#it doesn’t sound as good as i want it to but i need to stop being hard on myseld

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.

[unluckilyimnot]

Playing with their hair – aether, kinich, wanderer, rin, sae, sakura

note: i'm just in love with aether and kinich recently and i needed to write something with aether's hair so why not had some of my fav characters along with them. that's probably not really good but i guess it's cute. ooc

m.list | rules

Aether is used to your hands suddenly laying on his hair, running through them when you walk behind him – it’s like an urge, you just have to. You stopped on your track, bowing to kiss his head, inhaling his shampoo a little and hummed at the sweet scent.

“You took my shampoo again,” you mentioned, not in a warning way, more like you appreciate it. He nodded lightly, delighting himself from the feeling of your hands still running through his hair, scratching his scalp a little before kissing it again.

Sensing that you’re about to go away, his hands take yours gently and his head bent down to look up at you. “Already leaving ? We can both take a break…” he said, subtly implying you to not stop yet, making you giggle.

“Sure, we can.”

That’s basically how he ended up sitting on the floor between your thighs, watching a movie while you brush his hair for him, kindly letting your fingers run down his beautifully long hair – trying small, low buns to one high ponytail.

“Having fun ?” You can hear the smile in his voice, amused as always when he let you enjoy his hair more than he does.

“Always.” you said while kissing his nose from above, hiding the tv from his sight for a mere second but he still whines at you for doing so. Such a crybaby.

Kinich sighs as he feels your hands examining his hair again. “Would you stop doing that ?”

He knows you’re not doing this to annoy him, yet it always kind of stresses him to picture you scanning his scalp without any invitation to do so. He also knows that you don’t care about what he says, continuing to play with his hair while you swipe away some dandruff here and there.

“What’s the matter,” you talked back, seemingly frustrated. “You never say anything when it’s to help you fall asleep.” you argued, feeling really satisfied when he doesn’t find anything to say after that. It for sure helps a lot, he can’t argue with that, but he really hoped you could realize that it works all the time and not only when he wants it to – which means he was getting sleepy, slightly closing his eyes while he still had a lot to do.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips before he could hold it in and you hummed teasingly. Your hands moved from his head to his chest, your arms caging him against you and you laid your head on top of his. “Tired already ?”

“Shut it.” he sounded harsh but he still rested against your chest as well, feeling at peace being so close to you. He wasn’t really tired but if you let him, Kinich would for sure appreciate some quality time with his head in your chest and your hands in his hair. Not that he’ll say it to you.

Wanderer honestly never mind when you ask him if you can play with his hair, he’s usually already busy and not moving so someone touching his hair while studying doesn’t change much for him. He won’t say that it doesn’t make it easy to concentrate since he, sometimes, tends to focus on this more than on the words written in front of him but he still appreciates how peaceful it makes him feel when he’s particularly worried or stressed.

Your hand running through his short strands of hair takes him somewhere else where he doesn’t need to worry as much, he likes it, even if he would never be physically capable of telling you.

“You’re braiding it ?” he asks, half absent in his question – he just wanted to confirm the feeling of your fingers brushing past his cheeks repeatedly. You hummed softly in response, leaving the braid dying the second you let it go since his hair was too short to handle it. It doesn’t discourage you though, and before he can ask what you’ll do next, he can already feel your steady movement back to the same scheme and a soft chuckle left his lips.

“You want me to stop ?” you asked under your breath, probably still concentrated on what you were doing but still caught his sigh.

“No, it’s fine. Go on.” he assured before stepping back again into his study, more than relaxing by this short break.

Rin loves movie dates to his core, but it always gets him when you start touching his hair in the middle of the movie. It's like he's never getting used to it and he's jolting a bit every single time, making you chuckle. But you always kiss his head as an excuse after.��

There's something relaxing when your fingers start to twirl around his short hair, making him wonder who appreciates it the most between you and him. Because he for sure loves it. 

His mind drifts away easily despite himself and how badly he wants to follow the movie. He always finds some way to lean into you, craving for more like a cat and more often than not, he ends up laying on top of you. 

“Don't fall asleep this time Rin,” you joke while scratching his head playfully. He simply nodded, absorbed in the movie more than you gave him credit for. He just didn't want you to stop.

Sae hates it when he feels your hands finding his hair in the middle of the day. He spends quite some time styling his hair in the morning, even if it doesn’t look like it, and you being nearby automatically becomes a danger for that.

Not that he doesn’t like you touching his hair, he’s fond of it, he wishes he could die with you touching his hair, but not during the day. So as soon as he feels it, he immediately gets up and warns you. “Please don’t.”

But he knows it can't be helped and soon your lips meet his, kissing him sweetly – your successful way to distract him – so you can end up with your hands reaching the hair in his neck. Twirling your fingers around it, pulling ever so slightly to annoy him but he still lets you. Not without a sigh against your lips, but he knows damn well he can't hold you back when you're determined to do something. 

He wishes he could keep his hair pretty for the day at least once in a while but he can't blame you ; both of you like it very much. He can forget his image for yet another day if that means he can appreciate the relaxing feint of your fingernails on his scalp. Even if lately it's starting to be everyday, he won't mention it – or not seriously. 

Your smile is more precious than some good hair day. 

Sakura still isn't used to you touching his hair, he hasn't been used to gentle gestures in his life before coming here  –  especially regarding his looks. The second your hands find his hair, he flinches by reflex even if he knows that it’s only you around him. He doesn’t turn you down anymore though since you always let him know how you love his hair, for the color or the fluffiness ; it’s just the best thing in the word and it got to be your boyfriend’s hair. You must be blessed. 

You still try not to frighten him too much, and start by touching his shoulders then going up to his neck and finally the hair in the nape of it. Twirling it lightly with your fingers and you’re sure to catch him snapping his head to you with a blush. 

“What are you doing ?!” he asked as always, flustered but not telling you to stop anyway which made you smile sweetly. 

“I’m playing with your hair ? You want me to stop ?” you tilted your head to the side, trying to act cute and confused so he doesn’t have the heart to tell you no. And with a resigned look but his brows still frowned, he compiled without adding anything.It’s a win, once again. 

You then slowly but surely brush through all his hair, tossing it one side to another, mixing the two colors together then separating it again like a puzzle. That’s something you grew to love, separating his hair for him and that’s also your best excuse to touch it even when there’s people around. Even if he’s not fond of it.

He tends to lay a bit in your hand when you do so, or when you stop your hand in his hair, quietly liking the feeling now that you’ve given him some time. Not that he’ll say it to you, never, but he doesn’t need to for you to know. It’s just like you to notice how he relaxes around you and when you do it. There’s a small smile on your lips when he tries to catch your eyes but looks away instantly, blushing again, and it makes you wonder when he’ll stop blushing around you. 

“You’re cute, Haruka,” you said, brushing away his bang to kiss his forehead. And without a second of hesitation – when in fact yes, but you tried to ignore it –  he was arguing with you about how he is NOT cute, simply proving your point again and again.

Let me know if you like it !

[the-goo-goo-muck]

NOW PLAYING

BREAKFAST, LUNCH, & DINNER

Starring: Choso Kamo, Kento Nanami, Kiyotaka Ijichi, Sukuna Ryomen, Toji Fushiguro

Warnings! oral (f receiving), overstimulation, praise, face-sitting, fingering, male masturbation, ass-play, degradation

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Choso Kamo: Determined <3

Choso maybe does a little bit too much research. He’s heard that some women don’t necessarily like getting head as much as other things. He can’t fathom this because you sucking his dick is about the most pleasurable thing he can think of besides being stuffed inside your cunt. Regardless, he wants to do his very best to make sure this is as pleasurable for you as it is for him; he’s just so concerned he’ll do a bad job. & it makes no difference how much you assure him that “you don’t have to if you don’t want to, sweetie,” & that even if he does do a bad job, you won’t be upset. No, that only encourages him that he needs to make this as good as possible. So when he finally makes up his mind, he’ll let you know as straightforward as usual, probably a text that has you choking on your coffee at 10:00am: “I want to eat you out tonight Y/N.” Straight to the point, as usual. & of course you’re excited, but a swirl of nervousness begins coiling in your stomach. Last time he had his head between your thighs, he was there for hours. 

He doesn’t like it when you talk, especially coherently, that means he’s not doing his job. “Faster? But when I go faster with my cock you cry. . .” “It feels good right, baby? Am I doing good?” “Shhh, s’okay, know you can cum for me again, pretty girl, don’t you wanna cum? I love it when you cum on my tongue, just for me.”

He tries to praise you, mimic the sweet things you say to him when you’re jerking him off or riding his cock, but he’s almost as fucked out as you are, & the praise never seems to sound as good spilling from his lips as it does from yours—at least, that’s what he thinks. But his soft spoken, sweet words cause your cunt to pulse against his tongue, so he tries for you anyways; tries anything, because if it gets you off, makes you feel even a fraction as good as you make him feel, he’s more than willing to do it!

He’s the type to eat you out until he loses track of time, cumming in his own pants once or twice, he doesn’t even need to put his cock in you. & it isn’t until you’re cross-eyed, sweaty, voice hoarse, & crying for him that he even considers stopping. “Did it feel good?” If you had any energy, you’d smack him upside the head. 

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Kento Nanami: Generous <3

If you were to ask Nanami what his favorite thing to do in bed was, it would be–hands-down, without a doubt, easily—eating you out. Of course, he’s a service top until the day he dies, but it’s more than that; he genuinely derives pleasure from making you feel good. After a long day of work, he comes home exhausted, bags under his eyes, muscles sore, & you’re thinking what you could do to make him feel better: a nice shower, a massage, & maybe—if he’d let you—sucking his dick. You’re pretty pleased with yourself about this little plan until you’ve got him in the bedroom, heading to the bathroom to turn on the shower & he’s tugging on your arm, pulling you down on the bed & wordlessly working off your pants. 

“Kento? Don’t you wanna shower first?” 

He shakes his head, “need to taste you, sweetheart, need it.” 

He hooks his arms under your knees, pulling your legs up & over his broad shoulders, making himself comfortable, in for the long haul.

His favorite is when you’ve sat down on him, hands gripping the headboard, mindlessly grinding against his face, chasing your own pleasure, head empty.  You feel bad sometimes, sitting on his face, or grinding your cunt against him, squeezing your thighs around his head, pulling his hair, but if anything, this adds to his enjoyment of it. He could sit with his head between your legs for as long as you’ll let him, & you always let him because he’s just so damn good at it; you don’t have to tell him what you want, what you need, because he already knows. 

He sticks his tongue into your tight hole, relishing, moaning at the way it spasms around it, working a finger in alongside it, curling it up to that special spot that has you throwing your head back & whining his name. Sucking on your clit, almost meanly because he knows, he knows, how overstimulated you are, how it hurts so good. 

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Kiyotaka Ijichi: Desperate <3

“You-you taste so good, pretty girl, s’good, please, n-no, don’t gotta run from it,” he whines as you attempt to rock your hips up off the bed, obviously grinding his hips onto the bed, hoping you won’t notice. He’s just so eager, he needs you to cum against his face just one more time. He’s whining like a poor puppy when you pull on his hair. Pathetic moans fill the air, & you’re losing it because there’s no technique, no method to the madness, just pure, sheer, utter desperation. & he’s apologizing into your soaking cunt as he ruts into the bed through his orgasm, potentially gaining more pleasure from this than you. It was always so easy to make Kiyotaka feel good, just your moans of “more, more, so good, Kiyo” had him whining into your pussy, palming his sore dick through his boxers. 

What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in eagerness; eager is the perfect word for the way Kiyotaka eats you, tongue lying flat over & over on your slit, tongue slipping in & out of your puckering hole, thumb circling your clit constantly, overwhelming your poor cunt. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sukuna Ryomen: Aloof <3

It was rare that Sukuna ate you out, not because he doesn’t like it, don’t get it twisted, but it’s so vulnerable of him, & he can’t fully control himself when he’s between your legs. He’s contrastingly gently, savoring every inch of you, alternating between sucking on your thighs, teasing you to no end, & assaulting your clit with his tongue & his fingers. He loves to have your hips in his hands, manhandling you how he wants, fingertips leaving bruises on your waist, growling when you whine out, “w-wait ‘Kuna, s’too much,” because “Isn’t this what you wanted in the first place?” 

Maybe you had wanted this, but you hadn’t expected him to go on for so long. You couldn’t remember a time when you’d seen Sukuna have any form of patience, barely even prepping you before bullying his cocks into you, but here he was, taking his time with you, not even worried about his own pleasure, too enchanted by your honeyed pussy, just begging for him. 

He’ll never tell you this, but his favorite time to eat you out is when you’re on your period; he’ll disguise it by saying that it makes your scent stronger, but really he just wants to ease your pain & make you feel better.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Toji Fushiguro: Rug Muncher <3

God, he’s an asshole. Don’t get it wrong, he loves eating that sweet cunt of yours, but he also loves nothing more than teasing you. He’s got you on your knees, upper body resting on the sheets, pressing the chastest of kisses on your thighs, your folds, hands slowly gripping your ass, spreading it open for him, swirling his tongue around your puckered hole just above your pussy, pushing a finger in even though he knows you’re cunt is aching for him. He’ll get there. . .eventually. 

“Nghh—n-no, Toji, n-not there,” you whine, trying to pull away from his finger, but he just pushes it in deeper. 

“Not there? Where d’ya want in then, princess?” & fuck it, he knows where you want it, but he just can’t get over how perfect you are like this: needy, desperate, unabashed. You’re not afraid to beg for what you want. But he doesn’t give you time to ask. “You sure you aren’t just pretending not to like it? ‘Cause your pussy clenches every time I put my finger in here.” He laughs meanly, but then he’s sticking his tongue in your pussy, licking fat stripes front to back, spitting on it, shaking his head all up in it. Toji likes it when you give him messy head, & so of course he likes to return the favor.

You’re reaching down to rub your clit while he’s taking his sweet time getting you off & then he’s swatting your hand away because you’re gonna take what he gives you or get nothing at all.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

no, your honor, i don't believe in writing ooc headcanons. . .

LOOKING FOR SOME MORE? MASTERLIST <3

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING SPECIFIC? ASK <3

[honeyhoneypp]

Think Only About Me

Things One Piece men would say during sex

You felt so good, they loved your face filled with pleasure and loved your naked curves, everything was so perfect. They couldn't stop themselves from letting you know how good they felt.

NSFW!!!

Female pronouns! degradation + praise kink

==================================

L U F F Y

He’s always loud, he doesn’t care if someone hears him or not, he is not even thinking about that right now, all he’s thinking about is how good you're making him feel.

He would be honest with his words, he always asks you how you're doing because he wants you to feel good, but sometimes he could be rude with his words, you just have to tell him so he could do better next time.

==================================

��Shit… It feels so good, keep going, don't stop.”

“Want me to make it bigger, pretty girl?”

“A-Agh, ____… Are you sure you want me to make it bigger?”

“You’re… Ah- So damn wet”

“Please… Do that again… It’s called squirt, right? Please squirt again for me”

“Your ass looks so delicious from here”

“Yeah… Just like that, this feels okay with ya’?”

“Don’t cry, you said you could take it. Don't be a crybaby now”

“What is this bump on your tummy?”

“Oh, this is my cock? Shishi that’s so funny”

“Keep saying my name like that… I don't know why it feels so good when you say my name”

“____… I-I’m so close to cumming, wanna cum inside of you”

“It feels so tight”

“Oh, fuck. Huh? They're going to hear us? So what?”

“Y-You’re making me feel so good... I feel like I'll cum already”

“You look so beautiful... Makes me wanna cum…”

“I-I don’t know why you’re making me feel this way”

“Aw. Cmon pretty girl, don't put your hands on your mouth, wanna hear you, it makes me feel good and it's funny when you sound like that”

Nicknames he would call you

Pretty girl (I don’t see Luffy calling you something else other than your name or pretty girl)

Z O R O

He isn't that loud, he only whispers since he doesn't want any of his crewmates to know that he’s making love to you, that would be embarrassing for him, I mean he should be focused on other things, not on this!

Of course, he loves the noises you make, but sometimes you're too loud. He is kind of more on the sadistic side meaning he can be rude a lot of times with his words…

==================================

“Fuck… this tight ass pussy is killing me”

“Shhh, they'll hear you”

“Shut the hell up!”

“I told you to be quiet… you don’t want me to be mean with you, right?”

“How can you be so wet already?”

“You look so nasty, I like it”

“I’ll make you feel so good”

“You don't tell me what to fucking do”

“Are you that starved for my cock?”

“You need to shut your damn mouth or they’ll hear us!”

“You like it when I talk to you this way? You’re such a damn freak”

“Fuck… fuck… fuck… my beautiful woman…”

“Look at you, doll. You look so beautiful and cock hungry”

“Cmon, you can take my whole cock, right?”

“Yes… you can, take everything like a good girl”

“Mhmm… you’re such a slut… such a slut for my cock”

“You want me to pull your hair? You damn pervert”

Nicknames he would call you

Slut

Good girl

Woman

Babydoll

Pervert

Doll

S A N J I

He is another one that doesn’t care if his crewmates hear him. In fact, he wants his crewmates to hear how good you’re making him feel or how good he’s making you feel because he’s a freak and a whore.

He loves it when you treat him like a dog, he loves to beg you so you can make him feel good, but he can also be on the dominant side if you ask him to. He's so sweet with his words, he’s always telling you how beautiful you look

==================================

“____, p-please don't stop… I'm so close”

“My love, your boobs look so beautiful”

“Y-Yes, ____, I’ll do anything”

“Just please let me cum”

“You want me to go faster?”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so tight it's killing me”

“How does that feel? D-Does this feel okay with you? You like that, sweetheart?”

“A-Ah, shit… You are taking me so well, my love, good job, sweetheart”

“Please keep saying my name… I-I feel like I'm about to cum”

“Don’t hold yourself back, sweetie… Please cum on my cock… please give it to me”

“You look so beautiful when you’re bouncing on my cock”

“Y-You want to take my whole cock? Are you sure?”

“Fuck- good job, my love. You’re making me feel so good”

“____, please do whatever you want to me… yes! Just like that!”

“Want me to go faster, pretty girl?”

“L-Let me eat your pussy, please, I beg you”

“My love, don’t hold yourself back… I want to hear your beautiful moans”

“Doesn’t matter if they can hear us.”

Nicknames he would call you

Pretty girl

Sweetie

Sweetheart

My love

Princess

Angel

==================================

Please let me know if I made spelling mistakes, some things don’t make sense or got their personality wrong!

[icallhimjoey]

supreme leader, would you ever write a sequel to ‘ground rules’ where our baby with joe is here and it’s just a cutesy dad!joe moment? (also wouldn’t be opposed to some smutty times as well bc i just can’t go past gotta-be-quiet-cause-the-baby’s-sleeping-but-fuck-i-want-you-right-now-new-parent-smut) heart you, as always!!

we're switching gears, everyone! sorry for the whiplash! Wordcount: 3K

---

Only Have Eyes For You

(read Ground Rules here)

Joe has yet to stop staring at her.

It’s either eyes on her, or eyes on you, and even though you’re gorgeous and make his chest swell beyond what he thought his ribs could ever manage, looking at her is different.

New.

“Will you keep an eye on her?”

“Yea, of course I will. Go get some rest, please, baby.”

It’s been over an hour, and he still needs to raise a thumb up to wipe a tear from an inner corner about every thirty seconds. For several reasons, too.

It’s been five hours since you’ve given birth, and both sets of grandparents – grandparents, that sounds so fucking wild – have left evidence of their visit all over the room. There’s balloons, cards, flowers, bags with gifts in for you and for the newborn baby girl and Joe feels like they brought too much and too little. Were there for too long but left too soon. Should’ve been there right after instead of two hours later, but also maybe should’ve come to meet the baby tomorrow instead of today.

He wants to protect and hide this little girl from the world, but also needs everyone to see how gorgeous she is.

Five-hour old baby, fast asleep in her clear plastic bed that’s been placed right next to your hospital bed where you’re asleep even faster.   

He’s got no idea how much sleep he’s gotten over this weekend. Doesn’t care, either. Just knows that he’s staring at perfection no matter which way he turns, and that the small of his lower back aches because he’s been sitting in his chair weird, but this is the only way he can both touch you and see her little face.

Her perfect little face.

Joe’s got a hand around your ankle as you lie passed out in your hospital bed, finally in what seems to be a deeper sleep rather than just a quick nap, and he wishes you could stay like that for at least the next ten hours. He knows it doesn’t work like that with a newborn, and you’re obviously in a hospital which doesn’t help, but God, you deserve to sleep for a fucking lifetime.

Everything that surrounds you looks and sounds normal, so he guesses your blood pressure must be okay, but he keeps his ears pricked, just to be sure.

The birth was a long one. Almost everything you had tried preparing for hadn’t happened in the way you’d expected, which is what everyone kept telling you was going to happen, but it was still frustrating. It did however feel very fitting with how the two of you had even gotten together.

It was a good thing you managed to pull through most of the labour with humour.

Doctors and nurses had started making jokes of you becoming permanent residents when your dilation had halted at six centimeters for ages, and in return, you had started making jokes that they were going to have to start knocking before coming in, because you knew of a way to induce the labour that Joe would feel more comfortable about if he had some privacy.

“No, no, I do not–” Joe had immediately protested the first time you’d cracked the joke, and the lack of laughter coming from him plus your weird eyebrow wiggle had only made the nurses laugh louder.

“Sorry to inform you,” the doctor said in the middle of giving you another check. “But having sex will not cause labour to begin before your body is ready for delivery.”

“It won’t?” You’d acted all heartbroken. Made Joe mutter, “Jesus Christ!” under his breath, because, you were six centimeters dilated for fuck’s sake. Of course he wasn’t going to have sex with you.

“We’re still not in labour, are we?” the doctor said, insinuating that he thought you had probably tried it at home already.

“Ask him how many times we’ve had sex...” you’d challenged immediately, making Joe groan from the corner of the room where he was sort of pacing around, facing the wall more than the room, because there was another man with fingers deep inside of your vagina, talking to you about sex.

“Can we please focus on—” Joe started, equally as embarrassed as he was humoured by you.

“Once.” You answered your own question and gestured at your stomach. “One time! All it took!”

It had become a running joke between the two of you that Joe didn’t think you were going to involve so many other people in. Joe had gotten you pregnant and then hadn’t touched you since.

Not true. There had been plenty of touching. But you were super pregnant when you’d gotten together and it never felt right for Joe to insert parts of himself into parts of you that felt like they belonged to a whole different person for the time being.

Which actually made a lot of sense to you.

It was just unfortunate that hormones had made you super horny for half the pregnancy.

Hence why it had become a running joke.

One that really annoyed Joe. You were lucky that he loved to hear you laugh and to see you smile so much.

When the two of you were left alone again, Joe scolded you through a smile and pressed kisses to your temple, because you were being funny and entertaining even though you’d just gotten bad news. Again.

Joe lovingly touched your stomach, and pressed his cheek to yours as he looked down at it and said, “You’ve made it too nice in there. She doesn’t want to come out.”

“Remember when we were like, let’s do this as friends...” you joked, but Joe could hardly focus on your light tone of voice when you grabbed hold of his bicep with a strong grip.

“Idiots.” Joe commented, finding your hand and covering it with his.

“I think we would’ve been able to do it, but—”

“You think so?”

“Yea. I was very determined. But, this is nicer.” You smiled and made eye-contact with Joe. He was quick with a tissue, to dab at your wet eyes. He’d learnt to be ready for every and any emotion over the past few days; everything and anything could bring you to tears.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it.” Joe said, smiling too. “I was already sort of head over heels if I’m honest. You were determined for two, I think.”

That had made you burst into actual sobs.

The last hour of giving birth, you’d cried non-stop. A weird silent steady leaking of water from your eyes as you struggled through the delivery. Joe guessed it was the pain – had to be, because, what the fuck was even going on? How the fuck had nature decided that this was meant to be normal? But then finally, when soft baby cries filled the room, one of the nurses said, “You’re there, you’re done. Relax, we’ll take it from here.” He’d realized then that it they were tears of exhaustion over anything else.

You’d been going for hours, and then your blood pressure did something funny after the placenta got removed, so now they wanted to keep you for a bit, which was scary. But going home with a newborn sounded even scarier, if he was honest... so he wasn’t going to complain about how uncomfortable his chair was.

Or how tired he felt.

He’d been going for hours too, but his tired was different from your tired. He could feel it in his bones, sure, but it was easy to keep his eyes open. Easy to keep staring at her. Easy to do jobs whenever someone asked him to do one.

“Mum’s done. Now, dad, come here. Pay attention.” 

And he has not been able to stop paying attention yet. He’s listening to your breathing, paying close attention to the rhythm because you’re the priority after all that’s happened. Yet he can’t keep his eyes off of his baby.

There’s a baby next to your bed.

The one he watched you gave birth to.

Your baby.

His baby.

He thumbs another tear from the corner of his eye before it leaves a wet trail down his face and uses his sleeve to dry both his eyes as he pushes his nose into his elbow for a second, not letting go of your ankle.

Life is ridiculous.

He still feels emotional over seeing you scream and cry, in pain and all sweaty. You’d performed a miracle, but it was no fun to witness how difficult the whole thing was on you. Had he not already convinced you to be with him, he would have started that quest today and would’ve likely never stopped.

When he blinks his eyes back into focus, it’s to you stirring in the white sheets of your hospital bed.

He freezes.

Maybe if he holds his breath and doesn’t make a single noise, you won’t wake up. He’s not sure how easy it’ll be to fall back asleep if you pull from your unconscious state completely. He wasn’t there when it happened – had gotten hauled off to help wash and dress his baby (the tiniest clothes he’d ever seen still too big on her, he was pouring tears as he tried to put the socks on and hated how you weren’t there to see it) – but he was informed that you lost a lot of blood and needed a lot of stitching.

After going through all of that, you’d needed stitching.

Your baby had been taken to get cleaned up, and you’d told Joe to go with her. To watch her. To stay with her and to not lose her out of his sight.

He’d listened.

Knew better than to tell you no.

But then you were left on your own, and you’d needed stitching.

You can’t move without wincing now, and Joe could probably jog home if he really wanted to. How is that fair?

Joe holds his breath, and watches you stretch your spine in your sleep before you relax again.

But then suddenly, your slow movements turn jumpy as you jolt awake with a gasp. It makes Joe jump almost just as much, and he narrowly avoids your knee to his face.

He watches you wince in pain, clearly uncomfortable, but then you immediately sink back into the mattress when your eyes find the clear plastic baby bed that holds your child, and you release a relieved breath.

“My God,” Joe whispers, already humoured by what just happened. “She’s still here, calm down.”

“Sorry,” you croak, curling a hand around the edge of the hard plastic and Joe watches your knuckles go white.

“You okay?” Joe’s already up on his feet, hand on your face to wipe your hair back.

With your eyes still closed and head slumped to the side, you softly answer, “Hmm. My vagina hurts.”

“Yea, of course.” Joe nods, unable to look at you without all the sympathy in the world displayed on his forehead. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“I need to pee, but I don’t want to. It’s already burning.”

“I’ll go get someone.”

“Please.”

Joe gets a nurse in, and he helps you get out of the bed before you’re helped over to the toilet. Not before you tell Joe to watch her. Watch the baby.

“I’ll keep an eye,” Joe says, because he’s already found it’s his new favourite thing to do. To stare at her. “Go pee.”

The door to the bathroom is left open, and Joe listens to your conversation as he does as he’s told.

It’s a lot of, “Careful, mum. Careful. Slow movements.” coming from her, and a lot of hissing in between your teeth from you. A lot of, “Is this normal?” questions coming from you, and a lot of “If you feel this, it’s probably for this reason, which is totally normal.” answers from the nurse.

Joe gets the room and the fresh new little person all to himself for a second, and he leans all the way over your bed, feet still on the floor, his head resting in both hands as he slowly blinks at what you’ve created together.

He can’t get over how you’ve made this.

Two people have just gone and accidentally made a whole new person... it’s legitimately insane, Joe thinks.

The peeing takes longer than Joe thought it would take. He doesn’t blame you for taking your time, but he hopes that you figure out how to do it without being in pain or needing any help before you get to go home.

Joe hears a shocked gasp coming from you before you softly ask, “That’s a lot of blood. Is that a lot of blood?” followed by a toilet flushing and a reassuring, “Absolutely totally normal. Don’t worry.”

Baby is still asleep. Soundly and so peacefully, small tiny nose doing a perfect job at breathing, Joe’s already so proud of her it’s stupid.

“Well done, mum! First bathroom visit!” the nurse claps her hands together and laughs when you give a sarcastic yay in faux celebration.

You’re miserable, but Joe can hear your smile through everything and it makes his heart swell even more with pride. For you. For urinating. He’s proud because you peed, what the hell.

He shares his first secret smile with his daughter. “Mummy peed!”

You get helped back into your underwear and joggers, and Joe lets his view distract him enough that he almost doesn’t hear what you ask just before you step back into the room.

“Six weeks before sex, right?”

You’re joking, but Joe hears the serious confusion when the nurse asks, “Oh, have you not been talked through—”

“We have. Don’t listen to her.” Joe interrupts, and when he looks over his shoulder to see you shuffle back over to the bed, he catches the cheeky smile you’re trying to hide.

Before he can say anything else about how he’ll have you wait twelve weeks if you keep bringing it up, he catches your eyes flash in pain, just from your small shuffling steps, and he’s up in an instant. Pushes himself from your bed and turns to place both hands under your arms to make sure you’re safe and supported.

You hold onto him like a lifeline and pause in place for a moment.

God, the labour is done. Can you have a single second without any uncomfortable sharp pulling down there? Jesus.

You don’t see how Joe and the nurse share a look over your shoulder. The nurse is smiling at him, and Joe gives her a tired shake of his head as he rolls his eyes, quietly communicating that the girl he’s chosen to have a baby with is an actual menace.

“Maybe eight weeks?” Joe carefully jokes, hoping it’ll get you to laugh and forget about how sore you’re feeling for a second. Instead you just sigh and go, “Yea, maybe.”

You’re helped back into bed by four hands, shuffle slowly into position and leave enough room for Joe to join you.

You’re sore and tired and in a weird emotional state, and it’s simply much nicer to be all of those things squeezed tightly up against him. Joe knows to curl into you with his whole body and lays an arm over your pillow for you to place your head on. It gives the both of you the perfect view of your baby.

Your baby.

You feel a flash of want for her. To have her in your arms. Against your chest. To hold and hug and keep her close. But she’s asleep and you’re not quite sure what to do when she wakes up. What if she cries and you can’t get her to stop? This is safer.

You can both just watch her.

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” the nurse says after checking a file, and you ask, “To help me feed her?”

The nurse smiles, says, “Yea sure, that too.” and leaves.

You make a funny face, confused, and look at Joe like you think she was being rude.

“To check on you.” Joe softly says, and your face drops immediately.

“Oh. Yea. But I feel fine, now.” your focus is barely on yourself. There’s this whole other brand new human to be worried about.

“Hmm. Okay. Think you can sneak a little more sleep before she’s back?”

“Probably not.” you say, but Joe sees how you close your eyes anyway. Feels how you carefully move your hips back a little to feel more of Joe against your body. Feels how you grab onto his arm and firmly press it into your stomach that’s still big and round, but all soft and squishy now.

“Can you try?” Joe whispers, lips touching the shell of your ear.

“Will you watch her?” you’re already sinking away. Joe’s body heat is pulling you under quicker than he’d anticipated.

“Of course I will,” Joe says, but lies, and watches you for a moment instead. You’re his priority. Thinks it’s silly how you wouldn’t accept that if he told you. “I’ll watch her.” he confirms, not lying then, because he’s talking to his daughter as he says it.

Joe watches you until he feels you drop of the deep end. Feels you relax in a way he’s not felt you relax in ages.

After a while Joe repeats, “I’ll watch her.” in a barely-there whisper before he places a barely-there kiss against your cheek as you sleep.

His gaze moves back to the small baby girl in the room, and Joe’s eyes immediately well up again.

It’s stupid how even just the sight of her feels new and unexpected again. Like he’s seeing her for the first time once more.

And he simply finds that, once again, it’s so easy to stare.

Finds he can’t stop staring.

“Yea, I’ll keep an eye,” Joe whispers to himself. Thumbs another tear from his inner corner before it can run down his face and bother you.

“I’ll keep an eye.”

---

The Taglisted

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@everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @gri959

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@witchwolflea, @yunirgo

add yourself

[parkerluvsu]

okay wrote a request for chiropractor!art or some type of body worker!art a few nights ago very late and stoned so sorry if it was messy or phrased impolitely. if you would be so kind as to bestow some of your artistic talent upon the proposed concept, i would be very grateful, obviously no pressure or rush. please and thank you!

if you’re open to it, picture art being immediately smitten upon seeing you. you’re a little taken aback by his appearance and charm, but resolve yourself to focus on tending to your long aching body and focusing on pain management and healing to whatever capacity you may achieve.

little do you know, art is growing exponentially enamored. he was initially smitten by the way your eyes met his, your voice when you greeted him, and countless other little wonders about you.

he is the picture of professional, externally. no one needs to know he anticipates your sessions all week. schools himself into not losing his composure over the forced proximity prompted by the setting. he grows obsessed with trying to untangle and pinpoint the layers of your smell when he’s all up in your space. he’s being so normal about pushing up your legs as far back as they can go, slowly gaining more and more ground. he definitely doesn’t think about the ways he can bend and fold you right here right now, or the positions he could use his profession to help you work up to. he doesn’t feel his ethics hanging by a thread every time another lovely sound is pushed out of you. tells you to breath makes intense eye contact while coaching you through breathing in spite of overwhelming pain when addressing a tight spot. tenderly talking to you through any pain. touching every inch of you, to get to the root of any discomfort only, of course. he has immense respect for you, especially considering you’ve been carrying immense pain so gracefully for so long.

he knows he can’t date a patient but that doesn’t mean his mind can’t wander…

wonder what he thinks about… gets up to…

anyhow, thank you for entertaining this ask and full respect however you choose to engage with it or not.

thank you good sir.

holy fuck 😭😭 i mean what can i add to this perfect ask?!?!

im imagining that you didn't exactly know that your chiropractor would be a man.. i mean all your previous ones weren't, so when you walked into the clean, organized office and were met with the most gorgeous man you've ever seen.. yeah, you were a little surprised.

but you tuck those feelings deep down and try to be professional, telling him how it hurts when you raise your arm too high, and how your calves keep cramping no matter what you do. and art listens, nodding his head every once and a while and taking little notes on his clip board. but despite trying to he professional, you can't help but look away when his pretty blue eyes meet yours.

then he gets to work, telling you to lay on your stomach while he digs his thumbs into your leg muscles, and you're fighting the urge to make absolutely embarrassing sounds, but art couldn't even notice that if he wanted to.. he's in his own world, letting his hands massage and bend your legs gently, the soft skin sending him almost into a trance, sometimes interrupted by thoughts of rubbing lotion into other places on your body.. wondering if you're this soft everywhere.. wondering how far he could take this without you noticing his erection in his pants.. but art is a professional.. he wouldn't put his job on the line just to get his dick wet.. but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it..

in the next session you two have together (which art has been not so subtly preening himself for), art works on your shoulders, asking you to sit up while he presses his palms into your shoulder blades, biting his lip when you make a noise of discomfort, torn between wanting to comfort you, and wanting to hear more..

after he books your next appointment, art sends you on your way with his signature sweet smile, before shutting himself in his office and cancelling all of his appointments for the rest of the day.. definitely not because hes rubbing the sweet lotion that he always uses on you at your appointments into his hands.. groaning and spreading his legs in his chair to grant himself better access to shallowly thrust his hips into his hand.. the pink head of his cock peeking out of his fist every once and a while.. when the thought of your noises from earlier that day pop into his head.. arts a goner, shooting white rivulets onto his navy blue work pants.

cleaning himself up, art sends you an email insisting that it would be in his best interests if you would have a session with him 2 times a week.. of course just to help you feel better quicker, not because he needs more inspiration for those lonely nights alone at the office <33

[ink-perfect]

together.

during battle, zoro takes a hit for you, causing him a serious injury. when the fight ends, a heated confrontation between the two of you ignites, forcing you to confront the fear of losing him for good. (vv angsty, but i can't bear to have a sad ending so some extremely cute fluff at the end!)

the battlefield was a blur of steel and screams, the air thick with smoke and the sharp tang of blood. your body moved on instinct, every step calculated as you cut down the enemies that surrounded you. but you were getting tired - too tired. your limbs were heavy, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts. still, you pushed forward. you had to. your crew needed you.

in the chaos, you felt it before you saw it - a chill making its way down your spine. turning your head, you saw him. an enemy soldier, his eyes locked on you, his sword raised and aimed straight for your heart. you were too slow. you knew it. nobody had expected the fight to go on for this long, and you felt the last of your stamina draining, legs threatening to buckle on the spot. there was no time to block, no time to move.

you were done for.

the glint of his blade caught the light as it arced toward you, and you couldn't even find the energy to flinch. 

but before the blade could strike, something blurred in front of you - a flash of an all-too familiar green.

zoro.

his back was to you, his swords already crossed to block the enemy’s strike. the force of the blow sent sparks flying as their blades clashed, a few landing on your legs and imprinting a constellation of maroon across your skin. once again, you barely reacted, instead just adding the burns to your sprawling mental list of battle scars you had gotten in the last few hours. it was only when you mustered up the strength to look up that you realised how strong the enemy’s attack really had been. his sword had broken through zoro’s guard, slicing deep into his side.

“zoro!” you screamed, your voice breaking with panic as you watched the blood stain his shirt, bright and vivid against the chaos around you. without hesitation, he pushed the enemy back with a snarl, cutting him down with a single, vicious strike.

you stumbled toward him, your hands reaching out, but your legs gave out as soon as you moved. the adrenaline was gone, and your body was failing you. zoro was there before you hit the ground, his arms catching you, consequently taking the brunt of the fall.

“you’re...okay, i got...you...” he rasped, his voice strained but steady. his breath was hot against your ear as he pulled you close, and you could feel the tremor in his body as he struggled to stay upright.

“no,” you choked out, your hands gripping his shirt, feeling the warmth of his blood soaking through. "you’re not okay. zoro, you’re-"

“doesn’t matter.” his voice was low, rough, as he pressed his forehead against yours for the briefest second before lifting you into his arms. “you’re safe. that’s what matters.”

you wanted to argue. to scream. to cry. to kick that stupid attacker's ass. but most of all, you wanted to sleep. this urge overpowered all the former ones, and your world tilted, darkness creeping into your vision. you could acutely feel firm hands running along your back and through your hair, then elevation, and finally a slow but steady movement forward. zoro was carrying you. carrying you with a massive wound in his side. you wish you could tell him to stop, to wait, to let you carry him, but the strength and warmth of his grip made your body feel heavier by the second. the last thing you felt before slipping away was the steady rhythm of the swordsman’s heartbeat beneath your cheek, constant and comforting even as blood pooled at his side.

you woke up in a daze, your head pounding and your limbs aching. the familiar sway of the thousand sunny rocked gently beneath you, the soft creak of wood and distant sounds of the crew murmuring outside the door. but you were alone, tucked beneath a heavy blanket. the infirmary was dimly lit, the faint salty scent of the sea mingling with the sickening one of antiseptic.

suddenly, it all came rushing back - the fight, zoro stepping in front of you, the sword slicing into him. you bolted upright, body sore but heart racing. where was he? was he okay?

“zoro…?” you tried to yell, but your throat was so sore and dehydrated it came out as a silent croak. shit. you couldn’t even call for him.

before you could gather your thoughts, you heard racing footsteps and the door subsequently creaked open. zoro stepped in to fill the frame of the infirmary doorway, panting from the run down there. speak of the devil, you thought to yourself, but as you took him in, light filtering in only from behind his figure, perfectly chiseled features morphed into a face of concern, you couldn’t help but think he looked more like an angel. 

“how’d you know…i woke up?” you mumbled, still very much disoriented. he couldn't have possibly heard you.

“i didn’t,” he came over to sit at your bedside. “just had a feeling.”

you swelled at the sweetness of the coincidence, but deflated almost immediately as you caught sight of his injury. from this angle, you could clearly see his bandaged side, a massive crimson spot already formed on the gauze. the sight of him, alive and standing, had filled you with relief at first, but now you felt something else: hot, sharp anger that twisted in your chest. 

“what the hell were you thinking?” you snapped, throwing off the blanket, wincing as the cold air bit at the burn marks scattered along your thighs. you moved to swing your legs off the bed and stand up, but zoro immediately pushed you down in concern, lightly tracing around the scars with his fingertips. his eyes darted back and forth on each one, furrowed brows morphing into raised ones of guilt as he realised their source. 

“fuck,” he groaned, eyes snapping shut as soon as he felt tears lining the bottom of them. “i did this to you.”

you jerked upright, causing you to scrunch up your face in pain yet again. “what? no, that’s not why i’m mad…”

he blinked, his brow furrowing. “then what...?”

his cluelessness made the fire inside your chest burn brighter. how unaware was he?

“you could’ve died, zoro!” your voice cracked, the weight of what had happened hitting you all at once. “you took that hit so mindlessly…if you had been even a second slower-” your hands trembled as you clenched them into fists, frustration and fear boiling over.

he frowned, his arms crossing over his chest, clearly confused. “you were in danger. i wasn’t gonna just stand there and let you get hurt.”

“no, you could’ve let me handle it,” you shot back. “you can’t keep throwing yourself into the line of fire like that! it’s reckless! i mean, do you realise how that feels? knowing someone could’ve died because of you? i didn’t ask for you to put your whole life on the line for me-”

“ask? baby, the fuck do you mean by ask?” he interjected, voice sharp now, eyes narrowing. “i am never letting you take a hit. not a chance. i don’t care if you ask or not.”

you couldn’t help but admit that the pet name paired with the bold statement made you melt a little, despite the circumstances. after regaining your composure, you continued. “that’s not the point!” your chest was heaving now, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “i don’t want to lose you, zoro. don’t you get that?”

he scoffed, his tone dismissive. “you’re not gonna lose me, sweet. you should know that by now.” his lips quirked up in that cocky, familiar smirk. “i’m gonna be the world’s greatest swordsman, i can’t die before that.”

something in you snapped the moment those words left his mouth. a strangled cry tore from your throat as your fists clenched at your sides, your chest tight with frustration. "listen to me!" you shouted, louder than you intended, your voice breaking with emotion. “i don’t care about your dream, zoro. i care about you."

his eyes widened, momentarily thrown off by your statement. you didn’t care about his dream? but you didn’t stop. “why are you being so selfish?” your voice cracked with the weight of it all, tears stinging at your eyes.

his face hardened, defensive. “it’s not about being selfish-”

“then what the hell is it about?!” you cut him off, fully getting off the bed and stepping forward, your hands trembling. "you’re willing to risk your life for your dream, but have you ever thought about the fact that i need you? that the crew needs you? we’re a team - you don’t have to carry everything on your own!" your voice dropped, softer now, the anger giving way to fear. “and i don’t want to keep wondering if the next fight will be your last. keep living in fear that my incompetence could be the reason for your undoing. do you think your dream’s more important than your life? than us?”

he looked up, at your last sentence, a blind rage, similar to fire coursing through him. “are you…saying…i have to fucking pick?” his voice came out beat by beat, sharp and venomous, like the very idea of it was an insult.

your heart pounded in your chest, panic rising. "no, obviously not-" you backtracked quickly, your eyes darting to his, desperate to get him to understand what you had meant. but the matter was too far gone. his fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight.

"it’s only been a few months of us anyway," he said through gritted teeth, his voice low and far too cold. "if you can’t respect my dream, i don’t know if this can work out anymore." 

you felt like you had just been punched in the gut. you let out a massive gasp, stopping in your tracks as a numbness started to make its way through your body. what did he just say? 

your breath caught in your throat, your mind reeling, unable to comprehend the weight of his words. “this can’t work out anymore?” it felt like the ground had fallen out beneath you. you looked up at him, tears welling in your eyes, but he refused to meet your gaze.

his jaw clenched, his muscles tight with frustration, but you could see it - the way his hands shook, the storm raging behind his eyes as he fought against his pride and your words. he was hurt, too. you didn’t know how to continue anymore, so neither of you spoke for the next minute, tension in the air thick and suffocating. then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud behind him.

that night, you lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, your thoughts spinning endlessly in circles. the room was dark, but it wasn’t the kind of darkness that comforted you. it felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. the silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the ship as it drifted through the night.

your chest still ached with the weight of everything left unsaid. the words you’d both thrown at each other replayed in your mind, over and over, like a broken record. his cold tone, the harshness in his voice - it had felt so unlike him. and yet, you couldn’t stop hearing it. “if you can’t respect my dream, i don’t know if this can work out anymore.”

the pit in your stomach grew heavier. your heart twisted painfully every time you thought about it. how could he say that? your hands clenched the blanket as if holding onto it could somehow anchor you.

you couldn’t sleep. you didn’t want to sleep. the image of zoro taking that wound for you kept playing in your head - him throwing himself between you and danger without hesitation, the way his body had tensed, how he’d barely flinched even as blood poured from his side. each time the memory replayed, it sent a confusing mix of emotions through you - anger, fear, sadness, and something else. something you didn’t want to admit.

he’d saved you. but at what cost? why did he have to be so damn stubborn, always putting himself on the line without thinking about how it made you feel?

you felt torn apart by conflicting emotions, your thoughts a tangled mess. you were furious with him - for being reckless, for acting like his life didn’t matter, like your feelings didn’t matter. but at the same time, you couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at you. had you been too harsh? had you pushed him too far? you hadn’t meant to make him feel like his dream wasn’t important. of course, it was. it was everything to him.

and you hated the thought of zoro out there, alone, nursing his wound in silence. was he thinking about you? was he still mad? but this wasn’t just about his pride. this was about you two, about something bigger than just a fight. what if he meant it? what if this really was the end?

the thought sent a cold shiver through you, the possibility more terrifying than any battle you’d ever fought. your heart clenched painfully in your chest, the fear sinking in deeper now. 

you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it all out. but the harder you tried, the clearer everything became - the memory of his blood on your hands, the fear you’d felt when you thought he might be seriously hurt. and now the fear of being alone, because that was what you officially were.

“zoro…” you sobbed quietly to yourself, for what felt like the millionth time that night.

suddenly, the door creaked open, so soft you almost missed it. your body tensed, but you kept your eyes shut, your breath steady, pretending to sleep. footsteps padded quietly across the floor, and it was these that gave away the fact that it was him instantly. god, he had to stop doing that, arriving as soon as you spoke his name.

he came over to stand over you, his breathing heavy and uneven. he’d probably been training. that’s what he always did when he was angry or frustrated - push his body until the physical pain outweighed everything else.

“i know you’re mad at me,” he began to whisper, his voice rough and low, almost too quiet to hear. “but i couldn’t - i couldn’t let you get hurt.” 

there was a pause, and you could hear him sigh, the sound full of exhaustion and something else - something more vulnerable than you’d ever heard from him before.

“and i’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. he clenched his jaw. “but i’d rather die than lose you.”

your heart soared at his words, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. you wanted to move, to say something, but you stayed still, your breath caught in your throat. his words from earlier came back to haunt you, sharp and biting. “it’s only been a few months anyway.” the comment had hit you hard at the time, like he was dismissing everything between you, reducing it to something temporary. you’d felt crushed, like you didn’t mean as much to him as his dream.

but the more you thought about it, the more you realised - he hadn’t meant it like that.

zoro wasn’t someone who spoke about his feelings easily. you knew that. and when he did, it often came out wrong, guarded by his pride and that tough exterior. “months” wasn’t a measure of how little you mattered. it was the opposite. it was a measure of how little time it had taken for him to realise that you weren't something fleeting. that you weren’t just someone by his side for a few months. that you were way something more significant, so fast.

it hit you like a wave - the way he looked at you, the way he protected you without a second thought, how he stood by you not just because you were part of the crew, but because you mattered. in his world of unshakable dreams and ironclad will, you were one of the few things that could make him question himself. and that scared him.

he didn’t have to choose between his dream and you. that’s what you had been so afraid of, but now, hearing his words, you knew - he’d never been choosing between the two. you were already part of his dream. the fact that he was terrified of losing you, more than anything, was the reason behind his biting words from before.

currently, you could hear his breathing even out as he came to lay down beside you in force of habit, worn out by his own thoughts. in the silent darkness, the weight of his presence was palpable, the tension in his body easing as sleep began to claim him. just before surrendering to it completely, the memory that you were no longer together surfaced - but he didn’t leave. he couldn’t.

you turned your head slightly, your eyes tracing his slumbering silhouette. seeing him like this, unknowingly exposed to you, made the wall of anger and fear between you begin to melt away. this was when you realised it as well. this wasn’t just a few months of something casual. this…was something real. something he’d never said out loud, but something you knew now, somewhere in your heart.

you stayed still for a few minutes, listening to the steady rhythm of zoro’s breathing as he slept beside you. his presence was heavy, comforting in a way you hadn’t expected after the intensity of the day. but his newer words began to replay in your head, replacing the harsh ones from before. they sunk deeper with every passing second.

“i’d rather die than lose you.”

goddamnit, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

with a shaky breath, you shifted under the covers, turning around toward him. “zoro…” your voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it was enough to stir him from the edge of sleep. his eyes snapped open, his body tensing for a moment before he realized it was you.

“you’re… awake?” he muttered, blinking in surprise, his voice still rough from exhaustion.

“yeah,” you said, sitting up slowly, your heart pounding as you braced yourself for the conversation that had to happen. “and i, uh…i heard everything.”

the swordsman’s eyes widened slightly, his usual stoic mask faltering for just a moment as the weight of what he’d said sunk in. he sat up as well, avoiding your gaze at first, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at nowhere in particular.

“i didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he finallymurmured, voice gruff, a mix of embarrassment and regret. “i-”

“no,” you cut him off, reaching out to place a hand on his shaking arm. “i’m glad i did. because i need to say something too.”

he finally looked at you, his dark eyes searching your face, unsure of what was coming next, but oh so ready.

“i’m sorry,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “for what i said earlier. i didn’t mean it like that. i never wanted to make you feel like your dream didn’t matter. it does."

you frowned as tears welled in your eyes, guilt hitting you like a tidal wave.

"your dream is so important. especially to me.”

zoro’s expression instantly softened, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. but you could see the conflict still lingering in his eyes, the pain that had been eating at him since the fight.

“but you matter more to me,” you continued, your voice steady, even as your heart pounded in your chest. “so i was scared. i am scared. of losing you, of watching you get hurt because you’re always so willing to throw yourself in front of danger for everyone else. but i know now that it’s because you care, not because you’re selfish and i’m so horrible for saying that.”

his jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might argue, but instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “i’m sorry too,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “i shouldn’t have said what i did. about us.”

your breath caught in your throat, the memory of his words from earlier still stinging. “did you mean it, at all…?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he shook his head instantly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. “no. of course not,” he rushed to say, his voice firm, but still gentle somehow. “i was pissed and... i didn’t know how to handle it. but this - what we have? it’s not just a few months of something. i care about you more than i’ve ever said.”

your heart clenched at his words, your suspicions, or rather, hopes, confirmed. you could see it now - his struggle, the way his pride had gotten in the way, but more than that, the way he felt. this wasn’t just about his dream anymore. it was about the two of you, and everything you’d built together, piece by piece, in those months.

“i love you,” you whispered, tears stinging at your eyes again, but this time they were different - they emanated less from fear and more from an overwhelming sense of relief. “i really hope you know.”

his eyes softened even more, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of vulnerability in them, something raw and unguarded. “i know. and i love you too,” he said, his voice low but steady, like it had been true for a long time. “way more than i’ve been able to say.”

and before you could think, before you could process the weight of it all, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him, burying your grinning face in his chest. he tensed for a moment, then slowly, his arms came around you, holding you close.

“i’m so sorry, baby…” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “for making you feel like you weren’t important. you are. you are so goddamn important to me, to the crew, to everyone.”

you pulled back just enough to look up at him, your fingers brushing the side of his face, heart flooding with affection. “we’ll figure this out,” you whispered. “together.”

zoro nodded, his expression serious but soft. “together,” he agreed.

you smiled, the tension between you finally lifting as you leaned into him again, resting your head on his chest. the sound of his heartbeat was steady beneath your ear the same way it was when he saved you, grounding you in the moment.

and as you sat there together, wrapped up in each other, the weight of everything that came before melted away, leaving only the quiet certainty that what you had wasn’t temporary. 

it was real.

it was forever.

and you would grow it, together.

-- ౨ৎ

masterlist

[shriveled-grape]

Thinking about Ratio and Owl courtship behaviors.

Just because. They’re on the mind.

Bringing food

While it’s my personal opinion that Aventurine eats breakfast and dinner (at the very least because of his cakes), I think he overlooks lunch quite frequently. He just doesn’t feel hungry until his stomach is screeching at him to eat. It’s just one of those things—it’s a ‘okay, we actually have a stable food source’ thing.

Still—not a very good habit to overlook. It’s not like he’s doing anything to help it either, no alarm or anything. Just looking at the clock and going ‘well shit lunch was a while ago… whoopsies might as well wait till I get home’. (I don’t think Aventurine wants to take his work home, if he’s off the clock he’s off and Qiploth help the poor IPC worker that has to contact him outside work hours if he’s needed—so, he’d rather continue his workflow instead of risking going over his hours.)

While I’m not entirely sure how this habit will get picked up on (perhaps there’s frequent meetings with the IPC before lunch hours and rather than make his way to the lunch area, Aventurine is making his way back to his office.

“Gambler, the lunch room is this way.”

Immediate heel turn. “Inviting me to eat with you, Ratio?” Suddenly he’s extremely aware he’s hungry.

Eats like a man starved.)

but Ratio picks it up one way or another. He goes about it indirectly (for the most part), either striking up a dialogue that requires Aventurine to accompany him to the lunch room or finding a reason to be in Aventurine’s office with (coincidentally) more food than Ratio is able to consume and an extra set of utensils because ‘reheating the food won’t taste the same, and they say a good meal is better with company’ (sounds like bs — the latter part not the former, but Aventurine doesn’t comment on it because hey—more time with his favorite doctor).

Eventually this becomes habit. Ratio bringing Aventurine to a food source (the lunch room, or perhaps a nearby cafe/restaurant/etc) or bringing him food. It’s—ha—a gamble. One that Aventurine looks forward to everyday around lunch time.

Cheek-to-Cheek nuzzling

Of course, this one would be when there’s an actual relationship. This one feels more private/intimate so really it’s saved for when they’re both alone together.

The first time it happens is when they’re both in bed together, not exactly cuddling but still being in each other’s arms. Aventurine’s on his phone, Ratio’s reading an (exceedingly long) book. (I wonder if Ratio would read like Reid from criminal minds… anyways—.)

It’s a spontaneous thing. Ratio kisses Aventurine’s cheek SOFTLY (extremely important.) then turns his head and rubs his cheek against Aventurine’s before turning back to his book.

Aventurine’s stunned for a bit, processing if that. Really just happened. He’s not complaining of course! He’s just. Confused. A bit. His cheeks are warmed up now, but he just laughs a bit.

“Never did I think you’d be so touchy, Ratio.”

“Heh.”

That’s it. That’s the entire exchange that just makes Aventurine roll his eyes with a smile before going back to his phone.

It becomes a mutual thing after that. Before one of them heads off to work, when one gets home, when they wake, before they sleep, or just spontaneous. Just like the first time.

Preening

Humans don’t have pin feathers (I would. I would hope.) so I’m going about this a couple of ways.

Ratio trying to smooth down stray hairs on Aventurine’s head. Say it’s the middle of a work day that Ratio happens to be there and he notices some hair frizz on Aventurine’s head that he smooths down. (Doesn’t stop his conversation just reaches over and smooths it down like he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. Aventurine: ?????? Lol okay???). Or before Aventurine leaves for work Ratio fixes a couple strands before sending him on his way.

A thought that came to me is Aventurine getting a cowlick whenever it rains on the back of his head. Ratio continually trying to smooth. It. Down. But it just doesn’t want to. It frustrates him and Aventurine can’t leave the house until it’s tamed. (This is how you know he loves this man because it’s setting the time he has to finish his workload back either 30 mins to an hour). Prior to their relationship, Aventurine would’ve just worn his hat, but now that’s only if the doctor has given up… which is extremely rare.

The last way is through Ratio absentmindedly twisting (rubbing???) strands of Aventurine’s hair between his index and thumb (much like a human would preen a bird’s feathers). This is easier if they’re laying somewhere together (if Aventurine is the one holding him he simply reaches behind him). This method is a comfort thing, me thinks.

Aventurine thinks it’s cute.

Hooting duets

For this one, I think is the silliest. Because it’s just them going back and forth with each other.

They’re bantering!! And it’s subconsciously Ratio’s love language (except it’s only. With Aventurine).

Aventurine keeps him on his toes and gives wit that parallels Ratio’s that sometimes leaves him speechless before he composes himself (this is unprecedented. If there are people in attendance they are shocked. Well, for the first couple times).

They don’t shut up if they’re with each other, this only heightens when they are actually together… which honestly isn’t a big change.

This is the courtship that lets everyone know Ratio is interested in Aventurine (in some way, they aren’t sure what for a good while) … except Aventurine.

Everyone sees them pining. And it. HURTS.

But yeah, that’s what I got…

This was supposed to be a short thing……

[glass--beach]

hi do you like ok computer (1997)

because i really just don't get it (especially as the second-best album of all time) but i reeeally want to & i respect your opinion on that a lot

yea that album kinda changed the course of my life lol. wall of text incoming

first - don’t let rym or aoty or whatever tell you what’s good and what isn’t, everybody’s got their own taste & criticisms that go against the grain are very important!! i will say anything that’s that consistently highly rated across different websites & publications is probably undeniably significant and worth listening to. whether listening feels like discovering a new favorite or sitting through a history lesson is where taste comes in. it’s important to interrogate the canon too as there is an enormous amount of implicit bias in what even gets in front of critics and in the metrics they grade music by. review aggregate sites have democratized this process a bit & all the good and bad of democracy has come with that lol.

so, the album gets praised for a couple of reasons - its innovative production, its commentary on the historical zeitgeist, and the pop appeal of much of the songwriting.

production - the album makes heavy use of cutting edge effects units, digital editing, computer trackers, sampling, and even features little bits of voice synthesis. most of it is stuff that had existed in music before radiohead, artists like aphex twin (and much of the rest of warp records’ 90s catalog) and bjork were ahead of the curve in a lot of the aesthetic aspects of okc and had influenced radiohead a lot, which is even more evident on their followup kid a. radiohead was not breaking new ground in using these sounds, but they were among the first to put it all in a rock context, taking cues from the weirder cuts on the beatles’ white album, the experimental “krautrock” band can, and miles davis’ classic jazz fusion album bitches brew.

context - radiohead had grown up during the decline of much of the social democratic programs that had helped to facilitate the education and performing careers of much of their early influences such as joy division and the smiths. by the time okc was being written they had lived through the austerity of the thatcher era, the fall of the soviet union, and now were watching the labour party turn increasingly neoliberal under tony blair. there was a general sentiment in the west that the progress of history had slowed or even stopped in favor of the neoliberal order. at the same time, tech was booming and computers were starting to find their way into more aspects of daily life. the album imagines a boring dystopia, where machines are rabidly advancing but humans are stuck in stasis. a major connecting theme is infrastructure - the airbag through which thom yorke is “born again,” the “cracks in the pavement,” the family politics that separate romeo and juliet in exit music, the mechanical voice of fitter happier giving contradictory directions for maintaining the status quo. even the escapist fantasy of no surprises comes in the form of carbon monoxide. and then, the record ends with the “ding” of an appliance that has completed its task.

songwriting - the band’s previous album the bends really is a pop masterpiece. i recommend it to anybody who wants to get into radiohead but doesn’t vibe with their later work. okc expands that compositional style through, for one thing, the more apparent influence of classical music on tracks like paranoid android or the Chopin homage exit music; let down even features polymetric layering characteristic of Steve Reich. it also features some songs that are too good to even need to push the envelope much, like karma police or one of my favorites, no surprises, which seems to reference the beach boys’ wouldn’t it be nice or the velvet underground’s sunday morning.

to be honest, i like okc mostly because it really spoke to me at a formative time in my life, when i was like 15 and felt heavily disconnected from the world around me. the album deals with those feelings in a very different context but it’s a feeling many people can relate to for many different reasons - i was closeted in a conservative culture, not a depressed british rock star lol. it also was an excellent gateway into many of the bands’ influences, who are also favorites of mine now. most people who love the album don’t really go as deep as i like to with understanding it, but maybe what i said here will give you something else to listen for, idk. maybe you just gave me an excuse to infodump about an album i love lol :)

[wordsofelie]

Chapter 3

🌅Don’t you dare runaway (A Phoenix and Ashes Sequel)

Miya Osamu x f!reader

Summary: Miya Osamu thinks some things will never change—Atsumu will always be annoying; his Ma’s food will always be the best and you will always be his favourite sunrise.

Content Warnings: Timeskip Setting, Manga Spoilers, ex!Suna, Swearing, Mention of Sex (the word is pronounced once)

Words count: 3.3k

chapter 1 - chapter 2

It’s 4 a.m. when the alarm rings and the shrill melody is a relief to Osamu’s ears.

The man hasn’t been able to sleep a wink all night. First, he found the futon way too hot to his liking and in an attempt to cool down he tried to slide onto the tatami mat, but it turned out to be way too cold this time (if only he had someone pressed against him, maybe that could help find the perfect balance). Then, he remembered the words he told his brother—sure ‘Tsumu acted like a spoiled brat but ending the year angry at him left a weird bittersweet taste in his mouth (he wished he had someone he could express this feeling to, someone who would listen and reassure him.) And finally, finally, he couldn’t calm the rapid beats of his heart each time he remembered that only a small corridor was separating you from him (and if only that someone he needed was you, he thought dismissively somewhere between dusk and dawn).

So, when the alarm rings, even though it means waking up, driving another hour and a half and opening the restaurant, he is relieved.

Osamu can’t decipher whether you had a good sleep or not when he joins you in the kitchen a few minutes later.

You have a cup in your hands and you’re glancing at the window. He turns his face to where you’re looking. The snow has melted. The world outside is silent, untouched by the morning light.

“Hi.” You tell him calmly; he didn’t realise you had noticed his presence.

He smiles in response as you put your cup of tea away, “should we go?”

“After ya.”

His words make you laugh a little, you cover your mouth with your hand and answer, “It’s way too early but you’re already such a gentleman.”

“Always with ya.”

Osamu doesn’t know if it’s because he’s not fully awake (or asleep) but his voice comes out so seriously that you widen your eyes slightly and a faint red hue creeps across your cheeks, and to the tips of your ears. Your eye contact stops after a few seconds, but it’s more than enough to fill Osamu’s lungs with an air he had never quite breathed before. If it had lasted longer, the man is convinced he would have melted, like the snow, in an unfair way.

You both thank Grandma Yumie for her hospitality. She doesn’t hide her will to welcome you again any time of the year, at any hour of the day.

“Take care of each other.” She ends up saying. A quick glance at Osamu makes it's obvious that she specially addressed those words to him.

It’s so cold inside the car, Osamu doesn’t wait for your arms to shiver to give you his hoodie. A grin slips through your lips when you put it on and notice how big it is for you. Your eyes seem a little bit glassy not because you cried but because of the lack of sleep. You probably found the bed too cold or too hot just like him, Osamu concludes.

“Ya can sleep if ya want. I’ll try not to drive too fast.”

“Nah, I've got to keep you company. What a bad co-pilot I would make if I fell asleep.” You sound a little proud when you say that, he finds you cute.

“Co-pilot? Ya distract me most of the time.”

You straighten suddenly and frown, “What? How dare you-”

“Say bye to Oba-san.” He starts the engine and waves at the old lady who stayed by the door to watch you leave.

You click your tongue, “Shut up.”

The ride is, without surprise, quiet. It’s not the quiet of yesterday due to Osamu’s bad mood—it’s a comfortable quiet. The kind that seems to be in harmony with the nature outside who’s slowly awakening

Osamu drives mostly on instinct. He tries to think about the day coming ahead to keep his focus: first he needs to wash the rice, then he will cut the cucumbers, prepare the sauce… He enumerates the list in his head. It’s gonna be a long day, he realises.

He sighs loudly, the sound filling the otherwise silent car.

You’ve been so calm that Osamu starts to think you might’ve fallen asleep. He risks a glance at you, your head resting lightly against the window. The sight both distracts and grounds him.

Something inside his chest is warm.

Unknowingly, a new rhythm has settled in his heart. When did it start? Maybe it has always been like that with you (peaceful, obvious). It’s so pleasant, Osamu wouldn’t mind feeling it for the rest of his life.

“Osamu, stop.” You suddenly exclaim and in a split second the man, lost in thoughts, is brought down to earth.

He does stop on the roadside, and you get out of the car.

He’s confused, almost worried, at first, so he follows you but soon all his fears disappear.

“Look. The sun is rising. I’ve never seen the sky like that before.” Your amazement is that of a child, your voice is high, and you run to the edge of the cliff to get even closer to the panorama. Osamu sees your chest rise and fall as you take in the air, “It’s beautiful.”

Osamu blinks.

No, you’re beautiful, is the only thought running through his head. But honestly, when are you not? Although, he just notices it now.

A ray of sunlight falls perfectly on your face, and he wants to kiss you.

Fuck.

He really wants to kiss you. Irresistibly. Outrageously. Unconditionally so.

The background seems like a mere white noise to his ears. You’re telling him how pretty the view is again, but he doesn’t care. All seven wonders could stand in front of him but that would not satisfy his eyes compared to that sight of you, bathed in the sun.

Look away, look away, he tries to convince himself. Look at where she’s pointing. But it’s too late now. He’s mesmerised by the moves of your hair, captivated by the features of your face, he suddenly feels like he’s losing all sense of will but still, it feels good. It’s freeing him.

Because everything makes sense now.

The discomfort he feels when you call him “friend”, the desire to live in a house with you, the feeling of protection he constantly shows towards you, the new rhythm that his heart is beating to.

It’s because he is in love with you.

He wants to stop time and never go back to Osaka. He wants to stay there, watching you smile. Gosh, the sunrise looks so good on you, it’s probably becoming his favourite colour.

You catch him looking and smile, “by the way.” You start and he has to pinch his arm to refocus, “Happy New Year.”

On January 1st, at 5 a.m., Miya Osamu realises that the love of his life has been standing before him for a decade.

Atsumu has been waiting in front of Onigiri Miya for an hour.

The cold bites at his skin and seeps into his bones like a river entering a cave and flooding it. After avoiding death from fratricide, he is now convinced he will succumb to hypothermia.

He sits against the wall, hands deep in his pockets, seeking warmth. He curses himself for not bringing gloves (it’s always Osamy who remembers that kind of stuff). Maybe his fingers are going to freeze and break and fall—his career will be over soon, farewell National Team, goodbye Olympics.

When his brother’s car finally pulls up, he jumps.

“I’ve never been so happy to see ya.” He exclaims, eyes on the verge of tears. “How was yer ride? Ya must be tired. Can I do somethin’ to help?”

His eyes dart toward Osamu, and you can see the guilt written all over his face as he talks. But his twin only glowers at him before walking straight past him and opening the restaurant.

The older brother clears his throat and glances at you, clearly unsure of what to do.

You put your hand on his arm and suggest gently that he should get the rice bags from the car while you start cleaning the counter and getting the tables ready.

Atsumu hesitates for a moment before nodding, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah... alright.”

Inside the restaurant, Osamu watches you take off your shoes and pick up the broom. “Ya should go home and sleep,” he says quietly before taking a glimpse at the other man still outside, “both of ya.”

You shake your head and smile. “Don’t be stupid, Osamu. Atsumu and I are happy to help. We’ll sleep later. Right?”

Atsumu finally lumbers inside with the first bag of rice slung over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, his brother remains unusually calm. There’s no yelling or anger—just silence. And for Atsumu, the silence is worse.

“What?- Oh yeah, of course, we’ll help. Ya don’t have to worry, go to yer kitchen and make us some good onigiri. Like always. ‘Cause yer a great chef, ya know. The best I should say. The best of the best.” Each sentence comes out more awkward than the previous and it takes everything in you not to laugh at how he stumbles over his words.

But Osamu only sighs in response before grabbing the rice bag from Atsumu.

Something about his attitude makes the blond twin uneasy. As he passes by you, he leans down and whispers into your ear, “D’ya think he’s still angry at me?”

“Maybe a little bit.” You say back, trying to keep your voice low. “But don’t worry, I’m sure it will be over soon if you help him today.”

Osamu glances over with furrowed brows, his eyes narrowing slightly as he catches you both whispering. “Yer helpin’ or not?” His voice is devoid of his usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, yeah, comin’.”

Atsumu hurriedly runs back outside to finish the job.

You don’t see each other for the next few days. At first, Osamu thinks it’s for the better. He has been awfully busy since the beginning of the year—which has been a greater success than he had planned. He likes his job because of how different each day is. If a day is calm, the next can be swarming, if sometimes he takes the time to discuss with the workers who come for their lunchtime, another time he will enjoy the silence of the off-peak hour. He tries to innovate in what he makes depending on the seasonal products or fresh fish of the market. It’s never repetitive, always new.

He can say he is content with his job.

So, when the second week of January starts, he thinks he deserves to rest (and he probably needs to).

But he immediately regrets it when he finds himself unable to fall asleep. He closes the restaurant earlier than usual and goes to the konbini to buy that eggs and mayo sandwich he has been craving for months (Osamu prefers homecooked food but a little treat now and then is always welcomed). He gets home, lies down on his couch and turns on the TV. He learns about how Tibetan Sand Foxes like to prey on pikas (why do they look like Suna by the way? Suna, his former teammate, your ex, your first love, the guy who broke your heart, the only boy you ever dated, ever loved, ever had sex with-). His heart misses a beat. He immediately skips to the next channel. There’s a documentary about street food in Hong Kong, but only a few minutes in, he turns the TV off. This reminds him too much of work and tonight is supposed to be about anything but work. His life is dedicated to food now, and he won’t change anything about it, but at the same time, his brain needs a break from the one thing he knows best.

So, he grunts and lies down flat on his back, hands behind his neck.

He looks at the ceiling and tries to clear his mind. He thinks that resting like this will help his head wind down, but the more he tries to relax, the more his thoughts turn chaotic.  

What are you doing right now? He wonders. You are in Aomori with Atsumu and the rest of the team. Perhaps you’re making a video with Bokuto or eating apple pie with Hinata (stop thinking about food ya moron). Is Sakusa near you? Are you talking to him? Looking at him? How does that make you feel? Maybe thinking about food is a better idea because Osamu suddenly feels his muscles tightening and a dull ache settles from his lower abdomen to his chest.

He hasn’t seen you often this week when work took you away, and that was fine—he was busy too. But these past few days, the empty space where your presence used to be felt bigger. It was like a silence he wasn’t used to, one that lingered too long after the noise of the day had died down.

Without realising it, his eyes close. His body, heavy with the fatigue he refuses to acknowledge, finally gives in.

When he wakes up, he is sitting on a chair, it’s stiff and uncomfortable. He blinks a few times to get used to the light.

“We’re going to the cafeteria, you’re coming?”

He doesn’t recognise Suna’s monotonous voice at first, but still, the middle blocker is here, standing in front of him. His hair is long, and he is wearing their high school uniform.

Osamu opens his mouth, once, twice, before looking around him. He is in his second-year classroom. He looks at his hands, there’s dry and bruised, from volleyball ?

“What yer doin’ here?” he says to no one at all.

Suna is gone.

When he turns around, you are with your ex-boyfriend.

“I love you.” He hears Suna say, “Be my girlfriend.”

Osamu wants to get up, but his body doesn’t move.

He knows something is irrational about the whole situation. First, he graduated from high school years ago, and then Suna would never confess in front of everyone.

However, there’s an urge inside of him to stop you from giving an answer. He wants to tell you to say no for you deserve better than Suna. Don’t choose him, choose me, he wants to tell you.

But he is glued to the chair.

“Fuck.” He groans before hitting his forehead on the table.

“Where’s Sakusa-san?” You finally reply.

Your voice is so soft, Osamu thinks you sound like peace in the middle of chaos.

He lifts his face and sees you. You’re taller and your cheeks are thinner, you don’t look like the teenager you once were. Suna has disappeared and you’re in Osaka’s gym.

The boy doesn’t look around this time to understand what he is doing here. Nothing makes sense anyway.

He knows he has to join you before Sakusa does.

“Wait.” He exclaims and starts running towards you. But you don’t hear him.

He shouts your name, perhaps his throat will ripe from screaming too loud. That doesn’t matter because he needs you to listen to him, “Sakusa doesn’t know ya can’t sleep if ya don’t have a cup of tea, black tea, not white, not green, but black. He doesn’t know ya prefer boiled eggs instead of poached and that yer tongue itches if ya eat the skin of peaches.” He has stopped running now and is almost out of breath, “Ya used to love spring, but ya don’t anymore, ‘cause ya have allergies and ya think summer is better because it’s the season of fireworks and festivals and… and-”

He wants to keep going but he is suddenly overwhelmed by all the things he knows about you (everything); and all the things he wants to learn about you (anything).

He sinks on his knees.

“I don’t know where we are and am so tired, but I love ya, I love ya, I love ya.”

There’s a sensation of greatness once the words have come out of his lips. It’s infinite and endless.

His eyes are directed to the polished floor. He sees tears falling on his hands and wetting his fingers.

You don’t answer and when he looks up, the scenery has changed again. He is on top of a mountain, sat on the grass. When he decides to stand up, he wonders where you are. Have you heard him? Or has he lost his chance to tell you how he feels?

A warm hand rests on his shoulder, “Osamu-kun.” It’s the feeble but gentle voice of his grandma, “For yer words to be heard, ya need to face the truth.”

“I should have realised I loved her sooner, in high school, I should have dated her, not Suna, not him, me.” There’s panic not only in his tone but in his heart. His hands start shaking.

“This is not about ya, this is about her.”

He doesn't listen to the old lady, “How am I supposed to forget her now? What should I do? Our friendship will be ruined because of me. Grandma’ I-I’m screwed.”

“Give her yer heart, fully.”

“But what if-”

“Son,” her voice is firmer now, “don’t you dare run away.”

The sun is rising when Osamu looks to his right. How is he supposed to spend a lifetime showing you how he feels when it took him a fraction of a second to fall in love with you ?

Loving you is crushingly beautiful but painfully right.

A loud noise resonates in his ears. Does it sound like keys? Or a door opening? Or footsteps?—

The moment that follows he cracks his eyes open.

“Don’t tell me ya were sleepin’?” Atsumu bursts into the living room. “We came back a day earlier. I'm hungry.”

“We?” Osamu asks. His eyelids are heavy with the weight of sleep and when he tries to sit, he feels his head spin.

“I brought apple pie.”

You appear in his field of vision and lean towards him. His heart beats differently now.

You smile with all your teeth, it’s brighter than the sunrise, and he finally realises that a few minutes ago he was dreaming (about you).

“Do you want to have a bite?” You ask him.

This isn’t supposed to happen, he thinks, his heart isn’t supposed to ache like that, he isn’t supposed to hate the stupid distance between you (a meter? Maybe less? Even a centimetre would be too much anyway). It’s ridiculous but he finds himself wanting to break it. But Osamu is not stupid, he can question everything, and analyse his feelings in every sense, he can’t hide it. Dream or not, whether you’re here or away for days, he’s madly in love with you. He will not need a third realisation to admit it, it’s clear that he wants you now.

“You look exhausted.”

There’s worry on your face as you frown. You’re about to put your hand on his forehead to take his temperature but his instinct orders him to avoid your touch, so he gets on his feet and goes to the kitchen.

“I really want to try that apple pie, I’ll put the oven on to warm it up.” He probably sounds fake but that’s the only escape he can think of. He doesn’t want to turn to you because your arms are probably crossed and lips turned into a pout (you always do that when you’re upset but Osamu finds it cute).

Once he’s far enough from you, his face starts to burn, he puts his hands on his cheeks as if it would make the flush go away.

He feels like a teenager crushing on his classmate.

But he can't run away anymore.

author notes: not a lot of action but a lot of feeling, what do you guys think?

taglist: @wolffmaiden, @teyvatsunsets, @obibiwan, @sugacor3, @sunahsvt

[sufferu]

Honestly the reaction ficlets are more of a setup for. Something else.

Reaction Fic Aftermath: The Inn

“Subaru, maybe this isn’t—”

“—and we have arrived!” Subaru enthusiastically slammed the door open. “Bonjour! Hello! The Emilia Camp is here, so let the meeting commence!”

“S-Subaru?!” Ferris shrieked, his eyes widening. He was sitting in one of the chairs holding a cup of tea, which had now spilled down his front. He didn’t seem to care. “Subaru, what— WHY ARE YOU HERE?!”

“What are you doing here?” Crusch demanded, quickly standing up. She turned to face Emilia. “What is he doing here?” she snapped. “Why did you let him come here in this state?”

“I—” Emilia stammered.

“We’re here because of Anastasia’s great deal, of course!” The merchant in question was sitting right across from the healer and his Lady, all three of whom had startled violently at his introduction — as had Wilhelm, Ricardo, and the Pearlbaton triplets, all of whom had been standing over their shoulders. Wilhelm was staring at him with a horrible look on his face. Subaru grinned at him, and felt his stomach tie itself into a knot when that look only deepened in response. “I know we got sidetracked with — uh — but you didn’t forget the whole purpose of this meeting, right? Emilia-tan needs her father figure back after all, and you said you could hook us up with a lead on a good crystal he could snuggle himself back to sleep in! We’re a little later than planned but now that we’re here, why don’t we get right—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ricardo interrupted, voice harsh in a way that Subaru realized he had never heard from him before. A hand clasped around his arm, gently but firmly. “We need to talk about what just happened, and you absolutely should not be here for that. Now come on, we’ve got some spare bedrooms where ya can lie down —”

“I don’t need rest!” Subaru objected loudly, shaking him off. “And we don’t need to talk about it. I can sum up the major talking points right now! It was a really weird experience, I— I’m a lot less useful than everyone thought, and let’s all hope it doesn’t happen again! There, done!”

“That is not—!”

“Why is Subaru even here?” Wilhelm demanded. Subaru flinched at the pointed lack of a ‘-dono’ suffix. It made sense that the Sword Demon had retired the nickname after the events of — of — but it still stung, much more harshly than Subaru would have anticipated. It made him want to cry. “Lady Emilia, you must have known that we would need to talk about — why did you bring him here for that?”

“I— I thought that leaving him out of it would be mean!” Emilia stammered. “Nobody likes being talked about behind their back, right?“

“He is clearly in no state to participate in any discussion right now, and especially not about this!” Crusch retorted. “Allowing him to come to this meeting was cruel, and I must insist—”

“Hey, that’s pretty rude!” Subaru broke in, voice high-pitched in an attempt to sound as cheerful as possible. “I’m right here, aren’t I? And I can make my own decisions, you know: picked out my own outfit this morning and everything—”

“Subaru, stop talking,” Ferris snapped, visibly frazzled. “This isn’t the time for jokes, just—”

“Who said I was joking? My style might not be the same as yours, but I think I’m very fashionable, thank you very—”

“Subaru?!” a new voice shrieked. Subaru spun around to see Felt in the doorway, accompanied by an equally-horrified Reinhard. Behind them, Rachins had already started to back away. “What are you— you shouldn’t be here! Isn’t that common sense?!”

Subaru flinched, but tried to play off the growing hurt. “You wound me!” he crowed, hand to chest in a theatrical pose. “But I forgive you, because clearly you are confused from the long journey and still a little jetlagged—”

“What is— Subaru, don’t sidestep this! Get out!”

“There’s really no need for— I can behave myself just fine! I know I was horrible last year but I’ll definitely do my best today, so it’ll be—”

“That’s not what I—!”

“Lady Felt is right, Subaru,” Reinhard insisted, stepping forward. “Why don’t we just—”

“I don’t need to ‘just’ anything! Why would you half-ass your work when you can give it your best—”

“Natsuki-kun.”

“—And yes, that is I! Natsuki Subaru!” Subaru spun to face the speaker, finger guns at the ready. “How can I help you, Lady Anastasia? You need some sewing advice, or — well there’s not much I can do, but I promise to try my—”

“Natsuki-kun.” Anastasia’s voice was gentle, amidst all the shouting. “Ya don’t need to do this.”

Somehow it was that gentle tone that came the closest to making Subaru burst into tears on the spot. He could feel himself starting to shake, and took a step back. “I…” He desperately fought back his tears: he couldn’t cry! Not here, not now— not after THAT, when they already thought so lowly of him— and had every reason to think— “I-I…”

“…and we could probably stand to— you’re HERE?!”

Subaru relaxed very slightly at the sight of the grape-haired asshole, who had only just walked in alongside his — his little brother, right, the one who had come to deliver the initial invitation. There, this could work. He’d just provoke him like he always does and then things would go back to normal.

“Hey, asshat, how’s the past year been?” he tossed out immediately. “Met your little brother the other day, I think I like him more than you actually—”

“Subaru, stop that,” Ricardo said immediately. “This isn’t the time, just—”

“You beat up any more peasants while I was gone? Hope you didn’t, that’s not a great look you know—”

“Will ya please just calm down a second here—!”

“I mean what— what would your pa— your parents think of you for doing something like—”

“No!” Ricardo snapped. Subaru flinched away from him violently. “Do not finish that sentence! Yer behaving very badly right now, kid— you need to leave before you say something you won’t be able to take back—!”

“Captain, that’s too harsh!”

“Yer gonna freak him out even—”

“What are you talking about?” Subaru tried to laugh off. He felt dizzy. “I’m not — it’s the rest of you who are— freaked out right now—”

“Will one of nya PLEASE take care of nyer knyight already?!” Ferris cried, turning to face the other members of the Emilia Camp, all various shades of lost and panicked. “If he won’t leave on his own, then—”

“On it— c’mon, Captain, let’s just—”

The hand on his bicep was gentle, but for a moment it felt like the world’s most dangerous vice grip had threatened to close around his arm. Subaru recoiled violently. “Don’t—!”

Garfiel flinched away, eyes wide with hurt. Subaru felt a stab of guilt and immediately tried to laugh it off. “Wait— Garf, you just startled me, that’s it! It’s not— It’s not like I thought —”

“Will one of nyew who DIDN’T try to kill him— Oh crap I think that’s pretty much all of nya isn’t it—”

“That’s half the people in this room Od damn it—”

“It’s not like it ever really— you weren’t even supposed to KNOW about this, so can’t we just—” Subaru wanted to cry. He really, really wanted to cry. “It wasn’t that big a deal and it never happened! So just drop it already so we can go back to—”

“Subaru that is a VILE suggestion—!”

“Why do any of you even care?!” Subaru didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. He was talking too fast. His blood was roaring in his ears. He was going to pass out. “You didn’t— didn’t care before, so why is it suddenly—” A flash of anger suddenly cleared his panicked mind, like a bolt of lightning through a stormcloud. “All of you are just faking this!”

Ferris stared at him, mouth agape. “WHAT?!”

“Yeah, okay, I get it! You don’t actually give a shit! This is a ploy to get us to— to step out of the election, or give up something important, or—”

“Subaru, sto—!” Emilia’s voice barely reached his ears.

“Well it’s not gonna work! I already know that sort of trick and I’m calling your bluff now, so you’ll just have to find a way to fight us fair and—”

“Natsuki Subaru, that is ENOUGH!”

Subaru squeaked, finally falling silent. The rest of the room fell quiet as well. Julius rarely got angry enough to raise his voice like that, but when he did, people listened.

A look of guilt briefly flashed through the man’s eyes before hardening into — something else. A large hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled, hard, with Subaru finding himself forced to stumble along as his senior knight pulled him further into the inn.

“I am removing my junior from this situation,” he told Anastasia, bowing briefly and slightly as he moved past her. “Please feel free to start without us.”

“Thank you, Julius,” Anastasia said. He saw Crusch mutter something to Ferris, who bowed wordlessly before starting after them, but Subaru was pulled out of the room entirely before the knight could catch up.

“Now,” he heard Anastasia say as they rounded the corner, out of sight. Her voice suddenly sounded much colder. “I think we need ta have a bit of a talk…”

[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 5

Relic

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The more he gets closer to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Word count: ~4.6k Warning: None [not enough editing/formatting]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. Going to pretend to be some big shot writer and dedicate this chapter to the ones who encouraged me to keep writing. And my favourite reader (you know who you are, hopefully).

Previous Chapter: Shadow

The doorknob twisted under his fingers and Azriel gritted his teeth at the soft click. Mercifully, the door made no more sound. Darkness and quiet awaited him on the other side, while a haunting aura loomed behind him in the hallway under the fading sunlight. The hag was nowhere to be found.

Everyone except Ayla had known who he was, yet something changed after that day.

The last time he walked into the bar, Raya glared from across the room stopping him in his steps. She and Uri exchanged hissed whispers before the server led him out to the streets. He croaked out a “We’re closing soon anyway” with an apologetic smile and shut the rusty door in his face.

And, the hag—gone were the expectant eyes and the grateful smile when Azriel returned the next night. Instead, he faced a creature twice as large as him with knitting needles in one hand and jagged talons out in the other. 

Nonetheless, it warmed his heart and calmed his mind that Ayla was cared for.

Grumbled curses seeped through the wall on his side. His shadows wound tight around him. Clapping his wings close, Azriel wedged through the gap and shut the door carefully, praying it didn’t alert the hag.

A second passed and another. Sweet silence embraced him.

‘We’re closed.’

Azriel whirled around.

The room seemed to stretch far and long in the darkness with thick curtains shielding the windows. Stacks of wooden trays, empty glasses, and filled crystal decanters piled on the counter. Behind it, Ayla reached on her toes and placed a bottle on the shelf. A lone lantern burned a muted golden above the bar illuminating her.

‘I really need a drink,’ he uttered the first words that came to his mind, cursing himself for the senseless fool he was.

Her hand went rigid. Ayla stilled, and time and space froze with her. If not for the wisps of hair fluttering with her every breath, Azriel would have believed so.

None of their previous encounters ended on a good note. After the last time, he needed to clarify himself. If his mate deemed him vile, Azriel preferred she hated him from close. But in her silence, it struck him. She could be the one behind her friends’ defence, commanding them to keep him away.

‘Lock the door.’ She said a moment later, adding another bottle to the display. ‘I don’t want anyone else to believe we’re open yet.’

Resisting a smile, Azriel tested the knob again. He and her, alone in the empty bar—dreams truly did come true.

Once he settled across from her, Ayla faced him. She looked at him, unblinking. 

Azriel waited. So did she. He fumbled into his pockets and his fingers caught in the leather. His heart sank. He remembered stuffing a pouch with gold marks explicitly to bribe the hag if needed.  

Ayla laughed, the sound echoing through the air, chasing away every thought from his mind. She had blessed him with her smiles before. But this, it was beautiful—more so than her melodies, like the chime of a willow.

‘I was expecting your order.’ Her shoulders shook as she picked a glass from the pile. ‘Spare your money. The bar is still closed, remember?’

Heat crept up his neck. Azriel smiled yet ducked his head low. His shadows swayed on his shoulders as if laughing along with her. Traitors.

Ayla pulled a decanter from under the counter, simpler than the ones above, and poured a mouthful for him. He took the first sip and her eyes never left his face. 

A thick sweetness coated his mouth, the aftertaste lingering on his tongue. A drink was surely an excuse for his cause, but he expected a real one in a bar. Azriel almost said so when his throat tightened. His vision clouded. Bitterness exploded along the back of his tongue before morphing into a burn that settled in his throat. An undignified cough escaped his lips.

Amusement sparked in Ayla’s eyes. ‘I can find you something light if you’d like.’

‘It’s fine.’ Azriel cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse when he got the words out. ‘I didn’t expect. . .that. What is it?’

‘Poison. Didn’t your instincts warn you?’

His shadows danced along his back and wings, but they were quiet and calm. Azriel studied her blank face as he took a subtle sniff. It smelled quite like her—a jumble of spices and sweetness. 

Ayla laughed again. ‘I’m not daft to kill you in my own bar. It’s something Raya and Uri have been experimenting with.’

‘So it could be poison.’ Azriel smiled and tested another sip. It tasted easy this time. When she paused to fill his glass, he gave her a nod.

Her eyes fixated on his shoulders. ‘And for your companions?’ 

The wavering darkness stilled. His shadows that sensed the insensible and expected the unexpected, skidded down his back as though her question had rendered them awed. One ever wondered what they did for him or could do for them. In five centuries, no one asked what they wanted.

Their whispers quieted, and in that eerie void, Azriel seemed to hear a word echo back to him. Far, far away. Ayla.

‘Nothing.’ He dropped his gaze to the drink, smiling. It only served right that they suffered his agony too.

Leaving the liquor beside him, Ayla tended to her shelf. 

It was a cold, cruel world outside. A woman who hurt her and promised worse lurked beyond that room. A court wanted to whisk her away for a reason he knew nothing of. But Ayla had no worry. She drifted back and forth, shuffling the bottles in an innate pattern only she saw until the colours bled and blended into a seamless artwork, a mosaic of reds and browns and amber in the faelight.

How could she be so carefree while her life was in danger?

She preferred the lonely, Uri had said. Even with Azriel mere feet away, she was alone, in her own world—getting her bar ready for the evening, and he was content watching her.

Cradling a bottle against her chest, Ayla leaned back against the counter.

If he set his glass down and reached a little, Azriel could trail a finger down the arch of her spine. He could feel the smooth curve of her waist under his palm. A little lower, her shirt crinkled, right above the swell of her— He tore his eyes away and cleared his throat.

‘You don’t have to act tough,’ she said. ‘No one shall know the big bad shadowsinger can’t drink. It will be our secret.’

Azriel looked up. Ayla moved down the bar, away from him, towards the unattended pile. A teasing smile tugged at her lips. And her face lacked the hatred he believed she felt for him.

Had he been wrong? The times he met with her, she was polite—ignoring her threat—and she talked without hesitance.

‘You were gone for a long time. Where were you?’

‘Shouldn’t you know that already?’ Ayla wiped the glasses and stacked them on the tray one by one. The rings on her bracelet clinked with her every move.

‘I’m a spy,’ mumbled Azriel, ‘not a stalker.’

She chuckled, so light it was almost a breath. ‘Don’t the lines blur for you?’

Always a quick question thrown his way to draw the attention from her. Azriel was used to rudeness, anger, and even snark. But Ayla, she was something else. Her words were a weapon, sharp and precise, and always found their mark.

His shadows gathered over one shoulder, coiling and threading into dark ribbons, inching towards her. Ayla glanced at them and a smile curled her lips. With that, she shattered his resolve.

‘Drink with me,’ said Azriel.

Her hands froze and the smile faded. She peered at him, assessing him.

‘Drink with me, Ayla.’ He said again, only gentler.

For a breath, she didn’t move. Then she abandoned the trays, glasses and bottles, and walked back to him. 

Snagging the drink from between his fingers, she took a sip. Her brows pulled together as she pressed the back of her fingers to her lips and gasped. Azriel grinned.

‘Gods, that’s horrible.’ The veins along her neck strained as she swallowed again. ‘They should not be making that.’

‘A bar owner who can’t handle a drink. It’ll be our secret.’ Azriel poured another glass.

‘Ah, so it begins. Is this how you interrogate your suspects?’ Ayla crossed her arms on the bar. It brought her closer to him.

Azriel nodded. ‘Right after a meal of their choosing.’

‘Sure, sure. We don’t want to lose them to exhaustion. And when does the screaming start?’

There were two kinds of women—ones who idolised him and ones who feared him. Neither cared who he was underneath his mask of Night Court’s Torturer. And they definitely did not joke about it. 

Azriel chuckled under his breath.

Ayla drank again. ‘It’s still not my secret to share if that’s why you’re here.’

‘Not the part where you’re involved. That’s yours to tell.’

Her eyes didn’t waver. She observed him as though she could stir through his thoughts and pull them apart until she took what she wanted. 

After a long minute, she muttered, ‘I’m starting to see why you’re a spymaster.’ She tucked a fist under her chin. ‘I’ll tell you what. You find out where Hamra is and I’ll give you—’

‘She just passed the borders of Winter. If she moves west in the next two days, she’s heading to Autumn.’ 

Ayla blinked twice. Her lips parted and closed. She shook her head and slowly, a smile made its way onto her face. ‘Not a stalker,’ she mumbled, brushing the loose strands away from her eyes. ‘I met her five years ago.’

Azriel brought the glass to his lips and hid his smirk behind it.

‘I had to stop at an inn on my way back from a trip. I never do because they are always loud and crowded. That place was no exception.’ Her brows furrowed, yet her smile remained. She stared at the wood between them, ‘I almost left until I saw her. She was cursing at three men who were trying to hold her down and she was soaked in blood. I couldn’t tell whose it was. But she was fighting back. And those who wished to help were afraid of her.’

‘You helped her.’

Ayla nodded once. ‘Not right away. I wasn’t sure if she was innocent. But, she was cornered and outmanned. One of them even had a rope to tie her down like a beast. It didn’t matter though. The next minute, she was waggling a knife at them. Almost took an eye out of one.’ She laughed, shaking her head. More hair spilt from her knot. ‘I still don’t know where she got it from. After I had her cleaned and fed, she offered me gold for my horse and promised to let me ride him if I offered her protection.’

Azriel grinned. He expected nothing less from the spitfire of a child. ‘Who was she running from?’

‘Her sire.’ Ayla hesitated for a beat, then sighed. ‘Hamra is a half-nymph. When she came of age, many coveted her for her beauty and suitors poured in from every court. Her sire is a lowly lord. After he married a high fae to keep his bloodline pure, her mother hid her birth from him. But news of her existence spread when she bore more resemblance to him than her mother. Since Hamra carries his blood and passes as a fae, like any arrogant male, he claims to the right to decide who she weds and beds to further his lordly dreams.’

Different courts, different times, but the same tale.

Anger coiled in Azriel’s gut. Hamra was a mere child. Almost as old as when Mor endured the same or Gwyn.

‘Who’s her father?’

‘I’ve spoken more than I promised.’

‘And the woman, is she here on his orders?’

Ayla stole the drink from him and took a long sip.

‘Tell me the child is safe to travel alone.’

She lifted her chin, her eyes scrutinising him. The glass hung from her fingers by the rim. ‘And why do you care?’

Azriel didn’t know what trick she was playing. How could one not care? The sight of Mor’s naked body, bloody and bruised, on the ground still haunted him. He couldn’t condemn another to the same fate. ‘Shouldn’t we when her life is in danger?’

Ayla sipped again. Another minute of silence passed before she smiled. ‘You’re kind.’

The words felt wrong even from her lips. If she knew his true intentions, that the fae had been a pawn to get closer to her, she wouldn’t feel the same.

He looked away, ‘It’s not what people say about me.’

‘Maybe you’re listening to the wrong people.’

Her gaze was heavy on him. The urge to hide gnawed at his chest. But they were alone and his shadows had their own will around her. They peeled away leaving him exposed, bare and whole. 

Aware of the little time he had before they were interrupted, Azriel stole the drink from her. ‘Is that why you refuse to work for lords? For her safety?’

‘I don’t find them reliable.’ She shrugged, ‘Most are entitled and self-aggrandising.’

‘Rhys isn’t like them.’ At the least, not after one knew him.

Ayla clicked her tongue. ‘Your High Lord must pay you well if you endorse him while drunk.’

Azriel chuckled. He itched to defend his brother and convince her that he wasn’t as evil as she believed him to be. But he wanted to stay with her more. 

‘Why the bar?’ He asked instead. Her brows furrowed. ‘You make weapons and yet, own a bar.’

‘I liked the house.’ Azriel must have failed to mask his confusion because she added, ‘It’s in the middle of the city. I have a view of Sidra and the mountains from my balcony. And on solstices, I can see every celebration. The lights, the decorations, the music. For months, I tried to negotiate with the owner. But he wouldn’t sell it without the bar.’ She sighed, waving a hand between them. ‘You would know if you saw my house.’

His heart lurched.

‘Tell me this,’ she leaned forward on her arms. ‘Doesn’t it contradict your purpose if you declare yourself a spymaster?’

Azriel grinned. Of course, his mate would be bold enough to ridicule him. ‘I have others working for me. And everyone expects a shadowsinger to spy. There’s no point hiding it.’

Ayla rolled her eyes. ‘Excuses. Admit that you’re terrible at your job.’

’You don’t even know what I can do.’

‘You couldn’t find out where I was.’

‘But I found Hamra.’

‘She probably spotted you. Your shadows aren’t as subtle as they should be.’ She took the drink from him. The warmth of her skin grazed his fingers.

Darkness swarmed and writhed over his shoulders at the insult. A low chuckle escaped his lips. ‘Why the singing?’

Ayla frowned at the sudden shift. ‘You seem to be very curious about my life. Are you sure this isn’t an interrogation?’

‘You’re not screaming yet,’ teased Azriel.

She drew a breath and the corner of her lips twitched. ‘Among my people, women are supposed to be pretty things who do pretty things.’

Azriel waited for more. But she answered with silence.

Sire. Her people. Your High Lord. Her choice of words was strange for a commoner in the north, or even a lady. But she carried no markers of the southern courts. Even when she spoke of Hamra, she refrained from naming a place.

From the way she talked of her people, only two places came to his mind. 

Azriel knew the chances were slim but, for someone whose every word was calculated, she was bound to correct him rather than reveal the truth herself. ‘Autumn?’

Ayla grinned, ‘Do I look like I’m from Autumn?’

Hewn City then. Azriel hid his smirk by taking a sip. ‘I didn’t know making swords was a craft fit for a lady.’

‘Spoken like a true man.’ She exacted her vengeance by snatching the glass from him. Her gaze lingered on his hands as she drank and his fingers twitched on their own. 

He clenched his fists and turned away. He couldn’t bear that look from her—like he was that weak, helpless boy who cried for help, someone reduced to his past and ghosts.

‘We all have scars, shadowsinger.’ Her voice carried a note of tenderness. ‘You bear yours on your skin.’

When Azriel turned back, she was peering at his fists unfazed. She didn’t flinch away with disgust or cower when he caught her inspecting them. 

Ayla opened her palms to him. ‘May I?’

The last time she touched his skin, Azriel was too lost in her to notice. This, he wasn’t prepared for, nor could he forget.

‘You can refuse me,’ she said. Her hands rested on the counter between them as a sign of reassurance that the choice was truly his. 

Many had desired what Ayla asked of him. Even Mor at one time after she learnt the truth from Rhys. But it was Azriel who always chose who and when he touched, never the other way around. The only person he ever let feel his hands was his mother once the bandages were removed.

Slowly, he offered his hand to her. At the graze of her fingertips on his knuckles, he sucked in a sharp breath.

Ayla held his gaze, waiting, allowing him the chance to kill her curiosity. When Azriel didn’t resist, she comforted him with a smile before lowering her eyes. 

For a long time, she only observed, taking in every ugly ridge and wrinkle on his skin. She held his hand in both of hers, her fingers barely touching him. Her thumbs weaved through his digits and stroked his palm, eliciting a jolt through his spine with each traversed path.

We all have scars.

What scars did she possess? Were they a reminder on her skin like his? That thought alone birthed a hunger in him to inflict pain onto the world. 

How could anyone wish to hurt her? A woman whose eyes beheld compassion instead of pity for a cursed soul like him? The one who cradled his marred hand as a sacred relic deserving of her utmost care? The one whose face softened with a kind smile as she marked every inch of his scars with her smooth touch?

‘I wish,’ Ayla breathed, ‘they had treated you better.’

Azriel realised it then. Why Mother burdened him with a loveless life for five centuries. Why Mor didn’t accept him. Why Elain was never meant to be his. 

So he could belong to Ayla. And he would endure the heartache again for eternity if Mother promised him one lifetime with her.

Her fingers stilled, hovering over his palm. ‘Did they pay for this?’

Ayla’s face was that of an ardent believer of forgiveness—warmth radiating from her every time a smile adorned her lips. She cared for Raya and Uri. She protected a child endangering herself. She sheltered a homeless hag.

But Azriel had also witnessed her choke a male defending a fae. 

Which one was he—one worthy of her generosity or her wrath? 

Was he the same innocent boy deserving of justice after the blood he spilt with his own hands? Or was he a sinner for how he punished his half-brothers? What would appease the woman in front of him cradling his hand with a gentleness that rivalled a mother’s touch—that they were forgiven and shown the path of kindness, or they were ripped to shreds by his own tortured hands like they deserved?

No, the word inched closer to the tip of his tongue, ready to satiate his mate with a simple lie. One to keep her from running away from him. ‘Yes.’

The corner of her lips curled up, ever so delicately, and she murmured. ‘Good.’ 

When a frown etched between her brows, he knew her next question well. He grappled at everything he learned of her to lead her elsewhere. 

‘Can I see your dagger?’ She asked softly. 

Azriel almost laughed. One minute, his heart ached with the weight of his past, and the next, with joy and need.

Her back arched over the counter and she leaned low. She narrowed her eyes, prodding at his palm and pinching his fingertips. ‘Do you need special hilts? For your hands, the grip on them should be interesting.’

Oh, Azriel would prove his grip all right.

His shadows buzzed by his ears sensing his insidious thoughts. 

‘Maybe next time,’ he said, easing his hand out of her grip. What an idiot he was denying her the very thing he craved—her skin against his.

Her brow raised but she smiled. ‘Planning ahead, are we?’

It was neither a threat nor a refusal.

Refilling the glass, Azriel nodded at her wrist. ‘Did you make that?’

Ayla glanced at her bracelet before emptying their drink. ‘Orvin did. Leather and innovation are his specialities. I’m better with traditional weaponry.’ She poured another glass and Azriel grabbed it before she could. ‘I don’t carry weapons, so he made it for my travels.’

So close, the rings appeared more silver than gold but lacked the lustre of either. ‘What is it made of?’

‘It’s something I’m working on.’ Ayla threaded her third and fourth fingers through the rings and pulled, slowly revealing the cords. A trilling echoed in the air as they strummed from the strain. ‘See,’ she looked up at him, her eyes bright and eager. ‘It’s malleable under tension. It may not look like it, but it’s tougher than steel.’

She flexed her fingers and the rings whizzed back to the bracelet in a blink. Her smile widened.

Azriel set the glass down and reached for her wrist. Then, he stopped. When he turned to her, she nodded twice, extending her arm towards him. 

His fingers were thicker than hers. The rings barely slipped past his nails. The heat from her skin still warmed the metal. 

Ayla leaned close and Azriel held his breath. She curled his fingers, trapping the rings between his knuckles.

‘They are meant to be a little loose to manoeuvre them.’ She pointed at his half-closed fist, ‘You can’t get proper control if they’re snug. There’s also the danger of breaking your fingers during a fight.’

Azriel nodded and tested a little tug. His fingers trembled at the tension as though the cords fought back against him. Both times Ayla used it, she did so with an impressive ease that almost shamed his Illyrian strength.

She traced her fingers along the width of the bracelet. ‘Here’s where the tethers go. It remembers its form and reverts to it once you let go.’ Then she frowned, ‘But it’s not perfect yet. Leather gets worn out soon. We’re trying to replace it with metal but the slide and friction are hard to get around.’

Words tumbled out of her lips about metals and temperatures and mechanics. The more she talked, the further she edged towards him.

Azriel narrowed his eyes.

A smoky tendril teetered over her shoulder, one to the other. It coiled and wove itself with the loose ends of her hair, curving along her jaw carefully to not touch her skin. 

As the rogue shadow nudged against her collar, swaying too close to her ear, he gritted his teeth. 

Ayla looked up at his silence.

Azriel nodded, bringing his gaze back to her face. Or did she ask him something?

He stared at his hand, the rings still in his grasp. He coiled the cord around his fist like she did on that first night. She was right—he could tolerate the strain better. He tugged and her hand slipped on the table, almost knocking the glass off. She caught it before the liquor spilt on him.

‘Hey,’ she laughed—sweet and soothing. His shadows sighed at the sound. ‘Careful!’ 

Azriel released the rings, letting go of the tether, letting go of her.

But Ayla didn’t move back. She drank, smiling. 

Lights hit the crystals on the shelf right and their glow echoed around her like a gentle halo—turning her into the ethereal being she was. Her eyes sparkled with mirth and her cheeks flushed warm. She licked the remnants of the liquor from her bottom lip as she emptied the bottle and nudged the drink towards him.

Azriel willed himself to breathe. He placed his finger on the rim and turned the glass around. When he brought it to his lips, his tongue darted out to gather the wetness still stuck to it, where her lips had been not a moment ago. He took a long sip, savouring every drop of the burning nectar she offered.

Ayla stared at him—his parted lips, the column of his throat as he swallowed. Her inhaled breath stuck in her throat. As Azriel set the glass down, her eyes followed it before they flashed to his. 

Far, his mind screamed, too fucking far. 

But Azriel noticed the slight twitch of her lips before her gaze flicked to his side. A thread of shadow curled around his ear. 

A lock clicked beyond the wall. Ayla looked over her shoulder at the closed office door, sinking her teeth into her lip.

Raya, his shadows announced.

‘That’s my bartender,’ her voice took on a lower note, more melodious than ever. She swallowed a breath and turned to him. ‘We’ll be opening soon.’

Azriel waited. 

Ayla didn’t move.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. 

Metal clanked and scratched against the wood as her fingers splayed on the counter. When her lips moved with his, Azriel buried his other hand into her hair—her beautiful, silkened hair. 

He swiped his tongue on her lips, wide and hungry. Honeyed sweetness from their drink lingered on them, and beneath it, he tasted her. A shiver raked through him, every nerve in his body awakening at her kiss. When she gasped, he stole the little breath from between her lips. She didn’t resist. 

Gods, not once did she resist.

Azriel kissed her. 

He kissed her with every piece of his heart. He kissed her for the centuries he waited for her. He kissed her for the moments wasted between them, and the moments he would miss until next time.

Here.

Feet stomped close on the other side of the door.

Azriel pulled away, dropping his hands.

The door opened.

‘People generally rest in their bed,’ groaned Raya entering the room. Her mouth fell open when she spotted him, her wide eyes darting between him and Ayla.

Azriel only watched his mate. Her hair, ruined by his hands. Her cheeks aglow golden with a flush. Her lips pursed—wet, swollen, and all the more inviting.

But the light in her eyes, the playfulness, faded.

He stumbled back from the stool. 

‘Thanks for the drink.’

And he left without looking back.

[madomkasak]

It's a vignette of something bigger I guess. Daniel's farm is about to see all the action. Just comfort. Implied retirement for Max and Daniel. ~500 words

“Ask you what? What you wanna do now? You got what, a couple of weeks before-”

“Ask me, Daniel.” Dan-iel — not da-niel. It makes the other man smile. A half turn of his lips. Max wants to kiss it. Maybe he can now, even. Maybe Daniel would let him.

“What’re you going to do next year, Maxy?”

“I was thinking of chilling on your farm, Daniel.” he replies. Sure. Sharp. It’s like they’re back there, and Max wants to have a group of pressers following him so he can say it again. Maybe he can say fuck the FIA too. Thinks strongly: I’m thinking of staying, Daniel. You asked.

“Yeah Max.” he says “Yeah, nah - ok.” Max waits. Watches Daniel swallow air rather than coffee. See, he wants to say, I have learnt to be patient. I waited. I was good, see? “You want to see how cold it gets on the farm in June? Wanna overcome your fear of sharks?”

“No.” he drags out the sound as he steps away. Daniel looks at him, half turned smile again. Flushed pink against tan. Max’s tongue is too big in his mouth, he tests soft fricatives against his teeth. Swallows them for a plosive, forms Daniel’s name in his heart. It never left.   “I’ll teach you to overcome your fear of the sea, of course. There is nothing else for me to do.”

It’s a lie. Max will have hours of meetings to go through. Will need to call his mother, Victoria — GP. They'll of course understand. It is Daniel. And it is Max. Maybe he’ll change his phone number. Maybe Daniel’s farm doesn’t have a signal deep into the sparse land. Maybe he can get him to talk to Christian and Helmut so Max doesn’t have to. Max will ask GP first.

Max doesn’t even own a boat. Yet. Would Daniel laugh when he shows up with a tinny?  Thoughts he left half formed spill into his mind as he waits. Like time slows and Max lets Daniel catch up to him again. It's fine, Max has been doing this since he was seventeen. Since he was young but not, and Daniel was free - but not.

“Yeah? Heard Melbourne isn’t bad in March, Maxy.” Daniel half laughs, but Max knows better. Remembers the strained laugh and the tears and the way Daniel hesitates, always. “There’s something big happening over there this Spring.” “No.” again, drawn out. A shared smile. Max steps into Daniel’s personal space.The stop sound of Daniel’s name fits in his mouth “You asked me to stay, Daniel. And it is autumn Daniel.” Max doesn’t have to be conscious of repeating names now.

He presses in, kisses dark hair on a jaw, bumps his nose against Daniel’s. Kisses him. Finally.

Daniel lets him. He doesn't call Max a cunt when he knocks the pitcher off the countertop. It doesn’t break, but Max’s socks are wet. Daniel's foot nudges his. Kisses Max back, a peck between sounds. Laughs against his lips and Max can feel the laughter sleep into his own bones. Vibrates against the hand he lodges beneath Daniel’s ribs. He digs into the too tight skin there, feels the bumps of Daniel’s rib cage. Feels the flutter of too quick heartbeat and Max tastes Daniel’s tongue, shares a breath with him, drinks how Daniel sighs a half aborted nasal sound that speaks Max's name. He'll stay.

[mynameisjag]

From a fic I never finished, Bruce and Damian enjoy a day out. That's it, just them having a good day.

It wasn’t often that Bruce went out into Gotham as well, just Bruce…not Batman or Brucie Wayne.

Just Bruce.

Changing into simple clothing, letting his hair air dry and just heading out like that and the public didn’t recognize him.

No slicked back hair or suits of any kind.

Just a t-shirt, his favorite throw over cardigan and what Dick insisted was mom jeans, a five o’clock shadow, and he was ready to go.

Just a quick trip to the shopping center to pick up some office supplies for his home office, a few groceries for Alfred, some snacks for the Batcave, and he probably needed to check the family chat to see if anyone needed anything while he was out.

A quick glance at his messages as he began to head out, already on his way to the garage, Dick was trying his best to convince him to get…strawberry flavored Batty-O’s with crackling and popping sprinkles…sounds horrible and right up his eldest alley…also full of terrible sugars…

Alfred would hunt both of them down if he brought this home.

He’ll just order it and have it shipped to Dick’s apartment…

Jason wanted him to fuck off…Bruce sent off a xoxo and a request to come over for tea in response to that. He got a thumbs up and a middle finger.

Tim…is either half asleep and texting or is trying to send out a code for everyone to decipher…both was possible…adding melatonin to the list…

Cass was sending happy faces, so it’s seems she’s good at the moment, sending her a heart, ballet shoes and a crown. His dancing princess.

Duke sent a thumbs up and got one back in return.

Steph was just saying she’ll just take what she needs from his place whenever…time to restock the “hidden” care packages then.

And Damian…Damian was staring him down from the passenger seat of the car…

“Damian…is there something you need that you couldn’t put in chat?”

“I am coming with you.”

“…you hate the public…”

“I will overcome my distaste of others and escort you, Father, you shall not face the scrutiny of the common by yourself.”

Aww, he just wanted to spend time together and Bruce could never refuse the baby of the family, “Of course, I appreciate your concern.”

His darling just puffed up with a smug smile, proud that he managed to get his way without any argument, “I’m glad you are agreeable.”

Look, they are communicating!

Not well, but it was a step forward!

Besides Damian even took the effort to dress more ‘civilian’, the green sweater with a little tiny bird stitched in with the words ‘just a bobbin like a robin’ was definitely a gift from Dick.

Adjusting the seat belt and getting the car out of the garage, Bruce just hummed happily, letting the silence settle between them comfortably. Mentally going back over his list, glancing over to see his son playing on an old handheld game. Something that was more then likely stolen out of Tim’s room, but with the older boy making his own place in the city, it would be awhile before it would be noticed it was gone.

Almost all his children had moved out…he was happy they were moving on in their lives, looking more into their futures but his heart hurt because his babies weren’t actually babies any more. They would have argued that none of them were ever babies with him but he would just ignore that.

He hoped this doesn’t result in empty nest syndrome…

“Baba, can we stop by the game store, I want to see if I can find more interesting games.”

“We can, after we get everything on the list, can you check my phone and see if anyone has sent in anything they want to be picked up-what in Lady Gotham is this?”

Bruce blinked as traffic was stopped to let a…small parade of Batman floats pass by…

“There are copycats out on the street, how dare they parade around as us!”

“…I think parade is the word, look at the banners…”

Batman Day!

“So they are not copycats…but worshippers…”

Bruce tried not to laugh at the thought, "I think the word is…enthusiastics…”

They both watched as a man walked past wearing a banner that said, “Priest of The Bat”.

“…and we will be investigating that later, let’s see if we can park and look around.”

“Time for some detective work, Father?”

“Undercover detective work.”

Damian was eagerly typing away on the phone, “I shall keep the others off our trail so they won’t interrupt our investigation, also according to the online advertisement, the parade will end in the park where the “Batman Day festival” will begin. They will have bat themed mooncakes at certain booths.”

“Are the mooncakes important to the investigation?”

“One must keep all possibilities open, we must check each booth for clues.”

Bruce kept the smile that was threatening to grow held down, he was sure the boy wouldn’t appreciate being cooed over his want of treats being disguised as being extra thorough, more so that he didn’t want his siblings interrupting their day. He was going to have to order everything online and have it shipped to the manor then, mundane chores could wait.

His baby wanted mooncakes.

He will get mooncakes.

It didn’t take too long to park and follow the short parade to the fairgrounds, even with them stopping and staring at the lookalikes, a man giving them a balloon with the bat symbol and the words ‘I believe in Gotham’s local cryptids’, and someone clipping tiny bat wings to the back of their shirts at some point.

Soon the entrance was in view and by that time, Damian was now on Bruce’s shoulders, taking in the crowd, head turning back and forth at the bright lights, the performers in bat themed outfits, wide eyed as a child runs in front of then in a Robin costumes.

Bruce is humming thoughtfully to himself as he eyes a group in clown makeup done up in a Gothic theme, so far all they seem to be doing is some parlor tricks for the crowd around them. Some people even taking selfies, it was a rare sight for a Gothamite to get close to a clown without violence.

He was wondering if he should text the others, surely by now they would be aware of this festival happening, Barbara had to have known…

“Darling, do you want to text your siblings?”

“I can tell them to be on alert for any suspicious behaviors while we blend into the crowd…like the one over by the dart game.”

Bruce could only blink as his head was forcefully turned toward a booth with a bunch of balloons tied to a backboard, “Dart game?”

“Yes, obviously it’s a skill test but what kind? We must investigate.”

Hmm, a skill test that totally didn’t have to do with the giant plush animals as prizes.

“I think I remember Dick saying how these games were rigged,” he watches as a parent carries off their crying kid, wincing in sympathy as the cries get louder.

“No amount of trickery could possibly stop us!”

[itsnotbird]

Orphic ~ File 7

Selcouth (adj.) ; Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous

Bucky!Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: tw for mentions of past trauma, Bucky being obsessive hehe

Previous part here

Masterlist pinned on my blog

Bucky stayed away.

Far away.

He hopes that it might help the fever growing inside of him, that he could sleep soundly if he forgot the way you sound while breathing. It worked in his favor, he hadn’t been needed at the compound for a week, so it was just him and his melancholy apartment.

The distance didn’t cut the thought of you out entirely.

That was the hard part.

And while he walked down the street and thought about how you were handling the colder weather coming, you were in some sort of agony.

It had the same buzz as when you were going through the horrid withdrawal, just felt a little different. You grew more comfortable in your home, you grew closer with your new family, and the days moved by without your James.

It’s the end of the week without him and you sit in the spiny chair in the meeting room with the team, listening to the new plan for the mission. You’ve slowly been understanding and remembering things, helpful things that lead to a potential deal happening in the city.

They decide who would best suit this mission, who will go undercover, who will wait in the get away van.

Your knees are curled to your chest, nails picking at the rips in your jeans and you suddenly have the urge to speak.

“I want to go.”

The room comes to a halt.

“Holy shit, she can speak.” Sam says with bewilderment.

“Of course I can speak, I just didn’t like to…I’m fine now.” You explain.

They all have a peculiar look, but they go with it.

“Blue…are you sure it’s smart for you to go?” Tony asks, mind ridden with concern.

You look over at him. “I’m in control of my power, I won’t hurt anyone.”

Steve adds in. “Are you sure you can jump into action if something happens?”

You giggle. “I was a huntress for over a decade, I think I can handle business.”

You sit straight, then continue. “Besides, I want to do more to bring this whole shindig down.”

Maybe it’s the fact they are still so stunned that you’re speaking, or something else, but they seem to comply easily.

“Alright…Blue will go with the Cap and Romanoff undercover.” Tony declares. “We need to get you in the training room…just to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

You gave him a look, knowing well that he just wanted to throw things and watch you deflect them.

And it seems that was the case for the rest of the Avengers.

“Anyone else scared?” Sam asks, standing behind the protective glass with the rest as you pull your hair up and shrug your ugly sweater off.

“Five bucks says Cap throws in the towel.” Nat bets with Clint.

“Oh you are so on.” He whispers back. “Let’s hope she doesn’t get too hurt.”

Wide eyed, they watch you hold your own in hand to hand combat with Steve, but one leg sweep and your one the ground.

The team cringes.

Then mutter to each other as you jump right back up and get a serious look in your eye.

“She’s pissed now.” Sam laughs, cheering you on.

Steve may be an advanced fighter, he’s twice your size, but he gets tossed like a rag doll with the move of your hand. A line of glowing blue strikes him, he falls backwards.

“Very impressive.” Wanda compliments.

Steve continues to come at you, and Tony laughs hysterically as he gets bashed around.

“Beautiful!” Tony claps, making you proudly smile at the praise. “What else can you do?”

“Uh…I don’t want to hurt him…” You say, unsure.

“What? He’s fine. You’re fine, right?” He turns to Steve.

Steve rolls his aching shoulder, panting slightly as he nods. “I can do this all day, hit me.”

You look at him, making sure he’s okay before you twitch your fingers, sending a bolt of electricity straight to him.

“Oh shit!” Sam exclaims, laughing in amusement as Steve stands there, twitching with bared teeth. “I know that doesn’t feel good.”

Steve falls to his knees, you immediately stop and come before him. Hand on his cheek, you ease the pain you just caused him. He breathes with relief.

“How do you do that?” He asks, getting the strength to stand.

“I can make you do anything I want you to.” You confess.

“Make him do something!” Tony urges, way too excited about this.

“Take mercy on me.” Steve whispers, a half goofy smile.

You rub his cheek, returning the smile. Looking him in the eye, your eyes glow an entrancing blue. Immediately, Steve stops any movement, completely still as you whisper to him.

“Steve…are you listening?” You ask softly.

He nods mechanically.

“Go hug Tony.” You instruct.

Like an obedient soldier, he turns and marches straight for Tony.

“No, stay the hell away from me.” Tony steps away.

Steve just follows, causing the man to panic. The team watching laughs as Tony shouts for you to reel him back in.

“Steve. Stop.” You call.

His feet halt.

“Okay…that’s scary.” Banner agrees, watching as you brake the trance.

Steve shakes his head, almost like he’s clearing the brain fog. Then, he looks to Tony. “Yeah, she’s all yours, I give up.”

“Ha!” Nat laughs in Clints face, holding her palm out for the cash.

Clint pouts as he gives her the money.

You’re shooting at the practice targets as Steve joins the rest of them. They look to him in anticipation for his words.

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “She’ll do just fine.”

Then he nurses his hurt ribs.

- - - -

A deep breath in, he steps through the first doors of the living quarters.

It was after dinner, maybe you were already asleep?

That’s a wishful thought that he doesn’t fully like.

If you were asleep, he couldn’t watch you from a distance, he couldn’t get that faint scent of vanilla and cherry that followed you.

But if you were locked in your room, he could keep his dignity.

But he’s never been a lucky man, that’s why when he makes it to the common space, he sees you very much so awake, sitting in front of the tv, watching what looked like The Breakfast Club.

Now if it were just you, he’d linger for a second, watch you, maybe sit beside you. But it’s much worse, you’re leaned into Steve with his arm around your shoulders, and Wanda is on your other side, head leaned onto Vision’s shoulder.

Bucky’s jaw sets, he glares at the scene that looks too much like a double date.

Nat comes in with a bowl of popcorn, settles on the carpet right under you. And Bruce comes to swap a few jokes with her, then joins her.

And Tony of all people, is sat in the sectional, actually enjoying the movie. Pepper, who the team hardly sees because she’s super woman and runs a business while mothering a daughter she just put to bed, comes in and the team rejoices, all smiles as she sits with her husband.

What the hell was this? A love affair?

Sam approaches behind the soldier who is glaring daggers.

“Aw, a little love fest, how cute.” He snickers, trying to rile Bucky up. “Even Clint went home to his wife, everyone has someone, huh? Oh, except you.”

“You’re one to talk.” Bucky argues.

“Well I’m a little less pathetic about it.”

He turns to look at the grinning man. “Trust me, you’re plenty pathetic.”

Then he turns back to you, how you laugh at a scene and lay more comfortably on Steve.

Like a devil on his shoulder, Sam is there, whispering.

“Aren’t they just cozy? You think Steve’s gonna make a move?”

Bucky’s metal fist clenches.

“I bet you, the next time he laughs, he’s gonna pull her a little closer…surprised she isn’t nuzzling into his neck now.”

“Sam.” Bucky warns. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to dismember your limbs.”

“Nah uh, you’re not supposed to hurt people, Doctor’s orders.” Sam states, laughing for a moment before he gets serious.

“If you want to be in Steve’s spot, then you need to man up and make a move.” He says.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky shakes his head.

“Oh really? So it’s not killing you that she’s close with him? You don’t want to rip your best friend off the couch right now?”

He hates that Sam’s right.

Bucky sighs, then relaxes his body. “Wouldn’t make a difference if I make a move, she doesn’t need me, she’s got enough problems to deal with. I got enough problems to deal with. Besides, she has Steve.”

Sam chuckles again. “Very poetic, man, but that was a dumb reason. And have you read her file? The girl has attachment issues, she’s close with everyone she feels safe with, doesn’t mean she has a thing for them.”

“No.” Bucky corrects. “I haven’t read her file, but apparently everyone else has.”

You lean down to ask Nat a question about the movie, and your hand rests on Steve’s knee as you do so.

Bucky’s had enough.

He leaves, walks off in the direction of his room quickly, making him a shadow.

But you feel his energy move past and you turn your head quickly, trying to find him. You only see his retreating form.

Your mood immediately deflates.

Wanda looks over at you as you slump back into the couch, questioning you silently. You just put on a smile and nod, showing her you were fine.

You weren’t fine, you had an ache that festered and festered inside of you.

Bucky wasn’t much better, sitting alone in his room for hours while he listened to the movie end and everyone settle in, going off to bed.

What catches his attention is the folder that slides under his door, a note from Sam on it that reads ‘Try to understand her the way we do’.

He crumbles it up and tosses it.

Sitting at his desk, Bucky holds the file in his hand and it’s heavy, weighted.

Slowly, he opens it.

And the air gets kicked from his lungs.

Evidence photos, countless marks and bruises, scars. There’s countless pages from your therapist, write ups from agents who you spoke with, words from Nick Fury himself who is fond of you.

Attachment issues, abandonment issues

…self destructive tendencies…

…unstable signs… night terrors…relapse of memory

Follows orders well…very intelligent…

Can be triggered by mentions of her past traumas.

Subject to panic attacks.

He feels sick, reading all of it.

And much like your actions to his file, he rereads yours multiple times until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out.

It keeps him up, he lays on the floor next to his bed and thinks over everything.

When he thinks he’s exhausted enough, he shuts his eyes, only for a migraine to hit.

Yet another lasting effect from his past.

He lays there miserable for a moment too long before pulling sweatpants on and going to the kitchen, searching for something simple as Ibuprofen…that he’ll take five of them just so it will make a dent in his system.

He chugs a glass of water, then goes to sit on the couch in front of the large window in the common room. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he almost doesn’t notice the figure going into the kitchen.

Your steps are extremely light, but a blue orb follows you, illuminating your path, so he knows it’s you.

In the darkness, he sits completely still. The cloud cover moves away and the moonlight seeps in to paint him a shade of light blue.

You startle as you see him, water sloshing in your glass.

He doesn’t say a word, just watches you pause and read him.

A shirt swallows your frame, he can barely see the plaid boxers you wear.

“Hello, James.” You greet.

“It’s really ominous when you say that.” He states back, rubbing his temple now.

“Are you sick?” You ask, fiddling with the orb above you, letting it fade out.

“Just a migraine, I’ll live.” He says in a tone that gives way to his discomfort.

You come forward, setting your glass on the coffee table and stand before him.

He looks up in question. “Not any less ominous, doll.” He sighs, looking away and missing the way his nickname affects you.

“I can help.” You say. “…Won’t you let me?”

His head pounds further at the deja vu, because even though you’ve never asked him that, he’s heard those words before in his dreams.

His lips part, but no words come out.

Cautiously, you sit beside him, your touch gentle as you turn his face to you.

He watches you with those round blue eyes, feeling his heart beat wonky.

You hold your fingers an inch from the center of his forehead, and he’s further illuminated by the glow of blue. You hum, feeling the pain he feels.

“What…what are you doing?” He asks in a tone that comes out softer than intended.

“I’m just…feeling you, and trying to make it better.”

“You aren’t permanently damaged, you have feelings, James.” Dr Raynor had told him. “It’s a possibility that you are enamored by this woman.”

He isn’t sure if that’s the word. But he feels something rising in him, it’s heavy on his lungs, it makes him feel warm. Perhaps because no one has done a caring act for him in a long time, or maybe it’s because he can feel his soul reaching out and tangling itself in yours. It’s obsessive and caring and entirely strange, but it’s not wrong.

“And what do you feel?” He asks, his throat bobbing.

Your eyebrows drawn, you look into his eyes. “Just you.”

“Is it terrible?” He asks, not any hint of sarcasm.

You shake your head, pulling the pain from him, soothing his head. “You could never be terrible, I don’t think.”

Fuck. You are entirely strange and rare and marvelous.

He breathes clearer as the pain is gone. He reaches out, softly grasping your wrist and it earns a small gasp from you.

Then his palm is meeting yours like he needs to see if you’re one in the same. His touch is warm, you watch the way his hand is considerably more larger than yours.

You slow his heart out of fear that it might burst.

“Tell me why you’re always in my head.” He asks in a husky and breathless tone.

“You first.” You whisper.

He takes your hand, pressing his lips to your palm and you stop breathing entirely.

The feeling in you is new, one you’ve never felt. But he’s sitting too close, looking too good, being so gentle, you have an urge to…cry?

You watch him carefully, dissecting every move.

In truth, Bucky isn’t sure what he’s doing but he knows he wants to. He pressed the tips of your fingers to his lips, trying to understand what’s happening behind your eyes. As he pulls your hand away, it’s like your body moves on its own. You lean forward, rushing your lips to his before you can process what’s happening. You’ve kissed men in your career, all out of business, never for pleasure. This is different, this is an invisible force that wants you to latch onto him and not let go.

Bucky’s eyes widen as you kiss him almost harshly, it short circuits his brain. He can’t even process what to do before you’re ripping yourself away, completely spooked.

Not knowing exactly what to say, you just mutter an apology and rush away, back to your room.

Bucky’s left in the darkness, skin tingling.

[poorlittlegreenie13]

Another 'Rules For (fake) Dating an Italian' deleted scene that I promised to post: (the omitted shower scene from chapter nine)

this was gonna start where they were walking to the L after dinner... but the chapter was getting too long & it's kind of dumb & just wasn't feeling it lolll. But you can read it if you really want to! (& I didn't proofread it. sorry! Hopefully no egregious errors).

When she finally looks up again, she finds herself staring at the CVS across the street and stops abruptly. 

“Oh, come with me,” she says, tugging his hand to J-walk across the street. 

“Syd!” Carmy says, eyes widening, glancing at the cars approaching on either side of them. 

“Pedestrians have right of way!” Sydney says, pulling him quickly across before either of them can get flattened. 

“What do you need from CVS?” Carmy says, slightly breathless, as they walk in, dry heat hitting them both as the doors slide closed on the Chicago cold. 

“It’s not what I need, it’s what you need,” she says, pulling him toward the shampoo aisle. 

“Oh, you were serious about the shampoo,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. 

Would she be crazy if she thought he might actually sound slightly overwhelmed by the idea? But not in a bad way. More in the way where he looks like he’s holding back his actual reaction. She wants to see it.

“I’m not letting you bald in your early thirties because you used 3-in-1 your whole life,” Sydney says, stopping in front of a shelf of shampoos and conditioners and carefully choosing a pair of bottles, which she hands to Carmy. 

“Sounds great,” he says, not even looking at them. The words have a hazy quality to them. She smiles at him, grabbing a bottle of leave-in conditioner for good measure. 

“You need anything else?” she asks him. 

He shakes his head quickly and she nods, walking toward the register, Carmy trailing behind her. 

Somehow, Sydney did not notice them walking through a section of condoms and lube on their way to the hair productions on the way in. 

She notices now though. 

There are a couple of people waiting to check out at the register, and she intended to hang back, not wanting to crowd them, but she realizes now the connotation of her pausing in this particular section of the store. 

Carmy clears his throat. She looks at him. He’s blushing. He’s so pathetic sometimes; she’s fucking crazy about him. 

“Should I…?” he says. 

On any other occasion, she might’ve teased him about trailing off instead of being able to say it out loud, but he’s already so red in the face, she decides to be merciful. 

“What, you don’t have one in your wallet?” she says. “What kind of date is this?”

“You’re so mature, Sydney,” he says, holding back a smile, shaking his head at her. “So mature.”

“You’re the one who’s blushing,” she says, and he blushes harder, grabbing a pack of condoms off the shelf and walking away from her, up to the—now available—register. 

She follows closely behind him, drunk on the ease of it all; the absurd, entrancing way they seem to be able to speak to each other. She’s never had that with anybody else before. She likes the way he smiles when she tries to make a joke. 

In his apartment—a mutually-agreed-upon destination landed on during an L-ride that consisted mostly of staring at each other—Sydney kicks her shoes off by the door and sizes him up for a second.

He fills a glass with water and sets her flowers into them. Then he empties his pockets onto the counter; keys, wallet, phone, cigarettes, then finally, he carefully sets the plastic CVS bag down next to them, looking over at Sydney with a note of uncertain expectation on his face.

“I feel like I should offer you food, but we just ate,” he says, smiling ruefully. 

Sydney stays silent for a second, wondering if she’s being like… overly horny, and weird.

But then she considers the fact that Carmy is still blushing, and decides it’s probably fine. 

“I could, uh, show you how to use that stuff,” she says, inclining her head toward the CVS bag, then, after a moment of silence, quickly adding, “I meant the hair stuff. I didn’t mean the condoms. I mean, we can… we can use the condoms. If you want. But I’m sure you’re… perfectly capable of using those yourself. No instructions necessary.” She forces an awkward little laugh. 

He smiles at her. Not patronizing, or annoyed. He smiles at her like there’s nothing more charming on this earth than her making an utter fool of herself. She watches him bite his bottom lip, trying not to laugh, and then he laughs anyway, a sweet, boyish sound. A sound that makes affection for him swell up in her chest like a helium balloon. 

She finds herself scoffing too. 

“It wasn’t that funny,” she says. 

He presses his lips together in a thin smile to stop laughing. There’s color in his cheeks; a warmth to him, underneath all the overly-formal newness of the date. 

She snatches the CVS bag off the counter, turning and walking toward the bathroom without waiting for him.

She hears him following close behind her. She kicks her shoes off, stopping outside his shower and pulling her sweater over her head (unable to stop herself from neatly folding it and setting it gently down on the closet toilet seat. Because heaven forbid it get fucked up; she loves it like an old friend). 

When she looks up, Carmy is standing in the doorway, tongue playing at the corner of his mouth, eyes fixed on her.

Jesus Christ, are they actually doing this?

Theoretically, stripping her clothes off in front of a guy she just went on a first date with isn’t really her style. 

This is different though, isn’t it? 

Honestly, she doesn’t really care. 

She’s standing in just her skirt, and the bra she picked out that morning (not a particularly nice bra, to be completely honest, she only owns four bras and they’re all the same, just in different colors).

Carmy’s eyes don’t move off her, but his fingers come to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with absurd dexterity, until he has enough room to pull it over his head, leaving him in a white wife beater, gold chain glinting. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Sydney says. 

Carmy scoffs. “Fuck me? You’re the one who looks like that.”

“Like what?” Sydney demands indignantly. 

“Like a fucking angel,” Carmy says, a disbeliving laugh breaking through his words halfway through the sentence. 

“You look like Marlon fucking Brando,” she says. 

“You look cold,” Carmy says, smile softening. “Wanna turn that water on?”

Simple command, but it still makes her smile fade, and her cheeks heat. She nods, turning and reaching into his shower to turn the hot water on, standing on the bathmat where it can’t reach her. 

With her back still turned to him, she reaches to undo the clasp of her bra, sliding it off and letting it fall to the tile floor of his bathroom. 

She hears him inhale. 

Hears a faint rustle of fabric. 

She brings her fingers to the zipper of her skirt and pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. 

He’s taken his undershirt off. 

She stands unmoving for a long moment, stuck in the feeling of him staring at her like a fly stuck in honey. 

“Syd,” he says gently, after a moment. “You sure you wanna do this?”

“Do you want to do this?” she asks. 

He exhales a soft laugh. 

“Yes,” he says simply. 

“Well, so do I,” she says, turning back to look at the shower water, unzipping the side of her skirt. “Get over here,” she says, one hand still holding her skirt up. 

Carmy crosses quickly to her; shirtless, impossible. His eyes flick down to her chest, but quickly come back up to her face, like he thinks she might not notice. 

She did notice. She didn’t mind. 

“You first,” she says, nodding toward his pants, still buttoned. 

He scoffs, and a blush creeps up his exposed chest, but he unbuttons them anyway, pushing them down his hips and stepping out of them, left in boxers and socks. 

She lets her skirt drop, kicking it over the same way as Carmy’s pants, and without letting herself hesitate, slides her panties down her hips too and steps under the water, inhaling sharply as it hits her head, instantly banishing any hints of the cold from her body. 

She hears the curtain slide shut, and when she opens her eyes, Carmy is standing across from her, his back pressed to the cold tiles behind the showerhead, totally dry. 

She steps back so he can stand under the water too, but he makes no motion to move until she reaches out and takes one of his wrists in her hand, pulling him under the water. 

He tilts his head back, water running over his face, curls straightening out beneath it. She finds her eyes catching on stray drops of water as they trail down his chest. 

But no. She’s getting distracted. 

“Carm,” she says. “Hair.”

“Really?” he says, with a faint note of exasperation, opening his eyes and looking at her. 

“What, did you think this was just an excuse to get you in the shower?” she says, reaching out to get the shampoo and conditioner and setting them on the shelf. “I don’t joke about curl patterns, Carmen.”

“Right,” Carmy says, shaking his head slowly. “I should’ve known.”

She smiles at him ruefully.

“I still don’t know what was so bad about my 3-in-1,” he says. 

Sydney rolls her eyes. 

“God, you’re hopeless,” she says, “here, just turn around.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders, spinning him to face the opposite shower wall. 

The water hits his face and he tilts his head back to avoid it. 

For a moment, she lets her eyes wander over his back; littered with tattoos, dripping with water. 

She wants to press a kiss to the space between his shoulder blades, but she settles instead for dragging her fingers over the slopes of his shoulders, down his biceps, lingering on his skin until she pulls her hands away to reach for the shampoo. She sees him shiver. 

“I never take warm showers,” he murmurs. Maybe to break the silence. Maybe just to talk. 

“Why not?” she asks, pouring some shampoo into one hand and replacing the bottle on the shelf in the corner of his shower. 

“I— oh,” he breaks off as she brings her hand to the back of his hair, beginning to massage the shampoo into his damp curls. “I, uh, I don’t know, just never… had the time for the water to warm up, I guess,” he says, quieter. 

She drags her fingers through his hair, bringing her left hand up to join her right, working across his scalp. 

“God, that’s— that’s good, Syd,” he says, words soft.

He steps back, maybe subconsciously, leaning into her touch. His back grazes her chest and she hears his breath catch. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, freezing in place.  

“Don’t be,” she says. “Step under the water for me though, we need to wash this out.”

“Mmhm,” he says, leaning his head forward to catch under the water. The bubbles of the shampoo run down his back, following the path of his spine.  

When the water runs clear, no more shampoo running down the drain, he turns around to look at her. His eyelashes have droplets of water stuck in them. His hair is plastered to his forehead. 

“Done?” he asks. 

“No,” she says, smiling at how disheveled he looks.  “Conditioner now.”

“Oh,” he says, exhaling. 

“It’s good to leave the conditioner in for a few minutes sometimes,” she says, swallowing hard, reaching blindly behind her for the bottle, uncapping it and squeezing some into her palm. He watches her do it. “Makes your hair softer, you know?”

“Whatever you say,” he says, though he doesn’t seem particularly invested in her haircare instructions. 

She doesn’t make him turn around this time, just smooths his hair back with one hair and combs the conditioner through with the other, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut as she drags her fingernails lightly over his scalp. 

When she’s done, he doesn’t open his eyes. 

She studies his face for a second; greedy and unhurried. 

He’s so fucking beautiful. 

“Carm,” she says. 

“Mm?” he says, eyes opening. 

She smiles softly at the dazed expression on his face, and drops her eyes to his lips. As she leans into him, she sees the tiniest flicker of surprise, and then he’s leaning back to meet her, that hungry kind of kissing that unfailingly disarms her. 

Her chest presses against his, their wet skin sliding easily together, making her body hum to life. 

She isn’t sure if she steps forward, or he steps back, but as they move together, the shower water begins raining down over both their heads. Sydney tastes flat water catching between their lips; the shock of the heat of it makes her gasp, and when she pulls back from Carmy, he’s red and breathless.

“I… think it, uh, washed itself out,” she says, glancing at his hair. 

“Yeah?”

She nods slowly.

“Smells good,” he says, running his fingers through his own damp hair. 

She smiles at him. “It’ll be soft when it dries.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” she says, nodding, becoming less capable of words as he stares at her more intensely. 

“You wanna… dry off?” he asks. “Then we can… you know. Whatever you want.”

“Yeah,” she says. 

He reaches behind him, turning the water off. 

There are towels under his sink and he tosses her one. 

“Don’t you dare towel dry your hair,” she says. 

He blinks at her. 

“Wha—how am—what am I supposed to do if I don’t towel dry it?”

“You need to scrunch it up and let it dry naturally.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Maybe show me that next time.”

She rolls her eyes as he towels his hair off in a way that is absolutely going to undo any progress she made. But she doesn’t really care. 

“Bedroom?” she asks, wrapping the towel he gave her around herself. 

“Yes,” he says,