#end of shift going home….between one place and the other while people wait on them on each side

[lunarfuneral]

mel being happy to see langdon again and treating him normally but langdon being so ashamed of failing mel because she looked up to him so he doesn’t think he deserves her and tries to keep his distance so he can’t hurt her. at the end of their shift in the park across the street mel catches up to him walking to the parking garage and is like what is going on :( why aren’t you talking to me … did i do something wrong :( and he’s like no mel. i just fucked up. and i let you down. idk what to do with that now… and she says no you didn’t ….. but i forgive you

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths pt.2

Cregan x wife!reader

named reader no description, from house Glover

masterlist

part 1

thank y'all so much for the kind words and eagerness to see this part. Please forgive me for not replying to all asks being sent to inbox, you'll understand with the chap lol. The pressure was so real I had planned to write other things between pt 1 and 2 but I dropped everything to do this between work and sleep lol

changed the og ending because so many people thought it would be more fitting and I agreed lol

anon pointed out my mistake on glover and bolton im so sorry for that confusion yall it is meant to be glover originally. i made too many mistakes im a mess rn

Ernest makes it to Cregan's solar first, Ron not far on his heels. Panting, the younger speaks up first when Cregan Stark shoots them a bewildered look whilst hunched over his oak desk.

"Was Lady Stark due for some business today, My Lord?" He asked, catching his breath as Cregan sat up in his seat, attention fully on the guards.

"Not any that I'm aware of. Where is my wife?" He asked, glancing outside of his small window to the blistering storm outside. There was no way she would be anywhere except her chambers—not after he caught her soothing Brandon to sleep. The sight had melted his heart immediately, glad to see his wife finally finding it in her to go see him, to give him a chance.

Though, he could not blame her, of course. He could still remember the day he brought the Stark babe home, and how he dreaded the meet throughout his months of journeying home to Winterfell.

Aelys had been on the forefront of his mind, even through the slimy politicking of King's Landing. The wait was only made ever longer by the fact that the party Cregan traveled North with had to wait until Brandon was old enough to travel, too. Moons went by painstakingly slow, and Cregan moved to load the carriage for the boy as soon as the Maester gave his word that Bran would not be suseptible to the outdoors during long durations on the road.

Cregan dismounted his grey mare, patting her on the neck in thanks before the stable boy guided her back to her designated place. With a tense sigh, he rolled his shoulders and opened the carriage door that held Brandon and his new wet nurse. Sara, his older sister, would join the family in a few short weeks while she continued her stay at the Blackwood's. He wished she was here to console his wife in the coming days. Gods know that he cannot, not when the news of his betrayal had to come from his own mouth. As he promised himself it should be. The sinner should say his own penance, no one else. A Stark is a slave to his oaths.

Thanking Greya kindly, Cregan picked up Bran in his arms. His onyx black curls shifted against the crook of his arm as he shifted the babe to be held better. The four moon-old babe fussed as he was removed from the woman's comforting hold. As if was, Cregan was more of a stranger to the young babe than his wet nurse was. Unfortunately, the Lord had not spent the amount of time with him as he knew he should have. The thoughts and guilt racked up in his mind and burned at the back of his throat every day, leaving Cregan to promise himself that in Winterfell he would spend more time with him.

Another promise for the list.

Cregan stepped through the courtyard's archway, holding his breath as he watched his beautiful wife standing by the Keep's doors, shivering but still insisting that she come out to meet her husband. Her smile was as lovely and bright as he remembered, a much more contented and relieved smile than she had sent him off to battle with. That day, she could hardly stifle her tears back as she hugged him 'goodbye'. He felt quite the same. Cregan would never leave for Southern business again, not in his lifetime. Once had been enough to last generations, though he was sure the Stark family would not go too long before being summoned again.

Her face shifted from joy to confusion in a matter of seconds. As Cregan continued straight towards her, Bran bundled up in so many wools and pelts that it entirely engulfed the babe. She lifted her skirts to step down to meet him. Originally, Cregan had wished to scoop her up in his arms and place a sweet kiss on her cold lips, but the bundle between them prevented such things. He could not greet her so sweetly and then present the bastard to her. Ripping the bandage off a fresh wound, Cregan would not be deceitful for longer than he had been during his moons of silence in the South.

"Husband," She smiled, reaching out to touch his chilled face, pink in the cheeks and ears from exposure. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." She was antsy on her feet, eager to get inside to proper reunite with her husband, no bystanders gawking.

Speaking of bystanders—Cregan's entire party had separated and dispersed around the courtyard. They met their own wives, parents, or children as they laughed and conversed. Though, the loud and joyous clamor soon died down when whispers had been spread around by those who already knew of Cregan's boy. Wives that knew Aelys well stared in pity, clutching their shawls to their chests and shaking their heads quietly at their Lord.

He fought the urge to hang his head.

She had not yet seen the babe, only the cloth surrounding him.

"Cregan?" She whispered, tilting her head with concerned eyes. "What is wrong?" His sweet, sweet wife. Her first priority had been him over anything since the days of their honeymoon—the days she had confessed to be extremely anxious about during their courtship. She was a Northern woman herself, hardened and shaped like an ice sculpture but retaining her warm heart and spirit. Cregan had intimidated her greatly, according to her giggling confession, and she had feared he may be a cruel and selfish man since he could easily do as he wished to his Lady wife. He proved her wrong, apparently, getting to know his wife throughout their private honeymoon. They had a bond like no other, always at each other's side and filling in for the weaknesses of the other during their duties as leaders.

Cregan's brow furrowed deep, blinking away as he felt his nose start to sting.

Only then, when his glossy eyes met hers silently, did she glance down to the cloths. Slowly reaching up a shaky, gloved hand adjusted the pelts so she could peer past them. Gasping at the pale babe, Aelys' eyes sharply met his. A million thoughts raced through her head, clearly showing in her facial expressions. Not assuming the worst, as she probably should have done, Aelys asked, "has one of your men died? Is this babe an orphan?" Always so trusting of her Lord husband, something Cregan had admired and was eternally grateful for throughout their marriage.

"Aelys..." He cleared his throat when his voice came out much too quiet and hoarse. "This is my son." He declared to her, and to the onlooking crowd who did not bother hiding scandalized gasps.

Her eyes blinked in rapid succession, shaking her head lightly and smiling. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son."

His silence met her words. When he did not cave and admit to messing with his wife, Aelys shook her head more firmly. "No." She said, whispering. Her eyes clamped shut as she breathed in and out deeply, only opening to glance down at the babe, scrutinizing its appearing and comparing every freckle to Cregan's. "Don't do this to me, please. You would never do this to me." Her words were nearly lost to the air.

"It was one time, I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan told her.

"On your name?" She harshly bit, stepping away from Cregan as if he had burned her. "Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods. Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—" She gasped out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and clutching her stomach. A choking sob rippled through her, and Greya stepped forward to gingerly take Brandon from Cregan's grasp. His arms fell to his side, clenching as he stopped himself from holding his wife in comfort. She could find no solace in the man who hurt her so.

"I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too. Was it just not me you wanted a family with?" She asked, cranking her neck up to look at her shameful husband.

"Aelys, I did—I do!" He started, stepping forward to wipe a hot tear from her cheek.

Flinching away from his touch, she looked up at him with the same mistrust and solemn acceptance that he found in a dying prey's eyes. Suddenly, Aelys looked to become aware of the crowd. Glancing around self-consciously, she straightened herself upright like the people expected of a Lady Stark. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." She loudly adressed the weary party and their families, who awkwardly moved to shuffle inside the dining hall. With a final glance past Cregan's shoulder to the wet nurse, Aelys was gone.

Seeing the shared glances of horror between the two, Cregan cleared his throat. "Where is my wife, boys?"

Ernest swallowed harshly, not daring to look him in the eye. "She—she said that she 'ad business in Winter Town. That you approved of it, I swear!"

Ron nodded so quickly that his head of curls messed about and framed his face further. The snow still on their heads and shoulders had now melted in the warmth of the Great Keep, reminding Cregan of the harsh weather the guards had to bear all day. They were trained and honed for such conditions, Aelys was not.

"Yes, Lord Stark! We couldn't disobey our Lady's words." He insisted.

"You think I'd make my wife go settle business in Winter Town during a blizzard?" He growled out, standing from his seat and storming between them to his doorway, where he turned on them and saw them both flinch in shock. "Which way did she go?"

"Uhm..." they shared another glance. "She said Winter Town, Lord Stark. What other way would she have gone?"

Cursing, Cregan grabbed Ice and lifted the great sword to his shoulder. He left without another word to anybody, knowing every second counted when it came to finding her. "Bloody fools." He scoffed to himself, mind turning and thinking of places she might head to.

Clearly, not Winter Town. She had no business there, not that he knew of, and although they had not been speaking these past moons he still oversaw all of her duties as Lady. Though, her reports of dealings and responsibilities was done through the Maester rather than her own mouth. A middleman, the poor elder had become. Cregan endured the silence without complaint, knowing his own actions brought it upon him.

His actions brought her further away from him than he perhaps estimated. He knew the babe would tear a rift in their relationship, and knew it would take a long time before they could even begin to mend it—but he never wanted it to go this far.

Back to her childhood home, to the Glovers in the Motte? Or, perhaps she found a secret lover that would meet her in the storm like a destined and tragic fairytale. He would not blame her for seeking love in another, though his never faded.

His quickened pace was only interrupted by Sara. "What is the rush for, brother?" The elder woman asked, dark brows furrowed with concern. Other the past four moons she had gained her strength back, looking the picture of health now that she was back home and recovering. Cregan could barely meet her gaze, looking between her and the doors ahead.

"My wife is gone." He told her honestly, shifting impaitiently in place. "I don't know where to, but I'm going to search for her."

Sara's dark eyes saddened, face scrunching up in grief. "This is my fault. I should have—"

Cregan stopped her immediately, taking her firmly by the shoulders and dipping his neck down to level himself. "No. It is mine alone. I made the choice to do this, I shall face the consequences of my actions."

"Cregan..." she sniffed, but did not allow tears to fall so easily.

"I'll be back." He promised. "With my wife."

Was she running away?

Cregan swung open the Great Keep's door, blinking staggardly at the wind gust that slammed into him. Not bothing to close it behind him, Cregan stormed to the stables and tacked his horse up. In a matter of minutes he was off and out of Winterfell's expansive walls.

His only option was to head towards Glover territory. It was a two days ride normally, but the storm would make it double or perhaps longer. She would not be far ahead, not even two hours ahead of Cregan and unknowing of how close he might be on her trail.

There were not even hoofprints left in her wake. The snow immediately covered all tracks and left only pristine fields of white powdery frost.

He would not know where she was until he spotted her amongst the white. Cobalt, her black stallion, was sure to stand out within close enough distance.

Until he did see her, he could only wait.

And it was exactly that; a waiting game. Cregan took only three days to reach the Deepwood Motte, faster than he anticipated. He was weary and exhausted, but still pumping with adrenaline and awake off sheer will. Here, in the safe walls of Harriston Glover's keep, his mare could finally have more than a few measly hours of rest, as well as food and water.

His fingers and toes burned with the edges of frostbite. Even in his thick protective gear, he was not entirely safe. The few, small fires that he built for himself in the cold nights gave him only a semblance of warmth. Each step felt like five as his vision blurred and weaned in and out. He steadied himself on a pole, waiting for his father-in-law to come downstairs to greet him. And, if luck be on his side, his Lady wife.

He owed more than an apology.

Harriston was a stern man, though not unreasonable. He loved his children and ensured they had only the best; education, caretakers, spouses. His eldest two children married long before Aelys was even of age to be wed, both men marrying Northern girls that they'd grown up with. When it came to his youngest and only girl, the man knew Lord Stark would be a most auspicious match. The Houses had long been friends and allies, and keeping the tradition of partnership thriving through marriage was no strange thing. He'd been even happier when Aelys wrote to him weekly, describing how enchanted she had been with her new husband and thanking him profusely for giving her a blessed match.

Now, the greyed man stood in front of Cregan with a deepset frown and a fierce look in his eyes. "Lord Stark. I thought you'd be busy in Winterfell."

Cregan cleared his throat, focusing on him intently. It made sense that the man was cross with him, especially after he assumed that Aelys had sent him a few lengthy letters telling of Cregan's infidelity. "I came to see my wife, and to bring her back home."

Harriston huffed a sarcastic laugh. "You send her back home, only to come yourself first?" He gestured around with his arms up.

Cregan tensed, "first? Is Aelys not already here?"

Lord Glover matched in his seriousness. "Aelys wrote to me three days ago, informing me that you had sent her here to be away from danger."

"I did not send her anywhere."

"You mean you do not know where my daughter is?" He asked, voice low and firm as he stepped closer. Though Harriston was a fine swordsman and a battle-worn fighter, Cregan did not fear the Lord's wrath, for he could easily best him in combat.

He did, however, have the brains to fear a furious father's vengeance.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest. "And she stated that she was on her way here?"

"I think I know what she said, boy." Lord Glover hissed. "Where is Aelys?"

"She must still be out there," Cregan murmured breathlessly, turning on his heel and running out of the fort's doors and back out to the stables. Cobalt was in none of them, confirmed to him that Lord Glover was not simply lying and hiding his wife away from him.

Cregan decided to take another horse—one well rested and ready to travel in the packed snow, unlike his own weary mare. Guiding it to the doors where Lord Glover had exited and looked at Cregan with a fear unlike the learned man usually expressed, he asked: Where are the kennels?"

When Aelys left to brave the storm alone, she had not anticipated the sheer unforgivable nature of it. Living in the North her whole life, she'd long grown used to cold weather and hunting for herself. Hunts often lasted days or weeks, being times of comraderie and companionship when out in the wilderness with your people. She had not been hunting in years, much less alone.

The snow had slowed her travel significantly and clouded her navigational judgment. North became South, and East became West after so long of walking. With the skies so darkened, it was even harder to tell the time of day. With every stop she made and every fire that burnt out too quickly for her to be fully warm, Aelys had grown desperate.

She found shelter in a half-conscious act to preserve her on life. Now, curled up with only her fur-lined dress and the pelt she had brought from Winterfell, she could not help but begin to accept that she would die in this cave.

Aelys thought of her life in a few curt thoughts.

She had only lived twenty and two years. She grew up with loving parents and two elder brothers who doted on her greatly. She married Lord Stark of Winterfell, someone who took her heart quicker than she'd ever thought possible. She would die here, alone and cold because of him.

She thought of all the things she had wanted from life. Not much, for a Lord's daughter. Aelys had always wanted love and gave love in return. Trusted perhaps too much and did not gain from it. She wished for children, eventually, and could never have them now. She wished to see the warm deserts of Dorne and the lush gardens of Old Town in her retirement.

Aelys Bolton would not see anything but the North, nothing but the cold snow and frost-tippes trees around. They had grown familiar and warm.

Warm.

She was so warm, now.

Aelys closed her eyes and fell asleep, dreaming of better days.

"You do not wish to return home to a babe in the nursery?" Aelys asked, voice low and humming as Cregan lay beneath her on their shared bed. Most men did, misliking the process of pregnacy but loving the outcome, for it could only serve to benefit them.

"We will have plenty of time for babes when I come back to you." He replied, brushing his lips over her the crown of her head. "What kind of husband would I be if I left you to deal with the struggles of pregnancy and birth all alone?"

"I won't be alone. Sara is staying, too. I will have a sister to keep me company and complain all my grievances about my missing husband to her." She said amusedly.

Cregan paused in his rhythmic stoking of her spine. "Sara has asked to come, my heart."

She paused, too, lifting her head from his chest and squinting at him. "Sara can come down to King's Landing with you, but I cannot?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "She will be staying at the Blackwood's residence at Raventree Hall, not King's Landing. I would never endanger either of you by bringing you to the capitol. She has been offered guest housing by her friend, Alysanne Blackwood, during my time down there."

She huffed, conceding to his words and dropping her head back down, listening again to his ever-steady heartbeat. "Must be nice to see the Riverlands." She said lightly. "I hear they have fields of flowers growing year-round."

"And the permanent smell of fish and mildew." Cregan added with a snort. "You're not missing anything, I swear it to you. Sara and I will be gone for a short period of time. I intend to leave as soon as things are settled and put to rest."

Aelys hummed her quiet acknowledgment. There was no argument to be had, not when Cregan was set to leave in the morning. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She said cheekily, though there was plenty truth to the statement. Alone, she would serve as political head to Winterfell and the temporary 'Warden' while Cregan was missing in action. She had her advisors, consisting of Cregan's trusted councilmen, but the hole that she knew would sink itself into her heart already wore her into her.

Cregan laughed at her words, nodding. "Aye, my love, you will do perfectly. I'm sorry to leave you alone for so long, but I have no doubt you'll do great." He said proudly, kissing her nose. She scrunched it up at the ticklish feeling, allowing a girlish giggle to leave her throat.

"Don't be gone too long, husband. Your wife needs you here." She said, tilting her head up to meet his lips.

"I would never dream of it."

The moons passed by with no reprieve for Aelys. As Winterfell's sole head, her days were busy from dawn til dusk. Letters were exchanged sporadically with her husband while he helped Aegon iii ascend to his place on the iron throne.

Until, one day, his letters ceased. It had already been a full year without Cregan Stark, and Aelys was beginning to grow used to the lack of her husband and sister by her side. Routine had grown to be instinct for her, breezing through her duties like she'd done them all her life. The only thing missing was her lover.

Concerned, Aelys checked in with the resident Maester to ensure Cregan's wellbeing.

When he paused, lips pursed and hands clutching at his cane with a stress unlike the calm elder, he rasped out his own fears. "I, too, have received no word from Lord Stark. Though, no news has come of us death in the capitol, so he must simply be occupied."

Occupied at the end of the war? When Aegon had already been named King and all the men put to trial were either declared guilty or innocent? The brunt of the work was over and done with—told by Cregan himself.

So why was he silent for an entire moon?

It was another fortnite before the Stark wrote back to her. The letter was curt and brief.

My dearest Aelys,

Forgive my abrupt silence these past weeks. Please know that you have been on my mind throughout this entire time.

Sara has grown sick in Raventree Hall, and has not been able to travel with the host of men I have sent back home to the North. We will stay behind for another few moons while she is in recovery. I will return to you soon.

With love,

Cregan Stark.

It was shorter than his other letters by many paragraphs, pages even. Cregan left out no details when describing his miserable times in the capitol. Aelys found herself much enjoying his theatrical melodramatic retelling and was rendered bemused by this letter. Still, she continued to lead with no pause for breaks.

Three more moons later, and Cregan wrote that he was mere days away from Winterfell. Without Sara Snow, unfortunately, as she was still not entirely recovered, but his party could be postponed no longer.

Aelys rushed around Winterfell's Keep in a flurry of excitement. She ordered every room to be cleaned spotless, for rations to be saved for days until a feast could be made for their arrival, for hearths to be extra tended to, and for the courtyard to be prepared to clear the way for the host.

Finally, the days of busy bodies floating around the Great Keep came to a stop. The feast was warm and ready at all available tables. The hearths were warm and ready for sleepy heads to rest within the rooms. The tubs were filled with scalding hot water that would warm by the time they were used. Lady Stark stood for hours at the Great Keep's entry stairs in the courtyard.

She wanted to be there exactly when he walked through the archway. Despite the cold biting at her nose, the Lady stood resiliant and tall.

It was nearly in the afternoon when Cregan's party arrived. He came through first, leading as head of the host as any Lord should. A wheelhouse followed, surrounded by a small league of soliders all around it. She bounced on her heels slightly, seeing Cregan dismount from his ride. Though she found herself bemused and slightly hurt when he glanced at her and made his way towards the wheelhouse instead. Had Sara recovered enough to join and perhaps wanted to surprise her good sister? She hoped so, for she had missed her greatly. After growing up with only brothers, Aelys found a best friend and sister in Sara Snow. The whispers about Lady Stark befriending the bastard of Winterfell followed her around like a dark shadow, but she never paid them any mind.

Bastardry had never bothered Aelys before. Not even when she was a woman of noble birth and was taught that bastards were born inherently lustful, evil, and made of sin.

She waited patiently at the top of the steps for Cregan to fetch Sara.

To her surprise, he only pulled out of the carriage with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Pelts and blankets, it seemed. A plainly-dressed woman from the South stepped out after him but stayed trailing behind. A maid of some sort, though she had no clue as to why a Southern maid would need to follow Cregan back to Winterfell.

As he strided towards her, a strange and unhappy look on his face, she forced her anxiety back down her throat and raced to meet him. "Husband," she greeted with a smile. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." Reaching out to caress his face and simultaneously brush flecks of snow from his loose hair, she couldn't help but stop to admire her husband's handsome features. It had felt like an eternity that they were separated, and she had begun to forget the full details of his frame. Forgot his scent in the room and his side of the bed. Nearly forgot the warmth that he provided simply from standing nearby.

The very warmth he is giving to her now, in the chilly courtyard.

His eyes appeared to gloss, his nose and cheeks pinking even more so than they had already grown in the biting air. Glancing over Cregan, she assessed quickly for signs of fatigue or illness.

"Cregan?" she asked gently. "What is wrong?" She prayed he did not catch whatever Sara had caught, or hid a wound under his mass of leathers and pelts.

When he shiftly lifted the bundle in his arms to gesture for her to look at it, she finally spared a look to the mysterious ball of cloth. She had completely forgotten about it until now, noticing the maid still behind Cregan a few yards back, head tilted down and looking at her slippers. Peeking over a fur pelt, Aelys gasped at the sight. A babe, only a few moons old by the looks of it. Her mind raced with possibilities. Why would Cregan bring a babe back instead of leaving it in more temperate climates like the Riverlands that he stayed in on the way up North?

"Has one of your men died?" She asked in a hushed tone, assuming first that one of his soldiers perhaps fathered a bastard babe before perishing in a battle or falling to sickness. "Is the babe an orphan?" Cregan did always have a soft spot for younglings, showcased clearly by his time spent personally training young squires of Winterfell. He had lost his own younger brother in their youth, and the hole had never filled from that loss of kin.

"Aelys..." he started, meeting her eyes with a soft and sympathetic look. "This is my son." Was said loud and clear for any listeners to hear.

A jest. Cregan had seldom liked to be humorous in front of crowds, or anyone but herself and Sara, but he must have been in good spirits today. Briefly glancing at the surrounding people, she found only pitiful looks from the women and severe looks from the men. Shaking her head, Aelys forced a smile onto her face and a shaky laugh. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son." She emphasized.

He only stared at her back. No words of comfort, no sudden burst of laughter among his men to tell her that the biggest prank in the world had been pulled on her. Just shameless silence.

He had declared her second best in front of all of Winterfell. Her people and his.

"No." She said firmly, shaking her head 'no'. She breathed in and out deeply, trying to clear her blurry eyes and woozy head. Glaring down at the false babe in his arms, she found many similarities that she wished she had not. The same straight brows that Cregan had, the same scattered freckles, the same pale skin. The only difference was the hair color—black as a midnight sky or dragonglass. The mother must be beautiful.

Moving her eyes to the maid behind Cregan, she found that the girl had a mousy blonde color to her tresses. She could not have possibly bore a black-haired babe. She felt sick, like she'd throw up and choke at the same time. "Don't do this to me. You'd never do this to me." She pleaded out, voice small and hoarse.

"It was one time. I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan promised. But every word was like poison, filling her heart with a heavy black liquid and drowning her from the inside out.

"On your name?" She hissed out, uncaring of the onlookers for this one moment. She was allowed to be angry, callous, and spiteful, even. Any self-respecting woman would be. And she'd be damned if she wasn't. Any Stark woman ought to be when ruling over the entire North. Any Glover woman is.

"Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods! Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—?" Words spilled from her mouth before she can think properly. But she did not regret any of them, knowing she was in the right. Bile rose in her throat, pushing itself past the forced down emotions. She swiftly covered her mouth, stilling herself to prevent any more embarrassing. Subconsciously, she clutched at her empty stomach with her free hand, both mourning the fact that she'd have no children and thanking the Gods for not giving her any previously. A cry finally escaped her lips, watching the plain maid take the babe into her arms again as Cregan looked on helplessly to his wife.

Aelys found her voice again, though it was ragged and tired. "I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too." He was a liar, the worst kind of man. "Was it just not me you wanted a family with?"

She'd rather be struck with his hand than his deceitful mouth. It would hurt much less.

"I did, Aelys—I do!" He pleaded, stepping forward to console her. His arms looked like steel traps in her louded mind.

She took a lengthy step back. She would not share his warmth, nor his love. Or his bed, his room, his damned dining room. His children. Not when he had shared it with another woman. Given her his love, his attention, his son.

She could not bear to keep herself calm any longer. Adressing the entire courtyard, who had made themselves the Stark's own personal peanut gallery, she spoke firmly. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." Without a second glance back at the Stark, Aelys excused herself to her chambers, where she emptied the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot until she could only dry-heave nothingness. These chambers had not been used since she arrived in Winterfell, instead choosing to sleep and stay in their marital ones. She would not step foot into those again unless she was dragged kicking and screaming.

Aelys awoke to strong arms lifting her from the stone floor. Groggily, she was stirred from her deep and preserving sleep. How long had she been traveling? How long had she been buried under those pelts? Time was a blur when she was in a near comatose state, dead to the world. Limbs were numbed and her body felt warm after so long in the cold weather.

"I've got you, sweet girl. We're going home." A familiar voice rung in the back of her head. Even the jolting movements of a horse trotting could not fully move her to consciousness as she fell back asleep.

When she fully gained her sense of mind, she could clearly hear the sound of two men arguing. The warmth of a hearth was next to her as she lifted heavy blankets and furs off of her body. Glancing around, Aelys found herself back right where it all started. In Cregan's room, formerly their marital chambers that she had long since moved out of. A large oil painting sat over the heart, depicting a newlywed image of her and Cregan. They both smiled brightly in the photo, much to Cregan's complaint that the painting did not make him look 'serious enough'. She only laughed and tipped the painter extra gold dragons for the accuracy.

She loved that painting more than any others they kept in the Great Keep. Now, the two faces looking down at her only served to remind her of the falsehood she lived every day while Cregan was absent. Taking care of Winterfell and the North all by herself, just to come back and be thanked by his uncouth mistakes.

Shakily standing up, she winced at the feeling coming back to her limbs. Wriggling all twenty of her toes and fingers, she ensured they still all had feeling. Miraculously, she did. The numbess still felt vaguely there, and her throat was extremely dry and achy. But at least she was alive. Even if it was back in Winterfell, she could attempt her return to the Motte as soon as the storm died down.

It had been a dreadful blizzard. Not a rare sight in the North, but usually none lasted so long. Aelys could not help but feel it was the Gods punish Cregan and Aelys for their marital spat. Something like this must be so futile and useless in their eyes and the eyes of the people of the realm, but to Aelys it was her world and her life. No one could help Aelys but herself. She'd leave these spoiled halls even if the Old Gods and the New wished otherwise. If Cregan didn't have to keep oaths, why should she?

Opening the large wooden door, Aelys found the source of the faint yelling. Her eyes widened at the sight of her father in front of Cregan, in all his gruff charm with his silver hair and beard. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years. She stayed at the archway under the door, simply listening in as the men shouted further down the hall. If either turned their heads, they would spot her eavesdropping.

"—cannot even keep her safe during Winter! Am I to expect her to stay safe during a wildling attack, or worse? Or will you be prioritizing the safety of your mistress?" Harriston shouted, veins nearly popping out from his forehead and neck in his fury. Snow still gathered on his pelt coat, meaning he had just arrived recently.

"It is my mistake that she was endangered out there—but I would never let such a thing happen again under my protection. This is her home, I cannot allow her to go back to the Dreadfort. She is a Stark." Cregan emphasized, though had a defensive raised tone.

"Was she a Stark when you bed a whore in King's Landing?"

"The situation is more complicated than that." He responded, clenching his jaw.

"Nothing could ever be more complicated than losing your wit at a brothel, Stark. There is no argument to be had. She is staying with her family, where she was intending." Harriston growled out, a tone of finality to his tone. As he swung on his feet to head down the hall, face set in a worried and seething anger, he finally spotted his daughter.

"Aelys!" He yelled in relief, rushing toward her and scooping her up into his thick arms. "We're going home immediately. We will wash our hands of the Starks once and for all."

"I will not allow that." Cregan spoke from behind. As Aelys hugged her father back just as tightly, it was a battle to keep her tears from flowing in his safe arms. She missed her father more than she knew.

Before Harristone could speak, Aelys nodded. "We will settle this." She said flatly. Her father hesitantly let her go, nodding once firmly after seeing the resolve in his daughter's eyes.

"Very well. I will wait in the dining hall for you." He sighed, walking away.

Aelys shivered in the loss of warmth again. In her bare feet and night gown, she felt the cold of the cobblestone walls and floors start to seep under her skin again. "Here," Cregan murmured, gently shifting his mass of brown wolf pelt over her shoulders and clicking the direwolf emblem into place.

She allowed it, though she did not thank him with words. She took a deep breath, looking him in the eyes. "I want to separate. Divorce, I mean." She said tiredly.

Cregan flinched, jaw ticking and heavily considering her words. "That is entirely my fault. It is in your right to ask that of me." He said, voice dimmed and not nearly half of his assuredness. "But please, hear me out."

"What could I possibly hear you out with?" She asked, exhaustion clear in her tone. She'd dealt with this situation long enough.

Cregan nudged the door back open, nodding for her to enter. Reluctantly, she led the way in and watched as he gently shut it behind them. "I swore an oath, nearly nine moons ago." Cregan started.

Her brows furrowed, bemused. "To whom?"

Guiltily, he looked down at her, looking much alike to a kicked pup. "My sister."

"To Sara? What ever for?" She grew frustrated, knowing he was beating around the bush.

Taking a deep breath, he told her everything. "Sara stayed with her friend Alysanne Blackwood in Raventree hall for the entire time I was aiding King Aegon. In that time—she fell pregnant."

Aelys' heart dropped to her stomach. The same sick feeling overtaking her. She did not say a word.

"Davos Blackwood and Sara had built a bond, much like we did." He said. "When she told Davos of the news, they both went to Lord Blackwood to plea to marry each other. He refused, not allowing his heir to marry a bastard."

"And you legitimized Brandon as your own in turn?" She hissed.

"Sara begged me to. She lived her life as a bastard—she did not wish the same for her own son. I swore to her that my nephew would never be allowed the same treatment. I knew Aegon would do it." He trailed.

"So you bring him home, and humiliate me instead? You didn't even tell me, your own wife! You chose Sara over me. She is your sister, I know, but she chose to be with Davos Blackwood." She could have taken a tea, or moved to Essos or Dorne where bastards were more accepted. There were other options, but neither Sara nor Cregan used them. "That is cruel, Cregan. It is heartless." She cried.

"I never wished to hurt you, I only wanted to protect her. It was my oath." Cregan pleaded, grabbing her hands in his.

She shivered again, though unknowing if it was in chill or her own anger. Part of her was happy that he never truly took another woman to bed—never picked another other her. Though he still hid the biggest secret in the world from her for moons. Allowed her to suffer in their shared home and withstand the pitious looks of the people and court.

"I can't trust you. Not ever again. You could not trust me with your own kin's truth, and punished me for it." She stated. She could not allow herself to cave in so easily, to fall back into his arms.

"I understand, sweet girl." He muttered, softly stroking the apple of her cheek almost mindlessly. "I will sign whatever the Maester's conjure up. You will be free to marry whoever you wish—someone who will not lie to you."

The Starks were known for their loyalty and devotedness to their oaths. If Cregan Stark had lied to his wife so easily, no lesser man could ever make her happy with faithfulness and loyalty. Aelys had accepted her life to be one of loneliness from the day Brandon was allowed into the home.

"I will stay in Deepwood Motte for the time being. From there, I will see where my path leads." She said vaguely, unknowing now of what her heart desired. "Wish Sara well for me." Aelys asked of him, leaving him behind as she wiped any straying tears from her face.

"I love you, Aelys." He said, calling softly after her.

"I know." She whispered to herself.

In the dining hall, Harriston awaited her arrival. Perking up when she entered, he knowingly took her into his arms. "I'm tired, father."

"Let's go home. Your mother has missed you dearly." He said, planting a fatherly kiss to her temple.

Aelys would not yet send word for a formal separation to the Citadel or to the King. For now, time apart was what she declared best for herself.

divider by - @issysh3ll

tags - @palomavz @emithefrog @karinalight @johnshelbywife @tojisrealwifey @baddielizzy @pearldaisy @brookiecookie @jessicar401 @hardkiddonut @littlelilly27-blog @nayaniasworld @just-mj-or-not @flaneurpastel @unsweetenedpeatea @blucesita09 @maxmegara @deeeeexx @masschotch @janniepark1997 @spongelistener @margaaaa30 @paracii @lovebabe18 @rey26 @damneddamsy @yunnifer @kenzcarson @glqmmywhqmmy @arizonadesert @blumin8 @its-your-girl-savy @dreamygirli3 @aemondloverr @zaranobiyuyu @nsr-15 @oxymakestheworldgoround @isansstuff @high-speed-r

so many tags dont work 🥲 will try to tell in comment sec

ending is ambiguous. Will she decide to divorce or eventually mend their relationship? Up to you!

might make an alt ending where he really is just a shitty guy but this had been my idea from the start (many guessed it and i could not reply to them because of it lmao)

sorry if those two scenes got repetitive, but I wanted to show the 'cregan bringing brandon home' from both of their more detailed perspectives. Cregan's shame and guilt and her humiliation and heartbreak.

so many people guessed so close (to the sara part at least) only saw Jace thoughts tho, but he's already dead long before Cregan's walk down to the South. Would have been much more dramatic, but I think Jace would never allow a child of his to be apart from him. Many people swayed me to lead them to separate instead of stick together, and it does make more sense to have her leave him in the end. Although he did not cheat he still lied and publicly humiliated her, even unintentionally, but he's a grown man who is smart enough to know consequences.

[ixxivvv]

small in your coat.

zayne, sylus, caleb.

(written by me in 15+hr makeup and contacts crouching on the station floor as i wait for the last train after a shitty night club shift, yearning for a dream to make me feel protected, in their coat.)

-⛄️ zayne ❄️-

made from well tailored houses, all his jackets had structure to them. shoulders wide and thick fabrics.

"Heading home." he sent to you, in mind you are waiting in his home. your night together, sleeping in his place for tonight for no particular reason was going to begin after a while of being busy with each others work: and you couldn't wait.

you explore his apartment in curiosity, a place you are familiar with now. his room still felt like you were entering his world. no dust, everything was in order and tidy. it still felt so wide and neat, in contrast to your casual attire now.

you opened his cabinets and drawers, observing the entire thing. you find bits and pieces of your favorite memories together- the shirt he wore to your first date together, the sweater you gifted him, and all of his coats on the hanger. reaching for one, the classic burberry trench coat and resting it on your shoulders. it just felt like a back hug- he may be cold but only you know how warm and kind he was. it nest heavy on you, nearly dragging the ends to the floor, the sleeves too long too. in his pocket, something crinkles- a piece of bonbon chocolate and a candy. it made you smile, as you look into the mirror.

as you felt him, the entrance door opens. "darling? im home..." you scurry over, "forgetting" to take your new cape on. "welcome home! :)"

he expresses that micro expression he often does- his pupils widening and looking to the side, almost processing his next move. but this time, he couldn't find words. was it too much? you tilt your head, peeping into him. ".. zayne?"

he managed to look at you, then suddenly grips your shoulders tight. he gasps and flushes,

"... did you miss me that much?"

- 🐦‍⬛sylus 🚗-

his biker jacket, thick leather with a thrashing pattern in his signature colors. the one you hold on tight to from his back when you two are on a joyride. in fancy outings with a dress he order made, he subtly pushes you forward: to show his beautiful girl, to lead the way and only when you seem lost he stands by your side.

he rarely showed his back, which is why you enjoyed joyrides. sylus hasn't taken you out for a dinner or party or anything for a while due to discourse and in fighting between groups. arrests, leadership changes, moving positions and disagreements. it was hectic and n109 zone was not safe now- less people in the streets. he kept you inside which is fine, but even without luke and kieran in the home, only mephisto kept you company for now.

eye rolling media coverage that would never have enough air time of what truely happened, social media discourse of what happened...

"mephisto-h... where is sylus?" and the high tech shows a display of his current location. still out there in some meeting with some people you wouldn't want to know. its all so hectic just looking at it. the cons of being a "mafia boss boyfriend's girlfriend" trope is going to your day job and watching people at work come and go, no idea of anything and the kind of people youve come to known and their struggles. its all just outsiders. you loved sylus, you really did, and more than the thrilling adrenaline. a kind of world which youve come to know that he is there in because he can't live anywhere else. the kind of loneliness and disconnect from people that "don't watch the news" or it's "too dark".

your heavy legs dragged you into his closet. opening the doors, it smelled of his cologne and dry cleaners. but you reached out for the only jacket that dosen't particularly smell of anything- his biker jacket. its made with protective plates and leather. it faintly smelled of his cologne and petrol. maybe you did miss the thrill of when you first got together. or the wind.

"kitten?" sylus walks in, surprising you.

"sylus? you were home?" "why, unhappy to see me? well, i can clearly see you wanted to see me." he chuckles and looks into you lovingly, like a kitten caught in a ball of yarn. caught redhanded, so small in his jacket all curled up like a blanket. he lifts you up, bridal style- so adorable, pretending to not miss him with your words but so clearly did.

sylus decided in that moment, that the discourse needs to end- to bring a sense of "peace" back.

- ✈️ caleb 🍎-

(soo theres a canon audio that you steal his jacket aand... well this will be based off that 😭)

caleb called you to eat dinner from downstairs- "y/n! dinners ready~!" he said so happily, he enjoyed cooking but he loves "playing" house with you.

but you weren't coming down, so he placed the pan in the middle of the table and headed upstairs? where were you now? werent you just taking a shower? still in the shower prohaps? however his instincts, senses you were in his room. his big footsteps, open to a sight he didn't expect.

you were already changed with no makeup, but you had your hands behind your back, staring into his closet like an art piece.

"did you, find my clothes interesting?" you took back by surprise, eyes widening. he informs you that dinners ready and guides you downstairs around your shoulder. you seemed to be in thought still, "i wonder whats in her head again." caleb ponders.

as you sit across him from the dinner table, chewing - still in thought. he couldn't leave it.

"pipsqueak, whats on your mind?" ".. nothing. pass the soy sauce?" his eyes lose its spark.

as he showered that night, washing his hair down in his own thoughts. he could feel himself getting anxious, triggering his own core and attempting to coax himself out of it. hes practicing not to doubt you so much.

he sighs as he steps out the shower in a single towel wrapped around his waist, just to see you sitting in the corner of his bed again, dangling your legs. you just stared into him, only with one thing. his colonel jacket hauled on your tiny shoulders. you were sitting on the long tail of the trench, the back stitching that resembles mechanical wings rests on your back. your soft features contrasted with the black color that faintly smelled of iron.

"...", he had no words, whether in disbelief or just how small you were in his build. if you stood up, the coat might drag across the floor. you fury your brows, sensing that he didn't enjoy the gesture. it was childish, but the details on his coat was impressive- no fraying or loose thread, some signs of wear. it sat heavy on you, emotionally and physically.

but caleb also adored it- his brute power and fear in the jacket suddenly seemed softer in your touch. how he'd just let you.

".. you like the colonel that much? or the owner of this uniform?" you touch the gold stitching, teasing him a bit more.

".. then, i must bow down to the colonel." he gets on his knee, softly taking your foot. he was still in his towel, but you knew what was going to happen-

and you loved it. crossing your arms, roleplaying your power. caleb smirks and places a kiss on your ankle.

".. you have the full authority to command me. i shall serve you, my entire body.." as he kisses up your foot and thigh- only you can do this to the actual colonel himself.

[ilys00ga]

𝗢𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗨𝗣𝗢𝗡 𝗔 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟𝗠𝗢𝗢𝗡.

PAIR: yoongi x f reader

TAGS/WARNINGS: strangers to lovers, 'love at first sight' (I tried, okay?), producer!yoongi, producer!reader, fluff, I don't really know how to tag anymore, oh yeah no warnings just smoking ig, cats <3 this is very cheesy but op requested that sooo!!

A/N: requested <333 this is not my proudest work. and to be honest, I don't think I like it that much. but this is the best I can provide atm :,) I hope yall like it. don't forget yo leave ur feedback and comments! lots of love <333

SYNOPSIS: the one where yoongi falls in love at first sight on the streets of his city.

PS. ignore all mistakes people, thank u. I can't believe I even managed to finish and post this !

It all started one breezy Tuesday night—The first time Yoongi felt his heart leap in his chest because of a complete stranger.

The tune he had been stuck dealing with for the previous couple of hours was an endless loop echoing in his head, a desperate effort of his brain to solve his headaches for himself.

Being a significant producer-songwriter for many, he was often locked up in his studio for entire days, sometimes even weeks, but that's when he can tell he's on the verge of plunging into insanity—the irony of choosing to do the one thing he loved the most in this world—if he didn’t pick up his keys and his phone, headed towards the door and walked the tension between his bones away.

On his way back home that night, he let his legs bring him to a park by the edge of a vast river. It was fairly late into the night, but some humans lingered there and about.

He sat on a lonely bench, drawing some of the fresh air into his lungs before leaning back and making himself comfortable against his seat. Usually, he’d go for less crowded places, places where solitude spoke to his mind and put it to rest in the middle of the chaos his life was. That night, he found himself watching people existing on the edge of that river, where the water spoke the language of the sky and painted an image of the bright moon and city lights.

On their little picnic mats were couples sharing delicate intimacy and friend groups laughing and chatting amongst themselves, while cyclists drifted by. A perfect picture of humans basking in the moment.

And Yoongi? He had a cigarette burning between his fingers to keep him company.

His thoughts ran with a mind of their very own, he almost didn't notice her.

The stranger passed by him like the gentle whispers of breeze that played with his hair strands. A nearby cat caught her attention, she crouched down and petted it.

“You're hungry, aren't you? Me too, me too. I only had lunch today. Coffee for breakfast. I'm working on a new project these days. It's always hectic, you know? You probably don't. You're just a cute fluff ball. Wandering around. Surviving.”

Such were the soft words he heard the human say. It seemed like a natural conversation to any passing-by ear. He wouldn't have guessed a cat was at the receiving end if he weren't at a short proximity from them, but the simple interaction painted a faint smile on his face. It was endearingly pleasant.

Shifting his gaze to the scenery ahead of himself, he took long, thorough drags of his cigarette, and let his thoughts consume him.

“Hey, can I sit here?” He heard her voice again. Yoongi looked up, almost startled. The first thought that came to his mind was that her friendly smile reminded him of Sakura leaves dripping from the sky.

She pointed to the other end of the bench he sat on, waiting for his response.

“Yes, of course.” He replied, ignoring the way his heart dramatically skipped a beat in his chest, and the way the sound of the world existing around him faded into a blissful quiet once their gazes met.

She sat down quietly, her smell lingered in the air between them, and spoke again, “Cats hate the smell of cigarettes, you know.”

He looked at her again, the warm streetlamps kissed all over her features, giving him a better view of her face.

Her eyes, Yoongi thought he finally found something new to write a song about.

Regardless of the gentleness of her voice—almost as soft as the distant sound of the waves dancing across the shore—he glanced down at the cigarette in his hand with a weird sense of embarrassment.

“My bad.” He muttered, doing a quick job of pressing the burning cigarette to the sole of his shoe. Its once alive flame slowly died into a lifeless gray dust, before being tossed into a trash bin nearby.

She smiled, “It's okay. Have you ever owned a cat?”

He shifted awkwardly in his seat and answered with a short ‘yes’.

“Then you should know they don't appreciate it when people ruin their lungs like that.” She added, her tone light-hearted.

That made him release a soft chuckle into the air. His heart fluttered in his chest when she chuckled along, and then she proceeded to tell him that she too, although rarely, smoked as well.

“I always keep cat food in my bag just in case.” She said, bringing out a pack of cat food from her bag and showing it to him.

“Why?” He asked. He knew why, of course he did, but he'd never felt so at ease with a stranger before. He had the urge to initiate any form of conversation with the stranger to hear pieces of her mind for some longer.

“Because all cats deserve food and love. Especially the stray ones.” It was not hard to pick up on the shift that happened to her tone. The lightness that was once present on her features quickly faded into faint dullness. It almost made a frown of his own appear on his face.

She added, “Sadly, that's not common in the world we live in.”

“Keep doing that.” He said. “The thing you said you always do, keep doing it. Maybe one day you'll influence someone, and that someone will influence another someone. More cats will be fed and taken care of..”

The words floated in the air for a while. She smiled, a genuine, grateful one that gave him a sense of satisfaction.

The pair sat in silence following that. Neither of them deemed the need to fill the comfortable quiet that sat on the bench between them to be necessary.

An ‘Oh!’ from between her lips broke the silence between them. The stranger's brows tugged together as she checked her watch, and she muttered something about the time going so fast and her being late for something.

He never liked to admit it to himself, but he felt a tinge of disappointment pop inside his chest at the thought of her leaving.

He silently watched as she stood up and hoisted her bag’s strap onto her shoulder, then asked about his name. He answered as casually as he could muster.

“Yoongi..” She repeated, as if savoring the name on her own tongue, and smiled, “I'm _. It was really nice meeting you.”

And just like that, she was gone, fading into the faint chatter of the people surrounding him, and he was left in the park with a cat rubbing its body against his legs. It reminded him of her, the only thing that he had left of someone he thought he would never see again.

He made sure to feed and pet the creature some more, before scooping it up in his arms and taking them home. His mother would take good care of him, he thought.

The next day, he spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering if he'd find her warm smile and affection towards strays if he were to go to that park again. He missed her eyes, her smile, the way she'd spoken to him so naturally and so easily.

He was trying to push those thoughts off his plate and focus on his work, when she walked into his studio and introduced herself as his new, awaited co-producer.

The best part of it all was the excitement she displayed upon seeing him. It felt like he was reencountered with an old friend, except that an old friend wasn't supposed to make you feel like a teenager catching the glimpse of their crush in the distance.

“Hi! It’s you again! Sorry for being late. I had a crazy morning and just when I thought I was making it I-” She proceeded to talk, but he cut her little rant off with a gentle question.

“You met another cat?”

The small but amused smile on his lips grew a little bigger when the faint blush on her cheeks became more apparent.

“Well, yeah, I kind of did..” she trailed off, tilting her head to the side in embarrassment.

It wasn't hard for them to find a common ground to stand on after that. She liked to talk, the words kept coming naturally out of her mouth, and Yoongi, he liked to listen, and he didn't mind her talking his ears off one bit.

One day after another, hours spent in the studio together. It slowly became something very familiar to him, the feelings her presence gave him. They shared takeout meals on his uncomfortable studio couch and many cups of coffee at late hours of the night. The project they worked on continued to link his heart to hers. On days she would walk in with a deep frown on her face or tears staining her cheeks, she would sit on that couch and mope, and he would wordlessly open a can of beer and put it in front of her, then sit to work next to her until she decided life was worth living again.

From a stranger, to a ‘friend’, to someone he couldn’t stop thinking about. She was not only a good hearted person, but an incredibly smart and talented producer.

If feeding cats together did not push him over the edge of what he thought he would never come to experience again, then working with her surely did.

Sure, he didn’t have his answers. He didn’t know if it was going to be a long lasting thing, or just one more of those phases where his lonesome heart clung onto something other than the thing he loves the most, music, before deciding it had enough. He didn’t know what to do with the feelings that kept growing in his chest and the stupid butterflies he felt in his guts every time she so much as smiled at him. But he knew that spending hours at work and feeding stray cats became things he looked up to every single morning.

More importantly, he had a feeling that whatever he was feeling didn't come from his part alone, but it was all left unsaid for the sake of keeping a fine line between work and personal emotions.

And then it happened, their first, tipsy kiss. When they shared a bottle of liquor and celebrated the wrap-up of their project. The faint blush on her cheeks every time their eyes met made him feel like screaming at the top of his lungs.

He tasted the alcohol on her cherry lips, and oh, how he loved the taste on his tongue.

He thought he'd reached the peak of helplessness when he wrote poems for her eyes, but then he wrote some more for her lips, then her smile, then her hair, then her hands… and then there was no going back.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Long Time Coming

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Warning: slight angst (usual mentions of walking dead stuff), mostly fluff

Authors Note: this does mention pre breakout Daryl briefly but I was inspired by @dixons-sunshine I love their fics so check them out

Word Count: 1.4K

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You and Daryl Dixon had known each other for as long as you could remember. Growing up in the same small, rough town, you both carried more bruises—both physical and emotional—than you’d ever admit to anyone else. Your families were the kind people whispered about, and no one in town expected much from either of you. That didn’t matter, though. You and Daryl understood each other in ways no one else ever could.

You spent most days together, wandering the woods on the edge of town, finding safety in the quiet and solace in each other’s presence. Words weren’t always necessary; there was a kind of silent understanding between you two. He wasn’t much for talking, but you’d learned to read him—by the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, or the way he clenched his hands when he was angry. Over time, he relaxed around you, and a friendship formed that was deeper than anything you’d ever known.

As you grew older, things shifted in small ways. You noticed the way he’d sometimes stare when he thought you weren’t looking, a kind of softness in his eyes you didn’t see anywhere else. You’d find excuses to brush his hand or linger a little too close, your heart hammering every time you did. Despite your unspoken feelings for each other, neither of you dared to confess. Each of you feared risking the one good thing you had.

When things got bad at his place, Daryl would come to your window late at night. You’d let him in without a word, and he’d curl up on an old sleeping bag on your floor. In time, you started keeping the little things he brought you from his walks—shiny rocks, a feather, even a small metal dog tag he’d found at a garage sale once. “Thought it looked cool,” he muttered, giving it to you with a rare, shy smile. On the back, he’d scratched his initials, *DD*, with his old pocket knife. You wore that tag around your neck every day, the feel of the cool metal against your skin a comforting reminder of him.

You thought you’d have all the time in the world to tell him how you felt, that someday you’d finally be able to put your feelings into words.

But then everything went to hell.

When the world ended, you were waiting for Daryl to come by, the way he always did. You hadn’t planned anything special—just another day spent together, escaping the world for a little while. But that afternoon, the world collapsed. Panic swept through the streets as people ran, screamed, and clawed at each other, desperate to escape the horrors that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

You barely managed to escape the initial chaos, fleeing into the woods where you and Daryl had spent so much time. You waited there for hours, hoping he’d come, but as the sky darkened, you realized you were on your own. Days passed, then weeks, and still, he didn’t show. You held onto hope, but each day without him made it harder. Part of you feared the worst, but the other part clung to the belief that he was out there somewhere, just as determined to survive as you were.

Months went by, and you learned to fend for yourself. In and out of groups, you never stayed anywhere long. Trust became a luxury you couldn’t afford, and you hardened, learning the skills you needed to keep going. The dog tag around your neck became your one constant—a small, silent reminder of what you’d lost and the person you couldn’t give up on.

That was where Carol and Maggie found you, holed up in the back of a crumbling grocery store on the edge of town. They convinced you to come with them, promising a safe place, a community. Their words stirred something in you—a spark of hope you hadn’t felt in a long time. You decided to follow them, if only to find out if “home” was something you could still have.

As they led you through the gates of the prison, Carol introduced you to a man named Rick, who assessed you with a calm, piercing gaze. “Daryl’s off workin’ on repairs,” he explained, “but he’ll be here soon.” Then he turned to someone nearby. “Go tell him to come help our new friend get settled.”

At the mention of Daryl’s name, your heart skipped. You fought to keep your expression neutral, reminding yourself that it was a common enough name. But a part of you couldn’t help hoping that maybe, against all odds, it really was him.

The minutes felt like hours. Then, finally, you heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. You turned, breath catching as he came into view.

There he was—older, rougher, with longer hair and sharper features. He’d changed, hardened by survival, but his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were still unmistakably him.

“Daryl?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

He froze, his gaze locking onto yours, and you saw the shock, the relief, the unmistakable softness that was always there when he looked at you. “It’s…really you?” His voice was rougher now, almost hoarse, but it was still him.

You barely managed a nod before rushing into his arms, holding him tight. His embrace was just as fierce, his grip solid and real, grounding you after all the months you’d spent alone. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky as he murmured, “Thought I lost ya. Thought you were gone.”

You pulled back, your fingers instinctively going to the dog tag around your neck. You held it up, showing him. “I kept it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I never took it off.”

His eyes softened even more as he reached out, fingers brushing the tag with a gentle reverence. “Didn’t think ya still had it,” he muttered.

“Of course I did. It was all I had left of you.” Your words were raw, spilling out without restraint, and you saw him visibly swallow, his emotions barely contained.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he gazed at you with a fierce determination. “Ain’t lettin’ you go again,” he whispered. “Not makin’ that mistake twice. You were gone too long.”

In that moment, the world fell away. You leaned forward, closing the distance as you kissed him, pouring all the words you’d left unspoken into that one moment. His arms wrapped around you tighter, his kiss deep and fierce, as though he was as desperate to make up for lost time as you were.

When you pulled back, breathless, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. “We’re gonna make it,” he promised, his voice barely a whisper. “Ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight.”

In the days that followed, Daryl’s protective instincts grew stronger than ever. To others, especially newcomers, he was cold and distant, rarely bothering to remember names. But with you, he was different. He softened, his usual roughness fading when he looked at you.

If you mentioned needing anything—medical supplies, food, anything—he’d make sure it got to you, no matter what it took. Whenever he returned from a supply run, he’d bring back something small for you—a shiny rock, a wildflower, a feather. They were things that reminded you of how he’d once come to your window at night, gifts in hand, and it warmed your heart that he still did it, even now.

One evening, he handed you a small, tarnished silver ring he’d found on a run. “Ain’t worth much,” he mumbled, cheeks tinged pink as he rubbed the back of his neck. “But…figured it might look good on ya.”

You slipped it on, smiling. “I love it,” you said softly. Those three words carried weight, and you saw him blink, the truth settling between you.

Daryl was everything to you now, your one safe place in a world that had torn itself apart. He watched over you with a quiet devotion, his gaze always tracking you in a crowd, his hand resting on your back whenever you needed grounding. If you felt uneasy or scared, he was there, his presence a constant reassurance.

Some nights, as you lay wrapped in his arms, you’d trace the scars on his skin, your fingers mapping the battles he’d survived. And sometimes, he’d open up, sharing things he hadn’t told anyone else. You listened, holding him close, letting him see that with you, he was safe.

In a world that had taken so much, you’d both found something unbreakable. No matter what came next, you knew you’d face it together. Because after everything, neither of you would ever let the other go again.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[reiderwriter]

You'd Be Like Heaven To Touch♣️

Pairing: Spencer Reid X Female Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: After a whirlwind weekend, you're finally ready to go home and deal with the mess you created in Vegas. But you just cannot get your new Husband out of your head.

Warnings: Oral sex (F receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, no mention of birth control, and you're going to hate me by the end of this sex scene bye

A/N: They're officially out of Vegas! I'm so excited to share the next few parts with you guys, and we finally got our first taste of smut!! Also, the Reid in the gif is the exact one I'm picturing in this scene so yeah 🤡 smirk and all 😏

Here's the series masterlist, and my general masterlist!~

Prev. Chapter // Next Chapter

The race back to the hotel was easy compared to the ensuing rush to pack up an entire hotel room's worth of mess in the time between their arrival and their check-out time. Sure, they’d had to pack light as travelling FBI agents, but with the added mess you’d created in Spencer’s room, and the additional luggage of their marriage licence, the packing was needlessly more frantic than usual. 

When you finally did make it down to the lobby, you froze up a little, realising that you were the final one to exit your room. You watched as seven pairs of eyes shifted to you as soon as the elevator door opened, hauling your go-bag further up your arm from where it was slipping down. You thanked your past self for having the foresight to put some makeup into the bag, having used up a copious amount of your concealer to cover up any evidence of your night with Reid. You still kept a small distance from the others, just in case.

“Sorry, were you all waiting for me?” you smiled at them as you got closer, hoping that they’d not ask questions at what had taken you so long. Your eyes caught Reid’s and you could see that he was looking down at your neck. 

After an entire day morning and night in your company, you knew he’d seen the results of his handiwork. You wondered if the look that raked over you now was that of the dominant Reid from the night before, who you presumed marked you in such prominent places so people would know you were his, or that of the concerned team mate, who didn’t want to be caught and questioned by the others. You tried to shake both images from your head, not sure which would please you more. 

“It’s okay, you’re not late, the cars are being bought around now and the jet leaves in 30,” Hotch greeted you when you finally got close enough. 

“Late night, mama?” Morgan laughed at you as soon as he turned to you. “How did all that drinking last night go for you?” 

You were so wrapped up in Reid and what he may or may not be thinking that you had to pull yourself back to reality for a second to realise that Morgan had been talking to you. 

“What? Oh yeah, I guess. I don’t think I drank too much, but I did sleep like a baby, so who knows.” You laughed a little to punctuate the point, and then watched Morgan’s reaction closely. You were still looking for the two “agents” who had been witness to your marriage, after all. 

“Ooh, you didn’t sample the local goods last night then? I’ve heard that Downtown Las Vegas is the best place to meet single men, and you were just complaining that you hadn’t been out in a while,” Penelope said from beside the man. 

“No, no, the place Reid took me to was more library than bar, and as far from Downtown as you could get, so it was a nice and easy night for me.” 

“And if the local men are anything like our resident Las Vegan,” Emily jumped in, looking at Reid. “Then I’m sure they’re not really what Y/N is looking for.” She laughed and they all start making their way out of the lobby. 

You try to avoid meeting Reid’s eyes after that last comment, sure that you wouldn’t be able to stop the grimace of apology from coming to your lips. But you couldn’t help yourself, and you forced your eyes up into a small peak at his face, only to see his downturned eyes and the small smirk that was crossing his lips. 

You hung back for a second, needing to clue this out, and nudged him with your elbow. 

“What’s that look for?” you whisper at him in a harsh tone, hoping that no one was watching the two of you. 

“It’s nothing.” He says, but the smile stays on his lips. You give him another look, silently communicating that you’re not taking that first answer and he nods a little as he walks beside you. 

“If they could see the marks on your neck, they wouldn’t be thinking that I’m not what you’re looking for, right?” You could feel the heat in your cheeks, and you playfully whacked him in the arm a bit, before pushing through the doors of the hotel and feeling the sun on your cheeks once again. 

You watched him climb into the car you took earlier and stop yourself from following him. You were going to need some time to think about how you should take that last comment, and a half an hour drive outside of his presence would probably do you good. Climbing up into the other SUV, you take a deep breath, feeling all the restlessness of the night before creep up on you.

–X–

You don’t know where you are, but you know that you’re burning up under his touch. His lips are on your skin, working their way down from your neck to the valley between your breasts and all you can hear is the sound of your own lustful moans as his hands trail further still. 

You don’t know who it is on top of you, but you know that you’re dying for him to be there, to push his tongue into your mouth and make you submit to his will. His fingers wrap around the waistband of your panties and roughly pull them down, opening you up to him. You feel his lips ghost down further still, until he’s there between your legs. 

“Is this where you wanted me, baby? So desperate to have me, my little slut.” His words send another shiver down your spine as you roll your hips up into his face again. 

He lets out a small chuckle and gives you what you want, finally lowering his tongue again and letting it meet your desperate cunt. He sets his attention on your clit, and your eyes roll back in bliss, not caring who it is between your legs giving you this much pleasure, just desperate for them to keep going. 

“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” you beg, fisting a handful of your mystery man’s hair. It’s soft to the touch, a little curly at the ends and it feels familiar, but you’re unable to think about it for more than a second before he’s pushing a finger into you. 

“That’s it baby. Look at you, so fucking tight around my finger. You want me to push my cock into you, you’re going to have to relax for me baby, okay?” You still don’t know who it is, but you nod for him, knowing you want nothing except everything he’s telling you that you want. 

He’s thrusting his fingers into you at a relentless pace now, adding one digit every few thrusts, until he’s up to three. His face is still buried in your pussy, tongue still flicking against your clit, his other hand pushing you down by the hips as he forces you closer and closer to the edge. 

His hand drops down to your thigh, pushing your legs further apart, and it stays there feeling overly warm, almost burning you up from just that simple touch. 

“You’re so wet for me baby, going to take my cock now?” You whimper and nod your head as fervently as you can, begging him with your eyes to push into you. He finally pulls his head up to your own, and you’re finally face-to-face with your mystery man. 

“So wet for me, right baby? So wet for your husband?” Spencer questions you as he pushes into your wet, dripping hole, and you’re so surprised that all you can do in response is moan. 

With each thrust, he drops a moan into your ears, and you feel your climax building quickly. 

“Ah fuck yes, Y/N,” you claw at his back, desperate to pull him closer. 

“Spencer, don’t stop, fuck.” Your name begins dropping from his lips like a prayer as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, deeper. 

“Y/N… Y/N……… Y/N….” 

–X– 

“Y/N, are you finally awake? We’ve been calling your name for a minute now.” Your eyes snap open and you come face to face with Emily and JJ from the seats opposite you on the jet. 

“We thought you might be having a nightmare. Want to talk about it?” JJ asks, her voice in a hushed tone as a look of sympathy crosses over her face. 

Whatever that was, it certainly was not a nightmare. But the scenario you were in now certainly was. 

“What? Oh, yeah. I don’t know, maybe it was a nightmare.” You desperately hope you sound convincing enough for them to drop the subject. The last time you’d mentioned a lack of sleep, half of the team had approached you with different home remedies and tips for getting your full 8 hours. The last thing you needed right now was the constant reminder that you’d just had a sex dream about Spencer Reid on the jet whilst surrounded by all your close friends and colleagues. 

Including the man himself, you realised, as you stretched your neck out from its awkward sleep position, and caught the sight of him there next to you. Your car had reached the jet first earlier that day, and it had taken all of two minutes after boarding before you’d been claimed by sleep, so you hadn’t realised he’d positioned himself next to you. 

A quick glance down had told you he’d done more than that. Wrapped around your legs, and so big that it stretched over his too, was a large blanket, the one that he usually used on your longer trips home. He was asleep in the seat next to you, you noticed after an embarrassing amount of time, head resting in one of his hands, lips slightly open, looking the image of tranquillity. 

His other hand was beneath the blanket, somewhere you couldn’t see, but as you shifted slightly in your chair trying to get comfortable again, you realised it was definitely somewhere you could feel. His hand had somehow fallen into your lap, and he had a firm but sleepy grip on your left thigh, the one closest to him. Now that you had moved, so did his hand, rubbing gentle strokes into your skin every few minutes. Slow enough that you were sure he was still asleep, but still enough to have am effect.

His hand was hot against your leg, and his touch burned. You remembered the sensation from your dream and immediately did your best to temper your facial expressions, not wanting to gather any more concern from the two women opposite you at the table than you already had. 

“Y/N? If you want to talk about it, we’re always here you know? This job can be overwhelming at the best of times, and we just worked a hard case. No one would blame you for needing to take some time for yourself.” Emily looked at you in concern now, and it was taking all of your will to keep your eyes on her, and nod at the appropriate time, your brain short-circuiting now that you realised Reid was so close. 

Where did this sudden infatuation with him come from? You’d always appreciated that he was a good looking guy, but you’d never thought about him so thoroughly before, and certainly not enough to lose yourself on the jet to inappropriate thoughts. 

It was the insanity of the weekend, you told yourself, it had to be. You’d learnt more about him and accidentally, possibly, maybe slept together, and now your body was just getting it out of your system. Either that or you’d just learnt too much about his preferences and your brain was just trying to come to terms with each revelation. 

You settled back into comfortable conversation with Emily and JJ, trying your best to convince yourself that your dream had meant nothing, blocking out any noise in your head that was suggesting otherwise. 

Especially the little thought at the back of your brain that was reminding you that you hadn’t removed his hand from your thigh, and that you really didn’t want to. 

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[meadowfics]

doomed by the narrative

kang sae-byeok x f!reader

this is a prequel to this fic I have written for sae-byeok

warnings: comforting prequel.

you and sae byeok were a team.

always had been. always would be.

two shadows slipping through seoul, stealing just enough to keep yourselves afloat, just enough to survive another day.

neither of you were proud of it, but pride didn't keep the heat on or food in your stomachs.

survival came first.

sae byeok was the strategist. she knew the streets, the markets, and the blind spots in convenience stores for someone who has not lived here for long.

she timed everything to the second, knew when the shopkeepers got distracted and when the security cameras turned away.

you were the distraction, the one with the quick hands and quicker tongue.

she hated when you made yourself the center of attention, but she never stopped you.

"you're going to get yourself killed one day,"

she'd mutter after you slipped a wallet from someone's coat and passed it to her as you walked.

"not as long as you're around,"

you'd reply, bumping your shoulder against hers.

she'd roll her eyes, but you caught the flicker of amusement in them.

nights were spent roaming the city together, dodging police, avoiding the places where debt collectors lingered.

when the cold got unbearable, you'd sneak into subway stations and sit on the farthest benches, hands tucked into each other's sleeves for warmth.

"we should go somewhere warm one day,"

you murmured once, watching people step onto a train you couldn't afford.

"somewhere far,"

sae byeok agreed.

every few days, she'd visit cheol.

you never went inside with her, never got too close, but you always walked her there.

always stood across the street, hands stuffed in your pockets, waiting while she sat with her little brother by the park that the orphanage owned.

sae byeok's face was soft with cheol in a way you never saw anywhere else.

sometimes, she’d come back to you, eyes shining like she was holding back tears.

"he’s getting bigger,"

she'd say, and you'd squeeze her fingers between yours.

"he’s safe,"

you always reminded her.

the debt was always there, hanging over your heads, but sae byeok had a way of making it feel small.

she promised you that things would be fine, that you'd figure it out.

so you believed her. as long as she was beside you, you believed anything.

"you’re all i need,"

you whispered to her once, late at night, on the rooftop of an abandoned building where you both sometimes hid.

"don’t be stupid,"

she said, but her fingers curled tighter around yours.

the last time you saw her before everything changed, you were walking her home.

the streets were quieter than usual, the buzz of the city muted under flickering streetlights.

sae byeok’s shoulders were tense, like they always were when she thought too much about the future.

"you staying?"

she asked when you reached her building.

you hesitated. you always stayed with sae byeok each night.

tonight, you had somewhere else to be.

"I can't tonight.. I have to see my family since its my sister's birthday,"

you said, shifting on your feet.

sae byeok nodded, but there was something in her expression.. something unreadable.

"don’t take too long," she said finally.

"wouldn’t dream of it."

after a kiss goodbye, you walked away, hands deep in your pockets, already counting down the hours until you'd be back by her side.

then, in the subway, he found you.

the man in the suit.

the game.

the card.

the beginning of the end.

you never made it back to her apartment. you never got the chance.

you did not see sae-byeok again until the start of the games, inside of the hellhole that would ruin anything good you've ever had.

the second part to this fic

[azxulskz]

Somewhere between us.

Pairings: han jisung x m!reader

Genre: friends to lovers, college au!, fluff and fluff and fluff!

Warning: none.

Wc: 980!

Request: open.

Dividers: @sister-lucifer

A/n: wow, blxue posting???? Finally! I hope you guys would enjoy this one, I really hope this is good for you guys!! I can't wait to write more since I'm all free now that school has ended already!! Also, comment on what I should post next since I have another han fic in my draft, 2 felix fic, and currently working on a seungmin fic!! Since my request will be open for a while for more ideas and stuff, please drop by, also pls bare if there's any grammar mistake, English is indeed, not my first language. Likes, reblogs, and commenting will be highly appreciated, love u guys!!

Please don't repost, steal, copy, translate, and any kind of plagiarism. This is my work, so please don't steal it.

There’s a thing about best friends: people assume they’re temporary. Something about youth, timing, or growing pains. But you and Jisung had been best friends for years, and if you’re being honest, you never planned on growing out of him.

He arrived in your life like a storm in sneakers. Loud, chaotic, and impossibly charming in that annoying way that made teachers roll their eyes and strangers smile. He'd talk to anyone, laugh like life was a joke only he understood, and he made you feel like existing next to him was a privilege.

You were the quieter one. Observant. You liked watching him more than speaking sometimes. It wasn’t that you didn’t have anything to say—just that he said it better. So you let him. And somewhere along the way, being near him started to feel like home.

You told yourself it was just friendship. Boys grow close. Boys lean on each other. Boys don’t always say the things they feel because maybe the words are too fragile to carry in the open. Maybe some truths are too tender to survive daylight.

So you stayed quiet.

He didn’t.

---

"If I die first, delete my search history," he once said, completely unprompted while lying on your bedroom floor, surrounded by empty snack wrappers and an uneven playlist of sad indie and chaotic pop.

You laughed. "You’re not dying first."

"That’s so selfish of you."

"It’s not selfish if I go with you."

He looked at you then, really looked. Something unspoken hovered between you. Then he tossed a chip at your face.

Moments like that piled up like unsent letters.

You kept them all.

---

There was a girl once. He liked her, or thought he did. You watched him fumble with texts and pick out outfits and rehearse lines like he wasn’t already perfect in his mess. You helped him get ready.

Then he came home early.

"She was nice," he said. "But she wasn’t... you know. She wasn’t it."

You didn’t ask what it meant. You were scared the answer would break you.

---

One day, he stopped by your place unannounced. You weren’t surprised; he had a key and never used it. He preferred the dramatic knock, the slow push of the door, the exaggerated sigh as he announced, "Your favorite person has arrived."

You were on the couch, hoodie pulled over your head, pretending to read.

"Rough day?"

You nodded.

He didn’t ask questions. Just dropped beside you, close enough that your arms touched, but not close enough to say anything with it. He handed you a candy bar. Your favorite. You didn’t know how he always knew.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, worn in like an old hoodie. He rested his head against your shoulder.

"You’re always here when I need you," he whispered.

You swallowed. "You don’t even have to need me. I’m just here."

He smiled, not looking up. "That’s the best kind."

---

There was a moment.

Not a loud one. Not a kiss or a confession. Just a moment. You were watching a movie on your laptop, both of you lying side by side on your bed. It was a dumb movie, one you’d seen too many times, but it was background noise.

He shifted. His hand brushed yours.

Then stayed.

Neither of you said a word. Your pinkies curled together like secrets. And the world kept spinning.

---

It wasn’t love at first sight.

It was love after a hundred moments you didn’t recognize until they were memories. Love in the spaces between words. Love in late-night food runs and inside jokes and the way he always picked your fries even though he had his own.

You knew it, even when he didn’t.

You carried it alone. For months. Maybe years.

Until one day, it slipped.

You were arguing. Not really arguing, more like sparring with emotions too big for your chests. He had canceled plans last minute again. You pretended it didn’t hurt.

"Why do you care so much?" he snapped. "You don’t even say anything half the time. You just sit there and act like everything’s fine!"

You stared at him. "Because I like you, you idiot."

Silence.

He blinked.

You felt like the floor had vanished.

"You... like me?"

"Forget it," you muttered, already moving to leave.

But his hand caught yours.

"You like me," he said again, slower. Softer.

You couldn’t look at him.

He stepped closer. "Hey. Come on, look at me."

You did.

He was smiling. Not the teasing kind. Not the one he used to charm his way out of trouble. This one was real.

"You should’ve told me sooner," he whispered.

Your heart stopped. "Why? So you could let me down easy?"

He shook his head. "So I could tell you I like you back. So I could stop pretending."

Time folded in on itself.

You were still holding hands.

He leaned in. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to press his forehead against yours.

"This okay?"

You nodded.

Then he kissed you.

And in that kiss were all the moments you never said, all the looks, all the almosts. It felt like closing a book and starting a new one at the same time.

When he pulled back, his voice was barely a breath.

"We’re really dumb, huh?"

You laughed, giddy and weightless. "The dumbest."

He grinned. "Good thing we’ve got each other to balance it out."

---

People talk about big, fiery love. The kind that burns hot and fast.

But you learned love could be quiet too. Slow and patient. Built in movie nights, ice cream runs, and two boys holding hands under dim lights, finally brave enough to say the things that lived in their hearts all along.

Somewhere between friendship and forever, you found love.

And it was his laugh, his eyes, his voice that carried you there.

[wayward-dreamer]

Ritual

Square/s filled: Marathon sex @spnkinkevents

Pairing: Jensen x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 885

Summary: Jensen and Y/N have a ritual that they always stick to whenever he comes back from a long filming schedule.

Warnings: Swearing, smut: dirty talk, implied oral sex (f receiving) unprotected sex (wrap it up people), rough sex, marathon sex, fluff.

A/N: trying to drabble my way out of a creative block. Happy reading! :)

Y/N really hated it whenever Jensen had to leave for a project. She always understood, and she never held him back because that’s not the person she was. She’d never stop him from doing what he loved most, but she could definitely lament about the fact that he was often gone for months at a time. They would see each other for a weekend every few weeks, whenever he was free or going to a Supernatural convention where she’d meet up with him if she could and wasn’t working herself. It was difficult but they made it work.

Plus their reward whenever he came home at the end of the whole project was the best part.

It didn’t matter how many times their phones rang, chimed with texts, whenever he returned neither of them came up for air until they were both satisfied.

Y/N had been out running errands while Jensen arrived home from his two-and-a-half month long shoot, where they had only seen each other on one weekend and spent a lot of nights having phone sex. As soon as she got his text, she rushed out of the store she was in after paying, and hurried back to the house, being careful on the roads despite her urgency. He had just stepped out of the shower when she dumped the bags by the door and jumped him, stripping him of his towel in one quick pull and pushing him down on their bed.

He turned and placed her on her back, drifting down between her legs as he pulled her flowy skirt off as he went down on his knees. It wasn’t long before his skilled tongue and fingers brought her first orgasm like waves over her body, her hands tight in his hair as his name fell from her lips in breathy moans. As he stood and flipped her over onto all fours, he stroked his shaft before he entered her in one quick shift of his hips, wasting no time in wanting to feel that euphoric bliss he only got with her.

Jensen’s thrusts were hard, long strokes into her clenching walls, his pelvis undulating against the curve of her ass as their pleasured sounds, words of endearing filth and the slapping of skin became the soundtrack to their vigorous love-making. The result of not having seen each other in so long. Her second release came just as quickly as the first, her fists pulling at the sheets underneath her convulsing frame as a shrieking moan escaped her. She felt her wetness flow over his cock, still hard inside her, but that wasn’t good enough for her. She needed to feel him let go; she needed to feel the warmth of his release.

Y/N hissed slightly as she shifted forward, feeling a delicious ache between her legs as he slipped out of her, turning around and placing her hands on his shoulders to push him down on his back before he could even question it. She straddled his hips, taking his length in her hand and pumping him a few times before she notched him to her waiting heat. A long, shuddering whimper left her as she slid down onto him, their eyes locked on each other as he groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he husked, staring up at her in awe. “This view never gets old, darlin’.”

She hummed as a smile spread across her face, her hands planted firmly on his chest to use as leverage as she began to move, rocking her hips back and forth. They moved rapidly, chasing not only another burst of ecstasy for herself, but for him too. She could feel how close he was, the tell-tale signs of his grip tightening on her hips and his neck straining, veins pressing against the skin as his gaze darkened while he looked up at her. It was her favorite view of him.

“You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice rasping and deep. “You gonna cum hard, soak my cock, right?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, as she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut. “Want-want you to c-cum too-”

“Oh, I’m right there with ya, darlin’,” he reassured her, his hips beginning to move up to meet her thrusts. “Gonna cum so hard in your tight, perfect little pussy…”

Y/N felt her core tightening with every sinful word from his plump lips, the dam breaking before she could properly anticipate it, falling over the edge once more as her arousal covered him. It didn’t take him long to go over after her, a drawn out “fuckkk” escaping him as he grunted, ropes of his cum mingling with her wetness as it coated her walls.

Jensen smirked as he closed his eyes, basking in the feeling that washed over him as she rolled off, settling in next to him. They breathed heavily as he opened them, his green orbs meeting hers as they smiled at each other.

“I’m gonna need a couple minutes,” he chuckled, before he carried on, shifting closer to her, his lips hovering over hers. “But there’s no way I’m done with you yet, darlin’.”

She giggled, pecking his lips once, twice. She loved this little ritual of theirs.

“I’m counting on it.”

[nastylittleghouls]

Querencia

Relationship(s): Aether/Aeon

Rating: Explicit 

Words: about 1.6k (One day I’ll be able to write something small but today is not that day) 

Summary: It’s still difficult for him to stay quiet and unmoving, so unlike his nature. To not react without prompting to how Aether looks at him from time to time, over the rim of his glasses, appraising. Promising. Sometimes telling him to stretch out his legs or get his pillow with a gentle nudge of quintessence.

or

Aeon just wants to be Aether's good boy

Tags and warnings:  D/s dynamics, pre-negotiated scene, face fucking, Aeon being a good boy and a fiend for Aether’s monster dick, a tiny smidgen of angst- blink and you might miss it. Implied quintosis, a little bit of mean!Aether and orgasm denial. That's about it I think 

Notes: This is the result of @a-hearts-a-heavy-burden and me losing our minds about Aether pleasuring his guitar and ending with how willingly Phantom/Aeon would get on his knees for the big quint. It took a bit of a different direction than I thought but I am not mad about it. Unbeta'ed.

AO3 link for the so-inclined (Aeon is called Phantom there)

Querencia: The place where one's strength is drawn from; where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self.

Aeon slips into Aether’s office while he’s making his ward round. He knows the basics by now. Had watched longingly how Dewdrop knelt at Aether’s feet. And Aether, ever the observant one, had taken him under his wing with a loving but firm hand while Aeon had hung onto every word, every touch like the air he needed to breathe. 

Take off your clothes. Fold them neatly and put them on the chair. On your knees. Head bowed. Hands on thighs, unless other instructions are given.  Be seen but not be heard. 

He had felt like he had found another purpose in Aether’s pride. 

It’s still difficult for him to stay quiet and unmoving so unlike his nature. To not react without prompting to how Aether looks at him from time to time over the rim of his glasses, appraising. Promising. Sometimes telling him to stretch out his legs or get his pillow with a gentle nudge of quintessence. 

The way people come and go. Either treating him like he isn't right there, naked, rock hard, and leaking a puddle on the floor, only stealing looks at him. Or partaking if Aether allows it. 

Like Swiss dropping by to discuss plans with Aether, his hands casually wandering over Aeon’s upper body with teasing caresses over his neck and tweaking his nipples as he talks. Or Dew nudging the tip of his boot under his balls, making Aeon’s sensitive cock slide over the leather just so as he leans over the desk to pull Aether into a heated kiss. Tempting him to seek friction at the display in front of him and testing his obedience. No doubt hoping he’ll fail as Dew enjoys seeing him punished as much as he enjoys being part of the aftercare. 

He hopes he’ll be spared by visitors today. He selfishly wants Aether for himself, wants to be good only for him. 

The door opens and Aether finally returns. If he‘s surprised to find Aeon here again so soon he doesn‘t let it show. The spade of his tail drags fleetingly over Aeon's spine as he passes to get to his desk, making him arch up, and ends with a playful slap on his ass. That’s his greeting, his acceptance of Aeon‘s servitude. 

Aeon breathes the air with Aether’s renewed scent in deeply, then curls his tail around himself and waits. Let’s himself thrive in the simple but meaningful act of kneeling in Aether‘s presence, for Aether, ready to dedicate his body to him to ease his stress level and make the crease between his eyebrows vanish. The thought makes him glance at Aether‘s cock, laying against his thigh under the loose scrubs, moving enticingly when he shifts his leg. The things he would give to have that long thickness filling him already.  Stretching him impossibly wide, the ache, the taste… 

They both need each other, Aeon‘s sure of it. 

When Aether finally beckons him over, his body excitedly rises upwards, one alredy foot on the floor, about to push him upwards and he instantly knows he fucked up. He bites back a frustrated whine and lowers himself back down. Apologizing and hoping Aether won’t punish him for it. 

Aether just sighs with a hint of disappointment.

“Go on. Try again”.

Relieved that Aether feels gracious today, his voice having that certain cloying tone, Aeon rises again, properly only onto his stiff knees this time, and crawls over to Aether. His cock bobs in front of him, dripping all over the floor as he moves, giving Aether a good view of him. He wants to preen under his gaze.   

Aether’s large hands greet him when he settles again, stroking Aeon’s beaming face as he smiles down at him. The smaller ghoul nuzzles into the touch, kisses Aether’s rings reverently. Tries to wriggle his tongue under them to taste his sweat, and licks at the pad of his fingers where the ink has stained them. His eyes never leave Aether’s face, looking at him like he’s one of the seven princes of hell himself. 

„Such a sweet boy. Kneeling so prettily for me. You wanna help me relax, don‘t you? ” 

Aeon shivers at the praise before he nods fervently, eyes wide and glassy, whispering a “yes, sir. Please” and letting his mouth drop open and his tongue roll out in invitation, eager to be of use. Aether strokes his cock leisurely, pleased with the way Aeon offers himself and follows his every movement. Every word. Attention fully on him. Like it should be.

“Hands behind your back, grip your wrists. If you let go, I’ll stop. Understand?” 

Aeon nods again, shifting to do as he is told. Curling his fingers around his wrists as tight as he’d want his cuffs to be, digging into the finger-shaped bruises already on his skin. The feeling forces him to take a deep breath. 

It's a slow and intentional thing when Aether squeezes his cock from root to tip, forcing pre to pool in the slit. He shifts forward and drags the head of his cock over the smaller Quint's tongue with a small moan, Aeon's eyes rolling into the back of his head when the taste hits, a reedy whimper escaping his throat. A high-strung please is pressed into Aether’s mind along with it. 

Fingers fisted in Aeon's hair, Aether uses his grip to feed the little ghoul his cock, slides in until there’s no more for Aeon to take and then just holds him there.  Lets the tip rest at the back of his throat, groaning approvingly when he feels Aeon swallow around him, body going slack at the weight, at the way he can feel every single bar of his Jacobs ladder sitting on his tongue, how it fills his whole mouth and stretches his lips wide. His mind goes pleasantly hazy, everything narrowing down to Aether and pleasing him. Helping him destress. Being useful. Nothing else. 

Aether pulls him off, only to instantly push him back down and press in deep again, not letting him draw a full breath. Saliva drips messily over Aeon's chin and onto his chest as Aether uses him, fucks Aeon’s mouth in deep strokes, his sounds of pleasure washing over Aeon like warm summer rain. The small Quint’s hungry little whines and moans fill the room, slender hips hump the empty air in a desperate search of friction he’s not allowed. Drawing quick little breaths whenever Aether pulls his cock out just enough that air can flow and flushing hotly at the loud wet squelching noises he’s sure everyone can hear every time Aether pushes back in.   

„Lucifer, your pretty mouth. Made to be ruined”

The praise has Aeon tonguing at the metal adorning Aether’s cock, doing his best with the little room he has. He just wants to give Aether more and show how grateful he is.  

“That’s good. Really fucking good. Such a sweet boy for me,” Aether breathes, head tipping back. His fingers tighten in Aeon’s hair, his thrusts get a little sloppier, just that little harder. Aeon keens, long and high, too far gone to notice that Dew’s name falls from Aether’s lips in the throes of pleasure, in between his praises.  It almost overwhelms him, his ruddy cock kicking hard between his legs. His tail curls around Aether‘s ankle, needing something to ground himself before he loses it.

Then Aether slides in deep again and comes, momentarily depriving him of the taste where he wants it the most, staying there until his cock’s done twitching.

It's wonderful.

Aether drags his cock out oh so slowly and leans back in his chair, breathing labored. He graciously lets Aeon follow and keep mouthing at him, catching what he couldn’t swallow with his tongue, watching the blissful face of the little ghoul as he enjoys his extra treat. He ponders how good Aeon’s mouth would feel struggling on his knot and his cock twitches, causing a delighted noise from the ghoul beneath him. 

Maybe later today. 

His fingers in Aeon’s hair loosen and his hand just rests affectionately at the back of his head, twirling the short strands around his fingers until he starts to soften and overstimulation sets in.

“That’s enough, little star”.

Aeon takes the cue and when Aether’s all clean and tucked back into his pants, Aeon rests his head on his thigh, gazing adoringly up at him with a hoarse sounding purr, still happily working his mouth around the ache in his jaw, the cum still swirling around in his mouth. His face is a mess of fluids, lips swollen and Aether makes a mental note to snap a photo for his collection

„Please, sir. Would you…“ Aeon sounds wrecked, his voice cracking then giving out. He swallows. 

“Hmm?” A Cheshire cat-like grin appears on Aether's face as he tips Aeon’s face up and offers his water bottle to him. Encouraging him to take a sip.  He knows exactly what’s coming. Or rather, what isn’t. 

“M..may I come, sir?” 

Aether makes a considering sound, reaches down to drag a fingertip over the length of Aeon's sensitive cock, then sucks it into his mouth. Aeon’s eyes widen, and a wounded sound that shows how close he is to coming leaves him, hips jerking forward in minuscule motions even after Aether’s touch is gone. He pants as his cock keeps throbbing and pre-cum drips in rivulets down the sides. 

“I think I’ll keep you like this for a while longer,” Aether says, then folds his hands behind his head and smirks. 

“Now lick your mess off of the floor.”

[les-pompiers118]

River empties to the tide (9-1-1 spec fic)

~600 words, no rating. Spoilers for 8x15/"Lab Rats." Title from "Find the River" by REM, which has been in heavy rotation around here for the past 10 days or so.

They gather on the beach one month after Bobby’s death.

Far across the water, the sun had slipped below the horizon while they waited for everyone to arrive. The breakers roll in gently, as if they’re trying to be respectful of the tribute happening a few yards away. Not many words have been exchanged, even between the people who haven’t seen each other in a long time. There are a few handshakes and even more hugs, but beyond a few murmured queries about how someone’s holding up, their group is very quiet. Hen has been walking wordlessly among them, passing out white tapers from a box.

The current 118-ers scoured their contacts for anyone who had served under Bobby, however briefly. They answered the call by the dozen. Lena Bosco is here, arms crossed over her chest as she watches the waves. Lucy Donato linked elbows with Ravi when she first arrived and hasn’t let go yet. Sal Deluca stays at the edge of things, but he caught Tommy’s eye briefly, just to give him a smug smile about the way Tommy’s fingers are firmly laced with Buck’s.

So many familiar faces, drawn back together from wherever life had scattered them.

Once the sky has darkened to a deep blue twilight above them, Eddie lights his candle. They pass the flame from person to person until all the tapers are lit. Then Chimney steps forward.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. It’s been a difficult month for a lot of us, and…” Chimney pauses to steady his voice. “Funerals and public memorials are all well and good when the loss is brand new, but they don’t do much a few weeks down the road when we’re still hurting. So we thought it might help to take a few minutes to remember Bobby together, somewhere quiet and calm. Because our lives as firefighters are rarely that way on the best of days.”

Chimney looks among the nodding faces before him, illuminated in gold by the candles and the last trailing hem of the sunset. Then he straightens, gathering himself, and turns to face the ocean.

“Bobby, we’re here to mark one month since you left us. And I’m not gonna lie, Cap. It’s been hard. Really hard. But we’re still standing. We’re carrying on the work the way you taught us to: bravely and compassionately, with humility and humor. But we miss you. And for as long as we’re doing this job and experiencing all the miraculous, crazy, and awful things that come with it, we’re going to wish that you were here to do it with us.

“Cap, if you’re listening from wherever you are now, we all want you to know how grateful we are for everything you did for us. Thanks for all the fantastic meals you cooked. Thanks for the gentle wisdom you gave us—and the tougher lessons that you had to drill into our thick skulls. Thanks for not giving up on us when we screwed up, and forgiving us when we were at our worst. And most of all… thank you for making sure we got home safely to our families at the end of every shift.”

The last words come roughly, barely making it out before Chimney breaks. Hen steps forward and puts her arm around his shoulders. When he’s pulled himself together a bit, Hen addresses the group.

“We’d now like to have a minute of silence for Bobby.”

Some heads bow in prayer or reflection. Others look to the west, imagining some comforting thing or place just past where the ocean curves away. After a few seconds, the candle flames bend and flicker, as if a breath was released into the wind. A sigh, perhaps, from a soul watching from beyond.

The minute of silence ends; the candles are blown out in unison. In the darkness, friends lean upon friends, and no one is alone.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

S, I'm beginning you please write something about the new videos of Sebastian in the Gym. I need some smutty M/F action because I'm going ferral for those images 😩

related to all the content coming from Don's social media about Seb's return to the gym mafia

I already have a ton of requests to get to--which I do love, it's wild to have people want my writing so much, like, what the hell--and normally I get to them based on who's been waiting the longest but... the Seb content is so recent, I just have to get down with this 👀

(And I promise if you're not into x reader content, we'll get back to regularly scheduled programming soon! It just so happens that I got two x reader requests so soon after opening my ask box fully again.)

gif made by @/unearthlydust

Between the few moments it takes for the sound of keys jingling to register in your brain, hitting your ears muffled from outside, and the short time it takes for you to walk from your miniature modestly sized NYC apartment living room to the entryway, Sebastian has managed to unlocked the door, slide into your home, and... sit himself on the floor, apparently.

His head is reclined back, resting on the wall. Conversely, his legs are folded up, knees bent, his arms resting on them. He has yet to attempt to start to take his shoes off. Clearly, he walked in--or maybe he crawled, you muse to yourself, smirking--and immediately put himself down on his ass.

A chuckle leaves you at the sight of him. But, there's more breath contained in the amusement-colored sound than you'd like to admit. As you tilt your head down to take him in, you excuse your stare with a question, "Don work you over good, baby?"

You stare more while he thinks about his answer, processing, clearly frazzled from whatever mild torture Don put him through this time, not just working out but working out on film, meaning they stopped and started and stopped and started and had to refilm sets and probably ended up doing double the work planned. He took a long time today.

You saw him when he left, but the sight of Sebastian is much different now when his shirt is soaked through with sweat, the thin, breathable fabric clinging obscenely to the hard, lean shape of his body. His collar, err, the collar of his shirt is more stretched than you remember, exposing just a taste of his collarbones. Something in you whispers salaciously to pull it down more until you hear the seams start to give way so you can drag your teeth against the sharp lines of his collarbones, leave him gasping, so you can smooth your lips down the defined line between his pecs and feel his heart start to pound as if he's back on the treadmill. He must've been pulling at his shirt collar, dying to get out of his clothes, too hot. He probably even stripped himself out of it at some point. The thought makes you shift your weight where you stand from one foot to the other, cocking your hip, barely resisting the urge to cross your legs and squeeze your thighs together, thinking of, picturing really, all his tanned, smoothed skin, his muscles seemingly more defined after each session with Don. More and more firm under your teasing fingertips.

From your place a few feet away, looming, you watch him swallow. The rolling, contracting motion of his throat unfolding in slow motion, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Seb?" You have half the mind to prompt him again, your lips curling into a wider smirk despite yourself, preoccupied.

You're beginning to feel like a cat toying with a mouse...

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, swallowing again, thunking his head back against the wall slightly as if to wake himself up. His hair is damp and wavy from the session, the texture fighting against his cut and style, frizzing up as if it wants to play, too.

He's so fucking cute.

Unbearably attractive and cute.

Sitting down there, his chest isn't exactly heaving, but he's not casually breathing either; still sweaty and flushed, his body is clearly begging for oxygen, leaving him at its mercy to completely fill and empty his lungs. As his chest expands, your eyes can help but wander down to the outline of his nipples through his clinging, painted-on, almost transparent shirt; they're hard and pointed, right there high on his pecs, so exposed.

Drawn in, you take a step closer to him, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip. Your boyfriend, spontaneously becoming a puddle on your floor... oh, no, whatever will you do?

"Don's gonna kill me someday," Sebastian finally manages, adding on, "I'm so tired," and host-to-god pouting up at you. Then, as if that isn't enough, he blinks at you. Those big eyes. If you didn't know better, you'd suspect he was batting those eyelashes at you. You do know better. You know he is.

Even when he's turned to liquid, too hot, too melted and tired, he's a tease. Brat, maybe, is a better word...

At least you don't mind soaking him up. Mopping him up? Either way, between the two of you, there's something there, something ironic about the way he melts, turns to molten liquid, anyone else would expect it'd be you, getting wet, and... yeah. A wider grin splits your mouth. You don't care if you look a little predatory, perhaps unhinged with desire. It's Sebastian's fault. Coming home. Sitting there. Looking like that. He's a sitting, slouching duck.

Realistically, he needs a shower. He's sweaty, and he smells like more than deodorant and laundry, how he did when he left, but you don't give a shit. You know what you need.

"I don't wanna get up," he huffs, hiding his hopeful smile by licking his too pink lips as you prowl another step closer.

Goddamn.

Again, you step closer, coming to stand in front of him. Standing over him.

"Then don't," one of your eyebrows creeps up, a challenge and raising an expression that makes you look imposing. You know it does simply by the way Sebastian reacts to you--his muscles relaxing even more, slouching into the wall a little more, his breathing getting just a touch heavier. He's so statifyingly easy.

A sigh slips out of his statically parted lips--the cherry on top.

"Too tired to get up?" You ask, "poor guy, stuck on the floor, hmm? Your muscles all sore, helpless andd--" your teasing words trail off as you move, gracefully moving into action, tapping his left wrist where it's balanced on his left knee with the pads of your fingers, patiently waiting not long at all for him to allow his sneaker-covered feet to slide odediently across the wooden floor. It leaves his legs straight, spread into an easy v.

Perfect.

You step neatly over him with one foot, positioning yourself to get into his lap without fret. Settling in easy as anything. You've had plenty of practice here. Still, he gasps when the back of your thighs and ass make contact with his body, separated by your own clothes and his soft, blue shorts. He's already hard. You can feel the heated line of him, pressing insistently against you. A deeper curl of heat hooks into you, pulling you toward him, letting your hands rest on his broad shoulders.

"--what ever are we gonna do about your delicate condition?" You pick up where you left off, cocking you head to the side at the same time that you lift a deft hand to cup his jaw, petting along it's sharp cut, "what ever am I gonna do about it?" You think out loud, correcting yourself.

Sebastian let's out a shuddering exhale.

"No thoughts?" You tease, gripping his cleft chin insistently. Not tightly, but firm.

"N-no," he concludes, even though you can feel him squirming underneath you, hardly reining himself in from grinding up against you. He wants something. But he's not going to ask for it, he likes it better when you decide what to do with him anyway.

"Hmm," you take a moment to really think, still struck by how attractive he is. Even gym-sweaty and a little gross--especially gym-sweaty. It's a good fucking look.

Inspiration strikes.

You let your hands fall from his face, relishing inside at the soft sound he makes, so weak for your touch, and instead blaze a path down his throat to his collarbones that wing out into his shoulders, down his arms, then back up.

"I ever tell you how handsome you are?" You look up from where your fingertips catch on his shirt sleeves.

Immediately, the bridge of Seb's nose is red, back to that post-gym glow and then some. Underneath you, his strong thighs tense, reacting viscerally to the praise. Enjoying.

You huff something of a laugh. He's just so precious. "Is that a no?" Your hands keep moving in parallel with your lips, exploring him all over again; he's spread out just for you, so you might as well. Jesus. You can't resist squeezing his arms as you scoot higher on his lap, really pressing your hips together as you feel him up, his muscles still pumped and hard after use. "'Cause you are, you're gorgeous," the words come out rougher around the edges than you mean, something snapping, arousal igniting from sparks to a smolder.

As red as he already was, his color flushes darker, eyes darting away. Shy.

"You're so fucking handsome, so pretty," you bring your squeezing hands up, pressing into his muscle enough to make the ache in them resurface as you take ahold of his shoulders.

Another noise bubbles up from Sebastian's chest, both a reaction to the words and to the sensation. He's always enjoyed pleasure with an edge--if not a soft, throbbing ache than outright pain. Sharp and overwhelming, stealing his breath, leaving him without the ability to focus on anything but how good it feels. How much it hurts. How hot and irresistible it is. Between lapping waves, pulses, of heat low inside you, you feel Sebastian getting hotter, too. Parallel. His dick twitches beneath you.

You feel wicked.

You haven't even done anything yet! Just told him the truth. And it makes you dangerous, knowing so much truth and being unafraid to say it to him. To pull each reaction, so sensitive, out of him without mercy.

"I can't believe it sometimes, y'know, honey?" You slip your hands down his back, hot between the wall and his shapely trapezius muscles, his well-sculpted shoulder blades, the line of his spine, and farther. The smoothed muscles of his back, sides, and chest m strain as his lungs expand, sucking in air, feeding the fiery combustion you know is thriving in his gut.

You reach the small of his back and push into the curve of his spine until he arches with you, falling against your chest. His lips brush your chest just below your collarbone, high above your breasts, but you feel your nipples tighten anyway.

"Yeahh," you sigh, letting your head fall back with the weight of your skull, "'s unbelievable."

His humid breath soaks through your clothes, nuzzling into you. God, you wish you fucking took your clothes off before you got into his lap because, Jesus Christ, how are you going to leave now? Your hips buck down against the line of his erection, and your hands dig into his sore muscles harder.

"Oh!" He exclaims in a sharp exhale.

Just for that, heated, you roll your hips more intentionally against him. Just a few times. You know you both have the same thoughts crowding your minds, dirty--the last time you did something like this. Except, last time, his arms were spread, wrists tied back to the headboard, back to the sturdy frame, sitting up with you in his lap, bouncing, your tits in his face, in his mouth, his wet tongue and soft lips and sharp teeth, his sweet sounds muffled as you took pleasure from him. His cock deep inside you, curved and thick.

Now, easily, he curls forward to give you space to touch him. Eagerly wilting or blooming, you can't say, too distracted. Either way, he surrenders so beautifully.

"I look at you, and, mmhh," you clench your thighs around his waist, tight, when he kisses the hollow of your throat lushly, almost panting into what he can reach of your skin, "I-I'm pretty sure I'm losing my goddamn mind because nobody just looks like that."

Speaking of, you already miss his stupidly attractive face, and so, without hesitation, your fingers thread themselves into his thick, wavy hair and peel him off of you, your heat fuzing you together. He goes with a silent moan, mouth hanging open.

"Yeah, look at that face," you tell him, tipping your head down to stare openly, directly, hungrily, tugging at his hair. The way his eyelids droop heavily, shadowing his darkened eyes, is wildly attractive, lulled so effectively by the praise and light pain. Not even pain, just sting. Again, you've not done anything. Barely anything, yet...

Oof.

Here he is, drunk on it.

Yet another hit of electricity strikes you, leaving you rocking in his lap, grinding minutely against him, as slow as the ache inside you can take. The smoldering embers start to crackle. Fanned and growing.

"Fuck believing it," you purr at him, now dragging your nails against his scalp so he shivers with the tingling, teasing sensation, the sting much stronger now, "I can't take it," your other hand smooths down his chest, feeling the well-earning, hard muscles. "It's not good for me, Seb. You have too much pretty, baby." He makes a wanton sound that embarrasses him more, judging by the way he quivers and lets go of another helpless, punched-out gasp.

As a reward, you circle one of his nipples with your thumb. He shivers harder. Pleasured and teased. Then, worse, you grind harder, your insides knotting up. Tightening. You can feel the sticky wetness of your arousal really beginning to dampen your panties. You're both going to need a shower after this.

"I don't know how we get anything done," you sigh," letting go of his hair to massage his chest muscles, just this side of harsh, you want him to feel the tender ache.

A murmur of your name falls from his open lips after he licks them, leaving them shiny and too alluring. The desire to sit on his face rises inside you so intensely it's fucking violent. You want.

Fuck.

Flames crackle and dance through your body. Hot. Deep. Echoing and making you feel the heat again and again.

"Doesn't matter what you're wearing, what you're doing. But, ugh, God, when you're in pre-production mode," indulging yourself, you wriggle, restless with the erotic images flashing through your mind's eye, "working out and--" a sighing, hot noise falls out of you, letting the rest of your sentence fall away, distracted again. Reminded of how he looks right now. Today. Underneath you. "You look like a statue, you know that?"

He peeks up at you through his lashes, biting his bottom lip and, fuck, what're you supposed to do but go for blood? As much as you want him to believe every word, there's something about the shyness, too... that big-eyed, unsure, but oh-so trusting stare. It's like a dagger of erotism straight through the heart. A deadly weapon, you swear, those eyes, cutting you open and filling you with molten desire.

Fingers teasing his nipples, circling, rubbing, pinching you let his breathless sounds underscore more praise, "you look like you belong in a museum with a special plaque, just for you, begging people to mind their manners and not touch."

"I don't--" he half-chokes, half-wines.

"You do," you insistently flick one of his nipples, showing your teeth when he really, actually whines. "It's not their fault, though, Seb. Is it?"

Obediently, he shakes his head just once. Hard. Barely able to look away from you for a moment, even if it's just to answer you.

"One look at you, and they forget themselves, don't they?" You kiss his high, sharp cheekbone, relishing in his blushing, feverish heat. "They just want a piece of you. They'd touch and grope and eat you up if they could. I mean, fuck, just look at yourself, baby--"

He looks down. You know all he sees is your hands on him, you in his lap, you don't mind. Still, you coo at him, "good boy." If for nothing else than to feel his heart beat wildly against your palms feeling up, groping, massaging his chest. His heart working hard to surge lust-thick blood to his cock. He must be aching worse than you are. All you can think about is how wet you're getting, how tight your chest feels, how much you want to touch yourself and, goddamnit, you know what-?

Arching your back--growing hotter with his hoarse groan of desire, his gaze heavy on your tits--you manage to tear a hand off of Sebastian's body. Instead of him, you put it on yourself, sliding your fingers down, down, down from under your boobs to your stomach and lower. Caressing yourself.

Sebastian's breathing speeds up, his eyes locked onto your every move. Fervently watching despite the fact that you're fully clothed. The attention is heady.

Finally, arriving at your destination--slowly, teasingly, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of the fabric entrapping you, seperating your bodies so thinly and yet so devastatingly, too. So close. So far.

Under your shorts and panties, you can really fucking feel how hot you are for this. For him. So aroused it's humid. Sticky, wet heat. You feel it, and Sebastian hears it--the second you start to touch yourself, the lewd sounds announce it. Both the tempting noises of your fingers sliding down your pulsing, swollen slit, finding where you're soaked to bring the slickness up and rub tight circles around your clit, electric, lush, and the ripped-out noise of a moan.

Oh, God.

Your fingers tease yourself, touch yourself, and press against your clit, stealing your own breath from your lungs. Rather than clenching your thighs around his solid waist, you let your legs spread wide, easing a gratifying, punched-out moan from Seb.

Your breath catches as you think of what it'd be like if were naked right now, he'd see everything, the rhythm of your fingers as you pleasure yourself, the sight of your pussy, wet and hot and plump, aching for him, so ready. Without clothes, you could spread yourself wider, too. Show him more. Then, it'd be so easy for him to slide into you, too. It'd feel so good. Thick and, "mmmmguh," you moan, wordless. Pressing harder, grinding against your hand more than you grind down against him, pleasure ramping up.

Sebastian has started to pant harshly, interrupted by stuttered starts and stops of words. Probable begs to be allowed to touch you inside or choked-off wishes to fuck you. Feel you around him--his fingers, his cock, anything.

Anything.

Abruptly, too horny to stau put together, you think about his abs. Yeah. The way his abdomen goes taut and hard with the jerk of his hips, muscles flexing, and then your thoughts spiral further. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking about being wet and slipping and sliding, grinding against his stomach, above his cock, taking pleasure but giving nothing to him. Relishing in how he arches and pleads under you, pushing into you--folding against you. He doesn't get anything while you get everything. Controlling him. Gorgeous and strong and all. Leaving him so hard and engorged, the veins in his cock emboldened, the throb of his pulse when you finally take him inside of you, clenching, moaning through your gritted teeth, feeling it as he fucks you, pushing back, taking more of it, taking it--

Your eyes open, only now aware they were shut in the first place. Now could you? You just have to look at him.

You're so hungry you can't resist sliding your fingers down and pressing one, then two inside yourself. Quick. You're so wet. Soaked. Fingering yourself faster, you cry out, bucking against your own hand to catch the heel of it, needing pressure on your clit as the heat of your orgasm builds deep inside you. Tight. Hot. Pleasure knotting up deep inside you and making more wetness drip out of you. Your panties might as well be ruined. You don't care; you want it even while your thighs quiver.

"Seb!" You moan, squirming as he stares, eyes glued between your legs, watching you as if you are naked, so seduced by how you've put yourself on display, unable to stop the show now that you're so far in, so deeply effected by him, his pretty face and unreal body. Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian, your mind reels. "L-look at me," you gasp, as much of an order as you can manage when you're so close.

He does.

You moan.

"Th-that's it, sweetheart," he couldn't blush harder if he tried, "that's it, lemme see all that face, oh, oh God," your nails bite into his hip, needing something, anything to hold onto as it builds up, it builds, and builds, it's coming! Coming--breaking.

Breaking.

Tripping over his name and falling into more praise, "guh-god, you're so fucking pretty, I, mmmgh, I, fucking, fuck, I can't stand it. You're so hot. Jesus, Seb, do you know what you do to me? L-look at me and wh-what you do to, to me, oh, Seb!"

You orgasm wetly. Loudly. Wailing through gritted teeth. Body shuddering--shattering in clenching waves.

Ohh.

The look on Sebastian's face when you finally manage to rip your eyes open again--the overwhelming sensations slowly fading despite your chest still heaving from your release--is devastating. He looks drunk. Dumbfounded. Stupid in the best way.

All over again, you quiver. That expression, so thick with lust, dives down, hitting you straight between the legs--combining, deadly, with the sensitive last dregs of your orgasm, leaving your toes curling.

It's so goddamn arresting that all you can do is steal your hand from between your legs, fingers glistening, sticky wetness dripping down your palm toward your wrist, and hold it out toward him.

An offering.

One that he takes sweetly, mouth is hot and wet, velvety, around your fingers. Sucking. Licking. Groaning at your taste, swallowing, and taking it deep into him.

Breathy, you ask, "are you recovered enough to join me in the shower?"

As you tease with your words, you can't be bothered to be coy any other way, so you shove your fingers deeper into his lush mouth. He doesn't choke, but his eyes water regardless. And the sound that comes out of him, muffled and broken, might've been a sob.

Aw.

You can't resist when he cries, pleading and worked up so hard. Guh.

If you made it to the end, thanks for reading, lmao 😘

[ridiasfangirlings]

Title: Windows

Fandom: K Project

External: AO3

Pairings: Sarumi

Ratings/Warnings: T

Summary: Between them there was a window, and Fushimi would never reach through it on his own. Not yet, at least.

Notes: I wanted to get something written for Resurrection Fest, so have a little fic.

Frost curled along the edges of the window and Fushimi couldn’t quite see his reflection.

His breath came out in small clouds that hung in the air, snow settling on his shoulders, on the sleeves of his coat, and his cheeks were red. His fingers were frozen to the tips, no mittens—he’d lost them, maybe, or ‘that man’ had hidden them somewhere out of reach, it all came out the same in the end. The sky was a soft wave of navy, the stars just coming out and a hint of the moon above, covered by the clouds of winter. Around him people walked, flashes of brightly colored coats that blurred in the hazy surface of the window, and he couldn’t make out their faces. Unimpressive people talking about unimportant things, and no one stopped to ask what a six year old boy was doing out at this hour all alone in the middle of the city.

“We’re going Christmas shopping!” That man had proclaimed it proudly as he stepped into the house like a whirlwind, grabbing Fushimi by the wrist and eagerly dragging him out the door. Fushimi had barely managed to grab his coat and he didn’t doubt that Niki would have taken him outside barefoot if he hadn’t left a spare pair of shoes so close to the door.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, really. Maybe that Niki would shove him face first in the snow and laugh that he’d made a snow monkey, or wrapping Fushimi up in Christmas lights and putting a star on his head while singing about the Christmas Monkey Tree. It wasn’t particularly a surprise when he’d suddenly realized that he was in the middle of the city Christmas market and no one was holding his hand. Niki had likely already gone home to set some traps and was waiting to see if his son could navigate the way back all alone.

Fushimi didn’t want to go back.

He breathed warm air onto the window, letting it melt a clear circle through the frost. He touched it with a finger, scowling at the feeling of cold and wet, and traced the hazy line of his own reflection. Beneath his glasses he thought maybe he could see that man’s face and he lowered his head to let his chin dip into the collar of his coat. The snowflakes melted on his glasses and made spots in his vision. In the half light there was a reflection he didn’t want to see and he tried to look past it, through the glass where he didn’t have to meet his own eyes.

There were warm colored lights bobbing happily on the other side of the window. The frost made it hard to see anything but he could make out figures moving inside and the faintest hint of a Christmas carol being sung. There was one shadow smaller than the others, a figure shaped like a child, and another figure who placed a soft hand on the child’s shoulder. It was late so maybe they’d been out shopping, like a normal family. Maybe they’d held hands as they walked through the market, maybe the child had picked out a toy and they’d walked side by side on the way back home, and prepared a warm dinner for a frigid night.

Fushimi didn’t want to go back.

Someone shifted on the other side of the window, moving towards him, and Fushimi lowered his eyes and walked away. His fingers were red at the tips and he clicked his tongue quietly.

There was no point in looking at things he wouldn’t be able to grasp, and it was stupid to even bother.

--

The subway was nearly empty now, so late the evening after Christmas. All but the most dedicated of salarymen were still on vacation after all, sleeping off the holiday. For Fushimi, that was good. It meant no one even looked up as he stepped on the train and he was able to weave his way through the minimal crowd to find himself a lonely car and a seat by the window. As soon as he was alone Fushimi pulled the PDA from his pocket and opened up the jungle app.

His old jungle account was still active, as he had been promised so long ago, and the green light reflected in his eyes. A previous passenger had cracked open the window behind him and cold wind danced around his face, biting at his cheeks as he scrolled through the mission list. He was cold, but didn’t feel like moving to close the window.

There were plenty of likely missions, even today. Especially today, all things considered. From Hisui Nagare’s point of view Fushimi supposed it must be even more like a holiday. A birthday, of sorts. The mission Fushimi had chosen for his first had a large amount of available points and no takers, he only needed to make his way across town first to complete it in the dead of night.

Fushimi leaned his head back against the seat, mind working. Everyone started at E rank. He had two months – no, probably a month, maybe not even that – to reach J rank. If he failed, everything failed. If he succeeded...well, he probably wouldn’t live to see that either way. Fushimi smiled thinly as the train lurched to life, setting the PDA face down against the seat cushions. There wasn’t a point in thinking about that right now.

The subway moved into a tunnel and the window across from him showed his reflection against the darkness of the tunnel outside. He looked worn thin already, skin bone-white, back hunched, shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Scepter 4 besides a couple bars of Caloriemate and multiple cans of coffee, and the caffeine was the only thing keeping him awake and alert at this point. It was enough.

He ran a hand through his hair and watched the reflection in the window do the same. This would be his first mission for jungle. In a way it was more the beginning of the mission than even leaving Scepter 4 had been. He couldn’t turn back after this and he would have nowhere to run if things got bad. There would be no hero to save him.

(Not that he expected one, because Fushimi had never believed in heroes.)

(“Come chase me.”)

“Stupid.” Fushimi spat the word out low through gritted teeth. He didn’t expect Misaki to understand the import of those words – he didn’t even entirely understand them himself, why he’d bothered to say them. Why he hadn’t just disappeared into the night like smoke and let Yata draw his own conclusions when Scepter 4 inevitably broke the news of his betrayal to their erstwhile ‘comrades.’ Yata would yell and bluster like always and there would be no worrying about the final words that had been thrown his way, that had not been meant as a request or plea. Yata wouldn’t stop for a single breath to consider those words and to wonder what they had meant, to try and understand. Yata had long since stopped trying to do that, after all.

(Wasn’t that why he’d left the first time anyway, another long drive away from the place that had once been home, and that was when he’d learned never to be so weak as to think of any place as being ‘home’ ever again.)

The reflection in the window wavered, rippling like water. Fushimi’s vision felt blurry as he stared at it, trying to focus on the other side of the window that he couldn’t reach, the pane of glass between him and the world. In that image there was a person beside him, head against his shoulder, lightly asleep. Red hair fell against a tanned forehead, earbud falling out of one ear. They were two, in rumpled school uniforms, tired from a long day of walking to nowhere, talking about anything. Yata always fell asleep first even though he said he wasn’t tired, eyes drooping despite the noise of the train around them. Yata who would press his face against Fushimi’s shoulder, mouth slightly open, breathing softly.

And Fushimi there, unmoving. The reflection sat stock-still, as if afraid to move, as if a single twitch would break the spell, and Yata would wake and run away. A reflection of a memory, of a habit that had once been easy as breathing – side by side on the train on a winter night, a single frozen moment captured in the cage of the window, of a time Fushimi had once dared to wish would go on forever.

The image flickered and died as the train exited the tunnel and the bright lights of the city sliced through the reflection in the window, and Yata wasn’t there anymore.

Once again, only Fushimi staring at his own reflection, once again alone.

Fushimi’s PDA buzzed and he started slightly, shaken as if from a dream. Even as his fingers fumbled for it he looked to one side, as if he could still see the phantom of that reflection there in the flesh, as if he had somehow managed in that space between breaths to reach through the window and pull back the past that had long slipped from his grip. Dimly he remembered standing in the rain reaching for a sword and the hand he’d seen for only just a moment reaching beside him at the same time.

The memory made his expression twist and Fushimi deliberately let it fall from his mind as he opened his PDA and read the updated mission report sent from jungle. This was the important thing, the mission. He had a job to do, he had a use that he had to fulfill. Dreaming about the past was pointless, reaching for things beyond the glass was pointless.

He bought another can of coffee as soon as he left the train and drank it all in a single gulp, even though it made his throat feel tight and his chest ache. It was enough to wake him up anyway, and he headed out into the snow to complete his mission.

---

“Misaki, stay where I can see you!”

“Right, mom!” Yata responded in the affirmative but didn’t particularly slow his pace as he wandered around the shrine. His mom was busy keeping an eye on his siblings anyway, holding Megumi tightly by the hand so she didn’t wander off in her small kimono. His parents and siblings had dressed up for the first shrine visit of the year but Yata had decided not to, wearing a hoodie and sneakers instead. Dressing up was really for kids when you thought about it, kids and old people, and he was more of a grown up but not that grown up. Anyway, if they were going to be walking a lot wearing his sneakers just made sense, didn’t it?

Yata sighed and blew out a puff of breath, pretending to be a smoke dragon in the cold air. New Year’s wasn’t too bad – he’d gotten some money, so he and Saruhiko could go to the arcade the next time they had a chance, and he could buy his own snacks too. He still felt on edge though and a little gloomy, unlike himself. It was just that this time of year was always so heavy on family and it always made him feel a little like everything going on was for people besides him.

Yata glanced back at his mother, who smiled at him in a distracted way as she straightened Megumi’s clothes. Minoru was with Yata’s stepdad, pointing at one of the statues by the shrine steps and chatting about something Yata couldn’t hear. Neither of his parents seemed likely to move any time soon so Yata kept walking, hands in pockets, wandering inside the nearest shrine building. There were a few people inside, talking quietly and lighting some kind of incense that made Yata’s nose tickle. He couldn’t swallow a sneeze and took a few steps back as the adults turned to glare at him.

Anyone’s allowed in here, I can be here too, he thought peevishly. Even so Yata backed his way over to the wall, staring out the large circular window. The shrine was overlooking the stairs they had walked up earlier and Yata stared down at all the people going by below him, most dressed in traditional clothes and making their way from shrine to shrine.

Somehow that just made his melancholy sit deeper. All those families wandering together in a sea of bright colors below him, all belonging. Yata wondered if maybe he should have agreed to dress up after all.

Something caught his eye and Yata stood up straighter as he spotted a single slim figure walking alone, a lone shadow in that bright crowd, head down and even without being able to see it clearly Yata could guess at the gloomy expression that must be on that person’s face. He glanced briefly back at the adults behind him and then gave a quiet ‘okay!’ as he placed a hand on the lower curve of the window and in a single jump hoisted himself right through.

“Misaki!” He was pretty sure he heard his mother yell his name again but Yata ignored it, dashing down the shrine steps as fast as he could go. Multiple people climbing the stairs glared at him as he pushed his way by but Yata didn’t mind them, not when he had a more important goal.

A few steps from the bottom his unlaced shoes finally betrayed him and Yata tumbled down, landing roughly right at the feet of the exact person he’d be running so hard to catch up to.

“Saruhiko!” Yata ignored the stinging of his skinned knee as he sat up. Fushimi stared flatly back at him, as if Yata was a magician who had failed spectacularly on his last trick.

“Misaki.”

“What are you doing here? My mom made us visit a shrine for the new year. Well, I’m not very interested in that kind of thing, but Minoru and Megumi like it, you know? And we’re going to have yakisoba later too at home. It’s been really boring though, I haven’t seen you since the holiday and you barely answer your PDA.” Yata laughed nervously as he got to his feet, aware that his mouth was getting away from him. Fushimi shrugged languidly.

“I haven’t had time to check my messages.” There was something beneath Fushimi’s tone that Yata couldn’t entirely place but recognized nonetheless– a dark thing that was so often lurking beneath the still waters of Fushimi’ s gaze, and whenever Yata tried to grasp it he felt like he was approaching something dangerous and predatory.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Yata grinned at him. “Anyway, were you visiting the shrine?” The words had just slipped out of his mouth when he noticed it, the backpack on Saruhiko’s back.

“That is…” Fushimi looked away, somewhat awkward. “An internet cafe—”

“Right.” Yata let that sink in, and then shook it off like a duck shaking off water. “Anyway, if you’re not doing anything then come with us! Mom’ll definitely have plenty of yakisoba, I’ll bet we’d have extra without you and anyway! You barely eat anything as it is, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Sure it’ll be fine,” Fushimi repeated with a snort. “You haven’t even asked her.”

“Trust me, okay? I’m great at negotiating, Mom will definitely be convinced if I ask!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue again but didn’t seem like he was opposed to Yata trying, so Yata smiled and waved a hand at him.

“Come on! We’ll go ask.”

“Misaki…”

“Hmm?” Yata glanced back at Fushimi, who was looking up at the shrine with an inscrutable expression.

“Your parents are up there, but you came running down this quickly?”

“Well...I saw you through the window.” Yata laughed sheepishly. “I kinda...jumped out?”

“Idiot.” Fushimi shook his head but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips and Yata brightened immediately, reaching for Fushimi’s hand.

“It’s fine! I had to catch you, right? So let’s go!”

--

There was a gray haze settling over the city as Yata lazily propelled his skateboard down the street, moving slowly to avoid running into any of the crowds still milling about.

It was the new year, and despite the poor weather and late time there were still people wandering around near the shrines, making their new year’s wishes and celebrating in small groups. Yata found himself idly staring at the people as he passed and then quickly looked down at his feet, moving slightly faster as he made his way towards Bar Homra.

It had been a week now, since anyone had heard from Saruhiko.

Yata was trying not to be worried. Why should he be? Saruhiko wasn’t his friend anymore, wasn’t his comrade. He was Scepter 4’s problem now and beyond the tentative alliance between the clans there was really no need for Yata to be concerned about where he went or what he did.

Even so it was hard not to think about it. A whole week, and not a single sign of him. Yata knew better than anyone else that Saruhiko had nowhere else to go if he wasn’t at Scepter 4. He definitely wouldn’t have gone back ‘home’-- not that that place had ever been a home, and Yata dimly recalled Fushimi having mentioned once when they were still roommates that his old place had been sold anyway – and if he wasn’t with any of his coworkers there really wasn’t anyone else he could call on.

(He could have called me, and Yata couldn’t stop thinking about it. If Fushimi had called, would he have answered? Had he missed that last small window before things broke apart completely and he didn’t even realize it until it was too late?)

He slowed his skateboard as a group of revelers came down the steep steps of the shrine, standing awkwardly to one side as they passed. They were chatting quietly, smiling and discussing new year’s wishes, and Yata felt another pang in his chest. His fingers brushed against the face of his watch and he didn’t need to look to know that there hadn’t been a single answer to the messages he’d sent days ago.

‘Making a wish at New Year’s, that can’t hurt at all you know.’ A voice in his head that sounded distinctly like Totsuka whispered, and Yata found himself picking up his skateboard and walking towards the temple. A few people glanced at him as he passed – most of the people here were dressed traditionally, as opposed to Yata’s hoodie and sneakers, and he was carrying around a skateboard – and Yata ignored them. A group of kids had circled around a man selling charms and several girls were eagerly exchanging fortunes, and Yata carefully stepped past them towards the shrine itself. There weren’t as may people here but he still felt out of place, as if everyone here had more of a right to be making wishes than he did – it wasn’t like Yata had really believed in this stuff, not in a long time. He’d made wishes and bought fortunes with everyone else when Totsuka took all of Homra out to the shrines on New Year’s, but he’d always just seen it as going through the motions, not something you took seriously. But now, standing here with a sincere wish, Yata felt like an imposter who had slipped inside when no one was looking. He leaned against one of the open circular windows instead, taking a deep breath of cold evening air, and wondered if he should just get going back to the bar the way he was supposed to be. His eyes swept the crowd outside, noting the way it had just started to snow again.

As his eyes rested momentarily on the girls and their fortunes Yata spotted the briefest flash of green.

Something about it made him stop, his breath catching, and he was about to lean out the window before he checked himself.

What are you even doing, stupid? Yata didn’t know why he’d frozen, what it was he thought he’d seen. It couldn’t have been who he thought it was. Did Saruhiko even own anything green?

(A memory, bubbling up from the depths of his mind:

“You can’t buy that one, Saruhiko! It’s green!”

A tongue click, familiar annoyance.

“I didn’t know you were a fashion critic now, Misaki.”

“W-well, no, but...shouldn’t it be red?” Not like Yata didn’t have other colors in his wardrobe too, but he’d

started having the vague feeling that, as a member of the Red clan, he should be wearing more red. Saruhiko didn’t seem to agree, face twisting in displeasure, a look that suddenly reminded Yata of the expression Fushimi had made when Yata had shown him the new Homra logo he’d placed on his skateboard.

“I’m buying this one.”

“Okay, okay, maybe it’s fine if it’s green – but why the fuck is there fur on it?”

“It’s warm, Misaki. Not all of us are hot-blooded idiots who don’t need to wear coats even in the winter.”

“It’s girly.”

“I’m not buying it for you.” On the contrary, Yata was pretty sure Saruhiko had bought it just to annoy him, because Yata had made a comment about the color, especially when Fushimi insisted on wearing it the next time they went out with the rest of Homra, Fushimi in his stupid green coat standing apart from everyone else.)

Had it been that coat? It was late. His eyes could have been playing tricks on him, making him see things in the fog that weren’t really there. And even if it had been Saruhiko it was too late anyway – what was he supposed to do, jump through the window and chase him down?

(You did, once.)

Saruhiko didn’t want to see him anyway. Fushimi hadn’t answered a single call or text that Yata had sent his way. Even if Yata had run after him, what would he have said? Would Fushimi have even listened? That guy never listened to anything he didn’t want to hear, Yata knew that better than anyone.

Even so, there was a tightness in his chest as Yata turned back towards the shrine, swallowing down a wish, and hoping that half-seen flash of green wouldn’t haunt him later.

--

Fushimi walked slowly through the back alleys, hands stuffed in his pockets. His stomach grumbled and he ignored it, clicking his tongue quietly.

His PDA vibrated softly, making him aware of a new message, and he pulled it out to check. Misaki, as expected.

[You’re late, Saruhiko! Kamamoto’s gonna eat everything if you don’t get here soon, so hurry up!]

Fushimi clicked his tongue again, scowling. As if he wanted to go eat with everyone anyway.

He hadn’t gone on the mission with the rest. Instead Kusanagi had asked him to go talk to a supplier across town, someone who handled deliveries for one of Kusanagi’s many businesses. There were things happening with a rival gang and Kusanagi didn’t feel comfortable leaving Yata and company to it alone — and Fushimi wouldn’t have either, though he didn’t really want to go with them himself — so he’d asked Fushimi to meet with the supplier instead. By the time Fushimi had returned to the bar it was empty, a note on the counter for him and his phone buzzing with missed messages from Misaki.

[Kusanagi-san said he’d treat us all to hot pot for kicking those guys asses! Mikoto-san is coming too, so hurry up and get over here, Saruhiko]

[Hey, did you see my message? We’re gonna eat without you, are you coming?]

[Kusanagi-san said he left the address for you at the bar. You’re gonna miss all the fun! You better not be hiding at home again]

Stupid. Fushimi grimaced and stuffed the PDA back in his pocket. Like he wanted to spend time with all those idiots anyway. And he doubted they wanted to spend any time with him, for that matter — he was the only one who’d been singled out not to go on the mission, after all. Kusanagi had said something about Fushimi being a ‘trustworthy kid’ but who knew what he was insinuating with that. That he could only trust Fushimi with numbers, maybe, or to work on his own instead of with the group.

And that was fine, being on his own. He’d always been able to do things on his own. It was stupid Misaki who kept waving his pride around and yelling ‘everyone, everyone,’ saying pointless things about spending time with their ‘comrades.’

Misaki’s comrades, maybe. Not Fushimi’s.

The streets got lighter as he stepped out into a busier area of the city. Small shops and family restaurants lined the street and pedestrians moved busily from one shop to another. The streetlights were lit brightly and it gave the entire scene something of a cheery feel, which made Fushimi’s head pound more than anything. His eyes scanned the street signs, looking for his destination.

Ultimately he found the restaurant fairly easily. It was even more brightly lit than the streets around it and there was a huge picture window right in the front. From where he stood in the shadows of a lamppost Fushimi could see that Homra had taken the spot right by the window — of course they had — and Yata was sitting right there in the middle, talking with his mouth full as he put Kamamoto in a headlock. Totsuka was laughing and making calming motions with his hands while Kusanagi had a slightly exasperated look. Mikoto was leaning against the window, eyes half closed, but when Anna beside him held out a piece of meat he opened his mouth to take it.

The whole thing looked warm and cozy, a large group having fun. It made Fushimi want to be sick. 

His eyes slid over to Yata again, who had finally sat back down and was picking at a piece of meat. His eyes were down, focused on his food, and Fushimi found himself taking a step closer towards the circle of light made on the street by the lamp beside him.

Misaki. Look at me.

It was a ridiculous thought and he was annoyed at himself for wanting it. Even so he found himself waiting, as if Misaki would look up any moment and their eyes would meet, and he’d hurry outside to meet Fushimi.

Look at me.

Yata shifted, chewing on a piece of meat, and then raised his head. Fushimi froze, a hand reaching out despite himself, and then Yata smiled and looked over at Mikoto.

It was like a shock of cold water over his head and Fushimi bit his lip as he turned on his heel and walked back into the darkened alley he had just come from.

He wasn’t hungry anyway. 

— 

Fushimi stared down at his PDA as he continued to nurse his single cup of water. In the reflection of the big picture window in front of him he could see a waitress pass by, giving him a frigid glare, and he clicked his tongue quietly. He would have ordered something but everything on the menu had looked entirely unappetizing. Of course it would be like Hirasaka to ask to meet at one of the fanciest diners in Shizume City. Fushimi expected he would be paying for her meal and chalked it down to just another one of the necessary expenses of the mission. 

He opened his jungle account and checked his point balance again. He was N rank now, but with the points Hirasaka was meeting him to deliver he would be U. By his calculations he would be J before too long, and then the mission would really start.

One of the waitresses sighed pointedly behind him and Fushimi didn’t bother to turn and look at her. Instead he glanced idly out the window, stuffing his PDA in his pocket and taking another slow sip of his water. The diner was three floors up on a high rise and surrounded by windows on all side, to give a full view of the city below. Fushimi had taken a spot by one of the windows, a small table for two, and he wondered if the waitresses were taking him for a jilted boyfriend. The thought made him snort. In any case Hirasaka wasn’t late yet — ‘time is money,’ is what she would likely say if he asked, and she never arrived anything but strictly on time. It was Fushimi who was early, taking a moment to finally rest his aching body and sit down.

He felt sore all over and strained thin. So far he’d mostly managed to find places to sleep for the night, mainly cheap hotels and internet cafes (the latter would be easier and certainly cheaper than the former, but the first night he’d found himself staying at one it had been hard to breathe and harder to sleep, choked by memories of an empty house and the person who had once promised him that he didn’t need that kind of home). His knife harness had started digging into his shoulders of late and he knew he’d have scars there eventually but Fushimi  couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t stupid enough to take it off even to sleep, not when he was a traitor in unfamiliar territory, and it wasn’t like a few more scars to what he already had would be a problem.

(And what were scars to a dead man walking anyway?)

One of Fushimi’s hands reached up, sliding under his jacket and resting on his shoulder as he subtly shifted the harness beneath to give some peace to the chafing skin. Once there might have been someone who would have yelled at him about doing such a thing but he was on his own now. Hirasaka wasn’t the type to comment on the condition of the person that was paying her beyond verifying that his body would last long enough for the payment to post and anyway, even if she would have tried he would have responded with something biting about not paying for honesty. Their relationship was transactional and that was how Fushimi liked it best. Simple. Qualitative. No expectations beyond the payment that they had agreed upon and the missions each would complete, and that was all.

Below him Fushimi could see crowds of people on the sidewalks, making their way through the city. Most had their faces buried in their PDAs, and he didn’t doubt that there were countless jungle members among them. Hisui Nagare’s network was vast, thousands of ‘pseudo clansmen,’ who carried just a small piece of the King’s power within them, that could be taken away should they fail in their King’s missions.

(Fushimi’s hand hovered for a moment over his chest with the sudden urge to scratch at that scar that never faded, even now.)

He looked back at his PDA again, opening jungle and looking idly over the mission list. Not seeing anything worth doing for the moment Fushimi switched the view to one he’d discovered himself, a list of all email addresses and names associated with jungle. It had been hidden deep within the files of the app and clearly not intended to be accessible to the public. It had been trivial for Fushimi to uncover though, and the fact that there had been no consequences for doing such a thing was tantamount to Hisui Nagare giving him permission to do so. There was no reason for Hisui to keep the files even accessible from the jungle app otherwise, unless he wanted to see if anyone would seek them out. 

Fushimi remembered a small NPC wandering across his screen, calling his code far too beautiful, and scowled as he scrolled through the list with a thumb. Names flashed by, most useless to him, though there were a few he recognized instantly as lesser government officials and civil servants and he made a mental note to give those to Munakata (assuming either of them ever met again of course, and he laughed darkly to himself). The names scrolled by, hundreds and hundreds of users in the jungle network and then—

Yata. 

Fushimi froze his scrolling and didn’t even realize his breathing had stopped until he read the full name. Yata Minoru.

Of course. Jungle is popular with kids. Fushimi clicked his tongue lightly. It wasn’t any business of his though. Misaki should be the one to deal with his own siblings, it wasn’t Fushimi’s job to bother with them at all.

There was a sudden small explosion below and several diners stood up, yelling. Fushimi didn’t move but looked up, gazing out over the city. There was a man on the streets  below, crouched down and holding out a shaking hand that glowed red. In front of him was a smoking crater in the street.

That had been happening more and more too, as a result of the Slate’s slow awakening. New Strains being born constantly, drawing the attention of the general public to the menace around them that the Golden clan had tried so hard to hide. Fushimi clicked his tongue again. It wasn’t like he’d ever had a particularly high opinion of the Gold King but really, hadn’t that guy put any failsafes at all in place to prevent this kind of thing from happening the moment he croaked?

He was about to look back down at his PDA again — Strains like this were Scepter 4’s job to handle, so if Hirasaka didn’t get here soon he would need to change the meeting place to avoid being seen — when a flash of white caught his eyes. Fushimi found himself staring down at the crowd and at the small figure in a sweatshirt riding a skateboard who had just appeared on the screen and was trying to disperse the crowd. Dimly he was aware that Kamamoto was there as well, crouching down by the newly awakened Strain, but Fushimi’s eyes were fixed only on one person.

Misaki.

No matter how much he didn’t want it he couldn’t stop the way his pulse started to race slightly, a small flush rising on his cheeks. His fingers twitched for a knife — come on, let’s play Misaki — and he swallowed hard, hand moving up to scratch at his chest instead. Yata was right there below him, oblivious, but close enough that if he looked up he could see Fushimi in the window.

Look up.

Not that he needed it. This was a mission, and Yata was just a liability. Being seen now could cause all sorts of problems. It was best if they didn’t see each other ever again, when it came down to it.

Look up at me.

Come chase me.

(Save me.)

“Employer.” Hirasaka’s voice shocked him out of his stupor and Fushimi shook it off like a dog coming out of the water. She was standing calmly behind him, expression locked tight, and he didn’t even want to know what she’d read on his face, what he’d been stupid enough to let show if only for a moment. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Misaki already skateboarding back into the crowd. The PDA in Fushimi’s hand still had the name of Yata Minoru on it, one finger poised above it.

Fushimi clicked his tongue again and sent off a brief message, then blocked the account he’d sent it to from responding. Hirasaka stood there in silence and Fushimi turned away from the window to face her.

“Well? Do you have the points?”

— 

Yata woke to the sounds of pouring rain and static, and a pounding headache.

The lights of the bar were dim, especially with the storm that had flown up outside swallowing up the usual daylight that would normally paint the walls in sunshine. Instead the bar was dull and dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning and the bright spot of the TV playing static in the middle of the bar.

The last Yata remembered he’d left the TV on, playing one of Totsuka’s old videos. It must have reached the end while he slept and Yata groaned slightly as he sat up and went over to the TV. His fingers fumbled around the controller for the VCR and he vaguely recalled Totsuka’s bright voice telling him that this old technology wasn’t so hard to handle once you got used to it.

(“Why can’t you just put these on digital or something…?”

“Hmm….well, there’s something nice about using the old fashioned way, don’t you think?”)

The memory welled up and made him stop for a moment, swallowing hard. Yata quickly wiped a hand across his eyes and waited for the tape to signal it was ready to start over again. He hit ‘play’ and stood there for a moment, watching the screen.

Images of an older time, shortly after he’d joined Homra. Everyone was laughing and Totsuka moved the camera in close, taking in each face. Yata found himself wishing that Totsuka had turned the camera on himself more often — what if Yata forgot his face one day, what if he forgot the warmth that used to be here. What if everyone forgot, and Homra stayed an empty bar forever.

“Saru-kun, wave to the camera!”

The camera swung and focused in on a sour face in glasses, and Yata sucked in a breath between his teeth.

He was aware that most of the guys had left in pairs, when Kusanagi told them that he was going overseas and closing the bar for now. Akagi and Bandou had gone together, talking quietly. Dewa had grabbed Chitose by the wrist, Fujishima had put an arm around Eric and walked off like that. Even Kamamoto was busy watching Anna. 

There was one guy who should have been by Yata’s side now, and he wasn’t.

“Idiot,” Yata huffed quietly. Why was he even thinking about that guy right now? He didn’t need a traitor by his side. Just because Mikoto was — just because Homra was —

The Fushimi onscreen put a hand on the camera lens, pushing it away, and Yata could hear Totsuka’s laugh and his own voice telling Saruhiko to come join the rest of them. He raised a hand and paused the tape, the other hand clenching into a fist. That guy had never listened to anything, really. And now everything was a mess, and Yata was just here alone feeling pathetic wishing for things that had long disappeared.

There was a flash of lightning and for just a moment Yata thought he saw a silhouette in the shadow thrown up against the wall. He turned, glancing out the window, and in the darkness he could almost make out a person standing nearby wearing a blue coat.

“Saruhiko?” He couldn’t stop the longing in his voice and Yata swallowed hard, trying to pull his scattered pieces together. 

Lightning flashed again and there was nothing standing in the darkness, just rain and an empty street. Yata gave a small laugh, pressing a fist against his forehead as he sank back down on the couch. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why did he even think he’d seen anything? And even if he had, what would be the point in going after it? Saruhiko was gone. Maybe not a the way Totsuka was, not the way Mikoto was —

— at least he’s still alive —

Saruhiko had made his choice, and it wasn’t Yata. Chasing after him in the rain, how pathetic would that be. What would that show of Homra’s pride, going after a traitor because he didn’t want to be alone.

Still, Yata found himself sitting up, looking outside and waiting for lightning to illuminate the street again. Maybe if he saw something for sure…

But there was nothing out there, and Yata sank back down on the couch to fall back into a fitful sleep.

—

The sound of splashing accompanied Yata’s steps as he made his way through Shizume’s shopping district, poncho pulled over his head and his skateboard tucked under one arm. The streetlights were reflecting wavy and bright on the wet streets and visibility was too poor for Yata to ride, so he had no choice but to make his way back towards the bar on foot.

Despite the rain the streets were still crowded as people hurried from shop to shop, trying to avoid the weather as they enjoyed the last of the new year deals. The stores and restaurants were brightly lit and as he walked Yata found his eyes drawn again and again to the windows.

It wasn’t like he was looking for anyone in particular. It was just, if that guy was around…

Don’t be an idiot. Yata bit his lip, hands tightening over his skateboard. How long had it been now, since anyone had heard a word from Fushimi? All of Yata’s attempts at calling him had failed, his number either blocked or ignored. Fushimi hadn’t answered any of Yata’s emails either, including the one that he’d sent through the old, long-unused mail app that he wasn’t even sure Fushimi still had on his PDA anymore. Trying that had been a gamble but Yata couldn’t help it — he just needed something. 

Come chase me, that’s what Saruhiko had said before he’d left Mihashira Tower. How was Yata supposed to do that if he couldn’t even find Fushimi? Was it just a parting shot after all, Fushimi leaving behind one last taunt before he disappeared into the darkness forever? 

Yata stared into window after window, looking at diners in restaurants and shoppers busy in stores. There was a hair salon and he ducked his head as a woman getting her hair cut glared at him through the window.

I-I just looked like some weirdo pervert right there, didn’t I? Yata gave a heavy sigh, pulling his hood further over his head and wishing his cheeks didn’t suddenly feel so hot. He needed to get back to Homra anyway, he had some intel to deliver to Kusanagi. Kusanagi might have news too, about Saruhiko….well, it wasn’t likely, because Yata was sure Kusanagi would have emailed him if they’d found anything but still…

Yata looked up again into another window, as if drawn by some unseen force. Fushimi had to be somewhere, right? He wouldn’t have left the city, but that didn’t really narrow it down. It wasn’t like Yata could just keep looking in these windows, and one day their eyes would meet just like—

-- like one day their eyes would just meet and Yata stopped, stared --

—a flash of blue, surprised, meeting his eyes for the briefest of moments and Yata skidded to a stop, almost fell —

“Saruhiko!” It had just been a glance, only that, through the window of what looked to be an electronics shop. Yata moved forward without even thinking, palms flat against the wet glass of the window as his skateboard clattered to the pavement, eyes straining to see past the crowd for the person he knew he’d just seen, if only for a moment. He knew Saruhiko had seen him too, that their eyes had definitely met, Fushimi’s eyes widening for just a breath as he recognized Yata standing there outside.

Door, door… Dimly Yata knew that it was too late already, that he’d paused too long, and it wasn’t like he could just go through the window. Yata paused, taking a deep breath as he bent down to retrieve his skateboard. It was stupid, wasn’t it? He couldn’t catch Fushimi now. Maybe it hadn’t really been Fushimi at all, only another figment of his imagination like that half-seen green coat in the crowd by the shrine.

No. It was Saruhiko. Yata took another steadying breath, staring back through the window. A couple people inside glanced out at him and Yata ignored them, scanning the crowd once again for those blue eyes that he knew far too well.

It was too late. Saruhiko had been here, had definitely been here, but the moment his eyes had met Yata’s he’d fled.

Still. He was alive. He’d been here, with just a window between them, and he was alive.

Yata took another deep breath, steadied himself, and one hand rested on his watch. He would send another message, make another call, and as he started walking back towards the bar Yata kept his eyes on the windows.

---

Fushimi’s fingers clenched against the crisp white fabric of the hospital sheets, eyes staring up at the bright lights on the ceiling that were certainly going to give him a headache as soon as the painkillers wore off. For now though the lights merely made his eyes feel itchy and everything else was vaguely hazy around him. There was an almost pleasant fog in his head and he wasn’t sure if it was entirely from the painkillers or just from the simple fact that he could finally breathe, that after weeks of being constantly on guard he could at last relax. All the pent up adrenaline had finally run out, allowing him to feel the exhaustion that he’d fought back for weeks while continuing his mission. Now at last the mission was over, the danger had passed, and Fushimi was lying there in a hospital bed with a bandage around his thigh and drugs pleasantly pumping their way through his system. 

He hadn’t particularly wanted to go to the hospital but Munakata had insisted, stating that Fushimi’s wound needed to be looked at and that Scepter 4’s own infirmary was likely to be insufficient. Fushimi suspected that the second half of that statement at least was a lie and that this was more Munakata’s way of insuring that Fushimi got some proper rest and didn’t try to immediately go back to his old duties. He hadn’t been allowed a laptop and his Scepter 4 PDA, the one he’d left behind at headquarters and traded for a burner to use his jungle account on, was likely still in his room where he had left it that cold Christmas Eve night. Without his electronics he felt restless and bored but Munakata had been firm about not allowing either, and had brought him a small puzzle from the gift shop instead that Fushimi had promptly dropped on the floor. 

At least he’d gotten a room by the window, to allow a bit of sunshine in to paint the walls of the sterile room. Normally Fushimi wasn’t one for sunshine, preferring the artificial lights of the indoors, but after so many days wandering in the darkness of jungle’s underground headquarters being able to see the sun was like a breath of fresh air after drowning.

There was a light tapping at the window — tree branches scraping against the glass, probably, and Fushimi rolled his head slightly towards it. There was a fuzzy silhouette on the other side of the window and he reached for his glasses as the tapping sound was repeated, more insistently this time. Fushimi slipped his glasses on and the figure waiting outside the window came into sharp focus.

That’s...Fushimi paused, tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep, but the sight outside was so patently ridiculous that he couldn’t help but lean close and pull the window open.

“What are you doing, Misaki?” The words were slightly slurred, not as sharp as he would have liked, and Fushimi quietly cursed the painkillers that he’d been enjoying so much just a moment prior.

“Shh, just let me in, okay?” Of course it was Misaki, because only Misaki would be stupid enough to climb a tree next to a hospital and sit there in the branches looking like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You do realize that this hospital has a front door, Misaki?” Fushimi responded, flatly unimpressed and not moving an inch to let Yata inside.

“I know that!” Yata sputtered and almost lost his balance, grabbing a tree limb for support. “The lady at the desk wouldn’t tell me which room you were in, she said it was some kind of privacy thing? But then I saw you in the window and this tree didn’t seem too hard to climb, so…”

“The Captain left people all over the first floor. You could have just asked one of them, idiot.” Vaguely he was aware that this was too easy, far too easy — they had barely talked, and he was already falling back into the old habits, into that comfortable back and forth with Misaki under the shining leaves, as if no time at all had passed, as if he hadn’t shattered everything between them. 

“W-well, yeah, but I didn’t recognize any of those guys, so I didn���t think they’d let a member of Homra…”

“Aren’t we in an alliance?” Fushimi snorted, lip curling slightly. Yata didn’t seem to notice or mind though, simply shrugging in reply.

“I figured those guys might not tell me, and since I saw you here I could just come up by myself.”

“You’re lucky security hasn’t seen you and thrown you out already. Should I call a nurse right now, Misaki? Tell them that an annoying bird is outside my window.”

“Come on, don’t act like that Saru! I came up all this way to check on you, you know.” Yata swayed again in the tree, carefully adjusting his balance. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Fushimi tried to keep his voice cold but the painkillers were rebelling against him, and it came out drowsy and petulant instead. 

“Yeah. You’re not very good at that.” There was a smile on Yata’s face that Fushimi couldn’t quite read — stupid, he was definitely getting slow and stupid from the drugs if he couldn’t read the open book that was Misaki’s expression, but there was something fond and something sad about it, and his brain rebelled against reading between those lines. “I heard from Kusanagi-san that they took you here though and I got kinda worried. You didn’t look so great when I left.”

“I’m fine. Captain’s just going overboard doing unnecessary things.” Just like everyone else around him, fussing for no reason, and Fushimi clicked his tongue. 

“You don’t look so fine. You’re pale as a ghost Saruhiko, what were you even eating down there? Did jungle feed you?”

“Why does everyone always care so much about what I eat?” Misaki hadn’t been the first to ask him about the status of his meals, the Lieutenant and Akiyama had both said the same on the way to the hospital and it was nothing but annoying.

(Come to think, Totsuka had asked him the same, once upon a time, and he hadn’t even bothered then to think about the reasons. It irritated him, vaguely, that there was something everyone else seemed to understand that he wasn’t able to grasp, and the painkillers made him wonder if Yata would explain it if Fushimi could ever swallow his pride enough to ask.)

“Because we’re worried about you, idiot!” Yata leaned forward as if he was going to swipe at Fushimi’s head and Fushimi moved back. Yata gave a small yelp and grabbed onto the branches again. “Will you just let me in already?”

His voice was so plaintive that Fushimi couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his lips, or the sudden warm flush that spread through his body when Yata smiled at the sound of it.

“Come back in the normal way, if you want to so badly.”

“I’m already up here, just let me in!” Yata said. “Seriously, you’re always such a contrary guy….”

“Since when do you know me so well,” and it came out petulant again, the bitterness refusing to come to his lips when he wanted it to. 

(And suddenly he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to, and everything felt dizzy around him at the realization.)

“Yeah, well, you promised to tell---” The words cut off as a branch broke under Yata’s foot and this time he did start to fall, scrambling for a hold—

—and without even stopping to think Fushimi found himself leaning forward, leaning out, straight out the window with a hand outstretched and reaching to catch Yata’s. Yata grabbed hold of his hand and Fushimi bit back a grunt as he pulled, Yata swinging his feet to plant them against the outer wall and pushing up as Fushimi pulled him back, back through the wide open window and onto the bed, where they lay panting side by side. There were leaves in Yata’s hair and small broken twigs that had scattered on the mattress from when Fushimi had pulled him inside, and a soft breeze came from the open window to settle over them both like a blanket.

“Idiot.” Fushimi was panting hard, a sudden throbbing in his leg from the movement, and he felt Yata’s breath on his cheek as Yata gave a sheepish laugh. 

“I got inside, didn’t I?”

“You could have fallen and broken your head open, moron.” He was so very aware suddenly, of how close they were, of how he had let go of Yata’s wrist but Yata was still holding onto his hand, and the hospital bed felt very small.

“We’re in a hospital, if I’m gonna break my head open it’s better if I do it here, right?” Yata was still smiling and Fushimi could almost see himself reflected in Yata’s bright open eyes.

“And then everyone could see how empty your head is.”

“I don’t need to hear that from the guy who couldn’t even say when he wanted to be saved.” Yata’s voice was light but there was a seriousness beneath the tone that made Fushimi scowl.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t say stuff honestly like that. And you didn’t need to anyway.” Yata’s hand tightened over his.

“Misaki…” The words were stuck in his throat and Fushimi couldn’t tear himself from Yata’s gaze. They were side by side, face to face, and he wondered what reflections Yata was seeing in his own eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me now, okay?” Yata murmured, inclining his head towards Fushimi’s so that their foreheads almost touched. “I mean, I wanna know eventually. Even if you have to say it so that an idiot can understand, I want to be that idiot. But right now you can just rest and feel better, all right?”

“I didn’t ask you for permission,” Fushimi grumbled. He wanted to look down, look away, click his tongue and roll onto his back away from the window, away from Yata’s gaze, but he felt slow, exhausted, and he could only keep his eyes on Yata’s. “But...I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah. That’s all I want.” Yata laughed softly. “Anyway, thanks for making sure I didn’t break my head open.” “Next time you try to come through the window I’ll let you fall,” Fushimi stated, and the lies that usually rolled off his tongue so sweetly got tangled between his head and his mouth so that the words came out thin and brittle.

“Sure you will.” Yata’s voice was teasing, lined with a relief that Fushimi couldn’t understand, and Yata hadn’t let go of his hand yet.

He supposed that he could pull away still, whenever he wanted. He could close his eyes against Yata’s gaze, and pull away from that hand that kept reaching for him again and again.

But Fushimi was tired, and warm, and he decided he could leave the window open for a little bit longer.

[hockeytwittereats]

Today has been my willow bullshit day and I have now had a drink so...let's go!

If it was an open-shut case I never would have known from the look on your face

is very much in vein of what she talks about with how they were playing games and not defining their relationship for a while at the start. Like she did not know where they stood.

The more that you say The less I know Wherever you stray I follow I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans That's my man

I might be wrong here (I probably am wrong here), but this really feels like while she took the lead on making the relationship happen (hi Mastermind), I think Joe dictated the way things went. She was ready, he wasn't so she waited until well *plays TTPD*. Also, the more that you say/the less I know feels like she is poetically saying he is talking shit like a pseudo-intellectual, but I could be very wrong there.

Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind (oh)

Life brought them together when when they didn't seem like they should be (see Rep and Lover). This is not slander or anything. Just sometimes two people end up together when they do not seem like they'd fit together.

Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in As if you were a mythical thing Like you were a trophy or a champion ring And there was one prize I'd cheat to win

First of all, the contrast between "like you were a trophy or a champion ring" and "where's the trophy/he just comes running to me" is very nice to hear. For real though: most of this feels a bit like he was kind of creeping into her life at a bad time and by the end before they defined their relationship, she was ready to do anything to make it real. Sort of echos of how she writes about Joe in evermore (in the cracks of light/I dreamed of you/And it was real enough/To get me through).

Wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark Show me the places where the others gave you scars Now this is an open-shut case Guess I should've known from the look on your face Every bait and switch was a work of art

Dive bar on the East Side, where you at? Phone lights up my nightstand in the black ... Do the girls back home touch you like I do?

Do you see what I am seeing? Yeah most of this verse is echoing Delicate hard and how they started. What is interesting is the shift from the first verse with the "now this is an open-shut case" instead of "if this was an open-shut case". There is also something not dark, but unsettling about "every bait and switch was a work of art". This is what I mean by the way Taylor wrote about falling in love with Joe came more unsettling as time went on. At first it was like "yeah never expected to find you here and fall in love with you, but here we are. How are we still here?".

And major credit to @wavesoutbeingtossed and her Mashup Madness because through it something interesting has emerged (and thanks to everyone who has requested the more lovey mashups for this reason): the way Taylor shifted some of the songs and the parts she was cutting out and piecing together tell a different view of love. With Joe there was a lot of playing games/cat and mouse stuff. This was obviously always known, but when she cuts certain things out to make a new song, it is so telling what she would cut. Anyways, willow is an unsettling love song.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Kevin, the Pizza Guy

A/N: To celebrate the upcoming 40th anniversary of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

-------------------------------

Set in the time between the 2014 and 2016 movies, in an alternative universe where Eastman and Laird live in New York instead of New Hampshire.

Kevin Eastman and his roommate, Peter Laird are in need of money. In order to make ends meet, Kevin takes up a job as pizza delivery. And one night, that would prove to be what he needed.

Thank you to @lovelyladylavie for giving me the idea.

Warnings: Spelling.

-------------------------------

Rain. Somehow, in the few weeks he had been doing this job, it was always raining when Kevin had to do his job. Whenever he had to get on his scooter with warm pizzas in the back, the rain always decided to pour down around him. So with an audible groan he placed the warm pizzas in the top box, before bringing a helmet down on his head. The scooter roared as he started it - that old piece of junk - and he drove off.

It had never been on Kevin’s bucket list to become a pizza delivery, but he had to do his part to make ends meet. He needed the money, and this job was hiring when he needed it. His manager was nice, if not a little strange. Kept talking about green creatures in New York, but never made Kevin or any of the staff members uncomfortable. But if Kevin could have chosen himself, he would have become a comic book writer. Kevin’s roommate Peter was a comic book artist. Not a very well known one at that, but he did help out on quite a few big time comic books. But it didn’t pay much. Especially not during these times. But Kevin and Peter marched on. Every night after their shifts, the two men would sit down at the dinner table and draw. They would come up with ideas and push each other’s creativity even further.

What Kevin wouldn’t give in that moment, to end his shift and go back home to the dinner table. The dark wet back alleys of New York City was not a place Kevin liked to be alone. Especially not with a top box full of pizzas. During his first shift, his coworkers had told stories of pizzas being snatched while their backs were turned. They would deliver one of the pizzas to an apartment and when they came back, the top box would be empty. Kevin and his coworkers were sure it was a homeless person that probably stole them, but their manager had other theories. Strange theories that involved green men…

But as much as Kevin hated these dark back alleys, this delivery recurred that he went down one of them. He didn’t have to do a quick drive through, no, he had to stay in there and wait. He had to wait for the clock to hit a certain time, before leaving the pizza boxes on the ground. He would then have to go out of the alley and wait half a minute before returning. There he would find the money and his tip.

Kevin did not like that one bit. He had read enough comic books to know that this was bad. Really bad. This was how you got mocked, or maybe even killed. But damn it, he needed the money, and whoever had ordered these five large family pizzas with strange toppings had promised a good tip.

Kevin did as the customer had instructed and drove down the alley. It was a narrow alley that ended in a dead end. There was trash everywhere. Filled dumpsters and open trash bags, most likely full of rats. Kevin shuttered at the thought. Rats in New York was nothing new, but he had never liked being close to any of them. Most humans probably wouldn’t like being close to a rat…

Kevin stood off his scooter and placed his helmet on the seat, before going over to open the top box and fish out the five large pizza boxes. He checked his wrist watch - it was almost the designated time. The customer had asked him to place the boxes on the ground and leave. But with all the trash and rats around… Kevin did not want to do that. Should he leave them on his scooter? No. He did not know who these people were, and it would be idiotic to leave his scooter with them. And if he left, he couldn’t be sure if he got his money. And Kevin really needed that money.

One minute until the designated time, and Kevin still hadn’t seen a soul in the alley. Not even the rats he had been fearing so much. No one. Just him standing with five large warm pizza boxes.

Half a minute. Kevin started to grow uneasy. A growing fear started to take root in him. Until he realized. They were probably there already, just waiting for him to leave. Hiding somewhere in the shadows of the narrow alley, watching him. It ran cold down his back.

It was time, and still nobody had shown themself. Unsure of what to do, Kevin the pizzas closer, looking for movements among the trash.

“Uhm… hello?”, Kevin called out. No answer. “I’m here with the pizzas you ordered”.

“Drop them like we told you to”.

Kevin almost jumped and the sound of a deep booming voice. It was quickly followed by hushed voices, telling him to shut up. He growled something along the lines of wanting his pizza and not letting a scrawny human hold them from him. Kevin looked around in confusion, trying to locate the voices in the alley.

A second voice sighed. “Look, we have had a very long night and would very much like it if you did as we had asked”. It was then Kevin realized that voices weren't coming from the alley. “We want our pizza, our father is at home waiting for his pizza. My brother here gets quite grumpy when he is hungry”.

“I don’t get grumpy!”

“Shhh! Not now Raph! - As I was saying…”

Kevin looked up to the top of the nearest fire escape. He gasped at the sight that met him. Even though they were hidden by the shadow, Kevin could make out four muscular figures, all of them standing high and tall on the building. He started in shock as one of them continued to speak. But one of them, the tallest, noticed him staring their way.

“Uhm… Leo”, he said, catching the attention of the talking man. “I think we’ve been spotted”.

“Not on my watch”, the first voice growled before jumping down from the building, the three others screaming no, telling him not to do it.

Kevin starred in terror as the largest of the four landed before him. The man before him was anything but a man. Big, tall, muscular, green. His face was wrapped in red in a red bandana, a toothpick in his mouth, and in his hands he carried a pair of sais. Sharp pointy sais. With a low growl he took a step forwards, causing Kevin to almost trip against his scooter. Kevin could not believe the sight before him. A big green man, just like his boss had rambled on about.

“I want my pizza”, the big red clad brute growled.

“Raphael!” The three other green men jumped down from the tall building, landing next to the big one, who looked as if he was ready to jump Kevin. The one in blue grabbed the red one by the shoulder. “We’ve gone over this! You can’t just do stuff like that!”

“But I’m hungry Leo! And this guy is crushing my pizza! Can you smell it? It’s getting cold! And you know I hate cold pizza!”

“I told you we should have ordered chinese”, the purple one mumbled, causing the red one to growl at him.

“I like this guy!”, the orange turtles exclaimed, smiling big and bright as he got up Kevin's face. “Can we keep him?!”

“Mikey, no”, the blue one sighed in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his beak.

“But Leo!”, the orange turtle wailed. “He got pizza!”

“Mikey, we can’t just keep humans”, the purple one said. “That is wrong”.

“But we did that with April!”

“You make it sound like we keep April as a pet”.

“But she is our pet!”, he smiled, almost dreamily as he remembered this girl by the name of April. “My Anglecakes!”

“You’re gross”, the red one grumbled, crossing his arms.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kevin let out a breath he did not know he was holding. This caused the blue one to turn his attention towards the shaking Kevin. Without any words, he marched over to Kevin, fishing some money out of pocket. He took the pizza boxes from Kevin’s hands, before giving them to the red one, his anger subsiding a little. He held the cash up for Kevin to see, before lowering himself to Kevin’s level.

“You can’t tell anybody about this”. He took Kevin’s hand, forcing the crash into his palm before closing it. “Got it?”

Kevin nodded slightly, but he couldn’t stop himself. The question burned on his tongue, and he could not stop himself before he blurred it out. “But- but… who are you? What are you?”

Something flashed in their eyes, as if they were reminded of something. A small smile creeping upon their lips.

“We’re teenagers-”, the orange one said proudly, as if he had been practicing for this exact moment.

“Mutants-”. The red one cracked his neck while doing so.

“Ninjas-”, the blue one said with a nod.

“Turtles”, said the purple one, pushing his glasses up on his beak.

Kevin nodded, his mouth agape. He did not expect himself to keep so calm in this situation. “Well I’m Kevin… the pizza guy”.

“Aw, guys! Even he has a cool name!”, the orange mutant turtle said. “I bet he has a Christmas album too!”

“Quit it with that Christmas album!”, the red turtle yelled. “You make me cringe so hard I think my shell’s about to crack!”

“Okay, that’s enough”, the blue one said, handing them their pizzas. “It’s time to go home. Master Splinter is waiting”.

“Leo’s right”. The purple turtle took his pizza box. “You know how rats get when they're hungry”.

Rats?! Kevin once again felt a shiver run down his spine. Mutant turtles and rats? This was only getting more and more crazy.

“Donnie’s right. We have to go”, the one called Leo said. “We have to get going”.

“It has to be quick”, the one called Raphael said, looking into his pizza box. “They’re getting cold”.

“That’s not good”, Mikey said. “Dad hates his pizza cold!”

In less than half a second, the four mutant turtles went to the fire escape and started to climb up, easily balancing a pizza box in one hand.

“See you around, Kevin!”, Mikey called out, spinning the pizza box in his hand.

“Shut it, shell brain”, Raphael grunted, pushing for Mikey to move.

Kevin watched the turtles despair up the fire escape, their still barely warm pizzas in hands. It took them less than a few seconds, by incredible strength and incredible speed.

Kevin stood still, even long after they disappeared over the rooftop and into the night. He finally stopped to listen to his own heart. It was beating fast in his chest. His breath sounded like he had been running a marathon. But as he continued to stare at the last place he had seen the mutant turtles, he remembered what he had in his hand. Money. Kevin took a closer look at the money Leo had given him. He gasped when he realized how much it was.

Kevin blinked, realizing what he had just seen. Four teenage mutant ninja turtles… Hmmm, that had a pretty good ring to it. Kevin put the money into his pocket before turning to his scooter. Teenage mutant ninja turtles. Leo, Raphael, Mikey and Donnie… Pizza loving with a rat dad? Kevin started the scooter and drove out the alley. Teenage mutant ninja turtles. Goodness! That was it! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! Kevin had to tell Peter about this! It was absolutely absurd! No one would believe him! And therefore it was an amazing idea. It was a comic book waiting to happen, and Kevin was ready to write it!

Kevin slammed the breaks on his scooter when he realized; Mikey said he would see him around. He would see them again. The mutant turtles would order pizza from him again.

Kevin happily started the scooter again, almost singing out loud.

This would be the best comic book ever!

----------------------------

A/N: Happy 40 years guys!💙❤️💜🧡

Now let us forget that the Christmas album ever was a thing

[dudeandduchess]

Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Solace (Modern!AU, Fluff??)

Note: I needed to vent; inspired by real-life events. Sub-genre: Hurt/Comfort  Warning: Mentions of terminal illness (Not Kyō or (Y/n)).

*** 

To say that (Y/n) had had the worst day was an absolute understatement. What she had expected to have only been coffee with her sibling had ended with her getting the worst news: that their father was terminally ill.

No amount of crying in the bathroom at the café was enough to make her tears subside. For (Y/n), it felt as if the world had just pulled out from right beneath her feet, and there was nothing to hold on to.

Kyō, please pick me up? I’m in the city, at our usual café. She read the text over and over, feeling horrible that she would even ask her husband to travel two hours from his workplace just to escort her home. But, if she were being honest, she wasn’t even sure if she would have been able to move without anyone’s help.

Her bones felt like jelly, and her chest was grievously tight with all of the emotions that she tried so very hard to suppress.

Thankfully, Kyōjurō’s reply came quickly: Of course, my love. I’ll see you soon.

The faintest hint of relief washed over her then, but it wasn’t enough to make a dent at her inner grief. Still, she tried to keep her composure as she swiped at the tears stains that marred her cheeks.

She had to hold it together, just until they got home. But that feat was easier said than done.

Time seemed to tick by very slowly after (Y/n) went back to her sibling and began to catch up a bit more with them. She was trying her hardest to keep herself in the present, but her attention always fell back on to checking the time on her watch— no matter how rude that was.

All that she wanted was for her husband to get there, so that she could go home with him. Scratch that— all that she wanted was for Kyōjurō to be there, so that she could feel his warm and comforting arms around her; to wrap her up in the safety of his arms, and shield her from the entire world.

Thankfully, it was eventually time for both her and her sibling to leave. And with promises of seeing each other as soon as they could, they parted ways— with (Y/n) waiting just outside the café; simply people watching, to get her mind from straying to thoughts that she wanted to touch on later.

All sorts of characters came and went, with some of them being eccentric enough to be noteworthy. Yet (Y/n) couldn’t even muster up the strength to crack a smile at the silliness of some people; instead, she simply stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, while her right hand fiddled with the strap of her leather bucket bag.

Seconds felt like hours as she waited there, but eventually, the sight of a familiar head of blond hair stood out in the crowd.

(Y/n) shifted her weight onto both feet then, before closing the distance between them as fast as she could. She walked through a throng of people that had just crossed the street, pushing past a select few who were too stubborn to move out of her way. But, eventually, she reached Kyōjurō.

Instantaneously, she gave him as best of a smile as she could, while he leaned down and gave her a peck on her lips.

“How are you, my love?” The blond asked with his trademark grin, which slowly faded away when he saw the tired look on her face. He wanted to ask what had happened in his absence, but realised that it wasn’t the right time or place for more questions. So, he simply went with, “Should we go home now?”

(Y/n) nodded at the inquiry, falling into step beside him and holding onto his bicep before letting her hand slide down his forearm, so she could comfortably thread her fingers through his own.

With that, both of them made their way back to the train station in silence.

All the while, Kyōjurō kept looking at his wife to check up on her. And it concerned him even more since it seemed like she wasn’t entirely present. Her mind was somewhere else, and he knew that she would tell him when she was ready; so all he could do was silently guide her during their walk.

Whenever they were at crosswalks, he would squeeze her hand and tug on it gently to let her know when to stop and wait to cross. And whenever he could, he would lift their intertwined hands up, just so he could press a kiss on the back of hers. It was a small gesture, but it was all he could do at the moment.

Even when they were on the train home, (Y/n) still didn’t talk. All she could do was either look down at her feet, or gaze off far outside the windows.

With how crowded the train was, they were stuck standing by the doors, so Kyōjurō had taken it upon himself to hug his wife while his left arm was wrapped around the support pole— basically anchoring both of them to it as the train rocked with every bump and turn.

“I love you,” Kyōjurō whispered softly against (Y/n)’s ear, before trailing his lips up and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

That was the catalyst for the flood gates breaking within (Y/n). The tears that she had been holding in so desperately began to steadily stream down her face, and she found herself pursing her lips to keep herself from sobbing.

Kyōjurō felt horrible for possibly causing his wife to cry, but he pushed his own feelings aside and held her tighter; alternating between pressing kisses to the top of her head, and wiping her tears away every so often.

Eventually, however, (Y/n) felt the need to explain why she was so emotional. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t suppress the sobs that threatened to spill free from her lips whenever she opened her mouth— so she did the next best thing… 

She slipped her phone free from her purse and, through bleary eyes, opened her notes app and typed down her explanation: ‘I just found out that my dad is really sick.’

The young man’s gaze traced over the words over and over, and his expression tightened— before he gathered his wife into an even tighter hug, all while pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

*** 

The rest of the trip, as well as the walk, home was spent in silence; save for (Y/n)’s quiet sniffles, as well as the quiet rustling of her clothes whenever she had to reach up and wipe her tears from her face.

She just felt so drained, that all she could do was sit down at the end of hers and Kyōjurō’s bed while she kept on crying. Her gaze fell blankly on her lap, uncaring and a bit lifeless as she tried to wade through the pain welling up within her.

In the other room, Kyōjurō kept trying to look for a box of tissues for his wife— yet he couldn’t find anything, so he decided to go rogue and settle for a roll of toilet paper. It wasn’t the most ideal thing, but it would have to do at that moment.

Toilet roll in hand, the young man made his way to their bedroom, feeling his heart break when he saw just how broken (Y/n) looked as she wept. And he knew— he just knew— that nothing he could say would make things better.

What he could do, however, was just be there for her.

And that was what he did; sitting down next to her, and folding some toilet paper— as nicely as he could— to wipe (Y/n)’s tears with. They were ceaseless, so Kyōjurō found himself folding up more tissues to keep dabbing his wife’s tears away.

Eventually, the couple settled for laying down on the bed, with their legs hanging off the end.

Kyōjurō gathered (Y/n) close to him; one arm around her, while his left hand kept dabbing her tears away with his temporary fix for facial tissues.

“It’s not fair,” (Y/n) murmured thickly; her voice barely intelligible with how hoarse it had gotten in the course of a few hours. “It’s really not fair.”

Kyōjurō could swear that he felt his heart breaking in his chest, all because— for once in his life— he didn’t know what to say. “I know, my love. I’m so sorry.”