#and if my brain permits me to sit still long enough to draw

[alteredphoenix]

Trying to figure out what big drawing piece I can do this month to get out of this art rut, only to remember:

- Michelle’s bday on the 10th - Want to watch Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata for only Megumi, whose bday’s on the 23rd - WotLK Classic coming out the 23rd, too - New Assassin’s Creed game set in Baghdad getting announced - therefore dress them up as death knight and assassin respectively (maybe?) with Arthas and the new AC guy and a random ass wolf (because it’s one of my Luminaria headcanons for Michelle a’la closeted wolfaboo) crammed in there

It’s so fucking stupid I wanna do it

[failedintsave]

Tumblr ate my last attempt so reposting this

@comfyklok drew this lovely piece for a wolf guardian au, which hit my brain like a mack truck and continued to drag me down the road for ~2700 words almost in one sitting. Thank you for letting me putz around in your sand box...I already started a second part akhajsks

The Wolf in the Wood

It was only a cup of milk.

To waste his daily bread was sinful, he knew, but it was only a glass of milk. Just a small, half-filled wooden tumbler. He'd reached for it blindly, his head still bowed in prayer as Father finished speaking the blessing over their supper, but when it tipped and spilled its ivory contents across the table, even the fire in the hearth seemed to fall silent.

Toki stared at the spreading pool, following the creeping edge until it reached Father's plate. He dared not look any higher, mechanically pushing away from the table and kneeling behind his chair, removing his shirt in preparation. God did not tolerate transgressions, and neither did Father.

He held his tongue as his punishment was delivered, the quiet disturbed only by the barbed leather straps scoring his skin and Father's labored grunts. Acting as the Hand of God required that he bear no mercy, and Toki had learned to ask for none. Mercy was a gift from the Mother…though not his mother, watching dutifully from her seat. In his seven years of memory, not once had she raised hand or voice in his defense.

Permitted to clothe himself again, Toki cleaned up his mess and cleared his empty dish away. Those who cannot appreciate the Lord's bounty, Father said, shall receive none. It should have been penance enough, so when Father sat to tie his boots, Toki's empty stomach dropped through the floor.

It was only a cup of milk.

With his arms wrapped tightly against his ribs, he trailed after the sweeping black vestments where they dragged over the frozen ground, winding along the trail that curled behind the house and into the dark shadow of the forest. The glow of the lantern ahead did nothing to illuminate their path through the swirl of falling snow, but Toki didn't need to see to know what lay ahead. The Hatch terrified him so much more than the lash.

Dread made his feet heavy, and without meaning to fall behind, he passed outside of the circle of lamplight. The moon was near full overhead, and as Toki turned his imploring gaze skyward, praying for lenience, a shadow passed across its silvery face, something black and winged. Something free to roam, unbound by cage or shackle. Something wild. Toki longed for that freedom, to trade places with that creature and flee far from the dank pit and molding straw that awaited him around the next bend. But Toki could not fly.

So he ran.

He ran as hard as his legs would carry him, barreling over waist-high drifts and tearing through thorny underbrush. The snow off the path had crusted with a shell of ice that cut his bare feet as he scrambled deeper into the wood, but numb with cold he pelted on, ripping down the dry, dead thickets and dessicated vines that blocked his way. A low hanging branch whipped him across the face, and still he did not slow. Not until his lungs felt frozen solid, unable to draw enough breath to continue moving, did he stumble to a walk.

Wheezing for air, he clutched a stitch in his side and turned to get his bearings. Above him, the moon was unobstructed once more, the pointed tips of spruce and naked spines of soaring aspen parting into an open ring around the clearing where he stood. Snowflakes fell across his face, stinging against the injured side where swelling already obscured his vision. It throbbed in time with his frantic heartbeat, and Toki covered it gingerly with his palm as he looked back into the treeline. His undamaged eye met a pair of glowing orbs shining in the dark and his breath caught painfully in his heaving chest. He was not alone.

Toki had seen wolf tracks in the woods around the village, but even the largest among those prints could not match the size of the beast before him, taller at the shoulder than he stood upright. Its coat glowed as it entered the clearing, a quicksilver moonbeam loping gracefully in his direction. Massive paws padded over the snow without sinking in, and Toki was struck rigid with panic as it drew nearer. Cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and the back of his neck. He had nothing left, no energy to run, however futile the effort would be to try and escape this monster. Instead, he fell to his knees.

"Please, God!" He folded his hands, fingers red with frostbite. "Please, spares me! Forgives me, I shouldn't has rejected de shelter ofs Your grace! I don't wants to dies, please! I'm sorries!"

The wolf lumbered closer and Toki screwed his eyes closed, bracing for the end. The hellhound would drag his soul to its master, his future sealed in blood and flame.

It was only a cup of milk.

A long moment passed and no jaws closed around his throat. Trembling, he ventured a peek, but the wolf was gone. In its place stood a towering figure, a man in hides and leathers with a thick fur cloak draped around his shoulders. His flaxen hair was streaked with silver like the pelt he wore at his back. Thin braids curved away from his temples, a narrow leather band encircling his forehead and securing his mane away from his angular face. Fine lines creased the corners of icy blue eyes that studied the boy at his feet.

"Who ams you talking to, child?" The man's voice was low and unexpectedly melodious, the rumbly baritone reminiscent of a growl.

Rigid with terror, Toki remembered a storybook, salvaged from one of Father's burning crusades. He had just learned his letters, but it had been the illustrations that caught his eye, the characters and animals depicted in loving detail. There were heroes and monsters and tales of creation and destruction, epic battles and rainbow bridges and beings that could change their shape from man to beast. He'd hidden the book, fully aware that such pagan icons did not belong under his Father's roof, but too enamored with the colorful art to dispose of it as he should. Another blemish he'd have to reckon with at the Gates.

"Please don't kills me. I didn't means to trespass ins your woods, sir."

The man's head tipped to the side in a decidedly canine manner. He scanned the trees, listening, but otherwise made no move.

"A-ams you…Loki?"

Full lips parted to reveal pointed teeth, but rather than lunge in for a bite, a rich, imperious laugh bubbled forth. "Hueghueh. Nej, boy. I aments a god, 'dough I has walksed besides dem."

"Den who are you?"

"I ams had many names. You may calls me…" He considered. "Skwisgaar."

The man crouched to better examine his prey. Slender fingers tipped with claws lifted Toki's chin and turned his head this way and that. His nose wrinkled in distaste.

"You reeks of blood."

"My feet—de ice, I cuts dem."

"Hn." His cold gaze swept over the stains Toki felt seeping into the thin material covering his shoulders, but he didn't comment. Releasing the boy's chin, he stood again. "Goes back to your fire, child, dese woods am dangerous for one so small."

That much was plain. But returning home carried hazards of its own, his absence surely noted by now and his most recent misdeeds incurring additional castigation. Sweet freedom had been so short-lived, only pain and imprisonment awaited him on that path. Toki's vision darkened at the edges, hot tears further distorting his view.

"I just needs…just needs a minute to…"

He swooned, and rather than landing face down in the slush, his cheek met thick fur. Surprisingly strong arms lifted him into the air as though he were no more than a doll.

"Carefuls now, little wanderer." Skwisgaar's murmur came from far away, the world spinning out of focus until everything went quiet, a cocoon of velvety blackness enveloping him.

Toki came-to with the sensation of freezing cold against his torn back, startling him upright with a gasp.

He was no longer in the clearing. To his left, a craggy outcropping rose several meters overhead, pocked with tufts of dead grasses and lichen. Long, crystalline icicles dripped along the rock face nearly to the ground. A frozen creek bed bordered the glade, meandering behind Skwisgaar standing above him, his fur cloak drawn closed under his chin so that only his head and a cascade of platinum waves were visible.

"Where ams dis? What happened?" Toki struggled to his feet, grabbing a handful of Skwisgaar's pelt for leverage. The man frowned. "Did I falls asleep?"

"Ja, and you wills again. But dis time, somewhere safe."

He nodded toward a gap in the cliff side where a hole burrowed under the rock. Toki balked.

"Not under de ground. I-I can'ts." Every living nightmare he'd endured flooded his mind and he could smell the decaying hay, could feel the spiders crawling over his skin. "Please."

Skwisgaar's frown remained unchanged. He observed intently as Toki curled in on himself, then shrugged.

"Suits yourself, child. It will onlies get colder."

In the space of a step, he shifted. Toki had missed it the first time, the transition from man to wolf like watching the deadly beauty of an avalanche. His body rolled forward and extended, absorbing the heavy cloak. Skwisgaar slunk forward and ducked through the gap and out of sight.

Alone again, Toki stared mournfully after the wolf. Darkness fell upon the glen as a cloud passed over the moon, much the same as the winged creature he'd seen before. He'd wished to be wild and free, and though it had led him back to a hole in the ground, this one was not a cage, no hated hatch to lock him in. A frigid breeze sliced through his threadbare shirt, all but making his decision for him. However fearsome this tentative ally may be, perhaps company would make the darkness bearable.

On hands and knees, Toki crawled along the gently sloping tunnel into the den in time to watch the great wolf turn a circle and lay down with his snout pointed at the entrance. He'd expected pitch black within, but a pale ambient glow lent enough light for Toki to see soft moss and clover covering the ground. The earthen walls blocked out most of the winter chill and roots like reaching fingers dangled from the ceiling. It was like a bubble of early spring, a reverse snowglobe. Already he felt the drag of weariness pulling him down again and he glanced around for a comfortable spot to lay his head.

Well, he'd come this far without being eaten.

One sky blue eye watched as Toki crept close, a cautious hand extending to weave into his dense coat, but Skwisgaar didn't move, his eye sliding shut again as Toki settled against his side. Rather than animal, he smelled of woodsmoke and honey, as though just returned from a mead hall. Toki buried his face in the comforting scent, drawing his naked legs close for warmth, his skin prickly with gooseflesh and red from exposure. A heavy tail curled over him like a lap blanket and its weight was the final nudge he needed to let exhaustion claim him.

Birdsong woke him, along with light glowing warm against his eyelids. He must have been left below ground well-past morning chores if the sun was high enough to reach the bottom of the root cellar. Unlikely as it was to be allowed to sleep in, he expected he could be in for a full day of solitude. At least the snow had stopped sometime in the night, sparing him from being buried in fresh powder.

Toki moved to rub the sleep from his eyes, hissing when he touched the swollen scratch crossing the right side of his face. Mouth dry, he hoped he could make it up the ladder and grab a fistful of snow through the grate to slake his thirst. In all likelihood, if he was meant to remain in the hole, a meal would not be given until tomorrow. Fasting was common enough for spiritual purposes, and not an infrequent measure of punishment either. Father would call it a blessing, to both repent and prove his faith with a single action. Toki just knew he was hungry.

He sat up stiffly, wincing again as the gouges on his back screamed in protest. Something shifting on his lap finally forced his eyes open.

Fragrant leaf litter covered his legs, somehow bonded together into an unlikely quilt. Next to his hand, tiny white blooms dotted the spongey, moss covered floor and a pair of yellow butterflies danced in the sunbeam that illuminated his makeshift bed. The air tasted like spring rain, clean and fresh and alive. No cold stone walls or rotting scraps of straw. No barred hatch sealing him in, only blue sky beyond the opening overhead.

It hadn't been a dream. He had actually escaped, flown like a bird from the coop! Toki whooped in delight, then clamped a hand over his mouth, remembering he was a guest in someone's home.

The wolf was nowhere to be seen. Toki pushed aside his covers to better move around the warren and found that his feet had been bandaged in rough, woolen wrappings. They were too tender to stand on, so he crawled on his knees to the back of the den where a dribble of snowmelt had collected in a bowl-shaped divot in the moss, clear as glass and freezing cold. Toki gulped it by the handful, then splashed his face with what remained.

A rustling behind him caught him unawares and Toki twisted at the waist, crying out when the cuts on his back stretched again. Mulch shifted under giant paws as the wolf padded down the earthen ramp into his lair. The limp carcass of a winter hair dangled from his jaws, tiny as a kitten in his grasp. He dropped it next to Toki's hip and stared expectantly.

"Uh…" Toki plucked at one of the animal's ears. "Thanks you?"

The wolf huffed and sat back on his haunches, a ripple coursing over his form as he shrank into humanoid shape once more, revealing Skwisgaar squatting with his elbows braced against his knees. He gave Toki a reproving frown.

"Toothless pup."

With a sharp flick of his wrist, a knife appeared in his slim fingers. The slanted blade was stamped with a symbol Toki didn't know, like a bird's foot or a cross with the arms angled upward. Skwisgaar deftly skinned the animal, then pressed the antler handle of the knife into Toki's hand.

"You does de next one you'self."

"De next—you mean, you nots gonna take me back to de village?"

Skwisgaar shook his head. "I don'ts believe dere faith can hides you any longer, little wanderer. I will keeps you now."

His voice still carried a feral rasp, but somehow those words made Toki feel safer than any prayer. Toki clutched the knife, the handle long enough for both his tiny hands with room to spare.

"Thanks you, Skwisgaar." He repeated. "Oh! You tolds me your name, but I never gaves you mine! I'm—"

"I knows who you are. 'Dough you reminds me of someone else who I has not seens in a very long time."

"I do? Who?"

Skwisgaar's flinty gaze softened. He reached out, plucking a wet strand of hair away from Toki's injured eye and brushing it behind his ear. With another minor flourish, he produced an inky black feather and tucked it there as well. He almost smiled.

"Eats. You needs strength." Skwisgaar straightened to his full imposing height, his expression defaulting back to stone. "Befores you can hunt, you must heals."

He turned and headed for the surface, resuming his canid shape mid-stride. Toki watched him go. His fingers found the feather and he slipped it free of his tangled hair. As long as his hand and dark as pitch, a glossy sheen travelled its length as he thumbed the wispy filaments. He looked from it to the knife with its runed blade and bone handle and grinned. His first gifts, from his first friend; not a god, but a guardian.

The wolf in the wood.

[bigilante]

— 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 ❣ 𝕙.𝕠

⌜mature content • minors do not interact⌟

「 contents: mature language + handjob ━━━━━ word count: 2.4k 」

: a.n : hiya! it's been long since i last posted something but here i am! this is my entry for @worldoftom's lolbrosgetsicktoo writing challenge. be gentle with me please, i'm really awkward writing in second person but i really wanted to make this gender-neutral.

: prompt : Harrison injures his right hand. He’s sexually frustrated, and his left hand just isn’t doing the job. Reader notices something is up with her poor roommate, and asks if there’s anything she can do to help. Even though they haven’t been anything more than friends up to this point, reader offers to “give him a hand,” or whatever of her other body parts he likes.

For two weeks Harrison had had his right hand clasped in a splint from taking a rather nasty fall from his skateboard. The night he had come home from the park with his jeans ripped on the knees and his hand clutched to his chest you hadn’t wasted a second to start taking the piss out of him at the clear picture of him eating shit at the skatepark but when he let out a pained groan after trying to take his jacket off your laughter died down and worry settled on the pit of your stomach.

His hand turned out to be badly sprained and well, the next couple of weeks had been spent in him trying to navigate his days with his non-dominant hand and with the initial panic of your roommate hurting himself gone you resumed the lighthearted piss-taking. Although he laughed with you at the jokes you made you could see how it really bugged him that he wasn’t as useful and agile with his right hand being in mandatory rest. “Told you, H. Whatever you have trouble with I can give you a hand.” You reminded him waving both your hands in front of you in a somewhat mocking manner.

“Yeah, heard you the first time.” He grumbled while struggling to button up his dress shirt. “Damn it.” The blonde cursed under his breath when his fingers seemed to not be working properly. That was enough for you to put your cup of tea down on the breakfast bar to walk up to him taking over the task he was growing frustrated with. He sighed defeated, letting his hands drop to his sides allowing you to close his shirt for him.

“Really, Harrison. I don’t mind helping you out.” The reassurance prompted Harrison to nod in understanding, running his fingers through his hair clearly irked by his situation. As if after you repeating it ninety-nine times before hadn’t sunk into his brain until the hundredth. “There you go, all done.” You patted his chest a couple of times then stepped back away from him to grab your mug again watching him leave the flat in a hurry after thanking you. You had been joking about what happened to him but you really felt bad for him, Harrison was a very active and independent guy who rarely asked for help and now that he was close to useless at doing simple tasks you could see how much it troubled him.

In the evening when he returned home he headed directly to the bathroom barely uttering a greeting back when you welcomed him, the sound of the running water splashing around let you know he was running a bath, you sighed at the fact that he had beaten you to run one for yourself though you were still busy making dinner for the both of you you didn’t duel much on it. About thirty minutes had passed since he went in for his bath and you figured it’ll be enough time for him to be about done with it to come out and eat, hence you walking up to the end of the hallway to knock on the door to make him aware that the food was ready.

However, the noise of water splashing a bit too aggressively accompanied by Harrison’s angry cursing made you believe something was wrong. With not much time to think you tried for the door and found it unlocked, swinging it open swiftly. “Are you okay!?” You asked in a panic, eyes wide when you saw the walls dripping and the floor flooded with soapy water. “Are you hurt?” You insisted, daring to step inside the room, bare feet coming in contact with the wet ground making comical splashing sounds.

“Yeah-no. I just…” He frantically tried to gather the few bubbles that floated on the scarcely-filled tub, bringing them closer to his body to cover himself a little.

“You just what, H?” Your voice still held concern and he noticed, finally looking up at you with seemingly pleading eyes. “You need help with your back or what is it?”

“No, y/n.” He huffed, brushing his wet hair back with his splinted hand wincing a little with the action. “This time you really can’t help me, alright? Just, let me get dressed.”

“Harrison, I told you I don’t mind help—” You started but was soon cut by the blonde’s voice rising above his usual level.

“I need a wank! That’s what I need. And my fucking left hand ain’t cutting it anymore.” Harrison blurted out a bit worked up, breathing heavily with cheeks burning hot showing in a bright crimson colour that stood out against his milky skin. Your mouth closed immediately after he acknowledged his problem, a warmth crept up your neck settling comfortably on the apples of your cheeks as your fingers toyed aimlessly with the hem of your oversized bed t-shirt. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, he had thrown his head back on the edge of the tub and covered his eyes with his injured hand while the other was under the water.

The way the muscles of his arm were flexed made the heat of your cheeks travelled to new places that could be labelled as inappropriate. Boldly, you stepped further into the room your steps marked by the sloppy meeting of them with the soaked tiles, not knowing exactly how you conjured the confidence to do so. “I-I don’t mind... helping,” You stuttered out, stopping right by his side. Wide eyes hanging on the young man’s hidden face that was instantly revealed as soon as those words left your lips.

“What!? Don’t be silly, y/n. I could never ask you to do that.” He sat up, making starts to get up but you stopped him by placing a hand on his bare shoulder keeping him inside the tub.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” You gave him a sincere smile, irises dancing between his crystal clear ones as you waited for him to accept or decline your proposal. Harrison’s teeth clenched as he swallowed thickly making his jawline look even sharper. When he delayed in giving you an answer you felt as if you had overstepped his boundaries and panic began to invade you fast.

“Okay.” He agreed with a nearly imperceptible wobble in his voice. “But don’t look at it. It’ll make me feel less guilty if you don’t know what it looks like.” The chuckle he let out was nervous and awkward, causing you to match it with one of your own as you nodded your head.

“Okay, I won’t look.” You declared, pressing your lips together before sinking to your knees right beside the bathtub sitting comfortably on your folded legs. Taking in a deep breath you reached for his left forearm with your right hand, eyes focused on the edge of the porcelain trying your best not to look down as you let your hand trail down his arm ultimately meeting his own hand under the lukewarm water. “Let go.” In a soft voice, you requested. Harrison exhaled through his nose prompting you to shift your gaze from the tub to his face, sending him a reassuring nod and a faint smile, those sufficient for him let you hold him inhaling a tad sharply when you did.

With your hand now wrapped around his girth, you started to give him slow and long rubs with a fairly firm grip. Since your eyes were still on him you saw him sigh, momentarily closing his eyes with the first few strokes, his lips pressed together as he breathed through each caress you provided. It was hypnotising seeing him in that way: head thrown back, eyes closed, flushed face, brows pinched together; adding to all of that he was completely naked and splattered with water droplets. Your tongue darted out to wet your suddenly dry lips, swallowing thickly at the scene in front of you, subconsciously your grasp on the man’s erection tightened enough to make him let out an involuntary moan that echoed throughout the tiled room, travelling through your ears and finding a new home deep inside your brain.

Again, —you thought— do it again. You now craved his pleasure noises, with a new goal you lifted yourself from your sitting position back into your knees so you could move your arm at a faster pace, wrist twisting every now and again succeeding at drawing more moans out of your roommate. A whimper left your throat when your arm started to grow tired from the motion and the pressure of the ceramic edge underneath it prompting Harrison’s eyes to shoot open and you swore you felt him twitch against your palm. “S-sorry, my arm got sore.” You let out an embarrassed laugh when your eyes met his, your whole face burning hot.

The aching of your arm combined itself with the soreness of your knees forcing you to stand up and let go of Harrison in the process, with little time to think twice you swung your leg over the edge of the bathtub soon followed by the other before you found a comfortable new position straddling the blonde’s bare thighs. The weight of you coming into the water raised the level of it, permitting it to soak the bottom half of your top, Harrison’s eyes never left your figure as you moved that much closer to him, his stomach was a little sucked in as if he was holding in his breath. “Is this okay?” You quizzed, noting that you sitting on him might be too much.

“Ye-yeah.” He breathed out in a hurry. You proceeded to resume your ministrations now with a better angle and an additional hand to give your right one a minute of rest. The movement of the water around you both and Harrison’s heavy breathing was the only things that could be heard in the bathroom of your quiet flat. The view was intoxicating; chiselled chest heaving, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, jaw slacked, pink lips parted and eyes screw shut. You found it next to impossible to reap your gaze from the guy in front of you, the way he was reacting to your touch was rapidly becoming your favourite thing and you wanted more of him, your thighs tightened over his when he let out a particularly loud moan and you had to blink a few times to try and restore your morality without much success.

“Are you close?” Your voice filled the air around you, it surprised both of you for you didn’t know you had it in you to ask such a question when you were trying to keep your composure in front of the man. Harrison’s eyes were half-opened and on you the second you asked, the intensity of them draw you in closer and closer to his face until your forehead was pressed against his tentatively. Soon his healthy hand was back under the water only this time it landed on your bare thigh gripping it tightly, the simple touch causing your breath to match his ragged one, mixing together from the close proximity of your faces.

“Fuck, don’t stop.” Harrison ordered with a deep groan as his body began to tense up underneath you. You took the cue and doubled your efforts with both your hands subconsciously whispering encouragements eliciting louder moans from him. His poorly hand came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place —as if you really had the intention to move away— while his high very evidently approached. “Fuck, y/n.” The blue-eyed boy moaned in your face luring a whine out of your throat at the sound of your name being called in such a way.

“Cum for me,” You encouraged him, nudging his nose with yours silently prompting him to look at you, and he did. Hooded eyes fixed on yours mere centimetres away that you could feel his lips ghosting over your own teasingly, warm breath fanning over them. “Harri, c’mon.” A whisper was all you could manage at that moment. Your own throat had grown dry and you had to suppress the mewls that threatened to leave your chest when you started to feel his cock twitching in your hands. A loud grunt got stuck in the man’s throat the moment he toppled over the edge, his length spasming in your grip as you so clearly sensed it unload under the now cool water, the temperature of the liquids contrasting against your skin when his seed landed on your hands as it sank.

Harrison’s body shuddered with each slow stroke you gave him to help him ride his orgasm, moans continued to fall from his parted lips. He swallowed, finally releasing your neck from the clasp to be able to relax back in the tub letting out a long and deep sigh of content. You couldn’t help but feel disappointed the moment he pulled away but it was for the best, you couldn’t be wishing for him to do something for you when you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.

That was when it hit you, the position you were in wasn’t appropriate at all, it didn’t matter how willing you were to be his second self surely giving him manual relief was a step too far. So with overwhelming shame, you let go of him, leaning to the side to take hold of the edge of the tub, pulling yourself up to your feet in a daze. The water that dripped down from your soaked t-shirt far too noisy in your ears as they buzzed with the adrenaline that still coursed through your body, the wet fabric sticking to your skin making you self-aware that it was now see-through so you hurried to the railing stuck to the wall and grabbed one of the towels, quickly wrapping it around your waist.

Embarrassed, you started for the door, holding the doorknob ready to leave the room, “Di-dinner’s ready.” You acknowledged shyly, the tremble in your voice giving your remorse away. You frantically shuffled on your feet stepping out of the room and closing the door behind you. There was a weird feeling in the pits of your stomach, you knew you felt embarrassed of what had just happened yet, that wasn’t it, it was almost like a craving. A craving for his touch and that made the shame feel ten times worse. You marched to your room locking yourself in, forgetting about your dinner plate that was sitting on the kitchen counter, your hunger long gone. Though, despite the mortification, there was a new much problematic sort of appetite tingling deep inside you and the throbbing between your legs made it much too hard to ignore.

【 thank you so much for reading! ♡ please, consider reblogging and letting me know what you thought of this piece ♡ 】

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[whatifyoulivelikethat]

pause, m | myg | 4

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: Some things that are normal for most aren’t normal for you and Yoongi. He moved in and sleeps in the same bed with you, but still all you do is hold hands and kiss gently. Everyone has their own pace. Not everyone lives in the fast lane. There’s just... this nagging feeling. You have to be honest. 

warnings: rated M (18+) - mentions of a previous physically and verbally abusive relationship; language; smut (penetrative sex); there’s so much fluff you might die; also RIP to their heads XD; non-idol!AU; music producer!Yoongi x dancing fanatic!reader

rated M because I know how sensitive a topic domestic abuse is.

--

3.

-

"Sorry."

"What?"

You retreated your hand from the tuft of hair sticking out of Yoongi's black cap. He turned around and raised his eyebrows at you. You ended up apologizing before actually doing anything or even touching the little black tail in the opening of his hat. He adjusted the brim and gave you a weird look. 

"Something wrong?" he asked, tilting his head. 

"No, uh... I..." You struggled to find the words. "I almost touched you. I wasn't sure if you were okay with that."

Yoongi smiled a little. "It's okay. I know you're there. And I know it's you."

He was sitting right next to you at your computer in your bedroom. You had set up a station for him, the two of you in the corner, occupying two computers ninety degrees from each other. All you had to do was turn to the right and he was there. He turned to the left and you were there. It was kind of cramped and not ideal, but it had to do for now. Yoongi worked on music at home. Some things Yoongi could only do at the studio, but some things he could do at home. You found him a decent computer and some hand-me-down equipment and it was good enough. 

Actually...

It was miles better than it was before. He was surprised when you asked him if he wanted to work on his music at home. It wasn't permitted in Yoongi's previous relationship. But you saw he lamented sometimes, recording demos on his phone and wishing he had some sort of setup to do some things. You didn't understand the technical aspects, but it couldn't hurt to ask, right? It had become a fun project and now Yoongi was sitting beside you.

Yoongi spied the images on your monitor. "What are you looking at?"

You turned back. "Apartments. I'm just trying to see if there's something bigger, so you can have your own music studio at home."

He bit his lip. "I can't afford that right now."

You understood that Yoongi often mentioned money because it was a topic of arguments with his ex-girlfriend. You hadn't gone into this expecting Yoongi to be rich. In any case, it was better for him to invest in his music. You had already told him this, but habits take time to be broken. Thankfully, your work paid well even though it was mostly clerical duties. There were perks to having worked at the same company for a long time.

"It's okay. I want a bigger space too." 

"You mean you want your dance studio back?" he teased. 

You felt your ears heat. "I can use the living room... anyway, I want you to be able to work in peace. I haven't seen anything good though."

"Mmm, well, this kind of thing takes time and luck."

You turned your head to look at him and found his face next to your shoulder. A handsome profile. His eyes shifted to look at you. Something flitted in those dark brown eyes. The nagging feeling came back, tapping inside your ribcage, rattling impatiently. You looked away, back at your computer screen. 

Yoongi said your name softly. 

"Is something wrong?" His voice wavered. "Did I do something?"

"No, Yoongi," you replied, still not looking at him. The frustration inside expanded. You knew you had to communicate. You couldn't not. If you avoided it any longer, you would be growing the seeds of doubt and you wanted Yoongi to trust you. To do that, you needed to be honest. 

"I'm horny."

Silence. 

"What?"

You jerked a little in your seat, moving away from Yoongi before raising your head to make eye contact. Your chest felt tight, ashamed, even though it wasn't supposed to be embarrassing. 

"I'm horny," you repeated, rubbing your fist on your thigh. "I don't want to pressure you because I know that topic might be delicate. I just..." You kept looking at those wide cat-like eyes and then looking away, heart beating fast and heat building faster. "I find that I can't really look at you that long without thinking about it. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Silence. You felt your stomach knot.

“I don’t remember the last time I had sex,” Yoongi murmured. “I don’t remember the last time I wanted it.”

Ah. Right. That would make sense. Of course, that’s how he felt. Also, you weren’t exactly sexy. The octopus dancing didn’t really get the guys, so to speak. You could handle yourself. It was fine. He was just so… You wanted Yoongi to feel good with your touch, wanted his heart to flutter the way yours fluttered, wanted to see him breathless with want.

There was a weight on your thigh.

You started, looking down, breath at your throat. You were wearing loose gray shorts and the matching sweatshirt. Not a sexy outfit to get your freak on. But you were staring at Yoongi’s hand, kneading the fabric and your leg underneath and the heat was rising, heart racing.

“I think I need a reminder…” he murmured. “A reminder on how good it feels to be loved like that.”

Yoongi lifted his head and you stared into his eyes.

He leaned forward and closed the distance, kissing you softly, and you breathed him in, fitting your hand over his, guiding it up, gentle touches, turning in your chair to face him, and he was turning to you, holding you close, your hands skimming over his t-shirt, not trying to get more, just wanting to show your want, just demonstrating how you would run your hands over his skin if there was no barrier, and he stood up, making you stand up.

And then your heads banged together.

“Ow!”

“Motherfuc–”

You swore and Yoongi clamped a hand over your mouth, rubbing his forehead and shaking his head.

“Don’t ruin this,” he winced, removing his hand.

“My brain feels rearranged,” was your woozy response, cursing the narrow space.

Yoongi took your hand and pulled you away from the computers, towards to the bed, the same bed you two slept on, but didn’t touch, not like this. You only held hands or kissed gently. Late at night, when Yoongi was fast asleep, you would stare at his profile and wonder if he felt the same passion you felt, but it was weird to watch him sleeping, so you looked away and stared at the ceiling instead, thinking about him and his body against yours.

And now it was, his arms around you, pressing you to his chest, kissing your lips, cheeks, closed eyelids, making you laugh a little. Your fingertips on his back, tracing patterns, his gasp against your skin, cap falling off and tumbling to the floor, his black hair brushing your forehead.

“T-Touch me more…” he murmured.

He took your forearms and pushed them down, sliding your hands under his white shirt and then it was skin on skin, a needy noise between you two. With burning ears, you realized that was you, Yoongi’s hands on your shoulders as you explored his back, fingertips dancing up his spine, his pants in your ear, and then his fingers in your hair, messing it all up, rolling his body into yours.

Hardness.

You gasped, raising your thigh to press against it, and his hands slid down, and you looked up to see his half-lidded eyes hazy with desire.

“I want to follow your lead, Yoongi,” you breathed. “Any time you want to stop, we can stop.”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you, deeper this time, tongue sliding in and playing with yours, your hands exploring the contours of his back. His skin, so soft, so lovely, smelling the vanilla and patchouli body wash you used because you shared the same shower and he used all your products. You shared so much with him, but there were some things you couldn’t share. Not yet. Not until he gave you his sign that he was ready.

You never told Yoongi, I love you.

The most precious words used in this world, turned to a poison dagger to hurt him, so you never said it, not until he was ready to hear it, not until he wanted to hear it. You knew Yoongi knew. You would hold his hand, draw a heart in his palm, small things like that, and he knew. He’d squeeze your fingers and smile a little smile and that was enough.

Maybe you were tiptoeing too much, but it was impossible to tell, because everyone is different and not even Yoongi himself knew what trivial actions or words would bring back unpleasant memories. He had spent so long repressing them that it was hard to tell reality from fantasy. He didn’t know what to be afraid of because he tried so hard to make them disappear.

You drew a small heart on Yoongi’s shoulder blade and he gasped, pulling you closer.

“I… like when you do that…” he mumbled, sounding a little embarrassed.

“Draw hearts?” you questioned, tilting your head.

“Yeah… on my skin…”

And then Yoongi surprised you.

He backed up a little and pulled his shirt over his head, taking your hands and placing them on his chest, not saying anything, but you could see it in his eyes, I don’t look very good, and you pressed your fingertips to his chest, over his beating heart, looking up at him.

“You will always be perfect to me, Yoongi.”

He gave you a wistful smile, believing you and not at the same time. “You have weird taste.”

You drew a small heart over his, feeling him shiver at your touch. You grinned brightly. “That’s how you know I’m devoted.”

He chuckled, closing one eye, looking sheepish. You waited, letting him work through the emotion, trying not to put himself down, taking it for what it was. It was not an easy thing to do. You had to be patient. Yoongi took your hand and pulled you to the bed, a familiar environment.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said.

“You don’t–”

“I want to,” Yoongi reaffirmed, looking you in the eye, determination in his tone. “I want my hard work to be the reason you feel good.”

You shouldn’t say it. Well, maybe it will lighten the mood. You struggled internally and then leaned forward, placing the back of your hand near your mouth.

“Hard work is a weird way to refer to your dick,” you whispered closely.

Yoongi burst out laughing, gums flashing, raspy and full, shoving you onto the bed. You bounced, hands flapping about, grinning at you own joke as Yoongi grabbed the bottom of your sweatshirt, yanking it up and over your head.

“This and your bad habit of moving your head at the same time as me–”

“It means we’re in sync!”

“I don’t want a concussion every time we make out,” Yoongi shot back, pinning your arms down and hovering over you, exasperated smile on his face.

He was so close.

Your grin slowly deflated, realizing that he was shirtless and you were shirtless, and Yoongi had you pinned down, gazing down at you with dark eyes and that open-mouthed smirk that was also disappearing, realizing he was on top of you, realizing this wasn’t innocent, realizing he was about to do something that should be normal but was made abnormal to him.

“You don’t have to do it,” you said gently.

“I know.” He looked at you under his black hair, messy and flat from being under the hat, brown eyes and pink lips standing out on his fair-skinned face. “But I want to.”

You always thought that parts of life were boring. It would be easier to fast forward and skip it.

But not with Yoongi.

He leaned down and kissed you, a kiss that you wanted to pause and live in forever, him inhaling you, pressing deeply, hands releasing your arms and cradling your head, his kisses like stars, precious light that brightened your whole world. But you also wanted to press play, kissing him back, your hands caressing his sides, drawing small hearts on his skin, your own heart swelling with the electricity of touching the one you loved, not knowing until now how nice it was, the simple sensation of dancing your fingers up his back and back down, his gasps on your skin, kissing down, down the curve of your neck and the swell of your breasts, so focused that his eyes were screwed shut and his brows were furrowed.

“Yoongi…”

His eyes opened slowly and Yoongi looked up at you with shaking pupils. Scared he was going to fuck up.

“It’s just me. You know, the one who dances like an octopus.”

His expression seemed to relax, turning into ruefulness. “How could I forget?”

“Should I wiggle a bit to jog your memory?” you teased.

“Please don’t.”

Your remark seemed to have calmed him, returning to your breasts, slipping the straps down, kissing along the curve of the cup, slipping his tongue under experimentally to make you jump, heart racing once more, a small smirk on his lips as he reached behind you and unhooked it, releasing them from their prison.

“O-oh!”

You yelped when Yoongi pulled your bra down, kissing your nipple directly, tingles flaring from the kiss, leaving you breathless as his tongue danced out, licking gracefully, slow circles that made you clench your jaw and tighten your core to avoid arching your back to get more. Yoongi seemed to sense your urgency and added more pressure, closing his lips around it, and your hands flew up, holding his head as carefully as possible but holy shit, holy shit, Yoongi’s tongue on you was pure ecstasy and he was doing it for you, showing his love for you and that’s why it felt so good, that’s why it was so fucking nice.

“Ah, fuck, Yoongi…”

He kissed to the other side, murmuring your name against your skin, seeped with desire and affection, pushing your wet nipple with one finger as he kissed the other, two points of pleasure that flowed through you, your gasps turning to moans, his hands coming up and encircling yours, lacing your fingers with his and holding them, whispering, faint, nearly silent, vibrating your sensitive skin with his lips and breath.

And then you heard it.

His whisper right above your heart and you looked down, Yoongi’s eyes looking up at you.

Apologetic for taking so long.

“I love you.”

If someone paused the tape right now, took it out, and your life ended right there, you would be okay with that. If that was the last moment in this world, if that was all that was and time stopped, you would be content.

But it wasn’t.

Play.

You smiled down at him, trying to prevent your voice from shaking.

“I love you too, Yoongi.”

The most precious words in the whole world.

“Should I stop?”

Your eyes widened. “N-no! I mean… if you’re…” You stopped speaking, seeing the playfulness sparkling in those dark eyes, pleased to have tricked you, even if only for a second.

“I’m kidding,” he chuckled, lifting himself up to kiss you lightly. “I only wanted to see if you would be bothered.”

“I am very bothered,” you responded, peeved. “Hot and bothered, even.”

Yoongi lifted a brow, small amused smirk on his lips. “Come to think of it, me too.” He backed up and you lifted your chest, only to have Yoongi press down on your collarbones, worry flitting his face.

“What?”

“Don’t bonk my head.”

You grimaced. “I’m not a serial head bonker.” You lifted yourself up and Yoongi swung his head back, eyes flashing with mock fear. You pointed to the nightstand, rolling your eyes, and rummaged around in the drawer, feeling to the back and pulling out the small box.

“How old are those?”

Your cheeks flushed. “L-Last month!”

“You wanted to fuck me since last month?”

“N-No, obviously earlier, but I didn’t k-know if you ever wanted…” you trailed off, flapping your jaw, holding up said box, the condoms tumbling out. You panicked a little, not wanting him to think you were expecting too much, dropping the box and scrambling to collect the pile, the tip of your finger hitting the box at the exact spot that would cause it to fly off the bed and hit the wall.

You stared at it, betrayed.

Yoongi burst out laughing. “I can hear you talking to it,” he chuckled.

“I’m not saying anything!”

“You wanna fuck me?”

Your head snapped back, eyes widening. Yoongi tilted his head.

“Yes,” you blurted. “Well, yes, I mean, you’re so…” This was awkward. It didn’t used to be awkward but, also, you had never been this invested. Your eyes widened. You were invested in a person. Actually invested, invested in Min Yoongi. You looked up at him and he looked back curiously like a cat, not realizing your epiphany. Oh shit. Now this was even more weird.

Do something. Do something. Not that. Oh no, you’re doing it.

You held up the plethora of condoms. “Pick a card?”

Living alone made you too fucking weird.

“Aren’t they all the same?” Yoongi snickered.

You shifted, putting them back down on the bed. “Ahaha… right…” Your leg pressed against his and you jumped, startled. “You’re hard.”

Yoongi raised his eyebrows. “When gorgeous tits are out, the human body reacts when there is attraction, even if you’re speaking nonsense.”

You blinked at him. “G-Gorgeous?”

Yoongi’s ears flushed pink and he reached over, ripping a condom off the others. “Y-Yeah…” He straightened, scooting back to between your legs, placing his hands on your shorts. “Ah… unless the mood is killed…”

“No,” you exclaimed, hands flying down to the waistband. “It is not. It is alive and well. Very well.”

Yoongi opened his mouth and shut it. Then he opened it again, smiling a little. “I’m beginning to think we are a bit strange.”

“it’s just because it’s the first time,” you rambled. “All first times are a bit strange.”

This wasn’t getting anywhere, so you yanked down your shorts and underwear at once, Yoongi gasping and snapping his head down as you kicked off your clothes, the sharp scent of your arousal suddenly very apparent. You felt your cheeks heat, unaware that you had such a strong reaction to Yoongi being above you, observing your wetness with round eyes, as if to say, I did that?

“Wow.” Yoongi raised his head, black bangs framing his beautiful eyes. “You’re stunning.”

Was it ever like this? Like every word was precious, every lyric in this song meaning more than the words themselves, like every single piece of the composition was perfect, special, everything pause-worthy, even the odd bits, you reaching up to cup his head, pulling Yoongi down for a kiss, him pushing his own pants down, sucking in a breath as your hand wrapped around him, moaning in his mouth, deepening the kiss, more erotic, more intense, his cock throbbing in your palm, getting harder by your touch, Yoongi whimpering in your mouth, backing off slowly, ripping the condom open, sliding it on, and you watching, oh, he’s beautiful there too.

“Thanks…?”

“… Uh, you’re welcome.”

You spoke out loud. Great.

“Do you need some prep?”

“Yoongi, please put it in before I say something stupid again–”

You cut yourself off as Yoongi pushed in slowly, both of you suddenly gasping at the sensation, you already wet enough because you had been thinking about this for so long, morning, night, morning, night, thinking about Yoongi, and if you could, if he was ready to have him inside you, filling you up, and it was happening, happening right now, sinking into you, looking into his eyes. And you could see the amazement, the wave of satisfaction that shimmered through his dark orbs, and the way Yoongi looked at you.

Like he was complete.

“I… oh, fuck…” His eyelids fluttered. “I might not be that good…”

“Are you kidding me, holy fuck, you feel fucking incredible,” you breathed, clenching around him, moaning softly at the perfection that was him, heart racing with every second. Your hands came up and held his cheeks, your breath hot and fluttering upwards. “You already feel so good, Yoongi. You can see it in my face, can’t you?”

His eyes searched yours, looking for the lie, the performance, but there was none, no need to lie when your hips were already slowly rocking into his, creating movement and pleasure, and he fell into the rhythm, complementing you. Your hands dropped and you put them over your head, grasping the pillows, letting out every cry and soft sound so Yoongi could hear and know this was the truth, your legs circling his slim waist. Yoongi bit his lip, breathing hard, whimpering a little.

“I mean… it’s been a while… and you feel too f-fucking good, oh fuck…”

You realized what he meant and you reached down with one hand, jolting as your fingertip touched your clit, rubbing it forcefully, shudders flying through you, gasping at your own stimulation, breasts pressing together, and Yoongi moaned, feeling you constrict and pulse around him, wetter, thrusting into you harder until there was a symphony of sound, heavy wanton breathing, slapping of skin on skin, chasing your climax as Yoongi chased his, eyes locked, almost there, almost there…

At the bridge.

Somehow you both knew the final chorus was coming.

“Yoongi…”

He breathed your name, drawing it out like the most precious word in this world.

You moaned deeply and it rushed through you, shooting up your torso and into your chest, an overwhelming pressure that took you under, making you throw your head back and gasp his name, pressing down on your clit to amplify every bolt of pleasure that made your muscles shake. Yoongi groaned, thrusting into you hard with his own gasp, cock jerking and shooting into the condom, surrounded by your suffocating embrace and you saw his eyes roll back a little, muscles in his arms tense, fingers bunching into the sheets, black hair sweaty and sticking to his face.

Hot breath mixing with yours, heavy pants of shared ecstasy.

“Whoa…”

His dark eyes flickered to yours, pupils blown out, blinking slowly as he exhaled. “W-What...?”

You felt your ears heat. “Oh… uh… it’s never been like that before. I’ve never felt… so much.”

A red flush bloomed over Yoongi’s cheeks. “Me neither…”

“Maybe we’re in love?” you offered lightheartedly.

A small smile grew on his lips. “Yeah, maybe.”

You began to raise yourself off the bed, but Yoongi put his hand on your collarbones quickly.

“Hold on. Let me get off first.”

“I’m not going to hit yo–“

“Ow!”

“Motherfuc–”

Press play.

-

fin.

--

masterpost

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Lavender Lace

Pairings: Tom Holland x Femdom!Reader

Summary: Edging Tom (no plot whatsoever which is super rare here cause I’m a slut for plot)

Warnings: Edging (male receiving), unprotected sex (because it’s a fic and there is no pregnancy or STD’s unless I say lol), Dom!Reader-Sub!Tom, Creampie, Cockwarming, Reader doesn’t cum (sorry)

Word Count: 1860

A/N: I wrote most of this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any words that autocorrect changed. I looked through and changed the ones I saw but just in case I missed any, my apologies!

Part 2 out now!

______________________

Tom lied on the bed, hands tied up above his head to the bed frame. His beautiful body was on full display against the sheets, small freckles adorning his taut skin. A glistening layer of sweat made every dip and rise of his body shine deliciously, his defined muscles exaggerated by the light shining off it. His chest heaved up and down as he attempted to calm himself down yet again and his biceps flexed as he pulled against his restraints. “Fuck! Please, please please…” His voice was broken and desperate- but not quite desperate enough.

“Awe, Tommy. You’re doing so well,” you cooed, rubbing your hand lovingly across his firm thigh, “But I think you can go a little longer.“

Tom groaned in frustration, his cock already painfully hard and leaking precum. He hissed and bucked up into your hand when your hand went back down to pump his impressive length. Your hand glided up and down, adding a twist at the top around the tip. “Please-”

You stopped your movement but kept your hand still on his member, shaking your head, “No cumming until I say.” You chided, voice gentle in stark contrast to the torture you’d been putting him through for the last hour. Tom’s hips bucked upwards again, desperate for release, making you chuckle, “Look at you. So handsome. So desperate.” After a few moments, his breathing calmed down and your fingers circled feather light across his pelvis and down over his thighs, “Let’s get you a little more desperate.”

Tom shook his head, “I need to cum. Please, please let me!”

You almost felt bad for your boyfriend. He looked almost in pain and you really did want to please him more than anything but you also knew that he loved this torture. If he really wanted you to stop, he only had to say the safe word. That weird simple little word had yet to leave his lips, which meant the fun could go on, guilt free.

Your middle finger circled his tip, so agonizingly light that he couldn’t tell if you were there or his brain was just creating sensations to cope with the torture. “Just a few more, love. Think of how good it will feel when you finally get to cum.” With that, you licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of his length before taking only his tip into your mouth and swirling your tongue, lapping up the abundant pre-cum that had been practically pouring out at this point.

Tom pulled at his hand restraints aggressively, “Agh!” He almost screamed out as you brought him to the edge yet again with only small kitten licks to his tip while you stroked his shift with your hand. Tom was so painfully close, it only took mere seconds before he was crying out again.

“I’m gonna cum!” He warned and you took your hand off completely, causing him to cry out. You crawled up his body, kissing a line up along the way. You made sure that his cock rubbed through the valley of your breasts, concealed by a lacey lavender push up bra that did wonders for your chest. When you made your way to his lips, you straddled his waist, just above where he needed you most, and kissed his lips.

“What number was that?” You whispered lightly into his ear.

His eyes opened to find yours only mere inches away and he could have cried. You looked beautiful. Sultry, sexy, confident. Tom, on the other hand, appeared to be a few seconds from tears. His big beautiful chocolate eyes were practically black, pupils blown so wide they nearly overwhelmed his entire irises. His brown curls stuck to his forehead from where he’d attempted to desperately bury his head in the pillows. “Nine.” Tom managed barely, only able to focus on the intense pressure between his legs.

You kissed him again, lifting yourself off him just enough to move the thin fabric of your thong aside before sitting back down, his length sliding between your slick folds as you rocked your hips.

“Fuck!” He hissed out, eyes screwed shut. He had already been so close that this alone almost sent him over the edge.

Your nails scratched lightly over his chest as your ground on him. You moaned a little when his head bumped your clit as he passed through your folds, so close to finally being inside you. “You’ve been such a good boy, Tommy. Where do you want to cum?” You asked, reaching over his head to untie the scarf you’d had him bound by. Immediately, his hands were on your hips.

He timidly asked, “Inside you?” Even after all these years together and the fact you were on birth control, it was still a request he felt weird making.

You smiled against his skin as you licked up his neck, still moving your hips against him, “You can cum inside me when I hit ten, understand?”

“I don’t think I’ll make it. I’m already s-so close.” Tom stuttered when he felt the tip of his cock finally slide into your warmth.

You squeezed your walls around him, just to torture him a little more, “You’re gonna have to, love. If you cum before I say, I’m gonna have to stop and ruin it.”

A genuine look of fear ran through Tom’s eyes and you knew he’d behave for you. He wanted this - nay, needed this - so badly. You began to bounce on his length, his cock rubbing against every wonderful spot inside you. Your hands came to your breasts, palming them through the thick fabric of your bra. “One.”

Tom’s hands struggled to stay on your hips, knowing you might edge him longer if he stepped out of line, “Let me touch you.” He begged and you only nodded, reaching for his hands and placing them on your breasts. He pulled the fabric down and raked his nails gently over your nipples, making you breathe out in pleasure.

“Two,” You moaned out, “Three.” You kept bouncing and you could feel him twitch inside you. “Four. Five.”

“I’m not gonna make it. I’m so close.” Tom was almost crying, legs struggling to stay still as he used every ounce of willpower to not let go here and no. He was so close, all it would take was a millisecond of losing concentration to snap.

You slowed down and just sat on him yet again, not moving but clenching your walls around his aching member and he audibly whined, “You’re gonna make it or I’m gonna get off and leave you writhing on the bed. Then you can watch while I finish myself off. That what you want?”

He shook his head aggressively, his hands moving back down to your hips to keep you in place, “No, no, no! I’ll make it to ten!” You noted the movement of his hands and maybe if he hadn’t been so well behaved all this time, you would have punished him a little more for trying to take control but you could see in his eyes how painfully desperate he was, how hard he was trying to be good. You wouldn’t punish him for it - this time.

“Good.” You began to swivel your hips, just like you knew he loved it and he threw his head back into the pillows, eyes shut tight as he struggled to keep his composure. “Six. Seven.” You reached down and ran your thumb gently across his cheek where an actual tear slid down, still moving on his cock, still drawing this out, “Eyes open, love.” Tom struggled to comply, knowing that one of the only things keeping him from busting right this second was trying to take his mind anywhere but this situation. Seeing you looking so damn sexy bouncing on his cock was sure to send him over. But he managed to pry his lids open and lock eyes with your blown out orbs. You bit your lip and smiled, “You’re doing such a good job. Eight.”

“Shit!” A broken moan tumbled from his lips as he flexed every muscle in his body to keep it at bay. He was gonna snap and there was nothing he could do about it, especially at this painfully slow pace you’d been counting at.

“Nine.”

Tom’s heart raced as he waited for that last number, that last bit of permission before you would let him finally release. He didn’t think he’d ever been this painfully hard and it made him look back at every other time he ever thought he had blue balls and smack his past self. He had no idea what it was like to be this achingly close. “Please, please-”

“Ten. Cum for me baby.” You finally allowed, raking your fingers down his body, making sure to graze over his nipples.

The orgasm hit him like a semi, crashing into across his body hard and fast the very moment you permitted it. “Agh! Fucking hell!”! He was nearly sobbing, his hands squeezing tightly into your hips and bouncing you up and down at just the right pace. Again, something you let slide. He had just been so good for you, he deserved it. His seed shot deep into you, warm and overflowing and waves of pleasure just kept coming. Tom didn’t think he’d ever cum this hard or long in his life, himself surprised when more and more hot ribbons seemed to just. Keep. coming.

Finally, he slowed down, arms slackening weakly against your thighs as he came down from his high. He was still sheathed inside you, his seed leaking out around his cock, down his cock and along your inner thighs. You had never been so full and you didn’t want it to end. You leaned forward, coming to lay on his chest, head in the crook of his neck. When you moved, your walls instinctively fluttered around his sensitive cock and Tom hissed, his grip suddenly tightening on you as the stimulation became too much.

Once you had positioned yourself comfortably on his chest, he wrapped an arm around your body, rubbing large stripes up and down your side. You twirled his hair in your fingers and listened to his wrecked breathing with a bit of pride knowing you made him feel this good. “You did so good for me, Tommy.”

He sighed heavily, “Thank you.” You giggled a little, knowing his brain was still moving a little slow. He wasn’t thanking you for the compliment- he was thanking you for finally letting him cum.

“Wasn’t too much?” You asked, hoping you didn’t go overboard. Logically, you knew he’d use the safe word if it was too much but you just wanted to be sure you hadn’t gotten a little too lost in the power.

Tom shook his head with a chuckle, pulling you closer into his body, hissing yet again when your heat shifted around his overstimulated softening length. “Just right. Any more and I might have died, though.”

You both laughed at his joke before you cooed in his ear, “Oh, love, you can take it. We’ll just have to break your record next time.”

[fleckcmscott]

Pre-Show

Summary: It’s a big night for Arthur. Y/N helps him prepare.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 3,387

A/N: Instead of this being a request, this was a scenario I came up with while writing The Find. My brain wouldn’t let go of it. (Though, funnily enough, @sweet-nothings04​ requested something similar a couple days ago!) I hope you guys enjoy!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The mild, local fame Arthur had gotten after being on Live! with Murray Franklin had been a boost to his ego. And, if Y/N was being honest, confounding to her. She'd assumed he'd continue to be an object of ridicule, the way he had been since that terrible video of his first stand-up had become public. (The humiliation and anger that had radiated from him as they'd stood together in Penny's hospital room, and his withdrawal from her afterward, remained fresh in Y/N's mind.) But she had never been so happy to be wrong.

Only a couple of assholes had approached them on the street. Of the small number of people who said hello, most were neutral, simply amused at having run into a person they'd seen on television. A few were kind. As the months rolled on, the resulting increase in clubs letting him sign-up for sets offered opportunities to hone his craft. She was glad for him, delighted to see how those moments bolstered his self-confidence, helped him let out the instinctual elegance that was too often concealed by reservation.

Though she did have slight concerns. Many of his jokes were sweet, especially ones he directed towards her. But most were therapeutic, about matters closest to his heart. They helped him understand the world around him, in his own way. There was a tendency to treat Arthur like a novelty act, whereas he took his comedy seriously. Would that happen when he performed at amateur hour at the Smile Factory tomorrow night?

She didn't bring the possibility up to him. They'd been a pair long enough for him to know what she was pondering. And she never wanted him to think she didn't believe in him. She did, always. Wholeheartedly. Even if she didn’t always get his humor. And she would sit that audience, give him applause, and laugh at every punchline. Provide the attention he craved and support he coveted. Her love for him and his quirky shtick made that a pleasure to do.

Arthur's deep voice, occasionally halting, other times confident, drifted through the ajar bedroom door. She grinned, standing next to the couch while she ironed creases into his maroon trousers. It was routine for him to rehearse his timing in front of the vanity mirror. Try out his facial expressions to make sure he didn't look "too strange."

The first time she'd seen him do it, he'd blushed and turned away from her, lines tight on his face. But the awkwardness had dwindled as she'd explained she had to prepare for her job, too. That even with all her years of experience, she had to practice testifying if she was going to a big hearing. The effort he put into perfecting his routine meant he cared, and she admired his discipline.

When she heard him enter the living room some minutes later, she glanced over her shoulder. "All ready to break a leg tomorrow?"

"Or an ankle." She giggled at his retort and turned to give him his freshly pressed shirt. The green of his eyes glinted, meeting hers. "I can do this. I know how to handle an iron."

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. He'd gotten better at letting her take care of him, but she felt he did more than his fair share. "You know how to handle a lot of things." She wrapped her arms around his slender waist. "This is the first time you've headlined a show. Focus on your act. Besides." A peck to his chin. "We must be in the honeymoon phase, because I enjoy doing this for you. I loathed ironing my ex's ties."

His palm went to the small of her back, lips on the shell of her ear. "Don't honeymoons last a week?"

God, he smelled good. He hadn't smoked since getting out of the shower. She nuzzled the crook of his neck for more of his masculine, spicy scent. "It's been a year and a half..." Her fingers sneaked under the hem of his gray thermal shirt. The warmth of his skin went straight to her center. "And you still drive me crazy."

A muffled laugh as he stopped her caress of his belly. "Sorry, I can't cure you yet." Then he patted her bottom and headed towards his desk. "Something just came to me. If I figure it out, you'll hear it tomorrow."

~~~~~

The dressing room was quite small, maybe eight by eight feet. But Arthur didn't mind. It had everything he needed. Incandescent light from the corner floor lamp made the wall's brown paneling cozy instead of cheap. The metal table was sturdy, the mirror on it sufficient to make sure his hair was in place. If the worn, wooden chair had had arms, it would have been more comfortable. But he wasn't there to lounge, anyway. He was there to work.

Pogo's was still his favorite club to perform at. The people there knew him, were aware of his condition. Not having to constantly explain it was a relief. They seemed to like him better, too, now that he ordered more than tap water. True, he hadn't been able to get paying gigs (though he had been allowed to split the covers on a Tuesday or Thursday night now and then). If he kept refining his material, however, he was certain he'd get there.

Skepticism had been his first response to the call from the Smile Factory. Having not slept well for nearly a week, he'd suspected it was either his imaginings or an elaborate prank at his expense. He'd waved Y/N over and they'd listened to the phone together. Yes, she confirmed. They really had gotten his contact information from Pogo's. A manager had gone to open-mic night and recognized him from Murray Franklin. An amateur block was a couple weeks away, and they wanted him to open it. They liked his oddball factor. They'd even stick his name on the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk.

Arthur had accepted the invitation quickly. It had taken a few seconds for him to put the phone in its cradle. Then he laughed in excitement and held Y/N so tightly he nearly spun her around the kitchen. She'd been happy. But her need to protect him was clear in her posture. He'd tried to put a stop to that quickly. "I want this. People are noticing me. I can't wait for my big break forever."

"You're right," she'd said, nodding. He'd run the back of his fingers over her cheek, her pretty gaze glittering at him. "I can't wait to hear whatever you come up with."

Her words echoed as he read his notebook. Opening a show was new for him. He'd picked out what he thought were his best jokes. A mix of ones which had gotten rare guffaws from audiences, and ones Y/N said she loved. There were new quips, too. He'd done everything he could think of to prepare. But stage fright roamed as deep as his bones.

Nervousness happened prior to every performance. Arthur had habits to deal with it. He'd scribble in his journal, draw winding circles over and over, sometimes until his pen gave out. He'd worry its pages while re-reading his material. (His memorization had gotten better, but he still needed the book for support.) The breathing exercises, in through the nose, holding, then out through the mouth, relieved some of his laughter and his anxiety. Visualizing success was supposed to help. So, as he sat waiting, smoking and sipping seltzer, he attempted to see himself with his arms out and the crowd cheering.

The knock at the door gave him a slight startle, broke him out of his fantasy. He checked the wall clock. He was scheduled to go on in twenty minutes. The emcee likely wanted to check-in and ensure Arthur would be ready on time, let him know how packed the place was. Better to prevent any hitches. "Come in."

Not even his anxiousness could stop his toothy smile upon seeing Y/N enter the room. She didn't usually visit him backstage, not wanting to interrupt him. But he was happy she'd chosen to tonight. "Hey," he said, turning in his chair. "I tried to pick a good table for you." He appreciated her feminine silhouette, the contours of her breasts accentuated by her collared, lilac sweater. Curves shapely in the A-line, pleated skirt she wore, ending just below her knees. Her black kitten heels. She must have come straight from work.

After a pause she stepped forward. "Patricia's guarding our drinks." He averted his eyes, made a soft sound, and studied the back of her hand as he grasped it. She'd brought her friend to his sets once or twice. The first time he’d spotted them, he'd frozen for a split second. Would her faith in him, enough to invite someone along, always be staggering? It was one of the many kindnesses that confirmed how important he was to her, that filled him with gladness.

She kissed the spot between his brows. "I had to tell the emcee I was Mrs. Fleck before he'd say where their big star was."

Outside of his flights of fancy, he'd never truly thought of himself as a “big star.” Or a “big deal.” Or a big “stand-up.” But he’d hoped for all three, aspired to fulfill his purpose in life. To make people laugh, even on days he himself couldn't. And if Y/N said it, it must be true. At least tonight.

Yet, just when the corner of his lips quirked, his back tightened against unexpected pressure forming in his torso. This was an important night. Whoever walked past the club's sign could see Arthur Fleck would be performing. Sure, he was getting more at ease in the spotlight, cackling only sporadically instead of every time he got started. But he knew there was a chance he'd screw up. Maybe he'd never get to do another set. Maybe he wouldn't even be permitted to come in and make notes. Maybe they'd decide he wasn't funny.

He winced at the negative stream of thought. That wouldn't do any good, especially not now - he was about to make a debut. Scoffing, he took a drag off his cigarette, stamped it out in the ashtray on the metal table, and rested his cheek on the heel of his palm.

Y/N's gentle touch drifted to his shoulders and his eyelids shut. He let her guide him to rest against the back of the chair. "Let me unwind you," she purred. The tips of her nimble fingers kneaded him. The circular motions in the notches above his collarbones ached at first, but started to tingle as he felt his muscles loosen. "Did you figure out that new joke last night?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "I changed my opening." The press of her thumbs to either side of his spine released a knot he hadn't been aware of and he groaned. "'Hello. It's good to be here. Thank you for the invitation.'" His gaze caught hers in the mirror. Combined with her massage, her prettiness made it hard to recall what he'd written. "'When I was younger, I never wanted to go running. I was afraid I'd run out of money.'"

Shivers went through him at the glide of her hands on the nape of his neck. "That's a good start." She moved to stand in front of him and his legs fell open. "You're going to be great. But-" she bent to fasten their mouths together. "You still seem to have some jitters." Her palms smoothed down his chest and he twitched, huffing as she knelt before him. "I think I can help."

It took a moment for him to process what she was doing. He gulped, watching her crumple the bottom of his vest and untuck his shirt. As her fingertips went to his fly, he grabbed her wrist, stiffening and snorting awkwardly. "Y/N." He tried to straighten but was halted by damp kisses to his stomach. "They're going to come get me any minute. I-"

"This won't take long." Mischief twinkled in her eyes. "And I locked the door."

This was entirely inappropriate. He should be telling her to get off the floor. To stop groping at him. To save it for their bed, their sofa, wherever. They were in public; this was something private. Her volume would definitely give them away. But the slight pressure of her unzipping his pants and his growing erection made him squint and roll his pelvis forward. In seconds he was lifting his hips to help her lower his trousers and briefs to his calves.

Her look was eager as she gripped his hard-on, her pink tongue peeking out as she smiled at him. The first lick along his length, the first sweep over the dark red tip of his shaft drove him to clutch his seat. The warm, wet contact caused his breath to shudder. Her lips enclosed him wickedly, and he had to stifle a moan at the sight of her working him. Of her taking him in almost entirely. At the determined expression she had while she sought to bring him off.

Mouth falling open, he tilted his head back, the pace of his thrusts increasing. She was alternating between enthusiastic laving and ardent sucks on the head. It was a struggle to control himself, and he bucked up, digging his fingers into her scalp. She whined around him, gripped his thigh, ran her nails through the hair on it the way she knew sent electricity through him. The tightening of his abdomen increased with her every stroke. He was so close...

Then a pounding at the door. "Ten minute warning!"

"Shit," Arthur gasped. He grasped her arm to pull her up. She started to fall into him but caught herself on his shoulders and straddled his lap. Absorbed with the urgency to be inside her, he hurriedly lifted her skirt to pull her panties away. What he discovered caused him to blink at her in surprise instead. "Where's your underwear?"

With a grin, she steadied herself and reached to press him to her slick folds. "In my bra," she breathed, sinking onto him. When her hips were flush with his, his groan matched her whimper. "I knew they'd just be a nuisance." She raked her hands through his locks and kissed him, hard. "I've been horny all day." She ground herself on his public bone and inhaled sharply.

The embrace he returned was fierce, fingers splayed on her back. She adjusted the angle of her body, allowed him to enter her more deeply, until he was completely embedded. The hot, tight slide of her walls went straight to his brain. His eyes darted from where they were joined to her face.

Her brows were drawn together, cheeks pink, lips parted as her undulations quickened. The beauty she held when she lost herself like this could rival that on the cover of any check-out magazine. Grunting, he braced his feet on the floor for leverage and bucked up into her. As he brushed his thumb against her swollen clit, she let out a short wail. He squeezed her thigh, chuckling. "Shh..."

"Sorry," she whispered. She smiled, the cadence of her ruts quickening. "You just-" Another short moan. "You feel amazing."

He nuzzled at her temple. "Y/N..." Her mouth opened against his and his tongue plunged into it. There was a hint of the cocktail she must have ordered before visiting, as well as his own musk. Normally, he didn't find the latter pleasant. But he found her so seductive, riding him like she was, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The rising pitch of her whimpers betrayed how close she was to going over the edge. Faster and faster, he skimmed her sensitive nub, her limbs rigged and trembling. As her pulses began to clutch his cock, he angled their kiss to swallow her strangled cry. She clung to him, holding herself upright, fisting his waistcoat and shuddering.

Somehow, she kept moving.

He was trying to catch his breath, to concentrate on keeping quiet, knowing there were people just outside the door. But the delicious friction was overwhelming, the clench of her threatening to undo him immediately. She was egging him on, her voice husky in his ear and pleading, "Come on, Arthur." He pressed his lips to her neck to conceal his cries, pleasure scorching through him as he surged into her one last time. Her thrusts ceased only when he cupped the swell of her ass, locking her in place as he poured himself inside her.

Their coupling had left him a little muddleheaded, but he knew he didn't a lot of time to recover. His gaze raised to find her glowing, and he felt himself fall in love with her again. Her kiss was swift as she disentangled herself and shakily stood. There were tissues on the table - she wiped herself off with one and handed him another. With a giggle, she took a third and dabbed at the sheen of sweat on his brow.

Her examination of her skirt prompted him to go over his trousers. He was relieved nothing had gotten on them. Once she'd straightened his collar, combed his loose curls back behind his ears, she got out her simple pair of cotton panties and slipped them on. "I'll see you after the show," she whispered, pecking him sweetly.

He watched her retreating form in the mirror until she shut the door firmly behind her. Standing to tuck his shirt in, he laughed softly. They'd really ruined her ironing job. But, he considered as he smoothed the bottom of his vest, it had been worth it. Being with her was always worth it. With a happy sigh, he grabbed his journal, steeled himself with a couple deep breaths, and repeated his opening to himself one last time before leaving the room.

~~~~~

Y/N patted her face with the damp paper towel in the restroom. Her cheeks were unbearably warm, her hair a mess. Carefully, she sniffed at her sweater. Good. It smelled like perfume, not sex. How did Arthur, who had been remarkably timid when they'd first met, become the one person who could inspire her to be so brazen? Whatever the answer, she loved it. Once she freshened up, was satisfied no one would be able to tell what had transpired, she headed back to her seat.

The club was nice, a bit more modern than Pogo's. While the lighting was low, the color scheme was a mix of black, grey, and silver. Arthur's maroon suit would be a pop of color against the painted brick wall at the back of the stage. The place was smaller overall, the space for the audience about two-thirds of what Arthur was used to. It was fairly crowded, though, and the groups that were there seemed to be having a nice time.

Patricia's eyes held suspicion when Y/N finally sat down at the black table for two at the back. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was just wishing Arthur good luck." Y/N sipped at her Tequila Sunrise nonchalantly. It was the drink she always ordered at his shows. Her legs crossed under the table and she swung her foot back and forth.

"You were gone almost twenty minutes." Patricia nudged her arm. "How much luck did he need?"

"An abundance." Her friend's smirk was impossible to miss, even as Y/N focused on her cocktail glass. Patricia was onto her. Of course. "Sorry. I didn't mean to ditch you," she said. "I'll cover your tab." Patricia’s response was to grab the drink menu.

When the lights dimmed, Y/N straightened with anticipation. Arthur came out, notebook in hand, and gave a little wave. Standing in front of the mic, he surveyed the crowd, as always, and nodded at Y/N when he spotted her. She admired his wrinkled outfit, his mostly slicked back hair, the lingering blush on his sharp cheekbones. Everyone else in this room probably assumed his color was due to nerves. But she knew what it was a remnant of. Savoring the secret held between them, she pressed her legs together and smiled.

~~~~~

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[apriorisea]

Hi! Can i ask a bts soulmate imagine. Whereas you've seen each other in dreams but never met in person. But then when fate permits for you to meet each other you've seen them with other girl (ex. his celeb idol). Thank you very much.. I m a fan of your works.. xoxo

–Hello! I’m sorry this has taken so long! I really enjoyed writing this, and it definitely ended up a little longer than I originally intended 😅Thank you for your kind words, for the request, and for your patience!! I hope you enjoy! 💜💕

“I Found You”You x Namjoon

Your eyes snap open and it takes you a second to reorient yourself. It was him again. You desperately try to hold on to the details of the dream, trying to memorize his face, but losing it by the second. Frustrated, you reach over and turn on your lamp. 

   This was at least the 20th time you’d dreamed of him. Him, that stupidly handsome mysterious face that made your heart pound. You were 100% sure you had never seen him before—not in real life, anyway—but you were also 100% sure that every time you saw him in your dreams, your heart leapt with happiness, like it recognized him even if you didn’t. You never spoke to him, never interacted with him, but he was always there, a comforting, unfamiliar presence you couldn’t figure out.    The most frustrating thing was how you could never remember him once you were outside the dream; his face, which was so perfectly familiar to you while asleep, escaped you completely once you woke up. The only thing you were certain of were his eyes: dark, dark brown (almost black) and kind and warm. Those stuck with you, even if every other detail about him faded.    Sighing, you turn to look at the clock on your nightstand: 2:04am. Oh, well, you think. At least after I fall back asleep, I’ll probably have a chance to see him again… Most of the time, the dreams came in pairs; if there was still night leftover after you woke, you’d eventually be dropped back into the dream world where he existed. You get up to use the bathroom and by the time you climb back in bed, you’re already tired enough to fall asleep again. “This time,” you whisper out loud to yourself, “I’m going to talk to him.”

It’s not the first thing you dream after falling back asleep, but, as your childhood backyard melts away, you see the familiar surroundings of The Dream World start to take shape. A city, full of bright lights and energy; a dark, cool night; a fast-moving river. You hold you breath and wait.    There. Just a few feet from you, he appears. He’s dressed the same as always: a long, dark, padded coat, a black, thick-knit beanie, jeans, high-end tennis shoes. Your heart thuds: there you are.    You’re both standing on a bridge, looking out across the dark water that reflects the city’s light. He turns to smile at you and you brace yourself: this is where it ends.    But this time….it doesn’t. It takes you a full second to respond, smiling back uncertainly. Talk to him, talk to him, talk to him.    “Hi.” In your anxiety, your greeting comes out too loud, too awkward. Clearing your throat, you feel yourself blush. “Um, sorry. Hey.”    His eyes widen and he turns to face you completely. “Hi,” he says, and there’s too much force behind his words, too.    There’s a fuzzy siren going off in your mind, like your awake-brain is trying to remind your asleep-brain about something. You brush it off, too happy to be where you are. “It’s…it’s beautiful out here.”    He nods, but there’s clearly something else on his mind. “I…do we know each other?”    “No,” you say, while your heart screams YES. “I don’t think so.”    “Yeah…” He reaches up to fix the edge of his beanie, and you notice that the long-ish hair poking out from under the hat is carefully-bleached blonde. “I didn’t think so either.” He smiles again. “But you’re so familiar…”     You smile and edge a little closer. “That’s what I was just thinking,” you say with a small laugh. You reach out a hand to introduce yourself. “I’m—”    But before you can give him your name, he takes your hand in his and every part of your brain malfunctions. He clearly feels it too, the way your hands seemed to be meant for each other, the way the energy is traveling up and down your entire body, how comfortable and content you feel now that his hand is holding yours. Without hesitating, he changes the grip, intertwining his fingers with yours, incidentally pulling you a little closer.    Looking down at your conjoined hands, he exhales softly. “Wow.”    You can’t even respond. You know you should be embarrassed by this sudden, too-familiar contact, but all you can feel is peace.    Slowly, as though acting out of some sort of compulsive instinct, he reaches out and takes your other hand in his; another shock of energy, another feeling of right. His smile gets bigger, and he tugs you even closer to him. “Hi,” he says again, this time softer, calmer, sweeter.    “Hey,” you answer, looking up into his face with a smile. “I don’t know what’s happening,” you add quietly, “But whatever it is, I like it.”    He laughs and squeezes your hands. “I will agree with that.” His eyes are wandering over your face, as though trying to commit every detail to memory. “This is—”    You’re torn from your dream by the sound of your alarm. You sit up in a panic. “No.” You immediately try to recall the details of his face, the way his smile had looked—but it fades too fast and all you’re left with is the memory of his dark eyes and the strands of bleached-blonde hair.    Bleached. Blonde. Hair. You freeze. Am I remembering this correctly?? Do I remember his hair color??? But as soon as you ask yourself the question, you know the answer. Dark eyes, bleached-blonde hair styled in a short mullet. And his face—    You give up. No matter how hard you try, you’re not granted more memory. All the same, you wonder why exactly your hands feel so cold and empty.

——— 

Some nights, the dream doesn’t come. You’re not sure what makes the difference; it doesn’t seem to matter what time you go to bed, how tired you are, how early you wake up, what you eat for dinner. Sometimes, it just doesn’t appear. He doesn’t appear. No matter how hard you try to hold onto the memories, you lose more of his details as the days go by—though you never really forget. Each night you fall asleep wondering if tonight would be the night.    Until finally, it is.    As the lights twinkle into existence, you turn immediately to look at him—and feel your heart race when you find him doing the same. Wordlessly, you move together and he has your hands in his before either of you can find the words. As soon as your fingers are interlocked, you feel your anxiety melt away. “Hi again,” you say, unable to keep a smile off your face.    “Hello,” he answers, and his voice is full of unmistakable relief.    “It’s been a while.”    “Too long,” he corrects quickly. Smiling shyly, he squeezes your hands, his eyes never leaving your face.     You smile back. “I will agree with that.”    There’s a sudden gust of wind and a section of your hair is blown across your face. You laugh but are completely unwilling to drop his hand so you can fix it, so it’s a surprise when you feel him disentangle his fingers from yours.    Before you can react, he reaches up and gently brushes the hair back from your face, tucking a strand behind your ear.    Your heart is pounding again, another burst of electricity and contentment racing through you at this touch.    He obviously feels it, too. His smile growing softer and fonder, he repeats the motion, even though your hair has been contained at this point. When he stops, he lets his fingers brush the side of your face.    You don’t look away from him the whole time and when he finally meets your eyes again, you smile a little wider at his embarrassment.    “I’m sorry, I just…” he shakes his head a little. “I have a hard time remembering.”    This startles you. “You…what?” It’s the first time you’ve done anything except smile and your sudden change draws him in.    He reaches to take back your hand, concern crossing his face. “What’s wrong?”    “You….What did you say?”    Still trying to understand you, he ducks his head a little to look into your eyes more carefully. “I said…I have a hard time remembering. I know your smile perfectly, but other things…” He inadvertently pulls you a little closer. “And I never know how long we’ll have.”    “You don’t—”    You wake up suddenly, feeling the happiness leak away, happiness your rational mind didn’t understand yet. You fumble as you reach for your phone, unlocking the screen and checking the time: 6:40. Five minutes before your alarm would ring.    “Hard time remembering.” The words hit you out of nowhere and you slowly realize why your heart is still pounding. “He has…he has a hard time remembering,” you say it again and again, hoping that this will keep the memory of the dream with you a little longer. “He can’t remember what I look like. Just like I can’t remember him. Which means—” You feel your mouth fall open, and you sit up. “He’s real.”   This whole time, you had been assuming that he was a dream figure—just something your mind had made up and decided to stick with, a character in a dream that was tailored to your exact preferences. Never in a million years had you even thought he could be real. But now…    Stop. You try to put the brakes on your racing thoughts. There are other options. You knew the power of your mind, how good you were at day-dreaming—why would night-dreaming be any different? Was it really so outrageous to think that you had created your own mini-drama while you were sleeping? It doesn’t mean he’s actually REAL real.    “Except…” you continue your internal argument out loud. “Why would he also say it’s been a long time? Why would he tell me specifically that he knew my smile, but couldn’t remember other things?” Your alarm goes off suddenly, startling you out of your one-sided conversation.    My alarm…. “What if…” you stare down at your phone. “What if he is actually real, and it was his alarm that woke us up, not mine?”    Stop being crazy, your rational side warned. It’s just a dream. He’s just a dream.    But you couldn’t accept that. “He’s real,” you insist, vaguely aware that you were, indeed, currently acting crazy. “He has to be real.”    Okay then: what does he look like? What’s his name? How tall is he? What was he wearing? If he’s “real,” shouldn’t you know these things?    You remember his eyes, dark and perfect and kind. You can see his hair in your mind’s eye, the longer pieces sticking out from under a hat. And his face—    Groaning in frustration, you realize that there’s nothing left: you can’t remember anything else. You glance at the time again and wish that you could fall back asleep; who knows when you’d connect in dreams again?    But if he’s awake now, it wouldn’t matter. Feeling a bitter sense of loss and disappointment, you get out of bed and get ready for the day. You weren’t sure how you were going to get anything done today. Not when he exists. Not when he’s real.

———

But it’s days before you have the dream again. His comment and the question of his “realness” plague you, a thought in the back of your mind that you can’t get rid of, no matter how hard you try. What’s worse is that you can’t move forward with it either. No matter how many times you sit down to think or meditate, hoping the answer will come to you, it never does.    So this time, as the sound of the river fills your ears, you close the gap between the two of you almost before he has a chance to notice you. “Are you real?” you demand, looking up into his face as your hands automatically find his.    His brow wrinkles in consternation. “What?”    “Are you a real person?” you ask again. “You told me last time that you couldn’t remember me—when you wake up, right? That’s what you meant? You can’t remember me when you wake up. Which means that you’re not just a figment of my imagination, but a real person who also has dreams and wakes up and everything.” You can’t quite decipher his expression. “Right??”   He nods slowly, his eyes still on your face even though you can tell his brain is whirling along, distracting him. “Yes, I’m…I’m “real.” But then…you are, too? So….we’re two people who are actually meeting in dreams?”    Your heart is doing joyful cartwheels in your chest. He’s real, he’s real, he’s real.    “Then…” A smile starts to spread across his face, and he drops your hands suddenly. You’re disappointed for only a second; moving gingerly, he reaches up to cradle your face gently. Brushing his thumbs over your cheeks, the smile grows even bigger. “Then I was right. You’re my sou—” He pauses suddenly and you can see the blush creep up his neck. The embarrassment moves in and he starts to release you.    Desperate to not let that happen, you finish for him: “Soulmate?”    His eyes wander back to yours and he nods slowly.    Soulmate. You’d never really believed in soulmates, but now, standing here, feeling the perfect sense of “rightness” and complete happiness, you couldn’t think of a better word to describe it.    “I mean…why else…” he clears his throat and lets his hands slip from your face, holding onto your shoulders to keep you close. “Why else would we meet like this? In dreams?”    You bring your hands up to hold onto his elbows, feeling another surge of relief at the contact. “Do you think that can really happen?” you ask, too afraid to trust the idea completely.    He shrugs. “Sure. I mean, we’re here, aren’t we?”    “But….but soulmates? It just….It’s too perfect,” you try to explain. “You’re too perfect.”    He grins. Reaching out with one hand to smooth your hair behind your ear again, he says, “That’s how I feel about you.” He gets distracted by the action, his gaze drifting. “Too perfect.”    “That’s why I’m not sure,” you admit quietly, waiting until he met your eyes again. “Because it seems too good to be true.”    An idea lights up his eyes and he takes both of your hands again. Guiding you towards one of the benches that you hadn’t ever noticed until now, he sits down and pulls you down next to him. “Well, let’s test it out.”    “How?” You’re still holding tight to one of his hands.    He smiles. “In your…your “real life,” are you….do you have a boyfriend? A fiance? A husband?”    You laugh; even the idea of another man seems so out of place when the one you want, the only perfect one, is sitting right in front of you. “Definitely not.” you study him. “How about you?”     “No,” he answers seriously. “So, see? That’s one barrier down.”    You smile gamely. “Okay. What else?”    For the next several minutes, you ask each other questions, each of you slightly rushed with the knowledge that, at any moment, you could be ripped away from this dream existence. You discover your ages are similar, you live in the same country, you’re both exactly the height you appear to be in the dream. You learn that he doesn’t have a driver’s license, but loves to ride his bike by the river. You tell him how you don’t like chocolate—except for one, specific brand of candy bar. Your conversation drifts from serious questions to a simple conversation: the two of you getting to know each other. He holds your hand the whole time, and you could swear you’d never been happier.    “Okay,” you say after a second of silence. “Here’s the real question. If we’re both real, if we’re soulmates, then…we should find each other in real life, right?”    “Of course.”    You can’t help but smile at his certainty. “Okay. So….what’s your name?”    He squeezes your hand and reaches out to brush your hair back again. “Good idea. My name is—”    This time, when your alarm pulls you from sleep, you want to cry.

——— 

Blessedly, only a day passes before you’re brought back into The Dream World.    As soon as the city lights wink into existence, he shouts something at you.    Moving towards him, you frown. “What?”    “My name,” he says, closing the distance and repeating it. “That’s my name.”    You say it over and over again in your mind, willing yourself to commit it to memory. It doesn’t sound familiar—not to your brain, anyway: your heart seems to know it perfectly. Once you’re sure you have it memorized, you tell him your name. Slowly, carefully, several times, and you can see him going through the same process of memorization.    When he’s finished, he smiles and carefully takes your hands in his. “I’m glad we didn’t have to wait so long this time.”    “Me, too.” You’re filled with excitement. “But now that I know your name, I can find you in real life.”    He’s smiling. “Then we won’t have to wait for chance.” He guides you back to the bench, but this time when you sit, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side against the chilly wind. “Have you figured out what triggers these meetings?”    You shake your head, then tip it over to rest against him, smiling when he hugs you even closer. “No. I’ve tried a bunch of things, but…I can’t figure it out. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do.”    “Same,” he agrees. “Maybe…maybe we have to be asleep at the same time?”    “…But we live in the same country?” you say. “Shouldn’t we always basically be asleep at the same time?”    He reaches for your hand with his free one. “Theoretically, yes. But I travel a lot. So we’re not always in the same country.”    “Oh.” You watch him play absently with your fingers. “You’re international, huh?”    He laughs but doesn’t answer, content with having you near.    But there’s a fear growing in the pit of your stomach, a fear you wouldn’t usually voice, but it was him, your him, and you could tell him anything—wasn’t that what soulmates were for?—so it comes rushing out: “What if….what if we meet in real life and you don’t like me?”    “What?” he sounds shocked, and he pulls away from you a little so he can look down into your face. “What do you mean??”    “I mean…I’m not that international,” you fumble through your words, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m much more…plain. What if we meet in real life and you don’t—”    “There’s nothing plain about you.” His words are certain, sure, unmovable.    You laugh sadly. “You say that now, but in real life…”    “In real life, you’re still my soulmate,” he insists, but he can tell you’re still uneasy. Exhaling your name in frustration, he says, “Listen, you have to believe me: there is nothing about you I don’t like. Either here or in real life. You are beautiful and perfect and meant for my soul. I don’t care how “international” you are—you are the only one I want. …Isn’t that how you feel about me?”    His last words, softer and vulnerable, bring your gaze back to his face, and once you meet his eyes, you can’t look away. “Of course.”    Smiling gently, he reaches out to cup the side of your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Then don’t worry, love,” he says softly, leaning towards you. “We have each other now.”    Your heart is racing, but as he gets closer, you feel a sense of dread: there’s no way you won’t be ripped away from this dream world before he can kiss you. The dreams were cruel like that. Even so, as he gets closer, you let your eyes close, trying not to hope too much so it wouldn’t hurt too much when you woke up.    And then you feel his lips on yours, soft and careful, but sure. Every part of you melts at his touch, and all you can see behind your eyelids are fireworks and shooting stars and every other cliche thing.    He pulls away carefully, the first kiss between you left soft and sweet and perfect—even if it’s not technically real. When you open your eyes, you find him smiling at you. “I can’t wait to do that in real life,” he admits.    “Me, too,” you say breathlessly. Feeling a sudden pang of anxiety, you repeat his name out loud. At his expression, you explain, “I don’t want to forget.”    He smiles. “I’ll find you,” he promises. “The next time we meet, it will be in real life.”     You nod.    And wake up to the sound of your alarm.    You can still feel his lips on yours, as if it had been real, so you’re not that upset at your alarm for bringing you out of the Dream World. It can be real, your mind sings. It will all be real. Just as soon as you find him.    “And I can find him,” you say to yourself out loud. “Because I know his name!”    You reach for your phone, opening the notes app so you can write it down, so you can be sure.    “International.”    It’s the only word that comes to mind. You shake yourself and think harder, reaching for that name. You KNEW it, you had memorized it, perfected it, written it on your heart.    But no matter how hard you tried, it wouldn’t come. His name was lost, like the details of his face and clothes and job and age.

You try for 3 days, getting absolutely nothing done. You can’t eat—and when it turns out that you aren’t able to return to Dream World, you give up on sleeping. Every moment is spent trying to remember his name, trying to remember ANY small detail that will help you. Every time you fail, a seed of despair and suspicion grows in your stomach.     6 days pass and you realize that he must be suffering the same amnesia, or else he would’ve found you.    Or he came to his senses and doesn’t want you anymore… your mind whispers and you feel sick.    You try every memory trick and hack you can find on the internet, but still, his name remains unknown. The devastation eats you whole.

——

   It takes a full week before you’re reunited. As soon as the world melts into existence, you run to him, nearly tripping over your own feet in your hurry. He’s waiting: as soon as you reach him, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close against him as tightly as possibly. You can feel his lips pressed against the top of your head.     “I couldn’t remember,” you say brokenly. “I tried so hard, but I just…I couldn’t remember.”    “It’s okay,” he reassures, hugging you closer. “It’s okay.”    After a long time, you pull back a little so you can look up into his face. “I don’t know why I couldn’t remember.”    He exhales heavily, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I couldn’t remember either,” he admits. Looking into your eyes, he adds, “Or else I would have found you.”    Your heart gets all squishy-happy at this; not just the promise, but the way it proves he had remembered something about your worries and wanted to make sure to alleviate them. “We’ll have to try harder tonight.”   “What about a mnemonic?” he suggests, agreeing with you immediately.    You nod. “That could work.”    “Good. So my name is—”    You say his name before he does and the squishy-happy turns to squishy-sick. “I…I remember your name. Perfectly.” You look up at him. “Why can I remember it perfectly now?” Suspicion is building in the back of your mind, trying to alert you to something you don’t want to hear.      From the look on his face, you can tell he’s experiencing the same thing, but he brushes it aside quickly, more keen to get to the task at hand before it ends again. “It’ll work this time,” he insists, “This will work. So, a mnemonic for my name could be Nobody Asked My—”    It’s 4am when you wake up. You try your hardest to fall back to sleep immediately, but it’s no use; even when you do manage to dream again, it’s not of him.     In a cruel twist, you’re taken to the Dream World the next 4 nights. The two of you spend all of your time together coming up with ways to remember: on night 3, you both actually write each other’s names on your hands, hoping that it would translate to the real world. It doesn’t. No matter what you try, one thing seems certain: neither of you are allowed to keep the name once you wake up.     So on night 5, you’re already in tears before the Dream World had even materialized all the way. “It’s never going to work,” you sob into his chest. “Something won’t let it be. It’s never…” You can even finish.     He holds you as you cry, trying to comfort you even though you can tell he’s upset, too. “Shh,” he says uselessly, kissing the side of your head. “Don’t cry, love, it’s okay.”    “Apparently fate doesn’t want us to meet in real life!” You’re inconsolable. “Why would it keep bringing us back here, why would it even allow us to meet here, if we’re going to be kept apart like this?? What’s the point??”    “I don’t know.”    Hearing something different in his voice, you pull back to look up at him and are startled to see how shiny his eyes are. “Oh…” You reach up to touch his face softly with one hand, but seeing him just as disheartened as you feel breaks something inside you. You swallow. “What…what do we do?”    He looks lost. “I…I don’t know.”    A sob crawls back up your throat and you collapse against him again.     “We’ve tried everything,” he says, still holding you fast, even though his voice is layered with despair. “Everything I can think of. I can remember other things about you, now—but never your name. Why can’t I remember your name??”    You shake your head, still too upset to answer.    “It’s killing me,” he admits in a smaller voice, and his hold on you tightens. “I don’t….I don’t understand.”    “It’s not fair,” you say bitterly, stepping back suddenly, too angry to feel his perfect comfort right now.  “It’s not right. It–it shouldn’t be like this!”    He watches you, his eyes sad, his posture slumped. “It shouldn’t be,” he agrees.    “So….what do we do??”    “Baby….I don’t know.”    For hours after you wake up, you still can’t remember his name—but you can hear his final words, screaming defeat, echoing around your head perfectly.

——

It never really goes away, the dull ache in your chest that comes from missing him, from knowing that while he might be real, he will never be real for you. You struggle through the next few days, managing to quiet the roar while at work and around other people, but in the evenings, just before bed, you’re consumed with your anguish.     You cry yourself to sleep the next two nights in a row, but on the third night, you’re too exhausted, so you simply lie in bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling until sleep finally takes you.    The Dream World twinkles into existence around you, but before you can think of what to say to him, you feel him next to you. Moving certainly, he cradles your face in his hands and holds you in place tenderly as he leans down to kiss you. It’s a long kiss this time, full of more intensity than the last, but once again it leaves you breathless and smiling.     “I don’t care,” he murmurs as soon as he pulls back.     “What?”    “I decided it doesn’t matter,” he explains, kissing your lips quickly one more time. “Fate, destiny—whatever is keeping us apart right now, it doesn’t matter. You are my soulmate and nothing can change that. We’ll just keep being soulmates here until we can find each other out there.” He strokes your cheek with his thumb.     You release an unsteady breath. “I…”    “Remember the first time we spoke?” he cuts across you intently. “We’d seen each other how many times before then? 10? 20? And yet neither of us could remember more than one detail. But now—” His eyes dart around your face. “Now I can remember so much more. Not everything, but more. So all we have to do is hold on just a little longer. Just until we’re finally able to remember even more.”    A wild hope is building in your chest, most of your sadness melting away at his touch and reassurance. “You…you think so?”    “Yes.” Dropping his hands to wrap around your waist, he leans down to press his forehead against yours. “I’m never going to give up,” he promises. “Never. No matter what. I’m going to keep trying and one day, it’s going to work.”    Just as you’re starting to agree, you remember the last week you had suffered through. Sighing his name softly, you close your eyes tight. “I don’t know. Even if we are remembering other things, with how hard we’ve tried, shouldn’t we remember even a tiny bit about each other’s names? And yet, still, nothing. Maybe names are different. Maybe we are allowed to keep certain things, but not names. Maybe—”    “Please just hold on.”    Your eyes open at his request.    He straightens, looking down into your eyes and pulling you close against him. “Can you do that, love? Just hang on a little longer. We can do this. I will find you. I promise. But I need you to hold on.”    Feeling tears pool in your eyes, you feel yourself nod. “Yes. I can do that.”    He exhales in relief. “I’m going to find you,” he says again, then leans down to kiss you one more time as the dream fades away to another morning without him.

——

Over the next week and a half, you meet 4 more times. The first 3 he’s still hopeful, still intense, still promising. On the fourth night, he still promises—but there’s a deep weariness in him now, too. The hope is starting to fade, and when you wake up that morning, you genuinely wonder if either of you can hang on much longer.      And just like that, it happens. Without rhyme or reason, you are suddenly unable to reach the Dream World. When several days go by in a row without seeing him, you panic. Terrified, you do anything you can think of to try to get back, but each night it’s the same: he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do about it. When 8 days pass and still nothing, you call in sick to work because you can’t stop crying. At 10 days, you feel yourself grow numb. Maybe this is better, you rationalize. If we were never going to meet in real life, why keep torturing ourselves in dreams? At 13 days, you start to revert back to your first theory: He was never real. On day 15, you accept your friend’s invitation to go out, and while you’re at dinner, you try to remind yourself that this is real; it doesn’t make you feel any better.     Day 21 is cold and cloudy and windy as you make your way to the International Airport with your friend. You’d promised to have lunch with her before she left for a two-week vacation, since you’d declined her offer to go along on the trip. The place is busier than usual—surprisingly busy—but the two of you manage to find space at one of the small food chains in the terminal and enjoy a simple meal before she hurries off to go through security.     Once she’s gone, you make your way back to the big lobby; it is packed with people and at first, you can’t understand why. Then you see it: a small platform is at the center of the crowd, surrounded by photographers and cameras and fans carrying banners.     Perfect, you think sarcastically. No wonder this place is a nightmare today. Some idol is probably on their way out of the country.     Despite your snarky side, as you pass by the crowd you can’t help but trying to get a glimpse of the idol in question. Stepping around an overly-excited fanboy, you see the name on his banner and hesitate: Kim Namjoon. So it’s not just any idol. It’s one of the biggest stars on the planet. No wonder there are so many people.     Curiosity getting the better of you, you stop and turn to look at the platform stage, wondering if the man himself was actually going to be there. It happens to be perfect timing, because just as you look, the crowd’s shouts get louder, and a set of bodyguards appear on stage just before—    Him.     You’re frozen in place and though the fans are going crazy, the only thing you can hear is your heart pounding in your chest. Standing up on the stage, allowing himself to be introduced as Kim Namjoon, is him. Your him. Your soulmate. As soon as you see his face, every single memory of your dreams comes racing back. It’s him, of course it is. You’d recognize him anywhere. He’s real, he’s real, he’s real! your heart sings.    He’s real.    He’s really there in front of you.    He’s….an idol.     You were right, the cruel part of your mind whispers. You’re far too plain for this, for him. You, with an idol?? A celebrity? You’re joking, right? He would never want you.     You feel the ice in your stomach and suddenly want to throw up. Your fears had been true; he was too international for you, too out of reach. Maybe, you think, he did remember my name, but realized I was a nobody and decided to give up?…    I will find you.   Without warning, his voice fills your mind.   I’m never going to give up.    The small hopeful part of you speaks up: He promised.    “I promised, too,” you whisper out loud. No matter how intimidated you were, you couldn’t turn away, not when he was right there in front of you. You had to try.    Steeling yourself, you take a small breath and lean up on your tippytoes, prepared to do anything to make eye contact, but at that exact moment, the crowd grows louder as someone else appears on stage.    A beautiful female idol walks out to where Namjoon is standing, her hair and smile and eyes perfect, and the two pose for pictures.    “Ugh, look at how gorgeous they are!” The girl next to you groans. “Of course they’re dating! They look so perfect together.”    “Yup,” her friend says immediately. “They are obviously dating. The rumor’s been going around for ages!”    The tears prickle in your eyes and you slowly shrink back to your normal height. Watching him smile and pose with the woman, you have a hard time disagreeing with the diehard fans: they do look perfect together.     Maybe, both parts of your mind whisper, The dreams stopped because he moved on.     You can feel your heart shatter. It’s too late. You found him too late.     Even though you want to run away, to hide somewhere and cry for days, you can’t move. It’s like you’re stuck, watching your worst nightmare play out in front of you. The perfect dream had become a perfect nightmare and you couldn’t move.     The posing ends and the two step back just a little as another man takes center stage; he starts talking about something, but you can’t hear. You don’t want to hear. It doesn’t matter. Even when the female idol disappears again, you can’t force yourself to move.   It’s time to go, your mind says pityingly. This is enough for today.     One tear slipping down your face, you realize it’s right. It was enough. Taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself to look at him one last time, to say goodbye—just the thought makes you want to throw up. You take one more deep breath and then force yourself to look up.   It’s like all the wind had been knocked from you, because as soon as you lift your head, you meet his eyes. He’s staring right at you, his expression unreadable. You try to breathe, but can’t.     And then he smiles. It spreads slowly across his face, perfect and relieved, and you suddenly can’t move. Without breaking eye contact with you, he calls one of his managers over and gestures in your direction, then proceeds to hold your eyes with his until you feel someone’s hand on your arm.    Completely dazed, you let the man lead you away to a secluded room in the airport. The first thing you see is the female idol—locked in a serious make-out session with another man. They break apart momentarily when you enter, definitely confused about why you’re there. After an awkward moment of silence, she takes the man’s hand and says, “Come on, babe, let’s go somewhere else…”    She’s…she’s not his. Your stumble around this thought. Then that means—   The door opens behind you and before you can turn to look, you feel someone’s hand in your own and the electricity is surging up your arm, warming your entire body.     “I found you.” Namjoon pulls you closer to him, his smile still wide even though his eyes are slightly teary. “I promised you I would.” Without wasting another second, he cradles your face in his hands and leans down to press his lips against yours.    It’s a very long time before you break apart, but when you finally do, he wraps his arms around you and rests his forehead against yours. The two of you stand like that in silence, reveling in being able to hold and see each other again. You’re so happy, you can’t breathe.    “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush your tears away. “Oh, love, don’t cry now! I’m here. We’re here together. I found you.”    Laughing a little, you nod. “You’re here,” you repeat, unable to stop the smile from spreading across your face, and you lean up to kiss him. When you pull back, the look of perfect happiness on his face makes your heart go all squishy again. “Although,” you add after a moment. “I’m pretty sure I found you…”

[hoodoo12]

Beetlejuice Squared (2/5)

Mature. Brightman!Juice/f!reader/Blum!juice. Smoking, anger, possessiveness, propositions. Part 1

“What the fuck?!” the Beetlejuice you were leaning against exclaimed, sitting up abruptly, half-dislodging you from his side.

You fumbled the joint so you didn’t drop it as you were jostled. “Hey! Watch it, Beej!”

The new Beetlejuice threw his gaze around the room with narrowed eyes and dramatically waved his hand in front of his face. “Jesus christ,” he coughed. “What’s with all the weed?”

His eyes landed on you. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi!” you replied. 

Whatever was happening, Beetlejuice’s dope smoothed out all the edges. You pushed yourself off the specter you were leaning on, shoved the still lit joint back into his hand, ignored his protest and his other hand that tried to keep a grip on your shirt, and got off the couch. You took a step towards the newcomer. “Who’re you?”

“I’m the ghost with the most, babydoll,” he replied. It was such a cliché you rolled your eyes, but you also couldn’t help but smile. 

This was Beetlejuice, but not quite Beetlejuice. Although dressed in the striped suit you’d come to expect and with the same swept up rat’s nest of hair and scruff on his face, he was taller--much taller!--than the Beetlejuice you’d spent the evening with so far. Made bold by the smoke you had partaken in, you looked him over thoroughly, taking his hand (and finding his nails were solid black); straining on unsteady tip-toes to peer into his face (discovering his eyes were darker amber than the other Beetlejuice’s and his teeth were slightly less sharp). 

He seemed as curious about you as you did him, and permitted the inspection with an air of amusement. You kept a hand on him, dragging your fingers lightly over him as you walked in a circle to look at his back. He watched you the entire time with a slight smile on his face, his head rotating completely around to keep track of you.

When you were where you started in front of him again, you left your hand on his chest and said, “Beej--”

“What?” they both answered together. 

The new arrival didn’t have the same voice. It was less gravely. Less rough. You liked it. You stared up into his eyes and didn’t turn back to the Beetlejuice on the couch as you continued.

“--is this one of your clones?”

The reaction to the question was immediate, from both of them. Once again they spoke at the same time, over one another. “The fuck, babe?” the Beetlejuice on the couch spit. “How could you even think that guy was my clones--” “A clone?” the Beetlejuice in front of you said, offended. “You’ve got your hand on me, do I feel  like a fucking clone--”

They both finished at the same time, “--that’s fucking ridiculous!”

The combination of a bottom-of-the-lungs rasp and a smooth voice merging together gave you a shiver. 

“No,” you ceded, still looking up at the specter you were next to, “I guess you’re not a clone.”

The new Beetlejuice gave you a wider smile and reached forward to take your waist. His voice dropped a little, like he was talking only loud enough for you to hear. “That’s right, babydoll. Thanks for the invite. So tell me, what’s your pleasure?”

There was a literal growl from Beetlejuice on the couch, and in the next instant, you were yanked away from the other, wrapped up in a tight, protective hug from behind. From over your shoulder, Beetlejuice hissed, 

“Back off, asshole!”

The new Beetlejuice held his hands up a moment. “Hey, dick. She called me. Breathers don’t do that unless they want something, and from the state of things here, I think I can guess what that might be.”

Beetlejuice held you against his bare chest tightly and another warning growl slipped past your ear.

Taller Beetlejuice looked over the two of you. “Babydoll, you called my name three times and here I am. For you. What can I do for you? Probably more than he can . . .”

“Hey--” you objected in Beetlejuice’s defense, and the other snorted a laugh. 

“He’s gotta use the Netherworld’s primo weed to get you going? That doesn’t seem like a demon who can make things happen without a little outside assistance.”

You felt a little surge of protection for the Beetlejuice you knew best. “The weed was later, after we’d made out. I don’t need it to get hot and bothered, it’s just a bonus.”

The Beetlejuice holding you chuckled. He spun you, unprotesting, on your heel, to face him.

“That’s sweet, babe,” he told you, and lifted the joint held between his first two fingers to his mouth again. 

He took a drag and held it in, then tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows at you. Reading his intention, you tilted your head too. With your hands flat on his chest, you stretched towards him until your parted lips were only millimeters away. Beetlejuice breathed a column of smoke directly into your mouth.

You got most of it too, before you smiled and tendrils of the thick smoke escaped. You held it in for a long moment, practically feeling the smoke permeate through your lungs, letting it settle heavily throughout your body all the way down to your fingertips and toes. Finally you let the remainder of it out, smiling languidly at Beetlejuice. Shotgun smoking with him always made you feel warm and mellow. Maybe the smoke picked up something in his lungs that transfered to you? You didn’t know, but it made you feel good. 

Your smile was slow and there was a tingle in your extremities and in your groin. You didn’t step away, and pressed a sloppy kiss to his lower lip. Beetlejuice caught you around the waist with one arm as he raised the joint and brought it to his mouth again. You caught him staring directly at the other specter with a smug air and open challenge on his face.

Taller Beetlejuice scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Still doesn’t change the fact she called me.” 

“She called me first, asshole!” Beetlejuice said with his arm still around you.

“And then she obviously decided to call someone better!”

The affects of the weed kept you slowed down for a moment, so you didn’t object when Beetlejuice released you and took a step between you and the second Beetlejuice you’d managed to summon into your living room. Still, you said, “Hey. Beej? Beejes? Beeji? Bees?” Trying to determine the plural of the word struck you as funny, and you cut yourself off with giggling. 

“It was a fucking mistake. You’re a fucking second string, honorary mention, cheap knock-off of me--”

“Someone’s got their panties in a twist. Feeling threatened ‘cause you know she’d choose me over you? Chicks like tall guys,” the newer arrival stated dismissively before he addressed you again. “Come on, babydoll, you wanna have some fun with someone who doesn’t need chemical enhancement to show you a good time?”

Beetlejuice responded to that with a snarl, while the other turned back on him with a comment on how he probably couldn’t even get it up at this point.

It slowly dawned in your fuzzy brain that there were two Beetlejuices slowly circling each other like two alpha predators looking for an opportunity to attack. Both of them had red shot through their hair, and there was a faint crackling in the air, like right before a lightening strike. 

That cleared your head pretty quickly. The last thing you needed was your house torn apart in some spectral, demonic, dick-measuring contest. Especially when all you’d really wanted to do tonight was get laid.

“Hey,” you said.

They ignored you, focused so tightly on each other.

You cleared your throat and tried again, more loudly. “Hey! Beetlejuice! Bhetlejuz!”

Their full names caught their attention. They both turned to you.

“I called you both here,” you exclaimed boldly, “so that means I get to choose what I want!”

Both Beetlejuices turned to you with dangerously dark expressions, staring at you from beneath their brows, like they both suddenly remembered you were in the room, standing before them scantily clad and looking like prey. 

You pushed on. “So I choose both of you. Either you’re in, or you’re out. I’m happy to send either of you away if you can’t play nicely.”

It was a gamble; calling Beetlejuice up gave him power and you truly didn’t have much control over him. Still, you sweetened the deal by casually drawing a hand down your own side and subtly cupping your own breast before letting your hand fall to the hem of your shirt. Coyly, you lifted it a few inches as you cocked a hip.

They both looked much less dangerous with their jaws loosened. tbc . . . 

[grimweaver]

                                                             ~*~

            Lucien and I were met first with a washover of festive sounds in the streets, muffled no longer once the heavy doors of the smith shop groaned outward; a few common percussion and wind instruments playing along with loud, happy-drunk singing, laughing, and cheering. As it had at roughly the same time the previous nights, the air was beginning to thicken with a mostly pleasant mix of the usual scents; smoke billowing from grills and clay ovens, charred and baked goods, perfumes, and hard-partying bodies.

            Immediately in front of us was a little more than a dozen laborers that were sent out for us, and standing out amid them was a stout figure— a bosmer with slicked back brown hair, wearing a brown cotton vest over a white peasant shirt that was tucked into dark brown capris, and a pair of doeskin shoes. He gave himself away when he bounced up and down as he pointed at us, shouting:  “LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!”  It was Dorandil, assuming the role that he had already been playing since the start of it all, except under a different name: Norabil Windthorn. “  BY AZURA! BY AZURA! BY AZURA!  It’s the G—!” One of the female workers gave the bosmer a firm and deserving smack upside the head. At least he had enough brain cells to understand the message in the scolding strike and come up with a decent correction.  “...Great Dancing Duo !” he finished, rubbing the back of his head, then joined the workers in helping Jahruu and Hennia with their things.

              “Ah!  Master Atterius and the lovely Lady Nelvani !” the voice of Ocheeva called out from our left. We turned to see four people in bronze scale armor, with burgundy cloth wrapped around their shoulders and faces, and draped over their heads to cast dark shadows over their eyes—not an inch of flesh could be seen.

Each individual called out their name.

            From Ocheeva: “Stone-Scale!”

            From Teinaava: “Ebon-Claw!”

            From Bremman: “Denarius Saxtus!”

            From Farwil: “Sreth Rellintilys!”.

            In perfect unison, they saluted by pounding their right fists against their chests, bowing their heads, and shouting together: “ At your service! ” 

            It attracted some attention from some celebrants nearby. Those who understood that the masked man was Atterius whirled completely around and cheered ecstatically as they pointed at him. Lucien gave them a smile and wave, then urged us all to get a move on before some real crazies started coming out of the woodworks to commence a blocking and grappling frenzy— that was part of the reason why he wanted us to leave so early. The other part was the fifteen-minute walk quickly becoming a forty-minute one— there was very little flow control on the public grounds, so the pathways had become a jumbled mess far worse than anything we had encountered before— people, shoulder to shoulder, jumping and bumping into each other as they threw marigold petals into the air and at each other. The vendors were a bit more aggressive in their efforts to grab attention from people walking by—instead of just sitting behind a counter, they were actually getting in front of people and intentionally blocking their path. Thankfully, our ‘bodyguards’ did an excellent job of getting a pathway cleared for us and shielding us from an onslaught of zealous Atterius fans.

            When we got through the bulk of the crowd, just a little ways past the Guild Traders, a cool flush of gratefulness went through my being and relieved the swell of rage mixed with nausea— our amusement of the inner-city partying had disintagrated when we entered the outer rim of the bulk, where the cloud of stagnant air had a mild undertone of bile, curry flatulence, and undiluted beer-sweat.

            “Thank All the Powers !” I blasted as I gasped for air. I owed gratitude to military aquatics training as well, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to hold my breath for 2-3 minutes at a time. “A second longer in all of that and one of you would be wearing my eggs and bacon!”

            “T’h-h-yeah!” Farwil chuckled with a cough. “Agh… I think we’d all have worn each other’s breakfasts!”

             “There they are,” Lucien said, pointing to a group gathered near the first lamppost beyond the market square. All but one kept their gaze fixed on the plateau ahead— an effeminate male with long and wavy platinum-blonde hair, wearing a robe made of quilted white silk, jeweled rings on every finger, layers of necklaces made of gold and glass beads, and a steel-plated belt over a dark red sash. He motioned to the rest and pointed back at us. “By the Black Nights of Boralis! What breathtaking beauty!” he cried out, and that’s when I knew who it was:  Vicente!

            “Speak for yourself…  Fabiere ,” Lucien replied, suppressing a chuckle he looked him up and down. 

            “Oh!” Vicente blasted, grappling at the shirt of his robe. “Are you talking about this old thing?? It’s  so-o-o-o  last week. And this sand-caked bird nest that used to be lovely locks of pure sunshine??” He fussed with his hair and looked at it with feigned disgust, before daintily slapping it away from his face with a light, hauty grunt. “I am rather embarrassed by it all… but thank you!” 

            There was an eruption of laughter all around, even Lucien couldn’t hold back his. Vicente was doing a good job of getting into his character. 

             “Astaunne is right,” Gabrelle said. “You two look amazing !”

            The whole group voiced their agreement.

             “Indeed… Nine still my heart,” Farwil said, “you… um… no others among us… could accentuate the finery so well.”

            “Thank you, Sreth,” I replied, trying not to think about all the unshareable things that were probably going through his head, and turned to face him directly. “ Please  … promise me that you’ll stick to the plan and remember  everything  instilled in you...by… um… your training at the Fighters Guild—our survival depends on it.”

            “I’ll promise to  try ,” Farwil replied, returning the back-pat in a respectful friend-and-comrade sort of way that did not give me the creepy-crawly cringes. “I’ll do what I must, if I have to do it. I’ll not forget the good point you made… about… our ‘top priority’.”

            “Ah… right. Well that’s… good.” I sighed. “I just… that thing I was going to tell—“

             I was interrupted by Lucien nudging me with his hip.

             “What??” I snarled at the Speaker, and I was cheeky enough to glare up at him too. “I wasn’t going to actually say it yet.”

            “Say what?” Farwil asked.

            “Never you mind now. Just… just try to stay alive, please… please. I will… I will tell you after uh…  our ‘performance’.”

            I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed confusion and annoyance rising in him again. But he nodded and replied, “Alright.”

             “Let us be on our way ,” Lucien said, this time using an insistent tone of voice to nudge me, and gestured for me to hook my left arm around his right. With noble grace, I accepted his arm and kept deep beneath the surface an immense thrill over its feel.

            “Atterius, ” Farwil seethed.

            “For the sake of appearances, sir,” Lucien whispered to him. “Please... do permit me.” Even then he preserved diplomatic humility, conscious of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary’s dependence on the Dark Brotherhood’s good relationship with House Indarys.

            “Agh-h-h-fine,” Farwil replied. I sensed there was more he wanted to add to that, perhaps something similar to what he had said before back in Taneth:  “Just don’t forget what I told you back in Cheydinhal!”  But he probably remembered that I was short on patience with his threatening words towards LaChance and swallowed them.

                                                               ~*~

             Where the road began to curve towards Sentinel’s northwest entrance, we joined the steady stream of guests and entertainers making their way up the wide sandstone walkway that was built into the side of the plateau. Most arrived on rickshaws, elephants, camels, and horses, but our unit remained on foot— one of the things that Atterius was known for was his humbleness.

            We were cheered on by crowds of people lining the path to the gates of Surraiah’s property. Bursts of marigold petals, several dozen at a time, flew out from people's hands and cascaded from the treetops and the ledge of the cliff wall. I almost wished I had taken my sandals off, thinking about what a wonderful textural experience it would’ve been to feel the supple flower petals crunch beneath my feet. I was distracted from the temptation by the massive drums and horn instruments blaring from the center of Surraiah's party, which could be heard from a mile in every which way; it lifted my spirits up to a height untouched by the fears that had me minutes ago, or any regard to the true identity and reality that I had left at the doors of the smith shop. I felt as though I was truly becoming the person that I was pretending to be, to the point of not giving any second thought to tightening my grip on LaChance’s l arm and giving the parent shoulder a few affectionate pats to express to him my excitement over a welcome fit for royalty.

            “Enjoying yourself, Lady Nelvani?” Lucien asked, drawing up a small grin as he mildly gave return pats to the forearm hooked around his right.

            “Damn right I am!” I cried out, bouncing a bit like a school-aged child as I waved back at the crowd. “Come on, Atterius! Let yourself be raptured up into the moment! We might never know a night like this again!”

            “Actually…  we might .”

            My head snapped from the crowd and to Lucien’s masked face. “Oh? What—?”

            “Hush, now,” Lucien barked through his teeth as he faked a smile, giving a quick nod to the upper end of the walkway. “We’re almost there. Get your head out of the clouds and focus on the task at hand.”

            “My mind can occupy multiple places at the same time,” I argued. “Stop worrying.”

            Lucien’s head whipped around and I could feel the heat of his intense scowl permeating through the mask. 

            I corrected myself. “I mean…  yes, sir .”

             We all kept an outward calm as we reached the top and followed the line of guests, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one with a head full of hornets, watching the guards without blinking or breathing as the distance between us and them shortened, two people at a time. Whenever I felt the surface give slightly to the pressure, I smiled and acted as though the shakes were caused by sheer admirition of Surraiah’s home; the grandeur and mesmerizing details in the moulds, ceilings, and floors that spoke of a wealth that had been accumulated and preserved throughout generations.

             “What’s with all the extra security??” asked someone ahead of us.

            “A necessary precaution; that’s all we’re at liberty to say,” answered one of the guards, holding a clipboard up to the couple’s faces. “Negative. Move along, and enjoy your stay.”

            “Thank you!”

             To ease my mind, I turned my attention to the beautiful multicolored metal embellishments along the wall made of sun-bleached sandstone. But just as I was beginning to relax, Farwil gave my arm several frantic jabs with his elbow. 

            “What, Sreth??” I snapped at him, at a volume just under that of the surrounding clamour. 

            “Remnants…  all of them,” he hissed.

            “Remnants? You mean…  daedra ?” I whispered.

            “Yes.”

            “Are you sure?? How can you tell??”

            “It’s something they all wear to generate an illusion. I’ll explain later… when or if I can.”

            I nodded, then turned to Lucien. “Did you hear what Sreth said?” I asked him.

            “Of course I did," Lucien answered, phenomenally calm. "I hope he’s mistaken… but… he's likely to be right.” 

            "Do you think that means…  you-know-who  is also here?"

            "It might. But that doesn't change anything. Do not, under any circumstances, deviate from the plan unless I instruct you to. Understood?"

            "Yes, sir."

(CONTINUED)

[forehead-enthusiast]

Muse

Pairing: Rowoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: An artist and their model- both too attracted to each other to admit it. 

.

Rowoon sat a few feet away from you, as still as he could, which wasn’t very still at all, but you appreciated his effort. You had a sketchbook propped against your knees and a pencil in hand, and were doing your best to trace the contours of his face against the page.

“How’s it going so far?”

“It’s okay.” You hadn’t gotten much completed yet, and if you were entirely honest, it was difficult to capture how beautiful he was. Still, it wasn’t altogether awful. He fidgeted as you looked up to take him in once more before returning your gaze downward. Without you knowing, he gazed at your figure, bowed over itself, infatuated with your focused expression.

It was fairly easy for him to sneak glances. You were always so engrossed in art that you barely noticed anything around you, which was lucky for him. This wasn’t news to you, of course. You knew how focused you could get as you watched graphite grind onto paper, trying to pull the dreams from your mind and trap them in the form of rough sketches and pictures. You got so focused, you almost forgot how attractive your usual model was.

Almost.

It was rather distracting to have a model of such caliber. Every angle on his face was breathtaking. Every shade of brown in his glossy hair was stunning. Every time he breathed in, you felt the urge to illustrate the way he looked when his chest rose and the way he looked when it subsequently fell. If only your hand could keep up with your brain, you’d have filled the room from floor to ceiling with stacks upon stacks of drawings, but alas- you had to focus on one moment of him at a time. 

“Am I sitting still enough?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, you’re fine. I’m just grateful you’re willing to do this for me.”

I’d do anything you asked. Especially if it means I get to spend hours with you alone. The words floated around Rowoon’s head, taunting him with their straightforwardness. He waved them away with a swing of his large hand before he noticed you looking and flashed a totally natural smile. He sighed discreetly as you looked up every so often, each time your eyes alight with inspiration and flecks of sunshine. 

Sometimes he liked to close his eyes and take in the world that seemed to only exist for you two: the scratching of a pencil, the smell of aging wood and dust that was suspended in time, and the warmth of the setting sun on his skin. 

Time seemed to fade as he sat there. The world stopped turning, nighttime stopped falling, the ice in your water bottle ceased to melt. The air moved like honey, thick and sweet and slow, and he’d let himself drown in your drawing sessions if he could. 

He hoped you felt similarly, even if only a bit.

You did.

You wondered if he ever noticed you drawing extra slowly on some days, longing to extend the minutes and prolong the inevitable goodbyes and goodnights. You wondered if he thought you looked at him too long or too often, or with too much softness in your eyes. He’d be right. You wondered how you managed to get into such a wonderful predicament. So gently tortuous in its opportunities. 

“Is my pose okay?”

You chuckled. “Yes, Rowoon, it’s fine.” It was a silly question. No matter what he did, he’d look like a masterpiece anyway. That’s the beauty of being beautiful. Every movement, every instinct, every flick of a finger and every sidewards glance was lovely. 

“Alright, just checking. My shirt isn’t on backwards or anything?”

“No, it’s not. You know models don’t usually talk this much, right?”

He grinned sheepishly, swinging his legs gently through the air. He looked so young and boyish sitting there, like a grade schooler waiting to get his picture taken for the yearbook. It was such a contrast from his tall and imposing stature it made you smile without realizing.

Rowoon watched your eyes crease with affection, and prayed the glow of the sunset would mask the warmth on his cheeks.

He let the silence stretch on, only occasionally tapping his fingers on the underside of his stool when he couldn’t resist. He thought about how your eyes draped over him, taking in his minute details. He thought about your hands tracing over his silhouette, sliding across his jawline and shoulders, and flushed at his own imagination. He pictured what it would feel like if you were to actually get up from where you sat and touch him, your gray-stained fingers threatening to smear their imprint on his skin.

You looked at Rowoon, and wondered what could lead him to make that expression. How would you describe it? Tender? Bashful? It almost seemed scandalized by itself, as though it was trying and failing to restrain impulsive thoughts. It was both hard to look at and hard to tear your eyes away from. 

Your flush matched his. Your hearts pounded in tandem with each other, and you could almost hear their rhythm reverberating off the walls if you only listened closely enough.

Rowoon couldn’t stop his imagination from blooming with scenarios of you and him, and, worried they’d begin to overflow out of him in petals of confessions, broke the silence.

“S-so what are you drawing right now?”

You found yourself snapped out of the trance that peculiar expression of his had trapped you in, and took a moment to compose yourself and answer.

“Ah, the lips. My favorite part.”

There was a long pause, and you realized the implications of your answer as Rowoon pressed a hand to his chest, desperate to keep his heart contained within.

“Of me-”

“T-to draw! My favorite part to draw.”

“Right, of course!” He forced a laugh, and couldn’t even convince himself it sounded organic. 

You tried to return to drawing, but your pencil hovered above the image of his lips, and you found yourself clutching the thing too tightly to draw properly. You hoped it wouldn’t snap in your grip- you only had the one. What, you didn’t claim to be some professional artist who could afford more than one decent pencil at a time.

“…Why aren’t you drawing?”

Rowoon’s low voice seemed to fill the space around you, rich in its tone.

“It’s your favorite part, after all.”

He gulped. You imitated him unintentionally. His mind was going even more wild than before, practically exploding with thoughts of you. He bit the lip you were struggling to draw, teetering on the edge of no return. You were just a few feet away. The distance seemed to widen as he watched it, and it seemed to threaten that if he waited much longer, it would become too great a gap to close.

“Do you need a closer look?”

He got up from his stool, and took a step towards you. His feet felt glued to the floor, in the space where the model was meant to stay. He pried them up. 

You stiffened as you watched him come closer, the expression on his face mesmerizing yet somehow terrifying. While you could never admit it, never assume it, you understood what that expression meant. Who it was for. You covered your face with your sketchbook, but even with it blocking your vision, you could picture the way he looked vividly, and grew frustrated at its inability to shield you.

Long fingers tapped on top of the sketchbook, pushing it down and away from your face. No matter how many drawings you must have of this face, nothing could prepare you for it at this distance. 

He was crouched down on the floor, looking up at you. You’d never seen him from this angle. Your heart raced at the sight, sometimes forgetting to pause between beats. 

He took hold of your wrist gently, guiding it towards his face.

“Touch me.”

Your fingers reached out despite yourself, and pressed gently against his lips. Your thumb slid across his bottom lip, and while you weren’t sure if you could really be considered conscious, you took note of how soft it felt. 

Your sketchbook and pencil slid off your lap and clattered onto the floor as he kissed you.

His jaw was tilted upwards in your hands. His palm was large enough that it completely covered yours. You could taste the sunlight on his lips, warm and gentle like summer rain. They fit so perfectly against your own, it was a pity to separate them, even to kiss again a moment later. In those pauses, his murmurs would fill your mouth, your lungs, his mumbled words would dance on your tongue. He murmured your name. Your name, over and over, as if reciting an incantation. The way his voice sounded when he said it was soft and smooth and dark, and felt like velvet when it touched you.

It felt dangerous to kiss him. It was addictive, all too pleasant to be permitted. He grew sweeter each time you lingered. At some point you had slid off your chair to join him on the floor carpeted with eraser shavings. His hands had discovered your lower back, and embraced you like there was no other purpose for them in life. Meanwhile, your hands had found his neck and the collar of his shirt, and left the smudges of silver he’d been fantasizing about. You could feel his racing pulse against your fingers. 

The sun had finished setting. Cool shadows were strewn about the room, coating you in shades of gray and blue, but his hands on you were warmth enough. He looked at you, breathless in his arms, and wished he had the ability to draw, to immortalize this moment. He let his fingers run themselves through your hair, and smiled softly. 

You couldn’t even meet his eyes. You could feel the flush that had spread to the tips of your ears, the back of your neck. You figured if you were to face him directly now, you might simply melt.

He lifted your chin, and grinned when your eyes widened, then tightly shut.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I love you too much.”

You scrunched your face up tighter at the words that spilled out uncontrollably, far too honest to be intentional. His low laugh floated around your ears. You opened one eye cautiously, only to find him staring at you adoringly. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, then the other, then all across your nose and chin and forehead. He kissed your fingers, your palms, his lips exploring the hands that knew him well. 

“It’s the same for me.” He spoke into the curves of your hands. “I love you more than you can imagine.”

He cupped your face in his hands, and pulled you suddenly into another kiss, as if to memorize how it felt when your lips melted into his. You practically fell onto him, with his arms supporting you as you pressed against his broad chest. He leaned back onto the ground, gently taking you with him, and began to smile too widely to kiss you properly.

“Yes!”

He positively beamed in celebration, his soft hair splayed on the floor. He looked like an angel with a coffee-colored halo framing his face.

He really was a masterpiece.

[heartofsnark]

A Hope County Christmas (Part One): The Resistance

Notes: Yes, this is late for Christmas and yes, that means the second part is gonna really fucking late for Christmas. But in my defense, I didn’t get the idea and started writing it until the 26th. It was originally suppose to be just one part, but it got real long and I lost some steam in the second part, so it’s gonna take me longer. So, have this and I’ll post the second part....maybe before 2020. I’ve been talking about my Deputy a lot over on my personal @morbidchild182 but this is the first writing I’ve posted with her. I’m still developing her and working on how I write the characters, so. 

Summary: It’s Christmas time in Hope County and as one might suspect, it can be hard to find any Christmas spirit to spare with Eden’s Gate waging their holy war. Junior Deputy Dahlia Hale fully suspects this holiday will be spent just as every last day has been spent since they tried to arrest Joseph Seed. But, between the Rye’s incurable optimism and the Seed’s...fascination with her, she can’t say she expected this. 

Word Count: 3032 

Warnings: Drinking, play fighting, dumb jokes, dumb christmas shenanigans, Ship Tease between Eli and my Deputy, Some sappy bullshit thrown in for good measure. There will be like Yandere Polyseed bullshit in the second part

A harsh cough echoes in Dahlia’s chest, a hacking noise and her lungs constrict. This is her first winter in Montana and it’s absolutely kicking her ass. Eden’s Gate could only hope of making her feel this shitty. Though, to her surprise the peggies haven’t been particularly active lately.

The Seed brothers are originally from Georgia, the deep south just like her, and she wonders if they’re as badly impacted by the cold as she is. Her leather jacket, uniform shirt and tee shirt under it are doing very little to keep out the chill as she rides her motorcycle through the Holland Valley wilderness. Nick and Kim called her over the radio asking her to head over. She’s hoping everything is alright, she’s not sure how much help she’ll be when she can barely feel her limbs.

She parks her motorcycle by the porch, pulling off her helmet and cringing as the cold air hits her face. There are little twinkling Christmas lights across their porch and the roof, even a few strings around the hangar. They’re beautiful, but a part of her worries about it just drawing in angels.

Dahlia rubs her hands together, trying desperate to regain some heat. Her red and irritated nose suddenly feels wet, is her nose running on top of everything? She goes to rub it away, but there’s a fleck of ice clinging to fingers. Something wet pats against her head, is it raining? She looks up towards the sky. Soft white flakes are drifting through the sky.

Snow.

It’s snowing. She’s only seen snow in movies and TV shows, the white puffy flakes touch her cheeks. Ideas of catching snowflakes on her tongue or having snowball fights flicker through her brain, but she disregards it immediately knowing she doesn’t have the time for horseplay.

“Something interesting up there, dep?”

“Huh,” she startles for a minute, seeing Nick standing on the porch and staring up at the sky, “no, sorry, I just, never seen snow before.”

“What, seriously?”

“Louisiana doesn’t get a lot of snow, seen a few hurricanes though.”

“Shit man, that’s just depressing.”

“As is most of my life.”

“Well, come on in.”

“Sure, but, uh, Nick, do you think the lights are a good idea? Might draw-“

Her voice catches in her throat as she steps into the Rye home, it looks like a Christmas wonderland. A giant ornate tree, Christmas music playing on the radio. A tall tree that the top of which nearly scrapes the ceiling, though it’s bare for some reason. Friendly faces all around; Jerome, Mary May, Grace, Sharky, Hurk, Adelaide, Xander, and Jess in a corner hiding away with Cheeseburger nestled at her side. Peaches is getting ear scratches from Sharky. Everyone except Jess is wearing obnoxiously colored Christmas sweaters.

“Those peggies have taken so much from us, I’ll be damned if they’re taking Christmas too,” Nick declares and she can’t help but smile at his determination.

A few barks ring out and before Dahlia knows it two dog paws have landed on her waist, Boomer demanding her attention. He’s almost as bad as John.

“Hey, boy,” she coos scratching behind his ears and laughing as he gives her a few kisses.

“Deputy,” Kim makes her way over, Boomer moving so she can give Dahlia a big hug, “I’m so happy you could make it out here, I know you’re busy with…everything. It means a lot.”

“Uh, what’s exactly going on, I thought you guys needed my help with something?”

“It’s a trap, Rook,” Jess calls out from her corner and Kim rolls her eyes.

“It’s a holiday party, we have one every year and we aren’t letting the peggies ruin it, here.” Kim hands over a white fluffy sweater, the less ugly of any of the ones she’s seen on her friends. When she unfolds it, she sees a little polar bear face with a sprig of mistletoe by its ear.

“Uh…”

“It’s Christmas, everyone has to wear a Christmas sweater.”

“Except Jess, she threatened to bite me,” Nick says, shooting a slightly fearful look towards the woman.

“I mean, I’d be happy to bite you too, hon,” Adelaide calls out with a flirtatious wink, Kim rolling her eyes as Nick visibly cringes.

“Please, dep, just put on the sweater.”

Dahlia shrugs her shoulders, if her wearing a damn sweater will make them even a little bit happier, it’s more than worth it. The couple has endured enough bullshit with Eden’s Gate, the least she can do is wear a damn sweater. She pulls off her leather jacket and uniform shirt.

“Woo, take it off!” Sharky yells out, grinning like a dumbass and Dahlia’s face flushes red, shooting her favorite pyromaniac a death glare before she tugs the sweater on over her tee.

It’s large, white, fluffy, and feels completely out of place on her. She feels like she looks odd without an outfit that’s at least ninety percent black.

“I can’t stay long,” Dahlia warns as she ties her hair back in a stubby ponytail.

“The lord does permit days of rest, Deputy.”

“Good for him, but I got shit to do,” She tells Jerome as she meanders towards a place to sit, eventually settling somewhere between Sharky and Jess, back tight against a wall and knees pulled up to her chest.

“You deserve a day to take it easy, here,” Kim hands her a mug of eggnog, an odd smell coming off it. It’s probably fine. She takes a drink and the burn of rum hits her, she nearly sputters. Kim laughing at her.

“Can’t handle your booze, Rook?” Grace asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Firstly, I legally can’t drink, secondly this is barely fuckin’ eggnog at this point.”

“Eh, who’s gonna arrest you, you?”

“You’re old enough to risk your ass for us, you’re old enough to drink,” Mary May says, taking a swig of her own drink.

Dahlia shrugs, she did drink a little when she was a minor, but stopped when she became a cop. Based on principle alone. But, fuck she’s never actually liked the taste. She’s not convinced anyone really does. At that same time, Nick steps into the room a Santa hat tilted on his head, where he’s stretched over his cap. In his arms are movies, games, and more booze.

“Ol’ Saint Nick!” Sharky yells out and a chorus of groans follow his stupid joke.

“Figure, we’ll watch a movie, get everyone in the spirit, before we play some games.”

“You mean get everyone drunk,” Kim teases, the only one not drinking the spiked eggnog.

“Same thing.” Nick grins and shrugs as he puts some Christmas movie in, Boomer lays against Dahlia’s side as the bullshit movie starts to play.

“What the hell is that woman doing?” An extra looks directly at the camera.

“Who the fuck talks like that?” The acting is awful.

“Oh god, child actors.” The child acting is worse.

“I’m like, pretty sure that’s a federal offense.” You can’t just look through someone’s mail.

“Eh, who hasn’t committed a federal offense.”

“Most people Sharky, most people.”

“Wait that’s the plot, getting her uncle a girlfriend, oh my god.” The plot is stupid

“Ooh, I wouldn’t mind him stuffing my stocking.” The main actor is easy on the eyes.

“Addie, no.”

“Wait, why the hell did he say it was done, if he hadn’t started cookin’ it yet?”

“Fantastic question.”

“What? What? What?!” This makes no sense.

“Holy shit, Adelaide in five years,” Dahlia blurts out when a perverted granny shows up.

“Five years!? How old do you think I am, Rook?!”

“No comment.”

“You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“She’s your aunt, Sharky.”

“Shut it.”

“Is she an elf? Oh my god, is she a fuckin’ elf?”

“Did she just realize she looks like she dressed in the dark?”

“She took her glasses off, so she’s no longer ugly, ‘cause…y’know.”

“The audio is so bad, holy shit, what are they even saying.”

“That looks awful.”

They’re about halfway through the movie, everyone finding every chance to chime in some comment about the crap on screen. She’s drained two mugs of the spiked eggnog, her cheeks red from booze and laughing. Dahlia’s lost count of how many cookies she’s crammed into her mouth.

The movie finishes and she no longer feel like she’s in any state to take on a cult. Not drunk, but tipsy as all hell. Judging by the flushed cheeks around her, no one is any better off except Kim who once credits are rolling suggest making ornaments and decorating the tree.

Trusting drunk dumbasses to decorate the tree, brilliant.

It’s a disaster. Of course, it is.

Jerome makes some decent angel ones, but the religious aesthetic of anything has been ruined for everyone lately. Mary May’s Santa is holding a beer. Jess’s just has ‘Fuck Off’ scribbled across it. Xander and Adelaide keep trying to have sex puns about crafts, too drunk for any of them to be subtle. Grace’s gun ornament is surprisingly well done, but not particularly Christmas-y. Nick’s attempt to make a plane looks like a lumpy disaster. Hurk and Sharky keep trying to put a dick and or flames on everything. At some point someone throws glitter.

It was her.

Sharky tried to draw a dick on her star, so she started throwing glitter at his dumb face. Now there’s glitter everywhere, the Rye’s home will never be free of it. Also, there’s gold glitter glue on her hands and hair where she tried to push it back, because tools are for fools.

Then her radio crackles to life, ah fuck, she tries to rub the worse of the glue off onto her jeans before grabbing it.

“Hey,” she manages to slur even the shortest word and everyone her is snickering.

“Deputy, it’s Eli from the Whitetails.”

“I don’t know any other Eli, you don’t have to clarify, Mountain Man.”

“Right, uh, sorry. Heard about the Rye’s party, knew you were over that way. I, uh, wanted to make sure you weren’t running yourself ragged.”

“Wanted to check in on his girlfriend,” Wheaty teases in the background and Dahlia’s face flushes brighter red, not from the booze. Everyone around her starts to laugh

“Don’t you have something else to do?” Eli retorts and she can practically hear the embarrassment in his voice.

“Don’t worry, Eli, I’m at the Rye’s being supplied with way too much booze.”

“That’s good, well not good that you’re getting drunk, not that I care if you get drunk, I don’t think. I just mean it’s good you’re with friends and y’know what, I’ll stop talking.”  

She can’t help but laugh, he hasn’t been this awkward with her since he talked about shaving his beard and wondering if it made him look crazy.

“Hey, maybe next time I’m in that area, we can see if we can convince Chad to make some Christmas grub and have a little celebration at the Wolf’s Den?”

Why did she make that offer, she didn’t even want one celebration, why is she doing this? It’s so impractical, why the fuck would Eli want that? She pushes hair back out of her face, she’s so stupid.

“That sounds nice.”

“It does? It does. Cool.”

“Well, uh, Merry Christmas, Rook.”

“Merry Christmas, Eli.”

The radio call ends, and Dahlia lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, all eyes are on her. Some confused and others smirking at the little exchange.

“Never knew you liked ‘em older, deputy.”

“Fuck off.”

“You really shouldn’t have done that to your hair either,” Jess tells her, smirking. Her bangs fall back in her face and Dahlia sees the gold glitter glue now clinging to the dark locks.

“God damn it.”

“Looks like you were too distracted drooling over your mountain man,” Jess mocks Dahlia with an overly sappy voice. Dahlia smirks back, revenge already in her mind.

“Aww,” she cups Jess’s cheeks in her two-glitter glue covered hands, “that was so cute of you.” Dahlia smears it down Jess’s cheeks leaving a mess.

Jess’s green eyes narrow, a weaker woman might freak out at the anger shown in them. But, Dahlia knows too well that there’s a hint of mischief there, it’s all in good fun. The Junior Deputy pulls her hands away from the Survivalist’s face.

“No killing in the house,” Kim warns and that’s all that’s said before Jess is launching over the table to try to grab Dahlia who’s already dropped down and jolted under it, the two switching sides before the deputy breaks into a run.

Their movements are clumsier and slower than usual, booze slowing them down. Dahlia takes the stairs two at a time, giggling as she tries to evade her friend. Jess’s hands nearly latch onto her sweater and Dahlia promptly jumps over the stair banister, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“No breaking your ankles in the house!”

“Sorry, Kim, oh god!”

Jess is on Dahlia’s back, bringing her down to the ground and laughing as the deputy collapses under her weight. She’s trying to put her in a headlock, as Dahlia attempts to wrestle out of it. The entire party laughing at their horseplay. She swears she hear Sharky or Hurk saying something about needing a mud pit, but she’s too focused on play wrestling to yell at the perverts.

Her radio crackles again and through the struggling Dahlia manages to answer it.

“Rook, heard the Rye’s invited you over for Christmas,” Whitehorse’s voice comes through.

“That they did,” she struggles to respond as she’s using one hand to fend off Jess.

“Hey, sheriff!”

“He can’t see you waving Nick.”

Dahlia cracks, a fatal mistake as Jess uses it to get the headlock.

“Good, I was worried about you, Rook, thought you’d be running around while everyone else took the day off. I know shit’s tough right now but taking time to celebrate the little stuff is what’s gonna keep you going. Merry Christmas.”

“You guys doing anything special at the jail?” She asks as she tries to squirm away, finally just giving up and trying to stand up with Jess on her back and arms around her neck. It’s a piss poor excuse for a piggyback ride, but whatever.

“Virgil’s trying to get someone to cut down a tree, Tracey ain’t having any of it.”

“I can do that.”

“You’re not chopping down a Christmas tree, Rook, Jesus Christ,” Tracey grumbles in the background.

“You’ve already done more than enough, hell, if it wasn’t for you…well there are a lot of people who wouldn’t be here to see Christmas this year. Enjoy your party.”

“Yeah…Merry Christmas.”

Dahlia feels her eyes sting, she doesn’t expect praise or even acknowledgment of the things she’s done. It still seems so foreign, the idea that she’s actually saved people. That people are here, alive and safe, because of her actions. She can never see herself as a hero, but to some people she truly is.

Jess’s arms on her loosen, before the woman just hops right off of her. A soft smile replacing the mischievous little grin. She squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a silent understanding that Jess is one of those people. If not for Dahlia, she’d be spending this Christmas in a cage, if she was lucky. But, now she’s spending it in a rare moment of joy and peace.

“Come on, we gotta decorate the tree..”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Jess and Dahlia rejoin the party, feral energy out of their system for the time being. The tree looks like a mess. Everyone’s ornament a disaster and the whole thing looking like an incomprehensible disaster. Nothing goes together. None of it makes sense, but it has…character. Dahlia goes to hang her own bad star ornament after hanging the last bit of tinsel. But, it’s nowhere to be found.

“Here,” Kim hands it to her, but the sloppily coated star no longer has a string, instead on a little cap to be used as the tree topper. It’s an extremely sweet gesture, but…

“I can’t reach.” Dahlia makes a show of trying to stretch her hand up to touch the top of the tree, only to come up embarrassingly short.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha bromigo,” Hurk declares before hefting Dahlia up onto his shoulders, she can’t help but laugh, but places her messy star at the top of the tree. Hurk putting her back down with ease.

“It’s certainly…different.”

“It always an adventure to see how it turns out every year.”

“I’m sure it.”

Another crackle from her radio.

“Who’s calling now?” Nick asks, taking another drink of eggnog.

“Eh, probably just Dutch checking in,” Dahlia answers it, “don’t worry, I’m at the party and I’m taking a break for Christmas.”

“That’s wonderful to know, dep-yoo-tee,” John’s voice sobers her, like a bucket of ice water’s splashed in her face, the entire party going silent as he drags out each syllable.

“The fuck do you want?”

“Easy now, Little Miss Wrath, I haven’t even done anything and you’re already foaming at the mouth.”

“Yet, you haven’t done anything, yet.”

“Someone who doesn’t believe in prophets, claiming to know the future, how ironic.”

“Get to the point, Johnny Boy.”

“I do hope, you’ll be more patient once you fully join our family.”

“You got five more seconds before I hang up and get back to drinking. One, two,-”

“While we don’t celebrate Christmas quite the same as sinners do, the holidays still marks an important time of togetherness.”

“Good for you…Can I go now?”

“Me, my brothers and sister like to spend this time of year together, as a family.”

“I’m gonna blow my brains out from boredom, Johnny.”

“A family dinner requires the whole family, dep-yoo-tee, even the members who’ve yet to accept their role.”

“Are…are you threatening to kidnap me for Christmas dinner?!”

“Depends, will you come of your own volition?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then, I’m afraid you leave me no choice. I’ll be seeing you shortly, dear.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Little Bit in Love (chapter two)

The crack ship keeps on cracking

Please consider leaving a comment, in the tags or on Ao3

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As the first few weeks of term went on, Percy learned a lot about his new roommate. It was just that very little of it came from Caleb himself.

Mostly out of passivity, Percy found himself hanging around in a loose group of boys he’d known all his life but never really found himself liking, sons of his father’s friends and associates. And very often the conversation would turn, rarely kindly, towards his red haired roommate, who he’d apparently been paired with at the last minute after he’d gone against his father’s demands and requested a room in the dorms. Percy grimly couldn’t imagine any other scenario where the son of their most generous donor and someone like Caleb, dragging around the multitude of reminders that the school was embarrassed to have him here, would be placed together.

Depending on which part of him they felt like needling, the boys would joke about his too big uniform, his almost impossibly tiny frame, the fact that he was trans. Percy never joined in, just sitting there with his distaste hidden behind quick subject changes and pretending he couldn’t hear.

But he never walked away either.

As much as he didn’t like what his sort of friends said about Caleb, he couldn’t help but be maddeningly curious about him. A few times, on late evenings, when he’d be idly thumbing his way through his brand new copies of the assigned texts for their classes, stretched out on his bed, and Caleb would be in amongst a fortress of his own second hand versions of the same books, Percy would try and start conversations. Caleb would flinch whenever he did, as if the casually thrown out words were blows, and then give small, singular answers like he was being interviewed. Like everything was a test.

Percy would give up after a few questions got him nowhere, not wanting to make Caleb more uncomfortable.

What he didn’t learn from the jeers and whispered comments of his peers in the dining hall and corridors outside of classrooms, Percy picked up from observation. The two of them shared a bedroom, a bathroom and he couldn’t help but notice things.

There were textbooks on Caleb’s bed that he didn’t recognise, even with Percy taking a full load of classes. After a little waiting and watching, catching sight of Caleb in the hallways, he eventually pieced together that they were required reading for anyone taking classes in magic. Spellwork wasn’t even an option for freshmen, you could only take those classes in later years and, even then, after a unique set of aptitude tests. But there were the books and there was some homework on his lap, sheets of symbols that were as incomprehensible to Percy as his mechanical blueprints probably were to other people.

Some things were less interesting, more worrying.

Percy laced up his rugby boots carefully, methodically. He couldn’t afford for them to slip.

They had been gifts on his last birthday from his sister Vesper, the only gifts he’d felt had been bought for him rather than who his family imagined he was. They were sleek black things, moulded studs clacking in a very satisfying way when he walked. They were beautiful.

All he had to do now was make the team so he had a chance to wear them.

He was so wrapped up in his own nervousness, he didn’t hear the bathroom door opening.

He did hear the embarrassed squeak Caleb loudly emitted as he realised the room he’d just walked into, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his body.

Percy jumped, well aware of how horribly red he instantly turned, “Sorry!”

Caleb looked like he was ready to bolt but somehow also simultaneously frozen, like that horrible midway state in a nightmare, being desperate to flee but unable to move, “I...I thought you’d be at the trials already.”

If he wasn’t so laser focused on how much he wanted to curl up into a tiny ball, Percy would have been a little impressed that Caleb knew where he’d been going. How much attention had his shy roommate actually been paying?

“I’m just about to head out, it’s not until half past,” he grimaced apologetically, jumping up, “I’ll head out.”

He’d told himself not to. He’d done so well, training his eyes on Caleb’s face no matter how awkward that made it but as he turned, they fell. Even after so long at the school, Caleb still had the deep set tan to his lower arms and legs, the one that showed how much time he’d spent working in the sun. That surprised him.

And he was so, so thin. Dangerously thin. About to snap sort of thin.

The kind of thin that only came from never having enough.

Percy bit his lip, ducking his eyes. He hadn’t realised just how much Caleb was hiding.

Before the door closed, he caught a small, shy voice, so soft it was like it was deciding whether to speak up at all.

“Good luck, Percy.”

He was so stunned, he just stood for a moment while the door clicked behind him, eyes wide.

He was learning more and more. Maybe he’d start hearing it from Caleb himself.

Lunch the next day was it’s usual noisy affair. Even boys raised by money were still boys and when they were crowded in together, hungry and itching after being in lessons all day, they let themselves go a little.

Percy deliberately showed up a little late, going to see his Engineering professor about homework he didn’t really need help with, so he knew when he entered his usual group would already be seated and Caleb would already be off in the corner, a book propped behind his plate like a shield. He got his own meal and quickly, purposefully, walked right past his table and sat a seat down from Caleb, as far from them as it was physically possible to be.

Caleb didn’t notice at first, pupils darting along the lines, too lost in what he was reading like his brain was as hungry for the words as his body was for the food in front of him. But he slowly seemed to realise that a lot of startled eyes were on him and he looked up furtively, already half cringing for a blow.

“Hey,” Percy said quietly, casually, like there was nothing unusual about their situation.

Caleb looked utterly stunned, spoon paused halfway from his mouth to his plate, “Um...hey.”

“Good day?” he continued in the same light, unconcerned tone, sipping his water idly.

“Um...yeah. Fine,” Caleb’s eyes darted between Percy and Percy’s glaringly vacant seat over with the other young gentry of Whitestone. He looked like someone waiting to hear the punchline of a joke clearly at his expense.

“Did you understand a single thing Professor Mattheison was saying?” They shared a mathematics class.

The tips of Caleb’s ears went red and he risked a smile, “No. It sounded like he was talking another language.”

Percy chuckled, “You’re lying. You knew exactly what he was talking about.”

Caleb seemed to shrink, like his first assumption was that his intelligence was something to be ashamed of. But when Percy did nothing but look at him expectantly and smile, he relaxed.

“Well...okay, I did. But he didn’t explain it very well.”

Percy laughed, almost deliberately loudly. Loudly enough that those few friends of his that weren’t already starting incredulously now definitely were. After a few beats, Caleb laughed along with him. It was more of a slight chuckle but Percy expected that was as close as Caleb ever got.

“Hey,” Percy ventured, feeling it was probably okay at this point, “Do you want my garlic bread? I’m not going to eat it.”

Caleb looked down at his own bare plate and across to Percy’s, expression hesitant but there was definite desire in them. They weren't permitted seconds and Caleb always ate every scrap of what he had, not quickly but certainly in a way that suggested he wanted to eat quicker but was self conscious about it. And now Percy knew why.

“Sure,” Caleb murmured, taking it and immediately falling on it.

Percy smiled in relief, though not when Caleb was looking.

Things went like that for a while. Percy divided his mealtimes equally between Caleb and his usual group. When he sat with his old friends, he’d pointedly ignore questions about his change in routine, only answering when pushed with a curt, “He’s my roommate. Why wouldn’t I sit with him?”

The other boys were always careful around Percy, like he was their version of his father, the head of their little microcosm of their parent’s infinitely more complex social hierarchy. Most of the time it just made him feel awkward and exposed, like he was the lead in a play but he hadn’t learned his lines. But now he could use it to his advantage, drawing on the well of de Rolo ‘how dare you even breathe the same air as me’ face everyone in his family seemed to have. The snide remarks and comments about Caleb lessened whenever Percy was around them, though he had no doubt they continued as soon as he was out of earshot.

When he was with Caleb, he would always eat no more than half his meal, no matter how hungry he was, even if he’d just come straight from the rugby pitch and was ravenous. The rest he’d slide along to his roommate, insisting he wasn’t in the mood, that it would just go to waste anyway.

Caleb wasn’t a fool, evidenced by the fact that most of the books he brought down to dinner were in another language or had diagrams in them so complex they made Percy feel a little dizzy. He clearly had some idea of what Percy was doing, it was there in his eyes. But he didn’t refuse.

Initially it seemed to be some kind of grudging acceptance, a realisation that if he was going to be made fun of, if this was all going to turn out to be an elaborate joke, he may as well get some extra food out of it. But after a few weeks with no reveal, no punchline, he seemed to relax a little. Soon they were having what could even be called a conversation, the book closed and resting between them rather than serving as a barrier.

And when the door closed on room 2.04, Caleb came to life even more. Though he spent most of the evenings tackling the mountain of homework he always seemed to get in between they would sit on their beds and chat, both of them feeling something unwind inside their chests. Like they could say anything, things they wouldn’t dare say beyond their little room.

Like someone was actually listening to them.

Part of Caleb, the part that was left cold and small and scared after years of never really having friends, of having people hide sneers behind their smiles for a variety of different reasons, told him what a bad idea this was. He had no reason to trust Percy, beyond a silly little crush on him that was certainly not helped by his roommate’s tendency to lounge around in rugby shorts. He smiled kindly, he shared with him, he spoke softly but other people had done that before and still something soured, turned them cold and vaguely disgusted with Caleb.

But the rest of him was charmed enough, desperate for companionship enough to not listen. He’d been caught off guard by just how homesick he was, thinking naively that his desire to be here at the most prestigious school in the world, the one he’d worked so hard to attend, would mean he’d never think of home. But, two months in, he was finding himself desperate for another voice to speak to him kindly, for someone to smile and ask how his day was going, to show some small amount of care. Even if Percy would eventually tire of playing the charitable friend to the sad little scholarship boy he’d been lumbered with, for now it was something Caleb needed so badly the eventual hurt was worth the risk.

“So, wait, you built it yourself? A working dimmer lamp? When you were seven?”

It might have just been the light, but the tips of Percy’s ears seemed to go a little pink, “Come on, Caleb, you were probably making things levitate and fly around the room at that age. And I bet you didn’t need gears and wires to do it.”

Caleb had to admit, his affinity for magic, gleaned from nothing but the scant few arcane books the town had to offer, had come about around that time. But he was no less impressed.

“Still, that’s incredible,” he insisted, hugging his knees to his chest, “How did you get all the stuff you needed?”

A mischievous look flitted across Percy’s face, “I took apart my older sister’s vanity and a few toys my younger sister never played with. Cassie didn’t mind but Ves was furious. After she chased me around the house, my parents started getting me the equipment I needed. I think they clicked on that if I wasn’t given it, I’d just take it and cause more trouble.”

Caleb felt a little pang, he’d have loved that kind of closeness with a sibling. Growing up on a farm by himself had come with its lonely moments.

“So you’re kind of a tinkerer, huh?”

“Yeah,” Percy gave a little shrug, like it was something he was used to defending, “I just like seeing how things work. Taking them apart, trying to put them together in different ways, making stuff entirely new.”

“That’s a little like magic,” Caleb observed, resting his chin on his knees. He was a little warm, in his oversized school sweater and trousers, but no way would he take any of it off.

“How so?”

“Well, all the wizards who came before came up with their symbols and their spells and all of this. Anyone can learn them and reuse them. Only great wizards can take those components and see new ways of linking them so you can make something that no one has ever thought of before in the thousands of years we’ve been working with them.”

Percy smiled rather than looked concerned at Caleb’s outburst, none of the usual second hand embarrassment people usually responded with when he talked like a textbook.

“And that’s what you’re going to do, huh?”

Caleb blushed, knowing he looked like a tomato when he did, thanks to his red hair, “I mean...maybe. I’d like to try.”

Percy shifted, long legs left mostly bare by his shorts lying crossed over each other now. Caleb winced at how obsessively he was paying attention to them, “Well, not that I know a damn thing about magic. But if there’s anyone who could do that, I bet it’s you.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say to that. He was already blushing, his body had no response left so he just kind of stammered and looked down.

Percy seemed to get it anyway, standing up and stretching his arms up above his head, “I’m going to shower before I turn in, alright? Turn the lights off if you want to, I’ll manage.”

“Sure,” Caleb swallowed, eyes flickering to the clock and seeing it was incredibly late. As much as he’d loved to lose himself in the new book he’d checked out from the library, he didn’t want to be yawning his way through tomorrow’s classes.

His eyes snapped straight forward again at the whisper of fabric against skin as Percy, apparently trying to kill him no matter how unknowingly, casually swept his loose white shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor on his way to the bathroom.

Stop he snapped at himself, trying to turn his full attention to climbing under the covers, pulling them up high over his head. The sound of running water and Percy humming softly was muffled until it could have been happening two whole rooms away.

But part of him still strained towards the sound.

This is the last thing you need, he growled as he snapped his fingers and killed the lights, not even taking a moment to enjoy how easy that had become, you’ve finally gotten a friend, don’t ruin it with a stupid crush.

Caleb paused as the exhaustion he spent his day shoving to one side finally crept up on him. He’d never even thought that word before but there it was, refusing to budge and actually feeling like it belonged there.

He had a friend. Percy was his actual friend.

He’d come to this school expecting to find powers inside himself he hadn’t known were there, he’d come expecting it to be the first step in learning to bend all of reality to his will and control the world that had refused to let him in for so long.

But this was the one thing he’d ever expected.

[randomramblingtidbits]

In Your Own Skin

Summary: One month ago, Chiro and Jinmay invited Slingshot into their relationship. One month later, Slingshot tries his hand at setting up a dinner date for their anniversary. Everyone is still trying to figure out this new relationship thing, but slowly they are getting more comfortable with it. A/N: I blame these drawings by @projectaffectivity for making me think of this ship, but they blame @monkeymindscream for the idea so they can both share the blame for this fic. First time writing a OT3, but it was fun trying to figure out what their dynamics would be. Now the questions are what do we call the ship? Chimayshot? And should this fic count for the ‘human’ or ‘date’ prompt for rarepair week? (Yes, I am late for it, I was busy moving last week, give me some slack.)

“This is definitely fancier than ‘our’ first month anniversary dinner.” Jinmay mumbled to Chiro as they were taken to a private back room. The room was usually meant for big parties of people, so the small table set for three seemed comically out of the place in the large space.

“We went to Mr. Gackslapper’s…just like for our first date,” Chiro pointed out as he pulled out a chair for her. “It’s not that hard to one up that.”

But back then, the date had been a serendipitous decision, the two of them just going to their regular haunt before they realized the date, that it had been one month since they officially decided they were boyfriend and girlfriend. This time, everything was planned out, even if it wasn’t planned by either Chiro or Jinmay.

Jinmay self-consciously smoothed out her dress, a sundress the same color as her eyes. “Do you think we’re dressed enough?”

“You look beautiful,” And it was nice to see Jinmay in something other than her hero outfit or casual wear. The green of the dress was decorated with a pattern of white and yellow flowers, she wore strappy white sandals, and her hairs still in pigtails, albeit curled into ringlets

“Thanks,” She gave him a kiss as she finally sat down in her seat, setting her short, white jacket on the back of chair. “You look handsome tonight as well.” Like her, Chiro was also wearing a different outfit than usual. While wearing a familiar pair of jeans and black shoes, he also had a simple white, button upped long sleeve shirt with a black vest over it on. His hair was styled so it looked like how it did when he was in Hyper mode.

“So don’t worry,” He smiled at her as he took his seat, “We look fine, not over or under dressed.”

That had been her big concern when Slingshot came to them about the date. He had tried to tell them the dress code, but the resulting mess of ‘kind of formal but not too formal but also not too casual’ had left them more confused than anything else and sent Jinmay in a minor panic. It had only been when Chiro actually looked up the restaurant and saw it was a simple sit down, family restaurant; certainly more formal than their usual burger and fast food places and busy enough to have private party rooms, but nothing to warrant the evening wear dresses and suits Jinmay had been perusing.

“I know,” Jinmay reached for her glass of water, eyes glancing at the empty third seat, “I guess I’m just so nervous about messing up tonight. Slingshot put a lot of work behind this date.” 

Not to mention we’re still new to this, Chiro added in his thoughts. Before, he and Jinmay had been going stead for enough years that their relationship had reached a nice plateau. He knew that their allies joked about them being an old married couple, with their ordinary routine of shared lunches and quiet evenings of just cuddling. They didn’t care, as with the chaos and uncertainty of war, it was a stability they cherished as much as each other.

But war brought changes, in the form of Slingshot in this case. Both of them had plenty of opportunities on the battlefield to spend time with him, and it was in this field that the seeds of new affections took root. Chiro saw a blunt and snarky mouth that hide a genuine concern for his prototype brother, while Jinmay saw a robot who was struggling to adjust to living among organics after a lifetime with just machines and a floating brain, but still trying so hard to help them.

Maybe if they hadn’t been so established in their relationship, they would have let the attraction and guilt fester like rot in wood. Instead, they confessed and supported each other about their shared feelings towards the Prometheus robot. And maybe it would have been just that -a secret desire shared between the couple- if the Super Robot hadn’t ‘nudged’ them towards the fact that his ‘little brother’ felt the same way.

That had been one month ago when their duo became a trio. They had taken things slow, Slingshot letting the more experienced couple take the lead for now. Whenever time permitted, they spent moments hanging out and getting use to their new dynamic, of Slingshot getting use to them and Chiro and Jinmay getting use to him

Tonight wasn’t just a one month anniversary, or even their first dinner date. It was also the first time Slingshot had taken lead for a date, setting up everything from the time to the location.

Chiro reached across the table to entwine her hand with his. Jinmay quit biting her lip and took a deep breath. This was new for all of them, and all of them were nervous. Even Slingshot, usually so blunt in his speech, had been tripping over his words as he invited them.

The screen separating their room from the rest of the restaurant slide away as a young man who wasn’t dressed like a waiter stepped in.

“I’m sorry, but this is a private room,” Chiro said, getting a nagging feeling that something about him was familiar, “We have it reserved right now.”

The man gulped, hiding his eyes behind his black bangs and looking like he wanted his white turtleneck to swallow of him. “Chiro, Jinmay, it’s me.”

The two stared at him, slack jawed at the familiar, slightly mechanical voice. “Slingshot?”

He gulped again, nodding as he shut the screen behind him. “Um, happy one month anniversary?”

Chiro stood up from his chair, watching as Slingshot avoided their eyes. Once again the contrast from the robot who never hesitated or backed down was astounding. “Did Otto help you with this?”

“Yeah, said it was based off some cloaking technology the warrior from Arcadia gave him,” He looked down at them (because even disguised he still kept his height) and they saw that his eyes were the same blue color of his optics. He stretched out his arms so they could see all of him, “So what do you think?”

Their silence was deafening.

“You don’t like it, do you?” Slingshot withdrew his arms, crossing them over their chest. “I knew it, I look so stupid. This was stupid.”

“It’s not that you don’t look fine,” Jinmay blurted out. “You just look-”

“You look uncomfortable,” Chiro finished for her, “Slingshot, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to keep this up.”

“I just thought it would be easier for us if I could blend in better,” He admitted, “I’ve seen how the people stare at us.”

“Oh, Slingshot,” And then Jinmay was out of her seat and giving him a hug, “We’re heroes, of course people are going to stare at us. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah,” Chiro was soon standing next to them as well, “Hate to break it to you Slingshot, but we’re the source of the spotlight, not you.”

“Oh ha ha,” And there was a bit of that Slingshot spunk returning, “Guess I’ll need to show you up in some more battles then, monkey boy,”

Jinmay giggled at the return of the familiar back and forth of her two boyfriends, “You do that, as yourself Slingshot, and if you ever feel left out, I can I can always switch,” And then in a blink, Jinmay’s skin was replaced with the metal of her robot mode, “Just tell me because we never want to force you to be something you’re not.”

“It isn’t that. You two…make me want to try different things, to be more than what I was built as. I wasn’t meant to blend in with humans, but being with you, being in this city, made me want to try it out.” Slingshot sighed, “Guess that was a bust.”

“Yeah, and it is weird when you look like,” Chiro snapped his fingers in realization, “Doctor Takeuchi! That’s who you look like!”

“I didn’t know who else to model the human mode after,” Slingshot admitted as he deactivated the cloaking device and his human features and skin faded away, leaving his robot body in the white turtleneck and dress pants that he managed to wrangle over his bulky parts, “And as my creator I thought it made sense that me as a human would look like him.”

“Well, no disrespect to your creator, but I prefer you looking like this,” Jinmay slide over to take an arm and nuzzled it.

“And I have a thing for robots, remember,” Chiro purred like a Kathorian as he slide up to his other empty arm.

“Take it easy monkey boy, save it for after dinner,” Slingshot laughed as he turned to Jinmay, “And I like you in both of your modes, robot girl, so don’t change on my account.”

“If you say so Slingshot,’” And in another blink Jinmay had her human skin again, still cuddling into his side.

“And the human mode wasn’t the only upgrade Otto helped me with,” Slingshot looked from his girlfriend on one arm and boyfriend on the other before looking back at their table, “He adjusted my fuel processors so I can consume organic material like Jinmay. Might as well figure out what is so great about this ‘eating’ and ‘tasting’ thing you two are always going on about.”

“I think we can recommend a dish or two to try,” Chiro said as they of them finally took their seats at the table set for three.

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [6/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: In which baby gets a name, and Tim is a bit of an arrogant rich boy (and gets called on it).

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Technically, they can both leave.

It’s not as if they can take the baby from the hospital until the paternity test results officially come back. Which is probably a good thing, because Jason’s clearly going to need a little more time for all this to settle, judging by the way he’s sitting in front of the baby’s crib. He’s watching her like he’s waiting for a sign this is all hallucination.

If his brain doesn’t move past ‘reaction mode’ soon, there’s going to be a problem.

Especially since the longer they hang around the hospital, the more likely they are to attract attention, baby or not. Someone’s bound to notice Tim Drake-Wayne wandering about, and that’s usually enough to get Vicki Vale’s attention; she’s never really given up on trying to out him as Red Robin, even after a year of moving about on crutches.

Add an apparently secret relationship and baby to the mix...actually, that’s an important point.

“Short-term or long-term, we can’t just keep calling her ‘the baby’,” he points out, once more breaking the heavy silence while firing off a round of texts to his team.

‘Won’t be back for a few days. Maybe a week or so. Bat drama.’

“I’m not naming her,” Jason says immediately. “That’s how you get attached.”

“I think that only applies to pets,” Tim answers dryly. “Besides, legally, you can’t leave the hospital with her unless she has a name.”

“Legally, I’m dead and this whole situation shouldn’t be happening.” Jason scowls, and when Tim raises an eyebrow at him, he huffs in reluctant agreement. “Fine. Any ideas?”

“You’re asking me?”

He tries not to let his amazement show through the surprise. Tim can’t remember the last time—if ever—that Jason has sought his opinion on anything. He wishes this was a topic he knew more about, so he wasn’t floundering for an answer.

He spares a glance at his phone (Cassie has texted back, ‘when isn’t there bat drama?) and then offers, “We could call her…April. Since it’s, you know, April.”

“Fuck no,” is the immediate response. “That’s so cliché I’m ashamed of you. And considering everything I know about you, it takes a lot to do that.”

“Well, it’s nice to see your winning personality is making a comeback. Must be the shock finally wearing off.”

“There’s no wearing off when it comes to this kind of shock.”  

“Well, if you’re able to make snarky comments about name ideas, you’re not in enough shock to—”

He is interrupted by a sudden commotion outside the receiving room. It sounds like the nurse from earlier, arguing with someone—another woman, sounds like—and it’s getting louder and closer.

“—Ma’am, you can’t go in there—”

“Just watch me!”

“—it’s family only—”

“I am family, I don’t care what—”

“—already called security—”

Jason tenses immediately, hand reaching for the sidearm Tim’s been pretending he doesn’t know about, and Tim automatically puts himself between the baby and the door. The infant in question merely shifts and frowns in her sleep but doesn’t wake.

A second later, the door swings open—not hard enough to hit the stopper, thankfully—and an unknown woman enters, tailed by the frustrated looking nurse.

The stranger is petite and young, maybe late twenties or early thirties, and wears a hijab; her eyes are snapping with anger and desperation, fists clenched as she takes in the scene. When her attention falls upon Tim, she appears to startle, the way her ire falters, but it’s back in an instant.

“Why is he permitted to be here?” she demands of the nurse. There’s a hint of an accent in her words, familiar to him only because Damian has a similar way of speaking. She also seems to be overenunciating. “You let a stranger in here just because his family owns the hospital and half the city?”

“That’s really none of your business, ma’am if you could just—”

“No, I can’t just.”

“What’s going on here?” Tim asks coolly, motioning for the nurse to take a step back from the stranger. “And keep it down, the baby’s sleeping.”

Some of the wind is taken from the woman’s sails, eyes flicking to the crib. A fresh flicker of pain pinches her expression, and with an effort she meets Tim’s gaze.

“What’s going on here is that you are not the baby’s father and should not be here,” she replies, quieter but with no less venom. “You barely look old enough to shave, let alone father a child.”

Tim bristles, and there’s a snort that draws their attention, and they look at Jason, who has straightened up and is no longer reaching for his gun. “You’re right about that, at least. Not too sure about everything else.”

The stranger purses her lips, eyes roving over the larger man, and then crosses her arms. “You, however, are exactly her type. You are Jason then.”

What.

“You know me.”

“I know of you. That you existed. Isabel would mention you on occasion.”

Tim perks up at this; finally, they might be able to get some answers.

“You knew Isabel,” Jason says, all his attention on the woman. “Who are you?”

Tim’s already got his phone out, thumb hovering and ready to key in the woman’s information to assess her threat level. She looks like a civilian, but he’s had too many encounters with the League to leave this sort of thing to chance.

“My name is Safiya Amin. I am Isabel’s…I was Isabel’s friend” She swallows as if around a lump in her throat. “I live next door to her. And I’m the one who’s been there for her this whole time. I even drove her here while you, you deadbeat, were nowhere to be found.”

That’s directed at Jason, the woman’s anger returning. However, now that the surprise of her arrival is fading, it’s less intimidating. It has also, seemingly, roused Jason, who is glaring at her and taking a step away from the crib.

“I can’t exactly be around if I don’t know I’m supposed to be,” he snaps back as Tim’s search for the woman’s information starts up. “I’ve known about this for a grand total of two hours.”

The woman—Safiya—seems to have a retort on her tongue, but as his words sink in, she pauses, confused. There’s some rapid thinking going on behind her eyes, and then her lips part in realization.

“She didn’t tell you.”   

“No shit.”

The woman’s shoulders slump. “I told her she needed to tell you. That she shouldn’t be doing this on her own. I can only do so much and she… She told me she had, and that you weren’t interested.” She puts her hand to her forhead as if sensing a headache coming on. “That was five months ago. She refused to tell me the details, and I never brought it up again.”

“Months…” Jason repeats.

Several files are popping up on Tim’s phone screen, everything at a glance seemingly normal. Birth certificates, social security number, high school, and university diplomas.

No immediate threat, then, but it’s only an overview. Enough to get rid of our unwanted audience, at any rate.

“I think we have a lot to discuss,” Tim says politely. He turns to the nurse, and the two security guards that have manifested behind her, and frowns. “Is that completely necessary?”

“We weren’t sure if she meant harm,” one of the men mutters.

“Maybe if you’d taken the time to listen to her,” Tim replies icily. “If someone brings another chair for Ms. Amin, then I might not mention this to HR on my way out. There should be better protocols for this sort of thing, especially in a city like Gotham.”

The three staff members are quick to leave then.

Safiya gives him an unimpressed look. “'Might’? Is that how you run your hospital?”

“Technically it’s not my hospital, we just fund it. But I’ve already sent an email about it,” Tim replies, waving his phone.

“Can we get back to the important stuff?” Jason interjects. “Like how apparently Isabel went out of her way for me to not be involved, but somehow I’m still on the hook for an entire human being?”

As if to remind them that she’s there, the baby gives a piercing whine, her little face grimacing as she smacks her lips. Her eyes are still shut, but Tim’s not sure if that actually means she’s asleep or not.

All Safiya’s prickly demeanor vanishes, replaced with a look of such grief Tim finds himself losing any major doubt about her story.

You can’t fake a look like that.

The woman takes a step forward, and then pauses, glancing at Jason, before grudgingly asking, “Can I…?”

Jason’s eyes dart at Tim like he knows the checking up he’s been doing since Safiya showed up, and Tim nods. No actual threat here.

“Yeah, sure,” Jason says, and they watch her move over and pick up the infant with ease.

I wonder if it’s a woman thing, that they just inherently know how to do that.

Safiya holds the baby with care, and the anger fades from her again; tears well in her eyes now. “She is beautiful.”

Tim will take her word for it; all babies kind of look like wrinkled potatoes to him.

Safiya murmurs quietly to the infant, rocking her in her arms. No doubt she could stay here indefinitely doing that, but they don’t have time for that.

Jason appears to think the same, because he asks, “You were close to Isabel, then.”

“I’ve been friends with Isabel since she moved into the building,” Safiya agrees. “She is—was nice. One of the only people there that doesn’t look at me like I’m about to pull a bomb out of thin air.” She glowers at them as if expecting the same look from Tim or Jason, but when none comes, she continues, “We’re both used to keeping odd hours. Her flights come in at any time of day, and I’m a grad student at Gotham University.”

Tim half expects Safiya to keep hold of the baby as she sits, but something pained flickers across her face and she carefully places the infant back in the crib.

“I was there when she learned she was pregnant—or rather, when her boyfriend walked out because he figured out the child wasn’t his,” she says. “Once Isabel decided she was keeping the baby, I helped her out when I could. It’s a lot of work, getting ready for a baby.” She looks like she wants to glare at Jason again but holds back now that she knows it’s not his fault. “She only ever said you were a former passenger. And that she couldn’t take the stress that came with your lifestyle.” Safiya studies him as if that will give her a clue. “I assumed you were a mobster or something.”

This time it’s Tim who snorts.

That’s actually pretty close to the truth.

“And you still barged in here looking for a fight?” Jason asks.

“There aren’t many things left in life to scare me,” she dismisses, which is a bit puzzling. “I’ve been going with her to her birthing classes, and I drove her here when she went into labor. It happened so fast—she’d been having the false contractions for two days, but we thought that’s all it was. She wasn’t due for another two weeks.”

“Where were you when she…?” Tim trails off.

This time, Safiya does glare.

“I had to park the car. I dropped her off at the Emergency and they took her in a wheelchair. By the time I got back and found my way around this awful maze, she had already delivered. It was so fast…” She clenches her fists. “No one would tell me anything. I found a doctor, but he said there were…there were complications. That Isabel had passed.”

There’s a long beat of silence, grief evident on both Safiya’s face, as well as Jason’s.

“I asked after the baby,” Safiya says eventually. “I wanted to know if she was alright, and they said she was fine. In good health. I wanted to see her, and they said I wasn’t family. I could see her through the glass if I wanted, but that was it. And when I tried to see my friend, to say goodbye to her, they told me I had to wait. That the birth father had been contacted.”

Her eyes snap with anger again.

“Because apparently a man not even in her life has more rights to say what happens to my friend than I do. And every time I tried to speak to someone and explain the situation, they passed me off to someone else. They said someone would speak to me with information eventually, but that was hours ago. Apparently, there’s something about me that makes people nervous.”

Sarcasm drips from her words.

“That’s unacceptable,” Tim says. “I’ll look into it personally. If you can remember the names of the people who spoke to you, I can deal with it right away.”

She looks doubtful about this.

“How did you know we were in here?” Jason asks.

“I was watching her through the window, but then the nurse came and removed her. I heard them say the father was here, and so I followed. But then I saw you,” she concludes, indicating Tim, “and thought something wasn’t right. Why are you here?”

A question I’m still asking myself.

“I’m with him,” Tim replies, electing not to go into detail.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything to that.

“You said Isabel was preparing for this,” Jason says. “Was she…did she want to keep the baby?”  

“The baby has a name, you know.”

And that’s news.

“Which is?” Jason prompts.

“Isabel decided on Luisa,” Safiya informs them. “After her mother.”

Tim recalls the name from his earlier perusal of Isabel’s file, and that at least makes sense.

“Luisa,” Jason repeats, staring down at the baby.

“Would you happen to have contact information for her relatives?” Tim asks.

“She has none. No brothers or sisters and her parents died when she was young.”

Which is the same story Jason gave him.

“Of course,” Tim sighs. “Well, at least there’s some good news, she’s not entirely alone if she has you, Ms. Amin.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, hope causing him to perk up. “I mean, if you’re here to ask to take her, we could—”

“Hold on a minute,” she interrupts, holding a hand up. “I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions. I’m not—I can’t take her.”

“Why not?” Jason blurts.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Tim asks at the same time.

“I’m here to ensure my friend and her daughter are taken care of properly,” Safiya says, aggrieved. “If I could, I would take her in a heartbeat. But I have health conditions which make caring for an infant…difficult.”

“Health conditions,” he repeats, realizing he only skimmed her records quickly. An oversight, it seems. No matter. “Whatever your situation is, I would be willing to pay for help.”

Jason’s nodding along.

Safiya gives them both an unimpressed look. “It’s not about throwing money at the problem, Mr. Wayne. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Huntington’s five years ago.”

Tim’s heart sinks.

“Life expectancy for that is about ten years,” he says faintly.

No wonder she’s not scared of a potential mobster; she’s living with a death sentence.

Safiya nods. “I’ve been lucky, so far. It has not been aggressive and most of the time I’m still able to function. I can still drive, for example, though based on my last assessment I won’t be able to for much longer. But there are days I’m so fatigued, I can’t muster the energy to get out of bed. It’s true—assuming the courts get over their phobia of letting a single woman of color adopt—that I could take care of her, as long as I had help. But in a few years, I won’t be able to. And then there will be a small girl having to bury another mother. I would not wish that on any child.”

Both Jason and Tim flinch at that; they both know what that’s like.

“I told Isabel I would help however I could on my good days,” Safiya continues. “But I can’t commit to anything more than temporary care.”

Damn. There goes that option.

“Do you know anyone in her circle of friends who might do it?”

“She mentioned some friends more than others. I can give you their names and find you their contact information, but to be honest, outside of our friendship, we didn’t move in the same circles. I only just met a few of them when she had her baby shower last month.”

“She had a baby shower,” Jason repeats, strained. “She really was planning for all of this.”

“Yes,” Safiya confirms and then grows sad. “She was not planning for death. I don’t think she even had funeral plans.” She hesitates. “I would like to make sure her body is treated properly, but the staff here…”

“I’ll make sure they don’t give you any more trouble,” Tim promises. “Out of anyone here, you probably know what she’d want more than we would.”

Safiya purses her lips like she’s holding back saying something, and then tilts her head to consider Jason. “What do you intend to do with Luisa?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“That’s the question of the day,” he replies wearily.

Next Chapter

______________________________________________________________

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

[galfridus1]

Geldris Week Day 2: Holy War

For the rest of this week I’ll be publishing the remaining chapters of my fic The Call Of Duty, the first two chapters of which can be found on AO3. In the first two parts, Zeldris and Gelda go on a date and then meet some months later at a ball in Edinburgh, where Zeldris fights Gelda’s fiancé, before learning that she does not want the marriage to go ahead. Here is chapter 3 where Zeldris gets to practice his skills as an orator and the demons make a move to secure victory in the Holy War.

The throne room was dark, the only light seeping from the few torches that dotted the walls, their blue flames casting most of the vast space into a deep shadow. Zeldris stood his ground, unintimidated. The vampire king was evidently trying to unnerve him. Izraf was sitting on the throne, his hands curled into fists atop of armrests fashioned from skulls. Tasteless he thought, but made sure his disgust did not show on his features. He had attacked the princess’ fiancé, in the vampires’ own kingdom and he was likely in for a significant dressing down. It would be a miracle to keep it from Meliodas’s ears.

Still, he stood his ground as the vampire king narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting up a touch at the corners. “Your little display was very interesting,” Izraf mused, “and unorthodox certainly.”

“I apologise for my outburst,” replied the demon stiffly. “I considered the conduct I witnessed to be unconscionably degrading towards the princess, but I accept that it was an internal matter. It was not my place to intervene.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologise, it was most entertaining!” Izraf leaned a little forward in his seat as Zeldris sucked in a sharp breath. “But what I want to know is this. Why did you do it? What does my daughter mean to you, exactly?”

[[MORE]]

Zeldris felt his blood run cold. He hated to lie, the idea of doing so leaving a taste of cotton in his mouth, but he could not say anything that might cause Gelda harm. The silence stretched on, Izraf’s smirk morphing to a leer as he looked down at the demon from his place on the throne, lightly drumming his fingers on the armrests in a way that very clearly marked the passage of time. “I choose not to answer that question,” Zeldris finally stated, feeling heat on the back of his neck.

Izraf let forth a loud guffaw, the sound echoing in waves off the dark, stone walls. “That tells me all I want to know. Not that I needed your verbal confirmation. I can tell you’re in love with her. Don’t try to deny it, I recognise the symptoms. You are not the first to look at my daughter with ardent eyes.”

Hearts skipping their beats, Zeldris took several breaths, trying to determine how best to respond. “Even if your observation was correct, it makes no difference,” he finally muttered. “Gelda is engaged…”

“Oh no she’s not, not in a binding way at least,” Izraf boomed heartily. “I’ve not sent a dowry to the Transylvanians yet. According to our customs, until the agreed dowry is received by the groom’s party, the engagement is nothing more than a verbal agreement. Easily made, easily broken.”

The assault of raw emotion was completely unexpected; hope and excitement bloomed within him, making his chest ache, before being dampened almost immediately by overpowering doubt. Zeldris looked hard at the king, trying to scrutinise his rather jovial expression. It was as if he were seeing the pieces move on a board but had no way of discerning their strategy. “I... do not understand,” he eventually murmured.

“Then I will make myself plain,” Izraf declared. “If Gelda prefers your suit over that of Karayan, I am not minded to stand in her way. You are, after all, the third son of our most powerful ally. I would have preferred Meliodas,” the King mused, and Zeldris felt his teeth grind hard together, “but you are a perfectly acceptable alternative. Indeed, you proved as much when you won your fight.”

“So that is why you allowed it.” Zeldris’s pressed his lips together as the events of the previous evening suddenly shifted into focus. “You wanted me to challenge that vampire.”

Izraf shrugged his shoulders, then relaxed back in his chair. “I’m pleased to see you’re not totally devoid of intelligence. I’d hoped Gelda had managed to attract Meliodas’s eye when we were in the demon realm and that this engagement would flush any feelings he had for her out of the woodwork. No harm if he didn’t of course, but a bit of me hoped he’d try and assert a claim. For all his cold blood, he’s well known for being impetuous. You on the other hand are supposed to be a study in control, is that not so? The fact you’ve shown your cards so plainly is proof enough of the depth of your feeling. Well, that’s good enough for me, as is your position as one of the most powerful of your clan, and a member of the demon royal family. You’re clearly a better specimen than Gelda’s current betrothed.”

Zeldris had to swallow hard to keep the rage off his features. He had been used, manipulated. Had Gelda too been in on this plot? Perhaps the tenderness she had so recently shown him was all part of the same ruse. “I am no one’s pawn,” he hissed as anger curdled in the pit of his stomach.

“Understood.” Izraf was not quite able to keep the smirk off his face. “But there’s no need for hostility. The choice is yours,” he added as he spread out his hands before him. “I am merely suggesting that if you ask for permission to court the princess, I’ll listen to you with an open mind. And before you decide, I can tell you the dowry attached to her is… significant.” Zeldris watched as Izraf nodded sagely. “I think you’ll find it’s sufficient to finance your clan’s military plans. And you need the money,” Izraf added darkly. “There’s no reason for you demons to have forged an alliance with me unless it was for the tribute.”

Zeldris folded his arms across his chest. The vampire king was more astute than he looked; the alliance between their clans had indeed been motivated by money. To get access to more would do his own standing at court no harm at all. “I will even increase Gelda’s dowry from the amount I planned,” Izraf said carefully, and Zeldris realised his thoughts must have shown on his features. “Recognition of your superior situation. But, in return, I must ask that you give me an answer now. I cannot keep the Transylvanians waiting.”

He should say no. Zeldris knew he should say no, but it was hard to ignore the way his hearts pounded in his chest. Visions of the future, their future, flashed through his brain: her golden head resting on his shoulder as the two of them gazed out over a starlit Britannia, his arm pulling her close as they whispered love to one another. His throat tightened, and he tried to swallow, stomach turning as the vampire king chuckled.

“I…” Zeldris began. But before he could give voice to the jumble of thoughts he was trying to make sense of, muffled voices percolated through from outside the throne room, followed by a loud creak as the great doors swung open.

“Your Majesty,” a servant stuttered and Zeldris felt his hearts lurch as he spied Gelda approaching, her long braid swinging gracefully with her movement. She was even lovelier than he remembered, her face a little flushed and her lips parted. The world spun on its axis as he drank her in, the brief exchange between the servant and king going completely unnoticed as he watched her walk towards him, eyes locked in his. The doubts he had entertained were gone in an instant, his resolve firm as he turned back to face the dais.

“I ask for your permission, Your Majesty.” Zeldris felt his ears burn red, but was pleased to have kept the threatened tremor out of his voice. “If Princess Gelda permits, I would be glad of the opportunity to court her.” He sensed the princess still her approach, hearing her gasp, but he kept his eyes resolutely on the king. “If the princess is in agreement, I will have to gain the consent of my own clan, of course. But I will not proceed unless she is happy with the arrangement,” he said firmly as Izraf smiled beatifically.

“And what do you say, Gelda?” Izraf asked, the words sound casual but Zeldris could hear the bite behind them.

Gelda took several paces forward until she was standing at his side, and he could see the look of anguish etched on her features. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This is a mess and…”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Zeldris murmured. He reached out, tentatively taking her hands in his own, relief flowing through him when Gelda did not draw back. “I am well aware that we have both been used, and yes, I wish it could have been otherwise. But this is what we both want, is it not? It is what I want at any rate. I promise.”

He felt her pause, before her fingers interlaced with his. “I want it too,” she said softly.

“That’s all settled then!” Izraf pushed himself to his feet and stepped down from the dais to loom over the couple. “I am delighted to give you my blessing. You had better go make it happen,” he added quietly to Zeldris, the demon giving a nod in return.

***

It was as if he were walking on cloud, his feet barely touching the floor as they passed through the throne room. Gelda’s arm was looped round his own, and he could feel the warmth of her body pressed to his side. He swallowed hard, wondering if he should break the spell; they had much to discuss but the moment he opened his mouth he knew their moment of peace would be over.

In the end it was Gelda who was the first to speak. “The Transylvanians are gone,” she said softly, her voice little more than a whisper and he could hear the melancholy in her sonorous tone. “When I made that discovery I came to find you, to warn you there was some sort of trap. I… I think my father must have planned this all along.”

Zeldris sighed, then turned her to face him, running his hands up and down her arms. They were standing in one of the grander hallways, large, colourful tapestries hanging like banners on the walls. Judging by the light streaming through the stained glass windows the day was now firmly established, and the castle was quiet, only their voices echoing through the space. “I had divined as much before you arrived, and I meant what I said. Assuming I can somehow persuade my family to agree.”

“Do you think they’ll object?” asked Gelda.

Zeldris bit his lip, lifting his shoulders a little. “Possibly. The dowry will help. As long as that is a solid promise…”

“It is,” Gelda said, her eyes snapping to his. “The amount was set aside in the treasury. I was surprised it hadn’t been sent, but I assumed Karayan’s family wanted to inspect it or something. Please believe me, I never dreamed my father had an ulterior motive.”

“I know.” Zeldris felt Gelda’s lips press to the corner of his mouth, the scent of roses and the feel of her hair against his cheek pulling him back to the dark hills of Edinburgh. “I love you,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, never wanting to let her go. But before she could respond, there was a sudden rush of wind, shadow passing over them as the windows went black and a menacing power pushed through the air. “Stay back,” Zeldris barked as he moved Gelda behind him, drawing his sword with a harsh grate as a louring presence strode into the hallway.

“Well hello little brother.” The sneer on Meliodas’s face was enough to make his blood boil. “Cusack told me you needed a rescue. Something about how you were making a fool of yourself. Usually he’s full of so much hot air but this time I see his panic was justified. What the hell is going on?” Meliodas looked Gelda up and down, his eyes bright with dark flame.

Zeldris stood more firmly in front of Gelda, placing himself between her and his brother. “This is none of your concern,” he barked. “As it happens I was about to return home. I have something I wish to speak to father about.”

“So it’s true.” Meliodas took several paces forward, his power cracking like lightning. Zeldris could taste the electricity on the air, feel the hairs stand on the back of his neck. “You’ve been tricked into proposing marriage… to her.”

“This is no trick,” Zeldris said calmly, though he sensed Gelda fidget behind him. “It is a straightforward arrangement to our clans’ mutual benefit, one princess Gelda and I both wish to enter into. I was on my way to tell father the good news. The vampires have promised a dowry large enough for him to find useful.”

“You are a fool!” Meliodas snapped. “I suppose you are aware that she tried to ensnare me first,” he remarked, lip curled to a sneer. “I was wise enough to stay clear, for all her title is The Thousand Temptations...”

Zeldris held up a hand to stem the flow. “You would do well to watch your tongue,” he managed to rasp out through clenched teeth. He realised his sword was still in his hand, and he could feel himself ready to spring, however reckless such a move would be. It was with some effort that he left his feet planted firmly on the floor. “When our father agrees to the match, as I am confident he will, you will regret you have spoken of my betrothed in such an uncouth way.”

“You always were such an ass,” Meliodas said with a sigh. “But I never had you pegged for an idiot as well. This is folly,” he scolded as he crossed his arms over his chest, his scowl directed firmly at Gelda. “Love is no more than a pathetic emotion, an illusion that ensnares your mind and makes you weak. And you are not weak,” he added with a low hiss. “You have the potential to be one of our most accomplished warriors. One of the best we have ever cultivated. And you would throw it all away for some slip of a girl?”

The blow was hard. Zeldris inhaled a cool breath as he struggled to maintain his composure. “This is what you have trained for your whole life,” Meliodas said more gently, taking a few steps forward and moving the sword Zeldris pointed in his direction away with his hand. “You are close to succeeding. Do not give up now.”

“I will not be giving up,” Zeldris muttered, though the drop of his stomach robbed his words of the full force of conviction. “Zeldris…” Gelda murmured behind him, but he cut her off with a snarl. “This union will give our clan victory. That is what my duty is, is it not? To bring us success in this damned war. There are more ways of achieving that than the bloodlust you revel in. Unlike you, I have fought because it is my task, not my pleasure. And where has it got us? A spiral of eternal conflict with no hope of an end. The vampires’ wealth will give us surety of victory. So tell me this, Meliodas, when history is written by the survivors of our clan, which of us do you think will be judged more harshly?”

The laugh that followed was a familiar sound. “You should give up oration, it doesn’t suit you,” Meliodas said with a grin. “But very well, more glory for me, I suppose. I will support this… whatever you chose you label this nonsense. Estarossa can take your place at court.”

Before Zeldris could reply, Meliodas pulled the strands of darkness that had bled from his form back into his body with a snap. “I will sort things out for you with the king,” his brother said brusquely. “He will agree to this arrangement if I give it my backing. But I will need to take the dowry now,” he added, glaring at Gelda as he spoke. “His Majesty will need proof of its worth before he consents.”

“Are you sure, Zeldris?” Gelda’s voice sounded choked, piercing his hearts. “You… we don’t have to go through with this is it’s not what you want. Once the dowry is sent there’s no going back…”

“Then send it.” With a last look of disdain in Meliodas’s direction, Zeldris turned to face her. Doubt swirled through him, but the nagging sensation subsided as he smoothed his hand over her porcelain cheek. “Now you see you are being used as much as me,” he said flatly. “We spoke about this the first time we met, remember? How neither of us will ever have freedom. But I choose you,” he added as his eyes locked onto hers. “I said I love you, and I mean it. I will do my best to make you happy.”

Gelda swallowed, her throat moving as she nodded. Looking over Zeldris’s shoulder she addressed Meliodas, her voice full of authority. “Your Grace, if you seek an audience with my father he will make arrangements for the dowry to be sent with you. You will want a convoy for its secure transport. It is permitted by our customs for an inspection to take place, but if the dowry is not returned by sundown tomorrow, it will be assumed that your clan have consented to the match. Once that has occurred, the engagement is binding by law.”

“You do not need to lecture me, Princess Gelda, I am more than aware of the customs of your clan.” Meliodas narrowed his eyes, then grinned. “He’ll say yes alright,” he added loftily and Zeldris felt a strong urge to kick his brother in the teeth. “He always gives me what I want.” With that, Meliodas strode through the corridor, retracing the steps Zeldris and Gelda had made from the throne room. “Gods forbid I should ever make such an exhibition of myself, it is totally degrading,” he said with a chuckle before, finally, leaving the couple alone.

[thedeevirus]

If you’re still recieving Nygmobblepot requests may I request something: Edward helping Oswald get over a breakup with Gordon?

Hi there!

Much as I love the idea of Oswald with a dog, I much prefer the idea of Oswald having his birds like his comic counterpart. So in this little story, Ed gives him his first one to cheer him up :)

Hope you enjoy!

****

‘Come in’.

Ed’s eyes narrowed at the choked sound of Oswald’s voice. Bracinghimself for whatever state Oswald would be in and tightening his grip on thegift he had brought him, Ed opened the office door.

 Oswald was standing with his back to Ed, gazing out of the window. Fromthe back he seemed the picture of quiet composure. The detritus littering thedesk told a different story.

Boxes of Kleenex, a mirror, a snapped eyeliner pencil, no less than fivedifferent tubs of ice cream, each one sampled-

‘Ed?’

Oswald’s voice interrupted Ed’s analysis. As he directed his gaze to hisfriend, his brain automatically connected the evidence on the desk to Oswald’sphysical appearance. Limp hair, reddened eyes, a single telltale streak of ruinedmakeup on one cheek and a plain, grey suit all added up to an utterly deflated,diluted Penguin.

‘It’s been a while’, Oswald said in a tone of careful neutrality, ‘Whatare you doing here?’

Ed held up the package in demonstration, careful not to agitate itsconcealed contents.

‘What you say, I repeat, sometimes in your voice and am known as acutthroat’s companion of choice, what am I?’ Ed pronounced.

Oswald rubbed the bridge of his nose as he sat down at the desk again.He sat slowly and Ed realised his leg must be hurting again. It usually didwhen Oswald was stressed.

‘I don’t mean to be rude Ed but can the riddles wait? I’m in the middleof…something here’.

‘Looks like you’re in the middle of several things’, Ed said, placing hisparcel carefully down on the desk.He picked up a tub of ‘cookies and cream’ and noted how half of it wasmissing.‘All forming a downward spiral by the looks of it’, Ed concluded.

‘I couldn’t pick so I’m just trying each one’, Oswald shrugged, stirringhis currently selected flavour (mint chocolate chip) with a spoon.

Oswald went quiet and Ed nodded, signalling he didn’t need to elaborate.Oswald, as if to distract himself, picked up the mirror and examined his eyescritically.

‘So…do you give up?’ Ed asked, sitting down to face Oswald, decidingawkwardness was more productive than silence.

‘On the riddle or keeping my eyeliner intact?’ Oswald said, shaking hishead at his reflection, ‘Because I’m swiftly losing patience with the latter’.

Ed pulled the sheet off the cage. A parrot with pale plumage save forits red tail feathers regarded them both curiously, head tilted as it chitteredto itself. Ed opened the cage door and stroked the parrot.

‘It’s a parrot’, Ed said, answering his own riddle.

‘I can see that’, Oswald said, surprise breaking through his subdued demeanourlike the sun through clouds, ‘Why is there a parrot in my office?’

‘I thought you could use some cheering up’, Ed offered.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’, Oswald said, eyes dartingaway, ‘I’m fine’.

He reached for the spoon again.

‘Ice cream’s not going to fill that ache you know’, Ed interjected.

‘What would you know about how I feel?!’ Oswald suddenly snapped, throwing thespoon down.

As it clanked against the hard wooden floor and the parrot gave areproachful caw at the noise, Oswald caught himself. He forced himself to meetEd’s stricken face. Of course, Ed knew what it was like to feel heartache. Itdisgusted Oswald that he had forgotten that.

‘I’m so sorry Ed’, Oswald said, ‘I didn’t mean-‘

‘It’s okay’, Ed said, his smile brittle, yet forgiving, ‘We’re bothtougher than we look’.

Ed’s kindness finally brought Oswald’s defenses crashing down. He was tootired to care if Ed had planned such an insidious tactic in advance. He always seemed to know just what to say to coax him. To help draw the poison out.

‘How did you find out?’ Oswald asked.

‘I have my ways’, Ed said but then added reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry Istopped the gossip trail at its source. Permanently’.

But Oswald didn’t seem to hear him. He was just staring at the parrot asit preened itself. Ed knew he wasn’t really seeing it.

‘You know what’s funny?’ he said, ‘I knew this would happen. I tried sohard to think of it as just a fling. I knew Jim would walk away and I’d end upalone. But I let him get close anyway. Jumped every time he called. Let him dowhat he wanted. And for a while it felt wonderful. Just to feel…’

He swallowed hard and inhaled deeply. Ed tactfully ignored the tearsfalling onto the mahogany of the desk, tainting the exposed ice cream withsalt.

‘Wanted’, Ed finished for him.

Oswald gave a hoarse sounding, bitter laugh before savagely scrunchingup a Kleenex and jabbing it into his eyes. Ed held the box up for Oswald as hetook another and blew his nose loudly.

‘You probably won’t understand this but I hate being right’, Oswaldsaid, throwing the tissues away.His smile was poisonous and showed too many teeth.‘See? I told you it was funny’.

‘I don’t think it’s funny’, Ed said truthfully.

‘I suppose riddles are your forte not jokes’.

They sat in silence for a moment. The parrot, noticing the tissues,pulled one out and began to play with it, flicking it back and forth like amatador waving a red cape.

‘One thing I don’t understand is, why Jim Gordon?’ Ed asked carefully, ‘Weboth know you can do better’.

‘Honestly, I don’t know’, Oswald sighed leaning his chin on his palm, ‘Maybebecause every time he called me for one of our little rendezvous it felt likeI’d won something. Like I was proving something to him but in the end, all Iwas doing was fooling myself’.

‘Proving what?’

‘That he’s just like us but he’s just too proud to admit it?’

‘More like too stupid to realise it’.

Ed was rewarded with a genuine chuckle from Oswald.

‘I liked dragging him down with me’, he admitted, ‘Pretended I wasgathering ammunition’.

‘But you’ve decided you won’t use it’.

Oswald shook his head.

‘That’s very noble of you’, Ed observed even as he felt rage bubble insidehim at the thought that Jim Gordon would never know what kind of person Oswaldtruly was.How could the ignoramus ever understand a complex person like that? Whenall he saw was black and white and ideals packed in neat, restrictive boxes.

‘Nothing to do with nobility’, Oswald said, ‘I just know it wouldn’thurt him’.

‘It won’t hurt you forever either’, Ed said comfortingly.

‘You really do know everything don’t you?’ Oswald joked weakly.

‘I just know a thing or two about Penguins’, Ed said.

‘Speaking of which’, Oswald said, gesturing towards the parrot, ‘What kindof parrot is he? Apart from a grey one’.

‘No, you’re absolutely right: his species is a grey parrot. Dexterous,friendly, attractive plumage, highly intelligent-‘

‘Sounds familiar’, Oswald interjected, raising an eyebrow.

‘And talkative’, Ed said, accepting the compliment.

‘What does he say?’

‘Depends on what you say. Forexample’, Ed said and scrunched up his face, ‘Jim Gordon’.

The parrot made a retching noise and held a dramatic wing up to cover its face.Oswald burst out laughing and Ed felt a surge of triumph.

‘How do I look?’ Ed asked, spreading his arms.

The parrot whistled appreciatively and Ed pointed at Oswald.

‘How does Oswald look?’ he asked.

‘I love you Oswald’, the parrot said without skipping a beat.

Ed felt as if his heart had stopped. The damn bird had even said it in aclose approximation of his voice. Ed maintained enough presence of mind to bethankful the bird had been unable to replicate the tone in which he usuallyuttered those words: which was always in a private erotic scenario. Never toOswald’s face.

‘That’s uh not right’, he said weakly but Oswald seemed oblivious to hisdiscomfort.

‘I am both impressed and flattered’, Oswald laughed, ‘How long did it take you to train himto say that?’

Ed shrugged offhandedly, keen to show that it was just a joke. That was all. Nothing else.

‘I-uh I did have to repeat it quite a few times before he caught on’, Edsaid, adjusting his glasses, ’He’s smart, a great bird, but he can be a-‘

Ed cleared his throat, cautious of revealing too much in his attempt to coverhis embarrassment before continuing: ‘…slow learner’.

‘More like tooclever for his own good’, Ed thought but felt the beginnings of relief as Oswald began to stroke the parrot’shead, obviously warming to the creature.

‘I think he and I are going to get along swimmingly’, Oswald said, ‘What’shis name?’

‘Scraps. Speaking of which, I’m going to order some Chinese takeout for us’.

Ed picked up an empty tub of ice cream and threw it in the wastebasket demonstrably.

‘If you’ve had enough ice cream’, he said impishly.

Oswald nodded: ‘Yes please’.

Ed nodded and began to dial on his phone. As it began to ring, he turnedto leave the office, permitting Oswald some bonding time with his new pet.

‘Thank you Ed’, Oswald said as Ed opened the door, ‘You’re a true friend’.

‘You’re welcome’, Ed said without turning around.

Oswald smiled at Ed’s back as he heard ‘I love you Oswald’ once again.

‘Ha! He said it again Ed! You didn’t even have to…’

He trailed off as he noticed the parrot was busying itself by playingwith an ice cream lid, its mouth too full to speak.

‘….signal’, Oswald finished quietly, shock flooding his system as thedoor closed and he realised who had truly spoken.

He clasped a hand over his mouth as fresh tears brewed in his eyes. Unlikethose he had shed for Jim, which had made his chest tighten as if he was drowning,these made him feel lighter than air.

‘I am a slow learner aren’t I?’ he laughed, feeling his heart begin torace.

 The parrot whistled in avian, affirmative reply.