#he brushes his teeth multiple times and refuses to smoke if he's going to be around you

[meownotgood]

aki's just the sweetest whenever he has a crush on you.

he's totally obvious, immediately standing up straight whenever he sees you, finding it hard to meet your eyes and absently fiddling with his thumbs while he talks. he blushes to his ears when you stand a little too close to him. his hands get clammy and sweaty and he'll shove them in his pockets hoping you won't notice.

he compliments you every time you meet, telling you that you look pretty (like always, he means, you always are). he shares his lunch with you when you forget to bring any, he asks if you'd like to come over for dinner (he was supposed to run some errands instead, but if you want to come over, that's more important, and he isn't going to tell you that). he offers to pay for everything when you're around. the tone of his voice gets lighter and he smiles more. maybe someday he'll get the courage to ask you on a proper date.

[inkykeiji]

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.  

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark  hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”  

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.  

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

    ✰          ✰          ✰ 

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.  

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”  

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.  

[kylorengarbagedump]

Defy Your Authority: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: David Rose voice: Oh, my god!

Words: 3200

Warnings: dude

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: First: Thank you to @bastila-ren and @elmidol for their beta-kindness.

I'M ALIVE. I got super burned out at my job, took 5 weeks of FMLA, got incredibly depressed, but now I'm back! Very thankfully, my COVID symptoms were extremely mild. Thank you very very much for your well-wishes and your concerns.

I wish I could express enough apology for my lack of activity, but hopefully uploading a chapter is thanks enough. You all have been so supportive and kind to me. I am SO thankful and appreciative of everything y'all offer me!

(as a side note: I know some people do not like dude, that it throws them out. I am very sorry, but in the politest way possible: I am not going to stop using it. I like it too much.)

I also hope you enjoyed the chapter! God I wonder what's going to happen next chapter. I just don't know.

Love you all so much <3

“Piece of shit.”

Growling, you tugged out another panel from the silencer’s dash. At this point, about a dozen slats of buttons boxed you into the pilot’s seat, crowding you in the cockpit. All of them looked flawless upon inspection, and this new one was no exception. Wires were attached and the circuits were complete, every switch was grounded. You’d gone over a handful of systems already, trapped in this cockpit for hours. The silencer’s refusal to function made no sense. There had to be something you were missing. 

The memory of smoke and flames licked at the perimeter of your mind. Yeah, there was a lot you were missing.

Pain burrowed, opened a well in your chest, and you shook your head, rubbing your tired face. There wasn’t time to think about anything else. Sitting forward, you started reattaching the panels to the console. You needed to focus on this.  Even though the answer to where you’d go and what you would do once you were finished remained nebulous. Even though you were now apparently unknown and unloved by almost everyone in the universe, including the one man you’d waited on for months. 

You caught a sigh in your chest, exhaling into your palms, shutting out the urge to cry. Crying right now was a waste of time. You still had about fifty systems to check, and you’d only read through about half of Kylo’s post-flight novella. Swallowing, you grabbed your datapad from the seat and flipped to the report, forcing yourself through the urge to skim.

It wasn’t like you weren’t interested. Normally this sort of thing was like a buffet for your freakish little brain. But you kept tasting embers on your tongue. Kept seeing your crew--completely unarmed, helpless fuel outpost workers--drowning in destruction. Kept hearing Hux’s voice: Multiple Resistance fighters… Heat gripped your neck, clogged your throat. Multiple fighters for a tiny station. Multiple fighters against three soft, fleshy bodies.

The First Order was not your creed; just your employer. The machine of war had always been an inconvenience to the prestige of working on elite starfighters. You knew that the loss of three cogs was nothing to that machine. In the past, it’d been nothing to you too. But you’d never eaten meals or laughed with or supported those lost cogs when they’d cried. This loss wasn’t just to war. This loss was horrifically and uniquely yours. 

“Stop.” You shook your head, tossing your datapad back on the seat. You’d finish putting the console back together, then you’d figure out what to do next.

Jaw tight, you grabbed another panel, and your grip slipped. The sharp edge sliced your palm where the wood had lanced you earlier.

“Fuck!” You dropped it and clutched your hand, seething while you tried to squeeze away the agony. Everything from your fingers to your wrist throbbed, and your chin quaked, tears burning your sight. “Fuck! Fuck!” Snarling, you kicked the panels at your feet. “Fuck!”

The thin cut felt like a sobbing gash. You tore off your jacket and wrapped the sleeve around your palm, wincing when you tightened it to the wound. 

“Stupid fucking panels!” you growled, kicking the panels again. “Stupid fucking ship, stupid fucking Kylo, stupid fucking Resistance!” The final kick dented a panel, popped off a shiny button. “Gods!”

You covered your face in your jacket and screamed until your throat crackled, until your lungs were dry. Head spinning, you drew in a breath and screamed again, stomping the floor until dizziness dropped you into the pilot’s chair. Warmth glowed at your cheeks, leaked down your back. Tremors rippled to your toes as you took in a long, steadying breath, exhaling in reluctant relief. 

You considered sitting there forever. But it only took two seconds for you to remember how Kylo also sat in this chair thinking of and dealing with everything that wasn’t you before you grunted and climbed out of the cockpit. 

The rest of the hangar seemed wholly unconcerned or otherwise ignorant to your tantrum. Wiping your eyes, you hopped to the ground, wagging off the lingering fury in your limbs. Maybe you just needed a walk. You cleared your throat and kept your hand clutched to your chest, the whispering ache pulsing in rhythm with your heart.

In all the hours you’d been in the cockpit, the Steadfast had continued to orbit Orinda. Xi-class shuttles whirled beyond the hangar entrance--probably staffed with crew collecting reconnaissance from whatever the Resistance left behind from the attack. Your feet carried you to the fuzzy blue edge of the magnetic shield’s barrier, meters from vacant space. A quiet hum resonated from its perimeter through your soles. 

You gazed into the galaxy. Orinda was a glimmering grain of sand, adrift in the celestial trenches. A fuel outpost turned graveyard. An acceptable casualty of the Resistance. Another home where you couldn’t return. That whispering ache rumbled to a hiss and cast itself over your skin, raking it over with misery, with exhaustion. Your chin quivered. The only place you could think to sleep was the silencer. Eyes falling to the floor, you turned back to the hangar.

“My quarters.”

You squealed and jumped, clapping your hands to your chest. Feet away stood Kylo Ren.

“Shit!” you said, exhaling in relief. “How the hell do you do that?” When he said nothing, you continued, “Like, sneak up on me like that.” 

“You’re not perceptive.”

You frowned. “Okay, well…” He wasn’t wrong. You sighed, shrugged. “Anyway.”

Kylo stepped forward, assessing you in your tank top, scrutinizing the tourniquet you’d made of your jacket. “Your hand.” 

“It’s fine,” you said, holding it behind your back. “Your quarters?”

His stare lingered on your exposed shoulders, on your neck. “Stay,” he said. “Until the silencer is repaired.”

“That could be as early as next cycle.” 

“Given your skill, yes.”

It was difficult to look in his direction. Every worn nerve screamed for his touch. “And then what?”

“You’ll depart to another station.”

You tried to flush the pain from your voice. “So,” you said, “you want me to stay with you through, like, one cycle, and then leave.” You looked to the ceiling in faux-consideration. “Cool. I think I’ll pass.” 

Kylo’s eye twitched. He moved closer, tone icy. “You have nowhere to sleep,” he said. “I…” He paused. His tongue rolled in his mouth. “You mean to tell me you prefer the silencer.”

“Well,” you replied, “I’ve never fucked the silencer. I never told the silencer how I felt about it. The silencer has never treated me like a stranger who just walked off the plains of Lothal.” You tapped your chin. “So, yeah, I prefer the silencer.”

He grit his teeth. “You’re no stranger.”

“Sure could’ve fooled me!” A couple of heads turned in your direction.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “It apparently takes very little for you to be fooled.”

“Excuse me?” you replied. “Run that by me again, Supreme Leader?”

“Now your hearing fails you.”

“This is great.” You offered a false smile. “This conversation is going really well.”

Kylo snarled, shoulders bunching with restraint. “You speak this way and then question why you’re unwelcome,” he replied. “Deaf and foolish.”

“Oh!” A frustrated laugh escaped. “Okay, then. Talk to you later, Your Excellency. I need a nap before I keep trying to fix your dumbass ship.”

Shaking your head, you folded your arms over your chest and stormed past him, anger blurring your vision. Stupid fucking asshole--

You made it three steps before a warm leather glove grabbed your shoulder, and you stalled, goosebumps shooting to your hands. Kylo spun you, your face inches from his, your breath fleeing and forgetting to return. His lips trembled, his jaw tightened, his gaze boring into you before it met the floor, seeking to stare anywhere else. The pressure of his fingers was firm, then floating. And then he swallowed, grip crushing your shoulder, his eyes finding you again. 

No one else in the hangar would’ve known, looking at him. But this Kylo Ren was familiar to you. 

This Kylo Ren was terrified.

“I don’t…” His voice was a feather in the air. “You are…” He averted his attention, stiffening. “You have a home.”

Your chest swelled. Water stung your eyes. “I do?”

“Yes,” he replied, utterly sincere. “But not here. Not now.”

Hairline fractures crept into your heart.

“Kylo.” Your composure cracked. All of you wanted to melt, to disintegrate into his being and know each word trapped on his tongue. There was a reason you could not find him, that he would not unfold himself to you. “Please. Why do you want me gone so badly?”

His lips parted, as if he were about to speak--and he paused. He drew in a breath through his nose. “Complications,” he replied. “Factors you do not understand.”

You stepped closer, throat tight. His breath brushed your nose. “Tell me, then.”

Kylo huffed, shifting on his feet--and his face froze. His limbs locked, muscles taut. His gaze widened, fixated on something over your shoulder. Air leaked from him, like time was slowing to a close. You blinked, looked behind you. But nothing was there. 

Frowning, you cleared your throat. “Kylo?” He didn’t even acknowledge you. “You’re really just going to leave it like that?” 

His pupils were pinpricks.

It wasn’t like you were heartless. You knew that he was attempting wasn’t easy. But what you were feeling wasn’t a sail on a skiff either. You didn’t just deserve more. You needed it.

“Okay,” you said, backing out of his hold. “This was nice. But I have a TIE fighter to repair. So.” He didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. “Whatever.”

You turned--Kylo’s focus flicked to you. His mouth dropped, like there were words he wanted to and couldn’t speak. Instead, he remained silent, fury simmering in his gaze while you pivoted away. You didn’t say anything either. You didn’t think you had to.

When you arrived at the silencer, you clambered into the cockpit, like it was a hole you could hide in until he disappeared. Shame, stubbornness, or surrender--you imagined one of these was responsible for why he didn’t pursue you, but you didn’t care. This ship repair would be your parting gift to him, and you could take off, probably spending the rest of your life wondering how you’d managed to fuck up your affair with the galaxy’s most ineligible bachelor.

Loose panels still swarmed the pilot’s chair. You sighed and put on your jacket, settling in and throwing your feet on the dash. Your hand thumped with irritation as you closed your eyes.

Just a couple of hours. That’s all you needed. Then you’d keep working like the foolish little--

Clank.

You yelped, flinching in your seat. 

Clank.

Heart fluttering, you scanned the cockpit before realizing the noise came from outside the ship.

Clank.

It was behind you. Someone was messing with the refuel port. Or the solar lines. You couldn’t tell. Grumbling, you scrambled out of the chair and hoisted yourself up the escape. If they were fucking up this stupid ship even further--

Clankclankclank.

“Hey!” You popped your head free. “Will you...”

For a split second, you’d thought Kylo had decided to rip the solar line access open and tear into his own power supply. But then your vision focused. The man crouched over the ship was a different intimidating masked man dressed only in black. Your stomach twisted. It was the one from the Buzzard. The one who’d shoulder-checked you.

“Kuruk.”

His head whipped in your direction, the talons of his predator’s gaze gouging your chest. He pulled his hands free of the solar lines, his gloves greasy with reactant.

“Lieutenant.” 

Previously you’d thought absolutely no one but Hux could spit that word with that degree of acidity. But if Hux spat it like acid, then Kuruk hocked it--dragged it up through his throat and sputtered it like necrotic phlegm. 

You crawled onto the dorsal plane with the coordinated majesty of a blurrg, trying not to heave  and ruin any level of authority you might have tricked him into thinking you maintained. When you’d made it to both feet, you straightened, as if you did this all the time, and moved toward him.

“What are you doing?” 

“Repairing a starfighter.”

You snorted. “Really,” you replied. “Tearing out a power supply is repairing?”

Kuruk jerked his arm, wrenching free another line, spewing collector dust into the air. “Closer to repairing than sleeping in the cockpit.”

Heat rushed your spine, swathed your neck. “Yeah, well…” You examined him, watching as he cocked his head to avoid the blinders attached to his helmet. “At least I can see properly when I work on a ship.” 

“Magnification’s built into the visor.”

More heat, this time crackling in your cheeks, drying your tongue. “Look,” you said, “this is my job. I don’t need amateurs screwing it up for me.”

He paused, turned his gaze on you again. “Amateurs?”

You shrugged. “In comparison, yeah, probably.”

Kuruk leaned on his heels, wiping his gloves on his jacket. “I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do.” This man looked like a weapon. Not an engineer. “What experience do you have?”

“It’s called the Night Buzzard,” he replied. “You might be familiar with it.”

You paused, brow raising. “You…” It was impossible to restrain your laughter. But he didn’t move. “You’re kidding. Right? That’s a joke.”

Kuruk’s hands tensed.

“Dude, that ship’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” you replied. “Did you modify it with a boiled chokeroot?”

His head tilted. He rose to stand, so controlled he looked to be fighting gravity. “I can do more work with a boiled chokeroot than you can do with an entire Star Destroyer’s worth of resources,” he drawled. “Lieu. Tenant.” 

The hair on your nape stuck straight, your pulse leapt to the ceiling. But the knowledge that Kylo was within thinking distance abated your fear. 

“Might wanna get one then.” You grinned. “You’re not making much progress here without it.”

He stared, filthy fingers furling into fists--and then relaxed, the tension sloughing like reactor slime from his frame. Silent, he returned to a squat, rending more lines from their channels. For some reason, a tiny, irreverent part of you was disappointed. 

No, that was a lie. You knew why you were disappointed. But this man wasn’t the one you wanted to be taunting into a wild sexual rage. Exhaling, you crossed your arms. 

“It’s still my job,” you said.

“And I’ve been told that once it’s done, you’ll be gone.”

“What?” You gawked. “What the fuck? You, too? I didn’t even do anything to you!”

“Debatable.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re mad because your Master didn’t want you to disrespect an officer.”

“No.” Kuruk’s attention snapped to you. “You’re loud.”

Blood drained from your face. “I’m…”

Moments blinked in your memory like a holodrama. Like how you’d spent the entire time aboard the Buzzard thinking about Kylo slamming you against the dashboard and breaking your pussy open. How you’d mentally undressed him, verbally taunted him, physically ached for him. How you’d blazed with hatred for him and stoked it with longing. And how you’d just noted that you were desperate to wind him into a state of frenzied lust so he’d wreck you entirely.

“Oh, fuck.” You glanced at the hangar’s entrance and wondered how quickly you could hurl yourself into the vacuum of space. Speaking of hurling… “Oh, fuck.”

You couldn’t spare Kuruk another glance. With shaking hands, you fumbled your way to the ground, steadying yourself on your weakening knees. There was no way you were going to spend another minute on this ship trying to fix a starfighter while getting thought-eavesdropped by multiple men, one of whom seemed hell-bent on doing your job for you anyway. 

All you needed to do was find General Hux and get him to reassign you to another station. You’d figure the rest out later when you had time to process your myriad of losses and crippling rejection. You held your breath the entire trek to the command center, only releasing when the doors opened and you spied Hux at the head of the room, briefing someone on something you didn’t care about. 

Wiping your forehead, you trudged over to him. Hux’s gaze darted between you and the other officer, his brow furrowing as you approached.

“A moment,” he said to the man. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

Yeah, it definitely sounded worse out of Kuruk’s mouth. “Can I get a new station? I, uh, I need a new station.” The officer peered at you in horror. You coughed, standing at attention. “General. Requesting a new assignment, sir.”

Hux’s lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. “The silencer is already repaired?”

“Uh, no. No, sir, it’s not.” You stared at your shoes. “Still requesting a new assignment. I believe my work here is complete.”

A pause hung in the air. Hux observed you like you were a recently apprehended criminal. He sighed. 

“Dismissed, Captain.” He waited for the man to depart before turning to you. “What do you mean, your work here is complete?”

It was hard to find the appropriate words. “I mean. Uh. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“No.”

You groaned. “Okay.” A long breath, flooding your lungs with air. “Well. My services are no longer required. My presence is redundant. I cannot return to Orinda. I’m requesting another station.” You exhaled. “Sir.”

Hux’s pink face pinched together. “Something happened with Ren.”

Warmth flushed your neck. “Uh, no--”

“Lieutenant,” he said, like the words were thorns on his tongue, “I unfortunately believe your insight and skill may still be of use to the First Order.” 

“Sir?”

“The TIE project has been approved. You may be just the person to manage it.” 

You balked. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea--”

“No?” Sharp green eyes pierced you into silence. “I thought you might leap at the opportunity, considering how cruelly the Resistance slaughtered your staff.”

Your heart clenched, your chest speared with pain. Better TIE units wouldn’t save them. But you could at least ensure their loss wouldn’t be in vain. Though you’d never supervised an undertaking of that scale before, the excitement of a challenge glittered in the distance. Glittered, then dimmed under a brooding, Kylo Ren-shaped shadow.

“Well…”

Hux glanced away, gazing through the thick panes of transparisteel, as if offering you any more praise would blind him. “Go to the Supreme Leader. Inform him of my plans.” He offered a slight shrug. “If he disagrees, then so be it. We’ll find you a new station.” The thought was left unfinished--he seemed very confident Kylo would not disagree.

Too bad you disagreed with him. “Yes, sir,” you replied. “I understand. Where might I find the Supreme Leader?”

Hux frowned. “Am I his keeper, Lieutenant?” 

A brief, blissful image of your fist connecting with his chin flashed through your mind. You shook it away.

“No,” you said. “No, sir. I’ll find him. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Dismissed.”

Shooting him a glare, you pivoted on your heel, marching out of the command center. All you needed to do was find where Kylo Ren might be by searching the entirety of this huge Star Destroyer. That would be easy.

[mckinlily]

.match made

Summary: Shiro and his master need to make a dangerous bet to get off of an Outer Rim planet. This would not be the ideal time to scout out new Jedi potentials.

Shiro disagrees.

(thanks @void-tiger​ for the beta and making sure my Star Wars isn’t complete nonsense!)

“I can do it, Master.”

Kolivan hummed with an almost growl in the back of his throat, no expression crossing his stern face. “It’s risky.”

“It’s podracing,” said Shiro, both confirming and refuting the point. “And it’s not like we have better options.”

Kolivan’s scowl deepened. Shiro was certain he was miserable with his thick fur in the Tatooine heat, but Force forbid the Jedi admit it, let alone take off a few layers. 

“Podracing is dangerous.”

“Dangerous is part of being a Jedi.”

“Padawan.”

“Master.”

Kolivan huffed.

“We’re not getting off this planet until we get the part for the hyperdrive,” Shiro pointed out, continually astonished by how the same master who had raised him on the mantra of patience yields focus could be so needlessly stubborn when things didn’t go his way. 

“Master, I can do this,” he repeated. 

Kolivan exhaled heavily, finally relenting to the fact that the universe wasn’t going to magically whisk them away just because he wished it. His expression didn’t change any, but Shiro had become attuned to his master’s ways and could tell by the slight roll of his shoulders that he was giving in. 

“I’ll go place our bets,” he conceded. 

Shiro grinned. 

***

The thing about podracing was it was entirely unregulated, despite perfunctory rules, and the only real requirement was that it be entertaining. Entertainment fueled the bets after all. 

Shiro knew this as he walked around the podracer they’d “borrowed” from a local junk trader as part of the bet (Shiro had never thought that being Jedi included so much sketchy betting with sketchier characters, but needs must). The podracer was in standard barely functional condition, and if Shiro didn’t end up needing to hold some part or other together with the Force by the end of this, he would be very much surprised. 

As it was, he was excited.

Jedi probably weren’t supposed to be excited at the prospect of entering a dangerous and by some definitions illegal pod race, but Shiro still struggled to wrestle himself into the part of a proper Jedi at times. Most times, it seemed according to Kolivan and certain members of the Council. But he could at least affect the appearance of a calm, collected Jedi while he looked over his competition. Shiro took note of their craft, the likely strengths and drawbacks, possible weaknesses to take advantage of—and who among them was angry or bitter and willing to play dirty.

A sudden, bright flare in the Force caught his attention, and Shiro looked around, distracted. He hadn’t thought any of his competitors were particularly Force-sensitive, but—

There. For a moment, Shiro thought it was the Toydarian dealer, but then his focus narrowed in on the small boy nearby. The kid was maybe eight or nine—or possibly a very scrawny ten. His dark hair was overlong and fell into his face while he scowled and steadfastly ignored who Shiro strongly suspected was his master. (A child. A child slave, and slavery in general was appalling but there was something particularly despicable about enslaving children.) 

No one else seemed remotely sensitive, but the Force had gathered in tangled, turbulent knots around this one child. A child who on the outside appeared to be nothing but sullen and underfed, but in the Force he glowed—

A sharp tug on his training bond told Shiro that Kolivan had noticed his distraction and was not impressed. Kolivan never did appreciate deviations from the mission. An unplanned pit stop in the Outer Rim had only made him grumpier. Shiro sent back a pulse of reassurance and climbed into the cockpit. Focusing, Master. I’ll get us those hyperdrive parts.

***

There was another human in the line up. Keith frowned while he wormed into a more comfortable position in the pod racer. Humans couldn’t compete in podraces: their reflexes were too slow.

Well. Humans who weren’t Keith.

So why did he have the staticky, tingling feeling this one was going to win?

***

The pod race started off with a bang, two pods almost immediately crashing and catching fire, and Shiro was having fun. His podracer was stiff and shaky, but he pushed it to the limit anyway, quickly getting a feel for its hang ups and how to push through them. The challenge of it was thrilling, as was the prickle of wind in his hair, and he quickly pulled to the front of the pack. Most the contestants seemed more concerned with sabotaging their competitors than actually flying, unfortunately. 

For them. 

Shiro rarely felt as one with the Force as he did when he was flying, and this time was no exception. By the second lap, he had a feel for both the pod and the course and with an extra burst of speed pulled into the lead. With space between him and the sabotaging competitors, he felt free to open the throttle and push the pod to its max, less concerned with beating everyone and more with the delight of going fast.

Except. Shiro had left most his competitors behind. There was one stubborn racer who was pulsing a warning of pride-bitterness-malice into the Force that Shiro kept an eye on. But even closer, nearly on his tail, was the kid from earlier, his presence in the Force more of a wordless fire. And he was keeping up, matching Shiro almost move for move, which was impressive seeing as Shiro was definitely using the Force as a counterbalance to offset his sharp cornering. But the kid refused to fall behind, fueled by either exceptional determination, exceptional stupidity, or possibly both. In other circumstances, Shiro would try slowing down just to see what the kid could do (and make sure the same kid didn’t get himself killed), but he and his master still needed that hyperdrive part and he couldn’t afford to let the rest catch up. 

There was a sharp bang! and out of the corner of his eye, Shiro caught sight of sparks flying out of the pod behind him, but he didn’t have time to worry about the kid because the Dug racer was on him and—

“A blaster? Seriously?” 

Of all the uncivilized things. Shiro growled under his breath as he dodged the shots. He could block them, but he was pretty sure the bet would be voided if he pulled out his lightsaber and besides he was affronted by the very idea of bringing a blaster to a podrace. This was a sport, not a war zone. Someone could get killed.

Shiro ground the gears, using the slope of a boulder to launch himself up and crash next the Dug, motors nearly tangling and energy arcs spitting angrily. The Dug snarled, likely something uncomplimentary about Shiro’s parentage, and pointed the blaster at Shiro’s face, but Shiro ignored it and instead leaned in more, grabbing hold of the other pod’s main fuel line, and yanked. 

The pod and the Dug screamed in equal fury. Shiro threw his sticks forward, pushing the pod into the redline, willing it to get him out of the spiraling hellfire that was quickly consuming the other podracer. Smoke, debris, and heat haze clouded his vision, but Shiro grit his teeth and pushed forward. 

The kid was ahead of him now. He’d gotten control of his podracer and used Shiro’s confrontation with the Dug to pull ahead. Which was a smart move, and another day, Shiro would let him have it, but…

“Sorry, kid,” said Shiro, yanking his pod sideways to draw even through a narrow passageway and plucking wires on his consol with one hand. Flying with the other, he bypassed the safeties, pouring unfiltered power into the engines. He pushed the Force down the lines as well, willing the pieces to stay cool while the rotors screamed and the air wavered with white-hot exhaust. 

Shiro was flirting with disaster. The last leg of the race was rocky and littered with less successful podracers, and he was brushing supersonic speeds. But there was no one else out here besides him and the kid. Shiro opened up his senses to the world around him and the Force. 

Times like this, Shiro almost understood what the masters meant when they said all was one with the Force. Time seemed to slow. He was the desert, the rock and grains of sand, the screaming motors, one small pilot, billions of particles in the air. He existed at the mouth of a canyon. Two miles down, launching over a crevasse. In the middle, calculating multiple trajectories.

The moment is vast. All time is now.

The Force sang in his ears. Shiro streaked over the finish line, the edges of his turbines just starting to turn red and deform and little sparks of electricity flashing dangerously along the leylines. He has his work cut out for him, bringing the pod to a stop without the entire thing turning into a fireball, but on the very edge of his awareness, he noticed the kid also pull across barely a handful of seconds after he did. Damn, but that was impressive. Though Shiro did notice his pod was in even worse shape than Shiro’s was. 

Shiro quickly gave the podracer a once over, ensuring it wasn’t in danger of exploding in the near future. As he did, he kept part of his attention on the crowd, making note of Kolivan making his way to collect their bets. Figuring his master had that in hand, Shiro jumped over his cockpit and approached the other podracer.

The kid was covered in dust and soot but overall didn’t seem too worse for wear. He looked up when Shiro approached, and the Force flared up in a defensive wall before settling down into something more cautiously hesitant.

“How did you fly like that?” he demanded, surprising Shiro by speaking first.

“The Force,” said Shiro honestly.

The kid scowled and glared at him like he was being intentionally patronizing—which, yeah, okay, Shiro could see that.

He crouched down so that he was closer to eye level and offered what he hoped was a soothing smile.

“I’m a Jedi,” he explained, voice low because it wasn’t something he wanted the entire arena to know. “We’re trained to use the Force to enhance our reflexes and our connection to the world. Flying is just one part of it.” A pretty frivolous part, really, but Shiro loved it too much to give it up. “I’m more impressed by what you managed, though. That was some pretty impressive flying you pulled off.”

For a moment, the kid almost preened. “I’m the best podracer there is,” he said confidently. “I’m the only human who can do it.” Then, he seemed to remember who he was talking to and his shoulders slumped, “Well, except for…”

“Jedi, remember?” Shiro gently reminded him. “I don’t exactly count as normal.”

The kid peaked up at him through his bangs and almost, almost seemed to smile. But he held back, seemingly uncertain and wary of what that could mean.

Shiro’s heart ached.

“Do you have any family?” he asked, but the kid shook his head.

“No. My dad—” He broke off, shook his head. “He was freeborn. He was. And so was I!” He looked up again, fire in his eyes, daring Shiro to challenge him.

Shiro didn’t blink or break eye contact. “I’m guessing the slavers didn’t care,” he said simply, disgust darkening his voice. 

“Yeah,” agreed the kid, too much bitterness and disillusionment in his voice for a kid his age. For anyone, but this was a child, and a brilliant, strong-willed, talented one too, if Shiro’s brief interaction with him was anything to go by.

(It occurred to Shiro that those traits probably were not missed by the boy’s master, and it made his blood burn.)

“Do you know where your master keeps the detonator?”

“What?” 

“The detonator for your implant. Does your master keep it on him or somewhere else?”

The kid’s eyes narrowed, sizing Shiro up in a way that should not make Shiro feel as much like a nervous youngling as he did now. 

“Yeah, I do,” said the kid. “But it’s in a safe only he can open. It’s keyed to his bio code.”

Shiro smiled in a way that was neither Jedi-worthy nor nice. “I have a lightsaber,” he pointed out, and the kid’s eyes went wide.

And then lit up.

***

“Takashi.”

“Yes, Master?” said Shiro as pleasantly as he could while running full tilt through the crowded market.

“I thought you said you could, and I quote, ‘do this.’”

“In fairness, I did win the podrace,” said Shiro, grabbing Kolivan’s arm and dragging them both behind a stall to avoid blaster fire. “It’s everything else that went sideways.”

“By which you mean breaking into a well known house, destroying every inch of their security, and then stealing valuable hyperdrive parts and a slave.”

“First of all, you can’t steal a person,” snapped Shiro. “And his name is Keith.”

Keith, for his part, was hiding silently in Shiro’s shadow, but the glare he was sending Kolivan spoke volumes.

Kolivan titled his head back and grumbled something in Galra that Shiro had never gotten him to give a translation for, but from context, he figured it meant something like, This padawan will be the death of me.

Which was unfair, really. Drawing the attention of every bounty hunter and mercenary on Tatooine was hardly the most dangerous thing either of them had done by a long shot.

Keith tugged hard on Shiro’s robe and pointed.

“Security droids at nine o’clock,” said Shiro, dumping the hyperdrive parts into Keith’s arms so that he could pull out his lightsaber. Kolivan, whose large frame clearly did not appreciate crouching in the small space, had already leapt into action, his silver-white blade flashing against the backdrop of sand and brown and dust.

“Take these to that ship,” Shiro told Keith, pointing. “We’ll cover you.”

Keith looked ready to be suspicious and stubborn, but then he caught sight of where Shiro was pointing and his eyes went wide. “Is that your ship?”

“Yep,” said Shiro proudly. “Once we get out of here, I can show you how to fly it.”

“Takashi!”

“Yes?” replied Shiro with sing-song pleasantry. “Go on, get out of here,” he added, giving Keith a little push with the Force. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“We will talk,” said Kolivan as Shiro jumped in beside him, expertly deflecting blaster fire back at the perpetrators.

“Yes, Master,” said Shiro, foreseeing a lot of forced meditation in his future but refusing to regret it. He and his master moved like one in battle. Kolivan grabbed a transport with the Force, and Shiro deflected a blast into its cargo, causing an explosion of feathers and shrieking chaos as the livestock escaped. 

On an unspoken cue, both he and Kolivan turned tail and bolted for the ship, guarding each other in turn.

“Get us in the air!” ordered Kolivan, as they leaped over the loading ramp into the ship. “And take the youngling with you.”

“On it,” said Shiro, blocking blaster fire and drawing up the ramp. He nudged Keith towards the cockpit, squeezing his shoulder. “Want to see how we get this thing in the air?”

“Focus on the task at hand, padawan!” Kolivan snapped from the engine room.

Shiro rolled his eyes. “I can do both,” he muttered, knowing Kolivan wouldn’t care. They needed to get off planet before the entire population of Tatooine started firing on them.

“Here,” said Shiro, quickly plopping Keith into the copilot seat. “Strap in,” he added, throwing himself into the other seat and beginning to flip switches and override warnings (yeah yeah, broken hyperdrive, they knew that) to get ship live and ready for take off. Engines spluttered, coughed—then purred, and the dashboard lit up. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro saw Keith hadn’t strapped in at all, instead staring open-mouthed at the controls and standing on tip-toe to see more out of the view port.

Eh. He’d learn.

Shiro flipped on the intercom. “Ready, Master?” he asked, already setting the launch trajectory.

“Get us out of here, Takashi.”

“You might want to sit down for this,” Shiro added to Keith, intentionally not looking at the kid and pretending he hadn’t noticed the moment of awestruck curiosity. He gripped the sticks and launched them into the air, no less than three ships on his tail, and Keith let out a gasp that a moment later was followed by a flood of sheer delight in the Force.

Shiro grinned, easily maneuvering two of his tails into each other and quickly outstripping the third, before launching into open space.

Over all, he thought things were going very well.

And Kolivan’s grumbled swearing could just deal with it. 

[untaemedqueen]

The Lions Den

Mafia!Jiminx Wife!Reader

Genre: Mafia!AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst

Chapter 16.

Warnings: Smut, Blood, Guns, Knives, Excessive Cursing, Excessive Alcohol Intake, Smoking (Cigarettes and Cigars), Mental Health Issues

Warnings In This Chapter: A Multitude of Military Grade Weapons

A/N: Well.... I kind of really adore this chapter. I love changing up characters and their thought processes. Shout out to my forever squad @ppersonna​​, @xjoonchildx​, @ladyartemesia​.

TagList- @ayyyocee, @mysugabear03, @wisebtsgot7prune, @imaforeigner, @yeonkiminnie, @stories1907, @ppersonna, @brilee64, @gooplibrary, @vivpurple7, @xjoonchildx, @brightwingr5, @yaniposts22, @rjsmochii, @taeslittletiger, @pjmcth, @bts-chub, @kpoppingthempills, @kim-ji-hyeons-world, @jikooksgirl19, @yoong-i, @ruinsofangels, @absolutefantrash​, @chiminies-noona, @eclectically-esoteric, @simplybree, @outrofenty

The house is shrouded in silence as you finally close the children’s bedroom door. You were absolutely exhausted. You’re so strong but some things take too much of a toll on you. 

The dark hallway is peacefully quiet and you find your legs giving out beneath you as you press your hand to the wooden wall. 

“Kitten?” Your husband asks as he peeks out of your bedroom. His eyes strain to see in the dark but he finds you wobbling as you press your hand to your forehead.

“Whoa. Take it easy, baby.” He calls to you as he steps out of the bedroom. His hands find their place under your arms before lifting you up with ease. He sweeps you up bridal style before making his way back to your shared bedroom.

Your hands clasp around his neck as you lay your head down on his collarbone. You were so physically and mentally exhausted you can barely string together a thought or sentence. 

Your husband lays you down gently in the bed before taking his place beside you. His hand combs through your hair as he closes his eyes. 

“I am so fucking sorry, Kitten.” He mumbles aloud as you turn to look at him.

You can see the anguish written upon his face, the hurt and the recoiling within himself. It hurts you to your absolute core. 

“I wish I could just fucking snap my fingers and make this all go away. I’m so fucking sorry that our children are involved. I’m so fucking sorry.” He whispers and you can see even through his closed eyes that tears are forming. 

His eyelashes stick together from the tears and you glide your thumb over his cheek as one escapes. You begin to shush him, pulling him towards you to coddle him and he crashes down immediately. 

He pulls at your body, hugging you so close to him you can barely breathe but you accept it- it’s what he needs.

“My fucking family is suffering because of me and my actions. We’re getting attacked for God knows what. To even have my baby come home with a foreign envelope in her hand, what the fuck am I allowing?!” He cries out as he buries his face into the valley of your breasts. 

“Chim-”

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby girl. You have no idea!” He cries louder.

You can feel the silk fabric of your nightgown become soaked with his tears, you can hear the way he gasps for air as his throat tightens with pain. But, you can’t allow yourself to break because then and only then, will things go south.

“I know.” You whisper to him as you card your fingers through his hair. 

He takes a minute, just crying outwardly to the world as he goes through his pain before he’s shoving off of you and standing. He wipes his face roughly with his hands before sniffing and waltzing over to the liquor caddy.

He pours a big glass of whisky before looking at the ceiling and huffing out. He takes two giant gulps, his neck veins fluttering and twitching as he finishes off the hard liquor before slamming down the glass and putting his hand to his forehead.

“You’re right. I have to be strong.” He says and you smirk knowing that he knows how you feel without even having to voice it.

“Do you want to leave me Kitten? Because, I will understand why if you do.” He says seriously as his mocha irises find yours in the dim lighting of your master bedroom.

“Shut the fuck up annd come lay down.” You chide your husband with an eye roll as you pat the space beside you. 

He sighs loudly as he takes off his clothes. Discarding them wherever he sees fit, his eyes roam over your body and he feels his heart clench with unbridled love. He can’t become the shell of a man he was when you were pregnant with Hawon again. He refuses. 

Sliding into bed beside you, he rests his cheek upon your stomach closing his eyes. 

“What are we going to do, baby? I feel so lost.” He whispers as his fingers run over your clothed ribs. 

He can only ever be unsure in this room. He can only voice his terror and uncertainty with you and you love that about him.

When the morning comes it would have to be tucked away into the recesses of your hearts. 

“Well we’re doing Casino Night.” You offer up as you comb your fingers through his hair.

He nods into you, his plush lips caressing your clothed skin.

Pulling the letter out from underneath his pillow, his fingers glide over the ink as it sits dryly atop the page.

His throat feels dry, as if a red hot poker has been shoved down his gullet. He flings the card stock onto the floor before pressing his face deeper into your skin and grunting angrily. 

“Casino Night.” He says before pressing his lips into a straight line.

“It’ll be one for the ages.” You reply as he nods.

Your eyes drift up to the canopy above your bed and you let out a long exhale you didn’t know you were keeping. 

Something's gotta give.

Not much sleep was gotten last night. There were so many questions being hurled between your husband and you. You both sat in bed just talking until the wee hours of the morning. 

With bags under your eyes and a loud yawn, you thank Mirae as she hands you your cup of tea. Your hands cup the porcelain as you watch your husband put on his dress shirt. You can see his jaw muscles flexing and straining as he stares out the window of your bedroom. 

“Chim?” You ask quietly as Mirae closes the door.

“Yeah, Kitten. I’m here.” He whispers before clearing his throat and turning towards you.

His fingers smoothly button up his crisp blood red shirt before grabbing his silver cross chain. You swallow thickly as he swings the chain over his head before purchasing the cross between his teeth. 

He disregards your intent gaze as he walks over to the bookcase below the paintings you’ve come to love and adore.

He hums to himself, a sickly eerie noise, as he pushes the head back of the King Sejong bust on the third shelf.

You cringe as you hear the wall unit click and release. He hums louder as he hooks his hands behind the bookshelf before dragging it out of the wall. 

The room itself is dusty, he hasn’t gone into it for a long time. Probably since he showed you it existed a few years ago. 

You stand up off the bed, a sound Jimin doesn’t pay mind to, before locking the double doors of your master bedroom. 

The fluorescent lights of the small outcropped room flicker before shining light on the hidden room. You lean against the door as your husband grunts with effort pulling out the multiple racks of guns and explosives.

His humming gets louder as he starts to take large military grade guns off of the rack. 

“I never got to use this, this should be great.” He says cheerily and it chills you to the bone as he runs his hand over the side of the lightweight mortar. 

“You’re going to decimate this house.” You reply and he wrinkles his nose at you.

“I’ll buy you a new one, Kitten.” His voice is so clearly thrilled that you want to flee in any direction to get out of the oncoming wrath that will ensue. 

You’ve seen your husband scared, nervous, angry, and frightened. But, you’ve never seen him so calmly exuding his anger. This is the real frightening personality to watch. 

He continues to pull guns down, snapping in magazines of bullets as he places them down on the chess table. 

“I understand that you’re nervou-” You begin to say.

“No, Kitten! I’m not nervous! If anything I’m excited. I’m excited to unleash holy hell onto this Earth and watch my enemies perish before my very eyes-” He sets down the gun before opening his arms to you as he walks over. He wraps his arms around you, running his plush pink lips over your cheekbone before continuing, “-I’m going to fucking decimate every single godly creature upon this Earth that would even grimace at my family. I will fucking destroy everyone in my path until I can sit in my fucking house, drink a glass of whisky and play with my children without being a nervous wreck.” 

He kisses your cheek softly before squatting down and pressing his lips to your stomach.

“There is no one, on this fucking Earth that is going to take away what’s mine.” He says before standing back up and brushing off his pants.

You hum gently to him in agreement as he continues to pull guns from the rack.

He’s quiet for a while, doing the task at hand before looking over at you and smirking. 

“If I have to revert to how I was when I was first beginning to get my point across- then I will do what needs to be done. People think I must have gone soft because I have a gorgeous wife and three beautiful children. They must think I’m some weak sniveling man that can’t handle his own. We’ll see.” He says before throwing guns over his shoulders and walking over to you.

“Excuse me, my beautiful gorgeous absolutely fantastic wife. Please unlock the door for me.” He says before kissing your forehead.

You do as told before swinging the door open. He hums loudly to himself as he waltzes down the hallways and down the winding staircase.

You curse to yourself gently before following him. 

“EVERYBODY UP AND AT ‘EM!” Jimin screams as he steps onto the second floor landing. You blanch at his over eagerness, watching him swing open all of the boys bedroom doors.

“Hey! Good morning Taehyung!” Jimin yells as he enters his best friends room.

Taehyung jumps at the noise, lifting the covers up over Hyejin’s naked body before looking at his best friend with bleary eyes. 

“Jesus Christ, Jimin.” He mumbles putting his hand over his heart. He raises an eyebrow as Jimin throws a Carbine onto his laying body. 

Picking it up, he sits up slowly before meeting your eyes nervously as you step into the doorway.

“Get up, buddy. It’s play time!” He cheers before kissing your cheek as he pushes past you. He calls Jin’s name loudly next as he enters his room and Taehyung pulls out the magazine before snapping it back in loudly. 

“Is he okay?” He whispers to you as your neck cranes into the hallway as your husband continues to drift in and out of rooms. 

“He will be.” You say confidently and that’s all Taehyung needs before standing up and cracking his neck. 

“Let’s do this then.” He says as he grabs a black wife beater before kissing his sleeping wife’s forehead.

“EVERYONE IN THE LIVING ROOM!” Jimin bellows at the top of his lungs before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you with him to the staircase.

You sit with your legs crossed as Yoongi and Hyunah enter the front door with cigarettes dangling from their lips.

“Welcome, come in. You’re late.” Jimin says as he aims the rifle on it’s tripod towards the entryway.

“Sorry.” Yoongi mumbles as he extends his arm letting Hyunah enter first before him.

Your husband fixes his cufflinks before tugging on the opened sides of his shirt. His hands intertwine in front of his stomach as he begins to pace the floor. 

“We have two weeks until Casino Night.” He declares and you fold your arms.

He’s exuding this confidence and this allure that’s a welcome sight. Your long night of talking must have solidified something inside of him and you’re so proud if you’re being honest.

He drips with finesse and ease with each confident step he takes. 

“Starting tomorrow. No one leaves this house without another crew member. The bottom bunker where Yoongi keeps the guns will be housing Lions until this whole mess is taken care of.” He announces earning nods and head tilts from the other members. 

“Hyunah, can we keep the babies and the women over your house until everything is over?” He asks your older friend as she pulls from her cigarette. 

She looks at Yoongi, before nodding and exhaling the toxic smoke into the air.

“You have my house and my men.” She says before winking at you. You feel more at ease as Jimin nods to her.

“This threat will not go unnoticed. It will not be swept under the rug, we will win and decimate everyone in the way.” He says before standing in front of the coffee table and taking the black sheet off of it.

Multiple guns of different shapes and sizes sit prettily atop the table as Jimin clears his throat.

“Take your pick, the war starts now.”

[navyhyuck]

lie (tell me you love me).

pairing | mark lee x reader (female)

genre | angst, post breakup!au

synopsis | there’s nothing right about him, but why do you want to stay so bad? oh, maybe it’s that thing he keeps bringing up. you know, love?

warnings | swearing, drugs and alcohol (mark smokes weed), mark’s an asshole, toxic relationship dynamics (infidelity, emotional blackmail, etc.), suggestive

word count | 1.7k

notes from vee | this is not trying to romanticize toxic relationships, but rather bringing light towards them. please talk to someone if you are in a toxic relationship (and this is including ‘friendships’), it is fucked up. i know what it’s like to be in one, and if you are going through something similar to this, i am always here to talk. i wrote this while listening to skeletons by keshi on repeat. please leave feedback, thank you. this is a repost from my other blog.

Mark Lee was the sort of guy that you could meet in a convenience store at four in the morning, the sort of guy that would give you a shy smile when you pass by him in the aisle without a warning. He was the sort of guy that would pay for your stupid bags of chips when you forgot your wallet at home without embarrassing you in front of the singular employee. He was the sort of guy that would offer to walk you home after all of that, and he was the sort of guy to say ‘see you later’ even though you had just met. But he was the sort of guy that was always right, since you did see him later that week at the coffee shop you usually worked at on Saturday evenings. Always right.

And he was right, even about now, when you both sit on the stairs of the fire escape, with you staring up at the stars. Mark’s beside you, and he’s close; you can feel his thigh pressing into yours, the drumming of his fingers against his knee as he takes another hit of the joint. You wouldn’t have expected Mark Lee to be the kind who would smoke, but you couldn’t say much anymore. It makes you think, just for a brief moment, did you even know who he was?

You thought you did, you thought he was the one for you. Maybe it was selfish—you wanting your own happy ending for once—but you never got it anyway, it’s enough to let another string snap inside of you as you let out a rough chuckle. Mark looks at you sideways, his curiosity piqued from the sound of your unamused laughter. “Something funny?”

“Yeah,” you reply dryly, refusing to look into his eyes—knowing that if you did, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from falling in too deep. “I’m just finding out how funny this is. It’s all a big fuckin’ joke to you, isn’t it?”

He scoffs, scoffs at your choice of words, leaning back against the stair as he moves to take another hit. The smoke comes out in a slow breath, and it makes you want to laugh in disbelief at him. How could he be so calm, knowing that everything between the two of you was never okay from the beginning? He could he look away without a care when it’s all you ever think about?

“It’s not,” he finally remarks, his voice low in a way that rattles your bones. It’s an echo through your mind, it’s not, but you know he’s lying: all he did was lie. “I don’t think it’s a joke, Y/N.”

Yes it is. His words remind you of a past moment, the first day you had come home to see your boyfriend laying wrecked on your couch with bruises littering his body; you were disgusted, you couldn’t even touch him knowing that someone else had gotten close the way only the two of you were supposed to be. I was drunk. No, he wasn’t, but he certainly wanted you to believe in all his intricately planned lies.

I didn’t kiss her. He didn’t? You can’t remember anything other than the pleading eyes that filled your vision—his mouth saying something different from you had just witnessed not too long ago—but he was right? Wasn’t he? He was always right. I promise, I only have eyes for you. Were the tears real? You didn’t know, your memory failed to recall when you comforted him for his mistakes. I didn’t mean to.

When did he change? When did he change from the boy that was beyond sweet, the boy that would drive you to class even when you insisted it was fine? He didn’t change, he was always like this. Maybe you should’ve noticed before, at least from something as simple as questions you asked of which he could never find an answer to. Where were you? Why did you leave me? Come back, please.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” is all you find as a response, breaking the silence with a tight lump forming at the bottom of your throat. “I don’t know anything about you. But you, you know everything.” It’s not a question—it’s true, and Mark’s face turns stiff—he knows you’re right. Right?

I love you, but you make me so sad. You fell for him, too hard that you couldn’t see past the perfect image he put out for himself. You’re so bad for me. You can’t help but think now—when it’s all over—was everything a lie after all? Surely, he knows; it hurt too much to say it after all.

“Just tell me why. Tell me why you did it.” It’s a surprise to the both of you that your voice is still stable, still stronger than usual when you put a bit of a demanding cover on top of the soft one. I’m too nice. Too nice that I let him wreck me. “It’s over, Mark, just tell me. I stopped caring a while ago.”

Lie. I still love you. He knows, and a puff of smoke is visible in the air once more. “Tell you what? What did I do?” He’s taunting you, you realize shortly after—that’s his specialty anyway—but it doesn’t affect you the way it might’ve before. “What did I do, Y/N?”

“You-” you pause only briefly, just to catch your breath and he looks amused at your effort, puffing another smoke cloud into the darkness. “You lied. Again and again. Did you think I’d never figure it out?” Relief. I finally said it. Lies were just a word, but it held so much more than that. With it, came so much pain.

But you’re not sure if Mark knows what pain is, or if he feels any sort of emotion at all; you don’t expect him to know anyway. You’re not the same. “No,” he answers slowly, his voice sounding like a distant thought in the back of your brain. “I knew you would eventually.” Eventually.

“Did you ever mean it?” You can’t help but ask, the thought not leaving your mind for a single second. “Even once?” Please say yes.

“Mean what?” He asks, and for a moment you fall for—the innocent eyes, the soft smile, even the way his fingers stop their constant movement on his leg. Oh, you wanted him to say it so bad, even if he didn’t mean it. Just the thought of you loving me is more than enough. “I love you?”

Lie, lie, lie. Your mind is screaming at you, it’s not real, you know it. But why can’t I just pretend for a little longer? The world stops at those familiar words falling from your love’s lips like sugar, the sweetness being devoured by your hunger for acceptance. His eyes are pouring into yours, searching for that little something inside of you that breaks each time his smile grows endearingly. He’s beautiful—he always was—but he’s dangerous for you and your overly broken heart; why do I want him when he’s so bad? 

Mark leans in, only a minute space closer, but it already has your heart jumping out of your chest; he’s focusing in on your lips, battered and bitten by teeth, but he licks his own. You don’t know what to do when his free hand lands on your thigh—a simple but stiffening gesture that has him letting out that boyish laugh once again—and you want to pull away, you really do. No, I don’t. He takes another hit from his joint, the entire action looking like art as he does so.

“Mark?” You whisper his name, feeling as if anything louder would disrupt your constant battle in your mind. His hand gives you a short squeeze, the action making your breath hitch. He loves me, he loves me not. He hums. “Kiss me.”

Let me feel you for the last time. He does, crashing your lips with his almost immediately. It’s messy, filthy, dirty, but that was the way you two loved it the best. His tongue pressing insistently against yours, the hand travelling from your thighs to grasping your waist in a way that makes you gasp, giving him more access. This is so wrong. Your back meets brick, and he leaves your lips with wet kisses down your jaw—your neck arching back to let him go further down, and he laughs—pulling you even farther away from reality than you already were. It feels so right.

There’s a hundred times in every story where a scene happens, ones that are happy and others of a melancholy taste, but this one—you couldn’t grasp the way it was. Your love is buzzing, chasing your lips once again before sucking on your tongue and you swear it can’t get any worse. It can’t, I’m already too far gone. His skin is hot on yours when he splays a hand against your bare stomach, drawing sensitive circles into your skin in a way that makes you squirm and—he pulls away, admiring you in your panting mess, hair askew the way he liked it.

“Did you ever mean it?” You ask again, your chest heaving as his lips brush across yours once more, and you know—it’s the last. “When you said you loved me. Did you ever mean it? Ever?” Your searching for something with desperation, and he’s seen this scene play it multiple times in far too many theaters for him to even hear the pain laced behind it all. Prove me wrong, please.

He presses one last firm kiss to your lips, his hand now leaving your jaw as he leans back, looking up at the sky. You think now, that people like Mark Lee should come with warnings—with large blaring signs that read ‘CAUTION: CAUSES IMMENSE PAIN’—because he lets out that same scoff, and looks you in the eye. Maybe the most heartbreaking. “All my truths are lies, Y/N. You caught me red-handed; I love you.” 

Why does it hurt so much, even though I knew it was all a lie? 

Oh, I know. It’s because I love you.

all rights reserved © navyhyuck 2020.

[whumpingcrow]

Chapter 6 (Gio POV)

Bad Dogs Sleep Outside

CW: bbu and everything in relation to that, discussion of conditioning/training/brainwashing, trauma/ptsd themes, noncon drug use, noncon/dubcon touching and kissing, lady whumper, intimate whumper, multiple whumpers, physical assault, dehumanizing language/themes, emotional whump, weather whump (is that a thing?), strangulation mention (let me know if i missed anything!)

Everything sounds very far away. It's a thing I keep noticing over and over again, like my mind is a carousel and there's only one little man riding in circles, screaming "Hey! Everything sounds really far away!" each time he goes around. How do I remember what a carousel is? What a bizarre thing to linger around after everything else was beaten out of me. It's so bizarre that I laugh. That sounds far away, too.

"Watcha laughing at?" Rory asks me, her voice a murmer across a million mile void from her throat to my head. I look up at her from my spot on the floor. She's so beautiful, her once electric blue hair is fading out to a light blue-ish blonde, which looks like a silvery halo, the way the light is catching it right now. I smile at her. Nicko should be drawing pictures of her, and it makes me feel somewhat disgusting that I have the one he drew for me taped up to the wall next to the beanbag, because I'm most definitely not living, breathing art that needs to be captured on paper, Rory is.

I can't remember her question, but the fear that ties my stomach into knots because I am so stupid and need to be listening better, also feels far away. Whatever drug she gave me this time is amazing. I never want to stop feeling this way. I want to be as far away from myself as possible all the time, if I could I would get a restraining order against myself. Why do I remember what a restraining order is? Restraining orders and carousels stayed behind but not guitars or names of people I think I used to know? Why'd they have to break me up so jagged like that? None of my pieces fit together anymore, no matter how many times I've tried to glue them back together.

But right now, the pieces of me that are the most functioning are the most shattered and re-mended of all; the sharp edges of training. I remember it all, even if it's just down to muscle memory sometimes. I don't have to try so hard to think about why I'm doing something or what it means, it just is. I do this now, kneeling in front of Rory, tentatively hovering by her leg, making it obvious I want to be closer. I know that, with some of the trainers, being soft like this was sometimes reward-worthy, or at the very least would stop them from hurting me for a little while.

"You're so beautiful," I breathe, realizing that she's still looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer to the question I'm stupid enough to have forgotten in the five seconds since she's asked it. She blushes, then smiles at me. Her hands find their way to my hair and she runs her fingers through some of the tangles.

"You're such a darling, you know that?" Her voice is like a song, her fingernails scratching behind my ear is driving me crazy. I feel myself pressing into her touch, and I hear her laugh softly. It makes me warm all over. I want her to look at me how she's looking at me right now all the time, jaded blue eyes downcast at me, shining in amusement behind the dullness of the drugs, like sunshine reflecting off shattered glass discarded in a dirty puddle. And I love the way she sounds when she says things like that, that I'm darling. I want her to say more stuff like that, so I keep going.

I lean toward her, tipping my head back to get a better look at her. "Rory," I whisper, "you're like an angel, miss."

She smiles wider at me, then drags one of her sharp nails against my jaw and down my throat. A chill goes down my spine, and I sigh just a little at it. "Why don't you come up on the bed with me, Gio?" Her voice is real low and silky when she says it, it echos across the vast canyon that I feel is separating me from reality. I remember when I first got here, she told me her name was like the princess I was too stupid to know (how fucking irritating that I remember what a carousel is and not whoever Rory was talking about) and I think now that the title fits her. Nicko's called her that a few times, "Princess", and it feels like the most honest thing he's said.

Slowly, I grab onto the too-soft sheets and pull myself to my feet. The ground is nothing but static underneath me, for a second I'm scared I'll drop through it and fall endlessly into hell. I can't help but think that's where I'll end up, and it scares me shitless that I might be going there right now. So I collapse onto the bed next to Rory, keeping my eyes focused on the floor to make sure it's still there.

Rory loops her fingers around my neck loosely and forces me to turn my head to look at her. She's staring holes into my skin, her gaze suddenly so intense it reminds me of Master. I close my eyes. I don't want to think of him, towering over me and watching me with that same look as I would tremble and sob and beg him to just be done already. Rory's finger is right over my pulse, and I pray that she doesn't add any pressure.

She smells like smoke and alcohol and perfume, and her breath is brushing my cheek when she says "It's so cute when you say things like that." Then her lips fall against my cheek, then my jaw, then she moves her hand and kisses over my pulse. I draw in a deep breath, keeping my eyes closed. I wonder if her lipstick is coming off on my skin where she kisses me. And, just when I think I might fall over in the euphoria that comes with her touching me so gently, her lips are against my own, hands cupping my face to keep me still. As if I would ever dream of not letting her do this to me.

She kisses me sloppily, with tongue and teeth, and I'm grabbing hard at the sheets and trying to put myself back into my body so I can actually experience it. But no matter how hard I try, everything is still so far away. "Hey!" The little guy on the carousel screams. "Everything is very far away!"

Even when her hands are sliding down my chest, and over my waistband, I don't really feel it, even when she's taking my lip into her teeth and biting like she's trying to draw blood, it's not my pain, not really. Even when the door opens and slams shut and I hear Nicko's booming voice asking us "What the fuck are you doing?!", it hurts my ears but I don't really process it.

Only when Rory snaps away from me and I feel hands grabbing me hard and ripping me off the mattress do I feel somewhat present, and Nicko is grabbing the collar of my shirt tightly and his furious face is right in front of mine, and I'm afraid.

"Why the fuck are you tounging my girlfriend, you fucking freak?!" He shouts at me. I try my best to cower away from him, but his grip is too tight, he really wants me to see how angry he is. Hot tears are in my eyes, I can't force my brain to come up with an apology, so I just stare up at him as he shouts at me. And then he must decide that yelling isn't enough, and he pulls back and punches me in the nose.

"Nicko stop it!" I hear Rory shriek, but it seems to only egg him on more, and he hits me again. This time I notice that the floor is pressed up against my back, or I guess I'm splayed out on the floor, it's hard to tell, my world feels all upside down. And my face is throbbing, I think, and I can't tell if it's hard to see because of the pain or if I just don't have my eyes open all the way. Through all of that, though, I remind myself to be quiet. Nicko's already so angry, the only thing I can do is stay silent and observe him landing brutal kicks against me, now. I find myself wondering what I did to deserve this, everything is so muddled and confusing I'm not even sure who's hitting me anymore.

"I'm sorry," I plead to the hands, trying to put as much remorse into my voice as I can, but it only comes out mangled and exhausted. Not good enough, they hit me again. I try another time, "ple-please, I'm sorry!"

Then I'm being picked up off the ground, hands reaching out of the dense, fuzzy cloud of confusion surrounding me and pulling me gruffly to my feet. I'm dragged out of the bedroom, I can hear Rory shouting at Nicko to let me go, and I look up to see him glaring forward, not even looking at me. He's livid, even more angry than the day he shouted when I passed out at the shop. My lungs feel like they're full of cement, Nicko is mad at me! I am so stupid and annoying and worthless and

"I'm so sorry!" I sob out. He ignores me.

We pass by one of Nicko's other roommates as he drags me down the hall, he's never said a word to me before, but he always looks at me with vague disgust when he's around. I think his name is Ben. Now, his disgust is warped with horror, his eyebrows twisted into a tight frown and his mouth hanging open as Nicko drags me along next to him. He doesn't say anything. I wish it were Salem. Salem would have said something. I wonder when he'll back from work, if I'll be able to sneak away from Nicko and Rory long enough to see him. That is, if I even live that long. The way Nicko is handling me carelessly, with a drunken, vengeful look in his eyes, I don't have much hope that I will.

He opens the sliding door to the backyard, where snow covers nearly every surface, the porch light soaks all of it in a rusty orange glow. It makes me feel hollow inside when Nicko drags me out there. I'm not wearing shoes or socks, hardly wearing pants, and Nicko seems to only give me thin t-shirts instead of heavy sweaters like he and Rory wear.

The cold knocks my breath away, especially when Nicko tosses me down to the ground. The snow feels almost sharp against my skin, like it's cutting into me. I refuse to make any sound. Nicko is mad enough. He approaches me slowly, I only dare to look at his huge black boots approaching, I don't lift my head, I don't look up at him. I don't deserve to. He crouches down in front of me, sliding his belt out of the loops in his jeans slowly.

"You're fucking sick, you know that?" He says. I flinch away from his voice, and then he's sitting me up, leaning me against one of the wooden pillars holding the awning up. "You don't seriously think she wants you, right? I mean, look at you, you're pathetic. You're not even a fucking person anymore, Giovanni. Do you get that? She doesn't want you..." he presses me closer to the beam I'm leaning against, I feel splinters in my back already. He's so fucking scary like this, and I absolutely hate myself for pushing him into such horrific anger. I'm so horrible. I deserve this. I deserve this and so much more. He brings the belt up, looping it around my neck and the pillar, tightening it so I can't move. If I relax even an inch it would strangle me, I'm sure of it, I'm barely able to get in ragged breaths already. Nicko stands up. "She just wants the attention."

I can hardly see him through tears in my eyes as he stands up, hovering over me for a moment. I want him to let me down, I want to go back inside and put on Salem's sweater that I keep hidden, I want Nicko to like me again, I hate when he's this angry. I say nothing, because I deserve this. Because I'm horrible.

"You'll sleep out here tonight, so you can really learn your lesson."

His blurry silhouette turns away from me. I can't move enough to watch him walk all the way inside, but I hear the door close, then I hear it lock. When I'm sure I'm alone, I start to cry.

[musecharm-writes]

Bad Influence, Pt 2 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: Jonathan, Robin, Steve, and Nancy find out more about what happened at Melvald’s; you have your first shift at the general store.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

When Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin head to the Byers’ later that night, Joyce is there, making herself a sandwich and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“Jonathan, sweetie? That you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jonathan replies. “Nancy, Steve, and Robin are here, too.”

Joyce appears around the corner, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh! Hey, guys! Sorry, if I had known you were coming I would’ve cooked dinner, or--or gotten take-out, or something. Will is over at Dustin’s tonight so I was expecting it to just be me and Jonathan--” She cuts herself off to take a pull from her cigarette.

“That’s okay, Ms Byers, me and Robin were gonna get pizza later,” Steve says politely. He’s always been good with parents, moms especially, and for whatever reason Joyce seems to like him. 

He assumes that Jonathan has never breathed a word to her about all the shit Steve used to put her son through, otherwise he’d probably be eating all his meals through a straw to this very day.

“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan begins, in a characteristically unsubtle fashion, “we were wondering if we could ask you about something.”

Joyce smiles, somewhat unsurely. “Okay,” she says, with a nervous little laugh, “ask away.”

Jonathan and Nancy share a look before Nancy says, “We were wondering if you knew anything about what happened at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Joyce’s eyebrows draw together, a furrow appearing like magic on a face that Steve privately thought looked too young for all the stress Joyce Byers carries with her. “How do you all know about that?”

“Steve and Robin saw it,” Jonathan says.

“Uh, technically only I saw it,” Steve corrected. “I’m still not quite sure what it was all about, though, we were too far away.”

Joyce nods slowly, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. Technically, I’m supposed to keep it kind of a secret.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Nancy says, and Steve can tell she’s trying her absolute best to look innocent and wide-eyed. “We’re very curious, is all. And, honestly, a little worried that something bad is happening again.”

Clever play, Nance. They weren’t worried there was another impending apocalypse -- not really. She’s just trying to appeal to Joyce’s instinct to comfort.

Sure enough, it works; that furrow in Joyce’s brow deepens as her conflicted expression melts into a look of concern. “Oh, honey, no. It’s nothing like that.” She bites her lip, mulling it over for a moment, before she says, “Okay, if I tell you, you all have to promise you’ll keep it quiet, okay?”

They all give various answers in the affirmative.

“Someone -- a teenager, around your age -- tried to steal a carton of cigarettes from Melvald’s. I spotted them right as they slipped it into their pocket and started to walk away. Powell and Callahan happened to be there, stopping by on their way to the station, so they took the kid in.”

“Seriously? They tried to steal cigarettes?” Nancy asks, her nose wrinkling with her distaste. “God, that’s so stupid. I’m glad you caught them.”

Joyce sighs. “I feel a little bad for getting them in trouble. It seems like it’s just a case of a good kid making bad choices. I mean, I remember myself at that age…” She shakes her head, taking another drag from her cigarette. She walks over to the coffee table and flicks ash into the ashtray.

“I mean, you did the right thing though, right? Just because they’re some mixed up kid doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to learn from their mistakes just like anyone else,” Steve says.

Everyone, save for Joyce, turns to look at him.

“...Why are you all staring at me like that?”

Robin puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably because that’s the most intelligent thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” she says, giving his shoulder a little pat.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, but everyone else is laughing, and he can’t help but smile.

Even though he knows it can’t possibly be true, because he says intelligent stuff all the time.

--

The morning of your first shift at Melvald’s begins with your alarm clock, which you set the night before to go off at five. Unfortunately, it never actually went off; unbeknownst to you, one of the breakers had tripped in the middle of the night, which reset your alarm clock.

You wake up from a blissful sleep and roll over to see the blinking red 12:00 . For a second, you don’t comprehend what you’re looking at, and then when it sinks in, you scramble out of bed so frantically that you go tumbling to the ground, tangled in the sheets, yelling, “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

You get ready faster than you ever have in your life, skipping breakfast and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink while tugging on your clothes. As soon as you’re ready, you’re flying out the door, grabbing your bike, and peeling down the road that will bring you to Downtown Hawkins. You count your lucky stars that the only drivers out this early are the people driving to work.

When you get to Melvald’s, you chain your bike up at the bike rack and blow through the door like a hurricane, your cheeks bright red with exertion and your blood rushing in your ears. The tinkling of the bell over the door is almost mocking in its gentleness.

The store is almost completely empty except for a single woman in a uniform vest who appears to be pricing items. She looks over at you; you recognise her as Joyce Byers, the woman who caught you stealing the cigarettes.

“Oh! Hey,” she says, sounding surprised to see you.

“I’m so-- so sorry,” you pant, walking forward a bit to lean on the counter. “My… My alarm... didn’t go off, and I--”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re actually early.”

You pause, your chest heaving, looking at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep. By about…” She looks at a clock behind the counter. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

You let your head loll against your back. “So I skipped breakfast for nothing.”

Joyce smiled sympathetically. “‘Fraid so. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, Hop’ll definitely be happy about it.”

And, embarrassingly enough, it does make you feel a little better.

You’d like to say your first day on the job goes pretty well.

You’d like to say that, but if you did, it would be a lie.

It starts with the pricing gun, which miraculously stops working moments after Joyce leaves you to your task. She assures you that it’s just because the damn thing is so old and Gary refuses to replace it because of how expensive they are, which makes you feel a little better, but part of you still feels as though you broke it despite her reassurance.

Then, when Joyce offers you a break to go and grab lunch for the two of you from the diner, you almost lose the money she gives you thanks to a hole in your pocket that you hadn’t even realised was there. Thankfully, you’re able to make it with the cash still in hand, but the incident makes you so nervous that on the way back to the store you almost drop everything multiple times.

When you finally make it back, the store is unusually busy, so you’re forced to stow the paper take-out bags under the counter as Joyce attempts to teach you how to use the register. You frantically memorise as much as you can, and are somehow able to make it through the rush without missing a beat, but by the time it’s over and the two of you are able to take a load off, your lunch is stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Joyce, staring dejectedly at your cold fries. “I don’t know why I’m having such a shitty day today. I’m trying so hard but it feels like everything is going wrong.”

Joyce shakes her head. “Hey, no. It’s okay. Sometimes, you just have bad luck, no matter how hard you try. It’s not your fault.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

You wonder why she’s being so nice to you, but you can’t work up the nerve to ask. Instead, you ask if there’s a microwave you can use to heat up the food.

Toward the end of your shift at around 12:30, Joyce calls you over from where you’ve been organising a window display and says, “Hey, would you mind going into the back and grabbing the boxes that have ‘ballpoint’ and ‘pencil - yellow’ written on them? I need to restock.”

“I’ll do it for you!” You blurt out. You can feel your cheeks flushing.

“Oh,” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows at you. “Okay. Uh, I’ll show you where they go and then that’ll be the last thing you have to do before I let you go for the day. Okay?”

You nod, too flustered to speak. You need Joyce to like you for reasons you aren’t totally sure of, and you hope with every part of you that you aren’t being too obvious.

Joyce walks you through restocking the shelves and then sends you on your way to retrieve the boxes from storage. They’re bigger than you thought they would be considering they’re just boxes of pens and pencils, but you guess it makes sense, since it’s not like the boxes are full of individual pencils and pens. There are three of them, standard sized cardboard boxes; you lift each one and find that you could probably carry two at a time, if you were careful. You stack the two boxes of pencils on top of each other on the ground, squat, and lift them up with a grunt of effort.

Now that you’re holding them, you realise it’s a little hard to see around the boxes. You have to angle your head awkwardly to peer around one side, which leaves you with a pretty big blind spot. You guess you’ll just have to trust that any customers nearby will be smart enough to stay out of the way.

You’ve made it almost all the way to the correct shelf before tragedy strikes again.

You glance down at the ground to make sure that there’s nothing you could trip over or slip on, and as you’re adjusting your grip on the bottom box, you hear a voice coming near you.

“--And stop nagging me! You’re not my mother, Buckley!”

Shortly following this is a shout of, “Steve! Watch where you’re--!”

You look up right in time to slam into someone.

The boxes fly right out of your hands. Boxes of yellow Ticonderoga pencils go flying, scattering across the floor. Some of the boxes even come open and pencils go rolling every which way. You end up flat on your ass in the middle of it all.

For a moment, you stare at the boxes of pencils all over the floor, gobsmacked. Once you’re able to tear your eyes away from the mess, you look up to find Steve Harrington looking down at you with his eyes as wide as dinner plates, but not one strand of hair out of place.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Then, Harrington opens his mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he babbles, dropping to his knees and starting to pick up the stray boxes and escaped pencils. “That was an accident, uh-- shit, I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz. I’m sorry, please, lemme help--”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, somewhat dejected. You’re probably going to have to stay after your shift ends to finish picking all this up and do what you promised Joyce. You glance at the clock and find your theory is confirmed, to your dismay. “I can handle it. It’s my job.”

“No, really, I…” He pauses after a moment, squinting at you. “Wait. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He has. The two of you went to school together for, like, your entire lives. That’s not what he means, though; he recognises you from yesterday, when he watched you get patted down and shoved in a cop car after making the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made in your life.

“We went to the same school for twelve years,” you say stiffly. Like hell are you gonna remind him if he actually forgot.

“...Oh,” he replies awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry. But, no, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Did you used to hang out at the mall? I used to work there. Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re the one who got arrested yesterday, right?”

Before you can answer, a girl you vaguely recognise as being a high schooler a couple of years your junior appears at Harrington’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him with surprising strength and an almost enraged expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She hisses at him, before turning to you with a sunny smile. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s chronically stupid. We’re going to go before he says another dumb thing, right , Steve?” She has him by the ear, now, and you have to admit it’s kind of funny; she’s a couple of inches shorter than him, so he has to bend down to keep her from tearing his ear off.

“OW! Yes , Robin, jesus! Let go of me, I’m leaving!”

As you watch them go, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d kind of wanted someone to help you pick up the pencils.

--

When Robin and Steve are outside of Melvald’s, Robin finally lets go of Steve’s ear, saying, “Steve, what have we talked about? About thinking before we speak?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I know, dummy. I had to learn it, too.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and glances back into the general store through the front window. “So, what was your angle with that whole spiel back there?”

Steve blanches. “What?”

“I mean , you’re not just nice to people for no reason all the time, even if you did something to them. So why were you being such a hardcore nice guy?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something and realises he doesn’t have any clue how to respond. He crosses his arms and shrugs, flustered. “I dunno. Maybe I just felt like it. What’s it to you?”

He starts to walk away, tired of the conversation, and Robin comes trotting after him, still yapping right in his ear. (He pretends to be annoyed, but honestly, his heart feels full to the brim with love for Robin. Before her, nobody has ever chased after him before.)

“Uh, you’re my best friend, dumb-dumb! That’s what it is to me! My nose belongs stuck right in your business!” She catches up to him and runs around to plant herself in his path, grinning broadly. “So, tell me what it is that has you so riled up.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment before shrugging again. “...I don’t know.”

Robin arcs a brow at him. “Seriously? You’re still not gonna tell me?”

“Robin, c’mon, I’m telling you I have no idea ,” Steve insists. He sighs, and lowers his voice. “Look, I just felt this weird… Urge to stay and talk? And picking up the mess that I caused anyway seemed like a good excuse at the time. Until I stuck my foot in my mouth, that is,” he sighs.

Robin gasps. “Steven Janine Harrington--”

“Not my name.”

“--Do you have a CRUSH?”

Steve feels his entire body burst into flames. He looks around frantically, saying, “Will you keep your voice down?”

Robin’s face takes on an expression of pure glee. “So you do! Oh my god, I didn’t think you were capable. So, are you going to pursue anything? Or are you more the brood-from-afar type?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up? You’re such an embarrassment. This is why I never take you anywhere,” Steve says, walking off in a huff.

Robin chases after him, laughing her ass off. He’s glad at least one of them thinks the situation is funny.

[smallheathgangsters]

Doomed | Part Three

Masterpost

A/N: Please forgive me! This took forever and I don’t even know if I really like the way it turned out ): But nevertheless, I’m excited about continuing this series and I wanted to say thank you for all your support!

Tag List: @imgrullas @beautycinders @maggiescarborough @lovemissyhoneybee @ellaestloved @swweett-insanityyy @peaky-fookin-blinders-addict @writeroutoftime @namelesslosers @elisabethisdead @amirahiddleston @sinfulshelbys @yoheyyosup @asianbuttcheek  @curlyhairedblueeyedangel @wnygirl2012 @multi-fandom-iimagines

Pairing: Bonnie Gold x Shelby!Sister Reader

Word Count: 2812

Type: fluff, swearing

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was hard ignoring the happenings surrounding your family. You heard about Mrs. Ross, the mother of the boy Arthur had beaten to death as a result of an absentminded episode, visiting Tommy in his office. She’d apparently invited your eldest brother over to her place. She tried to cover it up as an act of peace-making, not exactly forgiveness, but a thank-you to the Shelby family for helping her and her children get by. It would’ve been her son’s twenty-first birthday. But Tommy knew it was all a setup, immediately suspecting the Changrettas being involved. There had been no sign of willingness to work towards truce in her eyes. They were still covered in anger and hatred and utter, utter disgust towards your family. Especially towards Arthur.

You’d always disliked thinking back to that day. As much as you loved your broken brother, you knew that there had always been something truly wrong with him. Showing clearly, almost too clearly, that he did not have control over his thoughts, his actions. Himself. Even though you did not blame him for what had happened, you still never understood what made everybody brush it off, as if it were nothing. Arthur had serious issues, but none of which were dared to be spoken about in the Shelby household.

You caught up on bits and pieces of Tommy’s plan after accepting Mrs. Ross’s offer and letting her know, that Arthur would be there at said date and time. How they would place themselves all around Artillery Square, covering every corner with men holding guns. Including Finn.

Finn, who finally got involved the way he wanted to be involved. Or did he? It was hard for you to tell. You’d tried talking to him about the matter multiple times, but you realised, that he just wasn’t comfortable talking to a sister about that. A woman in general. And as much it hurt, you had to accept the fact that he didn’t want to open up about it to you. Hoping, he would at least let you know if he’d ever felt unhappy.

The betting shop was as busy as always. While your brothers, Charlie, Johnny Dogs and Isaiah were backing up Arthur on his suspicious visit at Mrs. Ross’s, you, Lizzie and Polly were occupied with bets and even more bets coming in. Business was running smoothly. The way it should.

It was difficult for you to concentrate on working and worrying about what was going down at Artillery Square at the same time. If Tommy had been right about his guess. If his plan works out. If it perhaps meant the end to this horrible vendetta? The end to all of this? The end of having to stay with your family? Making it possible for you to finally distance yourself from the business and the negativity? But you knew, it sounded too good. Too good to be true. There wasn’t a chance this mess would be over so fast.

The hours went by painfully slow. You caught yourself watching the pendulum of the clock one too many times. Back and forth. And from time to time, Polly sent you a strict glance, pulling you out of your thoughts and into work again.

While you were writing down some numbers into the book on your desk in front of you, you suddenly heard the front door burst open. It slammed against the wall and Tommy’s figure appeared in the shop. Your head shot up from the ink-covered pages, eyeing your brother closely. Something was off. He seemed upset, stressed.

“Oi! Get out,” Tommy ordered, sending the worker out of the office within the cell bars. The man promptly obeyed, removing himself. You watched Tommy go around the table and sit down on the chair, grabbing the telephone. The receiver quickly made its way to Tommy’s ear and his lips mouthed the address of the recipient of his call.

Your eyes scanned the betting shop. Polly seemed busy on the phone and Lizzie was nowhere to be seen. So, you decided to move a little closer to Tommy’s conversation. You could sense that something had gone wrong. At least not as planned. And you were worried for Finn. Like always. You were always worried for your little brother.

“Charlie. Listen, Bonnie Gold will be calling you in four minutes. Tell him the Italians are on the road south.”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you heard Bonnie’s name. That meant the Golds had to be involved again. What was going on? Was Arthur okay? Did the Italians perhaps outsmart Tommy?

As much as the situation concerned you, you had to internally chuckle at the thought of Tommy being outsmarted. That must hurt your proud, self-convinced brother. A lot. The one that thought so highly of himself, so sure of every plan he placed out in his head.

“A Rolls-Royce, maybe two. Black. Tell him to expect a full complement of men. We inflicted no casualties.”

A pause. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut in apparent annoyance by something Charlie said. “I said we inflicted no fucking casualties.”

And with that, he hung up, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Then he let out a deep sigh.

Before you had the chance to sneak back to your workplace, Tommy had already opened his eyelids again and you could feel his cold stare on you.

“Is there something you want to ask me, Y/N?”

You sighed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Are Arthur and Finn alright?”

Tommy gave the bridge of his nose a short massage before answering your question. “They’re both fine.”

You gritted your teeth, already regretting the next question you were about to ask. You knew you were treading onto dangerous territory with Tommy currently being so tense, but you couldn’t hold back the words rolling off your tongue. “What the fuck happened, Tom?”

“Since when do you–“

“Can we please skip that?” you hissed, cutting him off impolitely. “I’ll be gone after all of this is over, but until then, I want to know what’s going on.”

You heard Tommy gulp audibly. “Arthur was never the target.”

“So, who was?” you frowned, your bottom lip slipping in between your teeth, encouraging your bad habit of nervous lip-chewing.

“Michael.”

Your eyes went wide and your teeth let go of your lip, letting your mouth fall agape. “I– Is he okay?”

“Yeah, but now we’re trying to get ahead of them.”

“Is that why you called the Golds for help?”

He nodded. “We’re trying to get a hold of them before they get away.”

You felt your chest relax. Knowing that everybody was safe and alive made your worries vanish. But there was still a hint of discomfort settled in the pit of your stomach. And you knew exactly who to blame this feeling of discomfort on. Bonnie. That pretty, polite, flirty Gold boy. With his stupid dark curls and his stupid gorgeous eyes. You let out a groan, convinced about it being silent enough to be overheard.

Of course, Tommy caught up on it. “Nothing’s going to happen to him, stop being concerned.”

“Hm?” you hummed, confused about what your brother tried to say to you.

“Bonnie. Nothing’s going to happen to the kid.”

You let out a huff. “It’s going to take a lot for me to just trust your words like that again, Tommy.”

Tommy moistened his lips by darting out his tongue for a quick second. His eyes were drilling holes into your skin, but you didn’t let him intimidate you. You were his little sister, family, not his enemy and his tries to frighten you with his manner made you lose your respect for him more and more. He didn’t own you. He didn’t control your thoughts. And unfortunate for him, they were very different to his own. And because you all needed to work together, being in the middle of this vendetta, he had to learn to accept you. Stubbornness, independence and all that came with it.

“I’d like to see Bonnie when the job is finished. Just to make sure you held your word.”

“You’re being–“

“Reasonable. I’m being reasonable, Tom. And if you’re not letting me see him, you’re once again taking a step further away from me having faith in you.”

Tommy closed his mouth shut, sending you another stiff nod. Then, he fished out his cigarette case, revealing a smoke. He placed it between his lips and lit the end with a match. “In that case, I’ll see you later Y/N.”

You nodded at your brother and watched him leave the betting shop in a hurry, face stern, cigarette in hand.

It was late when Tommy came back to the betting shop to pick you up. You had refused to go home with Polly after work was finished for the day, wanting and needing some time alone. It had been incredibly noisy in the shop that day and you craved some peace and quiet, knowing very well that you wouldn’t be getting that if you joined Polly.

Tommy made you follow him to Charlie’s yard, but insisted you’d wait outside in front of the stables until after his conversation with Aberama. “Nothing that should be any of your concern.”

He’d slipped into the barn fast enough to escape another one of your snarky, but very much valid comments about you having the right to know what was going on with the Italians. You let out a groan and leaned against a wooden pillar, listening to the water ripple against the boats down in the canal.

It didn’t take long until Tommy returned. “He’s all yours.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment. “Your facial expression doesn’t look as if Luca Changretta was taken down.”

“That’s nothing for you to worry about, Y/N. I’ve got everything under control,” he answered, taking a deep drag from his almost burnt-out cigarette.

“I never said anything about being worried,” you stated, pushing yourself away from the pillar. Tommy sighed at your remark, threw the rest of his smoke on the ground and stepped on it with the tip of his shoe. “What do you hope to gain from getting close to Bonnie?”

“I’m not hoping for anything, Tommy.”

He chuckled sarcastically. “He’s not the hero you’re searching for. You know nobody’s going to look out more and better for you than your own family.”

You gave your brother an annoyed glance. “Why are you constantly up in my business?”

“I could ask you the same.”

You let out another angry groan. “Fine. If I stop asking you questions about Luca Changretta, will you quit having an opinion about my relationship with Bonnie?”

He just shrugged. “We’ll see about that.”

And then, he turned around and took off. With each step, the gravel crunched loudly beneath his soles. Your eyes followed him while sucking in the air through your gritted teeth, trying to calm yourself down. Tommy really had a talent of pushing your buttons.

“Y/N?”

Your felt your heart skip a beat and reflexively raised your hand to your chest. “God!”

“Sorry,” Bonnie grinned, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You can’t just sneak up on me like that!”

You gave him a gentle, playful push, which made his grin turn into a laugh. “You want to fight me?”

He swiftly grabbed both your wrists, restraining you. You desperately tried to twist them out of his grip, but you already knew it was impossible. Eventually, you let out a defeated giggle. “Okay, okay. I give up.”

He winked down at you, letting your arms go. “So, tell me. What brings you out here this late?”

You sent him a smile and nervously pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. And alive.”

He chuckled and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Why shouldn’t I be alive?”

“I knew about Tommy sending your men after the Italians,” you told him. “Because as clever as my brother thinks he is, he didn’t realise who Changretta’s real target was.”

Bonnie noticed the poisonous tone in your voice and took one of his hands out of his pockets, placing it on your shoulder. “Do you think you and your brother will ever get along in a way that’s healthy for both of you?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know …”

“I would love to see your relationship improve after all of this is over,” he said, giving you a warm smile. His pretty hazel eyes had a little sparkle in them, making you hold your breath for a split second.

“I’m confident it’ll get better,” he assured, the confidence in his voice almost convincing you. Then, he let your shoulder go and his hand returned to the pocket.

“Did you kill somebody today?”

Your question seemed to have surprised Bonnie. “Would it be a problem if I have?”

You shook your head. “No, not at all. I’m just curious.”

“We shot two men.”

We. He avoided your question. But you accepted his answer. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Even if it’s not the end yet.”

“And if you continue being so concerned for my safety, I’m sure nothing will ever happen to me,” he chuckled. You felt your cheeks heat up as a reaction to his teasing comment.

“I’m just being nice,” you tried defending yourself, a nervous giggle escaping your throat.

“And I’m just trying to flirt,” Bonnie admitted, tilting his head slightly, “Once again.”

Bonnie was a man who gave off the impression of being very innocent, but every now and then he let something slip out of his mouth proving the complete opposite. And that was exactly what made him so interesting.

You must have been silent for a moment, caught in your thoughts, because suddenly Bonnie’s worried voice sounded in your ears. “I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No!” you exclaimed quickly. “No, not at all. Please don’t think that!”

“Oh, good,” Bonnie sighed relieved. “Would not have been the first time that my weak flirting skills scared a girl off.”

“Shut up,” you laughed. “How could somebody not like you?”

“Girls with a better taste in men perhaps?”

“Are you telling me my taste in men is bad?”

“Are you telling me you like me?”

You tried to think of a witty reply, but your mouth just stayed open without any words coming out. And you were positive that you looked ridiculous.

Bonnie took a small step forwards, towering over you. “You look adorable with your jaw dropped like that.”

Your teeth made an audible clicking sound when you shut your mouth promptly in reaction to his confession. Your eyes scanned his beautiful features, completely in awe by his sudden boldness.

You knew it was stupid. Stupid to let your heart flutter at the sound of his voice, at the spark in his piercing orbs, at the scent he carried, reminding you of pleasant evenings around a bonfire. It was stupid of you constantly trying to be close to him. Finding reasons to cross his path. You were in a time of uncertainty and danger. Death was lurking behind every corner. Carelessness could lead to the passing of way more people than just yourself. And as much as you hated being unwillingly involved in Tommy’s business, all you wanted was your family to be safe. And alive.

But Bonnie was just so … captivating. The thought of having him around made your days pass quicker, easier. The frustrating conversations you had had with Tommy that day weren’t so frustrating anymore and the constant weight of John’s passing didn’t feel as heavy.

“C– Can I kiss you?”

The words slowly rolled over his lips. Almost a whisper. A hesitant question.

Your gaze fell onto his beautiful face. You noticed him lift his hand and place it on your cheek delicately. Reminding yourself that you’ve still not reacted to his question, you nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. Which made him let out a sweet chuckle.

“Thank god,” he said, making you smile widely before leaning down and pressing his lips onto yours.

No matter how many times your mind tried to tell you how stupid this was, there was nothing that could hold you back. Hold you back from falling. Falling so hard and so deep. It felt as if he was giving you the air you needed to breathe. As if he was saving you from a wild current that would have pulled you under, drowned you, sooner or later.

Eventually, you would realise that your mind had been right all along. That listening to your heart was never a good idea.

But right then and there, your heart was stronger than your mind. Right then and there, everything was fine.

[havebruises]

“Cauterizing a Wound” with Warren + Mitchell requested by...I can’t remember but it was probably @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi and they’re Warren’s hurt tag list anyway! for @badthingshappenbingo​

requests open

cw: | captivity + restraints | injuries, knives + blood | light choking | nausea | noncon touch | intimate whumper | burning, obviously | blink + you’ll miss it suicidal ideation

-

“I don’t know why you cry so much. You’re not exactly made of porcelain, doll.”

Warren gave a half-coughed laugh, because it sure felt like he was, after all the bruises and fractures and injuries. A toy some naughty child had smashed against the wall without knowing how fragile he was on the surface. Blood-brushed bisque cracked all the way over with no hope of repair.

Normally, something so broken wouldn’t be allowed near anyone’s hands, for risk of the shattered material cutting up vulnerable fingers. He would be trashed, simple as that. But Mitchell had no worries guiding his touch over bare unwilling skin. It wouldn’t cut him. Warren wasn’t made of pottery. He was flesh. He had nerves, sparking with pain unlike any real doll and it was so gratifying feeling him twitch with agony.

He was soft, too, under calloused hands. Shaking and taut as a wire against his restraints where his limbs were spread out on the table, wrists above his head and ankles down at either corner of it, leaving him forcibly exposed like the knife sessions. Despite the icy metal surface, lying on the table ended up being the rare place he felt warmth in this place- from the constant intimate touches, and from the smears of fresh blood all over his right thigh. Mitchell loved to have one hand on a blade and the other hand smoothed over some vulnerable part of his body. He supposed it should have been a relief, to no longer be so cold. All it did was make him more sensitive to the pain.

Mitchell had won the scuffle an hour prior. The first time Warren had ever really tried to fight, had had the opportunity to fight in weeks- and he’d screwed it up. Warren had been pinned on his back with Mitchell’s knees squeezing his sides, both of the man’s hands on his jaw looking over cuts and bruises like they were reflections in a crystal. The sudden indignant rage that swelled in his chest and knotted up his stomach prompted him to make a move for the blade Mitchell had set aside nearby. The confidence that assuming he wouldn’t try at least- it was disgusting.

As sudden as the decision was, Warren wasn’t quick enough to avoid a big hand snatching his wrist. It squeezed him so hard he thought it might snap in multiple places, forcing him to let go of the knife. It had clattered to the ground and Mitchell simply released the boy’s wrist and scooped it up. One hand pressed down firmly across the front of Warren’s trachea while he adjusted his stance atop the redhead and sunk the knife-tip recklessly against soft flesh. 

“You know better! What were you thinking?” Mitchell hissed, affronted.

Warren choked and grasped at Mitchell’s wrist, trying to pry it away from his neck with a short scream as the sharp edge cut into the muscle of his thigh like it was paper. Slow at first, dancing a thin jagged line into his skin.

Then, it hilted without warning. A massively impulsive gesture from someone who always took his time with every cut, and had moments of thought between each blow. His captor usually made sure he had the time and energy and meaning required to make every move count. Like someone was scoring his infliction of emotional damage. Like he was being judged by how long he could keep the boy from bleeding out while still making him scream.

This wound in the boy’s leg was agonizing and risky and Mitchell hadn’t thought ahead, but the penetrative motion of it just felt so pleasurable that he didn’t even move at first. He just watched Warren gasp, the poor young man shivering hard to remain still rather than squirm and make it worse. Warren had been there long enough to understand that twisting about always made it worse. His chest still heaved under Mitchell, and his eyes had rolled so nicely in the moment. The fingernails digging into the man’s wrists were easily ignored for the sweet whine that trailed down in the back of Warren’s throat.

Even now, standing above his doll at the body-slab table and cleaning the messy flesh that betrayed Warren’s lack of porcelain- it had been worth it. Mitchell was already considering doing it again. He just wished he had someone else to take care of the mess afterward.

The deep slice had been scrubbed out, but it still bled in rich pulses and pooled over the edge of Warren’s thigh into a puddle at the crease between his leg and the shining metal of the table. It’d be an issue if Mitchell simply decided to stitch it up. A life-threatening, pallid sort of issue unsolved by even deep tissue sewing.

And whoever had any fun with something as small and painless as a needle and thread? It was worth the risk of infection, in Mitchell’s eyes. Well worth it.

Oh, and how Warren wailed when he saw the slim metal rod heat up to that telltale matte coal-red, smoke flickering in the air above it. His arms strained beside him and his wild eyes met Mitchell’s, pleading with him- begging- offering him anything in return for that implement not going in where the knife had only so soon ago came out. He could feel the thick blade’s path in his leg and he knew where that iron would go. 

“Stop stop stop wait--”

A rough hand clapped over his forehead and shoved his head down with a clunk, not wanting to stop those sweet cries but also refusing to let him jerk around like an animal and harm himself. That was Mitchell’s job, as Warren was so often reminded. It was usually an accident, when Warren hurt himself- so far, anyway. The mad grab for the knife had been the closest the redhead had gotten to trying to kill himself, and only because the motion had been so monumentally stupid that Mitchell might have just killed him for it. But Warren was apparently worth the trouble.

“Shh, doll,” his captor called down to him, with a little smirk that implied he didn’t really hate the sobs. “This is for your own good, why are you crying this time?”

He dropped the heavy iron tip down and let it graze the side of Warren’s thigh, the boy’s breath catching as he fell silent to the sound of soft sizzling. His leg felt aflame, like laying his palm flat on the hot metal of a stove only he couldn’t wrench himself away. He arched his spine sharply, but the restraints held him as safely as they always did.

The tip of the iron moved inward, toward the oozing wound, then- inside it. 

Warren yowled, mouth wide open and teeth bared, eyes wide and fists white-knuckled and shaking as Mitchell wiggled the implement into his slickened, open flesh, searing shut any split veins in the way of it. That’s all it took blissfully, the boy’s eyes rolling back and his body falling limp other than the tremble overtaking his whole body and his short panting breaths, sweat sheening his skin. He hardly twitched when Mitchell pulled the iron out and turned it off, setting it aside on the table to cool.

He woke to the scent of cooked meat, burnt hair, and antiseptic, the stench lingering in the air with the misplacement of a friendly barbeque in a morgue basement. It roiled his stomach instantly, and he had to clench his jaw and swallow hard to keep from vomiting. He’s freezing and wet, the table still dripping with water from the hose- though his leg had been towelled off and there was a dry tautness on his skin that implied bandaging. He couldn’t find the energy to move his head and look.

He didn’t want to. There was a dull, hollow pain that radiated up and down either side of his leg, leaving the outside of the radius numb from exhausted nerves and half-consciousness. The muscle in his thigh twitched on its own and he winced every time.

Mitchell leaning above him took up all his vision, toweling off his hands. Warren, shaking and pale, was most striking when splattered in blood. His red hair stuck thinly and contrasted to his forehead, and his lips were bruised and bright from being bitten.

Gorgeous, Mitchell thought, saying nothing. Warren said nothing. The silence was loaded with terror, matched in equal measure by his tormentor’s pleasure. He felt as if his pain was worthless in that way. It meant nothing, and the helplessness that curled around in his gut whenever he noticed it would be distracting- but for the pain.

He’d never felt such pain, even long after the iron had cooled. The sheer amount of it brought blackness into the edges of his vision, framing his captor in a closing tunnel. Soon Warren was overtaken again, finding blessed peace in unconsciousness lying flat on the table.

There was a time when he’d first arrived that he’d fought sleep. He wasn’t fighting anymore.

Warren was nothing less than grateful for it now.

[justsassysworld]

Grief Makes Bad Decisions

Grief Makes Bad (Or Maybe Not So Bad) Decisions

Beetlejuice x f!Reader

Word Count: 1823

“Gertrude, Eustace, I’m home!” you call, entering your house. 

You're roommates are a lovely, but incredibly odd couple. They're ridiculously sweet, horribly in love, and over a hundred years dead. 

Over a hundred and twenty years ago, they were killed by some random intruder, leaving them unable to move on from the place of their murder. 

You were beyond freaked out the first time you saw them, the day after you moved into their old home. Apparently, most people don't see ghosts, but you are a strange and unusual type person. It took awhile to see past their bloody and gruesome appearances, but you've grown so used to them now that you don't even notice their bloody clothes and bullet wounds anymore. 

A sense of wrongness overtakes you as you notice an envelope on an end table. It’s addressed to you.

Darling Y/N, 

It has been lovely these past six months. You’re such a sweet girl who has been so good to us. We hope you will look back on your time with us with fondness, but our time has come.

We were obligated to spend one hundred and twenty five years in our home. Today marks the end of our purgatorial sentence. We had wanted to prepare you for our departure, but the exact date slipped our mind, and was upon us before we could act.

I am truly sorry we are unable to give a proper goodbye, and wish you nothing but happiness for your future. We will always appreciate the loving care and consideration you have shown us. 

Wishing you a joyous and love filled life, 

Eustace and Gertrude Mayford

Tears prickling your eyes, a sob wrenches from your chest. You hadn’t known them long, but you were closer to them than anyone.

The next few hours fly by as you process the loss. You find yourself seated on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, an old flyer in the other.

You’d come across it less than a week after moving in. it was for something called a “bio-exorcist.” When you showed it to Gertrude, she rolled her eyes.

“He’s a conman. After he was caught tormenting a couple who had just died and the family that moved in after them, he was forbidden any contact with the living world for twenty years,” she looked quite annoyed, obviously not liking the man. “The sentence ended a few years ago and he’s been nothing but a nuisance ever since.”

Both Eustace and her had warned you off summoning him, even for fun, multiple times, but you’re feeling lonely, and the tiniest bit inebriated, and you need to talk to someone who might understand, at least someone who knows about the spirit world.

Steeling yourself, and sending an apology to your departed friends, you say, “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice,” as quickly as possible.

Seconds roll by, leaving you disappointed. Out of nowhere, the couch shudders and quakes, making you hold on for dear life. Your eyes squeeze shut until the ride comes to an end.

A maniacal laugh and a hand on your leg has your eyes snapping an eye open. You let out a startled scream, jumping up from your spot, wanting to get some space between you and the...man?

“Who-who the hell are you?” you stutter, logic refusing to make itself known.

He gives you a huge grin, mossy teeth glittering in the low light, “I’m the ghost with the most, babe.”

“So, you’re Beet-” you’re cut off, physically unable to finish.

Eyes wide, you take in his satisfied smirk and his wagging finger, letting you know he’s responsible. “Uh uh uh, babes. We won’t be using that name again tonight.”

You bolt up, pacing the floor. Experimentally, you try to speak, “So,” you sigh in relief. “You’re the...person the Mayfords warned me about? I was expecting someone scarier.”

“Scarier?” he looks at you like you’ve got two heads.

“Well, yeah,” you say, beyond blunt. Nerves making you lose all tact. “I mean, you’re hardly intimidating. You’re not that much taller than me, you’ve got a bit of a gut, and honestly, you’re more gross than scary.”

Your pacing is brought to a sudden halt by a shockingly strong pair of hands. He pushes until you’re pressed against a wall, his arms bracket your head, trapping you. Something odd grips your wrists and ankles, spreading you out before him.

You’re suddenly horribly aware of your lack of clothes, in just your pajamas, a paper thin tank top and tiny pair of shorts. His hands still by your head, he gives you a long look over, his gaze almost tactile.

Except it’s not just his gaze that’s touching you, he seems to have grown a third arm out of his chest, which is running down your body, from just south of your breasts to just north of your shorts.

“Well now, babes,’ he growls in your ear. “I could do anything I want to you, there ain’t a thing you can do to stop me. You still think you I’m not intimidating?”

Swallowing hard, you decide to press your luck. “Intimidating? Not really. Dominant and sexy? Fuck yeah.”

 A coy smile crosses your lips as his jaw drops. As what you said sinks in, an evil grin splits his face.

“Oh, babycakes,” his lips are a hair's breadth from yours. “Game on.” His mouth crashes against yours; lips, teeth, and tongues battling for control.

Your fight is half hearted at best, wanting him to be in charge. Out of nowhere you’re released, falling into his waiting arms. He carries you to the couch, placing you how he wants you, naked at crouch level, clothes melting away.

You bite your lip, looking at him with fluttering lashes. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Juice.”

“Fuck yeah there is,” he purrs, fingers digging in your hair. “I want you to play with your pretty little pussy while I use your mouth as my own personal cock sleeve.” 

You wrinkle your nose, about to remark on that comment, when he opens his pants, pulling out his cock. Tilting your head, you take it in.

It’s as pale as the rest of him, around average length, but really fucking girthy, perfect for sex, but it was going to be hell on your jaw. You’re up for the challenge.

Starting to lean forward, you’re surprised when he stops you. “Uh uh uh, I’m captain of this cruise.”

He pulls you up to kiss just under his belly button, before having you kiss your way to and down his shaft. At the head, he commands, “Lick it.”

You do, treating it like your favorite lollipop. Feeling mischievous, you manage to give it one quick suck before he pulls you away. “Naughty girl.”

He gives you a wink that you return.

The tease lasts much longer than you would have thought, his stamina shocking you. He reminds you that you’re supposed to be providing him with some visual stimulus, so you run your hand down to your aching clit.

Jas you start to pleasure yourself, he lets you take him in your mouth, slowly. Stroking in and out, more of a tease than anything. Every time you try to take him deeper, he pulls back or pulls you away.

You’re starting to get frustrated, when he starts to thrust, slow and easy, allowing you to get used to his girth.

“Two inside, babes,” he pants, confusing you until you realize what he wants.

Hand slipping lower, you slip your middle and ring fingers into your pussy, surprised at just how wet you are. Using your palm to keep pressure on your clit, you keep pace with him the best you can. As you both grow closer, your breathing turns into pants, moans, and groans.

“Cum for me,” he commands, a growl deepening his voice. “Cum all over your hand.”

Unable to resist, you do, thrashing and screaming around his thick pulsing cock. This triggers his own orgasm, sending a spray of surprisingly pleasant, viscous cum. You swallow every drop.

You try to lean back, but he stops you, flipping you over the back of the couch.

His hands caress your ass, occasionally dropping sharp slaps, making you gasp. One hand slips to feel just how wet you are.

“What a dirty girl.”

You feel his breath against your heated flesh, seconds before a ridiculously long tongue buries itself deep inside your core. It wiggles and worms, finding every crevice, every pleasurable nook you never knew you had. Trying to move, wanting more, he holds you tight, keeping you right where he wants you. Using his tongue and fingers he draws two more explosive climaxes from deep inside.

He then repositions you. Laying on your back, you catch your breath as he settles between your spread thighs.

You whimper, “BJ, I’m too sensitive.”

His grin is less than reassuring. He drapes himself over you, planting another lingering kiss on your lips, cock brushing against your screaming clit. “Good,” he growls, “I want you cummin’ all over my dick.” 

You try to jerk away, body refusing anymore pleasure, but Beetlejuice is having none of it. He pins your arms above your head, starting to thrust into you. Grinding and twisting, he’s buried deep. Against your wishes, your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him tighter.

Nibbling your neck, he sets a breakneck pace. A blinding light over takes you as another screaming orgasm tears through you, then another, and another. 

Finally, when it feels like you’re about to pass out, you feel his cum spurt deep inside, hearing him growl low as his teeth sink in your shoulder.

“Beetlejuice!”

Minutes pass, or hours, or maybe even days, as you regain your senses. You’re surprised to find yourself in your bed, even more to realize it’s not your body pillow you’re cuddling, but an actual body.

Looking up as much as your sore muscles will allow, anger shoots through you.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Hey, babes,” he grins down at you, cigar in one hand, glass of wine in the other. “Mornin’”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Yes.”

A minute passes, “Well?”

“I told you, ‘Yes,’ answering your question.” The glimmer in his eyes telling you he knows what you want, and he’s enjoying your frustration.

Taking a deep breath, you grind out, “Is there a reason you’re smoking a cigar in my very much non-smoking home? Also, what possessed you to pour yourself the last glass of my fifty dollar wine?”

He just gives you a shit eating grin, refusing to answer.

Shaking your head and sighing, you drop your head back on his chest, lacking the energy to argue.

“Goodnight, BJ.”

“Goodnight, roomie.”

 You’re just about to drift back off, when your eyes snap open, “Roomie!?”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 14

Chapters: 14/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13]

One night, in the middle of a shift, Gerry gets a pounding migraine and goes to the back to have a cigarette. He knows it won't help, but he smokes it anyway and considers things as he paces the back room.

He's terrible at being sick, and it makes him miserable to be around. Still, the pain makes him ache for his partners, and he can't help picking up the phone to call Jon. It's close to midnight, but Gerry hopes that it won't be the one time Jon has gone to bed at a reasonable hour.

"Hello, Gerard," Jon answers the phone with an ocean of warmth in his voice.

"I miss you." Gerry presses his forehead into the cool window, seeking some sort of relief from the agonizing pressure in his head. He whispers the words like a confession, smokey breath fogging up the glass before him.

"What's wrong my love?" Just Jon's heady, seductive voice provides the emotional support Gerry was seeking, and he wishes he could sink into the words, the feelings behind them, and leave his fracturing body behind for a while.

"Nothing. Not feeling well is all. I just wanted to hear your voice." He sounds pale and washed out, even to himself.

"I'm still at the library, I'll come by and haunt you until your shift is over." Jon makes the offer very casually, although that fussy part of his personality that enjoys mothering Gerry and Martin shines through a bit.

"On a Friday, Jon? You should be home with Martin." He can't help but chuckle at his sweet idiot, even through the pain.

"Martin is out with Sasha and Tim for the evening, remember? I was hoping to stop by and tempt you over to mine tonight anyway." Far from being chastised for his workaholic tendencies, Jon injects all his fond affection into his tone. "Would you be interested in spending the night in a handsome man's bed?"

"Fuck yes. Obviously."

"Oh Gerry, my Gerry." Jon sing-songs into the phone. "Always saying just the right thing to make my heart skip a beat."

Gerry takes a moment to consider his state. He can barely see out of his blurry eyes, and the pounding in his ears makes him feel vaguely underwater. His forceful personality makes it hard for him to admit, but he knows he shouldn't be working like this, and that he'll be much better off with his lover than alone in his own flat.

"I'm going to beg off the rest of my shift, will you come fetch me?" He desperately tries to keep his words easy, but he comes off sounding rather plaintive.

"Yes, Gerry, of course." Jon is frowning audibly now, but he leaves his concern be for the moment. Gerry can hear him moving about, probably packing up his things. "I'm leaving right now, I'll be there soonest. Gerry?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Gerry squeezes his eyes shut tight. "I love you too, Jon."

*

Jon takes one look at Gerry's drawn, pale face, and calls them a cab.

Gerry doesn't offer even one argument, and a pit of concern opens up in Jon's stomach.

"Do you want to go back to your place, after all?" He asks, sliding his hands up Gerry's arms to rest on his shoulders. "Maybe you'll be more comfortable in your own space."

"No, let's go to yours." Gerry draws their foreheads together, standing out in the cool air of the street. "I like being in your space, with your energy and your things. Besides, how can I resist an invitation to your bed."

"Yes, all the cuddling we've done there must really make your heart skip a beat with lust," Jon responds drily.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Gerry tells him firmly.

The taxi arrives and they climb in. Gerry is several inches taller than Jon, but he manages to scoot down enough to lie draped over the smaller man. Jon notices with some amusement that Gerry has adopted a rather Saturn-like posture, curled around him like an extremely large cat in the limited space.

They arrive at Jon's building and trudge up the several flights of stairs and through his door. Jon drags Gerry firmly by the hand, worried that without the right forward momentum, he'll lay down on the floor and pass out. Jon, under no misunderstanding about his physical prowess, knows that once his lumberjack-shaped boyfriend goes down, he certainly won't be getting him back up.

They go straight to the en-suite, and Gerry strips down to his briefs, Jon encouraging him to wash his face and half-heartedly brush his teeth. Halfway through, Gerry lets out a startled chuckle.

"What?" Jon asks from nearby, changing by his armoire.

"I own three toothbrushes." He tells him in an airy, disconnected tone. "Don't you think that's kinda silly?"

"No, Gerry, what would be silly was if you only had one and you carried it everywhere you went because you weren't sure whose bed you might end up sleeping in that night." And indeed, the multiple toothbrushes solution had originated from them unexpectedly sleeping over at each other's flats with no planning- and no toothbrushes.

Gerry giggles again, and Jon begins to worry about what kind of bizarre migraine he might have. Having suffered through a fair few in his life, he is more used to them presenting like all-consuming misery than like some kind of weird foggy drug trip. Gerry could be unique that way, though.

"I never thought I would have so many bed options that it might be an issue," Gerry whispers, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Changed into his sleep clothes, Jon goes over to stand behind him and wrap an arm around his waist. It's normally a Gerry or Martin posture, since Jon is smaller than them, but there's a different kind of satisfaction in having Gerry relax and settle into him, sighing with something akin to relief.

He looks at their reflection in the mirror and even with Gerry looking haggard, eyes sunken, 5 o'clock shadow coming in, hair thrown haphazardly into a messy bun, Jon can't help the swell of contentment that fills him. How did he, Jon 'walking disaster waiting to happen’ Sims, manage to get this right?

"Then I suppose it's a good thing my bed has been waiting for you all along," Jon eventually responds. "Come on, let's get you into it."

Gerry allows himself to be tucked in, although he refuses food and is only convinced with great reluctance to take two ibuprofen. His eyes remain stubbornly open, but the moment Jon finishes his own nighttime activities and slips into bed with him, Gerry curls around him, and promptly passes out.

*

The next morning, Gerry sleeps far longer than he normally would, even though he went to sleep several hours before his typical bedtime.

When he surfaces, approaching midday, he's groggy and stiff and feels rather hungover. Gerry thinks maybe a hangover would be better- at least then he would have had a good time to compliment his current misery.

Despite that, as he blinks his eyes open, the strains of gentle piano music drift through the flat, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. It’s not particularly loud, and Gerry is incredibly soothed by it. In fact, when he says he likes being at Jon’s flat, this is why. He often sits down to play in the softest moments, if Gerry and Martin are around. Any normal, oft-repeated, potentially boring activity could be made delightful and atmospheric if Jon is sitting at the piano.

Jon had once confessed that he vastly preferred playing when one or both of them were around to hear it.

"At least half of the joy of music is in the audience," Jon had confessed quietly to them one day. "And you two are the best audience of all."

Now, as he wakes gently to the sound of his partner making music, Gerry can’t help but feel special and treasured. Never before in his life had he picked up the phone in a crisis with the complete certainty that there would be a loving voice on the other end. He had not even realized he was lacking such reliability until he had come to be able to depend on it, but now that it exists, he shies away from even the thought that he might lose it again.

He takes a moment to consider the current reality of their relationship. He obviously loves them, has always loved Jon, from the moment he growled at Gerry in the literature section of the library when he was seventeen-years-old. Now Martin fits with them both so well, Gerry wouldn’t know how to breathe without him. They’re it for him, he can see that clearly.

He can see it in the way that pain and illness drove him straight to Jon like true north and the way he managed to care for him through it perfectly.

He can see it in the way that Martin never seems to be less affected by finding Gerry in his bookstore, and the way Gerry’s heart feels hot and heavy in his chest every time Martin finds him still and focused and takes a moment to braid his hair in one way or another.

He can even see it in the way he immediately self-destructed when he thought he was going to lose them, pushing every part of his life into immediate turmoil at the thought of being alone again. Family-less. Without his Jon, and his Martin.

And he can see that he’s it for them too, in the way they clung to him to keep him together when he almost sunk the whole thing.

They are, he can see now, as essential to one another as breathing.

Gerry suddenly wishes that this could be the home that they all share. He wishes that every time one of them came home to him, they never had to leave to do laundry or water plants. He wishes, most of all, that this music could fill his house and his heart every morning, and that he would never again have to wake up trying to remember whose bed he was in - because they all shared the same one.

He hopes, desperately, that one day that will be their reality. Maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, he’s confident he can convince he’s partners to stick around for good.

Until then, he’s content to be so loved that he needs three toothbrushes.

*

Gerry thinks maybe he drifts off again, because the next thing he knows, Jon is gently kissing his hand to wake him, a cup of tea in his other.

“Hi,” Jon whispers, sitting down on the bed next to him.

“Hey there,” Gerry offers in return, slowly sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “How are you today?”

Gerry takes the tea and sips it gratefully, finding it sweet and herbal. Camomile, he thinks, but wouldn’t swear his life on it at that moment.

“How bad could I be?” Jon asks, a mischievous glint in his eye, “I have a beautiful boy in my bed and I think I’ll keep him there all day.”

“Does this stunning nocturnal visitor get a say in the matter or…?” Gerry manages to offer a slightly dimmer version of his flirtatious grin.

“Maybe, if he makes it worth my while.” Jon teases, before sobering a little. “How are you though? You seemed in a pretty bad way last night.”

“I think I’m fine now, I guess it was just a fluke.” Gerry stretches, joints popping.

Jon picks up the tea to take a sip.

“It’s not as good as when Martin makes it.” He mutters to himself, grimacing.

Gerry finishes stretching, rather like a cat again, before shifting up onto his knees to hover slightly above Jon, as is his preference. “Maybe, but it’s still my favourite kind of thing because it's something you made for me.”

Jon reaches up, wrapping a hand around Gerry’s neck and pulling his lips down to meet his own. It’s gentle and dragging, and they tangle together enjoyably for several minutes. Gerry pulls away to kiss Jon’s cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Eventually Jon giggles and pushes him away, handing the tea back over in an effort to distract him.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Jon queries.

“Not just yet. Maybe a shower?”

“That sounds like a good plan. You should take it easy today.” Jon pauses, considering his next suggestion. “And maybe I could convince you to take tonight off from the bar too? Then we can all spend the evening together.”

"Yes, I think I could be tempted to do exactly that."

*

Gerry lingers in the shower, letting the water work out his stiffness and lift the fog hanging pervasively over him.

He washes his hair with Jon's shampoo and hopes the scent will linger on him. He decides not to shave, feeling too loose and lazy to handle any sharp objects.

Jon force-feeds him after, and then he braids Gerry's hair to keep it out his face.

"I can't believe you never braided your hair before you met Martin," Jon says as his fingers move through his hair rhythmically.

Gerry shrugs. "There was never anyone to teach me on myself, and my mother was bald for my entire formative life, so I couldn't learn from her."

Jon hums in acknowledgement.

"Speaking of Martin, where is our errant lover?" Gerry asks buoyantly, bouncing slightly.

Jon laughs at him, "Apparently he was out all night and then crashed on Tim's couch. He's going to come over later when he's managed to disinfect himself."

After, they move back to bed to read their books and rest, basking in the simple comfort of each other's presence, waiting for their third.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Disaster Lads: A Collab, Part One

This is part one of a five-part collab piece I did with @whumpiary! In which our disaster lads meet and the inevitable ensues. 

CW: Referenced drugging, forced drinking, referenced past noncon, some dubcon fuckiness and trauma response headspace. Things get darker as we go, and more explicit, too. But also Kauri flirts and it’s adorable. Just a fair warning. I’ll do warnings for each individual chapter as we go.

Tagging Kauri’s crew:  @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @moose-teeth, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl, @spiffythespook, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly

Kauri isn’t entirely sure how it happened, but somehow his back is against a wall, a drink is in his hand, and there’s a man leaning over him with that grin on his face that Kauri usually likes… but today, he doesn’t.

The bar is kind of dark, and there’s a band playing something that mostly sounds like sad yelling over geese honking to Kauri, but everyone had cheered when the band came onstage so maybe he just doesn’t get the music. He’s not even dressed for the bar, honestly - he’s in his big black zip-up sweatshirt, Dustin’s so it hangs off his shoulders and his hands are mostly covered by the sleeves. A thin thrift-store t-shirt and ripped-up black skinny jeans, the faded old checkered slip-on sneakers he’s had forever… he looks halfway homeless.

The guy has him cornered anyway, and Kauri is feeling all the other drinks he’s let guys buy him tonight, kind of spinning and silly with the alcohol in his veins. It makes it easier not to feel uncomfortable, but part of him is. 

He wants to say no, but the word sticks in his throat.

“Come on,” The guy says, leaning over him - it feels like looming - and pushing even closer into his space. “I bought you the drink, the least you could do is a little something for me in return.”

I don’t want to, Kauri thinks in something like a panicked wail.

The man’s knuckles brush the side of his throat and it’s probably a flirtation but Kauri thinks of Owen’s hands around his neck - it feels like a threat.

“Wh-what… what did you have in mind?” Kauri’s voice is airy, a little breathless. His heart is pounding, his face is flushed, and maybe he looks into this… but he’s not. But it kind of seems like the guy maybe knows and doesn’t care.

“A lot of shit, honestly, you’ve been on my radar a while, but first… let’s start with you finishing that drink.” He reaches out and takes the glass out of Kauri’s hand, raising it to his lips. The first sip of syrupy-sweet cocktail seems more like liquid ash on Kauri’s tongue. “You’re a pretty cute drunk.”

“Am… am I?” He asks when the man lets him stop drinking. “I, I don’t want-”

“Have another drink,” The man interrupts, and pushes the rim of the glass against his lips again.

Cass had been watching the guy with the curly hair and the cute smile on and off all night. Partly because he's pretty. Partly because he looks like he’s dressed for a soup kitchen rather than a bar. But mostly because he looks familiar. Annoyingly familiar, in a way that’s maybe more significant than ‘hey didn’t we fuck in a bathroom stall one time?’. 

The girl Cass has been chatting to is very, very, very boring. Stupidly boring. So it’s ridiculously easy to focus his attention just over her shoulder at Curly Hair and the guy who’s got him pressed against the wall in the corner, and the pink drink that’s being held up between them, fed to the shorter of the two like it's the holy fucking grail.

Desires are sticky. Syrupy. And in a bar like this, with music like this, with people like this, revulsion is bitter and obvious. Like whiskey in apple juice. Like smoke under perfume.

Cass wishes he'd had more to drink. A couple more vodka tonics and he'd probably refuse to give a shit. But he's annoyingly sober, and he can't help but notice Curly Hair sort of glance around, looking for an exit that doesn't exist.

Cass watches as he smiles, tilts his head. Cass' stomach lurches. He's seen that head tilt. Fuck, Cass has given that head tilt. I want you to want me but I don't want this.

“Hey Kirsty," he says, serving a grin to the blonde next to him. She frowns. 

“It’s Kristie.”

“Right. Kristie,” Cass says. Easy smile, a finger tracing circles on the back of her hand. “You wanna go dance? I’ll catch up in a sec”

The girl pouts, grabbing his hand, “Aren’t you gonna come? I kinda thou-”

“Kʀɪsᴛɪᴇ, ɢᴏ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ.”

The girl's frown melts into a grin faster than she can notice what’s happening and nods her head enthusiastically, like dancing had been her idea in the first place. And then she’s gone, melted into the pulsing mass of bodies. 

Cass needs to get out of here. In a bar like this, with music like this, with people like this, the feeling of I don’t want this is so loud and grating it makes Cass’ heart catch in his throat. And then there’s the other guy. Cass can feel the fucking lust pouring off of the guy. Not just the desire for an easy lay but the absolute exhilaration of a predator who’s got dinner trapped. Or is about to, Cass thinks, eyes following the asshole’s gaze to where they're fixated on a sickening cocktail he’s feeding the smaller guy.

Cass pushes himself away from the bar. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out of here before he does something stupid because he promised Lou he wouldn't pick anymore fights and because this is none of his business and just because the guy seems familiar doesn't mean Cass knows him but he still finds himself snaking to the corner, anyway, grabbing the tall guy by the elbow- 

“Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” he says, feigning rapt enthusiasm.

The taller guy looks Cass up and down. His hair is annoyingly perfect. Like if you tapped it, maybe it'd make a sound like knocking on hard plastic.

“I don’t think so,” the guy says, shark teeth twisted into a grin. Cass watches as his grip tightens minutely on the glass he’s holding. Yeah, fuckhead. Wouldn’t want to lose that, now would we?  “If you don’t mind, we’re kinda busy.”

And he's turning back to Curly Hair, who is melting into the wall, a skittish mess of maybe he’ll talk to the new guy - if it’s what you want then I want it - I don't want this - just say no kauri you can just say no - I want this I want you - just say no stop it stop - no just drink it don’t make him mad - I don't want this and Cass really fucking wishes he'd had another few drinks because then he could just walk away, but instead he hits the cocktail careening out of Tall Guy's hand, a spectacular pink mess over the guy's crisp white shit.

Kauri flinches back, hands up over his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the mess.

"Shit, dude. Sorry. I'm such a klutz," Cass grins, holding up innocent hands with a shrug. "That roofie wasn't expensive or anything, was it?"

And sure, maybe this was none of his business, but it's so satisfying when the guy shoves him into the wall. Maybe even more satisfying than the sound of the crunch of the guy's nose breaking as Cass headbutts him in the face.

The guy stumbles back, hands over his nose as blood starts to pour, screaming half-formed curse words that are muffled by his hand and the nasal sound of his voice. From behind the bar, a bartender yells, “God damn it, no fighting! What the fuck, Kauri?!”

Kauri curls back against the wall, his wide, frightened eyes going from the bloody pink-stained man to the new guy who had hit him with his whole entire head and back again. “I’m sorry!” He shouts back to the bartender. “I’m sorry I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” 

“Yeah, well, do something about it!”

Kauri gives the bartender a look of incredulous terror. He’s 5’7” and all lithe, willowy flexibility and he has the brute fighting strength of a very small kitten.

“Like what, exactly?!”

The guy drops his hand - the bottom half of his face is a mess of blood now - and with a snarl, pulls his fist back to punch Cass again. 

“Stop them fighting over your dumb hot ass or I’m calling the cops, Kauri!”

The name sticks in Cass' head as he lets the guy land another punch, hard on his cheek.

"Kᴀᴜʀɪ, ɢʀᴀʙ ʜɪs ᴀʀᴍ," he says, on impulse, because the guy is kinda huge and Cass isn’t particularly strong, and he’s been in plenty of fights but he usually only stops them by not really being conscious anymore. 

Kauri’s hands snap out thoughtlessly, grabbing the guy’s other arm and helping Cass shove him face-first against the wall, only to freeze up, eyes widening even more in terror as he has no idea why he just did that. 

"You better calm the fuck down, man," Cass says, twisting the guy’s wrist so it twinges just a little behind him. He feels amped up and shaky with adrenaline. He hopes he looks as feral as he feels. The big guy blinks, slow and stupid as he tries to catch up with what just happened. "'Cause either I'm gonna kill you or the bar staff are gonna call the cops on your ass. And we both know what they're gonna find in that glass.”

The guy's eyes widen in shock, then narrow. “You can’t prove-”

“You roofied me?” Kauri asks, as though the multiple comments Cass had made had only just sunk into his mind. He felt himself reel with horror, trying to pull away, but his hands just… don’t want to let go of the man’s arm. Panic was a drumbeat in his mind. He knows what roofies are, Nat told him about those, and that they taste kind of salty but there was a salt rim on the drink the guy bought him-

“You were going to roofie me?”

“That jackass broke my nose!” The guy yells, although it comes out more like dat jackash boke by dose. Cass kind of wants to interject that he probably didn't break the guys nose, but it doesn't really seem like the time. “I’ve been talking to you all night and you just believe some asshole that walks up and punches a stranger?”

“I… I…” Kauri cringes back from the fury in the man’s voice. He’s going to be hurt, and he’s terrified, and the only thing on earth he wants right now is to get out of here and away before the man’s hands are around his neck just like Owen’s, it’ll be like that, he’ll hurt and hurt and then pass out and if he can just maybe make nice the guy will stop being angry-

“I, I’m sorry, you-... you did buy me the drink, that was… that was nice… but, but if he saw you-"

"He didn't see shit." 

The guy did not seem to realize that that wasn't exactly denying he'd done it. 

Cass feels cold fury run through him. He can feel the lust-turned-sour, good-night-wasted annoyance that the guy in front of him is vibrating with. And the panic pouring off of Kauri, so palpable and crystalline it may as well be his own. The want to run away, to get out of here, to back down, to apologise, make nice. They mingle together in his head.

Who the fuck tries makes nice with the asshole who was gonna drug them? He tries to ignore the ‘you sure used to’ that creeps into his head.

Cass doesn't care. He wants to run away and he wants to get out of here but more than that he wants to make someone bleed. This guy walked into the bar tonight, sought out the most vulnerable guy he could find and thought prey. He deserves to know what that feels like. He flips the guy around, pressing a hard hand to his chest to keep him flush to the wall.

“I think I’m gonna call you Scooter,” Cass says “You look like a Scooter”

“The name’s Matt, jackass,” the guy growls. It takes way too much effort to pronounce the M. Cass grins. Matt, huh?

"Alright, Mᴀᴛᴛ. Tᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇsᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ G ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛ. Gɪᴠᴇ ᴜs ᴀ ʟᴏᴏᴋ,” he says. The guy blinks, reaches mindlessly into the pocket of the shitty jeans he’s wearing and pulls out a nondescript little bottle. Matt is staring at the drugs like he can’t imagine how they possibly got into his hand. Cass grins. It’s nice to stare at a predator and make them feel small. "I think he should have to drink it. What do you think, Kauri?"

"Jesus Christ," Matt says, nasally and strangled. "Why did... What the fuck, I should knock your teeth out!"

Kauri grabs the pill bottle out of his hand and tries, despite his hands shaking so badly the fucking bottle rattles, to look like he's reading, carefully keeping his eyes unfocused so they won't try to settle on or understand the letters. Kauri steps closer to them both, putting his hands up slowly, like a man being held hostage. 

"Look, you guys, we can just… nobody has to fight," He says, pitching his voice lower, cocking his head just a little to the side. "The bouncers are gonna kick us all out in a second and, and I don't need-... We don't need that, right? Matt? We don't need to, to have anybody closer than this. Just us, right?"

His heart hammers, heartbeat so strong it's nearly knocking the breath out of him. His voice is airy, and soft, and just a little flirty under the fear.  

You can fix this. No one calls the cops, no one tells, no one looks too close.

"You didn't n-need that, I'd have… have gone with you anyway, Matt…"

Kauri, you can't say yes if you don't know how to say no. He ignores Nat's strident voice in his head and slides just a little closer, the rise and fall of his chest and the whites around his eyes the only giveaway of his fear. He can see bouncers and he has to make this better before too many people are looking at them. 

Matt snorts a kind of bitter, angry laughter, then winces as that burns his injured nose. "You would. The ones like you always do, right?" 

Kauri freezes, all the color draining out of his face. The bottle of pills drops to the floor and rolls away, kicked by someone walking by and getting lost somewhere in the crowd. "What?" 

"Tell your fucking White Knight to fuck off," Matt says reaching out to grab Kauri's left wrist. "Kauri Grant."

Cass doesn't have time to figure out why the fuck that name sounds so familiar. All he needs to know what's happening is in that look on Kauri's face. He's seen that look. God, he's given that look. Whoever Kauri Grant is, he needs to be the hell away from here. Now.

"Okay, seriously buddy, we don't want anymore trouble," he tries, taking a quick glance at the bouncers closing in behind them "How about you let this go and we do too?"

"I'm not letting go of shit," says Matt, with a smile full of blood. He has one hand locked over Kauri's wrist, pushing up against the leather bracelet there. "Do you have any idea how much this little whore is worth?"

Cass swings the punch before he even has the chance to think what that could mean. Which is maybe not a great move, actually, with bouncers headed their way and a bar full of patrons who are starting to look over. It's especially not a great move because Matt swivels, jerking out of the way, sending Cass' fist straight into the side of Kauri's skull. 

Kauri's world crashes at the impact, stumbling back and falling hard onto his side on the floor, head bouncing against the sticky woodgrain, blinking against the black spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

It doesn't stop the panic. 

Kauri Grant Kauri Grant Kauri Grant

"Y-you can't," he tries, his voice sounding weird and off to his own ears, pushing himself up. "Can't, can't turn me in-"

"I wasn't going to, before that little shit showed up," Matt says with a nasty note of triumph in his voice, one Kauri knows too well. "The guy who just hit you."

Kauri manages to stand up, catching the bouncers too close, too close, and he grabs onto Cass's arm. "He was… was trying to hit you," Kauri says, voice shaking. "And you-... tried to drug me."

"Like no one's ever drugged you before," Matt sneers, and Kauri swallows, hard, and doesn't protest. Matt waves at the bouncers. "Hey! This is Kauri Grant!"

The frozen fear in Kauri thaws and he jerks at Cass's arm to yank him not towards the door but deeper into the bar, pushing through the crowd towards the other side of the stage. 

Kauri Grant Kauri Grant Kauri Grant

Cass knows that name, why does he know that name?

It doesn't matter. What matters is they get the hell away from here right now. He turns in Kauri's grip to look over his shoulder, locks eyes with the asshole who seems intent on ruining this poor bastard's life. 

"Mᴀᴛᴛ," he yells as he's hauled away into the crowd, "Sʜᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ."

It's not exactly elegant but Matt slams his jaw closed so hard Cass can see him wince against the jolt of pain through his bashed in face. Cass cackles as they disappear into the mass of bodies on the dancefloor.

He feels high. There's twin feelings gripping his chest, the thrill of a fight and the blinding panic of running away. The rush of beating someone at their own game twisted with the knowledge that they need to get the hell out of here before they're caught.  He has no idea what's happening but it's fast and it's thrilling. It's making him dizzy, making his blood pump electric. He barks another laugh as he dodges some random guy's elbow, grips Kauri's hand even harder and lets himself be pulled.

"God, who the fuck is Kauri Grant?"

Kauri pulls him to a small door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY just to the side of the stage, shoving it open and stumbling out into a dark alley, the sudden chill on his skin the only reason Kauri realizes he's sweating.

Out here the noise is gone, there's the sound of sirens far away, and Kauri's eyes dart around, thinking, before he pulls Cass to the right, further down the alley, stepping over refuse and empty beer bottles. 

"I… I am," Kauri says, voice thin. The side door they just left opens and he pulls Cass quickly against the wall with him to hide behind a dumpster. "I'm Kauri Grant." He swallows hard, panic still beating at the back of his mind, and slowly slides down the wall to sitting, putting his head in his hands. 

"You hit really hard for how skinny you are, d'you know that?"

Maybe it’s the sudden cold, or maybe it’s the way Kauri’s holding his head, but waves of exhaustion and regret and fear hit Cass all at once. He ducks down as voices and noise filter wide and loud, and then go squashed and muffled again with the swinging of the door. 

“Fuck man, I’m so sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head to assess the damage. “I didn’t even think”

He reaches out a hand, pulls it back before contact. He really doesn’t know how to do this. The whole… God, what did Fuckhead McGee call it? The whole White Knight schtick. Is he meant to go find ice? Buy the guy a drink for his troubles? Usually when he finds himself kneeling on the wet concrete of an alley in front of a stranger it’s for a very different reason.

Cass sits back on his heels and laughs, loud and unabashed. He’d listened to that girl at the bar talk about her boyfriend for forty minutes when he should’ve been finding some pretty guy to sneak away with. And then he found a pretty guy and punched him in the face. Which… wasn’t always a dealbreaker, but even in the now relative quiet of the alley his heart is still slamming like there’s something to run away from and his brain feels cracked open and Jesus Christ, this night is already just so fucking dumb. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says between giggles. He tries to calm it down to a grin. “I swear I’m not laughing at you, Kauri Grant. Did I, um…Is your head okay?”

"Yeah, my head's fine. I've been hit before," Kauri says, not quite muttering, rubbing his hand into his black curls. "Not usually in the head, but, you know, it's kinda empty anyway." He flashes a bright, deflecting smile, looking up at Cass. 

Kauri's head cocks slightly to the side, something in his smile changing, softening a little. Not quite flirtation, something more in self-defense. "Can you just say Kauri, please? I don't, um, I don't like his name. Very much. It's just, that's what they call me…" His voice trails off. "Thanks for, um. For catching that guy… I didn't know he put something in it... I didn’t know he knew.”

Cass frowns a little, trying to understand. Didn’t know who knew what?

"Okay you have to back up, you're giving me more questions than… than answers right now..." 

But then the pieces of Kauri he's seen through the night start falling together. The skittish eyes that didn't match with the flirting smile. Thanking the guy who would have happily held him limp in a basement. The wanting and wanting and wanting paired with the desperate need to run away. 

The ones like you, that guy had said, looking at Kauri like he was something to be eaten. The ones like what? The ones who met conflict with apologies and desperate bids for distraction. His eyes flick to the bracelet on Kauri's wrist, thick and leather and out of place amongst the rest of his "robbed a Good Will" ensemble and too wide, really to be stylish. Just wide enough to hide a tattoo, maybe. Or a brand.

I don’t like his name very much. Cass feels himself paling.

"Oh my god, you're somebody's," he whispers. He closes his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. Swallows the dry lump in his throat. "You're meant to belong to somebody."

Kauri jerks his arms back against himself, pulling the sleeve of his sweatshirt over the bracelet about ten minutes too late. 

He looks up at Cass, blue eyes wide and pleading, and reaches out his hand to brush his fingers against Cass's hand, pitching his voice lower. 

"You, you don't have to tell anyone. That I'm, um. You don't have to. I can… I can-" He has no idea how to say this. He focuses his thoughts on what he knows, falling back on training. I want this. I want you. I am an active participant in fulfilling my owner's desires. 

"I can, um. Whatever you, you want, if you won't say you saw me?" His voice shakes - he can't seem to stop it. He has to hope it sounds like the good kind of nervous and not the terror he really feels. 

Cass feels his stomach drop, something catching in his throat as fingers brush the back of his hand again. The tug and pull of I want this. The tilt of Kauri’s head is so tempting it looks rehearsed. I want you.

“That’s…” Kauri’s eyes are gorgeous — huge and blue and desperate — and Cass has to close his own just to think straight. “That’s not what…  I, um.”

I want this. I want you. Resolute and relentless against his thoughts. I want this. I want you. Over and over and over again. Frenzied and pleading and wanting and fucking terrified.  I want this. I want you. 

Cass curls his fingers around Kauri’s, running his thumb along the other boy’s palm. I want this. I want you. Something in him feels shaken up and loose at the hinges from feeling it. It feels wrong. Too familiar, too close to home, too close to… something. Please let me want this. Please want me too.

Cass closes his eyes again, shakes his head. Maybe it’s just the after effects of being knocked crooked. Cass did punch the guy in the face. And it’s been kind of a fucked up fifteen minutes. Maybe they both just need the distraction. The relief of something simple and easy. And if they're both actively participating in something dumb and fun and stupid, maybe it’ll be enough to make them both feel better. 

“Look, I’m not… I’m not gonna say anything,” he says, tugging Kauri’s hand closer, tracing a line up his arm. I want this. He smiles, let’s the pulse of it spur him on “We can just have fun, okay? I’m not gonna say anything”

Relief washes over Kauri, a wave of it that nearly knocks him over. He’s doing it right, his voice is right, all the training is working and letting him slide into an easier place in his head. His smile isn’t quite sincere and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but the relief in it is very real. 

Besides, the guy is cute, and Kauri would’ve gone home with him, too. 

The ones like you always do.

There’s an unease - he doesn’t always like that things like that are true, about him - and he chases it away by closing his eyes and focusing his thoughts. I want this, I want him - and that part definitely isn’t a lie - and I’ll be safe if I give him this. 

“Okay, um, th-thanks,” He says, voice just a little breathy, ducking his head with another shy smile.”I’m, um, I’m up for basically anything, basically always.” He gives a cheeky little grin and a laugh, like that’s a joke he tells to a lot of people and has memorized the timing on. “Just, I’m not trained for-... I don’t go in for pain. That’s it. Hey, so, um, you know my name… what’s yours? So I know what to scream later.”

He’d heard that in a movie once and always kind of wanted to say it.

Cass laughs, broken harmony against Kauri's own. The line is lame but it doesn’t really matter. Kauri makes it charming. He is ridiculously good at this.

"Cass. But usually people just stick with ‘oh, God'," he laughs, moving in closer, grin against grin. He leans in to brush his lip against Kauri's jaw, slow and teasing, hands staying steady on the guy's knee as Kauri hitches in a breath and shivers, turning his head to give Cass a better angle for it. "And I go for anything."

He wants this. They both do. The relief of something familiar and safe. Just a minute of stupid normal. I want this. Cass plants a kiss at the corner of Kauri's jaw. I want him. Cass lets his hand slide from knee to thigh. I'll be safe if I give him this. Cass pulls himself closer in, brings his fingers up to tangle in the dark curls at the nape of Kauri’s neck and… and… 

I'll be safe if I want this.

The wave of revulsion that runs through him is slow and sickly, like hot tar, like molasses. Familiar and foreign in the same mouthful. 

"Sorry. I, uh," he pulls back and he can feel the ghost of Christopher's hands on his hips, pulling his hair back, lips against his cheek – Don't hesitate, darling boy. Show me what you want.

“Hey… you okay?” Kauri murmurs the words, and it’s with real concern, shivering at the feeling of Cass’s fingers in his hair, slipping his own hands to touch lightly at his ribs on either side, a question and a test. 

Cass feels adrenaline gripping him but that's fine, that's good, because wanting and fear walk the same line anyway. I'm an active participant. Which doesn’t feel like the shape of a thought that’s his but is close enough to that it doesn’t matter. He wants this. It's safer to want it. Then you don't have to think. You don't have to feel. That's why places like this are fun, why nights like these are so good.

So like every other night like this, he pulls in close to prettiest guy in the bar, pushes down the resistance in himself, and kisses him fucking senseless.

Kauri’s head tilts back and up for it, twisting his fingers hard into Cass’s shirt to pull him in even closer, until his head bumps back into the wall behind him and he loses his balance, falling back to sitting on the ground with a soft, sweet little laugh, a breath of air before he lets Cass kiss him mindless again.

The safest he’s felt for weeks is times like this, a man’s hands on him, a man’s mouth on his, knowledge and certainty that someone wants him, that he has something to give other people, some way to earn their kindness and repay it. His hands slide up Cass’s neck to tangle in his hair, too, pulling him in as close as he can get on the ground in a dark alley, skin lighting up everywhere they touch. 

“H-hey, I can’t, ah-...” He breaks free, and flashes the shy little smile again. He feels so good now, safer, because he’ll be good and he knows Cass meant it when he said he wouldn’t tell, he looks like someone who won’t tell anyone, and Kauri has to trust him. “I don’t… I’m technically homeless. So if you think I’m taking you home, uh… welcome to my house, I guess,” He says, gesturing at the alley around them and then laughing a little to himself.

He’s gotten himself this far, but there’s still a hint of the artificial conditioning twining all his conscious thoughts. I want this is real and true but it’s also what he knows how to say, and I’m safer if I want it, I matter if someone wants me and I want to matter to someone runs under honest desire as he moves to slip his hand up under Cass’s shirt. 

“H-how do you, how do you want to… um… this?”

Cass practically vibrates at Kauri's touch and he leans in even closer. Every touch is a relief. His body has been begging for this, for touch, all week

"Well I'd say we could go back to mine but…" Cass thinks of white walls, screaming fluorescents. His tiny quarters with the single bed and the sliding door that Tucker swans in and out of as he pleases. "Mine's not really much of a house either. So I guess we'll just get creative at yours"

He catches Kauri's lips again and pulls himself in closer until he's all but straddling the guy's lap. Kauri moves his body against Cass's like he was custom made for it. He lets his hand come to a gentle rest on the column of the guy's throat, his thumb tracing the line from his chin to his collar and back up again.

This is all Cass has wanted all week. To wrap himself in someone else's wants and just disappear for a bit. And yeah, maybe it feels a little off tonight. A little sickly. Like eating overripe fruit. But it's also been a long time since he's been this close to sober and trying to hook up with someone so who the fuck knows.

"Gotta say, I love what you've done to the place," he adds, breaking the kiss with a grin as he glances around at their elegant surroundings. Kauri laughs, almost a breathless giggle, glad he’s found someone with a real sense of humor even if it’s to keep him from telling anyone who he’s seen. Cass brings his lips to Kauris throat and let's his voice buzz electric along his jugular "I usually swoon for just one dumpster but three? You're such a romantic."

Kauri tips his head back against the wall behind him, staring up into the flat, featureless sky. As soon as Cass says the word Romantic, though, he goes perfectly still. Every muscle tense, for just a second it’s closer to holding a frightened animal than a person.

“Uh, th-thanks,” He manages, shakily, pushing the nerves back down. Just another way to call him a slut, like everyone else does, but he’ll do what he wants and be safer that way. It doesn’t matter if he calls Kauri a whore or a slut or a Romantic, it all means the same thing - people like him. People who can’t stop themselves, who don’t know better, who are nothing and no one unless somebody is touching them.

Cass is nice, and his hands and his mouth feel so good, and it doesn’t matter what he calls Kauri. What matters is giving him what he wants. 

He makes himself relax, consciously, and slides his hands around behind Cass, shifting his hips up, letting training take over again until the nervousness could die back down. I matter if someone wants me, it doesn’t matter why or how, I’m safe if I want this. 

“If you want, I could, um, could g-go down on you,” Kauri breathes, rolling his hips up.  

Cass feels himself grinning at the same moment as he feels his stomach clench in a knot so tight he can hardly breathe. Wanting and fear walk the same line. The latter is easy enough to ignore.

"Fuck yes," he all but moans, swinging his leg around to sit against the wall beside Kauri. Cass fumbles for the button of his jeans. He wants this. Kauri does too. Cass can feel how much he wants this. Kauri wants to feel safe. He wants Kauri to feel safe. And he also wants his brain to shut off and stop screaming discomfort just because the water’s a little muddy.

It doesn't matter if he wants it because it's gonna feel so good once it's happening he won't even care. And then he'll make Kauri feel so good, Kauri won't care either. He won't care about being wanted. He won't care about being safe because Cass will make him feel fucking fantastic. 

And all of that would’ve been fine if Cass didn’t look up and catch Kauri’s eyes.  He feels the knot in his stomach twist. In less than a second any spark of libido he had had rots and dies. There’s no want in Kauri's eyes. No nervous excitement. It’s not eagerness that’s pulling their bodies in close.

Desperation and terror were just one hell of a cocktail. Especially when finished off with resignation.

Cass closes his eyes and let's his head fall against the wall with a dull thunk.

“No,” he whispers. “No, hold on, stop.”

He really wishes he'd had some ket. Or at least a bit of molly. Just something to blunt the edges of whatever the fuck is happening right now. Something is wrong with him.

"I can't do this," he murmurs, shaking his head. He doesn't open his eyes. "Something's wrong, I can't do this. You don't… you don’t..."

Kauri’s hands are still tangled in Cass’s shirt at first, and he slowly pulls them back, worried, leaning forwards to try and tilt his head and look closer at Cass’s face. No no no no. He’s done something wrong. He doesn’t know what, or how - it had seemed right, like it was all happening the way it was supposed to and soon enough he’d forget to be scared and just feel good things until it was done, and if it was good enough Cass wouldn’t tell anybody about him in case maybe he saw him again. 

That’s how it works. Kauri gives, and he gets safety in return. But this isn’t safe.

You don’t even know if you actually want it or if you just think that because they made you. It’s what he thinks the end of that sentence probably is, because it’s what Dustin said when Kauri tried, and it’s what Jake said, and it’s what everyone tells him over and over again. That he can’t even know what he wants, because Owen wanted him brainless and a slut.

“I’m sorry, is it… something I’ve done?”

Cass scoffs a laugh, knocking the back of his head into the brick wall to try and shake his thoughts back straight. What the fuck is he meant to say? Sorry bro, my telepathy killed the mood.

“No,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face “No you didn’t do anything, you just… you’re just-”

You’re just too fucking close to my kind of broken.

There’s a harsh sort of panic bouncing off of Kauri in waves at the rejection. What the fuck is Cass meant to do though? He can’t pretend like everything’s fine because it’s not. He can’t tell him to piss off because then he’d really be an asshole. He can’t fuck him because it’d be… that’d be...

Cass’ stomach lurches. He slams his hands down against the concrete with a growl, kicks at an empty bottle by his leg. It scrapes harsh against the ground in a loud, grating circle and Cass flinches his foot back like it cut him.

“Jesus Christ, this is fucked,” he says, laughter twisting his voice and making it bitter. He looks over at the person who pulled him out of a bar fight ten minutes ago. This random person who he'd started a bar fight for fifteen minutes ago. This random fucking person he shouldn't give two shits about. Cass shakes his head, "You don't wanna be here, man. Just go home."

Kauri snorts, almost bitterly. “I can’t, remember? I don’t fucking have one. Although I guess I could go sit on the bus…” He sighs, watching Cass - and he’s not always good at reading people’s intentions, but he can read emotions fairly well and he can see that Cass looks nearly sick, either angry or upset, and he just takes in a deep breath, putting his hands up over his face and then down again.

“No, I get it. It’s because I’m a pet, right? It’s, you wanted to see what it’s like with a pet. You saw me with that guy and knew, and you thought you’d try, too, and you can’t… don’t want to, once I’m really here.”

Cass is shaking his head before Kauri even finishes speaking. Who calls themself a fucking pet?

"What the fuck? No. Jesus Christ, no," he screws his face up, rakes his hand through his hair.

Cass can feel something volcanic starting to bubble up inside of him.

He had done everything right tonight. He hadn't had too much to drink. He'd helped some random guy in trouble just because it was the right thing to do. He'd taken Kauri’s lead and then he'd read the warning signs and he'd stopped. He’d fucking stopped. How was he still the bad guy?

"No fucking way are you putting that bullshit on me," he spits. "You're the one who pulled me out here. I was just trying to help. You don't know what you want, then don't fuck with people's heads!"

“Fuck with people’s-” Kauri’s own voice edges with real anger. “I didn’t fuck with anybody’s head! I just, this guy hit on me and bought me a drink, and you showed up and said it was drugged! I didn’t do anything wrong, people talk about wanting to try out pets all the time, I-”

He catches himself, cutting off his own voice all at once like turning off a radio. No no no, if you make him mad he’ll tell someone or he’ll get really really mad or…

Kauri looks away, down at the alleyway pavement, scraping at it lightly with one shoe. “... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get angry. You were really trying to help, and, and that was really nice of you, to do that. I was just trying to, to pay you back, I guess? Besides, you’re… really fucking cute, so…”

It's the exact same trick he'd tried on the guy inside, Cass realises. Make nice with the wolf and hope that it'll be kind when it eats you alive. It's too familiar and too close and aimed at him and Cass wants to retch. It's burnt sugar disgusting. The desperate need to stay safe, to keep everything calm. No matter the cost. No matter what you give away. 

"See, that is exactly what I fucking mean. Two seconds ago you were so mad at me you were basically screaming and now you're apologising and telling me I'm cute just so I'll..."

Cass breaks off, shakes his head, staring up at the hazy not-black of city sky at night. He shoves away the twin claws of rage and confusion as he meets Kauri’s eyes again, tries to keep his voice even and something close to calm.

"Look, I'm not- I'm not gonna say anything, alright? Whatever your deal is, I'm not gonna tell the cops or whatever" Cass tries for a smile "Trust me, I'd be just as fucked."

“Would you really?” Kauri blinks at him, no sign of that earlier flash of anger left, either in his posture or in his expression. He’d done what he’s best at, when it comes to being mad - just pushed it down until he didn’t feel it any longer, and he could see things from the other person’s point of view. Like understanding that Owen was mad because he’d tried to talk to someone when he wasn’t allowed, and that Dustin was mad because Kauri wanted more than he was willing to give, and the way everyone was mad that he wouldn’t sit still.

“And thanks. I won’t tell you what the reward for ‘information regarding my whereabouts’ is, though, if it’s all the same to you.” He tries for a small, slightly sidelong smile, more sincere than his last attempt had been. “Are you a runaway, too? Is there a reward out for you?”

Cass only barely stops himself from balking at the remark. Kauri says it so casually, like having a price on your head is just an everyday annoyance they might be able to bond over. Just all in a day. “Uh… no. No, there isn’t. I would just…” I would just have my contract re-assessed. Risk having my indenture reset. End up permanently locked in the lab. Or back in Christopher’s den.  “My, uh, employer wouldn’t be very impressed if you get what I’m saying”

He adjusts his grip on his arm subconsciously, thumb running over the scar that sits along his inner arm. He’s always sort of wondered if one of Tucker’s little chips is there, just sitting by his radial bone, too close to the artery to risk cutting out himself. Guess he’ll never know.

He snaps his attention back to Kauri. Matches the guy’s smile with his own.

“But a reward, huh? Fuck man.” he says. A lofty one at that, apparently. Kauri Grant. Maybe that’s why the name was familiar. He would’ve seen it on the TV or something. Jesus, he’d had to help the one fuckin’ guy with a more tragic backstory than him. He laughs a little, like this is just some sort of watercooler gossip. Mondays, huh? “What did you do, kill your keeper?”

"My, um, my owner. And… no, I-I couldn't-" Kauri's eyes widen with real horror at the thought. "No, I would never have… um, he was, wasn't always that bad… I probably, I just-... I mean I did fuck up, but I didn't hurt anybody." 

He looks away from Cass, a little uncomfortably, and says, "He, uh. Got mad when I fucked up. He broke a promise, and I… left. I guess you'd see it eventually, since there's no way I wasn't gonna take my shirt off for you."

He pulls down on the stretched-out neckline of his shirt, and even in the dim alley, a bit of a large, twisted scar shows over his collarbone. 

"He paid a lot of money for, for me. I wasn't supposed to be able to leave. I took out the thing he put in to control me."

[ineffablegame]

Can you do a fic for the road trip prompt?

@art-takes-time I feel I owe you an apology for three reasons.  1) I picked some of the worst possible destinations for a road-trip.  2) The jokes in this are simply awful.  And 3) this is so incredibly cheesy.

Also published on my Ao3.

Road-trip

When they are finally properly married, Crowley insists they go on a honeymoon.

“It’s tradition,” he says, firmly.  “Otherwise, the marriage could be annulled.”

Aziraphale skews him a skeptical glance over the top of his book.  “I think we quite thoroughly dispelled that possibility, Crowley.  Multiple times.  In swift succession.”

For a moment, Crowley must make a heroic effort not to get distracted by fond memories.  “Still,” he soldiers on, “the honeymoon is paramount.  Think of all the places we could go.”  Aziraphale dithers, looking like a turtle that’s been asked to vacate its shell, and he adds, “All the food you could eat.”

Aziraphale lowers his book and narrows his eyes with grudging curiosity. “What… where did you want to go, precisely?”

“Somewhere far away,” Crowley says.  This path must be navigated with care, not a foot out of place, or Aziraphale will refuse in a heartbeat.  “Somewhere with wide spaces and open roads and—and grand vistas.”

Aziraphale raises the book again in a pointed manner.  “If you aren’t going to come out and say it, the answer is no.”

“Apple pie,” Crowley says, relentlessly.  “Sourdough bread, biscuits and gravy, gumbo, lobster…”

“Out with it, Crowley.”

“Beignets.”

Aziraphale winces as that well-aimed missile punches through the chink in his armor.  “I’ve never cared for the colonies.”

“Think of it,” Crowley insists, gently slipping his hands around the angel’s wrists, tugging them down.  Aziraphale scowls, lips pursed.  Crowley leans in until the tips of their noses touch.  “A road trip holiday.  Could be fun.”

“I grow weary of your wiles, old serpent,” Aziraphale mumbles, and kisses him, the stern line of his mouth already softening.

-

In the end, Crowley suspects it’s the beignets that did it.  Aziraphale acquiesces, provided they make a stop in New Orleans. “For the history, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley says, because he knows when how to quit when he’s ahead. He’s curious about the Voodoo scene, anyway.

-

It is, broadly speaking, a road trip.  But when the only two occupants in the car (the Bentley, of course, miracled over the Pond in a staggering feat of occult power) are ethereal and infernal beings, roads as they appear on the map are more like friendly guidelines than concrete (or asphalt) rules.  The road goes where Aziraphale and Crowley want it to go, and the time on the road lasts exactly as long as it takes them to wonder, are we there yet?

Aziraphale has acquired what is perhaps the world’s last disposable camera.  He’s very proud of this technological wonder, Isn’t it amazing, Crowley?  Look, you simply wind the dial and—

Crowley puts on an exasperated front, but he is secretly quite proud of the angel.  Disposable cameras are roughly twenty years out of date, which is a fair sight newer than Aziraphale’s typical fifty.

It’s the little things, he decides, and flashes a sardonic smile when Aziraphale points the camera at him.

-

In New York City, they attend a Broadway musical about one of the nation’s Founding Fathers.  Aziraphale is initially skeptical – oh, I don’t know about this, it’s nothing like Sondheim – but by the end of the first act, he is leaning forward in his seat, eyes rapt on the stage.  By the middle of the second act, he is weeping. Crowley threads his fingers into Aziraphale’s, thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

Their last stop in New York City is at the Statue of Liberty.  They stare up at her, disconcerted; towering, beautiful, pitiless, she bears a distinct resemblance to Someone Else they both know.

-

In Maine, Aziraphale gorges himself, cracking open lobster claws with the sort of zeal Michael reserves for smiting demons.  Crowley watches, tension mixed with gut-molten wanting, as the angel luxuriates in the tender flesh greasing his fingers and lips.  The demon’s mind is a welter of temptation and sin, and he cannot wait until he gets his husband back to their lodgings.

-

In South Dakota – of all places! – they stop at Wall Drug.  After seeing all the signs peppering the highway, they couldn’t not stop at Wall Drug.

“Well,” Crowley mutters, “this is a distinct disappointment.”

“I think I recall you inventing this,” Aziraphale says.

“Nah.  I never.”

“You did.  We were very drunk.”

Crowley huffs a sigh.  “Had to’ve been.  I can’t decide if I’m proud or ashamed.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  It does have a… a quaint, folksy charm, if you will.”

“Nnngh.”

“Oh, look!” Aziraphale points.  “That giant horned rabbit fellow.  You can take pictures sitting on it.”

“Angel, I swear to G—to Somebody—”

But Aziraphale has already swanned off to pester a pair of tourists, waving his disposable camera in their faces.  After a blank moment of studying the ancient technology, one tourist nods. Aziraphale drags Crowley over and pats the jackalope’s white rump.  “Up you pop.”

“I will kill you for this,” Crowley vows through gritted teeth.

His anger is short-lived, for Aziraphale scrambles up behind him and winds his arms about Crowley’s waist.  The demon tries valiantly to glare at the camera, but – feeling Aziraphale snug against him, comfortable and ridiculous and radiantly happy – he can only muster a little frown.

-

They expect to be in New Orleans at some point, and so they are, geography be damned.  Aziraphale, to his credit, remembers his excuses about history and leads Crowley through the French Quarter.  He murmurs his appreciation at the colorful buildings, the intricate latticeworks of the balconies, the ghosts and shades steeping the very pavement beneath their feet. The air is a fug of garlic, seared sausage smoke, and sautéed vegetables.  Occult energy sings through the city, the magic a spice on Crowley’s tongue.

Aziraphale turns into the first café they come across and orders a plateful of beignets.  Crowley watches, later, as the angel licks fry grease and powdered sugar off his fingers. Later still, as they leave the café to wander the streets under humid starlight, Crowley tugs Aziraphale into a quiet alleyway and presses him up against the bricks.  He kisses him, tastes the sweetness of his lips, his mouth.

-

They go to the Grand Canyon.  Staring out across the vast expanse, Crowley suddenly feels very old and very small. But the look of amazement on Aziraphale’s face is well worth the reminder.

“It’s so… Oh, it’s just so…”

“Grand?”

Aziraphale gives him a quelling look.  “Yes, all right, be flippant.”

“I would never.“

Aziraphale purses his lips, but his gaze softens as he studies Crowley.  “Thank you.  For all your wiling.”

“Knew you’d like it,” Crowley grumbles, aiming for surly.  Sounding simply besotted.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand.  The brush of his lips on Crowley’s palm is a blessing, an offering, the sweetest pain Crowley can fathom.

-

In San Francisco, they go for cookies in the Castro District.  Crowley, who has been sneezing and sniffling ever since they set foot in the city, is marginally cheered by the sight of Aziraphale with an extremely phallic macaroon cookie.  Bless him, the angel even ordered one with white chocolate and red sprinkles on the scrotum.

I love him, Crowley thinks, helplessly, as Aziraphale tucks in.

-

When they arrive back in London, Aziraphale finds perhaps the last shop on the planet that will send disposable cameras out for development.  The angel expects the pictures to be beautiful, and so they are – exquisitely shot, each vividly colorful, each of a resolution that would make Sony and Nikon and Apple weep with envy.  He puts them in a scrapbook, carefully labeled “Our Travels” in block letters, and gives it to Crowley for their first anniversary.

An inscription adorns the inside cover.  ‘To my husband,’ it says.  ‘I look forward to seeing all the wonders of the world with you.’

[just-another-romantic]

Six Times: Part 6/6- The One Time He Did

Series Summary: Five times Bucky wanted to kiss you + the one time he did

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: loads of depressive thoughts from both the reader and the soldier, fluff-so much fluff to make up for the angsty mood.

“We deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.” - Nikka Ursula.

Hands. The workers of our bodies. So many precious moments captured by them. Slender fingers dancing across the bridge of porcelain keys, the magic that sparks when two lovers intertwine their hands together. There’s a reason why old witches read palms, they had seen secrets in ways no one else could. Hands gathered crops, knitted clothing, stitched wounds together again. Hands give life.

Bucky had never liked his hands, for multiple reasons, really. He hated the way his veins popped out on his skin, how calloused they were from working in Brooklyn. He hated that he never had long enough fingers to play the piano or the guitar or no matter how many pretty girls held his hand, they never fit perfectly and there were never explosions of skin on skin.

After that long fall in Austria, he hated how he only had one. And after many cold, sleepless nights in a prison cell when Hydra had to keep him awake, Bucky hated how they were a weapon of war.

Now, sitting on the roof of Avengers tower, looking out on all of New York, Bucky looked down at his hands, blinking tears out of his eyes. He hated his hands more than ever because they had almost taken (Y/n)’s life. 

Obviously, Bucky had no recollection of it- memories of the Winter Soldier only came back in dreams, so vivid there was no denying that they were real. He woke up in his bed with a pounding ache in his right temple. Steve sat next to him, a face so grim it made Bucky’s heart drop.

“What did I do?” he asked, his voice raspy and dry.

Steve just whispered, “She’s in Med bay. We could’ve lost her.” The captain might as well have torn the sergeant in half.

That was a month ago. Bucky refused to see her, even when she got out of hospitalization. It was safer that way. He couldn’t hurt her anymore.

But (Y/n) was persistent. She knew it wasn’t him that blocked her airway, it was the ghost of what he had to become many many years ago. She didn’t even need to forgive him if there was no way her heart could be mad at him.

However, she still respected his space. She knew that he was ignoring her for a reason-fear. Fear of hurting. Fear of anger. fear of everything that was unknown to him. Instead, Bucky would find letters slipped under his door, the ink of (Y/n)’s loopy cursive bleeding through, still fresh. She built dreams in paragraphs, telling him how there was no possible way for her to be angry. She signed every letter with I love you. Bucky wished he could believe it.

There was no way she could’ve meant it. Bucky was awake at 3:30 in the morning only because he dreamt of it; he had remembered it. (Y/n)’s eyes red and popping, the way how she had tried so desperately to make reason with him, the way her hand delicately caressed his face before passing out, as if it was a romantic moment instead of deadly. 

Just as he was contemplating whether to stay or not, his ears picked up on the soft patter of bare feet against the concrete roof. “FRIDAY still tells me when you have a nightmare,” (Y/n) explained, “guess Tony still has that coded in whatever system.”

Despite himself, Bucky turned to look at her. The first time he laid eyes on her in a month. Her bright eyes were glossy and red rimmed, underlined with dark circles, her hair a mess from sleep and sweatpants and T-shirt wrinkled and lopsided. She was a specimen of true beauty. Her name spilled from Bucky’s lips the same time his did her own. She laughed, as smooth and sweet as honey. Oh, he wished he could smile, laugh along with her as if he wasn’t living his worst nightmare.

 “You should go back to bed,” he told her gruffly. 

“You say that as if I have been sleeping at all,” (Y/n) replied, standing her own like a force of nature. Wildfire, Bucky thought, she’s made of pure gold. “Buck, what you did, wasn’t you.” 

“It was still my hands.” 

“Being controlled by the demon those bastards made you into,” she said, voice raising in volume. Bucky’s voice caught in his throat. “Seventy years, Buck,” she continued, voice cracking in bits and pieces. “Seventy years of torment, brainwashing you to the brink of madness itself. Seventy years of doing the dirty work of high men who couldn’t afford to get their hands bloodied, so they hung the price and guilt over your head.” (Y/n) paused, choking down a sob, wiping the evidence off of her face with her sleeve. “You weren’t yourself all those years. You were thrown into the pit of hell and dragged yourself out of it. That was you, Bucky, not that weapon they made you think you were.”

“Is that what you think?” He asked, barely louder than a whisper. “Yes,” she answered. “It wasn’t the Bucky that I know and love.”

He could barely comprehend the fact that (Y/n) (Y/L/n) just admitted that she loved him before she was scrambling forward, boosting herself on the edge of the building next to him. In her charcoal covered hands was a spiraled notebook. Gingerly, she held it out to him, in such a manner that seemed as if she was giving over her own heart. Bucky obliged, the leather of the notebook feeling heavy in his hands. “I don’t know if my words can convince you, Buck, but maybe these will.”

Bucky opened it. The first drawing he saw was a black and white oil pastel. The image so detailed it could be mistaken for a photograph. It was from her point of view, laying on a cold hospital bed (though one could barely consider it a bed), left forearm stretched out, fist clenched, almost painfully tight. The only color on the page was the bright blue liquid that dripped from her IV, flowing into her bloodstream. Hydra’s mixture. Deep breaths, Bucky...

The next page he flipped to was obviously a self portrait done by (Y/n). The image rattled Bucky to his core. It was of her, stuck in the corner of a room, knees to her chest. Zip ties held her hands and feet together, tears streamed out of fearful eyes. She was screaming, but the duck tape against her lips prevented any noise from coming out. But scrawled onto the tape in bright red pen were the words Ready To Comply. Bucky shuddered, a sudden chill washing over him.

He skipped the next few pages until his eyes landed on one that was unmistakably him. His body, tangled in white blankets, only his bare back exposed. His arms used as a pillow for his head, shaggy black hair a mess around him. A image of him during a nightmare, no doubt. Above him, numerous hands reached out to him ominously, blood trickling off of some of the fingers. It was watercolor, brush strokes capturing the beautifully terrifying moment.

There were dozens more. Of him, of her. The last one captured his attention the most. Yet again, its him - pale skin contrasted by long brownish-black locks of hair, limps parted in a whimper. Hands made of smoke cover his eyes and a good portion of his face, the seal of Hydra burnt into the skin in red. He’s trapped, blind, and so vulnerable. Above him, the same red spells out Hail Hydra. The sight made Bucky want to throw up.

A warm flesh hand grasped Bucky’s metal plated one. “That man that I drew, he is not you. You are James Buchanan Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. Not the monster the media thinks you are, or the monster you think you are, or the monster Hydra tried to make you. I love you, regardless of what you think you are and what others have made you out to be.”

Throughout her entire speech, (Y/n) had been moving closer to him, snuggling herself into Bucky’s side for comfort, and when the man turned his head, there noses were nearly brushing. Her features were barley visible in the early morning light, but the warm glow of the lights by the door caught the mountains of her cheek bones, the slope of her nose, and the curves of her lips. Her lips - pink, full, and glossy. The pair’s heavy breathing mixed.

“Bucky,” she whispered, her hand grasping onto the fabric of his shirt. His flesh hand cupped her cheek, admiring the handiwork of God himself, and closed the gap.

Bucky’s mind fell into the abyss that was (Y/n). His mind went blank. She tasted like lavender and honey, with the faintest hint of mint. She smelled like vanilla Her embrace felt like home. It was over a second later, (Y/n) being the one to pull away, shaking like a willow. A tear slipped from her closed lids and Bucky was quick to kiss it away, the salt staining his tongue. “It’s happy tears,” she assured, (y/e/c) revealing themselves from under hoods, meeting steel gray. “I love you,” he admitted weakly, “ever since I saw you in that dress at Stark’s party.”

Her laugh echoed through the night, melodious. “About damn time, Barnes.” They chuckled together in harmony. 

“I have a question,” said he.

“I have an answer.”

“How long have you loved me?”

Sighing, (Y/n) leaned against the solid, unmoving man, her head pillowed in the slope of his shoulder. “I was so blind,” she said, barely audible, as if she was afraid to answer. “I didn’t realize I loved you until when you visited me in the hospital, how upset I got when you didn’t kiss me. That’s when I finally began to admit it. But my soul loved yours long before that, maybe even before we met.

“When I first met you,” she continued, “my heart lunged out of my chest. My soul knew yours, no doubt. I kept my distance though.”

“Because you were afraid of me,” Bucky concluded.

“No, because I was afraid to fall in love with you the first day.”

Bucky let go of his metallic grip on her hand, stretching it out. “So...this thing doesn’t bother you?”

She smiled, teeth flashing and light reaching her eyes. “Not in the slightest.” As gentle as a June breeze, she enveloped the hand in her own. “Do you know how it works?”

The childlike curiosity made him chuckle. “If I’m being completely honest, I’ve got no clue.”

She playfully swatted him. “I feel like if it’s attached to you, you should know how it works!”

“All I know is that it’s somehow connected to my nervous system!”

The vibranium plates clicked and whirled underneath (Y/n)’s fingertips. “So, like, can you feel things with it?”

“In the hand, yes,” he explained. “In the arm I just feel pressure.”

(Y/n) lifted his hand to her mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the palm, then to the pads of his fingers, the coolness enveloping warm lips like a balm. Goosebumps pricked up on Bucky’s flesh as (Y/n) began to leave a trail of kisses, trailing up his arm to his left cheek. The center of his forearm, the crook of his metal elbow, a single tender kiss were scared tissue met bolts and nails, and finally, a soft kiss to the slope of his cheekbone.

“I don’t know how many more times I’ll end up saying this tonight, or how much more in days to come, but oh my god, I love you,” she said with a breathy laugh. 

“You can say it as often as you like, only if you do me the honor of being my girl.”

She smiled, pressing a quick peck to his lips. “Of course,” she murmured before leaning in for another. 

“(Y/n)…tell me this isn’t a dream.” His whisper was pained, frightened. “I don’t want to wake up from it.”

She offered him another kiss, and he quickly complied. Once pulled apart, she said, “I don’t think my heart would be beating this madly if it was.”

FINAL NOTE

Holy crap. It’s finished. I hope you all love this story as much as I do. Special thanks to @acf2510 for unending love and support on this series. Feel free to message me or comment if you would like to be on my EVERYTHING taglist. I love you all. Peace out, ima go cry now.

SIX TIMES TAGLIST

@acf2510 @sweetcarolinestudies @clarinette07 @amyy-moonlightt @mood-pancakes @buckybarnesprotectionsquads @iamquinn @liesllane @destinydameme @the-wayward-robot @booktease21 @wickedapollo @metoo-desu @authorpocketcow

[hellsfirekeepsyouwarm]

“A blind date?”

Requested by anom:

“Hi! Can I request a Richard Madden x Reader where maybe mutual friends have been trying to set them up for a while but it doesn’t work until they finally meet and hit it off on their own? (Or whatever you want to do- you’re the creative genius here!) thanks!“

Here ya go, love. Hope you like it <3

Pairing: Richard MaddenxReader

Word Count: 1723

Y/BF/N - Your Best Friend Name

REQUEST ARE STILL OPEN

„A blind date? Come on, you know I’m not into that stuff. “I say, already feeling my stomach flip just thinking about a stupid blind date.

“Y/N, I can assure you, you won’t regret it. He is smoking hot.” My childhood best friend is dying to set me up with this guy, and she refuses to say anything about him. Not even his name.

“Yeah, and we all know your taste is arguable.” She just ignores my comment, continuing nudging me about this mysterious man.

“No, seriously Y/N. You need to get out there, and meet people. Get over your moron ex, and finally meet with a nice, decent man. A MAN! “

A nice, decent man. Sounds good, but I never found one for myself, why now, and why him would be that person? And this blind date thing is ridiculous.

“No. And that’s my last word about this subject. Now tell me how your interview go?”

“Ahw, damn you. Giiiirl, I saw plenty of potential husband material, there was this guy…”

“Gosh, tell me about the job you silly, not the hot guys you met.”

“You are no fun. Literally. Well, it was…okay. Dunno, I just don’t think I found the right job for me. They don’t do huge gigs, and you I am all about big movies and big names. “

“Hmmm, big names. I think I know what you mean!”

“Are we still talking about my job interview?“

We laugh loudly, as loud as we can, because we know that no one will care about it here.

The pub is full, a soccer match is blasting on the telly, a bunch of guest are cheering on the game. My dress is sweating on me, making me thinking about the next drink I will get. Y/BF/N is making heart eyes at a guy near us, and she always gets a feedback.

We are silent for a moment, enjoying the drink we ordered. My tongue is orgasming from the cocktail, and that’s the only thing for a second I can focus on, until... until my best friend starts to wave her hands like a mad men.

“What are you doin?” She’s smiling ear to ear, not even glancing at me. I turn around, looking for the spot she’s looking at, and i don’t find anything or anyone, until two handsome man appears in front of us. And of them is Richard Madden.

I forgot to blink, to swallow, to function properly.

“Richard, Tom, she’s Y/N, my best friend” Her mellifluous voice brings me back to the earth, seeing him scanning me with flushed cheeks.

“Oh, Y/N? Hi.” He says, tongue-tied. “ I heard so much about you”

Really? I look over to my best friend, who just nods back at him. What?

“You did?” I ask embarrassed. He knows me? He just grins shyly, showing his beautiful smile.  

“Well, don’t believe anything she said.” His head drops backwards as he laughs.

“Ladies, you would like to drink something?”

“Hell yes!” Y/BF/N yells, and the boys turns their attention to the bartender, discussing what beer they will get.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Did you call them to come here?” I whisper as low as I can from the surrounding noise.

“I didn’t I swear! I knew they like this place, but I didn’t know Richard was here. This is the best thing ever.” She says, and I can’t help but drink up all the remaining liquid in my glass. Before I could say anything to her, Richard is next to me, offering the very same cocktail that I just finished off. I smile at him nervously, our fingers slightly brushing as I touch the cocktail.

“Thank you.”

I glance over to my bestie, who is already in “deep” conversation with Tom, both of them eyeing us.

Oh shit. Richard’s eyes are on them, judging by his expression, he is thinking the same.

“They aren’t so discreet, are they?” I ask, hoping it’s gonna break the ice between us, and turning the situation less embarrassing. He blushes, and he smiles again. Fuck, that smile is everything.

“Well yeah. I think it’s kinda their thing.”

“Sooo…you are the one she talked about I guess?” I say, avoiding his gaze at all cost.

“She talked about me?”

“Yeah, she couldn’t shut up about a blind date she was more than happy to arrange.”

“Detto. She only gave away your name, and that’s it. “

 We talk, and laugh, and tease. A couple of empty glass on the bar, waiting to be replaced by new, full ones. He is laughing at something with Tom, and I can’t concentrate to the subject of the conversation. His cheeks flushed, a hint of red playing on them.

I tilt my head to the side, capturing his mimics as he watches Tom talking, still having his eyes on me, spying if I am listening.

Just do it, damn. It’s still worth it, even if he never ever wants to talk to you. Do it

I don’t really make it out, but I know what I am doing. Putting my drink down on the bar, I look back at him, questioning my movements, and the fact that I grab his beer from his hand, just adding to confusion. He looks at me dumbfounded, even when my fingers slid on his hand, and pull him with me into the crowd.

The music fills me up, the heat almost unbearable, but I still push myself close to him. So he could feel every muscles that moves to the rhythm. He quickly catches up with me, and now our bodies move together. His chest rising and falling as my own, his hands slowly finding its way to my hips. A wild smile spread on my face, not thinking about our surroundings.

As the songs passes, playing different tunes, we shift with it. From slow and sexy beats, to wild happy ones we can let ourselves loose.

My hands wonders on his chest, meeting behind his neck. He’s smiling at me, his eyes showing me it’s a true, joyful smile.

“How could I say no to that blind date?” He asks, lost in my eyes.

At this point, I don’t know what to say, or how. So I do the only thing I want to. I press my lips to his, brushing through his curly hair. The kiss tastes like beer, sugar, and sweat. His arms holding close to him, and he moans into my mouth, leaving me wanting more of him.

Out of breath, we break the kiss, still holding onto him. My stomach flips, waking the butterflies inside.

God, he is beautiful.

I let go of him for a second, and my head spins immediately, losing my balance. Richard easily holds me in my place, his hands not leaving my skin.

I feel dizzy, not sure from what. The alcohol I consumed in the last hour or so, or the kiss we just shared. Or both.

“I think I had enough drinks for tonight. “ I giggle, making him smile.

“Let’s get you home then.”

 We say our goodbyes to Y/BF/N and Tom, heading out of the still crowded pub to the street.

The cold air hits me with full force, making my sweaty body shiver. I put my jacket on, and Richard wraps his hand around my shoulder, pulling me close to his side.

“Come on, the cab is here”

Our lift is just a couple meters away, Richard waves at the man at the wheel. He opens the backdoor for me, and quickly gets in on the other side.

I tell my address to the drier, before Richard could speak. I snuggle closer to him, wanting every inch of him touching me.

Am I really doing this? Going home with a man I just met? Hell yes I am doing it.

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, tickling the skin with his stubble. My reflexes want me to move away from the sensation, but I don’t want to. He plants a little kiss and leaves it burning.

We arrive at my place in no time. I see the familiar houses and signs. Now or never. If I invite him in, what’s he gonna say?

I feel the vehicle under me slow down, and pulling up at the building I live in. I sigh, ready to pop the question, but he disappeared from the seat next to me. Just as I was thinking with my drunken brain, the door opens up, revealing his hands. He helps me out of the car, I just looking at him in a wonder. He is a fucking gentleman.

“You want to come in? I am sure I have some leftover pizza in the fridge.”

He smiles at me brightly, then shaking his head.

“ I just wanted to make sure, you get home safely. “

“Ohh?”

Really? I didn’t really think about the no answer. Shit.

“But I would like to get your number.” He says, probably sensing my mood change.

He is really a gentleman.  We exchange numbers, trying hard not to mess up the numbers. I read it multiple times before I hand his phone back.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He says, leaning in. Our lips meet for the second time tonight, and it’s even better than the first one. He moves away too soon. Damn, I want him.

“Good night, Richard.” I whisper, as I walk to the apartment door. He is still standing there, when I walk to the elevator.

My body gives up near my bed. The strength I had was used on taking off my clothes and brush my teeth. As soon as my head hits the pillow I am in a sweet dream.

 Groaning, I fumble around me to my phone. Loud notification sound echoing in my room. As I try to open my eyes, the sun light blinds me.

Oh man, I had too much last night.

I find my phone, dragging it under the duvet, hiding from the sun. I have millions of text messages, most of them from my best friend, asking what happened last night.

What happened last night?

And then a see it. Richard’s name pops up, with a text below.

“Are you hungry? :) R.”

“I am starving. :D “