#bringing this drawing to a ‘finished’ state is slipping away from me like oil

[petchypeach]

Gotta love Akatsuki Records for reminding me what a banger her song is ❤️

This is a really rough WIP I was messing around with. Trying to see if a different drawing process might work better for me.

At this point I honestly don’t think I’ll “finish” it anymore. I just don’t feel like polishing it up to my final standards. It’s roughness gives it a certain charm anyway I think.

[dreamingofscully]

Surely, to the sea (6/7)

read on ao3 - chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5

Rated: T Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Horror, Established Relationship

Playlists: Spotify, Youtube.  

@today-in-fic

CHAPTER 6

For the third time, Scully found herself standing in the hallway outside Boyle’s room. She couldn’t remember walking over here, or why she’d done it. In her hands, she held the empty glass vials that she was supposed to be using to collect samples. Water and scrapings of dust and mold from the cellar.

Shaking herself as if from a trance, she returned to the living room. Placing the vials on the table, she sunk back onto the couch. She didn’t trust herself to move. But did it matter? Would she find herself, once more, waiting outside Boyle’s room, or entering it by herself? Leaning forward, she wiped her hand on her face and waited for Mulder to return.

It wasn’t much longer. He crashed through the front door like a kid who’d finished playing with his friends, bringing his frenetic energy into this God-forsaken house.

“Hey, Scully. I couldn’t find any more symbols etched outside, though I don’t think that means we’re on the wrong track. It really is a strange thing to be outside in complete silence, almost drove me a little batty. Did you find anyth–”

She peered up at him, his eyes filled with concern. He approached and she gave him a wan smile.

“You okay, honey?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Mulder. I feel something… pulling on me. Like last night. Towards Boyle’s room. I don’t… I don’t trust myself.”

Mulder looked over his shoulder, noticing the empty vials and other tools lying haphazardly on the table. Kneeling in front of her, he wrapped her hands in his large, warm ones.

“Do you have a sense of what’s pulling you? An image or a name?”

She scoffed. “No, Mulder. I-It’s probably just my imagination. I didn’t sleep well, and…” She trailed off, catching his look. “I don’t know what this is.”

Everything that happened last night felt insignificant. She could handle strange noises, lights. Even the smell and the mucus. But not knowing what was happening to herself? Feeling out of control in her own body? What if this was how things were, now? She was terrified she was losing herself. That she was forever changed. That the woman who stood next to Mulder and fought the darkness was forever lost.

Mulder squeezed her hands. “Let’s talk to Boyle. Insist upon it. Or we leave.”

“Mulder.”

He stood and held out his hand. “Let’s get you some answers.”

She exhaled, wiping her hands on her slacks. Stood next to him.

He watched her as they maneuvered through the main floor, drawing the curtains closed. With each window blocked off, the house returned to its normal state. Shadowy darkness and warm lamplight. A return to Boyle’s present and his reliance on the tools of the past to survive.

All of their equipment was packed away except for three things: the camera that swung around Mulder’s neck, his Buck 119 knife sheathed at his waist, and the large flashlight that she’d wielded last night. The lingering graze of his fingers across the back of her hand was his only acknowledgment of their earlier conversation. It would take constant work to avoid slipping into the habit of putting up a brave face. Trying to fool herself, and therefore Mulder, that things would be fine if only she could withstand the storm just a little bit longer.

“Now or never,” she said.

They left the aura of the flickering oil lamp, moving down the hallway towards Boyle’s room.

At his door, Mulder rapped his knuckle against the wood. Only yesterday they arrived at his house, waited at his front door. And like last time, like last night, there was no response.

Mulder turned the knob and the door creaked open.

“Boyle?” he called.

Nothing.

Mulder looked at her, his lips pressed together, and though most of his face lay in shadow, she saw the same concern she felt etched upon it. Were they too late? Silence hung heavy in the air, surrounding them as surely as the darkness and sweltering heat.

“Boyle?” Mulder raised his voice. “We just need to ask you a few quest--”

The beam of light swept across the bedroom, catching on the weighty four-poster bed shoved into the center of the room. She doubted Mulder could have moved it more than a few inches, so how had Boyle managed it? The rug that laid underneath was pushed aside, its soft ridges curved around thick posts.

A sharp pain struck her between and behind her eyes. Squeezing them shut, she drew her brows together and held her fingers at her temple. Felt the throb of her pulse.

Mulder’s hand was on her arm, steadying her.

“Scully…”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

When she opened her eyes, she saw it. Instead of the crumpled rug, something else was strangling the bedposts. Monstrous tentacles as thick as Mulder’s thigh, trembling like a great cat about to pounce. Underneath its slippery, translucent skin, a thick vein rippled. Following the movement, a wave of glowing green washed through the creature, lighting the room a sickly green.

They… no, it beckoned to her. An icy fist enclosing her heart. Somehow, she found the strength to take a step backwards. Expelling her breath like she’d been punched to the gut, she felt as if she’d lost something in the struggle. She’d resisted, but at what cost?

She turned away and muttered a quick prayer, but when she looked back, it was gone. In its place was the same wrinkled medallion-patterned rug that was there earlier. That had always been there? Bouncing the light around the room, she searched for something that wasn’t there. Nothing she could see, but the picture remained, burned into her retinas like an afterimage.

Mulder’s hand warmed her back. His eyes were gentle, patient. Watching her instead of searching the room.

“Talk to me, Scully.”

“Th-there was something under the bed. I don’t know if it was really there, or if--”

Drip… drip… drip…

Mulder whipped his head towards the room. He’d heard that, at least. But what was worse: that the apparition was real, or that it wasn’t?

Suddenly, he slipped from her grasp. With three long strides into the room, he reached the other side of the bed. Without thinking, she stumbled after him, avoiding the coiled rug. Did she move to be next to him or was something else responsible? At his side, she grabbed onto his arm for balance.

Beneath them, right where the bed once stood, was a hole that extended through the floor and into darkness. The floorboards had been removed, the edges jagged as though they’d been ripped instead of cut. It was roughly three feet in diameter, wide enough for one person to descend at a time.

Mulder knelt down and touched the edge, then yanked his hand away. The same mucus from last night glistened on his fingers. Grimacing, he wiped it with a handkerchief he kept in his back pocket before peering down into the pit. The walls were uneven, but a strange pattern ran through the soil and clay, something that pricked at the edge of her mind.

“Someone dug this with their hands, Scully.”

The pattern coalesced. Lines of four for fingers and fifth for the thumb.

“Not someone,” she breathed. Boyle.

“Tell me what you saw,” he said, peering up at her.

He didn’t demand an answer, but he deserved one.

“There was… I-I think I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not,” Mulder stood, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck. “I believe you, Scully.”

She huffed. “You’d believe it if Samantha claimed she saw a Sasquatch on her camping trip.”

“Did she?” He raised his eyebrows.

She smiled halfheartedly, her fear coiling in her gut like a snake.

“There’s things in those books I’ve been reading. Creatures from other worlds. These rituals… they’re meant to summon them.” He watched her with trepidation instead of his usual enthusiasm. She missed it. “That could be their motivation, Scully. They feed on Boyle, on his misery, on the wildlife around here. They want to summon something.”

“I guess they’ve succeeded?”

Mulder glanced at the hole, at the finger-marks. “There’s something we’re missing.”

“Then let’s find out.”

He turned to her, searching her eyes. She met them, not trying to hide her fear behind a veneer of false bravado. What would be the point? He kissed her forehead. After securing the camera, he began his slow descent down the crudely carved steps.

She followed his progress with the flashlight as he climbed into the murky darkness, although the shadows seemed to strangle the light and she couldn’t see the bottom. Worried he’d vanish from her sight, she was relieved when he stopped about ten feet down and looked up at her. Then his head disappeared from view.

“Ahh, fuck!” he shouted.

“You okay?” Her heart hammered in her chest. “Mulder?!”

He appeared again, his face twisted in disgust rather than pain. He stripped down to his undershirt, using his button-down to wipe the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Some of that… goo… dripped on me. Just avoid the right side.”

She exhaled.

“C’mere, Scully, I got you.” He reached upwards, arms bare and a cheeky grin spread across his face.

She tossed him the flashlight, taking a deep breath before following him down. The combination of crumbling steps and kitten heels forced her to move a lot slower than Mulder, but at least she knew he would catch her if she fell. The warmth of his hand against her leg and then her back steadied her during her descent.

“I should have worn different shoes,” she said as she hit the bottom.

“Did you bring any?”

“Well, no.”

Mulder chuckled, and guided her by her shoulder to one side of the cavern. The flashlight couldn’t penetrate farther than five or so feet, scattering against dirt walls. Ahead of them, an ovoid tunnel about six feet high and no wider than three or four feet in diameter stretched out into the dark. She eyed the walls with trepidation, wondering at its stability. The ground was well-worn, though. And the geology in this area would be conducive to something that would be resistant to collapse.

And she just knew. Whatever the nature of its construction, the danger lie ahead of them, not above.

The creature’s pull was stronger down here, like this passage gave it strength. An escalating pulse that beckoned her forward, tying her stomach in knots. Somehow she knew how far it was down the cramped tunnel - roughly a mile. West, she surmised. To what?

“Towards the river,” Mulder whispered, their minds working in unison. “Wonder how far this goes.”

“Far,” she said.

“It must have taken him years,” Mulder said, awed. Eyes fixed forward and barely visible in the low-light.

“This is impossible, Mulder…“ Her fear settled somewhere in the back of her mind as she made rough calculations in her head. “Not even taking into account the time it would take to remove the displaced soil, of which there is no evidence, someone working 24 hours a day in ideal conditions would take at least 3 years to complete this tunnel.”

“Is this the right time to tell you I’m extremely turned on?”

She ignored him, stepping carefully on the uneven ground. “Mulder, it is physically impossible for Boyle to have done it. Someone must have started on the other side…”

“All the marks go in one direction, Scully. No, he did it. I can’t explain it. But maybe…” She glanced upwards, catching Mulder’s grimace. “Maybe he ate it?”

“Mulder.”

“No, no, think about it. If these creatures' sole purpose is to consume… what’s left after all the wildlife is gone? Cthonians are earth-dwellers. Maybe they consume the soil as they burrow.”

“I thought we were talking about Boyle.”

“You saw how he kept sucking on his fingers. Maybe… maybe they use him as a vessel. It works through him. Gives him supernatural strength as well as other gifts.”

Scully huffed. “I don’t know if he’d call them gifts.”

“Either way, I don’t think Eisenhower will be able to utilize this method for his highway project.”

They continued in silence, the awe of witnessing such a construction fading as they progressed into the darkness. Behind her, Mulder directed the flashlight downwards so they could avoid falling over rocks and loose soil. Their pursuit encompassed the bubble of light five feet around them, like they were standing still. The tunnel pressed down upon them, entombing them in dirt and darkness, and an eerie silence just as suffocating. What drove her forward, and therefore both of them, was that instinctive feeling inside of her, the thrum that pulled her inevitably towards the creature. Step by step, they drew nearer.

To what? Surely, they’d faced worse.

Worse. The monotony of their surroundings and her simmering dread forced her mind back to memories she would sooner forget.

Back to the hallways of the abandoned hospital. Was she stepping over uneven dirt, or was it a mound of broken ceiling tile? Methodical scratches and scrapes of Boyle’s fingers into the dirt, or the frenetic scrawl of multicolored graffiti? Thankfully, in her present situation, Mulder was beside her in their chase, instead of the reason she forged ahead. With his steady breaths, the warmth of his hand pressing against the small of her back, she could handle anything.

After several minutes of cautious progress, the humid, earthy air shifted. A draft flowed towards them, not cool and refreshing, but frigid. Their breath tore from their lungs with each exhale. With the breeze came that same rotting, fetid odor they smelled last night.

The dark brown soil transitioned into a lighter composite of limestone and clay. Chiseled into these harder surfaces, the unmistakable marks of Boyle’s fingers. Dark streaks where he bled as he dug. She shuddered.

They pressed on. Scully held a hand to her nose to cover the smell, but it only grew stronger as they progressed. So did the lure of the creature. She was tethered to an unknown force, malevolent and unnatural, and it took all of her will to resist the urge to run forwards at full speed.

It wanted her to follow. Beckoned with a sickening grip. She should run as fast as she could in the opposite direction, dragging Mulder with her. But she couldn’t. She had to go forward, despite her reservations. Despite her fears. Knowing that this is what it wanted. She needed answers and she needed to help Boyle. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late.

Mulder pulled on her hand, and shone his light on the wall next to them. Gouged into the rocky surface was some sort of inscription, the same script as the symbol etched above Boyle’s front door. Like its match, it hurt to look at, the text itself a weapon.

“I recognize it.” Mulder reached out to run a hand over the etchings.

“Don’t touch it!” she warned. It was offensive, wrong.

Mulder looked back, pulling his hand away as though he’d been about to burn his fingers. Maybe it would have. He searched her face, then turned back to the wall, holding her hand instead.

“I don’t… know if I can translate it. Something about a… door?” He shook his head, and handed her the flashlight before retrieving a notebook and pen from his back pocket.

Scully aimed the light down the tunnel, towards darkness and the unknown. Towards the pulsating command that issued from somewhere down there. “I don’t think we have time.”

Come…

She surged ahead without him, driven towards the creature. After only a few feet, Mulder caught up with her, his hand clasping her shoulder and keeping in step with her faster pace. He muttered something, but her focus was into the silent darkness beyond.

Their path became rockier and more treacherous as they advanced. A natural cavern, the ground littered with sharp rocks and the occasional deep chasm that they had to avoid. Not large enough to fall into, but a twisted ankle, down here, would be almost as deadly.

They slowed, the ground slick with something she couldn’t see or feel, reminding her of a rocky shoreline at low tide. She held onto Mulder’s arm to steady herself, although he didn’t seem to be affected by it. Was it his determination that kept him on his feet, or was she experiencing some sort of psychosomatic effect of the fear that was welling up within her? Or, God forbid, was she experiencing something as real as the stone and dirt surrounding them? The visions that only she could see?

Then the tunnel began to twist upon itself, a chaotic meandering that made no sense. Her brain told her that they were walking on the wall and ceiling, upside-down and sideways. Not possible. Not possible. Not real.

“What?” Mulder leaned towards her.

She sighed, apparently she’d been muttering the words aloud. “Just feels strange.”

“As though it’s twisting around?”

The relief she felt at their shared experience was only temporary. After traversing across the rocky ground for a few more yards, something skittered at the edge of her vision. She stopped, shone the light in its direction. Nothing except the choking darkness.

“Scully?”

“I thought… I saw something. I can’t… it’s gone.” Her voice was low and breathy, and she gulped the cold air into her lungs.

Their light flickered. Darkness intensified around them: hungry for light, drowning it. A gust of putrid air blew past, and the temperature dropped by several degrees. It was now so cold that condensation puffed from their mouths, obscuring their vision. She shivered.

Their flashlight sputtered and died.

Mulder wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, the camera bumping into her back. With no light, it would be nearly impossible to traverse the tunnel. Her imagination took over, one or both of them lying on the rocky ground, bleeding out with no hope of rescue. She turned her head, leaning into him. Willing some of his warmth to seep into her bones. Some of his courage.

He ran his hands along her trembling arms. His lips grazed the shell of her ear, whispering something she didn’t hear. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she clasped onto her rosary, slipping the warm beads between her fingers and began to pray. She prayed for her strength to return. The strength she knew she possessed, that fled the moment they’d driven up to Boyle’s house. The strength that perhaps she’d exchanged for the power to rescue Mulder, all those weeks ago.

It was worth it, and she would do it over and over. But who was she now, and could she ever be the partner that Mulder needed? The woman who stood side by side with him and fought the darkness with a straight back and steady heart?

She felt her throat close with the threat of tears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she held onto Mulder’s arms that circled around her chest. The murmuring voice intensified, pulling at her. Her nerves frayed, holding her back. She was tired, so tired, of having to do what they asked.

A thought emerged, then slipped away. She fought for it. Her nails dug into Mulder’s forearm. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Starbuck.

Her father called her that. His voice of reason. The steady rock in the storm. Even as a child, she wasn’t afraid. To scramble into dark places, to go against the wishes of her family and society. Damned if she’d let this creature, or herself, get in the way of that now.

Calm settled over her. She felt her terror, but it was muffled. It was cold, but it didn’t bother her. Even the smell faded, and became tolerable. Like she was back in the morgue, scalpel at the ready. In control once again.

And… there was no voice. No interminable pull.

The light flickered back on, blazing a steady path for them over treacherous terrain.

After squeezing Mulder’s arms and placing a quick kiss on his palm, she stepped forward, her rosary wrapped around her wrist.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They moved more quickly, their progress hastened by her newfound confidence. She could no longer sense how far they needed to go, but thankfully, it wasn’t far.

Mulder exhaled sharply and his hand tightened on her waist. A pale green glow. So faint it seemed miles away, and yet in this inky darkness distance was impossible to determine.

“Tell me what you see,” he whispered.

“Same as you.”

“How do you know?”

“Fair point.” She nodded. “The same color as last night. Pulsing in and out.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“Want to go closer?”

She turned to face him, lighting them from below. The effect would have been spooky in most other circumstances, but seeing his familiar face and gentle eyes added to her determination. What were they doing here if not to reach the end? He was giving her an out, a last chance to turn away, and she loved him even more for it. But there was no turning back now.

She smiled, then clicked off the light. “Step carefully.”

She took out her switchblade, flicking it open. Behind her, Mulder had the same thought, unsheathing his belt knife with a rasp of steel against leather.

Before they knew it was there, they’d reached the end of the tunnel, its exit obscured by jagged rocky columns jutting from the walls. The passage opened up into a huge underground cavern, swathed in greenish light, craggy damp walls stretching out into darkness. Stalactites hung like dripping fangs, shadows clinging to the ceiling far above. A treacherous floor with shadowy pits and stalagmites jutted upwards to meet their mates.

This place reminded her of a trip she’d taken with her father and brothers when she was nine years old. She was not the youngest, but the smallest. And had crawled into the most cramped places, searching for undiscovered treasures. Her brother Charlie getting lost and hurt cut their adventure short, and they never returned.

In the midst of the natural beauty, something unnatural made its home. In the center of the room a throne of deadly sharp stalagmites stretched into the limestone drapery above. Upon it, massive tentacles choked the rocky pillars, unmoving except for the occasional shiver along its slick semi-transparent skin. Glistening mucus seeped from its rubbery flesh, coating the rocks below it.

Drip… drip… drip…

They wedged themselves against the wall, out of sight of the creature. Scrambling against the rock, she grasped his hand. The air, sick with decay, felt heavy and electric.

“I see those, Scully,” he whispered.

A trace of fear flicked through Mulder’s wide eyes. She felt it, too. Her muscles tensed, causing the hair along her arms to stand on edge. But it also made her hyper-alert. It served a purpose. She wrestled with it, searching for strength and demanding that it serve her rather than the opposite.

“You believe me, now.”

“I always believe you,” he murmured, his eyes softening for a mere second before hardening again. “We need to find Boyle.”

Scully swallowed. “Those books you read didn’t happen to mention anything useful did they?”

Mulder laid his head against the stone, his silhouette back lit by the creature’s glow. His fingers danced along the lens of the camera that hung around his neck while his other hand caressed hers, his thumb moving in small circles over her knuckles. It did little to settle her racing heart.

“The light. It doesn’t like the light.”

She hefted the flashlight doubtfully. Kneeling before her, his eyes flashed with something dangerous: an idea. Something reckless and stupid and liable to get himself hurt. Her heart sank.

“I’ll create a distraction,” he said. She stifled a groan. “I saw something on the other side of the cave, some sort of globe. Glowing faintly. It might be the key. You move towards it and hopefully it won’t notice you.”

“Mulder, no.” The roiling in her belly returned, and she swallowed thickly. “Even if you manage to keep from getting hurt, what am I supposed to do? I-I don’t know what to look for.”

Once again, regret pierced her heart. An acute reminder that she was wholly unprepared for what lay ahead.

“You think I’m going to let some tentacle monster stand in the way of figuring this out? You gotta trust in yourself, honey. I’ll be fine.” He kissed the back of her hands and stood. She held onto him, locking her fingers around his own.

“I don’t appreciate your faith in me at this particular moment,” she muttered, though his words had the ring of truth. “You might piss it off. Mulder, I can’t do this without--”

Pulling her against him, he crushed his lips against hers. Before she could react, he pulled away, giving her one last crooked, devastating smile before extracting his hand from her tight grip. Instead of taking the flashlight that she held protectively at her side, he slid the camera from around his neck and aimed it forward.

The rock scraped her hands as she grasped it, watching Mulder move surreptitiously between stalagmites. They were too small to conceal his large frame. The creature would notice.

Her breath hitched. That was the point.

He only moved about ten feet when sudden movement drew her gaze to the center of the room. Three tentacles rose into the air, wriggling violently in the direction that Mulder now crouched. He hadn’t seen it. He was looking for his next spot to hide.

Her cry of alarm was lost in the crash of the tentacles slamming down near him, smashing a stalagmite into rubble.

Her heart dropped. No. No no no… Then the dust settled, and she saw the flash of the camera, several feet away from where he’d almost been crushed. A horrid sound came from the center mass of writhing tentacles, a high-pitched cacophony like no creature or noise she’d ever heard in her life.

Mulder continued to sprint away from her, ducking behind boulders and rocks, with the tentacles trailing him. Five, no six now joined the chase. She wouldn’t let his risk be for naught. The flash of his camera caused the creature to recoil, but as she surmised, it only grew more violent with each furtive burst of white light.

She stepped out of her shoes and took two deep breaths before entering the room.

The noise the creature made masked the clattering of stone under her feet as she scrambled towards the other side of the chamber. With every crash and terrible scream, her heart warred with her mind. She longed to rush over to where Mulder was, to assure herself that he was okay. To stand by his side and fight this thing together.

Instead, she kept moving forward, placing her trust in Mulder’s plan. In Mulder’s faith in her.

Peering out from behind a boulder, the flash of Mulder’s camera caught the edge of something smooth. Where Mulder directed her to go. The orb. About fifty feet away nestled into a cupped palm of rock. Having a target instead of a direction narrowed her focus. She hopped between rocky shelters, tuning out Mulder’s shouts and the ongoing chase on the opposite side of the cave. If she got to the orb, maybe she could stop it. It was their only chance.

Drip… drip… drip…

Something held her in place. Bands of invisible tethers. Her mind turned to mist.

There was no crumble of rock, no shouting or screaming. Only the flash of Mulder’s camera, frantic and searching. She turned her head.

It saw her. Above and along the ground, it watched with eyeless appendages. Pulsing green veins thumped in sync with her hammering heart. A memory tickled the back of her brain, of her brother Bill holding a captive insect, watching it under a magnifying glass. Tearing its wings--

“SCULLY!”

She shook her head and dove to the side, as the tentacles crashed down where she’d once stood. Crumbled dust flew against her skin. Her hands burned as she landed.

A terrible screech echoed through the chamber. Scully scrambled up and ran, unsure if it was in the right direction. Desperation guided her now. The rocks cut her feet, but the adrenaline surging through her veins made it easy to ignore the pain. She tried to turn on her flashlight, but her sweat-slicked hands slipped on the switch. She couldn't run like Mulder. It would only be a matter of time before—

“HEY! SQUIDFACE!”

The screaming broke off. Mulder had taken advantage of the creature’s distraction. He now stood about fifteen feet from her, hoisting the orb in the air with a triumphant expression on his face. Her lungs burned. Sinking against the base of a large boulder, she sucked air into her lungs, hoping at least for a momentary reprieve. Switching on her flashlight, she aimed it at Mulder.

The orb he held aloft was about the size of a child-sized basketball. Flashes of greenish-blue floated underneath the delicate-looking shell. A trail of greenish-blue light, littered with dancing dust particles, connected the object to the creature.

Mulder’s eyes glinted triumphantly, before he spiked the object to the ground with all of his strength. It landed with a hollow thunk onto rocky ground instead of the shatter she expected.

UAAAHHHGHHHHHH--

The creature’s yell pierced into her head. Some terrible language that hurt to hear. She covered her ears, squeezed her eyes shut. Prayed that this would be its end, not theirs.

But then, laughter. A familiar rasping voice. She twisted around the rock and watched as the tentacles trembled. Beyond them, from the twisted throne, rose the body of Boyle. The ghostly trunks of the tentacles manifested from the center of his chest, solidifying into the slippery appendages that coiled around him. Four of them acted as legs, holding him aloft. The rest spread around him, a mane of glowing, slithering limbs.

Boyle grinned, his maw a cavern of pointed teeth and impossible darkness. Glowing yellow eyes stared behind her.

She spun around. Mulder’s face twisted in shock. “Oh, sh--”

He raised his arms to cover his head… and then he was gone. A wall of rock and tentacle swept down in a terrible crash where he’d stood. What remained afterwards was only a cloud of dust.

“Mulder!”

She ran for him: heedless of the creature’s laughter building around her, of the sting of cuts on the soles of her feet, of the tentacles that writhed along the ground like snakes but did not touch her. He looked like a boulder himself, covered in dust and debris. But something soft and rounded instead of spiked with calciferous deposits. Kneeling beside him, she reached a hesitant hand towards his unmoving form.

The dust cracked. Her very own Thinker appearing from a marble slab, rocky mounds became his arms. His face emerged, eyes wide and clear in his dusty face. A ghost of a smile. Death defeated once again. She exhaled.

Then, his gaze widened in fear, fixed upon something behind her.

The rest of the world came back into focus. The laughing had stopped. Tentacles advanced, hesitant. Curious, almost. Held at bay by the beam of light she shone at them.

She turned.

Boyle, no not Boyle, the creature floated five feet from her, head cocked. His face split into a triumphant grimace. Rotting breath making her gag. Despite the terror that welled up, the instinct to flee, she pulled herself up to her full height, standing between the creature and Mulder.

It laughed again, a bubbling crackle that increased in pitch and volume. High-pitched and low, smooth and grumbling. What they faced today was not just one creature, but the manifestation of something joined together. She winced. Aimed her light directly in their face.

The creature recoiled but continued to laugh. In her periphery she saw tendrils inching closer, moving behind to reach—

“Leave us alone!” she yelled.

“You. Cannot. Stop. What. Has. Already. Begun,” it said, pronouncing each word with a different voice, yet all belonging to the thing she once knew as Boyle. Discordant and horrendous. She glared at it, as if sheer will alone could withstand the onslaught. Her hand trembled, and the beam of light wavered.

Boyle leaned forward and the flashlight sputtered out.

Lit only by the greenish glow emanating from the tentacles and Boyle’s yellow eyes, the rest of the world sunk into darkness. Somewhere within her, she felt her courage waning. She stood between the creature and Mulder, not knowing how injured he was, not knowing how much longer she could protect him, and yet she remained. She had to.

The creature’s sneer widened into a crooked grin that went from ear to ear, splitting its face in half. She felt a tentacle caress her ankle, and another along her arm.

A smooth sphere, almost too large to fit into her palm, was placed into her hand. Mulder.

She squeezed it. Boyle’s grin faltered.

Holding it in front of her, she ran her hands along the slick surface. It reminded her of a spherical egg shell, and yet it remained whole and undamaged. She shook it, and felt a liquid sloshing around inside. When she held it up the surface shimmered, and Boyle backed away, the tentacles retreating. Inside of it, deep green and blue wisps churned like violent eddies.

“You’re not happy that I have this, are you?” she said, her voice steady despite her terror and uncertainty. If Mulder couldn’t break it, she had no hope of doing so. Her hands glided across the surface. Perhaps they could make their escape, come back once they knew what to do with it?

She felt Mulder stand up behind her, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “Don’t think, Scully.”

She shook her head.

“Y'ai 'syha'h. Y'ai 'ph'nglui,” the creature chanted. “We shall consume all, we shall have all.”

The creature resumed its monstrous laughter. The darkness closed in and the chill returned, like they’d been transported to the bottom of the ocean. Gooseflesh rose on her skin, raising the hair on her arms. Fear needled down her spine.

Yet, Mulder’s breath warmed the back of her neck. His hands cupped her shoulders. Leaning backwards, she pressed into him. He was real - standing behind her in this terrible place. His faith in her was real. For once, she needed to take that leap of faith with him. She needed to trust herself.

For a brief second, she existed in that liminal space between doubt and action. She saw her future if she waited. Death and darkness. So, she let go. It was easy, after it was done. Simple.

Pure energy welled up inside her, threatening to break the shell of her fragile body. It hurt. Burned. And yet… she knew what to do. Knew that she could save them.

Her eyes, squeezed shut in concentration, opened. The creature had backed away, its mouth turned downwards and all of its appendages hanging limp at its side.

“You can’t have us!” she shouted. And whatever light, whatever energy, that pooled inside of her flew along her arms and into the orb, crackling like electricity.

The creature's eyes widened. Yellow and green drowned out by brilliant white.

CRAAACK!

Fine lines splintered along the orb’s delicate surface. It was ripped from her hands, knocking her and Mulder backwards against the rocks. She landed atop him, her breath knocked from her lungs. Cold replaced burning heat. Fuzziness crowded in at the edge of her consciousness.

The last thing she saw, illuminated by the orb that now stood floating in the center of the room, was the creature shattering like glass, thousands of shards exploding throughout the room. Mulder covered her with his body to shelter her from the onslaught.

Then, there was nothing.

[highsviolets]

waterfall inquiry: javier peña x reader

pairing: javier peña x young analyst!reader

summary: words should not make you feel so much.

warnings: age gap. kissing. and - the worst of all - f e e l i n g s. (soft ones)

a/n: [edited 10 June ‘21] this was supposed to be three parts...and now there’s more. I regret nothing :) 

[next] [series masterlist] [main masterlist] * gif: @anakin-skywalker​

“Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name”

 “as kingfishers catch fire” | gerard manley hopkins

Neither of you should be here. Strictly speaking, at least.

The Embassy maintains regulations about these sorts of things, you’ve heard in jagged claims that coat the walls in a sickly iridescent sheen. Not the pretty kind that makes glitter sparkle. No, it’s the perverse shine — pyrite and oil spills on tepid water and those cheap kaleidoscopes they sell at county fairs.

Everything, it seems, is whispered here. Here at the Embassy, anyway; Colombia itself is a messy, irreverent place. A dreamlike people, an altered state where God acts as the intermediary between man and demons, not angels.

Perhaps that is why the Embassy is always quiet. The shrill clang of a phone ringing makes everyone start, fearful of keeping demons at bay. Even the PR reps speak in hushed tones, the words soft and soothing like cotton balls dipped in baby oil gliding across skin — crafting press releases each word slotted for a specific purpose, hand-picked with evolutionary precision.

It harasses you, stinging pricks drawing blood from beneath the surface of your bronze skin. Words should move freely, you believe. Like the way the Mississippi runs in during the spring melt: coarse, unimpeded, roiling in caught light, caressing the riverbanks as it soaks up all the world gives it — thrusting forward after a winter fraught in immobility, reveling in flinty purpose.

There’s a difference between words of fabrication and phrases of culled authenticity — the ones that stream from bleeding hearts, bound tightly by shoves and glares and hands that can’t keep still. Hands that grasp for something tangible. Anfractuous reminders of why they must be so careful, why they must keep the truth of themselves limited to brief instances of throwing back light or heat.

There is one man, you know, who thinks like you do — and he laughs at the fact that your jobs depend upon other people being careless with their words. Bandying about locations, codenames, numerals, what to buy at the grocery store. You can almost hear him, that marmalade voice spreading over you, eyes gleaming in smoke and fervor: yeah, carelessness gives us both a job. But it hurts, too.

Tonight, though. When you both are here when you really shouldn’t, you really fucking shouldn’t, not when you’ve been dreaming about him for…for how long? How long have you been in this country that makes a mockery of verisimilitude? Long enough, apparently, for everything else to blur when you look at him, for you to have memorized the way his shirts pull tight over his back when he’s leaned over his desk.

Eyes climb up the length of his torso, the slope of it heightened by the way he’s bracing his weight on his hands. His palms are spread wide and god as much as you think you want to stop the way your mouth runs dry at the sight his large palm, you can’t.

A sigh leaks out. The man in question spares a glance your way, matching the twist of his neck to the cigarette he brings to his lips. “You alright?” he mumbles around the thing, and you grip the desk’s edge a little harder at the sound, at the sight, of him in his element. His exhale — a finely tuned purse of the lips, discreetly directed away from your work — should feel the same as your sigh, but it doesn’t. It washes over you instead, and you rock in the way his existence ebbs and flows in and out of your person. Easy. Like breathing. Like all you have to do is breathe, and he’ll be there.

There are stories about him. When you had been sent down to Columbia as a junior analyst after the death of Escobar, you had quickly dived into the mythos the man. How could you not, when he was everywhere, the scent and swagger of him drawing eyes from every corner of the barricaded building?

The others — the replacements, someone had once termed the batch of new personnel flooding the country to fight Cali — had told you the stories; where they had heard them, you weren’t sure. Huddled over tepid drinks in the bar after work, blazers shrugged off and shirtsleeves rolled up, you had let them regale you of how he fought for years to bring down Escobar, only to be in Miami when his partner did the deed. How he fucks his informants; although, one of them admitted with a sigh, he hadn’t been known to do that in a while. How he was ruthless in the pursuit of justice. A fucking legend, man, someone had crowed about the older man, tongue loose with overpriced alcohol.

And through it all, there was you, eyeing the man himself across the bar. The embrace of his hands against the whiskey glass, the way he barely shuddered at the consuming burn of the stuff when he tossed it back in a behavioral gesture. He seems sad, is what you had thought. Whatever opposite of sad existed in this opulent measure of time by which you both abided — that’s what you wanted to do for him. To make him not-sad. He is aged, perhaps, but not old, rather like someone who could be young if they could shed the pallid skin of responsibility.

But you can’t play God in this country of fallen beings. Being consumes you instead, devolving into an obsession, hanging onto the ledge of yourself — gripping humanity and slicing rocks and graphite that stains your skin even as it slides away, too smooth to be held in hands that ache, swollen, from typing up reports detailing the tumbled-gravel sins of humanity.

He likes you. You think he might, anyway. He consults you before any of the others, and once or twice he’s dragged some Columbian officer into your tiny workspace, asking you to confirm the intelligence on whatever operation he’s desperate to get approved so he can do something. He asks with words that curl up and over themselves like whitecaps, one hand resting on his hip as he nods along to your recitation.

But it’s really his eyes you watch in these moments, aching in fluttering hope whenever they rest on yours. Javier Peña’s eyes when he visits you in your workspace are pleading thermoses of life under sterile fluorescent lights. He likes to send you a half-smile and a nod when you’re finished, tossing them over his shoulder as he escorts the man back to the Ambassador’s office. You are both too good at your job not to love it in some sick & twisted way, and he knows.

Other times he simply drops by. Leaning against your cubicle, he fiddles with a cigarette and chats with you as you work, asking questions that he knows he’s the only one examining.

Talk to me about the families of la cartel de Cali, he mutters, the hoarse sound deep and aching in your gut. About their mothers, daughters, sons, cousins, in-laws. Is anyone sick? Do they want to go on vacation? What’s the drama of the week, no, don’t laugh, — he smiles, here, barely, the delicate minutiae of the expression an external revelation of his magnetism — there always is in families. They’re human just like us. And that’s when he sighs, and looks across the hall, where in his office there’s a diagram of the Cali bosses splayed over the wall. Yeah...they’re like us.

Javier makes a slowly forms a habit of it, of stopping by your cubical and wrapping you in currents of charisma and truth. He does you a solid, too, bringing you to the attention of your superiors when he mentions your diligence. And you repay him in kind, taking care to slip into his office with new intelligence before the brass gets word. You tell yourself it’s simple mentorship. Mere patronage. He’s paying it forward, helping the young analyst get ahead in their career. These meetings are nothing to him, and they ought to be equally as empty to yourself. It’s just exchanges of information. Conversation between colleagues.

Of course, that doesn’t explain why you look forward to his fingers touching yours when you lend him a pen, or, when he makes some half-whispered joke in Spanish, it makes you shiver. Or the pride that blossoms in your chest, embracing you all soft and balmy, when he considers your words. He handles them like he does his favorite cigarettes, rolling them between his fingers, palming their weight, letting the texture seep into his skin before he lights them on fire.

You drop your pen a lot; he brings a finger to his mouth in thought. You don’t see the way he smiles when you do that, grinning at the muttered curse and roll of your eyes. And he decides that he likes the way you laugh about it; poking fun at your own mistakes, the skin that matches his own gleaming in the warm sun.

He can never do that. Perhaps he should? But he doesn’t make mistakes like that, toss-away interruptions of intended action. The mistakes he makes get people killed. All the more reason to keep checking with you, he reasons, to double-insure the intelligence. Can’t have another mess. And he likes to hear your laugh. Nothing wrong with that, he says. Nothing wrong with something that makes his heart stir and entices the eyes hidden behind yellow aviators to trace the length of your neck a little longer than strictly necessary when you throw your head back in unmarked joy.

And tonight, in his office? Tonight he seems melancholic again, like the first time you saw him across the bar. He keeps shifting his weight, one hand on his hip, and then on the table, and then shrugging off both his jacket and his tie and tossing them unceremoniously onto the couch, limbs extending listlessly. It’s as close to careless as he gets.

Or maybe it’s just the exhaustion fusing into you both. You feel slow and hazy, torn between staring at him and bleary eyes glaring at the map beneath his fingers. if you just look at it longer, you think, you can will it all to fall into place. and maybe if you did he would kiss you, and maybe he would kiss you the way he has always wanted to live.

Maybe if you traced your tongue along his exposed collarbone, penning of licks of hope in the space where his words seem to get caught, where his perpetually open collar leaves him defenseless to an onslaught of physical impressions…maybe then, he’d exhale in blessed adoration, taken outside of himself for just one moment.

He’s asking you a question. You alright? He does that a lot, you realize. Checks in with you. When you answer, he laughs — those delightful eyes seeping warmth into your weary bones as they crinkle in a smile — and he reminds you to call him Javier. He — Javier — has rebuked you at least three times tonight alone, but you’ve yet to oblige his request. If you do, if you let your tongue caress his sacred name and rest in its life-sodden weight, you fear…

you do not know what you fear. you do not know how saying his name will shift the tides in your life. but you know that you will remain forever anchored to him, tethered to his lunar opacity.

“What’s this?” you ask instead, shifting to rest against the desk. You’re beside him now, hip adjacent to his as you look up at him. Latent smoke hovers overhead, and locks of his hair have come undone after the long hours of work and now rest over his forehead small waves. It looks like it aches, being so out of place, and yet so distinctly him. Caught. Destined to arch over his tanned skin, all the while lingering in a place where it should not. Not here, anyway. Not tonight, in his office, far after everyone else has gone home.

“What’s what?” Javier rejoins, distracted, still bent over the desk, still bracing his weight on those fingers.

Rustling papers catch his attention, and he twists to meet your gaze. “This.” You point to the unfamiliar word, stamped out in standard font. “My Spanish is decent, but I’ve never seen this word before.”

The wrinkles behind the shield of his fallen hair press together as he cranes his neck, adjusting his stance to read the word on the paper you thrust in his direction. It clears rapidly though — the visage sailing and unfurling itself when he absorbs the story hidden in-between letters on a page.

He repeats the word back to you, leaning into the sound the way he leans into you, inching closer in his explanation. You stare at his lips, completely captivated — his tongue catching between his teeth — the purse of his lips — the rearrangement of his jaw as it conforms to the aerodynamics of structured syllables.

“Strictly speaking,” he says, eyes roving your face, deep and dark, “it means elf, or spirit. Something ethereal. It’s used in stories a lot.” The words are smooth, smokey, whiskey-like as you let them drip down your skin, the insides of your thighs. “Entiendes?”

Your body temperature rises. You can feel it — the way your mouth’s run dry and the paper’s slippery in your grip. Did his voice drop lower when he used the familiar form of the verb, not the formal? You think it did. Oh god, he’s so close, he could just extend a hand across your body and it could rest on your hip. You had never really noticed his height either, always in heels. Tonight, though, the heels are in the corner with his jacket and tie and you realize that he’s inches above you, yet somehow still within reach.

“What’s” — you swallow thickly, desperate to remain professional despite your wide eyes, the tongue tracing your lower lip — “what’s the non-strict definition of the word?”

He gives you one of his trademark smirks. “It can also mean,” he says, “enchanting. Charming. For someone or something to be magical.”

Nodding slowly, you drop your eyes down to the paper again, desperate to avoid his gaze. It follows you, watching your eyes hide even as you adjust to be ever-closer, a bare foot extending outward and brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Say it,” you hear him urge, your head bolting up, incredulous. And you try, you really do, but it’s so new and unfamiliar and you’re so goddamn nervous with him looking at you, that you fuck it up. Words are but the vessels by which emotions themselves are expressed, so maybe the act of speaking should not make you feel all by itself. But it does — oh, god, it does, and you feel like you’ve shrunk in the process, dwarfed by this man with rolled up shirt sleeves wrapped around muscular forearms, who grins impishly around his cigarette.

“Not quite.” He stubs out the thing, and to your surprise, brings hand to your jaw, cupping your chin in-between his thumb and forefinger. “Say it again.”

“No, I can’t; I..“ you protest, and for what? because you don’t want him near you? no, that’s not it, but you’re being branded by his touch all the same.

“Say it again,” he commands again, more gently this time, his words accompanied by an encouraging nod.

You comply readily, sounding out the syllables. His strong fingers manipulate your movements, guiding you in pronouncing the difficult phrase. It’s forceful and noble, a tender yet compelling influence that teaches you how to wrap yourself in the meaning of the word as much the word itself. You’re tingling; is it from the thrill of achieving or from his sturdy hand against your bare skin?

He doesn’t back away when you’re finished speaking, but holds your stare. Dimly, you register the steady crescendo in your breathing. He’s not immune to your proximity either: his Adam’s apple bobs as he pushes down the deficit of hope flooding oppressive maxim of his presence. Times stretches as you remain caught in his hold, coursing through you, carrying you downstream in brash, coarse recklessness. Are the emotions you swim in those eyes yours, or his, or some measure of both?

The pads of his fingers migrate, drifting to rest along your cheek and tumble into his touch like a moth to flame, or fish to water, or whatever trite phrase people use to make sense of such profound belonging.

Javier is mesmerized with the way his fingertips trace your cheekbones, the shell of your ear, along your jaw, returning to outline your lips.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice scrapes along your bliss, and you force your eyes open to see that he’s moved even closer, closer-than-close, so tight against you that you’re nearly leaning back over the desk.

“Do you want me to?” His eyes are dark and still now, but for the way they’re trained on yours as you whisper fate into existence.

“No — fuck — I shouldn’t, I —“ his jaw shifts again, this time in agitation, but it is you who does the deed, cutting him off, reaching out to tug on his collar. The action pulls him forward, pressing himself against you, caging you between the desk and the broadness of his firm chest.  And you do know it’s firm now, at last slipping your hands underneath that truant fabric and gliding along his smooth skin. His hands find your waist, gripping your hips as he meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

He — Javier, now — kisses you a single-minded intent, letting his lips slide over yours lazily, over and over, memorizing the imprint of you against his mouth. One hand drifts upward again, cupping your cheek as he tilts your head slightly, letting his tongue delve into your mouth and trace your teeth. It makes you gasp, and you retaliate with a gentle nip to his lower lip, silently begging for more. Javier moans into your mouth, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.

Tightening his grip on your waist, Javier lifts you, placing you firmly on the desk, feet dangling a few inches from the floor. You know what he wants before he even has to ask and you give it him readily, wrapping your legs around his waist. Javier’s weight conforms to your own, molding against your body as you press into him, back arching in your submersion to his touch.

He is so eager; his kisses drench you in a deluge of incubated affection interspersed with need. Grasping at his shoulder, you pull him even closer, your other hand anxiously fiddling with his buttons as you sigh, reveling in the storm of his attention. Slowly, painstakingly, driven by a clamoring need for oxygen, he drags himself away from you, parting slowly, ever-loth to break the kiss.

You can’t help the shy smile that dances around your lips when you look up at him, standing above you. His chest is heaving, out of breath, hair somehow even more mussed than it was before. You suppose you can touch it now, so you do, two fingers brushing aside the fringe on his forehead.

Time, and space, and whatever else this stuff is made of have prevented from this alternate reality. until now. it has broken through the dam and caught you up in its awakening, broad and unrepentant.

Javier captures your hand as it lowers, pressing a kiss to the side of your palm. He’s so tender it makes you ache, and you wonder if this is why he stopped fucking his CIs. He requires something more intangible than what they could give him. “Javier,” you whisper.

He hums a question, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles as he watches you consider him, emotion lapping at the shores of unkempt eyes.

“You asked me to use your name. Earlier, I mean.” Should you feel embarrassed? Kissing a man several years your senior? Maybe you should. But you don’t. There’s a cordial warmth spreading through you, bolstered by his gentle touch, the outward connection of him and you that’s been built through months of inanimate remembrances.

“I know.” Javier nods and leans in again, his breath rippling across your skin. “Can you say it one more time, princesa? They say you need to do something three times” — a kiss to your cheek — “to make sure you really —“ a kiss to your forehead — “understand” — a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

The words fall out of your mouth, splashes of unrestrained affection dappling each letter. “Duende, Javier,” you murmur against his lips. “Duende.”

javi tags: @frannyzooey @yespolkadotkitty @rentskenobi @goldenkenobi ​ @goldafterglow @teaofpeach ​ @justrunamok ​ @huliabitch @cri-me-a-river @littlevodika @catsnkooks @themarvelousbear @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @ladytrashbird @princessxkenobi @roxypeanut @dracos-jedi-marvel @a-seeker-of-imagination​ // taglist link in bio!

[writethelifeyouwant]

Meet the Parents

Pairing: Cordell x Trevor x Stella 

Rating: 18+

Summary: When Stella brings her boyfriend home from college to stay the weekend, they are planning on doing a bit more than just “spending the night together”... and it certainly turns out to be more than that once Cordell overhears them in Stella’s room.  

Word Count: 4.7k

Created for: @walker-bingo​ Free Space | @anyfandomgoesbingo​ Meet the Parents/Family

Tags/Warnings: Incest, Father/Daughter Incest, Threesome, fingering (f and m rec), oral (f rec), rimming, instruction kink, daddy kink, p in v, p in a, condoms, creampie 

A/N: I’m going to hell, please come keep me company. 

Stella had gotten back from college earlier that afternoon, usual bag of laundry in tow, but she had some extra baggage this time - the boyfriend. Cordell has heard whispers of ‘the boyfriend’ from August, who spoke to his sister a little more regularly than he did, not surprisingly. No eighteen year-old fresh out of their parents’ house wants to be texting their father 24/7, but he would have appreciated some kind of heads up that they were expecting company for the weekend. 

Cordell’s sitting in the den, bourbon in hand, listening to the crickets outside chattering away, but they aren’t quite loud enough to drown out the soft giggles and whispers that are leaking from Stella’s room right now. He feels his hand clench around his glass almost like it’s a phantom limb, everything feels numb except for his ears, burning with the strain of trying to listen to what Stella and Trevor might be saying. He’s confident that whatever it is they are talking about, he doesn’t actually want to overhear the conversation. 

Draining the remainder of his drink, Cordell makes his way to the counter to pour a refill. 

He wasn’t going to bed until he knew for a fact that everyone else had gone to sleep, and from the sounds of it, Trevor and Stella weren’t exactly close to settling in. There’s a short burst of laughter and a ‘shh’, and Cordell looks up at his daughter’s closed bedroom door, moodily. 

His mind flashes back to his baby girl sneaking into the kitchen an hour ago, small pyjama shorts riding up far too high, clearly rooting through the fridge for some beers to sneak back to her room. She’d jumped when Cordell cleared his throat behind her, sitting forwards from his spot on the couch, so the light of the refrigerator caught on his stern face. 

“Whatcha doin’ there, Stella Blue?” 

“Hi, Dad,” she squeaks, tucking her hands behind her in the fridge. “Just, um,” she scrambles for something out of sight, “grabbing this.” Stella pulls a soda from behind her back. 

“Really?” Cordell smirks, not angry, he’d been expecting something like this - that’s why he was up and sitting on the couch, waiting. “Caffeine? At this hour?” Even August, teenage boy obsessed with the internet that he is, had turned out his lights and gone to bed a little while ago. 

“I - uh…” Stella grimaces. 

“Why don’t you put that back, Stels?” He feels his lips tighten and brows furrow in his best attempt at ‘stern dad’ without looking angry. For a moment, Stella looks like she’s going to argue but then she thinks better of it, puts away the soda, and slinks back to her room, shutting the door softly behind her. 

Another giggle breaks him from his reverie and his hand closes into a fist against the cold granite counter, fighting the urge to knock and tell them to go to bed. He downs the new measure of bourbon he’s just poured out, desperately wishing he could erase some of the things he’s heard tonight. But the alcohol and the burning in his throat do nothing to block out the soft groan that slips from beneath his daughter’s door. 

It was so quiet, he isn’t positive he’d heard it. And his Ranger brain kicks in, trying to find any possible explanation for what the noise could have been; the wind outside, an animal in the ranch paddock… the creak of a bed spring. That is definitely what the new sound he’s just heard is – a muffled squeak as bodies shift on a too old mattress and less than well-oiled box spring. It’s quickly followed by another quiet groan, and Cordell grits his teeth and takes a long swig of bourbon, foregoing the formality of pouring it into the glass first. 

The bottle is halfway to his lips again when he hears a small, high-pitched whine – Stella’s – but something seems … off. Cordell has known his baby girl for eighteen years. He knows what she sounds like when she’s happy, when she’s tired, when she’s sad, when she’s hurt. There’s another small whimper and Cordell strains to hear better. He needs to be sure. The third time he hears it he’s certain. That’s not a happy sound coming from his daughter’s bedroom, it’s one of discomfort, one of pain. Cordell bursts through the door in a fury, already rolling up his sleeves in preparation for tearing this Trevor kid in two for hurting his baby girl. 

“Aah, Dad!” Stella screams, pulling her pyjama top back down to cover her exposed breasts and yanking Trevor’s hand out of her shorts. Cordell stops dead, unprepared for the shock that it is seeing Stella splayed out on her bed, chest bare and trembling, and her boyfriend’s fingers between her legs. In his burning rage he also feels a flare of desire distracting enough to delay him wringing Trevor’s neck. 

Trevor is very carefully trying to shift away from Stella in the bed, like Cordell is less likely to beat him up if he increases the distance between himself and his daughter, and the movement draws Cordell’s attention back to the boy – the very naked boy – in his daughter’s bed.  

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cordell hisses, finding the presence of mind to shut the door behind him so August doesn’t walk by and see what’s happening inside. “You think you can come into my house, force yourself on my daughter? Boy, I learned how to castrate bulls when I was ten. What do you think I’m about to do with you, huh?” Trevor is frozen in terror, boner now completely limp, his cock retreating like a turtle into its shell. 

“Dad, no!” Stella exclaims, pulling a blanket over Trevor to cover his modesty. 

“Stella, don’t worry baby, I’m not gonna let this piece of scum touch you ever again,” Cordell promises, storming towards the pair on the bed. 

“No, Daddy,” she tries again, standing up to put herself between Cordell and Trevor. “Stop. He wasn’t forcing me! I wanted it.” Cordell stops short, looking down at Stella, who has her hands pressing against his chest in an effort to calm him. “I –” Stella swallows nervously, looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I wanted this. That’s why I asked him to come stay this weekend, we wanted to, y’know…” she can’t get the words out. “Don’t hurt him, he wasn’t forcing me.” 

“But,” Cordell’s mind is still reeling from the fact that Stella is standing here in front of him telling him she planned to lose her virginity this weekend, “Stels, I heard you. You sounded like he was hurting you.”

“I would never hurt her,” Trevor shoots up in the bed, angrily, but cows under Cordell’s glare, “um, sir,” he finishes lamely. 

“Stella,” Cordell sits her down on the end of her bed and drops to one knee in front of her. He brushes her long red hair off her face, cupping her cheek gently, and focusing on her soft blue eyes, shimmering with nerves. “I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me. Was he hurting you?” 

Stella shakes her head immediately but takes a moment to find her words, Cordell can tell she’s holding something back. “No,” she finally starts, “not, um, not on purpose.” 

“What?” Trevor and Cordell speak simultaneously and equally confused. 

“It.. he, um, he didn’t hurt me Dad,” Stella is stronger in her conviction now, “it just,” she grimaces, stalling. Cordell finally understands. 

“He wasn’t very good, was he?” Cordell grimaces in sympathy, and a little amusement at Trevor’s expense. Stella shakes her head ever so slightly, and Cordell laughs. Trevor is sitting in an embarrassed silence behind them, clutching the blanket in his lap. Cordell stands, brushing a hand down the back of Stella’s head as he rounds on the boy. “You ever touched a girl before, Trevor?”

“Yes,” he answers indignantly. 

“You ever made a girl cum before?” Cordell is a little taken aback by his own bluntness, but he supposes the seven or eight shots of liquor he’s had over the past hour must be fogging his brain a little. 

“Yes,” Trevor answers again, but his doubt is evident. 

“You don’t sound too sure about that, son,” Cordell pokes, standing over him now, arms crossing over his chest. Trevor tries to stutter out an answer but he doesn’t manage any actual words. “From where I was standing, it sounds like you could use a few lessons,” Cordell smirks knowingly. 

“Dad, leave him alone,” Stella objects, climbing back up the bed to Trevor’s side. 

“What?” he feigns innocence, smiling. “I’m just looking out for my baby girl. Can’t have you getting hurt, even by accident.” 

“Dad,” she whines again, burying her head in Trevor’s shoulder. 

“Plus,” Cordell kneels again, putting himself back on their level, “what kind of daddy would I be if I didn’t make sure you were being taken good care of?” Both teens are clearly not sure what they’re supposed to say to that. Cordell takes advantage of their silence and sits on the edge of the bed, and Trevor recoils slightly into Stella’s arms, which are wrapped around his waist. “So,” Cordell brings his hand up to Trevor’s face and brushes a curl behind his ear, keeping eye contact with the boy as he speaks, “he a good kisser, Stels? Or is he useless at that too?”

“Yeah – no – he’s… he’s a good kisser, Daddy,” Stella blushes, her answers given in an almost trance-like state. 

“Well, let’s find out,” and he leans forward to kiss the younger boy, hand still in his curly brown hair. 

Their lips meet hesitantly, like Cordell is waiting for Trevor to pull away, and Trevor is waiting for Cordell to tell him this whole thing is a joke, but now they are kissing softly – like you would at the end of a first date, when you still need to find out what they like. Stella’s cheeks burn as she watches her father kiss her boyfriend gently, surprised by the surge of arousal she feels pulsing through her at the sight. She knows what Trevor’s lips feel like against hers, soft and wet and insistent, and she wonders if they feel the same to her daddy. They break apart with sharp gasps, and Cordell’s eyes flick to hers, glinting in the low light. 

“Well, at least I know he’s been showing you a good time so far, baby girl,” he smirks at her, and Stella nods gingerly. “C’mere, sweetie,” Cordell motions her forwards, and she goes willingly, not knowing what he was planning to do but wanting desperately to find out. “Kiss her,” he breathes at Trevor, and the boy listens, leaning forwards and drawing Stella into him. 

Trevor’s kiss overwhelms her, and Stella melts against his bare chest. His kiss is familiar and warm, but the hand against her back is new. It’s larger, rougher, and it curls into her skin more possessively than Trevor’s fingers ever had. Stella moans into Trevor’s lips, letting his tongue wrap around hers, and her daddy’s fingers twist into the hair on the back of her head. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers against her ear, and Stella whimpers, this time very clearly from pleasure and not discomfort. The hand against her back pushes down, and Stella follows, straddling Trevor and laying down over him, tangling their hands together on the pillow by his head. As they continue to kiss and grind, she feels Trevor’s erection through the thin cotton of her shorts. Pleased that she can feel his reaction to her, she rubs over him eagerly – and her daddy must have noticed, because his hand drags down her back and lands on her hip, encouraging her grinding. 

Trevor moans and ruts up between her legs, and the pressure there against her core feels amazing. “Shit,” Trevor groans into her lips. 

“She gettin’ wet yet?” Stella whines in embarrassment and arousal at her daddy’s words. 

“Yeah,” Trevor pants from beneath her, “can feel it, even through her shorts.” Stella hides her face in the crook of his shoulder, but can’t stop herself rubbing against the hard member between her thighs. 

“Fuck,” Cordell is smirking, Stella can hear it in his voice. “You must be soaking, baby girl.”

“Mmhmm,” Stella’s voice is muffled in the pillow, but  she doesn’t want to pick up her head and reveal just how much her daddy’s words are turning her on. 

“Bet you taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby,” Cordell’s fingers ghost over her bottom, drawing dangerously close to the wet patch that is clearly visible on her little shorts. “You wanna taste her, son? Get your first good lick of pussy?” Trevor’s groan answers him. “Roll over, Stels, on your back, honey.” Stella lets her father’s hands push her off of Trevor and onto the bed.

“Get those clothes off her,” Cordell commands Trevor, and he eagerly complies, reaching out to pull Stella’s shorts down her slim, pale legs, stretched out beneath him, cradled in the sheets. She pulls her own top over her head, small perky breasts slipping free, and Cordell can’t take his eyes off them. Fuck, his baby girl has grown up so fuckin’ pretty. “Spread your legs for us, baby.” He puts his hand on one of her thighs and encourages them to part, revealing her glistening core. “Now, hands and knees, boy, c’mon,” he spins his finger in the air, indicating Trevor needs to turn himself around and get between Stella’s legs. 

The boy climbs to the space where Cordell wants him and settles on his hands and knees, staring at the spot between Stella’s thighs where he clearly wants to be, but keeping still, because he hasn’t been told to do anything else yet. Cordell hops off the bed and quickly unbuttons his shirt, discarding it on the floor, where it’s joined shortly by his belt and pants. He crawls back onto the bed behind Trevor, and smooths a large, calloused hand up his thigh and over his ass. 

“You strike me as more of a ‘hands on learner’, buddy. That true?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Trevor nods, hoping that’s the answer Cordell was looking for. 

“Good. Then I’m gonna show you everything you’ve gotta do to make my little girl cum for you. You want that?” 

“Yes,” the boy answers eagerly. 

“You’ve just gotta follow my lead, do everything I do, okay?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Another nod, and then a shocked gasp, as Cordell leans down and runs his tongue up the seam of Trevor’s ass, right over his hole. He does it again, the same simple motion, one lick bottom to top, and Trevor groans, shuddering beneath him. 

“I thought I told you to do everything I do?” Cordell huffs when he draws back and sees Trevor’s head hanging limply between his shoulders. “Don’t leave my baby waiting.” He doesn’t move back to his task until he sees Trevor dip his head and drag his tongue over Stella’s entrance, and up to the small bundle of nerves at its peak. Stella almost squeals, hands rushing to clutch in the boy’s curls and make him stay there between her legs. He licks against her again and she whines, high and desperate. 

“Daddy…” she whimpers, tossing her head back. 

“You’re doing so good, baby girl.” Cordell brushes the hair out of her eyes, which are currently squeezed closed in pleasure. “Look so pretty… all spread out for us – doesn’t she?” 

“Mmm,” Trevor hums against Stella, his tongue still drawing its lines up and down her core. Cordell grins behind him, happy he’s not taking his mind off the task at hand. Stella’s breathing is sharp and quick, still not familiar with the sensation of having a tongue playing with her pussy, and he’s about to teach Trevor some more tricks to make her squirm. 

Cordell draws his tongue flat along Trevor’s hole, laving at the expanse of skin beneath it as well. The chain reaction of moans from Trevor and then Stella tells him that Trevor has copied his movement over Stella’s entrance. He quickly changes tact and traces the tip of his tongue in small circles right over Trevor’s hole, making it flutter and twitch, then soothing it with longer licks. “You feel what I’m doing to you?” Cordell hums into Trevor’s skin, and the boy moans in affirmation. “Do that right over her clit, nice and light— there ya go,” Stella keens across her daddy’s instructions, making him smile. “Now go ahead and give it a nice hard suck, and keep your tongue moving, just like that, yeah,” Cordell strokes his hand over Trevor’s back as he continues to build Stella closer and closer to her orgasm. 

Stella’s hands are gripping the quilt beneath her like she’s about to fall off a cliff and that’s the only thing that’s keeping her grounded. Her daddy moves up to her side, grabbing her hand and winding their fingers together, so she can hang on to him instead. She turns and buries her face in Cordell’s side, while still pushing her hips harder into her boyfriend’s mouth, whimpering in pleasure. Cordell draws soothing circles over the back of her hand as she clutches him even tighter. 

“You need to cum, baby girl?” He keeps his voice soothing, and steady. Stella nods into his side. “Alright, sweetheart.” He brushes the hair back from her face, so he can watch her expression. “Okay son, want you to take your finger and push the tip inside her, just a little bit.” Trevor doesn’t make an audible response, but Cordell can tell when he does it because Stella’s breath hitches, pushing her chest into his leg. “Alright, now work it deeper, go real slow for me.” He sees Trevor’s arm start to push in and out of his little girl. “There’s a spot you want to find, if you move your finger along the top…” and after a moment Stella moans, deep and full. “Yeah, feels good doesn’t it, baby girl?” Stella whines and answers by bucking her hips down into Trevor’s finger. “Okay keep rubbing against it like that, and get your mouth back on her —” another moan from Stella “— now a little faster —”

“Oh my god,” Stella is close to sobbing with the pleasure, now. “Daddy, Daddy, please.” Cordell can’t help the smirk that splits his face when he hears Stella begging him, not Trevor, to make her cum. 

“Go ahead and cum Stels,” he squeezes her hand. “Be my good girl, cum for Daddy now, c’mon.” 

“Daddy!” She squeals as her body convulses, then stiffens, back arching off the bed in a graceful curve that pushes the pale flesh of her breasts right towards Cordell’s face, and he can’t help but lean down and kiss one nipple, gently. 

“Good girl, Stels,” he strokes his big hand down her belly, which is still twitching with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “Did so, so good for me, baby girl.” When Stella can finally peel her eyes open, and they find her daddy’s face above her, her smile is blinding, if a little dazed. 

“Fuck, that was hot, baby,” Trevor groans, reaching down to stroke himself. 

“Now, please, tell me you two have protection around here somewhere.” Cordell goes to the bedside drawer where Stella’s pointing, telling himself that it’s a good thing his baby girl was keeping condoms on hand. He finds the packet in the drawer, grabbing two, and luckily finds a small bottle of lube, too, which he brings back to the bed with him. He stalwartly does not think about the hint of bright pink he uncovered in his searching that was most definitely a dildo, lodged beside an open packet of birth control pills. 

“You ready to start the real work, son?” 

“Yes, Sir,” the boy groans, shuffling his knees closer to Stella, still between her legs. 

“Woah there partner, not so fast,” Cordell grabs his shoulder and pushes him back down to his hands and knees, ass in the air. “Gotta get you both ready first. You’re gonna follow my lead again, yeah?” Trevor hums an affirmative response. 

Cordell grabs the lube and gets some on his fingers, before tossing the bottle back to the covers. He brings one wet finger to the entrance winking up at him, and traces his fingertip up and down the seam, spreading the lube around before he pushes lightly against the opening, testing its give. It takes a moment for Trevor to relax, but Cordell gets the tip of his finger in eventually. “You gotta relax, boy, let me in. Focus on your girl there, you’re here to make her feel good, yeah?” He sees his curls bounce up and down as Trevor nods and brings his hand back to Stella’s pussy, drawing his finger through her slick before he pushes his middle finger in. 

Cordell continues to pump his first finger in and out of Trevor’s ass, feeling the boy loosening around him, until he’s ready for another finger. He pulls out and adds more lube, before bringing the digits back and pushing two slowly but firmly back in. “Start to stretch her out now, add another finger in.” Stella whimpers when Trevor draws out and re-enters her with two fingers this time. 

“Feel good darlin’?” Stella nods, locking eyes with her daddy. “I bet she’s nice and tight, ain’t she, son?”

“Yes, Sir,” Trevor pants, forehead resting against his left forearm. He seems to really be enjoying Cordell’s fingers in his ass. “She’s so fuckin’ tight. F-feels good.” 

“Try to fit another finger in there, stretch that pussy out real good f’me.” Cordell punctuates his statement by adding more lube and a third finger into Trevor’s opening, and the boy can’t contain his groan of pleasure at the thicker intrusion. 

“Fuck,” he moans, pushing a three fingers into Stella, who is dripping enough to make a spot on the sheets beneath her. She lets out an answering moan and bucks her hips up into Trevor’s hand. 

“Oh, looks like someone’s getting a little greedy, huh baby?” Cordell smirks down at his daughter, writhing on the bed, hair splayed out around her like a wreath of flames. She whines at him in response, pushing down into the fingers inside her again. “You think you’re ready for a cock, baby girl? Want your boyfriend to fill up that slutty little hole you got there?”

“Yes, Daddy, please,” she mewls, thrusting her hips again. 

“What about you, huh? Think you’re ready f’my cock?” Cordell chooses his moment well, and intentionally strokes over Trevor’s prostate when he asks the question, prompting an answering ‘fuck yes’ out of the boy. “Good answer.” 

Cordell opens one condom packet and rolls the thin barrier over Trevor’s dick for him, running the extra lube from his hand over the covered member once he’s down, then quickly rips into the second packet and rolls it on himself, before grabbing for more lube and drizzling it over himself and the tight little hole he’s about to fuck himself into. 

Trevor shifts up the bed so he’s pressed against Stella and he can run the tip of his cock through her slick folds. She pushes back against him lightly, but waits for her dad’s say so, still. Cordell ruts himself along the crack of Trevor’s ass, teasing. When the tip of his cock catches against the boy’s rim, he lets out a hiss. 

“Okay, you ready Stels?” She nods up at him. “Alright, if you need to stop you can just say, baby.” She nods again. Cordell gives Trevor a swat on the ass to indicate he should move. The muscles in his back clench as he pushes the head of his cock inside of the wet heat he’s surely been dying to get to all night. Stella’s face scrunches up as he drives himself steadily deeper inside of her, until he’s pushed in as far as he can go. Both teens let out choked moans at the feeling of finally being this wrapped up in one another. 

“Give ‘er a minute to get used to the feel of you, stay real still,” Cordell presses the head of his cock against Trevor and thrusts in shallowly, easing himself along with soft grunts, listening for any sounds of discomfort, but all he hears from the boy beneath him are small groans of pleasure. Once he’s inside, he smooths his hand up and down Trevor’s back giving him a moment to adjust as well. 

His first thrust in is shallow, but it drags the head of his cock right over Trevor’s prostate and the jolt of pleasure it sends up his body grinds him forward into Stella, drawing a moan from her. She bucks up into Trevor, forcing him deeper inside of her and simultaneously pushing him back onto her daddy’s cock. 

“That’s it, baby girl,” Cordell groans, thrusting harder into the tight heat wrapped around him, “show us how much you want it. Show us how greedy that little pussy is, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck!” Stella pants, arching into Trevor’s hips and grinding her clit against him. 

“Shit, you look so good like that darlin’. Looks so good with a cock inside her, doesn’t she?” 

“Fuck yeah. Feel so good, baby, fuck,” Trevor isn’t able to move much, being pinned between Cordell and Stella, both fucking themselves harder and harder into him, but he thrusts back against Stella with push of her daddy’s dick inside of him. Cordell’s impressed the kid’s lasted this long without busting his nut yet, considering the amount of stimulation he’s currently being subjected to, and Stella looks like she’s about to tip over the edge again along with him. He fucks into them even harder, pace quickening with each piston of his hips, and he hears Stella’s whimpers climb higher and higher as Trevor is pushed into her faster with each thrust. 

“You wanna cum again, sweetheart? Gonna cum all over that cock inside you like a good little slut? Yeah? You gonna be Daddy’s good little girl?” Cordell’s taunts push Trevor over his edge and he stutters in his pace, his ass clenching around the cock still fucking him as he cums inside Stella with a broken groan. Irritated, and on the cusp of his own orgasm, he pulls out of Trevor and throws him off of his daughter. Stella whines at the loss, and he can see her pussy clenching around the emptiness. “S’okay, baby girl, Daddy’s gotcha.” He pulls his condom off quickly and ruts his cock through Stella’s folds to ease his way when he pushes inside her. She’s so tight and warm and wet, Cordell knows he won’t last long himself, but he can wait until he’s taken care of his little girl, first. 

“Oh god, Daddy, please,” Stella moans, pressing her hips back into the cock inside her, clearly relieved to be filled up again. 

“Yeah, that’s it, honey, you fuck yourself real good on my cock. Want you to cum so hard, okay baby? Be Daddy’s perfect little slut, yeah?” Cordell lifts Stella’s ankles over his shoulders and begins a punishing pace, raking over the sweet spot inside her faster and faster on every thrust. Stella’s breath is coming in gasps so short he’s not sure she can even breathe. “C’mon baby girl, cum for your Daddy. Want you to cum for me before I fill you up. Gotta take care of you first darlin’, so c’mon, cum for me.” 

Stella turns her head into her pillow and screams her release, her whole body shaking as she cums, her walls clenching hard around the cock inside her, giving Cordell exactly what he needed to fall over the edge. He seizes up bent over Stella, her legs dropping to his sides and her arms curling around him, like he was an anchor keeping her from drifting away into nothing. A small kiss placed on her forehead, and a whisper of ‘good girl, baby’, and Cordell pulls himself out slowly, groaning at the sight of his cock laced with the white of their climaxes. He flops to the side of the bed and happily makes room for Stella when she curls into his side, drawing her fingers through the hair on his chest, seemingly lost in thought. 

“What’s on your mind, Butterbean?” Cordell asks, worriedly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.  

“Just thinkin’,” she smiles serenely. 

“About…?” 

“About how I’m never bringing a boyfriend home to meet you again.”

Tags: @vulgar-library​ @tintentrinkerin​ @negans-lucille-tblr​ @fandomfic-galore​ @petitgateau911​ @whoreforackles​ @schaefchenherde​ @kickingitwithkirk​ @little-diable​ @laxe-chester67​ @kassyscarlett​ @sonofslaanesh69​ @walkersbabygirl​ @austin-winchester67​ 

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s Entwining Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for an incredibly s p i c y date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Valentine’s 2020 Collection: Gavin // Lucien // Victor

The date begins with MC watching a live broadcast of an annual award ceremony, which announces that Kiro has won the grand award.

MC grabs the congratulatory card and present she prepared, heading out to decorate Kiro’s house for a mini celebration party.

Along the way, she receives news that for some unknown reason, Kiro was absent from a product launch that he was supposed to be a spokesperson for.

She enters Kiro’s house using the keys Savin gave her and starts decorating. 

After a while, Kiro enters the house looking melancholic, with Savin nagging behind him. Savin tells her to keep an eye on Kiro to ensure he gets proper rest and not exert himself.

After Savin rushes off to deal with the press, Kiro explains that he is unable to move his neck and back.

Kiro: I just finished dance practice and heard Savin calling me at the door. I turned my neck using too much force and couldn’t move my neck afterwards. The doctor said it’s a sprain.

Saying this, he despondently grabs a pillow and hugs it to his chest in a state of utter devastation.

Kiro: [pouting] I wasn’t even doing any big movements.

Even so, Kiro is happy that he gets a day of rest.

He suggests that they slip out to visit an interesting shop nearby. While Kiro’s puppy eyes cause MC to hesitate, she refuses so Kiro can rest. Despite his unwillingness, Kiro rests on the bed. She sits on a chair next to the bed so she can watch over him.

He grabs my fingers and plays with them restlessly. It feels ticklish. I try to draw my hand back but he refuses to let go.

Kiro: I can’t sleep. When you spend time with me, I can’t bear to close my eyes.

Kiro’s words soften my heart. Due to our busy schedules, it has been a long while since we last spent time alone together.

MC: When we’re less busy, let’s go to the interesting shop you mentioned, okay?

Kiro: Yes, let’s!

The corners of Kiro’s lips lift. As though discovering a new form of amusement, he patiently plays with my fingers one by one. 

His fingers are soft and smooth. I experience a strange palpitation whenever our fingers meet. I avert my gaze, the outer rim of my ears turning red.

Kiro: Miss Chips has very soft fingers.

MC: [blushing] They’re all right…

I’m unable to control the acceleration of my heart rate. In order to loosen my hand from his, I grab the phone off the bedside table and hand it to him.

MC: Since you don’t want to sleep, I’ll let you use your phone.

Looking as though he can’t bear to let go of my hand, he takes the phone and sees that the screen is filled with tons of notifications.

Kiro guesses that his fans are worried about the sudden cancellation of the product launch and decides to post something on his Weibo account to dispel their concerns. He tries but fails to take a selfie in his injured state, so MC helps.

On the screen, there is an incredibly adorable combination of Kiro lying on the soft bed, his messy golden hair, and the teddy bear next the pillow.

Kiro: Why is my hair so messy?

His eyes widen, dismay written all over his features. I reach out and tidy his messy hair, suppressing the urge to mess it up even more.

Kiro obediently leaves his hair to me, a smile appearing on his lips.

MC: It’s going to be perfect this time.

I look him over, satisfied, and snap three consecutive photos of Kiro before showing them to him.

MC: Don’t you look very handsome now?

Kiro has a look of satisfaction as he starts typing, reading his words aloud.

Kiro: “Even though I can’t move, it’s because of this incident that I can have an afternoon of leisure”…done!

Comments start flooding in after mere seconds:

“Does such beauty truly exist?”

“Oh my god, I can lick this face for a lifetime.” 

“I’m there, I’m that bear!”

While he’s overjoyed at the compliments, he reads on:

Kiro: “Just look, it’s obvious he has put on weight again”…I definitely did not gain weight, it’s just the angle!

In a huff, Kiro readies himself to respond to this comment with a retort. I hurriedly take the phone away from him.

MC: You should rest and not respond to these comments! Let me read them to you instead.

Kiro: Since you put it that way…

With a “hmph”, he gives up on the idea. I clear my throat and begin reading the comments.

MC: “Congratulations to Kiro for winning the award! Please rest well today! To commemorate Kiro’s face, I danced a Waltz of love!” Haha, what an expression. “My heart is in critical condition! Hugging… my husband… feels like a 100 meter sprint.”

I pause when reading the words “my husband”, feeling my face heat up. Kiro smiles as he looks at me, his eyes brimming with contentment.

MC: The next one says, “Who took the photo? Why does Kiro…”

…have such a sweet look in his eyes?

I look at the photo I had taken - Kiro stares into the camera with a sweet look in his eyes, like a little bear hugging a honey pot.

Kiro: MC? Why have you stopped?

Kiro curiously sneaks a peek at the screen, but I react immediately and lift the phone so he can no longer see it.

Kiro: Very suspicious… why aren’t you letting me see?

Kiro gets even more excited, stretching out his hand for the phone.

Kiro: Ouch!

He groans and falls back onto the bed. I get a fright, no longer caring about the phone. I immediately check on his condition.

Half of his face is buried under the covers, the corner of his eyes brimming with tears. I carefully touch his arm.

MC: Are you okay?

Kiro: [groans]

MC: Is it very serious?

I start panicking. Seeing that my guard is down, Kiro uses this opportunity to pull me onto the bed with him.

Kiro: [laughing] Did I scare you?

He laughs while reappearing from under the covers. It is only now that I realise he was joking, and I let out a sigh of relief.

At this point, MC remembers that she prepared a present for Kiro. She retrieves and gives it to him. He opens it excitedly.

The box is filled with small stars folded using fluorescent paper. In the middle of these paper stars is a golden-coloured glass bottle with moving sand.

Kiro: This is so pretty…

He carefully shakes the bottle, and the gold-coloured sand slowly drifts, reflecting sunlight.

Seeing him engrossed with it, I drop him a hint.

MC: The bottle itself isn’t the main thing. There’s something in it.

Kiro: Is it a drink? Or perfume?

Kiro twists the bottle open, and a faint pine tree scent wafts into the room.

Kiro: This is… a scented bottle?

MC: Nope. This is a special essential oil I had an expert masseur make during a shoot. I heard that it’s effective for relaxing one’s muscles. I didn’t expect that it’d be of use now!

Kiro: Essential oil…

Kiro recalls that the shoot involving essential oil took place when the list of shortlisted candidates for the award was just announced. He is surprised that MC had prepared the gift so far in advance.

MC: …That’s because I knew you would definitely win! And even if you didn’t win, it could be used to comfort you.

There is a smile in Kiro’s eyes, and he takes my hand in his, such that my palm faces upwards.

MC: W-what are you doing?

Kiro: I want to try this gift.

A drop of oil lands on my palm and he rubs it slowly, spreading it across my palm evenly. The pine scent permeates the room, and the fragrance of fresh flowers soon follows. The liquid is quickly absorbed into my skin, and my palm seems to heat up.

Kiro holds my fingers gently, then brings himself closer to them. He sniffs my fingers lightly, his lips curling into a smile.

Kiro: It’s a nice smell. It’s a scent I like.

MC: !!

I am taken aback by Kiro’s sudden breath on my palm, and my heart beats at an unnatural rhythm.

Kiro doesn’t let go of my hand. He picks up the black ribbon resting on the gift box, taking his time to wrap them around my wrists.

His gaze shifts to me, his vibrant eyes making me forget how to react, and I let him continue.

Kiro: And like that, it’s done!

After saying this, he holds my wrist and pulls me closer, planting the side of his face on my palm before gently leaning into it.

As his soft golden hair brushes against my fingertips, my fingers involuntarily tremble. My palm is coated with his body temperature.

He tilts his head slightly, pressing his lips onto my palm, as if branding me with a permanent kiss.

Kiro: Actually, you are the best prize and gift to me.

Sunlight streams in from between the curtains and onto his eyes, giving me a clear view of the gentleness and adoration in them. My heart feels like it has melted into a puddle. At the same time, his transparent emotions cause my heart to heat up.

MC: I… how about I give you a massage…

I feel like biting my tongue after the words leave my lips. What am I saying!

Kiro: Sure!

Before I can change my mind, Kiro has already agreed without hesitation.

Kiro: Do I need to take my clothes off for the massage?

Saying this, he shrugs off his jacket, and both hands start pulling the ends of his t-shirt to reveal his sculpted abdomen.

MC: Wait!

Heat floods into my brain and I immediately grab the bottom of his shirt to pull it back down.

Kiro: I don’t need to take them off?

Kiro blinks, looking at me innocently.

MC: I’m just giving it a try. If you remove your shirt, it’d be easy to catch a cold.

With an “ohh”, he lets go of his shirt, his face betraying a hint of disappointment.

MC: …Go lie down on your stomach.

While Kiro obediently turns to lie down, I place my hands on my chest to calm my rapidly beating heart.

MC begins the massage, applying what she learnt from the massage expert

She does it gently and Kiro is on the verge of falling asleep

She calls Kiro’s name to check if he’s asleep, and he snaps out of his daze

Feeling bad for disturbing him, MC continues:

MC: …You can sleep if you want to.

I speak gently. Noticing that a strand of hair near his eyes makes Kiro slightly uncomfortable, I reach out to sweep it away.

Kiro: But I don’t feel like sleeping anymore.

He blinks, his voice slightly nasally and coquettish.

Kiro: I felt too comfortable just now, so I almost fell asleep.

He grabs hold of my hand. In a playful manner, he gently pinches my palm twice.

Kiro: Thank you, Miss Chips.

MC: No need to thank me. It just shows that my technique is not bad, right?

Kiro: Mm, this is a great present.

His eyebrows are curved upwards and he smiles softly.

Kiro: I like the feeling of you touching me.

He interlaces our fingers together, then hooks my thumb with his.

Kiro: I realized that humans, like animals, like to be touched and have their hair combed through.

MC: Is it because it’s very comfortable?

Kiro: It is really very comfortable. If that person is a loved one, her hands and body temperature would have an even more addictive effect.

A warmth emanates from our joined palms, and I can feel myself starting to sweat.

MC starts ruffling Kiro’s hair, and they banter for a while.

Kiro: I feel very happy whenever you’re by my side. Although sometimes, I do think of being a little closer to you.

Even before I pick out the hidden meaning in his words, I instinctively seek to change the subject.

MC: My massage techniques are quite mediocre though. I’ll introduce you to the masseur another time.

Kiro: I don’t want anyone else.

Kiro pouts, turning to face me.

Kiro: I only want my Miss Chips…

His voice trails off, and I am rooted to the spot. I am leaning over him, face-to-face with Kiro. Just a slight lowering of my head would be enough for me to kiss him.

Our breathing becomes ragged, and the initially peaceful atmosphere in the room seems to turn into boiling water.

Although Kiro doesn’t speak, I can feel his quickening breaths on my face. His grip on my hand tightens.

As though being in this position is too dangerous, I come to my senses and straighten up, putting distance between us.

Kiro sits up, his hand still on mine, giving me no chance to escape.

MC: We…

Kiro: I have not finished unwrapping my gift.

His words leave me frozen.

MC: What present?

Anticipating that I would respond this way, he laughs. 

Kiro: My present… is you of course.

His voice carries an evident smile. I look into his blue eyes, which hide within them the expansiveness of the sky.

A black ribbon appears in his hands, and he wraps them around his fingers, the colour of the ribbon striking a sharp contrast against his pale skin.

MC: …Why do you say that I’m the present?

He doesn’t respond. His abrupt silence leaves me not knowing what to do. Before I repeat my question, he suddenly hooks the ribbon over the back of my neck, and my heart skips a beat.

MC: W-what are you doing?

Kiro: Make a guess?

He arches an eyebrow. His usual playful expression is replaced with a sudden sexiness.

He resumes his work with the ribbon while I remain kneeling on the bed. He slowly pulls me closer to him. Although he isn’t exerting much strength, I can’t help but give in to the tug of the ribbon.

Our breaths mingle and we can no longer tell them apart.

Kiro: Since this is a present for me, I will open it very, very slowly.

He says this languidly, curling his words with the tip of his tongue, ending his sentence in a low voice.

At this moment, the ribbon has become a string encircling my heart, letting it beat only for him.

Kiro is unwilling to stop here. He takes one end of the ribbon into his mouth and bites it firmly, the corners of his mouth lifting with a certain look.

The light descends onto the bridge of his nose, the clear lines of his jaw, spreading to his Adam’s apple. He oozes hormones of a different kind than usual.

His free hand rubs my thigh gently, and the sound of my skirt ruffling is especially clear.

Such unobstructed physical contact feels like fire, setting every inch of my skin ablaze. My body involuntarily trembles.

My breathing becomes increasingly ragged as he continues his upward motions. My heart beats rapidly, and my mind is completely blank, only remembering to shout his name.

MC: Kiro…

Kiro: It is time to receive my present.

The corner of his mouth is raised as he slowly releases the black ribbon on my neck. The ribbon slides down my body. I look into his wide eyes and let down my defenses. In a moment, the distance between us is barely visible.

Kiro: Miss Chips, you are a gift sent from heaven, a gift that I have awaited for my whole life, a gift that is most precious to me.

His gentle voice disappears into the space where our lips meet, melting into a quiet whisper.

Unlike his gentle tone, his kiss resembles a storm, forcefully entering and occupying all available space, leaving not a single crevice untouched.

The temperature rises sharply between our intertwining lips and tongue. Our exchange of breaths strips away all my senses and thoughts.

The almost inaudible sound of water echoes in the quiet room. The arm encircling my waist pulls me even closer against his body.

All the blood in my body is set ablaze, engulfing the little rationality I have left.

Suddenly, there is the sound of a door opening in the living room, followed by a conversation between Savin and the assistant.

Savin: Kiro should be resting. You can head to the kitchen to wash the ingredients for our hotpot later.

Assistant: Sure, but isn’t this a little too much…

I snap out of my daze after a few seconds and realise the situation Kiro and I are in.

MC: They’re back!

My panic completely dismantles the earlier atmosphere, and I muster the strength to tear myself from Kiro’s arms.

Even before I shift to the edge of the bed, Kiro wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me backwards.

We both fall onto the bed, a tangled mess of sheets beneath us. The teddy bear has fallen off the bed.

Kiro holds me tightly from behind, and my back is pressed against his chest.

Sweat soaks the fabric, which clings to our closely connected skin, bringing with it an intimate and sticky feeling.

I feel his scorching breath on the nape of my neck. It weaves through my sweat-drenched hair, lingering on my skin.

The sound of footsteps outside grows louder, causing me to tense up. I open my mouth to speak, but can only let out an inaudible gasp.

Kiro’s lips are pressed against the back of my ear, and a low and raspy voice follows.

Kiro: There’s no need to be nervous. The room is locked.

🎁

Phone Call

[thevoilinauttheory]

Winter Sound

[ FFxivWrite2021 Prompt 24: Illustrious ]

[ Content Warnings: None! ]

[  [ Maximiloix learning magic, something something title lol - Earth - Water - Fire - Lightning - Wind - Ice ]

==

They had camped out in the snow, huddled together in their small tent for warmth; all in the comfortable glow of each others’ company. Neither of them were early risers, and so they stayed curled up until the day had reached its warmest part. Or, as warm as winter could get. Then it was shaking out the shivering cold as they packed up their belongings to continue on their journey. Caromont had led them back through a passage to the Western Highlands, to avoid getting comfortable with the city before finishing Maximiloix’s training - though trudging through the deep snow to the northernmost part of the highlands proved difficult, even hazardous. Maximiloix was fairly used to it, and he gave what lessons of his own he could give to survive the harsh climate; this was typical of the winters of Coerthas, and nothing he hadn’t faced with less before. Of course, it was the trek into the Slate Mountains that gave them the most hardships - having barely been prepared for a journey up the steep slopes and rocky climbs (Caromont faced incessant nagging for that one).

It took them another two days to make it to their next destination, but once they were there, it was a sight to see. The skies were clear and free of clouds, offering a pristine view of the snow-draped fields of Coerthas; the sun glittering off of the ice in a rainbow of colors. All they had to do was turn their heads upwards to see the islands of the Sea of Clouds and the wondrous beauty of unknown flora growing upon the emerald grass. “Gods, ain’t this somethin’ else…” “I do not think I could have asked for a better vista than this, it is beautiful up here… if it were not so *swiving* cold, it would be perfect.” Maximiloix snorted - the temperature still bothered him little, though he was beginning to believe it was more than just growing acclimated to it - Caromont rarely cursed, being composed most of the time, though that was how he knew it was *truly* cold out.

“C’mere.” Maximiloix sat himself down on a sturdy rock, then reached his arms out for him; to which Caromont took without hesitation, curled up in a blanket and tucking himself against his husband for more warmth. “Tell me ‘bout th’ice while y’warm up.” “Ice is an Umbral aspected element, making it the closest to the dark element you can get… they tie hand in hand. Though… I have noticed that it ties closely to the light as well, and I believe it is the best balance between the two.” He lifted a finger. “I suppose I should start with… everyone has an innate affinity for certain elements, one more than others. It bolsters the potency of the spells of that element, as well as making it far easier to use with less. You would not think it, but my body has a natural affinity for the wind element - thus, if I *had* to cast a spell without a catalyst, I would attempt keeping my spells to wind-aspected. My body would be able to handle the strain easier and keep me from using too much aether at once, I would drain less for more.” “Mm… what’s that s’posed t’mean fer learnin’?” “Well… you have an affinity for ice.” “Do I?” “Let us start with the fact that you are hardly bothered nor inconvenienced by the cold temperatures - now, most with an affinity for ice would feel it still, but find it bearable. Maybe not *this* much, however. Which brings me to the next point: what you are.”

“...” Maximiloix let a huff out from his nose, pursing his lips and furrowing his brows - he was never a fan of the topic. The fact that it was being brought up so casually made him uncomfortable, to say the least. “A shield from the cold and ice in the form of scales - the fact that you are susceptible to the heat and fire solidifies that you are not Dravanian of origin, as dragon scales are resistant to them.” “Thanks, I guess.” He rolled his eyes. “If ice is a balance between light and dark, it would only make sense that you have an affinity for it. The dark of your scales, and the light of your blessing.” “So instead o’ bein’ heretic, M’full on blasphemous, is what yer sayin’?” Caromont laughed. “I suppose so! That does not mean anything bad, I assure you. Simply that you are different in your own way - it is not what the being is, but how they are; and you are far from a bad person.” “Y’never know!” “Maxie, we have been together for seven years now, and married for one! I think I would know, hm? *Especially* me.” Maximiloix rolled his eyes again, then huffed out a small laugh. “Fine, fine. Guess I gotta believe ya’. So… there’s more t’th’lesson, yeah?”

“Oh! Yes, there is. Ice is used in thaumaturgy to lean the caster’s aether towards an Umbral aspect, allowing them to recover while they are in a passive state - when charged towards an Astral aspect, it can cause just as much destruction as fire can. It shouldn’t be underestimated simply because it is typically used for the recovery of energy.” He pulled himself away from the warmth of his husband’s body, standing up to stretch out, then meandered over to the near completed lance to finish the job with one last crystal. “So. Let us practice.” Maximiloix nodded firmly, doing just the same - he stretched as he stood, then found himself at Caromont’s side to take the lance from him. He smoothed his hand over each one, now imbued with a myriad of colors and emotions, tiny memories stored within his weapon. He smiled at the thought of them. “This time, I *will* let you use your all.” “Heh?” “I wish if I was correct in your affinity, if it truly is as strong as I believe it to be.” “Then I certainly ain’t usin’ it on ya’ this time!” “Oh, hells no. I am not that ignorant nor foolhardy, you will make a target of that rock there, some distance away. Now, stance yourself as if you were to use a fire or lightning spell.” He did as he was told, positioning himself to draw the aether from the crystal itself - then focused from there. What was it that he was supposed to focus on? Destruction was the only thing that came to mind, since his spell was aimed for a target rather than his husband. He focused on that point as if it *were* a person, how the skin would feel, how the ice would cut and burn and blind.

He could feel the chill running through him, it froze his blood in its tracks, choked his breath as it found its way into his lance - as deadly as it should have been, it felt *free*. It felt so free and wild, tamable by only his hands; power was but an understatement. This feeling had nothing on power and force, it was so much *more*. He could feel the cold wind whip his hair about, give frost to the edges of his skin, crawling over the scales that formed on his face. Then there was the pulse, the fabric of his being drawn out by the thread; how the cold made a home in the dark, the air about him thickened with it, stifling the light of the sun. His foot shifted slightly back, bracing himself for the magic that he was about to expel. With a push of his lance, and a hand gripping towards the dark sky above, was that spell released - crushing and shattering the rock in just a blink. Once the ice and darkness had shrunk in on itself, did it implode instead - where there was once the suffocating dark, it was now a brilliant and violent light that blinded them. The force of such a spell - even if it was a distance away - pushed him back, sliding across the slickened pile of snow until he lost his footing completely. He let out a yelp as he found himself tumbling down the rocky slope with his only reflex to cast another spell about him - one that focused on his protection. Ice shattered too easily, and so he was left with the cushion of the perfect mingle between light and dark; it covered him, cradled him, kept him safe until he came to a stop a few yalms down from where he was originally.

“Ughh… ow…” “Maxie!” He could hear Caromont call for him, but his head was still spinning not only from the fall, but the excess of aether he had spent on one spell. He blinked as he tried to look up. “Caro?” “Oh, thank the gods, you are alright; hold on, I will be down in a moment!” Caromont clamored down the mountain side as quickly as he could without slipping up himself, jumping over and across jagged rocks until he reached the bed of snow Maximiloix had flopped down into. The sun was shining again, it reflected oil-stained rainbows off of his scales, and he stared at the sky as if *it* would be his salvation. “Gods! I was glad I had time to prepare, ‘else you would have flung me off the mountain with you! Are you okay?” Caromont knelt down beside him, checking over him for any injuries, and thankful to find none. “Maybe I should be careful of what I ask of you next time, hm?” Laughter bubbled out of Maximiloix’s throat, that same child-like glee as he had when he cast his first spell. “Did ya’ see that! Holy shite! I’d do it ‘gain if I could move!” He continued to laugh, but his body truly would not move no matter how hard he tried. “Love, I don’t think that’s a good idea, regardless of whether or not you could move.” Caromont laughed as well, plopping himself down beside his husband. “That *was* impressive, however. But maybe we should keep the impressiveness to a minimum from now on - I made the mistake of underestimating your all.”

[groovybaybee]

In The Club - 1

cw: bit of smut, alcohol consumption, think that’s all, terrible writing but that’s a given

(8.8k i’m so sorry, the other chapters won’t be this long i promise)

masterlist

Fucking your friend is never as problem-free as you convince yourself it will be. Sure, it starts out simply enough; two horny people agreeing to a moment of need-driven desperation. If you are lucky, the sex is terrible and forms the basis of just another inside joke between you. However, if you are truly unfortunate, the sex is fantastic and addictive and so convenient that you convince yourself it is an ideal situation.

“Fuck me,” I groan blissfully as the cool night air smacks against my exposed flesh.

 Despite still not falling into the habit, the smoking area of any club quickly becomes my sanctuary on any given night out. Something about the space feels sacred and sinful at once, a free zone of communal naughtiness.

 Its more than that. The haze-filled space offers a welcome reprieve, whether that be from thumping beats, one drink too many, or lecherous advances. Standing outside in my sanctuary, breathing in a mixture of second-hand smoke and crisp, late August air; I feel at peace. My eyelids flutter closed and my head rolls back until my chin is parallel with the night sky.

 Its cold.  We knew it would be before we came out, the idea of a summer in London feeling like some sick joke as we rallied around each other to avoid bringing jackets to avoid wasting time in a queue for the cloakroom. The evening’s chill does not bother me, instead, I appreciate the way it sinks into my skin, chilling the heat being pumped through my veins. The beads of sweat in my hairline begin to dissipate as the soft breeze caresses every piece of bare skin.

 “You alright there, babe?” I hear Harry ask, promptly reminding me that I am not alone despite being in my own little world.

 A smile pulls across my face, but I take a second to breathe one final inhale of tranquillity before meeting his gaze. He is grinning at me, clearly finding amusement in my cooling down process. If his use of the name ‘babe’ had fallen on deaf ears, the toothy grin and glazed look in his eyes would quickly clear up any confusion as to his state of intoxication.

 The sweet boy is pissed.

 As he has every right to be. Tonight marks the first night in months he has accepted an invitation to come out. Do not get me wrong, Harry is an inspiration for his dedication to his work and it is obvious that creating music is his path in life, his primary passion, but man have I missed him. The past month has been the worst, almost every offer to spend time together being met with a consolatory ‘Have to work sorry :(‘ text message. Despite knowing that this was the truth, and would only last a little while longer until his newest album was fully wrapped, it still stung not being able to relax after a long week with a bottle of wine, some horrendous film, and one of my best friends. But the album is done, fully mastered and now just awaited final approval before being birthed to the world. Now, I have my boy back.

 “I’m so happy you came,” I tell him, wrapping my arms clumsily around his neck.

 I feel a breath of laughter against my hair as he pulls me into a tight hug. The two of us sway enthusiastically together, likely encouraged by a mixture of spirits but happy, nonetheless.

 Pulling away from him I press a quick kiss to his lips, hands on his cheeks squeezing his face gleefully. This is not the first time I have kissed Harry during our two-year long friendship. The two of us even went through a brief period of kissing each other hello, up until just over a year ago. So, it is little shock to the rest of our friendship group when we share a few giggle-fuelled smooches.

 “Get a room,” Deb laughs, stubbing out the butt of her cigarette with an amused eyeroll.

 “Some people would pay good money to see this sweet action.” Harry teases, a hand gripping my hip and pulling my body flush against his to prove his point.

 I would be lying to myself if I said his body did not feel good against mine, that his lips don’t spread warmth through my chest, but so does gin.

 “Tanya’s having afters at her’s, anyone fancy it?” Bri asks, wobbling on weakened ankles as she walks over to us, arms wrapped tightly around her petite frame to fight the cold.

 The question is indirectly aimed at Deb, something only Harry and I seem to notice, a smirk shared between the two of us at this realisation. It is the same pattern every time we go out and the night starts to draw to a close. The potential for an end to the evening is too much for them, not wanting to say goodbye to each other, but not having enough courage to specifically ask the other to spend time together. So, the roll of cupid falls on my shoulders once again.

 The moment I hear Deb agree to go with Bri, I speak up, “No way am I staying up until five with you two chain-smokers. I’m going home.”

 “So boring,” Bri teases, a grateful look in her eyes. I send her a quick wink when Deb is distracted, asking Harry if he will join.

 “Nah, think I’ll skip it as well. Make sure this one gets home alright.” He responds, a gentle squeeze to the flesh of my hips.

 “Sure,” Deb smirks before turning to Bri.

 The two women look at each other for a moment, a soft haze of smoke and stifled attraction surrounding them.

 “Have a good time,” I interrupt, snapping them out of their unintentional staring contest. Each gives me a hug, desperate to hide their pinkened cheeks from the other. “Be safe, I love you both.”

 “You too!” Bri hollers as they begin to walk away.

 “Use protection!” Deb shouts across the crowded area, eliciting embarrassed giggles from Harry and myself as we hide our faces in the other’s neck.

 “You staying at mine tonight?” I query as I lift my head from the crook of his neck. “Missed having you round.”

 “I’d love that,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “Want to go now?”

 I nod and smile as he finishes the last of his drink in one gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing harshly. A large drop spills from the corner of his mouth and he clumsily wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. His hand slips into mine as we cut through the crowd in the same direction as Deb and Bri

 A smirk graces my lips as I picture the pair sat in a car together, completely oblivious to their mutual attraction. Since the moment they were introduced at my birthday party a few years back, they have tiptoed around each other, both deeply infatuated but too scared to make the first move. Sometimes I worry that they are too similar for their own good, that they will dance around the subject forever.

 “Who do you think will make the first move?” I ask Harry as we walk to find a nearby takeaway, my body on autopilot as Harry leads me through quiet London backstreets.

 “Probably me.” Harry says absentmindedly, focussing the majority of his attention on checking the road is clear before we cross.

 “Deb or Bri, idiot.” I chuckle, my legs working overtime as I try to keep instep with his long strides.

 “Oh, Deb, guaranteed.” Harry posits, holding the door to the almost empty chip shop open for me to step inside.

 “I’m not so sure,” I say as we join the queue, the group of girls in front of us swaying, most holding their high heels as they discuss condiments. “At uni, Deb was always too shy to go up to girls, so I had to do it for her, but Bri’s a model you know, confidence kind of comes with the territory.”

 “Not necessarily. Bet you a tenner it’s Deb.” He smirks, hand already outstretched to shake mine.

 “You’re on,” I shake his hand firmly, the mischievous twinkle in his eye charming me more than I would like to admit. “Want to split some chips?”

 * * *

 By the time we pile into my flat, the food is almost cold, the two of us quickly chowing down as we collapse on to the sofa. We work like a well-oiled machine, falling into our habits of pouring water, kicking our shoes off, and switching on some late-night television.

 “I know I’ve said this a hundred times,” I start softly as my wild eyes attempt to focus on him under the dim light, “But it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you, man.”

 “C’mere,” Harry grins, pulling me into a tight squeeze before we settle side by side into the cushions. “Been meaning to tell you, you look great tonight.” Harry smiles cheekily.

 “You going to try and snog me again?” I tease through a mouthful of chips.

 “You do look irresistible right now.” Harry chimes, wiping a smudge of ketchup from the corner of my mouth before popping his finger in his mouth to clean it.

 There is a brief pause, a second or so of silence before Harry speaks again, picking through the box of chips for the perfect one.

 “I liked kissing you.”

 “Do it again then.” I tease, wondering if he will take the bait or laugh it off.

 Turning in his seat until he is facing me, a curious smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. For a second, his lips pucker in thought.

 It is all I can do not to let out a little breath of laughter. The situation is bizarre, undoubtedly. Yet, there is a distinct sensation of calm filtering through my body, as though no matter the outcome, I would be satisfied.

 “I shouldn’t… Haven’t had sex in months, scared it might stir up something in me.” With that, he turns his attention to the TV, slouching down into the sofa cushions.

 “Harry,” I utter softly.

 “Hmm?” he asks, my gaze fixed on his jaw as he clenches and releases it absentmindedly.

 “Kiss me.”

 Turning to face me yet again, this time with an incredibly serious look on his face, his eyes dark and stern. While he observes me, I take a sip of my water. His eyes follow me intensely, watching my lips part before lowering the glass and swallowing, his throat bobbing with mine.

 “Are you sure?”

 “Beyond sure.” I tell him with enough confidence for the both of us.

 Our lips meet somewhere between us, lazily melting together as we sink into the sofa cushions. We move in a blur, arms around each other, hands caressing faces.

 Our clothes tangle as we hastily undress ourselves, giggling as the garments collide on their way to the living room floor.

 “This is stupid, isn’t it?” Harry grins before connecting our lips over and over.

 “Completely.” I smirk between tequila-flavoured kisses.

 “Condom?” he asks, voice slightly muffled by the flesh of my shoulder.

 “Implant.” I tell him breathlessly, mentally reminding myself of my appointment to get it replaced next week.

 Harry just nods into the crook of my neck, a hand reaching down to position himself. The giggles fade away as we become fully connected, slipping naturally into a symbiotic amalgamation of limbs and lips. It is hasty and sweaty, each of our movements oozing with lust. Our bodies work quickly with one another, only personal need driving us until we pull our clothes back on.

 “Nice.” I tease, reaching my hand out for a high-five.

 “Loser.” Harry laughs, pulling me into his side. A quick kiss is pressed to my temple and we turn back to the television as if nothing had happened.

 * * *

 The morning after, us having sex has already turned into a private joke. The two of us teasing one another relentlessly as we nurse our hangovers with a fry up.

 “Never going to be able to look at you the same way, not after seeing your face when I made you—”

 “Made me? I don’t think you could make me do anything.” I interrupt, bumping Harry’s hip with my own as I plate up our late breakfast.

 “That so?” he replies, a smirk strongly evident in his voice.

 I am about to reply when his hands slip around my waist from behind, gently raising until they cup the underneath of my breasts.

 “Do you want to eat or not?” I laugh, motioning to the pan of eggs in one of my hands and the spatula in the other.

 “Fine.” He grins, giving my boobs a quick, soft squeeze before moving away.

 We sit down on the barstool by the island and I instantly dig in, desperate to eat away the throbbing in my head.

 “Bri’s sad because she didn’t make a move on Deb.” Harry tells me as he types a response quickly on his phone.

 “Telling her about last night to cheer her up?” I joke. Harry pauses, locking his phone and placing it down on the cool granite surface.

 “God, can you imagine how much shit they’d give us if they found out?”

 “I won’t tell if you don’t.” I offer a hand for him to shake.

 “Deal.” He says quickly, stretching out his own hand to meet mine.

 * * *

 It isn’t until a few weeks later that I get to see Harry again. Work consumes us both as always. Harry finalises a promotion timeline for his new album while I travel across Sicily, working with temperamental models in the baking summer sun. I spend the first day back at home, lazing on the sofa and doing laundry. Almost immediately upon exiting the plane, I miss the heat. Late summer in London provides to be drizzle-filled and grey for the majority of the time. The only time sunshine rears its head is the day of Harry’s party. Typical, really. That man even has mother nature on his side.

 After a sluggish and jetlagged day spent doing laundry and replying to emails, I drink as much caffeine as possible before heading over to Harry’s place. He had wanted tonight to be as intimate as possible. Only family, friends and a few members of the production team received the invitation to his house to hear his new album before the public get their hands on it. The select few of us, after checking our names with the security team at the gatehouse, make our way through the enclosed community, walking right in through his unlocked front door.

 Once inside, I cannot help the smirk that tugs at my lips as I imagine Harry organising this party. The house is covered in pink and blue like a fancy gender reveal and all I can picture is a roll of tape between Harry’s teeth as he insisted on hanging streamers himself.

 Quickly, I am distracted by the décor when a table filled with flutes of champagne catches my eye. With one in my hand, I turn a corner and see him immediately. He stands in the centre of the lounge while those around him sit dotted around the space, watching as he speaks animatedly. His hands move about wildly as he talks, eliciting laughter from the room as he continues to tell a story I already recognise. Just as he reaches the climax of the tale, his gaze floats towards me. Joy seems to settle around us as everyone cracks up at the punchline of the anecdote, the two of us simply sharing soft smiles by way of a greeting. I raise my glass slightly and he understands, continuing to entertain the room effortlessly as I join the masses, simply observing and enjoying him.

 “Alright?” I hear a familiar voice utter groggily. I turn to see Bri clutching an espresso martini tightly, majority already drunk. “Knackered, mate.” She confirms as she presses herself against me in lieu of a hug.

 “Know the feeling,” I sympathise, feeling the formidable aches of travelling.

 Bri and I swap stories about where we have recently flown in from as we settle amongst the group, finding a small loveseat brought in to accommodate the increased number of occupants.

 Collectively, the room falls silent. Harry, charmingly humble as always, utters a few words of thanks to us all for our support during the writing, recording, and production processes, before we relax into the evening as the first track begins to play. Thankfully, Harry has already witnessed my initial reactions to each and every song, including a few which did not make the cut, so I need not worry about emotional outbursts in front of some of his nearest and dearest. Each track reminds me of the nights he would sneak me demos or voice memos of certain lyrics and riffs he was particularly proud of at that moment. Hearing the album again now brings back a serious swell of pride that fills my heart right to its capacity, emotion beginning to fill my eyes as we listen to the stories of his heart. Each sorrowful ballad and upbeat tune breaks and reforms my heart repeatedly and I am once again, completely enamoured with him and his talent.

 * * *

 “My girl,” Harry calls out happily, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “What did you think of the album?”

 “I’ve already heard it.” I laugh, absentmindedly leaning into his warmth, grateful for it in the slight chill of his back garden.

 “You weren’t supposed to though.” He whispers, lowering his head as he colludes with me, “This was meant to be the first time anyone outside of production heard it so… shh.”

 Impossible to hold back my grin at his ridiculously over the top nature, I just give him a toothy nod before placing my left index finger against my lips.

 “I won’t tell if you don’t.” I say softly.

 “Where have I heard that before?” he grins, tapping a finger against his chin as he pretends to search his memory. His gaze trickles over my body, eyebrows pulling together when he notices the giant purple bruise spread across my upper left arm. “How did you do that?”

 Gently, he takes my arm in his hand, lifting it softly to take a better look at the yellowish edges.

 “Was time to get my implant removed, back to condoms for a few weeks.” I tell him casually, not realising the suggestive nature of my words until he replies.

 “Going to miss the way you feel for a few weeks then.” His tone is so casual that it stuns me for a moment, completely unable to think of a witty retort.

 I had assumed that our drunken fling was just that. Never had the thought crossed my mind that he might want to do it again. Okay, that’s a lie. I have thought of little else at night than the thought of Harry on top of me again, his hand replacing my own as I bring myself to climax.

 However, watching the way he observes my reaction sparks a disgusting greed within me.

 “Hang out when everyone leaves?” he asks, seeing the fire behind my eyes and matching it with his own.

 It is all I can do to nod and not pull him aside and let my body mould to his.

 The evening passes quicker than I had expected, perhaps my slight exhaustion seems to warp my internal clock, making hours feel like minutes. Regardless, before I know it, Harry and I find ourselves on his bed, lips and limbs entangled.

 “I’m really proud of you.” I manage to mumble against his lips in a brief interlude in which they are parted from my own.

 “That means a lot.” Harry utters back, equally hindered by my lips against his. Neither of us mind though. If anything, these small and restrained interactions seem to encourage us, raising the heat in the room as hands grasp and grip the other. Our bodies flush together, desperately meeting in any way possible as if trying to verbalise what we do not dare talk about.

 We move much slower than the last time, savouring each and every touch as we take turns removing the other’s clothes. Contrary from our previous experience, there is nothing greedy about our movements. Instead, a different type of need drives our bodies to intertwine.

 I manage to pull myself away from him for long enough to mutter, “Condom?”

 Harry stills above me, eyes averted as he thinks deeply before speaking, “Think there’s some in the bathroom, sorry, I’ll be right back.” With a swift kiss to my forehead, he dashes from the room into his en suite.

 “Cute bum.” I call after him, enjoying the way his hips wiggle with his quick pace.

 “Cheers!” he hollers back, shortly followed by the sound of skin on skin.

 The idea of him slapping his own backside leaves a smile on my face which lasts until he returns with a single condom, declaring it to be the last one and making some teasing comment about how lucky I am. His words fall on deaf ears, however, as I feel the energy in the room shift. My eyes glue to his body as he sits beside me, taking both of my hands in his and pulling me to sit up straight. The muscles of his body grow taut under his skin as he moves me to sit between his open legs. My feet lock around his back, his hands mirroring the same position around my waist as our lips meet yet again.

 Into each other we sink deeper, chest meeting chest, rising and falling together. A gentle hand lifts to tuck away a lock of my hair before settling against my cheek, softly grazing his fingertips across the tender flesh of my neck. His lips are like runny honey against my body as they trail across my jaw and trickle down the column of my throat, catching my breath between them. The tip of a thumb under my chin keeps my head high as his lips work lower and lower. My own lips are parted as I melt beneath him.

 “Harry,” I gasp, unintentionally making him stop dead in his tracks. Panic instantly flooding through my veins, I cast my gaze downwards to check on him. He looks up at me with soft but needy eyes. “What is it?” I ask cautiously, my hand subconsciously clearing the rogue tendrils of hair away from his forehead.

 “I like the way you say my name.” he utters lowly, so quiet it almost seems as though he is afraid of my reaction.

 Unsure of what words could quell whatever doubts he is battling with; I replace them with a soft kiss to his lips. One side of his face cupped in my hand, I feel him lean into me, eyelids fluttering shut just long enough to savour the feeling but not so long as to make it obvious that it was his aim.

 “Harry,” I whisper, just loud enough to catch his attention and bring his eyes back to mine, “I want you to…”

 I falter, unsure of the right word to use here. None seem to fit just right, either feeling too blunt and devoid of emotion or too far the other way.

 Regardless of semantics, Harry understands and slips his hips away slightly. I watch as his steady hands tear the wrapper open and roll the condom down his shaft. Without another moment’s hesitation, his hands are back on my body, grasping at the flesh at my sides as he pulls me into his lap. With every move he makes, his lips provide accompaniment. Kisses spread across my face and neck, down to my collarbone and breasts, celebrating each and every part they come into contact with.

 Desperate to feel every part of him, I raise my hips. Upon realising my intentions, Harry meets my gaze, watching me with awe-filled eyes as I slip our bodies together. I feel him gasp against the bare skin of my chest. For a moment, our actions are slow, adjusting to the overwhelming feeling of one another. Our hips rock gently into each other, soft moans and sharp inhalations fill the otherwise quiet bedroom, bouncing off the walls I have begged him countless times to add more colour to. His hands grip the flesh of my hips, reaching down sporadically to grope at my cheeks. With each squeeze and scratch, I move faster against him, head thrown back in pleasure as we repeatedly hit every delicious spot.

 His hands caress every part of me, truly making love to my body as heated gasps slip past my lips. Our bodies work as a chemical reaction of lust and care, eyes locked as we move quicker and more urgently. Everything we need to say we say with a kiss of the neck, a scratch of bare skin, and a bliss-filled moan.

 Two hands slip behind me, swiftly but securely lowering me into the pillows of the bed before returning to my hips and waist. His hands grip me tighter as this new position allows him to sink deeper into me, his body slowing temporarily against mine to savour the feeling of being fully complete. His eyes never leave mine, pupils contracting and dilating, telling me everything I need to know.

 My gaze flicks down to the point where our bodies meet, watching in lust-filled awe as we connect. I feel Harry do the same as his forehead rests against mine, hands slipping to grasp at my thighs, squeezing and moulding the flesh in his hands. A groan leaves my lips at the sensation of his adoration. At the sound, his hips snap harshly against my own, eliciting louder, wilder moans. Encouraged beyond belief, Harry chases my pleasure, speeding up the movement of his body against my own. His head drops down to my neck, suckling and licking at the skin growing tender under his control.

 Lifting his upper body from mine, he pushes gently against one of my legs until it is perpendicular to my body. Instantly, I melt beneath him, this new angle driving me into a state of madness as he hits harder and deeper, watching with animalistic pride as I clutch around desperately for something to cling to. My fingertips tangle in the bedsheets, eager to anchor myself as a hand slips between my legs. His fingers spin soft circles, their contrast to the speed and force of his hips sending me over the edge, body shuddering violently as he eases me back down. Harry utters soft words, gentle coos that bring me back to him and allow my eyes to unscrunch themselves. When I see him, laying atop me, face just inches from mine, the fire is burning brighter than I have ever seen it, something about watching the pleasure he brings me arousing every sense.

 “Fuck me,” I beg, my voice cracking from my raw throat but I don’t care. I need him.

 He gives me everything in him, using my body to feel good, knowing as well as I do that nothing could compare to the two of us. Even when his face contorts, jaw slack and breathing halted, I feel the care he has for me. His fingertips caress the softness of my skin, gently roaming the expanse of my body as I tether him to the Earth. Collapsing into me, he buries himself in the crook of my neck. My hands come up to encircle him, grazing up and down his back soothingly as he catches his breath.

 “You’re unreal.” Harry eventually mumbles against my skin, producing a breathy giggle from deep within my chest. He pulls away, rolling off me and quickly discarding the condom before laying beside me. Propping his head up with his hand, his body follows the contours of my side in order for us to constantly be touching. “I mean it.”

 I turn to him, tucking one knee between his and trying not to groan at the ache in my body.

 “I dig you too.” I say with a gentle, slightly exhausted smile.

 “Never said that,” he teases, earning a half-hearted frown which just makes him grin even harder. Slowly, his face falls serious, his brows pulling together as he contemplates the thought swimming around in his mind.

 “Tell me.” I whisper, a hand coming up to rest on the side of his face, thumb automatically caressing the stubble across his cheek.

 “Sometimes I think we’ll end up together.” He tells me quietly. My actions still, eyes flitting to his eyes to search for the tell-tale sign that he is just being mischievous. But there is only a hint of worry in those bright eyes.

 “Yeah?” I ask, quickly licking my lips to distract myself from the break in my voice, convincing myself that it is simply because my throat is still sore from moments ago.

 “Yeah.”

 We lay for a while like this, no words spoken, or action taken. I don’t think either of us would know what to do if we wanted to anyway. Instead we lay. His hand comes up to rest on top of mine, keeping me with him until the rise and fall of our chests sync and my eyelids grow heavy.

 “Tired?”

 “Little, still a bit jetlagged.” I mumble, already half-asleep despite my intentions to stay awake and look at him all night long.

 “Go to sleep.” He says softly before pressing a tender kiss to my hand. His lips work as an immediate sleep aid, relaxing every aching muscle and eradicating every stressful thought.

 * * *

 Three weeks pass by quickly, work overwhelms me yet again and I spend my days and nights at shoots, silently praying that each director I work with will be less of a diva than the last. Unfortunately, my prayers go unanswered. The increased workload begins to drain every last drop of lifeforce from me. My limbs ache with exhaustion, stomach never fully settled due to lack of sufficient sustenance.

 “I’m knackered, think I might be getting the flu.” I explain sleepily to Harry over FaceTime, my body slumping back into the heap of pillows in my unmade bed. His camera flips around from the beautifully clear blue sky above him to a concerned, slightly bearded Harry. “Have you shaved since you left?” I ask with a smirk.

 “This is my LA stache.” He grins, smudging and finger and thumb across the width of the hair above his top lip.

 “I miss you.” I whisper, not meaning the words to leave my subconscious.

 “I miss you too,” Harry smiles, his eyes softening as an excited shade of light pink flushes his cheeks. “Hang out when I’m back?”

 I nod and agree to dinner next week before yawning and saying goodbye. Wrapping myself up in the cold duvet, the thought of seeing Harry soon stops me from slipping into sleep. My mind relives our last night together, each kiss and caress playing like a film. We should have talked about it before he left but, as per usual, our work-lives consumed us. What would he say about that night? Did he feel the difference in the way we moved? Is he just as freaked out by it?

 The next day, all doubts and fears are drained from my body, a care package waiting on my doorstep as I arrive home. Carrying the box inside, my eyes glance around the box in search of some sign to indicate the sender’s identity. I knew he had been the one responsible for it, but the contents just confirmed it. Tins of soup, orange juice, cold and flu medicine, a box of cherry bakewells (my absolute favourite comfort food), and an unbelievably soft pair of fluffy socks.

 Snapping a quick picture of the assortment, I send it to Harry with a string of appreciative words, tearing up due to his sweetness and my sickness.

 It does not matter what either of us thinks of feels about that night together, because at the end of the day, it is always going to be him and I, whatever form our relationship takes.

  * * *

 “You look like shit.” Deb greets as she presses a kiss to my cheek before allowing me to sit across from her and Bri. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and glance down at the menu laid across my plate. The majority of the options made my stomach churn, the thought of pushing eggs down my throat enough to make me gag.

 “Can’t shake this bug.” I grumble, sipping at my water as our waitress arrives.

 “Three mimosas please.” Bri smiles sweetly at her.

 “Oh, no, just two.” I correct, starting to break into a slight sweat. The waitress nods and excuses herself to fetch the girls their drinks, leaving them both to look at me with wide eyes and mouths agape. “My stomach has been in bits for weeks, no way I’m drinking and making myself puke again.”

 “Never thought this day would come... I mean its brunch, what else are we going to do?” Bri gasps in a dramatically solemn tone.

 “Yeah, can’t remember the last time you didn’t drink with us.” Deb frowns, clearly slightly upset at losing one of her drinking buddies. “Except that one time at uni.”

 A smirk ghosts over my lips at the memory. Deb and I, still in our first year, sat in the pub with two pints on the table, both untouched as we watched the pregnancy test stashed in my bag slowly reveal just one line.

 Slowly, the smile begins to fall from my face, Deb mirroring me as the penny slowly drops for the both of us.

 “When was the last time you got your period?” she asks quietly.

 “What?” Bri asks in utter confusion, excluded from our moment of telepathy.

 “I can’t remember,” I admit in a whisper.

 “Jesus Christ.” Deb sighs, the colour draining from her face as her hand comes up to rub at her forehead nervously.

 “I had my implant taken out, the doctor said my hormones would be unpredictable so I haven’t really thought about it.” I rush, desperately trying to defend myself for not noticing the absence.

 “Oh,” Deb says, instantly perking back up as if nothing had even happened. “To be fair, when was the last time you had sex anyway?”

 She speaks as if the question were simple a throwaway comment, a small joke to lighten the mood. Of course, she would think that, the last time I spoke to the girls about my sex life, it was to complain about its lack of existence. I haven’t quite found the right way to tell them that Harry and I are doing whatever it is we are doing.

 “About a month ago.” I admit quietly, unlocking my phone to flick through my calendar, mainly to avoid the harsh gaze of two of my best friends.

 “What? Who with?” Bri asks giddily, however her excitement is drastically overshadowed by Deb’s probing.

 “You used protection though?”

 “Of course we did, I’m not an idiot.” I say, feeling myself getting wound up as the blood seems to drain from my body.

 There is no way I am. We were safe. There’s no way.

 When I look up to meet their gaze, however, both girls look at me with such sympathetic gazes that it takes everything in me not to burst into tears.

 “Want to get a test to be sure?” Bri asks gently, somehow instantly caught up and fully aware of the sheer internal panic I am feeling.

 I nod and we immediately leave the table. Bri takes my hand and waits with me as Deb quickly pays for the drinks that did not even arrive.

 “It’ll be okay,” Bri whispers to me, her thumb soft against the back of my hand.

 “Yeah,” I nod, trying to shake of the severe sensation of dread smothering me. Swallowing hard, I manage to meet her eye. “Probably just a scare, right? We’ll laugh about it in an hour.”

 She does not reply. No one speaks as we walk to the closest shop, thankfully Deb lives close by and is able to source a test and usher us home before I can overthink too much.

 I won’t be. What are the odds? Condoms are 98% effective, I checked in the health aisle as Bri went to pay. 98% is far too high to be stressing out over a few potential symptoms.

 The girls sit on the edge of Deb’s bathtub, watching me pee and trying to crack jokes to lighten the mood as I place the test on the side and wash my hands, looking anywhere but the stick.

 “These situations make me so glad to be gay.” Deb utters to Bri with a ghost of a smirk.

 “Totally.” Bri says with a small giggle.

 “Not helping.” I groan, pacing back and forth in the small bathroom, my stomach squeezing tighter and tighter into a knot.

 We sit in silence for the remaining few minutes. Until Bri finally breaks the tension in the room.

 “Do you want one of us to look?”

 “No.” I say quickly, undoubtedly wide-eyed.

 With a long inhale and slow exhale, trying to draw out these last few seconds of naivety, I give a small nod before approaching the countertop.

 Two lines.

 “Maybe its faulty, do another one.” Deb reasons.

 “You okay?” Bri asks me gently as our friend digs wildly through the box for the second test stick.

 “It’s positive.” I whisper, eyes glazing over slightly as I stare down at the white plastic. “I’m pregnant.”

 * * *

 “Have you told the dad yet?” Deb asks, her voice crackling through the phoneline as I walk into the hospital’s multi-storey car park.

 “No,” I sigh, ready to defend my decision to her for the fourth time since the three of us stood in her bathroom, two positive tests laying across the countertop. “I told you, I wanted to know my options before I tell him. Gather some research, you know?”

 “How was it?” she asks as I unlock my car door and slump into the driver’s seat.

 I give her a quick run through of my appointment, from taking yet another test, it coming back positive yet again, to discussing the three main paths from here. Abortion, adoption, or parenthood. Repeating all the information the doctor had given me makes me want to be sick, all of the statistics and medical jargon feeling foul in my mouth. This was not supposed to be my life. I was not meant to get knocked up by my friend who, oh yeah, just so happens to be internationally acclaimed musician Harry Styles. Blocking the image of telling him from my mind, I focus back in on Deb’s voice.

 “You know I’ll be here through whatever you choose, don’t you? I know you’re scared, and I know this isn’t exactly ideal but you’ll make the right choice and me and Bri will do whatever you need. We’ll hold your hand if the dad won’t.” she tells me, unintentionally causing my eyes to fill with tears.

 “Love you Deborah.” I mutter.

 “Love you loser.” She grumbles back, eliciting a teary chuckle from my lips.

 As the call ends, my head lolls back against the headrest, eyes closing momentarily as I allow myself a few seconds of calm to be grateful for my angelic friends. Both had offered to come with me today, or drive me at the very least, but I had insisted on doing this alone. I could not have dealt with any more eyes on me as I was told ways in which I could deal with my situation. An absentminded guilty hand stretches across my stomach at the thought of my ‘situation’.

 Adoption just would not be an option. Unless I somehow managed to avoid Harry for nine months and give birth in secret. Even then I would probably just have to remove myself from his life forever, unable to take the pain of looking at his beautifully unaware face and being stricken with the loathing of giving up the only thing that would ever be just ours. No, that is not an option.

 So, my choices become drastically limited. Both life-changing in their own ways. Automatically, my brain begins to form lists of pros and cons as I drive out of the city.

 I do want children someday, and people always say that there is no perfect time.

 No fucking kidding.

 Things would be so much simpler if I was not pregnant. I could live my life and Harry could live his. Surely, he will not want the burden of a family at such a young age. I know all about his hopes and dreams. I know how much music means to him, how incredible he feels after each and every performance. How could I take that away from him?

 The thought of not telling him circles around my mind as I sit in the familiar traffic of the route. I could make both of our lives so much simpler if I just made the decision for the both of us. But that is just it, I cannot take that from him. He has to know at the very least.

 Anyway, who is to say that he will even want to be involved? Perhaps this has happened before. I have heard the stories of tour. What if he already has an illegitimate child out there and simply does not care? Maybe I have been something to pass the time and the reality of our situation will come crashing down around us and make him want nothing to do with me. Would I keep the baby then?

 The possibility of Harry wanting nothing to do with his child leaves my mind almost as quickly as it enters it. This is Harry. He has wanted a family for as long as I have known him, he loves kids. Am I depriving him of a potential future with his partner and legitimate children? Would I be in the background of family photos, not even Harry’s ex, just some woman he got pregnant and has to watch him live happily for the sake of her child’s relationship with their father?

 Anger bubbles up inside my ribcage as I pull into the garage attached to the house. With a frustrated sigh, I turn the engine off and step out of the car. How could I let myself be so stupid? No one in their right mind thinks that sleeping with their friend is going to be problem free. Clearly this is a sign, a punishment for being stupid enough to open myself up to the potential of a--

 “HEY!” I hear him shout from his front door, quickly dashing out barefoot to come and greet me.

 For a split-second when I look at him, I forget why I am here. When he wraps his arms around me and pulls me so tightly against him that I worry I might suffocate, all I feel is his warmth and excitement at seeing my best friend home at last. Until he lets me go, and my stomach sinks to my feet.

 “Lets go inside.” My voice is hushed, barely above a whisper when he lets go of me. I pull a smile across my face until he nods and walks bouncily into the house, a half-step ahead of me.

  “I’m glad you came over, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Harry says, failing terribly at hiding a grin as we move to his kitchen.

 I sit myself on one of his bar stools, gesturing for him to put down the kettle in his hand and sit next to me.

 “Me first.” I tell him, my face so solemn and opposite to his that were the circumstances different I may have found it comedic.

 “It’s kind of a biggie though.” Harry’s smile is completely unaffected by my tone, so wrapped up in getting out what he wants to say that panic starts to bubble up into my throat at the thought of not being brave enough to just tell him what I need to. “You know that night before I left…”

 He looks to me with the most hopeful and kind eyes, making me dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands as the realisation sets in that I am probably about to break his heart and have him hate me.

 “I’m pregnant.” I force out, voice cracking halfway.

 My heart does not thump in my chest like I had expected it to, nor does my stomach churn as I watch him try to process the weight of my words in the slightest. Inside, I feel a sick sense of calm, potentially relieved, potentially too numb to feel the world disintegrating around me.

 “You’re… Sorry, say that again.” His eyes search mine desperately for some sign that this is just a cruel joke. Now the pain resurges, wrapping itself tightly around my lungs and squeezing hard.

 “I’m pregnant,” I whisper guiltily.

 I wait for Harry to speak again, but he doesn’t. He just stares into mid-air, chest heaving up and down as he attempts to make the slightest amount of sense out of this situation.

 “About four weeks,” I explain softly, secretly trying to coax him back to me, selfishly desperate to see my friend’s kind eyes. “I saw a doctor today, talked about my options…whether to keep it.”

 “Our options.” he whispers, I think mainly to himself before his eyes free themselves from their visual tether and meet my gaze. They are glassy and it takes all I have not to reach out and take his hand and promise him that it will all be okay, because I honestly do not know that it will and I can’t lie to him.

 “Our options.” I repeat quietly, ignoring the slight leap of my heart at his sentiment and quickly reminding myself that he has not committed to anything. “I know it’s a lot to process, and you don’t have to say or do anything… but do you have any… strong preferences?”

 “Yeah,” he says lowly, “but it’s your decision, isn’t it?”

 My heart sinks and throat dries, all moisture heading towards my eyes. With a large, pained swallow, I sit up straight, avoiding his eye.

 “Yeah, sorry, I just thought I should tell you.” My voice is quiet, afraid of its own weakness. I stand from the stool, running a hand through my hair out of nervousness.

 “What are you doing?” Harry asks quickly, eyes panic-stricken as he stands up in front of me, catching one of my hands in his.

 “Going, I didn’t mean to bother you.” I admit, trying my hardest but failing to hide my heart breaking.

 “No, no you—I don’t want that.” He says, only now do I notice the texture in his voice, “We don’t leave each other.”

 His eyes are every bit as tear-filled as my own, the sight enough to encourage the water in my eyes to slip gently down my face. Standing in Deb’s bathroom, she and Bri had wrapped me in a gentle hug as violent sobs wracked through my body. Now, however, as Harry and I pull each other into an embrace tight enough to keep up anchored to the world, we cry softly.

 “We’ll figure it out.” He whispers, resting his chin on top of my head. “Promise.”

 * * *

 For hours Harry and I sit at his kitchen island, debating our next move. With frustrated sighs and tearful moments, conversation delves into the logistics of each and every possibility at our disposal.

 As predicted, Harry is not keen on the prospect of adoption. The notion that his child might discover their father’s identity and potentially make it public, could destroy his image, his career, everything he has worked so hard for. I tell him I understand, that I had thought this would be his fear, and that our options were narrowed down to two.

 There is quiet when the topic is first brought up, the eight-letter word stunning him silence.

 “It’s your body.” He manages to whisper.

 The groan that passes my lips is unavoidable, having heard those exact words from Deb, Bri, the doctor, and now Harry.

 “I wish someone could just tell me the right thing to do.” I sigh, holding my head up on the counter, fingers pressing lightly into my eyes to try and relieve the stress headache that has been lingering for the past few days.

 “I’m sorry.” Harry utters quietly beside me.

 He sits with his hands in his lap, anxiously picking at his cuticles as he watches me with a frown.

 “I didn’t mean for…” he doesn’t finish the sentiment, but I understand.

 “Me neither,” I admit, softening my gaze and taking one of his hands in mine to stop him from ruining his nailbeds.

 He gazes at my hand on his for a moment, afraid of moving and losing the contact. It twists into mine until our palms are touching, squeezing the width of all my fingers with one gentle contraction of his muscles.

 Before I let myself get too caught up in the tender comfort of his skin against mine, I speak up, “Fuck it, pros and cons list.”

 I stand up from the stool and find a notepad in one of his messier kitchen drawers.

 “No judgment.” I tell him, handing him a pen before making a table with my own.

 We pause for a moment, and I list something in the negative column.

 Everything will change

 Harry follows suit and leaves a few words beneath my handwriting.

 IMPACT ON CAREERS?

 I cannot help but nod my head before we continue to add to the paper, reasoning for and against our little situation.

 The process takes longer than I had expected, Harry arguing with some of my cons and suggesting that they are easily fixable or are, in fact, pros.

 “Okay, so cons,” I start once we both lay our pens down. “Everything will change, impact on careers, would we be good parents?, don’t want Y/N to have to deal with media, no privacy, custody, would have to co-parent, impact of pregnancy on day to day, this is all a bit mental.”

 Harry nods, urging for me to continue to the counterarguments.

 “Pros… We both want kids someday and a friendship relationship could create a good support system for the kid… Think the list is pretty clear then.” Looking at him, we both understand logically what we should do.

 “Yeah.” Harry says quietly, eyes burrowing deeply into my own before picking up his pen one more time and adding into the left-hand column:

 WE’D HAVE A BABY

 His eyes seem to take forever to meet mine, flicking down to where my bottom lip is caught tightly between my teeth.

 I pick up my own pen and leave my final note, sealing the decision for us.

 Its our baby.

 Silence fizzes around us, its intensity growing as our eyes meet and have a conversation that we cannot quite pass to our mouths. He looks to me nervously, chewing at his cheek, his eyes holding back the hope building inside him. I want to tell him that I am still scared, that everything about the future is so uncertain. I cannot do it. I cannot deprive him of the joy he is feeling, however shrouded in terror it is.

 “So…” he eventually manages to push out, a slight smile creeping on to his lips.

 My mouth mirrors him, the muscles in my cheeks aching slightly from the sensation after not being used for the past few days.

 “Yeah.” I let out in a shaky breath, eyes watering yet again but this time I welcome it.

 “Should we celebrate?” Harry asks quietly, his voice suddenly apprehensive.

 “As long as it includes takeaway and a film.” I say, too exhausted to go anywhere or deal with the consequences that come along with being next to Harry in the outside world. Pushing the nagging dread at the thought of people finding out and commenting on us, I pull up Deliveroo on my phone and we settle on the sofa in his living room.

 “What to Expect When You’re Expecting?” Harry teases as he flicks through Netflix.

 “Too soon.” I reply, smirking down at my phone.

 “Sorry,” he says, not at all sorry for getting a positive reaction from me as if our lives would just slip back to how they used to be.

[isis-astarte-diana]

Milk and Honey: Day 3

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3 (Fin)

Summary: “I think we need to talk about yesterday.” Inches are lost; miles are gained; things are said that can’t be unsaid.

Warnings: Tiny bit of non-sexual nudity and also, separately, a sexual reference. Dodgy dynamics (I tried to fix them!). Angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 3880

NB: This chapter was such a struggle to figure out and I think it shows (!!) but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Also, yes, I did write another ‘Missy and reader watching a horror film’ scene, and no, I won’t apologise for it. (Maybe there should be a seasonal Hallowe’en film night fic?) I consider this the end of the story!

You think it’s the rain that’s woken you.

It’s deafening against the window, a downpour that floods the road outside so that the sound of each passing car is turned into a crashing wave. The room is black as pitch. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust and make forms of the shadows.

“Go back to sleep.”

Missy’s voice close behind you makes you jump. You twist around awkwardly, tangling your legs in the duvet, and almost smack your face into her elbow. She’s reclining on top of the sheets beside you. In the inky gloom you can just make out the pillows propping her up against the headboard, the open book she holds in her lap.

What time is it? The first hazy thought shakes loose in your mind. Almost immediately afterwards, how long has she been awake?

What comes out is thick and groggy. “Too dark to read.”

“Hmm.” It’s not quite a chuckle. She turns the page, a slow, rasping sound near your ear. “Is it dark to you?”

There’s something low and melancholic in her voice that makes you frown. You try to sit up, propping yourself up with one arm, but the duvet pulls tight and stops you halfway. You’d hoped to see her face better by moving; the shadows give no such clarity. She’s featureless in the dark.

“Go back to sleep,” she says again, not waiting for an answer. “It’s early.”

“And you?” Your head falls back to the pillow of its own accord. Wakefulness is still out of reach, a tendril of smoke that you cannot grasp. “Will you sleep?”

No response.

Even as your eyes close and you slip back into unconsciousness, you can feel her gaze on your face, warm and ticklish. Or maybe it’s her hand.

+++++

Missy is brushing her hair.

Eyes half-closed, you pretend not to watch her. She stands in front of your mirror, purple housecoat flowing around her like something from a fairy tale, sweeping a wooden brush through the tangles. Four hairpins jut from her mouth.

I’m glad you changed your mind about the bed.

The swelling there is gone. A ragged line is all that remains, dark through her pale pink bottom lip. She sets the hairbrush down and drags a pin from between her teeth, running it across the scab. Her eye twitches.

I think we need to talk about yesterday.

Red splotches on her cheek mark the place where the graze had been, new skin that looks tight and itchy. Parts of the large cut are healed completely. It’s only by the faint purple scratches - one below her eye, one on her jaw - that you can even find where she was injured. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger and pins it at the back of her head.

I don’t know what to do.

Your throat feels tight. She finishes putting her hair up, skilful and unhurried, eyes never flitting from the mirror.

I wish you would look at me.

Slender fingers chart the healed cuts on her face.

I wish you would touch me.

She unbuttons the housecoat and drops it from her shoulders, revealing her chemise. She twists as if to look over her shoulder. It’s no significant state of undress but you clamp your eyes shut all the same.

A long moment of silence passes.

“Could you look at my back?”

Her voice is soft. When you open your eyes, she’s turned back to the mirror, having shrugged off the gown and hooked it over her arm. The white linen chemise ends just above her knees. Her pale calves are dappled with fine, dark hair.

“Please. I can’t quite see it in the mirror.”

You throw the duvet off and sit up, skin prickling with goosebumps as it meets the cool morning air. Outside the rain is torrential. “Of course.” Your voice is still groggy.

She tilts her head as you approach. A single strand of hair hangs loose at her neck. It stirs with your breath.

“Can I-?” Your fingers hover at the embroidered straps on her shoulders, not touching, not asking. Just waiting.

“Please,” she says again.

There is no right way to ease the top of the dress down her arms. You search for something to look at that won’t make your chest hurt but there’s only her bare shoulders, her bright eyes in the mirror. Closing your eyes would be insulting. So would turning your face away.

You can do nothing but watch her shoulder blades twitch as you guide the straps down past her elbows. The fabric droops, falling clear to her waist. She shivers but makes no effort to cover her chest. Your eyes drop to the small of her back.

“Well?”

There’s an indent, a quarter of an inch deep, maybe more. The new skin that lines it is a furious shade of pink. It’s sickle-shaped, with jagged edges, curving to the left of her spine. You catch your fingers drifting towards it and clench them into a fist at your side.

“It looks good.” You clear your throat. “It’s healing. No swelling or anything.”

“But not healed yet?” A strange sort of optimism tints the question.

“No, not- not properly. It still looks...” Painful. “Fresh.”

“Good.” She tugs her chemise back into place hastily. “That it’s healing. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Still cold, you reach for your dressing gown and draw it around yourself. “I’m, uh - I’m gonna go for a shower, okay?”

“Of course.”

She fastens her housecoat with quick fingers. 

+++++

When you find Missy reading on the sofa, there are two steaming mugs on the coffee table in front of her.

She’s gotten changed.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before - the dark floral blouse, the wool skirt - but it feels uncanny. Somehow, seeing her in her chemise or in a pair of your pyjamas is less bizarre than this, her usual clothes with a softer silhouette, no corset, no boots. She has her legs tucked beneath her and her back angled away from the cushions in a way that’s startling unfamiliar. She looks relaxed. She looks comfortable.

“I made tea,” she says, and you realise that you’re staring.

“For me?” It sounds pathetically surprised.

“No. They’re both mine.” She glances up at you with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, for you.” An arrogant, sarcastic sort of lopsided smirk; a faint flicker of her usual self. It makes your heart flutter.

“Thank you, Missy.”

She blinks. When was the last time somebody said that?

You take the cup and sit beside her. Her foot, stocking-pale and peeking out beneath the folds of her skirt, brushes your leg. You don’t flinch. Neither does she. To keep from reaching down and resting your palm on her ankle you wrap both hands around your mug. In times of desperation you can undress her, in darkness or in anger she can lay her hands on you to push you away or pull you close, but by the cold light of a rainy noontime you don’t know where you stand.

You don’t know the rules of this game.

As you drink your tea in silence - save for the occasional drag and rasp of a page turning - the words roll over and over behind your teeth, a tangle you try and fail to straighten out before speaking aloud. There’s too much to unravel. Too many thoughts, emotions, sensations are knotted together, and how do you ask if she feels what you feel when you don’t know what that is?

How do you ask if you can touch her?

How do you explain that you want to?

Missy watches you from the corner of her eye. It’s clear from the set of her jaw that she can sense something of the tumult in your skull. You wish she would put the book down and stop pretending to ignore you. You wish she would speak first.

You wish she would hold your hand.

“What are you reading?” You ask, and immediately wish that you hadn’t when she lifts her eyes from the page and sets them on you. They crinkle at the corners with her smile.

“Immensely dull,” she admits as she shows you the cover. It’s a nondescript black hardback titled in an unfamiliar language. “He’s been telling me to read it for centuries. I let it gather dust in the vault just to get under his skin.”

You can see where this is going. “And now he’s conveniently forgotten to bring you any other books?”

“Clever girl.” You hope she doesn’t see the way it makes your fingers twitch. Dropping her gaze back to the book in her lap, she shifts just enough that her foot rests against the outside of your thigh. She leaves it there.

“I think-”

The words come out before you can stop them and now it’s happening. You’ve lit the fuse. Missy looks at you again, properly this time, and you’d do anything for her to jump in and plug this gap with a derisive, do you? or, try not to strain yourself  but she doesn’t. She just waits. It hurts to meet her eyes.

You do it anyway. She deserves that much.

“I think we need to talk about yesterday.”

She nods, almost imperceptible. Something cracks behind her smile but it stays put, too wide, too false to be comfortable. “Do we?” It’s hollow. Not a question, not a snarl. Maybe a scoff.

Maybe a plea.

The doorbell rings.

+++++

In the doorway to your flat the Doctor proffers a damp plastic bag. The smell of hot oil and chip shop vinegar rises from it in a haze. It instantly makes you hungry.

In his other hand he carries a folded umbrella, wet from the rain.

"I brought food,” he says, and you realise that you’re staring.

“Is that-”

“Yes.” He taps the end of Missy’s sonic umbrella against the ground. “Can I come in?”

Uncertain. Like he thinks you might actually say no. He looks down at his full hands, the chips, the sonic; peace offerings. The closest to an apology you could ever expect, and one you aren’t quite ready to accept.

You don’t know when you got so angry with him.

“Did you do anything to it?”

“No,” he says, fire in his eyes, and it means I would never. You know his vehemence is supposed to be an olive branch, too, but it incenses you. He understands the notion that some things are sacred. He knows that there is a line and this is where he’s drawn it, too far on the wrong side of cruelty.

You stand to the side to let him through the door. When he’s close enough, you snatch the umbrella from his hand.

+++++

Missy is so different when he’s there.

She sits up straighter. Even when he takes your seat beside her, banishing you to sit cross-legged on the floor, she keeps her distance. Her feet are back on the ground. The book that she was reading is, you can see from your low vantage point, hidden beneath the sofa.

The umbrella is propped up against the coffee table in front of her. It doesn’t leave her sight for an instant.

“So,” he inspects a chip on the end of his fork. “You look better.”

“Than you?” A tilt of her eyebrow. “Always.”

He ignores it. “How’s recovery going?”

“Tiresome. Next time I get stabbed I’ll make sure that it kills me.”

Next time I get stabbed. Your stomach twists painfully and you put the remains of your meal aside. Their tight back-and-forth continues for almost half an hour.

When the Doctor gets up to leave, Missy sees him out, closing the living room door behind her. In a bid to ignore the low murmur of their voices in the hall, you tidy up as loudly as you can.

+++++

Four knocks against the doorframe, just audible over the rolling boil of the kettle.

You’ve never drunk this much tea in your life.

Even before she speaks your stomach is dropping. The kitchen feels smaller than it ever has before. Counters and cabinets press in on you, claustrophobic, like the room is shrinking around you in the silence.

“It’s time for me to go back.”

Squeezing your eyes tight, you fight not to make a sound until you’ve steadied yourself. Horror and sorrow and pain tug at your throat. When you finally manage to reply it’s terse, partly with anger, partly because your voice will break if you say any more. “Do you want to?”

“Does it matter?” She asks, and somehow it’s worse than yes. “The Doctor and I- agree, that I’ve recovered enough to travel again.”

“Did you show him your back?” There’s an ember of something too much like jealousy in the question.

“No.” I would never. A trace of disgust in her voice. Some things are sacred. “No, but we spoke.”

You scoff. “You mean, he said jump and you asked how high?”

She doesn’t even argue and god, you’d take being thrown against the bathroom sink over this, any day. “Yes. That’s how it has to be.”

“Does it?” For the first time you throw a glance over your shoulder at her. It’s a mistake. It makes your bottom lip quiver. “Why?”

Her brows draw together, a soft sort of torment on her face. “You know why.”

“I don’t.” Squaring your shoulders, you turn to face her, bracing your hands on the countertop behind you. You set your jaw against the plaintive whimper that races up your throat. “Tell me.”

“I’m not- ready. To be around people yet.” She waves a delicate hand in front of her face. “I thought I was, but obviously I was mistaken.”

“You look ready.” You gesture to her. “You’re standing here with me.”

“I’m not safe.”

“You haven’t killed me, have you?” You indicate your very-much-still-living body. “I’m still here.”

A quick hand wraps around your extended arm, just over your wrist, where she’d grabbed you yesterday. It’s not a tight grip but the joint is stiff and, despite your best efforts, your face twitches with discomfort. Spotting the movement, she loosens her hand until she’s just barely touching you.

“I hurt you.”

Your eyes flicker over her face, the pain written into it. It’s not a question, but you answer anyway. “Yes.”

Her gaze drops from you and she lets go of your wrist, but you catch her hand in yours and take a step towards her. She could pull away easily, you know that; but she doesn’t. Her fingers lace between yours.

“Do you want to go?” You ask again, making a conscious effort to keep your voice soft. She doesn’t look at you.

“I have to,” she murmurs to the floor.

“You don’t.” Closer still, letting your clasped hands swing between you. Less than a foot of distance from chest to chest. “And that’s not what I asked.”

Missy lifts her bright eyes to you and the desperation there makes your breath catch. She doesn’t speak.

“You can stay.” It comes out like a plea. “If you like.”

Her voice is a cracked whisper. “I can’t.”

“Why?” You reach for her other hand and she doesn’t flinch, letting you slot your fingers together with hers until you can feel her heartbeat through both palms. “Why can’t you, Missy?”

“Because-” with a steadying breath, she sets her jaw and twists her lips in contempt that you know isn’t directed at you. “Because I am not a good person.”

“Then be a good person!” 

You don’t mean for it to be so loud. Her eyes widen and you squeeze her hands, closing the distance until you’re almost touching. Your faces are inches apart.

“It’s not something you can learn. You’re not stupid, and you’re not helpless, and, whatever, the Doctor thinks, you are not his pet monster. If you lock yourself up with him until you feel like you’re good enough you’ll be there forever.”

Her face crumples, tears shining glassy in the low light of the afternoon, and it looks like she wants to lunge and pull you close but she doesn’t. She parts her lips and takes a breath and lets you carry on. You can feel a mutinous sob building at the back of your throat.

“You don’t have to save the world. Most people never do. You don’t have to be kind all the time because nobody ever is but you have to choose, Missy. You just have to choose not to be cruel. Every day, you choose. That’s all you do. That’s all there is to it.”

She laughs, low and tearful, a strangled sort of noise. “You say it like it’s easy.”

“On a good day, it is.”

With a shaky breath like she’s drowning, Missy asks, “and on a bad day?”

“On a bad day, you do the best you can.” When a tear streaks down her face you can’t stop yourself dropping her hand, reaching up to cup her cheek. It’s cold. Her mouth falls open with a quivering gasp when you wipe away the moisture with your thumb. You feel your own eyes burning and offer her a watery smile. “And then you try again tomorrow.”

She covers your hand with her own and looks at you for a moment as if she’s waiting for permission; and then she holds it there and tilts her head to press a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The tears you’ve been swallowing back escape with a choked whimper.

“Stay, Missy.” You crook your fingers and curl them lightly against her jaw. She shivers. “Please. I’m asking you. Stay here with me.”

Closing her eyes like she’s struck with pain, she moves your hand from her face and rests her forehead against yours. Slowly - so achingly slowly - her hands release yours and come to rest on your waist. It makes your breath hitch. You mirror her, just as tentatively, pressing your palms to the line where thin blouse and thick skirt meet.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, the breath of the words ghosting over your face. “For yesterday, I-”

“I know you are.” Her fingers tighten on the fabric of your clothes. “Don’t do it again.”

“Never.” She opens her eyes, so close that you can hear the moisture on her lashes. “I promise you. I would never.”

“I believe you.”

“I want to be good.”

You chuckle through your tears, breathless and high-pitched. “For what it’s worth, I think you already are.”

She makes a fractured sound in the back of her mouth and slides one hand into the small of your back. Lifting her head, she moves closer, pressing her chest to yours. Her fingers are cool and feather-light on your face.

“Everything,” she murmurs, brushing the tears from your cheek. “It’s worth everything.”

The kiss is damp, and salty, and it knocks you breathless.

For a second you worry about hurting her, feeling the rough line of the scab through her bottom lip drag against your mouth, but she has no such concerns. She kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t.

You know how she feels.

When, too soon, she pulls away, you can’t help whining and trying to chase her mouth with your own, but she steps back, just enough that you can’t reach. For a long moment you’re terrified that she’s changed her mind, that this has been some mad and frenzied mistake, but she presses her lips to your forehead and tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

“You’re cold.”

It takes you a moment to even process the words. “Am I?”

Smiling, she reaches back to move your hand from her waist and show it to you by way of explanation. It’s trembling.

You hadn’t noticed.

“Oh. Yeah, I s’pose I am.”

She kisses your knuckles, just once, just lightly, and you realise that you are, in fact, shivering.

“You go and sit down.” Gentle fingers brush the underside of your chin. “I’ll make tea.”

The touch has you ducking your head shyly and you tease, “twice in one day?”

“Only for you, poppet.”

+++++

“It’s obviously the little girl.”

“Is it?” You glance away from the gore on the screen and down to Missy. Her head rests in your lap, over the thick blanket that covers you, her eyes fixed on the horror film playing out on the television. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t recall telling you to stop.” She looks up at you with a quirk of her eyebrow, rolling her eyes to indicate her hairline. With a fond scoff you resume gently scratching her head. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Mistress is fine.” Judging by the sharp smile that flashes across her face, she doesn’t miss the choked noise you make. “It’s a revenge film. I mean, look,” she gestures to the screen, “everyone who was nasty to her is dying. It’s poetic justice.”

“Like Carrie?” You prompt helpfully, smoothing a frustrated line from her forehead.

“Exactly like Carrie.” She wrinkles her nose. “But with worse practical effects.”

“I s’pose they all look fairly bad to you.”

“Hmm. It’s like pornography.” Your fingers falter against her scalp and she chuckles. “Pales in comparison once you’ve done the real thing.”

You look back at the television, debating for a moment whether to speak, but curled on the sofa here with her it all feels so much simpler. With forced casualness, you ask, “do you miss it?”

“Pornography?” She snorts. “Sometimes. I had a lot of me time in the vault.”

“No!” Feeling heat rise into your cheeks, you swat the side of her head very gently with your palm. She laughs. “I mean-”

“I know what you mean.” She takes your other hand - the one resting on her shoulder - and brings it down to her lips, kissing your palm. It makes you melt. “Which answer do you want? The good one, or the bad one?”

“Just the real one, Missy.” You lace your fingers through hers. “I don’t mind what that is.”

With a soft exhale, she clutches your hand to her chest. You can feel her hearts beating. “Like I said. Sometimes.” She throws a sideways glance up at you and you smile.

“That makes sense.”

“Does it?” So much aching vulnerability in the question. You squeeze her hand.

“Yeah. Makes sense to me.”

She nods like she doesn’t quite agree, and the movement turns into a nuzzle against your thigh. Taking the hint, you set up the rhythm of light scratches through her hair once more. “We still have to talk, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She presses your palm tighter into her blouse. Her eyes are still red and puffy. “But not right now. Unless you want to.”

“Not right now,” she echoes softly, and ducks her head to kiss your knuckles. Her head twists in your lap as she settles herself again.

“Are you sure you don’t want a pillow?”

“Positive.” Her lips tilt at the corners. “This is perfect.”

Yes, is all you can think, watching the red-and-blue light of the television flashing on her pale face. She hums contentedly when you scratch behind her ear.

This is perfect.

[hosierydarling]

Candlelit Delight

“Just a few more steps, darling…”

Those words were purrrred in a hot whisper by her left ear. Jenni was blindfolded and naked, and being led by her lover. She knew she was in their en suite bathroom. The sweet smell of lavender and lush citrus fruits could be tasted in the steam that was rising from their ornate Roman tub. The steam was not overwhelming just enough to stimulate her senses and sensitize her skin. The room also smelled like candles melting, and she could feel the warmth of their proximity.

Sammi led her to the tub. Placing Jenni’s hand on her shoulder for support, she bent down reaching for Jenni’s ankle. “Lift, sweetheart.” Jenni's foot was gently guided into the already prepared bath. Delighting in Jenni’s purrr at the perfectly warm temperature of the mixture of water and oils within. Sammi assists her in guiding her other foot up and into the tub and allows her to settle gloriously.

Slipping on a pair of soft skin gloves, letting her eyes roam over the flawless form of her lover, Sammi reached for Jenni’s arm and guided her to stand in the tub. Softly inhaling the intoxicating aroma drifting off of her lovers delectable curves, she steadies her and begins to rub her down with the soft caress of those gloves.

Delighting in the soft writhing of Jenni’s excited form and the delicious purrrrrss from her throat, she runs her hands over every inch of perfect flesh, rubbing those oils into her soft smooth skin.

“MmMmmm how delicious you look, Jenni….so sexy !” Sammi steps around the tub and runs her hands over her lover’s toned tummy, and up over the ample swell of her chest. Allowing her exquisite skin to absorb the exotic aromatic oils. Sliding her hands up those endless slender legs and up over the pert expanse of her heart shaped rear, between her legs and over the heat of her core.

Allowing the tub to drain, she finishes Jenni’s rubdown, getting excess oil off of her soft calves and sexy feet. She then removes the gloves and dries her hands before assisting Jenni from the tub.

“Stand still one moment and let the air kiss your skin, darling, ill be back in one moment.”

Jenni stood, her body tingling, she felt beautiful, smelled divine and was very excited in anticipation of what Sammi had prepared for her.

Sammi returned and guided Jenni over to a large chair and footstool. Jenni then felt her lover’s arms snake around her waist and secure a thin strip of soft satiny fabric at her hips. The cool feel of metal dangling against the fronts and backs of her upper thighs told her it was a garter belt and her deduction was further proved by the sexy soft feel of sheer nylon spread over her soft toes, and slowly drawn up her ankle, and smoothed over her calf and thigh, her lover’s fingers simply kissing her legs. After affixing both stockinged legs to their garters, Sammi lifted Jenni’s foot and slipped on a black satin platformed sandal, enjoying the enticing sexy look it gave her lover’s legs.

Buckling the sandals, Sammi guided Jenni into the chair, it was reclined, very comfortable lounging but felt like a dentists chair. She gasped as Sammi lifted her ankles and set them in what seemed to be stirrups, causing her legs to part wide.

Sammi then stepped between those legs, and Jenni felt as a large rubber ball was inserted into her mouth, tightly confining her jaw, her hair was then lifted as straps went around her head, buckles were secured; in effect silencing her. Then to her immediate surprise her blindfold was lifted. Jenni blinked but didn’t take her long to adjust to the candlelight.

“Oh Jenni, you are so deliciously vocal so often for me, but tonight I just want to hear the sound of your chest as it heaves while you pant, and the muffled sounds of your pleasure.”

Sammi leans to Jenni’s mouth, cradles her jaw and kisses the round rubber ball keeping her lover silent, her tongue trailing wet over those stretched lips.

She then stepped back and went to the gorgeous platter of honey vanilla scented candles and picked one up. Bringing to Jenni as she stands between her legs, and, biting down upon her bottom lip in concentration, tipped the candle to allow the melting wax to drip over her lover’s nipples. She delighted at Jenni’s reaction, thrashing instantly in the chair as the hot wax stimulated those sensitive nipples, her muffled cries were glorious. The way her nipples stood out was breathtaking as she coated them fully in wax. Sammi had to moan just watching this stunning creature writhe before her was exquisite. The wax cooled to a smooth glossy coating outlining her nipples like pasties. She smiled to herself, closing her eyes and listening to her lover’s panting like a heartbeat.

She trembled, and knelt between her lover’s legs drinking in the sight of those rolling hips in that deliciously excited puss, glistening wet. Slender fingers cupping her heated mound and kneading those swollen aching lips, caressing her eager sex.

“Mmmm Jen….i can’t wait to see this puss filled tight with the monstrous toy I have waiting for you….you do want it yes??”

Sammi clenched her thighs and shuddered at the eager insistent nodding of her lover, feeling her core burn and moisten at the thought of ravishing this delicious morsel.

At that she peeled back the hood of her clit and let drop one splash of hot wax, and then relished in the uncontrollable convulsions of her lover as she squealed behind that gag and climaxed so beautifully.

“Ooooh simply gorgeous, good girl!”

Sammi then helped Jenni out of the chair, watching her trembling legs, leading her over to a low padded bench, and guiding her to straddle the bench.

“Lie back, get comfortable honey, I will be back in a moment.”

Sammi steps away and swiftly disrobes, stepping from her long satin robe and picking up a thick veined dildo of massive proportions, Licking at its engorged tip she sauntered back to her treat.

She helped Jenni get comfortable, and then lifted her legs ALL the way up, pressed almost behind her head, and then proceeded to straddle her lover in this manner, her body weight keeping Jenni’s legs pressed to the side of her head, settling so that she faced her treat’s glorious wet puss, and delighted in the fact that her own wet hot sex hovered inches above Jenni’s mouth but the poor girl’s mouth was completely and tightly gagged shut by that ball.

She smiled as she admired that gorgeous puss now displayed wide open that her legs were held contorted as such. She brought that cockhead down and teased along those parted folds, purrrrrring to herself, letting the length of the shaft with its ridged veins stimulate those aching lips. Teasing the wonderfully soft velvet petals of her sex, and listening to the muffled pleas of her lover, causing her to tremble, Pushing that thick cock past her lips, just its head, teasing her, coaxing her to a state of delirious ecstasy.

“Mmmm so so delicious doll, moan for me….”

Sammi bites her lip hard in excitement at the muffled moans that spill from around that gag. She stifles her own honey drizzled sounds of desire, as she pushes that dildo deep into that needy pussy. Gasping as she watched her treats hips and rear shiver gloriously. She pushed that dildo down into that delicious sex to its hilt and let it remain there til Jenni’s tremors subsided.

Then she begin to work the girl’s puss for all it was worth. Thrusting that enormous shaft into that decadent lil purse, Plunging deep into her wanting sex spurred on by the muffled squeals coming from behind her, and feeling those long slender legs simply quivering underneath her.

Purrrrring as she simply plows into that delicious sex, delighting in the fevered shuddering of her love pinned beneath her and smirking as she feels the round surface of the ballgag reach up to her own pussy as Jenni tries desperately to taste of her own sex that she knows is glistening wet hovering over her face. Moaning in delight at the excited lust of her lover spurs her on, and she pistons that monster deep into her relentlessly.

“Jenni you are allowed to climax whenever you desire”

Almost instantly her muffled whimpering cries become more feral, almost growling into the ball. And she began to thrash and convulse, leaving Sammi’s jaw to drop in delight as that pussy began to cream so beautifully, coating her fingers wrapped round that phallus as it split her wide and filled her tight. Enjoying the soft bouncing she was experienced as Jenni’s legs were kicking in her throes of passion, like a bucking bull threatening to pitch Sammi off of those pinned up legs.

Removing the dildo, Sammi leaned over to that sex and began to lap at it, eagerly drinking up that sweet honey as it coated those sugary lips, delighting in her treat, moaning into her sex, fingers teasing to coax more of that sweet cream from her. Lapping her clean and lifting off of her lover, drawing her legs back down, sitting her back up to where she straddled the bench.

Sammi then straddled the bench in front of Jenni, admiring her panting quivering form; leaned over and unbuckled her gag, pulling it free from her mouth. Capturing those lips and kissing her deeply.

Jenni took her lovers mouth passionately as her body trembled after the delicious onslaught of her love’s ministrations, lost in the clutches of desire…

[leapyearkisses]

O Captain, My Captain 2/2 - (m/m) Salem/Faughn

Part two of the soldier setting.

Lil’ bit of mess. Hair brushing. Yearning. Etc.

---

The bar was dim and full of smoke from the spitting of the fire in the grate.  Despite the proprietor’s efforts to shield against the storm, it was raining down the chimney, and the logs were hissing like hecklers at a bad variety show.  The haze collected in the ceiling joists with the smoke from the soldiers’ cigarettes. It was crowded and loud inside and stank of wet wool and spilled ale.  Could definitely have smelled of worse, though; Salem wasn’t complaining.  He tapped his lips against his empty mug, gaze lingering in the shadowed corner of the room.

“Another round for you, sir?”

He looked up, saw Maisie Harpe looking down her nose at him, serving tray under her arm.  Her expression was condescending.  Salem remembered it fondly.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he said, but pushed his mug toward her.  “I’m still the same as I was.”

Maisie sniffed dismissively, picking it up.  “Gone off and joined the war.  Too good for a potter’s life.  You think you’re going to come out the other end of it?”  Her blonde curls shimmered around her round face with a flash of lightning.  “Pa says it’s like watching sausages get made.”

“Hold your tongue, girl!”  John Hadditch, the blacksmith of Yens Hollow, came up behind her and shooed her off.  “Bad luck talking of that over beer.  Go and bring us something better than this swill your Pa’s set aside for soldiers.”  He sat down across from Salem and lifted his wooden leg around the bench with a grunt.  “She still wants you to be pullin’ her pigtails, Sammy.”  He chuckled.

Salem cleared his throat, hiding a smile.  “She’s got better prospects than me.”

“Aye, maybe an officer?  I heard they’re keeping the brass nice and polished at Maven Broadmoor’s place.”  John leaned in.  “You got a roof over your head, Sam, or are you out with the poor suckers in the mud?”

“Well, I’m not really brass.  Maybe copper,” Salem said, accepting a new tankard from Maisie.  “Mrs. Broadmoor is letting me sleep in the horse loft with the other lieutenants. Better than the back pasture.” He tapped his fingers on the table.  When Maisie had walked away to another group, he leaned in.  “I need to know if it’s safe to talk.”

“Not in here,” said John, taking a long draught of beer.  “Come to my shop on the morrow, or I’ll come down to the farm if the bloody sky hasn’t fallen.”  Thunder shook the double-paned windows.  “My leg’s not as it used to be, though, and riding is a trial.”

“We can come to you.”  Salem had been given a small company of men solely for this purpose of meeting with the trustworthy locals… or at least those they hoped were trustworthy.  “On the morrow, if, as you say, we’re all still here.”  

—

It was still raining when he finished the night, snapping the neck of his raincoat closed at the door, as if that would help.  Maisie Harpe moved in the fallen darkness of the banked fire, turning out the oil lamps on the walls and drawing blankets over the men who had passed out at their benches from either drunkenness or exhaustion.  Salem kept his tongue to himself, just tipped his hat to her on his way out.

His horse was none too keen to be drawn out of the stable, digging her heels in while he tacked her up.  “I know,” he murmured, securing the saddle girth.  “But you’ll be home soon enough.”

The streets were the same as he remembered them, and he rode confidently toward the edge of town even in the storm.  He’d gone to school here as a boy, every morning hitching a ride on a wagon into town from the neighboring village.  His father had been a cooper, building barrels for beer, whiskey, fish, pickles… whatever the fur traders needed, and then when that started drying up, whatever anyone else needed.  His mother had been a potter.  Technically, he still owned the house and the workshops, but he’d given the plot to a cousin to manage.  He wondered absently, focused on the echoing of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles, whether he should go by the place while he was stationed here.  Surely no one would begrudge him the chance to see family.  …Although they weren’t close.

His mare moved faster on the dirt roads despite the muddy furrows, picking up her pace going out to the farmlands.  Salem hunched against the rain.  Water was running down his neck and his face, and an ill-timed breath sent a drip up his nose, too.  He ducked to the side with a loud sneeze.  “Hruuscht!”  His horse laid her ears back.

“Sorry, girl.”  He wiped his face on his wet sleeve and sighed.  It was very late, but he thought, maybe, he should try to meet with the Captain before he went to sleep.  To update him on the idea of meeting with Hadditch tomorrow, to tell him what Salem had overheard while drinking, …to inspect the state of him.  Salem sighed.

—

There was a lamp still burning at the Broadmoor farm.  Salem put his horse away and then slogged up to the main house, shivering on the back stoop.  Martha, the maid, let him in to the kitchen and took his jacket, scolding him for coming back so late.  She probably thought him a souse.  He let her chide him as she brought him a towel and a heel of bread.  He ate it after she’d returned to her bed, then left his boots on the hearth, hoping that the fire would dry them somewhat, before going upstairs.  He trod carefully.  Major General Wallace was staying here as well, and he was said to be a rough character when untimely roused. 

Light flickered beneath the door of the yellow bedroom.  Salem tapped lightly against the paneling and waited for an acknowledgement.

“Yes?” The Captain’s voice was hoarse.  “I don’t need another of your bitter infusions, Doctor.”  He coughed.  “I’ve had more than enough of them.”

“It’s Lieutenant Desidero, sir.”

“Come in.”

Salem stepped into the room.  The Captain had a candle burning and was writing at the desk, quill scratching over the parchment at a steady pace that was uninterrupted by Salem’s visit.  Captain Faughn was wearing his hair down for once.  It spilled down his back like blood, the same shade, tangled and damp with rain or sweat.  Hardly regulation, Salem could hear in his mind, the voice of his long-ago trainer barking away in memory.  His gaze followed the length of it to the Captain’s trim waist.  He was in his shirtsleeves.

“I have a report,” he forced himself to say.  “A short one.  I went to the village tavern tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” said Faughn, without looking up.

So Salem did, describing the state of the place, the bearing of the owner, Maisie Harpe, the blacksmith.  He talked about the bar’s stable, which had a new roof, and the men who had worked on it and dined there that night.  The church had burned two years ago and been rebuilt a little bigger, with a new back room, by the same men.  Men from trapper families with nothing to trap anymore, back in town since a few months ago.

Faughn listened to the report without commenting, though he did lay his quill down sometime in the middle.  By the candlelight, his eyes were heavy-lidded and thoughtful.  His cheeks were flushed high with fever.

“Nice job,” he said when Salem had finished, rubbing his hands together.  “I knew I was right to trust this to you.  If all goes well here, I will be sure to give you a commendation.”  He sniffed hard and Salem heard a liquid shift of congestion in his sinuses.  “Is there anything else?”

Salem swallowed.  “Your hair, sir?”

“My hair?”  Faughn frowned.

“I’d like to brush it for you.”

—

The Captain’s comb was made of whale ivory.  Salem sat on the bed behind him and drew the fine teeth carefully down through the Captain’s hair, trying to untangle it without pain.  The Captain’s hair was soft despite the rigors of the war.  Salem supposed he must keep it oiled under his hat, or some other way protected from the elements.  “I’m not hurting you, am I?” he asked.  

Faughn had made a small noise, but now he lifted a hand to dismiss concerns.  “No.  No, you’re fine.”  His fingers were slender and strong, but he curled them now under his nose.  “I’m going to hh-” 

Salem slipped the comb free as the Captain bent forward, crushing his nose to his knuckles.

“Nkktsch!  Ngktschx!”  His breath caught again.  “Hah- hahktschiu!”  Moisture shone against the smooth curve of Faughn’s nostrils in the candlelight.  He sniffed thickly and reached to the bedside table for a handkerchief.

“Bless you,” murmured Salem, gaze lingering.  He looked away when the Captain raised an eyebrow.  “How are you feeling?”

Faughn cleared his throat, low and irritated.  “I do wish people would stop asking me that.”  He dabbed at his nose but seemed hesitant to blow.  The corners of his dark eyes creased in uncertainty.

Salem traced his fingers over the comb, thumb pressed along the smooth edge from end to end.  The bedroom was warm from the farmhouse’s central fireplace.  Heat blossomed also in his belly.  He looked at his nail, snagged earlier on his horse’s reins, instead of at the Captain.  He could hear from the Captain’s breathing that he would sneeze again.  “My apologies.”

“Ngktschiu!”  Wet again, but this time enveloped by the folds of the handkerchief.  Salem could imagine how it might feel instead against his skin.  His arousal swelled.  Faughn groaned softly, a private sound.  Salem rose to his feet.

“I will report to you again tomorrow night,” he said, placing the comb on the clothes chest by the foot of the bed.  He could feel himself blushing.  Part of him wanted the Captain to turn and see it, too, but most of him knew to keep it close and hidden.  “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Desidero.”

Salem closed the door behind him and then stood for a long moment in the empty hallway, listening to the rain.

[nocturnegloam]

Here in the midwest United States, the chilly morning mists are currently giving way to the sunrise set behind overcast, on the passing of this spring equinox, Alban Eiler, and Ostara, among its many other names. There is a distinct and special liminality which the vernal equinox possesses. The day and night come in perfect balance, as light and warmth prepare to inherit the Earth. 

As life cultivates in all its forms and motions, so do we. Even in the current global climate, we find ways to adapt and revive with tenacity. Now may be a time more befitting than ever to celebrate and appreciate the fire within our hearts, and circulate our feelings of love, inspiration, motivation, and gratitude through the collective. 

Of course, it is essential that in celebrating the passing of the seasons, we remain considerate of all life in our observance. This remains especially true during the current pandemic. Try not turn to fret in haste, though—even in the face of life’s uncertainty, we can find inspiration, clarification, comfort, growth, direction, balance, protection, personal action, and more.

Even for the best of us, the world will always procure unexpected circumstance, such as the current pandemic. When the life we share urgently calls, planning for things that may be deeply sacred to us may slip through our fingers. We should not let this “ebb” of the natural ebb and flow discourage us on our sabbatical or spiritual journey, lest our practices become “chores”, rather than extraordinary connections with ourselves and the beyond. The “ebb” is there to teach us something, to urge us to look deeply within ourselves. Even when the state of the world becomes seemingly inextricable, our sabbatical and spiritual practices can remain as mechanisms of divine retreat and reinvigoration.

Last night, when reading tarot, I pulled The World. Through quite a bit of reflection with this absolutely evocative card, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to help my small locale reconnect with the Earth and its seasons. To help them reconnect with their deepest selves as authentically as possible. To be a small catalyst, and a gentle guide on a path they walk all their own. 

Originally, this post was only going to be a simple list of ideas on how to celebrate this equinox during the pandemic, with social distancing and conservation of supplies (mainly food) in mind. I.e, you’ll need no more supplies than yourself and what you’ve already got at hand. In truth, that is still all it's going to be, following these paragraphs. But after meditating this morning, I felt I should share deeper insight in the simple hopes it might inspire someone else. Or, just simply cheer them up.

To whoever reads this, this is for you—and I hope you have a splendid spring equinox. I hope you can make it something all your own. I hope you find healing, revitalization, balance and more.

Best regards, Sierra

Ideas for the observation and celebration of the spring equinox/Alban Eiler/Ostara, with the pandemic, social distancing, and food conservation in mind:

General correspondences:

Colors: Pastels, green, yellow, and pink.

Plants: Comprehensive list here.

Trees: Birch, ash, and alder.

Animals: Hares, snakes, birds, baby animals, caterpillars, ladybugs, and bees.

Crystals: Ultimately up to your own discretion, color correspondences work just fine. Specific crystals can include quartz (clear and rose), aquamarine, moonstone, jade, amethyst, and more.

Incense: Anything floral, light, fresh, or sweet-smelling.

Element: Air

Symbols: Eggs, hare/snake/bird guarding an egg, spring flowers, feathers, sprouts, shamrocks, and trefoils/trinities/triplicities.

Themes: Light, balance, cleansing and healing, feminimity, fertility, fruition and abundance, love and attraction, blessing the home.

Decorate your altar with the holiday correspondences! Ideas for items to include are potted plants, crystals, ribbons, budding branches, dried flowers or herbs, clovers, a small glass of milk and honey, baskets, seed packets, incense and feathers, and figurines of deities or baby animals. 

If you don’t have any of these items readily available, replace them with themed drawings, paintings, or your own creations for the equinox. Make your altar as simple as you need to. Right now, social distancing and food conservation are more important than picking up a few extra supplies.

When you get hungry, you can make meals including fresh fruits, spring greens and vegetables, sweets (especially cakes), nuts and seeds, floral teas, lemonade, eggs, fish, and more.

Leave offerings of non-crucial supplies to deities, the Fae, spirits, ancestors, familiars, the element of air, or any other relevant entity of your choice. Write them a short poem, prayer, letter, etc. Take a moment to center yourself. Read your prose and give the offering, and express gratitude for their guidance. If you wish, burn a candle or incense in their name, as well.

Perform a ritual to commune with your entities of choice, or to your deepest self. Or, the ritual can be performed to welcome spring into your life and into your home. It can be as simple or elaborate as you wish. When communing, focus on the theme correspondences I listed above if you would like a targeted ritual for the holiday.

Perform your favorite form of divination, and ask questions/seek guidance relating to the themes of the equinox. Here are some examples:

What seeds should I plant to grow into my fullest fruition?

Who or what aspect of my life brings me warmth and growth, like the sun itself?

What can I do to make my mind as clear as the snow melt streams?

What has this winter taught me?

What parts of myself should be reborn, and what parts of myself should melt away?

How can I nurture new opportunities? 

Make equinox water by leaving a bowl of water outside from sunrise until noon. Or, set it out at the exact time or the equinox and leave it outside overnight. You can use this as a spell component later.

Make a symmetrical crystal grid to symbolize balance, and to charge your crystals. Bonus points if you make it in the shape of an equinox-related symbol, such as a clover. Put a candle in the center of the grid to symbolize growing light. You can chant, sing, play an instrument, pray, or use a singing bowl or chimes for additional charging. If you have enough salt on hand, surround your crystal grid with it, and this will help with cleansing your crystals as well. If your crystals are safe with water (do your research!), you can also cleanse them with salt water, spell water, or moon water spray, for a mess-free cleanse. You could also waft incense smoke over them, if you wish.

Dilute your favorite floral, fresh, or sweet essential oils, herbs, and salt in plenty of water, to make a cleansing spray, or to add to mop water for spring cleaning. Make sure to enchant the mixture with visualization or other techniques. Say a prayer or chant over it, or repeat a strong and specific statement of intention over it three times. There are other methods you can use to activate it, as well. Be safe and do your research when using any essential oils and herbs. Essential oils DO NOT replace proper disinfecting supplies.

Spring cleaning: Sweep, dust, scrub, and mop, finish the laundry, change your home’s air filters, organize your pantry and refrigerator, rearrange your furniture, etc. all while practicing visualization. Chanting or singing, or incorporating spell components when cleaning helps, too. 

Take part in your favorite meditations and breathing exercises for basic grounding and clearing. Pro-tip, doing this outside (where you aren’t in contact with anyone else) is extremely helpful in connecting with the season. If you can’t go outside, turn on nature audio tracks or springtime fantasy music.

Write down your wishes and goals for the next six months, and record your reflection of today’s holiday. Hide or bury the list somewhere (you can bury it in a fake egg if you want to be festive). It is said to be good luck to wish upon the spring equinox in this way, and to plant your goals like seeds to grow over the next six months. Excavate it at the next equinox, and look back on your reflections and what you have accomplished.

Perform general item enchantments, or enchant pastel-colored clothing, accessories, or makeup items with glamour or attraction magic. Choose any attribute related to the spring equinox, that you would like others to see in you when you wear this specific item. Or, enchant the item to attract people with those attributes. There are a number of ways you can perform enchantments. My favorite process for enchantment is as follows:

Pick the item. Cleanse it with salt water, moon water, smoke, the light of the full moon, a clear quartz crystal, or clearing visualizations. Then, charge the item with sunlight, sound, or burying.

Place a ward on the item. First, cast a circle to block outside influence, if you wish. Then, place the object near protective “enhancers” (crystals, herbs, etc. if you have them, this is by no means required). Finally, say a prayer, chant, or repeat a strong and specific statement of protection over the item while visualizing a protective sheath around it. When finished, announce your conclusion. Break the circle, or, move on to the next step. Alternatively to all of this, you can create a protection sigil (don’t forget to charge and seal it after you create it), let the object sit on the sigil overnight, and destroy the sigil the next day. This will also place a protective ward on the item.

Enchant the item. This process is similar to warding, but rather than focusing on statements of protection, you are focusing on your statement of intention. Ask yourself questions like: What do you want others to see in you when you wear this enchanted object? What perspectives and energy do you want to dispel? What do you want to attract in others? Cast a circle with your corresponding intention “enhancers” (crystals, herbs, sigils, etc), if you wish, and answer those questions. Use your answers to come up with a strong and specific statement of intention, a prayer, chant, etc. While reciting your choice of prose over the object, visualize the energy from yourself and your “enhancers” entering the object. When the collective energy reaches a peak, drive the last of the energy into the object and announce your conclusion. Seal the item with a good squeeze, a splash of salt/moon water, or a dash of salt. Take a moment to center and ground yourself with the object, and break your circle. Your enchantment is complete.

Create or perform other types of spells (there is no way I could list all of them) with the equinox theme correspondences I listed above. Here are more general ideas for what I couldn’t encompass in this post:

Examples of types of spells: Blessing or consecreation spells for the self and home. Love and attraction spells. Cleansing and healing spells. Warding and protection spells. Spells for restoration of personal balance. Spells for fertility (for the surrounding land, or the self). Enchant items to make charms, amulets, or talismans with attributes relating to the spring equinox, etc.

Examples of types of magic: Air elemental magic, crystal magic, tea magic, bath spells and rituals, jar/satchet magic, glamour magic, sex magic, hearth magic, plant magic, knot magic, poppet magic, sigil magic, planetary magic, astrological magic, sorcery and summoning magic, deity/ancestor work, faerie magic, hedge magic, divination magic, and more.

Please feel free to use any of these ideas, to adapt them in your own ways, or to add on more ideas, information, or recommendations! Happy equinox to you all.

[coyotesongwriting]

Home - Ch. 1

Chapter 1 - Mistakes

Story Summary:  When a mission goes horribly wrong and Bucky dies in front of your eyes, how are you supposed to just pick up the pieces and move on? One step at a time. 9 years later, you’ve moved on with your life and everything seems to be going just fine, until one of the Avengers shows up in the small town you fled to years ago. Will everything come crashing down around you?

Word Count: 2712

Author’s Note: I’m playing a new - to me - style of writing so this is all being written past tense, let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters so don’t sue me please. I just really like them haha

Series Masterlist

The quinjet flew over the cold forest in Northern Russia as the team prepared to disembark. Fury had received intel that Hydra was still working out of a small concrete bunker in the middle of the remote forest, and after a few weeks of recon, you’d confirmed the reports. Now, it was time to do what you did best, kick ass.

Steve was running over the plan with everyone for the third time today while everyone geared up, and you had basically tuned him out. You’d been the one to help him come up with the plan back at headquarters, so you weren’t really concerned. You may not be a super soldier like Bucky or Steve or have powers like Wanda, but you were one of the naturally gifted members of the team.

You’d always known you wanted to do good, be good, so when you’d been offered a position in Shield right out of college you hadn’t hesitated. When you quickly proved your abilities undercover, it wasn’t long before Fury was sending you on longer solo assignments. With no family to call your own and your uncanny ability to weasel yourself out of trouble, you were soon his preferred agent to send out on long trips.

It was on one of the long trips that you’d first run into Bucky. You’d been working the case for over a year, undercover working at the restaurant that was a front for the local gang that Fury suspected had ties with Hydra. Fury had sent him in to call you back, your handler had lost contact with you months ago, and you were so set on finishing the case you didn’t let that stop you. You’d refused to leave when Bucky showed up, not wanting to abandon your case. Luckily, he’d seemed to understand that drive in you, and with Fury’s permission, he’d stayed on to help you. It wasn’t long before the case was all wrapped up neatly, and you were able to return to your life.

After that mission, Fury began sending you on missions with different members of the Avengers, but he always seemed to favor having you work with Bucky. When you’d first met the former winter soldier he’d been quiet and withdrawn but hard - you’d even jokingly called him granite to his face one drunken night. Over time, he’d thawed towards you and you’d struck up a warm friendship. Even when you weren’t working a case, you two were always in contact with one another.

One thing led to another, and before long you and Bucky were going out on dates in the small town near the Avengers compound. Your favorite spot was the small diner, they had the best apple pie in the whole state, and the two of you could spend hours there in the bustling restaurant. It was always full of locals and everyone knew each other's names. When you’d started going there you were pleasantly surprised to find that no one treated you or Bucky differently because of what you’d done. It had quickly become your weekly date night destination. None of the other avengers ventured to the diner, so it eventually became your little secret.

At first, you’d kept your relationship secret from the others, not wanting to make a big deal out of it until you were sure it was going to last. When you’d been together for six months, you’d had to admit it was time to tell the team. You’d waited until the weekly team dinner, and instead of saying anything you’d merely been openly affectionate with each other. Throughout dinner, no one called you out on your new touchy behavior with Bucky, not until you leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Bucky always blushed at the public displays of affection, and drawing that out in him was one of your favorite things to do.

When you’d glanced back at the table, you saw Tony staring at you with a raised eyebrow. With a shrug, you’d returned to dinner as usual until Clint had huffed, pulling out his wallet and shoving a $5 bill into Natasha’s waiting hand. Of course, Fury and Steve refused to send you two on any missions together for the next year, worried it would compromise your ability to do your jobs, but eventually, they’d come around.

You and Bucky had been together for three years now, and things were going well. You’d moved into his suite at the Avengers compound, and you were both happy. Whenever you were both at the compound, you made your weekly jaunt to the diner but even when you were away on missions you found little ways to keep in touch - from having Nat drop off a slice of pie for him while you were away, to Bucky asking Steve to take you on adventures while he was away.

“You ready, [Y/N]?” Bucky’s voice brought you back to the present and you turned, shooting him a grin.

“When aren’t I?” you laughed, tightening the straps on your armor.

While you’d been daydreaming, you’d reached the bunker. Steve and Bucky stood near the open back of the jet. Like always, they’d be the first out followed by Sam and Tony. After they were out, you’d head out with Clint and Natasha and get to work. The team had worked together so many times over the years that by now you each knew exactly where the others would be, and you were a well-oiled machine. At least, you were most of the time.

Bucky’s warm hand found it’s way to your waist as he pulled you in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “See you later, alligator.”

You rolled your eyes, he’d started making those stupid jokes in the last two weeks for the sole purpose of annoying you. Before you even had a chance to respond though, Bucky jumped out of the hovering quinjet, his smirk the last thing you saw as he dropped.

Steve quickly followed him, and the mission was on. Bickering like usual, Sam and Tony took to the skies. Once they were clear, you dropped your rope down from the jet and slid down alongside Nat and Clint. By the time your feet touched the ground, Tony had already blown open the door of the bunker and like angered ants pouring out of an anthill, Hydra soldiers had begun to erupt. Clint found his way to a nearby tree and began to fire down on them while Steve and Bucky made their way into the bunker. Working together with Sam, Tony, and Nat, while Clint covered your group you’d made quick work of the soldiers who’d willingly come out to face you.

Clint, Sam, and Tony took up their patrols outside the bunker, watching for the reinforcements you were sure would arrive while Nat led the way for the two of you into the bunker. While Steve and Bucky were dealing with enemy soldiers, it was your job to collect as much information and evidence as you could.

Three floors down you found the jackpot, a room full of computers and files. Neither of you spoke as you quickly fell into your usual roles, the chattering of your teammates over the comms was enough to keep track of.

“Come on Sam, I bet you couldn’t catch this arrow.” Clint’s voice was full of laughter as he goaded him.

“I’m not going to let you shoot at me again, bird brain” you could almost hear the eye roll from Sam as they continued the argument they’d been having for the last month.

Nat had finally managed to get one of the computers working, and while she plugged in the drive to start downloading information, you were scanning documents as fast as you could. Your eyes skimmed the paperwork as you went, trying to get a better idea of what they were studying here.

The warm timbre of Bucky’s voice over the comm drew your attention “Doll, you want to try and catch a movie this weekend? I think - DUCK - that new one you wanted to see is out, right?” You could hear fighting in the background, apparently he and Steve were still working on clearing the lower floors.

“Yeah Buck, I’d like that. It’s out today actually so that works” your eyes never left the papers in front of you, but a small grin slipped onto your face.

“Come on guys, heads in the game please” Steve sighed and you laughed, apologizing.

“Yeah kids, that’s not very professional of you.” Tony’s voice chimed in.

“Fuck off, Stark” Bucky’s voice was playful. While their relationship had been strained at first, the two had eventually formed a friendship based on sarcasm and insults.

“Language.” The team spoke all at once. In the years since his slip up, it had become an ingrained response to anyone cussing on comms, so much so that no one even thought about it anymore before responding.  

A heavy groan came from Steve’s comm before he muttered a simple, “Get back to work.”

Near the bottom of the stack of papers, you found a small note about the test subjects being kept in the lowest level, northwest corner. They were testing on them to see if they could get any of them to develop powers, but apparently, they’d been having no success yet. They’d recently gotten a group of teens that they hoped might be more successful than the last group.

“Steve, sounds like there might be potential hostages below, looks like they’re in room 6C - Northwest corner, bottom floor. They’re testing on teens down there.” you scanned the paperwork as you spoke, searching for any other information they might need.

“We’re on our way. Let’s keep the comms clear in case something comes up.” Steve responded.

Among the echoes of “comm clear”, Bucky’s voice stood out with a simple “Thanks doll, comm clear.”

Time seemed to creep by until you heard Steve’s voice over the radio, “On our way out with the hostages. Clint, bring the quinjet down, let’s get out of here.”

When Steve and the hostages reached the door to the room where you and Nat were working, your eyes scanned the group, subconsciously searching for Bucky. Raising one eyebrow, you shot Steve a questioning glance as Nat began to lead the teens up and out.

“One of the teens says someone’s missing. Bucky’s looking for him.” Steve explained, and you nodded, moving through the crowd to help Nat in the front in case any trouble popped up.

As you exited the bunker with the first of the hostages, Tony’s voice came over the comms.

“We need to go. NOW. ” the urgency in his voice was clear as the sky above you.

Nat began to run, leading the teens towards the quinjet quickly while you stopped, turning back to the bunker. The staircase down was empty and dark, a black hole waiting to swallow everything whole.

“What’s going on?” You asked, your voice hard as you prepared for a fight.”

“Missiles incoming, and according to Friday, they’ve started their self destruct sequence. We need to go. I can handle one or two but I don’t recognize these and there’s more than we can handle.”

“Understood. Bucky? Let’s go.” you jogged over to the jet, joining Steve on the ramp as the rest of the teens got seatbelted in. Your eyes didn’t leave the entrance to the bunker, waiting for the familiar mop of brown hair to peak into the sunlight.

The comms were silent, no hint of Bucky’s warm voice, no trace of static, no way to know he’d even heard you. As the seconds ticked past, your anxiety began to grow. He should have been here by now.

“Clint, get the jet in the air. We have to move, now. We have less than a minute.” Tony’s voice was firm, solid in his decision.

“Bucky isn’t back yet.” you heard the slight tremble in your voice, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. It wasn’t like him to not answer a comm call, particularly not one from you.

“Clint, we don’t have time. Get in the air. I can grab him when he comes out” Tony ordered again.

Clint paused, looking at Steve for an order. After what seemed like an hour but was only a millisecond, Steve nodded. The jet began to rise and you prepared to step off, back onto the pad to go find Bucky when Steve’s hand wrapped around your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“Tony won’t be able to carry you both, plus if Bucky found that hostage that’s too many. Wait here, you know he’s coming” the hint of unsureness in his tone did nothing to calm the worry.

Seconds ticked by quickly, your eyes locked onto the bunker door as the jet pulled higher into the sky, moving out of the path of the oncoming missiles. You didn’t even flinch at the roar of the missiles, your hand tightening on the handle of the jet as Tony detonated the first two rockets.

Finally, Bucky emerged from the bunker, an unconscious teen slung over his shoulder as he stepped back into the sunshine. Your eyes locked onto him at the same time the missile struck the building behind him, swallowing him up in a thick cloud of dust and debris.

You could hear the chaos erupt around you, Steve barking orders as Clint began to navigate the quinjet out of the path of the missiles still incoming. Tony and Sam shouting back and forth, still out in the air as they searched. You heard it all, but it didn’t seem to register. No, your mind was still stuck on that last image, on Bucky running out, looking exhausted but relieved, searching for the quinjet that had left him behind.

“Does anyone have eyes on Bucky?” you could hear the full-blown panic in your voice but couldn’t find it in you to care, not when Bucky was down there.

“We’re looking.” Sam’s voice was warm, too warm. He was using what Bucky had always jokingly referred to as his therapy voice. While you usually found it calming, it seemed to be grating now, harsh and unwelcome.

“Get me down there.” your voice was soft, firm.

Before anyone could respond, Clint’s voice came over the comms, “We have to get out of here. There’s more missiles incoming and this time they’re locked onto us.”

Without waiting for approval or anyone’s answer, Clint and Nat put the quinjet into motion, speeding away from the smoking pile of rubble below. The jerk of the sudden departure almost sent you tumbling out, Steve’s hand on your arm the only thing anchoring you. It took a second for the shock to leave your system, and it wasn’t until the bunker was out of sight that you yanked your arm from his grasp.

“Steve, let me out. I’ll go find him. You guys keep moving.” your voice was steady now, sure of what would happen next. They’d drop you off, you’d go back and find him, and the two of you would have to trek out to a safehouse with the teen where you’d find your way back to the compound.

“We can’t stop, [y/n]. There’s no time to stop and let you down.” Nat spoke calmly, the way you’d talk to a wild animal.

“Fine. Tony, grab me?” your idea pivoted on its head, knowing he could just grab you and drop you on the ground quickly.

“I have to keep on top of the rockets” Tony’s voice was strained, and you could hear the alarms going off in the suit as he fought to defend the jet.

“We’ll come back for him, I swear.” Steve swallowed heavily, his eyes not leaving the scene behind you for a long moment before he turned, pressing the button to close the back of the jet. Without another word, he headed up to the front to talk to Clint and Nat.

You watched the smoke in the distance as it rose, mocking you and just out of reach. You didn’t move, even as the door slid shut, locking into place as your thoughts raced.

~~~~~

Next Chapter -> 

Taglist OPEN:  @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @queenoftheunderdark @redfoxwritesstuff​ @brokenthelovely  @collinsstanharbour​  @samsgoddess

[itsblissfuloblivion]

Torch - Chapter 3: November

A/N: We are one day late but it’s here!  Get ready...

Love,

@fightfortherightsofhouseelves

&

@gryffindormischief

Also on FF and Ao3

Torch: a Hinny canon compliant multi-chaptered fic featuring HBP missing moments. Updates every first day of every month, from September 2019 to August 2020.

_____

Hallowe’en, for all he knows of it now, was a boring event during the first eleven years of Harry’s life. Dudley would gorge himself on candy, gather up his cronies to increase their usual levels of Harry-focused torment, and Harry would simply wait for the day to end like he did any other.

Since his first year at Hogwarts, the end of October has generally been a mix of angst and some sort of life-endangering drama. In between, the Hallowe’en feast at least provided some form of light hearted fun.

When October 30th dawned, Harry had been looking forward to a day spent playing quidditch and avoiding Hermione’s heavy handed comments about the importance of revising early and thoroughly. By the time the sun sets, Harry’s almost hoping Voldemort plans to finish what he started fifteen Hallowe’ens ago.

At least he would only have to tolerate another twenty-four hours of Ron’s moping.

It’s not enough that practice was shite and they’re basically about to be destroyed on the pitch in less than a week. Ron’s got to go all dramatic and say he plans to resign . Harry finds himself wondering if there’s an encouraging way to say he’d rather have shite Ron than deal with McLaggen’s diva attitude.

After supper in the Great Hall, Harry loses himself in the rush of students and eventually wanders into the courtyard - moonlit and delightfully abandoned.

Finally feeling like his brain has an opportunity for quiet , Harry drops down onto the ledge surrounding the fountain and throws his arm over his eyes.

His spine pops a bit at being stretched so absolutely but in that good ‘am I creepy to enjoy this’ way.

Water spray tickles his bare skin, a touch icy despite whatever charms keep it from freezing over and Harry almost feels he could drift off. And maybe he does, until a throat clears and draws him from his funk.

Craning his neck only enough to identify the interloper, Harry finds Ginny Weasley eyeing him with a raised brow. “Don’t think pneumonia will get you out of this game.”

“Imagine if Oliver Wood heard I skipped out for a less than deadly ailment.”

Ginny laughs and wanders closer as Harry pushes himself into a sitting position and muses, “He’d probably be more disappointed I’ve let the Gryffindor team fall into such a state.”

Shrugging, Ginny picks at her fingernails and says, “Are you telling me Wood never lead a bad practice? You can’t put everyone’s performance on yourself. It’s up to us at some point, yeah?”

Harry glances up and meets Ginny’s gaze, so confident and strong when he recalls her blushing looks his first year.

Hell, she’s confident and strong on any litmus test and Harry can’t help but be bolstered by her words, ready to fight another day so to speak.

While he considers some new tactics to implement - on the field and in a more mental preparation type way - Harry finds he doesn’t feel the need to drop his eyes from Ginny’s.

And she hasn’t either.

It’s almost tangible, the feeling building in his chest. So much that he almost wishes it was mutual. Until he remembers Dean and severs the connection.

“Thanks, Gin.”

Her smile is small, but real enough. “Anytime Harry.”

___

By November 2nd, Harry’s so fed up with Ron and his constant fuming and grouching around, he’s almost willing to forget the past six years of friendship for the two minutes he’d need to properly bitchslap his best mate.

Seeing that nobody (maybe except Ginny) would regard such behaviour as captain-y, Harry sighs and sucks it up. There’s a match they must win today after all. So he pretends his little old hand slips with a dash of lucky potion exactly when Hermione happens to be looking. Oops.

At least now Ron’s chuffed and his ego oiled and pampered enough to pull some actual Keeping out of him. Harry can see it in the way Ron walks, prances, struts his way to the pitch - and he shakes his head and smiles. The match is certainly theirs.

It’s only when Harry catches a glimpse of red from the corner of his eye, rapidly obstructed by broader, less delightful Dean-shaped figure hovering over her for his own version of Felix Felicis: a kiss from Ginny.

Something inside Harry’s chest growls dangerously and he draws a long, shuddering breath to silence it. Not the time, he thinks.

Jaw set and hardened, Harry trots together with the Gryffindor team, entering the pitch in roaring, thundering applause. It’s deafening.

And they do win - how could they not? It’s exhilarating, and the whole team gathers in a spine-numbing hug around Harry, and Ron’s so proud and glowing the knowledge that this win is his as much as any of the others’.

Until Hermione just can’t help herself and confronts Harry so he admits, figures it’s safe to let Ron know it was all him now. No Felix, only him. But of course he finds a way to turn his win into a kick to his ego, it’s Ron.

Looking at his best mates hurt and mad, at Ginny disappearing with Dean, at his team chanting their way back to the castle in the midst of happy shouts from their fellow Gryffindors, Harry can’t bring himself to feel too excited. There’s an annoying voice at the back of his mind whispering that the worst is yet to come.

Dumbledore should just hire him to co-teach Divination with Trelawny and Firenze because it seems he’s a natural at it. Exactly as he feared, things do take a new, ugly turn just when he relaxes enough to forget about the looming danger of his best mates jumping at each other’s throats and Ginny points out that Ron’s already jumped - but not at Hermione and in a totally different way than Harry’s imagined.

Ron and Lavender. Lavender and Ron. All Harry can do is blink and...blink some more. Talk about unexpected.

The door to the Common Room slams shut and Harry closes his eyes tightly, silently curses Ron and slips out after Hermione, unnoticed. It’s hard seeing her like this, heart broken and crying all alone. Harry tries his best to support her, but he knows it’s useless...If he allows himself three seconds of honesty, he’d actually tell her that he’d been feeling the same for awhile. So they sit next to each other in silence, the sad and the broken.

Until Ron barges in, Lavender in a fit of giggles in his wake and Hermione looks more mad than Harry’s ever seen her. The insane, pained look in her eyes - it’s terrifying.

And she curses him, and Harry catches the shock on his best friend’s face before the birds hit and the pain sets in.

What a mess.

Later, when he says goodbye to Hermione in the Common Room, Harry climbs the stairs to his dorm feeling bereft, opens the door and readies himself for another blow.

But Dean’s inside, head leaning towards Seamus. It seems like Harry’s interrupted an important talk because both boys jump a bit when he walks in. Still, Harry pays them no mind and rushes out through the door, Cloak securely in his pocket.

“What the fuck.”

Harry grins. There’s only one mouth who could’ve said that, belonging to only one person who could’ve guessed there’s someone attempting to sneak out of the Gryffindor Tower invisibly.

“Hello to you too,” Harry bumps Ginny’s elbow from under the Cloak.

“Going incognito, are we?” Ginny arches an eyebrow, looking somewhere in Harry’s general direction.

“Too much drama, had to hide.”

She pretends to sigh, “Ah, well, I was about to hit the kitchen for some hot milk with cinnamon but don’t let me stop your little undercover mission.”

It’s an invitation to food and mischief and Harry’s not about to let it slip by.

“Lead on.”

Ginny does grin, satisfied and raises her palms to feel around her, “Make way, I’m coming in.”

“You sure it’s enough space for the both of us?” Harry teases.

She takes one look at him and shrugs.

“Not my fault if that bum of yours got too big. You should really cut down on your treacle tart intake.”

Harry pouts and tickles her mercilessly in return. His fingers play over her middle, tickling everywhere as she laughs and dances away from him, Cloak fluttering around them but Harry doesn’t care. All he wants now is her laugh, loud and boisterous, and Ginny...Ginny, with her freckled face and blazing look, Ginny laughing in his arms as they’re hidden in plain sight. Ginny.

He doesn’t have the map, but by now sneaking to the kitchens is something he could do in his sleep. Overall, it feels nice to be doing something stealthy for reasons related to treacle tart and impressing a girl rather than investigating the dark activities of your classmates.

The journey from the common room passes quickly as Ginny murmurs cheeky stories about each of the portraits; likely made up and all the more fun for it. When he tickles the pear and slips inside behind Ginny, Dobby is immediately on them, nearly knocking Harry over as he tucks the Invisibility Cloak away.

Ginny grins at Harry over Dobby’s head as they’re ushered to one of the long tables and seated with much prodding from the house elf’s spindly fingers. As has become something of a custom, Dobby praises Harry to an excessive degree and with Ginny as witness, he can’t help but blush.

Once they’ve requested treacle tart and warm milk to go along with it, Dobby departs with a flap of his ears and Ginny nudges Harry. “Eleven year old me would be so disappointed.”

“Because I’m quite boring and sneak about to get treats?”

Ginny laughs. “No - that would’ve been a selling feature. I mean young Ginny fancied herself your biggest fan, but it appears she’s been overtaken.”

Grinning, Harry props his chin on his hand and for some reason decides now will be the time he’s finally able to wink without looking like he’s got something in his eyes. Based on Ginny’s stifled chuckles, he doesn’t succeed, but he can’t really hate anything that raises that smile on her face.

Dobby returns, deposits their plates and mugs on the table, and disappears off to manage something or other while Harry cuts two healthy slices from the fresh tart. “He’s never given me a singing card though.”

And then, to Harry’s everlasting joy, Ginny actually blushes and stalls for time by taking a sip so overlarge she begins coughing almost instantly. He rises, ready to slap her back or do any manner of things to set her right - even the torture of a purely medical press of his lips to hers - but she soon recovers.

Ginny swipes the tears from her eyes with a sigh. “That was not nice.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m both deluded and a delinquent.”

“Is that a quote from Umbridge or Skeeter?” Ginny asks around a bite of treacle.

“Joke’s on you, it was Snape,” Harry shoots back, taking a long sip of his milk.

“Well if the supreme potions master turned defense against the dark arts teacher says so it must be true,” Ginny drawls, placing air quotes around defense .

Harry pushes his glasses up, more for something to do than from genuine need, and nibbles on a bit of crust. “D’you trust him?”

Her smile is sad now, even as her eyes bore into his. “I find the number of people I genuinely trust gets smaller and smaller with each passing year. You’re probably the only person I would say that to.”

“Dunno if my agreement is a vote of confidence in the intelligence of your judgment,” Harry mutters, picking at his tart.

Scoffing, Ginny tosses a serviette in his face and cuts another sliver for herself. “Stuff it, you know you’re brilliant. I came here for sweets, not to fluff your ego so you turn into a preening arsehole,” she grins at the end, her lips twisted in a dangerous smile, “ Speaking of my brother -”

“He and Hermione may end me before ol’ Moldy-shorts.”

___

“Not like it’s any of my business,” Harry drawls, turning a page of the Prince’s book, “But shouldn’t you tell him?”

“And what exactly should I be telling who?” Hermione volleys right back, tone a little waspish.

Harry draws in a breath, already regretting he’s opened the subject - but they are in the library and if he’s forced to spend another hour with Hermione looking at Ron out of the corner of her eye and Ron looking back at her from two tables away, where he’s studying with Lavender and Parvati, he’s pretty positive he’ll basically move in with Hagrid.

“Ron. Why don’t you just tell Ron that you’re sorry?”

Hermione slams her book shut, looks at Harry dangerously.

“Whatever should I be sorry for?”

“Does it even matter?” Harry answers, clipped. “Look, Hermione,” he pauses and sighs, “the two of you are my best mates and it’s difficult watching you angsting around instead of talking and, you know, sorting things out.”

“Well then,” Hermione jumps to her feet like an angry cat, “I will go angst somewhere else then.”

Harry can hear her stomping out of the library, completely ignoring Madam Pince or anyone else for that matter. With one last look at Ron, Harry lays his forehead on the old battered book, removes his glasses and closes his eyes. Why is having feelings so complicated?

When Harry finally convinces himself that there’ll be no more studying in the real sense of the word for the day, he throws all his stuff in his bag, takes another look at Ron’s ginger head, hoping he’d somehow manage to telepathically convey that he’s acting a bit like a git for the wrong reasons, then trots out of the library, the castle, and down towards Hagrid’s.

Later, when he’s gorged himself on Hagrid’s special rock cakes and he’d drank enough hot tea to keep the cold outside at bay, Harry finally starts to feel better. It’s nice near the fire, Fang resting his big head on his lap as Harry scratches him between the ears.

“I heard Ron’s with Lavender, eh?” Hagrid starts, dropping on the seat next to Harry, his pink apron fluttering about him.

Harry raises one eyebrow, but grins, “News travel at the speed of light, then.”

“We professors know more than you kids think,” he chuckles pleased.

There’s a pause, interrupted only by Fang’s deep snores.

“How’s Hermione?”

Harry studies him intently before he answers.

“She’s been better, I suppose.”

“Ye know, Harry, I like Ron. He’s a good lad, but sometimes he’s not too smart,” Hagrid stares into the dancing flames of the fire and shakes his head, dark hair falling down in rings around his big, kind face.

“Why do you say that?”

“Yer a smart boy, ye’ll figure it out,” Hagrid winks. “And Hermione too, she ain’t the brightest witch o’ her age for nothing. They are somethin’ , those redheads. Right, Harry?” He goes on to chuckle and Harry can feel himself blush.

Yet he pretends he didn’t understand, finds a good enough excuse to leave and drags his feet back to the castle in the near dark of an end of day, his bag full with rock cakes and untouched homework.

He falls asleep that night holding the Marauder’s Map, eyes boring into Ginny’s dot, waiting for it to move and return to the Common Room, to at least exit the classroom it shared with Dean’s dot for the past hour. Ironic, if Ron only knew there was only one wall between himself and his sister…

Harry’s last thought before he dreams is of Hermione and how lucky she is not to have a magical Map.

____

Over time, one of the strangest things Harry’s realized about his life - which seems quite adventurous to an outsider - is that it’s filled with long stretches of normalcy. The difficulty that is singular to his particular situation, is that even the most calm, boring, normal times feel like borrowed minutes that will turn sour and deadly at any moment.

Living with this sort of dichotomy of feelings leaves him to sleepless or fitful nights, and often a sour stomach that can’t quite manage to settle. As a result, his today breakfast is a sparse affair with barely buttered toast and a cup of tea so strong his spoon could stand.

Overall, when he takes a figurative step back and examines himself, Harry can admit he’s having something of a pity party. His best mates are quarreling like a couple on the verge of divorce, the girl he should think of like a sister is haunting his daydreams in decidedly non sisterly ways, everyone seems to be dating except him, and most days he’s torn between avoiding seeing Ginny and Dean or Ron and Lavender.

Really though, the thing he feels the most angry about is the fact that he really doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on any of that shite. He’s bloody sixteen years old and instead of spending his free time escaping the library and mooning over a girl who fancied him until right about when he...did not. He does not .

Regardless, the point is he’s spending most days diving into a genocidal maniac’s childhood and trying to determine exactly how his classmate is going to wreak dark magic havoc on the unsuspecting student body, rather than wallowing like a good, normal, angsty teenager.

So he does the only thing he knows. After breakfast, Harry manages to wedge himself between students and slip from the hall and out onto the grounds. Nothing like a good fly to calm his wild thoughts, he muses on the way.

He reaches the stands in record time, retrieves his broom and feels it hum to life in his palm, and finally trots out to the snowy pitch. Only to find he’s not the only student with the idea.

And as he watches her fly in graceful arcs across the sky, swirling and sending her hair twisting like a wild red pennant, Harry’s chest clenches.

She flips upside down, arms spread as she lets out a loud whoop and Harry feels himself breathe freely, even if just for a moment, and slips back into the shadows.

[luving-hanni]

Take care of you

Pairing: J-Hope x Reader

Genre: Fluffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: nudity? That’s pretty much it, this is super soft

Tonight was the last concert of the tour, and even though it was in Japan, you had decided to come and celebrate it with the boys. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend Hoseok, so you had organized everything in secret with the other members and the staff. You were planning on waiting for him backstage at the end of the concert, and so far everything was going well, except for the rain that started pouring on the stage in the middle of the performance. The boys were used to it though, it wasn’t the first time it happened, so maybe it was because of how exhausted he was, but while dancing for anpanman, Hoseok fell. That wasn’t something new either, it had happened in the past, but when he didn’t get back up immediately, you knew something was wrong, and so did the other members. During Jungkook’s part, Namjoon and Taehyung rushed towards him, helping him get back up after asking if he was alright. Hoseok shook his head in response, showing them his left wrist and running backstage as soon as the song ended.

You couldn’t help but want to join him and make sure everything was fine, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to do anything other than being in the way. After a few minutes, one of the staff members came to tell you what was going on. You felt relieved when you learned his wrist wasn’t broken and that he most likely had a sprain.

He went back on the stage after a bit, his wrist immobilized in a bandage. He was unable to do some parts of the choreography, and you could see he was in pain, but he still tried his hardest for the fans.

When the concert finally reached its end, you waited for the boys to come back to their waiting room before joining them.

“Look who’s here to comfort you!” Jimin exclaimed when you stepped in, immediately bringing the other members’ attention on you.

“Hi” you said with a smile. It took your boyfriend a second to realize you were actually here.

“Y/n?” he asked, surprised, before getting up. “What are you doing here?” his startled expression turning into a large smile. You smiled back at him.

“I wanted to make you a surprise”

“Woah, it’s a good one” he laughed as he put his arms around you, doing one of his signature head tilts. “Ah, Y/n, you’re the best”

You smiled at his words and held him closer, hugging him tight and drinking in his perfume before he pulled away to look at the members.

“Did you guys know she was coming?” he asked, his sunshine smile stuck on his face.

“We planned everything” Jungkook answered. “It was Y/n’s idea, but we wanted to help her surprise you”

“Ah I have the best friends ever” Hoseok added before pressing his lips on yours, his eyes falling shut as he held you tighter against his body.

 After discussing together, the boys had decided on celebrating the end of the tour only tomorrow, as they were all fairly exhausted. They said a last goodbye to the fans on the way to their car and Hoseok was so happy you were here he even let the fans get a glimpse of the two of you kissing. It wasn’t rare that you held hands or hugged in public, as your boyfriend was so proud of having you, and also so touchy. However, he preferred to keep kisses something more private.

On the way to the hotel you mostly listened to the boys talking about the concert, your head resting on Hoseok’s shoulder. You could smell the remnants of his fragrance mixed with sweat, and as the car lulled you softly, you let your eyes fall shut. You were almost asleep when a a hand fell on yours, and you got out of your drowsiness when you heard your name being called softly.

“Y/n, we’ve arrived to the hotel”

You hummed, opening your eyes to Hobi’s sunshine smile.

“You really fall asleep whenever you’re in a moving vehicle” he said, and you smiled back at him.

“It’s not like it’s a new thing”

“It’s not, but it amazes me every time” he finished, leaving a quick kiss on your kips before coming out of the car. You followed his action and entered the hotel.

“Were your luggage already brought to my room?” he asked, heading to the elevator, and you nodded in agreement. His hand found yours as you entered the lift, and the doors had just finished closing that his lips were already back on yours, his breath brushing your skin softly. You smiled and slid your free hand to the small of his back.

“I’m so happy you’re here, you have no idea how much I missed you” he whispered as he peppered kisses along your jawline.

“Oh I have a very good idea of how much you missed me” you hummed. “Because I missed you just as much”

He smiled at your answer and you reached the floor on which his room was. He took you there without letting go of your hand. Noticing your luggage open next to his, he couldn’t help but smile.

“I see you’ve already made yourself comfortable”

“My flight landed at 10 this morning, I wasn’t going to wait all this time at the venue” you answered with a cheeky smile.

“Some ARMYs were here even earlier than that, you know” he noted.

“Well I guess that’s one of the advantages of being your girlfriend then: I get to wait comfortably in your room” you commented, making him smile.

“What other advantages are there?” he asked, and you rolled your eyes with a smile.

“I don’t know, but one of the disadvantages is having to put up with your annoying questions” you teased, and he tickled your side in revenge. You laughed and ran away to the bathroom, seeking shelter from his vicious fingers. He joined you, closing the door behind him, locking you both inside. He then approached you, a smile painted on his face as he played the bad guy, trapping you in the corner of the room.

“So I’m annoying?” he asked. You couldn’t help but giggle as he tried to look menacing. He couldn’t keep his composure much longer and his dimples appeared once again as he broke into a smile. He slipped his hands behind your back, pulling you against him easily. “I know you love me no matter how annoying I am” he stated.

“Of course I do” you replied, running your hands through his messy hair. “I’d be long gone otherwise”

He chuckled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You caressed his hair for a bit, getting soft purring noises from him as he relaxed completely against you.

“Don’t fall asleep baby, you still have to take a shower” you pointed out. He whined in response, not moving at all. “I’ll take it with you” you added, and he immediately raised his head back up, smiling widely.

“You know how to motivate me” he joked, stepping back and letting you open the faucet. You stripped as warm water started filling the bathtub. You were about to take your underwear off when you noticed Hoseok struggling with his belt.

“You need help baby?” you asked, stepping closer to him.

“Actually, yes. Life with only one hand is harder than I thought” you smiled at his comment, taking his injured hand in yours.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked, bringing it to your lips before kissing his knuckles.

A small smile appeared on his face at your action and he shook his head. “No, don’t worry”

You nodded and let go of his hand to help him get undressed. Once he was fully naked, you finished stripping too and you both eased yourselves in the warm water. You sat behind Hoseok, letting him rest his back and head against your torso. You remained like this for a bit, enjoying this quiet time as you both relaxed. Your fingers started drawing abstract patterns on your boyfriend’s chest and he hummed in pleasure.

It’s only when the water started getting colder that you decided to move, Hoseok sitting back up to give you more space. You took the soap and started washing his back, massaging his sore shoulders at the same time. You then went on to his hair. You liked taking care of him, but he rarely let you, more worried about you than his own self.

“Maybe having an injured wrist isn’t that bad after all” he joked. You chuckled and started rinsing his hair.

“I think what you mean is having a girlfriend that takes care of me when I’m tired isn’t that bad” you corrected, causing a smile to form on his face.

“Yeah, maybe that’s it” he agreed.

Once you were completely done rinsing the shampoo off his hair, you got up, grabbing a towel and wrapping yourself in it before taking another one for him. He got out of the bathtub too and took the towel you were offering him. He patted his body dry and put his pajamas, once again asking for your help.

“Sit” you said, bringing a stool into the bathroom. “I’ll dry your hair, you can’t go to bed if it’s wet” you continued. He smiled and complied, sitting on the stool as you blow dried his hair, applying oil to it afterwards to make it softer.

“I still want to take care of you though” Hosoek stated when you were done, a smile on his face as he watched you through the mirror’s reflection. You smiled too.

“We’ll see tomorrow, let’s go to bed for now, you need rest” You took his hand and both of you headed to the bedroom.

You got in bed and Hoseok immediately put his arms around you, bringing his body against yours and leaving a kiss on your lips before murmuring.

“I’m glad you’re here”

You smiled, letting your eyes fall shut before answering.

“Me too Hobi…”

 -Admin Jyan

[hello-imasalesman]

Can we please be blessed with headcannons of a pining Arthur? He’s such a soft boah 💕

Arthur puts pencil to paper and every time, the results don’t come out the way they’re supposed to. It’s not that he’s never seen something in his head and have it come out different on the page— that’s nearly every time, that’s what drawing was, trying to sketch his best approximation. But everything that’s coming out is wrong, a disconnect between his hands and his brain. The horses’ legs are crooked, the flowers look flat, the landscapes are lopsided. 

“You’ve had your nose in that thing for ages,” Marston calls, too close, behind his head. Arthur startles, perched on a covered crate in front of the fire, though he doesn’t close the journal in time, not before John’s gotten a good look. “Who’s that supposed to be, anyway?”

Arthur huffs in annoyance. “Trying to draw you, actually.”

He’s drawn John, Hosea, Dutch and even Grimshaw more times than he can count. They’ve been together so long, their faces are familiar, even when he’s not staring at them like he usually does when he sketches. But on this page, Marston looks lopsided and uneven, his brows furrowed and his scars lost to the smear of lead. 

“What the fuck, Arthur.” John responds first with anger, and then almost barks out a laugh as he leans over him to look closer at the page. “You made me look like Bill.”

Arthur shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to swallow a peal of laughter that threatens to escape down. “What?”

Sketch-John has a stern countenance, though with Arthur’s current inability to draw, its less stern than sour, like a child trying to act tough. His eyes are uneven, too. Arthur idly tries to correct it as John looks on, but it just makes sketch-John look like he has one black eye, his pencil scratching uselessly against the page.

“Yeah, yeah.” He tries to lean over, press a finger to the page, but Arthur’s sitting up and leaning away from Marston before he can smudge a greasy finger on it. “I ain’t that ugly and my beard don’t look like that.”

“What beard?” Arthur snaps his journal closed, looking over his shoulder at Marston’s frown. “You can grow one of those? I thought that shit on your face was from the dog.”

“I could say the same of you!” John shouts, unsuccessfully, because Arthur is staring at him with raised eyebrows and an amused smirk that’s just-visible beneath the mustache that’s in a sore need of a trim, before the hairs curl over and into his mouth. He doesn’t have to say anything, barely gets out a giggle before John’s hands are thrown up into the air, “Look, I don’t have to deal with this.” And he stomps off with Arthur’s laughter at his back. He keeps that sketch, at least. Will probably tear it out and leave it on John’s pillow, when he finds the time, just to antagonize him a bit; all in good fun, until Dutch tells him to play nice because his favorite son is cussing and stomping around instead of choring.

But still— as amusing as the doodle is, Arthur can’t draw. Or, at least, nothing is coming out well in his eyes. It’s been weeks now. Flat and lifeless, crooked lines. Between hauling bags of grain, he crouches next to the chicken coop, watches the birds scratch at the ground. He sketches one of the chickens, and then aggressively scribbles over it when the texture of the feathers looks, too on-the-nose, like chicken scratch.

“What’re you drawing?”

Kieran asks like he’s been rehearsing the simple sentence in his head for too long, and still, his voice cracks at the end as Arthur fixes him with a look over his shoulder. He always forgets how tall Kieran is until he’s sitting somewhere in Kieran’s vicinity, and he has to look up to meet his eye. He doesn’t carry his height well, perpetually slouching, unless he’s dealing with the horses. Then he has to draw himself up, if only to get them to behave.

“Nothing.” Arthur admits with a grumble, because it feels like he’s been drawing nothing over the past few days, just series of lines and shapes that don’t connect together into anything tangible. Kieran’s smile goes uneasy, baring his teeth with uncertainty as he takes a step back and away from Arthur. 

“Sorry to bother—“

“No, no, it’s fine.” Arthur rushes to clarify; he hadn’t realized his tone had been rough enough to have sent the other man almost scurrying off. Kieran flinches, stands and stares at his hands. “Frustrated with myself, is all. Nothing’s coming out right.” He hesitates, for a moment, before he turns and moves in closer, so that Kieran can see. His eyes go a little wide, glancing up towards Arthur’s face before he looks at the proffered journal.

“It all looks real fine to me.” Kieran says, almost sweetly, hesitantly flipping back to a previous page. Makes something in Arthur’s gut twist. “I- I think you’re being hard on yourself, is all. I could never get anything to look like that.” He taps below one of the sketches of the horses, careful not to actually touch it, “That’s a real nice one. Nell?”

“Yeah,” Arthur confirms, huffing out a chuckle. “Stands still long enough to sketch. Just like Uncle, actually.”

Kieran laughs, genuine, the corners of his eyes creasing, tucking strands of hair behind his ears. Arthur laughs, too, even if it’s not the funniest thing he’s ever said, but its infectious when he hears it from him. “It’s true,” Kieran says, “Oh, he can be real awful, even if he’s a sweet horse. Always rolls around in the dirt after I brush him through...”

Arthur flips through his journal, showing Kieran a past page of Uncle in various states of sleep around camp, his face an exaggerated, comical caricature, drool from his lips. Kieran laughs again, hides his mouth behind his knuckles pressed against his lips, setting the edge of his teeth against the cracked, rough skin there.

Kieran’s always busy working. Arthur is, too, even if Dutch don’t see it, browbeating him whenever he lingers too long in camp, the moments in-between where Arthur catches his breath. He stays for a day or two, at the cusp of outstaying his welcome, then heads off; hunting, carriage theft, house robberies, whichever the road takes him towards. Keeps his hands occupied with violence instead, hoping once he’s sufficiently wrought enough destruction he can create something again.

Camp pulls him back, like it always does; he cleans before he returns, for Grimshaw’s sake, but ice cold river water can’t rinse off the dark shiner he’s sporting before he rides into camp and leaves his horse in the pasture. He has to walk through camp to reach the stewpot, loading up the cleanest bowl he can find with Pearson’s pottage. By the time he’s finished eating standing  next to the fire, spitting the most inedible bits of gristle to the ground, someone’s left a salve by his cot. A metal tin promising pain relief, among a long list of other cures, the label blurred under the oils of nervous fingers ceaselessly worrying the paper. Arthur rolls it over in his hands. Mulls over who gave it to him as he smears the thick lotion around his eye, under his shirt and the deep bruises across his ribs. The greasiness sticks to his fingers, and is an easy excuse to blame when he settles back into his cot that night and his pencil slides uselessly over the pages, and it snaps in half between his fingers.

The next morning, Kieran leaves him another gift when he tacks up Arthur’s warhorse, tucked into his saddlebags. Arthur doesn’t notice the two pencils wrapped carefully in a scrap of fabric, pre-sharpened, until he’s nearly in New Hanover.

Arthur returns a week later with he sun at his back, his shiner healed. He doesn’t draw attention to himself when he makes his way to the tithing box, pulling a stack of cash and two watches from his satchel. He has a necklace, too, delicate and brilliant glass beads, but he puts that back into his satchel when it comes out tangled with the watches; that’s for Tilly.

With the sun setting, there’s precious few hours of light left in the day, though they’re longer and longer with each sunrise. Arthur hates the heat that clings to his brow, but loves the hours of daylight summer brings. Sweating oneself dry was a small price to pay for more hours in the day. But they’re running thin, the sun disappearing in a fireball beyond the water’s horizon; Arthur has only a few minutes to find Kieran. He wasn’t in the pasture when he dismounted his horse; he’s not at the scout campfire, either, and Arthur’s hands feel sweaty in his gloves. He almost misses him, on his second walk through the camp; near the chicken coop once more, sitting beneath the large tree there, quietly smoking in its roots.

“Kieran.”

Kieran looks flushed, the ember of the cigarette throwing his face into stark shadows. His eyes shift upward as he stubs it out against the bark. “Arthur?”

“‘Fore the sun sets,” Arthur starts, trying to calmly stress his limits, the strange feeling that their time was quickly waning. It doesn’t make much sense; Arthur could always show him tomorrow. But there’s an urgency that’s gripping his lungs, as he reaches for his satchel, “Look.”

Kieran stands, using the tree as support for his wobbly legs. Arthur opens his journal, paging to the ribbon holding his place.

He has to rotate his journal, and Kieran pulls in close, looking over his shoulder. It’s hard lines in some spots and soft smudges in others, thumbs and knuckles used, the side of his pencil washing shades of grey. The soft shadows mottled underneath Kieran’s eyes, purple and blue, somehow rendered perfectly in the soft smudge of lead across the page. The greasy knots of his hair. Kieran’s smile, crooked and easy. It’s all there.

“Oh.” Kieran clutches at Arthur’s sleeve, where he’s rolled it up to the elbows, in the folds of fabric there. Buries his fingers in and scrunches his grasp in tight. “Oh. Arthur, I—“

He sounds almost on the edge of tears, maybe. Or some other emotion swirling thick in the back of his throat. The sun slips slowly beyond the trees, the clouds drifting fat overhead speeding up the pace of darkness falling over Clemen’s Point. The campfire has been allowed to dwindle down further than it should, and it barely casts any light towards where they stand behind the coop and the shadows of the trees. Kieran steps forward and Arthur steps back, lets him box him up against the rough bark of the big oak before he grasps Arthur by the front of his dress shirt and kisses him. Kieran tastes like tobacco, mostly, when he parts his lips to let Arthur lick into his mouth, suck on his bottom lip until Kieran whines and his knees buckle against Arthur’s legs. When they part, Arthur’s eyes opening, it’s almost too dark to see Kieran’s smile, the redness splotching across his cheeks. Another picture to sketch, another page in his journal.

[septemberskye]

Prompt Fill #1

Tumblr ate the original ask, but @intrepid-inkweaver requested when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you--” and they answer by kissing them more and I’ve always been honest with you.  I was able to combine them into one piece!  :D

(And many many thanks to @donotfeedthewildauthor for looking over this for me!)

Corvo isn’t quite certain how he’s gone from sitting on the couch, just talking and enjoying Daud’s company, to being pushed back toward the bed with Daud fumbling at the buttons on his pants.

He’d smuggled in the half bottle of wine left from dinner and they just drank it out of the whiskey tumblers he kept stashed in the desk drawer (that would’ve given the sommelier fits but neither of them could taste a difference).  The wine was good, and talking must’ve slowly given way to kissing, both of them languid and warm, tumblers forgotten on the coffee table.  Daud put his hands in Corvo’s hair the way he liked, and Corvo snugged in close the way he liked, and then—

Daud noses Corvo’s collar out of the way and sets his mouth to skin, teeth pressing, sucks a mark into the join of his neck and shoulder—he still hasn’t gotten the button—and Corvo gasps, clamping down on a frankly embarrassing noise.  Really, it’s unfair how quickly Daud figured out exactly the best way to do that, because he uses it like just another weapon, fighting dirty.

Wait, Corvo tries to say as he steps onto the rug and nearly trips on the edge, because Daud’s been—hesitant about sex, said he’s never really been interested and he must’ve noticed how hard Corvo’s gotten already, but Daud cuts him off with a hand curling around his neck and a deliberate, thorough kiss that brings their stumbling to a halt.  Then the first button goes, no longer a moving target, and the others quickly follow, and when Daud looks down to ruck his shirt up Corvo uses the chance.  “I’m sorry, are you sure you—”

Daud rolls his eyes and leans back in to kiss him again, teeth tugging gently at his lower lip.  That’s no kind of answer, but Corvo hits the edge of the bed and Daud crowds him down onto it, puts a knee on the mattress and picks him up to shift them both closer to the headboard, and that is not fair, Corvo thinks as he’s forced to cling like a limpet or be left behind; Daud knows what that does to him.

He has a moment—just a moment—to think as Daud settles back on his heels to pull at his pants.  They’re not drunk.  Not even close.  This would all make a bit more sense if they were, and it’s Daud’s idea, and while Corvo isn’t exactly complaining, he’d like to take a second to talk about whatever they’re going to do before they do it.

His respite is over when Daud gets impatient and yanks.  He hears his pants hit the floor and Daud unfolds himself, fits his thigh between Corvo’s legs and kisses him again, slow and sweet.  Holds his hand to his cheek and strokes his thumb over the bone, catching in his eyelashes, and that’s good, Void, it’s good.  He can’t help the soft moan that escapes him as he rocks up against firm muscle, and Daud seems to take that as encouragement, nudging him slightly—but there it is again, the uncertainty—Corvo can feel it. Daud pulls away only a moment or two later, and they just breathe, foreheads pressed together.  Corvo runs his palm up and down Daud’s back in slow strokes, trying to ease him.  

“We can stop,” he murmurs, because they can, Daud should know that.  “I won’t be upset.”

“I do want to,” he says softly.  “But—just you.  I don’t need anything.”

“Alright.”  That’s good enough for Corvo.  They can always stop.

Daud starts in on his shirt, and the fire hasn’t burned down low enough, Corvo thinks with a spike of alarm, there’s still far too much light in the room—but he doesn’t look twice at all the scars, and he relaxes.  Corvo sits up and Daud pushes the shirt off his shoulders, tosses it to the side—he’s naked now but for underwear and socks and feels fairly ridiculous, tries to deal with those himself and only gets one before Daud wraps his arms around him, pulls him in close, and this is more familiar.  Calmer.

Corvo gives himself some time to just enjoy the feel of him—broad-shouldered and sturdy, safe—and kisses the soft place by his jaw, careful to avoid his ear, he doesn’t like that.  He works his way down, following the long, thin muscle, and Daud sighs, answers with teeth at Corvo’s earlobe because he does like that, and he shivers.

Daud’s still fully dressed, only his shoes and coat have been left behind, and Corvo feels like the whole thing is a bit unbalanced.  Daud doesn’t want to be touched, though, so he won’t ask him to shed his pants, but—

“Your shirt?” he whispers.  “If you don’t mind.”

Daud shakes his head, sets to work and Corvo could almost be upset at how he seems so completely unruffled while he’s in such a state.  He’s methodical as he always is—slips each button loose, untucks the tail, then goes to his cuffs, and he’s beautiful, Corvo thinks.  A little awkward, top-heavy from the breadth of his shoulders, but Corvo’s well aware of what he looks like—covered in scars, too-long arms and legs spread out all over the bed, still with that one sock on.  His body is all harsh angles and lankiness, but Daud is—softened isn’t the right word, not really, but Corvo doesn’t know what else to use—by the muscle layered heavy across him.  And the firelight does wonderful things across his skin, catches in the scar trailing down his face.  Perhaps he’s glad it hasn’t burned low after all.

And Daud just waits, letting him look all he likes, soft-eyed and patient at the foot of the bed.

Void.  Corvo loves him.

“Come here,” he says, and can’t quite smooth the emotion from his voice.  Daud settles over him again, hand alighting on his waist, thumb stroking gently as he puts another bruise on Corvo’s neck.  He barely manages to turn a groan into a shaky exhale, and when Daud starts tugging at his waistband one-handed, he lifts his hips and shoves his underwear off with a small and desperate noise.

(He still has one sock.  That bothers him more than it should.)

Daud reaches and wraps his hand around Corvo’s cock—gone a little soft just from lack of attention but that won’t last long—and he hurriedly grabs his wrist to stop him. “Wait, wait—in the drawer—”

Daud nods and moves to start rummaging.  Corvo supposes he ought to be a little concerned that he apparently knows exactly where to look in which drawer without being told, but he’s back almost immediately with the little vial of oil, so he can’t bring himself to care.  Daud passes it to him, offers his hand, and Corvo tips some out into the pit of his palm.  Then his hand is back and Corvo lets his head fall against the pillow because it’s good.

Daud’s grip is a bit too gentle, though.  He strokes once, and just as Corvo is about to ask if he wants to stop he rumbles, “How do you like it?”

He scrambles to sit up and shuffles closer, curls his own hand around Daud’s and adjusts him.  Goes firm and slow, shows him to run his thumb over the head on the upstroke, and Corvo presses his face to the crook of Daud’s neck, breath going deep and heavy at the pleasure of it.  Daud’s other hand rests steady on the small of Corvo’s back in counterpoint to the one on his dick and he folds into the contact, pulling them into a half-hug.  When Daud seems confident enough, he lets him go and grips the sheets instead.  His hands are shaking.

Daud, for his part, just puts his cheek to the crown of Corvo’s head.  His eyes are probably closed.  He likes affection, closeness—likes to cuddle, even if he’d never admit it and can barely bring himself to ask for it on a good day.  

But they both know.  They’re working on it.  

“Good?” Daud rasps, sounding a little unsure—but Corvo had taught himself to be quiet, to barely make a sound, and he can’t expect Daud to know how to read him so quickly.  

“Yes, Void—yes,” he pants.  “Are you—?”

“I’m fine.”  And Corvo can’t muffle the questioning (and if he’s being honest, distressed) noise when Daud just stops, his hand static and unmoving on his cock.  But then he’s cupping the back of Corvo’s head and he follows the suggestion, lifting his face away from his shoulder, and Daud kisses him, gentle like he’d never learned to be anything but.  That does things to Corvo, makes his heart lurch, and he cants his hips, trying to get Daud to move again.  He relents and Corvo breaks the kiss to gasp raggedly and whisper faster, please.  

And that’s it, there—Corvo’s thigh starts trembling and his hand goes white-knuckle tight in the sheets, fingers curling into Daud’s back hard enough to bruise as he lets out a choked, needy sound, rocking up into his hand— “Daud—”

And he comes.  Sags into Daud’s side, breathing heavily, and mumbles something appreciative to the kiss pressed into his hair.  He doesn’t protest when Daud lays him on his back and quietly walks away, just shivers when a cool draft washes over him.

Daud’s gone for so long, though, that he starts to worry he’s gone into the bathroom to have some private crisis, but just as he draws a breath to call him, he comes back carrying a damp cloth.  As soon as he begins wiping him down, Corvo understands what took him—he’d been waiting for the water to warm.  When he finishes, Corvo catches his jaw on impulse, and he looks up, questioning, probably able to read everything he knows is written across his face.  

“I’ll be right back,” Daud murmurs, and kisses the heel of his hand.  

Corvo rolls himself up into the blanket when he goes.  He hears the laundry chute door open and close, then Daud snorts at him.  He’s sure he does look ridiculous, but he doesn’t care.  The Tower’s always cold at night, and the blanket is soft and warm.  Daud can laugh all he wants.

“You can get in the bed, you know,” he says, but he doesn’t either, just settles on top of the quilt so Corvo can worm his way over and drape himself across him without any difficulty.  

“Mm.  This is easier.”  He can feel Daud laugh silently, and smiles when he starts petting his hair.  “This was nice.”  

“Mhm.”  

And Corvo is content, and sleepy, his thoughts muzzy and wandering.  He tucks himself up against Daud, making him part of the blanket wrap, and sighs.  “I love you.”  

Daud goes very, very still beside him.

Oh no.

Oh Void.

He didn’t mean to say that.

He’s made a mistake.

-------

“What?” Daud asks, just to buy himself some time—he knows exactly what Corvo said, he just doesn’t know what to do about it.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles.  

“No, what did you say?”  

He hesitates.  Pulls the blanket tighter around himself.  “...I love you.”  Then Daud hesitates, so he follows it with, “I do, I’ve always been honest with you.”  Daud isn’t going to accuse him of lying.  But he still doesn’t know what to tell him, and his continued silence is enough to make Corvo pull away.  “I’m sorry.”

That doesn’t make any sense.  “What for?”  

“I—I know this can be...hard for you,” he says, and he’s right.  Daud spent years feeling everything as some shade of anger, and learning to pick apart his emotions is something he’s had to work on.  “And I wasn’t going to tell you yet, I just didn’t want you to feel trapped, or—or obligated to say something you don’t feel, I’m sorry.”  

“I’m not upset,” he soothes as much as anything, because Corvo’s miserable and worried under his blanket, looking bizarrely like a dumpling.  His lips thin into something a bit like a smile, but it doesn’t come off and he just looks sadder than before.  

“Please don’t think that you have to—just because I—”

Daud reaches over and pulls him into a hug.  He stays stiff and frozen for a moment before he accepts it, and Daud holds him there until he feels him relax a bit.  “I don’t think I can say it yet,” he says, trying to phrase it as delicately as possible.  Corvo nods against his collarbone, murmurs I understand.  “But I do care for you.”  

And it’s true, he does—feels something for him, almost frightening in its intensity at times.  As soon as he knows a name to put to it, he’ll tell him what it is.  

Corvo’s hold on him tightens, eases.  “‘M tired.”  

“Alright.”  It is late, they’d both be best off just going to sleep already.  Corvo sits up, sticks his foot out to pull off his sock and fling it into some distant corner of the room.  It takes some maneuvering, but both of them manage to work their way under the quilt without actually getting off the bed.  Corvo’s asleep within minutes, drifting off with Daud stroking his hair.

Daud stays awake much longer.  Thinking.