#iaw drabble

[indiaalphawhiskey]

“Perhaps that was another part of your planned… entrapment.”

Colin Bridgerton could live to be eight-and-ninety, and those words would forever be the nine he was most ashamed of. He had not known a moment’s peace since uttering them, his bones heavy with grief and regret as the words circled his memory, again, and again, and again.

Worse still had been Penelope’s response — soft and unbearably genuine; watery and honest. “I did not mean to entrap you, Colin. I love you.”

I love you.

He held onto that part of the memory fiercely, mind focused on her singular mercy, the use of present tense — love, not loved — fervently hoping it would drown out the rest. That it would make him forget the feel of her fingers, warm against his own, slipping the frigid metal of her betrothal ring back into his palm; forget the way he felt his heart split in two immediately, the crisp sound of its cracking masked only by the angry clack of his boots as he stormed after her, livid and ludicrously in love, because how very dare she?

How dare she think to leave him, as though that were even a possibility for two people whose souls were so deeply intertwined?

He said as much, though admittedly, not quite as well.

“Penelope,” he whispered the warning into her hair as he caught up to her at the bottom of the staircase. His fingers curled around her elbow, just firm enough to keep her in place. Gently, he spun her to face him, and implored seriously, “you cannot leave.”

Me, was what he meant. You cannot leave me.

Even the thought of it made the air leave his lungs, so he pushed it away, and chose instead to say, “the banns have been read.”

She scoffed in a way that was so easy, he felt another shard of his heart come loose. “As though we are the first pair to ever call off a wedding. Was not Miss Edwina already at the head of the altar? If anything, we are conscientiously early in our decision.”

‘Our decision’. Of all the insults. As if Colin would ever permit such foolish thinking as this, let alone contribute to it.

He narrowed his eyes at this sudden display of hardness he did not recognize in her. “We have been intimate,” he reminded her then — determined that she understand just exactly how inevitable they were.

He had uttered the very same excuse not five minutes prior, and yet this time, instead of her earlier sweet sorrow, he was met with a startling flash of anger, the blue of her eyes thunderous.

“No one need know that if you would only stop repeating it,” she hissed, quiet and angry. “Or are you to tell me you will stupidly aid in your own entrapment,” the word fell from her tongue like arsenic, heavy and poisoned, “by announcing it over and over until we are caught?”

It was infuriating how truly clever she was.

No matter, he was clever, too. Her soul’s perfect match.

“And if you are with child?” He snapped.

She rolled her eyes at him, derisive laughter in her tone. “My courses have come and gone, Mr. Bridgerton, you need not worry.” Somehow, her words left him stricken, a sharp pang of something akin to disappointment hitting him squarely in the chest. She, however, was unmoved, her expression as fiery as the auburn of her hair. “It seems even my body has graciously decided to relieve you of your most honorable duty.”

It was scathing and deserved, and yet all Colin could say in return was what he hoped was true, “You lie.”

“I do not,” she said simply, a near murderous smile playing at her lips now. “Or maybe I do,” she shrugged, unbothered. “It is not as if you can lift my skirts in an attempt to ascertain the truth.”

It was all he could do not to gape at her, his beautiful, sweet, gently-bred betrothed — for she was his betrothed still, make no mistake — speaking in such a manner to him.

“Penelope,” he chastised harshly.

“Miss Featherington,” she corrected, tone sharp as she tipped her chin up towards him, eyes stony.

It was the final straw. Colin had never been so angry, and so desperately in love. His fingers fell from her elbow to her wrist, and he yanked it towards him much less gently than he should have, before slipping the ring back onto her finger with the kind of finality that brooked no more argument. He watched as it found its rightful place again, before announcing, irrefutably, “Mrs. Bridgerton.”

[orlha]

Kakashi/Sakura - Romantic ♡ 3. Where character B is their soulmate Please♡♡♡

Notes: SOOOO This is supposed to be a drabble. But heeeey SURPRISE it’s not? Hope you like it anyway, I might add that it’s not terribly fluffy either.

—

Civiliansconsidered themselves adults when they received their soulmarks at eighteen.Shinobis didn’t care too much about their soulmarks or tried not to at least.Not all soulmates meet, and if they do, not all of them meet on friendlyterms.  

Kakashiknew that the chance of having an out-village soulmate was rare, yet he hadseen how Rin had reacted when Obito died, seen how his father had chosen deathover him, seen Sensei picked death over living without Kushina. His soulmarkappears, “No, you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” curvingdown his palm. Cursive and almost unreadable words. 

Inanother world without shinobis, without pain and the ever-hanging death,Kakashi thinks he might have been loved and loved back. But he’s not in anotherworld. He’s here, where the people closest to him have chosen to die, wherethey had died leaving him alone. 

Gaiassures him that soulmates always meet each other. It’s fate and no matter howfar he runs, he’ll always come back to the same fork. It leaves a bitter tastein Kakashi’s mouth. He doesn’t someone, doesn’t want someone else to die onhim. Gai… Gai is the only one he trusts not to die on him. Too much energy andoptimism, too much youth. 

So hedistances himself. 

FromTenzo who pursued his friendship, from Asuma who tried to rekindle their‘broship’ after his long absence, from Team seven who was a mockery of what hisown team had been. 

Hebarely trains his genin, barely cares when Naruto was apprenticed to Jiraiya orwhen Sakura is apprenticed to Tsunade. They were barely his students. 

Yethere they are again. Tsunade refusing to let him fade into anbu, forcing him toreform his team. 

Hehates it, hates how people push him, with supposedly comforting words that hissoulmate was out there somewhere.  

Hedoesn’t care. He tells himself that every time. His soulmate is probably dead,or out-village and he doesn’t care. 

Theyare all lies. 

Becausehe does. 

He’sjust abandoned. 

—  

Inspite of people’s popular beliefs, Sakura worked hard to get top kunoichi. Sheknew it wouldn’t matter in the long run. Academy scores didn’t matter in thereal world, but that was all she had to prove to her next superiors that shewas competent. Never mind that she didn’t have a senior shinobi to train herlike all the clan kinds, never mind that some days her parents ‘forgot’ to feedher.  

Sakurais good. 

She hasto be. 

She’snot like Ino who had parents to fall back on after graduating. Sakura had neverhad that kind of affection. She imagines that when she gets her soulmark, meetsher soulmate that they would fall passionately in love. She’d be tucked intohis arms, she would be loved. 

It’sthese thoughts that keep Sakura going even when her jounin sensei turns out tobe a distant and barely teaching them anything beyond referencing books to readon.  

Sakurareads these books voraciously. No one is going to help her if she doesn’t helpherself. She summons her own courage to request for an apprenticeship with Tsunadeand spends her next few years proving herself that she is competent, that sheis worth teaching. 

Becauseno one else cares if she doesn’t.  

—  

Shishousends her on a mission with her former Team Seven just near her birthday. Anddespite it being a fairly low ranked mission for shinobis of their status,Sakura thinks that Shishou hadn’t counted for the Team Seven luck. 

Whatshould have been an almost idyllic mission turns into a shitfest. Turns out theperson they were escorting was some long-lost prince who now inherited thekingdom and by mandate was returning to ascend the throne and the councillorwho had looked after the kingdom for twenty years was disgruntled enough tosend Iwa-nins to kill him.

That’s not important. 

Sakurawas busy fighting off Iwa-nins and their stupid explosive jutsu when Kakashitakes an almost fatal hit for Yamato. Quickly, with Sai’s help, she disengagesand flickers to Kakashi, hauling him to the side where Naruto’s clonessurrounded them in a protective circle. 

“No,just leave me,” Kakashi says even as she fights to manually pump his blood andheal that hole in his torso.  

“No,you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” she snarls. She presses on,leaving Naruto to deal with anyone attempting to interrupt her and divesin.  

It’smaybe minutes or hours later when she wakes from her healing trance,disoriented by the lack of veins and cells in her vision. A hand helps her up. 

“Kaka-senseiwill be fine.” Hands press food into her hands as soon as she’s seated by thefire. 

She blinks.  

Thestars above have bloomed across the dark twilight sky, the Iaw-nin bodies hadbeen burnt or sealed away, a small smokeless campfire had already been startedand Kakashi was tucked under a blanket next to Yamato, his half-lidded eyewatching her. 

Shedoesn’t care if she saved Kakashi against his will. Only stupid man does stupidthings like that. He can hate her for all she cares. He wouldn’t be the firstor the last to do so. Sakura forces herself to eat the stew Sai had given her.Tomorrow she’ll need to check on him and considering how he chose to dieinstead of being healed, she already knows it’d be a fight. 

To hersurprise, Kakashi doesn’t put up a fight the next day. He lets her press hermedical chakra in, check his torso and even his eyes.  

Andwhen everything checks out, Naruto heaves their long-lost prince onto his backand starts the trip to the Kingdom of Stars. Now that they’re aware of actualthreats, they’re more cautious about leaving traces behind.  

Sakuratries not to recall the way Kakashi refused to let her heal him. So it seemsthat her choice of people to have crushes on always are people who areemotionally unavailable. She’s been down that way once, abandoned at thevillage gates. It wouldn’t surprise her if her soulmate would be equallyuninterested in her.  

Themission ends successfully, and they’re invited to stay in the palace for a fewdays. The Kingdom of Stars is gorgeous. Unlike the Kingdom of Moon, the mostpicturesque thing about the Kingdom of Stars is their sky. The trail ofnorthern lights dancing across the sky, beset with shimmering stars.  

Sakurastares out into the sky, the light wisp of smoke escaping her mouth as shebreathes. It’s a place she wouldn’t mind retiring to. The placid lifestyle ofthe people here, their earnest laughter.  She thinks she could be happyhere. 

Probablynot.  

She hadfinally gotten her soulmark during the mission. It’s across her hip and shedoesn’t care what it says anymore. It’s stupid yearning for something she’llnever get or even brooding over it. When this mission is over, she’ll go backto the hospital where no one cares, back to her one room apartment.  

Sakuraisn’t meant for happiness or love. 

“Sakura?” 

She’sso lost in her thoughts that his voice almost startles her off the roof.Kakashi grabs her, his hand lingers on her arm before he sticks it back intohis pockets. His shoulders are slumped, radiating the feeling of exhaustion. 

“Areyou okay?” The weapons that the Iwa-nin weren’t likely to be poisoned. She wouldhave noticed if it were, but there’s always the chance for human error. Sheputs a hand on his, double checking his system for any infection or poison. 

That’sweird, his hands are bare. Kakashi always wears his gloves. 

Sheturns his hand and gasps. There are thick calluses across his palm, especiallyon the fingertips and across the palm, almost down to his wrist is undeniablyher handwriting.  

“No,you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” it says.  

Sheslowly looks up at him. His mismatched eyes look back at her nervously.  

“Ibelieve these are your words,” he says carefully.  

Sakuracan hear her blood pounding in her ears, the colour in her face bleeding out asshe processed the situation. She pulls her shirt up, wrenching part of herpants down. Splayed across her hip, the narrow but neat writing are the words “no,just leave me.” 

“Those…are definitely my words and handwriting.” His hand curls up to grip hers.  

Shebarks a mirthless laugh and shakes his hand off, stepping back several steps.“So…” she starts in a quivering voice and hates herself for the weakness. “…I’m marked with your suicidal words.” 

Sheturns away and the frustration of the entire situation, the helplessness feltso overwhelming that she couldn’t stop tears from gathering in her eyes. 

She wasright.  

Thepeople always had crushes on were emotionally unavailable and that apparentlyincluded her soulmate, the man she had a crush on for the last two years. Also,the man who is suicidal and had such a blatant disregard that shishou forcedthem to have a medic at all times. 

Underall her doubts and sarcasm, Sakura had hoped that her soulmate would be someonewho loved her, where she could finally be love and be loved in return. 

“I’mnot…” he murmurs behind her. “…suicidal…” 

Hereaches out to clasp her shoulder.  “Sakura…” 

“Don’tworry, I’ll be fine even if you leave,” she tells him. She had seen shinobislike Kakashi. She knows what would happen. She won’t cry over this, or so shetells herself as she ignores the tight clenching in her chest.  

Becauseno one would care if she isn’t alright and her parents would be smug in theknowledge that they were right; that even her soulmate didn’t want her. 

“Let metry, please.” His fingers tightened and she looks up at him. Hissharingan still spinning slowly, his hair almost fey in the dimmoonlight.  

Shepulls a shuddering breath from her lungs, schooling the trembling in herhands.  

“Youdidn’t care to teach any of us anything. Didn’t care who I went to or if I hadto go to genin corps. Why? Why should I?” 

“I’mnot suicidal. I just… There’s a point where you don’t care because you’ve beenabandoned by everyone that loved you and I know I fucked up, but please.”His eyes are desperate. 

“Atleast you’ve been loved,” she says, scrubbing the tears furiously away with hersleeve. “I’ve never even once!” 

“Thenlet us try. We’re soulmates right? There has to be a reason for it…” he says.His tone full of self-deprecation. “Gai said that its fate and that no matterhow far we try to run from it, if it’s fate, we’ll come back to the same fork.So since we’re at the fork now. It’s better to try. I… I am still terrified ofmaking have new people join my ring of important people…” 

Herlips twist and Sakura laughs a wet laugh.  

“Andprove them wrong?” she asks. “All the people who said that no one would loveyou.” 

“I’ll standback and watch you crush them?” He thumbs her tears away. 

“Okay.”She presses her face into his palm, his eyes softening. 

—  

Andperhaps no one believed it would last. Some soulmates die young together, somesoulmates never quite work out. 

Betweentheir multitude of issues and age gap, no one believed Kakashi and Sakurawould.  

Butthey did. 

Curledup in each other’s arms, under the tall Sakura tree, watching the petals fallaround them, they finally found the happiness, peace and love they had longedfor.  

Untilthey were old and wrinkled, grey and aged.  

Kakashipresses a kiss into her greying hair and thinks of the northern lightsreflected in her pink hair then and he would have it no other way.

—

Prompts are still open all the way until New Year’s Eve if you want to send any in :)

Tumblr prompts list: here

[indiaalphawhiskey]

“Perhaps,” Colin said, and the word itself tasted so bitter on his tongue, it was as though he was compelled into spitting all the others out of his mouth, just to finally rid himself of the poison of them, “that was another part of your… entrapment.”

His regret was instant — hot and blinding — his mind playing out the memory of her wide, curious, shining eyes as she had laid bare and vulnerable beneath him, all bashful innocence, and asked him, so earnestly, ‘Is there more?’

The sweet lilt of it echoed in his head as his pitiful lie burned through his body, shaming him. But he could not bring himself to look at her now, because he knew he could not take the accusation back — knew no apology would suffice.

“I did not mean to entrap you, Colin.” Her gentle words were pained — small, and tearful, and so full of truth. “I love you.”

Out of his periphery, he caught the shape of her lips as she said it, sweetly downturned in their devastation, in their distress.

He loved those lips.

He loved her. His Pen.

It was on the tip of his tongue, his heart steadfastly pushing it forward like a boulder through a dark cave, desperately urging the confession out of him. Only—

“I loved you enough to save you from entrapment,” she said. And maybe, had he not been so focused on the way the earlier devastation in her voice seemed to turn determined, he would have seen it sooner: seen her slip off her ring before her warm fingers met his — the touch he had so missed, had so agonizingly craved for days, finally coming back to him in its most heart wrenching iteration. She pressed the cold metal into the palm of his clenched hand, the curves of the small pearls smooth against his skin. It might as well have been shards of broken glass.

“I love you enough,” she repeated, though it was not lost on him, the sudden change of tense — from past to present, “to save you from entrapment.”

His gaze shot to her the very moment the true meaning of her words hit him, dread solidifying at the bottom of his belly.

No, he thought, panicked.

No.

No.

No!

Again, the right words had failed him. She was gone.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

💋 Snippet

“Okay, fine, you don’t want to talk,” he acquiesced, trying not to sigh, defeated. He knew it was for the greater good, though that was a little hard to hold on to when Harry muttered ‘finally’ under his breath.

Fucking yield, Tomlinson.

He pointedly ignored Harry’s jab for the sake of channeling his frustration into finding, like, flow. Again, he thumbed at Harry’s waist and caught his gaze. “Can I kiss you?”

He could have sworn by the look Harry gave him that he was seriously considering just… leaving.

He sighed, exasperated. “If it’ll keep you from your incessant need to narrate this entire event,” he quipped, irritatedly gesturing at the air surrounding them (whilst also, quite notably, leaning forward just enough for Louis to feel his warm breath skate across Louis’ lips when he said), “then please do.”

[indiaalphawhiskey]

fake title: almost tethered

💋 Almost Tethered

This was, by far, the longest and most awkward silence in the history of mankind, and yet, Louis couldn’t, for the life of him, think of a single thing to say.

Because, really, what was he supposed to say?

He knew fuck all about the man sitting casually on his chaise in a frieghteningly sexy brown duck jumper, except that he had been crazy enough to agree to a threesome with Louis and his fiancé to help spice up their already very extended engagement (that every single person they loved was still waiting for them to call off).

Well, okay, Louis didn’t know ‘fuck all’ exactly. He knew he had a face that was a little too pretty to be true (so much so that Louis had bet Robbie they were being catfished and was now down £20), that he was probably making an obscenely (heh) good living if his (surprisingly tasteful, only-strategically-posed-artful-nudes) OnlyFans page had anything to say about it, and that his actual real name was Harry Styles.

So, Louis knew some things (four, he knew a total of four things), none of which he could use to fill this rather excruciating silence. Lovely.

It didn’t help that Harry hadn’t said a thing to him either since walking through their door – not that he could have, what with the way Robbie had bulldozed through the introductions before swiftly exiting to make everyone martinis.

(“Do you even know how to make a martini?” Louis had asked as they were getting dressed that evening.

Robbie had waved off his very pressing concern. “I’ll Google it. Wine just seems a little too pedestrian for a threesome, you know?”)

Louis began to roll his eyes at the memory but quickly aborted the motion, worried Harry might think it was directed at him. He reverted back to their mutual staring, though, admittedly whilst Louis was sure his expression was similar to that of a frightened raccoon, Harry’s was painfully cool. Collected and poised. Almost serene. Unbothered.

His smirk was soft; green eyes kind yet still somewhat appraising. Louis supposed he couldn’t help it, given their, ah, agenda for the evening. He actually found himself hoping Harry liked what he saw.

Louis certainly did; found himself wondering if it would be appropriate to lick at the swallows tattooed on Harry’s collarbones, or if that was more of a second session kind of thing.

Would there be a second session? Likely not, since the entire point of doing this with a stranger was to avoid all the awkwardness afterwards. (Which said nothing of the awkwardness during.)

He was overthinking and needed to stop, immediately.

God, say something! Louis commanded himself, unable to remember the last time he blinked. As had become habit since his engagement, his hand drifted down to fiddle with the watch he wore with a fierce kind of loyalty on his right wrist. His mind drifted to three words hidden under the expensive leather strap – his accidental life mantra, bestowed upon him by fate.

He thought of how the curve of capital D swooped, how the N had always been a little crooked, how he had learned the cursive version of an S before he could even write or read.

How Robbie hadn’t said the words when they’d met.

How, because of that, his family thought this engagement had been doomed from the start.

How Harry still hadn’t said anythi—

“Don’t be nervous.”

Louis’ answer was automatic, almost involuntary, because he’d been saying it in mock response all his life. “I’m not.”

Needless to say, the next time Louis found himself staring awkwardly back at Harry Styles, it was not because of their impending threesome. It was because said third in their impending threesome had just uttered his soulmark.

��� Or, there were a multitude of awkward ways to meet one’s soulmate. They could say your mark from the urinal next to you mid-wee at a funeral, or sneaking out of your flatmate’s bedroom after a one night stand, or trying to upsell the newest state-of-the-art dildo in their family-owned sex shop.

Still, Louis was pretty sure his version was the one that took the cake.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

🐇 Little Polin Plot Bunny (Pt 1) 🐇

(I have no idea where this is going. I just liked the spin on entrapment.)

—

“Penelope,” Colin said it as softly as he could, though it still rang loud in the tension of the room. Contrite as he was, he stood with his back pressed against the inside of her bedroom door, hesitant to approach her where she was sitting by her vanity.

Her eyes flashed angrily where he met her gaze in the mirror. “What are you doing here?”

Colin was still carefully choosing his words in his head, his brow furrowed, when her sudden, harsh laughter made him jolt. There was a cruel twist to her smile as she turned to him.

“Do not tell me you’re here for your wedding night.”

‘Your’, not ‘our’. Somehow, that hurt more than her mean-spirited laugher.

“Pen,” Colin reasoned, infusing her old nickname with gentleness, hoping to keep this discussion civil. He took a step forward as he spoke, beseeching her, “you know we must get you with child to secure your family’s title.”

The words seemed to fall to the floor with their heft, and he imagined a clumsy clattering ringing in his ears. And then… silence.

It stretched between them, slow to suffocate the room, until—

“‘Get me with child?’” She said, her mockery progressing with each carefully enunciated, incredulous word. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she spat his name out with so much venom that he found himself longing for the days of her icy silence. “You disparaged me in front of every eligible bachelor in the ton two seasons past and sailed out of my life without a single apology only to waltz into my home and tell my mother an outrageous, bald faced lie about compromising my honor to secure my hand—”

Colin forced himself to keep eye contact, forced himself not to flinch as her words grew sharper, but it was certainly a feat.

“—knowing full well we have nary exchanged a single pleasantry — a single civil breath — since the year before your boots last touched English soil.”

“Penelope, I—”

“You, indeed,” she seethed. “You have entrapped me,” she accused seriously over his failed pleading, “in a sham of a match—a sham exactly like the one I was forced to endure under my father and mother’s roof through my childhood. All for the chance to name yourself a knight in shining armor, sweeping up a lonely, destitute spinster in her hour of need.” He had never, not ever, even in the last two years of their silence towards one another, seen so much hatred in her eyes, her once sweet laughter souring as she asked, disbelief at his audacity coloring her tone, “And you think I would ever let you touch me?”

[indiaalphawhiskey]

🐇 (Pt. 2) Little Polin Plot Bunny 🐇

(Again, absolutely no idea where this is going.)

—

“It is so very unfortunate.”

Colin suspected that, had his mother known he was standing right outside the drawing room, so freshly arrived from his travels that his his coat still held a faint wisp of a Grecian breeze, she would have taken care to speak even more discreetly than she was.

“‘Tis,” Daphne agreed, a soft frown in her voice. “Sweet Penelope, trussed up for auction like a prized calf, just to protect the Baronry. Oh Mama,” she tsked, stubbornly hopeful, “you don’t truly think Lady Featherington will hand her to the first decrepit Lord she finds, do you? She can hardly be so cruel.”

“You obviously do not know her.” For once, Eloise’s razor sharp wit was sorely lacking in bite. “And for that, I would count myself lucky, sister.”

The sound Violet made was far too despondent to truly be considered disagreement, though Colin could not find another word for it. “It is not cruel, dearest,” she corrected gently. It was the only time Colin had ever heard his mother set her romanticism staunchly aside. “It is strategy. They cannot keep their nobility as a family of women and it is a wonder no one has come to take the title as it is. A little Lord Featherington is their only hope to remain in good society and three married daughters, even unhappily married,” she added, predicting Daphne’s indignant harumph, “is the highest chance for that.”

“But Mama, Penelope has practically grown up in this house. Surely there is something we could do, or…” Daphne insisted, ever graceful, ever sanguine, “oh, I do not know, a decent Lord we could speak to, who would offer for her.”

Even Eloise could not bring herself to scoff at the idea, nor, it seemed, could Colin keep himself from his inevitable conclusion.

He had known it was lunacy from the moment the seed implanted itself in his mind, and yet, he did not care. In fact, he only very briefly paused his march out of the foyer and across the square to wonder how he was meant to ask for the hand of someone who had not deigned to gift him so much as smile in two years?

The answer, it turned out, was rather simple. He would not ask her, he decided. He would ask her mother.

Maybe, Colin thought to himself then, this would be what finally set his and Penelope’s relationship to rights. Maybe this was what would keep their lives from this continued, tumultuous estrangement. Maybe this was exactly what Colin needed to do to correct all his wrongs towards a once dear friend and win back her warmth.

He pushed away the niggling voice in his head that called him an arrogant, naive fool; the niggling voice that told him that if he did this — if he forced her hand — he had a greater chance of counting all the grains of sand in the Mediterranean than to hope for any kind of amiability between them.

It was a voice, loath as he was to admit, that sounded so very suspiciously like Penelope’s.

| Part 1 |

[indiaalphawhiskey]

fake fic title! "crescent moons fix broken hearts"

would love it if it could be hl? 👀

Sorry this took so long! I really needed to write something today to flex the muscle, I hope you and @awesomefringey (who submitted the t-shirt pic) like it. 🥰 (I tried to post this twice with a moodboard but Tumblr wouldn’t let me. 😒)

🌙 Crescent Moons Fix Broken Hearts

Sitting in the en suite of the lavish hotel room, the soft lighting of the vanity illuminating the planes of his face, Harry let the radical irony of what he was about to do wash over him.

It was a weird thing, he realized, this feeling of waiting for a moment your entire life – preserving it, building it up – only to have it finally, finally come in a form so different it was almost laughable.

Not almost. Harry did laugh.

Half because he caught sight of his ridiculously nervous expression in the mirror, and half because apparently, one minute someone could be the perfect pure, virginal (if a little sexually frustrated) Omega groom-to-be fitting their bespoke wedding suit in at a highly exclusive designer shop, and three days later, be that very same Omega, revenge and wildly expensive tequila shooting through their veins as they booked their would-have-been honeymoon suite to have raunchy sex with an Alpha they’d hired specifically to finally deflower them, once and for all.

Turns out getting dumped in a Saville Row dressing room because one’s ex-fiancé thought they were quote, “an uppity, frigidly cold fish who he probably had no sexual chemistry with anyway”, unquote, really lit a fire under one’s arse.

Harry flared his nose in anger, his thoughts murderous as images of his beautiful, wasted wedding invitations danced back into his mind, haunting him. His cheeks began their now familiar pinkening with his remembered humiliation, and then…

A soft knock unfortunately interrupted Harry’s montage of fantastic daydreams of running over every single one of his ex-fiancé’s prized watches to the intro of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song.

“Come in,” he called out gently – or as gently as one could through gritted teeth.

As the door slid away, the unfamiliar, unassuming coolness of rosemary and sage rolled in slowly. Harry wasn’t used to it; accustomed to sharing spaces with the scent of warm whiskey and leather layered with that wretchedly expensive cologne Harry had always hated.

But back to the sage.

Sage, and rosemary, and cedar, and… he let the last note tickle his nose as he tried to name it.

“Are you okay?” Louis Tomlinson asked.

… and soap, Harry realized, oddly comforted even as he wondered whether the name was a pseudonym; wondered if it was standard procedure to print such a convincing alias on a discreet calling card that would eventually be passed across an elegant brunch table at the Dorchester.

(‘Niall, don’t be absurd,’ Harry had sniffed, trying his best to push the card back towards him without making a scene. ‘Jesus, just be normal and introduce me to one of your investment bankers, or something.’

Niall had given him a long, silent, and completely unimpressed look in response, glancing down at the engagement ring Harry was still wearing, if only to make a point. Ouch.

‘Harry, trust me. After this shitshow, you of all people deserve an orgasm on the first go. Treat yourself.’)

“I’m alright.” The polite platitude was out of his mouth accompanied by a reserved smile through the mirror before he could stop it.

It wasn’t like he could tell the truth anyway; not like he could say, ‘No, actually. I’m fucking livid, because a week ago I was about to be married, and today my financial manager called to ask if my credit card had been stolen because there was a suspicious charge from RoyaLT Enterprises for a ‘Platinum Package – All Inclusive’ on it when I was assured this service would be discreet, goddamnit!’

He bit his tongue, mostly because Harry didn’t tell Louis about the jilting; had decided against it the moment he had clicked ‘Platinum’, the description reading ‘two-week session with certified heat coach (Alpha) focused on scent familiarity, building sexual rapport, and discussing intimacy needs in addition to agreed heat cycle partnership.’

A virgin who had saved himself for marriage only to be jilted a week before his wedding because he was, in fact, a virgin, paying for sex and intimacy, trapped in a room with someone who really shouldn’t be as attractive as he had turned out to be… It had all just felt a little too humiliating.

Which, speaking of…

“Sorry,” Harry blurted out softly now, slowly coming to his senses. He turned to face Louis, his eyes widening. “We’re… we’re on the clock, aren’t we? Am I… I’m wasting your time?”

Louis chuckled softly – kindly, really – and casually leaned against the door frame, crossing his ankles. He was shirtless, Harry only now realized, as he watched him slip both hands into the pockets of his silk pajama bottoms, making them ride dangerously low against his happy trail.

Louis shook his head. “You’re supposed to take your time, get comfortable with me.” He raised his hand to gesture to himself – what he was wearing, and then the space between them. “This is all part of it.” He grinned wide, and Harry had noticed he was handsome when they’d met, but the genuine warmth of his smile is what made it. (Well, his smile, and his abs, and the still respectable but no less impressive hint of a bulge in his pajama bottoms…) “It’s called the boyfriend package for a reason.”

Funny, Harry thought then, feeling just a little bit… well, a little bit wet. He’d never had a boyfriend who looked quite like this.

Niall’s wise words began to reverberate in his mind: ‘Treat yourself.’

Harry bit back a cheeky smile. He intended to.

— Or, When Harry Styles did things, he did them right. Why should losing his virginity be any different?

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hello! Just wanted to stop by and say thank you for sharing your writing with us!!! I truly appreciate it! Whether a snipped to a long story you’re working on or a drabble from a prompt… thank you so much!!! So don’t have to share and yet you do!! I stop here every once in a while to see if you have anything up… Cant wait for another tid bit… also, the most recent snippet of the omega-verse is part of a bigger story right? Are they all housed somewhere or am I tripping??

Hello, love!

Thank you so much for this, it’s such a sweet message and I really appreciate it! Writing can be tough and lonely, especially when you’re not that prolific (me), and posting snippets is kind of my way of reaching out and saying hi. I’m glad you stopped by to encourage me, it means a lot. 🥰

Yes, Omegaverse is part of a bigger story, although the concept for the fic has evolved a lot since its original inception (by that I mean my idea keeps changing). I don’t have a singular tag for it though. I might have to go back and think of one. Maybe #iaw omegaverse au since it doesn’t have a nickname.

I’ll go back and tag it tomorrow. Thank you for being interested 🩷

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hi love ❤️ I’ve seen you’ve been missing writing and while I don’t want to burden this on you (please only respond if thinking and writing about this gives you joy) I wanted to share these two pics I keep connecting in my brain as if they happened at the same moment.

Harry walks by Louis’ desk. Their eyes meet.

And I keep wondering, what is going on here? Do you know?? 👀

Ask and you shall receive. 😘

— (loosely) based on Can You Keep A Secret? by Sophie Kinsella

—————

Harry was barely able to fight another yawn as he stood up from his incredibly new, incredibly bare, incredibly normal office desk.

As he closed his laptop and slipped it in his bag, he tried not to be too disappointed. All in all, the day had gone pretty well.

Ish.

Okay, so it had kind of been dead boring, but that was partially Harry’s fault for expecting too much. Apparently, almost dying on a horrifically turbulent flight halfway across the world to get a foot in the door of your dream job at an indie record label tended to lead to a rather anticlimactic first day. Who knew?

Like, not that Harry expected Elton John to walk through the halls or anything (that would be ridiculous; he was signed by Universal, everyone knew that), but like, maybe some grungy up-and-comer he could brag to all his friends about finding in a garage in the future.

Or, even the rumored new (hot), young (hot), brilliant (hot), openly gay (and hot) CEO, at least. Just to, like, confirm the rumors of the insanity of his hotness, you know?

But alas, the Mystery Boss had been holed up in a twelve-hour meeting that hadn’t even stopped for lunch, and God, did Harry somehow get tricked into working for the indie record label version of JP Morgan?

He grimaced. Considering his luck last weekend, he wouldn’t put it past the universe.

But just as he let out another quiet sigh, a petulant pout already forming on his lips, the door to the fortress that was Conference Room A opened. And because Harry was nothing if not nosy, he craned his neck just enough to take a harmless little peek inside at the head of the table.

It happened like lighting — blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on his fingers.

And, thinking about that exact moment in hindsight, Harry would bet everything he owned that if there was a way his soul could have simply left him to die from embarrassment right then, it probably would have because…

“Flight 568, this is your captain speaking.”

“Oh God,” Harry whimpered over the crackling of the speaker as the plane rattled wildly all around them, “oh God, we’re going to die. Our captain is about to tell us we’re going to die,” he said, clutching the fingers of the stranger beside him without bothering to spare a thought to manners or like, boundaries. What on earth did he need manners for, now that they were clearly about to fucking die?

“We’re not going to die, mate,” the stranger said, his Northern accent calm.

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“Uhhh, we are,” he deigned to argue, even with the panic that was rising in his throat with each new violent shake. Then, suddenly, faced with the mounting reality of his mortality, Harry blurted out, “I lied on my CV.”

A beat of confused silence before, “O…kay—?”

“I just really wanted this job, you know?” Harry continued, because apparently, the precipice of death made him chatty. “It’s literally the dream. Like, the job I’ve wanted to do my whole entire life but never thought I’d have a shot at? That job.”

“I… see—”

“So I lied,” Harry repeated, just in case this stranger didn’t understand the depth of his betrayal. “And then I got it, and… and… Oh God—“ Harry wailed, squeezing his eyes shut as the plane rocked like it was made of paper, “And now I’m going to die, and they’re going to know. They’re going to know that I lied about where I went to school and I’m going to be dead, and my super hot new boss is gonna fire me posthumously, which is really unfortunate because I’m pretty sure he’s the kind of hot I would probably let fuck me in against a glass window, you know?” he asked, nervously forcing a laugh as he chanced a quick glance at the stranger.

He was met with blue eyes.

Blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on the fingers Harry was currently crushing in his vice grip.

The stranger chuckled easily. “I’m nervous about my new job too.”

And…

“Oh God,” Harry said then, the horrible horrible truth sinking into his stomach as he watched his new (and now confirmed super, insanely hot) boss narrow his eyes thoughtfully at Harry through the slightly open door, before his brow began to lift in slow, amused recognition.

Oh. God.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

If you feel inspired at all to write a snippet today, can you let me know what happened here?

What caused the dramatic music, the red tinted room, the dangerous smirk, the erotic tension, the nonchalant smoking?

Full video here.

As you wish, @awesomefringey! Also inspired by my earlier tags: #that is a baby #who has shotgunned from his mans #many a time

-----

Habit by indiaalphawhiskey

The room was dark; so dark that it was too hard to tell if the scarlet glow illuminating the sparse furniture really was light or a trick of the eye – its desperate attempt to see anything other than shadow.

Louis leaned forward, looking down his nose at the cigarette between his lips. And, as he cupped his hand over the tip, watching it come alive by the light of his match, he realized, hand to God, he couldn’t tell you what the color of the chaise he was sitting on was.

It made him chuckle a little, the fact that someone could hold a gun to his head right now, asking him to name the color of the coffee table, the carpet, the stage, and all he would be able to do was laugh and accept his inevitable fate. It wasn’t the interiors he came here for anyway.

He pulled the cigarette from his lips, held the smoke in his chest with practiced ease, and spared a thought to how much he hated being a cliche. Mr. Too-much-time, Too-much-money, Too-much-common-sense. 

Ironically though, not enough to keep him from this place. Not that anything could; not with what it held inside – with whom.

The thought made him raise the cigarette to his lips again, the drag he took sweet – full. 

“Nasty habit,” a voice taunted from behind him.

Louis’ smirk curled upward, slow and satisfied, and he took his time liberating the stream of smoke from his lips, before, “I’ve got a lot of those.”

“This one’s got a fine.”

“Paid it.”

The response was immediate – an unimpressed scoff. “Well, I guess that makes it alright.” Even wrapped in a reprimand, his voice was pretty; sweet and stinging in even parts, bitter like dark chocolate; warm like bourbon. Loaded, just like the sound of the heavy curtain swishing closed after him.

Louis listened for the familiar steps on the carpet, one… two… three… four. “Money makes everything alright,” he said back, unapologetic, over the muffled jazz playing in the other room. 

Another scoff before that perfect silhouette came into full view, hip cocked, one obscenely tempting stockinged leg kicked out, just for the hell of it. “Only for people with money.”

Even barely backlit by the red lights, Louis smiled, recognizing the outline of his favorite little number. It had cost him a pretty penny, that black trench coat, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He liked seeing his baby all gussied up for him; liked the way it felt on his lap, trapped under the weight of those gorgeous thighs, loved sliding his hand up… up… up… into that tempting little gap to find lace, or silk, or… nothing at all…

Patience, Louis sang in his head, busying himself instead with dragging the heat of his gaze away from those godforsaken legs and up to twinkling green eyes, because that color – that, he could name, anytime.

Louis took another slow drag from his cigarette without taking his eyes off him. He reached out and caught the hem of the trench coat in his fingers, smirking up at the love of his life right before he tugged hard. 

The sweet waif of a thing tumbled straight into his lap.

“Lou—” he gasped out in soft protest, an errant giggle, and the way he had already wrapped his arms around Louis’ neck, dampening his feigned attempts to escape. Louis held him in place, hand solid – hot and high on that darling thigh. 

“You don’t want money,” Louis said seriously, into the sliver of space between them. Those green eyes sparkled mischievously, knowing that was the truth, even when Louis added, “I know. I know because I offered – offered you anything. Everything.”

And god in heaven, that smile – it would be the death of Louis one day; much, much sooner than the goddamn cigarettes.

“S’not true,” he pretended to pout. A beat, and then another coquettish little grin. “Haven’t offered me a drag,” he said, already reaching for the cig.

Louis bracketed his back with a strong arm to keep him from falling, all while he kept the cigarette out of reach. “Uh-uh.” Louis said, shaking his head. “Filthy habit, this.”

And that coy, devastating smile morphed into an amused giggle. “Aw, Daddy,” he cooed, the familiar pet name blowing softly on the embers already burning, low and heavy, in Louis’ belly, as he teased, “You protecting me or sumthin’?” He leaned in close then, so close each of his syllables skated over the skin of Louis’ lips as he whispered, all innocent doe eyes, and long lashes, and earnestness, “‘M a big girl. I can handle it.”

Louis pretended to consider it, humming thoughtfully as he leaned away. 

Carefully, he placed the cigarette in front of his own mouth and took a long, deep drag. 

He held the smoke behind his teeth, and watched as bright green eyes darkened, grew heavy and hooded with lust and understanding. Plush, plump, pink lips parted just enough for Louis to lean in, his mouth hovering. The pretty little thing in his lap squirmed desperately, his nails digging into the hair on the nape of Louis’ neck, and then…

Louis exhaled, slow, careful and controlled, sharing the warm wisps of smoke, his tongue desperate to follow them through to gates of heaven; twist and tangle and curl into that lovely, lovely mouth.

“Ngh.” It was a soft whine, delicious; a whine of hunger, of more, of please, Daddy.

Yes, Louis had a lot of nasty habits. But this one… Harry… 

Harry was his favourite.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Now that we know he’s okay, reposting this, because the old formatting annoys me.

Cell Block Tango AU.

The Prohibition Era.

He was soft, just the way Louis liked all his little birds - pale, and pink, and pretty. Much, much too pretty - a peacock in a cage of pigeons. Hungry eyes lingered too long on the sway of his hips and the swell of his backside, mouths slightly agape as they stared at the purse of his utterly sinful lips.

He would need his own cell - hell, his own prison, if Louis had anything to say about it. It wasn't safe here for someone who looked like that. Well, it could be - if they belonged to Louis.

The guards seemed to understand, though - seemed to grasp the gravity of bringing this luscious little lamb into the lion's den. But something told Louis that this one could tango - kick up his heels and dance circles around predators until they were dizzy and drunk on that darling smile. This was still the slammer after all, and you didn't get put in here for being a damsel in distress.

“In you get," the constable announced gruffly, but just as he was about to place his beefy hand on that delicate shoulder, the little bird dodged it.

“I know how to use my gams," he teased, sashaying sweetly into the cell. "I'm a big girl, officer" he crooned, with a bat of his long lashes.

The constable blustered like the idiot he was, his face almost purple from trying to fight down his blush, and Louis could only hold in his snort for so long.

At the sound, Peacock turned towards him, a smirk playing on his lips like he was waiting - excited, expecting Louis to get into a tussle. But much to the bird's surprise, the constable only walked away, and Louis smirked back cockily. He was untouchable here - the king of this joint - and Peacock was gonna learn that soon enough.

Just to prove it, Louis made a show of pulling out a ciggy and placing it in between his lips, watching amusedly from beneath his lashes as Peacock's pretty little mouth fell into and o as he lit it. Louis looked up then, and blew a stream through his lips.

“So," he started, raising his brow. "What're you in for, dollface? The little bird stayed quiet for all of a second - but Louis saw the moment he decided to play, his green eyes twinkling. He pushed himself up off the cell bars, and Louis' eyes fell to his hips - right, left, right, left, right left - until he saw smooth fingers curl on the curve of his knee."

“I’ll tell you for a puff, dreamboat," Peacock giggled into his ear.

Louis smirked, and Peacock plucked the cigarette right from between his lips, the soft skin of his fingers pressing light and delicious against Louis mouth.

Louis watched him inhale - watched the way his sweet dimples made an appearance as the curls of smoke fell from his lips.

“Well?" Louis teased.

Peacock smiled, coy and sexy, and batted his eyelashes innocently.

“I fell in love," he said with a shrug and a smile. "That's a crime nowadays, ain't it?"

“It is if he broke your heart, darling," Louis chuckled, playing along. "Pretty little thing like you."

Peacock lifted one shoulder and pouted, his lips so plush Louis bet they tasted like apples. "He broke my heart, he did,” he admitted. And then he winked. "And I stopped his."

[indiaalphawhiskey]

i am sending this to you but it doesn’t mean i want you to write something like this.. think of it as a manifest to the universe… im just manifesting you see 🕯 it would be awesome if universe answered my prayers with you tho 👀👀

Hahahaha! This is very, very cute!

I can already imagine it —

Louis sneaks into “Oli’s” room (he’s a bit drunk, so he’d gotten the floors mixed up) to scare him, creeps up beside the sleeping form, yells in his face… and sends the poor stranger into a full blown asthma attack.

PR nightmare! A profusely apologetic Louis immediately whisks Harry away to the A&E in the dead of night because he feels so incredibly bad, and refuses to leave his side even though Harry really is totally and 100% okay, he promises, and is actually just mortified Louis caught him sleeping in his vintage One Direction pajama bottoms (that he, of course, is still wearing in the Emergency Room because thus is Harry’s life).

They talk. They eat. Harry gets invited to sit in the VIP box as another apology. He agrees. There’s a shoutout to the audience at the concert the next day:

“Glasgooooow! I’m not gonna lie, I’m completely knackered right now. Was me own fault though. I was a massive dick ‘ead last night and had to take the cutest fuckin’ thing to the A&E.”

Harry startles, as Louis looks straight at him… and winks.

“‘Opefully our second date is a lot less dramatic, ‘eh?”

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Escaping Eden | Dark Soulmate AU

this sounds like my next obsession, can i pretty please have more thank you my queen

But of course! 😘

🦚 Escaping Eden

Of course Louis’ match was the heart of his five-year op – the center, the star, the Nicole fucking Kidman of an international harem – because when did anything at MI6 ever go according to bloody plan?

The sight he was met with pulled a quiet, breathless ‘fuck’ from his throat. There, on simple, white sheets, a man lay sleeping. Unlike the others, his wrists were unbound, his hands tucked sweetly between his cheek and the pillow. Artificial moonlight poured over his form, little beams and slivers glittering where they weaved themselves into the rich brown of his curls. A tender pink flush dusted the tops of his cheekbones, marring the creamy skin where it met the edge of his black blindfold.

Louis let his eyes rove freely across his features, counting each gentle ebb and flow of breath that passed between those startlingly plump lips.

Unconsciously, his gaze drifted; skittered down crests, and cusps, and curves. Louis’ eyes followed them devotedly, from the tops of his shoulders, down the soft line of his spine; watched them dip and then rise up, up, up the swell of the sweetest little arse Louis had ever seen – bouncy, milky, flesh encased in sheer, lavender panties that were peppered with tiny, tiny hearts. Without warning, the captivating vision in front Louis began to go soft at the edges, an entirely different kind of fantasy coming to life in his mind.

In this one, this beautiful boy had waited for him faithfully all night, poised and perfect, until he finally succumbed to sleep. His sweet figure now lay peaceful and vulnerable against familiar sheets that were worn with use; his nose pressed gently into a pillow that smelled faintly of shampoo and of home.

Louis felt himself melt slightly at the thought, at this glimpse of the simple reality he secretly longed for. His heart skipped two beats in rapid succession as his eyes drank in Sparrow’s uniquely humble pose. There was a virginal obedience about him that was both innocent and maddeningly obscene – an allure that hinted it could exist both in this den of temptation, and out of it, in the world Louis really lived.

A million words came to Louis’ mind, then – words only attributed to galaxies and planets, to heavenly bodies, to realities that were so breathtaking, their existence was miracle enough.

Exquisite. Ethereal. Divine and delicate. They echoed in Louis’ head, overwhelming him. For the first time that night, he felt his staunch composure being pulled apart, replaced with an irrational, urgent need to be close, to reach out, to touch this stranger.

He excused his sudden weakness by telling himself it was strictly scientific – that he needed to make contact to ground himself, lest he be drowned by the night’s illusions. And so, he sat on the bed as carefully as he could manage, and ran his thumb tenderly down Sparrow’s cheek and across his bottom lip. He felt his breath catch at the contact, a part of him surprised that Sparrow’s form didn’t just fade away.

Louis took a beat to recover, and then pressed down gently on the plump, pink flesh. He stared, transfixed, as Sparrow stirred slowly, exactly as though Louis had roused him from sleep. The cotton on the pillow shifted slightly with the drowsy lift of his head, and his lips pursed purposefully to leave a kiss on the pad of Louis’ thumb.

Louis’ eyes widened in surprise and he barely managed to swallow his gasp, his hand frozen where it hovered, still touching Sparrow’s lips. He felt it on his skin when Sparrow let out a warm breath, felt like he could caress the words he spoke as they danced off his tongue. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Sparrow admitted, with a breathy, dreamy moan.

It was said so softy that a gust of wind could have carried it away.

I’ve been waiting for you.

At first, the words were tender as they echoed in Louis’ mind, warm and strangely familiar. They seemed to tug gently at his memory, pulling his consciousness through thick, syrupy fog towards… something. And then it clicked, and all at once, the world around him shattered.

He snatched his hand away from Sparrow’s lips like he had touched an open flame – an apt description, considering the way the skin on his thigh was searing with heat.

He clutched at it now like an open stab wound he desperately had to stop from bleeding out, only it was worse.

No, he prayed. Please, no.

But even as he thought it, the cursive letters formed in his mind, clear and sharp. How could they not, when he had them memorized? He could forge them perfectly, had spent his youth tracing and re-tracing them, down to the subtle way the ‘y’ crooked left ever so slightly.

His mark.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

fake love for an hour or so 👁👄👁

Ah, my failed attempt at a ballet fic! Here you go, love!

🩰 Fake Love (For An Hour Or So)

Louis Tomlinson, the ABC’s wunderkind danseur, is finally back in New York after his three year long stint with Pacific Northwest Ballet, and rumour has it he’s choreographing a dance for this year’s Academy recital. The timing of his return, however, is really quite peculiar - it comes right on the tail of Tomlinson’s ex-boyfriend and former Academy classmate Sacha Gaspard’s engagement to ABC’s director Lucien Powell.

Unbeknownst to all, this is Louis’ last ditch effort to win Sacha back, and though Sacha pretends not to be the least bit interested, Louis knows better - the sight of Louis chasse-ing in his tights has always been enough to stir any pot, especially one he’s dipped his finger in before. But when an entire month in close quarters has passed without any headway, Louis begins to get desperate. Luckily, there’s a sweet little aspiring soloist by the name of Harry Styles that seems all too willing to be Louis’ arm candy. It seems heartbreak is inevitable now - but for who?

And, just for fun, a little snippet too!

God, a cigarette. What he would give to have a cigarette right no–

“Ow!” Louis yelled – more from surprise than pain – as his body collided harshly with the absolute dufus that decided smack-dab in the middle of the quad would be a good place to just stop.

Louis snapped his head upward, an irritated reprimand ready on the tip of his tongue, when the dufus in question wobbled precariously close to the edge of the large fountain, his arms flapping outward awkwardly, desperately trying to regain his balance. Reflexively, Louis reached out and snatched him by the elbow, pulling him back a couple of steps lest he tumble head first into the dirty water.

“Steady there, Bambi,” Louis quipped, smirking as he watched him fumble still, though his feet were flat on the concrete.

“Sorry about that,” the apology came out muffled, what with the dark curtain of curls shielding Bambi’s face, his head still turned down in embarrassment. “I’d say it doesn’t happen often but that would be a lie.” Louis could hear the sheepish smile in his voice, before he offered up a shy shrug.

Then, as if in slow motion, the stranger finally peeked up at Louis, his eyes going comically rounder with every inch he lifted his head – an exact replica of the way his mouth had fallen open.

Louis barely had time to raise an eyebrow in question when Bambi let out a squeak.

“O-oh my God,” he stuttered, and Louis was a little alarmed by how red his cheeks were right now. Was this boy alright? “You’re – you’re Louis Tomlinson,” he breathed, and the blatant awe in his voice made Louis want to laugh.

Ah, he thought with a nod. A dancer. (Only a dancer would ever say his name like that – like he might be as famous as George Clooney or those kids from that One Direction band his sisters were always screaming about.)

“So, you’re a dancer,” Louis repeated aloud, smirking as he crossed his arms over his chest.

And though he still looked dreadfully embarrassed, Bambi managed a slow grin, his green eyes twinkling.

“What gave me away?” he asked, ambling back a few steps to where he had left his bags, his long, gangly legs like jelly, knees buckling at odd angles like he had only just learned to walk. “My stellar coordination?”

Louis chuckled amusedly at that.

“Everything but,” he deadpanned.

Bambi didn’t seem the least bit offended, sticking his tongue out at Louis playfully.

Charm, a winning smile, and a deadly pair of dimples. Honestly, if Louis was still in Seattle (or anywhere but here really) he’d be so, supremely fucked. Thankfully, that was not the case, though Louis made sure his mind didn’t wander too far in that direction either – there would be enough time to obsess over the incumbent mischief he was about to wreak later.

He shook his head to clear it just as Dimples shouldered his duffle bag.

“‘S my first day and I’m super nervous,” he admitted, cheeks pinkening slightly again. He bit his lip, and it really shouldn’t have struck Louis as adorable, but it did.

“You’ll be fine,” Louis scoffed easily, striding towards him.

He nodded, and blew out a nervous breath. “Any advice?” he asked.

Louis tipped his head to the side, making a show of trying to think. After a long moment, he nodded once, like he had finally settled on something sage and important. He sidled up close then, thoroughly enjoying the obvious hitch in Dimples’ breath as Louis raised himself on his tiptoes.

“Try to stay on your feet,” he whispered tauntingly, tapping Dimples’ chest twice. Louis lowered himself on flat feet, throwing a soft chuckle over his shoulder as he walked away swiftly, immeasurably pleased at the bright, burning blush that had settled on Bambi’s cheeks once again.

[indiaalphawhiskey]

"are you sure about this?"

“Are you sure about this?”

No, Louis wanted to snap, his nerves so frayed at the edges that it was all he could do not to crawl out of his skin. No, of course he wasn’t fucking sure about this, he wanted to scream.

Instead, he tipped his head down once in a cold, curt nod. He hoped it looked more authoritative, more dignified, than it felt.

“Yes,” he said simply. The word slithered out of his mouth grossly. A lie. But Louis was used to it, used to lying, to sacrificing; to forcing himself to appear strong when all he wanted to do was cry.

Such was the life of an Omega — especially one in Parliament. After all, wasn’t politics just lie after lie after lie? What was one more?

He could feel small beads of sweat starting to from on his hairline, skin itching under the stifling weight of his jumper. Still, he pushed the feeling back. It’d have its time.

In a matter of hours, he’d be swimming in it, in his sweat, his desperation; dripping from head to toe in the throes of heat — a brilliant, proud, educated man who made his name fighting for the rights of his gender, reduced to nothing more than a useless, whimpering mess, filth spilling from his lips with every breath.

He was never meant to have an audience; promised God Himself he’d never be this vulnerable in front of an Alpha again. But, you know what they say — if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

If he had any strength left, he’d laugh too. But right now, every single bloody watt of his energy was going into remaining as dignified and stern as he possibly could, as he turned to face his bodyguard.

“I’m sure,” he said to Harry, tone brooking no argument. Then, he made himself say it, vulgar though it was. “Fuck me through my heat,” he confirmed, stone-faced and completely bereft of emotion. “To keep me safe and quiet. And then get me the hell out of here.” -- Political Unrest ABO #2, dedicated to Anon and @myfineline

Read Political Unrest ABO #1

Leave the first sentence of a fic in my askbox and I will write [at least] the next five.