss to shut him up.

By the time Ville had fully prepped you, you were practically shaking under his touch, cock almost painfully hard and dripping against your abdomen as you whined and gasped against his lips.

“I’m ready. Please. I need you so fucking bad right now.” You begged, unable to take the slow drag of what was now three of his fingers inside you any more. Ville, despite not having been touched at all yet, was breathing almost as raggedly as you were, and he let out a breath before he gently pulled his fingers out of you.

“You want my cock?” He asked in your ear as his lips ghosted over the edge of your jaw, his tone bordering on condescending as you watched him gather more coconut oil on his hand before he was fisting his cock and beginning to stroke himself slowly to coat his skin in the slick substance.

You tried to snap something back. You really wanted to, too. That tone of voice he used so often was usually the one that annoyed you the most, that made you hate him, but now all it did was make you feel even harder.

“Yes. Need you inside me.” You didn’t even care about sounding desperate. It wasn’t like he couldn’t read it in every aspect of your body language, anyway. He grinned then, blissed slyness clouding his features as his slick hand pulled your leg completely up and over his hip before he was reaching down to position the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Tell me how bad you want it.” Okay. Now he was pushing it. You death stared him, because he was so close to being inside you, and yet he was still playing ganes. And all he did was meet that stare head-on and wait. So you took a deep breath and bit the inside of your cheek.

“I’m so hard it hurts. So please, put your cock inside of me and fuck me before I fucking explode.” You said tightly, not sounding as intimidating as you had intended but still snarky enough to do. His grin only went wider.

“Good boy. You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?” And with that, after what felt like hours upon hours of torture, he was pushing into you, moving slowly with his eyes on yours to gauge your reaction. Your eyes fell closed as your lips parted in a silent moan, your arousal furthered by his deep groan as he finally bottomed out inside of you with one hand gripping your hip tightly. “Shit, you’re tight.”

“Move.” You gasped, your hand moving from where it had been resting loosely on his jaw back up into his hair to pull because it felt like you could do nothing else. You were completely at his mercy, and you knew by the heated look in his eyes that he could easily tell. The first full thrust of his cock into you pulled a moan out of both of you, and then Ville was quickly finding pace, his hand on your hip holding you still on his thrusts as he began to fuck you smoothly.

“God, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted you. You feel so good.” Ville voice was breathy and his eyes were shut tight, and you had never seen such a beautiful sight in your life. There wasn’t a sight better in the world than Ville Valo fucked out and shut up.

You could only moan in response, rolling your hips down on his cock as he fucked into you with increasing force. His voice was low in his throat as he grunted and groaned with each thrust, and every little sound felt like it was going right to your cock. That feeling as amplified when suddenly the hand that was under your head suddenly laced his fingers into your hair, and then he was pressing his forehead to yours.

“You’re taking my cock so fucking well. Does that feel good, sweetheart?” He goaded, lips curling into a smirk despite his fucked-out state when he thrusted particularly harshly into you and pulled a sharp cry from your lips. If his cock hadn’t been buried balls-deep inside of you, you would’ve snapped at him for calling you sweetheart, but all you did instead was nod vigorously with your forehead still pressed to his.

“Yeah—yeah. Feels so good. Keep fucking going.” You gasped out, a desperate whimper rising in your throat as he pulled harder at your hair to keep your head in perfect position so that he could stare right into your eyes. You couldn’t take it. You needed more. “Touch me.”

“Say please, pretty boy. You’re not in fucking charge, here.” He pressed, his hand easing its pressure on your hip telling you that you were going to get what you want despite his threat. You struggled to get enough air into your lungs to respond, your head spinning with pleasure at the feeling of his tip hitting your sweet spot over and over again.

“Please. Please, I need it so bad.” You whimpered, meeting his gaze despite wanting to shrink away from his intimidating stare so that he could see how needy you were. You had never once been this desperate and quick to beg, and you hated that Ville had been the one to bring it out of you.

Ville groaned deeply at the sound of you begging him, and then his slick fingers completely left your hip before they were wrapping around your neglected cock. You fully cried out at the feeling, and then you were bucking up into the friction of his fingers wrapped around you before he could even get the chance to move his hand.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep moving like that.” Ville muttered, referencing how you had started to essentially thrust down on his cock and then up into his hand all in one fluid motion. You leaned in to kiss him again, because you were trying to distract yourself from cumming right then and there.

“I don’t care. I’m close.” It probably wasn’t very hard to tell, but you egged him on regardless, licking into his mouth hungrily to at least half cover the moans and whimpers that were coming out of your mouth in a steady stream at the dual pleasure of his hand pumping your cock and his cock slamming into you mercilessly.

“You gonna let me cum inside you?” He asked in between kisses, his voice drawn apart and breathy as he tried to maintain the facade that he wasn’t as close as you were. You nodded immediately, unable to verbally respond due to the fact that your cock was starting to twitch, and the fact that you were about ten seconds away from reaching your climax whether you liked or not.

As both of you chased your own highs, the only sound that could be heard in the borrowed bedroom was the sound of skin on skin and the chorus of moans spilling between both you and Ville, hands still equally tight in each other’s hair and lips still sloppily locked together. And, at that moment, you could no longer hold back.

“I’m gonna—I can’t—“ You couldn’t even properly warn him before you were cumming, spilling onto his hand, your stomach, his stomach, and all over the sheets below the both of you as you whimpered and tried and failed to inhale air as he continued to fuck you right through it. He groaned at the sight of both of you covered in your cum before his hips stuttered at then he was cumming too, the feeling of his release spilling into you giving you a full-body aftershock.

“Holy shit.” Ville breathed, his rapid breath hitting your cheek as he thrusted shallowly into you while you both came down from your highs with shaky limbs tangled together. His grip went lax in your hair then, and it made you realize that you still hadn’t done the same to his. You let your hand drop, fingers brushing against his cheek as you looked at him with slightly parted lips.

You had just been fucked by Ville Valo. Holy shit.

You had expected yourself to feel a least a little bit of regret after all of this (actually a lot, if you were being honest with yourself), but as you finally pulled yourselves to draw apart, you felt nothing but good. Really good. Albeit a little shaky, but that was hardly what you were focused on.

As you slowly redressed, which Ville had started to do the same behind you, you startled a little bit when you suddenly felt his arms circle around your hips and his chin dip to your shoulders just as you got the zipper of your jeans back up. Neither of you had gotten your shirts back on yet, and you could feel his overheated skin pressed completely against yours.

“Come home with me tonight so I don’t have to miss you.” He mumbled, kissing gently at your neck as he dragged his nails just barely across your skin. You felt a grin forming on your lips, and you turned in his arms.

“You miss me?” He was just full of surprises tonight. He grinned right back, his fingers finding your belt loops as he held you in place so that you couldn’t get away from him (not that you wanted to).

“Yeah. Was I not open enough with my girl crush?” He teased, his hand resting on your ribs making you breathe a little unevenly as he visually looked you over. “I like when they play hard to get.”

“Whatever.” You muttered as he broke away to grab his shirt, thankful that he was turned away so that he couldn’t see the pinkish tinge to your cheeks. You didn’t know what had gotten into you (Ville, mainly), but it was fucking embarrassing.

By the time you were both fully clothed once again and Ville had lit a fresh cigarette that he let you have a singular drag off of before he hogged it for himself, you had decided that you were indeed going home with him. Why not, if he was that talented in bed.

You were consciously aware of the fact that you’d left a huge, sticky mess in the middle of whoever owned this house’s bed, but you were too focused on the lure of Ville’s green eyes as he watched you every second that he wasn’t touching you to care. At least you’d had the decency to lick each other clean instead of wiping everything on the comforter.

Just as you were getting ready to open the door, preparing yourself for at least a couple knowing looks considering you and Ville both definitely looked like you’d been doing exactly what you’d just been doing, Ville suddenly darted back to the bed and came forward with the jar of coconut oil. When you deadpanned at him, he threw a hand in the air.

"What? This stuff is fucking great. Makes you smell good enough to eat." He hummed, holding you back from going any further by the back loop of your jeans  before he kissed you one last time. "You can lick it off my cock when we get to my place."

Fucking Christ. Now you were definitely going with him.

[pacificwaternymph]

“I can’t keep doing this for you Lizzie. You have to stop.”

Lizzie looked at the report in her hands, flipping through the pages casually. She seemed remarkably calm for holding a file that contained enough proof of misconduct to put her in prison for the rest of her life.

“Mmm no. I don’t think I will, actually.”

Jimmy groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Lizzie…”

“You know what I’m going to say.” Lizzie flicked her gaze up to Jimmy. It was true, he did. They’d had this conversation so many times it was impossible not to. “I already told you my answer. So what are you going to do about it. Arrest me?” 

She held the report out for him to take back. Jimmy did, and stared at it for just another moment. Lizzie didn’t seem particularly worried, and she had no reason to be. They both knew what Jimmy was going to do next before he even did it.

Just when the silence seemed to reach its climax, Jimmy sighed exasperatedly and tossed the whole file into the waste bin. He pulled out a match from his belt and struck it, before throwing it into the can and allowing the papers inside to catch fire.

“Thank you, dear,” Lizzie crooned, her face looking very self satisfied. Jimmy wanted to kick her. 

“You know it’s really unfair of you to ask me to cover for you all the time,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Lizzie just snorted, folding her hands together on her desk. 

“I’ve never asked you to do anything,” she pointed out. “You’ve always done this of your own free volition.” 

“Well what do you want me to do?” Jimmy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Arrest my own sister?” 

Lizzie rolled her eyes, giving him that look that always made him feel like a child again. Oh how he hated that look. 

“Don’t act like I’m the only one you give special treatment to,” she chided, a bit haughtily. “What about Scott, hm? Everyone knows what he’s involved in. Yet he continues to walk free without a care in the world.”

Oh that was dirty, even for her. Jimmy flushed, tugging at his collar with one finger. 

“There- there’s no solid evidence that he-“

“Solid evidence my ass,” Lizzie interrupted, amusement tangible in her tone, “you just don’t want to put him behind bars because you think he’s cute.” 

“There is no solid evidence-“

“Wow, you’re really clinging onto that excuse with everything you have, aren’t you?” Lizzie laughed, and Jimmy felt his shoulders raise self consciously. 

“Can we please not talk about this right now?” He asked, doing his best to ignore the burning in his face. Lizzie continued to give him that godforsaken look, but eventually relented, picking up her pen and dipping it into the ink pot.

“Fine, fine,” she acquisced. “But I’m telling you, if you’re gonna make a move, do it soon. You know he and Sausage have been seen around a lot, lately, and people are starting to wonder-“

“Lizzie!”

Lizzie laughed, her grin like a cat’s. Before anything else could be said, there was a knock on the door, and Lizzie’s secretary stuck her head in. She eyed the burning trash can warily, but didn’t seem too surprised by it. No one was ever surprised by anything being set on fire in this town anymore. 

“Excuse me, Madame. Mr. Joel and Hermes are here to see you.”

Lizzie’s face lit up like a firework, and she stood, pushing her chair back so fast it nearly tipped over. 

“Well, I have something else to attend to,” she informed Jimmy, as though he hadn’t just heard the secretary for himself.

Lizzie grinned cheekily at him, but when he gave her nothing but a flat look, her face softened. “You know that I really do appreciate you and everything you do. We’ll finish this discussion later.” 

Jimmy let out a long-suffering sigh, but even still he could feel some of his irritation draining. “Yeah yeah. Go have fun with your ‘nephew.’” 

-

Jimmy pushed through the doors into the saloon and plopped himself down at the bar, resting his arms on the polished wood. Immediately, the bartender looked up from his conversation with another patron, and a languid smile slowly stretched across his face as he sauntered over. 

“Well hello there, handsome.” Scott brushed his fingers under Jimmy’s chin. He flushed, swallowing to try and get rid of the sudden dryness in his mouth, but shook himself of it quickly and turned away.

“Not now, Scott.” 

Scott raised an eyebrow, but seemed to sense that it was best not to ask. He tossed his long braid over his shoulder and turned back to the shelves behind him.

“Alright, alright. What’ll it be?” 

Jimmy thought about it for a second, and then shrugged. “I don’t care. Just as long as it’s not too strong, I still have a job to do.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” Jimmy looked up to see Scott pouting at him, a hand on his hip. He couldn’t help but crack a smile at that.

“So I’ve been told.”

Scott paused, giving him a queer look.

“You alright, Sheriff? You don’t seem yourself.”

Jimmy dropped his grin and tried not to curse. Damn Scott and his flawless ability to read other people. 

“It’s nothing,” he brushed off. “Just… Lizzie.”

Scott laughed sympathetically. 

“And how is Madame Mayor?”

“The same as she always has been,” Jimmy grumbled. “Pushy, ambitious, and wrapped up in too many things she shouldn’t be.” 

“That does sound like her,” Scott replied sagely. He pushed a mug of… something in front of Jimmy. Jimmy looked at it for a few seconds, but didn’t pick it up.

Scott left him to talk to another customer and prepare their drink. After he finished, he started cleaning out the dishes stacked next to the sink. Jimmy watched him, something nagging in the back of his mind. 

“You and Sausage,” he said eventually, although he hadn’t meant to. “What’s going on between you two? You’ve been seen together a lot as of late.” 

He tried not to let bitterness curl his words. What did it matter if the two of them were going out together? It’s not like Scott and Jimmy were actually a couple. No, it would be grossly inappropriate for the Sheriff to date someone everyone knew was a seller on the black market, even if there was no solid proof of it. 

Scott stopped, setting the cup he was working on down. “Nothing serious,” he said, shrugging. “Just a casual fling. I’m sure one of us will get bored of it eventually.”

“Right,” Jimmy said gloomily. That did not help his mood at all. 

“Why?” Scott asked, a teasing smirk already on his lips. “Jealous?” 

Jimmy didn’t say anything, but that seemed like more than enough answer for Scott.

“Aw, don’t be, Sheriff. You know you’re the only man who’s ever managed to hold my attention for long.” Scott leaned over the bar so that his face was just inches from Jimmy’s. "But since you insist on being so stubborn, I have to find other ways to entertain myself, don't I?" A hand came up to brush its thumb over Jimmy’s cheekbone. 

Jimmy reared back, a near unbearable heat rising up his neck and face. He cleared his throat and quickly got up from the barstool, fishing around in his pocket for spare change while refusing to look at the bartender. He could feel Scott’s smugness from here. 

He finally grasped onto a handful of coins and slapped it on the counter, not even bothering to count how much he’d put down. It was probably way more than the drink cost, not that Scott was going to complain about it.

“I-I have to go,” Jimmy choked out. He rushed out of the bar, trying to hide his deeply reddened cheeks, his drink left untouched. 

[dreamersparacosm]

congrats on 3k!! can i request smut 19. “You better watch your fucking mouth” with austin butler please with a daddy kink if you’re comfortable with that, if not that’s fine!

you better watch your fucking mouth - austin butler

note ; ANON IM SCREAMINGGG. this prompt absolutely deserves a gold star for most horniest saying ⭐️ fighting words right there. i just feel like austin saying this in a deep voice would send me over a literal cliff

warnings ; daddy kink, cursing, smoochy

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

now, why you were in a room with the person you hated the most was a question for a later date. the simple answer? austin butler was your discourteous, spiteful, conceited co-star who believed everything just fell into his lap because of his charm and good looks. realistically, it did. he grew up being told he would be a heartbreaker one day, and in a way, he was. he played everyone’s crush on disney and nickelodeon television shows (including yours, but you wouldn’t admit it) and when you became an actress, of course, your first breakout role would be with him.

for some godforsaken reason, baz luhrmann believed there was an ounce of chemistry between you two during a table read, and announced you as priscilla presley and austin as elvis presley. you two did well at first, keeping a professional manner at all times. that is, until you heard him call you a slut behind closed doors to one of the production assistants.

you weren’t sure what prompted him to believe you were a raunchy adultress, but you took that with you everytime the cameras began to roll. he must have caught on to your bitterness, and decided to never speak to you outside of the confines of the set. that arrangement worked well: for just about three months. apparently, it was hard to feign chemistry with someone when you wanted to rip each other’s throats out.

and, that was how you ended up with your original question: you two were currently sat in an office, baz running over the lines for the romantic kiss scene you had been dreading to film. austin tried to maintain a smile on his face, but you looked downright miserable, and baz was doing everything he could to ignore it.

just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, baz suggested, “why don’t we do a test run of the kiss? just to, ya know, see it in action?”

you blinked twice, watching as austin smirked out of the corner of your eye. it took all your might to not reach over and slam his head into the nearby office desk. you nodded, leaning forward in your chair, “look, baz, could i have a moment alone with austin here? just need to run over something quickly.”

baz’s expression switched to utter confusion as you kindly smiled, hoping he wouldn’t see the red that flashed behind your eyes. austin shifted uncomfortably beside you as your director agreed to leave the room, leaving you and austin alone. the sound of the clock ticking rang in your ears like a siren, silence washing over the walls as you two sat there.

“you know, i like this less than you do,” you started.

he scoffed, “not possible.”

“listen, we can either get it over with, or we can redo it fifty million times until we’re blue in the face.”

“yeah, i bet you’d like that,” he snorted, avoiding eye contact as well as he possibly could, despite being a measly 5 inches away from you.

“what is that supposed to mean?” your tone rose an octave as your blood burnt through your skin.

“it means, that i bet you’re so fucking eager to make out with anyone,” he finally turned to look at you, his eyes meeting yours in rage.

“what is wrong with you — you have been on my back since i got here! why don’t you just tell me what your fucking problem is before i tell everyone about how you cry yourself to sleep because you’re homesick?”

that seemed to push about just every button for him. his body leaned towards you, exhaling heavily through his nostrils. “what did you just —“

“you’re a fucking narcissist, that’s what it is. you just want alllll the power so you can be the star —“

“you better watch your fucking mouth,” he sneered at you, his breath waning over your face as he migrated even closer to your burning body.

“bet you wish i did—“ you pressed on, your nose mere inches away from his. you didn’t want to look at him for a second longer, but the pull of his energy was enough to keep you reeled in. you couldn’t move. your whole body fell limp as his eyes traveled from your eyes down to your lips. you fought to think of things you could say that would further piss him off, knowing that there might be one thing that could set him off over the edge. “—daddy.”

before you had a chance to say another snide remark, his lips crashed onto yours, a collision of teeth and tongues. your brain couldn’t even form a coherent thought as his teeth grazed across your bottom lip, your hand reaching out to entangle itself within his hair. you were on fire, your body defying what your brain was telling you. the need for air was the only reason you two pulled away from each other, and you moved away as far as you possibly could from him. he wiped his lips on the back of his hand, looking at you with little regard, “yeah, i think we’ve got the kiss down pat.”

and with that, he left the room, leaving you and your drenched panties behind.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

join the celebration here!

[artemiseamoon]

Flirting with Danger

Chapter one: A family business

Words: 2,372

F reader x Ramón

A Narcos MX| A 4 chapter fic | Timeline: S3 events

* to the Anon who asked about this, here’s a taste!

GIF credit to owners 💕

Next | fic info

AN: Y’all want a preview of what’s happening? I have three WIPs about undercover agents, all different stories and outcomes. I’m not rushing them, letting them form organically. As I sat to write one today, this one took over. So just rolling with it! I’m still undecided if I’ll only post a preview here and the full thing on A03 only. I’m on the fence. Anyway, this is looking like a 4 parter. 5 max. I’m working on it. 😁

⚠️ overall Warnings: canon show warnings, if you know those, you know what to expect. Adult 18+ mature content. Violence drugs, sexual themes, deaths, etc. Dont read what you dont like. Don’t read what upsets you. You have the free will to keep scrolling. Expect some angst, some conflict, some grey morality, some mutual pining, some angst. | Content disclaimer: You know my usual narcos disclaimer, this is fan fic, not an effort to glamarize the horrific acts of real persons. I do not support what these people have done. Thanks!

Everyone who worked closely with the Arellano Felix family was blood, grew up with them, or underwent a serious vetting process before being let in. It was like a special club that barely admitted new members.

Your job sounded simple on paper but was indeed very complex. Get close to the family and acquire as much intel as you could. You remember the day you got the assignment. They were desperate to get something on the family, in response, this job was created.

You can visualize that first meeting like it was yesterday. You sat in your boss's office and stared down at the file, then the blank look on his face. You were pushing for a challenge since being sent down here. Desk duty, answering phones, and listening to audio recordings weren't really what you signed up for. But you assumed, rightfully so, that being a woman was the very reason they gave you a 'safe' job.

The first day you heard about the undercover gig, they intended it to go to one of the guys. You made a comment about how much harder it would be for a guy to gain their trust, next thing you knew, you were sitting in that intimidating office.

Though the job sounded impossible and you weren't sure if you could do it, you said yes. You said yes to test yourself, to test your long list of skills developed over the years, and you said yes as a big fuck you to the men who snickered upon hearing you were taking the job. Not the pretty girl who organized their files, surly, you couldn't handle such a thing.

Feeling emboldened, you took the job while swallowing the massive lump in your throat and pushing your fears deep down inside. Back in the states, you’ve done plenty of undercover jobs, you could do this - just, none held as much danger and risk as this one.

…

In preparation, you made an extensive list of ways to get near the family. After going through each option for what felt like 100 times, you settled on Roxanne.

It wasn’t aggressive, like showing up out of nowhere in their lives, and plenty of people needed a job. Besides, you knew the brothers, except very loyal and very married Benjamin, had a thing for pretty faces. So getting a job as a bartender or cocktail waitress would be easy.

It helped that your 4 months in Mexico so far were extremely low-key. If you weren't at that godforsaken desk, you were at home, in the very bland apartment the embassy provided for you.

Your social life was pretty much non-existent, so you could be anyone, it gave you a blank slate to work with. They even provided another apartment in a different part of town for you to use, everything now under your new identity. Once the paper trail of this new you was created, you went in for an interview.

The interview went well, but inside you were nervous as hell. They had a hiring manager, but it seemed like a front anyway. You knew the final word had to go through the family.

Seeing how busy they were, they couldn't be on hand to handle things like this. But the hiring manager seemed to like you enough, and he wasn't exactly hiding his flirting. He was very impressed with the fact you spoke 3 languages fluidly.

You knew, the moment you walked out of here, you would be investigated through and through, and you hoped the team who created identities didn't make any errors.

You don’t know if it was good luck or bad, but during the end of your interview, as you left the office, Ramon and his crew rolled in early, just before the club would open for business. Catching each other eyes, you keep your composure as you stroll past him and flash a small smile.

Ramón smiles back. You break eye contact and head for the door. Time slows down. Feeling his eyes burning into you, you glance over your shoulder and see he’s still watching you.

Even with everything you know about him, his smile is almost childlike. Big, bright, beaming. It was hard to believe such a chaotic violent man had such a smile. You feel your heart thump in your chest as your body temperature rises.

Regaining your composure, you grab the handle of the door and walk out. The moment the door closes behind you, you realize you were holding your breath. Taking a deep exhale, you touch your stomach and try to ground yourself.

Holy shit.

You just saw Ramón , the Ramón Arellano Félix up close and he was - gorgeous? No, no you can’t think such things. You had a job to do and no matter how devilishly attractive he is, you cannot, will not get distracted.

As you walk away from the club, past the forming line, you feel ashamed. You did notice how cute he was before. Yeah, you shouldn’t but you did. Still, the many photographs you’ve looked at over the months didn’t compare to seeing him in the flesh.

As you walked by him, taking in the tall drink of water he is, you also imagined yourself running your fingers through those luscious waves. He was cute before, but the longer hair - there was just something about it.

By the time you reach the end of the block, someone runs up behind you. You notice it’s the hiring manager and he’s out of breath. When you turned to fully face him, he asks how soon you can start working, and if tonight was an option.

I’m in. You could barely believe your luck, or, lack thereof…it was too soon to tell. You nod, smile, and reply, “I could start tonight.”

The manager escorts you back into the building and shows you the rooms where the staff put their things, he also shows you the uniforms. It was a simple outfit, black, short, and cute.

After you get changed, the manager pairs you with a more seasoned bottle girl on the main floor, someone to show you the ins and outs of working in Roxanne.

You had some experience in your younger years, serving was a side job as you got through college. This kind of thing was like a muscle, you never really forgot how to do it. So you weren't too worried about fucking up.

As expected, though the place is busier than any other place you've ever worked, you start to get the hang of it. You were aware getting intel wasn’t going to happen right away, but as one week turns to two, you observe the family when you can. Working the first floor meant you weren't close enough to hear any of their conversations, so you knew, you had to get the second-floor gig.

As the days pass by, you notice Ramón watching you from the balcony. He was always looking, always watching, but yet he didn’t approach or speak to you. Being under his gaze made your skin hot, your cheeks warm, it awakened parts of you that needed to remain silent to do your job properly. You were here to watch the family, and Ramón was watching you.

As you meet your one month mark, you work on your first report for headquarters, you saw a lot working that floor, even if it wasn't directly tied to the family with concrete evidence, yet. The people who came in, their associates, who they gave VIP treatment, all it was important, even if it couldn't be used yet.

You focused your report on these elements and then turn it in. One month down meant you had 5 months left to get the real dirt. 5 months could either be a long time, or a short time, it depends on many factors.

When you arrive for your shift, on the first Friday of a new month, you receive news that you’ve been promoted. You would solely work bottle service for VIPs. Upon hearing the news, you play it cool and chill, but inside you were freaking out.

If you could do this and succeed there would be no more shitty desk jobs. And finally, those assholes in the office would take you seriously. You could make a real name for yourself - if this goes right.

That first night your adrenaline pumps so intensily through your body that it feels like you’re vibrating. You’ve seen the woman they paired you with plenty of times, she was one of the main girls up here. You follow her lead, smile, and do your job.

For the first few hours of this shift, some of the family are seated at their VIP, just behind the Roxanne sign, but Ramón is nowhere in sight. When you finally do serve their table, it takes everything in you to stay cool.

It was so much easier with the others. Sure, they were important people but being this close to the Arellano Felix family was jarring. Even, exciting, if you let yourself admit it.

Going from shoveling papers around while men in the office ogle your figure and call you sweetheart to serving drinks to the most powerful drug cartel family in Mexico? Talk about extremes. Danger could be encountered anywhere, hell, just crossing the street or leaving your front door. But, this puts you on the doorstep of real danger.

As you drop off a bottle of champagne at a neighboring table, you can hear a rowdy group coming up the stairs. You know from the sounds alone, it's Ramón and the Narcos Juniors. Casually glancing over your shoulder, you watch as they walk by. There’s a girl on Ramón’s arm, which is not surprising, but the moment he notices you, he loosens his grip around her waist, his eyes locking on your own.

Does the hot-heated and very dangerous Ramón have a thing for you? You were pretty convinced at this point. What confused you was his lack of contact. He seemed like an overly confident guy and watching the way he was with other women, it seemed more normal he would have hit on you on the spot, that first day. It was surprising, how could a guy like this be coy?

You were honestly torn about Ramón's interest in you. On one hand, it was flattering. On another, you knew enough about the man to know he was dangerous, like a walking hazard sign.

Your investigation could really hit a peak if you got close to him, but at the same time, it's like laying across train tracks, you’d willingly be putting yourself in a level of danger were not interesting in being in. Maybe, he should admire you from afar, you decide, it would be safer.

As the night goes on, you go about your business and focus on your job, while never really escaping the heat of his gaze. When you stopped at their table to bring a fresh batch of drinks, his brown eyes watch your every movement.

You’ve never felt as seen, as studied as you do under his gaze. When you look up at him from under your lashes, he flashes that heart-warming smile and you almost, almost make your first mistake of the night. You nearly drop the empty beer bottle in your hand, you add it to the tray of empty bottles.

The little slip-up gains a chuckle from him. You feel your face grow hot as embarrassment rushes you. Ramón digs in his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and drop two 100 bills on your tray.

“Thank you,” you smile at him and back away from the table, your eyes locked on his. Before you turn away, the sound of your name on his lips captures your attention. Balancing the tray, you turn back and meet his waiting gaze.

“Have a drink with us later.”

You can barely believe your hearing. Did he just invite you to his table?

“You know what,” Ramón stands up and motions for the other server to come over, “your shift ends now.” He points at the tray, the other girl makes eye contact with you, then takes it.

Ramón wasn’t known for his patience. He was a make-it-happen yesterday kind of guy.

“Oh, okay “ you grab your huge tip from the tray and shove it in your bra. Much to his pleasure, as Ramón watches with a grin. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you keep them at your sides.

Ramón tells the girl next to him to get up. She shoots you a death stare and leaves the spot next to him. Ramon sits back down and pats the cushion with his hand. "Come, sit with me.”

The handsome criminal continues to grin at you as you sit next to him. The space provided is small, your thigh touches his as you sit. You admired his outfit from afar, but this close, you can really see the details in the nice gold and white top, the first buttons open, teasing his chest and his fitted black pants leave little to the imagination. Everything about this outfit, including the shoes, screams rich. He even smells good, really good.

Ramón sits with his hands in his lap, a stark contrast to the relaxed arm he had around the other girl. Was Ramón still acting shy?

He motions to the table. "Anything you want, it’s yours.”

He’s cute, really cute like this. With you, his cockiness seems to be gone, like a shy boy with a crush. You smile at him and look over the drinks you just delivered to them.

In the middle of the table is a bottle of champagne with a price tag that makes you do a triple take. You weren't really a champagne person, but shit, you had to taste it. You had to know why it cost that much.

Almost as if he can read your mind, Ramón leans over and pours you a glass. As he hands it to you, your fingers touch. The brief contact earns another smile from him, and your heart skips a beat.

Oh fuck. You were in trouble.

Next

More soon 💕

Tags? Just ask. I’ll tag ya.

Pt about 60% done. If you want a tag let me know. It will be out either later today or tomorrow.

[beachghoulz]

rant incoming because im not done bitching until literally everyone i know has heard about it ok so my drumkit is electric right? bought second hand too so its like. not the GREATEST. but it suffices. or it sufficed i suppose. ok so one thing about electric kits is that you can turn up the sensitivity and volume of each drum depending on how hard youre going to hit. eg my snare is 12/16 sensitivity and 8/16 volume because the snare as an instrument is very loud and this also translates onto electric, my low tom is 16/16 sensitivity and 14/16 volume, etc. HOWEVER this kit has been iffy with sensitivity since i got it. eg my crash. for some godforsaken reason when i hit my hihat the crash makes a noise as well as the hihat. i will be completely silent and just shuffle in my seat. the headphone cord will hit gently against the crash arm. the crash makes a noise. which is CRAZY firstly because each pad has an area of sensitivity that it registers as the 'pad'. and the arm is not part of it. wait i should probably make a diagram of kit anatomy one sec

idk how much you know so heres allllll the basics

ANYWAY i hit the pad of my hihat and the crash makes a noise. touching anything remotely left side of the kit the crash makes a sound. MIND YOU it is on the lowest sensitivity as well. now because if i turn the sensitivity up any higher this problem becomes worse i cannot have the crash to be above a 1. but since the sensitivity is so low, when i actually need the crash i have to smash it with all my might to get anything useful out of it. this is the smallest of my problems but it does make me a little sad because on my kit at school i have a bomb ass crash and let me tell you. the texture on that is AWESOME. it feels like you hit it and the stick goes right through. perfecto, you dont want to meet resistance from a crash. however my crash at home is only resistance and no crash.

another thing: the snare cant do rimshots. this makes me sad also because normally if youre doing a groove and hit a rim its at such an angle where it'll be a rimshot instead of a rim sound, but since this kit doesnt have 3-zone pads it cant MAKE a rimshot. so now when i fuck that up its breaks the immersion because the rim sound just sounds so empty. also since its digital it only has the one sound that it plays over and over when you hit it right? this is fine except when it comes to rolls and roll rudiments, because you dont get the smooth roll sound, you get one sound repeated over and over really fast, so it sounds like machine gun fire.

and THEN. the WORST OFFENDER. the bass drum. as you can see in fig 1, the bass drum is not connected to the rest of the kit. if you dont think about it too hard this is not an issue. however, this drum is being whacked by a pedal all the time, and the momentum of that sends it moving backwards. this is why the guy we bought the kit off had literally screwed it into his rug. i however did not want to screw a drum into a perfectly good rug, so Karat SR (me papa) fandangled a contraption. one sec

this is what the kick drum looks like. my dad ran a piece f wood through its leg for lack of a better term and tied the wood to the frame of the kit to keep it in place

basically. but this piece of wood is very flimsy, and so when i use the pedal and kick the drum, it bends, which means the bass is Not stationary. anyway the sensitivity on the bass is FUCKED. its at the highest it can go and only 6 out of 10 times does it even register a hit. not only that but it cant register if i do anything faster than 2 8ths in a row at 86bpm. very slow esp when my pieces are all like over 110 bpm. MOREOVER. it will not register unless you hit it very hard. the correct foot technique does not allow for this level of force behind a hit. this means that in order to get the bass to work i have to use incorrect technique and be playing ≤86bpm and even then theres only a 60% chance itll work. its horrible bc it fucks up the muscle memory in multiple ways (how hard to hit=volume on a normal kit will be disproportionate, attention focused in the wrong area, wrong technique) and its just. Bad . thank you for coming to my ted talk

that sounds SO!!!!! FUCKING!!!!!! ANNOYING!!!!!!!! ADSFDHGFJGHJKHKLJ jesus christttttttttt i hate it when things dont work properly and theyre unfixable and just suck my condolences bro i would go insane. also on a separate note that was very intersting to read fuck yeah dude previously i knew jack shit i am now the drum knower.....

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Good ole fashion fake dating turning into getting together fic? Any other details are totally up to you!

When James suggests it for the first time, Sirius bursts out laughing.

It’s self-defence; the words James and dating, as far as Sirius is concerned—and he is, in this specific scenario—should not go together.

Or well, they specifically shouldn’t as long as the small but painfully annoying adjective ‘fake’ prefaces the ‘dating.’

So Sirius laughs, and James doesn’t, and it dawns on him that this stupid bloody mission Moody is sending them on has just got a whole lot more dangerous.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, because sure, James clearly has warmed to the idea enough already that talking him back out of it will be a pain, but what the hell. “What kind of sense does that even make?”

James shrugs, and it should look stupid with how he is stretched out on the floor of their living room, but of course it doesn’t. “Think about it; a couple would be far less suspicious than two strangely co-dependent friends—”

“We’re not co-dependent; we’re—”

“Sirius. Do you really want to go there?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, probably not. Not like we’re going to tell a bunch of Death Eaters about that though, are we?”

“Not yet Death Eaters,” James says, wriggling his long fingers at Sirius. “That’s the point, after all, or at least part of—”

“I know what the point is. I also know that it’s one of the most dangerous missions the damned Order has ever come up with, which is the only reason we got it because no one else would be stupid enough to agree to five days on a boat with the Dark Lord’s recruiters and those interested. The point is—”

“You were the one to say it would be fun.”

“I’m still the one who thinks it’s going to be fun,” Sirius says, incredibly patient if anyone were to ask him. “It’s going to be far more fun, though, if we do not have to be a sickeningly sweet couple that, for some fucking reason, thinks that a romantic getaway includes megalomaniac fantasies about world-domination and genocide.”

Pushing himself up, James rolls his eyes. “No one said anything about being a sickeningly sweet couple, it’s just easier to explain why we have to stick together that way. You don’t have to snog me, you prick; why does this even bother you so much?”

Well, and that’s the fucking question, isn’t it, the one that Sirius can’t answer no matter how badly the words are pressing against the back of his teeth. “It doesn’t,” he lies, and it should have become easy by now, after five godforsaken years of it, but it still feels like someone is crushing Sirius’ heart beneath their boot.

He lets his head loll on the backrest of the sofa and drags up a smirk. “If you wanted me to be your boyfriend so badly, you could’ve just said, babe.”

James tosses a pillow at him, a flush working its way up his throat. “You’re going to be so lucky if I don’t throw you off that boat myself.”

So, the first time James suggests it, Sirius laughs. Unfortunately but not that surprisingly, he also agrees; it’s likely that he’ll be the one to fling himself off the fucking boat.

--

As it turns out, the boat doesn’t leave from Sweden but from Denmark, and it isn’t a recruitment event for the Dark Lord posing as a holiday, but it’s a recruitment event, full stop.

The arm James has wrapped around Sirius’ waist, fingers curled almost possessively around his hipbone, makes it rather difficult to focus on any of that.

Which is just fantastic, because between the two of them, keeping secrets and being subtle aren’t exactly known to be their biggest strengths.

Or well, that’s probably more true for James. Sirius has grown up with secrets treated like currency, has tucked them away into the spaces between his ribs and has worn them like armour for everyone to see. Sirius knows secrets, and even with his family long since behind him, they cling to him as if they know him, too.

Sirius knows how to keep secrets; the big ones, the important ones. He has never had to test it, would rather like to keep it that way, but he doubts that there is anything anyone could do to him that would make him spill the ones that matter—about the Order and its business. The hiding place of his brother.

Sirius can deal with secrets if he has to, but it makes him careless with the rest. It is easier to keep them if people think he is a bad liar, yes, sure. It’s also exhausting, and so he spills what won’t cause an inferno of destruction, lets people smile indulgently or roll their eyes in exasperation, and get passed over on undercover missions.

Generally, it’s for the best, because the thing is, James can’t lie for shit, not in a way that doesn’t make it obvious that he’s lying. McGonagall might have pretended a few times, and the actual Death Eaters themselves know that they’re all lying, anyway, and so for the most part, it doesn’t matter if anyone knows that he does.

Which brings Sirius back to how he really should not be getting fucking distracted by James’ hands on him. As they step onto the boat, he forces himself to find at least three different ways to get out of here and reiterates the spell to create a portkey inside his head.

He trusts James, more than he trusts himself; he knows that this can either go horrifically well or horrifyingly wrong.

James' fingers dig into his hip, and Sirius smiles at the undescriptive man welcoming them without hearing a word he says.

It’s going to be a long, long week.

--

Their room is, of course, not actually a room but a fucking cabin. It has one bed. It’s ridiculously small.

“We’ve shared a bed at Hogwarts more than once. Don’t be such a snob,” James says, rolling his eyes. He looks fucking ecstatic to be here, which is the cherry on top of just—everything, really.

Sirius is the one who gets off on too much danger and stakes so high you could tie and burn someone on them. James is supposed to be the—arguably only slightly—more reasonable one. That’s how they work.

He’s not supposed to be excited to share a bed with Sirius, is the thing, because there are lines Sirius has drawn a long fucking time ago to keep himself sane, and those coincide with the time he stopped sharing a bed with James at Hogwarts.

Not that he’s going to explain that to James any time soon. Or ever, really.

“Whatever,” he says instead, kicking his bag out of the way so that the path between the bathroom and door is free. You never know. “Come on, we should probably go and mingle, as the kids call it these days. Do you have your ring?”

Sirius can easily admit that he isn’t the most careful person, but the rings are what allow them to be here and blend in at all. It’s some complicated bit of magic that James, Sirius, and Lily had come up with on Dumbledore’s orders. It basically combines a glamour for the wearer, a counterspell for glamours and other disguises on everyone else, and a very mild Confundus that will keep people from questioning the wearer’s identity too much.

In short, they are a wet dream for anyone on an undercover mission and, considering that both he and James have become a bit infamous amongst the Death Eaters, their life insurance for this week.

“Of course,” James says, rolling his eyes. He steps in front of the door before Sirius can leave, crossing his arms over his chest. “What is up with you anyway? You’ve been… off, the last week.”

And that’s really not fucking fair, because yeah, Sirius has been off, and he has good reasons, but if there is one thing he has always been utterly, ridiculously helpless against, it is James all serious and concerned and bloody earnest.

It’s tragically pathetic how easily he folds as soon as that small crease appears between James’ brows, his eyes warm and intent on Sirius’ face. Honestly, he is half-convinced that none of this would be a problem in the first place if James wasn’t so goddamn fucking caring beneath all of it; Sirius would have been fine then. He can handle pretty people; what he can’t handle is James being James.

He tips his head back and stares at the low ceiling of their cabin. It’s a horrible, boring beige. The least the Dark Lord could do would be to offer some unique decoration, really, but even Grimmauld Place has more charm than this place.

“It’s nothing,” he finally says, looking back at James. “Or well, not nothing but—you know. Ship full of Death Eaters. Important mission—war-changing, one might say—”

“Stop lying to me,” James says, and he says it like a fact. Says it without accusation but not without hurt, and the latter is enough to punch the air right out of Sirius’ lungs. “We both know that this isn’t you being nervous about the mission; if you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me, but don’t be a fucking prick about it.”

They’ve been here for less than an hour, and the desire to fling himself out of the next-best window is already strong. Or a drink; a drink would be a great alternative.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Sirius says, and it feels cruel, feels like crossing a line he has never had to cross before. He has become great at side-stepping or withdrawing, at distracting James from how he keeps careful boundaries between them that assure he can keep his best friend without losing his sanity to some godforsaken misplaced pining.

Of course, it would be a boat belonging to the Dark Lord that would finally get him to fuck up. Of course, it would be.

James’ mouth twists unhappily, but he tilts his chin up, and attempts a smile that looks so horribly out of place, Sirius wants to—

Well, it’s better if he doesn’t go there. It looks horrible, is the thing, and James has never been able to lie for shit, and coming here was the worst decision Sirius has ever made.

Which is saying something. It’s really saying something.

He could apologise—should, most likely—but what’s the point. He’s not sorry that he won’t tell James; he is only sorry that he had to admit it in the first place.

Or well, that is only part of the truth, he supposes. He’s sorry that he had to go and fall for his best friend, and that five fucking years have done shit to resolve that. He’s sorry that for all his recklessness, he’s too much of a coward to either admit it or move on.

“Alright,” James says, and he is watching Sirius closely, using that tone of voice that tells Sirius that it is, in fact, very much not alright.

James has always been able to read him like an open book, and it has taken Sirius years to figure out how to lock pieces of himself away from him. Sirius has always been able to read James like an open book, too; he’s not sure whether James has ever tried to hide anything from him.

Isn’t sure whether he wants to know if James did either, because that would say a lot of things about their friendship that Sirius never allowed himself to think about.  

It’s hypocritical, and the hurt gleam in James’ eyes is almost enough to make Sirius spill his guts because, again, pathetic. He mentally shakes himself and grins. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still on a mission; come on, if we’re lucky, we might even find a drink in this godforsaken place.”

James smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes even as he moves away from the door. Sirius slings his arm around his neck and hopes that there is either alcohol or a fight waiting that he can drown the guilt in.

--

If either of them had expected maniacal laughter and blatantly evil plotting at every corner, they would be sorely disappointed. Luckily, they both know better.

At first glance, the spectacle playing out in the dining room, with its tacky decorations on the stained tablecloths and mismatched silverware, reminds him more of a coffee party meant to bridge generational gaps than anything that could be remotely related to the Dark Lord.

At second glance, it is obvious, though. Everyone in attendance is so painfully a Pureblood that Sirius wants to retch, and the atmosphere in the air makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. Small groups are whispering amongst themselves in the dimly lit corners, and he already has at least four people on his radar to keep a closer eye on.

If he was an idiot, though, it would look like a coffee party. And everyone seems to treat it as such, too, which is probably the worst part about it.

“You two are so darling,” an elderly lady tells them—Albury, Sirius knows, because he has been trained to remember names before he could write—and it is that specific brand of condescension that only homophobic Purebloods can pull off. “It’s so admirable to keep it amongst the right families, you know, even if it means to compromise.”

The fury in Sirius’ blood boils so brightly that he cannot speak. James' fingers curling around his wrist equally do and do not help.

It goes like this; some don’t care that they are—supposedly—a couple. Sirius likes those best, which isn’t saying much because they’re still bastards, of course, but he has left any claims to pickiness at the gangway. And so what if he’s playing favourites. Sue him.

Then there are those who clearly carry that specific kind of Pureblood paranoia in their blood that Sirius is, unfortunately, far too familiar with. They are the ones who affirm James’ claim that the two of them are considered with far less suspicion once people notice the possessive hand James presses to the small of Sirius’ back or the way Sirius leans in too close when he points something out to James, brushing his lips against the shell of James’ ear.

Fuck him, he’s only human. He had been against this for a reason, and even Sirius has only so much self-restraint. Now James’ hands seem intent on always finding a part of Sirius to touch, and suddenly Sirius is allowed; suddenly he is expected to reciprocate, to not constantly question every single touch he bestows on James, and it’s—

Well, it’s heady as fuck, and disappointingly boring pensioner ship aside, the Dark Lord has at least provided proper whiskey and wine, which really does not help.

Fuck him, Sirius is only human, and so he curls his fingers around James’ wrist when he presses his hand to Sirius’ hip and counts the beats of his pulse. He leans into James’ side as he hasn’t allowed himself since fifth year, all careless arms slung around shoulders and temples pressed to temples. He turns his head in when he whispers into James’ ear and allows himself to breathe; the scent of his shampoo and his aftershave, a hint of sweat underneath that makes his throat go dry.  

In short, Sirius is digging his own fucking grave because he has spent five years keeping an ironclad grip on his yearning, and now it’s like James has been spread out before him, all the parts Sirius has denied himself offered with a smirk and a wink. Saying look, here is your excuse; you can finally indulge without feeling guilty about it, without the risk of giving yourself away.

It’s part of the game that James seems to be playing; look at him, he’s doing it, too. Look at how his fingers bury into your side, and how his body curves around yours. Look how his nose brushes along your jaw as he tells you about the men who keep disappearing, whispering amongst themselves. Look at how his ankle tangles with yours even though it’s out of sight, and how he sucks in a breath as you touch him, and how—

Yeah, Sirius is fucked. He knows this. Hell, he has known that before this started, but the skin of James’ arm is warm beneath his fingertips, and James’ breath is hot against his ear, and Sirius has always prided himself on his restraint, but this—

Well, it’s only been a few hours, so he is pretty sure that this is the week that will unmake him.

--

When the night is winding down, Sirius makes sure to down three glasses of whiskey, flashing his teeth in the mimicry of a smile at one of the older women when she watches him with distinct disapproval, and amuses himself by whispering into the skin behind James’ jaw, “Let’s go to bed, babe.”

The way James’ eyes glaze over slightly is a work of art, and also not at all what Sirius expected. He steps away before he can do something truly stupid, smirking for good measure.

He crawls into the narrow bed half an hour later with his heart in his teeth and exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He would be lying if he claimed that a small, traitorous part of himself isn’t looking forward to having James this close for an entire night.

Or maybe that is the whiskey speaking. Sirius has a hard time telling at this point.

He turns towards the wall and ignores James when he comes out of the bathroom, getting into bed behind Sirius. He ignores it when James’ hand hovers above his hip as if he is getting uncertain now, of all times.

When James does touch him, hesitant, Sirius' entire body tenses, every nerve ending firing up as if they haven’t just spent the last few hours testing out how far they could go until one of them finally breaks.

It would be a fun game, Sirius supposes as he inhales a slow, careful breath and tries to ignore the heat of James’ palm through his thin shirt, if it wasn’t their friendship and Sirius’ heart on the line. Not that he could separate the two, really, which might just be part of the fucking issue.

“Sirius,” James says, and it’s that unsure, questioning tone of his that Sirius can never stand because James isn’t supposed to sound like that, ever. Sirius would quite willingly severe one of his own limbs to make it stop.

He knows what this is about, though, and the one thing he cannot do is fucking talk about it.

So he turns back around, dislodging James’ hand from his hip but grabbing it in a tight grip. He rearranges them with a raised brow that just dares James to protest until they are curled into each other, James’ head on his shoulder and Sirius’ arm wrapped around his waist; as if they were still fourteen years old and could just do this without Sirius’ heart cracking and splintering along all the lines that loving James has left on it.

It's fine. He has always been a fucking idiot when it comes to James, and the uncertainty has bled out of James’ shoulders again, his breathing evening out. Really, what the hell does it matter if Sirius is more awake than he has ever been in his life.

--

Sirius does get some sleep, not even his bonfire heart able to keep sputtering wildly when beneath all of it, James has also always meant peace, even at the worst of times. He still feels like he has been run over by the night bus the next morning.

James merely smiles at him, not that devastating bright grin that Sirius knows all the dimples and flash of teeth of, but that small, private one that in his weaker moments, Sirius likes to believe to be his alone.

He has had a lot of time to take a painstaking inventory of all of James’ smiles, and this is still the one posing the biggest threat. It is still his favourite one, the one that makes him want to press his fingertips to the corner of James’ mouth, trace the line of it, climb its ridges like the steps of a temple and pay his worship at the altar that is James’ open mouth.

Sirius has always been horrible about not worshipping the ground that James walks on, and ever since he has fallen in love with him, he has been horrible, too, at not making James his religion.

There is an irony in this somewhere. Something about worship and people like him carving beliefs out of a person, in the face of gods that Sirius doesn’t care to examine too closely because his own world is fucked up enough, and he doesn’t need to add what the Muggles consider blasphemy to the record of his sins.

But James is sleep-rumpled and soft, his dark hair spilling over the pristine pillows, fingertips like brands against Sirius’ collarbone. Perhaps damning his own soul if only to be allowed to trail the tips of his fingers along the sharp edge of James’ jaw just once would really not be such a horrible price to pay.

James is James, and beneath the thin covers, their legs are tangled, and he looks at Sirius with that raw kind of affection that Sirius has never been able to stand.

It is all a bit much, Sirius’ heart punching against the constraints of his ribs from the inside, and James’ fingers like a caress against it from the outside. It is all too much, and Sirius can’t quite bear it because all his lines are blurring.

This is why he had erected boundaries between them, had carved them from iron and stone, one inch at a time so that James wouldn’t notice. So that Sirius could make sure that he wasn’t spiralling out of control faster than he could wrap his fingers around James’ wrist to prevent him from leaving.

It is all way too much, James’ smile soft and almost knowing, and Sirius pushes himself out of bed before he can so much as contemplate concepts as fatal and perilous as hope. Before he can give in to the urge of slipping his fingers into James’ hair and pulling him in, daring to find out, finally and for good, what would happen if he pressed his open mouth to James’ lips.

There are a lot of ways that could go, Sirius knows as the bathroom door slams shut behind him. None of them are going to end with his heart left in one piece, and their friendship intact.

Which in turn means it isn’t going to happen at all, no matter how badly Sirius’ heart seems to be devouring itself, burning and burning and burning.

--

Most of the day passes with presentations and speeches that seem to have been written with the sole purpose of boring Sirius to death. It is saying something, because the fucking Dark Lord is many things, but boring is not usually one of them.

The issue is that it is all predictable. It is all the same old droning on about Pureblood bullshit and the need to preserve traditions. As always, Sirius has to keep himself from asking what kinds of traditions beyond marrying your cousins and abusing the same house elf that your grandparents had abused people are even talking about.

It’s predictable. It could be coming straight out of the third-year Slytherin common room. It’s not nearly enough to warrant going to the trouble of chartering a ship and inviting thirty people on a trip, in the hopes of finding a handful of mediocre recruits.

Loath as Sirius is to admit it, it isn’t exactly like the Dark Lord is struggling to fill his ranks. Which means that this is a cover, which means that Dumbledore was right, which means that Sirius and James are exactly where they are meant to be, and things are finally about to get interesting.

James slips his hand into Sirius’ own, tapping a slow, lazy rhythm against the palm of his hand. Despite the way Sirius’ entire arm is tingling, he still recognises it all too well; back when they hadn’t yet created the map, before the two-way mirrors and becoming Animagi, they had come up with a basic way to communicate wordlessly.

Not even Remus and Peter knew about it, not that he and James ever had a good reason to keep it from them. It didn’t even start on purpose, started with James’ hand resting on Sirius’ neck, and an aimless rhythm tapped against his shoulder. It started with Sirius curling his hand around James’s wrist, pressing an acquiescence against the steady drum of James’ pulse and somehow, instinctively, both of them understanding.

The memory of it is old but sharp, almost overwhelming, and Sirius moves his hand until James’ fingers slot between his. He is aching for all the things they have lost because he couldn’t help but love James in the wrong way, because he couldn’t help but let go, hiding behind glass and parchment and a war that has never once made him want to step away from James but has always served as a marvellous, ugly excuse.

--

The boat lands in Germany the next day, and most of the guests leave to explore the city of Hamburg.

Sirius would love to follow their example, sees it in the tense line of James’ shoulders that he does, too, and swallows down the bitterness that comes with it.

This is not a vacation. This is not the climax of the story where everything suddenly gets resolved. This is still the Dark Lord’s mission parading as a recruitment event, and Sirius and James are right in the middle of it.

They are far more likely to discover what the hell is going on here if they are not getting lost within the winding streets of Germany’s harbour city, and so Sirius makes a note at the back of his mind to return someday and knows that the odds are stacked wildly against it.

It doesn’t matter, not really. Or well, it does, in the way that it burns through his chest, and how he hurts at the strain of James’ smiles when he explains with placid words to Albury, who had roped them into a round of bridge last night, that they are going to catch a few more hours of sleep instead of visiting the city.

Sirius hates it, hates it so much that it is all he can do to keep himself from giving up on all of this. Screw the ship and the war and fucking Dumbledore, and disappear to travel the world. It is all he can do not to choke on the fact that they are both twenty-one years old, and letting the war eat away at their lives as if they both have a spar tucked away somewhere.

“Well,” James says, his smile nothing but a mirage. “Let’s see what we can find, yeah?”

And well, that’s what they are here for. The sooner they find what they are looking for, the sooner they can get back home, and everything can return to normal.

Or as normal as shit ever gets for them, anyway.

--

“What are we even looking for?” James asks, his voice low as they slowly move along a corridor that they should most definitely not be in.

Sirius has no fucking clue; he is just glad that there is some distance between them, and that they are finally doing something. The last two days are nothing but a godforsaken blur of James’ skin and James’ scent and the endless droning on about blood purity bullshit. Frankly, Sirius is surprised that he retains a single fucking shred of sanity.

“There has to be an office somewhere, right? Or—I don’t know, a team meeting room to reflect on the tosser’s greatness and consider in which order to feed the guests to the sea monster we’re all going to be sacrificed to, in the name of world domination. Maybe we can set up a monitoring charm if we’re sneaky there; I’d just love to know if I rank before or after old Miss Albury—”

“Shut up,” James hisses, reaching for Sirius’ wrist, and really, that’s just great.

Sirius hasn’t spent five agonising years building walls around himself so high that no one ever touches him, only for James to dismantle them in the span of forty-eight fucking hours, but apparently, that is exactly what is happening. There is a spark of anger surging through him that is all hurt and frustration and the feeling of the noose around his neck slowly but surely drawing close.

Which is to say, he pulls his wrist out of James’ grip and knows that he will regret the next words out of his mouth. “Merlin, James, you can’t just—”

Before he gets any further, James presses his hand over Sirius’ mouth, his eyes flashing in the dim corridor. Sirius struggles on instinct, until James shoves him up against the wall unceremoniously. The wood panelling digs into Sirius’ back. Alarm bells are making a fucking racket inside of his brain. This—

This is not something he can survive. His blood is rushing in his ears so loudly, it takes him way too long to hear the voices wafting down the corridor, clearly coming in their direction.

He is still struggling to process the looming danger of it, simply because James’ body is pressed all along his front. James’ hand is still pressed tightly over Sirius’ mouth, and his face is close enough that Sirius can make out the flecks of gold in the brown of his eyes despite the shit lightning.

Every single nerve in Sirius’ body is burning until he can taste ash at the back of his throat, his mouth dry, and he stares at James and thinks that this is how it ends.

Apparently deciding that Sirius has got the gravity of the situation, James removes his hand. “What do we do?” he hisses, and Sirius wants to laugh until it finally stops hurting like Bella’s fucking Crucio.

The voices are getting louder, and there is no way for them to go but deeper into the ship, meaning there is nothing but a dead end waiting for them.

Sirius cannot tell anymore whether the violent rhythm of his heart is the threat or James, or maybe those are the same thing. His mind is blank, and he shakes his head, trying to figure out how likely it is that they can fight their way out of here unscathed.

At least they are not out on the open sea. He knows the spell to create a portkey, and neither of them has brought anything of importance, but—

The voices are close enough now that Sirius can make out words, no matter that his brain refuses to process them.

James looks at him, his eyes very, very dark. He says, “I have an idea; don’t punch me, alright?”

It is all the warning Sirius gets before James’ hands are on his face, before James presses his mouth against Sirius’, and everything goes utterly, agonizingly still.

Everything except for Sirius’ heart, thrashing in his ribcage like a starved animal that has finally been thrown a scrap of sustenance and is doing whatever it takes to finally, finally sink its teeth into it.

James’ mouth is hot and insistent, his fingers digging into Sirius’ jaw. If Sirius ever knew how to breathe, it must have been a long time ago because now this is all there is; the heat of James’ body and his skin, and the way his tongue curls around Sirius’, audacious and so fucking perfect that it hurts. The low noises coming from James that sound as if punched out of him, desperate and a little broken. He sounds like Sirius feels on the inside, and his hands clench into James’ robes without his permission, white-knuckled fists to hold him there.

James pulls back slightly, pupils blown wide and colour high in his cheeks, and says, “Will you kiss me like you mean it?”

It snaps every last, frail thread of self-restraint that Sirius has still been clinging to.

It’s all rough fingers and careless teeth and staccato breath from there, his savage heart leaping up his throat and onto his tongue with every intention to devour what it cannot get to stay on its own merit. It’s drinking up the noises James makes, pushing his fingers into James’ hair and pulling until his head is angled just so. Until Sirius can lick into his mouth the only way he knows, which is with the looming, inevitable knowledge that this is the first and the last time he will ever get to do this, that this is what will finally destroy him, and so he better make it count so that it will quieten at least a fraction of the inevitable guilt and regret.

He sinks his teeth into James’ bottom lip and soothes the spot with his tongue, only to do it all over; finds that James likes it, his fingers spasming where he is scrambling for purchase on Sirius’ shoulders, and knows that this is what damnation tastes like.

His head is swimming, the pent-up longing of years upon years leaking out of all the crevices and hollow spaces between Sirius’ bones that he had pushed it into, flooding the cavity of his ribs, the place his heart once occupied, and threatening to burst open his chest to spill yearning all over the nondescript carpet beneath their feet.

He pulls James impossibly closer, thinks of the soft flesh of James’ throat and whether he wants to attach his teeth to it and if it is really worth stopping to kiss him for that, and it takes him a few moments too long to process that someone is shouting at them.

In Sirius’ defence, James looks as startled as he feels by the two men standing at the end of the corridor, their faces the kind of enraged that says they have been trying to get their attention for longer than three seconds.

James is saying something, an apology or a lie or something that is a bit of both, which is the kind Sirius is most familiar with. He doesn’t catch the words, not a single one of them, but their faces turn from furious to annoyed, and James has always had this effect on almost everyone.

Sirius has never hated him more than in those few moments where reality crashes back into him like an entire armada of Bludgers, and James isn’t even fucking looking at him, unruffled enough to convince a pair of fucking Death Eaters that he is oh-so-harmless.

The two guys roll their eyes and turn away, and then it is only the two of them left in the corridor and the barrage of horrible life choices that have brought Sirius to his very moment.

James looks at him, something fragile to his expression, and says, “Sirius.” It sounds like ‘I’m sorry.’

Sirius lets his head drop back against the wall and closes his eyes. He hits his head against the wood panelling a second and a third time, tries desperately to remember how to breathe, how to ignore the fact of James’ knuckles still pressing into his stomach where he hasn’t let go of Sirius’ robes yet, and decides that he cannot fucking do this.

“Sirius,” James says again, his grip tightening, and this time, Sirius does laugh, choked and rough and scraping like sandpaper against his throat.

“Save it,” he says, voice soft. He looks back at James, still standing in front of him as if they haven’t just wrecked something that should have been sacrosanct, and knows, knows with a bone-deep certainty that he cannot do this. That there is no coming back from the imprint of James’ lips on his, that he cannot hope to rebuild the walls around him, stone by stone, and keep parts of James on the inside, and others out.

Sirius curls his fingers into the front of James’ robes and brushes his lips against the corner of James’ mouth, one last fucking hurrah before he has to face the consequences of his traitorous heart.

He is halfway down the corridor before James has so much as moved. Sirius has always been exceptional at ignoring his own name being shouted at his back.

--

Generally, Hamburg might be a pretty city. It’s all weathered, majestic buildings and flumes leading away from the harbour, and it strikes just the right balance between resemblance to London and being completely unlike it that Sirius might find some distracting solace in the uneven cobblestone streets.

As things stand, he barely takes notice of anything around him. He needs to get away, is the one thing drumming through his skull, from James and the ship and everything that remotely reminds him of anything that has happened in his life since he was eleven years old.

It’s a fool’s errand, of course, but Sirius is nothing if not full of spiteful stubbornness. He knows nothing about this city so he can’t apparate, but he walks until his feet ache and the light is bleeding out of the sky.

For all that he thinks he should feel like his insides have been scrubbed raw, he mostly does not feel anything at all.

It would be nice, really, if it didn’t feel like the calm before the storm, like that thing Lily has told him about, her pale hands pressed to the gaping wound in Dorcas’ stomach while Marlene looked on, that Muggles call shock—your body shutting down any pain response until you’re either dead or the bleeding stops.

Sirius always thought it sounded as horrible as it sounded logical. He always imagined it would feel like this, like a spark of Fiendfyre beneath his skin, licking at his bones. Like a static, buzzing noise inside of his head that stops him from considering anything but the following step; one foot in front of the other, uphill and downhill, everything around him a blur.

It’s just about the only thing Sirius can manage because if he stops, he might have to consider that James had kissed him as if it meant something, and that Sirius had gone and left him behind on a ship full of Death Eaters and those keen to be one. That all of it had been a game except that to Sirius it wasn’t, and he doesn’t know what his life is supposed to look like from here on out, but his best option is probably to join Regulus in exile and make sure that James will never find him.

Yeah, he’s being dramatic; some parts of heritage are more difficult to burn out than others.

But he is also not dramatic at all because the fact of the matter is that James has been the one solid, remaining certainty in his life despite the aching longing of it, and Sirius has no idea how to go on with that crumbling to pieces, too.

He ends up on a vast plateau that overlooks the river the city is famous for, the sun dipping into the water in the distance.

Sirius’ feet hurt, his heart hurts, and walking any further won’t fix shit either. He sits down on a bench that is mostly out of sight and pulls his knees to his chest, and when the stillness makes it hard to breathe, he presses his forehead against his knees and counts back from hundred.

The worst part about all of this, as it has always been, is that above everything else, James is his best friend. Sirius cannot go back to pretending, cannot look at him and take all of it back. Hiding isn’t necessarily better than lying, but Sirius has done the former all his life, could do it because it was necessary.

Now, though? Now he would have to lie. He would have to tell James that it didn’t mean anything, and he knows without a sliver of a doubt that he could not get the words past his teeth without choking on them for good.

“Hey,” someone says, a hand settling lightly on Sirius’ shoulder. “Pads.”

If the voice hadn’t been enough, the nickname would have done it; they’ve mostly shed the habit of it once they got past sixth year, but sometimes, on rare days, they make a reappearance. Right now, it is all Sirius can do not to cry at the use of it.

“Come on, look at me; you can’t ignore me for good. I mean, I guess you could, but I would really prefer it if you didn’t.”

James sounds so fucking shaky, Sirius can’t bear it. A part of him is itching for a fight, is boiling blood and acid-soaked words cloying at the back of his throat that want to set fire to whatever fickle foundation remains of them.

But Sirius has also always loved James more than anything, and he has had a lot of practice in locking away the parts of himself that want to dig their claws into the best thing that he has ever come across and tear it apart.

He looks up and finds James’ face pale, finds his eyes red-rimmed and his jaw set stubbornly, and whatever little determination he scraped together in the last few moments blows away with the next gust of wind.

“How did you find me?” he asks because he might as well stall for time. It’s over anyway, and they both know it, so Sirius might as well put off the inevitable a little longer, and James might as well pretend that he doesn’t notice.

Tilting his head, James studies him carefully. “You always end up close to the water when you’re upset, and you don’t know this city any better than I do.”

It’s a shock, the sharp pain of it, searing through the sinew and muscles of Sirius’ chest until burying itself into his heart. It had been easy to forget sometimes that for all his hiding and careful concealing of secrets, James still knows him better than anyone else does.

“Sirius,” James says, and it is that uncertain, soft voice, but now there is also steel. No distraction or avoidance will work this time. “I’ve been patient about this for a long time, but will you finally tell me what the hell is wrong with you?”

You left me behind, James doesn’t say. We’ve been friends for half of our lives; are you really going to burn it all down?

He doesn’t need to voice any of this for Sirius to read it in his eyes.

Pushing up from the bench, he paces three steps and whirls around, only to be met with James right in front of him, face contorted and so fucking furious as he wraps his hand into the front of Sirius’ robes.

“Do you really think so little of me that you believe that whatever the fuck is going on with you could be worse than what is happening to us right now? I don’t know what I’ve done to make a part of you hate me like this, to shut me out and—”

“I’ve been in fucking love with you since fifth year,” Sirius snarls, and something hard and unrelenting finally snaps in his chest, makes all of it spill forth without the fear and shame standing a chance to hold it back. “I’ve watched you pine after Lily, and then I watched you move on and date whoever came your way. I was your friend long before I was anything else, and you might have thought all of this a game, might have thought it amusing, to press your hands to me and find me shaking, but I cannot find the fucking punchline because I have been in love with you for so long, I can’t even remember how it feels when—”

James fists his hand more firmly into Sirius' robes and pulls. Their mouths clash, harsh and uncoordinated, and the noise wrenching itself out of Sirius’ throat is a horrible, distorted thing that he wants to shove back down until he forgets that he has ever been capable of making it in the first place.

“You’re so fucking stupid, I don’t even—” James presses out, the words bitten off and unsteady, but Sirius puts both of his hands to James’ chest and shoves until there is enough space between them that, if this was not James, and he was not Sirius, he would be able to breathe again.

He has lost track of the scale to measure his hurt, and his voice is low and shaking when he spits, “You have no right to do this to me; I’ve made it this long, and I’ll make it another five years. Don’t play the self-sacrificing hero now, when all—”

“I’m in love with you,” James says, and his voice is flat, annoyed, so fucking certain of it that Sirius takes an actual step back. “Have been, in fact, for a good fucking while but you have been pulling further and further away from me for ages, and so I kept it to myself, and then I was a goddamn fool about this whole pretending to be a couple fuckup, but you—”

“You don’t—”

“But you kept touching me as if you couldn’t stop, and when you—"

“Stop.”

“No, I’m not—Sirius.”

James says his name with a weight to it that he cannot ignore, a request and a promise and Sirius has always been helpless against anything James asked of him.

His hands are shaking so badly that he doesn’t know what to do with them. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

James loosens his grip and curls his hand around Sirius’ shoulders instead. He licks his lips, and his voice is rough when he says, “Tell me the last time I’ve successfully lied to anyone.”

“What the fuck are you on about, you—”

“Sirius,” James says, fingers pressing into Sirius’ muscles. “When was the last time you’ve seen me deceive anyone successfully?”

Sirius stares at him, and there is a horrible, unsettling sense of vertigo as hope spills through him, rooting his heart back into his chest, because the thing is—

Well, the thing is that James cannot lie for shit, not to save his own life, and certainly not to Sirius.

“There we go,” James says quietly, stepping closer. He shifts his hand to Sirius’ neck, slides his fingers into his hair instead. His eyes are dark in the waning light, and he looks at Sirius with so much uncertainty still that Sirius vows he will repent for the rest of his life. “Admittedly, I’ve had a horrible way to go about it, but—”

Sirius kisses him, but this time it is all tentative brush of lips, all careful fingers climbing up James’ spine until he can pull him closer, fitting them together until Sirius forgets what has ever kept them apart, forgets that his hands are still shaking. It no longer feels like flying or falling, no longer feels like the second before the impact.

“I’m sorry,” he says, presses it into James’ open mouth and against his temples, presses his forehead to James’ shoulders and clings to him as the sun sets around them.

“Don’t lie to me again,” James says after a while, his mouth close to Sirius’ ear. “I get why you did it but—no more secrets. There is nothing you could do that would make me turn my back on you, but I’m not—I cannot bear it. I can’t handle the distance you put between us when you do.”

Sirius forces himself to look at him, and brushes his lips against the corner of James’ mouth as he vows, “I’ll try.”

James snorts lightly, his eyes crinkling with humour, and Sirius knows that he will never let go again. That he can’t.

“Come on,” James says, reaching for Sirius’ hand. “Let’s find a place to stay.”

--

The hostel is small and cheap, but it’s out of season so it’s mostly empty. There’s a bed where they can curl into each other, which is really all Sirius cares about at this point.

“Moody’s going to have a conniption at the fact that we blew the mission,” Sirius says, but it is little more than an idle observation.

Beside him, James is miles upon miles of smooth, brown skin, all pliant beneath Sirius’ fingertips. In the sanctuary of this bed, in this small hostel, somewhere in Germany and far away from England, the war feels unreal; like something that cannot reach them as long as some part of them is still touching.

“Yes, well, I doubt that we would have found anything,” James says, shrugging lazily. He presses his mouth to the side of Sirius’ throat and says, “Right now, I also really don’t give a fuck, to be honest.”

Sirius hums in agreement and rolls on top of James, linking their hands together until he can press them into the mattress above James’ head. He looks down at James’ open face, the warmth of it and the way his lips curve around a smile as he says Sirius’ name, over and over like a prayer. For the first time in five years, he believes that he can make himself a home here that does not constantly slip blades beneath his skin.

--

In the end, they stay another three days in Hamburg. It’s less a vacation than a defiant escape, but James’ hand fits perfectly into Sirius’, and at the end of those days, Sirius knows the shape of James’ body as well as he knows his own.

Moody’s lecture lasts over an hour, and Sirius is rather certain that they will never be sent on another undercover mission again, but James grins at him across the table, his ankle warm against Sirius’, and he really cannot bring himself to care at all.

[sherbet-shark]

Epel’s friend having hay fever, HC

Author’s note: I’m struggling with hay fever/pollen troubles, which popped into my head. The reader can be Yuu/Mc but not inherently stated and is platonic.

╰┈➤ Hay fever is seasonal allergies.

◦ Ngl, he’s going to laugh with just how bad your reaction to hay and or pollens is in his hometown. He knew that some of the elders in Harveston got into sneezing fits, but those never lasted long. Besides, they always had medicine, and if it were bad enough, his grandmother and great-grandma would help with the hay and pollens. He and, by extension, you didn’t even know it’d be this retched. Every five minutes, you’d end up in a debilitating sneeze fest. At first, he couldn’t control himself. He howled with laughter at your suffering.

◦ But another week passed, and it wasn’t funny anymore, certainly not to you and him. Especially with Grandma Marja, she was fretting over your ailing self. Sniffling into your used tissues in the comforts of the Felmeir’s A/C house, you tearfully scowl at the outside serenity. ‘Damn you, allergies.’

◦ A door opens, the young farmer held a little bottle as he walked to where you sat.“Hey, Meemaw, gave us some of her potions to help with the allergies since medicine didn’t seem to do the trick. She said to have two pills, one in the morning and the other at night. Hope it does work, though.” Epel explained, sweat already forming beads on his brow as he walked up to your chair and gave the green bottle. Small round pills sway soft clinking noises that greet your ears. Watery eyes squint at the lilac-haired beauty, and grabbing the bottle, swallowing down your apprehension, you nod.

◦ You came to Harveston on the promise of getting paid for the summer and hanging out with your good friend Epel. He said that his family would pay you for your services and house you for the summer, then you could go back home when harvesting/work was over. His parents were very welcoming, as were most of the townsfolk. Whilst, the elderly people were by no means senile and frail. They are hardworking and caring people, but they still have flaws. While some were warm and eager to throw you into their extra jobs, others were pessimistic about this newcomer to their old town.

◦ The next day, you woke up at a fairly reasonable time with a godforsaken stuffy yet at the same time runny nose. Sluggishly roll out of bed and retreat to the nearest bathroom to blow your nose and take the magical medicine Meemaw Marja made. And by some miracle, you had the clarity to peacefully breathe again and start to work around the stables and raised troughs full of herbs. Epel’s Dad suggested that you’d ought to do light work and then gradually work up the ladder for this week.

◦ Constantly apologizing to the Felmir family for your inactivity, they shrugged it off with a sympathetic smile and felt terrible you had horrible allergies and that allergies may be a reason for the recent weather change. The rains hung onto the town for weeks on end, making the other farmers unable to cut down and dry the hay fields, but now that they had a break in the somber forecast, everyone was on twenty-four seven around the clock, making up for the lost time. While some families grew their crops in the greenhouse, others, you found out, liked the old-fashioned way. The Felmir family was a mix of both, taking pride in their orchards but still having various crops like small herbs and flower beds.

◦ It was admirable and slightly worrying to see so many people up in age work and throw themselves into the fields, but these people helped raise Epel. They’re pretty stubborn and fiery in their own right.

◦ Epel finally met you in a small field filled with Apple tree saplings later in the week. With a boyish grin and dirty overalls, he calls to you, asking to come over where he was. You oblige and perch the long trove on your shoulder, seeing a large butterfly fluttering its brightly colored wings on its leaf. “Aww, cute. That’s a….” Your cooing trails off as you vaguely remember seeing this beauty somewhere, the name was on the tip of your tongue, but it slipped. It’s calming light baby blue, outlined with a darker shade, then finally having four large pinkish circles with a black frame.

◦ “Round here, we call ‘em Misty flies. Though it’s not the ‘correct’ name. That’s what I grew up with and that’s what I’m calling them.” Epel side glances as mocks a certain high strong potions teacher and dorm leader, aqua blue eyes gaze at the unsuspecting insect with its wings opening and closing. The relentless sun beats down as beads of sweat roll down his back. The farm boy raises up and squares his shoulders. Looking like he’s done with the little break and nods, “Yup. Sure as hell, I missed this place. C’mon let’s do more chores then I can show off my strength by bailing the hay bales. Hehe!”

‘Misty Flies huh. Cute name,’ you thought as you doubled back to see if the blue butterfly was still there but alas it flew away, the insect already flying away and above you both.

“Well we better get crackin’ then!”

‘Oh boy, I hope Mr. and Mrs. Felmir can help me reel this guy in.’ You thought as Epel already was watering the saplings and raking away stray leaves from the new trees.

Tag list: @rrasado, @millybesippin, @hey-its-cweepy, @luvielle

[gachagon]

While Egypt is about to close their borders to people who are literally starving and who have been displaced by an on going genocide, the US government has once again decided to co-sign these atrocities by sending Israel more bombs and more aid despite the millions of Americans who have made it very clear that that is the worst fucking idea ever.

As we near closer and closer to November, I don't want to hear any of you ignorant pea brained "Vote Blue No matter Who" people yell and berate me about not voting for a genocidal maniac. I will be ignoring any and all attempts at trying to make that horrid man in office the "better of two evils" when anyone with common sense can see that he is just like every other awful politician who runs our government.

While the real Americans work hard every single day just to make sure other people who are thousands of miles away from them don't starve, I want you to remember just how little you actually contributed to saving any of them when election day rolls around and you for some godforsaken reason click his name for a second time, thinking that by staving off the horror that is another inept old man from getting into office who has ideals that personally conflict with the way you want to live, that it will somehow save you to throw an entire nation of people under the bus.

And I will remember everyone who voted for that man for the rest of my life, and I will never forgive them or forget or even let them move on from it. The only thing that could possibly make the world a better place instantly for everyone is if all three of the genocidal elderly men ruling the country currently just dropped dead from heart attacks and went to hell where they belonged tomorrow. There is no world in which voting for either will make anything better for literally anyone.

Happy Easter.