#if you’re going through hell keep queuing

[captain-firefly-rose]

Wednesday coming home from Nevermore:

Gomez & Morticia: So are you still seeing that nice boy? Sheriff Galpin’s son?

Wednesday: He turned out to be a serial killer

Her parents: …so that’s a yes?

Wednesday: He tried to kill me at the end of the semester

Them: Oh how romantic. You two must be getting serious then

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: I am queuing this so who knows if Im still suffering.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The morning is going splendid. You spilled your coffee and the tea you packed in a thermos, you left on your counter. The realisation doesn’t hit you until you pull up to the site. You huff and hang your head, gripping the steering wheel as you brace yourself for your caffeine withdrawal. 

At least it’s dry. Mostly. As Thor forecast, the rain didn’t come until the night. The steady patter kept you awake, along with that lingering displacement that never quite leaves you. Fatigue is another constant. Your new normal; sleepless nights and sleepy days. 

You get out and set to work. It’s all you can do. It’s all you’ve been doing. Just keep going. It doesn’t matter how, just get it done, get through the day. 

You yawn at your task, brushing digging, oh so gently wiggling the little form. It’s almost out. Almost free. In your eagerness for some progress, you get careless. Your hand slips and the spearhead grazes our palm. Is isn’t until the stinging splits your skin that you realise it’s a slash. 

Damn it, you didn’t put your damned gloves on. 

Great, with the luck you’re having, you’ve just contracted some ancient virus. You hiss and grip your wrist. Your adrenaline triggers your heart. You take a few breaths to stay calm as you watch the blood bead to the surface. 

You curse and stagger to your feet. You grab the rag from your back pocket and clutch it in your injured hand. You grip it tight as you cross the site, careful not to tread to heavily, and you angle the fencing to sidle between two panels.  

You clumsily pull open the car door and reach under the seat. You always keep an emergency with you. It’s a rule of thumb for your sort of work. You never know what might happen. Bug spray, sunscreen, bandages, swabs, a hole trove of supplies. 

You shake as the pain intensifies, thrumming through your palm. You come out and rest the plastic tote on the hood and sift through with your single hand. This is going to be awkward as hell. While you enjoy your solitary, it can sometimes be unsettling. What if something worse happened? 

“Ruff, ruff, rrrrruffffff,” the growlish yet high-pitched barking comes from up the mountain road. 

You pause as he peek under the rag and peer up as gravel mulches. Another visit? Your work is so boring, you wouldn’t expect him again. Thor appears as Thunder hops before him, spastic as she sniffs the ground in circles. He smiles and waves but you can only manage a grimace before you look back to your wound. 

“Morning,” he booms as he scoops up the small dog and nears the other side of the car, “it’ll be a sunny one.” 

“You sure?” You look up at the greyish blue skies, than at him. Hm, the hue of above is rather similar to his eyes.  

“I know so,” he assures you and tilts his head curiously, “why are you so grim?” 

You show him your hand as you lift the cloth from it. He lets out a sympathetic hum and sets Thunder on the ground. She runs over to inspect the fence as he rounds the hood towards you. As he gets closer, his size is even more obvious. He’s well-built, you can see it even at a distance, but up close and personal, he’s almost inhuman in stature. 

“Yikes,” he offers his hand, “may I?” 

“Really, it’s not—I can handle it.” 

“I’m certain you can. Only the bravest woman would come to these grey lands and sit alone in the dirt,” he jokes. “Please, it’ll be easier with two hands.” 

You relent, a tinge of embarrassment hot in your cheeks, and peel the rag away. You hold your hand out to him and he brings one of his large ones to cradle it. Wow. He’s massive. The difference in your hands is startling. 

“Nasty cut,” he muses as he reaches over for the swabs you’ve piled out on the metal, “but it shouldn’t need more than a snug wrap.” 

“Thanks,” you look away, eyeing the dirt as his proximity makes you squirm.  

You can’t remember the last time a man touched you, especially a handsome one. Well, aside from Sam and Bucky but those were just hugs and usually ended in them arguing anyway. You’ve never been the most popular girl in the world and those men you managed to reel in didn’t stay on the hook very long. You never really tried to keep them. You were always too distracted. 

You wince as he wipes the cut with the alcoholic cloth. He softens his touch but holds your hand firm from beneath. He offers a rumbling apology as he focuses on tending to you. His intent is new to you. The way he looks at your palm holds more than any look you’ve ever gotten from a man. Or anyone. 

He crumples up the used wipe and takes another. He’s thorough. You feel a shiver roll through you despite the warmth in the air. He trades the wipe for the roll of gauze and wraps the strip around your hand, hooking over your thumb and looping your wrist. He uses the little metal clip to pin it then turns your hand over, brushing his own over it as he grins. 

“Good as new,” he announces, “though I recommend you not use it too much. And perhaps a pair of gloves.” 

“Yeah, I forgot. Long day.” 

“It’s nine in the morning?” He chuckles. 

“Yep,” you agree dryly. 

“Hopefully it gets better,” he says. 

“Yeah, maybe,” you agree dully and toss the things back in the tote.  

He picks it up before you can and keeps it from your reach, “like I said, you should take it easy.” 

“Well, there’s work to be done,” you say as he moves to the open door and slides the tote inside. “What are you doing back here?” 

“Ah, I let the queen lead the way,” he stands straight and closes the car door. He looks past you and your head perks up. Thunder is very quiet. “As ever, she does not tread with caution.” 

You turn to find the chihuahua inside the fence. You jump in place and sprint over, clattering between the panels as you call after her. “No, no, sweetie, be careful!” 

You chase her around where you were digging as you sense Thor watching from without. Great! You hope she didn’t pee anywhere. 

A sharp whistle pierces the air and Thunder stops. She sits in place, still wiggling, but doesn’t move. You peek back at Thor and he nods. You near her and pick her up. 

“Sorry about her, she is a free spirit,” he tuts as you cross back to him. “I will be certain she does not stray again. My apologies.” 

You’re taken aback by his sincerity. You try to remember the last time someone apologised to you and sounded like they meant it. Hell, when’s the last time you even got an apology. You dip out between the grating and hold out the dog. 

“I would hate to get in your way any more than we already have,” he hugs her with one arm and spreads his other hand over his chest, “we will be on our way. I do hope the sunshine brings some brightness to your day.” 

“Um, thanks,” you shift on your feet and hide your twiddling fingers. “You too.” 

“I’ve already found my sunlight,” he grins even wider and blinks, “now, Thunder, let’s go make a storm somewhere else.” He twists on his heel and lumbers off, “perhaps mother might put up with you for a time.” 

You stand just outside the fence and watch him go. A lock of his golden hair hangs loosely form his bun, dangling down his back, wagging almost like the dog’s little tail. He bounds over the lumpy ground and disappears behind the rock face. You look down and smile. 

Not everything is so bad and you can see the amber ribbon limning the clouds. The sun will be there soon. Just like he promised. 

💟

Thor comes back again. 

It’s a week since you cut your hand. Like before, you can’t predict him. You don’t hear him approach as he’s alone. You only notice him as he clangs something on the fence and lets out an ‘oops’. You pop your head up and look over at him through squinting eyes. Your forehead hurts from the expression. 

You smooth out your face and stand, facing him. He wiggles a metal canister in his hand. The wind sweeps the strands around his square jaw as the sky pulses in shades of gray behind him. 

“Thought you might like some hot tea,” he holds up the thermos. 

“Oh, uh... you didn’t have to...” you look at the sky and its quivering blanket. You’ve been pondering packing up for the last hour. “Thanks.” 

“Not to worry, I was restless.” 

“And you always go walking through the mountains when you’re bored?” You wonder as you step around the markers in the dirt. 

“I live here, there isn’t very much else to do and it isn’t a good day for swimming.” 

“Swimming?” You nod and click your tongue. “Sounds like the life to me.” 

“Mm, it can be rather languid when there isn’t work to do,” he turns the thermos in his hands as he talks, “Have you tried cloudberry?” 

“Cloudberry? Never heard of it.” 

He pokes the thermos between the panels and you take it. He pushes the barrier back into place between you, hooking his fingers into the links. You feel the warmth through the copper-coloured metal. 

“You didn’t have to come all this way for tea,” you laugh. 

“I wanted to ask after your hand. See how it’s healing,” he says. 

“Oh, uh,” you open and close your gloved hand, “just a scab now. I’m all good.” 

He smiles and keeps himself from leaning to heavily as the fence dips towards you. He coughs and realigns his feet, brushing back the looses strands around his face with a flick. He pushes his shoulders back and drops his hand. 

“So uh, you should try the tea. I put together the herbs myself, steeped it...” he bounces on his heels, “I suppose it’s not that impressive but it is good. Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory.” 

“Wow, sounds like one of those superfoods,” you scoffs as you pull of your glove and tuck it into your work belt. You untwist the cap and steam wisps out. You smell the tea and blow over it. You look up and find him watching you. “You’re starting to make me nervous, what’s in it?” 

“Just tea,” he assures. “I can’t lie to you, though. It wasn’t my idea. My mother suggested it. She’s very interested to see what you’re digging up but I’m afraid she can’t do much at the moment.” 

“Oh, your mother? Is she sick?” 

“She is in perfect health aside from her dislocated knee. She went rock climbing and well, accidents happen, eh?” 

“Yeah, sure do,” you show him your cut. “But they get better.” 

A lull rises as you take a dainty sip. The tartness tweaks your cheeks and you scrunch up your nose. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“It’s... different but not bad,” you say. “So, your parents live up here too?” 

“Mm, yes. I’m afraid I’m occupying their attic at the moment. I sold my home in Oslo, it was much too... cold.” 

You can’t help but snort, “it’s Norway.” 

“Ah, so it is. I should be used to it,” he agrees. “And how are you faring here? Have you adjusted to these dour lands?” 

“Eh, I’m trying,” you put the lid back on and turn it until tight. “Thanks for the tea.” 

“My pleasure,” he assures you. “Seems lonely work.” 

“I don’t mind it,” you shrug and cross your arms, tucking the thermos beneath one arm. 

“Interesting though. Have you found very much?” 

“Ugh, a spearhead and some pieces of the shaft. A vase, cracked though. Some beads.” 

“Beads,” he echoes thoughtfully, “is this all confidential?” 

“Not really, you wanna see?” 

“Very much so,” he says. 

“Right, uh, let me just...” 

You go back to where you were sat and plant the thermos in the dirt. You scurry around, overly aware of his observation, and go to the pin of your catalogued items. You find the bone beads and brings the little dish of them over to the fence. You hold them up as he peers between the links. 

“They have runes,” he intones. 

“Yeah, I’ve got the meaning of all of them except, er...” you pull out the single bead made of jade, “this one.” 

He hums and considers it closely, leaning in. 

“Not a rune. That’s a family symbol.” 

“Oh?” 

“My family’s.” 

“Wow, uh,” you lower your chin, “that’s... I... kinda feel like a thief.” 

“Can’t have cared very much about it if it’s down there,” he remarks, “you know, my father has mapped out much of our genealogy. As much as he can. He might be able to assist with your research, if he can find the time. Bit of a hermit these days.” 

“Oh, uh maybe, I’d hate to bother,” you smile sheepishly, “erm...” you look around, “where’s Thunder? Awful quiet without her.” 

“She’s keeping mother company. I’ve told her not to be too much of an imp, can’t have her making it worse,” he shakes his head. “The two of them are both stubborn as the other.” 

You can’t help the twitch in your eye. All this talk of your family has you suddenly homesick. You fight not to crack and swallow tightly. 

“Anyway, thanks again for the tea.” 

“Your parents must miss you,” he says abruptly. 

“Erm, yeah, my mom calls now and then but she’s better as an empty nester. Dad’s got his head under a hood most days so...” 

“Friends? Boyfriend?” He wonders. 

You arch a brow. He’s not very subtle and yet his inquiry can’t be anything but innocent, right? You’re still strangers. He can’t be into you. Not someone who looks like him. How long did you pray for Steve to even see you like that? This man is definitely not going to. 

“Friends. Sam likes to pester me when I should be sleeping and Bucky... they’re funny.” You sniff and gaze past him. You won’t mention that giant elephant in your head. The one you think about at night. 

“Lots to miss back home, it sounds like,” he breaks the silence before it can settle. 

“Yeah, but not every day you get to travel.” 

“And to a beautiful land,” Thor declares, “I hope one day you’ll come out of the dirt and see more of it. You’ll be surprised what lays further up the mountain.” 

You smile and look down, “yeah, maybe one day.” 

“Until then,” he backs up on his heel, “I won’t distract you any further. Enjoy your tea.” He turns and strides away, pausing halfway as you linger by the fence, “the rain will be here around five so I would leave early, otherwise you’ll be driving through it.” 

“Right,” your chest deflates just a little. You don’t know what you wanted him to say but you’re disappointed, “thanks.” 

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Trip Down Memory Lane

Summary: Dream gets absolutely fucked by a piece of metal

Notes: ~800 words

Warnings/Tags: None, have fun with this dumb fic, he doesn't get tetanus, queued post

Main Masterlist | One Shot Masterlist

“You humans are so attached to objects,” Dream commented when he comes into the mess that is your garage. 

You barely jump, having long since gotten used to his impromptu visits. You’re in your messy gym clothes from high school, the t-shirt full of holes, and the sandals that have walked through Hell and Earth with. In the garage, you’re surrounded by the things of your childhood and two large boxes simply labeled “Donate” and “Keep”

“It is trash, but it’s sentimental trash!” You defended as you held a broken Skip-It in your dirty hands. You throw the plastic toy into an unknown corner you have now labeled “Trash”

Dream is content with himself as he watches you dig around and sort your things. He watches as colorful toys of your childhood get stacked in the “donate” box. 

“Holy crap, I forgot about these,” You smile, holding the ziplock bag of endless amounts of Silly Bandz. 

You walk over to Dream, opening the bag, and ignoring the few strands that managed to escape. You pick out a few that you thought suited Dream: a red flower, a silver crown, a blue castle, and a black bird. 

“Gimme,” You ask while looking at his arm. 

Dream holds out his hand to which you stretch the rubber around his wrist before letting go and letting the bracelets snap to the shape of his wrist. 

“It’s useless,” He commented. 

You simply rolled your eyes as you tossed the rest of the bracelets into the “donate” box. “You had to be there to get it.” You blurbed out and began to dig around once again. 

“I was trapped during the time.” Dream stated. Still, he looks at the bracelets on his wrists, snapping at one of them against his skin. 

“Right… I forgot about that,” You turn around to him apologizing to which he merely brushed off. 

The day continues as you go down a nostalgic journey of toys from your childhood. Your parent’s house required a good cleaning, but who knew you would have your heartstrings tugged at as you held onto the American Girl Dolls that your mom still kept for you. 

They went into the “keep” box.

“They hold more significance than the others,” Dream comments as he notices you carefully brushing back the hairs on one of the dolls. 

“Yeah, I used to tell them about my day while I brushed their hair when I was little. I think they know more of my secrets than anyone else in the universe,” You confessed. 

“I see.”

You continued in your sorting, stopping once to place with a noise tub for a few minutes, and then stopped again as you brought forth a metal Razor scooter. 

“Oh… my God,” You squealed, holding onto the scooter as you walked out of the garage into the summer sun. 

You readjusted the length of the handle before you started pushing yourself around on the scooter, feeling the wind blow against your hair and clothes.

Noticing Dream watching you, you decided to show off. “Watch this,” You smiled as you jumped while skating around and with a flick of your wrist, the deck swung under and around the bar before you landed on it once again. 

You skated back over to Dream, who, if you squinted hard enough, had a small look of impression on his face. 

“You try it,” You giggled, handing him the scooter. “Bet you can’t.” 

Never one to back down from a challenge, he took to the scooter. The metal where your sweaty hands had gripped is still warm as he takes over. He mimicked what you did, skating to the middle of the driveway. He jumped, he flicked his wrist, and then…

You winced, covering your eyes with your hands. You watched between your fingers as the deck of the scooter hit him straight in the ankles. You feel his pain, having felt it many times back in the day. 

Morpheus writhes as the pain shoots through him. You’ve never seen him cuss before, but you think he’s on the brink of it as the pain starts to make him spasm. 

He goes from human to a flopping fish, to a cat, to a cabbage head, to a roaring sea-faring monster, and back to human again. Each time, the Silly Bandz still wrapped around some portion of him 

You’ve since run to his side. “Are you okay?” You asked, the laugh in the back of your throat was sorely hidden as you watched the Endless lay motionless in the middle of your driveway. 

“No.” 

“Yeah, fair enough. Let’s get you some ice,” You laughed. 

While you’re gone, Dream throws the scooter into the “Donate” box with a glare.

Main Masterlist | One Shot Masterlist

[abbysbasement]

(Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader)

 — PAPI BONES

A/N: Hi, this is the formerly scrapped, 3x longer, 2 months writing project that I had because I wanted to fuck abby in a closet! this was actually supposed to be my first post on tumblr, but i got mad at it and sent it to the dungeon for two months :/ but yall wanted it, so I'm super happy i got to finish it, even though it took multiple days and cups of coffee to power through. sorry for the wait, hope you fuck wit her.

content tags (can you tell i don't want to write anymore ;w;): college au, childish antics at a big age, drinking, cool, ellie and dina are in this! kind of abstract sexual descriptions, assplay, cunnilingus (r!receiving), boob... touching? small mention of drugs because dealer!ellie, drunk sex, enthusiastic consent! :D, reader is kind of annoying sorry, men being assholes, reader catching feelings for a girl she fucked once, real.

wc: 7.6k ;w; (send help)

proofread?; barely.

tl : @clearheartgreyflowers, @oatmilkchaii, @ghostfacebunny, @ellsbclls (thank you to the sweetest deb @ellsbclls for helping beta read this, i appreciate your suggestions and encouragement and this would probably have been scrapped TWICE without your help ;w; )

synopsis: your best friend dina drags you to a college frat party. you hate shit like this, and you're painfully shy but when she does those puppy dog eyes you can't say no, so in a cruel twist of fate you end up in the closet with abby Anderson, and lose your virginity. yay college! (apart of the 'jackson university' thematic!)

Your idea of a Saturday night well spent wasn’t squeezing through a sea of sweaty backs; but like many things in your life, it wasn’t up to you, because you were easily swayed. Everything was overstimulating, the waves of bodies on bodies that pulsated and threw you between different poses and balances to keep on your feet, the ringing of laughter, of music, of every sound echoing in your head, around your body, vibrating through your very core. The smell of liquor and drunken antics and that one guy puking in the corner made you sick. But somehow, you were here, spurred on by peer pressure friendship and goodwill, trudging through the blackened room to your target; the snack table. 

Dina, your roommate, and determinant best friend held a firm hand on the small of your back, pushing you through the crowd and causing a small jolt to run down your body as she steered you around every obstacle and corner in the room. She was a woman on a mission, and the one who dragged you out of bed, convincing you - against your better judgment- that it was fatal that you accompanied her to a frat party. You knew she was good-natured, and your first friend when you moved 500 miles away from home to college. It was an instant click, but you were opposite best friends. 

Dina, ever the social butterfly, had connections in all different spaces; she could party with the sorority girls –hold the coke, please,– out-cram everyone, even the National Honor Society kids, all the way to the top of the class, hell, she was on the damn debate team, which was probably why it wasn’t a struggle to get a ‘yes’ out of you. You, on the other hand, were uncomfortable at bars, school sporting events, and parties, and one time you even thre– fuck, never mind. It was all effortless to her, in almost an enviable way. Dina loved to go clubbing, loved to hang, out, and she had been near-begging you to come out with her and her cool friends for months, not that you’re not cool, I mean. 

And somehow, despite everything, it worked. 

You could almost remember how you got there if you put away the sticky crunch of coke sticking to your shoes with each step, and reached back into the recesses of your mind. Or at least, back three-and-a-half hours ago. 

“They’re all great people, no weirdos, promise!” 

It was the emphatic plea made to you as you lay on your bed, queuing up the next episode of the apocalypse show you watched each week, watching her make Dina list off every reason why you just had to follow her out tonight. It was clearly very life-or-death shit to her, but you were unconvinced. It was just a party but there was going to be a smaller, more intimate kickback in a friend-of-a-friend’s basement. She was in the middle of getting ready, sitting at her school-issue desk and looking at herself in the mirror, dark hair coned over her head in a bun as she sat in deep concentration, words slurred and simple as she applied mascara, her mouth slacked into an O position.

“So you’re gonna like, fucking go, yeah?”

She said it as though it was obvious, like it wasn’t a question, but one look at you, –curled up in covers, laptop on chest, martini glass pajama pants and teddy bear teeshirt ON, unbothered– showed her that it would be a tall order, and that big guns would be needed. 

“Not interested, sorry.” 

“Not even a tinyyyyy bit?” Dina squeezed her fingers together for emphasis, throwing her head back in mock exhaust, a theatric groan rumbling out of her throat. “Not even a little bit.” You echoed, your roommate cutting her eye at you through her handheld mirror, but it was what it was. You weren’t into all of that stuff; the bump and grind of sweaty bodies wasn’t alluring, listening to someone else’s shitty music at ear-bleeding levels felt like hell, and if you wanted to get pitifully drunk and throw up all over yourself, there was a garbage can right under your bed. But your friend really, really, wanted your company and it made you feel, really, really bad to always blow her off. 

“Why are you going so hard on this?” You bemused as you propped up on your elbows, watching as she stalked around the room in her newly painted face, quickly rummaging through her drawer for a spare outfit. 

“Maybe because it bums me out to see my super cool roommate wasting away in her dorm every weekend?” In Dina’s mind, she was making a lot of sense. She was waiting for you to chime in, to say you know what, Dee? You’re right, I get it. But instead, you stared blankly, and she threw down her arms in exasperation. “You’re in fucking college, man! You don’t even wanna have one night of fun?”  She punctuated the ‘fucking’ with a wild gesture around her head, which made you chuckle to yourself.

“I mean, I was planning on wa–”

Your body was jostled by an insane amount of weight, almost turned completely over by two roughhousing dudes– a mess of limbs and arms, who looked at you and then at each other, as though they had spontaneously sobered up. You didn’t even have the time to start to be angry when they prattled off a blended, slurred apology and thrashed somewhere away through the mass of hands and faces in the dark room.

Fucking assholes, ruining the flashback sequence. 

The room was lit only by haphazard mood lights; soft LEDs and gaudy, flickering Christmas baubles, a solitary television, camped by stoners who laughed madly, and the dim auburn glow of the odd ceiling lamp nestled in the far back of the house. You were out of your element; you couldn’t dance, weren’t the most social, and even though you were with a friend, all of this made you feel very alone.

Dina cut through the crowd with her elbow, bellowing out “Ex–cuse me!” while she pushed you through gaps as they formed. Her voice fell to mutter again, barely audible, chunked and cut by the music bouncing from wall to wall, grumbling that she had places to be, and if E*&^$ didn’t get her off at least once, there would be hell to pay.  She was determined to get to the other side of the room, where it was arranged that by the chips, as smokers usually are, she would find her current fuckbuddy and her friends, waiting to hotbox and pregame a bit more before the room peaked. She was driven by horniness and selfishness, as one typically is after four shots of Tito’s vodka, and getting smoked out and ‘taken care of’ upstairs was half the reason she even came.

You’d never met her most recent suitor, and the question of her girlfriend was always met with a ‘no, she’s just my sneaky link.’ but you didn’t question it enough to know more. She was just the girl who Dina would go off campus to meet, and as long as she wasn’t a slasher, and her pre-rolls knocked you on your ass, it would be what it was. You were carried away by your friend’s excitement, by her heavy hand nearly lifting you off of your feet as she beelined to the kitchen, wrangling your twin bodies every which way. 

“Ellie! Ellie!” She yelled, jumping up and down a bit to compensate for her voice being swallowed by the bass. She burrowed through the wave, pushing you towards a girl leaning against the sink, nursing a red cup and low, hazy eyes. Her auburn hair was swallowed by a black docker, and a dark-coloured backpack jutted out from behind her as she smiled and waved the two of you –mostly Dina, into her orbit. She looped her head under your shoulder to be pulled into the strong hug of firm biceps, and Arms looked you over, offering a friendly nod. 

–

“It’s on streaming. You can watch ‘Many of Them’ literally whenever!”

“Live tweeting is a part of the experience.” You chided matter-of-factly, sitting up cross-legged. It wasn’t like the brunette was wrong, exactly, but you couldn’t give up too much at once. Going soft was not a part of the plan.

“Fuck, whatever– You know the girl I’ve been hooking up with, right?” Her eyebrow raised at your dispassionate ‘not really.’ “Well you know her fucking joints, she sells– weed, shrooms… pills?” Dina listed off with her finger, mulling over the last detail for a second, then confirming in her head with a nod. It’s fine, you’re cool, and the two of you had always bonded over your love of recreational joy anyways. “So, if you wanna smoke orsomething– I got you, all you have to do is show up.” Her hands were up almost sheepishly as she tested the waters, but you weren’t super convinced, and your idea of fun wasn’t exactly playing wingman while she got tongue-fucked by a drug dealer, and the pregnant pause was enough to cue her into having to bring out the big guns. 

“-And, and!  I'll wash all our dishes, and cleanyoursideoftheroomforaweek.” 

Damn, she practically ran through that last part, so under her breath you knew she was hoping that you didn’t hear. But you did, and for a second you could almost see a smirk play on her face as your eyes lit up. She was always up for a good bribe, and even though she would act annoyed, it was great for breaking you out of your shell. She would offer to watch the zombie show if you came out to the bars in your college town with her, pizza if you confessed to your crush instead of instastalking them three times a day, even though it didn’t work, –oh well, shooters shoot– and tonight? A week free from chores if you just spent a couple of hours in your own personal hell. Yeah, you would give her this one. 

“Now we’re talking. If you want someone to be the lookout while you and Jesse Pinkman go at it, who am I to deny?” You teased, kicking your legs over the edge of the bed. 

Your roommate craned her head up, momentarily stopping her mission of rifling through her clothes. “Who said that?”

“You’re in your ‘good panty’ drawer.” You whispered cheekily. 

“Well, you got me. Someone has to get fucked around here.”

“Oh fuck you, bitch!” You laughed, throwing your pillow, hitting smack in the center of her chest. 

Dina bounced around the room, practically billowing with glee. There was a descending, barely audible ‘fuck yeah’ as she traipsed down the hall towards the bathroom, rounding the corner and disappearing from your periphery. 

“By the way, you know Jesse’s last name is Huang, right, not Pinkman? And we’re uh– not together anymore.” Dina shouted through the silence.

“That’s a character from Breaking Bad. It was a joke– because he’s a drug de–” You stopped yourself midway. “Never mind. It’s not funny if I explain it.”

“Oh– I never watched Breaking Bad. Too Long.” She deadpanned. You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head as you slid your way off the bed. 

That’s how you found yourself in a dimly lit bathroom, missing the comfort of your memories as ‘Ellie’ rolled a blunt. You stood leaning against the door and Dina sat on the closed toilet seat. The dealer sealed the last of the leaf with a flick of the tongue and a lick of spit, maintaining direct eye contact with Dina so she could not-so-subtly show off. She passed it to the brunette first, who mimed a cheeky, ‘why thank you’ and drew poutily. You three sat there for a while, smoking and talking, steam from the hot shower wafting above your heads as music pumped through the foundation of the house. 

There was laughter outside of the door and it soon became awkward for you, Ellie and Dina finishing the blunt, –you were a lightweight– and chatting idly as Dina traced a fingertip against the outline of the tattoo Ellie was showing off. 

The temperature of the tiny room ran hotter between their reddened eyes, and it was as though you were being banished by a galactic force. You couldn’t mistake how the red-haired girl’s glance caught an extra second or so at the way Dina’s body was hugged just right in her party dress, cleavage strained against the fuchsia PVC of her neckline, and how she bit the corner of her lip when her eyes hooked on a dark mole on Dina’s breast that was framed by the feathers of her black hair.  

It was time to go, unless you were interested in seeing your best friend get dug out on the countertop.

You were already a little bit wobbly, hearing a giggle that slipped from Dina’s lips morph into a squeak as you slipped out of the crack you pulled in the door and into the fray, getting carried down the stairs and back over to the drinks. You crossed over a kissing couple, cutting into their makeout and heavy petting session, and through a huddled together group of girls whispering something about seeing an ex across the room. 

You gripped onto the countertop for stability when you finally broke free from the pulsating wave of bodies. There was a bit of everything surfing in deep bowls of ice and water, open bags of chips and snacks bunched up together on the island. You could not be sober for this shit. You wedged up the pop cap on a hard seltzer and brought it to your lips, the spirit coating your tongue and boiling its way into your stomach. There it was again, the familiar warm feeling in your hands and feet, the soft pressure already creeping across the flat of your face. Yeah, now that was it. The anxiety began to melt away, and you leaned against the countertop, flexing your legs. 

Wow, they’re inviting giants to the shindig too. You laughed to yourself as the scarlet-lit ocean parted, and a tall, wide figure walked through and into the darkness of a descending flight of stairs. If only it was that easy when you needed to piss, notwithstanding that you had already been in the bathroom.

 It’s fun being sardonic sometimes. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your roommate coming down the stairs, the dealer’s deft fingers pulling down part of her dress that rode up her ass.  She arched her head up, straining left and right like the eye of a submarine as she looked for you; her eyes lit up, waving to you as she fisted her companion’s belt loop, bouldering through the sea of people. She was high as fuck, if her bright pink eyes were enough to speak to it, and your gaze lingered over the new expanse of a deep purplish hickey on her neck, small indents from teeth glimmering with saliva in the light.  

There was that hotness again that burned in the pit of your stomach, not from drunkenness or anxiety, but the can of fruity liquor in your hand covered up for the embarrassing flush of your wild cherry-coloured cheeks. You peeled your eyes back up to her face and smiled dumbly. You’d never had *that* before. You’ve watched things before at least, and obviously, touched yourself to the thought, but you’ve never had someone to fool around with in bathrooms or hold your skirt when it rode up.

There was your first kiss, but it was in middle school, so it didn't count. It was all clammy lips, two noses that couldn’t get the space between them *quite* right, and an overzealous set of chompers that left you with a bloody lip. Actual horseshit, but somehow, a core memory. It was annoying in a way, how it just didn’t come to you, but you wanted to be wanted. To be lusted over, desired even in that casual touchy way that simmered between your best friend and the girl you didn’t know very well.  Dina was making grabby hands at you, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Your drink bobbed as she whisked you to her will, you and Ellie sharing a knowing look as she pushed your bodies through the hall and down the darkness of the stairwell. 

– 

“RULES ARE SIMPLE,” some asshole in a hat bellowed as he stood over all of you who sat in the circle, mildly drunk off your asses and looking for easy fun. He held up a black beer bottle, carrying it like a trophy and swishing it around your noses for a closer look. “You kids might know seven minutes in heaven.” You didn’t know him, but according to Dina, this was his house, his party, and his very annoying rules. A light patch of raised skin played against his nose as he scrunched his nose over and over again, hands on hips, clearly trying to steal back whatever thought the liquor took from him. Jason, right? 

Whatever. 

“But we’re all grown-ups here, so I present to you–” He rolled the bottle in hand, clearly soft-launching his bright idea. “Fifteen minutes in purgatory!” There was a deep groan radiating from some, but there was a small minority that exploded in cheers, and whoops. “Pretty self-explanatory, two adventurers venture deep into purgatory, and come out forever changed.

“Two adventurers go deep into purgatory,” He gestured his head at the foreboding broom closet in the back of the room. “And return forever changed.” 

“We’ll use the bottle to choose our unlucky voyagers, and you’ll spend fifteen minutes in the closet.” He explained, dropping the mystique in the second half. “Alright kids, let’s start; and just for the record– If you’re a pussy, get the fuck out of the circle!”

The drunken cast of partiers whooped and cheered, hyping each other up, spilling beer out of red cups as they gestured wildly, entirely too grown for this. The room played ‘not it’ to pick who got the first spin, and the unfortunate soul was a blonde who sat cross-legged, blank-eyed at the black glass handed to her, nodding her head tersely. 

“We got our very own Abigail Anderson– !” Her eyes narrowed. “Andddd….” Hat praised, cueing her to spin. She took the bottle, pointing the tip towards herself and then spinning it, the glass doubling, tripling the circle, making you dizzy chasing it with your eyes, and everyone sat with bated breath. It slowed and slowed and slowed, until, like ugly fate, it stopped at your feet.

“Our newbie!” He got up to cheese, leaning over you, placing his hands over your shoulders, and rocking you from side to side. You laughed awkwardly, putting your palms up defensively at nothing. 

“Um– uh…” You were at a loss for words, only cut off as his head shot into your field of view, hot, hopsy breath tanging your nostrils. “What, you scared?” He taunted, all eyes on you, watching as you nursed a deep discomfort about the whole thing behind an uneasy smile.  

“You’re a fucking asshole, Jordan.” The girl, Abby, groaned. She looked up at you from her downward pointing head, swishing her bottle of hard cider in the hand propped over her knee. Jordan, that was the name of this dickhead. Yeah, fuck him. “If she doesn’t want to get in the closet, she doesn’t want to get in the closet. I’ll just spin again.”

Dina cut in, the redhead still leaning lazily against her. “Yeah, don’t–dont be a dick, Jordan.” Her face was tight, and Ellie was annoyed because Dina was annoyed, and the room held a pregnant silence, and even though it wasn’t your fault, you felt all too responsible and all too uncomfortable with all of the eyes watching you.

“It’s fine, guys. Let’s all– eh, chill out, okay? I’m going to take the dare.” You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, trying to steal back the vibe, trying to replace the tension with playful drama as you circled your head around, wiggling the fingers slightly of your held-up palms. “Because I’m not a little bitch.”

The crowd exploded in raucous laughter, each voice clashing together and mimicking the sound of a pipe bursting. You looked over at your partner, who seemed pleasantly surprised, a smirk playing on her peach lips. She placed down her bottle and stood, and as she towered over you, you realised that maybe you were playing with fire. She was scary and nonchalant, but the outer workings of her face were soft and gentle. She didn’t look like the girls in the videos you watched at night; she was something different, uncharted, and before you knew it, a nervousness, and something lower, darker, ran through your body. 

Then it was time to go, you piling in first, looking around at some of the half-darkness in the room, barely enough to fit two people in. 

The asshole patted the girl’s back, corralling her into the closet behind you. Blood rushed to your head, the pressure was too great, like getting skullfucked through your ears. show her a good time, you could hear him say, and then something that you couldn’t quite understand over the bass. The mountain’s eyes narrowed, but before she could shoot back, her large body crashed into yours and the space became tighter and tighter, just enough for the two of you to put your arms out to either side or turn around. For a split second, you could see Dina’s face from over Jordan’s shoulder, tightened in concern, a timid thumbs up at the side of her head. Then, he closed the door, and the last of the light slipped out through the crack in the wall. 

There was a deep silence, and somehow, like the hazy feeling you get right before you wake from a dream, you were chest to chest in the darkness with her blue eyes staring back at you, damn-near bioluminescent. You’d seen her around, because everyone sees her around, but it hadn’t registered that the giant who had parted all of those people in the crowd like they were just water, was standing right in front of you. Outside you could hear the rumble of the music, vibrations of the bass wrapping around you and shaking you from the inside out. The closet was too tight, too warm, too filled with smells from towels and coats and folded blankets and dusty boxes of light bulbs and two cramped, awkward bodies. 

Suddenly, you felt all too intimidated.

“You’re Abigail, right?” You questioned. “Off the rugby team?”

“Abby.” You couldn’t read her face in the dark, and though she spoke pointedly she didn’t seem angry, but the accidental overstep was enough to make you want to dig a hole through the floor with your bare hands and die in it. “And yeah– captain, of the rugby team.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” You yielded. “So… what are we supposed to do? In here, I mean.” You gestured at nothing, knocking some washcloths from a top shelf down in the dark. “Ah, damn it.” You cursed under your breath, bending down to pick up the small stack. You could hear Abby behind you, sucking her teeth with a judgy hum.  Her brows were almost touching her eyelids, captured in secondhand embarrassment, and she almost felt bad for how awkward you were, scrambling to pick them up from the floor.

  If you could see her face, you’d be able to tell how her eyes flicked up and down her body, taking everything in. Your black skirt slid slightly to bunch at the front, uncovering portions of your doughy thigh and the ever-so-tiniest range of fabric hiding your prettiest secret. She had to tear her eyes away, almost. She jumped, even, glad you couldn’t see as you popped back up. 

You were cute, holding the disheveled stack in your hands, a look of sheer pride on your face. You looked over to the side, tossing them unceremoniously on a free shelf, gravity taking a couple back to the ground. Your sated chuckle, the way your tits pushed up slightly, illuminated, almost framed like art by the neckline of your cream cardigan made her hungry. She pushed the ideas of what she wanted to do with them out of her mind, but damn, she could think about some things that would make the devil embarrassed. She stomped down her desire, stoicism crossing her for a second, only for her to open it back up on second thought.

“They want us to fool around, fuck, ideally.” She started, analysing your expressions for any hint of discomfort at the conversation. “But– we don’t have to do anything.” She tried to cut some of the thick discomforts with a placating smile, almost lost in detail in the low light. She was huge, more so than you, or most anyone else you knew, the jutting-out edge of a shelf knocking the back of her head every time she leaned her head back in the tight space. The hard washboard of her torso was framed by an opening of a grey hoodie and barely much else, just the thick band of her boxers peeking from her sweatpants, and the black of a cropped tank top that stopped right below her bra line. 

“Jordan… is typically a good guy, but when he gets drunk he’s a total POS.” Abby was sallow-faced, pursing her lips, tension running through her jawline. “I shouldn’t have let him put you on the spot like that. So… I’m sorry that you got pressured to get in here.”

“It’s fine, I just.” You started, ready to say that big phrase, the one that slightly burned your back to admit. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“What, played seven minutes in heaven? Yeah, kind of a jackass thing to suggest in your twenties.”

Shit. She was going to make you say it. 

“No. I mean I’ve never–” and you thought your tiny voice couldn’t get any tinier. “had sex before.” 

Abby breathed in the deepest sigh, pure anxiety crossing her face for a split second, before she was feeding you apologies. “It’s fine, we don’t have to do anything we can just sit here and talk. Or be in silence if you want it’s alr–”

“I want to do it.” You said doggedly, pressing yourself into a tiny corner. Her brow perched, and there was something in those narrowing blue eyes that said she didn’t believe you. You were pigeontoed, legs shifting against one another, declaring in your firmest voice that you wanted her to take your virginity. 

“Are you sure?” She breathed out, stepping a bit closer. “You don’t have to feel pressured to do anything because you think they want a show.”

“Oh, my god.” You were pouting, annoyed. “I can choose if I want to have sex you know, and I want to have sex right here right n–”

She kissed you, softly as possible, testing your waters to see how far you were willing to go. Her hands were patient, one lightly knotted in the woolen knit of your cardigan to lightly pet your lower back, the other making gentle grips on your sweatered arm. Her fingers were barely bruising, gripping around your wrist almost tight enough, and a tiny shockwave coursed between your thighs and convinced you that you wanted more. In this low light, in this dark room, in this place between space and time, you wanted to be her conquest. To be taken, touched, manhandled, to be made to weather the storm of her overwhelming strength against you, lost in the middle of the ocean.

It was perverted, almost, how the idea of her showing restraint raised hairs on your skin, how you deepened the kiss like you were being overcome with an insatiable, bloody hunger. You had to take back the moment, to steal her attention in a way she couldn’t deny before she thought you were all talk; you stepped closer, positioning yourself so that her thigh hovered right below the heated space under your skirt. Her hand was warm, soft as you grabbed it, moving it lower, deeper down the divot of your back and where the fat of your ass connected. She caught on, groaning into your lips as she kneaded around your body, her tongue sweeter and heavier against yours, working that one damned hand up your skirt to cup bare skin. 

You jumped. 

As fast as it had come, her hand slipped back from under your skirt and the touch was lost completely, awkwardly hovering for a second until Abby pulled it back into her pocket and stepped back. You were miserable, eyes welling up in frustration like a lost dog at the lack of feeling. She was pulling you into insanity but was too chivalrous to drown you in it, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly as she looked down at you.

“Fuck– didn’t mean to be aggressive like that. I–” The redness bled across her cheeks, freckles on full display as her fingers met the wet spot that you were hiding, your hands guiding hers to the space between your thighs. There was a pause, a knowing, a challenge between the two of you as an unknown heat spread throughout your bodies, and you collided once more. The blonde’s mouth sucked a nasty pressure into your throat, agitating it with bites and licks as her head traveled deeper, hands playing at the front of your sweatered torso to undo the buttons that held your breasts hostage. 

Her entrance was assured as she popped the loops open, fingers gripping the fabric of your camisole and lifting up, taking your bra with it. She nipped at the exposed flesh, heat from her mouth traveling directly to your vagina, clit throbbing hard with need. Abby engulfed a nipple with the wetness of her tongue, closing her lips around the rapidly hardening bud to pull it to full attention, chuckling as she scraped the flesh with her teeth. The wet head was replaced with her palms, each thumb and forefinger rolling one or the other. The sensitivity of the tiny flesh was insane, enough to make you whine out loud as she continued, better than anything you had ever done to yourself. 

You were biting your lip, eyes big and doe-like as you waded through your pleasure, soft pants heaving your chest. She fished it out from between your teeth and hooked it within her own, popping the plump flesh into her mouth as she pared yours with her tongue. You swore the room was spinning, a wetness slicking between your thighs, a drip positioned between two pairs of hungry lips. You could’ve spent all fifteen minutes– or an eternity, in this beautiful hell, giving and taking and relishing in a different, sort of strange type of want.

“Don’t stop.” You moaned in between stolen breaths, the blonde chasing your mouth each time you pulled away.

“For you, pretty?” Gripping you tighter for emphasis, pressing you closer into the wall, angling further between your spread legs. “Never.” 

It was like you were some weird intoxication to her, a drug that she couldn’t get enough of. How your ass molded right into the divots of her palms, those tiny moans that rang through the cage you two were in, the rapid beating of your heart rippling through your body. She wanted to peel your cardigan from your shoulders, wanted to shred your clothes from your body and take you however she liked, and make you feel better than you knew what to do with. Needed to make you scream and fuck you until you cried. But it was your first time, so she resigned to being gentle and soft, like you were a little deer in the forest, and she was trying to get close without scaring you off. so she would give you only what you needed. 

She didn’t have a lot of strong feelings about that nickname she had earned in sophomore year, War Machine, from all of the pretty girls she ran through and left unable to walk, unable to talk for a couple of days or more. but when Jordan said it, in front of you, in front of sweet and innocent, pretty and tiny *you* she could’ve reeled back and torn him apart. But she still didn’t want to scare you. So she had forced an alright, the one a child forces when they get scolded, and hid the burning in her palms that made her want to fight in the pocket of her pants. 

Your eyes bored x-rays through her formidable thighs as she bent her knees to squad before you, strong hands rubbing up and down your thighs with contrasting gentleness to the hard angles of her face, the brow that was crooked down slightly in concentration, the slightly parted lips playing with mischief as they took you in. You were frightened for just a second, until Abby looked up at you with sympathetic eyes, a hand leaving your thigh and linking with your fingers, guiding you to the base of her skull to envelop her honeyed strands. 

She was back at you, the darkness in your stomach leaking out as you palmed her head, and she ran her hands upward, more upward, until the ruffles of your cotton skirt were overturned in her palms. From the waist down, you were completely exposed, a wet spot working itself into your panties from your innermost recesses and a musky scent betraying your shyness. 

Abby pressed herself gently into the fabric, her fat lips creating a cool pressure against the hot flesh, her nose itching lightly into your pubis. You bucked your hips unconsciously, nearly fucking her face in your abandon. A vibration from her laugh traveled through you, nestled inside of you, and more wetness began to slick your channel. That friendly ache formed in your rapidly hardening clit, and a similar pain throbbed in your pinkie and middle finger. Her other hand moved up, gripping fistfuls of your ass, less forgiving now, and forcing a squeak from your lips. 

You were dumbstruck; a stranger’s hands all over you, mouth nearly on top of your sacred place, nearly leaking from sheer lust. She had barely done anything. Your jaw slacked, and in your mind you felt like a fool, lamenting how you thought your first time would be special. Soft circles rubbed into your inner thigh as she pulled your legs apart, peppering angel kisses throughout the little divots. 

“S’okay, baby.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a tiny encouragement that calmed the buzzing in your mind. “Tell me how you want me. I’m yours.” 

and you thought that declaration would destroy you,’ I’m yours.’ and it felt very, very real. 

“I want you to touch me.” You said, barely a whisper, nodding as she pressed her face to your thigh, sliding down your panties to about knee-level. It was as though she had seen heaven’s gate open, awestruck at the blood rushing to engorge your lips, how your clit stood on end without even being touched. The thatch of hair curling between your thighs and around your depths. She had to have a taste, and there wasn’t much room for second-guessing as she pressed her mouth to the hot spot and flattened her tongue directly against the wettest space.

Juicy noises slid from her mouth as she rolled your clit between her tongue and sucked sharply with her lips, and it was as though you could’ve sunk to the floor, the way your legs became distinctly not yours. It was enough, enough, not enough, then too much. It was like you were an endlessly gushing fountain as Abby’s wet, firm tongue parted your lips, dipping ever so lightly into your hole as she licked out a string of nectar from your drooling cunt. It was as though you were animated, possessed even, as your hands flew into her hair, pushing her head down further and further, to that release you chased violently and madly. 

Abby was humble, letting you guide her where you needed her; she was soft at first, but you didn’t want soft, you wanted more. 

She obliged. 

The blonde slipped her fingers between your thighs and parted your slit, opening up an endless, waiting tightness. She was intrepid, pressing through your clenching muscle and opening you up more than you had ever done; thick digits tearing through you, fucking your pussy at an unforgiving pace, concentration forming in the muscles of her neck. You hid an inhuman growl in the pit of your throat, in the crook of your sweatered elbow, and she moaned out, satisfied with that which she had created inside of you. You were fucking her face in a tight, dirty closet, calf propped over a muscled shoulder for support, the heel of your booties pressing into the wall, locking her in.

 It was as though the two of you were fighting, every roll of your hips she chased with her head, every time you shied away from the pleasure she held you harder, taking you even hungrier, diving deeper to a spot you didn’t know was there; every taut pull at her scalp met with an even tighter grip into the flesh of your plush ass. The pads of her fingers violated the sopping warmth of your cunt, and you clenched your stomach unwittingly, walls flexing, holding her hand there. Drool dripped from between her lips, pooling and soaking down into the fibres of an old shag rug, caked with dust and whatever else. 

Your own slipped between your lips before you could suck it back in, and the silver trail bounced, the way it does when it breaks, and the thick drop cascaded down her temple, getting lost in your brow. The piece that was yours snaked down your collarbone and between your breasts and somehow, you felt a connection. 

Abby snorted, sucked in a breath as her fingers left you empty. Fuck. She didn’t go for her face, wiping them on the skin of your pussy, they traveled upwards, firm grips on your ass. She rubbed the flesh as though she was throwing clay, stretching the skin between her rough fingers, calluses on her palms coasting over every bump and groove. She had found what she had wanted, craning her neck lower, lower, until you could just barely see her eyes. Her fingertips prodded, greedy, opening your lips, tongue leching against your soft fruit as though she was funneling the juices directly into her mouth. You thought your thighs would give out but she held you, stronger, and you fed her willingly. 

Her middle finger dipped down into the slit, collecting juices, stealing a breath from your lungs, you wanted to scream her name but it was caught inside of you, so you stood slack-jawed, fuck drunk as she abused your walls, fucking every ridge painfully slow. The tight hole stretched around the meatiness of her finger, and she hooked it as though she was searching, retreating from the warmth, slick with your nastiest of liquids. Again, she split your ass with one hand, and you clenched your tightest hole without thinking about it. 

“Don’t worry,” She said, muffled against your mound as she latched against it once more, “gonna help you so fucking good.” You were confused, but you trusted her, a complete stranger. For a second you began to ask what there was to worry about, but your mind was pried away from you as you felt the pressure of her coated fingertip tracing around your asshole. A gentle kiss played at the head of your pussy, comforting you as you nodded your head wildly, something of a ‘yes’ flying from your throat as her middle finger parted that threshold. 

Your mind exploded, head shooting straight up into the air, a small yelp burning into a silent open-mouthed cry. You were spinning, the room was spinning, your body heated up instantly. Then, the wet warmth traveled back to your clit, her opposite hand nestling two fingers into your aching, needy twat, her tongue lapping as her fingers resumed digging and that one damned finger fucked in and out of your tightest hole painfully slow. 

She fucked you like an animal; you cried out like a bitch in heat. The music trembled through your ears, and you were afraid it wouldn’t be enough, that everyone would hear, everyone would know. You were both drunk and this didn’t matter, didn’t mean anything, but she was bottoming her tongue out in you and you wanted it to mean a lot. Girls talked and you fucking hated them all. She was loose, she got around, and you wanted to be hers. 

You wanted to capture her and be interesting to her and walk with her hand on your lower back around campus. Wanted her callused fist in your hair, around your neck as she took you every night. Wanted badly to fucking cum, to open the portal, to wash her face with this unholy water, wanted to kiss wet lips and taste everything. Wanted to know if she could ever like you, after you gave it up, quickly, bellowing like a foghorn against a rack of coats. You wanted to be kept, to keep her spit inside of you like a keepsake but she sucked it back in a quick second, before you could even feel her cheeks hollow between your thighs, and felt dirty for even thinking of it. 

A sweet pain formed between your thighs and you couldn’t stop the groan that rose from your throat, every muscle in your face clenching and unclenching, your eyes crossing as your orgasm came quickly into view. Abby fucked you through it, fingers slow and forgiving. It was as though a stream of slowly descending tidal waves were crashing against you, and you needed more, it hurt but you needed more. Something deep burned inside of you, endlessly hot, and you wondered how she could stand the heat as she hit it over and over again.  You sobbed, and swore that you could feel a tear roll down your cheek, feeling the need to rub your eyes for good measure.  

She looked up, entranced, face softening for a second, watching as you gave up your mind to your body. There was a hard knock at the door, the music lowered a decibel, silence filling the two of you, her fingers still deep inside of your two holes. A sing-song voice bellowed out ‘five minutes!’ and the darkness ridged her eyes. 

For the first time, her voice was hard, removing her hand from your cunt, making sure to curl the one in your ass tighter in compensation. She slammed the door twice with her fist, the frame bulging in a way that made you fear the whole thing would just fall down. “Fuck off.” Her voice was loud enough to tear through the uncomfortable tension. There was an apprehensive, ‘woah man,’ that you could barely hear, and the music regained, the party rejoiced, and hopefully, the fear of God being struck enough in your host to leave well enough alone. 

Her lips were still slick, soft, kissable with your juices. She flashed you a genuine, pretty smile.  Her hands gripped a little too tight but you wanted it all. She looked down at the mess between your trembling thighs, then at your heavy, panting face. She leaned back on her heels as a wide smile played on her face, satisfied with herself. A windy chuckle passed through her glistening lips, wiping her mouth and chin on the inside of her hoodie. “Fuckin’ insane.” She breathed out in between pants. 

“Abby.” She said, as though the strength of your orgasm traveled through your brain and made you forget the events of the last 15 minutes. “Constance Hall. Dorm 425 on the second floor.” It was as though your heart skipped a beat, but you punched it down, a weak smile playing against your lips. 

She was fucking disheveled, almost inhaling the last sweet smells of your pussy, creating a memory of the flavour and filing it away in her mind for safekeeping. She was delicate, pulling your white panties up to your thighs again, soothing a finger where those soft, curly pussy hairs were hidden again. She let down her hands, skirt furling down, covering the marks of dark possession that she left behind. “Come see me again sometime, ‘kay?” She chuckled, giggled even, and that glint in her eyes was enough to make you faint. 

She stood up, waiting for you to compose yourself and straighten everything out before she pushed open the now-unlocked door and peeked her head out.

Jordan was already on her as the door flew open, and you could hear his hushed nosiness as you hugged the wall and tried to act casual, eyes locked on her retreating back as she reentered the room, light haloing her. ‘So what happened?’ you swore his lips read, and your stomach dropped. But she cut through his questions, loud enough for you to hear, convincing enough that he wouldn’t have anything to run his mouth about later on. 

“Nothing man, we were just talking.”

Maybe she was actually just that charming. 

Yeah.

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Five (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: This is SO VERY ANGST. More angst than any other chapter so far. STRAP IN GIRLIES (GN). I'd love it if you feel like sharing what you think - your feedback means the world to me. ILY :-* Reblogs, comments, and asks are literal power-ups in my day and I appreciate every single one!

Word count: 8.3k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You’re spiralling. 

You’re pissed off and you’re hurt and you’re somehow still horny as hell (somehow, perhaps even more horny since Santiago helped you out in that very particular way of his). You feel all in a tizz, like you don’t know which way is up; but even so, you’re pretty sure you’ve simply been going around in circles, and it’s dizzying. Santiago makes it easy to do that when you follow his lead, after all – all the more reason that you’d had to get out finally, all those months ago. 

Safe to say, you’re a little bit worked up. Too many thoughts are racing through your head. Resentment that he could get you all riled up like that, have you come undone, and then straight up deny you. Like it was some power play all along and that all he wanted was the satisfaction. On the other hand, a dreadful longing spikes at the thought that maybe he really did just want to protect himself, because he wouldn’t know how to find his way out this time if he got lost in you all over again. 

The main thing you’re feeling though – a bitter shard of pain stabbing through any sense of pleasure you may be left with - is a singular fear. 

What if he really doesn’t want you anymore? 

He wants you, yes, on some level. His admissions in the kitchen about wanting to kiss you confirmed that much. But his desire for you had always felt like an unstoppable force. Like something he couldn’t help or hope to control. Like a raging fire. He had told you that he loved you, wanted you, needed you, all those months ago. And while you are sure that remains true at least in part, you are terrified that all you leaving had achieved was to teach him how to live without you. And, contrary to that, his touch had simply confirmed how hopelessly consumed by him you still are, all your progress - moving on and rebuilding and forgetting - unravelled in mere moments by his fingers. 

You resent that too. His power over you, when you always prided yourself on being strong – needing no-one. You have never liked to feel like the one who is compromised, in any situation. You always prefer to be the hunter as, that way, you’re not the one who gets hurt. But Santiago? Santiago is lethal, and he has always known your weak spots.  

Maybe that’s why you had stormed angrily to your room, subduing your heavy footsteps reluctantly, only for the sake of your dear buddies sleeping soundly in their beds. Maybe that’s why you had hastily cleaned up, throwing on some fresh clothes from your case – a low cut top and some obscenely tight jeans. A splash of perfume. Some lipstick. All in the hopes of heading out to the local bar and searching for the kind of late-night attention which feels in your control. Seeking a desire which feels manageable. Trivial almost, instead of the kind which burns. 

Part of you – a small part of you, at least - recognises you’re being ridiculous, irrational, reactive, even as you zip on your boots. But there is another part of you that simply can’t stay here in this house with him a moment longer, feeling like he doesn’t want you the way you want him. 

You feel like, while you’ve been breaking apart for all these months, he was healing. It’s cruel maybe, that you would wish for his desire to burn him as much as it has a hold over you – but perhaps you’re not perfect. Perhaps you’re only human. 

Whatever. It doesn’t all need to make sense right now. Your head’s all over the place. You’re not really thinking straight at all. You don’t know whether you want to cry or scream or get your brains fucked out (or maybe all of the above - not in that order). And so, you’re definitely not thinking when you throw open the door to the bathroom, recalling that you’d left your necklace on the counter. If you were -thinking- perhaps you would have heard the rushing of the water. Perhaps you would have heard the muffled, bitten back groans emanating from the shower cubicle. 

Fuck. 

If you weren’t thinking straight before, every thought falls right out of your head altogether when you swing open that door. Namely, when you see Santiago, his body slanted into the wall as he palms his thick, straining length in something of a frenzy. 

You should retreat, probably. In fact, yeah. That's exactly what you should do. But, the sight of him there arrests you, and you can’t help but devour every detail of him. Your eyes skim over him only fleetingly, and yet your memory of his body fills in the gaps, meaning you’re able to see far more of him than you could otherwise in the split second your eyes rove over him. 

He is stripped down, his body curled into the tiled wall, his forehead and one shoulder bracing himself as the stream of water thunders down on the back of his neck and his broad, lightly muscled shoulders. 

His thighs are slightly spread and his full glutes are clenching as he fucks his hard, veined cock into the circle of his left hand, squeezing tight and showing no mercy, his pace relentless. 

From the way his nipples are pebbled and the way you observe the tightness of the muscles coiling in his back, you can guess that the water is cold. Perhaps, that he had attempted to cool off after what had happened downstairs, seemingly to no avail. His need is heavy and urgent and burdening his hand, the veins popping in his slick forearm as water sluices over every contour of him and still, his want is evidently raging. 

The most important detail of all, however, is that his eyes are closed, droplets of water beading in his long lashes, and a wracked moan sounding from around his own fingers as he shoves them over his tongue. 

Fuck. 

He’s licking them clean. He’s tasting you. Tasting your juices from his fingers and pumping himself raw from the thought of it. 

Holy shit. 

He wants you. 

You see it now, clear as day. He wants you to the point of desperation. Helplessness. To the point of coming undone with his need for you. His want rages even beneath the stream of a cold shower, taken in hopes of subduing himself. He works himself urgently in his fist, in hopes of finding his release. You find him here, like this. 

Unfinished. 

You can see it much more clearly now. You see how he wants you. You see what you do to him. What you still do to him. 

You see now that saying no to you likely took every scrap of control he had, and now that is gone, there is nothing left for him but you. 

As you enter, Santiago hears the door creak open – you weren’t exactly sneaking- and he immediately tilts his body to the wall. It’s automatic - showing his ass rather than his dick in his hand, likely in case one of the boys had just walked in on him. But, when he sees it’s you stood there, all slack-jawed and honey-eyed, he foregoes the need to hide. He turns towards you instead, his length twitching as it grows even more rigid and more ruddy at the sight of you. Santiago’s eyes hooded and desolate with want as he looks you up and down in your ridiculous, come-fuck-me clothes. 

Santiago knows fine well that you only wear red when you want to be shown a good time. You feel like a flare, on display, and maybe you’d feel stupid -like scrubbing this red paint from your mouth – if his need was not blatantly on display too. If his predicament did not seem even more dire than yours. 

Finally, though, as you look and he lets you, you register the intrusion, and with a series of stunted vowel noises which barely make it past your teeth, you are dragging your eyes away from his. Your legs like jelly and skin flushed beneath your tight clothes, you are clasping the door handle and turning on your heel. Your only objective is to make it out of there, even if you turn to vapour in the hallway after the fact. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Santiago asks gruffly, and you are not sure what he means. Not sure whether he means to ask where you’re headed out to so late, or to inquire why in the hell you’re leaving the room now that you’re here, but God, you’re not sure anymore that you could answer either question in any way that would make the slightest bit of sense. 

You’re just not thinking straight. Can you be blamed? Look at him. Look at this, all for you. 

So, you freeze, breath held in your lungs as you grip the handle – your back to him, and about to swing the door open to hasten your exit. Instead, though, against every shred of good sense you have, you push the door closed, ever so gently, with you still on the inside. You turn, preposterously slowly back towards him, and when the sight of him stood there, wet and dripping, face all stern and languidly palming himself in the circle of his hand hits you, you flatten your back to the panelled door. Truth is, your legs feel so weak that you could barely stand without it. 

And, as if that wasn’t quite answer enough, Santiago continues to look at you insistently. 

Well? The quirk of his thick brow seems to enquire. Where the fuck are you going? 

Your voice comes out all breath. “Nowhere.” 

You’re going fucking nowhere, apparently. Only ever around and around in circles with Santiago “Pope” Garcia – but suddenly, you could care less.  

Your eyes lock then, and it takes less than moments for him to be on you, his wet hands fisting everywhere - in your hair and your clothes - and dragging your mouth onto his in a sudden, consuming crush. Your hands snake into his hair, squeezing cool shocks down your forearms as you wring rivulets of water from his grizzled curls, grabbing handfuls of the length at his crown to pull him deeper into you, his tongue hot and supple and buried in your mouth. Your top sticks to you, wet and sodden in all the places he has grabbed up handfuls of your flesh, or pressed his hot body flush against you. 

He drives you back, into the door and the awkward mess of towels hanging there on hooks. 

“Fuck,” he bites off into your mouth, and you surge forward with this barrelling want, walking him backward and slamming him against the cool tiles with a thwap and enough force that he grunts. Still, it barely slows him down at all, his hands all over you and his kisses still devouring, ripping the air from your mouth. 

There is no romance in this, you think. Only need, raw and animal, and you are surprised that you show enough restraint not to tear each other down to the floor and go at it right on the tiles. Still, you barely show any more restraint than that. 

“Shit. Fuck. Turn around. Turn around,” Santiago rasps, entirely wrecked already, barely able to get the words past his mouth. His cock looks almost painfully hard, and entirely insistent against your ass as he spins you and roughly bends you over the counter, pots of toothbrushes knocked into the sink and soap rolling who knows who cares where. 

“You want this?” he asks as he presses you into position, little precision or ceremony in it – just a rough, raw urgency, entirely untamed. 

You can see yourself reflected in the mirror above the sink, blurry and steamy and bent over, and that’s exactly how it feels. Everything; blurry and steamy and close and tight. He’s as hard as the cool marble surface digging painfully into your hips, and you’re as hot as steam and as wet and slick as this mirror and you’re melding into one another – not single bodies anymore but shapes and a mood and a feeling, and there is nothing else. 

“Princesa?” Santiago pleads, even as he tugs your jeans down over your ass, removing the bare minimum of clothing to give him access where he needs, the garment still tight and unforgiving around your thighs, not allowing you to move  - barely at all. “You need me?”

“Yes. Fuck me. Need you,” you beg, and you hear him spit unceremoniously into his hand -not that he’d need it- and slather it all over his length, groaning as he makes contact with his sensitive, needy dick as though he might spill over his knuckles with the anticipation of stuffing you full alone. 

Still, he holds on -by a thread – and your eyes roll back into your head as you finally feel the blunt tip of him notch clumsily at your need-swollen entrance. 

Then – ohhhhhh- then, there is the dull ache shortly after as the girth of him pushes through your wanting folds. You grunt at the initial stretch as he works himself inside of you, but pinned between the counter and his surging hips there is nowhere for you to go, and his need sinks into you inch by inch until he fills you all the way. 

You succumb to your ragged breaths and mewl for him, you arms practically giving way beneath you as you press them into the cool surface to keep you standing. He fills you, and God, you’ve missed this. Have missed how full you feel with him inside of you - in every sense of the word. The way his hands grip your hips in that specific spot he likes. 

You have missed his girth. Could swear you can feel every inch of him pressing outward against the tight grip of your heat as he fucks his cock into your hole, bottoming out with a delicious, wracked, stuttering moan, the sound alone causing pleasure to bloom around the drag of him deep inside you. 

Still, despite this fullness - you also feel the give of your walls to him, your slick and eager heat actively suckering him in. He stutters his hips as you clamp tightly around him and then, so help you, he finally begins to move. 

Jesus, this feels even better than his fingers, even better than you remember, and you relish every moment as he fucks into you, bareback and desperate, your pleasure coiling up impossibly quick as the straining mass of him works you open, hitting all of your sweet spots. Your legs tremble beneath you with adrenaline and want, and you feel Santiago’s thighs flush against the back of your legs, his hips snapping against the cushion of your ass as the counter edge bites painfully into your hinged hips. 

He's not taking his time with you. Not teasing or planning or thinking. You can tell by the undone grunts and groans he’s submitting to you already, that -for once- he is far too consumed by his own need to contemplate yours. Can tell by the sloppy pace of his thrusts and the lack of attention to your clit or your breasts or anything else but filling you - his hands fisting in the meat of your hips as he takes what he needs, gives what you crave – that he’s not even trying to make you come… but goddamn it if he isn’t going to get you there all the same. 

Soon too. 

God, the head of him is rubbing exactly where you need, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this good with a dick inside you. Your cunt is primed for him, still sensitive from where his fingers fucked you open and it isn’t going to take you long at all to reach your peak. 

Even without seeing him properly, in the misted-up mirror, you can tell that Santiago is going feral behind you. Filling you deeply and haphazardly, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin. 

You hear a snarl, and see a pearly flash of teeth as his lip curls up from how good you’re making him feel. 

“Fuucckk,” he groans, his head tipped back now, that pretty chin pointing up to the sky and his mouth dropping open – you can vaguely see in the mirror

His broad hand smooths firmly down the middle of your back and over your ass - grabbing handfuls of you- before he retraces his path, sliding his hand up between your shoulder blades and winding his hand in your hair, grabbing and pulling until your spine is curled back for him like a bow, your ass arced up and allowing him a deeper angle of penetration which sends tingles all the way to the tips of your toes when he hits just right. 

You practically yowl for him, your whole body trembling and shaking, sweat trickling down the centre of your cleavage as the layers you did not have time to dispense of overheat your skin. As your clit is nudged into the lip of the counter in a way that shouldn’t work for you, probably, but totally does, the intermittent slap of Santiago’s hips against you providing a pleasing rhythm. 

It’s uncomfortable, and hot, and cramped, and in some ways painful to be rammed up against the surface like this, but you wouldn’t tell him to stop for the world. You wouldn’t tell him to stop because the way he’s taking you feels divine, Santiago burying his want for you as deep as it will go, releasing his punctuated, abortive gusts of breath in time with his thrusts.

You feel drips land on the small of your back, and whether its water cascading from his dampened curls or beads of sweat from the exertion rolling down his temples you do not know or care. 

You only know that you want more. 

Determined as ever, you plant your hands firmly on the counter as he fucks you near boneless, driving through your hips until you meet his thrusts, working him up higher, finding the angle which hits just right and-

“Unnnngggg.” A whimper falls from his pretty mouth and his thrusts are suddenly far more shallow, slow, nudging against your nervy, sensitive entrance. His breaths are coming in deeper, heavy gusts now and you might be afraid that he was about to stop - if you weren’t so sure that he was, in fact, gearing up. 

“Santiago,” you complain as he blunts the sharp edge of your precipice with the break in rhythm. You urge him to give you more, and he uncurls his fingers from your hair and adjusts position. 

Obligingly, he wraps his stronger arm around your chest to guide you closer to standing, pressing his chest to your back, his head hooking over your shoulder. And, with his other arm, he reaches forward towards the steamed mirror, using his palm to clear a window from the condensation. 

“I wanna see you,” he rasps, a hoarse, gritty whisper in the shell of your ear. “Wanna watch you.” 

God, it’s too much. The way his arm is wrapped around your front, strong and yet tender as his forearm braces across your chest and his fingers dance tenderly over your jaw. The wracked, undone voice of him, whisper soft. The contrast between this and the certainty of his thrusts as he finds a new rhythm. As you find a new rhythm together, entirely in sync. 

Slowly, so slowly, he draws out of you, ensuring you can feel every single inch of him, the tantalising drag of him through your folds making your quiver. Then, he snaps back into you all at once, so suddenly shoving himself up into you, balls slapping against your ass, each repetition of this pattern building you up. God, you want him to spill himself inside you, and you think vaguely that it is the only thing which could quench you. 

It is your undoing when his eyes find yours in the mirror, and this all becomes real. No longer fantasy like your unreliable recollections of him all these months. No longer shapeless, tangled, blurry bodies, but now so very suddenly, you are looking at you and him, with all that means. 

The look in his eyes gives form to this act, as though the love settled in them is the very thing giving form to the way he fills you. He is at once stern - his brow burdened, heavy-lidded with need, his eyes sunk into a pit of desire - yet soft. His strong nose is crushed up against you as his lips caress your neck. His eyes dance over your face, taking you in as you languish up against him. 

His eyes are molten when they find you again, dancing with a soft, subtle heat not unlike firelight, long lashes fluttering in disbelief at the sight of you. At the feel of you wrapped around him. No longer just a body or some carnal need, shapeless and intangible. 

Instead, Santiago and you, and your bodies moving as one. 

His soft lips and rasp of stubble break from the column of your neck as his thrusts become sloppy, and you feel his hot breaths come thick and fast against your skin now. 

He missed you.

He missed you, and this is what he’d meant. Had meant he needed to feel you wrapped around his dick. Moaning his name. Needed to see you being his. Missed you being his. God, you missed that too, in so many ways. 

A moan rips through you as you approach your peak, and you plead profusely with him. 

“Don’t stop. Santi. Please.” 

You don’t ever want him to stop. 

As you clamp down on him, your fluttering core wrings his own orgasm from him too, and then he’s pulsing his load into you, thick and warm and abundant, his thighs quaking against yours and his arms gripping on to you more tightly – this time for purchase – as though this might be the time his knees finally buckle if he doesn’t hold on to you. 

You can feel his racing heartbeat hammer from his chest to yours as he holds you flush to him. Can feel his mouth suck at the column of your neck, his tongue sliding along your pulse point and tasting your perfume. 

You come down from your high, thrumming with it. Wet and messy between your legs as Santi drags his softening dick out of you, letting your juices and his seed slip down your inner thighs. 

You feel good. Blissed out. But, as ever, with you and Santiago, there’s always a catch. The joy is immense, but, guaranteed that one of you - if not both - will find a way to ensure it is short-lived. 

Indeed. All too soon, you begin to feel that creeping sense of regret hollow-out your stomach. 

You can see it on his face too. The uncertainty. The lack of understanding of what this all means. About what to do next. It is evident from the way he so quickly moves away from you, picking up his shorts and t-shirt and covering up his body. Similarly, you hike up your jeans without even cleaning up, and as much as you might have hoped for a joyful, intimate moment, you know that it’s already too late for that. The moment that the insecurity, doubt and uncertainty had crept in on each of your faces it had become self-reinforcing. A spiral. Running in circles. 

“Shit,” you sound out, in a clear peal of regret, planting a hand over your face in distress - despite everything. 

“Sounds about right,” Santiago agrees in a monotone, brows drawn down and his gaze fixing on a spot of tile, unable to look you in the eye, despite having been buried inside you only moments ago. 

“No,” you stress, bringing a second hand to your face. There’s something else. Something that makes you feel stupid and sick. “I…. I mean, shit. I changed my birth control up and I… I mean we…” Santiago snaps his eyes back up to you now, alright. You curse when you note the writhing of his taut jaw, set and a little annoyed. Your softly puffed expletive which follows is contrite, but it doesn’t help. 

It’s not like you -or him- to make a mistake like that. And yet, you had all the same. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You bristle at his harsh, accusatory tone. How quickly things sour. “It’s not like you checked!” It is his turn to bristle now, and so you opt to be harsher still. “Besides, I didn’t exactly think you were going to be quite so quick on the trigger, Santi.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his riposte about his stamina not even required. He got you off, didn’t he? So, your attempted distraction is futile, as he manages to stay alarmingly on topic. You fold your arms across your chest as he steps towards you, feeling on the back-foot as his flattened palm nags through the air to punctuate his words. “It didn’t occur to you to mention that before we fucked?” 

“I forgot. I switched up my method and I’m not technically covered yet. It’s marginal, you know. Most likely fine. I mean, what’s another 24 hours? Besides, I didn’t exactly plan on this, did I?” 

He scoffs, then he purses his mouth until much of the colour drains from his lips. “Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t.” 

You raise your eyebrows, and jut a hip out to the side for good measure. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Santiago shakes his head softly. Plants his hands on his wide hips, making himself larger. You don’t shrink back from him, but you note it. “For real?” He flashes his line of teeth now, a lopsided, disbelieving lilt of his lips – no happiness in it. Not at all. “I know you love to pretend like I’m the bad guy, right? That serves your narrative or whatever? Bullshit, honey. You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” You snort out a huff of air through your nose, your look all steel as you prepare to deny his claims. You falter though, with his next words. “I can’t get off without you, Santiago?” he mimics, and your comeback dies on your lips. “You wanna put this all on me now? Believe me, I gave it everything I had to stay out of-“

“-My vagina? Yeah, great job, Pope.” You throw your hands up in the air and they slump right back down again. “You’ve had everything up in there except your damn tongue.”

“Let’s go then, sweetie,” he challenges, nodding to the rear of you, his voice taut rather than inviting. “Hop up on the counter and spread your legs, I’ll make it 3 for 3.”

It’s unfamiliar to you, this tone of his. It makes your heartbeat rage. You swear you can even feel the pulse of it in your tongue. “Fuck. Whatever. I’m not having this conversation with you.” Your adrenaline spikes at the prospect of another argument and you turn on your heel, looking for an exit. 

However, before you can retreat, Santiago’s broad palm contacts your arm to stop you – open hand, no force applied – and you turn your head over your shoulder. “At least tell me you’re going to take care of this,” he bites off, with a clear attempt to restrain his aggravation, expression sullen. 

“Of course I am.”

“How?” 

You think. “I’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. I’ll deal with it.” You pump your brows emphatically. “Okay?” 

You shrug his hand off of you then with apparent disdain for his touch, and in spite of his (relative) tolerance of your acerbic tone, that is apparently the move which fractures his composure. “You know what actually blows my mind? The way you can be nice to me just long enough to get yours. Pretty fucking convenient.” 

You feel your face twist with the weight of a sour expression, mirroring his. “Why are you always like this?” You don’t wait to hear his answer, the adrenalin propelling you away, down the hall and closer to your room, but his footfalls follow closely behind you, hot on your heels. Your voice is a whispered hiss, as, somewhere in the back of your mind, you are vaguely aware of the need to keep it down – the other boys are lights out by now. “Why can you never just fuck me and be happy about it, huh?” You spin to face him, chest to chest and facing off. 

“I knew this was a fucking mistake.” 

Your pulse is in your throat. “Right. Maybe it was. That’s all I ever was to you, I guess.” 

Your voices raise, slowly creeping up in volume as you each get lost in this intimate bubble of angst. Of resentment. On some level, you know you could stop now - before it gets worse and you say things you will only regret (or worse, hear things you’ll wish you hadn’t). You know that you should stop, but it feels… oddly necessary. 

Like it’s inevitable. Like you’ve been waiting all this time to fuck and fight because it’s all you know how to do with him anymore. At least, it’s all you know how to do when loving him heart and soul seems off the table. 

The space your bodies create is tight, leaning into each other’s circle of personal space. 

Santiago’s fingers bridge like a claw and he taps them against his own chest, his eyes needling you like he could sew this up once and for all. Tie off all those loose threads of blame which sit frayed between you. He’s angry. Angry and riled and pissed and even so, there is still this eerie sense of calm about him. 

You’ve seen him really let loose. You’ve seen him kill, for Christ’s sake, and yet he’s still measured and restrained in the face of you. That should make it easier to bear the brunt of his sharp edges, but that’s not quite so. There’s something about the precision of his anger when it’s focussed on you. The fact it feels so considered, so targeted only makes it cut deeper. “You know what? I’m tired as shit of always being the fucking bad guy here. You wanna get into it, huh?” His voice breaks now, splitting like shrapnel, lodging in your chest. “I told you I love you and you fucking left me.” 

“That’s fucking bullshit!”  

He’s not happy that you said that. He rocks from foot to foot like he’s priming for something. Scoops a hand over his jaw, around his taut mouth. You’re close enough to hear it rasp, the fleck of his stubble bristling against his palm. “Oh, it’s bullshit?”

Your voice comes out hot now, your words bitten off between your teeth, flecks of spit cast from your mouth. “Yes! Because if I hadn’t left you never would have told me! You told me because I left you! You told me to fucking punish me. To try and drag me back in.” 

“Wow. Jesus fucking...” He laughs, but it is a cold, brief sound. “That’s fucking rich, cariño.” His eyes glint like knife licks, and he plants his hand indignantly against his chest, jutting up his chin. Puffing up his chest and making his body all angles. Protecting himself. “That’s really what you think of me, huh?” You try to look away from him, but his eyes chase you for an answer. 

Is it? Is that what you genuinely think of your best friend? Is that what you think he’s done to you? Tried to do? 

If so, no wonder you’re so fucking angry. No wonder your body is trembling with it. 

But the truth is, when pushed on it, you have no intelligible retort you can form. No evidence you can offer. So, instead, in your panic over losing ground, you opt to minimise. You throw your hand up dismissively and you turn on your heel, stomping towards your door at the end of the hall. “Fuck this.”

This time, his footsteps do not follow, even if you can still feel his eyes boring into your back. You think that might even be the end of things, until…

“No,” he sounds. A forceful, robust note which fills the whole hallway. A command to wait. This isn’t over. 

With you and him, it’s never going to be over, is it? 

You turn towards him and he is fixed in position, stance set wide and chin dipped down, eyes blackened half moons as he looks at you. “Just let me get this straight. If I’m the one who drags you back in? What the shit do you call what you just did?”

You scoff. “You were a very willing participant, Pope. Or, I dunno. Why don’t you just consider it payback for all the times you fucked me around?” 

He’s biting words back as he listens to you now. You can see them, in the tilt of his head and the flare of his nostrils. In the flip and curl of his tongue settled around his upper lip, dragging back and forth just below his filtrum. “Revenge, then? Really? Is that what this weekend has been about for you? You really that vindictive?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” You dismiss him again, as though not one of his complaints about you can possibly be valid. Or, rather, revealing you are currently unwilling to admit it even if they are. After all, you’re as stubborn as he is. Each of you trying so desperately to palm off the blame for how fucked up this became. 

Santiago paces towards you then, footfalls rhythmic and steady as he swallows the space between you in the hall. “Jesus. You don’t even give a shit, do you? Think I deserve to have my heart crushed into fucking dust?” 

Hot, angry tears spike at the corner of your eyes as you spit your words, jabbing his shoulder with your pointer finger. “Like you give a shit that I left?” 

His dense brows draw down, his whole face a grimace, his voice practically booming throughout the hallway, close enough that the sound of it rumbles in your chest. “I don’t know how else I can say it. I never wanted to lose you.”

“Yeah? Well you never fucking had to!”

Santiago is the one who turns from you now, pacing back in a loop, both hands lifting and dragging backward through his grizzled curls, flattening them to his head in disbelief. He rounds back to you, spittle glistening on his lower lip from his tirade. He’s waving his arms now, everything being thrown upward just like the hideous lurch in your stomach. “You’re the one who ran from this!”

Well, that’s the biggest pile of shit you ever heard. You fold your arms to your chest, becoming guarded and taut where he becomes more frenzied. “Oh ho ho,” you scoff. “Now that’s a grade A delusion, right there.” He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head from side to side in a long, disbelieving drag. In denial. Still. “You’ve been running, Santiago. You’ve done nothing but run from this. Even the whole time I was right next to you. Especially then.”

He steps towards you, driving your body back into the door without making a scrap of contact with you. From the force of him alone. He leans his face in real close, his movements disconcertingly slow - cautious and deliberate. It’s not threatening – you don’t feel physically unsafe at all - but you can tell from the flare of his nostrils and that gunpowder glint in his eye that while his movements may be constrained, he’s still arming himself with a coming barrage. 

You flatten yourself – your back to the shut paneled door-  and Santiago lifts his hand, reaching up to you. Pincering your chin deceptively tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, making sure you look at him. “Right. And you’ve been so perfect, huh?” His eyes needle you, making it impossible for you to wheedle out of this one. To dismiss him. He’s making sure you take at least some accountability for your part in this. “Fucking other guys to get back at me? Insisting we keep it a secret? Pissing off to another fucking continent, two days early, by the way, before we’d even put things right?” You break eye contact, your vision of him blurred by wilful tears. He releases your chin from his grip then, but the space between you remains tight. Close, even as you feel a million miles from him. “Christ - it’s like you never fucking wanted this to work. Never believed I was worth it. How am I supposed to work with that?”

Hot, spiking tears spill over onto your cheeks. You scrub them away with a flattened palm but it still doesn’t slow them down. 

“Please,” you beg limply, shaking your head from side to side. You want him to stop this. You just want this to be over. 

“I was never the guy someone would bring home to their mama, was I? Too fucked up and too broken for that? Hands too bloody, right, to be good enough for you?” You balk audibly in protest at his words, but even so, it sends a hot flash of heat to your cheeks. 

Is there some truth in it? 

Had you been afraid of what he’d done, even though the blood on his hands matches yours? Or… maybe because of it? 

Your lower lip begins to tremble as the ire in Santiago’s eyes burns you, hot like coals. But he has more to say. “I get it. It’s easier to blame me for everything that got fucked up, right?” He beats his palm emphatically against his chest and flattens it there. “I’m hardly a fucking Saint, I’ll admit that much. But do you honestly think that I ever wanted to hurt you? That this doesn’t fucking hurt me?” 

No. You want to say “no”. No. That’s not what you believe at all, but instead the words that find their way out are cruel and petty. “Well you did. You hurt me!” 

You wish you could get rid of it, this anger in your chest. You only want to love him… but you tried that, and since it didn’t work, it somehow feels like the anger is all you have left to fill this hole in your middle.

His eyes tighten, and Santiago jabs his finger back and forth, his voice hoarse as he pushes the words out from the pit of his chest. “It never mattered, what I did or didn’t do. It was never going to be good enough for you.” 

“That’s not true. At all!” You spit back. “It’s you who thought that. Not me. Not me. You wouldn’t even fucking try.”  

Santiago scrubs a tear away from his own cheek now. His voice creaks and cracks apart. “I tried. I did. But you only want me under certain conditions right. If I quit. If I get out. Maybe if I’m someone fucking else.”

“That’s not fair, that’s not how it is. For fuck’s sake, Santi.”

You are both entirely undone now with this ugly rage, tears wetting your cheeks, and this resentment and blame twisting your words and your faces into something unrecognisable. 

That makes it all the worse when Frankie’s torso pokes out of his door in the hallway. You know that the two of you are not yourselves. Frankie’s face twists with disappointment and concern in equal measure, and you fold your arms across your chest defensively, feeling embarrassed that he is seeing you this way. At your worst. Why do you and Santiago always seem to bring out the worst in each other? You’d swear blind to anyone that he’s the best person you know. 

“Guys. What the fuck?” Frankie ventures. His voice is grogged by sleep, and you get the feeling he would step out into the hall if he wasn’t entirely nude behind the door frame. 

Feeling suddenly ashamed, with the contrasting softness of Frankie’s eyes on yours, you feel the urge to run from yourself and what you’ve become, all twisted up like this. You push past Santiago in the hallway, storming down the stairs as tears now cascade freely down your cheeks. You don’t even make an attempt to mop them up now, letting them course down and drip from the point of your chin. 

Then, with an aggravated sigh, Santiago follows you too, in pursuit, despite Frankie’s barked pleas that he “leave it alone, cabrón”. 

You push out of the threshold and into the night, the cooler air a welcome relief. You pace away from the house, wanting to leave it, to leave him entirely, but your body will not let you. Will not carry you far enough away, and your steps quickly run out of steam. 

When Santiago finds you, you are stood with your back to him, looking out towards the white crash of waves. He comes and stands next to you, hands gently clenched by his sides. 

“Look,” he begins, staring out at the expanse of water. You feel your anger cresting and with it comes a wave of sadness. “I love you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe… we’re not good for each other. Maybe we just… can’t make each other happy.” 

You shake your head softly. Tip your eyes to the sky to stave off yet more tears. “I just wish we’d never changed things.” You wish more than anything that you could simply swallow it. Go back to how things were before. 

“Don’t,” Santi implores, turning to you with his hands cupped as though in offering, soft and haphazard and trying to catch on your elbow, your shoulder, your hand. “Don’t say that. Please. No matter how fucked this got… You’re the best thing I ever-” 

But, your anger is not done. Your palms raise in the air, forming a barrier between your bodies - a defence against his brutal love - and you snatch yourself away from him. Your voice is once again harsh as it rings in accusation, words tearing from your lips like bullets. “-Let go?”

There is a beat. 

“Seriously. You’re gonna stand there and tell me I could I have fucking stopped you?” 

You raise your palms and plant them to your face, splayed fingers tugging in disbelief from your temples, sliding down to your mouth - drawing your cheeks into a grimace. You look at him and his face is once again taut with blame. His mouth a thin, downturned line. But even now….. Somehow, even now, you want to kiss him. Want to kiss him until he is soft again, like you know he can be. 

Why would he never turn soft for you - not all the way? Soft in your arms? Why would he never? 

He shifts his weight from foot-to-foot under your scrutiny. He sees the anger melt away from your face, but his is not done. “I mean, fuck. What do you want from me, huh? You want me to come with you? Just drop everything?” 

“Just stop, Santi,” you plead, weakly, but there’s no way he heard you over his own tirade.

“My whole career. This shit I’ve got going on with Lorea. Pick-up and move here? Huh? Tell me? What do you want from me?” 

You fold your arms across your chest, closing yourself off to him. “Please, just drop it.” 

“You want me to have dinners with you and your family on Sundays? Take the nephews to the playpark, huh?” 

He won’t stop. He won’t stop talking, stop pushing you, and you can’t take it. You’re going to snap. 

“Go fucking grocery shopping? And get married and have babies and-?” 

“Yes!” you finally yell, your whole body craning forward as you fire your answer out through your throat, the word coming out scuffed and sudden; but nothing if not truthful. Your eyes go wide, quivering with tears as well as the shock of your revelation. The shock of revealing something you can barely even admit to yourself. 

That is what you want. With him. 

Santiago is evidently as shocked as you are too. Stunned into silence, in fact. He takes a perceptible step back from you, punching out a breath like he’s just been struck with a body shot. All the tension drops from his limbs, and his arms flop uselessly to his sides.

But, instead of backtracking, from somewhere, somehow, you finally find the courage to stand in your truth. “Yes,” you say shakily. “I want that, you asshole.” And, at those words, you interpret the most repulsive thing you’ve seen in his eyes all night. Pity. “And you, meanwhile? You’d rather get shot in the guts than do that with me, wouldn’t you? Something so mundane as being happy? Something so fucking worthless as loving me?” You tear your head away from him, whip your gaze away as you cannot bear to look at him. Cannot bear to see your true wants rejected. With a final question, you stab your pointer finger against your sternum with enough force that it hurts. “I’m not a mission, so I’m not worth it right? Not important?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor, to a neutral spot between you. His voice all but cracks apart, small and broken. “I told you that I love you.” 

“That wasn’t enough!” You bite your words off before you can even think, and his eyes snap back up to yours then. Wounded. Glassy. You regret the words as soon as you have spoken them, but it is far too late to recall them now. You can see that they cut him - and you can even understand why they would hurt. What an awful thing to have said, you think; that his love wasn’t enough. 

It was everything. 

Everything. 

Wasn’t it? 

Even so, here you stand, still waiting and hoping that he can offer you something more than that alone. A solution, perhaps. A way to fix this. 

Instead though, Santiago simply nods slowly. Contemplatively. In resignation. He stands eerily still. Eerily quiet. Entirely stoic. “Right. Well.” His hand rasps back and forth over his stubble, and his voice is entirely sunken. Defeated. He’s a soldier. Your friend. Your lover. But most of all, now he’s someone who appears to have stopped fighting for you. He looks you in the eye, all of his anger dissipated. Voice scrubbed clean and entirely dispassionate. “That’s too bad then. Because I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

He turns from you now, and you grab onto his arm. “Believe me. The only thing I ever wanted from you… With you, was a future, Santiago.”  

It breaks your heart when he quietly, slowly extricates his arm from your grasp, slipping through your fingers like fine sands. Did you really think that you could do that? That you could keep on pushing him, without eventually pushing him away? 

A divot notches in his brow. “Mmm-hmm. Well I guess we fucked any shot at that now, didn’t we?” 

You search his ashen eyes - almost in desperation - for some of that all too familiar fire. For any sort of spark for you. 

Godammit, as soon as the anger has gone, you want it back. You want something; only because it seems a damn sight better than nothing at all. 

You can’t handle it - the thought that any future with him is being taken off of the table once and for all. You know - if you step back from this - that you’ve been far from perfect. That you’ve been bitter, volatile, reactive. Maybe even cruel, at times. You know, in truth, that you shouldn’t be so hung up on the past -on what happened all those months ago and beyond- but it’s the only thing Santiago has ever given you to dwell on. How were you supposed to move on, when he’s never been able to look ahead with you?

Still, all of a sudden, being faced with any and all possibilities of a future with him being ripped away from you, it is all you want to talk about. The past and your grievances and the blame now seem wholly irrelevant. You feel bile rise into your mouth. “Listen. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just… How do we get past this, Santiago? That’s what matters.”

He stops, halting his retreat back to the house. He turns, slowly. And, Santiago takes your hands into each of his. Looks at you solemnly, as your eyes flit over his face in doubt and fear and regret. He bundles your hands up together, sandwiching them together between his warm, steady palms and he gives them a squeeze - full of finality. “Maybe… Maybe we don’t,” he sounds, flatly, voice scrubbed clean of emotion. And, the only thing worse than hearing his words out loud, is that he looks like he believes them. 

For once, Santiago “Pope” Garcia seems cold, and it hurts more than any of his fire has ever burnt you. Maybe the anger, horrible as it feels, is better. Because it is better than nothing. Better than losing him altogether. 

After all, what is it that happens when the fire goes out? 

Well, you suddenly feel like you’re about to find out. 

You suddenly feel like it’s truly about to be over. 

And so, you clasp your hands over your mouth and you sob, fleeing towards the interior of the house, because you have no place else left to run but away from him.

[rileyglas]

The List ~Pt. 7 - Condemnation~ (Sneak Peek)

Out here kicking my feet like Alastor - Got part 7 queued for Friday then MAYBE part 8 next week (if ya'll like it enough) 💜 Need to catch up? Masterlist

The last few days (weeks?) have been a blur. It was a weird switch going from sleeping terribly because you longed to be near him - to sleeping constantly so you didn’t have to feel your body long from him. Anyone who came to your door was just told you weren’t feeling good. “Just caught a stomach bug, don’t come in! I would hate for you to catch it.”

Today you decided it’s time to finally leave your room. Charlie needs help and there are things around the hotel that need to be done before her meeting with Heaven. You aren’t one to let others down just because of your own emotional baggage.

You throw some makeup on to try to brighten your face. Usually, you wouldn’t be bothered but all the crying significantly darkened your eyes. I’d rather not let them see me like this. The less questions the better. Plastering a smile on your face, you head down to the lobby to get the list of ‘to-dos’ from Charlie. Surprisingly she isn’t there when you arrive, so you take a seat next to Angel on the floor. You lean your head against his leg as a silent ‘hello’.

“Hey toots, how ya feeling?” he says without looking up from his phone. “Better, thanks.” You say cheerfully.

“Good! Guess you and Smiles must have shared cooties ‘cause he ain’t been seen or heard from since Lucifer’s visit.” A pang hits your chest, but you try to brush it off. He’s probably just pissed off.

Charlie rushes down the stairs and scoops you into a lung crushing hug, “So so so soooooooo glad you’re feeling better! I didn’t realize how much you did around here! Could you do me a huge favor and go pick up a few things from the city and take them to my dad? He said he can meet you at this address. I have to go pack - Thank you!” Just as quickly as she came down the stairs, she hurries back, leaving you with a short list and an address.

For the first time in weeks, you leave the hotel without Alastor or his shadow close by. It’s not that you’re afraid of going out alone, but you realize you enjoyed his company more than you thought. You glance up at the radio tower as you walk away from the hotel and can make out a dark figure with glowing red eyes staring down from the window. Well at least that’s confirmation he’s still around.

You pick up the few things from a local shop and walk across the city to the address Charlie gave you. This doesn’t look right. The building you walk up to is more of an abandoned warehouse for a drug deal rather than a cozy meetup with the King of Hell. Cautiously you walk through the door which looked like it had been kicked in already. Just as expected, it’s an empty building with piles of trash scattered about. Graffiti and posters plaster the inner walls. You triple check the address on the small paper and it matches.

Sooo now what?

After waiting and pacing for a few minutes, you hear someone call out to you. You turn to see Lucifer standing outside a portal in the middle of the building.

“You didn’t actually think I stayed within the city, did you?” he chuckles as he motions for you to enter into the portal with him. Once inside you look around to see a large open room filled with…ducks? And this guy was trying to give me a hard time?

“Is – is this your office, sir?”

He boots a few ducks out of his path. “Yes, this is where I work on – important – matters. Also, no need for formalities, Lucifer is fine. Those bags for me?”

You almost forgot why you were even standing in the King’s office. All the piles of rubber ducks grabbed your attention and now you wanted to look through them out of pure curiosity. Handing over the bags, you keep scanning around the room. Lucifer notices your curious glances, “Would you – like to see my most recent project?” he asks nervously. You feel your face light up at the offer and he can’t help but mirror your excitement.

He starts to show you all the ducks he’s created, their names, what they can do. His eyes glimmer excitedly every time you display even the slightest interest in one. What feels like a mere fifteen minutes ends up becoming a couple hours. As he shows you the last of his collection, a solemn look crosses his face.

“Thank you for this. I don’t get a lot of visitors and haven’t really been able to share my work since Charlie…grew up. Plus, it’s nice to see you smile, especially after our first encounter.”

Your breath catches at the memory of that night. Not so much the crying in the arms of the devil part - rather the grief you felt shortly after. “Oh – thank you for taking the time to show me. Truthfully, I haven’t had much reason to smile lately so it’s a lovely change.”

His smile drops. There's a long pause as he fights with himself to find the right words, “Did he…Alastor I mean…hurt you that night? You can tell me. I know Charlie is close with him, so you probably don’t feel comfortable -”

“He didn’t hurt me. At least not in the physical sense.” Frowning, you curse at yourself for being too honest. You can’t help but feel at ease in his presence. He was Lucifer, King of Hell and easily the most powerful in all the seven rings. What ulterior motives could he possibly have or need? He has no reason to be anything other than genuine in his worry for you. He made it all too easy to tell him anything.

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 9

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. Sorry I haven't updated this here in forever...

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3

Preview: “Stevie?” spluttered Eddie, mildly winded.  “Eddie-babes!” Steve hung with his arms looped around Eddie’s neck. He was in full-on hooker mode—hot-pants, mesh vest, eyeliner wonky, and mascara everywhere. There was a faint pinkish bruise across his left cheekbone, and his breath reeked of booze. “What the heck happened?” asked Eddie. “Nothing bad… good… whatever. Oh man! You’re really bailing on me, huh?” Peeping over Eddie’s shoulder, Steve had noticed the packed cases and bulging garbage sacks. His dopey lopsided smirk was ridiculously cute, though it didn’t reach his glazed eyes. “Okay. One for the road. Fuck meeeeeeee.”

....

Chapter 9: promotion (trigger warnings for past abuse, trauma.)

“You shifty punk-ass son-of-a-bitch.” Kline blocked Steve’s path along the narrow backstairs corridor. “I knew you were playing me.”

Steve queued his answer behind a yawn. “Yeah, my breakfast shift was a bust. I’m sorry, and yeah, you’re not gonna pay me for today, but… Jesus, I wasn’t playing hooky for no reason. You wanted me to puke all over the waffles?”

Steve had, in fact, been slinking off somewhere quiet to get over the general yuck of being unwell. He should’ve tried harder to avoid Kline. He was simply too through with it all to think that far ahead, let alone conjure any ninja skills.

It grew obvious Kline wasn’t gonna let him pass without a shoving match.

“You want something else?” 

“Let me think,” drawled Kline. “That’ll be a big fat YES.” Steve couldn’t stopper his groan. Godchester had wasted little time putting his ‘order’ in. “A word in your shell-like ear?”

“Say wha—"

Kline grabbed Steve’s arm. Steve was still so shaky that he let himself be dragged into a walk-in cleaner’s closet. Kline kicked the door shut, releasing Steve with a shove.

“You dirty little hustler.” Kline switched on a buzzing strip-light. “One call to the police precinct and I can have your ass tossed in jail.”

Yeah, it’s always the ass. I guess the rest of me goes straight in the dumpster.

“So, I’m fired?” Steve balled his fists. His limbs felt as liquidy as a Robin Buckley fondue disaster, but if this douchebag was gonna try something… “Say it! I’m fired, right?”

“Hell, no. You keep your lousy job—I mean, who are we trying to fool here? You’re the most popular bellhop we ever had. Let’s call this a promotion, Casanova.” Kline beamed, flicked his dumb floppy fringe. “You got a date tonight. 8pm. I’ll confirm the room number later.”

“Oh.” The dull inevitability of it all trickled through Steve. He addressed a mop. “How much you getting for me?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to peddle your sweet butt for.”

Steve forced his chin up and glared with everything he’d got left. He knew roughly what he’d been ‘worth’—up to five hundred dollars a night. Perhaps more. Kline would’ve demanded top whack out of Godchester.

“If it’s a promotion, don’t I get a pay-rise? A cut?”

“Hah! Not likely. I know you’ve been whoring for that freak in the penthouse.” He jabbed Steve’s chest with his forefinger. “You owe me a cut, son.”

“Or what? Jesus, I… I…” Steve swatted Kline’s hand away, his glare fading and his panic ratcheting up. Kline was breaking the law, too, pimping Steve out like this. He broke the law regularly, sending Deirdre’s girls up on room service. Still, it would be Steve’s word again his, and Steve’s voice would be as lost as a fart in a tornado…

…but this wasn’t Eddie that he was expected to spread his legs for. It wasn’t even some unknown John.

It was Godchester.

Steve swallowed fresh bile. “Go to hell. I’m not doing it.”

“You playing hardball, Harrington? I mean, it’s a cute look, but–”

“I said NO.” Kline grinned harder than ever, teeth gleaming yellow. Then he struck Steve. “Ow! Jesus!”

It’d been a wet-fish slap, but it stung, and the shock of it set Steve reeling. Kline grabbed him by the collar, slammed him back against the shelves. If he hadn’t felt so goddamn peaky, Steve would’ve handed the slick sucker his ass. Today, Steve’s dizziness alone started robbing him of his breath.

Oh God, oh God.

“See my aforesaid statement about throwing your ass in jail.” Kline’s breath stank of Irish coffee and something really gross. “Pretty boy like you—that’s gonna be a jolly few months. Oh, and I don’t think the sob stories about your wretched asthma are gonna wash there. Like with me, they just won’t care.” 

Steve curled his lip. ONE TIME he’d shown this lowlife his inhaler, claiming he’d lost it, and only to cover for why he was really outside Eddie’s suite. Other than that, he’d never spun Kline, or anybody, a sob story.

“That sicko Brit wants you in uniform,” Kline was saying. “Fancies you as some poncy, overgrown schoolboy. Oh, and…”

He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and dangled them so close that Steve’s eyes crossed. They sure weren’t the furry ‘fun’ kind. In fact, they resembled proper police ones. The sort that bruised when you struggled.

Like I didn’t already know how tonight was gonna go down.

“One of Deirdre’s girls left them.” Kline hooked them in Steve’s pocket. “Gotta get one of the receptionists to source a wicker cane for your hot date, too. Lordy, the things I do in the line of duty.”

He released Steve’s shirt and was gone.

Steve bumped down the shelves onto his haunches. The strip-light hummed through his veins, and it felt like something sharp caught in his throat. His brain refused to have a coherent thought, let alone make any kind of decision. Eventually, he thudded the side of his fist to his thigh. The cuffs fell out of his pocket with a clatter, as did his inhaler.

He stared down at them both.

Eddie. He’d planned to go and see Eddie. What if Eddie was really through with him? 

God, I can’t… I won’t… I can’t think about it right now. But I can’t go to jail. I can’t… I won’t… I can’t.

He used his inhaler, pocketed it with the handcuffs. Feeling calmer, he slowly got up and brushed his crumpled uniform down. Then he went back to the restroom to rinse the chalky taste of his overused meds from his mouth.

After that, he kept doing… stuff. He simply couldn’t keep his scattered mind on what any of it was.

…

Eddie paced around the penthouse, pep-talking himself to the verge of frenzy. “You can do this. C’mon, Munson. Grow a pair already.”

1pm passed. 2pm passed.

He had to be out by 4 o’clock. Another guest wanted to check in that evening. At this point, he was randomly dumping his stuff into garbage sacks. There was no way he was fitting all his hoarded crap into his sticker-covered suitcases.

He wasted twenty minutes searching for Jimi Hendrix’s probably-fake guitar case, which he randomly located beneath the baby grand. Then he sat down on the stool. He dumped his arms then his face onto the keys with a truly un-metal plink.

Joke was, he really did hate this dump. 

Everything he’d said to Steve about it was true—it stood for all the ex-frat-boy-corporate-forced-conformity he despised. Henderson was sending a ride over to whisk him straight to the apartment he shared with Suzie in Pasadena. Eddie wanted out.

He still had no clue how he was gonna get to that ride.

It involved walking through a busy hotel lobby, trying not to go completely cuckoo, stepping into the street, and…

…oh God, Steve! He owed Steve at least six-hundred dollars, and he’d no longer gotten a dime to his name. Steve needed that cash for meds. To goddamn live. Eddie got that. For that reason alone, he would’ve forgiven Steve even if he had faked everything between them.

Yet, deep down, he honestly couldn’t accept that Steve didn’t feel… Heck, at least some the goddamn feels which were currently gouging Eddie’s heart out with a spoon. The thought of everything ending in such a car-wreck fashion, let alone of never seeing Steve again?

It hurt so bad that a keening sound leaked from Eddie’s clenched teeth.

He had to find him.

Eddie sniffled, de-hunched his back, and then his jaw dropped . On top of the piano, he spied some rolling papers and some Gamja.

“Obi-waccy-baccy kenobi,” he said to the plastic pouch, “yoooooou are my only hope.”

He’d gotten the reefer between his lips and the lighter poised in his hands, when he hesitated. Memories gushed back of Steve sitting at the piano, serenading him:

“I don't have much money, but boy if I did

I'd buy a big house where we both could live—"

Oh, the kickass irony. Eddie might’ve pulled that one off, before he’d pissed his fortune away. And Steve had been a goddamn revolution for Eddie. When he arrived, Eddie couldn’t even listen to music he loved without ripping his hair out. Last night, thanks to Steve, Eddie had teetered on the brink of packing his trunks and leaving this dump on his own terms. It’d been Steve who’d been triggered by that Queen song, something to do with his parents, and then…

Eddie placed his joint down on his lap.

Okay, Munson. Showtime. Do what you were gonna do before Henderson blasted you with a double six. You blaze out into that hotel, clear-headed, and you find him. No need to be a hero. Baby steps. Just tell him… tell him…

Tell him what exactly?

Eddie heard a distant banging. In an adjoining part of the suite, somebody thudded on the main doors.

Eddie jumped up. His joint unravelled and his weed scattered everywhere. While he’d resolved not to smoke the damn thing, he sobbed a little. Plus, it was still only 2.23 pm, and surely hotels this snazzy didn’t send bailiffs? Besides, Dustin had settled the bill.

The bashing got louder. “Eddieeeee!”

Steve!

Eddie’s every trouble—even his terror of the big bad world—was briefly forgotten. He sprinted to the doors, yanked them wide. Steve’s fist was raised for another thump, and he tumbled forward into Eddie with a thud.

“Stevie?” spluttered Eddie, mildly winded. 

“Eddie-babes!” Steve hung with his arms looped around Eddie’s neck. He was in full-on hooker mode—hot-pants, mesh vest, eyeliner wonky, and mascara everywhere. There was a faint pinkish bruise across his left cheekbone, and his breath reeked of booze.

“What the heck happened?” asked Eddie.

“Nothing bad… good… whatever. Oh man! You’re really bailing on me, huh?” Peeping over Eddie’s shoulder, Steve had noticed the packed cases and bulging garbage sacks. His dopey lopsided smirk was ridiculously cute, though it didn’t reach his glazed eyes. “Okay. One for the road. Fuck meeeeeeee.”

“Tempting. Let’s put that on a backburner.” Eddie awkwardly manoeuvred Steve farther into the suite, grunting at the effort. Steve giggled. “I wanna grovel a bit, honey.”

“What the fuuuuuck for?” Steve unwound himself from Eddie, flinging his arms about dramatically. “I lied to you, Eddie, and I’m NOT SORRY. I’m a bad, baaaaaad boy.” He pirouetted about then crashed to his bare knees, landing among Eddie’s sketches. Which Eddie had still not tidied away. Fortunately, the chambermaid had picked up the broken pieces of vase—doubtless, it had been added to Dustin’s list of charges.

“Hey, this is new.” Steve picked up one of Eddie’s flesh-eating plant monsters. “Blood and violence? You dig that, huh? You wanna punish me? Bring it on, oh Skeletor Dungeon Lord!”

“Oh God! Yesterday, I was being an idiot, okay? You know I’m not into nasty shit.” Eddie offered Steve a hand to help him up. Steve ignored it and levered himself up unsteadily.  “Look, it was a crit hit when I found you in the restroom like that, a lot to take in. I don’t want us to take a break. I still wanna help you, if you’ll let me, but I gotta ’fess up—”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” announced Steve. He didn’t seem to have listened to a word of Eddie’s attempts to make nice. He had, however, spied an overturned trash can. And the half-dozen scrunched-up approximations of himself, one of which he now grabbed and pitched furiously across the room. “You’re throwing me away? Screw you. SCREW YOU!”

“Honestly. I’m not. It was a shitty likeness, that’s all, and… Christ, you’re totally wasted. Please calm down. Please?”

As Eddie tented his hands in prayer, Steve hurled another curveball. He looped his arms around the fake marble pillar and cuffed his wrists together with what looked like true-blue police-issue handcuffs.

“Gimme your worst!” screamed Steve. “Blood and violence, huh? I can take it. Hurt me, big boy, come on. Fuck me raw. Hurt me… hurt me… hurt me.”

“Stevie, I—” Very gently, he placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve twitched him off then started whispering again:

“Don’t… D-don’t touch me… Don’t. Go away… go away. Please… please… please.”

“I will never hurt you. I promise.” Eddie hurried around the pillar. Steve stared straight through him like he wasn’t there, his breaths shuddering unevenly. Eddie didn’t think he was having an asthma attack. It seemed more like some kind of panic attack. Jesus, Eddie knew about those, though right now, he was dead set on keeping his head together. He still had no clue what to do. He couldn’t even comfort Steve through fear of triggering something worse.

“Uuuuuh, where’s the keys to the handcuffs?”

No response. Not a flicker.

“Steve? Just to be super-safe. Where’s your inhaler?” Tears trickled from Steve’s unseeing eyes. The last remaining color syphoned from his cheeks. Eddie clawed his hair: “Inhaler, Steve. Did you bring it? Do you need it?”

Steve’s knees buckled and he slithered floorward, still loosely hugging the pillar.

“Holy shit! Okay, try and look at me. Steve?” Eddie crouched in front of Steve, waved his hand near Steve’s nose. “I don’t like this, Stevie. Do you need a doctor? I’ll pay, you don’t need to worry about a thing, okay? I’ll take care of everything.”

I’ll pay with the strips Henderson’s gonna tear off my ass.

When somebody else knocked loudly on the doors, Eddie jumped to his feet. Steve didn’t blink.

“Steve? STEVE!” yelled a female voice from outside. Then, “Let me in, you loaded bastard! I got a rolling pin here, and I swear to God—I’m gonna batter this door in and your face is gonna be next.”

...

Part 10 on AO3 (tumblr link coming soon)

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[swaps55]

Heartstoppers from Beyond the Veil

@pigeontheoneandonly shared a Treat headcanon on Halloween that due to a series of unlikely events, Kaidan had a single speaking line in a B-movie while in college.

I thought this was incredible, so I wrote about it. Set in the Opus!verse, pre-ME1, on the SSV Myeongnyang. Shockingly, it turned into a Sam & Kaidan first kiss AU. No one could have seen this coming.

Happy N7 Day!

mshenko/3.5k words | Ao3

~

Shepard thunders through the ‘Yang’s airlock like it’s a day of reckoning, and every single person between him and the crew deck makes the quick and wise decision to get the hell out of his way before they wind up being the one he reckons with.

He blows past the mess – where Kaidan, Aslany, and Beaudoin watch Pendergrass continue to add pepper to a bowl of macaroni and cheese – without a hello, on a trajectory for the gym. Some poor punching bag is probably about to see its life flash before its eyes.

“What the fuck is eating him?” Pendergrass asks. Kaidan’s already lost the bet on how much pepper she can add before it becomes inedible. Aslany and Beaudoin have more faith in her ability to consume ungodly amounts of pepper.

“Lunch with his mother,” Kaidan says with a sigh. The stars had aligned to put both the ‘Yang and the Hyderabad at Arcturus at the same time. Kaidan had tried convincing him to turn down Captain Shepard’s invitation – she’s sure set a precedent for it – but it had been like trying to reason with a brick wall.

And now they’re all going to pay the price.

“Who gets the short straw for sorting him out enough to have movie night?” Aslany asks as Pendergrass dumps more pepper into the bowl. Kaidan considers looking up if there’s a threshold where pepper becomes toxic. When they sat down for this experiment, Kaidan kept telling himself at least Pendergrass cooked the mac and cheese, unlike Shepard who eats it raw, straight out of the box with the cheese powder as a seasoning.

“Unless I get hazard pay, not me,” Beaudoin says.

“You’re a goat,” Aslany says. “That’s what you do.”

“Goat, sure, but I’m a goat with self-preservation instincts.”

“I could tape a note to Stabby,” Pendergrass offers. “That might be safest.”

“I’ll do it,” Kaidan says.

They all stare at him like he’s volunteered for a suicide mission. It’s not far from the truth. Even Kaidan rarely has luck talking him down from this kind of black mood, and just waits for it to blow over on its own. Surviving the attempt is going to require an ace he’s been keeping up his sleeve in hopes he’d never have to use it.

But the squad has rituals.

Kaidan sighs heavily. “I just need you all to understand the sacrifice I’m about to make in the name of movie night.”

~

Shepard’s still a bomb waiting to go off by the time they pile on the couches for movie night, but at least he’s there. Kaidan is the only one brave enough to sit beside him, and Shepard has the audacity to glare at him, like the whole thing is his fault.

“This better be as good as you say,” Shepard grumbles. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“No you don’t,” Kaidan replies.

Shepard’s glare could wilt steel, but Kaidan’s right, so the threat is empty. If only the Alliance brass knew how petulantly the Butcher of Torfan could pout.  

“Also,” Kaidan cautions, queuing up the movie and kissing any sense of peace he might ever have again in his life goodbye, “I never said it was good. I cannot state that clearly enough. All I said is it’s one of a kind.”

Beaudoin hands out beers to everyone before sitting down beside Aslany on the second couch, while Pendergrass drapes over an armchair in ways that hurt Kaidan’s back just to look at her. Beaudoin squints at the dramatic title scrawl when Kaidan hits play.

“Heartstoppers from Beyond the Veil. Well. It’s definitely a B-movie.”

Shepard eyes the screen warily. “I haven’t heard of this one.”

Kaidan hides a smirk. “I told you.”

“I’ve heard of all of them,” Shepard insists. “There’s no way you actually know one I don’t.”

“It had a limited release,” Kaidan says, eyes on the screen and not anywhere near Shepard, who is now very intrigued.

“What’s it about?” Pendergrass asks.

“Shapeshifters who come to terrorize the teenagers in a small town on Earth. They stop people’s hearts with a ray gun. But they have to shapeshift into the species whose heart they’re stopping for it to work.”

“…I have so many questions,” Beaudoin says.

“I can guarantee you all the answers have to do with budget, costuming limitations, and the age pool of people who owed the production crew favors.”

Shepard looks at Kaidan like he’s the shapeshifter. “How do you know about this movie?”

“Just watch,” Kaidan replies.

It’s just as bad as Kaidan remembers. The costumes look like someone decided to predict the future of fashion by going back to the 20th century and revisiting their ideas on the future of fashion. The relay is a flat image with a strobe light in the gyroscope to mimic the mass effect core. The shapeshifter ship is just stock footage of an Alliance cruiser with a badly superimposed ship name. The Temptation’s Berth.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it?” Aslany asks.

“They were aiming for symbolism,” Kaidan replies.

“They missed.”

“No,” Shepard says, reaching for Pendergrass’ bowl of popcorn, excitement creeping across his face. “It’s perfect.”

Kaidan stifles a smile behind his hand. Letting this particular skeleton out of the closet is something he’ll probably never live down.

That smile is worth it.

Kaidan settles back into the couch and awaits his fate.  

Aslany figures it out first.

“Wait,” she says, thirty minutes in, after the first heart-stopping death but before the ‘band of teenage heroes come together as a team to stop the shapeshifter threat’ part. Before anyone can react, she backs the movie up a few frames and pauses it. When no one says anything, she jabs a finger right through the holo projection.

Beaudoin nearly chokes on his drink. “Wait. Alenko. Is that you?”

Four pairs of incredulous eyes swivel towards Kaidan.

“Maybe,” Kaidan replies, and takes a sip from his beer.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Pendergrass crows, dissolving into helpless laughter.

“Reflective mylar.”

It had crinkled to the point of distraction and been murderously hot to wear. Well, for the parts of him that were covered, anyway.

“Your tits are hanging out,” Pendergrass cries, actual tears forming. “Damn, Alenko, you were in your prime.”

“I’m still in my prime,” he protests.  

Aslany sniggers into the arm rest. Beaudoin’s face does a series of acrobatics trying to remain neutral while processing the sight of a twenty-year old Kaidan wearing a reflective mylar jumpsuit with the chest cut out.

Shepard, though, just openly stares.

“How, um.” Shepard stops, gathers his thoughts with a bewildered shake of his head, and finally tears his gaze away to look at the present incarnation of Kaidan Alenko. Who isn’t wearing a playboy mylar jumpsuit. “How did you wind up in this movie, exactly?”

Kaidan fights back some thoughts over the way Shepard just stared at his bare chest – sure, it was a digital version of it from ten years ago, but it was his chest – and clears his throat. “I did OCS in Mumbai and squeaked in some university credits while I was there. I, uh, accidentally wound up friends with a group of film students after my roommate dragged me to a party.”

“What, and you just said, ‘hey, sure, I’ll prance around half-naked in your shitty space movie?’” Aslany asks with a snort.

“No,” Kaidan replies, attempting to remain diplomatic. “A buddy of mine had a thing for the script writer. Or was she a producer? Hell, I can’t remember. She did a lot of things on that movie. He forced me to go to auditions with him as a wingman.”

“And?” Aslany prods.

Kaidan sighs. “She gave the part to me, not him.”

“Part?” Shepard exclaims. “You had a part? You weren’t just an extra?”

“One line. Just one line. That…she rewrote. After I got cast. Because, uh. Turns out she wasn’t into my buddy.”

Beaudoin once again fails to sip his beer without choking.

“She was into you,” Pendergrass yells. “She put you in a metallic sex jumpsuit because you were hot as fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Kaidan says, in exasperation, “Why do we keep using the past tense about my appearance?”

“I’m just saying. Bet people wanted to climb you like a tree.”

This time Beaudoin manages to swallow his beer by downing half the bottle.

Aslany jabs at the holo controls. “Wait, so what’s the line?”

“Yeah,” Shepard says, an almost captivated look on his face. His eyes dart briefly back to the holo. “What’s your line?”  

Kaidan sighs in defeat and gestures to Aslany. “Go on. Play it.”

On the screen, a group of ‘teenagers’ – not a single one younger than twenty, Kaidan recalls – being targeted by the shapeshifters furtively discuss their plight at a table in a bar, while suspecting each other of being shapeshifters. Kaidan, credited as ‘Bartender #9’ despite being the only bartender in the movie, serves them their drinks.

“Aren’t you afraid one of us could be a shape shifter?” one of the women – the writer, who pulled double duty as one of the heroic ‘teens’ – asks him. Kaidan braces himself.

“Can’t stop my heart when I’ve already given it to someone else.”

Pendergrass howls and throws the entire bowl of popcorn, showering both couches. Aslany grabs a pillow and buries her face in it to smother her laughter. Beaudoin tries to say something and only manages a wheeze. Shepard just stares at him – both versions of him – like he’s walked into an MC Escher painting and can’t find his way back out.

“That’s your line?” Pendergrass cries. “That’s your line? What does that mean?”

Kaidan shrugs, side-eyeing Shepard.

“You even winked at her,” Aslany says in awe.

“Please tell me you get your heart stopped by a shapeshifter,” Beaudoin says.

“My fate is unknown,” Kaidan replies. “That’s my only scene. Shockingly, the royalties were not enough for me to retire on.”

Shepard rewinds and plays through it twice more, expression almost impossible to read until he turns back to Kaidan, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“This is fucking incredible.”

Kaidan’s stomach flips.

“How could you keep this from me?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a career highlight,” Kaidan replies, flush creeping up his neck. “But…you love these kinds of movies. Figured one day you might need a pick me up.” He takes a deliberate sip of his beer to avoid Shepard’s gaze.

He waits for Shepard to say something. For anyone to say something. Instead, Shepard slings an arm behind Kaidan and rests it on the back of the couch – not quite around Kaidan’s shoulders, but not not around his shoulders – and rewinds the scene to watch it again.  

“Fucking incredible,” Shepard repeats. Butterflies loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re so weird,” Pendergrass tells him with a snicker.

They watch the scene three more times, each time resulting in extended commentary on Kaidan’s outfit, before Aslany wrestles control of the holo away from Shepard and lets the movie just play. Beaudoin shakes his head the entire time. Aslany points out every gun-toting actor who’s never held a gun. Pendergrass attempts to make a drinking game out of the mylar costumes, but everyone quickly decides they don’t want to be that hung over.

Shepard just watches the movie, posture relaxed, easy grin on his face, no trace of the storm clouds. Every now and then he shifts his gaze away from the screen to look at Kaidan, and each time, Kaidan’s stomach does another somersault. By the end of it, their knees rest against each other and Shepard’s fingers brush Kaidan’s shoulder.

Yeah. It’s worth a future full of mylar jokes.

“That was terrible,” Beaudoin announces when the credits roll.

“I was rooting for the shapeshifters,” Aslany says.

“Do you think they sell mylar on Arcturus?” Pendergrass asks.

Shepard almost whacks Kaidan in the head when he retracts his arm to wrestle the remote from Aslany before she can turn it off. “Hang on, not yet.”

“It’s over,” Aslany protests. “Time for darts.”

“He wants to see Alenko’s name in the credits,” Beaudoin says with a shit-eating grin. Shepard, for his part, actually looks flustered.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“It’s no big deal,” Kaidan says, ears burning.

“Big deal to me,” Shepard says, knocking him in the shoulder. “One of our squad’s a movie star.”

“Hardly.”

Shepard ignores him and squints at the credits. Kaidan tries not to preen over the attention, which is easy when Pendergrass starts laughing again.

“Kaiden Alenko,” Aslany reads. “They spelled it wrong.”

“All the easier to keep it a secret,” Kaidan tells her. “I’m trusting the four of you with my life here.”

“Thought you were smarter than that,” Beaudoin says with a chuckle.

Pendergrass, who is now upside down on the couch with her feet in the air and her head dangling near the floor, eyes him. “So what happened with you and the writer?”

“What do you mean?” Kaidan asks.

“Did she get in your pants like she wanted?”

Beaudoin smacks her leg. She winds up sliding off the couch and onto the floor, before fumbling for some needlepoint she keeps stashed under the coffee table. Kaidan can only imagine the additions coming to the cross-stitch wall.

“Um, no,” Kaidan replies, rubbing the back of his neck, aware that Shepard is paying rapt attention. “Though, uh, I did wind up at her place.”

“Wait, but you said she didn’t get in your pants,” Aslany says, confusion on her face.

“Well, she said she wanted to talk about the movie.”

Beaudoin raises an eyebrow. “She put you in a mylar jumpsuit without a shirt, had you deliver a line about giving her your heart, and you thought she wanted to talk about the movie?”

He shrugs helplessly.

Beaudoin props his chin in a hand. “This is fascinating to me.”

“So…what happened?” Shepard says, twirling his beer in his hands and staring very intently at the remaining liquid swishing inside.

Kaidan glances at him, then shrugs again. “I left after she told me I wasn’t a good kisser.”

“I highly doubt that,” Shepard mutters under his breath, and Beaudoin chokes on his drink again.

“Well, yeah,” Aslany deadpans. “You hadn’t given her your heart.”

Pendergrass sniggers. Beaudoin offers Aslany a high five, which she accepts with a resounding smack.

Kaidan ignores all of them. Except Shepard.

“You, uh. You think I’d be a good kisser.”  

Shepard heaves to his feet. “What aren’t you good at?”

Kaidan stutters long enough on a response that Shepard is already halfway to the dart board, apparently already having left the topic behind.

Probably for the best.

Beaudoin makes a round of drinks, and each of them take turns quoting Heartstoppers when it’s their turn to throw darts. Kaidan does his best to forget about the whole thing, which is hard to do when Shepard keeps stealing glances in his direction.

“You’re off your game tonight, Alenko,” Beaudoin says with a grin.

Kaidan scowls at him before sinking a bullseye.

“Yeah, but can you do that in mylar?” Aslany asks.

This time it’s Shepard who chokes into his drink and hastily wipes his chin.

Don’t read into it, don’t read into it.

“I trusted you with this very humiliating fact about my youth, Aslany,” he says instead.

“Yeah, but you forgot you’re ours to humiliate,” Aslany reminds him. “It’s other people who try to humiliate you we’ll beat the shit out of.”  

He chuckles. Shepard’s lip curves in a smile that warms Kaidan right to his toes.

When they finally call it a night, Kaidan deviates towards the dark, quiet galley to dig some crackers out of the ‘hungry biotic’ stash he keeps stocked in a drawer. Shepard’s biotic field washes through him when he straightens. The other three are nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” Kaidan says, blinking at him curiously. “Still hungry?”

Shepard shakes his head, rocking back and forth on his toes, glancing from his feet to something behind Kaidan’s shoulder – anywhere but Kaidan himself.

“What’s wrong?” Kaidan asks, wariness flooding him.

Shepard opens his mouth, closes it again, then mutters, “Fuck it,” and closes the distance between them so fast Kaidan doesn’t register what’s happening until Shepard takes his chin in his fingers and kisses him right on the mouth.

It’s rough. Awkward, even. But it’s Shepard, kissing him like he’s going all in with every chip on the table even though he has a losing hand. His stubble catches against Kaidan’s, his lips are chapped, and he’s so tense he might snap.

Kaidan sucks in a surprised breath when Shepard lets him go, fingers still on his chin, mere inches of space between them. Shepard’s eyes are wide, like Kaidan’s not the only one trying to figure out what just happened.

“Told you,” Shepard murmurs, chest heaving like he just ran a sprint.

“Were you…” Kaidan tries to catch his breath. “Did you just kiss me to prove I’m a good kisser?”

“Yeah,” Shepard says, a panicked look coming across his face. “I think I did.”

He’s still right there. Kaidan lays a palm against Shepard’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform.

“So, um. It was good,” Kaidan manages.

“Yeah,” Shepard breathes. “Thought it would be.”

“Kiss me again,” Kaidan whispers, trembling.

Shepard strokes his chin with his thumb, like he’s parsing each word and making sure they mean what he thinks they mean. Then he just nods, and leans in again.

Not rough, this time. This time it’s gentle. Slow. Soft. Filled with anticipation, maybe even hope. Kaidan wraps an arm around his neck, drawing him in until they’re flush against each other, Shepard’s biotic field like silk under his skin.

“Oh,” Shepard says when they part again. “I, uh. I think I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”

Kaidan can’t speak. Even if he could think of what to say, it wouldn’t be the right thing. The only thing he can think of is kissing him again, so that’s what he does.

This time it��s messy, filled with want, and Shepard gives back every bit as good as Kaidan gives.

It’s really good. Good enough Kaidan winds up with his back against the bulkhead and Shepard fingers twined in his hair, a soft gasp against his lips.

When they come up for air, Shepard’s hand rests on Kaidan’s hip, and his eyes sweep Kaidan’s chest before lingering on his mouth again.

“I, uh.”

“We cannot tell anyone this happened after you saw me in a B-movie wearing reflective mylar.”

Shepard leans his forehead against Kaidan as laughter spills out. The hand on Kaidan’s hip circles his waist and traps him close.

As if Kaidan had plans to go anywhere.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Should keep that to ourselves.” Shepard trails up and down Kaidan’s chest with his fingers, lip between his teeth in a way that makes stripping his shirt right there in the galley a very logical course of action.

A slow smile spreads across Kaidan’s face.

“Are you…imagining me in mylar right now?”

A fiery blush lights up Shepard’s cheeks. It’s beautiful. “No.”

“You’re lying,” Kaidan says, with mock indignation “Wow, not even five minutes after you kiss me for the first time and you’re already lying to me. Can feel my heart stopping already.”

Shepard snickers, burying his nose against Kaidan’s neck. “Do I get any credit for trying really hard not to be thinking of you in a mylar jumpsuit?”

“Definitely not.”

“Come on.”

Kaidan chuckles, brushing his knuckles against Shepard’s cheek. “All this time, and it turns out all I needed to do was show you the most mortifying moment from my past.”

“I really love B-movies, Kaidan,” Shepard protests.

Kaidan swallows the rest of his defense in another kiss.

“You’re really good at that,” Shepard says when they catch their breath again. “That woman is out of her mind. Really glad she didn’t shapeshift and stop your heart.”

Kaidan walks fingers up Shepard’s chest, doing his best attempt at seductive. “Can’t stop my heart if I’ve given it to someone else.”

Shepard stares at him. Now it’s Kaidan’s turn to blush.

“Shit, did I ruin it?”

“Nope,” Shepard says with a very adamant, almost embarrassed shake of his head. “Uh, quite the opposite. But we should probably continue this…not in the galley.” He takes Kaidan’s hand, their fingers lacing effortlessly together like it’s something they’ve done their entire lives.

“Heartstoppers from Beyond the Veil,” Shepard mutters as they head hand-in-hand towards his cabin. “Can’t even believe it. What do you even think happened to your character, anyway?”

Kaidan eyes the door to Shepard’s cabin as it slides open and takes a deep breath. “I’ve got a few ideas. Want to find out?”  

“Yeah,” Shepard says, breathless. “I do.”

The door swishes shut.

…and then they fucked.

[towardsbrightness]

“The smile of one flower permeates those who live next to death more than the problem of life and death.”

*// don’t reblog.

[captain-firefly-rose]

There HAS to be a season 2 of Wednesday and Tyler HAS to be in it. I don’t even care if he tries to kill Wednesday again, but he HAS to keep flirting with her or I will riot.

[whiskeynwriting]

Red String - C9: Hidden from the World

Frankie Morales x Female Reader

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Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) mentions/descriptions of drugs and drug use, discussions of addiction, domestic arguing, domestic and fluffy Frankie, discussions of separation/divorce, age gap, sexting, dirty talk, mentions of promiscuous activities

◆

Summary: After expressing her emotions to Frankie, Julianna is told to leave, giving the three of you time to bond. Valentina seems to like you, and it's almost as if you're becoming a part of Frankie's family. But... is that really true?

◆

A/N: this one might throw y’all through a loop. At least I hope so, anyway (;

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Red String Masterlist

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◆

It's not hard for you to put two and two together and figure out exactly who this is. You’ve never met her before, you’ve never even seen her face before, but you know it’s her. That one night, many months ago now, when you and Frankie had been interrupted while on his couch, it was her. She’d come by to drop off Valentina, and you remember seeing dark, short hair, the same hair this woman has now. But beside that one key detail, how can you really tell that this is Julianna? It’s the energy she exudes, having already been upset from the moment you opened the door, before she even realized it wasn’t Frankie standing before her. Every time she’s come around, she’s brought such a negative atmosphere with her. This has to be her; who else could it possibly be?

“Um…”

“Hi,” you squeak out, your face heating up with nerves.

Maybe you could start this conversation lightly.

“Who the hell are you?”

Okay, maybe not.

“Hi um, I’m…” you mutter out your name, nibbling on the corner of your lip. “I’m Frankie’s… girlfriend.”

Oh, should you not have said that? Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Frankie should’ve been the one to tell her. But you just don’t know what else to say, and you have to explain to her who you are somehow. What else were you going to say?

“His what?!”

You flinch subtly at her enraged shriek, widening your eyes while furrowing your brows in shock. This… this is how a grown woman reacts?

“Yeah, um… he’ll, he’ll be back soon. With his daughter, well, your daughter too, I’m assuming.” You let out an awkward laugh, the two of you still standing on opposite sides of the door.

Julianna scoffs. “Yes, my daughter. Just get out of my way.”

With that she shoves past you, causing you to gasp quietly and stumble backwards. She moves into the home, keeping the front door open behind her. And you’re not exactly sure what to do, simply standing and watching as she stomps into the living room now suddenly yelling for Frankie.

“He’s not here.” You hesitantly say, slowly closing the front door. “He’s picking up Vale.”

“Don’t you dare call my daughter by her nickname!” she whips around, pointing a finger in your face. “You don’t even know her.”

“You’re, you’re right. I’m sorry, I just –”

“Just what? Felt like dating a married man?!”

“Frankie’s not married to you anymore.” You calmy respond, trying to keep your cool. “I’ve been around for a few months; I know you’re getting a divorce.”

For some reason, you glance down, your eyes drawn to the shine of her wedding ring. If they are getting a divorce, then why’s she still wearing that?

Julianna doesn’t respond to you, instead turning and stomping down the hall. “Francisco!”

You roll your eyes with a small groan, deciding to step further into the living room and sit down on the couch. You’re about to pull out your phone to text Frankie that she’s here, but you don’t have to; he’s already pulling into the driveway.

He’d been singing with Valentina on the drive home, having queued up her favorites from the Disney movie “Moana” soundtrack. It was nice, just the two of them together. He’d been enjoying the drive greatly, eager to finally have the two of you meet. The bright smile on his face dwindles quickly though, his eyes now taking in the sight of an all too familiar car sitting in his driveway.  

Julianna’s here.

He then looks up at the house, a sudden burst of movement catching his attention as he sees Julianna shove her way past you to get inside. Quickly, he turns into the driveway, pulling up beside Julianna’s car and hurrying out of his truck.

“Hey baby,” he says to Valentina, picking her up out of her car seat. As he does so, Diablo hops down, allowing Frankie to shut the door. “Let’s go into the backyard for a minute, huh? Maybe Diablo needs a potty break.”

“Okay,” she simply responds, standing when Frankie sets her tiny feet on the ground. “C’mon buddy!” she smiles, reaching out to pat him on the head.

Frankie wants to admire the small moment between his daughter and her service dog, but he has to get inside. So, he leads them up the driveway and to the side of the house, opening the gate and letting them gallop into the fenced-in yard.

“I’m gonna go in through the house, sweetie, okay?”

“Okay, daddy!”

He laughs to himself, knowing she’s not even paying him any attention now that she’s in the yard. She’d immediately ran over to the swing set in the far corner, Diablo trotting along by her side and watching her play.  

Now that his daughter is busy, Frankie practically sprints to the front door. He assumes it’s open, and he’s right, immediately stepping inside. He first sees you on the couch, watching as you stand.

“Hey,”

“Hey – is Julianna here?” he asks, closing the door gently behind him.  

“Frankie?!”

The two of you jump upon hearing her loud voice, looking to the side of the room as she stomps out of the hall.

“Where the fuck have you been?!”

“Can you keep your voice down?!” Frankie seethes, taking a large step toward her. From where they’re both now at, they can see into the kitchen and out the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. He points to it, showing Julianna their daughter on the swings. “Our daughter’s here.”

“Who is she and why is she here?” Julianna spits in return, only taking one glance at their little girl before glaring back at you.

“Jules, this is my girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” she snorts, crossing her arms. “She told me.”

“I wanted to introduce you to her eventually, but I didn’t really plan on you being here today.”

“What? So now I need an outright invitation to visit my daughter’s home?”

“Yes, because this isn’t your home.” Frankie states dumbly. He gives her a cross look before turning around and stepping over to you.

“Hey,” he says softly, your returning smile making his heart melt inside. He hopes this doesn’t scare you off. He doesn’t need to go through that again.

“Hey,” you give him a proper welcome home, reaching up to loop your arms around his neck and accept his brief hug. And then, he turns back to Julianna.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks, gesturing towards the couch.

Immediately, you do, trying to keep everything smooth.

“Oh, look at that. Does she do everything you tell her to?”

Your head snaps up to give her an incredible scowl, no longer able to hold back the brunt of your emotions. But before you can say anything, Frankie steps in.

“First of all,” he begins, his voice now a bit louder and definitely more stern. “I was talking to you. Second of all, she’s just trying to keep things calm. Now, can we bring everything down a notch and just sit?”

Julianna scowls at him, her gaze briefly dropping to you before she finally decides to step forward and sit. She takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, both of you watching as Frankie moves to sit down, too.

This situation could not be more awkward for you. Had you been expecting her, you might’ve been a little more prepared, but you had no idea about this at all; and obviously, neither did Frankie. Why is she even here in the first place?

“Vale’s outside with Diablo, and she seems alright, so I’ll go get her in a minute.” Frankie explains, situating himself beside you. “But before I bring her in, I want everyone to be calm. I don’t want this to stress her out and –”

He abruptly stops, his lips open and wavering on their next word.

“Why are you wearing your ring?”

Julianna sighs, slapping her hands down on the tops of her thighs. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. That’s why I’m here.”

Frankie’s taken aback by this and closes his mouth entirely now. He leans back, narrowing his brows slightly as he listens to her speak.

She rolls her eyes, releasing a forceful breath. “Can we at least go into your bedroom? I don’t want her here while we talk.”

“I can go, Frankie.”

“No!” he instantly turns to look at you, placing both hands on your thigh. “No, don’t leave, baby. I’ll… I’ll be right back. Don’t leave.”

You give him a hesitant yet reassuring smile, alongside a soft nod. With that, he stands, turning and gesturing toward the hall.

            “Let’s go talk.” As the two of them step towards Frankie’s bedroom, he turns to you one more time. “Please keep an eye on Valentina.”

You nod again, your smile a bit brighter now. He’s never asked you to do that before, and it makes your heart beat inside, makes you feel that much closer to him. He already trusts you with her.

When the two of them make their way into his room, you decide to take a seat in the kitchen. You choose a stool at the countertop, watching her from afar but making sure she can’t yet see you. You don’t want to scare her, you are still a stranger, after all. And while you sit, you think. It makes you nervous knowing that the two of them are talking alone, especially when she has her wedding band on. What if she wants Frankie back again? Would he want her, too? They do have a family, after all. And while you and Frankie just admitted your love for one another only an hour ago, maybe choosing her is what he’ll think is best. He could always have love for you, that doesn’t mean he has to be with you. But you stop yourself at that. That uncomfortable itch of awkwardness has turned into full blown, white-hot embarrassment running through your veins. You don’t feel like you belong here. But you don’t know what’s going on in there, you don’t know what they’re talking about, and you’re already breaking your own heart.

“Okay,” he sighs, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “What’s going on?”

“Frankie,” she starts, moving to sit beside him. The action alone sort of makes him uncomfortable… this is his space, the space he shares with you.

“There’s no other way to say this.” She looks up at him, finding the brown eyes she fell in love with. “I miss you, baby. I, I can’t keep arguing with you. I can’t keep acting like the life we had together isn’t something I don’t want back.”    

All at once, her words make Frankie’s jaw drop, his stomach nearly falling out of his ass.

What did she just say?

“And Vale deserves to have us in her life. Both of us.”

He’s not sure what he expected to hear her say, but that was certainly not it.

“Julianna,” Frankie finally says, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “Why are you saying this?”

“Baby, I miss you. How many times can I say it? I miss you and I want you back. I need you in my life, Frankie. I really do.”

Frankie scoffs, shaking his head again. “After everything we’ve done to be apart, now you want to get back together? Why?”

“Francisco, I’ve already told you.”

“No, no you haven’t.” he stands rubbing at his jaw before spinning around. “What is it Julianna, really? Why are you here? Why are you wearing your wedding band again? Do you need money?”

“Are you serious, Frankie?!” she shoots up from her seat, now furious.

“Yeah, I am!” he shouts, thrusting his hand out to the side in some sort of furious gesture. “You always want something, always! We’ve been through this before, fuck. I’m sick of it!”

“Well excuse the fuck out of me for admitting that I was wrong!”

“But you didn’t! You didn’t say you were wrong, you didn’t apologize, nothing even close to that!”

“Frankie, I –”

“I’m happy, Jules.” he huffs out a laugh. “Like really happy.”

“With her? Christ Frankie, she looks like she could be the goddamn babysitter!”

“Jules, you need to go.” He finally decides, hands now on his hips.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“No, I’m not. Take your goddamn wedding ring off and get out. I don’t want to be with you, I’m done with that.”

Even from your spot in the kitchen, you can hear their argument. Your eyes then find Valentina outside, making sure she isn’t showing any sign of distress. She shouldn’t have to hear them like his. Luckily for you, though, she’s still playing on the swings.

“This is fucking ridiculous Frankie.” She returns, crossing her arms once again. “We have a history together; we can still have a life together!”

“And I don’t want it!”

“You’re going to choose her? You’re going to pick her over your wife?!”

Upon hearing her words, your emotions begin bubbling to the surface, tears spilling down your cheeks. He’d just told you he loves you, and now here she is, asking he return to her. What the two of you have has been so short lived when compared to their relationship. You feel inadequate.

“You’re not my wife.” Frankie replies firmly. “You need to leave.”  

 “You’re really going to kick me out, Frankie? Really?”

“You know what? Yeah, I am.”

“This is fucking ridiculous Frankie.” She returns, crossing her arms once again. “When are we going to finish talking about this then?!”

“There’s nothing more to talk about, Jules. I still want the divorce.”

He’s so goddamn sick of this. Julianna has been wrecking his life since before they were even married, and when he finally starts to rid himself of her, he finds you. You. Beautiful, kind, gentle yet sassy, you. And then she comes back? She fucking comes back to ruin him all over again?!

“What don’t you get? I don’t want to be with you, Julianna. Even if I didn’t have her, I wouldn’t go back to you. And you want to know why?! Because you make my life worse. You make it worse, and you always have! I don’t care if you’re jealous, I don’t care if you’re mad, I don’t want to be with you! There’s nothing that will change that!”

Your eyes widen at his words. In the months you’ve been together, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Frankie so angry and assertive. And on the inside, Julianna is thinking the same. Frankie had snapped at her a few days ago and it surprised her then, too, and what he said then was nothing to compared to what he’s just said now.

He takes another breath, keeping his feet in place and closing his eyes. Frankie’s fingers flex at his sides, his jaw locking as he grinds his teeth. Frustration doesn’t even come close to what he’s feeling right now. He’s trying to keep his cool, to be mature and collected, but this situation is testing his patience.

“Leave.”

“Francisco we –”

“Leave!” he shouts, eyes shooting open. “Fucking go! Leave! You’re not doing any good by being here! Just go! Go.”

Julia is appalled, and she goes to open her mouth to say more but ultimately… she doesn’t. Her foot twitches before taking its first step towards the door, twisting the knob and stepping into the hall. Frankie follows closely behind, striding behind her and pushing her forward simply with his presence.

Your head spins around when you hear them, quickly standing from your stool. The look on Frankie’s face stirs your insides, especially when he looks directly at you. His brows are still furrowed, anger dominating his expression.

“Is she doing okay?” he asks, his voice rough and low. You’ve heard this tone before, but only in more intimate circumstances.

You nod fervently. “Yeah.”

He gives you one sure dip of his head, turning to see Julianna out the door. She doesn’t look back at you, doesn’t say anything to you. She doesn’t even say anything else to Frankie. The only words exchanged between the two of them before she leaves is from him after he opens the door.

“Send me a text before you come over again. And only if it’s an emergency.”

She turns around to look him in the eye, the contact brief. Ultimately, she leaves, striding down the driveway and getting into her car. Frankie doesn’t watch anymore, just shuts and locks the door.

And when she’s finally gone, Frankie nearly collapses onto the couch. His hands are covering and rubbing his face, the muscles in his chest and back tight. You’re still standing in the kitchen, now quietly twiddling your fingers.

Frankie’s hands slide down his face as he releases a long and heavy breath. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“I’m sorry you saw me like that.” he quietly says, and when you step forward to look at him, he looks tired. The lines in his face seem exaggerated from his frowning state, his eyes slightly red as he holds back his own exasperated tears.

“Frankie,” you sigh, immediately moving to sit beside him on the couch. You place your hands on his thighs, but still, he won’t take his hands away from his face. “Please don’t be sorry. I understand why you acted that way; I understand why you’re upset.”

You’re trying to be reassuring, but Frankie feels like you’re just being nice. It’s almost like he can feel your interest in him fading. He’s embarrassed that he got so upset; he shouldn’t have gotten so loud. He’s glad that at least Valentina didn’t hear him.

“I, I’m sorry. I know you’re dealing with a lot right now,” you take Frankie’s ongoing silence as a cue to leave, give him some space to process things. You take a deep breath, now moving to stand. “And… I can go. I don’t have to stay. I can meet Vale another day, it’s really okay.”

At that, Frankie lifts his head from his hands. And now, he looks even worse. No matter what he does or says, his heart continues to sink.

“Baby,” he rises from his seat, reaching out for you again. You give him your hands alongside a kind, yet sad smile. “Please don’t go.”

“Baby, I feel like you need some time alone, especially with your daughter. It’s okay.” You sigh, eyes briefly flickering down. Internally, your emotions push and pull. You want to stay with him, you do, but this isn’t about you. This is about what’s best for him.  

“I don’t want you to go.” He tells you, mimicking the words he’d spoken just moments ago. “If, if you want to, it’s okay. But just know I don’t want you to go, baby. I want you to stay.”  

He swallows, choking down the emotion rising in his throat. He can’t do this; he can’t lose you. He’s done so much to prevent this from happening. And while you’re not threatening to leave him, he knows that if you go, it will threaten your relationship.

“Are you sure, Frankie?” You ask, feeling his fingers tighten around your hands. “I don’t want to intrude. Honestly… I feel like I already have.”

“Why?” once he asks it, he knows exactly why, and he sighs. “Because of Julianna?”

Frankie ducks his head down, trying to meet your eyes. And when you lift them to meet his, he sees them filled with tears. This isn’t what he wants; he wishes this was easier. It used to be.  But he can’t blame the aftermath of the current situation on Julianna alone. What made you upset in the first place, what started this rift between the two of you, was his doing.

“Baby,” he coos, releasing your hands to hold your face. “This house isn’t her home. I want it to be your home.”

“Frankie, you don’t have to say that baby.”

“I meant everything I said.” He promises, whispering your name. “I love you. I love you so much, and I don’t want to lose you. I know all of this started because of me, I know it’s my fault, but I’m trying to make it better. I swear to god, I’m doing my best. I’m doing everything I can, I’ll do anything I can to keep you.”

You reach up to grab Frankie’s wrists as he continues to frame your face, smiling with a sense of pride swelling in your chest. He loves you, and you know he’s genuine with that emotion. You know how hard he’s trying to make things right, and you should give him credit for that.

“I know you’re trying. And it’s not all your fault, baby.” He finally believes you now, not like before when he thought you were reassuring him out of pity. He realizes you’ve never pitied him; you only want what’s best for him. “I love you; I know you’re a good man, Frankie.”

And for the first time since returning home, you see a genuine smile cross his face.

“So, do you want to stay?” he asks, still slightly hesitant. He’d be sad if you left, but he would understand now. If space is what you need, he’ll give it to you. He’ll give you the whole world if it means you’ll be his at the end of the day.

You smile at him, giving a gentle nod. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay.”

He leans down to kiss you, grinning brightly against your lips. Frankie’s happy hum vibrates against your mouth, fully pressing his lips to yours while stilling holding your face.

“Okay,” he nods, eyes glancing down as he thinks. “I’ll uh, I’ll go get her.”

“Okay,” you reply, slightly anxious inside. After so many months, you finally have the privilege of meeting Frankie’s daughter.

“I’ll be back,” he says, taking a breath and removing his hands.

Frankie taps nervously at his thighs and then turns, striding off into the kitchen to open the back door. You sit down on the far end of the couch, folding up your legs on the cushions. Frankie’s muffled voice is audible as he speaks on the other side of the sliding glass door, something about a friend inside waiting to meet her.

Your cheeks immediately heat up, hearing Frankie explain the situation to her. She sounds curious, responding with a small gasp and question of really? Is she excited to meet you? What if she’s not?  

You love kids; you always have. Ever since you were one yourself, you knew you wanted to be a mom. But don’t get ahead of yourself; you’re not her mom. You don’t know if you’ll ever be. You’re just what Frankie said, a friend.

The opening of the kitchen’s sliding door shakes you out of your thoughts, jumping a bit in your seat. Your head snaps up in the direction of the kitchen, swallowing quickly and putting a timid smile on your face. Frankie rounds the corner with a brighter, much more confident one on his, looking down at his daughter as he leads her over to you. Diablo is at her side, and you completely forgot that you’ll be meeting him for the first time, too.

“Here Vale, this is the friend I want you to meet.”

“Hi,” you say with a small wave, still sitting on the couch.

“Hi…” she replies timidly, moving to hide behind her dad’s leg.

You give her a sympathetic smile, and a small tilt of your head. With a calm voice you tell her your name, and Frankie grins when she clings to his leg.

“Do you want to show her your favorite movie, Vale?” Frankie encourages her, glances down when she loses her grip. He runs his palm over her head, petting at her long curls.

“Do you… like Moana?” she asks in her quiet voice, glancing down at her feet.

“I love Moana.”

While he is first and foremost a service dog, Diablo was actually quite interested in you. You are in his home, after all. He sniffed your hand when he and Valentina got close enough to you, giving you a couple small licks. And after Valentina suggested Moana, Frankie guided her over to the couch while he turned it on. He sat between the two of you, wanting you to become familiar with each other but not pushing her past her boundaries. There was more than enough time for the two of you to get to know each other.

As soon as the movie was on, she snuggled up to her dad with Diablo on her other side. He rested his head on her lap and it might’ve been the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Frankie had also decided to order pizza, and you insisted that you be the one to get up and set it out when it came.

“What do you say?” Frankie asked softly when you handed Vale her plate.

“Thank you.” and this time when she spoke, it was accompanied by a tiny grin.

“You’re welcome.” You smiled in return, then handing Frankie his.

In that moment, Frankie wanted nothing more than to bring you down into his arms and kiss you like there was no tomorrow. They’re small interactions, the ones between you and Vale, but they mean the absolute world to him.

“Hey!” Vale suddenly says, leaning up and showing you her frown. She immediately draws both yours and Frankie’s attention. “Why aren’t you snuggling with us?”

A humored smile breaks out across Frankie’s face, and you release an amused laugh.

“I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, “Of course I’ll snuggle with you guys.”

You’d been giving Frankie a little bit of space, too. You didn’t want it to be weird for her to see some random woman cuddling her dad. But hey, if she insists.

Valentina lets out a happy giggle when she sees you move closer to Frankie, as he immediately held his arm out for you. He wraps it around your shoulder, turning his head to place a soft kiss on your temple as he welcomes you in. This, everything about this, makes you feel so loved.

After Moana ends, Valentina insists on watching Coco, and then Rava. Huh, kid’s got good taste. But by the time the end of the third movie rolls around, it’s almost eight o’clock, and you’re falling asleep on Frankie’s shoulder. And so is Vale.

“Hey baby,” Frankie whispers, kissing his daughter’s head. “Let’s go to bed.”

“No,” she whines, pouting with her eyes closed. “Daddy, one more movie.”

“No, honey.” He giggles, giving both of you a little squeeze. “C’mon, you’ve got school in the morning.”

“Mm?” you mumble, eyebrows drawing down before your lids blink open.

“Sorry, baby.” He whispers to you, having woken you up by shimmying his arm out from beneath you. “Gotta put Vale to bed.”

“Okay,” you yawn, sitting up in your seat. “I’ll go lay down, too.”

“Okay, baby.” He smiles, turning to scoop his daughter up into his arms. He’s loving the domesticity of this, loves having you in his home – in his life, like this.

You follow them down the hall, walking behind Diablo who is currently on Frankie’s heels. While they continue on, you turn to the right, making your way into Frankie’s room while he lays her down.

This is starting to feel normal; you were already comfortable in Frankie’s home, but in a sense, you still felt like you were hidden from the world he truly lived in. But now that you know Vale and she knows you, even knows your name and has spent a little bit of time with you, it’s like you’re truly part of his life now. Though, you’re trying to not get too ahead of yourself, it has only been one night with her. But it just went so well, and… you just can’t stop yourself from being giddy about this, okay?

With slow and sleepy steps, you make your way into the ensuite connected to Frankie’s master bedroom. Your stayover kit is on the counter, and you smile upon seeing it. The relationship you have with Frankie is by far the best one you’ve ever had in your life. You’ve never had someone care for you like he does. So, you move forward, finding your brush and hair ties, now wrapping your hair in a loose braid. Frankie’s old army t-shirts fit so nicely and are just so soft. So, you slip one on, returning to the bathroom to floss and brush your teeth before bed.

“Hey,” comes Frankie’s quiet yet raspy voice.

You look up, seeing him enter the bathroom behind you in the mirror. He smiles, the sight of you making yourself comfortable in his home one he hopes to see more often.

“Hey, baby.” You coo in return, feeling those strong arms wrap around you.

Frankie leans down, placing his chin on your shoulder and addressing you through the mirror. His head then turns, planting a light kiss on your cheek.

“How are you?” he asks gently, brushing some hair out of his way so he can move his lips to your neck.

“I’m good,” a deep, contented breath makes its way into your lungs. “Really good.”

He smiles against you, murmuring, “It makes me happy seeing you with her.”

In Frankie’s firm and loving hold, you spin around to face him. He shifts his weight, moving to place his palms on either side of the counter behind you. Frankie was much taller than you when the two of you stood normally, but when he stood like this? It’s like he was towering above you, caging you in, making you feel small while simultaneously making you feel safe.

“I’m so happy I finally met her, Frankie.” You grin, cheeks and chest feeling warm beneath his loving gaze. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he says, giving your forehead a kiss. “Vale needs a woman in her life she can count on.”

You swallow quietly at his words, heart giving a few hard pounds inside your chest. Did Frankie really just say that? He wants you to be the woman his daughter can rely on?

“I love you, Frankie.” Your fingers brush along the scruff littering his jawline, sighing out a gentle smile. “And I feel like I already love her, too.”

“C’mere, baby.” He says in return, hauling you up from the sink to stand against him.

Once you’re fully on your feet, he cups your cheek, dipping his head down so his lips can find yours. It’s a full, deep kiss, and you moan into it, your own palms moving to frame Frankie’s face.

Hearing you speak about his daughter in such a fond way makes his body feel light, makes him feel like an incredible weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He’s been waiting for months to introduce you. At first, he thought it best to wait to do so until he made Julianna aware of the situation, but she’d told him not that long ago that she didn’t even want to be in Vale’s life. Either way, he feels he made the right decision.

And as he lays you down on his bed, nuzzling into you and appreciating your soft skin and flowery scent, he thinks that maybe this really will last. Maybe you will stick around, maybe, one day, you’ll truly be part of his family.

You’re sitting alone in your room, glancing around the things you have in your apartment. You’re looking for something, suddenly standing from your bed. Your feet hit the cheap carpet below and it feels rougher than usual, making you look down. There’s… sand, sand and a sudden rush of water. The water is coming from your bedroom’s entryway; you don’t understand. But it doesn’t make you want to back away; it makes you want to step into it. So, you do, and it’s cold. Your home is much darker than normal, much bleaker, too.

Suddenly, you remember that you’re missing something. What was it again? Did you even know in the first place?

That terrible sinking feeling in your gut returns, a heavy weight now also pressing into your chest. Something is lost; you need to find it. You begin to trudge through the water, the level staying relatively the same throughout your home. The further you explore, the more emotional you seem to become. You begin seeing relics from your past, and not ones that you are fond of.

“D… Derek?”

Your voice echoes as you see your brother standing on the other side of your kitchen counter, shoving his belongings into a bag. He looks awful, sick. It’s a piece of a memory, one from the last time you ever saw him. Abruptly, he looks up at you, his eyes stone cold and it makes you flinch. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, his face nearly green and completely sweaty.

Without your own doing, your body is spun to the side, your hair blowing in a quick gust of sea breeze. Your arms wobble out at your sides, trying to keep your balance while your eyes take in the new sight.

“Derek!” you shout, looking into your family home’s bathroom and seeing him stick a needle in his arm. Another memory, one from when you were thirteen.

Your arm extends, your dominant hand now reaching out for him as your feet take their first steps in his direction. The water around you now feels powerful, an under toe quickly forming beneath the waves.

“N – no,” you whisper, eyes shooting down as the swirls begin forming around you. And then, you look back up, watching Derek’s eyes roll into his head as he stumbles back. “No!”

Sometimes shifts inside the orbs of your eyes, your vision glitching as Derek’s body is replaced with Frankie’s, the bathroom in your family home now shifting to the bathroom you were in at Santi’s.

“Frankie!” it comes out entirely as a shriek, both arms now thrusting out towards him. “Francisco!”

It’s slow, his fall to the ground, his back hitting the door and then crumbling to the floor. It’s him, it’s him you’ve been looking for. You found him, and you need to get to him. But before you can even take a full step forward, you’re being tugged backward.

The surrounding waves keep you from lifting your head to look back at who it is that’s pulling you away from him. But you thrash, you thrash and you kick and you fight back against them. The current is working in their favor, though, the water shoving you further in this person’s direction. The waves rise, forming into powerful swells that further separate you and Frankie.

“Ugh!” you grunt, your body flung onto the sand. This person had returned you to your bedroom.

You look up, and you’re shocked by what you see.

It’s… you.

A sudden gasp rips you from your sleep, your body sitting upright in bed. Your jolting movements stir Frankie, your eyes finding him in the near-blackness that surrounds you. He groans quietly, turning over in his sleep.

A quick swallow makes its way down your throat, your chest heaving as you wipe the sweat that had formed on your brow.

“Holy shit,” you sigh out, placing a hand on your upper rib cage.

Frankie likes to keep the house cold, favors wrapping up in a blanket rather than shedding layers. Because of this, your night sweats quickly turn into chills. Your throat is dry, too, so you decide to grab a glass of water.

As soon as your feet hit the wood floor, you shiver, stepping forward to grab your bag and pull out a pair of sweatpants. After that, you shuffle down the hallway, still in one of Frankie’s t-shirts. You decided to put it back on after last night’s… activities.

You’re as quiet as you can be, not wanting to wake up Frankie or Vale. When you get to the kitchen and grab a glass, you sit down, taking a moment to breathe a drink a small sip.

Your dream was… strange, to say the least. Why were you dreaming of Derek? And water in your apartment? And then… Frankie? Why did you feel like you lost him?

When you were a child, your grandmother liked to interpret your dreams. She claimed that a person’s dreams expressed the innerworkings of life that our conscious selves aren’t able to understand. And while you don’t remember much, you do remember that water can be related to emotion, and that losing a person in your dream could mean you feel disconnected with them in real life. The comparison your brain had made between Derek and Frankie only seems natural, so you assume that there isn’t any hidden meaning behind that tidbit. And at the end, you pulled yourself back to shore… land. The opposite of water. Logic, the opposite of emotion. The closer you got to Frankie in your dream, the more upset you seemed to become, and you only lost him when the water first emerged. Maybe you need to put your emotions aside and look at the bigger picture. You and Frankie need to sit down and talk. You need to decide how things are going to be moving forward.

“Mommy?”

“Oh,” you jump, your heart rate rising again. Turning in your seat, you see a sleepy Vale. “Hey, Vale. Did I wake you up?”

She shrugs, eyes falling to the floor as she yawns. Her dark curls are an entire mess, and further behind her you can see Diablo stretching while he too, yawns. Frankie’s daughter is also holding her blankie, now rubbing her eyes. You find the entire scene endearing, having always wanted a little girl yourself. But then, her eyes meet yours, an unhappy look crossing her face.

“You’re not my mom.”

So, last night was… weird. Extremely weird and off-putting and everything you don’t want to experience while you’re here. You’re not Valentina’s mom, obviously. Maybe you let yourself get carried away in your head, maybe that’s why you feel so hurt. You could’ve sworn she liked you after she asked you to cuddle with them during the movies last night. But her comment when she found you in the kitchen, well, to say the least, it wasn’t what you were expecting.

You’re barely awake and you can already hear her laughs and Frankie groans alongside his tired chuckles. She squeals every now and then, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, and you’re wondering what they’re up to. Vale does half-days, her kindergarten class starting at nine in the morning. When Frankie has her, he gets into work late, often staying late, too. Usually, he’s there at eight, but with her, he’s lucky if he gets there by ten. Tonight, he’ll get home around six in the afternoon. Thankfully, Vale’s grandmother picks her up on these days. And you’d offer to do so yourself if you hadn’t just met her, and if she hadn’t just blatantly pointed out that you are not her mother.

A yawn creeps its way out of your mouth as you open the door to Frankie’s bedroom. Looking to the left, you see the bathroom door wide open, its bright light on and shining out into the hall. Soft, sleepy steps help you make your way toward the noise, the sight you find one that makes your heart swell inside.

“Vale baby,” Frankie groans, his words muffled slightly as he holds her hair ties between his teeth. “You gotta stay still, we can’t be late.”

“Daddy, you pull too hard.” She explains, yelping out shortly after. “Duele!” (It hurts!)

“Lo siento, bebé,” he sighs out, carefully grabbing more of her hair in his hand. “Estoy intentando.” (I’m sorry baby, I’m trying)

“Yo se.” she mumbles, looking down at the doll in her hand. “Podemos hacer un moño?” (I know. Can we do a bun?)

“Pensé que querías coletas?” Frankie asks, looking up with a frown. He then sighs. “Además, no se como hacer un moño, bebé.” (I thought you wanted pigtails? Besides, I don’t know how to do a bun, baby)

Frankie sighs, it’s not always this hard. Some days he just doesn’t know what he’s doing. He had been trying to give her pigtails and for some reason, was struggling greatly.

“Yo se como hacerlo,” you smile, finally drawing their attention. (I know how to do it)

“Tú haces?” Vale asks, stroking her Barbie’s hair. (You do?)

“Sí. Frankie, puedo intentar?” (Yes. Frankie, can I try?)

He gives you a warm and thankful grin but asks Vale about it before allowing you to.

“Ella puede pienarte hoy?” he asks gently, leaning down to look at her while nodding his head to the side in your direction. (Can she do your hair today?)

“Okay,” Vale shrugs, glancing at you before returning to her reflection in the mirror.

Frankie has her sitting on the countertop while he stands behind her. He’s currently holding a brush and has two hair ties in his hand, having taken them out of his mouth when he knelt down to speak to her.

He doesn’t say anything to you, just stands with a grin as he hands over the brush. Frankie then extends his palm, allowing you to take both hair ties, which you instantly slide onto your wrist. Before stepping over to Vale, you reach up to cup his chin, admiring him.

“Gracias, guapo.” You say with a smirk before walking to stand in his place. (Thanks, handsome)

“Okay,” you sigh, looking at her in the mirror. “Quieres coletas? O moños?” (Do you want pigtails? Or buns?)

“Coletas!” she grins, raising her hands into the air. (Pigtails!)

Frankie stands off to the side as he watches you begin to work, crossing his arms while leaning against the doorway. His happiness is undeniable, clearly smiling ear to ear. He can’t remember the last time he saw someone else do Vale’s hair.

You begin by parting her hair down the center, brushing either section until every knot is out. She has detangler spray off to the side, which you use occasionally until her curls are detangled. Regardless of what she said last night, you’re still entirely fond of her. Kids say weird things all the time, it doesn’t mean they meant any harm.

“Me gusta tú ropa,” you grin, looking down at her pink shirt and dark-wash jeans. “Lo conseguiste tú mismo?” (I like your outfit, did you get it yourself?)

“No,” she shakes her head. “Daddy lo hizo.” (No, daddy did)

“Te gusta?” (do you like it?)

“Sí! Mi color favorito es el rosado.” (Yes! My favorite color is pink)

“Oh,” you smile, a thought now popping into your head. “Well in that case…”

You reach down, opening a drawer to the side, assuming she has more hair products and accessories in one of these cabinets. And as soon as you slide the drawer out, you find them, a wide assortment of bows. Reaching in, you grab two pink ones and holding them up to her.

“Quieres agregar lazos?” (Do you want to add bows?)

She doesn’t respond verbally; she just smiles and nods. With a few more adjustments, Vale’s hair is done. Frankie tells you that she already ate breakfast and brushed her teeth, and that they have to get going.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

“Yeah,” you nod, accepting his quick hug. “I work the afternoon shift today.”

“Okay, baby.” Frankie responds, leaning in to give you a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” you respond, then turning to Vale. “Have a good day, Vale!”

“Thank you!” she grins, brushing her Barbie’s hair before looking up at you. “You too, not-mom.”

Immediately, your face twists in confusion, and Frankie’s does, too. But before he says anything to her, he looks up at you.

“Not-mom?”

“Yeah, uh… I’ll, I’ll tell you about it later.” You laugh nervously with a wave. “You guys gotta go.”

Quickly, Frankie checks his watch, releasing an aggravated sigh.

“You’re right,” he agrees, leaning down to help Vale put on her backpack. “I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as you read it, you feel your skin turning hot. How is he capable of changing conversation so quickly?

You’re already turning into a puddle; you can practically hear Frankie’s low voice speaking to you.

"Mi bonita niña" -> "My pretty girl"

"Te amo, Frankie" -> "I love you, Frankie"

"Te amo cariño" -> "I love you baby"

Detailed Chapter Summary

You meet Frankie's rather aggressive ex-wife, Julianna. When Frankie comes back to see her car in the driveway, he ushers his daughter into the backyard, asking the three of you to sit in the living room and talk. This is when Julianna asks Frankie to get back together. Frankie declines, telling her to leave. When things calm down, you meet Vale, spending the afternoon with her and Frankie.

That night, you have a nightmare about your brother Derek. Waking up in a cold sweat, you go to get some water, accidentally running into Vale, who promptly tells you, "You're not my mom." It confuses both you and Frankie.

One-Shot: I Can't Wait

[writefightandflightclub]

Good Morning: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN reader

Summary: you get more than you bargained for on your weeklong trip to the campground, when four hot as hell campers pitch-up opposite your group. The question is, will the guy you have your eye on notice you in return?

Genre: fluff mainly.

Author’s note: let’s try this again, after I lost half the fic when posting yesterday! It’s self-indulgent, again! Tee hee but I’m allowed! The thought of meeting Santi while camping has been plaguing me for a while so I finally wrote the damn thing. It’s barely a fic and I haven’t proofread / checked it yet but let me live, lol.

Warnings: very brief implied smut, brief discussion of parental death (Santi’s); swearing; alcohol mentions; flirting; kissing.

Rating: mature for implied smut but that’s all off-screen and only hinted at.

GIFs by @nickblaine and @mizar113

You could barely have imagined anything more perfect.

You are staying on a campground for a week with your gals ‘n’ pals, ready for some fun times in the great outdoors.

And, by some glorious twist of fate, four guys rock up to the pitch opposite you. They’re HOT. Hot like fire.

Your friends are hot like fire too (so are you, but you won’t accept that, for some reason), and so you fully expect the gaggle of lads to descend on your pitch - looking to get lucky while you’re all sat around your respective campfires that night.

However, to your surprise, the group mostly keeps to themselves. They don’t come striding over, all toxic masculinity and patronising offers to help you pitch your tents. There’s no flirting, so your friends therefore don’t giggle coquettishly, offering to return the favour in a very different sense. They don’t ogle and stare lecherously when your friends are in their swimwear or changing, ready to take a dip out at the lakeshore.

Of course, you are glad that they are respectful rather than overbearing. If anything, they seem acutely aware how a group of four burly men might come across as threatening, and they seem to do what they can to assuage that.

They are polite when you run into them too, of course. Gentlemanly when queuing for water refills, offering to carry your jerry cans up the track but not insisting. Indicating for you to go ahead of them at the communal facilities. The tall, well-muscled ones are particularly chivalrous, opening doors for members of your group to walk through first.

Up close, you note they are older than their bright, hyena-like, beer-addled laughs had suggested, sounding from across the campground as they enjoy their marshmallows or range of skewered meat. Their faces are pleasantly lined. Hair pleasantly grizzled.

It’s fair to say that you take an interest in them, the group practically becoming your favourite past-time out here, next to lake-swimming and hiking. You endeavour to steal occasional glances, and to piece little clues together about who they might be outside of the camp.

You pick-up other details too. One of them is wearing a wedding ring, for example. Another keeps dipping away to FaceTime his kid, you think, up by the ranch house where there’s power and cell coverage. Two of them must be brothers, surely, too alike in looks and mannerisms. Their bond is evidently strong and they appear well worn-in as a group. And, judging by the layout and precision of their camp, amongst other things, you’d guess they might be military. You’d grown up a stone’s throw from one of the air bases, and that type wasn’t hard to spot.

Yes, it’s true. While they have captured your attention, they don’t appear to pay your own group all that much mind. And, not to be contrary, but that’s a real shame, you think. Especially as one of them, in particular, has caught your eye.

Despite the fact your group has, by consensus, dubbed the tall blonde dude as “the hot one” (really they were spoilt for choice but he had just edged them out), your favourite is “the short one”. The one with gorgeous dark curls and brown skin. A jawline which could cut glass and striking features - prominent brows and nose and chin hiding beneath his oft worn ball cap.

The one you find looking across to your patch sometimes.

It even seems somewhat deliberate on his part too. Your camp is in his eyeline, sure, but only when he puts his back directly to the epic seam of mountains acting as backdrop to the lake. You’re therefore doing your continued detective work, idly trying to figure out which of your perfect friends has taken his fancy. You’re pretty sure you saw him talking to Dionne by the lake already. Maybe her?

You know it’s pointless to wonder anyway. You enjoy your idle daydreaming, but you haven’t even spoken directly to him. You don’t even know his name. You have no idea if he’s single, or looking. (You’d thought he and his buddy with the distinctive hawkish nose might be a couple for a brief time, but you finally concluded no.) It’s not as though you intend to speak to him either; in fact, you’re quite content with your imaginings, which seem far more favourable than the reality of him -ultimately- not being interested in you.

Still, you do have fun letting your mind wander. And, you at least have one thing in common with your mystery man so far. You and he are both early risers, and on the mornings where you are each first to wake from within your respective camps, lighting the stoves and preparing the hot drinks and breakfast stuffs and enjoying the golden glow of the light, he always -without fail- gives you a gentle smile and waves good morning from across the way.

It started off as little more than a nod on the first day, but you could swear that his grin has grown broader and his wave more animated day on day. Of course, that might just be your imagination running away with you yet again. You have a tendency to do that.

God. He’s beautiful though. When you’d first seen him up-close, unfiltered by caps and sunshades, you had very suddenly understood the meaning of breath-taking. So beautiful, in fact, that even at this distance, you can do little more than raising your hand in return then looking away, concentrating hard on your camp kettle and waiting intently for it to boil; even though watched things never do, apparently.

This morning, however, you idly note that the truck usually parked-up by their pitch is gone. Have his buddies already headed out today? Without him? Does he have plans of his own? Or, is this his plan? Sun, stove, blanket? A book, a lake swim, and some solitude?

You surreptitiously look up and across at him once again. You could swear he dips his head back to his book only then, as though he had been doing much the same - wondering about you too; but that’s likely wishful thinking.

You find yourself wishing that you knew more about him. You’ve certainly pieced small details about him together, over the past few days here. He’s like your little puzzle. Some nice eye-candy right in your eye-line, sure, but you can’t deny you’ve become increasingly intrigued by him, through a combination of observing him with his buddies and your few indirect interactions with him around the site so far.

You know he’s read at least 3 books already, for example. One in Spanish and two English - you’ve stolen glances at them set out on the picnic blanket. You know he’s fairly athletic, and a good swimmer, but that he burns out a little faster than the other guys. He likes his coffee. You think you’ve seen his full rotation of cargo shorts and dad sunglasses by now.

You know that he’s chatty and warm and tactile with his friends - often the one driving things, but often the first to ire after too much teasing, his thick brows drawing down and arms folding across his chest.

His smile knocks you out. His voice is deep and rich and sandy. His ball cap is seemingly an extension of his body.

You saw him rescue a butterfly from a spiderweb when no-one was around. He’s very practical, and you’ve never seen a tent pitched more quickly. He puts hot sauce on everything.

And, despite your great efforts not to ogle, you can’t help but notice that his ass is something else.

Okay. So you may be more than a little intrigued by him, but to be fair, noticing small details others miss is sort of your thing.

Even so, you try to ignore his existence for a moment as you spoon out coffee, before quickly realising you’re out.

Shit.

Your friends had drunk a few too many last night, and you know they’ll need the caffeine hit this morning to stave off some monster hangovers.

You nibble on your lower lip. You contemplate it. Give it some serious thought.

You have one very obvious source of help right opposite you, but you are loathe to approach him and make a fool of yourself. Hell, you are cringing inwardly already, the request barely a step above slinking over to borrow a damn cup of sugar.

No, it’s not something you would generally do, but you know that as soon as the others wake up they will stride brazenly over there without a care. And, if you’re honest, you want that interaction all to yourself. Plus, if it does need to happen -if it’s finally going to happen- you’d much prefer to get it over with before your friends wake. You’d rather that no-one had the chance to see you flounder spectacularly, or to get wise to your… crush. You’ve been keeping this one under wraps, knowing they’d embarrass you otherwise.

Therefore, setting your jaw with a determination far beyond the scope of the task, you stride over there with a rare confidence and urgency, thankful that you’d already styled your hair and washed-up this morning.

Despite your determined -and probably alarmingly sudden- beeline towards him, the man greets you with a wide, easy smile. “G’ morning,” he greets sleepily, and when he looks up at you from his camp chair with those big brown eyes of his, all the words you might have spoken fall out of your head, your mouth opening and closing uselessly for a moment.

Adrenalin is pumping through your veins and your heart is thudding, your flight instinct firing all too readily. Your feet are practically steering you to run in the opposite direction, but still you stand your ground, feigning outward calmness. “Morning,” you push-out hoarsely, thankful that the man’s smile is contagious enough that your own face is overtaken by a giddy grin too. Well, that could be the nerves too, admittedly.

You wring your hands in front of you. “I’m… out of coffee and I…”

You are thankful when he interprets your request with ease, without you having to figure the words out fully in your head first.

“Oh, sure. Of course,” he offers immediately, standing to dig around in his bag for the good stuff before handing you a canister.

“Thank you,” you grin blankly.

Great.

And there goes the world’s shortest interaction.

If you could think of any single way to extend it, you damn well would, but sadly, your brain is firing big fat blanks.

You are moments away from turning and fleeing and leaving awkwardness in your wake; but thankfully, your handsome stranger doesn’t seem quite finished with you yet. He runs a hand across his stubbled jaw, the salt and pepper hairs growing in thick and fast, and you hear it rasp beneath his palm like sandpaper. Then, expression busy with thoughts, he flicks his gaze briefly across to your patch, an idea clearly forming fast. “Hey,” he offers brightly. “I have a pot all brewed-up if you’d like a mug? My buddies abandoned me for the day so I wouldn’t be mad about a little company?”

You are taken aback by his unexpected offer and so you are silent for a little too long - while you wait and hope and pray that your brain and your mouth will eventually reconnect. You are silent for long enough that the poor man’s smile drops from his face, and he begins to hastily backpedal. “Sorry. No pressure, if you’d rather n-“

Here your lips come! But alas, they’re saying the wrong thing. “-Ah. Thank you. That would be nice. But… I need to make breakfast for the squad, so...” God knows why you’re saying “no”, as now that you in his company, leaving it is most definitely the last thing you want to do.

He pouts his full lips and cocks his head as he contemplates you. And, you are even more thankful that he opts to give it -to give you- one more shot. “Sure,” he says playfully, his fingertips cupping your upper arm for a moment like it’s no big thing at all. Like it’s natural. “But… you’ve made them breakfast every day so far. Isn’t it time someone took care of you?” Then he flashes you his best puppy-dog eyes, and you wonder if you’re still a human being or if you’ve melted into a puddle on the floor.

Your stomach flips. At the fact that he’s offering to be the someone to take care of you in some small way. At the fact he’s noticed you each morning. Probably appreciated your efforts more than your pals have all week too.

Shit.

He noticed you!

He noticed you.

You stand, outwardly subdued as a marching band and streamers and balloons parade chaotically through your mind.

You nod gratefully, earning you a beaming smile in return, and he immediately moves to pull a camp chair around for you, closer to the fire and to him, the air still marginally chilly while the rising sun burns the morning dew off.

You sit your ass down. “Same for you though,” you observe shyly as this impossibly handsome man pours you a brew. “And your friends had the cheek to abandon you this morning?”

He chuckles and you enjoy the sound of it bouncing in his throat. “Uh. Yeah. That’s on me.” He rubs his leg with his palm and you idly note that his thighs are just as appealing as the rest of him. “My shot knees need a rest from yesterday’s hike.”

You nod in understanding, and take a sip of the coffee, suddenly a little self-conscious under the full scope of his attention. “Wow. That’s delicious,” you thank him.

He smiles, and you feel his eyes slide appreciatively over you as you cross your legs, tugging your already shortish shorts further up your thigh. He quickly averts his gaze from there, however, instead flitting it gently -almost serenely- over your features, landing ever so briefly on your lips before he wilfully tugs his eye-line back up. Your skin feels warmed all over very suddenly, and you’re not entirely sure it’s as a result of the fire. “I’m Santiago, by the way.”

Shit! You’re forgetting everything you should be doing. With an apology you give your name too, and he tests it out in his mouth and on his tongue a couple of times. He must like the feel of it too, as his mouth quirks up into a smile as he repeats it back to you.

“Santiago,” you repeat too, enjoying the feel and rhythm of that too. “That’s not what your friends call you though, is it? They shouted Poke at you or something?” He laughs brightly, before you facepalm and backpedal. “I’m sorry. Your nicknames are none of my business.”

“That’s okay,” he reassures, with yet another easy smile. In fact, he’s barely stopped smiling since you got here. The both of you have barely stopped, even despite your nerves. “It’s Pope,” he clarifies, popping the “p”. “Like the guy in the Vatican.” He gestures to a point above his head where a hat might be.

You quirk a brow in interest. “Are you super religious?” Then, you put your palm to your face all over again, sucking air through your teeth in embarrassment. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m going so hard with the personal questions. You just make me super nervous.”

He chuckles again, wrapping his broad hands around the circumference of his mug. You finally let you eyes skim over him, noting a mussed bedhead, a fleecy top on his upper half, and his thighs busting pleasingly out of his shorts on his lower half. He looks eminently cuddle-worthy. “No- I’m a lapsed Catholic. It’s a military thing. We all have call-signs, and old habits die hard, I guess.”

You nod once again in understanding, tabling all this information for later - though you know not why. So you can hang on to memories of this beautiful man later, you guess.

Then, Santiago leans in closer to you, settling his elbows astride across his spread thighs. That’s when you realise your brain hasn’t caught up with your mouth all the way yet, as you evidently hadn’t fully clocked what you’d said only moments ago until he calls you out on it. “Why do I make you nervous?” Santi asks playfully. With a hint of smugness and flirtation which you have to admit you enjoy, his thick brow arcing up. His fingertips brushing against your knee to punctuate his question.

You blink rapidly in embarrassment, clutching your brew more tightly, and a heat prickles across the back of your neck. You drop your eyes, fixing on a spot on the ground. “I… I think you can probably guess why.”

Santi pinches his lips together and it is his turn to nod in understanding now. He looks a little happy with himself. “Well. I have a confession.” You note that his voice is dropped a little lower in his throat, and it gives you tingles in all the right places.

“Yeah?”

“You make me a little nervous too. But I kinda like that.”

Well fuck.

You bite your lip to stifle an instantaneous, face-splitting grin, the marching band in your head about to be apprehended for drunk and disorderly behaviour. It’s chaos in there, even as you attempt to play it cool outwardly.

You do manage a cursory glance back up at him from beneath your lashes, and you find his eyes sparking for you, a smile still lingering in them and delicious swooping creases radiating from the corners.

“What are you reading?” you ask quickly, gently toeing the book on the mat before you, and reaching for a topic change before he can fluster you any further, or, before any awkward silence can descend - not that you can imagine him allowing that to happen, amiable as he is.

In truth, you don’t know where to start with him. There’s so much you feel you want to know about him. About his life. About his idiosyncrasies. Even more about the taste of his lips, and you feel… rushed. You feel this sense of urgency, as though you only have as long as your brew lasts, or until your hungover friends surface from their pits and beckon you over.

The man folds to pick-up the paperback, turning it over in the cradle of his broad palms. His brows draw down, his expression becoming pinched. “My mom died about a year back,” he croaks, the emotion attached still wildly apparent. “She became a bit of an avid reader.” His expression becomes wistful, and this time it is your hand which settles on his knee as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Anyway, I’m trying to make my way through her bookshelves. It’s dumb maybe, but it feels like a way to get closer to her - reading the same words she did.”

You squeeze his knee a little more firmly, your thumb stroking there. “I’m sorry about your mom. I think that’s a really beautiful thing to do.”

“Thanks.” His face travels through a range of emotions, then eventually he lets out a bittersweet laugh. “Meh. It’s hit and miss, honestly. She read some god awful shit,” he muses fondly. You love the complete lack of pretence about him. Then, he shakes off the somber mood, with effort, even though you’re not pushing him to do so. Next, he looks down at your hand against his leg with interest, your thumb still smoothing over his skin, and the realisation causing you to quickly snatch it away. You think you see a little smirk pass his lips then. “Anyway. Tell me about you. Are you a photographer back home or something?”

He noticed your penchant for snapping things too?

Shit.

He noticed you. You didn’t think anyone noticed you, least of all people like him.

You smile shyly. “Not yet. I work in a shitty ass desk job. But I’m making moves for my own gallery.”

“That’s very cool,” he says, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline. You smile. Again. Still. “There’s one thing you’re missing though.”

“Yeah?” You take a sup of your coffee.

“Photos of you. You’re always behind the camera.”

You scoff, adding a self-deprecating comment for good measure. “I think it’s probably better that way.”

He grunts. “I dunno. In my humble opinion you’re the most beautiful sight around here.”

Your jaw drops open. Is this real? Are you daydreaming? Because this can’t actually be happening right now.

You can’t put into words the emotion which swells in your chest then. Which makes your eyes fill. You look at him and his eyes are glowing. He looks entirely sincere, and yet it still doesn’t feel possible to you. So, you continue to dismiss him. “I don’t know about that.”

“Cariño. Why do you think my chair is always angled this way?”

The parade in your head is too wild to comprehend right now.

He looks at you like he sees you. He looks at you like he’s always known you, and like he wants to know everything about you.

It’s a little overwhelming, but in no bad way.

You don’t know what’s happening. How you could be feeling something quite so intense for him so quickly, and yet, you want nothing more than to stay in this moment.

Of course, all dreams must come to an end, however, and it is that moment that your friend chooses to shout over from your pitch. “Baaaabe? Are we out of coffee? Fuck, get help!”

You toss your thumb back over your shoulder, and Santi stands with you as you motion to leave. “I should… go help the helpless.”

“Right,” he nods, scooping up the canister and handing it over to you.

“Thanks for the coffee. I’m… glad that I ran out.”

He cocks his head to the side, another confession coming. “If you hadn’t, I would have landed on some excuse to come talk to you eventually.”

Butterflies dance through your stomach.

How is this real?

You are knocked speechless, but Santiago scratches the back of his neck, and you sense that he isn’t quite done with you yet. “You know. If you get tired of looking after everyone else - if you want someone to take care of you? I’ll be over here.”

Wow. A swell of emotion catches in your throat. No-one’s spoken to you like this. Ever. At least, not for a long time. “And…” he adds hopefully - smoothly. “Maybe tomorrow morning I can borrow a cup of sugar, since you owe me a favour?”

You don’t know what compels you to say your next words; aside from every fibre of your being that is. “Actually, I was planning on thanking you with a kiss a little sooner than that.”

Holy hell. You’re so nervous your legs feel blurry.

Santiago runs a hand over his prickle of stubble and shuffles from foot to foot, a cautious smile tipping his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I could go for that.” And, with that sentiment, Santiago surges closer to you, his hand settling politely at your waist as one of yours skims up to the warm nape of his neck.

It’s not a raunchy kiss, by any means. It’s sweet, even. Short-lived. A brief warmth. There is space still between your bodies. There is a hint at the textures of him: a brief scratch of stubble; the light scent of his musk.

It is a slow, shy dip of lips towards lips. Then; it is a gentle crush, and the subtle taste of coffee as his intrepid tongue fleets out to skim the seam of your lips. Finally, there is the release, as puckered lips tip up into mutually smiling mouths.

It is ever so brief, and yet this… electricity? The spark? The excitement of first touches? It ignites you. Makes you long for many more moment like this.

You smile like an idiot but that’s perfectly okay, because he is doing the same too. Next, his fingers skim down your arm to give your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, as, all too suddenly, you become aware of the obscene wolf whistling emanating from your camp.

Happy as you are, your feet and your nerves are compelling you to flee, everything a flurry, but Santiago’s hand tugging gently on yours grounds you for just a moment longer.

“See you later?” he asks hopefully.

“See you later,” you confirm, with a final giddy smile before turning to face your camp.

Wow.

This is turning out to be a very good morning indeed.

One of your best yet, in fact.

***

The next morning, both groups of friends are mulling around on the grass. Apparently they each face the same quandary: dead fires and uncooked breakfasts. The camps each begin wondering where their dedicated cooks are, and whether they’ll need to fend for themselves for today.

Will’s question is answered, however, when a shirtless Santi unzips his tent and pops his head out, his curls tousled and fresh from the pillow, stubble darkening his jaw and his dog tags jangling against his smooth chest. “Hey buddy. Can you bring some coffee? And… one sec.” He briefly dips back into the tent, before popping out again. “Some eggs?” In and out again he goes. “And can you bring some to their group too? And…”

Another question on whereabouts is answered when Will sees a bare arm wrap around Santi’s chest, and a mouth appears to nibble keenly on his ear lobe. That is, until you spot Will and his amused expression, and then dip bashfully behind Santiago’s body to spare your modesty. “Go back to sleep, cariño,” Santiago soothes. “Told you. I’m taking care of things.”

“Hi,” you announce bashfully from behind your tentfellow, causing Santi to deliver a smile which is already far too fond.

Will grins knowingly at that. Seems like his buddy is a goner. “Hi. I’m Will.”

“Hi Will,” you peep, before ducking back into the interior, leaving Will to cock an inquisitive eyebrow at his friend.

Santi knows that look all too well by now. “Fuck off,” he says good naturedly, upon seeing the knowledge in Will’s eyes.

“Good night?”

“Holy shit yeah,” Santi reveals in a hushed voice, as emphatically as possible. “So, could you hurry up with those coffees? I’m planning on a good morning too, if you know what I mean.”

Will knows exactly what he means, but he hopes the man might spare him the details. Even so, he still smiles warmly. “Sure thing. Coming right up, man.”

With that, Santi thanks him and dips back into the tent, where you can now continue to be the centre of his attention without any interruptions.

That is, until Frankie’s raised voice pipes up through the thin fabric, Will evidently having filled him in already. “Fuuuck. Did you get laid, pendejo?”

“I’m getting laid right now,” Santi calls back; and, after that, there are no more interruptions, none of the boys apparently willing to test that theory. That is, no interruptions besides the steaming cups of coffee which appear and go cold outside the door to your tent, as you and Santi get to know each other just a little better again this morning.

[real-jane]

nftn (bonus): if this is all we have

(bucky barnes x female!reader, shield)

summary: the night before you leave on your mission, bucky realizes how he feels about you.

warnings: 'unrequited love' in bucky's opinion

word count: 2,572

a/n: the second in a series of BONUS baby companion pieces to ‘nostalgia for the new’! this is what happened the night before the three-week mission, as mentioned in missed messages. :) so many updates in so few days, you say?? i work retail, it's the holidays, my brain says escape or perish, merry christmas/happy hanukkah.

series masterlist

A warm little ball of energy collided with his chest, and he felt arms loop through his hoodie pocket. The person shivered. It was you, of course–nobody yet living dared launch themselves at him, other than Agent 257, so. Bucky was more surprised where you had come from. He hadn’t heard the elevator ding alerting your arrival. You were just there, in the hallway. You must’ve come from the lounge. Whatever Sam had been talking about dissipated into the ether, because absolutely nothing he could say was going to land in-between Bucky’s ears, now. His cheeks were flushed under Sam’s knowing gaze.

“What the hell, woman?” Sam laughed. “Hello to you too.”

Whatever your reply, it was muffled into Bucky’s neck. He finally got sense enough to bracket his arms around the waist of his barnacle, as Sam had so lovingly called her. Bucky did everything in his power to keep his heart from racing, but. You sapping his warmth was just about his favorite thing. He couldn’t remember the first time you did it, but it was so intimate a gesture to do in front of God and whoever else was nearby whenever you were struck with a chill. You didn’t really care.

Bucky glared at Sam over your head. “She said ‘fuck off.’”

“No, I didn’t,” you laughed, retreating enough from his shoulder to glance back at the Falcon. “I asked if you’re staying for the movie, Sam.”

Sam gasped in mock gratefulness. “Thank you so much for asking, Y/n! I’m ever so honored to be invited, but no, I will not be staying. Last time I watched something with y’all, I couldn’t even hear it over you quoting it every five seconds.”

“Hey! Shrek is a masterpiece! But, this one is in French, and I don’t speak it, so.”

“He does,” Sam pointed at Bucky, who rolled his eyes.

“But I’ve never seen it.”

“You do?” You grinned up at him with glinting eyes.

He chuckled. “Oui.” You settled back against his chest with a satisfied hum, and Bucky took that moment to faintly nod Sam towards the exit. For a fleeting second, he remembered the conversation that had led the two men to the fifth floor hallway… it was a friendly disagreement about whether or not Bucky breathed without first consulting you. He had been panicking that you would overhear them, but… even if you had, it was doubtful that you would’ve taken it as anything other than Sam’s usual brand of joke at Bucky’s expense.

Bucky had been trying to distract himself from the fact that you were leaving in the morning on assignment–deep cover, somewhere he wasn’t entitled to know. Sam’s presence was not helping him soak up every last second.

Sam got the cue. “Listen, if you’re still around, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“You better get in all the hang-out time you can, Samuel! You’ll miss me when I’m gone!” You called to him as he left, but Sam gave you no more indication that he had heard you. Still, you were content.

Bucky was tugged towards the lounge (and therefore the couch) by the hoodie pocket, and he allowed you to kick your feet up over his lap and hand him a heaping bowl of popcorn. You said nothing else before grabbing the remote and pressing play on the film that you had queued up, but he let himself just observe you for a second.

Your own hood was up, and you had several kernels of popcorn in one hand, which you fed piece by miniscule piece between your lips. The screen bathed your face in a wash of colorful light, reflecting off your eyes (which looked a bit too glassy to be so nonchalant).

How many times had he sat next to you to watch this movie or that? In just that position, even. Well… way fewer actually in physical contact with you. It had been a recent development, being a human foot rest. But… elbow to elbow? Often. Sharing popcorn, and little stories. Most of the time, you picked the film. Once, he had seen an old favorite while you scrolled endlessly through one of the many streaming services Tony Stark’s dollar afforded the compound, and you had chosen it without a second thought. You had watched with attention just as rapt as now, showing him a film that you remembered loving in college. You went on and on about My Man Godfrey afterwards, and that night… Bucky hadn’t slept. All he could think about was your joyful laugh as you watched William Powell dupe a disgustingly rich family. He heard the melody on a loop all night long.

You caught him staring and wrinkled your nose up, tossing a kernel of popcorn at him. He didn’t smile back, but he ate the offending kernel. You just smiled larger, and turned your head back to the film. Your fingers crept across the back of the couch. You tugged his earlobe. He made like he was going to bite that sweet little hand, but kissed your knuckles at the last second. You rubbed his stubbled jaw.

It felt like affection chicken.

Because he could not squash the overwhelming whir behind his ribs every time your skin made contact with his, but he also could not fathom what might happen if you knew that. You were his best friend, but even that felt like a weak description, because you were his raison d'être for getting out of bed every day. Out of… floor, as it were. Steve and Sam were the best friends who kept him afloat, no matter what. You were something more, and it was so damned terrifying to think about ruining it by doing something as stupid as putting voice to it.

If this is all we have, he thought, then I’m still so lucky.

He knew pretty quickly that you were special–even that first day, you broke every rule he had made for himself in regards to how he was allowed to engage with other human beings, especially in the compound. But you had been a part of his every day routine for months now, and you were going away. Tomorrow.

And he wanted you, God–so bad. Being in the gym with you was the most exquisite form of torture, because he spent every moment of your time training together knowing that you had the softest skin in the world, and a right hook strong enough to make the kiss of that skin feel like a crowbar to the temple. You wouldn’t spar with him for the longest time because you couldn’t stomach the idea of fighting with him. So he made it a game–first to land a hit wins, loser forfeits. No real fight, just a test to see who could land a hit. The first time you got a good hit on him and bruised his cheek, Bucky had thrown you over the shoulder and ran in circles like it was a shared victory, so damned proud of the shiner from your fist. He pulled his punches.

He was always pulling his punches.

He was not paying one ounce of attention to the film that you had picked out, either. Instead, Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose to will away a headache that was building alongside his panic. Your fingers found the back of his neck and you audibly winced.

“Shit, Benny. You really should see a physical therapist,” you said, even as you took the popcorn from his hands and dug your own knuckles into his right shoulder. Bucky was without words. When he got like that, you always took the opportunity for what it was. You never pushed him. You just went through the motions of whatever it was that had ground to a halt as words died on his tongue, like you sensed what he needed.

Bucky scooted forward, and sat on the floor when you pointed. He was eye-level with the popcorn bowl, but you scooted it over so he could see the film, regardless of whether or not he retained any of it. Then, you tugged on his hood.

“Off, please,” you murmured.

Bucky froze. He couldn’t show you what he really looked like under that grumpy exterior, swathed in shades of black cloth, because then you’d be able to see that crack in his armor. The one you had pierced through just by touching his arm in the elevator that very first day you met.

His head ached, his vision was blurred.

“I’d give you ibuprofen if I didn’t know you’d burn it off in five minutes,” you said to reassure him. “Please, Buck. It’ll help.”

All the sound in the room sealed off for a second, because James Barnes had a startling revelation as a woman–the first in the history of his life–begged him to let her take care of him: he was gone for you. It wasn’t just that you were kind, because that was a cheap way to describe the state which made you rabid about his well-being. It certainly had nothing to do with how beautiful you were, because the state of your beauty shifted frequency depending on what you did or said; in one breath you were ferocious, demanding that he be given a chance at having a better life, and that part of your grace had a sharp edge which threatened all, except him. Bucky was in love with you, and it was both separate from and because of every little act of kindness or grace you had shown him. Wanting to rid him of a headache was small magic for a diviner like yourself. Loving you was the least he could do in return. He hoped–if you suspected it–that you’d forgive him for it.

He was going to be so fucked when you were gone. All the more reason to take his humble punishment now, and give himself just one evening to dream about what it might feel like if you loved him, too. You were too good for that. Someday you’d find love, and he’d have to scrape his heart out from under his own heel, but you were there at the moment, asking to touch him.

He pulled off his sweatshirt. You sat behind him with your knees draped on either side, and he let the weight of his head pull his chin to his chest as you started working at his pain.

There was no pause to take in the intense scarring where vibranium was fused over skin. You didn’t gasp, or scoff. You didn’t react at all. Your fingers found the knots which were responsible for the ache in his head, and worked at them with determination. He was fine. Not fine, but… okay, with the pads working little circles through decades of ingrained tension. He was less settled with the sniffles in his ear.

You eased his head back until it rested against your chest, and then your thumbs worked at the base of his skull. Bucky didn’t dare venture a glance up at you, for fear that you’d read the love there. The pinch released, which had created the pointed ache in the first place, and he sighed in relief. He wrapped a hand around your ankle and squeezed.

“That was it. Thanks, doll.”

You hugged him from behind, arms ensconcing him in. It was your cheek pressing against his that pushed him over the edge. Bucky closed his eyes. You always had the loveliest essence of lilacs floating around you–not in an overly-perfumed way where he could taste it long after you parted (in the little time you spent apart)--and it took him away to another plane of existence where there were lilac bushes for miles around, and a woman holding him close.

Your voice was broken as you spoke. “Don’t know what I’m going to do without ya, Buck.”

He laughed, as if to say You? You won’t even think about me while you’re gone, it’s Me who’s gonna be a wreck. “You’ll be a lot more productive,” he said softly. But his cheek was wet, and it wasn’t his fault. He covered your hand where it traced the edge of his shoulder and stilled you. “You okay, doll?”

For a brief moment, your lips pressed against his temple. Another new type of touch for the two of you. Kissing hands or temples or cheeks. It had happened organically, but it put him in real danger of never recovering. You pulled back and he peered at you over his shoulder.

You were crying… over the idea of being apart. From him. It was nice of you to care; it felt bittersweet. You were sweet to get emotional, but he knew that the extent of your concern must have settled on how needy he was. Who would help with his headaches without you? Who would ask if he ate anything? God, he must really seem like a sad case if that was making you teary-eyed. But… you’d be right. He felt pitiful at the idea of trying to function without you.

“Sure, I’m okay,” you said with a faint smile. You wiped his cheek with your sleeve. Without another word, you sat beside him on the floor. He didn’t question it when you linked your arm with his, or laid your cheek against the vibranium, but he couldn’t see your expression anymore. He hated that.

He wouldn’t stand for you being sad, either.

Bucky held out a piece of popcorn. You didn’t notice, so he set it on your knee. And then another. Another. A little pyramid, even–your eyes were glazed over and staring at the film that Bucky couldn’t remember one single thing about, you didn’t even notice. He laid his head on yours. You shivered, disturbing his monument to movie night.

“What–oh my god,” you laughed, brushing the crumbs from your sweatpants. You continued to sniffle through the end of the film, but… you weren’t quite so disconnected. You laced your fingers with his, and Bucky wished he could feel your hand more than just the pressure of you pressed against his side, but maybe it was safer for him that you had put metal between you.

He sent you off to sleep far earlier than he would’ve liked, but he wasn’t about to be the reason you weren’t at your best as you departed tomorrow. He stood there in the hallway, no shirt, hands in his pockets… staring at the numbers on your door long after you said goodnight. For a split second, he contemplated sleeping by your door like a stray taking solace on a friendly stoop (like he had so many months ago, now). But. His watch was over.

Bucky returned to the lounge; his hoodie had fucked off somewhere, and the popcorn bowl was empty, but… he laid down on the couch, and pressed the back button until the film was at the beginning. He wanted to see it. For your sake. Maybe in some weird way, if that movie was playing in the compound, you’d sleep easy. You loved it, and he loved you, so he’d watch it. If that was all he had to cling to, movies that you loved, he’d take it.

By the end, he was a wreck. Over the stupid movie with the stupid characters who couldn’t be together, and over you.

Fuck.

***

other drabbles in the nftn universe:

the girl

after prague

what happened in paris

the heir

birds

tag list: @morticiaofthedead @hogwartsahist0ry @peterhollandkait @harrietbaudelaire @general-kenobi357 @hawsx3 @nahthanks @subwaysurf45 @sergntbarnes @agni-l @mass-percussion @ayleehweasleyobrien @saranghaey @music-give-me-life

message to be added to the tag list :)

[uwuwriting]

Denki, Dabi and Bakugou in a secret relationship

Request: hii!! i loved your post about the secret relationship being exposed and i was wondering if you could do the same for dabi bakugo and denki - anonymous

Um this was supposed to go up yesterday, I had queued it but tumblr decided to just deleted. Oh well. I hope you like it you guys even though its a day late. This was fun to write. Love ya. 💖💖💖

rules

warnings: some sexy times mentions, fluff

Kaminari Denki

-Kaminari is an idiot.

-I don’t even know who you’ve managed to keep your relationship a secret.

-90% sure the whole school knows and just pretends to be oblivious. 

-Anyways.

-It kinda bothers him that he has to keep it a secret. 

-He wants to scoop you up and spin you around in the hallways, hug you after a really rough training session with Bakubro, kiss you when you are being extra extra cute. 

-Plus he wants to brag to the other idiots for getting a girlfriend first. 

-But alas he respects your wishes and tries to keep it all under wraps. 

-Your parents are pro heroes and have warned you about the dangers of dating since you are their kid. 

-Villains wouldn’t hesitate to threaten you with your significant other if it means they’ll get to your parents. 

-So now Kaminari is stuck sneaking in your dorm late at night only to spend a few hours with you and give you as much kisses as he can fit in the little time you have. 

-Surprisingly he has kept it a secret for almost a year now. 

-No slip ups, no marks on his skin after a spice night, none of your clothes could be found in his room whatsoever.

-Apart from his usual flirty nature towards you, there was nothing that could indicate that you two were an item. 

-Now being in your third year, things had gotten rather serious with your hero works.

-Most of you if not all had been working along side a pro hero for the last year or two but that didn’t mean they would take you in after high school. 

-Every student had to wait for the acceptance letter from the agency or an agency in general and they would be set for their hero work after school. 

-You had been working with a hero agency since your first year and you were pretty happy. 

-But the pro hero you had been with decided that after you were done with your hero studies, he would retire leaving you with no agency to boost your career after school. 

-Kaminari was as devastated as you were.

-He tried comforting you as much as he could, extra hugs and kisses, more snacks and movie nights, anything to help you cope with the fact that you would be back to the starting line once school was over. 

-He hated seeing you cry. 

-Then the unthinkable happened. 

-Mt.Lady was a well known hero and one with a desired sidekick position that no one seemed to really fill. 

-You had just helped her stop a major villain attack tricking the villain and capturing him before he could do any real damage in the area. 

-To say that Mt.Lady was impressed was an understatement. 

-She contacted your hero agency and asked if you had already signed a deal with them.

-You can see where this is going.

-When you got the notice from Mt. Lady���s agency you were over the moon and so was Kaminari. 

-He was so happy that the person he loved the most was finally getting what she deserved. 

-He had dragged you to the janitor’s closet to give you his personal congratulations, catching the attention of a certain red head.

-He kissed you like there was no tomorrow, his arms keeping you as close as possible, flush to his chest as he peppered your face and neck with feather light kisses. 

- “I’m so proud of you babe!”

-You tried to keep your giggles on the down low to no avail since Kaminari’s goal was to make you laugh. 

-For a long moment you didn’t care if someone found you, you were so happy and so comfortable in Denki’s arms that you didn’t want to leave the closet and go back to your hidden lives. 

-Then you saw the light coming from the door, getting ready to lightly scold Kaminari for leaving the door open when you made eye contact with Kirishima......and Mina ..... and Sero..... and somewhere in the far back with a pair of ruby red eyes.

- “Babygirl is everything alright?”

-He hadn’t seen them yet, then he followed your line of vision and the man has never yeeted you out of his arms faster in his life.

-Your friends just stared at you in complete shock for a full minute before Bakugou broke the silence. 

- “Oi you own me ramen Kirishima.”

Dabi

-With this guy I’m not surprised that you managed to keep it a secret. 

-Oh no no no.

-I’m surprised you managed to get him into a relationship.

-It wasn’t easy though you would give him that. 

-You were part of the LoV of course and well you didn’t really take any of their shit. 

-The only person you respected was Kurogiri and that was borderline pity. 

-He had to babysit a 20 year old killing machine with issues, many issues, many many issues. 

-When Dabi approached you with his signature flirty and I-only-do-one-night-stands-babygirl attitude, you being the idiot that you are took the bait.

-The LoV knows of yalls nights together but they only thought that that was it.

-Dabi slept around and you were a really attractive person. 

-Plus they knew you both were bored so sex was, to their eyes, the only solution. 

-What they didn’t know though was that Dabi was starting to catch feelings and soon enough he hated seeing you remotely talking with another human being. 

-Then that fateful mission happened and the deal was sealed. 

-You were spying on Overhaul and his lackeys, hidden in his underground lab watching as they went around doing stuff.

-Then you heard a childish scream and it was the first time Dabi saw fear flash in your eyes. 

-You turned around following the source of the screams absolutely ignoring Dabi’s protests and threats. 

-It was like you were in a daze and Dabi felt the terror sink his claws in his throat as you passed by so many of Overhaul’s members nearly getting caught. 

-When you reached the glass door that led into Eri’s experiment lab, he saw the color drain from your face and your knees buckling. 

-He caught you before you hit the floor dragging you away from the lab door despite the fact that you clawed at his coat to put you down. 

-He felt his shoulder getting wet and that’s when he saw the tears that were falling freely down your cheeks. 

-He had managed to calm you down long enough to convince you to leave before you got caught but luck wasn’t on your side when one of the lackeys spotted you. 

-Dabi was a few feet away from the exit, becoming reckless at the sight of freedom not noticing the masked individual pointing his gun at him. 

-You noticed though. 

-And you got in the way, pushing Dabi to the ground as the quirk cancelling bullet pierced your side leaving you to fall to the floor with a grunt and a strangled pained moan.

-The next few minutes were a blur.

-Dabi didn’t remember how he got you out of there or how he was now on a rooftop with you pressed flush against his chest as the affects of the bullet made you tremble. 

- “Shh doll, shhh. I’m here I got you.”

-He knew your trembling was not entirely because of the bullet, he saw how your eyes glassed over at the sight of Eri back in the lab and he knew that this had something to do with your past. 

-He used to get the same glassy eyed look on his face when he would see Endeavour on the news shortly after his “death”.

-Things changed after that. 

-He didn’t take you to the hideout that night, he brought you to his apartment where he helped you clean up your wound and calm down. 

- “I know it’s not my place to ask but what the hell to you happened back there?”

-When you explained what you’ve been through and how those screams brought back things you thought you had long ago buried, he was left gawking at you. 

-For some weird reason he believed that you were just a brat who ran away from home on some rebellious whim. 

- “Ugh what am I saying? You don’t give a damn! Why did I even-”

- “Touya.”

- “What?”

- “My real name is Touya, I-I wanted you to know.”

-Sharing a heart felt night analyzing your past trauma with someone you sleep with is one way to get yourself into a relationship.

-You both agreed to keep it secret and you did keep it like that for a long time, a very long time. 

-The LoV never truly found out. 

-Some had their suspicions sure, Mister Compress had even made a bet with Toga but you two never gave them any further hints apart from the constant paired up missions you went on. 

-The only one who knew was Kurogiri. 

-He had caught you two spending the night together on a rooftop, all cuddled up together your hands intertwined as you looked up at the stars. 

-He was getting back from an emergency snack run when he saw the familiar glow of Dabi’s blue flames and your characteristic giggles. 

-He never said anything and when Dabi came to him to ask for some pregnancy facts, he knew that he truly loved you. 

-No one ever knew and no one will ever know. 

-Unless the run into you two in five years while you’re out for a walk with your son. 

Bakugou Katsuki

-Sparky sparky boom boom man is a lil bitch.

-Don’t try to argue you know that too. 

-You just need to accept it.

-His way to approach you was by insulting the living shit out of you before making you reach the tip of an anger fit. 

-He knew how to press your buttons and it made you fume. 

-You had to give it to him he was hella attractive and his true personality shined through his faced at times. 

-And so did his worry for you.

-You got together after his kidnapping. 

-He suffered from nightmares after the incident and one night he came to your dorm, trembling and cold sweat running down his spine. 

-He had no idea why his feet led him to your room, he just knew that you were now wrapping him in a fluffy blanket and putting on a Disney movie as you hugged him so so tightly. 

-He slept over and the next morning he confessed. 

-Actually you both confessed but those are useless details. 

-In reality it wasn’t even a confession with words. 

-You both woke up facing each other, your noses touching and I don’t know who leaned in first but next thing you knew you were kissing his hand cupping you cheek while the other intertwined with yours. 

-Keeping your relationship a secret with this one is easy. 

-He is still being a lil bitch to you and you are still sassing him back.

-Behind closed doors he is kinda sweet and caring not a lot though because even with you he has to uphold his reputation. 

-After some time though he calms down and is a cuddle bug. 

-Like he will tackle you on the bed the moment you close the door to his dorm, restricting any movement until he is satisfied with the cuddles. 

-Baby even said ‘I love you’ first awwww!!

-He was so shy about it. 

-Anyways.

-That’s a story for another time. 

-He doesn’t really care about keeping it a secret anymore. 

-He’s low key tired of hiding. 

-Much like Kaminari he wants to kiss you whenever he wants, hold you and hug you till you can’t breathe after he gets back to the dorms after a rough patrol with his hero study. 

-But oh well the cat isn’t out of the bag yet and you being third years now you couldn’t really do something about it. 

-You spend so much time with him that you would think that some of your classmates would like sniff you out. 

-But no.

-They all dumb af.

-You would spend a lot of time with him and the Bakusquad since your first year so they just think you’re really good friends. 

-Todoroki kinda knows but he doesn’t at the same time. 

-Some mannerisms remind him while he was in a secret relationship before Momo found out but then he sees how Bakugou treats you just like any other person so he is really confused. 

-More confused than usual. 

-Now you got outed by the man himself. 

-Bakugou is not good with jealousy. 

-Jealousy and Bakugou should never go hand in hand.

-You were talking to Mina in class, leaning on the desk behind you. 

-Your skirt had ridden up show casing your thighs making Bakugou think back to some noises you made a few nights ago. 

-If he got hard he would blame you and he would be extra pissy. 

-He was enjoying the show though. 

-He watched you like a hawk.

-The way your body leaned back making your legs straighten and flex slightly or how he could see the hickey he had left right at the base of your neck the other night that you’ve tried to cover with make up. 

-He could see it because he knew it was there, to an outsider everything was normal. 

-He was jolted out of his daze by Mineta’s voice. 

-And the sound of your name on his lips. 

- “Look at Y/N’s thighs! She could suffocate me with those legs and I would thank her!”

-Kirishima smacked him upside the head trying to shut him up. 

-Kaminari was slowly escaping the scene because he saw the small sparks in his friend’s hand at the comment. 

-He chose life. 

-Mineta though didn’t stop. 

- “I could lose myself between those legs. Oh the noises she must make.”

-Now what happened next is a huge question mark. 

-The end result however was Mineta almost being blasted out the window and into space and Bakugou almost popping the vein on his forehead. 

-You had to get in between them and try to calm down your boyfriend. 

-Most of your classmates had long forgotten Mineta and his whining and had zoned in on your hands on Bakugou’s chest or on his arm that had wrapped around your waist in an attempt to push you behind him. 

- “You ever dare speak my girlfriend’s name I’m blasting you to the next dimension.”

- “Katsuki please calm down it’s fine.”

-Legit you both forgot that your relationship had been a secret for the past three years. 

-You floated back into reality when Present Mic himself asked. 

- “YOu TWo aRe aN iTeM?????”

-Chaos ensued and a crap ton of explanations. 

TAG TEAM AY:

@iwaqchan​ @the-arcana-fan-fic​ @angelwritings​ @axerrri​ @reinyrei​

[voiceless-terror]

#21 and #46 for kiss prompts, maybe? I can't get enough your writing tbf

kiss on a dare- a little jonmartin season one fluff <3 All in all, this is one of Tim’s better Friday nights.

It’s been ages since Jon’s hung out with them, and never with Martin along for the ride. The Archives had been off to a messy start after the Dog Incident and Jon’s subsequent panic over the state of the place. What used to be an ‘every couple of weeks’ tradition turned into an almost-never one as the newly-assembled team got buried under more and more boxes of dusty statements. He’s pretty astounded that Jon agreed to dinner and drinks- although it’s a Friday night, Jon’s been apt to stay weekends more often than not. He figured if he arranged for it at one of theirs instead of a pub, Jon would be more likely to come. He always preferred less crowded settings.

No, the real feat was getting him to come knowing Martin was invited.

Jon’s been getting...better around him, that’s true. He was perfectly fine at his birthday party, going off about emulsifiers for a solid fifteen minutes. Tim’s always been rather fond of Jon’s infodumping, and if he’s comfortable enough to do it around Martin that must be a good sign. Despite an initial freeze-out, he now thanks Martin for his tea and saves his most pointed comments for Martin’s more egregious screw-ups (and even those have less bite than usual). Still, a colleague does not a friend make, and Jon’s never been good at opening up to people he doesn’t know all that well. However, Jon just nodded at the Martin caveat, seemingly not giving it a second thought. And Martin didn’t seem all that worried either.

Whatever, Tim’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just happy they’re all here, having a good time. It’s late and Jon’s had enough wine to keep a smile on his face. He missed that. It’s nice how easily they slot together, even with all of the upheaval and a new addition. Martin himself isn’t so shy after a drink or two, more willing to engage in banter and keep the conversation going. This is what it should be like all the time, Tim thinks. Shitty archive job or not. 

It’s when they retire to the living room, drinks in hand, that he finally notices the little grin on Sasha’s face. And Tim, knowing exactly what that means, is both a little afraid and excited. Four-drink-Sasha has always been a host unto herself.

“Why don’t,” she begins, a hiccup interrupting her as she slumps into an armchair. Tim snickers and ignores the glare this earns him. “Why don’t we play one of our old games-”

Tim raises a glass in agreement as Jon, predictably, groans. Martin looks quizzically between them. Ah yes, time for your initiation, Marto! Not that they’ve played this in about a year or so, of course, but it's always fun to revisit the good old days.

“Seriously? We’re not children-”

Tim gives Jon a playful slap on the back that sends him flying forward on the couch, spilling a bit of wine on Sasha’s rug. He hopes she doesn’t notice. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, boss! Nothing like it to break the ice, and there’s definitely some ice that needs breaking.”

Martin blinks, hand tightening on his glass. He looks nervous, like he always does when he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Which is a shame, because he’s been so nice and open all night. Even chatting with Jon. “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

Jon rolls his eyes, giving Martin a commiserating look. “Truth or dare.”

Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh, relaxing minutely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Jon’s foot reaches out to shove at Tim’s leg. “Tim loves pulling ridiculous stunts-”

“-Hey, you loved the karaoke idea-”

“You sing?”

“No.” Tim would dispute that, but the look on Jon’s face declares it a bad idea. “And Sasha likes to ask probing questions.”

Sasha preens, though the remark was certainly not meant as a compliment. “What can I say, I’m the Queen of Truth-”

Tim snorts. “Hacking and blackmail more like-”

“Anyway-” Sasha sings out as Tim dodges a pillow to the face. “Tim….truth or-”

“Dare, always dare.”

“You’re absolutely no fun,” Sasha pouts, though it doesn’t take long for her eyes to narrow in thought. There’s very little Tim won’t do, but that’s a dangerous look. “I dare you...to text…”

“Text? You can do better than that, Sash.”

“Text...Elias.” That’s more like it. 

Jon immediately scowls. “Tim, no-”

“I don’t have his number-”

“I do-”

“Sasha!”

“Jon, it’ll be fine! He’ll just say ‘oops, wrong number’ afterwards, no harm, no foul-”

Tim takes this time to snatch at Sasha’s phone, sitting precariously on the arm of her chair. She doesn’t notice, too busy gesturing at Jon empathically. He scrolls through her contact list.

“And then it’ll come down on me-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How is he going to connect it to you? It’s not like he knows we’re all together-”

“Done!” Tim tosses the phone back onto the couch with a little grin. Sasha blinks, looking down in confusion.

“Wait, that’s mine-”

The screech and smack on the arm at Tim’s hastily fired off ‘u up? ;)’ to Elias Bouchard were definitely deserved. He’s sure he’ll face consequences for that in the near future, but Jon and Martin’s immediate laughter had been well worth it. Shouldn’t dish it if you can’t take it, that’s Tim’s motto.

In the next round, Tim manages to get Martin to confess to his poetry-writing habit, an admission that has him turning an attractive shade of red. Jon just giggles quietly to himself as Martin reads through one of his poorer attempts at rhyme saved to the notes of his mobile. Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time. 

Martin gets Sasha to admit to her most recent perusal through confidential institute records, which turned out to be previous archival expenses (solely to find out what Elias would cover with their new jobs, of course). At first glance, there wasn’t much in the way of extravagant meals or supplies, but a bit more digging had her finding Gertrude’s extensive travel budget. For an old woman, she certainly was a globe-trotter.

“All I’m saying, Jon, is that we could definitely do with a trip to China-”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask Elias about Gertrude’s trip to China, something I certainly shouldn’t know about, and he’ll have to let us go.”

“Refill?” Martin’s on his feet, taking Jon’s wine glass in his hand and Tim watches as their fingers brush- go Martin!- and yet Jon just nods his thanks, completely oblivious to the seduction taking place before him. Tim’s given it some thought and honestly, he thinks they’d make a cute couple. An odd pair, for sure, but Jon’s so soft once you get to know him, and Martin’s one of the funniest, sweetest guys he knows. They could be good for each other.

“Well, I still think it’s worth a try.” Sasha’s eyes are starting to blink heavily - she’ll be out for the count tonight, for sure. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I dare you-”

“I didn’t even pick!” Jon says, though he doesn’t seem too put out by it. This is the Jon Martin should know, the easy-humored, smiling man sprawled out before him. He’s even taken his little sweater vest and tie off, looking more like the familiar friend from research Tim knows so well. It warms his heart.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose. Seeing as how you already have one queued up.”

“I dare you to...to...to give a little kiss to someone in this room.” She waves her glass around imperiously. “Anyone you like.”

Silence. Tim gives Sasha a warning look that she ignores. She’s well in her cups, and he supposes any sense of propriety has gone out the window along with her sobriety. He’s actually seen Jon give quite a few kisses on a particularly memorable New Years Eve, but that was a different time. He doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not when he’s just starting to open back up.

 “Jon doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you remember-”

“It doesn’t matter- Jon, you can skip this one if you like, we can think of something else-”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon puts a hand on his arm to stop the argument, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that can’t be attributed to liquor. It’s mock-serious, almost playful paired with his little sly smile. He thinks for a moment that Jon’s going to lean in and kiss him but instead he gets up from the sofa in a smooth motion and walks across the room to Martin, who’s just turned around with two glasses in hand. He freezes in place as Jon gets on his very tippy toes, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him. 

Jonathan Sims. Kissing Martin Blackwood. Against a kitchen counter. Martin Blackwood, who, once he’s over his surprise, puts the drinks down behind him and kisses right the hell back, arms winding around Jon’s waist like they belong there.

What. The. Fuck.

_____

“The leg bit was a nice touch.”

“Hmm?” Jon’s in Martin’s lap, sprawled out on his couch back at his own flat, eyes closed in contentment as he leans back against the other man’s chest. Martin’s got one hand in his hair, and the other entwined with Jon’s, twirling the black ring on his finger. It’s heavenly.

“Thought you were trying to climb me.”

“Well, you usually pick me up at that point, make it easier.”

“Sorry, next time.” Kissing Jon’s always fun but kissing him out in the open, in front of their friends? Was that something they could do now? “Should we tell them we’ve been dating for two months?” 

Two whole months since that night in Document Storage when Jon had finally let his guard down. When Martin had held him in his arms. Jon was very particular about keeping up appearances, though that all seemed to have crumbled tonight. Sasha rather fashioned herself a matchmaker, and Jon didn’t do anything to dissuade the fact. It’d been nice, having their relationship to themselves, the secret of it, the obliviousness of their friends who still thought Jon only tolerated him. It’s not that he wanted to keep it that way, of course, but it was nice while they were still figuring it out. 

“If you’d like. Maybe it’s time.” Jon tilts his head back, giving Martin a fond look. “Though I know how much you enjoy playing the lovesick fool-”

“There’s something so poetic about unrequited love, yknow?”

“All the more when it’s requited, I’d say.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. He leans down to give Jon’s forehead a peck. 

“Hmm. Give it a few more weeks. Act out the honeymoon phase for a bit, it’ll be fun.”

And when Jon squeezes his hand and smiles back, Martin thinks he won’t need to do much acting at all.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31318724

[sweetcathedral]

Note: Finally back from my break! Lots of things keep happening in my life that I’ve never expected, so I’m busier than usual, but I have queued up some quick stories for the next few weeks. Although this was inspired by the Are You Am I dresses, it’s more centred around Catholicism that I have a love-hate relationship with. Enjoy!

⚠️: 18+, fem! reader, altar sex, raw, church sex, overstimulation, creampie/breeding

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Cut the act. You’d be fighting me, if you really opposed it,” Sukuna scoffs, admiring the view of your legs spread open—laid on top of the altar. Your ripped stockings, now webs of black thread, running across your thigh, like it’s still trying to keep him from tainting the last bit of innocence you had left. Beams of light fell from the skylight of the church, casting a soft glow on the God that was once loved, but now abandoned and left to be eaten by what he created.

“The hell are you wearing?” Sukuna arched his brow in a grimace expression.

You looked down at your outfit, not seeing what could be wrong with it. It’s your first time wearing something like this; a silk dress with dainty straps and a raw hemming that looks like it’s about to come undone & sheer opaque black stockings. “I don’t see anything wrong with it, does it look bad?” Sukuna strides towards you, analyzing your outfit, even lifting the hem of your dress as if he doesn’t know what’s already there.

“I will never understand the evolution of clothing in this era,” he cocks his head to the side with a placid look in his eyes. Ah, right. He died a long time ago.

“What did people used to wear in your time?”

“Fabrics that actually clothed them,” he tugs at your stockings and wiggles his finger in them, still trying to wrap his head around its function.

“Hey, stop that, it tickles and it feels weird,” you giggled, pushing his hand away.

“I don’t see any point in wearing it. I could rip this off right now.”

“Sukuna, no! This is expensive!” you bicker at him, clinging on to your dress as he tugs at it like a child does when they want their mom’s attention.

“Just ask Gojo to buy you a new one when we’re finished.”

“Finished?” the sound of threads shredding apart startles you.

You scan yourself like a puppy chasing its tail to see if he’d actually ripped your dress apart. Nothing, but something felt off—looking down at your stockings, you see that there was a large slit running down your leg, exposing your thigh.

"Heh, whoops," he flicks the small shred of fabric off his nails, walking you into a corner. The shadow of the room contrasts his face making his eyes glow a deeper crimson. "Don’t look away from me," grabbing your face, his nails dig into your skin as you try to fight off his grip. Lifting you against the wall, he softly drags his nails along your exposed thighs, teasingly drawing circular patterns the higher up he goes.

"Sukuna," you pleaded softly, his hand now on your neck, lifting you ´til you were on your tippy toes & trying to balance yourself so that you wouldn’t fall into complete suffocation.

"Shh, someone might hear you," he whispers in a low octave. You forgot you weren’t in a closed off area. The two of you were originally sent to an abandoned church to investigate a curse user of the Roman Catholic religion, that is until Sukuna took over Yuji’s body.

Your body jolts at Sukuna brushing his knuckles over your clit. The heat of you traces over the length of his finger through the thin fabric of your panties, stifling a moan. "Don’t be shy. It won’t be your first time sinning in front of a God," he cooed in your ears. He told you to be quiet, but he really just wanted to see you hold yourself back as he evokes your temptations & diminishes your composure. He loves seeing you corrupted, especially when it’s in a respectable church built to honour a God who guides herds of blinded sheep.

Only shame & humiliation wash over you as you avert your gaze from looking at the smaller crucifix hanging over the doorway the two of you came from. He turns to look in the same direction you did, a sly grin stretches from ear to ear. “I have a better idea,” his eyes narrow in defiance as he turns to look at the God overseeing the center aisle.

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Cut the act. You’d be fighting me, if you really opposed it,” Sukuna scoffs, admiring the view of your legs spread open—laid on top of the altar. Your ripped stockings, now webs of black thread, running across your thigh, like it’s still trying to keep him from tainting the last bit of innocence you had left. Beams of light fell from the skylight of the church, casting a soft glow on the God that was once loved, but now abandoned and left to be eaten by what he created.

You released a deep exhale at the feeling of something soft and wet trailing over your inner thighs—Sukuna. The warm feeling eases the tension all over your body and you can feel the heat of your blood pumping in your ears, his face getting closer and closer to where you want him the most. “Maybe we should find a more private setting,” you try convincing him.

“Now why would I want that? Just look at how wet you are down here,” he bites on your panties and pulls them off, revealing a dripping mess. It was embarrassing, immoral, but there was something about how good it feels to be doing something so wrong. The thrill of it sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins, your heart beating against your ribcage. More. “Tell me what you want.”

Everything, but even that thought wasn’t enough. “I want you . . . to take me to hell,” you whisper to him.

Taken aback by the words that just came out of your mouth, he brings himself back with that same sly grin and a soft look in his eyes. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

From one moment to the next, Sukuna drove your sanity out from you until you could think of nothing, but only him. The bold movement of his tongue reaching in to taste you, his fingers teasing around your clit and fondling your breasts, his lips pressing on every part of your skin, leaving wet splotches that are deep enough in colour to bloom into an aching bruise afterwards.

“Sukuna,” you lift the hem of your dress over as you fold your legs to your chest—revealing your painfully aching cunt, glistening with desire. The syllables of his name roll off the tip of your tongue like nectar. “More.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” he pulls your hips towards him, enough for your cunt to be pressing against the thick bulge fighting the strain of his black jeans. The altar creaked, as if in disappointment, at the sudden weight change.

Mesmerized by the sight of you laid on the altar like an offering, he takes his time to soak in the image, burning it into his mind; the burnished oak altar with the scene of the last supper carved beneath it, a warm glow cascading from the skylight of the church and the large crucified God, looking down at the lustful act unfolding in his house of worship. But then the feeling of your hips impatiently bucking at him interrupts his thoughts. “You know, they say patience is a virtue,” pleased at your eagerness.

“Fuck the virtues.”

“What a bold thing to say in a church,” he softly chuckles, the sound of his zipper perking your ears.

You reach for his belt, but he laces his fingers into yours, pressing your hand down. The tip of him brushes against your soft folds, lubricating itself with your juices. Without a struggle, his cock unfolds you, pushing a welcoming entrance open between your legs. Your walls flutter in excitement, pulling him in, as the creaking floors of the church groaned in disapproval.

“Oh, God,” you gripped at the altar cloth.

“You should moan louder for the angels to hear,” he thrusted into you harder than when he entered, the sound of skin slapping bounces off the walls. “Fuck.”

All righteous thoughts were purged out of you, like a soul being cleansed anew at adoration. Demon. It wasn’t your first time with him and it definitely won’t be your last. You can feel your body getting desperate to finish as you began to buck your hips faster.

“Closer,” you held your breath, arching your back.

The sound of his name falling off your lips sends a painful feeling of the need of wanting more. He wanted to strip away your senses to see a side of you that no one else has ever seen, the first to discover you and explore whatever you hid away from plain sight. That is what drove the King of Curses, Father of All Sins, to greed.

Echoes of your panting and moaning became a choir of sultry tones, replacing the familiar sounds of organs and bells in the church. Even though your legs were trembling from reaching your limits, he kept on going, ignoring your pleas and begging.

“Not yet,” he grunts in your ear.

“Please . . . I can’t take it anymore.”

Tears stream down your face as you grip onto Sukuna’s arms. The feeling in your legs were no longer there and you were having a hard time controlling your tremors. Just when you thought you couldn’t reach another climax, your cunt began pulsating rapidly as your body uncontrollably tensed up again.

When Sukuna pulled out, a waterfall of cum spilled out of you and pooled onto the altar cloth, dripping down the carving of the Last Supper. The two of you pant in exhaustion, he’s laying on top of you with his arms wrapped around your head, his hand firmly holding you close to him.

You brush your fingers through his hair, reciprocating the same affection back. “Tell me you’re finished for today,” you giggled.

“I wanna say ‘no’, but that’d mean you’d be knocking on Shoko’s door again.”

Both of you laughed as you teasingly tugged at his ear.

“Should we clean—!”

As he helped carry you off the altar, you looked back at the aging oak and crumpled cloth that had been perfectly fine and untainted—now dented with deep inhuman scratch marks surrounding the faint imprint of where you laid.