#i am something of a little curl of hair expert myself

[six-of-cringe]

If you are an anime fan who likes character designs with that little curl of hair on top of an otherwise long-haired head, as someone with trichotillomania I will be the first to tell you that it looks fucking stupid in real life

[phroobin]

Yeah ya know a master post would be helpful if it wasn’t too much trouble for you sir. :3

Siffrin Cosplay Master Post

Before I start, here's a disclaimer: this is just what I did. I'm one singular cosplayer out of many and I am by no means an expert, nor are my methods the only way to cosplay Siffrin. I've seen so many other incredible interpretations, and they're all equally valid and cool, and you should seek advice from them, too!!! This master post is simply to help others if they need any advice, because I do get these questions a lot and people have asked for this master post!

✧ Hat and Cloak

I made both of these myself, so they're not bought from anywhere but I'm certain you can find someone who could make them on etsy! If you're wanting to attempt these yourself, I followed this tutorial for the hat and this tutorial for the cape and used a sewing machine to save myself from hand stitching everything.

I used this fabric in the colour ivory for both the hat and the cloak so that they match, and I chose it because it's a pretty heavy fabric so it hangs really nicely. If you're not based in the UK I've been told this link doesn't work so the fabric I used is 80% Polyester 18% Viscose 2% Elastane (though if you can't find this exact combination, something with similar makeup should do fine) and I believe it's called Softcoat Fabric. It does fray quite a lot so you probably want to get some fray check, or do a rolled hem to contain it! I went with the former option, as I didn't really fancy trying to do a rolled hem on a curve.

If you choose to use this fabric for a matching hat too, you'll need a decent amount of heavyweight iron on interfacing. The brim took 4 layers of it, and the cone shaped part took two so just be aware of that.

✧ The wig

My Siffrin wig is a combination of a couple of wigs that are sewn together to create his signature hairstyle.

I'm based in the UK and swear by a company called Coscraft, who are the company I bought my two wigs from. I chose their Super Maru wig (the curl patterns were what I was looking for for that messy look!) in both titanium blonde and natural black, and had to cut wefts out of the back parts of both wigs. Once that was done, then sewed the harvested black wig wefts into the back of white wig using a curved needle and a wig head. I then also glued, cut, and styled some longer wefts (one on each side) in the same titanium blonde colour into the front of my Sif wig to be their longer front pieces.

Essentially for something like Sif's hair where it's two toned, it's unlikely you'll be able to find a wig that's made with both colours so you sort of have to DIY the hell out of it! If you're looking for an easier method, you could always look at using synthetic dye on the under part of the white wig, or I believe I've seen some cosplayers in the past use sharpies to colour wig fibres.

Additionally, to style the bangs, I used this method to give texture and staying power before hairspraying everything into place with Got2B Glued Freezing Blast. At the very ends of the spikes, I used a little Uhu glue to keep the strands together.

✧ The eyepatch

Honestly folks, this one was just an amazon purchase. You just need to search for a black eyepatch, but my exact one was this one. At some point, I'll be sewing myself a new one because mine is slightly too big for my face and rides up a little bit but when I do that I'll link to a guide.

✧ Other clothing

I already owned the majority of this outfit, so no real recommendations. My black shirt is a long sleeved tee from Uniqlo. The exact one is actually a thermal shirt because it's the only one I own but I WILL be getting a light weight one so I don't sweat to death. My trousers are just black denim skinny jeans because I see Siffrin as having tiny little stick leggies and my boots (again, already owned - they're these shoes, in black) work best with them because they kinda blend together.

✧ The pins

I spent a LONG time looking for Siffrin's cloak pins. I was searching for oversized safety pins and realised quite quickly that the size wasn't right, and neither was the shape. I'm not going to tell you exactly which pins I bought because I spent a long, long time trying to find ones that looked like Siffrin's and I kinda like having this one thing that is maybe unique to my cosplay.

That said, I do have some advice!! Look for kilt pins!! They're large and heavy duty, and come in different styles! Finding this type of pin had a name was an absolute godsend, so hopefully this helps y'all find something similar!

✧ Additional things

I couldn't find a knife. I'm gonna have to eventually get someone to sculpt and 3D print one for me. If anyone in the ISAT fandom has these skills, hit me up. Same goes for a silver coin!!

I also have a little thigh holster bag (in tobacco brown) that I use when cosplaying Siffrin to keep props/my glasses/wallet etc in. It attaches to my belt (something I also wear when cosplaying Sif, as well as in regular life) and the thigh holster bag was originally bought for a motorbike journey I took with a friend, but it gives off a rogue vibe and I really like it as an additional, but not essential, part of my cosplay! I also actually use it a lot for my Astarion cosplay for the same reasons!

Anyway, I think that's everything. If you have any other questions, drop me an ask or comment here. Good luck, cosplayers!

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hello! Can I please get a matchup for genshin, blush blush and hsr?

My pronouns vary, as I am genderfluid, but I mostly go with they/them to make things easier on others. I'm mainly into men, and am a Leo and an INFP.

I'm 5'9" and am basically a VERY pale androgynous twig with birth marks here and there. My hair is rather short and boyish right now, although I'm trying to grow it out a little. It's naturally brown, but I like to color it unnatural colors from time to time. My eyes are blue. The way I dress can vary greatly. My body language seems to be a mix of timid awkward girl and confident dude. I’m almost always smiling or look like I’m confused/spacing out.

I'm socially awkward, perpetually confused, and feel a special connection with loneliness. I can be pretty funny in improv situations. I tend to let others dominate conversations, although if they don’t fill the silence I’ll get anxious and try to fill it myself. When I’m in a group of people I tend to get a little overwhelmed. It’s difficult for me to feel connected with others and I worry even my closest friends will leave me if I slip up somehow. It’s extremely rare for me to get angry, to the point where people I’ve known since I was a kid think I’m incapable of it.

I like rocks, geology, mythical creatures, and fictional characters. I dislike storms, rain, loud noises, and people who are always putting others down.

My hobbies mostly include daydreaming (fantasizing about experiencing mutual love), reading fanfics, playing video games (Genshin mainly) and sometimes watching anime. I also write fics occasionally and draw comics. I can sing too, but I’m nervous about doing it for others.

My love language is physical touch.

I have a lot of comfort objects (fidget toys, key chains, rings, etc) that are extremely important to me and that I always keep with me. I’ll sometimes even bring plushies in the car with me when I leave the house. I’m rather possessive of these items.

Hi Anon! Thank you for your request! I hope you like your matchups!

In Genshin Impact, I match you with...

Zhongli is the person to go to regarding your interest in rocks! Considering he's the geo archon, he's the expert in this field so any questions you have, he can answer.

He'd love spending an afternoon curled up with you on the couch, warm drinks within reach and reading or watching you draw.

Zhongli loves watching you draw. He's seen so much destruction in his life that it's nice watching someone create something for a change.

Always keeps an eye out for new fidget toys and plushies when he's out. Not that he can buy them anyway but he'll remember them next time you're both out together so he can point them out to you.

Would love listening to you sing but if you're nervous, he's happy to sing with you. He's got a nice voice and he knows it can help having someone to sing with; it hides mistakes well.

Will keep you company during storms. If it helps, he's more than happy to talk, read to you, or sing. Whatever helps to take your mind off the storm.

In Blush Blush, I match you with...

Nimh totally gets where you're coming from with the worry about people leaving you if you slip up. He's been there before. But he knows a few tips and tricks for helping you to lessen that fear.

Will always reassure you that, no matter what, he'll always be by your side.

I see Nimh as someone who's love language is also physical touch so you're a good match in that regard as well. He's more than happy to dish out as many hugs as you want, just please return the gesture when he needs some love an affection as well.

Enjoys playing video games with you. His favourites are cozy games like Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley.

Nimh loves your plushies. He'll respect your boundaries with them so if you don't want him to touch them, he wont. But if you let him, he'll treat them very carefully and give each one a gentle hug and head pat.

Similarly to Zhongli, whenever he's out, he'll keep an eye out for new plushies and fidget toys. He knows what sort of things you like and is more than happy to get you a present every now and then.

In Honkai Star Rail, I match you with...

I think Dan Heng has his own collection of fidget toys. He's happy to share with you since he usually gets too absorbed in his record keeping to use them.

Thinks your plushies are cute but won't ask to touch them. They're not really his thing. He likes them more because you do and because they remind him of you.

Another one who will keep you company during storms. He'll put on your favourited music to drown out the sound of the storm and will sit with you as long as you want him to.

Not the best with physical touch but he's willing to learn. I see him as someone who doesn't easily get comfortable with people but he's more open with you.

If you want a hug, he'll oblige but you'll have to tell him first. He's not great at picking up on people's emotions but if you can let him know when you want affection, whether verbally or non-verbally, he's more than happy to give you a warm hug.

Dan Heng would enjoy drawing with you. He's not great but he's also not bad at drawing so he'd like to practice. He also enjoys watching your drawing come together.

If you give him any drawings, he'll keep them somewhere safe so he'll always have a reminder of you.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Bakugou reacting to his S/O or crush going up to him and saying “Hey, can your hold this for a moment?” Their hand clenched so he can’t see what they are holding. He like “okay?” And they just, hold his hand.

omg this is so cute for bakugou with an s/o ahaha,, ooo n i literally couldn’t help myself so here’s a lil fic !!! hope u enjoy @annepamgkrth !! :))))

-//-

Bakugou was prickly.

He was prickly and difficult, a coiled mess of nerves wound up tighter than anyone you’d ever met. Trying to get him to relent was like playing mind games, and, if he wanted to play, then you’d play.

That day he had been even more petulant than usual- brushing you off at every turn and then huffing and puffing until you'd try again. You knew he missed you, could see it in his eyes, but you also knew full well that he’d never let himself admit that. He was stubborn to a fault. A very large fault.

“C’mon, aren’t you tired of being grumpy yet?” You huff in frustration, once more trying to grab his hand. He brushes you off- again. “Really, I already said I’m sorry! So can’t you just forgive me already?”

“No. Fuck no. Deal with the consequences, nerd.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He stares back at you blankly, flexing his arm where it's stretched across the back of the couch. He'd been taunting you for the better part of ten minutes now, teasing you with a warm spot next to him that looked so incredibly inviting. Then, because he was apparently hell bent on being a dick, Bakugou would quickly trap his arm to his side. He'd clamp up and shut down when you so much as even moved to get closer. He was being difficult. Unnecessarily difficult- and he knew it too. You could see that clear as day from the self-satisfied smirk across his face.

"Bakugou, it's a show!"

"A fuckin' good show. Our show." He grumbles right back at you. "Don't get all pissy at me- you're the one who decided to be a bitch about this."

"What was I supposed to do? Turn it off just because you fell asleep?"

"Yes."

"No! No, I actually wasn't gonna do that! We said we'd watch one episode a night, and I kept up my end! It's not my fault that you fall asleep at 8:30 PM like a grandpa!" You huff, mild exasperation coloring your voice. "Chill out, it's only 45 minutes, grumpy. It won't take long to catch up. C'mon, I'll even sit with you right now while you watch it."

"No thanks."

"You're impossible."

"You're a traitor."

He spits the insult with too much satisfaction. It's suspicious and suddenly you know exactly what this is. He, historically, spent all his time looking for any and all reasons to go ahead and be an asshole. Apparently this is one of those times, and he's not really upset, he's just bored and acting on a convenient excuse.

"Fine. Guess I'll leave then-" You say, standing up and backing away from the couch. "Since you're obviously so incredibly cut up about it."

You see the same fight you always do then- that weird expression flicker when he just barely stops himself from asking you to come back. You can see it in the twitching of his fingers, the way the muscles in his arm flex. He's so close to folding- to bending to your will. He just needs a little push. Luckily, you've been saving a certain card up your sleeve for a while.

You fall back into the kitchen, scheming while you make a glass of water. Stalling for a few minutes, you bide your time, twiddling your thumbs until you hear Bakugou loudly huff in the living room. Peaking around the corner, you watch him grab for the remote, switching on the TV with a glare in your direction. You give it another few minutes more, and then you make your way out, glass of water in hand.

Upon entering, you find Bakugou finally watching the episode he was so upset about- albeit, with a very childish scowl across his face. He hardly even acknowledges you as you walk in, doesn't even glance away from the TV when you stand next to him.

"Hold this for me?" You ask, intentionally clinking the ice cubes in your glass. "Please? I gotta look for my phone."

He looks over at you, suspicion clouding his features. "Set it on the table, dumbass. 'm not your servant."

"No- but you are my very capable boyfriend who is an expert at holding things for me."

"Laying it on thick isn't gonna make it any fuckin' better." He grumbles, eyes still trained on the TV. But he rolls his eyes anyway, that same blind trust overtaking him, as he opens his palm. "Whatever. I'll hold it. Find it quick."

You nod, something sly and conniving crossing your face. You switch the glass into your other hand quickly, snatching his palm up with your cold one before he can recoil back. You're lacing your fingers into his, and Bakugou nearly breaks his neck with the speed he turns to look at you.

"What the fuck- the hell are you doing?" His shoulders go ridgid in mock disgust, lips curled up into a sneer. "Knock it off with the cute shit. It's not gonna fuckin' work."

"Really? But I'm not doing anything."

"You know exactly what you're doing, evil fuckin' witch."

"I'm not doing anything you didn't explicitly consent to. You did say you'd hold it for me."

"I thought you meant your goddamn drink! Not your shitty hand."

"Mhm. That misunderstanding was part of the plan. Pretty smart, right?"

You smile brightly at him, all bright whites and crinkling eyes. He folds then, just like he always does, and can't help himself as he tugs on your hand. You crash against his chest, stumbling, but Bakugou rights you with another scoff and that funny little sneer still firmly in place.

"I hate you." He says.

"No you don't."

"I fuckin' do. You're annoying as hell."

"Fine- guess I should leave then, huh?"

Bakugou just drops his other hand to your waist, gripping slightly in warning. That fire in his eyes is back, bright red flickers just daring you to defy him. That moment once again proves that petulance has always been an especially good look for him.

"No." He says, sly smile just barely curling his lip. "What you should fuckin' do is hand me the goddamn remote. Gotta fuckin' rewind now since you wanted to make such a scene."

"Nah, don't bother. You didn't miss anything important just now- trust me."

That elicits a playful growl from him, and he tugs on the end of your hair lightly in warning. "Don't fuckin' remind me. Now hand me the remote, maybe try making yourself useful for once."

"Mean!"

"Shut up, 'm just kidding, idiot." He mumbles, shyly dropping a kiss to your hair. It's stuttered, a little stiff, much like all the affection he ever showed you, but you begin to think that maybe he missed you more than you even realized. "Say you're sorry again."

"Why?"

"Because I fuckin' said so."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Fine." You roll your eyes, taking his face softly into your hands. "I am so incredibly sorry I stabbed you in the back. I will never do it again, you absolute baby."

Bakugou curls his lip at that, but you just smile something fond, leaning in for a kiss. He finally lets you, meeting in the middle with the same kind of bruising pressure you'd come to enjoy. You pull back before he's satisfied, and he nearly yanks you back into him. Bracing a hand on his chest for space, fingers splaying over the muscle beneath, you speak.

"You know- if you weren't so difficult earlier, maybe I would've let this continue."

He groans. Loudly. Slumps back into the couch with dramatic flair and practically throws you off his lap into the spot next to him.

"Fuck you. Fuck you." He seethes.

"Hey, don't get upset at me." You say simply. "Just trying to make sure we have enough time to watch that episode you missed."

Then you press the remote into his hand with a smile, and he snatches it from you with an unrivaled flair for the dramatics. Casting his arm over the back of the couch once more, he huffs, tucking you solidly against his side as he rewinds the episode.

You'd won this round- and from the blush on his face, Bakugou knows it too.

[dameronology]

to all the pilots i've loved before {poe dameron} - 3/4

part three: better half of a whole

summary: you’re in love with poe dameron. it’s both the most complicated and most simple thing in the galaxy - and it’s all shoved into a shoe-box under your bed, in the form of a thousand love letters. here’s to hoping he never finds them. (series masterlist)

warnings: language, mentions of injury

i'm so sorry this took me so long to write!! i got writer's block and then i was horribly busy with a thousand others things and sadly, i cannot prioritise fan fiction over real life duties. and i would know, because i've tried

enjoy!!

- jazz

Poe didn't sleep for...well, it was probably days. Felt like years.

Dear trouble,

Every time he closed his eyes, your face would flash into his mind. The sound of your laugh echoing amongst the cries of war; the feel of your soft hands tracing the remains of battle scars and wounds. What if the hug you gave him before you left was the last? What if your slightly pained laughter at the shitty joke he'd made in the jungle the night before was all he had left? He cherished every memory he had of you but he loved you more.

I know you hate when I call you that, but it feels pretty accurate - because you do cause trouble, normally with me but more recently FOR me. Anyways, I never considered myself to be much of a letter writer, but then I saw yours and...fuck.

Love. What a funny fucking word, right? Said so easily, but meant so much. Something that felt so hard to find, but even more difficult to hold onto. His parents had found it and they'd kept it for so long, and he'd always wanted the same - nothing less, nothing more. Just the kind of unwavering, undying love that can survive a war and be happy with the domesticity that followed. The only difference between Poe and his parents was that they'd been fearless with every aspect of their lives, not withholding their ability to express feelings. Perhaps that's where he fell short. Shara had taught him a lot of things but she'd been lost before he taught her how to pull his head out his ass and just...say things how they were.

What am I even supposed to say? I love you too would be a start, because I obviously I do. I've always wanted to say it but I never wanted to risk what we had in case you secretly hated me, and now I'm going to live out the rest of my days regretting it.

The first that Poe managed to finally get some rest was four days after Leia had broken the news of your disappearance. He'd fallen asleep in his quarters, curled up into Finn's side and clutching a t-shirt of his that he'd left in your room - you'd borrowed it a few months ago, and it still smelt of you. It was a mixture of your everyday body fragrance and a little of engine oil. BB-8 was snoozing quietly in the corner and for the first time in days, Poe's jaw and shoulders weren't tense and clenched.

The little robot did stir, however, when he got a comms system message from Leia. He was awake immediately, cruising across the room and crashing straight into the nearest human he could find - and it was at that point that Finn regretted leaving his leg dangling off the side of the bed. He jumped awake, brown eyes finding the droid peering up at him.

You're not just my best friend. You're my partner in crime, my soulmate and you know that twin flame bullshit that Rey always go on about? You're probably that too because we're both flaming hot. You're the better half of this whole. You and me.

"Poe is sleeping, buddy," he quietly said.

"There's a message from the general," BB-8 beeped back.

Poe suddenly woke up at that - it could have been any message, and certainly not one about you, but something in his gut told him otherwise. If it hadn't have been, Leia would have left it til morning, or not even bothered him at all in his current state.

"What?" the pilot asked. "What is it?"

"They're back, in the med-"

Poe didn't give him a chance to say anything else, because he was already up and out the door - jacket unzipped, boots half unlaced, hair sticking up in a thousand different directions.

And even though he hadn't slept for days, he was running for his dear fucking life. The medical bay was right on the other side of the base and he didn't care. You were there - in what state, he didn't know - and that was all that mattered. He was just wanted to be with you, beside you, and he never planned on leaving.

If I see you again, I'm not gonna hide it anymore. I love you and you deserve to know that. I'm gonna give you the fucking world, I promise.

Poe skidded around the corner, stopping his tracks when he saw you across the room. You looked tired - far past it, in fact - and his entire body tensed when he saw the bruises on your arm and up your neck. Still, he took comfort in the fact that he knew you put up a good fight. You'd sparred together enough times and given him enough bruises to last a life time.

There was a slight oof as someone crashed into the back of Poe (Finn's subtle way of announcing his arrival). He placed a hand on his shoulder, shoving him forward slightly. It was clear that Poe was in a state of shock - at your loss, at your declaration, and even more at your return - because the last few days had changed everything.

Everything he'd ever wanted was about to come to fruition. No pressure.

"Go to them," Finn murmured.

With that, Poe took a few steps forward - you met him half away across the room, chests colliding with enough force to knock down an ATAT. He wound his arms you, pulling you towards him with one hand tangled in your hair and the other holding your back. He clung to you, tears in his eyes and entire body shaking, almost as though he was using the feeling of you to act as a reminder that this wasn't a dream. You were here. You were back. Perhaps a little worst for wear, but alive and standing all the same.

I don't know how I'll say it. Am I meant to just blurt it out? I've never said it to anyone before, so...what the fuck am I meant to do? Normally, I'd come to you for advice on this sort of this but that feels a bit counter intuitive.

"Hey, Poe," you gently murmured.

"Hey, trouble," he let out a shaky laugh, pulling back from the hug to clutch your face in his hands. "You're alive. You're here-"

"- yeah, I'm here," you grinned.

"What happened?" he pushed. "If I ever find those First Order bastards, I swear it's on site."

"They were trying to shoot us out the sky, so we had to lay low on a random moon for a few days, but the residents of said moon were not very friendly and - you know what? It doesn't matter," you leant into his touch, relishing the feeling of his hands against your skin. "I'm here and that's what's important."

"I was so scared," Poe admitted. "And they had me search your room for back up plans and-"

You froze.

"You...you searched my room?" you stuttered. "What did you find?"

The main thing is, I AM gonna tell you. I promise. Just...please come back.

Love, Poe

Poe's eyes widened - maybe now wasn't the best time to break the news. You were bleeding from your head and hadn't slept for days. To spring it on you before you were even cleaned up felt a bit unfair. His worst fears had been avoided, so he didn't mind waiting just a little longer.

"Nothing," he forced a smile. "C'mon, I'll clean you up."

Taking your hand in his, Poe lead you towards one of the beds. He was hardly a medical expert, but he'd been through enough cuts and scrapes to have a basic understanding of stitches. And luckily, your injuries didn't look too bad. It was more just the fact you had them in the first place that hurt him.

What if he'd gone on the mission with you? Or convinced you to stay? Fuck, he would have gone in your place if he knew what was going to happen. The last few days had been the worst of his life and he almost felt responsible for what had happened to you. Your pain was his pain, and he felt it in every fibre of his being.

But, of all things, at least he knew what love was now - and if you had never have gone MIA, he never would have gone looking in your room, and he never would have found those letters. It felt like a bit of a dick move to call them a blessing in disguise but his mother had always taught him the value of looking for silver linings. The last week had been one giant thunderstorm. There had been no breaks in the rain, or sun peaking through the clouds. It had just been darkness and thunder, but it was all beginning to clear now.

What was it that Shara had said when Poe was a kid? Things have a funny way of working out. This was all a testament to that, and also to the fact that she always seemed to be right.

Poe's hands moved gently as he stitched up the cut on your forehead. They were still steady as they moved, brown eyes occasionally moving down to meet yours. He always smiled when they did.

"There we go," he said. "That shouldn't scar, but if it does, it would make you look like a bad-ass, so..."

You chuckled slightly. "Thanks, Dameron."

"You don't have to thank me," he quietly murmured, running a thumb over your cheek. "I'm just glad you're back."

"Right," you grinned. "What did you do whilst I was gone?"

Cried. Read those letters. Cried some more. Wrote a letter myself, then cried on that too.

"I just...I caught up some on some reading," he forced a smile. "C'mon, let's go to my quarters. I have some bactaspray there for those bruises."

Poe took your hand in his again and helped you up off of the bed - you seemed okay to walk, but he didn't let go. He needed to feel you, to know that you were there. He was worried you might float away into the galaxy and disappear all over again if he didn't cling onto you.

And for you, the feeling of his warm hands against yours was a welcome relief after a long few days. You were trying to push the pain and the incoming nightmares to the back of your head, and it was much easier when Poe was beside you. You already knew that he was going to make you sleep beside him that night. Being on the same wavelength so often was a great feeling.

Poe hadn't thought about tidying his room - why would he? He'd been so preoccupied with you, and finding you, that he'd barely considered the idea. Besides, it wasn't like you were going to care about the shoes by his door, or the letters on his desk, or the unfolded laund-

- fuck.

The letters.

Your box of letters, which was sat on his desk, which was right by the door.

By the time he'd even registered that they were there, you were already half way into the room. In a somewhat half-arsed attempt to shove them back in the box and toss them to the side, Poe dove forward and knocked them into an open draw, slamming it shut.

When he turned around and saw your wide eyes, it was clear he was a little too late. You'd already seen them.

taglist: tags: @neverlandlibrarian @asphyzzz @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ubri812 @taina-eny @dessinemoiunehistoire @fangirl-316 @princessxkenobi @brandyllyn

[anntoldst0ries]

None shall sleep (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart 3, post Chapter 5 Pairing: Dr Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr Noelle Valentine) Word Count/Rating: ~1.8k, T Summary: In the privacy of the diagnostic's office, Ethan & Noelle reflect on recent changes around them. Category/Warnings: Fluff, None Trope: And there was a bit of Hurt/Comfort

A/N: This chapter reminded me of things that have never been addressed... so this is a story of how things left unsaid all collided in my head. Hope you enjoy.

Also - yes, Ethan Ramsey can sing arias. Is anyone still truly surprised by the fact that this guy can do anything?

There is something mesmerizing about watching the lights of day go out, overpowered by darkness, ablaze with colours - from the depths of blue, through indigo, navy and all the way to pitch-black.

About how, in a sense, it washes away all the bothers and allows you to start anew with the next rise of the almighty sun.

Ethan Ramsey was hoping for this exactly, maybe more than ever, but all the signs showed it wasn’t in the cards for him.

Or at least not today.

He stared into the void, interwoven by occasional human figures passing by through the front lobby. No voices of the day were able to reach him on the 7th floor of his kingdom. Behind the glass wall, he was almost in a different world.

It had been yet another day that brought him more gritted teeth, holding himself back and resigned sighs, than actual satisfaction from helping those who counted on him. All these ‘activities’ were not only annoying but also highly energy-consuming.

Bringing the index and middle fingertips to his pulsating temples, he started to compress and massage them in small circles, trying to soothe the pounding inside his skull. He could hear the blood rushing through the highways of his veins, the sound almost drowning out all external stimuli.

But there were certain sounds his expert ear was trained on, the ones he would’ve recognized even in his sleep.

Like the one reaching his ears right now, the sound of the door handle being pressed.

With his back facing the door, he couldn’t see who was trying to impose on his much-needed solitude. But since the unexpected guest did not precede their ministrations by knocking, the possibilities narrowed down significantly. There were only two people on the premises of Edenbrook who could invade his personal space without a modicum of manners.

“Can I help you?” He modulated his voice to ensure the tone was expressing two things: annoyance and irony in the otherwise polite question.

“I’m sorry.” From all the voices, this one he did not expect to hear now. A melodic tone was joined by a scuffle of retreating steps. “Do you want me to go?”

Ethan curled his lips in a tiny smile. They both knew she wasn’t apologetic and that he wanted anything but her to leave.

“No, it’s just that there are only two people in this hospital that wouldn’t bother knocking and I thought it was one of them paying me a visit.”

“Let me guess… Zaid and Baz?”

“No, but in terms of concept, you were actually close…just another type of evil ‘twins’."

“Oh, you mean his majesty King Bloom & his annoyance Dr Carrick?”

“Even as a joke, it sounds creepy and horrible.”

“Well, count me as a third now. Heads up though, I will only stop knocking after twilight.”

It was clear as crystal Ethan’s already specific sense of humor had less than ever space for amusement.

“I brought you this.” She put a brown paper bag on his desk, which immediately revealed the aroma of something delicious. “I figured you’re probably gonna stay here all night, so I thought I’ll pop over and check on you.”

He didn’t say anything, staring into the darkness. Not because he didn’t want to - he simply didn’t know what. This simple gesture was very touching and filled him with gratitude. But he was lacking the right words.

Then, for the first time since she’s interrupted his train of thought, he turned around to look at her. Tired and with puffy eyes, she’d still put everyone else to shame. Even on the worst of days, the light radiating from her turned heads and made the room brighter.

She extended a hand and when their fingers touched, he felt this weird, tingly feeling that has traveled from his palm, through his arm and neck, and then straight to his core.

Pressing him gently against the edge of the desk, she took his glasses off. Then loosened his tie and nonchalantly disheveled his hair. Ethan wouldn’t let anyone else in the world touch them, let alone put them in a state of such disarray.

With her, all the rules existed only to be broken.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on in this big brain of yours?”

“Smart move, Valentine. You’ve pacified me so that now I will have no choice but to tell you whatever you want to know.”

“You always have a choice, let’s just hope you’re gonna make the right one.”

Ethan nodded, no sound escaping his lips. She knew she’d have to take it upon herself to get any information out of her stubborn converser.

“So, how are you holding up? I want an honest answer."

“I’ve been better.”

“I thought so.”

“It’s just that… Tobias is driving me crazy. His presence really tests my patience… I don’t know if I would’ve stopped myself from punching him had it not been for you.”

“Why thank you, I didn’t know my therapeutic services were that good.”

“They are.” Ethan cleared his throat. “But it’s… not just that.”

Dead silence lingered between them and he knew he had no other choice but to continue.

“The only reason why I haven’t wiped this ridiculous smirk off his face yet is that whenever I look at him, I… I see you in that room with Travis. I’m trying to remind myself that, as much as I hate to admit it, he was crucial to finding the cure on such short notice.”

“Ethan…”

“I already told you” - he interrupted her as if not to stop the words from flowing, afraid they may be trapped forever otherwise - “that there was so much more at stake last time Tobias set foot in Edenbrook.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes going slightly wider.

“The truth is, for me… everything was at stake. I would’ve done anything he’d asked me to, I’d have forgiven him if it meant saving you.”

Elle turned still, all her body movements, her breathing and even her blinking ceased.

It was one of those moments that mean so much but leave you with so little to say.

Using the power of non-verbal communication and their deep affinity, she bestowed on him the most gentle, loving and grateful expression her face could muster after yet another exhausting shift.

Ethan extended his arm and before she realized it, her back was gently pressed to the older doctor’s chest. Having wrapped her slender frame with his broad shoulders, Elle inhaled his familiar aroma. He smelled of comfort and felt like a safe harbor. He nudged her hair with his nose and placed a featherlight kiss on the crook of her neck. She smelled of calmness and felt like coming back home from a long journey.

“So,” - he murmured directly into her ear - “whether you like it or not, I am using you to soften the blow every time I look at Tobias’ face.”

“I think I can live with that.”

“But I can’t guarantee it will always be enough, he is a cocky son of a bitch.”

“Let's make a deal then. I see how much it costs you and I’m not telling you to trust Leland or forgive Tobias, I still believe you should be cautious. Let’s just wait and see where this goes, I think we’ll know sooner rather than later. In the meantime, we should focus on what matters the most, our patients.”

“Where is the deal part?”

“If it turns out you were right, I will hold Tobias and you will punch him. Deal?”

“I believe it should be the other way round. Declan Nash’s face told me your right hook is exquisite, Rookie.”

They both laughed at the memory which seemed so distant now, almost as if it's happened in another lifetime.

But Ethan went quiet again and she felt his body tense up, his arms tightening gently around her. It wasn’t very obvious, but she knew. It still came as a shock how well she actually knew him.

“Ethan? What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Ethan.”

“I’m sorry, I am not the most cheery companion today. You’re probably better off not spending too much time with me before you turn into a cynic.”

“Dr Ramsey, what a pathetic attempt of trying to get rid of me. You’ve never been the most cheerful type and I’ve survived your gloomy companionship, hell, I think it grew on me over time. So I should be ok today, too.”

It looked like silence was very much their third companion today.

“I’m thinking about Francis.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’m thinking about how hard it would be not to see. So many beautiful things, colors, all turning into nothingness.”

“I take it you mean the opera?”

“That too, but let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate things that are right in front of my nose… literally and figuratively.”

The butterflies started somersaulting in her stomach.

“I didn’t want to add more to your plate at the time, but I’ve already felt this way… when we diagnosed Caroline and Leland.”

It was funny that, despite his obvious animosity towards Bloom, whenever his wife was in the picture, he spoke about both in an almost affectionate way. His doctor’s instincts were kicking in, because first and foremost he was a doctor who had his patients’ best interest at heart.

“The thought of not being able to touch you…it reminded me of touching you through the layer of hazmat suit. And now with everything Francis has been through, I just can’t be bothered to think about anything else but you. This is my true personal connection to this case.”

It was her turn to be speechless.

Ethan tightened his grip over her once again, this time protectively rather than out of stress. Slow hum started filling the air, the melody soon joined by lyrics, which he sang in fluent Italian; a private concert, performed for her and her only.

Tu pure, oh Principessa

Nella tua fredda stanza

Guardi le stelle

Che tremano d'amore

E di speranza**

She remembered their patient’s face, which seemed calmer once Ethan started singing the aria before the depths of illness contorted it with pain.

Francis' husband's words echoed throughout her head.

Even though the man holding her in his arms didn’t say it, there was no need.

She knew.

He will always be here.

And she will always be here, too.

-----

** Lyrics - aria "Nessun Dorma" (‘None shall sleep’) from the opera "Turandot".

Translation:

Even you, oh Princess,

In your cold room,

Watch the stars,

That tremble with love

And with hope.

Tag 🔖 list: @starrystarrytrouble @genevievemd @sophxwithers @maurine07 @lovingramsey @iemcpbchoices @oldminniemcg @schnitzelbutterfingers @archxxronrookie @jamespotterthefirst @the-pale-goddess @queencarb @fireycookie @qrkowna @coffeeheartaddict @utterlyinevitable @gryffindordaughterofathena @xxsugarplumfluffsxx @wingedhairstylemusicweasel @mrs-ramsey @tsrookie @fayeswiftie @mercury84choices @lisha1valecha @lucy-268 @stateofgracious @danijimenezv @alina-yol-ramsey

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[gotnofucks]

My Little Girl - 2

Pairing: dark!Tony Stark x reader , slight dark!Steve x reader

Summary: Prince Tony has taken you, but keeping you proves more difficult that he imagined.

Words: 3.4k

Warning: Breeding Kink, DUB-CON, Smut, 18+ ONLY

A/N: Uh…seems to be turning into a series.

Read the first part here  

Part 3

MASTERLIST

——--—————————————————–

You were laying before the royal physician, the old man poking your stomach. Prince Tony stood behind him, refusing to wait beyond the privacy screen. The physician took your wrist in his hand, taking your pulse and waited. Finally, he let your hand fall and shook his head at the prince.

“I’m sorry Your Highness, she is not with a child.” He said to your relief and Tony’s vexation.

The Prince had claimed you for his own months ago, hoping to get you pregnant so he could convince his parents to break royal protocol and marry you. However, you had not conceived till now and his patience was thinning.

Princess Pepper of the neighboring kingdom was living in the palace with them, already betrothed to the Prince. Their wedding loomed closer with each passing day, and your childless womb prevented the Prince from breaching the topic of your nuptials with the King and Queen. Without the excuse of an heir, it would be impossible for the kingdom to accept a mere maid as their princess. As fearful as you were of public ostracization as a ruined woman, you were still relieved you didn’t have to marry the prince. It was a wonder how you hadn’t conceived yet, since Tony was insatiable, taking you multiple times every day. While he would partake in the pleasure of your mouth, he would always release in your cunt, holding his seed inside with his cock and fingers.

Tony came closer to you and took your hand in his, kissing it softly.

“Don’t worry my little girl, it will happen soon enough.” He assured you, one hand caressing your cheek. Then he turned to the physician who looked at you both with disapproval. “What is wrong with her? Is she sick?” Is she barren?

You and the physician both heard the unsaid question in his voice, and you felt both relived and dejected when the physician shook his head.

“Your Highness, the maid is –”

Before the poor man could utter another word, Tony’s sword was at his throat threatening to end his life.

“This is the last time I’ll remind you to not call her that. She is your future queen; you’ll address her with the respect due to her!” Tony thundered and the physician blanched in fear, nodding aggressively. You touched Tony’s hand and he looked at you, softening slightly before pulling away his sword. The old physician cleared his throat before continuing.

“As I was saying Your Highness, the lady is fertile and healthy. It seems something else is the matter for which she can’t conceive.”

“Are you telling me that my seed is sterile?” Tony asked in a hard voice and the old physician scrambled in desperation, shaking his head in negation.

“No, Your Highness, you and the lady are both in perfect health. However, other aspects may affect her childbearing abilities. Stress, physical exhaustion, food intake also affects a lady’s health.”

“And how do I make sure she’s fit to take my seed?”

“Your Highness, if I may be bold enough to say, I will urge you to desist. Your union is not sanctified by holy matrimony, and a child out of wedlock would bring nothing but misfortune to the kingdom.” The old man seemed to almost tremble as he finally said what had been on his mind since Tony first consulted him about you. It was not unheard of for royals to take pleasure in lowly servants, but to think of marrying one and having a child was blasphemous. The physician was loyal to the court and to the King, and if the Prince didn’t take his advice, he was determined to go to the King himself.

Tony’s eyes flashed and he stepped close to him, invading his space. Nose to nose, the young prince’s gaze bore into the old man’s, rage and challenge lightening them.

“You are the royal physician, so you already know the truth about my father’s health. How long do you think he’ll live, huh? How long until I take over the throne? Do you really want to cross your future king right now?”

His voice was deceptively soft and calm, and even you shuddered though the threat wasn’t directed at you. With the sure way he spoke of His Majesty’s health, you wondered if he had something to do with it. It was clear to the servants that King Howard Stark would have preferred any other son to Prince Tony, and only the interference of the Queen kept peace between them. Blasphemous though it was to even think such a thought, you would not put it past the Prince to commit treason. When Tony wanted something, he got it, consequences be damned.

The royal physician quivered in his feet, his aged and saggy face showing his inner turmoil. Finally, accepting that he would rather live a long life than a loyal one, he bowed to the Prince.

“My apologies Your Highness. I’ll prepare some herbs for the lady to help increase her chances at conception.”

Tony nodded and dismissed him, turning his attention back to you, sitting on the bed and leaning down to kiss you softly. You kissed back out of habit, not knowing what would happen to you now. Tony’s wedding with Princess Pepper was just around the corner, and you hoped that it would take place before you got with a child. Polygamy was not permitted under the laws of this kingdom, and even if you bore a child, The Prince could never marry you as long as Princess Pepper lived. You could run away to some far land where no one knew you, maybe salvage the rest of your remaining life somehow.

“My little girl, you need not worry.” Tony said, smoothing the frown that had appeared between your brows. He could be so tender and kind, that you almost felt bad about leaving him. But then you remembered that he controlled your life, every move you made was under his supervision. Not only had he snatched you from your family and kept you hidden in his own chambers, he took away your choice and honor. Even if you managed to escape his clutches, you will never be a respected woman.

Tony traced your face with his finger, leaning over you to place kisses over your neck and chest. You squirmed, your hands fisting his tunic as he pulled down the neckline of your dress and exposed your bosom. He flicked his tongue over your buds, watching them harden in the open air. You moaned softly when his hand reached between the folds of your dress, finding your core drenched.

“I will make sure you take my seed. You will bear my heirs; you’ll grow round with them. Your breast will leak and nurse them, and you’ll beg me to do it again and again.” His words were whispered to different parts of your body: your breasts and stomach and cunt. You couldn’t help your reaction to him, The Prince played your body like a maestro plays his instrument.

Your heart beat a staccato in your chest, breath getting sharper as your bare body met his and tangled in a dance of sweat and sweet sweet pleasure. Tony entered you in a long hard thrust making you arch your back and took your mouth in a possessive kiss.

“Tell me what I want to hear” He said.

“I am yours Tony. I belong to you my Prince.” You parroted as always and he rewarded you by mashing your nub between his thumb and finger, making you mewl in pleasure. You panted in his mouth, your hands around his neck and your fingers digging into his flesh.

Tony suddenly pulled out of you and flipped you on your back, pulling your ass up in the air. He thrust inside you from behind, his body curving over yours and hitting new angles. Your whines echoed across the chamber and you wondered for the hundredth time how no one knew you were here, or if they did and just didn’t care.

“Look at you, taking me so well. No one makes me this hard. Only you my little girl, only you. Soon we’ll have our brethren squealing around us, a family of my own.” He kissed your back before sucking your neck and marking you as his. One of his hands travelled down and found your nub again, and with a few expert tweaks the bubble inside you burst, your heat washing over Tony’s cock. He hissed in pleasure when you clamped around him, your softness making his balls tighten and release their load deep inside you. You dropped down on the bed, limp and spent. Tony’s weight crushed you before you whined and he rolled to the side, taking you with him.

He held your sweaty body flush to his, both your hearts beating fast and breaths coming down to normal. You curled into his warmth, the only time you allowed yourself to actually feel close to him. He was a cruel man, but he tried his best to never hurt you. When he lay with you, he made sure you got your pleasure. It seemed important to him that you enjoy it as much as he did.

You looked up at him with sleepy eyes and found his gaze already locked on you. He tipped your chin and kissed you slowly, savoring every second of it. Kisses like these scared you the most, for somehow, they felt more intimate than the act you had just done with him. Every time he kissed you like this, you allowed yourself to love him for that small time and it scared you more than anything else.

“I’ll make sure you’re my wife. Even if you aren’t with child until the wedding, you’ll still be mine. I’ll make it happen.” Tony said, tucking your head in the crook of his neck and pressing another kiss on your head.

“What about His Majesty? And Princess Pepper?” You asked softly, playing with the spattering of hair on his chest. A round scar was proudly displayed in the middle, a testament to his bravery where he almost died in a battle.

“I don’t care what they think. I promised you that I won’t abandon you and I am a man of my word. You’ll be my wife even if I have to rewrite the laws of the kingdom myself.”

You sat up at his words, looking at him with worry and trepidation in your heart.

“Tony, what have you done?” You asked softly and he signed, pulling you close and resting his head in the valley of your breast.

“Don’t worry about anything. You just look after yourself. No more stress for you, you heard what the physician said. You take your herbs and think about being my wife.”

You knew he wouldn’t say anymore on the subject, and you were too scared of the answer to push for more. Only the King had the power to rewrite the laws, and Tony couldn’t be king unless his father died. You ran a shaky hand through his hair, wondering how much he was willing to lose and sacrifice to have you.

“Y/n?” Tony asked, his voice heavy with sleep. You hummed and kept caressing his hair, lulling him deeper into his slumber. “Do you love me as much as I love you?”

His question made your hand still for just a moment before it started carding through his soft hair again.

“I care for you My Prince” You said but you didn’t know if he heard you, his sleeping body curled around yours and head resting over your heart.

 —————————————————-

You twisted in the sheets, your body writhing in agony, a hand putting pressure to your throat. You clawed in the air, choking over a cry, eyes searching the darkness for him who’s hands were kind and gentle. The pressure increased and your breath escaped you, your body seizing in on itself and falling limp.

You woke up with a start, your hand flying to your throat in fear. The dream felt too real and you turned to see Tony’s side of the bed empty. Your heartbeat was unnaturally fast, and you stumbled out of the bed to pour yourself a glass of water. The pitcher was empty, and your dry throat burned with need of cool liquid to sooth it. You wanted to ring the bell beside the bed to call a maid in, but you were supposed to be a secret until the Prince convinced his parents to allow your marriage. As far as you knew, only the guards at the entrance knew you were hear and they were loyal to the Prince. They had explicit orders to not let you leave but you figured you could ask them to bring you water.

You opened the ornate doors of the prince’s chamber and poked your head out, the two guards who stood at attention turned to look at you.

“Can you please ask someone to get some water here? I – I would go myself but…” You trailed off, ashamed of being a kept woman. One of the guards nodded and told you to wait inside. You lay back down on the bed, wondering where Tony had gone off too. It was too early for him to be gone.

You heard the door open and assumed the guard had returned with the pitcher of water. You turned your back towards the door, hiding your face inside the sheets.

“Please keep it on the table, thank you very much.” You said and heard feet shuffling. When you didn’t hear them leave, you turned around and saw to your horror Lord Steven Rogers standing there. You gasped and sat up, pulling the sheets to your chin despite begin dressed in a modest nightgown.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice revealing how scared you were. While it was the Prince who coveted you, it was his Lord who terrified you more. The Prince fancied himself in love with you, so you knew his chances of hurting you were little. But Lord Rogers was a different case. Despite knowing you had the Prince’s favor, his eyes wandered over you and made you feel cheaper than any night spent with the prince made you feel.

“Hello, lovely maid. Or should I start calling you My Princess?” He asked, his voice just as mocking and amused as ever.

“What are you doing here? The Prince would not like you being in his chambers alone with me,” you said, thankful your voice came out a little stronger.

Lord Rogers smiled at you, and to your surprise poured you a glass of water and approached you with it.

“You’re under his highness’s protection. I’m making sure you’re comfortable when he’s away.” He said and held the glass out to you. You took it with shaking hands and sipped silently, looking at him with vary eyes.

“You have done your job then, please leave.” You said and he chuckled.

“Oh, look at you, learning to give orders. Is his seed blessed that taking it makes you a royal?”

He was standing too close to you, so much that with another step he would be leaning almost directly over you.

“Please, leave.”

His hand shot out and touched your cheek, making you jerk back in alarm.

“You look so pretty when you beg, lovely maid. I can see now what he sees in you. What wouldn’t I give to have you to myself.” Lord Rogers mused and the moment you saw his hand move you jumped over to the other side of the bed, taking the sheets with you. He didn’t follow like you expected and stayed far with a smirk on his lips.

“Lord Rogers, you must leave now, or I’ll scream”

He shook his head, the golden hair on his head gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the window.

“I almost feel sorry for you, for the false hopes he’s given you.” He said and leaned against the opposite wall, staring at you. “You are after all innocent in this game, but you will suffer the most.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, looking to the door, and hoping Tony will walk in and rescue you.

“He will not marry you. He can’t, until you are with a child, which you won’t be.”

You looked at him sharply, suspicious clouding your vision.

“How do you know I’m not with child? What do you mean that I won’t be with one?”

Lord Rogers smiled a secret smile, his eyes twinkling in mirth and intrigue.

“My lovely maid, you’re so naïve. Haven’t you heard that even walls have ears? This is the royal palace, and you’re consorting with the prince. You already have many enemies.”

He pushed away from the wall and came for you before you could move. Cornered against the cabinet, he leaned close to you, taking in your scent.

“When he pushes you away, I’ll be waiting with open arms. Unlike him, I’ll actually make you mine.” He said.

He moved away not a second too soon as the doors opened with a bang and Tony swept inside. He looked at your scared, wide eyes before narrowing his gaze at Steve who gave him a small bow. Tony came up to you and took you in his arms, your body pressing into him.

“Steve, what are you doing here?” Tony asked, anger evident in his tone.

“Just bringing your lady some water that she asked for,” Steve replied. Tony looked at you in question and you nodded, burrowing your face in his chest. When it came to the two men, you would always choose the Prince.

“Get out. You’re not to be with her alone.”

Steve nodded and without another glance at you left the chambers. The moment he was gone, Tony fisted your hair and pulled you in a long and arduous kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“What did he really want?” Tony asked and you hugged him tighter.

You almost kept mum, scared that what Lord Rogers said was true and Tony would abandon you and throw you to him. But one look in Tony’s eyes and you knew he was much too possessive to even think about letting you go. So, trusting your gut you told him everything that Steve said.

“My little girl,” Tony said, your face cupped his hands, “tell me you didn’t believe a word that bastard said. I will never leave you.”

You nodded tearfully, snuggling into Tony’s warmth.

“He said I can’t bear your children.” You whispered and Tony grunted in displeasure.

“That’s something I’ll look into. Steve is not under my control anymore. He reports directly to my father, but you don’t worry about that. He’ll not get to you. I’ll kill him if he ever so much as looks at you again, I’ll kill him even if I have to bear my father’s wrath for killing one of his men.”

While Tony tried his best to reassure you of your safety, you wondered how much of that was true. Steve’s words made sense. Your relationship with the Prince must have made you enemies, and you wondered if running away would be a good choice even if you get a chance to do so. Staying with the Prince would guarantee you your life and protection, but if you leave and Steve catches you…you shivered in fear. Even the thought of him putting those hands on you made you sick.

You looked at Tony who was sleeping beside you, one of his hands clasping yours. You realized suddenly that though he may be a Prince, he was still not in control of his own destiny. If the danger you sensed in your heart was true, then not only were you in danger, but the Prince was being conspired against by his own people.

You touched your stomach, your mind going over Lord Roger’s words over and over. The way he said that you can’t bear kids…it made it sound like you couldn’t have Tony’s children, but the physician had said you were both is perfect health. Your head hurt with what that might imply, and you turned to the side, shifting closer to Tony’s warmth. His arms wrapped around you even in his sleep, and you closed your eyes, hoping sleep would claim you.

—————————————–

 TAGLIST IS OPEN FOR ALL CHARACTERS. LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED. 

[gureishi]

Aha, a fic absolutely nobody asked for! I wrote this purely to appease myself, but perhaps somebody else will get some pleasure out of it, too?

Saeyoung X Reader, Rating: E (BDSM: dom Saeyoung, sub f!reader; discipline; protocols; honorifics; subspace); Words: 5236

set me on fire

A crucial disclaimer: This fic is a depiction of a consensual dom/sub dynamic. Please know that I am absolutely not an expert on BDSM or kink in general! I write, as always, from a combination of experience and research; you should never read anything I write and think, “Ah! It must always be this way!” Please do your own research~ And, of course, skip this one if these aren’t topics you wanna read about! <3

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The slip of paper feels unsettlingly solid as you draw it out of the box, hold it with trembling fingers. The curvy scrawl on it is your own—though right now, you hardly recognize it.

“Show me,” he says; his voice is lower than usual, eyes hard as he watches you. You aren’t supposed to talk, so you hold it up to him wordlessly—you don’t miss the way he swallows (hard, almost audible) or the way his breath hitches in his throat. He rips the piece of paper from your hand; a thrill runs up your spine.

He chuckles as he reads the paper, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Is this even a punishment?” he asks, his tone teasing. You can feel his intense gaze on the back of your neck. “I feel like you’ll enjoy this too much.”

You’re on the ground at his feet, naked except for the cuffs around your ankles. You shake your head, which is all you’re supposed to do, in this scene; he kneels, using one finger to tilt your face roughly upward.

“Will you enjoy it?” he purrs; oh, and he’s really asking, that familiar sparkle of Saeyoung in his eyes beneath the pretense. You bite your lip, nodding; feeling yourself floating away again, the ground disappearing beneath you at the feeling of his fingers—now sliding down to grip your throat, stinging where you’re already bruised.

You gesture with one hand, the signal to ask permission to talk; he cocks his head to the side, considering it. Even now, you notice the way his hair falls messily to the side—he’s tried to tame it, but it springs free so easily, curls falling across his forehead. He’s cute, you think—wondering, with a little thrill of desire, what sort of punishment you’d get if you told him that.

“Fine,” he says dismissively, letting go of you. Oh, but you want his fingers around your neck; you shift toward him and he smirks, knowing this.

“Can I…?” You reach for him, a little unsteady with your ankles bound like this. Your fingers skim over his erection, through his pants, and he hisses.

“You already broke one rule,” he mutters, low and throaty (and he sounds nothing like himself, and everything like himself; his eyes are like fire). “Do you really want to break another one?” “No,” you murmur, letting your fingers fall. The cardboard box on the floor beside you, full of the punishment slips you’d started writing out months ago (and there are still so many in there: things you’ve already forgotten, ideas that absolutely terrify and delight you) seems to stare at you too: full of promise and intimidation.

“Now, kitten.” He’s kneeling again, on your level, fingers—yes!—gripping your throat, his other hand dancing tantalizingly over your thigh. “You came before I said you could once. Are you gonna be good for me this time?”

“Y-yes,” you pant, your thighs trembling as his coarse fingertips part them.

“Good kitty,” he whispers hoarsely; his fingers tighten around your throat—just the right amount, making stars burst before your eyes. “You’d better.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Later, he holds you in the bathtub, fingertips rubbing gentle circles on your sore shoulders. You’re wrapped up in smells: his familiar spicy-sweet fragrance, and the lavender bubbles, the rose-scented candle—you’re finding it hard to keep your eyes open.

“You with me, babe?” He dips his head, pressing his lips to your shoulder. You twist to smile sleepily into his face.

“I feel…soft,” you say, which is true; so often, after you play like this, you feel like your brain has melted—it feels sloshy inside your head, like everything’s not quite where it’s supposed to be. You love this feeling—and sometimes it takes hours for it to fade, for you to settle comfortably back into your body. Baths help; his firm back behind your head, and his gentle hands on your tight muscles, help too.

“You wanna go to bed?” he murmurs; his fingers part your hair, working through it—it’s damp but not wet, and you’ll have to wash it tomorrow, but you don’t mind—the way he brushes through it calms your racing heart. “Or do you wanna stay here a little longer?”

“Stay here,” you murmur, letting your head fall back onto his chest. He wraps both arms around you, pressing his lips to your temple. His hand, hazy and indistinct under the water, reminds you of the slip of paper; a memory swims to the forefront of your mind as though through honey. “Oh!” you say—louder than you meant to, startling him a little. “The punishment! When are we gonna do it?”

He laughs, and it makes your whole body tingle.

“Well,” he says, drawing out the single syllable—there’s a touch of the version of him you saw in the scene earlier, as he considers it. Then he settles—your regular, sweet boy, soft lips moving against your cheek: “We have Zen’s play tomorrow,” he says. 

“At the play?” you squeak. Your friends will be there—you’ll be exposed. Vulnerable.

“It’s one of those outdoor Shakespeare things,” he says, brushing your your back, kissing your earlobe. “So it’ll feel pretty, uh…relaxed. If you wanted to, you know. Try it then.”

Ah, what a difference between the man who’d loomed over you earlier—hard eyes, cold face—and your sweet, blushing boyfriend, stumbling over his words. But they are the same—god, you adore him more than words can describe.

“Yes,” you say—feeling the way he squirms beneath you, thrilled by your enthusiasm. “Okay. Yes. I want to.”

He’s got your earlobe between his lips; for a moment, you feel his teeth, excitingly sharp. Your eyes flutter shut; he’s pulled back in an instant, tucking your head under his chin again, feathering soft kisses over your brow.

“Good,” he whispers. “I can’t wait.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

As soon as you see your friends rushing chaotically toward you—Jaehee and Yoosung in the front, Jumin lingering behind—you realize that this will be much more difficult than you’d anticipated.

Yoosung throws his arms around you, and you hug him back—mentally, you run through the protocols, pretty sure there’s nothing in there about hugs. He’s chattering excitedly and you don’t quite hear, peeking at Saeyoung through Yoosung’s hair. He raises his eyebrows—daring you to.

No speaking without permission—you know.

Yoosung’s hand, on your back, brushes against the edge of the harness you’ve got on—hidden by a t-shirt and a sweater; still, the leather straps are firm and stiff enough to be noticeable. You flinch, shifting away from him.

“Oh!” he says, big eyes taking in your strange posture. “You okay?”

Frantically, you give Saeyoung the signal, a casual little flick of your fingers. He pauses, thinking; it feels, for a moment, that everyone’s eyes are on you (though you know they aren’t). Your cheeks flush.

Finally, he nods.

“Yes!” you gasp, realizing you haven’t spoken since leaving the house earlier. “Sorry, just got the shivers for a second.”

Yoosung, thankfully, doesn’t question this—and you greet the others with smiles. Saeyoung lays a hand at the small of your back—a gentle reminder of the rules (as if you needed one). You bite your bottom lip, grateful that your friends are loud—grateful that Saeyoung can answer for you (nice, general questions, like “how have you been?” and “how was the drive here?”—easy, not requiring any particular response from you).

Jaehee ushers you over to a blanket she’s already set out on the grass—close to the stage, of course; she’s explaining that she’s seen the play once already, that she’s picked the best angle to catch all of Zen’s entrances. Someone has brought lawn chairs, though you’re relieved to see Jaehee and Yoosung sink directly onto the blanket, on either side of the picnic basket. Sitting below him is part of the game, and you’re not sure how it would look to the others if you were the only one on the ground. You feel your cheeks flushing again and you take a deep breath, nervously lifting your hair off your neck—which feels hot and a little sticky. The harness is tight underneath your clothes—the perfect size, bruising your skin as you shift.

Jumin is saying something about the quality of the set that makes the others laugh; you don’t quite hear him because Saeyoung comes up behind you, chest against your back—one hand slides into the front pocket of your jeans and his breath is hot on your ear.

“You gonna make it?” he murmurs; he’s got that rough voice on, just for you—so different from the sweet way he speaks to the others. You grit your teeth as a little spark of desires flares within you; he doesn’t miss the way you subtly try to rub your legs together, the small, silent moan that escapes your lips.

You give him the tiniest nod, showing him you’re good, you’re here, you’re in it—you don’t want him to stop. He grins, fingers wiggling inside your jeans pocket, making your breath stutter.

“You’re doing good, little kitten,” he whispers. For a moment, he presses against your back, and rainbows swim in front of your vision; for one wild second, you want to throw all the rules out the window, spin around and tackle him to the ground right here. The thought alone is thrilling.

Your vision clears and he’s pulled away; you don’t miss the wicked glint in his eyes, but it’s gone an in instant. And then he’s skipping ahead, unfolding one of the lawn chairs—seemingly berating Yoosung about something, a big grin on his face.

As unobtrusively as you can, you take a seat on the blanket, between Jaehee and Yoosung—right at the foot of Saeyoung’s chair, of course, where you’re supposed to be. You feel eyes on your back and spin; Saeran’s watching, a curious expression on his face. He never asked why you were so quiet in the car (of course he didn’t)—he would never ask what you’re playing at, what sort of strange scheme you’ve concocted. He looks away, shaking his head the tiniest bit; he lives with you, after all. He doesn’t not know.

You bite your lip, feeling embarrassed again. The harness feels impossibly bulky under your clothes, all of a sudden—obvious, like everyone can see it. You tug at your sweater, trying to focus on your friends’ conversation. The sun is setting, casting an otherworldly glow over the stage. The harder you try to listen to your friends’ voices—or the scenery, or the soft blanket beneath you—the more distracted you feel by the heat that’s building between your legs. As discretely as you can, you try to adjust, the friction of your jeans and underwear giving you the tiniest hint of relief.

Oh, but there’s a hand on your shoulder; you turn, gazing up at him—and he’s not looking at you at all—he’s saying something to the group at large, smiling—but his grip is firm and definitive. He’s telling you no.

So you try to sit still. He taps your shoulder twice with his index finger before pulling it away—good job. These signals are thrilling at home—a delightful way to communicate without words, a secret code that makes your mind feels sparkly—but in public, it’s something else entirely. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re certain your friends can hear it; your legs twitch, heat pooling low in your belly. You’re wet already, you can tell—embarrassingly so, just from the harness under your clothes; just from staying quiet for him. You wish he knew—you’d love to see the look on his face.

You take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. You’re not sure how you’re going to make it through a whole play, in this state.

Jaehee’s voice drifts through the glittery haze you feel and you shake your head, trying to clear your clouded mind. You raise your eyebrows and she repeats herself (and thank god for Jaehee, you think—she doesn’t ask any questions like why aren’t you talking? or why are you making that kind of face? If she knows what’s going on, she doesn’t say so).

“The first scene is the best one,” she says, eyes shining; there’s a woman sitting on the edge of the stage now, bare feet hanging over the edge, strumming an acoustic guitar. “Just wait until you see what he’s wearing.”

You open your mouth to speak—forgetting, for a moment, the situation you’re in—and immediately feel Saeyoung’s hand on your shoulder again, squeezing. You look up at him and he tilts his head to the side: a warning. The heat is building inside you again—for a split second, there’s that hard look in his eyes, the one that’s normally reserved for private moments at home. You can’t resist: you squeeze your legs together, biting your lip. You know he sees; he exhales shakily, conscious of how turned on you already are.

You realize you haven’t answered Jaehee—and you can’t, of course. His warning signal was clear; the confusion makes your head spin deliciously. You squeeze your thighs tighter, unable to stop them from trembling; you wiggle your shoulders, trying to focus your attention on the way the straps of the harness burn as you rub against them.

Jaehee (bless her) has started attempting to explain the plot of the play to Saeran, who looks only mildly interested. Saeyoung asks her a question and the sound of his voice (even this version of him—bright and friendly) makes your toes curl. Perhaps his enthusiastic demeanor—so distinct from the persona he’s put on for the game you’re playing—actually escalates your excitement; it’s the thrill of the pretense, the almost unbearable delight of keeping a secret.

Then Jaehee is shushing everybody; the woman with the guitar stands; the lighting on the stage shifts (and it’s so well-timed, you think: the sun is just sinking behind the trees, the first stars coming out). She leans over, whispers that you should watch the stage right door for Zen’s first entrance; her shoulder brushes yours, and again you flinch—terrified she’ll feel the harness (delighted by your fear).

Your phone buzzes. All your senses heightened, you jump, grabbing it. Your heart does a little flip when you see his name—oh, but he’s so calm, sitting behind you, leaning forward a little to peer at the stage (for all the world attentive to the play). But you know better.

“Little blue building to the right of the entrance. Go,” says his text. You peek at him, but he isn’t looking at you. Just as you’re getting to your feet, his hand shoots out—and his fingers dip into your back pocket, and he’s placing something there, a tiny smile dancing over his lips.

You’re sure your whole body is flushed. You feel a little light-headed as you stand, edging backwards so nobody notices the obvious lump in your pocket—and you’re pretty sure you know what it is; you’re embarrassingly on edge, obviously aroused. You don’t want to know what your face looks like right now, but you can imagine. 

Only Yoosung sees you slipping away, and he turns, raising his eyebrows quizzically. You see Saeyoung lean forward and mutter something to him; then you’ve turned and you’re jogging, then running, making your way through the crowd of spectators on lawn chairs and picnic blankets, vision blurring as you make your way to the little blue building.

It’s not hard to find, positioned conveniently near the entrance to the park. There are five doors along the front: single occupancy bathrooms (you wonder hazily, as you pick the one on the far right and tug the door open with shaky hands, if he looked this up beforehand, or if he just noticed the building on the way in. Both are plausible).

Locking the door behind you, you breathe a huge sigh of relief. Your legs feel like jelly; you can feel your clit, swollen and hot, practically throbbing through your jeans. Your phone buzzes—and again you jump, your entire body on high alert.

“Tell me when you’re there,” he says. 

“Here,” you text back with shaky fingers.

Instantly, you feel something vibrating in your back pocket, and you almost yell aloud; you pull out the little silicone vibrator, unable to stifle a small moan. 

He’s typing again; urgently, you unbutton your jeans, sliding a finger down over your underwear. Your mind feels thick; thoughts languid, drunken.

“You know what to do with it,” he texts.

You exhale shakily, full of relief. He’s controlling the toy with his phone—you can picture him easily, eyes trained on the stage, fiddling with his phone (held discretely in one hand). Your friends are used to him doing this: always typing, checking something, his attention a million places at once. 

Oh, but if they only knew what he was doing with his phone at this very moment; the thoughts makes your knees almost give out, and you steady yourself with a hand on the wall of the dark little bathroom stall.

He’s got the vibrator on a low setting—it’s an unbelievable relief, to finally get the stimulation you’ve been craving since the game began: since you got in the car, lips shut tight, harness rubbing deliciously against your bare skin beneath your shirt.

You hiss as the pressure changes: he’s turned it up, and your hips twitch forward against your will; you’re panting—your head feels like it’s floating about a foot above your body, glittery white clouds closing in around the edges of your vision.

He texts again and you have to try three times to read it: your eyes won’t quite focus, and the heat inside has almost overwhelmed you entirely.

“Tell me if you get close,” he says. God, and you picture his face: the little half-smile as he (ah!) increases the pressure again, making the little toy buzz harder against you. Your hands shake as you try to hold it to yourself, clenching your legs together. Oh, but the clouds are edging closer: you can’t feel your feet and you know you’re gasping out loud, a painful sort of pleasure threatening to tear you apart.

He’s texting again and you grit your teeth, trying your best to read: “I bet everyone knows what you’re doing in there,” he says; and you’re sure he’s smiling now, that slow, lazy grin that’s only for you.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh—

“Almost,” you text him frantically, legs shaking hopelessly, stars dancing before your eyes; and you pray that he’ll let you come: you’re desperate to dive over that edge, feel the relief, that blissful, magical—

The buzzing stops.

“Good girl,” he texts. “Come back now.”

And you knew, of course—knew this was part of the punishment all along, expected it—but still, you feel hot tears pricking the backs of your eyes, desperation coiling within you as you obediently tug your jeans back up. You hiss as you button them—you’re so sensitive, wet and swollen, on the very cusp of orgasm. You slip the vibrator back into your pocket, groaning at the friction of your underwear against your raw clit as you shift the tiniest bit; the smallest thing, you think, could push you over the edge right now—you’re afraid you’ll come instantly if you try to walk.

But you can’t: that’s the whole point.

You feel that everyone’s eyes are on you as you stumble out of the bathroom: back through the crowds of people, using his bright hair to guide you toward your group. You make your way slowly, breath shallow, legs wobbly as you try to push back the desire bubbling inside you. And you were right, walking makes it worse: the harness chafes against your chest and your underwear rubs in all the right places; you have to pause twice to catch your breath, stilling your racing heart, pushing back the burning feeling inside as firmly as you can.

Your friends are watching the stage when you get back; Jaehee was right, you think vaguely, Zen’s costume is excellent—and it’s only once you’ve awkwardly curled yourself onto the blanket that Saeyoung leans forward, his breath hot on the back of your neck.

“You did as I asked, right, kitten?”

His whisper makes your blood sizzle in your veins. Carefully, and as discretely as you can, you nod; you feel his intense eyes taking in your obvious arousal: the way your thighs are still shaking a little, the uncomfortable way you’re sitting, thighs pressed tight together. He makes a soft little sound: almost a groan, low in his throat.

“God,” he purrs in your ear, “Don’t look so desperate for me, or I won’t be able to hold back.”

Please, you want to moan—please don’t hold back.

You nod, eyes lowered; you feel like you’re floating in a thick liquid, every cell in your body full of electricity, limbs almost numb with desperation. He pulls back—once again, his attention seems to be elsewhere (though you know it’s all on you—it always is).

You bite your lip, peeking at the paper program that’s open on the ground before you. Five acts: oh no.

The little flame at your core blazes. You hiss, quietly as you can, squeezing your legs together. Five acts—maybe two hours. You can do this.

He leans forward again, one finger pressing into your back, between your collar bones—right onto the strap of the harness. Another warning: stay still.

You can do this—you think you can.

God, you hope so.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

By the end of the play, you’re a complete wreck. You feel almost drunk: mind cloudy, legs unsteady as you scramble to your feet. Someone suggests waiting for Zen, going out for drinks together; Saeyoung takes one look at you (and you know how you must look: unfocused eyes and flushed cheeks) and tells the group that you’ll have to do it another time.

Luckily, your friends’ general enthusiasm overshadows the state you’re in. You sway as you walk and Saeyoung catches you, sliding one strong arm around your waist.

“You good?” he whispers in your ear; and the fingers that brush your hair off your sweaty forehead are gentle; the act is gone for a moment, his expression concerned as he presses a hand to your cheek—rough fingers on burning skin.

You nod vaguely, leaning on him for support as you trail behind your friends. Again, you feel Saeran’s eyes on you—observing, curious. Still, he doesn’t say anything, and you silently thank him for that.

“You sure? Gimme a color, please.” He steers you toward the exit, hand steady on your waist.

“G-green,” you mutter, startled by how hoarse your voice sounds. He grins; there’s that look in his eyes again, hard and commanding.

“You’ve done so well, sweetheart,” he whispers; his breath in your ear just worsens the situation: it’s like there’s a burning coal in you now, sitting hot and heavy in your stomach. You tremble and he laughs softly. 

He handles the farewells; you hear him explaining away your silence, telling the others that you’ve been sick (you haven’t), that you’re getting over it—that you need to rest. You offer cursory hugs to your friends, cheeks hot, body stiff. Saeyoung helps you into the back seat, fingers lingering a little too long on your thigh. Your head swims—his touch feels like an electric shock.

He plays music on the way home; Saeran sits in the passenger seat, and nobody minds the silence. It’s not so strange for the three of you to ride quietly, the stereo loud, the windows rolled down. The breeze cools your burning cheeks.

Time unfurls strangely: you’re on the highway; no, now you’re in the garage; and he’s helping you out of the car, a steady hand at the small of your back; the bunker swims in and out of focus as he leads you inside—Saeran is saying something, disappearing into the living room—Saeyoung is speaking to his brother, his voice soft—and you’re in your bedroom, the door shutting with a definitive click behind you.

“So,” he says. He’s let go of you know, looking you up and down. You try to stand straight for him; your mind feels like it’s full of cotton balls (wonderful) and the hot coals inside you have dissolved into molten lava. “You did amazing, baby,” he murmurs. He comes closer, slipping a hand around your waist—his touch is gentler now, his eyes melting. 

You nod weakly and he grins.

“You can talk now,” he says; he moves closer, closer—oh, and you feel a distinct and familiar pressure against your thigh. You wonder how long he’s been hard, aroused as he’s watched you—hiding it expertly, masking his desperation with the bright persona he’s curated so carefully.

“Thank you,” you pant.

“Was there something you wanted to do, kitten?” His fingers dance over your waist; he’s unhooking the button of your jeans, laughing as you pant, keening, hips rocking desperately forward.

“Can I—please—please—will you let me come now?” you gasp, hardly knowing what you’re saying. You picture glitter raining down from the ceiling, silver and shiny and cool on your skin.

“Is that what you want?” he purrs. He walks you back, pushing you gently onto the bed. You give in entirely, letting your body melt as he adjusts you: sliding you up so you’re on your back, head comfortably cushioned by the pile of pillows.

“God, I…Saeyoung…please.”

“Say no more.”

He tugs at your jeans, pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. Then he’s crawling onto the bed beside you, sliding one hand under your shirt to feel the smooth leather straps of the harness. Through hazy eyes you see the way he’s panting, pupils dilating; he slips your underwear off, tossing it aside. Then he’s tugging up your shirt, pressing his lips to your stomach—nibbling, sucking, marking you where you’re already bruised.

As you cry out, he slips one finger between your legs, pressing gently against your impossibly overstimulated clit. He groans as he feels how wet you are; he moves his finger against you, slowly at first, and you feel that the glitter is pouring harder, faster, pooling around you—overwhelming you, carrying you away.

“Already right on the edge, aren’t you, little one?” 

You moan, fingers scrabbling hopelessly against the sheets, hips shaking uncontrollably as he flits his finger over you—finally, finally giving you what you need, fanning the flames, letting the fire burn rampant through your muscles.

He shoves the harness aside roughly, bites down where your skin is red and raw; and his finger moves faster, faster—

—and the fire rages, the glitter falls—

—stars burst, the world ends—

And, at last—god, thank god—you’re pushed over the edge, gasping out his name as your whole body shakes; he restrains you with a hand on your hip; and all you can see is the burning look in his eyes as you tremble through it, panting and gasping; falling to pieces.

You’re still shuddering as he presses his lips to your jaw, mutters in a low voice: “You are amazing, my love.”

“Saeyoung,” you say in a voice that’s reedy and thin. “Fuck me.”

He grins—and there’s pure delight on his face now. His eyes flow as he bounces off the bed, tearing off his pants with remarkable speed.

“If you insist.”

You gasp as he flips you over; you lay face-first on the bed, legs straight out behind you, and he slides a pillow under your hips. His hands are in your hair then, tugging it, lifting it off your back—then you feel his weight on your thighs, as he presses against your entrance.

“Please,” you murmur again; and he slides into you, roughly, both hands on your waist—your face is shoved hard into the mattress and it’s difficult to breathe; he groans as he rocks into you, tugging at your hair, nails on your scalp.

You can feel from the way his hips shake that he’s been pushed to the edge too—unravelled by the danger, the expectation, the delight of watching you fall apart. And he’s praising you, murmuring your name, whispering his adoration as he rocks into you—faster, faster.

He pulls out of you, flipping you around so you’re facing him; his fingers curl under the harness, eyes widening as he takes you in: you feel dizzy, swollen, sparkly; little; safe.

Then he’s inside you again and you weakly lift your legs, wrapping them around his waist, pulling him closer. His countenance is softening now, the scene melting away as he meets your eyes. Often he needs this: the eye contact, the tenderness, as the character he’s been inhabiting fades away.

“I love you,” he murmurs, rocking into you slowly now, a hand on your cheek, sweet gold eyes on your face.

“Love you,” you gasp, pulling him in for a kiss. His hips stutter; his shoulders shake—he comes, shivering in your arms as you move your lips against his, tongue darting out to taste him, fingers curling in his hair.

And for a moment, you stay like this: he collapses against you, your arms tight around him, his breathing unsteady.

Finally, he pulls away. He grabs a towel, gently cleans you off, a little smile playing across his lips.

“Uh, wow,” he says—and this is Saeyoung again: voice soft, eyes adoring—“that was something.”

You laugh, shaking your head. He moves closer, unhooking the harness with nimble fingers. You wince as he slips it off; your skin feels raw.

“I saw glitter fall from the ceiling,” you tell him. He’s still moving, grabbing the cream you use for bruises from the windowsill, dipping a finger into it.

“Is that a good thing?” he asks you.

“Very much yes.”

His fingers are soft as he rubs the cream onto your chest, tracing the red lines the harness has left behind. He presses his lips to your shoulder: warm and tender.

“I feel a little bad for our friends,” you say, and he grins, hair falling messily into his eyes.

“I honestly don’t think they noticed a thing.”

“I know that was technically a punishment,” you say thoughtfully, brushing his hair back off his forehead, “but, uh…”

“You wanna do that again sometime?” he asks, perking up. “Cause I definitely wanna do that again. I have another idea, where we can…”

“Later, baby.” You pull him to you and he sighs, settling in your arms, head on your chest. “But yes. Yes, I absolutely want to do that again.”

He kisses the your shoulder, where a small purple bruise is already forming.

“I adore every version of you, and every single thing you say and do,” he whispers, voice like melted chocolate. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you say. You kiss his lips, gentle as a summer wind. “Same goes for you.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[masonscig]

antidote

pairing | mason x sofía

word count | 2.4k

warnings | mention of rook’s death and breaking her wrist when she was a kid, so you know. a little angst. some suggestive language towards the end!

author’s note | so this is my late entry for day one of warm in wayhaven, cooking – as usual when i’m writing these two i can’t shut up for the life of me

•─────────────────•

He wakes up from his first nap in a week to the smell of chicken.

There’s only one person in the entire warehouse that could be cooking at 2 in the morning without burning the place down.

He trods barefoot down the dark hallway, his sweatpants hung low off his hips.

Putting on pants was a formality, really. But he had roommates that’d have aneurysms over anything less, so he’s usually at least half clothed when he ventures outside of his room.

The smell gets a lot stronger, mixes with other scents the closer he gets.

Her heartbeat’s stronger in his ears, though, so he keeps going, despite the way his nose is crinkled and his fists are clenched.

When he makes his way to the kitchen, he stops at the doorway, perching his hip against the frame.

She’s pulled a chair up to the stove, chin balanced on her knees that are up against her chest.

Her eyes are glued to the big silver pot that sits there, steam leaking out from the ventilation tiny holes in the lid.

Her hair’s tossed up in a messy bun, and from the glimmer of light from the overhead light above the stove, he can see that a few strands are plastered to the back of her neck and forehead.

She reaches out to twist the knob all the way to the left, then struggles to pick the pot up.

Despite him not announcing himself, he’s next to her in a flash, moving the pot to the other burner in a flash.

“Oh, hey,” she murmurs distractedly. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah.”

She nods, barely even giving him a second glance, grabbing the lid and placing it on the counter.

The steam threatens to curl higher and higher, but with a quick flip of a switch, the stove’s fan is pulling it into its vents.

There’s something definitely wrong with her – she’ll bake cupcakes for an elementary school bake sale at 2 a.m., but never soup. Who the fuck makes soup in the dead of night?

“I’m not an expert on human food by any means,” he starts, grimacing at the way the scent wafts towards him when she swirls the wooden spoon through the broth. “But why the hell are you making soup when it’s hot as fuck outside?”

She shrugs, dipping the spoon flat against the surface of the hot broth, filling it to the brim. “I was hungry.”

She brings it to her mouth, lips pursed, and blows on it, thin tendrils of steam floating towards him.

He’s still trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with her when she sips it, a small tired smile blooming across her features.

The soft breathy hum that buzzes from her throat is low enough for both of them to hear, nearly matching the pitch of the whirring fan.

He doesn’t wanna press his luck with her, considering they're being civil.

It’d been a week since they were ambushed and she came face to face with her attempted kidnapper.

Things between Mason and Sofía were already… complicated, to say the least.

Different attitudes, different wants, different needs. He’d managed to fail in all three of those categories, disappointing her over and over without really trying to.

There was a certain level of avoidance from the both of them for the days following the ambushing. It’s not that he wanted to get her alone nor he did he care if she was avoiding him, but this was the first time he’d been alone with her all week, so he wasn’t going to actively try to fuck this up.

“That’s it?” he asked, keeping it simple.

She ignores him, instead flitting around the kitchen to grab a bowl and a spoon.

Well, she’d be amicable if she kept quiet – she wasn’t wrong with that one.

He watches as she fishes out sliced vegetables, an ear of corn, and chicken, then fills the bowl to the brim with broth.

Setting it on the table, she grabs a stained tortilla warmer from the microwave and scoots up to her bowl, digging in with one hand, a tortilla rolled in the other.

She’s still sweating under the heat, her chest glistening, the seams of her tattered tank damp underneath her armpits.

He sinks into the chair across from her, arms crossed. 

“You gonna keep ignoring me?”

“Maybe,” she says from behind her hand (and around a mouthful of veggies).

“Tell me to leave, then, and I’ll go. Just say the word, sweetheart.”

He knows she won’t.

She lifts her eyes from the bowl to meet his own lazy gaze. Without saying another word, she dunks her rolled tortilla in the broth and takes a bite.

“That’s what I thought. You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“You’re not that invested in my life outside of work, are you?” She challenges, mashing the back of her spoon against a vegetable until it’s smooth, scooping it up with a little broth and popping it into her mouth.

He shrugs. “I just know you’re lying, that’s all.”

“You lie all the time,” she counters immediately, pointing the tip of the spoon at him.

“When?” He knows she’s right, but she hasn’t brought it up since she stormed away from him outside of the warehouse, drenched and shivering.

“You lied at the bakery.”

Bingo.

He leans forward till his elbows are on the table, resting his chin on the back of his interlaced fingers.

“So that’s what you’re upset about.”

He’s a foot away from her, the temptation of closing the gap between them nearly tugging his shoulders forward.

Her face contorts into a grimace, bordering on disgust. “That’s not at the forefront of my mind, no.”

She swirls her spoon around the bowl, eyes following the movements of her wrist.

“I hate the summer. I always have.”

He stifles a wince as he leans back until his bare back presses against the cool plastic.

“Bad things always happen to me in the summer, you know? Dad died during the summer. Mom forgot to pick me up at science camp for a full twenty-four hours when I was 9, and I had to spend a whole day alone with no friends after everyone had gone home. That’s also the same summer she took her first month-long assignment.

“The next summer, they extended it from a month to a full summer. I broke my wrist on my neighbor’s trampoline, and she didn’t even visit me until my cast was getting sawed off.

“Bobby dumped me for the first time during the summer before he studied abroad so he could sleep with whoever he wanted.”

She shakes her head, dropping the spoon and tortilla.

“Sorry, I, uh, I’m just happier in the fall and winter,” she smiles apologetically.

“And that’s why you’re makin’ soup at 2 a.m.?” He asks, eyeing her warily.

“Yeah, kinda. It sounds stupid when you put it like that, really,” she giggles, scooting the bowl forward so she can rest her elbows there too, her chin in her hands.

A sigh escapes her, low and grim. “This dish is really special to me.”

He waits for her to continue, but she just sinks her teeth into her bottom lip instead, chewing nervously at the skin there.

He kicks his toe against her slipper clad foot, a gentle nudge to get her to speak.

He’s gotten pretty good at reassuring her without words, he thinks. Better than when they first met, that’s for damn sure.

“My favorite picture of my dad and I is one where I’m sitting at my high chair and I barely have two teeth in my mouth and my dad is feeding me mashed zucchini and yucca root. He’s laughing and smiling like he wouldn’t rather be doing anything else in the entire world than eating soup with his daughter.”

Mason stiffens at the mention of her father, and even worse so, feels remorse start to trickle into his bones.

It’s stupid to think he could’ve done anything. He pushes those thoughts to the side, recognizing the remaining scrappy morsels of humanity in him clawing its way to the surface. Impulse has always been the most human part of him – maybe she’s changing that.

He doesn’t really know who he was before this, but what he does know is any inkling of humanity he has surfaces when he’s with her.

Yeah, he can’t feel what it’s like to lose a parent, but watching Sofía tear up over bittersweet memories was enough on its own.

“Your dad cooked?”

“Yeah, from what I can remember, yeah. All of our old cookbooks are in his and my abuela’s handwriting.”

She looks like she wanted to say something more, so he leans back, arms across his chest, waiting.

“When I was in high school, I tried making it on my own and it was so shitty. I wanted to surprise Rebecca, because I knew she was getting back from a stressful work trip, and I couldn’t do it like he did. She didn’t even notice that I’d tried,” she sighs, picking up her spoon again to sip the broth.

She hums again, chews, swallows.

“I don’t know why I was so naive back then, you know? I thought I could chop a couple veggies and toss them into seasoned water and it’d turn out just like Dad made it.

“In reality, I didn’t even know what it tasted like. My mom described the taste to me once before, but she never cooked, so I just went off of what she told me. I romanticized the whole thing right down to making up the flavor in my own head.”

“That’s probably why I made the soup tonight. I miss when I was happy, but even then, what the fuck did that even look like to me? I’m just telling myself I was happy because I saw photos of me being happy, but I can’t recall that feeling by memory at all.”

She darts a hand under her eyes to rub it away before he notices, but he can see her eyes glistening.

“How am I homesick for a life that was never really great to begin with, you know?”

He leans forward, brows furrowed. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember. Fuck those old memories. Make new ones.”

He’s speaking from the heart now, compelled to say something before his mind can stop him.

Chuckling with a quick sniffle, she gets up to grab a drink from the fridge. “I know you mean well, but it’s hard when you’ve got an active bounty on your head.”

“Things will get better.” He’s not a beacon of positivity in the slightest, but she’s too good to be feeling this bad, so he has to say something.

“Things can get better.”

“What?”

“It’s not guaranteed. Not for me, at least. Probability’s never worked out in my favor,” she smiles weakly, unscrewing the cap to the water and sipping it politely.

“You’ve got a team making sure things will get better, sweetheart. No matter what.”

“You’re all here by force, though. After you leave, I’m still gonna be stuck here, and –”

She waves her free hand, the other one gripping the damp water bottle.

“I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’ll be less of a mess in the morning.”

“Not all of us,” he says, delayed, but hoping she gets it.

“Not all of us what?”

“Are here by force.”

She grips the bottle harder, the plastic crackling. She knows what he means now.

“That’s… uh, good to know,” she murmurs, a smile tugging at her features. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t do anything to warrant a thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, sitting back down at the table. “You’re gonna have to get used to my manners, Mason.”

“Never,” he smirks, leaning over the table, over the soup, running his thumb over her bottom lip before standing.

“You don’t like it because you don’t have any.”

He snorts, a hearty laugh ripping out of his vocal cords and echoing off the tile flooring. “Damn right.”

She smiles, too, this time though with her whole body. It’s dim in the kitchen, but she’s shining nonetheless.

The smell’s grown on him a little bit. The shit honestly reeks, but he doesn’t mind it.

He follows her when she makes her way to the cabinets underneath the countertops, retrieving a big glass bowl.

When she bends down, he tentatively steps behind her, leaving a hair’s width space between them. He’s hesitating to touch her, even as she glances back at him reassuringly and closes the gap between his stomach and her back.

The hum that leaves her this time as he hooks a lazy arm around her waist sounds just like the one she let out when she tasted the soup.

She gently guides his hands to grip the edges of the bowl while she pulls the pot closer.

“So what’s this shit called?” He asks, crinkling his nose as she ladles it in, grimacing when some splashes his hand.

He knows he’s there for something, but he can’t quite remember what for when she licks the stray drops from his thumb.

“Caldo de pollo,” she smiles, snapping the plastic top until it’s airtight, guiding him to the fridge.

He knows “pollo” is Spanish from the times Felix watched kids shows to pick up on English. (He could never quite shake the looping sound byte of Felix’s southern drawl saying “poy-yo” when he discovered Dora the Explorer.)

“You gotta make it for Nate sometime,” he suggests, wrapping his other arm around her waist when she closes the fridge door.

She turns in his grasp, splaying her hands on his bare chest, dragging her thumbs over the tuft of hair in the middle of it.

“Thank you, really,” she whispers, eyes trained on her moving hands. “I mean it.”

He’s shit at accepting thanks with words, so instead he kisses her. He fights the urge to deepen it, to open his mouth to taste her.

She’s not ready to let him in like that just yet. He thinks it’s enough that she’s letting him touch her at least.

The lingering taste of chicken is disgusting, but he’s enduring it, because Sofía’s humming like he’s the best thing she’s tasted in years.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Abort?”

Happy Tuesday guys, I hope you are all enjoying your week. Forgive me any mistakes I make here as I only have a few hours to write before work, and I am usually in a rush.

“Both of you get your suits back on.”

“What the hell is going on!” Richards demanded 

Adam took a deep breath, “Captain Richards that was not an opening for a discussion, that was an order. Now put the damn suit on, or I swear I will knock you out and do it myself. The three of them were floating in the module staring at each other, hands resting against what must have been no more than a few millimeters of aluminum. 

He stared at them, and they stared back.

Adam did not break eye contact willing the two willing them to do as they were told. Chavez was the first to move, hurrying over to her space suit and struggling to pull it on in a near panic as bright lights flashed from outside. Inside his heart was pounding but he tried to remain calm for the two standing before him.

He hurried over to help Chavez pull on her gear, finally sealing the helmet in place as Richards finally moved to do the same.

Adam helped pull the hard torso over the man’s head and link it to the waist before helping him pull on his gloves and, eventually the helmet. Before he let go, he kept hold of Richards by either side of the helmet staring at him through the glass, “I promise, if you listen to me, I will keep you safe.”

He kept eye contact with the other man until Richards finally nodded, and Adam let him go to float over and put on his own suit. His hands were steady, for now, but he knew as soon as the crisis was over he'd be shaking like a leaf.

If he survived.

He gritted his teeth, cursing himself for thinking like that. He was Admiral VIr for crying out loud. He had survived far too much to go and die now. He returned to the helm of the command module as he looked out the thick window at the lights flashing on either side of them. Despite the war that was raging around them, everything seemed so strangely quiet. There was no sound no rumbling, not even a vibration as one of the jets flew past.

Despite being at the controls of the vehicle, there was nothing he could do. They only had a certain amount of fuel to get them to the lunar surface, and if he wasted any of it at all, they would be either caught in orbit, or miss the moon entirely.

He had to keep his cool.

Another bright burst of light lit the window to his right. This one was closer this time.

His heart leaped up into his throat.

Richards and Chaves joined him buckling into their seats.

“What is going on.” Richards demanded again, his mike distant and tinny with the sound of very old technology.

“I believe anti alliance forces are attempting to assassinate me. They have been trying for months now, and I think they are being encouraged by very powerful members of  the government.”

They watched as another set of ships zoomed past.

He saw a flash of a silhouette, just enough to know that one of them was a thunderhawk and the other was a silver Rundi drone.

It confirmed his worst fears. The Chairwoman had been behind this the whole time.

***

Red nearly collided with the rocket. The Thunderhawk had pulled up the last minute, but he had almost been too late. He jerked the stick to the side, throwing up his wing ust in time to avoid hitting the rocket as it made it’s slow way through space. He dove down on the other side forced to break off pursuit and cut in front of another thunderhawk coming in from above. He made to look like he was going to ram them, playing a dangerous game of chicken which he won at the last second as the other pilot panicked and cut to the left.

There were too many of them. Only five out of the original twenty had been destroyed, and he and the rest of their pilots were busy just keeping  the thunderhawks away from the rocket, much less to have any time of firing at them.He had sent one of his people down to earth and one of them off towards the moon for backup. The moon was still hours away yet, so the hope that some help would be sent from them was unlikely, and even the man he had sent down to earth’s surface was cutting it close.

He didn’t have much hopes that they would be able to hold out that long.

Inside the cockpit his  warning lights began to blink and blair as one of the other jets got a lock on hi. He rolled right to avoid them and dove down, cutting off the lock but still being pursued by those behind him. Up ahead he saw one of the silver balls erupt into flames as it was targeted by an expert hit from one of the thunderhawk pilots.

He rolled right.

Someone else rolled left. He cut up just in time to avoid being hit and raced forward to cut off another bird that was heading directly towards the rocket.

***

Eris hurried down the hallway, her knees screaming as she did her very best to sprint, but despite her human anatomy, she was a little too much like a starborn.  With a cry of frustration she reached up and tore off her hoodie, throwing it to the ground and engaging her anti gravity belt. The ribbons on her back billowed out behind her.

Light spilled in from the windows on either side of the catwalk she was now on, filling her with a buzzing energy that she could feel radiating through the ribbons like electricity. She knew from her study of starborn that they could travel at thousands of miles an hour in the vacuum of  space, especially when under the power of a star. She didn’t think she needed to go THAT fast, but anything would be better  than what she was doing now.

As if in response to her will, she suddenly began to glide forward, picking up speed as she swooped towards the end of the hall, wind catching her in the face and roaring along her cheeks. WIth her starborn skin, she barely felt a thing as she raced around the corner and out of the waiting door. Two men dressed in military ACUs dived to the side as she blew past them crying out in alarm and confusion as the “Alien” floated by.

Somewhere distantly, she could sense Conn racing in the opposite direction towards the  base.

Sunny and captain kelly had Admiral Massie in their custody and were dragging him out into the hallway.

She blew across the open ground her ribbons snapping and billowing behind her as she did. She didn’t even have time to imagine what she looked like as she roared over the open field and towards  the waiting news vans which were just beginning to pack up their things. They were close to leaving, but she set out a sharp hard telepathic pulse ordering them to stop.

Compelling them to stop.

They froze in their tracks and looked up to see her coming.

Someone scrambled to turn on their camera, not sure what was going on but sure it had to be something good.

She tried not to think about what they would see as the camera flared to life following her approach.

“Make us live.” She ordered 

The news people glanced between each other in confusion, “But no, we aren;t”

“What are-”

She came to a sudden jolting stop before them, her billowing black hair fanning out behind her like a curling halo.

“I said, put us on air.”

This time the telepathic pulse was too strong to resist. Mostly that pair with the fact that none of them were sure they wanted to resist. She was too interesting to pass up. They hurried to do what they were doing, and Eris was given just enough time to feel nervous before the camera was turned to her.

They were live.

She read it in the minds of those behind camera who she cut off as she began to speak, “Citizens of Earth, there has been a horrible conspiracy against you. The UN president has ordered the assasination of Admiral Adam Vir  and has continually attempted to sabotage the mission. Just now General massie was taken into custody after ordering the deployment of twenty thunderhawks to harass the rocket and make its destruction look like some sort of collision with space debris.”

The group gawked at her as she raised her hand with the small silver device and began playing the recording. She knew something like this would never be admissible in court. She was pretty sure it would be considered entrapment of some kind, which is why it must be heard now, before everyone, so that the actions of the president could be judged by a jury of the world where it could not be hidden by political machinations.

“Communications have been lost with Apollo 11. And it is….. Well…. It is likely that he is already dead…..” Her voice broke, “No matter what happens, I need you, and this nation to understand what is happening before it gets swept under the rug. I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears and experienced their meeting in the thoughts of a man who is both xenophobic and hateful to his own humankind.”

She kept talking trying to give them all the information she could, spilling thoughts she had heard in the head of the UN president. Every meeting, every liaison, every name until her voice was beginning to crack.

***

The UN president was just standing to enter her vehicle when a slow muttering began in the crowd behind her. SHe turned as the ground before her went silent. She watched as a wave ran through the people. A wave of nudging and whispering and showing off news feeds they had pulled up on their wrist implants. It wasn’t long before the entire crowd was either staring down at their arms or clustered around someone else for viewing.

“What is going on.” She wondered turning to one of her men who was staring down at her own wrist.

“Madame president?” He said with a look of confusion.

She could hear it now.

“Her and general massie have ordered members of the UNSC to adjust funds in order to hide the twenty thunderhawks they were squirting away for just such an event.” She hurried forward grabbing the secret serviceman by the arm staring at it as she watched the streaming newsfeed and the freaky white alien with the large dark eyes and flowing black hair.

“She is afraid of aliens, she wishes to isolate and eventually use humanity’s superior forces to overtake trade in the galaxy-”

The muttering behind her had turned into an angry grumbling, and she turned to see the eyes of hundreds hat turned towards her. 

“Get me out of here.” She hissed 

The Secret Serviceman took a step back with a look of confusion and indecision on his face.

“It’s your job.” he snarled 

He just stared at her. 

She hurriedly ran over to her car as the crowd began to filter in around them pressing close. A few of the secret service men pulled guns but a large majority of them were frozen with indecision and were taken over by the crowd. She scrambled into the back seat of her vehicle and slammed the door shut screaming at the driver to get moving.

The crowd was surrounding them now pounding at the glass.

She could hear their angry voices raised for her to be heard behind bullet proof glass.

Outside, she watched a lone figure step onto the platform where the lectern was and stare at her with it’s beady black eyes. The Chairwoman of the GA stood over the crowd like it’s filthy alien lord.

And even though Rundi could not smile, she could swear it was smiling.

***

Baby K hit a rough patch of turbulence coming down from the atmosphere. She struggled with the controls as she was thrown left and right inside the cockpit of her rickety shuttle. Donovan red had ordered her down here to grab the UNSC, but she was so scared and full of adrenaline that she had dropped it at too steep an angle. The ride was much bumpier than it was supposed to be, and her teeth were rattling inside her head.

“Unidentified vessel, you have crossed into UNSC airspace, identify yourself or be destroyed.”

She scrambled for her communications, but her fingers felt as stiff as wood as she scrambled for the button.

“I repeat, unidentified vessel, you have entered UNSC airspace, you are ordered to identify yourself or be destroyed.”

She slammed her first into the comms button nearly panicking, “UNSC.” Her voice was rattling, “This is B-baby K, and I….. The Apollo 11 is under attack!” she was breathless as she forced the words out.

There was silence over the coombs, “Say again.”

“Apollo 11 is under attack!”

More silence, “Roger that.”

Two jets pulled up to the side of her, those she recognized as two F-90 Darkfires.

One of them adjusted its angle and cut engines before switching to the fusion engine that rocketed it up and out of site.

The other stayed for a moment, “Unidentified vessel, please land on UNSC base airstrip one.” Before turning and following it’s comrade.

***

Conn raced towards the airstrip feeling the wind in the ribbons at his back. He couldn’t go nearly as fast as he wanted too with air resistance . Wythe hell did Adam always have to get into so much trouble, why did he always have to be the center of attention.

Everyone either hated him or loved him, but the problem was people who hated him also wanted to kill him.

Why did he have to be so controversial?

Why did he have to be hated for something that was such a big deal. Why couldn't he be hated for having controversial political opinions . Conn paused.

On second thought, controversial political opinions were kind of what had gotten them here in the first place, so he guessed that was kind of a useless comparison. How about being the kind of guy who liked to talk too much about fishing. That was a great way to make people hate you for being boring, but it didn’t usually mean that people wanted to kill you.

Maybe they could get the man a hobby doing something that wasn’t  so controversial. 

Like 

Kicking small Animals or.

Cannibalism.

He came roaring to the stop at the edge of the airfield ust in time to watch an entire platoon of pilots racing towards jets. He could hear their minds and looked up to see a rather dinky shuttle descending from the sky. He floated forward towards one of the jets as a pilot leaped inside.

He was going to need a ride.

The pilot turned to look at him but Conn just shook his head.

The pilot decided to ignore him in the confusion and Conn Grabbed on tight.

Starborn he had come to learn were a very interesting species in comparison to others. Vertically as from the top down he was very fragile and likely to break his neck or collapse his spine if there was any undue pressure, but with horizontal forces, he was practically indestructible. Below him the ship roared to life and soon they were gathering speed along the runway.

His grip was tight, and he used the extra energy from his ribbons to sped himself up along with the jet to reduce the pull on his arms.

His brip wasn’t that strong.

They went vertical almost immediately, and he made sure to orient his body in the correct direction as they went hurtling into the sky.

***

Red’s right wing had been hit. If there had been atmosphere around him he would have been a goner, but there was no air resistance here, so once he regained control of his roll, he pulled back into position  and fired one last shot as the opportunity arose. The sixth thunderhawk was destroyed in an eruption of debris, which he dodged only with difficulty limping without the aid of the maneuvering jet on the end of his one wing. Things were only speeding up now, the Runid were almost gone and the pressure was being laid thick on his people. They were hard to hit but the pursuit made it almost impossible for them to do any real maneuvering of their own. He was almost hit again as another darkfire sped underneath him. They rolled this way and that rocking from one side to the other. Flying through debris and over strips of silver metal.

Below them the earth hung as a clowning orb.

Red cut in a wide circle coming in with the sun at his back using it to blind one of the enemy darkfires as he came in. he watched the group of them form up suddenly as a ring around the slow moving rocket intending quite certainly to rush it all at once. He screamed into the comm trying to order his men around, but it was going to be too late, he could already see it coming.

The jets rushed forward, and he did too screaming inside his helmet as they went to broadside Apollo 11.

And then with all the silence of space, sixteen F-90 Dark Fires came spitting overhead all at once raining down a line of ordinance that cut through the group of unsuspecting thunderhawks. Space around them was filled with a silent explosion as each and every one of them was ripped to shreds.

All except one.

He saw it at the last moment.

It had been hit in the tail and had gone wildly off course.

It turned sideways, but had just enough force….. For its wing to tear straight through the aluminum siding of the rocket.

Chavez and Richards had been ordered to strap into their seats. Adam had taken it upon himself to lock down the rest of the main cabin. Outside the flashing lights were like a fireworks display without sound. He grabbed onto one of the rails, forcing equipment back into the palace so that if anything happened it wouldn’t fly out.

His legs were kicked up behind him as he floated forward reaching for some of the controls as a sudden bright wash of light filtered in through the windows. He heard a scream over his com, and then the air around him was rent with a horrific tearing noise, which suddenly went silent. There was a rush, and he jerked forward as he was sucked back….. And out of the ship entirely.

His hands and legs kicked and flailed  as he tried to right himself, hearing his own breathing as the only sound as he watched the rocket begin to spin debris erupting around him as air, and whatever wasn’t strapped down was sucked through the small opening.

The rocket was spinning wildly, he was spinning wildly in a silent abyss. Grunting against the force of his spin, he reached down for the controls to the CO2 canister built into the pack of his spacesuit.

He groaned not sure which way was up or down or back. He tried to right himself against the spin by firing in the opposite direction to slow his spin.he could see the rocket now spinning in the opposite direction with the sudden loss of oxygen. He hoped the other astronauts were ok. He saw the silhouette of a jet fly past in the distance making its way towards the spinning rocket.

At least there was someone here to help.

Maybe the others would survive-

And then he stopped, coming to a confusing halt in the middle of space.

That shouldn’t have been right. He should have kept going forever. He tried turning his head, but he felt like the pillsbury doughboy in this two thousand year old suit. 

What was happening 

“Did you miss me.”

Well shit, now he sort of wished he could keep spinning.

There was a tugging on the outside of his suit, and Conn floated into view in front of his helmet.

“Hey sweetheart.”

“You are probably the last person I wanted to see.” he said though he didn’t entirely mean it, and unfortunately Conn knew that too the mindreading asshole that he was.

I could hardly let the father of my child go spinning off into space without taking accountability for his family.”

“Shove it up your ass Conn.”

“No really, not even the vacuum of space is going to save you from your responsibilities. Now, about custody, I was thinking you could have every other weekend  and a couple of major holidays”

He gave a ruful sort of smile as Conn grabbed him by the life support pack and started floating them towards the rocket, which the F-90s had somehow managed to slow the spin of the rocket, and pull it back on course with grappling magnets.

All around them space was filled with debris. No more darkfires were present and those that were were quickly being grappled. One sleek racing jet slowly cruises past them. One of its wings was damaged, but whoever was inside waved with one hand  as he rolled past.

Adam lifted a hand as Conn brought him the last few hundred feet to the torn opening in the side of the ship, allowing him to step through.

Conn patted him on the side of the helmet, “make sure to be home by dinnertime sweetie.” Before blowing him a kiss and vanishing back out the hole.

Adam floated there a bit nonplussed for a moment before turning back to the front of the ship where Chaves and Richards were still strapped into their seats. He floated over to strap himself in.

“Admiral! You’re ok.”

“Yes, it seems that I am, thanks to a….. Friend of mine.”

Just then Conn appeared again just before their right side window, and like the classy gentlemen that he was began rubbing his butt up against the glass.

He sighed, “Friend is kind of stretching it.”

“Apollo 11 this is Houston, do you copy!”

The man on the other end of the line sounded close to tears, and Adam hurried to respond, “Houston this is Apollo 11.”

On the other side he thought he heard the sound of voices cheering in relief.

“What is your status, over.”

“We are a bit beat up Houston, we have a tear in our hull, but our suits are ok, and we have help.”

“Prepare to abort mission.”

Adam frowned, “Now wait a second there Houston, I didn’t get sucked out the side of my own rocket to just quit now. Tell the boys to come up here and patch us up and we can finish the mission. All systems are still functioning, and we are back on course.” he glanced over at the others, “That is, if the crew wants to continue.”

There was a pause and then Chavez timidly piped in, “I’d be ok with that.”

Richards sighed, “Roger Houston, patch us up.”

Granted it may have been cheating. Apollo 11 hadn’t had support with special tools that cold just patch a space ship within ten minutes, but then again the original Apollo 11 hadn’t been in the middle of a firefight while on their journey to the moon. So it was with some trepidation that Houston allowed it, and before long they had air back inside the cabin back up to pressure, but they also had a sixteen man rotating escort for the rest of the way.

The group of them were even shocked to see Rundi drones join the formation only to learn that it had been the UN president who had allegedly called the hit on him. It was hard to believe, but they were only getting snippets here and then from over radio and from Conn, who floated around occasionally to rub another part of his anatomy against the window and give them teasing updates

The moon was growing slowly in their vision.

“I can see my house from here.” Adam remarked as they prepared to detach the lunar module from the rest of the ship.

They landed without incident observed by mobile camera crews  and news reporters as he made his own footprint on the never changing dust of the moon’s surface. He gave them a thumbs up to let them know he was fine and hesitated only once before setting up the UN flag in the dirt. He refused to let his enthusiasm be dampened by the day’s events and hopped around dancing and leaping for joy as another one of his childhood dreams was fulfilled. That was before he plowed face first into the moon’s surface and required help from Richards to stand back up again.

They left soon after taking another three days of escort back to earth before strapping themselves in for final entry. 

Conn left them just as they were entering orbit with a middle finger for all three of them.

“Your friend is super delightful isn’t it.’

“Try having a child with him.” Adam muttered refusing to elaborate even as they stared at him in confusion.

They fell from the sky and landed somewhere in the Pacific ocean, picked up by the waiting navy vessel who was within nine miles of their landing site. They were fished from the water and returned safe and sound to the ship to cheers and cameras. Adam’s legs felt a little like jelly after days of not using them, and he was finally able to relax lying on the deck of the ship under the sun as people ran around them on either side.

His hands shook slowly building up after the stress of the last week. He took long deep breaths and closed his eyes.

The next few days were going to be a real shit show.

[camthesolemnone]

Hi, I have like, 4 more ideas that came to me while I was at work, so #1: horror movie. Medic and Heacy are in their cottage, and have just watched a horror movie of some kind before they go to bed, right? Yeah. BUT! As they get ready, something odd happens that sets them both on edge (turns out it's just one of the birds or something) but they end up scarred and not wanting to go to sleep

I changed this one a bit but the main idea remains in-tact. I’m sorry that this took so long to get out and that the ending is kinda shitty. I’m working on the other prompts you sent me alongside this one! Also, I don’t know if you saw the pinned message or not but requests are now closed, so please hold off on sending any more.

"Is leetle Scout asleep as well?" Heavy asked, sitting comfortably on the rec room couch.

Medic nodded and reached for the VHS tape sitting on the glass table in the middle of the room. A tiny smile graced the Russian's features.

"Is good, we have television all to our selves!"

"Ja, and don't expect to sleep tonight, Mikhail! Herr Engineer told me that this is one of the scariest movies he’s ever seen," Ludwig replied, holding up the tape for his partner to see.

Written across the label in black sharpie was the simple word, 'Halloween.' The label should have been difficult to read in the dark, but the Russian noticed how it almost seemed to radiate a burgundy light...must have been some crazy glow-in-the-dark marker Engineer had invented, he concluded. Heavy crossed his arms triumphantly and laughed.

"Do not count on it, Doktor! Heavy is not phased by baby horror films!”

“Oh, we’ll see about that!”

A moment of time was spent struggling to find out which remote went to which device, but eventually, the pair got the movie inside the VHS player and smiled excitedly as color flooded the screen. Ludwig left the room briefly to make popcorn and plopped down on the couch next to his lover to click “Play” on the title screen upon his return.

“If Doktor gets scared, you can hold onto me~” Mikhail teased, and Ludwig shoved his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re 45 years old, liebe? Because right now, you sound like a lovestruck teenager!” The doctor shot, handing him the popcorn bowl.

“Well...” Heavy began, settling a massive arm around Medic’s shoulders, “One part of that statement is correct.”

.

Unsurprisingly, Heavy was correct about being immune to the movie’s horrors. Then again, Medic was also not affected by the film, so they took more pleasure in the plot and the acting then the actual scary moments. 

Of course, Ludwig grew giddy when gore was involved.

“Hohoho! Look at all of that blood! If I was the killer in this scenario, I would collect it for future use,” he commented.

Heavy raised a questioning eyebrow and attempted to distract himself with the popcorn, but he soon came to the realization that there was nothing left but kernels. His German companion took to removing the bucket from his grasp and standing up.

“I need to use the bathroom, so I’ll take this back on the way,” the doctor stated, and the heavy weapons specialist nodded in response.

Mikhail was left all alone with the intensifying film in the dimly lit room. He would never admit it, but now that Ludwig was gone, he felt smaller. It wasn’t a feeling of fear but of slight unease; things would likely be alright for Heavy, but there was always a shred of uncertainty.

As time passed and the movie reached its climax, Heavy became more and more enthralled with the action, to the point where he forgot about Medic’s absence. His eyes were fixated on the glowing screen, his hands gripped tightly at the wool blanket surrounding him. Mikhail fell deep into the world of gruesome fantasy, and as a consequence, he nearly shot out of his seat at the sound of rapid footsteps and whisper-shouting coming from down the hall.

“Heavy! Oi, big guy!” Demoman said, urgency in his tone.

The Russian let his blanket drop to the floor and stared at the demolitions expert with confusion and anxiousness. The Scot all but captured his arm with both of his own and began dragging him down the hall as best as he could.

“Slow down, Tavish. What is this about?” Mikhail asked.

Demo turned his gaze back to his teammate.

“The Doc ‘s dead in the cludgie!”

Heavy’s eyes widened with shock, emotional pain, and fury towards whoever had committed such an act. Sure, Medic would respawn, but whoever had laid a finger on his beloved doctor was in for a beatdown. Unless it was an accident, in which case Mikhail would scold the German about being reckless.

The pair burst through the door to the community showers and the Russian nearly gasped at the sight. Ludwig laid unmoving in the center of the room with blood staining the front of his lab coat and the ground surrounding him. There was no weapon to be found, but in the corner of the room, with his back towards the door, sat a curled up, trembling, mumbling Scout.

Mikhail’s first thought was that Jeremy had committed this grisly murder, but Tavish put a hand out in front of his chest before he could progress. The Russian opted for whispering Medic’s name as a substitute.

“Scout! What the hell happened here!” Demo cried.

The young runner didn’t reply. He continued to rock back and forth, murmuring and wrapping his arms around himself. The Scot approached him cautiously, taking a calm, more concerned approach. Heavy followed.

“Aye, are you alright, mate?”

Demo reached out to put a hand on Scout’s shoulder, and a series of rapid events unfolded.

Scout’s entire body whipped around and stood up, and the Bostonian let out a high pitched, almost demonic screech. In his left hand was a knife stained in blood, Medic’s blood, and Heavy and Demo exhibited two very different reactions.

Demoman yelped and jumped back, going into flight mode. The massive Russian on the other hand, fearful for the lives of himself and his friend, took a strong step forward and lashed out at Jeremy’s face. One square punch to the jaw was enough to send the man flying across the communal bathroom and into the wall. He slumped over after the hit, out cold.

“What in the-! It was almost like that boy was possessed!” Demo shouted.

When Mikhail and Tavish’s hurried breathing finally began to slow, a new sound rang throughout the room: laughter.

Medic was rolling on the floor alive and well, laughing his ass off and further soiling his labcoat. Heavy gasped out a “Doktor!” at the man’s sudden revival while Demoman stood frozen.

“Hahaha! I can’t believe it! I just thought I’d have a bit of fun scaring you, liebe, but watching you knock out Scout was far more amusing!” The doctor exclaimed, rolling on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows like a teenage girl lying on her bed while talking to a friend over the phone.

Demoman was the first to flare up.

“What?! So you’re saying this was all a prank?! You’re sick in the head, Medic!”

The Scot was tempted to slap him silly, but with Heavy in the room, that clearly wasn’t an option. With another frustrated grunt, he stomped off and back to bed.

Now it was Heavy’s turn.

“That was not funny, Ludwig! Heavy thought you were dead!” He scowled.

The doctor hauled himself off the ground and stood up straight, wiping some of the fake(?) blood on his hands off onto his lab coat.

“What’s there to worry about? Even if I had been stabbed, I would have just respawned, Mikhail.”

“I know, but...”

Medic’s expression dropped. His love had one massive paw gripping his opposite forearm and his face was distraught. He looked smaller, scared almost, and a tiny crack situated itself in the German’s heart. If he had known such an act would hurt Heavy so deeply, he wouldn’t have even thought about going through with it. There was also the issue of Scout. Ludwig relished the sight of the cocky, annoying Boston boy being beat up, but for once, he regretted roping him into his plans. The runner had been all too willing to help him with the scare, and Medic repaid him with his bear’s violence.

He sighed and shook his head at himself internally. Yes, his prank hadn’t been very rational, he concluded.

With slow, apologetic steps, Medic approached his partner and wrapped his arms around him gently, rubbing his broad back with one hand.

“Es tut mir leid, Heavy. This was all very foolish of me,” he admitted.

Heavy returned the embrace and buried his nose into his doctor’s hair, which smelled of blood and autumn leaves.

“You know it is because I do not like seeing you hurt, moya lyubov. Every time evil Spy kills you on battlefield, my blood boils. Would sacrifice myself a million times to keep you safe,” he murmured, and Ludwig’s heart cracked a little more.

His arms tightened around the giant with increased guilt. It pained him profoundly to see Mikhail die too.

 “I love you, Heavy. From the bottom of my soul, I am truly sorry.”

The Russian moved one hand from the smaller man’s waist to cup his cheek protectively.

“I love you too, Doktor, but please, do not play with death. Someday, we will not get another life.”

.

The credits of the movie had long concluded by the time the two of them returned to the rec room. Medic was rather disappointed that he had missed the latter half of the film, but what made up for it was a soft kiss to his forehead and a set of teasing words given to him by his lover before being sent off to sleep.

“Next time, we watch psychological thriller, da? Less gore will give you less dangerous ideas,” Mikhail suggested, patting a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder.

The doctor laughed and gave him a sly smile that warded off his fears, allowed him to breathe normally again. He was still alive.

“I like the sound of that, but you’re making the popcorn!”

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Sam Wescott NSFW Alphabet.

Sooo after doing Buddy Swanson alphabet of course I had to do one for Sam. Similar to Buddy I consider myself the Sam Wescott expert, again I started his tag on Ao3 and have written him the most so far so fucking here we are! I love him, the sweetest and softest slasher I am into, here we go!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

The best word I have to describe Sam Wescott is concerned. He is so concerned about you and your comfort, always. He will do anything you need on your come down. He would run a bath, would get you anything you wanted to eat, change the sheets if you so requested, he doesn't want you to do anything, he's got it under control and he would INSIST. Seriously you want something just name it and it is happening. Would love to have a shower with you post sex.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands for sure, no doubt about it. So much experience working outdoors, very skilled with them, rough and well worked, he isn’t the most confident guy but when it comes to his hands he is. They make him feel capable. Loves to touch you, run his hands over you, loves to feel you up with them and let’s be real the man is great at fingering.

Now for you he loves your lips, man is WEAK for kissing, will sometimes find himself staring at them while talking with you, loves the taste of you, just cannot get enough of kissing you or of you kissing him well basically anywhere. The sweet things you can say with them and listen he can’t help it if he is obsessed with how they look and feel wrapped around his cock.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Okay so I totally have this idea that a big unexpected fave of his that he never anticipated liking so much until it happened is having you make a mess of him. Like blow and jerk him off and make him cum on his own stomach and then lick it up and then his refractory period is basically non-existent.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay so one of the hottest things or ideas to him is you forgoing underwear in public and letting him know in some way that you have. Whether taking his hand and letting him feel or maybe a racy picture sent or flashing him with no one around at that moment and holy shit he is achingly hard.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

More than you would think! For a guy who seems so nervous and unassuming you’d think he wouldn’t have much experience but Sam has been around a bit. Much more down for a casual hook-up than you would think. Typically parties and get together where he has had some drinks to help settle some of those nerves. But more importantly he is so enthusiastic and willing to please.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

You on top. He loves it so much, to have you over him, being able to feel you up and help pull you down onto him, he loves you being able to take it at your own pace and use him however you want to find your release. Totally in awe of you riding him, put your hands on his chest as you do, lean down and kiss him or whisper things to him and fuck he won’t be able to hold back from bucking up into you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Oh the boy can do both, when he gets all flustered he is much more prone to laughing and making some jokes, but take my word for it, Sam can be so insanely sensual, surprisingly can be great at maintaining the mood. Doesn’t take himself too seriously thankfully.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Yeah totally matches, light and soft curls, doesn’t let it grow out much, trims it semi often, has never shaved and certainly never waxed and has no intention of it. Might try shaving it if you wanted him to but he wouldn’t do it unprompted. Overall great personal hygiene.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Ugh romance thy name is Sam Wescott. Like hot damn he can be the most romantic fucker you have ever come across. It is ridiculous. Would touch you with such care and reverence and would say some of the sweetest things. Wouldn’t be every time but you’d never, ever have to ask for romance from Sam.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Totally think that he has a hard time keeping quiet when he does. He just gets so into it. Also totally uses lube, like not lotion, nice lube, totally amps it up for him and I also think he edges himself, not super hard but a few soft edges he’s learned can make his eventual orgasm so much better. Legit just picture poor Sam, one hand over his mouth, eyes shut tight, moaning into his palm as his other hand is slick with lube, fisting his cock, already edged a few times and getting so close he can’t stop the sounds from spilling out? Hot.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Has a few kinks, not all but have some of the biggest.

PRAISE! This man has the biggest fucking praise kink around, both ways. Loves to talk you up so much. Please praise him, tell him what is working and what feels good, nothing gets to him more than you encouraging him vocally.

Body worship. Sam will literally worship every fucking sqaure inch of your body, hands and mouth working in tandem, just positively everywhere until you are a complete puddle. Getting you off gets him off hard.

Denial. Can’t help it, delayed gratification, and you teasing him, frustrating him, gets to him badly, makes him unbelievably hard, and after some good edging he is a total flustered mess and is leaking massive amounts of pre-cum. Is a bit embarrassed he is so into it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Outdoors! Not like he is a huge exhibtioinist just loves being outside, some of his favorite things have happened outside. I headcanon there is this hill at Camp Clear Vista that Sam likes to sit on, can see most of the camp from there, loves to sit there and clear his head, it’s his favorite place. Late at night under the stars, just being out at camp in general, in a tent or a cabin, the forest. Also totally a fan of shower sex.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You wanting him. Showing clear desire and intent, especially if it is some place that you can’t right away. Like you whispering something dirty to him, or feeling him up, a particular look. Oof. He really wants to be wanted and desired so that gets him going like nothing else. Like you being almost desperate for him is perfection. The idea of you clinging to him, tugging on his clothes and almost grinding on him, begging him to just touch you let alone fuck you? He is on you so fast.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Degradation. Like I could not see him having it in him, does not have the heart to engage in extreme degradation. A casual flippant comment in the heat of the moment during a rougher session? Maybe. But you aren’t gonna have him doing some hardcore degrading, sorry he just isn’t that guy. Also any hard pain play either. Making you cry because it feels so good? Yes. Crying from pain? Hard no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oh my fucking God! So don’t ask me how or why this got started but this is my strongest held Sam headcanon. I believe that Sam Wescott is GOD-TIER at giving oral. Eating pussy or sucking dick he is too fucking good and why? How?! Not sure. He just is. Maybe it is him being so enthusiastic and willing to please but he is. I think that is what he has the most experience in. Man will stay down there all night for real if that is what you want. Also turns him on a lot, can totally catch him not so subtly grinding against the bed or palming himself while doing it. Has totally just gone down on you and jerked himself off more than once.

So much bigger giver than a receiver, but still loves, loves, loves when you give. Total mess when you do it, barely knows what to do with himself, totally lets you take the lead on that, he is big and knows it but will appreciate however much you try and take. Won’t say it but loves when you gag on it, doesn’t have to say it because it is obvious he loves it from the way his thighs tense and the strained sounds that leave him as he tries to resist fucking into your mouth.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual for fucking sure. Can go faster, a more steady pace but still doesn’t jump to being rough. Work him up enough and beg for it and you can totally get that from him. Can totally get caught up in the heat of the moment and really fuck you. Again a decent mix but typically slower and more sensual.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Usually likes a mid-length session, loves a longer one and is down for quickies but they aren’t his favorite. Most of his interests and kinks lend themselves better to longer sessions. Quickies are great after a healthy and hearty amount of teasing, you tease him for a few hours where he can’t do anything about it when you do get alone it isn’t gonna last super long, he won’t be able to hold himself back.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Again name of the game for Sam is pleasing you so he is totally down to try what you want, open to experiment and risk for you but isn’t gonna suggest it super openly. He does have some spicier interests and leanings but would be worried about opening up about them at the start, it takes a while for him to get comfortable with that.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Depends on how much work you put in beforehand, how much foreplay and how in need he is, how long it has been since you last were together. Can go for three or four with little issue but can be satisfied with just one. The man is fit, young and healthy, what else do you expect?

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Does not own a single toy himself, but would be down to use some with you! I could see his favorite being a bullet vibe, something small yet powerful and precise and using it to great effect on you. Also even though he wouldn’t readily admit it, if you are into it and get into it he could be down with using a paddle.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oooo he likes it a little too much. Typically loves and prefers to be on the receiving end of it but loves to return it. Once he figures out just what gets to you he will use it to his advantage. Likes to see you being flustered in public as opposed to him for once, loves to get you to the point of begging.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Yes dear God, part of why a semi-public hook up is extra risky with him is because he has the hardest time shutting himself up. Again loves to praise and be praised, can’t help saying such sweet things to you, moaning, cursing, grunts of effort just on and on, like damn Sam can you calm down for like a sec? Cover his mouth or gag him for crying out loud, or don’t because he sounds amazing. Will still try to talk when close or cumming but it just ends up breaking apart with his moans. So good.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Oh okay so this is a fun one. I totally think his ears and neck are weirdly sensitive. You wanna see him flushed and flustered as hell and unable to stop himself from grinding against you mid-make out? That is the best way to get it to happen! The thought of it though, you initiate like that. He is sitting at the couch and you come up behind him, wrap your arms around his neck and lean in close, lips brush the shell of his ear and you whisper to him, “Hey Sammy. You busy?” and then you start to kiss his neck and he tenses so quickly. Let your hands start to roam, reach down and palm him through his jeans and ask, “Well?” and feel him up and his eyes would flutter closed and he would arch up into you, a shaky exhale and a laugh as he says “No-I uh, I’m not busy at all.”

And then it is on.

Also he is bi, it took him a long time to accept that about himself and get comfortable with it but he gets there eventually.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Oof so from all the working outside and general working out he is firm, cut, very fucking strong, the view with his shirt off is so good. Okay so for his dick, man is packing heat. I am talking eight point five to nine inches, you wouldn’t guess by looking at him. Totally not the type to brag about it and is aware extra foreplay and prep is usually needed but he loves that so it is all good. Average thickness, circumsized, pretty full balls, a good handful, you know? The sheer amount of pre-cum this man can produce is impressive, actual loads fairly regular, little thin, slightly above average amount, he has a great diet and tastes good.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Down for nearly every single day, fine with around three times a week because the sessions are longer. Would love to wake you up with oral, no better way to start his day, loves a good morning session while you are still in bed together, also quite the fan of some afternoon delight. Can be quite insatiable when prompted right and that side is pulled out of him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Boy he makes sure you are all good but after a really, really long session the boy does get sleepy. Him checking in and making sure you are all good and don’t need anything even with his eyes slipping closed and voice all tired, adorable, endearing, loves to curl up with you to sleep. He can spoon you but loves to be the little spoon, is anyone surprised?

[wistfulcynic]

The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

-

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

-

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Click.

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

-

[twinkleallnight]

A Twisted Tale

Chapter 3

Book: The Royal Romance AU

Word count: 2162

Characters: Liam, Drake, Riley, Olivia.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to pixelberry.

Rating: Mature

Warning: None

A/N: We are participating in @flashfictionfridayofficial  prompt: "Main attraction".

Catch up here

An AU of The Royal Romance paving it’s way through mixed emotions of wants, needs and desires, of revenge and regrets, of trust, faith and hope.

A joint venture brought to you with love by  @annekebbphotography and @twinkleallnight .

Riley's POV

I look out of the window of this massive room that they say will be mine. Liam has been extremely sweet the whole time and I can’t help but swoon a little. I can see why they say he is the most eligible bachelor King. I don’t care that he is the king. To me, he’s just someone I find attractive and interesting. I want to get to know him, and I will see as I will be working with him.

Now, I don’t know what is going on with Liam and the duchess, but she looked pissed seeing me here. If they have something going on, I won’t get in the way. But if Liam is single, then I am definitely going to try and get to know him on a more personal level.

I start packing my things away still thinking about Liam and how he was so kind and sweet on the plane. And then when we got here, it was as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Guess only time will tell, what is going on.

I start exploring my place.

It has a lounge, bedroom and a bathroom. What more could I need? I’m busy putting my things in my bathroom, when there’s a knock on my door. My heart does a little flip hoping that it’s Liam.

I walk over to the door and open it to find a damn good-looking guy on the other side. I wonder if all the guys around here look like some kind of Greek god.

“Are you done?” He raises his brow at me and I can feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment of being caught staring.

“Sorry, can I help you?” I look down trying to hide my blush.

“You are Riley, right?”

“Last time I checked. And you are?” I bite my bottom lip as I look back at him.

“Drake Walker.” He moves his fingers through his smooth chestnut hair. “Liam wanted me to check if you needed something.”

“Mmmmm, there’s a lot that I need Mr. Walker.” I turn and walk into my room. I look over my shoulder waiting for him to follow me. “Well are you coming in or are you going to be the door?”

He smirks at my comment and steps in. His eyes survey the room. “Have you made a list?”

“A list for what?” I stare at him and he keeps on looking around the room.

“Shopping. A shopping list... list of things you wanna buy.” His eyes focus back to me and when he looks at my puzzled expressions he speaks, “Oh, I forgot to mention. Liam wants me to take you shopping for things you need, like… Like.. office wear and stuff like that. The girlie stuff.”

I burst out laughing as he tries to find the right words, but my laughter dies down immediately when I see his stare. “Sorry...You looked really cute just now.”

“I have heard handsome. But cute?” He gives a puzzled smile, “I will accept that.”

I fiddle with my hair nervously. “I don’t need a list. I will just get what I feel like I would need.”

“So, when do you want to go? Shopping?” He again falters.

I smile at him. “How about now?”

He bows and stretches his arm out for me to lead the way, the smile still plastered on his face, enticing me.

“You’re a real charmer, aren’t you Mr. Walker?”I say as I walk past him. He smirks at me and damn that smirk!

“Only for a beauty like you.” He flirts openly. I feel the blush heat my face at his words.

“Tell me about yourself. We have all afternoon.”

“If you keep up the game. I tell you something and you tell me about you too.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that. First tell me how you know Liam?”

He gives out a guttural laugh. “It’s like asking how I learnt breathing. We are childhood buddies. Don’t remember since when and how.”

As we both walk out to his truck, he says, “I know how you met Liam. So next question please.” His lips curl to tug my heart again.

I give him a gentle smile. “What do you do around here? I know you aren’t a babysitter or a shopping expert. Why did Liam ask you to take me shopping?” I know Liam has his reasons for asking Drake to take me, but I want to hear it from Drake.

“Definitely not a babysitter. There ain’t no babies here yet. Shopping expert? Maybe. You will soon know. Why me? Cause I am his best friend, and he prefers leaving things in my safe hands if he can’t be there.” He opens the truck door for me and curtsies. “Your knight in shining truck is here for you. “

If he left me in Drake’s hands, that must mean that I am special to him. “Trust me, you don’t look like the shopping type.” I smirk a little, feeling satisfied with myself.

“ I can fit well. Try me. “ He gets behind the wheels next and speaks while he buckles his seatbelt.

“ I work with the security wing of the royal palace.”

“That sounds interesting. Do tell me more.”

He gives me a side glance as we drive to the market. “You know you are not following the rules of the game very well. That’s the fifth question in a row for me.”

I know he is smart. He politely evaded giving me details of security and his role in it.

I shrug as I look out the window before turning back to him. “You had your chance and didn’t take it. You could have asked me anything five questions ago. Now stop stalling and tell me. Do you have a…..” I stop talking before I say too much.

“Smart. I like that. Let me ask you back. Do you have a….? Cause I have none. I have a heart. But it’s reserved for the one who deserves.”

“Well I don’t. But I have my eye on someone.” I smirk and see him lick his lips.

“I hope that someone is here in Cordonia, and close to you.” He measures the distance between us with his eyes

“Mmm. He is definitely in Cordonia, and maybe close to me…. I haven’t decided yet.”

He nods and parks the truck in a lane. He jumps down and comes around to open the door on my side. “We are here, my lady. Where do you want to start from? Dresses, shoes, accessories?”

He extends a hand and almost pulls me out of the truck. Suddenly we are very close to each other and I can smell his musk cologne. He is looking into my eyes and I forget to answer him.

“I can continue staring without blinking, you know. I am good at that game.” He teases me.

I break out of my trance and push him away. “You caught me off guard. I want to start with dresses, then shoes.” I walk towards the mall and he stares at me dumbfounded.

“Are you coming or are you going to stare at my ass the whole time?”

He stifles a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. He walks to me and says, “you should appreciate the eyes of the beholder, beautiful!”

I giggle and walk off with him, following me. He does small things the whole time like touching me or giving me a wink here and there.

After some time we are in a shop and I step out of the dressing room in a pink form fitting dress. I see Drake gawking at me.

“Do you think this will do?” I ask as I do a little twirl.

Drake adjusts himself and he nods. “That looks amazing on you. But for lunch with me. Not office wear. Definitely not for work with Liam. NO.”

“I was hoping for lunch with Liam….” I stop when I realize what he said. “Why not ‘for work’ with Liam?”

“ Won’t you be having an official lunch with him with other people around? Why do you want pink? Choose a nude or black.” He fumbles over his words trying to explain. “That colour brings a different side of you. It may bring you unnecessary attention… I mean prying eyes… You know what I mean. A lighter shade will be better.” He wipes the unseen sweat on his forehead.

I raise my brow at him. “Pink is perfect for me. I am not changing it.”

He looks away, I feel I saw his jaw clench but the next moment he gives a weak smile. “Sure, let’s go ahead with Pink.”

“I was going to go with pink anyway.” I walk back into the dressing room.

We do the rest of the shopping but it is, as if Drake has changed. He doesn’t talk much anymore and doesn’t comment on my clothes. There is something off but I can’t put my finger on it.

I walk a bit and then look at Drake. “What’s your favourite drink?”

“You are buying me one?”

“What? No, I am making conversation. Are you seriously pissed cause I took pink and not black or nude? “ I huff as I walk a little faster.

His firm hand grasps my wrist to stagger my speed. “Hey Yorkie!” He comes to stand in front of me, apologetically looking into my eyes. “ I am sorry if you didn’t like that. It was just .. just that.. “ he hangs his head low. “Never mind. Let’s have a drink together.” He tries to give a meek smile “Coffee?”

“Sure, I could use a coffee and a cronut or something.” I wonder what that was all about.

He stands pondering…”Croooo… Nuuuuut?” His fingers playing on his lips.

After thinking for a while he beams with a fresh confidence and says, “Now you talk like an American.” He is suddenly happy to catch on the American part. “Okay. I know where we can go.”

We drive to this cute little bakery near the beach and I can’t help but admire the beautiful shoreline.

“This place is amazing.” I smile as Drake leads me into the shop.

“I can get you here some other day. When you are not loaded with shopping bags full of dresses. Rather on a day when you plan to get rid of the only one you are wearing.” His eyes move ravenously over my body making a shiver run down my spine. “And walk barefoot with me on that sand” he points out at the shore.

I am pretty sure he understands I ignored his looks when I bubble up to look like a little kid before Christmas. “I can’t wait. I want to see the beautiful ocean. Liam showed it to me just as we flew over it.”

“Liam won’t have time or the luxury to walk it through with you. I can. I will. We can. If you come.” He speaks in broken sentences.

“That sounds fun…. Will have to see if Liam gives me a day off.”

He seems annoyed. “You are not a machine. You are human and you deserve breaks. He cannot take that away from you.”

He stands up wiping the cream of coffee from his lips and my knees go jelly. “I will make sure you get your day off and we are coming to this beach together.” He says with quite a firm tone.

My eyes flicker between the softness of his lips and the heat in his eyes.

“Thank you Drake. I am sure Liam won’t be unreasonable. But it’s nice to know I have someone in my corner.” I stand up and give him a kiss on the cheek.

His fingers rest on the place I kissed him and he mellows down again. “If I am going to get such sweet treats I can make this corner my home.”

I giggle a little as we walk out of the coffee shop together. “So what are we doing now?” I yawn a bit and feel embarrassed. “Sorry, guess I am a bit tired after the long flight.

He gives me his killing smile “Maybe I am carrying you to your quarters, in that case.”

In a swift motion, he sweeps me off my feet and holds me bridal style walking to his truck.

“Drake! Put me down. I can walk just fine.” I swat his arm as he puts me in his truck.

“Enjoy the Cordonian hospitality Yorkie!”

We buckle up and drive back.

I stare at the window as we drive off. How can I be in this country and have two sweet men by my side. Liam has been amazing even though he disappeared on me and now Drake is treating me like I am the only one he sees. This might just get interesting.

***********

Tags: @alj4890 @anjanettexcordonia @bascmve01 @charlotteg234 @choicesficwriterscreations @cordonia-gothqueen @drakewalker04 @eadanga @gkittylove99 @krsnlove @hopefulmoonobject @iam-the-kind-and-thoughtful @idontknowwhysblog @indiacater @jessiembruno @kingliam2019 @lisha1valecha @mom2000aggie @neotericthemis @ntoraplayschoices @princess-geek @princessleac1 @secretaryunpaid @sirbeepsalot @speedyoperarascalparty @queenrileyrose @texaskitten30 @txemrn @sfb123 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @theroyalheirshadowhunter @aestheticartsx @yourmajesty09 @efecom @grsarco-blog @lovelyladyk88

[bansheeoftheforest]

Ramble about angst from amnesia ghost au?

Oh boi here i go

ALSO DO NOT HOLD ME RESPONSIBLE IF I REPEAT STUFF. My brain is teeny tiny pea sized smooth like fucker and I do not remember what we have talked about before and I physically cannot come up with angst by myself <3

Ok ahaha I am not sure! If I came up with new ideas! Or if i accidentally mixed shit!! But !!! My brain physically cannot come up with angst and I TRIED to keep this angsty but... heh <3

At first, of course, Henry doesn’t even realise that he is dead. He wakes up somewhere-- he can see the stars, it’s night, yet the sky is illuminatingly polluted by the warm lights from apartment windows that all seem so far away. His body feels numb, and it’s so silent. He tries to sit up, he feels... Light. 

He feels his chest rising and falling, yet he does not feel himself taking in any air. He is hidden somewhere, he is sitting behind a few dumpsters and rubble, he doesn’t know where he is. He tries to look at his hands, they are see-through. He looks at his legs-- his legs aren’t see-through. It’s not his legs.

He turns, and on the ground where he is sitting, he sees the wrangled corpse of a man-- pale skin and blue lips, hair dirtied with coagulated blood, joints and bones and limbs bent in ways that shouldn’t be possible, clothes torn. The man had just died. He doesn’t recognise the man, but he doesn’t need to. It takes a few moments of staring into those wide-open, empty eyes and then looking back at his transparent body to know that it’s his corpse. But... Why can’t he remember anything?

His head is empty, and not only because he has no physical body. He sees how his tongue has rolled out of his limp mouth of his corpse, he sees the fractures in his skull, he can see the flesh. He has no physical body, but he can still feel it.

He stands up-- or whatever the ghost equivalent to standing up is. He watches his body, he looks down on himself. He is a mirror image of his physical form. He reaches up to his own head, and he can feel the crack in his skull. He reaches to his chest, and he can feel the broken bones poking out through his clothes. 

The body... It’s indifferent to him. At the same time, he gets overwhelmed by such an urge of protectiveness. He doesn’t understand it, not until he hears the footsteps of someone coming closer and closer.

He sees a shadow by the opening of the alleyway. He blacks out. He doesn’t know what he did until he hears an ear piercing scream and sees the body of a woman getting thrown against a wall. He doesn’t know what happened but he knows he did that. He doesn’t feel remorse, no, yet he has no chance of finishing the job before she has already fled screaming from the scene. 

Henry is not done just yet.

Henry does not let anyone go anywhere near the alleyway for a week straight. Anyone who dares come close will feel themselves getting tossed and thrown around like a chewtoy, thrown against walls or other people. It’s not until an unfortunate victim ends up with cracked bones and a hairline fracture in their skull that the police has had enough, they are going to get to the bottom of this. They question victims and witnesses, and in the end, they decide to call in the local ghost expert.

Maijabi arrives at the scene quite quickly, the police part to let him through. Surprisingly, Maijabi actually manages to enter the alleyway with no problem, yet his ghost detection device is beeping in warning. He turns a corner, and that’s when he finds it-- or him. On the floor, bloodied and rotten, lays the corpse of Dr. Henry Jekyll, unrecognisable from the consequences of his gory demise and his many days used as a feast by the rats and stray dogs roaming the neighbourhood. His eyes are gone, his skin has sunken in, patches of flesh has been ripped from his body. Maijabi drops his device. It takes five seconds before the Scotland Yard calls his name and tries to enter the alleyway in fear of the ghost haven taken him as a victim, too. They find Maijabi staring at the corpse, it does not take long for the police to gasp in a mix of fear, disgust, and horror.

They try to get to the body, they try to move it, but as they feared, the ghost as not calmed down. They hear screeches mere moments before they get thrown against a wall, making Maijabi snap out of it.

Ahah wowo i just realized I spent quite a long time with this alone but anyways so I dont repeat that one post; Maijabi manages to trap Henry, his haunting screams of agony only worsens the trauma and horror that has already infected those around him. He screams, he begs, he pleads, but no one can understand what he is saying. It’s not until the cops move his corpse and his wallet falls out that he calms down so slightly, suddenly fixated on nothing but the wallet. Maijabi picks it up and opens it, the first thing he sees is a group picture of all the Lodgers. He places it in Henry’s trap to calm him, and then he takes him back to the Society.

(Well, this is specifically for the vengeful branch of this au branch but ye <3)

Can you imagine the absolute horror and sorrow Maijabi would be going through in such a short time? After all, it was never unusual for Henry to be away for... Well, what’s it been, a week? Now Maijabi is left with Henry who doesn’t know who he is and who wants nothing but to hurt anyone in his path, now he is responsible for telling the other Lodgers.

When Henry isn’t destroying lab equipment or possessing Lodgers, regardless of if he is free to roam or trapped, he will weep and cry but he never knows why. He just feels terrible and lost, sometimes he gets struck by such an overwhelming sense of sorrow and anguish he can do nothing but to... Well, weep. No matter how scared or mad the Lodgers are, they all feel so terrible when the weeping echos throughout the Society.

Henry has the ghost equivalent of PTSD after his death. He gets flashbacks and panic attacks when he suddenly remembers his death or other trauma he suffered throughout his life or death, even if he can’t remember his life. Regardless of if he is generally violent or not, Maijabi always does his best to calm and help him.

Jasper volunteers to let Henry possess him and (I’m going to switch over to when he ISN’T violent for these ones) spends time with him. Henry doesn’t know who Jasper is but he feels a little less lonely and slightly better when he has someone who cares for him and spends time with him. In the beginning, they could only have Henry possessing Jasper for short moments because the poor boy kept getting overwhelmed with Henry’s emotions, and Maijabi and the other Lodgers worried that the amnesiac affect would bleed onto Jasper. It didn’t, though, so while they work on trying to regain Henry’s memories, Henry clings to him. It goes a bit overboard once Henry starts developing separation anxiety, and he constantly worries that something will happen to Jasper.

Jasper keeps having flashes of Henry’s life and how he died. He wakes up crying most of the time, and since Henry is the first person he sees when he wakes up, he gets panic attacks, yet he refuses to let Henry down and make things even worse for him, yet it makes Henry feel worse knowing he is torturing poor Jasper.

If it isn’t the vengeful branch of this au, Henry would be found by Maijabi curled up against the wall where his body was. Maijabi, at that point, would already have known that it’s Henry’s body has the ghost wasn’t violent and the cops could take the corpse no problem. He finds Henry weeping, but he gets overjoyed when he realises that Maijabi can see and hear him. Maijabi leads him back to the Society but Henry never stops crying. Maijabi is not sure if his shirt is wet with blood or his own tears.

Weeping. So much weeping. Exploring the Society while weeping. Dancing in empty ballrooms while weeping. Spying on the Lodgers while trying to stop his weeping. Henry weeps constantly and he can’t stop it. 

The weeping and Henry’s sorrow only got worse when Helsby snapped and told him to shut up. The Lodgers immediately began to yell at Helsby while Henry locked himself into an empty room and cried harder. He doesn’t know what he did wrong or why people don’t like him, he just wants to be liked.

[melancholic-pigeon]

WIP Wednesday- HIOB chapter 12

Content warning for brief references to a past suicidal episode. (The actual thing is lighthearted!)

It's suggestive, but not actually NSFW. They're just having a post-scene bath. 😘

...I'm excusing this excerpt being long because I am like five words under 6k rn. I wasn't kidding about Jason not being able to shut the fuck up.

It's strange how little sex involved. 

Mostly, they just talk, Percy curled up against Jason's chest as the jets pound into the knot that stubbornly reasserted itself almost as soon as they parted ways. They're off now, and the relative silence is odd, but calming.

Percy's exhausted too, although he doesn't seem to realize how much effort he's expending in his (largely successful) attempts to deal with Jason's exhaustion. He yawns into Jason's shoulder, vividly calling back a thousand memories.

"It was really, really hard not to tell you I loved you," Jason says quietly, after a few moments of soft splashing and conversational lull. Percy lifts his head, wet hair sticking to his jaw.

"You told me all the time. Your love language, ironically, is 'acts of service'." He smirks, inexplicably soft. "It's just that you only used the actual words once."

Of course he knows what they're talking about— this is probably just as nostalgic for him. Jason's pulse quickens, residually feeling that long-ago crushing terror. 

("You and I both know that right now you'd say almost anything to get me to—"

"Did it occur to you that I might be willing to say almost anything, including the truth? Because the truth, Percy, is that I'm being selfish, because you're my friend and I love you and I really don't want to lose you.")

"I hadn't even thought it to myself yet. It just— popped into my head and came out of my mouth. Not that I didn't know, but I hadn't faced up to how serious it had gotten."

Percy tilts his head. He looks thoughtful and tender. 

"We really are foils, huh? I faced up to it when I cried on your shoulder for the first time, I just had no fuckin' clue what I was facing up to." 

"We're counterweights, too." Jason brushes back that strand of hair, mostly as an excuse to cup Percy's cheek. "Like how I'm emotionally constipated and you wear your heart on your sleeve." 

"My mom told me that exact thing the morning after senior prom." Percy, smiling, leans into the touch. "Just the part about me. It was how she knew I was smitten. Apparently, I'd been making moony eyes at you since I got out of the hospital."

Jason's inner seventeen year old shivers with delight. They haven't even been together for six months yet, but it feels like they've been in love their whole lives. Like maybe they've been in love for several lives already.

"I admire how expressive you are. I—" 

He stops himself, grimacing slightly. Percy picks up the slack. 

"You have a lot of feelings, but every time you showed them, it got you screamed at. You learned to hold it in because you didn't have a choice, but that doesn't make you any less sensitive— it's not so much that you have a thick skin and more that you've learned to push through your pain. Which is also why you reinjure at least two things per season and insist on continuing to play until you're forcibly benched." He narrows his eyes. "Hint hint." 

Jason slides his hand around the back of Percy's neck and pulls him down again, ignoring the jab. 

"If you ever go back to school, you should seriously consider counseling as a career path."  

"I am, actually." Percy sits up and grins, a fierce, thunderous determination in it. "I want to be a licensed clinical social worker. I can add to the pool of 'em who don't totally suck, and at this point I'm something of an expert at needing therapy, so my clients and I will have that experience in common."

"That's perfect for you." Jason kisses the top of Percy's head. "You're incredibly insightful and compassionate. You always know what to say and how to say it, and it's not even on purpose— it's what's sincerely in your heart. The only people who ever doubt how much you care about them are the ones who aren't paying attention." 

Percy buries his face in Jason's neck and raspberries his upper trapezius. 

"Gee, tell me how you really feel."

They're both flushed from the steam, but Jason has a feeling they would be anyway. 

"You knew this about me, babe." 

"Shut up. Just because I like it doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I'll tone it down if you want me to," Jason tells him, smiling. He knows what the answer will be before Percy even shakes his head. 

"Nah, I'm worse. I used to, like, wistfully tell people, 'oh, Jason's the best—'" he puts on that slightly-mocking tone he uses when he's quoting himself like this— "'he's such a great dude, he's so good at calming me down, I can only fall asleep when he's holding me, I don't know what I'd do without him, also his tits are very nice, yes, I'm sure I'm straight, why do you ask?'" 

Jason snorts. "You see my point about how quickly and easily you show people your love." 

"I'm not the only one." Percy sits up a little, his hand on Jason's chest to brace himself. "You try to be stoic, but what you really are is steady. People gravitate to you when they're upset or scared because they know you'll protect them, and they end up trailing behind you like ducklings. You don't show you hurt, but you definitely show you care."

Jason runs his hand over Percy's back where the cool shower soothed away the irritation. 

"See? You always know what to say."