#it doesn’t really get fixed either like those words are just embedded now

[zamalie]

there are so many words that i thought exist that just straight up don’t from misreading common words and never hearing them being said out loud until too late

[asshlyyyy]

Until I Found Her Pt. 2 (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Part 1

I am not completely sure how often these will be posted. We will see if it happens every weekend, but for the most part.... she doesn’t have a set schedule. As you know... I try to post every two days. So, that pretty much comes to about three posts a week. 

I hope you guys are enjoying this series so far. We are unsure how many parts this will have... It can be long... it may not be long... We are just hoping that all the haters have since then left. Let me warn you this, if anyone decides to be a rotten asshole about this, we will both block your ass.

Masterlist

Pairing: Austin!Elvis x Fem!Reader

Cowriter: @babyhoneypresley

Warnings: Swearing, spelling and grammatical errors. 

Word Count: 1.5k

You couldn’t have but keep thinking about that boy. Elvis was his name. His beautiful blue eyes… god you could get lost in those. Everything about him intrigued you. He was dressed like he was ready for work, and yet he had a guitar? He must be able to play… maybe even sing a bit. What else would his friends have meant?

You shook the thought of Elvis out of your head and continued to walk home. There was still the possibility of never seeing Elvis again. Sure, you splinted him your phone number… but what if he just washed his clothes without checking his pockets? Sure, you could join your ‘friends’ at the diner for a chance to see him… but would it really happen?

You needed to stop thinking about it… Just go home… do some work… rinse and repeat. But… he still played a part on your life now. He was embedded in your head rather you wanted him to be or not. 

“Mama?” You called out once you got home. 

“In the kitchen!” Your mom called out. You walked over to the kitchen and found that she was cooking. That’s new. She usually never cooks. Well, ever since your father hired those workers. 

“You’re cooking?”

“Mhm, making your favorite.” She smiled. You raised your eyebrow in confusion. Did she want something from you? What was the occasion?

“Why? Not that I’m complaining… I’m just confused is all.”

“I just wanted to do something. Your father has me in this house doing nothing. With those damn workers, leaves me no housework.” She admitted. You nodded and looked around.

“Have you seen Honey?”

“She might be in your room with Pumpkin. The last time I saw her, she was lying on your bed.” You nodded and turned to leave, but you stopped and turned back toward her. 

“Mama, can I please get a radio?”

“Y/n…” Your mother sighed and dried her hands off on her apron. “You know I’d love to say yes… but in the end, it's your father’s call.”

“He won’t say yes. He always says it’ll rot my brain!” You whined. Your mother sighed and walked over to you. She pulled you into a hug and rubbed your back.

“I’ll talk to him okay? I’ll try and convince him.” You nodded softly and pulled away. 

“Thank you, mama.”

“You’re welcome,” she pressed a kiss against your head. “Go finish up your schoolwork, dinner will be once your father gets home.”

“I’ll probably take Honey out on a walk once I’m done.” You told her. 

“Okay, honey.” She nodded and went back to fix dinner.  

You let the kitchen and went up to your room, where you found your golden retriever dog, and orange cat laying together on your bed. You smiled, went over to them, and gave them all the love and kisses.

Pumpkin was still relatively new to the family. He was still a kitten, and he just loved to hang around you. Much like Honey did. Which, you had no issue with. These two were your best friends. They were the ones whom you told all your secrets to. Mostly because they didn’t understand you, and couldn’t tell anyone either. 

You grabbed your violin and decided to work a bit on it. Your dad wanted to make sure you were set up for life. Making you perfect the most elegant of instruments, and pass every test with flying colors. He wanted the best for his daughter. He especially wanted you to marry someone rich, who could take over his business. 

You just wanted to find someone to love. That’s all you wanted. Someone to love, and someone to love you back. Sure, with your terrible social skills… that may never work, but it seemed to work with Elvis. At least you hope it did. 

Hours seemed to have passed. You had dinner with your family, and here you stood outside on the balcony. You looked out past the tree line and watched as the sun got lower and lower. It was still summertime around here in Memphis, so the sun wasn't setting till after eight either... sometimes even close to nine. 

You let out a sigh just as you heard the phone. Your ears perked up and you rushed back inside. "I got it!" You called out to your parents downstairs and picked up the phone.

"Hello?" You answered. 

"Hey, it's Elvis." His voice appeared. God... he sounded good. It was just nice to hear from him again. It had been hardly a day, and you were just begging to hear from and see him again.

"You found my note," you spoke in relief. 

"Yeah, it was hard to miss when ya tugged on my jacket." He joked lightly. You smiled and leaned against the wall. You twirled the coil around your finger and couldn't help but feel your cheeks start to heat up. 

"Sorry, about that," you giggled lightly, "I just... had to make sure you got it."

"Mama, I-" You heard Elvis speak from the other end. You shook your head at the interaction he was having. You could only imagine he was being scolded.

"'m sorry, I gotta cut this short. I'll see ya again? Tomorrow? The diner?" Elvis asked quickly. You once again felt your cheeks heat up. Was this a date? Could it be?

"Ye-yeah of course! That sounds... that sounds amazing."

"Perfect, I'll see ya then. B- Mama! 'm gettin' off it now! Sorry, bye."

"Bye, Elvis," you giggled and hung up. You let out a light squeal and looked over at Honey. She had a curious look on her face. You went to her and picked her face in your hands. You pressed a kiss to her head.

"Want to go for a walk?" You asked. Honey stood up immediately and started to wag her tail. "That is a definite yes." You reached for her collar and leash. You placed it around her neck and led her downstairs.

"I'm taking Honey on a walk! I'll be back shortly!"

"Be safe!" Your mama called back out to you. 

"Always!" You pushed open the door and lead Honey outside before you closed the door behind you. You walked around the neighborhood for a bit, but you eventually found yourself near the grocery store where a group of young kids found interest in your dog.

"What's her name?" One little girl asked. She had her hair in two braided pigtails. You smiled softly and watched as Honey wagged her tail in happiness from all the attention she was getting.

"Honey," you answered her. 

"That's such a cute name!" They all chooed in response. 

"I guess I just got inspired by her golden locks," you explained as you gave Honey a quick pet on her back. 

"I wish I had a dog... Mama!" The pigtail braids girl ran out to her mother. Kids are such a beautiful, yet... scary creature. It's harsh to call them creatures, but in the end kids... well... as you said... they were creatures. Eventually, the rest of the kids went off to their parents, and you were left with Honey. 

"Hey." You turned quickly at the voice and found Elvis standing relatively close. You sucked in a breath and smiled softly.

"There he is, guess ya mama made ya go shopping?" You motioned towards the bags he had in his hands. He chuckled nervously and nodded.

"Yeah, sorry bout that... whole conversation again. She kept pushin' me to get off the phone."

"It's no issue. My parents are the same way. They think that stuff will rot your brain." You explained but then realized that... that made no sense. "Talking- uh talking to people on the phone." You corrected yourself as you looked away embarrassed.

"Nah I get it... uh, I just wanted to let ya know... listen out to the radio. You uh... you might be hearin' me real soon on it." 

"So, you're a singer? That explains the guitar earlier." You pointed out to him. Just like that, the mystery you had earlier was solved. He had that type of charm with him. 

"Yeah, I uh... yeah I sing and play a little with ma friends." He shrugged as if it was nothing. It was far from nothing. Sure, you might have not known what he actually sounded like... but it matched his good look and boyish charm, well you bet it was amazing. 

"I bet you sound amazing. I can't wait to hear it." You complimented him. Elvish scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. 

"So... tomorrow right? The diner?" Elvis changed the subject. You blushed and nodded at his request. 

"Yes of course! I have class in the morning so... around two?" You suggested. Elvis nodded in response.

"That works for me. I'll see you then... unless I give ya a call beforehand." You nodded and gave him a quick small wave before he walked off. You let out a peaceful sigh and scratched behind Honey's ear.

"Oh, he's so dreamy, Honey... so so dreamy." You said softly.

Want to join my taglist? // Let me know If I spelt any wrong! I have updated my form for my taglist. You will be tagged under everything now in that selected fandom/person. Just makes my life easier.

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[summercourtship]

Hi, could you write a nsfw oneshot or something for the Cenobite with a shy and modest fem survivor reader? Possibly include some fingering and using his hands. Thanks if you do!

I'm sorry this took so long, I obviously got a bit carried away. I have such a bad habit of needing SO MUCH exposition even for tiny one shots (or at least what are supposed to be tiny) but I’m not going to stop. I’m also not sure how well I fulfilled the idea of a “shy, modest” reader, but I think I managed to have elements of it without it becoming a stereotypical mess of stuttering and blushing.

summons [nsfw, 18+]

Pinhead (The Cenobite) x Reader | warnings: NSFW, reader could be interpreted as being a virgin but it’s not explicitly stated, I somehow made the Lament Configuration solving erotic (it’s what Clive Barker would want) | 3121 words

It was always unnerving to realize that a killer remembered you. To notice that shift in their expression as they placed your face to a memory, to an action that had made you stick out in their mind. Some killers seemed to remember everyone while others only recognized a select few. Some didn’t seem cognizant of doing either.

Luckily, you had always managed to fly under their radar. Even the killers that had memorized every survivor regarded you with an air of disinterest, preferring to go after the overtly obnoxious survivors (which was probably part of those survivors’ plans- Nea really hated fixing gens). Some could say that it was because you were boring, at least in the way of prey. You didn’t necessarily agree, but if killers thinking you were boring kept you alive you wouldn’t argue about it.

However.

There was one killer who seemed… overly interested in you because of this. Somehow your reserved nature was more intriguing to him than that of the unafraid or blatantly uncaring survivors. You didn’t understand it, but you also didn’t want to.

You didn’t want anything to do with it.

The Cenobite was an oddity among oddities- barely even touching the survivors and treating your suffering with a cold grace. In the few moments you’d been able to observe him, he seemed unaffected by anything, continuing his hunt seemingly without a care in the world.

When you were one of his designated playthings for a trial, you avoided the Box, even if it meant your continued survival. You couldn’t handle the thought of possibly summoning him, bringing the being you knew was somehow fascinated with you directly to your location.

You just did your damnedest to finish repairing gens and move on to the next trial with the usual indifferent killers, taking extra care to stealth when you knew he was coming. Because if he caught sight of you, he wouldn’t stop pursuing you throughout the trial, preferring to torment you than spread the pressure amongst your teammates.

But, despite your efforts, not every trial with him could work out this way, as was the case for the trial you found yourself in now. You had been just barely surviving through your stealth tactics when it seemed that the survivors were rapidly downed, one quickly falling after the other.

You rushed to pull them off hooks or patch them up enough to stand, only briefly hesitating when you felt your own safety was in danger. You pushed it aside, putting your team’s survival over your own sense of sanity. They would eventually pay you back in kind, and the cycle would continue.

But it seemed that luck was not on your side.

One, two, three survivors were all hooked for the last time, their cut off screams piercing the night air.

And suddenly, you were the only one left.

Somewhere, both too close and impossibly far away, a bell tolls.

You’re frozen in place, too on edge to even contemplate searching for the Hatch. You’d been in similar situations before, but this time felt different- it was as if the air was electrified from your nervous anticipation.

And never before had you been left alone with him.

Before long, the consequence of your hesitation becomes clear- the chains that he summons from nothing have started seeking you out, the few that reach you embedding their hooks in your skin. You hiss, jerking back into life and unhooking yourself, trying to be as careful as possible to not rip your skin off.

It would not be the worst pain you have felt in this place.

You set off, struggling through the terrain of the Macmillan Estate until you reach one of the smattering of brick walls that litter the Entity’s realms. Here, at least you would have some protection from the chains, giving you time to figure out what you were going to do next.

Find Hatch or wait by the Exit Gate, hoping he closes the Hatch with enough time for you to slip out? You’re debating the two options in your head, knowing full well it’s not the best use of your time but feeling unable to make a decision and get your feet moving.

You’d just mentally circled back around to the option of booking it for Hatch that you realize you were being observed. And he wasn’t even hiding like some of the others would, no crouching behind the brick or staying by the tree line. He’s simply standing there, as if waiting for you to realize he was there.

You look up at him, wondering how you hadn’t noticed his presence before. He blocks the only other exit from your shelter that isn’t a window, something you note with a growing sense of dread. No prey likes feeling cornered.

But he hasn’t moved to attack, just standing and staring at you. You take a moment to observe him back, noting the impassive expression on his face. He doesn’t move, even once you’d been made aware of him. You narrow your eyes and glare at him, ignoring the thwacking of the chains hitting the ground and walls behind you, already tired of whatever game he is playing, not in the mood to be toyed with.

“What do you want?” You ask, willing your voice to stop wavering. For once, you wanted to seem like the brave, outgoing survivor, willing to stand up to the killer for nothing more than the satisfaction of having done so.

A beat of silence, and you almost think he won’t answer. But he does, and his response is more confusing than clarifying.

“You.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

More silence.

Then, a crackling draws your attention downwards, to the small, unassuming box that lay on the ground in the space between you. The very box you had done your best to avoid touching, even looking at. You wonder, briefly, if it had been there the entire time.

“Solve it.” His voice is commanding yet gentle, coaxing yet sinister. There’s power behind it, a power that isn’t being utilized at the moment.

“No.” It’s an easy answer for you. There are few things you are sure of in the Fog, but not touching anything that belongs to a killer is one of them.

“Aren’t you curious?”

That was not what you had been expecting him to say. Suddenly, you were no longer sure about the subject of your conversation. The Box still lay between you, ready for your willing hands to run along its smooth surface, finding the small grooves that would lead you to further unlocking its mystery. But while you had been focusing on the Box, his eyes had never left you.

Because he knew that ultimately, yes. You were curious, and always had been. About everything, but you’d always been too shy, too afraid of other’s thoughts about you to try anything even mildly risky. Better to stay on the safe side and hear about other’s exploits instead of experiencing your own.

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Then…” With a long fingered hand, he gestures to the Box.

Your hands shook as you reached down to pick it up, finding its smooth surface both warm and cool at the same time, its weight heavier than you had anticipated.

You looked back up at the Cenobite, ignoring the faint tinkling of a music box’s tune that you could now hear coming from the Box.

“What do I do?”

You were sure it couldn’t be but so difficult- less intelligent survivors had completed its puzzle under significantly more stressing circumstances than you. But you couldn’t bring your mind to command your hands to begin, some invisible wire holding your muscles back from taking action.

Maybe it was because he was standing in front of you, watching you intently.

He moved closer and you barely resisted the urge to move backwards, your grip on the Box tightening as if afraid he would take it from you. He stopped just before you and reached out, not to take the Box but to guide your hands. But instead of placing his hands over yours as you had anticipated, they hovered barely a centimeter above your skin.

“There is a force in this realm that makes solving the Lament Configuration child’s play.”

You look up at him, wondering if he had just delivered a thinly veiled insult. If he, in saying that solving it should be easy, was implying that you were too unintelligent to figure it out. You open your mouth to begin defending yourself.

“I-“

“You’ve refused it,” He continues as if you’d never started speaking, “even when it is to your detriment. But the Configuration is meant for those who seek to heighten their senses, for sensations that the earthly world cannot provide. Opening it is not supposed to be easy.”

You look down at your hands, at his.

“For those who summon us must be sure that it is what they want, for once we are summoned we cannot leave without a charge. It cannot be helped.”

He places his hands over yours now, guiding them along the edges of the Box (the Configuration, you correct yourself). Your hands are seemingly electrified from where his skin meets yours, though a sizable portion of his hand is covered in leather.

“Here it seems that, although alone, I work under different rules. The Box was made simpler and perverted into a means to assist in feeding this Entity.”

With his guidance, you are able to find the minuscule lines in the surface of the box, pushing and shifting the pieces until they form a completely new shape. But before you are able to push the final piece into place, thus completing the puzzle, he releases his hands and steps back.

“There is no need to finish it.”

You blink, feeling like you’d just woken from a hazy waking dream.

“But why did I do it in the first place?”

“I won’t have to hunt you down the next time we find ourselves facing each other. It is very tiresome when you hide from me constantly.”

He turns around like he’s about to go, either to finally kill you or let you scamper off to find the Hatch, but you aren’t ready for him to leave yet.

“Is that it?” You blurt out and almost take it back when he turns his head, indicating that you have his attention once more. But you swallow your fear and continue on, holding your chin higher. “You just wanted me to solve this box? To what? Prove to myself that I can, so that you don’t have to do as much work the next time you’re going to kill me?”

He whirls around, but there is barely any change in his expression from before. He was near impossible to read, you were quickly learning.

“I don’t get it- if you’re summoned for those who want pleasure or pain or whatever, why are you so interested in me? I don’t want any of that.”

“You don’t want pleasure?”

Your face heats up, any bravery you had felt in delivering your speech gone. You look down at your hands, still holding the almost solved Lament Configuration.

“The rules of this place may be different, but I am still obliged to answer the summons.” His words, at first, make no sense.

And then you realize what he is implying, and your face must be on fire for how hot it feels. If he was summoned for those who want whatever version of pleasure or pain he provided, then you solving the Configuration meant that he could…

Ohhhkay.

You turn from him, fully intending to put the box down and sprint for the Hatch and think about this encounter later at the campfire, but the quiet, nagging voice in the back of your head stops you.

Aren’t you curious?

Before you can rationalize and deny the urge, you act on impulse for once and press the final piece into place on the Box, the tinkling music stopping abruptly.

While you’ve had your back turned, he must’ve crept up closer on you, because you suddenly feel his hand on your shoulder.

You gasp, both from surprise and the sensation of his touch once again on you. He slowly ran his hand down your body, from your shoulder down your arm, before making its way to your front. Your breathing was picking up, hitching in the back of your throat when his other hand snuck around and plucked the box from your grasp. It’s gone when you turn your head to look at it, and you’re too focused on his touch to really ponder what happened to it.

You reach out and press your own hand against the brick wall in front of you, using the rough texture to ground yourself in reality, as much as you could in the hellish purgatory that you were trapped in. But the reality of this moment was that he was touching you in such a simple way, barely vulgar at all, but you felt as if you were being lit on fire with the way his touch seared your skin, even over the layers of your clothes.

His fingers dance over the hem of your pants, toying with the button. You’d always liked that the Entity put you in pants most of the time, their practicality better for your environment than the potential fashion statements you could’ve been making in something else. But now you wish that the Entity had decided to put you in one of the nonsensical outfits the others occasionally donned, if just for the easy access a skirt provides.

Nonetheless, he deftly undid the button and continued his journey down your body, not bothering to even pull your pants down. He completely ignored your underwear, apparently not in the mood to tease you over the fabric. You weren’t complaining, wanting whatever he was going to give you as quickly as possible.

It was now that you fully realized how cold his hands were, which only made you more aware of every centimeter of your skin that he ran his fingers along. Down over your stomach, a feather light touch that was approaching where you needed it the most.

The Cenobite found his way in between your legs with little fanfare, finally exploring the part of your body that, unbeknownst to you, he had thought of whenever he saw you in a trial. He toyed briefly with just running his touch up and down your slit, causing you to shudder and drop your head. But before long, he ended up at that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking it just to hear you moan. His finger circled around your clit, applying just enough pressure for it to register in your mind but not enough to really scratch the itch that had been building since he’d placed his hands over yours to solve the box.

He was silent behind you, but you didn’t think he wasn’t actively enjoying what he was doing to you, if the way his teasing touches would briefly speed up when you let the little sounds building up behind your lips escape was any indication. Or the way his breathing, though quiet and low, would hitch when you would whimper, groan, hiss.

He finally moved lower, teasing at your entrance. You whimper again, closing your eyes. But he didn’t do anything aside from dipping his fingers in, for barely a second, giving you just a taste of the pleasure you needed. He teased more than you would have expected, but you also wouldn’t have expected him to want to fuck you.

“Please,” your whisper is broken, your mind hazy and unable to compose a more elegant plea. You curse under your breath when he does it again, moving back up to your clit to circle it a couple more times.

“You can do better than that,” He says, and you, in your fuzzy mind, think you detect a hint of humor in his voice.

“Fuck- please.” You roll your hips, as if to entice him to finally get to it. But he holds fast, your (pathetic) attempt to seduce him into giving in to your whims failing. He pauses in his movements.

“Fine! Please, please, please, please fuck me, put your fingers in me, I don’t care just please make me cum!”

You wonder, briefly, in the back of your mind, if the Entity is watching.

Two of his fingers finally slip into you, and you barely hold back a curse, forgetting whatever inane thought you had before. All you could focus on was the fact that he was finally giving you what you wanted, that he was finally done teasing.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of your pussy, dragging them along your walls and hitting every sensitive spot that you didn’t even realize existed within you.

“For such a shy woman, you make delightful sounds,” He mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear over the heartbeat pounding in your ears. Whether it’s yours or his, you cannot tell.

Quickly, much too quickly, you feel your climax approaching, and any sense of the amount of time you’ve spent at his mercy is lost to you. All you know is that he is touching you in a way that makes you feel like no one has ever made you feel and that you want to reach your peak now.

As it builds, you release a litany of pleas, begging with broken words and fragmented sentences.

You finally finish with a sharp, drawn out and shuddering gasp, his fingers curling into the spot that makes your toes curl, sharply punctuating every ripple of pleasure that your body rides.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it is over.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you turn to face the Cenobite, who looks as unaffected as he had before. He examines his glistening fingers not even looking at you when he tells you to find the Hatch. If you’re stung by his sudden disinterest in you, you don’t show it, opting to add it to the growing mental list of things to think about later.

On shaky legs, you comply with his demand, stealing one last glance back at him as you leave him. You had no idea if this would be a one off occurrence, or if he would regularly find his own way to answer your summons, if he would make good on his statement that he is summoned for those who wish for pleasure and pain.

The only way to find out would be to summon him.

___

ao3 link

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 2

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU*

Warnings: Misogyny (not from Shouta), a dagger, kinda fluffy

Word Count: 3.5 k

Author’s Note: This is turning out pretty good, I think. It’s turning into a kind of slow-burn ish thing, and as much as I can’t stand slow-burn sometimes, I’m liking it so far. If I’m being honest I feel like (hopefully) this is the thing that can help me get over my smut writing block. I haven’t been able to get myself to write smut for a while, and I’m hoping this can help me fix it.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Also, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I usually put in that little line spacer when there’s a pov change. You know, this one:

____

So yeah. And the three asterisks (except the ones at the beginning):

* * * Usually means a timeskip. If it’s unlabelled it’s only a short skip, anything over 24 hours I’ll label.

Enjoy~

*

*

*

Shouta woke you up, his rough hands rubbing your back and deep voice softly calling your name. When you let your eyes flutter open you realize you’re still on top of him, only your head is further cradled into his neck and your leg had found its way around his waist. The position had your face warming as you lifted your head and met his dark eyes.

“Good morning, little one.” He sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up himself. You pulled away and he released you so you could sit up. Off of him. You couldn’t quite hold his gaze, so you looked down at the bedsheets.

“Good morning, Shouta.” He sits up beside you, a hand grasping your chin and making you look at him.

“Am I too forward? Or are you afraid of me, little one?” You raise your eyebrows, not expecting him to really consider your own comfort.

“Can I speak freely?” He nods, and you take a breath.

“You are being just a little forward, but I think it’s only really enhanced because you’re known for being cold and unwelcoming. And also the fact that we only formally met last night.” His hand drops, and he waits for the second half of your answer. You take a moment to choose your wording, make sure you’re accurately communicating your feelings without offending him.

“While I do feel awkward and, frankly, small around you I don’t necessarily fear you. So far you’ve shown that you aren’t cruel, and though you are capable of some...violent things, I have no reason yet to believe you would be violent toward me.” A small smile tugs at his lips, a foreign thing to see.

“I assure you, I am not a violent lover. Nor will I ever be.” He reaches over and grabs your hand, lifting it to his face and leaving a soft kiss on your knuckles. It’s a simple, sweet gesture that has your face and chest heating. Then he gets up and you follow him out to the living room where three large suitcases are waiting. Your suitcases, you realize, Mother and Father must have packed all your clothing and had them sent here. Shouta picks up two of them and you take the last one, returning to the bedroom.

“The closet has plenty of room, so go ahead and sort everything out. I’ll be in my office. Once you’re done just wait for me, we’ll be going out later.” You nod, and he’s disappearing into his office. For the first time, you take a good look at the room. Your room now, you remind yourself. 

It’s large, enough to fit three more king beds with plenty of spare room. The king-sized mattress sits in a black frame that was built to look like it was hovering inches off the ground, fitted with light gray sheets and a large black comforter. The entire room is illuminated by lights embedded in the ceiling, the floor a dark hardwood that matches the doors to the bathroom and walk-in closet. A table sat on either side of the bed, both painted black to match the bed frame.

The walk-in closet is big as well, though it’s much brighter than the main bedroom. The floor is smooth white tile, a white center island with a glass top looking into the top drawers that held numerous watches and ties. Most of Shouta’s clothing seems to be folded, the suits and more high-end clothing the only pieces hung up. You filled the empty spaces with your own clothing, keeping everything organized like you had back at home. With everything tucked away, you decided it was time to change out of the robe, tugging on undergarments you missed those, a pair of loose sweatpants and a racerback tank top. Then you brought the now empty suitcases back to the living room and dug through the kitchen for some breakfast.

____

Shouta emerged from his office to you humming to yourself as you worked over the stove of bacon and pancakes. He didn’t even know he had bacon, let alone the ingredients for pancakes. It was quite cute, seeing you bounce lightly along with the tune you’re humming, spatula in hand. It’s a domestic sight, completely foreign to him. He leaned on the doorframe, choosing to admire you a while longer.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come get some food?” He blinked, slightly shocked, you hadn’t even turned around to see if he was there. You must have heard the door open, though he made sure none of the doors in his home creaked. It’s an irritating noise. He made his way over to you, hooking his chin over your shoulder and placing his large hands on your waist.

He knows he’s moving a little fast with the intimacy. He’d asked you earlier, though you said you didn’t mind, you were absolutely right that it’s weird being so close so soon. In all honesty, as long as you’re alright with it he wants to continue being touchy like this. He’s never truly had any interest in naming a partner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want company. He’s been lonely for a long time, longing for someone to hold, and while he’s absolutely sure any woman would love to court him willingly, he wants someone special.

He can’t stand the women that throw themselves at any man with power and money, most of them only in it for their own gain. If he were to announce before the ball that he was looking to name a wife, he’d probably have had a line of fawning women on their best behavior to butter him up, flirting and smiling those too-big smiles in an attempt to get a rock on their finger and power to wield at their leisure. That’s why he’d decided to watch from afar, and you struck him as different the moment he’d laid eyes on you.

The more time he spent in your company, the more he’s commending himself for picking you. You’re one of the probable few that held a semi-neutral opinion of him, not fearful nor starstruck. You’re intelligent, well-articulated, and while you have your limits you tend to go with the flow, let the wind carry you this way and that. And you’re honest with him, he has no doubt you’ll tell him if there’s a boundary he crosses.

____

You’re grateful he can’t quite tell the state you’re in right now. Shouta’s hands on your waist flustered you, more than you care to admit. Sure, he’s advancing rather quickly, but you meant it when you said you didn’t mind. You’d been forbidden from dating, made to save yourself for the strategic marriage your father had planned. For the longest time you’d wanted to be held, touched and loved by someone. And here Shouta is, fulfilling all your teenage daydreams. He has no reason to be so close behind closed doors, where no one can see you, so he must feel some sort of real attraction toward you right? Otherwise he’d be more closed off, only opting to speak on his own terms and not caring at all about you or your comfort.

You shake yourself from your thoughts and the two of you sit at the dining table, quietly eating your breakfast. It is a little awkward, but you expected as much. Shouta, like you, probably isn’t used to eating with another person. You both finish breakfast soon, and once the dishes are washed Shouta startles you with his next words.

“We’ll be leaving in an hour or two for a lunch meeting with a few other clans.” You have to take a pause and think about what he’d just said.

“We? You want me to join you?” A part of you wants him to confirm it, another hopes he doesn’t.

“Yes, I want you there with me.” Cue your confusion.

“It’s almost unheard of, having a woman in a clan meeting.” As much as you hate the patriarchy and its traditions, they are still traditions that, once challenged, could upset many people.

“Let’s say I’m breaking the status-quo. If I’m going to have a wife, she’ll be wielding my power alongside me, not just existing as a means to further the bloodline.” It becomes apparent to you that Shouta, despite his position, is very much not traditional. You turn to him and lean against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So why have you chosen me? I’m the daughter of a very low-ranked oyabun, have almost no experience compared to you and I am most definitely not someone other oyabun would approve to be your wife, let alone leading the entirety of the Yakuza.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, crossing his own arms.

“I don’t care what other oyabun may think of me or my choices, they don’t dictate what I do. As for why I’ve chosen you, it’s quite simple. I’ve known you for less than a day and it’s already obvious to me that you can take most things in stride, without allowing it to affect you emotionally. You’re good at compartmentalizing your own thoughts, can keep a level head under pressure, and that’s exactly what I need.” Your own eyebrows raise, not expecting a read like that.

“And last night as I watched you, it was clear to me that you’re skilled at masking your emotions, especially nervousness or fear. Think about what any other woman would have done, had I walked up to them and asked their name. Before I could get another word out they’d probably drop to their knees and begin begging for their lives. Most would probably faint on the spot, pounce on me, or any other number of unsavory responses after announcing a sudden engagement to me. But you? You did nothing, simply answering my question and taking my hand with no theatrics.” 

You nod slowly, mildly understanding his point. While it’s true you had almost no reaction, you’re almost sure there’d be at least a dozen other women in that hall that would have reacted the way you had. 

“Still, there must have been many others that acted like I did. For me to be so completely unique is…” You trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? No. I trust my own judgement, little one, and you should have a little more faith in yourself. Now, let’s go get ready. I’ve already got a dress for you to wear. It’s only semi-formal, we’ll be going to a restaurant for this meeting.” You give a small sigh as you follow him into the bedroom. 

All you can do now is go along with it, whether you trust his judgement or not. Suddenly being put in a position of so much power is stressing you out a little bit, but Shouta isn’t wrong about your compartmentalization. The stress could be dealt with later, right now you have a meeting to attend.

* * *

On second thought, maybe the stress should have been dealt with earlier. Standing outside the restaurant, wrapped around Shouta’s arm is making your heart pound in your chest. You’re unconsciously squeezing his bicep, and even as he looks down at you, there's nothing on your face to indicate your nerves. You’re completely deadpanned, eyes focused and mind working overtime. Shouta’s calloused hand falls over yours, a mildly comforting gesture.

“Don’t worry, little one. The most you’ll have to do is sit still and look pretty. I’m aware of your inexperience, I don’t expect you to be put on the spot. If you are and feel uncomfortable then all you need to do is tap my leg. You’ll be fine.” You nod. The pep-talk is appreciated, but it isn’t the meeting itself you’re worried about. What kind of backlash will Shouta be getting once you enter? What will be said about his reputation afterward? All you can do is wait and see.

You stride into the venue, and are led to a private room by a hostess. You can hear the casual conversation from the open door, but once you’re inside the immediate silence is unsettling. You don’t need to look directly at the half dozen men to know all their eyes are fixed on you as you both sit at the head of the table. Shouta quickly and smoothly brings the attention off of you.

“It’s good to see you, gentlemen. Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” The tension in the room is still palpable, the clear discomfort from the men hadn’t vanished, but their main focus now is the subject of the meeting. You sit and listen carefully as they talk about several things, from natural disaster preparations to minor territory disputes. Some of the smaller syndicates under these oyabun had spread operations outside their borders, but that was quickly settled as most was due to small misunderstandings and unclear borders. Soon the meeting was nearly coming to a close, and suddenly Shouta left to use the restroom. 

And now, you’re a lioness in a clan of hyenas.

You keep quiet, listening to their conversation and following along with the political debates to further familiarize yourself with the inner workings of the higher circle. Suddenly the table goes quiet, and you lift your eyes from the table to meet the gaze of six men that value tradition. Unsure what to do, you drop your gaze again, but don’t drop your chin, choosing to look down your nose at the wood grain. Shouta had told you to hold yourself as he does, and you make sure to try, but you know when to keep to yourself.

“Tell me, girl, what are you doing here?” You blink, not expecting to be confronted so blatantly. You look up at the man who had asked the question. He looks to be in his late forties, jet black hair graying at the temples and striking brown eyes aged and tired. He’s not thin, a little heavier-set, but it’s clear there was a point that he was fit and muscular. He’s already irked you. You nod your head, a small bow, before calmly answering.

“My name is (y/n). I would appreciate it if you could please use it, Oyabun. I am here because Shouta wants me to be here.” The man narrows his eyes at you, a small scoff comes from one of the others but you don’t avert your eyes to him.

“Well why does he want you here, girl?” The blatant rejection of your request made your blood boil, but you kept a pleasant face.

“I don’t know. If you wish to know you may need to ask him yourself, Oyabun. And please, call me (y/n).” You’re certain he won’t use your name, and you addressing it again will probably anger him, but you can’t care too much when you know you’re within your right to ask that anyone use your name. Especially when you yourself are using a title for the man.

“I’ll address you how I see fit. Just because you’re the Black Dragon’s fiance does not mean I will acknowledge you as anyone of importance.” Ah, that’s right. You had forgotten Shouta’s nickname. Black Dragon is the name people used for him, whether they were afraid of the man or in awe of him. You take an imperceptible, steadying breath. Misogyny is one of the few things that challenge your composure.

“I do not ask you to acknowledge me as a person who holds power. In fact, I am aware of my previous rank and understand that it was maybe unwise to have me here. All I ask is that you please use my name.” The near growl that escapes the man does nothing to your self-control, doesn’t even strike any kind of emotion other than irritation. At this point, the other five men seem to be siding with you, their gazes fixed on the rather aggressive-reacting oyabun with something akin to confusion. 

“Do not talk back to me, girl! I should remind you of your place here.” The other men sit in shock as he rises from his seat and begins to circle the table. He must have had tunnel vision, because Shouta’s voice cuts through the room so abruptly he freezes, his eyes snapping over to the entrance where Shouta stands, glaring daggers at him.

“Touch her, and I will personally bury you six feet under.” The man is frozen in shock, almost in disbelief. He tries, albeit weakly, to get Shouta on his side.

“O-oyabun! I… This girl, she--” 

“I believe she asked you to use her name. Politely, might I add.” He’d been listening? How long had he stood there?

“In fact, you should address her as Onna-oyabun.” Your breath caught at that, the same as the rest of the room. That title was a myth, a rarity in its own right. There were so few instances where that title was applied to a woman under such specific circumstances that it’s a mere legend today. The most recent was an old woman who had inherited her deceased husband’s clan, which was extremely small, and even that was long ago. 

Shouta’s hand landed on your shoulder, his rough thumb drawing small circles into your skin. He was silent, waiting for the older man, or anyone in the room, to oppose him. You could feel his glare in the faces of the other clans’ oyabun, the intensity of it making even you uneasy. It felt like an eternity before Shouta spoke again, venom laced in every syllable.

“I’ve chosen to let you keep all of your teeth, in favor of keeping her from seeing what violence I’m capable of. Next time, I won’t be so gracious. It’s time to go, little one.” You bow your head quickly before taking Shouta’s extended hand and strolling out of the room.

In the car, it’s silent. You have every intention of apologizing for causing a scene, though you aren’t sure if you should speak here or at home. Shouta doesn’t leave you any options.

“What is it? There’s something bothering you.” How perceptive.

“I’m sorry, Shouta.” He turns his head, his expression questioning your intelligence.

“For what? For asking to be addressed in a way that isn’t demeaning? He had no reason to ask why you were there, let alone attempt to attack you like that. I always hated that man, you’ve just given me a reason to threaten him.” You did a double-take.

“You heard everything? How long were you standing at the door?” 

“Ah. I put a bug in the metal piece on the front of your dress. I knew they might be unsavory toward you, and with me out of the room they were more likely to speak their minds.” You nearly gawked at him. No wonder he’d chosen your dress for you. 

“You never went to use the restroom.” He shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. It is I who should be apologizing, little one. The entire ordeal was intentional, as much as I hoped it wouldn’t actually take such a turn. Though I will say I was serious about that title. I fully intend to marry you, and I intend to have you by my side for every meeting from here on out.” You suck in a sharp breath at that bit of information. Marriage seemed like such an abstract concept until now, having Shouta say it somehow made it all the more solid. And to join him for every meeting? 

“As long as there are no more surprise incidents then I think I can come with you.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he squeezed your hand.

“Deal. Though I may need to do that a few more times just to keep some men in line.” You let yourself giggle, he must hate a few of the others as well.

“In that case I’ll help you. I was afraid he’d actually get me for a second there.” 

“Really? You didn’t even react. What if I were a split second too late?” You smirked, a mischievous little tug at your lips.

“Well if you were too late he’d have at least one stab wound and be bleeding out on the floor.” He shoots you a bewildered look before you tug up the hem of your dress, exposing a large dagger strapped to your thigh. He can’t contain his laughter, throwing his head back and wiping away at a few stray tears once he can breathe again. You can’t help but laugh with him, and notice just how handsome he looks when he’s happy, or in this case amused.

“Wouldn’t that be an unpleasant surprise.” He chuckles a bit more, getting it all out of his system before looking over at you. 

“Regardless, I won’t be letting them get that close. I’m sure you’re capable of defending yourself, and as much as I’d love to see you stab an annoying misogynist, the risk to your safety still remains. Not to mention he disregarded my warning last night. You’re untouchable, little one, he knows this and still thought he could touch even a single hair on your head.” 

You let a small smile settle on your lips, lacing your fingers with Shouta’s as a comfortable silence falls between you.

******************************

Tags:

@inumorph

[rein-ette]

Prompt: 5 times England or Portugal died from being stupid, and 1 time they actually saved each other

I decided I'm going to post it in three parts because 1) once again the word count ran away from me and 2) for some reason I really don't like super long posts on tumblr. So here's the first two parts, outta six. I interpreted the word "stupid"...loosely :D

WARNINGS: blood, graphic descriptions of wounds and violence, character death, and what can definitely be classified as first degree murder

I.

“You should stop drinking.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m serious.”

“There’s a lot of things I should do.”

Gabriel sighed. His head wasn’t exactly clear at the moment either, everything dulled by the three bottles of wine they had pulled from the hold on their way up. But now Arthur was onto his personal stash of scotch and leaning heavily on the railing of the crow’s nest, and — well. Gabriel wasn’t sure if he was sober enough to pull Arthur back if he fell.

“Stand near...here, at the very least.” He mumbled, slapping the mast. Arthur just raised an eyebrow at him. How he managed to look so scornful despite the fact that his eyes couldn’t even focus, Gabriel did not know. Perhaps practice did make perfect.

“I didn’t know you cared enough, darling,” Arthur slurred, now waggling those eyebrows at him. Gabriel had a vague urge to rip them off. “And I’m not drunk. You’re just not drunk enough.”

Gabriel frowned. “I am.”

“Are not. I thought you were sad? So drink.”

“I am sad.” Gabriel stared at the bottle in his hand. He was sad. He just couldn’t...quite remember what about.

Suddenly, there was a blade in front of his nose. Gabriel tried not to go cross-eyed, and flinched back a step. “What the hell?”

Arthur had drawn his dagger and was levelling it at Gabriel’s face. The tip floated sideways every couple of seconds, before Arthur jerked it back. “Let’s practice.”

“No. We’re—no. What?”

Not waiting for a response, Arthur lunged forward, forcing Gabriel back another step. “Arthur, stop.”

“You stop,” he sneered, and then added, “Coward.”

On the next swing, Gabriel pushed forward instead of back and gripped Arthur’s right arm. Forcing Arthur's blade down and away from him, he inwardly congratulated himself on still retaining enough coordination to manage such a thing. Sometimes Arthur got into moods like this and did stupid shit like fight 30 yards up a mast, and at times like this it's definitely up to him to be the responsible one and teach his rowdy boyfriend a lesson.

Intending to do just that, he yanks Arthur around, growling, “Stop! I’m fucking serious—“

.

In hindsight, Gabriel really didn’t need to pull that hard.

--

II.

The first thing Gabriel thinks as he slowly comes to is that his trousers are sticking to his leg. The second is that his back is wet, too.

It takes him a moment to realize it's blood.

Everything comes very, very fast after that. The smell. The weight on his legs. The feeling of something embedded in his right calf. And the skin-numbing horror that comes with the knowledge he is lying in a pool of Arthur's guts.

Gabriel tries not to retch as he props himself on one arm. The smell of burning flesh seems to slide straight up through his nose and envelope his skull — all he can taste is that and the iron slicking every inch of his skin.

His elbow is sliding against the floor. Gritting his teeth, he jerks it back underneath him and tries to sit up again, but in doing so inadvertently shifts the body pinning his legs further down and off his torso. There's a dull thud as a head collides with the floor.

It's drowned out by the scream.

Gabriel freezes, muttering every curse and apology he knows. He can see Arthur's back now, the burns that have almost chewed through his right shoulder and entirely consumed his clothes. A shard of wood has gone through Arthur's lower abdomen and into Gabriel's leg, and he must be injured elsewhere as well, because Gabriel can feel something slick and warm and pulsing against the side of his leg and holy mother of god he needs to not throw up right now and think, think, think.

He had told Arthur not to do it. He had said — but it doesn't matter now, doesn't matter when Arthur's breaths are shallow against the wooden deck and cheeks bleeding gray. Gabriel has to get him off so he can carry them out of here, because over the wardrum of his own heartbeat he can hear the snarling of the waves and that hollow, incessant sound that accompanies a dying ship as it's sucked into the sea. They are running out of time.

Somehow, Gabriel frees his legs. At some point as he maneuvers them around Arthur stops screaming with every move and just pants, wet and hoarse in the back of his throat. Small mercies, that Gabriel feels disgusted to be grateful for.

When he finally makes it to his knees and wraps his hands around Arthur's throat, even that rasp disappears. Gabriel tucks his nose into Arthur's shoulder, presses his cheek against the back of his head to give him what comfort he can, and squeezes.

"It's me." He whispers, "it's me, it's okay, love, it's just me. I'm here, sweetheart. It'll all be over soon. I'm here."

He holds his grip until Arthur's nails no longer make their scritch scratch against the floorboards.

--

Notes

In the second scene, the ship they're on is Arthur's ship. Her name is the Ariel, and she is prone to combustion. I rewrote part 2 like four times and this information was once relevant.

Also I just realized these two scenes are both set on a ship but they're not related hopefully the change in tone made that clear ajsmdndhrnje I might need to fix that

[littlemrcaprisun]

I Walk My Days On A Wire || Lady Dimitrescu x Reader

(NOTE: this is pure angst be warned. also be nice I don’t write anymore so this is the first thing I have written in like a year in more)

Your eyes sting with the mixture of heavy rain and tears as your horse gallops full speed away from the castle grounds. How does this still affect you? After all these years her rage is still so painful. She doesn’t care if it’s your fault or not, you are the target simply because she knows you can’t leave. Whether or not that is by her choosing or yours is unclear to either of you. This time, though, she crossed a line. 

You planned on riding this horse; this stone colored horse with flecks of black that you begged for weeks for, into oblivion and never looking back. Riding away to a place where Alcina Dimitrescu and her daughters would never find you again. Even though in your soul you knew that place didn’t exist. She always found you.

Because you always came back.

You couldn’t stay away from her, no matter how angry or insufferable or horrible she treated you. At the end of the day she loved you more than she hated you. She cared for you, she held you, she wanted you there more than gone. 

So as the sun set on the familiar cliff side you always disappeared, which may aid in the reason why you were always found, you turned around and began the slow trek home.

It is well into the night by the time you return. Your muscles ache as you tie your horse up in the stable; a combination of riding all day, the cold, and the fear of what’s to come inside those castle doors. Just as you suspect you are greeted by the girls. Each of them wear a different expression: Daniella seems amused and vindictive, Sofia neutral as usual, and Alina extremely worried.

“Mother is going to kill you. She told me as much.” Daniella scoffs in your face, close enough for you to be able to smell rot and blood on her breath. Alina pushes her away and grabs your arm, pulling you up towards her bedroom.

“She won’t kill you but she is far more angry now than she was this morning. I do worry about what may happen.” Her voice is soft and she looks anxiously around for her mother. “You can hide in my room until morn-”

“Alina.” Lady Dimitrescu’s voice is loud and hard, brimming with anger once again but not aimed towards her youngest child. “Leave us.”

You don’t turn to face the older woman until her hand is on your shoulder pulling you to face her. Her search her face for the rage you had seen that morning, but it’s gone. There is anger, but there is something more: fear. 

“Chambers. Now.”

You follow her orders without question but you do curse yourself and roll your eyes at being swayed so easily.

She carefully pulls your drenched clothes off your body and have you been shivering this whole time? You don’t dare to speak to her, you know better by now. She hates for you to grovel and apologise. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. You both will be in the same situation next week once again.

“How dare you.” She spits as she tends to your minor wounds from the day, mainly briars embedded in your skin and scratches here and there. You’re silent. “You ran out on me, with no warning, no mention of where you were going. I thought you were dead.”

Still silence. 

“Speak to me!” She yells and you look up, shock outlining your features. You’re shocked not because she yelled but because her voice cracked and her eyes are now welled up with tears. You’ve never seen her cry and you don’t think that will change, but this may be the closest you will ever get.

“I am not one of your pets.” It is small and weak, but refined and resilient. You know you mean more than that to her but you want to throw it in her face. You have to remind her of where you came from and where you are now. “You do not get to treat me as such. I am not collateral damage for your outbursts or your pain or whatever you are feeling. I should be treated as if you love me in the way you claim to.”

Anger passes over her features once again for a fleeting moment, as if to say ‘how dare you speak out against me’, before she relaxes. “I do love you. I have never loved a human before, you are the first and likely will be the only.”

“Then show me, god dammit!” You are so exasperated and exhausted the you aren’t sure you can hold yourself up anymore as you start to sway. “I spend every second of my life trying to show you that you are my entire world and how special you are.”

Alcina doesn’t respond with words, instead she gets on her knees to get as close to eye level with you as possible. Still silent she places the most gentle kiss to your lips, a kiss like she’s never given you before. She holds your face in her massive hand and envelopes your entire body with her free arm. Your hands come up to hold her face as well, she flinches and you pull away.

“No, please, put them back.” She whispers against your lips. You gently wrap a hand around her jaw and a hand rests on her cheek. Her skin is cold to the touch but the feeling of home warms you inside. She breaks the kiss but stays close, keeping her forehead pressed to yours and swipes her thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t know how to do this and I never will, please have patience.”

“I can’t have patience with someone who hurts me.” You whisper with your eyes shut tight, knowing she will pull away and leave you standing cold and naked in your room. 

She does. But she doesn’t leave the room, instead she goes to sit on the edge of the bed. Her stance is defensive and sturdy and you feel weak and vulnerable. 

“Why have you stayed then?”

You can’t answer that.

“Why don’t you leave?”

You can’t answer that either.

“I saved your life. I could’ve let you die, but I chose to let you live here with me as my pet and I just happened to fall in love with you.” She loves to bring that one up.

“Why did you then? It seems it would have served you better to have let me die or used me for your precious wine. Why am I still here, Al?”

She can’t answer either. 

“Why don’t we just fuck and go to bed like we always do?” You sigh walking over towards the bed. You’re almost at eye level again with her sitting on the bed and you lean in to kiss her but she doesn’t kiss back. “Come on, Al. I’m tired. Remember, us pathetic humans are an inconvenience.”

“Is that really what I said?” She softens.

“Well, that’s a much nicer and shorter way to put it.” Just thinking about the atrocities she hurled at you this morning makes your skin prickly and your heart ache, but still you climb onto the bed and straddle her hips. She finally uncrosses her arms and places them on your hips. 

“I don’t want to fuck you.” She says curtly. You raise your eyebrows and wordlessly start to climb off of her just as soon as you climbed on. She stops you and pulls you close and forces you to look at her. “I want to… I would like to… well… as the humans… you call it…” She lowers her voice, as if to save her embarrassment in case someone may hear her being sweet for once. “M-make love.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. You have never heard her talk so innocently that it almost sounds inappropriate coming out of her mouth but still you nod. 

“Yes.” There is still so much to say, to do, to fix. This isn’t a salve, it isn’t even a start but it feels nice to be held by Alcina and feel like she means it for once. Maybe hell is worth it for even a few moments of divinity.

[spencers-renaissance]

To Look On Tempests and Not Be Shaken

Summary: In the wake of a blazing row and an empty apartment, Aaron finds Spencer's well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's sonnets and recalls the morning after their wedding, when Spencer sat on his lap and read Sonnet 116 to him. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Tags: angst with a happy ending, fighting and making up, married hotchreid, relationship dynamics, introspection, fluff, shakespeare/literature

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

(Set in S11, AU in which Haley/Aaron divorced in S1 and Aaron/Spencer married in S4.)

It wasn’t really either of their faults: work was relentless at the moment and they hadn’t had any real time for one another in weeks. That’s not really a consolation to either Spencer or Aaron, however, when they’re in the middle of a blazing row that has them both drowning in flames of anger and passion, unable to see one another for the smoke filling their apartment. 

“Aaron, this is the fourth case in a row that you’ve stayed at  the office past 4 in the morning to wrap up the paperwork,” Spencer shouts, frustration rising in his chest as he tugs at his hair, already feeling far too overwhelmed. Aaron is looking as unbothered and stoic as he always does during their fights, and even though Spencer is fully aware of the emotion that will be stirring under his carefully constructed mask, it doesn’t make it any less exasperating. 

“You know as well as I do that this sort of work load is completely unavoidable,” Aaron says lowly, anger finally audible in his voice. It’s not as satisfying as Spencer had hoped. “We can’t keep rehashing this same old argument. I’m the Unit Chief of a team in one of the most prestigious FBI departments. I have a responsibility.”

“You have a responsibility to me and Jack as well,” Spencer cries, fury bubbling over as he thinks of Jack and just how much he deserves. “We deserve your time just as much as fucking serial killers do.”

Aaron visibly flinches as Spencer swears, an occurrence rare enough to indicate serious emotion. “This is exactly the argument I used to have with Haley, Spencer,” he says harshly. “I refuse to have it with you, too. If you can’t handle it then maybe you should leave, just like she did, hm?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe that means there’s an element of truth in it then, Aaron?” Spencer asks, voice breaking slightly as the scale tips away from uncontained ire towards hopeless misery. He turns away from his husband, trying in vain to conceal his crumpled face and damp eyes. “And you know I would never do that to you; don’t you dare throw your unresolved issues back in my face.”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Aaron says, voice and face hardened; Spencer can almost see the walls he’s building up again, the stubborn refusal to concede any point. “You’re not being rational. I’m going to bed.”

His stomach twists with the desperation of the situation as he says quietly to Aaron’s turned, retreating back, “What happened to never going to bed angry?” He doesn’t turn back around. 

⭐️

Aaron waits in bed for Spencer to join him, fully intending to feign sleep the moment he enters the bedroom but nevertheless longing to know he’s safely tucked next to him in bed. When he hears the quiet click of the front door and checks the time to see he’s been waiting for almost 25 minutes, though, a panicked feeling fills his chest. He throws the covers back and treads out to the living room, only to be met with a decidedly empty room. If he was a more spiritual man he’d say he could still feel the angry aura of their previous argument lingering over the furniture. Really what he feels is the inevitable, empty vacuum a home without Spencer in it is bound to house. 

He sits down on the sofa, just on the wrong side of too cold in his threadbare t-shirt and underwear, and buries his head in his hands. The problem is that he knows Spencer’s right. He and Jack both deserve better than this kind of life, of course they do. Jack deserves a father, Spencer deserves a husband. Admitting such a fact, however, requires humility, vulnerability, failure almost. It means telling his boss that he needs reinforcements, that he can’t continue with the 80+ hour weeks, that he’s not as strong as he used to be. 

That sort of thing takes a courage that feels so far out of reach, though, and he’s left defending a place he doesn’t want to be in against people he loves more than anything in the world. 

Forcing himself out of his miserable carousel of thoughts and regrets, he pulls his head from his hands and catches sight of a note on the coffee table, his name scrawled across it in Spencer’s handwriting. Immediately, his heart sinks: it’s unlikely a love letter. It’s far more likely it’s a note of good riddance, an announcement of abandonment. 

Turning it over in his shaking hands, he reads: 

I’ve gone to stay with Derek and Penelope for the night. I will pick up Jack from Jessica’s in the morning, on my way home. I love you. Spencer 

He immediately feels guilt at ever having thought that Spencer would be cruel enough to leave him in the same way he’s been left himself one too many times. His husband has an incredible amount of love filling his heart, and he’s simply incapable of such cruelty. It’s been a fear of his for many years, that Spencer would grow unhappy but be too kind to leave, prioritising Aaron above himself. He knows it’s Haley’s fault for embedding such fear and doubt in his heart all those years ago, but he can’t help but berate himself for ever doubting Spencer. 

It’s not like they’re about to break up. When he considers the situation logically, he knows that. He loves Spencer, Spencer loves him, and ultimately, he’s going to relent. He’s going to draw on whatever shreds of courage remain in his tattered and beaten soul and do whatever it takes to make his family happy, to give them what they deserve. He just has no idea how to cross the gaping chasm that stands in the way of reaching that eventuality. 

He goes to place the note back down on the coffee table, but his eyes land on the book it had originally rested on: Spencer’s well-loved copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He picks it up, sort of absent-mindedly, thumbing the pages the love of his life has read countless times, holding on to the book as an emotional connection to Spencer. It’s travelled their entire relationship with them; he remembers it laying on his spare bedside table back when Spencer visited his apartment in the dead of night, terrified of anyone finding them out. He’d read the poems over and over again, long into the night. Aaron can’t help but smile at the memory of Spencer’s unique quirks. 

Eventually, his absent fiddling lands him on a page Spencer’s visited time and time again. A worn leather bookmark Aaron recognises as one of Diana’s gifts marks the page titled Sonnet 116. Tired and lovelorn, he begins reading.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare 

((Modern Translation, if you’d prefer:

I will not admit that interferences are possible in the union of two people In love. Love that changes when circumstances do is not love, Nor if it bends when someone tries to destroy it: Oh no! It is an eternally fixed point, Which may watch storms but is never shaken by them; it is the guiding star for ever lost ship: Its distance may be measured but its quality cannot be. Love does not fall victim to Time, though features of youth Are eventually entrapped by him; Love doesn’t change as hours and weeks race past, But endures until death. If this is wrong, and I’m proved incorrect, Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.))

The words come rushing back to him as soon as he reads them: it had been a contender for Spencer’s chosen poem at their wedding. He’d eventually gone with I loved you first by Christina Rosetti, the perfect compliment to his own choice of I love you by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, but on their first morning as a married couple, laid in their warm and comfortable bed, Spencer had pulled out this very book and straddled Aaron’s thighs, reading it to him with an earnest expression. He remembers the air being punched out of his chest as he’d looked up at a bright-eyed 27-year-old Spencer who had been through so much already but still held all the grace and innocence he did on his first day at the BAU.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear runs down his nose and splashes on the page. What really tips him over the edge is reading Spencer’s small, chicken-scratch annotations around the poem, noting different points in their relationship, events between the two of them that prove the words of an Englishman born 400 years earlier.  

It’s so easy for him to doubt how much Spencer loves him - insecurities and the trauma of his separation from Haley consume him far too often - but he’s holding the tangible, physical proof. This is undeniable, this is the evidence his doubtful, damaged heart yearns for, and the furious, raging, endlessly tumultuous waters inside him settle for the first time in weeks.  

⭐️

The second Aaron’s alarm goes off at 6am, he gets started on the plan he’d formed as soon as the words of Shakespeare’s sonnet had sunk in. The email he’d composed the night before is the first thing his laptop screen displays when he powers it on, and he presses send on the uncompromising, demanding letter he’d addressed to Cruz. Finally feeling good about the entire situation, he turns the coffee maker on and gets dressed; Spencer’s an early riser but he’s determined to get to Derek and Penelope’s before he leaves. 

The relief is freeing, and he feels light for the first time in a long time. He hadn’t quite realised just how much it had all been weighing on him until he’d finally found the courage to cut it free. 

Armed with two coffees and Shakespeare’s sonnets, he heads downstairs to the taxi he’d ordered the night before. The city races past in front of the slow and steady sunrise, dawn marking a new chapter in Aaron’s life that he’s determined to make worth it. Slowly the thick of the city fades into the suburbs, and the taxi slows down as they wind through the maze of identical looking streets until they arrive at Derek and Penelope’s home. 

He pays the taxi driver as quickly as possible and sighs in relief at the sight of Spencer’s car still on the drive as he climbs out of the vehicle, carefully balancing his two coffees, still warm in their thermal mugs. Fully aware that Derek and Penelope are absolutely going to chew him out the minute they lay eyes on him, he hesitantly rings the doorbell. 

“Man, what the hell?” Derek exclaims, clearly exasperated as he swings the door open, revealing a sorry looking Aaron Hotchner standing sheepishly on his doorstep. 

“I know,” Aaron replies immediately, trying to portray as much regret and understanding with his body language as is possible when holding two coffees with  your husband’s most prized possession perched precariously under your arm. “I know, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I need to see Spencer.”

Derek looks thoroughly put out just being in Aaron’s presence, but after a moment or two of hesitation he relents, opening the door wider to let him through. “Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll ask if he’s okay to see you.”

He parks Aaron in the living room and then leaves to go and find Spencer. Only seconds later, he hears the hurried click of kitten heels on the wooden floor and internally cringes; if facing Derek was bad, facing Penelope will be infinitely more painful.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Penelope shouts before she’s even fully entered the living room, “I have never, and I mean never been more disappointed in you. I don’t think you fully appreciate how lucky you are. You may be my boss but that does not mean I will not chew you out when you screw up this bad. Anyone who makes my Spencer cry is in my bad books for at least two weeks. You are in the dog house, you understand me? The dog house.”

She’s thankfully cut off from continuing her rant by Spencer’s shy, hesitant appearance at the doorway. Penelope immediately rushes over and gives him a hug, whispering something in his ear that Aaron doesn’t catch but makes Spencer giggle. She reaches up to ruffle his hair before patting his cheek fondly and casting a furious glare in Aaron’s direction as she vacates the living room. 

“Hi,” Aaron says softly, breaking the silence left in the wake of Storm Penelope. “I bought you a coffee.” 

“What are you doing here, Aaron?” Spencer asks, clearly a little confused but still accepting the drink. 

“I know you said that you’d come home this morning but I had to come and get you,” he replies, standing up from his seat on the couch and taking a few steps forward. “Look… your note last night, it was on top of this book. And in my absent-minded cloud of misery I was looking through it and came across Sonnet 116.”

A flicker of recognition lights up Spencer’s eyes as his face softens a little at the sight of his beloved book.

“Do you remember? Climbing into my lap on our one day wedding anniversary and reading it to me? Back then I was partly distracted by the gorgeous man in my arms but last night… Spencer, the words hit home in a way I haven’t felt before. Not to mention your annotations; I felt like I was reading a journal of our love story, which I know was probably your intention all along.” He shakes his head, trying to get back on track. “I’ve been an idiot, a rotten fool, and I’m so sorry. I emailed Cruz this morning. 

“You did?” Spencer looks up, surprise filling his features for a second before a small, hopeful smile takes over. “What did you say?”

“That I couldn’t continue with the workload and I needed reinforcements. That I would work the same hours for two more weeks to allow them to find an adequate solution, but after that I’ll be reducing my hours to align almost directly with yours,” he says, tentatively gauging Spencer’s reaction. 

It’s made pretty easy for him when Spencer’s hesitantly hopeful smile blossoms into a wide grin, relaxing his posture as relief overtakes his body and he throws himself into Aaron’s arms. Aaron buries his face into his husband’s curls and lets himself breathe easy, feeling infinitely better with Spencer wrapped up in his arms again, just where he belongs. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Aaron whispers as he pulls Spencer impossibly closer. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Spencer sighs, nestling his face further into Aaron’s neck. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. But, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

“I love you, you know that?” Aaron murmurs, pulling away slightly so he can look Spencer in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity as well as possible. 

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you, too.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aaron says, patting Spencer’s side gently. “Let’s get out of here before Penelope comes to stab me with her high heels.” 

Spencer giggles at that. “I don’t know, maybe, I’d like to see that,” he teases, digging his finger into Aaron’s ribs for good measure. 

“Oh, stop it you,” Aaron smiles fondly before kissing the top of Spencer’s head, feeling happier in this moment than he’d ever thought possible again last night. Peace is finally restored in Aaron Hotchner’s heart, all thanks to one rather ancient English playwright and an academic for a husband. “Let’s go and get Jack,” he says, longing to have his whole family back together, to restore the equilibrium of a tumultuous few weeks. 

Spencer leans down to kiss his shoulder as they walk out of the Morgan-Garcia household, and it’s enough to keep him warm the whole way home.

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

[junicai]

spinning.

| summary | sometimes, its just easier to move on to a new thing - rather than hold onto the old.

| word count | 2.6k

| warnings | none

| era: | pre-debut, circa. 2013 through 2016

2013. 

There is nothing in the world that can compare to the feeling of skating across clean ice. A smooth sheet, unmarred by skates belonging to those who have yet to wake up in the early hours of the morning. 

Not when it’s just you, the blades beneath your feet and the soft sounds that come with the ice being carved out - lines being embedded into the sheet of ice as you twirl across it. Painting pictures without the paint, gliding over the frozen lakes. 

It’s indescribable. The feeling of freedom, the feeling of flying. But that doesn’t mean Aria is going to stop trying to describe it to as many people as she can.

The most common question she is asked in an interview, either post or pre skate, is “why do you do what you do?” or “why do you love skating?” or “where does your motivation come from?” All the same question essentially, in different words and different fonts, with the same over-eager expression that Aria has come to know as one that is plastered on when the interviewer really couldn’t give less of a damn about the answer. 

They would swarm you at the edge of the rink, hungry and eager for a good piece, almost falling over each other in their desperation to catch her slip up on her words. Just because she was a child, doesn’t mean they weren’t ready prepared to destroy her on the front pages. 

Either way, Aria never had a solid answer for them.

Why did she do what she did? Her parents enrolled her in lessons as a child, you could say she just stuck with it. You could say that she found her niche early on, that she was blessed to have found what it is she loves at a young age. You could say that she was a prodigy in the making, you could say that she was advanced for her age, that she was sweeping competitions with skaters nearly twicer her age. You could say a lot of things, but that didn’t necessarily make them true. 

Skating was, all she knew. 

She had to love it.

Her life revolved around the carefully regimented training schedule, around meets and competitions that involved too many airplanes and too many sickbags and too many sprained wrists, ankles, knees; not enough schooling and not enough friends. 

Aria could her her coach’s voice calling out from across the rink. 

“Back leg! Straighten it out!” 

She straightened it out. 

Aria could feel the eyes of her mother from across the rink. The woman had insisted on accompanying her daughter to the rink that morning, although she never usually attended Aria’s morning practices - saying that it was ungodly hours to be awake and claiming that “she was a working woman! She needed her sleep”, although never had any reservations in shoving her daughter out the door.

Today though, her mother’s piercing eyes found Aria’s from the side benches she sat on, legs crossed as well as her arms, eyes cold and calculating. She knew better than to call out her corrections - less Aria’s coach hear her - but Aria knew she’d be getting an earful back home about that leg. 

She took a breath, eyes hardening as she fixed her gaze forward.

Today marked six months since she had competed in her last competition, having taken a break from public appearances and performances, reducing her training down to twice a week instead of her regular rigid schedule. Spilling across the ice, feeling her knees weaken underneath her as she pushed up into the air before coming down far too quickly was enough to deter her from getting back onto the ice again for a while. 

Aria loved skating, she did. Truly. There was something about coming to a rink in the early morning, half the gym barely awake to take notice of the petite fourteen-year-old kneeling beside the benches to lace up her skates. 

Something about the soft sun that came whispering in through the skylight windows that dotted the ceilings, something about the silent speakers that had yet to play the summer 2012 hits because the attendee hadn’t woken up from their bed yet.

Something about skating as fast as you can, before wrapping your arms in as tightly as possible and spinning. 

As fast as a spinning top; spinning, spinning, spinning. 

She never felt like she would fall. 

Spinning, spinning, spinning.

2014.

She spun around slowly, hands and arms raised as the security officer checked the scans. A small beep sounded and the lights beside the panel the officer was standing at flashed green. Stepping out, she was cleared to go through with a wave, the teenage girl offering a nod of thanks and a small smile to the man as she moved out of the way of the next passenger and towards the moving belt across the room.

Her brightly-coloured yellow suitcase was starkly obvious against the faded black plastic of the rollers that spun as it moved down, and Aria grabbed its’ handle in her fist before bracing herself and heaving it off the just slightly-too-high to be comfortable ledge. 

Aria’s shoes scuffed against the grayed flooring as she pulled the case off the belt, and reached back up to grab the smaller - but still large enough - backpack in a similar colour to the suitcase she was now stabilizing with her other hand. The bright red sticker with the letters U.M. on it stuck out against the material.  It slid off the ledge quickly, almost smacking Aria in the face.

She huffed slightly, glaring at the plastic-covered backpack in her right fist.

“Pooh-san, you could have hurt me! I have to look like the pictures mum sent of me, or else they mightn’t let me in!” she scolded the soft yellow covered ear poking out of the partially unzipped bag. It bounced slightly as Aria proceeded to swing the backpack onto her shoulder, tugging down on the strap with her hand.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. “Don’t you go losing that bag now! It has all your details in it for when you land - you show those bits of paper to the lady who’ll be picking you up in the airport, alright?”

A small squeeze to the bottom of the bag made the papers rustle slightly, and Aria relaxed minutely at the knowledge that they hadn’t suddenly gone missing. The rattle that followed the shifting paper popped another stark reminder into her mind. 

Still standing off to one side of the security line, Aria pulled the backpack down off her back again, opening the zip and carefully pushing Pooh-san to the side before dipping her hand in and closing her fingers around a small pink velour sachet.  

She pulled it out, and tucked it carefully into the front pocket of the hoodie she was wearing - nestled beside her passport and the few bank notes she had left. There had been hot chocolate offered on the flight and it had been all too easy to accept without her parents there to tell her no. 

Aria inhaled a deep breath, letting her shoulders come up to her ears before exhaling sharply and dropping them down.

“Okay,” she mumbled to herself, her grip tightening on her suitcase handle. “Okay.”

Not looking back, she began walking towards the exit that would lead her into the main section of the airport terminal, following all the light blue signs and their arrows pointing “arrivals”. Aria kept her head down moving in between people walking slower, apologizing when she accidentally hit a tall man with the wheels on her case and subsequently opting to push the case in front of her instead of tugging it behind. 

Leaving behind everything that she knew was daunting; her friends, her home. Everyone she'd ever known was about to be replaced with a dozen or so trainees - all years older and wiser than her.

She was going to miss home. Home, in the sense of the people that knew her inside out and back to front, who she knew the same. Even those that she didn't know at all, but knew her too well.

Aria passed a dozen shops, all with brightly coloured names and signage in an alphabet she couldn’t read, people walking both ways down a one-way corridor, noise surrounding her. Older women gave her a smile as she passed them by, offering a small wave when she smiled back. 

Walking through a final archway, Aria stepped forward into a large opened area, illuminated by the skylights that covered the entire ceiling. Large panels hung from the centre of the room, flights inbound and outbound covering both sides of the screen. People stood around at the gate, some holding up signs with names in a multitude of languages, others clinging onto the metal bar that separated the passengers from their families who waited for them.

Looking up, Aria scanned the white panels for her name. 

She spun on her heel as she searched, spinning around twice before landing on the oddly written kanji, with its slightly wobbly lines like it had been written very slowly.

Aria’s eyes trailed upwards, finding the eyes of a peaceful looking woman holding her sign and already watching her. The woman broke her serene stare with a blink, before beckoning Aria over. 

���Miyazu Akari?” 

Aria nodded, her eyes continuing their trail upwards.

There, above the woman’s head. A sign.

Incheon, International Airport. South Korea.

2014. 

Aria was spinning. 

Four counts, and a half beat. 

Her feet left the ground in a graceful arc, turning in mid air as her arms pulled themselves in, and - oh dear. She’d missed the final count. 

Aria met the ground in a heap, too rushed to try and stop her spin to slow down her movement enough for her to catch the wobble. Her hands met the wooden spring flooring, fingers crinkling as she gathered herself again. Her breath came in heavy pants, knees aching from where they had hit the floor. 

Covered in bruises hidden by the dark grey leggings, Aria’s legs shook slightly, even after righting herself and moving gingerly back over towards her starting position. She could feel the eyes of the others boring into her back, and she made an aborted apologetic bow towards their choreographer; who scoffed slightly. 

“Again. Because some people can’t count.” He gritted out between clenched teeth, walking over to stop the pounding music that had yet to halt like the rest of the girls in the practice room had. 

Aria kept her eyes on the ground, moving her mouth in time with the counts.

“One, a two, a three, a four, and, one-” she mouthed, focused on keeping her feet in time with the others as they moved through the motions again and again and again. 

By the time their choreographer called for a break, Aria was sweating through her hoodie, though still unwilling to take it off. The other trainees had no such qualms however, tugging hoodies and t-shirts over their heads to leave them in leg-hugging shorts and various colours of sports bras. Toned stomachs and steely legs were revealed, as heads were tipped back to pour water into open mouths.

Aria picked up her own water bottle to follow suit. 

The water was warmed slightly from the condensation that was beginning to gather on the mirrors and the hot, sweat-filled air that permeated the room, but Aria broke open the seal and drank thirstily regardless. She knew she only had a moment before they were called back to practice. 

“Okay girls, I think that’s enough for today.”

Or perhaps she had been mistaken. 

Nevertheless, Aria was definitely not done for the day. That final turn was going to drive her insane unless she got it down, and she’d rather not have to walk back to the practice rooms in the middle of the night just because she couldn’t sleep. 

So instead of following the others in their relieved, tired sighs and bemoans of wanting a shower, Aria opened her bag and shoved her bottle back inside. She called out to another girl as she passed. 

“Unnie, I think I might stay back for a bit. Can you tell Eunji-unnie that I’ll be late home and she shouldn’t worry?” her voice was higher pitched in Korean Aria noticed; not on purpose, but the language had a certain lilt to it that felt more comfortable in a higher register.

The woman in question send her a look, eyebrows furrowed. “That’s fine Ari-ah, but don’t stay back too long ok? We have another early practice tomorrow morning.” 

Aria winced at the reminder. “I will, unnie.”

She waved goodbye to the other girls, waiting for the last one to leave with a smile and a small wave before moving to the small sound system in the corner of the room. Aria pulled up the track again, pressing play about halfway through the song. 

Her hand came to tap out the rhythm on her thigh, eyes looking to the left but not seeing as she focused on finding the syncopated beats in the back of the song. As the section ended, Aria pulled back the track to the same part, playing it four more times before she was satisfied that she’d found the correct rhythm. 

She clicked play, before moving back to slightly off centre of the room. Counting out the opening beats, Aria pushed herself off the ground, calling out the rhythm to herself in her mind. 

The room was spinning, 

and she landed in a heap. 

2015.

Oh god the room was spinning. Her hands were shaking, Aria was pretty sure that her stomach had turned and that was a good signal that she was about to throw up and was not something to be ignored.

Yet here she was, ignoring it. 

Her wobbly hands reached for the proffered pen - a blue ballpoint pen with a fancy casing that probably cost more than the jumper she was wearing to hide the old t-shirt she had thrown on that morning. 

She was absolutely going to be sick. 

A click on the top of the pen let Aria know that it was ready, and with wobbly, shaky hands;

she signed across the line in deep blue ink.

2016.

The ceiling was spinning. 

That was new. 

Aria felt like her back had been slammed into a wall, like she’d been run over by a truck and been flattened into the ground - like she’d been underwater for too long and hadn’t had time to regain her breath. 

With a choked gasp, her mouth opened as a hand flew to her mouth. She coughed and inhaled simultaneously, choking on the air. Her chest heaved, hand pounding into it as if it was just in need of a kick-start. 

Hands found her waist, hoisting her into an upright sitting position. Aria was still coughing lightly, although the new pair of hands rubbing gently against her back helped tremendously. From a look upwards, eyes watering in the bright light, she was able to make out Yuta’s humored face.

“Yah, Riri what have we told you about those turns?” he scolded, eyes bright with mischief although she could see the tinge of worry hidden behind it. 

“Not to do them unless someone else is here,” she mumbled, leaning back into his comforting hand on her back. It really did help, considering she had just wiped out onto the hard flooring. 

“Stupid.” Yuta flicked her forehead, before mussing her hair affectionately. The skin reddened slightly, and Aria hissed in pain. She glared at Yuta, who looked far too nonchalant for having just assaulted her. Standing up, he offered a hand to help her off the floor which Aria begrudgingly accepted.

She huffed dramatically, stretching her arms above her head. Aria felt her shoulders crack and sighed slightly at the burst of tension release. She let her head fall to the side as she heard the door to the practice room open.

Ah, there were the others.  

Taeyong walked into the room first, followed by Taeil, Donghyuck, and all the boys before Aria was outnumbered seven to one. 

Her world was spinning. 

[gingwrites]

Always Have, Always Will (Namkook)

Whumptober Masterlist | BTS Masterlist

Summary: Jungkook has hanahaki and tries to hide it, but it doesn’t work when the man he loves won’t leave him alone.

or, whumptober prompt day 2: choking/gagging

Tags: mentions of death, small amounts of blood, choking/gagging, sick fic

.

Jungkook was dying, that much he knew. It had been weeks since he coughed up the first flower petal. Now, the vines were embedded in his lungs, making it hard to breathe, let alone sing and dance. He’d somehow been able to keep it hidden from the others, but he didn’t think that’d last much longer.

As it was, Jungkook had already faked being sick that morning to get out of dance practice, though faking didn’t take much work with how bad he was feeling. The others took one look at him that morning and pushed him right back toward his room. Hoseok brought him breakfast, Jimin brought him plenty of water, Yoongi brought him medicine, all while Namjoon texted their managers letting them know that Jungkook was out for the day.

Starting his day surrounded by the petals that he had coughed up during the night, Jungkook had looked like he was in some ritual or funeral scene from a movie. He had never been more thankful for having separate rooms and bathrooms. He definitely wouldn’t be able to explain himself out of that one. He was surprised that he hadn’t woken himself (or the others) up with all the coughing he must have done in the night, but he must’ve been used to it by now. Or maybe his body was finally giving up because it was so exhausted.

The others left for the studio not long after Jungkook had settled back down into bed. Taking the day to try and catch up on some much needed sleep, Jungkook spent most of the morning in bed, tossing and turning, sitting up to hack up a few petals every once in a while.

After eating some soup for lunch, Jungkook decided to move to the living room. At least if he was going to have trouble sleeping, he could do it with the TV on in the background.

Not long after Jungkook had settled on the couch, huddled under a blanket, only his head visible, the front door keypad beeped, causing Jungkook to glance at the clock. It wasn’t near late enough for anyone to be back home yet. The door opened, Namjoon quietly stepping through.

“Hyung?” Jungkook questioned. “What are you doing home so early?”

Namjoon’s head shot up, now giving up on his task of attempting to close the door quietly.

“Oh! You’re awake! I wasn’t sure if you would be sleeping or not,” Namjoon explained. “And I ended up finishing the song I was working on earlier than I had planned, and the others still had some vocal practice, so I decided to go ahead and come home early and keep you company!”

Jungkook’s heart dropped. As much as he loved to spend time with Namjoon, it wasn’t very helpful in trying to hide his hanahaki. 

“Thanks, hyung,” Jungkook hid his fears with a smile, moving over on the couch to make room for the older man.

It was two hours later that Jungkook knew he was in trouble. Namjoon had suggested that the two of them play a board game since they had plenty but rarely ever had the chance to play them. They were sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table, game spread out in front of them, while Namjoon read the question on the card he had just picked up, but he apparently thought it was too funny, so he could stop laughing.

This spelled trouble for Jungkook because he couldn’t stop staring at Namjoon laughing, thinking about how adorable he looked. He couldn’t stop noticing the dimples on Namjoon’s cheeks, or the fact that he held onto his stomach while he laughed. He couldn’t stop thinking about all these things, and Jungkook could feel the petals crawling up his throat, begging for a release.

But, Jungkook was stubborn. He wasn’t about to out himself without a fight. He didn’t want to run out of the room, pretending to be sick, because he knew Namjoon would follow him and would see all the petals once they finally came out. Jungkook could hold it in. He was going to hold it in. There was no other option. He’d hold it in, wait until they finished their game, and then excuse himself to go take a ‘nap’ and then let it all out in the privacy of his own bedroom. This could work. This was going to work.

It was not working. This much was obvious to Jungkook not even a minute later. He could feel the amount of petals steadily growing, slowly closing off his airway. It all came to a head when Namjoon finally gathered himself together and looked back over at Jungkook. His face quickly became serious, taking in Jungkook’s wide eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Namjoon quickly got up and came and sat next to Jungkook, placing a hand on the younger man’s arm.

Oh god, why does he have to be so caring? Jungkook thought. That just makes me love him more!

As Namjoon started rubbing his hand up and down on Jungkook’s arm, frantically searching for what was wrong, Jungkook felt his airway close. Looks like his plan to hold it all in failed.

Jungkook tried to cough and dispel the flowers, now uncaring if Namjoon saw them, but with no air in his lungs, it was impossible to cough. All he wanted to do was breathe. He didn’t want to die. He was too young to die! Jungkook knew that Namjoon was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out any words, his own heartbeat in his ears drowning everything out.

Jungkook brought his hand up to his neck, almost trying to claw the petals out of his throat, when Namjoon seemed to understand what was happening, though he didn’t know why. The older man started to pound his hand on Jungkook’s back, terrified of how quickly Jungkook’s face was turning red.

After a few slaps, the petals dislodged themselves and came tumbling out. Jungkook started to cough, trying to catch his breath and spit out the flowers at the same time. Namjoon continued to pat his back, though not nearly as rough, wanting to make sure that Jungkook was still breathing okay.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon whispered a couple moments after Jungkook spit the last flower onto his lap. Jungkook couldn’t take his eyes off the flowers, too scared to look at Namjoon’s reaction and because there was blood on the flowers. That was new.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon tried again after receiving no answer. Jungkook was still breathing heavily, but at least it felt like his airway was clear. At least as clear as it’d been since he’d discovered he had hanahaki.

“Um,” Jungkook tried, but couldn’t find the words. He knew he needed to tell Namjoon what was going on, that Jungkook was in love with Namjoon, really had been since he’d met the older man, though he hadn’t really realized it until recently. Jungkook didn’t want to end up like those sad stories on the news, everyone asking why the person didn’t just tell the other one that they loved them. Jungkook really didn’t want to die, but he just had trouble finding the right words.

“Who is it?” Namjoon tried again.

“You,” Jungkook spoke quietly, voice breaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s you, hyung. It always has been and it always will be. I love you, Namjoon.”

Jungkook finally dared to take a peek at Namjoon’s face, hoping that he wouldn’t see disgust. What he saw instead was relief.

“Oh thank god,” Namjoon sighed heavily, pulling Jungkook closer to him. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, you idiot! You never would’ve had to go through this if I’d have known!”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed.

“What?”

“I love you, too, Jungkookie! I have for years! I honestly thought you didn’t love me like that, so I was fine pining from a distance!” Namjoon gushed, a massive smile on his face.

“Wait,” Jungkook couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Years? And you didn’t tell me?!”

Namjoon opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by Jungkook bending over, breath caught in his throat again. This time, it didn’t feel like petals. It was scratchy and Jungkook hated every second of it. He started coughing, trying to get the feeling to go away.

“Jungkook? What’s happening? I thought confessing my love was supposed to fix it!” Namjoon frantically asked, not knowing how to help Jungkook this time.

The younger man continued coughing for another moment, feeling something crawling it’s way up his throat again. Namjoon sat next to him, ready to grab his phone and call an ambulance if it didn’t stop soon.

Letting out one final hack, Jungkook looked down at his hands and let out a sob. The vine. He’d coughed up the vine, which meant it was all over now.

“Jungkook? Jungkook? What- oh,” Namjoon let out a whoosh of air, shocked at what he was seeing. The vine was out, which meant Jungkook was cured and his body recognized that the love was reciprocated. The disease had healed on its own. “You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s all going to be okay now.”

Namjoon pulled Jungkook into his lap, holding the younger man to his chest. He wasn’t going to let go anytime soon after that scare.

“I have one request,” Namjoon said after a moment of silence. Jungkook hummed in acknowledgment. “Never, and I mean never, hide something like this from me again, okay? I never want either of us to go through that again.”

Jungkook sat up with a small smile on his face.

“On one condition. Can I have a kiss?”

.

.

Soooooo, whumptober is going great since this is day 2 and its already October 4th. Don't look at me. I legit had plans to get this out yesterday, but my day was ruined by a terrible phone call with a parent, so it didn't happen. I'm attempting to get caught up, though it probs won't happen until a weekend.

Also, if you have ships requests, or ideas/requests for future days, please let me know!! I've figured out that I'm probs not all that good at whump since I don't want to be super dark and always want a happy ending, but I love all that hurt/comfort, so I'm rolling with it.

Let me know what you think! And follow me on twitter @/yoongismandu.

[jettries]

Section 106: Your Eyes

Theme: I See

Acknowledging the visible and invisible world

Chapter 4: Intuition & Somatic Memory

Somatic Memory or somatic intelligence is a body's independent intelligence. The body holds embedded memories just like the brain does, and somatic practice is the integration of awareness between the body's nonverbal communication system and the mind. Think of it like its own style of meditation. Somatic healing is about listening to the language of immediate experiences, without any verbal messages or any planned intentions, and giving them a voice.

We existed as wild creatures long before humans stood tall, or used tools, or formed languages. We could feel when the weather was turning on us, or danger lurked in the dark without hosting an incessant internal dialog about it. Your stomach might feel upset or legs feel twitchy because you know something bad is coming, but your brain doesn’t have a way to describe how it knows. Like being carsick inside your own skin. Your brain wants to take action to make the uneasy feeling stop, so it knee-jerk does whatever made the feeling stop last time based on its embedded memories. A simple example would be like having to pee. Or having to pee while sleeping. You don’t just pee the bed every night, and you don’t wake up and have a conversation about it with yourself either. Your body just gets up and goes to a bathroom. Crisis is averted, you feel better, and positive reinforcement is repeated with minimal effort. This might be a crass description of our mysterious and magical sixth sense, but it is one of our body’s intuitive responses, based on an embedded memory. The original memory of potty training no longer matters once the new learned behavior is locked in.

But not all learned behaviors are beneficial. A body that is in pain with tight muscles or limited flexibility is more likely to feel nervous and threatened, and read it’s surroundings as dangerous unnecessarily. And it’s more likely to look for outward sources to soothe itself quickly. It is significantly easier to become reliant on quick-fix coping mechanisms than it is to diagnose a problem we can’t put words to. It’s also easy to trust these quick-fixes too quickly and form disappointment loops when our body’s needs, and its huge expectations, are never actually fulfilled. Our body remembers the coping mechanism giving us relief, at least for a short time, so it tries it again and again and again and again frantically hunting for the cure. But small doses can become big doses hoping for bigger relief, and our somatic intelligence system can’t process why this isn’t working. And the longer it’s been ingrained, the harder it gets to change.

Somatic healing is not a quick-fix. But it is a real fix. It takes lots of repetition and patience with yourself, just like starting any other good habit. Digging new ruts feels awkward for a while. That’s ok. So start off by listening to the queues. What is your body seeing, feeling, remembering, or being triggered by? Give everything words. It can be a real description, or if the feelings are too vague still, give them each a placeholder nickname, like ‘weird air’, or ‘purple elephant’. It doesn’t really matter yet. Someday maybe you can give the purple elephant more words, but today we just need to acknowledge its existence. (Side note: to clarify here, I’m not trying to make anyone dig up repressed memories or re-live traumatic events. Even if those were the origin that kicked off the triggers, the goal here isn’t to write an autobiography of our pain, the goal is somatic or systemic healing.)

Once you’ve named a trigger, next name whatever symptoms go with it. Queasy, dizzy, shaking, sweating, rage…? There’s no wrong answer, we’re just giving names to feelings. When these symptoms start, what is your first reaction to do? Usually it’s some sort of: fight, flight, self-soothe, medicate or eat, smother, distract, etc… Don’t do it right now, just feel it. Name it. Our body (or rather our somatic intelligence system) follows this pattern: “when I’m triggered by <unknown elephant> and I feel <twitchy and scared> then I will <eat and binge watch tv> until the feeling stops.” /end. Your body is trying to avert a crisis for you, like not peeing the bed at night, but it can’t mentally process or reason anything more complicated than that. All it's got to work with is a series of muscle twitches and gut bacteria. This is the language of immediate experiences. And this is where the mind has to step in and help sometimes. Hence the need for somatic practice, to bridge the gap between the body’s nonverbal communication system and the mind when the reactions aren’t healthy.

So now that you’ve named a pattern, what do you hope to feel or accomplish by doing the action? Does your action rationally have anything to do with the original trigger or symptoms if you give yourself some time to reflect? Your body chose the action because it just wanted the uncomfortable part to go away, but what about you? What would be the perfect scenario? What would a better path be like? How do you get to that?

By giving our queues and triggers a real name, we slowly take away some of the fathomless dread they carry. If we can detach our symptom from it, we can release the body’s unnecessary danger signals, and reset its expectations to slowly help it heal and carve out new, healthier paths of our choosing.

I (like most people) am triggered by tons of things all day long. I am afraid of heights for example, and I don’t even have to be that far off the ground. I actually love being up high, looking out airplane windows, and I think being able to fly like a bird would be sheer bliss. I wasn’t always afraid of heights, I don’t want to be afraid of heights, but I’ve apparently fallen enough times in my life out of trees, off ladders, monkey bars, bleachers and hills, and sprained enough ankles that my body has created symptoms like extreme vertigo and sweating if I’m ever more than a foot off the ground. And my action is to freeze and very slowly lower my whole body back down to somewhere stable until the panic subsides. Where I can’t get hurt. Do my actions and symptoms have anything to do with being on a step stool? No. Going up 2 ft. of elevation doesn’t make people sweat or dizzy. So I can now relabel my trigger as not a fear of heights, but my body’s embedded memory of injury when the ground doesn’t look or feel stable. If someone else is flying the airplane I’m fine. My symptoms aren’t actual ailments that need treatment, they are a non-verbal communication of that fear of injury. And my action response to lay on the floor isn’t a reasonable solution since I’m going to need to use step stools and ladders for the foreseeable future. Could I avoid them forever? Maybe. I wish. Is that mentally a healthy lifestyle solution? Not really. So I ask myself what would be my perfect scenario here, and how do I get to that? How can I climb ladders and reassure my body that I won’t get hurt? Maybe larger steps and a handrail, or someone below the ladder for stability. Maybe I should do more root chakra exercises for muscular and joint stability if my body knows that something internally isn’t steady. The more I firm up my foundations and practice the new path I want to be on, someday the symptoms will ease and the fear pattern will end.

All of our muscles and nervous systems have to talk to each other to work correctly. When they’re scared and not functioning properly we have to slowly teach them how we want them to behave and communicate what’s expected from them. Like teaching a child. You wouldn’t just toss one in a job site or an office cubicle and expect them to know what to do. You need lots of practice to embed good memories and experiences to draw from first. The stretches this week are neck side bends. Are they repetitive? Yes. But that’s how we form good habits.

References this week from Jo Ann Staugaard-Jones "The Vital Psoas Muscle"

[curly-bangtan]

Heatwave Drabble #3: sucker for u

[Heatwave // Godless // Heatwave Drabbles]

^ you’ll have to have read those to understand the relationship!!

Pairing: Taehyung x reader

Summary: As your roommate/fuck buddy/friends with benefits, Taehyung knows he doesn’t have any right to get jealous or possessive when you sleep with other people. But that won’t stop him from being competitive about who can pleasure you better.

Genre: drabble, smut, bit of angst?, fwb au, roommate au

Warnings: boobs worshipping, lots of titty sucking, protected sex woohoo, jealous!Taehyung who doesn’t know that he’s jealous!, classic bratty annoying abrasive behaviour from oc, praise kink (Tae just wants you to tell him he’s the best boy), semi-angry sex?

Word count: 4.9k

A/N: Specifically requested by @mytaetaey :) I hope this was wanted!! Sorry for how annoying they both are -_- The next drabble will contain more plot!!

.

“Oooaah- fuck. Yes, just like that.” Your head sinks into the pillow, eyes rolling back at the obscene way he’s sucking your nipples. But then you quickly look back down at him again, not wanting to miss the chance of embedding this sight into your memory.

One of his hands is cupped under the breast he’s lapping up, the other rubbing your clit the vigorous way that you had taught him. Shit, he’s a fast learner.

“Keep going, Eunwoo.” You push his hair back to reveal his glistening forehead, fingers entangled in his black locks, remaining there. He glances up at you in those big round eyes of his, your nipple trapped between his teeth, and that old friend you like to call fanny flutters come rushing down to your core.

Eunwoo is a quiet shy boy in your university course, always sitting two rows from the front, diligently jotting down impeccable notes in lectures. He’s tall, he’s handsome, and he’s got a body that has every girl (or boy) in your class drooling over. He’s also somehow, by the miracle of god, a virgin. Well, soon not anymore. When you got assigned at partners for this assessed presentation you’re doing, you threw your fist in the air and did a celebratory yodel, because not only is he going to guarantee you a good grade, you also know you finally have the chance to seduce him. Taehyung had high fived you, but then also got kind of annoyed when you wouldn’t stop showing him Eunwoo’s instagram.

There has always been a tacit sexual tension between you two; you would glance at each other in class more than the ordinary, acknowledge each other’s existence yet never making the first step to speaking. When you had invited him over to yours to work on this project, there was a mutually known implication of what this would lead to.

And now he’s on your bed, allowing you to teach him how to pleasure a woman. Some people tend to avoid inexperienced boys, yet you see this as a perfect opportunity to mould them into sex gods. Eunwoo is exploding with potential, so pliable, obedient, eager to please you.

He is a great kisser, which increases the mystery of why and how he could still be a virgin. First, you had taught him about getting a girl wet, teasing her erogenous zones such as her ears, neck, hip. Kissing during foreplay is more than just about the lips, it’s about drawing the person deeper into you, hinting to them what is to come if things are taken to the next stage. Then comes making her wet, grinding into her, rubbing her panties, massaging her breasts.

You soon learnt that Eunwoo is a boob guy. Taehyung is an ass guy, so it took you by surprise when he fixated on sucking your breasts even as you guided him to finger your clit. It fits so well with his innocent-boy image; when you see him latched onto your nipple like this, it almost reminds you of an infantile scene. But no, let’s not go there, you do not have a mommy kink. That’s gross, your power complex is not as overboard as Taehyung’s to require someone to refer to you as their parent.

“Do you like that?” He releases your swollen bud for air, yet fingers don’t slow their pumping. It’s a genuine question, unlike the taunting of Taehyung when he tries to coax praise from you.

“Yes, you’re learning so quickly.” You pinch his chin between your fingers, watching the shyest smile spread across his lips at your reply.

God, he’s a cute thing.

.

There’s loud music coming from your room. Sexy music. Taehyung smiles to himself as he kicks off his shoes at the front door and swings his bag onto the couch.

As he pads closer to your room, his attention falls to a faint moaning that doesn’t take him half a second to recognise; he knows your moans when he hears it. Are you… masturbating? It’s not unusual for either one of you to go solo and get yourselves off every now and then. After all, self care is important. But it’s an infrequent occurrence, even for Taehyung who used to wank five times a day on average at the age of 13. He much prefers your mouth nowadays.

The thought of you touching yourself, too impatient for him to get home is really hot though.

Your door is slightly open, sound echoing towards him, beckoning him to follow. It isn’t until he is peering through the gap that he registers there are two sets of breathing coming from inside, the other very distinctly male.

From the door, Taehyung sees you sprawled out on your back, breasts being devoured by a black haired boy who’s running his condom-clad dick up your slit. “Yeah, like that, tease it.” You sigh into your pillow. Your fingers grip onto his dark tufts as your eyes shut in pleasure, a scene that both arouses Taehyung and makes him frown.

Why is this boy sucking your tits so much? If it were Taehyung, he would flip you over, tie your wrists up, spank your red, and tease your clit with his tongue and tip until you’re begging for him to drive his cock into you.

This boy looks like a baby suckling at his mother’s breast. It’s weird. Taehyung almost yells for him to stop.

Your eyes open and lock with his, widening a fraction at his sudden presence outside your room. Taehyung feels embarrassed, worse than being caught watching porn by his dad, because here, you’re his porn. But your face remains passive, nonchalant. You smile and do a quick wave at him in greeting.

Have you two really demolished any boundaries between each other that you’re not even fazed that he is witnessing you about to be fucked?

Taehyung waves back, but doesn’t smile. He’s never been able to force a smile. This boy is annoying him, he’s doing it all wrong.

You motion for your roommate to close the door for you, all the while praising the boy, “Fuck, you’re doing well, Eunwoo.”

Oh, so this is Eunwoo, your partner for this project assignment. How disappointing.

Taehyung reaches to shut the door as you requested, since it’s really none of his business, yet he finds his grip on the knob tightening as he’s unable to look away from the two of you. Eunwoo is being too docile, vanilla, he doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s doing! He is trying to push his member into your wet entrance, but it slips. The secondhand embarrassment hits Taehyung in the face. This guy is a fumbling mess, how could you stand him?

He glances down at his own bulge, then back at Eunwoo’s length, smirking knowing that he has an inch on him at least.

And so Taehyung takes it upon himself to swing the door wide open, announcing his presence as he storms in with overconfidence.

Eunwoo curses and scrambles to throw the covers over the both of you. “What the fuck!”

“Taehyung!” You shriek, eyes frantically searching his for a reason for his interruption.

“Get out.” Taehyung and Eunwoo say to each other at the same time, then freezing at each other’s audacity to do so.

“You get out, dude, what the fuck?” Eunwoo sits up beside you, straightening against Taehyung’s tall standing frame that towers over the bed. This kid has some nerve.

“You get out. I live here.”

“No, you get out. Can’t you see that we're in the middle of something?”

“No, you get out. Why are your clothes off when you’re meant to be doing a project? That’s inappropriate behaviour.”

“No, you-”

“Shut up, the both of you!” You yell over their arguing. They both cease their mouths immediately and turn to you, slightly scared like kindergarten boys being told off. Your eyes are burning holes into your roommate. “Taehyung, what are you doing?”

“Breathing. Blinking. Standing. Talking.”

You’re going to fucking kill him, you swear to god. He’s got that look on his face when he knows he’s being purposely difficult, jaws clenched, chin tilted an angle upwards. There’s a spark in his eyes that are still targeted at Eunwoo, as if he’s assessing the boy head to toe, challenging him.

Having known your best friend for this long, you know he won’t back down. So you sigh, turn to poor Eunwoo, “I’m so sorry about this. It’s probably best for you to leave, I’ll deal with him.”

There’s a flash of hurt in his eyes, but it was either going to be Eunwoo or Taehyung you’d offend, and you’d much rather it be him. “Okay.”

“I’ll text you.” You watch him gather his clothes from the floor, awkward hand over his crotch. In your periphery you see Taehyung tense at your words, his attention still unyieldingly fixed on the guy. Why is he like this? Why? Aren’t guys meant to be weirded out by the sight of each other’s dicks? Why is Taehyung still staring him down like that as if he were your guard dog?

Neither of you say anything more until the front door of your place falls shut at Eunwoo’s departure. After throwing a large shirt over your nudity, you pin Taehyung with a hard angry glare.

Defiant as he currently is, he glares back as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Well?” You demand. “What shit are you pulling?”

Taehyung doesn’t move from where he stands at the end of your bed. Out of habit, your eyes flicker to his bulge, and though it isn’t fully hard, there is a slight prominence. “I was saving you from that amateur, you’re welcome.”

You scoff. “Ama- Ha! Taehyung, oh my god. Not this again.” Running your hands through your hair, you stand up on the mattress so your height now exceeds his. You don’t miss the way his focus momentarily falls to the edge of your top that hangs just enough to cover your ass, eyes running down your legs then back up to your face. “Yes, he was a virgin, but I’ve said this before. I like it when they’re like that!”

“What is there to like about a virg? He would have lasted 2 minutes, maybe even less.” Taehyung huffs in exasperation, unable to apprehend your preference.

“I like teaching them what to do when they’re inexperienced. I like it when they do exactly what I tell them to do, in precisely the way I want. You know that I like being in control too. You can’t just assume I wasn’t enjoying myself because you thought he didn’t know what he was doing. I was teaching him!” It endlessly frustrates you how Taehyung imposes his own mindset onto you. He thinks that just because he likes to be dominant during sex, it means that you always like to be dominated and that anyone who a tad less alpha than him isn’t doing it right. Does it ever cross his mind that it isn’t the only way to pleasure you?

“Yeah right, you were enjoying yourself. Tell that to me again when he blows his load before he even puts it in.” The jeering in his voice is winding you up. About anything else, he is never this bitchy; yet when it comes you your sexual partners, it’s like he’s your mother picking a husband for you.

“First, you’re not in a position to make fun of anyone ‘blowing their load before putting it in’.” A faint blush creeps beneath his honey skin at the memory he wishes to bury. “Second of all, I was enjoying myself. A lot. You’re not the only guy who can satisfy me you know?” Your volume is rising along with your temper, you know you should rein it in, keep it in check because you despise fighting with Taehyung. You rarely properly argue about anything serious; it’s always you getting annoyed at him but ten minutes later succumbing to his grovelling puppy eyes. This time, you don’t want to forgive him right away - he needs to know that this behaviour needs to stop.

“Okay fine, but I am the guy who satisfies you best.” Taehyung places his hands on his hips stubbornly, gazing up at you as he takes a stride closer to the bed.

Yup, so this is definitely about his pride. Like you, Taehyung is competitive even if he doesn’t wish to admit it. He likes to be the best, the favourite, have his ego stroked through praises and constant affirmation.

“How are you so sure about that?” You ask just to tug on his nerve.

He frowns at you, frozen for a moment, the clockwork in his mind slowly ticking as he tries to grasp what you are saying. “What do you mean…”

“I mean, how are you so sure that you’re the best sex I’ve ever had?” Fighting a sly smile, you raise your brow tauntingly at him. If he loves to push your buttons, why don’t you push his?

“W-Well- What do you mean!? Are you saying that I’m not?” Shocked, Taehyung’s mouth forms a pouted upside-down ‘D’. The insecurity flooding his face drops an inkling of guilt amidst your torment, but not enough to make you feel bad. But ha! How full of himself must he be to have been so certain in his abilities. For all he knows, you could have been faking your orgasms all along.

“I’m just saying,” you step in front of him until he’s arm’s length away, and you take his soft cheeks between your fingers, “that the way Eunwoo was playing with my nipples made me feel things that I haven’t felt before.”

You want to take it back the moment you say it, because you immediately realise what this is going to entail. Taehyung doesn’t back down from a challenge like this.

Wordlessly, he yanks you towards him and hoists you up from your rear. Your legs lock around his waist instinctively to prevent yourself from falling just as your arms fly around his neck, nose hitting the top of his head hard enough for you to yelp. His face is buried in the cushion of your chest as he carries you, scuttling on his knees, up the bed.

He falls on top of you, and it feels like his weight has broken three of your ribs and crushed half a lung. “What are you doing!?” You know what he is doing, or about to do.

For a drawn out pause, he stares intently into you, a carnal glint in his dark pupils. Gone is the bratty whiny childish Taehyung. In his place is a dangerous territorial animal who will fight to prove that he’s king of the jungle. “You did not just say that.” Face inches apart, you feel the fumes of his irritation radiate from him, his eyes boring an assertiveness into yours. His jaw is clenched, and despite this moment, you want to run your finger along its sharp edge. Your legs gradually slide down his back and fall into an open formation, and you’re keenly aware of the position of his groin so conveniently pressed into yours.

Why is he hard? Why is he hard? He isn’t supposed to be hard when you’re arguing.

And why does his stiffness make your clit twitch in anticipation?

“You made me hit my nose!” You try to avert both your attention to something else. Something that’s not the precariousness of the sexual tension in the air. You aren’t meant to fuck Taehyung today, goddammit. It was meant to be Eunwoo.

“You deserved it.” He grumbles, but kisses the tip of your nose nonetheless. “You’re going to regret saying that…” Frustration audible in his breath, Taehyung traces his lips to the corner of your own, a spot where he knows sends a tingle straight to your core.

“Saying what? That Eunwoo is the best at worshipping my tits?” Someone should really gag you before you keep running your mouth and do some actual damage to Taehyung’s ego. But you’re really fucking salty that Taehyung had just deprived you of some potentially amazing sex with the hottest nerd in your class because his competitiveness got in the way.

Silence.

And it is when Taehyung is completely still and quiet that you know you should be slightly afraid.

“Worshipping?” He lifts up from your face to reveal his blazing glare. “You want worshipping?” His fingers underneath your thighs rake on your skin, claws digging into you. “Fine, I’ll show you worshipping.”

That’s not a suggestion, it’s a promise.

Peeling up your shirt, to expose your front to the cold, you watch him slightly stunned as his eyes roam across your body lewdly. Your core twists and ties at the pure venery in his expression, hungry and desperate to prove himself to you.

A small noise leaves you involuntarily when he takes your breast in his mouth without warning, fingers darting seductively down your abdomen, arriving at your bare awaiting folds. His teeth scrape against the tender skin as he nips on the supply flesh around your nipple while his free hand cups under your other breast. When the rough pad of his tongue laps at your bud at the same time as his thumb rubbing on your clit, your whole body convulses under him.

“Fuck.” You curse, peering down at him to see satisfaction in his eyes that are fixed at yours to watch your reaction. Taehyung likes boobs as much as the next guy, but his focus is usually predominantly your ass and pussy. This much attention channelled to your boobs is a rarity from him.

There’s a very distinct difference in the pleasure one receives from the stimulation of nipples. It’s almost like welcoming the cold, as your body braces at the assail on those highly sensitive bundle of nerves concentrated at one point. It tickles in a way that makes the back of your scalp tingle and your toes curl. Your eyes threaten to shut from the overwhelming arousal, but you force them open, force yourself not to break eye contact with Taehyung.

Because there’s something so intimate about eye contact during any sexual act, as if your souls are reaching into each other and locking hands. And refusing to letting go.

Your fingers as usual find their way to his messy mane, gripping on his wavy tresses while his tongue mercilessly grazes your bud, not to mention his fingers now slowly sliding into you. You’re wet, embarrassingly wet, residual from Eunwoo but also from Taehyung’s display of need to impress you.

Then his mouth leaves your nipple, allowing a gush of cool air to prickle your goosebumped skin. “Do you like that?” Your memory flickers to the exact same words tumbling out of Eunwoo, yet this time impacts you so differently, so much more forcefully. Fuck, you hate that Taehyung’s right.

“Yeah…” You whisper. The smug smirk you’ve come to know so well reveals itself. “Take off your clothes, Taehyung.”

You can’t put your finger on it, but Taehyung doing anything to you as a different effect from anyone else. Even as he removes his shirt, your heart can’t help but quicken at how hot he unintentionally makes such a mundane gesture look. Maybe it’s because he’s your best friend, but it feels less superficial, rather, it touches a more profound depth in your core.

Twisting back, you pull out your drawer and take out a condom. Taehyung, naked on his knees, watches as your roll it onto his swollen throbbing cock, an action you’re so familiar with that you could do it in pitch dark. He always makes you put it on him, ‘it feels so much better’ apparently. And even having fucked so many times before, the sight of how hard you made him causes your cunt to weep.

After resuming the missionary position you were in, you expect him to pound into you without warning, he loves a surprise entrance after all. Except he returns to your tits and plant big wet kisses on your smooth softness. “See? I can worship your boobs if you want me to. So who’s better, me or him?”

And just because you haven’t had enough of teasing him, as well as getting teased, you say, “Him.”

Taehyung’s kissing ceases. And another one of those still scary silences follows. Then he angrily takes the flesh of your breast in his mouth and start sucking rosy colours, both hands groping you this time.

It’s an unspoken rule that you never leave hickeys on each other. Because why would you? You’re only casually fucking, there’s no ownership whatsoever. Plus how are either of you supposed to sleep with anyone else if there’s a blaring red splodge on your neck?

But this time, he’s marking you.

“Taehyung, what are you doing?!”

He releases your breast and assesses his piece of art. You glimpse down too, to find a crimson cloud pigmented beside your nipple. Oh for fuck’s sake. “Tell me I’m better.”

“You’re not-” Eyes wolfish, he dives back in to bite another fresh mark near the first. His fingers walk down your torso and tease open your folds, smearing your dampness all over your clit before pushing his digits up into your mouth. You suck, lapping up your own taste.

“Only I can make you this wet. Admit it.” There are now two bruises on your breast, but rather than getting vexed by his display of territorialism, it makes your cunt flutter.

“Since when was your ego so fragile.” You taunt, taking his rubbered dick into your grip and guiding him towards your slit.

“It isn’t,” he refutes, sighing as you swirl his tip around your clit, “I just want you to be honest with yourself and admit that no one makes you feel better than I do.”

“You’re actually- argmph-” You make a sound of pleasure as we eases into you slowly, his body tensing at your warmth embracing his cock. “So full of yourself.”

Well, to be factually accurate, you’re so full of him this very second.

Taehyung glances down at his length buried inside you, but you tilt his face to look at you. Eye contact. When he starts to move his hips back and forth, you see the hunger in his eyes, the hunger for you and only you. Amongst all things, you truly enjoy watching his features screw in pleasure as he pounds into you like a rabid animal. You feel powerful, content.

“Fu-uck. And. You’re. In. Denial. Baby.” He pants out each word at every thrust. The name drives you wild, you don’t know what it is, but it always makes your walls clench.

Lowering his frame, Taehyung rests his forehead on yours, his thumb gliding into your mouth for you to suckle on. You hum at the punching pressure in your core, entangling your innards.

And because you feel nice, mostly due to his covetous desperation, you whimper, “Fine. You fuck- me- so well.”

At your final admission, Taehyung’s eyes light up like a forest fire, pace quickening instantly as if energise by your words. The purity of his boyish victorious smile paints an ironic juxtaposing scene. “What else?” He urges.

What else? Good god, this man is drinking up the praise like wine.

“No one makes me feel as good as you do.” You huff, grabbing onto the back of his hair, your warm breaths mingling between your mouths. He shuts his eyes to bask in the praise, so you continue. “No one makes me cum even remotely like you do. No one makes me squirt except you.”

“Fuck…” His brows pinch, concentrating in the ecstatic friction of your cunt around him. He begins to twiddle your nipples between his finger; your neck immediately gives in and rolls back as he crudely pinches the buds of sensitivity, an uncontrollable tremor unearthing in your thighs.

“No one compares to your cock, the way you fuck me until I cry.” Taehyung moans as you keep lauding him. This initially was meant to mock him, except you find that everything you’re saying rings completely true.

“Yeah? You like it when I fuck you until you cry?” His hand closes around your throat, the other still toying with your nipple so sadistically. At the restriction of air, you feel your eyes water, vision obstructed by the emerging tears.

Fuck Kim Taehyung for how good he fucks you.

It’s impressive how his stamina has not dwindled one bit, but rather the speed and force at which he is ramming is even increasing. The pressure behind your walls are making you insane now, you feel the looming of your inevitable release, inching closer bit by bit. “Aaooh. Daddy, keep going. Your cock feels so good.” You feel like a pornstar with what you’re saying, but at least no one else can make you feel like a pornstar except Taehyung. The word daddy escaped so easily from your lips that you want to kick yourself. Why are you such a docile creature these days?

But then he plunges into you particularly hard and you remember why.

“I’m gonna come.” You cry, literally cry, as a tear of extreme exhilaration rolls out. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“Baby-” He sighs onto your cheek, grabbing your marked breast while he chases his climax.

And then it hits you both, one after another, the explosion of pleasure inside your cunt, swimming up your entire body like a ripple. Matched with the stimulation of your nipple, you cry out as you feel yourself twisting under your skin, unravelling. A throaty groan erupts from his throat as he spurts out his high, mouth clamping down onto your breast a second later. The vibrations of his exhale penetrate into your chest; your ears strain to hear a high-pitched whimper of bliss hidden by his baritone.

The couple of minutes after orgasming is always a blur to you. You always need a moment to piece your shattered mind and body back together. Taehyung is panting heavily beside you. He did all the work today, you’ll be sure to return the favour next time.

You realise that you didn’t kiss once throughout that whole intercourse. And for some reason, it kind of bothers you. You also realise that, in your post-orgasm haze, you’re wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face onto his shoulder, his coat of sweat cooling you.

Ew, what are you doing?

But before you can take back that action and roll away, he pulls you into him and nuzzles into your crown. Still naked, your breasts feel tender, thighs sore, as your damp skin stick to his.

After a silent minute to regain strength, he speaks. “That Eunwoo wouldn’t have been able to do that.” It’s a statement, but he makes it sound more like a question. Still, he’s seeking your affirmation. And you feel slightly bad about how insecure he is about this.

“He wouldn’t.” You soothe him, half your attention on the vibrant hickeys on your boob. Should you scold him? Hmm, you feel like you should, but you don’t. Post-sex Taehyung is too soft.

His long fingers are stroking your back - his classic aftercare, it makes your lids heavy. Taehyung almost always falls asleep after sex, while you never let yourself; sleeping together after sex feels too… intimate. At the end of the day, you’re just fuck buddies, there are boundaries.

“So you won’t fuck around with him again?”

Instantly you look up at him. Taehyung’s chocolate brown eyes are gazing tenderly at you, expectant, hoping for the answer he wishes to hear. You feel a kernel of annoyance. Taehyung doesn’t get to ask you not to sleep with a specific person, especially because you would never ask it of him. But you also know that arguing with him now would hurt him, like taking your dog to a dog park and feeding a treat to another puppy right in front of it. You don’t understand his fixation on this random boy all of a sudden, but you guess you’ll just have to let it slide.

You both are aware of this dangerous game you play, the thread-thin line you walk. It’s fickle. One wrong step, one fight and everything between you will fall apart.

So you just sigh and say, “Fine, I won’t. Happy? You’re the best boy. Happy?”

The twinkle in his eye followed by the babiest giggle threatens to nick your heart. His cheeks always rise like two loaves of bread when he does that genuine innocent smile like that. “Am very happy, yes. Because you don’t need to fuck him when you have me right here.”

Inexplicably, his words induces a weird feeling in your stomach. You can’t tell if it’s because you’re irritated by how clingy he is, or endeared.

Since this day, you uncharacteristically told Eunwoo that you should keep your relationship strictly as project partners, as much as it pained you to let go of such great potential. And since this day, Taehyung makes a point to never neglect your breasts again.

.

@taexxxiiaa @shookpreme @taetaeobsessed @tangledsparkles @nonexistentfucks @evilkookie @nbiased95 @taehyungmakesmeoof @itscalledgayhoney @tahaing @deliciouslydisturbed365 @expensive-bangtan-girl @jwlmnbt @herakimkim @dnyad @kaepjjang365 @expensive-bangtan-girl@gingerpeachtae @spring2787 @askingtheimportantthingshere @casualminiaturetimemachine @xblackclover13x @vasysauce @deadinsidebitch2412 @emiyooa @i-dont-even-know-fck @chimycthulhu @gixanjos @hisunshiine @xtaeyi @softjellyjimin @bluemooncnblue

[akimmito]

I’ll still be with you

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Master List

Chapter 3: Moon

Initially, I would only be in Paris for a couple of days, but that night changed everything.

No matter how much I think about it, I can't see that it was otherwise.

Nor do I want it to have been.

Red Robin jumps off Wayne Tower when he hears Red Hood calling for a backup in a showdown against Penguin's some goons, he's the closest to his location and the others are busy on the other side of town dealing with their own problems.

Nights like that, cold and with bright silver clouds that insist on hiding the moon, remind him of that night in Paris, of her blue eyes illuminated by a moon that managed to escape from the spongy trap in which it was. He smiles a little, even though he should be more focused on his mission, but the feeling of running and flying through the skies of Gotham is something he will miss, his nights are numbered.

Stopping the Penguin's goons isn't easy, they managed to cause them a couple of problems but they finish fast enough to hear Batman's words perfectly. Tim barely registers what Jason says next to him, focusing solely on Bruce's voice.

"When everyone's done, we'll see you in the cave."

Cold, distant, like a dagger lazily embedded in a lung. The tone he occupies when one of them has disappointed him, lately it's Damian who has received it, even though the teenager has stopped being the ten-year-old brat who came to the mansion, but what for them was four long years of struggle for Bruce it was just a few months. He didn't see Damian's growth, nor did he see his downfalls, nor did he see what ended up throwing down the barriers that had been created years ago between him and everyone else.

Batman doesn't see that his Robin is capable of leaving the nest, he just needs to realize that his wings are strong enough to fly alone. Tim had a hard time, but perhaps it was because of the chains with which he tied his wings himself, convinced that he needed them.

Back in the cave, Tim waits for Damian's arrival. They're not the closest, years of conflict don't disappear in months, but the last year has been difficult for Robin, stumbling again where it was already leveled ground and he cannot avoid the guilt generated by the thought that it was his obsession with bring back to Bruce what has generated the unhappiness of the youngest.

When Damian arrives, their gazes meet for a brief moment, but it's enough for him. Tim leaves the cape and hood on the back of the chair and walks out, not wanting to hear the inevitable debacle in which the Batman-Robin relationship will end, a relationship of partners that he fought so hard to reestablish and that, without being able to do anything to stop it, it has crashed into an unbreakable wall. This time it's not Damian's fault, no, it's Bruce's fault.

He enters the mansion and walks aimlessly, stopping in the dining room as he lets himself be invaded by the memories of his adolescence being Robin, then becoming Red Robin, the moments when he felt lost and the few times he thought were if not happy, enjoyable.

It feels as if tomorrow everything will disappear in front of his eyes, but it's only the inevitable goodbye to the only place he had ever considered home that forces him to reminisce about those times. These were not simple times, there is nothing simple about being a vigilante, but it was fun.

He settles into a chair and waits, the what? He's not sure, but he knows to wait. Learn to trust your instincts, she had said, you trust the facts too much, sometimes what the soul says can be right. Five months have passed since the last time they met, it will soon be her birthday.

"Master Tim."

"Alfred, how is Damian?" He doesn't look at the butler, knowing this is the last time he speak to him.

"Master Bruce has seated him on the bench indefinitely." The old man goes to the kitchen leaving Tim alone again, at that moment he directs his gaze towards him. He lets out a sigh before standing up, his gaze now fixed on the finely varnished table. "You know, Master Tim? The day you first arrived at the mansion, I didn't think you would become so important to this family. "

"Alfred..."

"Please take good care of yourself. Don't forget to sleep at least four hours a day, eat all three times of day, and send me photos of the family you will form. "Tim feels his eyes sting when he sees Alfred's kind smile, especially when the man hands him a small package of his name.

To: Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne

A memory of: Alfred Pennyworth

"I...Thank you…."

Tim hugs the butler tightly, feeling the hug, clinging to his understanding and affection.

"As soon as I settle in, I will get in touch with you.” He assures the man who became an example for him, Alfred was always a constant in everyone's life, always close, supporting them in the most difficult moments and comforting them when the anguish overcame them. The cornerstone of the Wayne family.

"I'll be waiting."

Tim allows himself a small smile, he will miss Alfred very much. He may be the person he will miss the most in the whole family, even above Dick.

"Al... Oh, Tim. Something happens?" Dick looks curiously at the hug, the atmosphere in the dining room feels gloomy, and it gives him the feeling that not only has he interrupted an important moment but he also just learned something that he should not, even if he does not know what it is.

"I'll go, Dick."

"You go? Why?"

"Master Tim has a very important mission." He smiles again, but without the shadow of goodbye reflected in his gesture.

A very important mission, indeed.

The next days he occupies to put Wayne Enterprise in order, weighing in whether to leave everything in the hands of Bruce or place Damian as a direct heir. He also begins to appear less and less as Red Robin, not for his family, but so that the city does not suddenly feel the disappearance of one of its vigilantes.

Subtly and gently he loses himself in his routine, cutting off communication with the family. The only thing that interrupts his final preparations is an unexpected visit from Dick, catching him off guard after returning early from a patrol.

Nightwing awaits him on the roof of his building, holding a box of cakes and two coffees.

The two guards settle on the old theater, both with a coffee and cakes in the middle of the two.

"When you go?" Dick breaks the silence, his gaze is fixed on the dark horizon.

“Two more weeks, there are still projects I need to oversee on Wayne Enterprise, plus an upgrade for the steeple that I want to get finished.”

"Alfred said it's an important mission, does it really require you to disappear?" Dick looks at him worriedly and Tim can't help wanting to tell him everything, to trust his brother like he used to, but he can't it.

"Yeah.”

"When you will return?"

"I'll not come back…"

They are both silent, focused on anything but each other. The truth told is too awkward and sour, the realization that it might be the last conversation they have and that they will never see each other again weighs heavily on their shoulders.

Small drops begin to fall on them, but neither is fazed.

"Tim. Take Damian with you."

"What?"

“He… Damian hadn't killed anyone, not even by accident, in three years; It sure feels bad on its own, but B doesn't make it any easier. I tried, Timmy, but I can't help him and if he keeps wanting to prove himself to B, it'll get worse. ”The rain begins to fall more insistently on them and is their signal to get up.

Tim lets him into his residence, allowing him to settle in while he goes over the words spoken by the older man, he removes the hood and leaves it on one of the sofa, revealing the dark circles and the paleness of his face.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Five days, I need to finish everything..."

"You must rest a little."

Tim smiles bleakly and settles on the couch across from his brother.

"I'll rest when I get out of Gotham… About Damian, are you sure you want me to take him?" He examines the older man's face, his mask has been removed, and his expression lines reflect the tenseness of his entire body. "The last word is his, but if he accepts, you will no longer see him. You adore it, if you could you would have adopted him."

"And that's why I want the best for him, if I take him to Blüdhaven it will be the same. I never get rid of B nor in another city, will the same happen to him... I want Damian to be happy, to find his own path without fear of disappointing someone, without the expectations that being a Wayne puts on him. "

"Fine." He gets up and walks into his little secluded workroom, the only computers that aren't connected to either WE or the cave or the bell tower, has his own technology designed by him and funded by Drake Inc., no way let Batman know about the information stored there.

And if you are taking Damian, he must include him in his plans and let her know.

"Tim, what are you doing there?"

"You asked me to take Damian, I must have everything ready to offer to come with me."

Later, he goes into his work ignoring Dick, even ignoring the goodbye and the request to rest; Tim has all his concentration focused on the new documents that he must write and the legal papers that he must forge in case of taking Damian with him.

Damian won't accept it, least of all coming from me.

If I have the documents ready tomorrow, I will look for him... I hope this doesn't delay my plans.

------

Tag list: @incredulous-reader @dnsakina

[bucnananbitch]

Stuck with You (Sam Wilson X Bucky Barnes)

PT 1- Ice Cold 

Series Masterlist

A/N: This is my first attempt ever at any type of Au, so if it’s shit then at least I have room for improvement. I take English as an A-Level so let’s hope for the sake of my grades and my ability that this doesn’t suck ass. Thanks for reading if you did though!

Words: 1290 (I know it’s short)

Ice Cold

The cabin was quaint, but not like Tony’s old cabin he shared with pepper and Morgan. This one had a cold feeling to it, a lack of cosiness embedded in the walls.

The kitchen, which was connected to the main living room was sparsely furnished, with nothing that suggested it was a home, nor were the bedrooms any better. It was dusty, probably due to lack of use and areas were damp.

 It could’ve been the house itself that gave off an unwanted feeling, or it could’ve been the two men staying in it, that could barely look at each other, never mind live together. They hadn’t been there for long, but already Sam’s constant movement was enough to irritate most people.

 Bucky wasn’t one for following orders but when fury, who he had once tried to kill and failed, threatened him with all his might to stay in a safe house he didn’t dare question it.

Well, it’s not that he didn’t dare per say, it’s that he didn’t feel like being on the run for another twenty or so years. However long Fury threatened to hunt him down, and Bucky didn’t doubt it would be to the death.

Either way it felt like a large price to pay for not staying in a cabin until the mess they had gotten themselves in subsided. Or the mess that Sam had gotten them in. If it was up to Bucky he would’ve left that hydra base the second they got there, but did Sam listen. Of course not.

 Bucky was stood leaning on the kitchen counter watching the man pace around the room, on the phone to whoever. They had one job, one mission, and due to a lack of planning and some bickering the mission went downhill faster than a boulder on steroids.

 Now the hydra base was aware the avengers knew of their situation, and everything was either destroyed or moved to a different location. Which would take just as long to find as the first one. All the work from the other Avengers, especially Barns himself was put down the drain.

 “let me know how it goes down Rhodes, thanks”. The room was filled with nothing but silence, as the two refused to speak to each other. Was it normally like this? Not to this extent, although the two bickered and fought and to be honest never really agreed on even the smallest of things. The tension in the room was substantial, and there was no getting away from it.

  “Why didn’t you just listen to me when I told you to go right” Sam turned to Bucky with a sour look on his face, which wasn’t reciprocated by Bucky.

Instead, no emotions at all were shown on the super soldier’s face. Not for affect, but because Sam’s exact face and tone reminded him of everything he wished to forget from hydra.

He may give the impression that he wasn’t too bothered about the mission going sideways, when in fact it terrified him that hydra was still powerful enough to take down part of the Avengers. He was just relieved that he and Sam got out alive, but that relief was soon changing.

It wasn’t that he had no reply to Sam, he had many. But he was too busy on pushing down everything he felt, while Sam pushed his buttons.

  “I asked you to do one thing, and you did the complete opposite and look where we are now” Sam stressed as he threw how phone onto the wooden table, the clatter echoing through the small room. He was sat on the old dusty sofa, with his elbows on his knees, still not looking at his partner.

“How is it my fault? You’re seriously pinning this on me? If we went left, we would’ve been killed. If you’d done the risk assessment better maybe we wouldn’t have been in that situation at all.”

Bucky stood straight, his fists clenched, emotions getting the best of him like they always did when Sam picked a fight with him. Except this time there was no one to split them up.

 “If you feel like dying to the hands of hydra be my guest, but the last thing I ever want is to give them is the satisfaction of ending my life” Sam finally looked at Bucky, but only when he had brushed past the couch to head for the stairs.

“Walking away again, see this is your problem you can control your anger, or any of your emotions for that matter. Shouldn’t have taken you there in the first place, you’re obviously not capable” Bucky didn’t dare turn around, because doing so would only prove Sam right. Even if he was.

“This is the reason you always loose your partners” Bucky new it was brutal, but he wasn’t to bothered about the latter’s feelings at the moment, just like Sam was never concerned about his. He slammed the door behind him, and that was hopefully the last he would hear from Sam that night.

 All Bucky and Sam knew when it came to the other was fighting, whether it was with or against each other. In those cases, they had Steve and Nat to keep them straight. Steve was old and getting the life that Tony had told him about, and Nat was… well, gone.

 Ever since then they’d been on several missions with each other, which either had bickering or ended up in some sort of fight Wanda or Rhodes had to stop. Nothing bad had come of it until now so they never fixed the problem. Or never really attempted to.

 For Sam, the looming pressure of being the next captain America, made this one failed mission feel worse than it really was. Bucky just didn’t understand. Letting criminal masterminds get away, the people who created both Wanda and Barnes themselves amongst several other things. They were out there and thanks to the duo no one knew where.

 Sam sat in the same spot for the next two hours, doing only what could be described as moping. A glass of whisky was clutched tightly in his hand, while the half drank bottle was on the table. He only had one glass, just to take the edge off because he knew that the one bottle might be the only one in the cabin, which belonged to the late Natasha.

The contents of the bottle were Russian, meaning one glass was enough for a night. He drank in hr honour, hoping she wasn’t watching him while shaking her head. Even Tony was probably rolling over in his grave, especially if he knew hydra were still on the loose.

 The sun disappeared, not that either of the men took notice. Sam was too engulfed in his thoughts while lying on the couch, waiting for sleep to take him so that things would be fixed by the time he woke up.

 He didn’t have the energy to find a bedroom and figure out which one was his. Assuming there was more than one bedroom. Bucky on the other hand wasn’t even in the cabin, but sat outside where the cold nipped at his skin keeping him comfortable as he sat.

 Although, being frozen was traumatic, it was somewhat comforting to Bucky knowing that there was a period of time in which he wasn’t able to hurt anybody. Where he was safest from anything that tried to hurt him. He was always cold, and most of the time he hated it, but in moments of struggle he urged for it.

 Nothing hurt Bucky more than Steve leaving, apart from watching Sam, who he respected, try to become him. This was a moment Bucky wished he was back in the ice.

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [2/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America’s back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that’s just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. ~5.5K.  Also on AO3. Ch. 1

~~~~~

The bench outside of Nolan's Garage is a nice one, all things considered. Killian would know, after a summer spent sleeping on a series of them. It's got an armrest at one end that he can prop his bedroll against for a pillow and is good, sturdy wood instead of the stylized metal contraptions some towns insist on adopting for aesthetic or some such. 

After months on the road, Killian is now more used to sleeping out of doors, only seeking an inn or other shelter on rainy nights to protect from the elements. He's used to the way the birds start their song at dawn, the way the sun's rays gradually wash across his face to bathe him in a brightness and warmth that eventually coaxes him back to the waking world. What he's not used to is the dark shadow that is suddenly cast across his form, looming and severe, tangible even in his dozing state. With great effort, Killian peels his eyes open to find a man standing over him — tall, blonde, wide-shouldered. Visibly unhappy. 

"You must be the stranger," he states simply. Even in those five words, Killian can hear the judgement, the distrust, the disapproval. It's nothing he's not used to; one doesn't exactly endear oneself to the locals by showing up unexpectedly in their idyllic little towns and sleeping on park benches.

"Aye," he agrees, pushing himself into a sitting position and extending a hand in introduction. "Killian Jones."

"I don't care." The other man's arms stay crossed, his expression severe. "What do you want?"

Killian sighs. "I don't suppose you're Nolan?"

"I might be. Like I said — what do you want?"

Whoever claimed that honey worked better than vinegar was clearly a liar; either that, or Nolan is rather smarter than your average fly. Possibly both. "I'm afraid I’ve run into some trouble with my bike," Killian says simply, nodding towards the machine in question. "I hoped maybe I could avail myself of your services." It's needlessly formal, but it feels like the kind of thing he might have said in his past life to charm all matter of different people into doing his bidding. 

"Can you pay?"

Killian hesitates. This is where things get a little more complicated. "Aye," he finally says — not a lie, per say, though not exactly the truth — "Though I'd prefer to pay with labor than with money."

The statement earns him an appraising look. "You can do auto repair?"

"At a rudimentary level, yes," he admits. Still, he hesitates before adding the next part; the next part is what could open him up to a whole series of questions he's not much in the mood to answer. "I picked up a few things during the war, though I'm more used to dealing with plane engines than cars."

For all of Killian's fears, Nolan doesn't immediately press, or offer pointless platitudes. In fact, Killian would almost say that something about his posture releases, lets go of some of the tension he'd been carrying. "Why can't you fix it yourself then?"

"Hard to fix much of anything without the right parts - in this case, a tire. I just need someone to order it for me, and a place I can replace it.  I figured — if you're amenable — I could help out around here until the tire comes in or I've worked off the cost."

Nolan looks at him a moment longer, before finally nodding — slowly, thoughtfully, decisively — and jerking his head towards the garage. "Come on in, then, and we'll take a look."

Killian quickly gathers his things and moves to wheel his bike in as Nolan goes to roll up his front garage door. "You said you served? In what, the RAF?" he asks as Killian begins to push the bike inside.

"Yes, sir." Maybe he's a little bit short, but he's learned that’s the best way to discourage further questioning. 

Not that he needs to worry about that; the blond man just nods again. "I was in the Army. In Italy. And it's David."

It's all the explanation either of them needs; some things, they both understand, don't bear further discussion.

"We don't get much by way of excitement around here. A few flat tires, oil changes, that kind of thing," Nolan — David explains. "Most of our business is just pumping gas. You think you can handle all that?"

“Aye. It won’t be a problem.”

“Let’s take a look then.”

David’s garage is neater than Killian expected. In his experience, auto shops are dirty, grungy places. Though there is still a bit of that — engine grease has a way of working its way into corners and sticking around for far longer than anyone would prefer — all his tools are neatly organized, clearly left in long-since-designated places. If he had to guess, he’d say it must be a bit of that military order leftover in David. 

“You said something about a tire?” the other man asks, already crouching down to squeeze at the rubber. 

“Aye. I drove over a nail at some point, and it’s become embedded in the front tire. It’s only a slow leak right now, but it needs addressing.”

David runs a sure hand along the curve to find the piece of metal in question before leaning in for a closer look. “Yeah, it’s in there pretty good,” he agrees. “We can take it out and slap a patch on there, if you like, but that’s more of a temporary measure. I’d recommend just replacing the whole thing. The tread is getting worn anyways. How far have you been riding?”

“Went all the way to the gulf and back up.”

“Yeah, you’re due then. It’s up to you, but I’d like to order tires for the front and back.”

“Aye, that sounds fine,” Killian agrees. “Best to replace them at the same time, anyways. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Hard to say,” David shrugs. “The work itself isn’t the issue — you know that will go quickly — but it’s the shipping that’s more of a problem. I’ll call today, get that ball rolling, but we’re a ways out. It can take a while for things to get all the way out here. If I had to guess… a week? Maybe two?”

It’s not ideal; that’s a long time for Killian to stay in one place, and it makes him feel anxious. He feels better when he’s moving. But what other choice does he have?

(A week, maybe two, and he’s gone. Anyone can withstand that; even he can endure it.)

“That’s fine,” he repeats. Uselessly. There’s nothing else to say, though — David can’t rush how long it takes things to get here, and Killian knows exactly how far in the middle of nowhere this town is.

“Before I agree to trade parts for labor, though, I’ve got to see what you can do. I can’t just put you to work on a promise,” David warns. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to come up with the money.”

“Of course.”

David leads them across the shop to where a sedan is lifted up to display its underside. “Routine oil change,” David explains, nodding vaguely in the direction of the car’s guts. “Think you can handle it?”

Killian doesn’t bother to confirm or deny — a waste of speech, really, when he could get down to the doing — just shrugs his jacket off to drape over a nearby tool bench. “Any gloves I could borrow?”

David passes them in equal silence, and Killian sets to work. There’s something soothing about the ritual of all this — unscrew the drain cap and let the used oil drain into a receptacle, remove the old oil filter, and replace it with a new one. The hardest bit is figuring out how to lower the car back to normal level and where David keeps the fresh oil. 

“I can change a tire, too, if you need more proof,” Killian offers as he strips off the borrowed gloves again.

“That’s fine. I think I can find something for you to do around here. Let me show you the cash register, you’ll need that for gas.”

And just like that, they’ve come to an arrangement.

David doesn’t expect much by way of conversation — a good thing, since Killian doesn’t have much to give. He’s out of practice, frankly, no longer skilled in all the ridiculous little intricacies of small talk, and nowhere near ready to talk about anything deeper — especially with a man he’s only just met. The afternoon mostly passes in an easy kind of silence, with David working in the garage on a car engine he’d described as “a special pain in the ass” and Killian handling the pumps outside. The customers look at him suspiciously when he runs out to help instead of David, but that’s nothing new. He’s earned an awful lot of suspicious looks in his travels, and he knows it’s because he’s an unfamiliar face.

(Granted, the leather jacket probably doesn’t help. He knows it makes him look like he’s up to no good, but it’s warm and holds up well in the weather, and he has no intention to change that just because a few uptight townspeople look at him with narrowed eyes.)

The afternoon passes quickly in that matter, and before Killian knows it, he comes back inside the garage after serving a small rush of people to find David putting his tools back in their proper place.

“Closing time,” David comments in explanation, nodding towards the clock. Sure enough, the hands read 5:30; he should have known in a little town like this, everything would close before six. Before he can even start making plans for the evening — where he’s going to get food, where he’s going to sleep, all the little details that he’s accounted for dozens of times since he started this ride — David jerks his head towards the door in an abrupt invitation. “Come on, Mary Margaret will have dinner on the table soon.”

“I’m sorry?” It doesn’t really process. Only hours ago, David was standing over him in a threatening manner, demanding to know what he was camping on a town bench for, and now he’s… apparently inviting Killian to his home. Surely he can’t mean that.

“My wife,” David clarifies, as if that was the confusing thing. “She’s making a pot roast, maybe some pie since we’ll have company. I called her earlier to let her know you’d be joining us for dinner.” His face turns sharp again for a moment. “You are coming to dinner, right?”

“I… well, yes, I suppose I am. If you and your wife want me there, that is,” Killian manages to say, tripping over the words in his surprise.

“Good,” David nods. “You’ve got to eat, after all, and the missus would kill me if I didn’t invite you. She’s got strong opinions about a home-cooked meal. For good reason, too, it’s a damn fine pot roast. Are you coming?” The last is definitely necessary prodding, as Killian is still stuck several steps from the door trying to figure out what just happened.

Still, he follows David out, making sure to snag his bag by the door on his way. Even if he’s a bit thrown off by this turn of events, that doesn’t change the fact that he’ll be lost without his belongings for the night. “Thank you,” he murmurs as David locks up behind them. “I appreciate the invite.”

“Don’t mention it,” the other man shrugs, tucking the shop keys back into his pocket. “Like I said, my wife would kill me if I made you go scavenging on your own.”

The Nolan residence is on a quiet street maybe a ten minute walk from the garage. If Killian had thought Main Street was impressive, this is something else. Trees arch gracefully over the pavement, creating their own little world in the shade. The houses have front porches and flower beds lining the front walk. Half of them have a flag fluttering outside the front door. It looks like a cliche of American domesticity, and he hasn’t even made it off the street. 

David and his wife’s house proves to be a cheery pale blue with white trim and has flowered window boxes. Before they go inside, he crouches to take off his work boots and nods for Killian to do the same. “Can’t have us tracking grease in the door,” he explains. “No need to stain the rug if we don’t have to.”

The house inside is just the same — picture perfect yet impossibly real. He can spot lace doilies on end tables and a carved hatstand in the entry hall, and the smell of something delicious wafts through the rooms. It’s obvious, too, that this isn’t just a house — it’s a home, evident in a carefully bookmarked novel on the coffee table some sewing discarded in the corner.

The woman who comes bustling down the hall to greet them fits his impression of the space perfectly — a cliche of the loving, welcoming wife with her big smile and apron and perfectly pinned hair. David’s a lucky man to be living this life, and Killian feels a dull pang of longing for that kind of certainty, even if he doesn’t feel ready to plant roots in that way yet.

“Welcome home!” the woman all but coos, dropping a quick kiss on David’s cheek before turning her dimpled grin on Killian, extending a delicate hand to shake. “You must be Killian — David told me you were helping at the shop and I just insisted he bring you home for dinner. Granny’s is all well and good, but it’s nothing compared to a good home-cooked meal, is it?”

Despite Killian’s misgivings about the trappings of this whole idyllic life (even just watching it from afar intensifies the constant itch beneath his skin, to move, to flee, to fly), he likes Mrs. Nolan immediately. “No, it isn’t,” he concedes, cracking a small smile. He even manages to take the hand she offers, pressing a kiss to the back of it that makes the pretty brunette blush and David glower. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Nolan.”

“Oh, you must call me Mary Margaret!” she protests as David’s glare intensifies. Faced with that kind of reaction, Killian doesn’t plan to follow the lady’s command. “I just put dinner on the table, you’re just in time. Pot roast with potatoes and green beans, and a good chocolate cake for dessert. Does all of that sound good to you?”

“It sounds delicious, ma’am.”

“Good answer,” David mumbles not quite under his breath, earning himself an affectionate whack to the chest from his wife. It sends an odd pang of longing through Killian — they’re obviously well suited for each other, and Killian finds himself wanting a partner he can share that same kind of companionship with. It’s silly, though; that kind of commitment would require a kind of stability he just can’t give. It’s still lovely to watch though, as David leads them to the dining room with one callused hand just barely grazing along Mary Margaret’s back. Quickly, they both wash their hands at the kitchen sink before taking a seat at the table. 

“So David said you’ll be in town for the next week or so?” the lady of the house asks as they start to dig in.

“That’s the plan, at least. Just until the replacement tires get in,” he replies before taking a bite of potatoes. It’s been a while since Killian has had a home-cooked meal, and Mrs. Nolan’s cooking proves to be more than up to snuff. 

“Well let me tell you, there’s no better place to break down than in Storybrooke — and I’m not just saying that because I’m married to the mechanic!” she gushes with a tinkling laugh. As far as Killian can tell, she seems to do that a lot — a striking contrast to David’s more reserved demeanor. “Storybrooke is just such a nice little town — I can’t imagine living anywhere else. But I understand that you’ve been driving all over the country?”

“Let the man eat, Mary Margaret,” David chides affectionately. “He can’t get a bite in between all these questions.”

Mrs. Nolan blushes a bright pink in response, somehow managing to look delicate even in her embarrassment. “Oh! Of course, where are my manners. You don’t need to answer that, Killian. I can’t insist you come to dinner and then not let you eat!”

Killian swallows a bite of roast hurriedly in order to respond. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Nolan,” he smiles. “Yes, I’ve been driving up and down the coast since March. I’m planning to head westward after this.”

“That must be so exciting,” she smiles. “I’m more of a homebody, myself — I can’t imagine driving all over the place for so long.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Killian agrees noncommittally.

A few minutes of relative silence pass as the three of them truly dig in, interrupted only by assurances that dinner is delicious and you know how I love your potatoes. For those minutes, Killian is almost lulled into thinking that he’s in the clear, that no more questions are coming to dredge up things he doesn’t like to think about. 

“So what about when you’re not on the road, Killian?” Mary Margaret asks in a tone of voice that’s almost suspiciously innocent. He’s sure she doesn’t mean anything nefarious; she’s just making conversation. Still, he has a bad feeling about where this is going. “Where do you call home?”

And there it is — a question to really set his nerves on edge. A question that he doesn’t really have a proper answer to. “Nowhere, at the moment. I’ve been travelling ever since I came to the country.”

“And what about your family? Are they still back in England?”

If Killian was wary of the first question, his heart drops into his stomach at the second. “No,” he barely bites out. “There’s no one back in England.” 

Maybe they hear the barely restrained pain in his voice; maybe they just grow tired of his poor excuses for conversation. Killian wouldn’t blame them; he knows that he’s less than good company, and isn’t remotely carrying his weight in their interactions. All he knows is the depth of his gratitude when conversation shifts towards more generic topics, ones David can answer, like about their day at the shop. 

Dinner is fine, and a fine excuse to make him interact with even a little bit of the world.

It’s an even greater relief when he can bid them both a good evening and leave for the night.

——— 

Despite Mrs. Nolan's best attempts to fatten him up, Killian still wanders down to Granny's that night after dinner. Perhaps it's for the tea; perhaps it's for a change of scenery; perhaps it's for the chance to see the lovely blonde waitress again.

(It's absolutely the last option, no doubt, but Killian likes to pretend he still has a little bit of his dignity sometimes. He's not a young boy mooning over a pretty girl anymore, even if he certainly is acting that way at the moment.)

The sounds and rituals of the diner are more familiar now that it's his second visit — the right of the bell above the door, the way everyone hushes for just a moment as he walks in before hurriedly continuing on in an array of conversations, Granny's nod he's sure means seat yourself. The same booth as he occupied last night is still open, and Killian slides across the vinyl once again. Sure enough, only a minute or two later, the same blonde angel as before appears to take his order. 

"Hello again," she smiles. Little lines around her eyes crinkle with the gesture; they suit her, Killian decides, making her look even more like a creature who's meant to spread and receive joy. "What can I get you tonight?"

"Just another pot of tea, please," he replies, trying to match her smile. It doesn't feel quite so natural on Killian's face — proof that he's long since out of practice in performing what's such a natural gesture on everyone else.

(Another thing he lost to the sea, along with Liam, along with his youth, along with his plans.)

"No sandwich tonight?" she continues, apparently oblivious to Killian's internal struggle. She doesn't even bat an eye at whatever twisted facsimile of a smile graces his face; maybe it looks better than he thought. 

"Not tonight, love. I already had a bit of dinner. Thank you though, miss..." he trails off in question, arching a single eyebrow to accentuate the query. 

It would be well within her right to refuse to tell him; after all, he's an odd and awkward stranger she's met all of twice. To his surprise though, she just smiles again, and offers him her name like a gift. "Emma. Emma Swan."

It suits her, he decides immediately; it's graceful and elegant and maybe just a little otherworldly, like a princess out of a fairy tale he hasn't heard before. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan," he returns. The smile feels a little easier now, though he's not ready to admit why.

The smile on her — on Emma's face turns a little wry. "And you are....?" 

It absolutely figures that he'd get so lost in the joy of knowing this angel's name that he would forget his own. "Killian — Jones," he hastens to reply, tripping over his own name in the process.

"It's nice to meet you, Killian Jones," she replies, clearly trying to cover a laugh. "I'll have that tea right out for you."

Though Emma returns with the small teapot and a cup on a saucer a few minutes later, more people have trickled into the diner for a late dinner and he's unable to engage her in conversation any further. That's alright; he'd borrowed Frankenstein from the Nolans' bookshelf for a reread, and there's no time like the present. He didn't come to Granny's just to talk to Emma, after all.

(That's what he tells himself, anyways; the truth is that something more compelling than the pie lured him back, whether or not he ever acts on it.)

Dr. Frankenstein is just as egotistical and irritating as Killian remembers, but he gets lost in that gothic world all the same, reveling in the twists and turns he half-remembers from grammar school. Before he knows it, it's 10pm again, and whether it's the tea or the story or something else entirely, Killian isn't remotely tired. It's a relief in many ways; after all, he can't dream if he doesn't sleep. Insomnia has never been a problem he's faced, for better or worse, but there are nights after a particularly intense streak of nightmares that Killian wished that the urge to close his eyes and slip into slumber wasn't quite as strong. 

Regardless, he's just starting to contemplate wandering back toward the garage and the bench he’s pretending is a bed when Emma slides into the seat across from Killian.

"You're a wanderer," she says. It's not a question, just a statement of fact. He can't say he's ever been called that before, but Killian supposes it's accurate. He can't think of a better descriptor, at least.

"Aye, I suppose you could say that," he concedes. "Better than some things I've been called," he mutters much further under his breath. 

"I've never gone further than Portland," Emma admits. Killian can already tell by the far-off look in her eyes that it's not for lack of desire; just for lack of opportunity. "I wanted to join the Red Cross during the war, but..."

"Be glad you didn't," Killian interrupts before she can finish the thought. He knows how that story ends anyways: too much to do on the homefront and too few men to do it. "No one should see what went on over there unless they had to."

"I know," Emma replies. "I don't regret it. I was needed more here. But I worry that might have been my chance to see the world."

"You'll get another chance, Swan." He doesn't know where the instinct to call her by her last name comes from; all he knows is that it feels right. 

"I hope so," she replies wistfully, before shaking herself back out of it. "But for now, tell me: what's it like?"

For a short, terrible moment, Killian worries that she meant what it was like to fight, and the flames flash in front of his eyes again. Something of it must show in his face, however, as she hurries to clarify her request. "I meant in your travels. On your bike." She sighs and runs a frustrated hand over her hair. "I've made a mess of this, haven't I?"

“It’s alright, love,” he smiles, moving to clasp her hand in reassurance before thinking better of it. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

“You’re just saying that,” she mumbles. “Being polite.”

“It’s the truth. You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I, on the other hand… I’ve rather forgotten the question.” It’s almost flirtatious — not that he means it to be. It’s hard to imagine himself light-hearted enough to flirt nowadays, even when faced with a beautiful blonde with a smile that could light up even the darkest of nights.

There’s no point to it anyways; he’ll only be in Storybrooke for a few days, a week at the longest. 

(No matter what he says, he’s already in danger of becoming attached to this girl, his angel.)

“What’s it like out there?” Emma repeats. Curiosity and excitement twinkle in her eyes and she leans against the table with crossed arms, like she’ll hang onto every word. He thinks she truly will, too; he only hopes that the words he has to say won’t disappoint her. She doesn’t deserve that.

“It’s… big,” he says, knowing full well that the description is horribly inadequate, even if it’s true. “Vast. I grew up thinking that Britain was so large, or Europe, but neither come anywhere close to your country. All the things you can see… it’s a marvel.”

“So where have you been?” Emma asks. “Or is it easier to ask where haven’t you been?”

Killian blushes a bit at that, though he can’t quite figure out why; maybe the implication that he’s worldly, or some kind of expert. “I’ve been up and down the East Coast,” he tells her. “Started in March and rode all the way down to Florida while the heat could still feel good. And now, obviously, have worked my way back up.”

“You must have gone to the beach down there, right?” She doesn’t even wait for an answer before plowing forward. “Is it different from the ocean here? I can’t imagine anyone making that trip and not going to see the ocean.”

Maybe for other people, that’s true; it seems like the kind of cliche vacation road trip residents of a picture-perfect town might take. Killian still remembers, though, how his life almost ended in this same ocean, thousands of miles away — still remembers being tossed by the waves and scrambling to keep himself above water and the way that the cold of the Atlantic cut into his flesh. He still remembers the panic and the desperate realization that if he didn’t fight like hell, he’d be swallowed by the turbulent waters and never resurface.

Most people love the ocean; Killian no longer counts himself among them.

“It is different,” he finally says. “The shore isn’t so pebbled as it is here. There’s just sand, everywhere, even where you’d expect there to be proper soil instead. It makes the water look different, too — it moves the same, but the colors are different. It’s the dark sand and rocks that turn the water so dark, here. On the Gulf, everything is blue instead.”

“It sounds beautiful,” she sighs. “I’m going to go someday, somehow. I swear it.”

“I’m sure you will.” It’s not placating, or at least he doesn’t intend it to be; something about Emma makes him believe, even so soon into their acquaintance, that she can and will do anything she sets her mind to. If she wants to see the world, she’ll find a way.

“You really think so?” she asks, a mix of hope and uncertainty creeping into her voice. 

“Of course. I think you can do anything you want to — especially a lady as bold as yourself.”

“Thanks.” She smiles at the reassurance; he likes this look on her a lot better. He likes it even more when the smile turns into a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s enough about me, though. Tell me more about where you’ve been.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he admits. “It’s been a lot of back roads and landscapes and little tiny towns, and not a lot of sightseeing.”

“What’s been your favorite part, then?”

“The speed,” he admits readily. There’s no thought even required. She most likely wanted to hear about a particularly memorable town or something like that, but the truth is, he’s been more interested in the ride itself than anywhere he might be going, as cliche as that is. “Out there, with an open stretch of road… it feels like flying. It’s exhilarating. There’s almost nothing like it.” Of course, it’s a shameless attempt to recreate the feeling of soaring across the skies in the Jolly, but Emma doesn’t need to know that. Discussions of how he’s desperately trying to reclaim the feeling of the last time it felt like he had a purpose aren’t exactly suitable conversation when you’ve barely learned a girl’s name. 

“Maybe you’ll have to show me before you leave,” she suggests with a coy little smile. Truth be told, Killian isn’t sure how to respond to that; it’s hard to believe a woman like her would be interested in spending any time with him, and it’s far too presumptuous to believe she’s flirting with him. She must just be expressing an odd kind of kindness, just expressing interest in the things he likes for politeness’ sake. That’s a thing people do, he thinks; he’s far too out of practice with having to interact with strangers. 

(After all, this is just temporary. He’s only here until his bike is fixed — a few days, a week at the longest.)

(That doesn’t stop a little part of him from wishing that she really did mean it.)

“Where else do you want to see? Besides the Florida coast,” he blurts out, looking for a way to sidestep… whatever just happened. It’s hard to know how to respond to what she just said, even if he is eager to otherwise continue their conversation. She’s good company, he finds, and doesn’t act with that cloying kind of politeness he’s used to from so many other people and never knows how to respond to. She’s… genuine. Genuinely kind, and genuinely curious. 

“Oh, everywhere,” she sighs. “The Grand Canyon, the Four Corners — I want to stand in four states at once, and don’t even try to tell me how ridiculous that is — the Alamo, Niagara Falls… all of it.” She blushes fetchingly at the end of her list. “I know it’s a lot, but we had a very comprehensive geography book in the library when I was in school. It really captured my imagination, I suppose you’d say.”

“I don’t think it’s — well, it is a lot, really,” he chuckles, “but that’s not a bad thing. I wouldn’t say it’s excessive. I’m the one driving across the country without anything resembling a plan.” This time, his chuckle is self-deprecating, almost bitter.

“Ah, but it’s not without purpose, is it?” she says with a wry smile and a knowing tone. “Not having a plan isn’t the same thing as not having a reason.”

It’s terrifying, in a certain way, the way she can read him so easily. Those are things he’s not prepared to discuss with her, not tonight and possibly not ever. 

“It’s not,” he says shortly, “but that’s not a matter for discussion tonight.”

“No, I guess it isn’t.” If he were a more optimistic man, he might almost say she looks sad that their conversation is ending. “I’ll let you get back to your book, then. Would you like a fresh pot of tea?”

Don’t go, he thinks. “That would be wonderful, thank you,” his mouth says — some stupid brain-heart miscommunication. 

“I’ll get that right out to you.” Carefully she slides out of the booth, smoothing her skirt as she goes. Killian is helpless but to follow her with his eyes all the way back to the kitchen. The loveliest woman he’s met in a long, long time, possibly ever, and he’s mucked it all up.

Ah, well, it’s not like it matters anyways. His stay was always meant to be temporary, after all, when he’s only here for as long as it takes for his new tire to get here. There’s no sense in forming attachments.

(It may already be too late for that, but he’s willing to ignore it until he can’t any longer.)

~~~~~

Tagging: @kmomof4​​, @aerica13​​, @thisonesatellite​​, @searchingwardrobes​​, @let-it-raines​​, @teamhook​​, @ohmightydevviepuu​​, @optomisticgirl​​, @winterbaby89​​, @spartanguard​​, @scientificapricot​, @snowbellewells​​, @welllpthisishappening​​, @tiganasummertree​​, @captainswanbigbang​​, @snidgetsafan​​, @thejollyroger-writer​​, @profdanglaisstuff​​

Thanks for reading - let me know what you think!

[dcuniverse-fanatic]

between dawn and dusk

Pairing: Tim Drake// female!reader

A/n: Here’s a bit of delayed writing!. The time does skip here a bit. It goes back and fourth between the reader’s memories and the present. Not very edited, i just wanted to get it out of my drafts, I've been pushing it back a lot, the ending is a bit rushed? i think? but oh well.

warnings:  Drinking, hint of sex occurring.

word count: a little over 2k

Your head was spinning in funny shapes, twisting and spiraling around you like a dull kaleidoscope. It had barely dawned on you that the fluorescent nightstand clock wasn’t your own. You had wanted to leave, then. No note, no text. You’re in a hurry, you think. You’re late, you reminisce.

But the look he gives you as he’s standing on the doorway half asleep is worth a King’s ransom. He tells you in facial expression more than he’s told you in words, and you can’t help but avoid his gaze.

The touch of warm ceramic against your cold fingers is familiar, but your thoughts tend to flicker. He’s sat directly across you, his eyes burning a hole in yours, but you’re not looking to check, eyes darting back and forth, occupying your mind. wall, clock, ceiling.

He speaks before you do “why were you leaving. Again” eyes hurt and worrisome.

His face is flushed, laced with confusion. He’s half drunk and he can’t seem to grasp what you both did earlier shouldn’t have happened. (you don't regret it, though, because you wouldn’t have wanted anything different from occurring)

-

The bar was empty, carrying a thick vibe of stray old men; gloomy and dark. Your heart is beating loud and vicious in your throat. He shouldn’t have been able to find you this quick. (you went to great lengths make sure he shouldn’t have been able to)

You should’ve left. You should’ve collected yourself and paid your tab and left but the bell chimes strident from the door and your heart drops to your stomach. You had managed a quaint smile, short and void of reasoning.

Meeting your childhood friend for the first time since his becoming of robin was unearthly, it was certainly unusual, but it felt like home and a part of you was welcomed, Like warm butter on toast.

You’ve wanted this for an eternity, you've wanted to explain why you up and left the like wind almost 8 years ago, and why you’ve been declining his calls. but you’ve past that moment. He’s talking about his siblings now; you’re watching his mouth move and contort but you can tell he’s just filling silence from your evident lacking in participation.

It’s been hard without you, it’s been sad. Lonely without you.

Timothy Drake - Wayne. Words have since failed to describe the love you carry for that man, Heart heavy and thick with enamor; pumping out nothing but fondness for him. You would do anything for him- in a heartbeat; you’d breathe for the boy if you could.

But in foolishly thinking he’s been returning those feelings, you wound up in the same barbarous, destructive cycle of self doubt. He’s talked an awful lot about Stephanie (in whom you see the attraction, if you were being honest) and It quite literally makes your skin shrivel with contempt, it reprimands you of your own shortcomings.

So, leaving town was nothing but your supposed lack of wanderlust- your skipping town was never (ever) a sentiment of escape.

“So, how’ve you been?” You lift your head up, and steady your arm because it was falling asleep.

” ah, you know how it is” (he doesn’t) he still nods and sips his mug. Jamaican, you summon up. His favorite. He looks at you funny.

He looks at you like you’re the entire universe and he’s lucky. Your skin thrums and you deliquesce. The smile he gives you is brief, but by god’s grace is it a heavy load off your chest. He’s refreshing to look at, you realize. Heart doing multiple somersaults and great acrobatic feats when he looks your direction. You want to feel like this until you die.

-

“Was gonna miss my flight” you breathe, taking a longer sip to stop your mouth from talking.

” You never said you were leaving so soon” he draws out the sentence, long and slow. Each syllable panging at your chest and leaving your ribs battered and bruised.

“Did I have to, Tim?”

He pauses a second too long and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol inebriating him or if he’s in shock. (knowing him, quite honestly, it could’ve been both, maybe)

“No. No, I knew you were leaving, I checked your email. Sorry”

His voice was scratchy and desperate. His eyes were bloodshot red, hair dark and tousled. He looked like a tired college student. And he looks at you like he’s never seen you before.

It’s harsh and piquant, and you resist the urge to run to him and hold him in your arms and run your fingers in his lush hair.

“You uh, you wanna talk about it?” He’s still looking at you, looking into you.

-

Your memories of when you both started drinking were largely imprecise. Starting off with a beer, and then two, and then shots. His eyes were trained on you like a hawk on its prey. You remember him joking about Bruce, and him laughing. His laugh thick like molasses with enamor. His smile was as brilliant as the blue sky.

Still, you couldn't exactly place when you both stumbled outside, leaning onto each other for support. It was pitch black; you recall. A cab was called for the both of you, and you remember the look you both exchanged. It was a fleeting one, but your stomach curdled, and your heart jumped so many times you lost count.

And at the third look, you loosely remember you all but practically lunging at him, and him catching you. And then he kisses you, soft- like sunshine and cotton. He kisses you like he planned to from the start, like it was never an option not to.

The taste of tequila was vivid and sharp on his tongue. His hands roamed what they could in the small space, his actions fast, breathless. He was giving you what you wanted before you could ask for it. Moments lasting decades

His breath fanned warm over your cheeks, his hand caressing the back of your neck.

“I’m so sorry I left” you murmur between jagged breaths of want.

His hands were under your shirt, now, and what were once innocent soft kisses had him trailing his lips up and down your neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses, lingering in certain spots to leave bruises and marks for you to find later.

His pace quickens, before you can register it happening. His fingers sending shivers up your spine and back. His mouth trailing the markings he’s left. His movements were swift and slow and agonizing. Like a thousand needles embedding into your skin.

“I’m sorry for letting you”

Hours later, it seems, you reach up his apartments’ door. He can’t decide between deliriously touching you, or opening the door, seemingly doing both tasks at once.

You were clinging to him like he was your lifeline, for every second he’s spent not touching you was torture. His hands were on your thighs as he was fumbling with the door, his actions sloppy and unintentional. Once he gets the door open, he kisses you like he’s been dying to- slow and hard and deep. Your spine finds its way to a wall, his mouth; your neck.

He’s got you cornered now, body hovering about yours, passion, desire, want, tying you both together.

When he lifts your chin up, littering kisses along your jugular, your knees want to give out.

He hoists you up and carries you to the nearest flat surface, not severing contact once. (not even for a breath of air) he kissed you, deeper, touching you more vehemently. He breaks the kiss, breathless, sweaty, and eyes ever so hyper fixed onto yours.

You look like a god awful mess, you just know it. Your hair was tousled and disheveled from the neat braid you had it in. Your lipstick was visible all over his face (pride far from transcended your contempt. Looking at the work you’ve done produced a tight coil in your belly, one that’s unwinding you faster by the minute) And yet still, he looks at you like you’re the seven seas, and he’s conquered it.

“Good, god, I’m in love with you, I’ve been in love with you”

He cradled your face, his thumbs on either side of your temple, brushing ever so softly. His kisses are getting feverish, but it’s more earnest, like endless flowing honey. He’s fumbling with your zipper, your hands find their way to his hair like destiny, like they belonged there.

“Do you want me to keep going”

His talking was reduced to a mumble, leaving room for panting. His swollen lips were a sight for sore eyes.

“Yes. Please. Yes”

In between breaths, you start to realize how much you’ve wanted this. How much this felt right.

Like you've pulled all the perfect pieces of the perfect puzzle together and they perfectly fit. They melt together and pool at the bottom of your heart.

-

Falling together was as easy as breathing for you, was as easy as blinking; as effortless as lying in bed with you, skin hot and crimson, flush against one another. Bodies a humming, buzzing mess, riddled lifeless in euphoria.

His arm was sturdy under you neck, noses mere millimeters apart, eyes centralized. You hadn’t been bothered to know what the state of your legs looked like, the contact easily satisfying you, and falling asleep was once again, just as easy.

-

“It just shouldn’t have happened Tim.” Your coffee was empty, and You lost track of how long it’s been gone. His face grows blank.

“What do you mean? Did you- did you not enjoy it or something, was it something I did?” His saddened expression was swapped with one of worry and concern, a divot appearing in between his brows.

He looked up to see you snickering, your head tilted back with your arm on your forehead. He smiled, then, more and more perplexed with your budding mirth. His grin grows, more with bafflement than anything, really. He gives a few quick breathy chortles before he joins your fit, guffaws filling your encounter.

“No, dummy. I mean I’m in love with you. Sleeping with you won’t make me forget about you.”

You mild back down, grounded by your confession, shifting under his gaze. His mouth was half curled up, slightly parted, eyes a lesser red hue than it was before.

“Why would you wanna forget? “You know” he starts, “you never once asked me how I felt about you” He pauses to sip more coffee, “Although I told you plenty last night”

Your skin starts to turn a bashful red hot color- running a bazillion degrees under the borrowed shirt you’re wearing. The fire that creeps up your neck and ears leaves you insurmountably small, making you hunch in on yourself. You’re at loss for words, mouth left gaping and thoughts incoherent. Half of you wants to hide- forever, and the other half isn’t that far behind. The expression plastered on his face was still smug, eyes wishful and frugal. 

He cuts eye contact with you “Is it weird that I’m turned on right now?”

“Considering that we’re just sitting down and drinking coffee? Yes. Very” You snort. 

The laugh that he breaks makes your entire body vibrate with delight. There’s something satisfying in making him laugh, some sort of personal victory you take home with you and keep in a jar.  You rarely get to see him like this, so vulnerable and open and free. You want to see him like this always, you think. 

“hey” 

“hm?” 

“stay”

The crackle of his voice as it shifts from a playful tone to an intimate one makes your heart rattle in your chest. The ache of it all is something you want to wrap yourself up in and collapse. The corner of his lips twitch slightly in an attempt to stop him from grinning like an idiot, but he’s buzzing with nervousness.

“Only on one condition”

“Anything”

“ you stay too”

[enigmasalad]

Weddings Are Places We Don’t Belong

Deceit sighed as he walked into his apartment. Today had been rather exhausting. Sure, being a bartender at a high-class club doesn’t seem like it, but it is. From making drinks for finicky and snobbish customers to keeping figurative and literal tabs on others (for his side business as an informant) he had his hands full. There was one older gentleman saying something completely homophobic as he ordered a scotch on the rocks that he so totally didn’t manipulate to give a rather hefty tip. Another lady (who was most likely going through a midlife crisis) he was serving an expensive cocktail to loudly and bluntly asked about the scarred side of his face. Yeah that was a completely idiotic and bitchy move, but Deceit would milk this opportunity for all it was worth by basically making her feel horribly guilty. So he got another large tip and satisfaction of this woman looking like she was mortified at herself. So after work like that (and a rather threatening text from a customer of his informant business he just shrugged off) he just wanted to relax with his boyfriend and their two headed snake Jekyll and Hyde. However, as he took off his shoes, he heard a frustrated shout followed by a loud crash.

“Dammit Remus.” Remus was probably having another outburst, which meant either broken furniture, walls or even fingers. Deceit entered the kitchen to see what the extent of the damages. There were broken plates and glasses on the floor. Knives and somehow spoons were embedded in cupboards and in the walls. Heck Remus managed to have a fucking skillet stuck to the ceiling by some substance that Deceit didn’t even want to guess the origin of. And of course, In the center was Remus, hair wild and  eyes even wilder. Tears flowed freely down his face and his slightly sharper than average teeth were bared in fury or pain. There were glass and ceramic in his feet, hands, leg and arms. He had his arm on their cutting board and a cleaver high in the air right over it. Deceit announced his presence by clearing his throat. The crazed man dropped the cleaver that was in his hands once he spotted Deceit. “Dee..” he said, voice broken and raw from the amount of screaming he’s probably done. “Stand still Remus.” Deceit ordered. And still Remus stood. Deceit swept up the mess, which took forever.  There was ceramic and glass everywhere. The man tried to get what he could but was certain one of them will have a piece of glass in their feet sometime this week. Once he was done, it was time for stage two of the outburst aftercare, treating Remus’s injuries. Deceit lead his now quiet and drained boyfriend to a dining chair and went to get the first aid supplies. When he came back, he decided to get to the bottom of this.

 “What made you want to impale our walls with spoons this time Remus?” he asked as he tweezed glass and ceramic out of his boyfriend’s body. “Shut the fuck up.” Remus growled. Deceit rolled his eyes. If Remus was going to be like this, fine. He can play bitchy too. He sighed and put the tweezers down and looked at Remus with an indifferent expression. “Alright, then you can tweeze the glass out of yourself and I’ll be in our room since you can handle this yourself.” Deceit said, starting to get up. “Wait! Don’t!” Remus cried, head suddenly snapping up and eyes desperate. “Then I need you to tell me what’s going on Remus. You know I won’t actually leave you, but you also know I can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.” Deceit got back down on his knees and resume cleaning up Remus. Remus shakily sighed in defeat. He let out a humorous laugh. “S-So I found out Roman has an Instagram.” Remus started. Deceit practically growled at that name. Roman. He fucking hated that bastard. Not as much as Remus, but close. He felt sick Remus felt this kind of pain again from his twin. It had been years since he saw the pompous dumbass, but the hate was still there. You see, Deceit knew Remus and his brother Roman since middle school. He quickly made friends with Remus (back then Deceit saw him as a tool, but “unfortunately” hormones and feelings had different ideas in the future) and heard about Roman from him. Apparently once the twins entered middle school, Roman decide to become one of those fake, disgusting popular kids. According to Remus, Roman went even so far as to publicly insult his childhood best friend named Virgil.   Their first encounter with the anxious and pale kid was in the boy’s bathroom. Remus had led Dee to the poor boy. He decided to follow Remus’s wishes and let the boy join their group. Virgil agreed, so they were a trio from then on. They spent time together talking shit about the popular kids and plotting public humiliation for them. It was the best fun any misfit could have really. However, their plans quickly turned into revenge when Roman, egged on by his “friends”, shoved Remus in a locker. Deceit picked the locker open to find Remus pale, shaking and unusually quiet. They all quickly agreed to make the popular kids lives hell once high school started. Sure, Dee handled most of the revenge (planting drugs in lockers, framing cheating, etc) but it was a group effort. Watching popular kid after popular kid get expelled, sent to prison or disowned had the trio raise a red solo cup of booze to victory. Now it was on to target Roman. That’s when the bastard had a change of heart. Roman finally snapped out of the need of being the popular kid and as he did with poor Virgil, broke ties with them. He called them out for the peer pressuring and told them he would rather try to be a better person with no friends than be a villain and have many of them. Most of the lunchroom clapped. The small group didn’t. In fact, Deceit wanted to throw up. It was truly disgusting the amount of bullshit Roman spewed out. Like hell he was going to be a better person. Remus left a dent in the metal lunch table when he slammed down his fist in rage. Soon everything fell apart, because Roman was telling the truth. He wrote apology letters to everyone he’s hurt, joined theater and developed his own personality, or at least shown the personality he was “forced” to hide. What’s worse is Virgil started to believe him. Roman handed Virgil a literal fucking apology essay and begged for forgiveness. “I-I know I’ve hurt you beyond the point of fixing our relationship. It was stupid to do that to you when you were my best friend! Its fine if you never forgive me, but I will always regret hurting you and not treating you like a friend.” Roman looked like he was going to burst into tears. Virgil’s eyes were wide. Deceit growled. “Don’t listen to him. He’s lying, as usual;. You should burn his apology.” Deceit said, staring at the pathetic brother. Before Virgil or Roman could speak, Remus acted. He punched Roman in the gut HARD. When Roman doubled over, they left. Virgil followed, but Deceit saw his hesitation.

One day, Virgil came to Deceit’s home where he lived alone. He was obviously uncomfortable. “I read the apology.” He said. “Was it as fake as we thought?” Deceit asked with a laugh. Virgil didn’t laugh. He swallowed thickly. “No. In fact, I realized something.” The look Virgil gave Deceit still haunts him in his dreams.

“I’m no better than him. In fact, we’ve been in the same boat.” Deceit rolled his eyes. “Virgil you sound ridiculo-“ “No, I don’t. I realize we both are the same! We’ve been manipulated to do the opposite of what we’ve wanted to do, all for the sake of a fake friendship! I’ve helped you get people sent to prison for fucks sake!” Virgil almost shouted.

Deceit snapped.

“Watch your fucking mouth Petrov. You forget what we’ve done for you. Without us, you’d be nothing!” “No, with you and Remus, all I am is nothing! I’ve been a fucking tool all this time! You’ve never cared for me at all!”

Both Virgil and Deceit stood up. Deceit clenched his fist to prevent him from decking Virgil. And by the look Virgil was giving him, Virgil was silently daring him to do it. “If Roman is trying to be a better person, then maybe its time for me to try as well. I don’t care if I’m alone. At least I won’t be fake like you.”

Deceit was about to punch Virgil when the door burst in. It was Remus. He looked..disturbed. His grin was WAY too wide and tears were falling. There was something wrong, horribly wrong. Virgil backed up towards the back door, like he knew something was about to happen. “Remus what the f-“ “I killed Roman.” Deceit’s hand fell to his side as he stared at Remus in shock. He knew Remus was crazy but- “H-He tried apologizing, so I grabbed mama’s cast iron and just-“ Remus make the violent motion of hitting someone over the head with an object. He chuckled and sobbed. “I blacked out and woke up here! I-I killed him! I killed my own brother!!” Remus said hysterically. It was at that moment Virgil bolted. Remus’s head snapped up and started to run after the emo, most likely to leave no witnesses, but some pathetic and sentimental part of Deceit held Remus back. “Calm the fuck down!” Deceit demanded. “He’s escaping! He’s going to tell the police! Let me kill him for you!” Remus screamed as he struggled. As Deceit developed bruises and scratches from trying to restrain the crazed man, he knew Remus was right. Virgil was going to alert some kind of authority. They didn’t have time. They packed up their shit and left before Virgil had the chance to snitch. They found out Roman was alive with miraculously less damage than anyone thought. Plus, Virgil hadn’t said a word, saying he had no clue where Remus or Deceit were, but it was too late. They were gone. And that’s how they ended up in this apartment in London. This was the reason he was picking glass out of his tormented boyfriend in stewing silence. Deceit wrapped Remus’s arms, legs, hands and feet in bandages. He finally decided to ask the question that he was dying to know. “Why on Earth were you looking for Roman’s Instagram?” Remus chuckled, a little more alive now. “I was going to anonymously send him chain mail letters and links to vore porn. And crocs!” Remus admitted. “Jesus Christ Remus.” Deceit sighed. “But I saw that he’s engaged. To three people! They must have kinky sex. I didn’t know he was that desperate for cock. Or ass.” Deceit blinked. Three people, with Roman? What poor, gullible people decided to stick Roman? Di “Is it Virgil?” he asked. “Eh one of them is. Another is like, a sexy teacher looking guy who’d I’d let spank me with a ruler and the other is this chubby guy I’d think would have very squishy insides. I’d like to make a onesie out of him. I’d cuddle with you by a fireplace and drink wine with you wearing that.” Remus said with a grin Deceit chuckled slightly. Most people find Remus disturbing but not him. He found Remus childish and just misunderstood. It was endearing, borderline charming. Remus grinned brighter at the chuckle, but then his face was pained once more. “I just got in my head again. I hate him and I wish even to this day I could finish the job! And yet-“

Remus let out a shaky sigh. Deceit stood up and led his boyfriend to their bedroom. Stage three was comfort and reassurance, so Deceit eased Remus onto their bed and went over to their dresser. On it was the terrarium Jekyll and Hyde lived in. The snake immediately tried to slide up Deceit’s arm. Deceit held his arm up and one of the snake’s heads flicked its tongue out, tickling Deceit’s cheek. He walked back over to the bed and sat next to Remus, letting the snake slither and get comfortable on Remus. Remus giggled as the snake’s tongue flickered against his neck. “Aw they’re giving me kisses!”

“They’re not concerned about you. They just think you smell bad.” Deceit said. “We have the best sons. I love them so much.” Remus sighed as he snuggled the duo headed snake. Deceit smiled softly. Within minutes, he, Remus and their “sons” were cuddling. Remus turned his head to Deceit and looked at him with a soft kind of look that was always only for him. “Thank you.” He said. “It’s no problem.” Deceit responded. Remus looked at the ceiling. “I just…miss home sometimes. Yes, even Roman, even though I want to send him to hell. I miss causing trouble with Virgil. Making him terrified of his shadow. Watching him shrink away when I flirted with him.” Deceit listened carefully, stroking Remus’s messy hair with careful fingers. He listened about the places they’d hang out at back home, like the abandoned strip mall or the playground at night. Remus chattered about the alleyways that had the best dumpsters to dive in and the convenience store bagged pickles that always smelled funny. How back then Deceit easily snuck into liquor stores and bars and somehow always got them free drinks. Then Remus closed his eyes and his voice grew shaky. “I miss mama. I miss her hugs, her food, her songs when she’d clean, when she’d yell at me for stabbing birds with sharpened sticks. W-When she would try to make me bring you to our house cause you were “too skinny”. But she always looked at me differently than Roman. I-I just don’t know what I did wrong for them to hate me. What did I do?”

“She loved you, I think. Just not the way you needed. She was too focused on reforming you to society’s unrealistic standards, she didn’t take time to understand that there’s nothing wrong with you. That you just have an enhanced view on reality that cowards are too blind to see.” Deceit answered. So, there they lay, Deceit whispering reassurances and Remus giving him and their “Sons” kisses and affection. This was just another day in their hellish life but, they had each other.

“Weddings suck anyways. You just watch a princess and a butler shove cake into each other’s mouths and say how much they love each other even though they’ll most likely hate each other in ten years.” Remus grinned the dangerous smile that didn’t make Deceit’s chest feel warm and his cheeks flush. “The only release they get is when death does them part!” Deceit laughed loudly. That was true! “Virgil’s made a huge mistake. I hope he’s happy when he dies.” Remus said. “Probably not. He’s never happy.” Deceit hummed. “No one will be happy in all honesty.” Remus agreed.

Deceit’s life is rough. He’s a bartender for snobs and an informant for the criminal underworld. He lives in an apartment with knives and spoons in the walls and glass on the floor. He has a boyfriend who has violent meltdowns and who destroys their home on some days, and others just does the oddest things. They have a freak of nature snake as their only family members. And you know what? It was perfect.

Remus turned over with a smirk and pulled Deceit closer to him.

“Lets have some comfort fucking Dee.”

Deceit sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Dammit Remus.”