#its so incredible and complicated it would make my chest swell to bursting if there wasnt an empty bleeding wound in my gut. a

[opens-up-4-nobody]

The way that the sun hits leaves and clouds. I feel like I could watch the colors change forever. If I could slow down for that long.

[watchingtheroad]

Be Your Run-To

Damen struggles in the aftermath of his injury and the reality of losing his remaining family. Laurent helps him cope. 

Post-Canon | Hurt/Comfort | Mourning | First Time Bottoming | 

POV Switches:  Damen >> Laurent >> Nikandros >> Damen

+

Damen watched as Laurent dissected another letter from Arles over his makeshift desk at Ios, a table and chair he had dragged into what was now Damen’s office space. Laurent loved it for the massive library attached. He had already brought in an entire new shelf on which he would display the books he planned to read separately from the ones he did not. It was very charmingly involved. 

Damen loved it for the memories of his childhood—sitting on the King’s lap and reading as a boy, growing and studying alongside him as he worked at his desk—and hated it for the exact same reason. 

Reality was strange to think about, stranger for it to be so. That was his father’s desk. His father’s books. His father’s rooms. His father’s throne. His father’s crown. His father’s city. His father’s kingdom. 

His father was dead. His brother was dead, buried in the royal crypt with family rather than treated as the gullible traitor he proved himself to be. 

Damen had thought he could save them both, will them to life and reason. 

He had been wrong. 

Grief crashed over him in inconvenient waves in the weeks immediately after his own injury and Kastor’s bitter end. It was different without the constant drama of plotting against the Regent and running around the continent with Laurent. Forced to endlessly sit and heal, Damen had time to dwell in his misery—entirely too much, arguably, that drained him to exhaustion in moments meant for rest—all while continuing plans to stabilize his own government and attempting to solidify an official unity with Vere. 

It was quite a lot of work, investigation and tedious conversation: drafting documents, arguing more treason and laws, deciding which policies would be adopted kingdom-wide or remain independent to either Akielos or Vere. The matter of slavery was the most pressing to attend to, and one on which Damen and Laurent vehemently agreed. Total abolishment was the goal. It was a matter of implementation, and not every kyros in Akielos was as amenable to change as Nikandros. 

They spent the majority of their days in grueling meetings once Damen was lucid, which began at his bedside, then expanded to common rooms as Damen grew stronger. Laurent had done an invaluable job at handling things when he was not, but there was still substantial progress to be made. He had named Nikadros Kyros in Ios, summoned the few, trustworthy members of the Veretian Council, new appointments included. 

It added another layer of difficulty on both sides, given Vere’s chaotic political climate and Kastor’s treason. It was hard to know exactly all the places evil had touched their kingdom, and Laurent’s extended stay in Ios was a disadvantage in finding out and achieving true peace for Vere. None of the Veretians in Ios liked it there, and none of the Veretians in Vere liked that their future King was still away. Laurent’s focus should have been that, not shouldering Damen’s burdens beyond necessity.

As it was, Laurent refused to be parted from him until he was well again. Damen had been adamant for some time that he was well again, despite some moderate discomfort during his deep breathing exercises and soreness that lingered with certain movements. He seemed to be singularly convinced of that. Even Nikandros was on Laurent’s side, a rarity of astronomical proportion. 

Under different circumstances, Damen would’ve already progressed his training to more rigorous levels, used physical exertion and pain as a distraction for everything else, then pushed through until it became tolerable. The lack thereof was making him incredibly irritable, but Laurent insisted he take it torturously easy, fretting about him every step. 

From the look on Laurent’s face, it appeared whoever wrote the latest letter from Vere was returning the favor in making one irritable. 

“What’s the matter?” Damen asked. 

With reluctance, Laurent said, “I have to leave for Vere. The people have started congregating outside Arles, which I suspect is diplomatic phrasing for rioting. Resistance from the Regent’s leftover filth. Fucking brilliant.” 

Innocently enough, Damen noted, “Going back sooner would have eliminated that.” 

“Just what I wanted to hear, Damianos,” Laurent said, voice like the edge of a knife. “Thank you for your helpful counsel.” 

“Laurent, I didn’t mean—” Damen started, then stopped, closing his mouth with an internally audible clack of teeth. He took a deep breath, blew it out. “I only meant that Vere needs to see its King. They’ll settle as soon as you enter the city.” 

“Do you want me to go so badly?” Laurent asked. “If it will help, you can say it. Let us not pretend I haven’t been worrying you mad.” 

“You haven’t,” Damen fibbed. 

He had, at times, but only regarding certain things. Being fussed over had never been something Damen was particularly keen on.

Damen said, “You’re the best part of every day I live.” 

The former did not make the latter untrue. Their stolen moments were the only thing that kept Damen holding himself together. The source of his foul mood wasn’t Laurent; his concern came from a place of love, Damen knew well enough. It was the circumstances, a result of sadness and lethargy and days and days of complete uselessness that Damen was unaccustomed to and despised to his core. It wasn’t fair to lay his frustrations on Laurent simply because he had nowhere else to aim them, but it’s what he had done. 

“Am I?” Laurent asked, the prick self-deprecation clear and sharp. “You haven’t even pretended you want me to stay to spare my feelings.” 

Laurent was talking nonsense. Damen ached to erase the doubt in his voice. He went to him, yielding before crossing completely into Laurent’s space where he sat at his table. It was clear when Damen needed to tread more carefully, when Laurent’s defenses were momentarily raised. Damen fancied himself safely inside them, not out in the cold. Still, he waited, until a nearly-imperceptible nod and a softening of eyes gave him the permission he sought. 

He slid Laurent’s chair away from the table to better get at him, kneeling in front of him on the floor. Laurent looked at him as though he might break during the mere act of kneeling, but thankfully, held his tongue. 

“Laurent, I don’t want you to go,” Damen explained. “These cuffs on our wrists?” He held Laurent’s hand in one of his, and with the other, let his fingers trail across gold. “Everything they stand for, I want. You, I want. But I don’t want you to stay here to the detriment of Vere because you think I need to be watched like an invalid. I am fi—” 

“Don’t. Don’t say you’re fine,” Laurent stopped him. “You’ve said that since the moment you very nearly bled to death under my hand, through every complication. Are you so stubborn you cannot see you’re the least reliable regarding your own condition? Your physical state is not my only concern—” Laurent took his face in both hands, his touch gentle as he leaned forward to press his lips to Damen’s forehead, murmuring, “You’ve not been yourself, Damianos. I’m worried about your mind, your spirit.” 

Damen clutched Laurent’s wrists, letting out a ragged breath. The whole truth spoken aloud unsettled him to the bone, made everything he fought to bury swell up inside, threatening to burst through his skin. His voice was strained, on the verge of disproportionate emotion, “It’s not you, Laurent. I swear it. It’s me. I’m—”

Broken.

He thought he had been managing, that the moments of shared happiness between them would disguise the torment in his heart. 

Laurent cradled Damen’s head to his chest, and Damen’s arms found their way around him. 

“You’re grieving, Damen. Your opportunity was stolen from you after your father was killed. It’s perfectly normal to need that time now, after everything. When Auguste died, I—” Damen sensed Laurent hit a wall and bear through it in the next breath. “It took months for the agony to subside enough that I felt I could breathe again.” 

It only added to Damen’s guilt. 

“Your brother was good, Laurent—” And I took him from you, Damen thought. “Mine tried to kill me more times than I’m likely aware of to accurately count. And my father— You hated my father. He was a ruthless conqueror, and I worshipped him in blissful ignorance.” 

“My opinions about Theomedes are irrelevant. He was your father, your only living parent, your King,” Laurent listed, pressing a kiss to his hair, then another. “What you feel is acceptable, no matter how conflicting…There’s no proper strategy in mourning, my love, but you do not have to do it alone in silence. I am here.” 

Damen felt his cheeks wet with tears he hadn’t known were trickling free. He buried his face in Laurent’s chest, a choked sob escaping with his words. “It’s impossible to be here, Laurent. Everywhere I look, I see them. I feel like—”

An imposter. 

Laurent was the last person who needed to hear that from him. Damen had been groomed for kingship his entire life and felt fraudulent when faced with it now amidst his sadness, particularly having evolved so drastically from who he last was in Ios. Even so, he couldn’t fathom having it thrust upon him as a boy as Laurent did, his grief unimaginable and obstacles unnumbered, the unspeakable abuse he endured. 

“Tell me,” Laurent coaxed, his fingers moving in soothing strokes against his scalp. “Let me inside this head of yours.” 

A deep, steadying breath. 

“There are times I feel Ios doesn’t belong to me. It’s as though my father’s still here, alive in every hall and chamber. I’m so far from the Prince Akielos once knew,” Damen confessed. 

Laurent lifted Damen’s head to meet his eyes, delicately wiping beneath them with his thumbs. His smile was soft, compassionate. His eyes shone with love Damen felt unworthy of receiving. 

“Damianos, my King,” Laurent said, with a reverence in his voice that throbbed in Damen’s chest and ached through his ribs. “You are twice the leader and ten times the man your father and brother were. Not all change is unwelcome. If you stepped onto the balcony now, Ios would chant your name in the streets. Not your father’s. Not Kastor’s. They adore you. I adore you. Your effortless confidence, the power you hold in your body and words… I aspire to it. Your brother played at ruling. You were born to it. Akielos is yours. These ghosts won’t haunt you forever.” 

His words were fleeting warmth wrapped around Damen’s body. He longed to feel it deeper, for them to speak to something solid inside him and hold.

“You’re kinder than I deserve,” Damen said. Then, eager to shift the conversation away from himself, split open as he was, he returned, “It was born in you, too. You’re brilliant, Laurent. I’ve never known a mind like yours. Arles will receive you with open arms, whenever you choose to return. I’ve seen how your people look at you.” 

They had lined the streets of every town in Vere, ecstatic to catch a mere glimpse of Laurent as he rode through on their journey to Akielos. If there was residual unrest in the capital due to the Regent, Damen imagined the faction was small. 

“If it hasn’t been ripped apart brick by brick before I arrive,” Laurent mused, with an exaggerated sigh. He caressed Damen’s face from brow to jaw. “You look exhausted. Let’s have a hot bath, shall we? Wait for me in your chambers, and I’ll attend you? I have one thing left to do here.”

Damen nodded. That did sound nice. 

He shifted to stand, pausing to kiss Laurent on his way. His breath caught, lips trembling as the kiss deepened. His emotions were all out of sorts. Nothing meant more to him than making Laurent happy, merging their lives into one as Damen felt bound to him. He wished to feel better, and he wished to do it beside Laurent. 

“Thank you, Laurent… Hurry to me,” Damen said, and because it was all he could muster while keeping his composure, he hoped it conveyed everything he meant.

+

[THE REST IS HERE]

[areluctantsblog]

Teacher!Tony wrong number au - Part 9

Part1   Part2   Part3   Part4   Part5   Part6   Part7   Part8

Fucking finally, ey? I can’t tell you how incredibly grateful I am for all the support this story kept getting during this huge hiatus. Make no mistake, it was you, dear people, who got me through it, especially in the past couple of month, while my inspiration warred with my guilt and anxiety about this story.

I tag each and every one of you with a special thank you! @scarletmanuka1 @whenfandomscollide @speckledcoffeecups @hogwartstoalexandria @aoifelaufeyson​  @geekmom13  @red-eyes88​ @Pretzelpoetry @lunakir​ @airebellah​ @starkercrossedlovers​ @smidnite​ @try--again2244 @greyastocoal​ @ur-fav-starker-stan @prihoney​ @ravens-starker-stuff​ @starker-reader​ @emeraldstark @starkerxstarker​ @maqnusbae​ @nyctophile3000​ @spider-iron-man​ @rebel13lion39​ @youknowwhoiamx @theatrekidwithissues​ @blueyoshi97 @t-hollands-bitch​ @starkerintheparker

Have fun reading!

***

Peter scoffs, but some of the weight lifts from his chest even though he still doesn’t have any idea what to tell his best friend. He sees Ned typing, so he waits for his next message.

The tight knot around Peter's windpipe loosens a bit as a soft chuckle escapes him.

Seeing his friend's apology prompts Peter to reply. He types hastily. 

Peter stares at the screen for a long minute before hitting call with a sigh. His chest feels like a battlefield where warm fuzzy butterflies war with cold clammy hands that cut off his breath. 

“Hey, man, what’s up?” comes his best friend’s excited voice.

“Um, hi," Peter chokes out and winces at how feeble he sounds. 

Every time he talks about it, he feels an ever bigger mess. It's as if talking about it would make it more real. Less easy to handle. And yet, when he's with Tony—God, he's been with Tony twice now!—things seem to come so easily. Why does it have to become so complicated when he thinks about it? Sure, when he's with Tony, his mind is reduced to mush, but at least he doesn't wonder about how real things are. And even if they were real, wouldn’t he feel happy? Euphoric even… Peter groans. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Peter hurries to say. It rings false even to his own ears, and yet it helps him realise that objectively it’s true. He's panicking, yes, but nothing's really wrong. At least not with him. When he thinks about Tony though, his heart aches.

Ned remains silent.

“Um,” Peter starts again. “That’s not… It’s complicated. I’m okay, though. Well, I'm a mess," he admits, voice cracking, "but that's no news." He needs to take a break. He's having difficulty breathing and he feels hot all over. He wants to tell Ned, wants to somehow be able to explain the turmoil within him, but he can’t get the words out. He rakes his fingers through his hair, scraping the back of his neck with more force than necessary.

“Anyway…” he starts, pumping himself to speak the words. What comes out instead is… Not the words he meant.  “How was your ride home?” His voice betrays him again, jumping several notes higher.

Ned laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to tell you about all the wonders a half-an-hour subway ride can offer, but I really don’t believe that you’re interested in that right now.”

“No, you are right,” Peter admits, deflating. At least his voice sounds like his own now, even though it’s weak again. "Something… Something has happened.” 

He can hear a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line.

Fuck, he still hasn't thought this through. How can he tell it to Ned? However involuntary Tony’s confidence might have been, he can’t betray it. And now he's given the wrong impression. 

“Nothing like that," he assures quickly. "Nothing like you know, between us. It’s about Tony and I don’t think he’d appreciate if I told you,” Peter confesses. “I’m sorry,” he adds, readying himself for a hurt comeback.

He's an idiot. Why has he teased, if he won't spill it? 

“Wow, man. You know a secret about your crush?”

At first, Peter barely notices how different his best friend sounds than he expected, but then he processes it and as the excitement in Ned's voice penetrates his mind, he sags with relief.

"You're the best, Ned, you know that, right?" Peter sighs. 

"Come off it," Ned huffs, but Peter can tell that he's pleased. 

He smiles and thinks.

"I mean, it's kinda personal," he admits, "and well, I'm not telling it, so it's secret, I guess."

There’s a moment of silence before they both burst out laughing. The heavy feeling in Peter’s chest finally dissipates, and heat pools into its place as the butterflies win the battle inside him. He pulls his pillow to his chest, and squeezes it tightly to keep himself from wriggling and squealing. 

"Wow, man."

"Yeah," Peter's voice breaks. 

"Do you think that he…?" Ned doesn't finish, but he doesn’t need to: Peter's brain supplies several different options in a heartbeat.

Does Tony know how he feels? How does Tony feel about Peter now? Are the days events really such a big deal or is it just Peter obsessing again? They were so close. Not just physically. But physically, too and every cell in Peter’s body comes alive with the memories of holding the man he loves in his arms.

Before he could voice any of that—if he even would want to voice any of that, which he is in absolutely no condition to decide with his heart swelling to twice its usual size and threatening to explode—Ned speaks over the phone.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Peter but I gotta go. Family thing. Talk later?”

“Sure,” Peter assures. “Go on, I’m fine.”

He isn’t. He finds that out as soon as there’s silence at the other end of the line. Despite his elation and excitement the “what now?” that takes the place of his best friend’s voice in his mind makes his stomach drop. He opens his eyes, hoping that it will ground him—and wondering when he had closed them in the first place—, but it only makes it worse. He blinks at his bedside cabinet and his eyes gloss over. The objects cluttered there confront him painfully with himself and he squeezes his eyes shut, throat tight. He’s a child. A pathetic little kid, who’s still reading comics and plays with Legos. Who wastes his time figuring out fictional spaceships’ mechanics instead of building something in real life. Fine, he has his research but what does he do with that? After telling Tony on Friday that he has big plans for the weekend, he’s spent half of it stupidly pining for a man so obviously out of his league that it’s ridiculous.

A man, he wants so much that it hurts. A man who he held in his arms just a few hours ago. A man whose scent, inexplicably, still lingers in his nostrils. Did it soak itself into his clothes? His skin? Or is it just his imagination? Peter doesn’t care. He inhales deeply and lets the memory of their hug wash over him. It didn’t last nearly as long as he wished, but now he can linger and explore the sensations coursing through his body. The emotions that didn’t register over his nervousness and shock at the time hit him all at once. His skin is tingling, hot all over, and he squeezes his pillow tighter to his chest, just like he did when Tony was shaking and out of it. He doesn’t want that for him, but god, he yearns to touch him like that again, without holding back, without sparing a thought to decorum. He wants to do it for pleasure.

The intensity of it all tears a sob out of Peter and he shifts in his bed to bury his face into his pillow. Then, he moves his hips again. And again. It feels good. Comforting. Relieving.

Until he realises that he’s hard.

Peter gasps and pushes his flaming face deeper into his pillow but he can’t help rutting against his rumpled duvet again. He shouldn’t, but at that moment he can’t think of a reason why. He whimpers desperately and arches his back to press more tightly against the mattress. He’s breaking out in sweat, and by then the hotness in his cheeks has less to do with shame than arousal. Everything he’s been feeling in the past couple of days is coming together in this hot feeling that washes over him and sweeps away his restraint. It leaves him weak and breathless, but right then he doesn’t need anything else than the friction against his erection and that solid, warm presence against his chest.

He inhales sharp, craving to gulp down Tony’s scent, aching to feel the scratch of his goatee on his cheeks and to hear his low voice in his ears. Peter hugs him tighter and moans, despite his best effort, as his climax hits him. He shudders through his orgasm, then, a leaden weight seeps into his limbs in the wake of his ecstasy. He’s still panting, but he’s too exhausted to open his eyes. He just needs a minute, just a minute to catch his breath and come around…

***

Hope you liked it! Hopefully, you won’t have to wait too long for part 10, because I’ve already started it.

[writtenbybigoceans]

Just you and me pt.4

Finally getting into the drama now lol sorry it took so long. Masterlist with earlier parts available here. hope you enjoy it x

*

Your heart is in your throat as you face the ultramodern entryway of the skyscraper. You tilt your head back and squint at its peak, hoping to discern it from the fluffy clouds that skitter across the sapphire blue morning sky but it makes you dizzy so you look back the lobby, take a deep breath to calm your fluttering heart, and push the stroller with Noah in it across the pavement and through the doors.

A dark-haired receptionist with a dazzling smile greets you, holding her finger up with an apologetic look as she answers someone through her headset. You take a moment to look around you, pointing out the fountain seemingly made out of instruments with water spouting from them to Noah, and scanning the framed photos and plaques hung at eye-level around the room. There are hundreds of the same bright-eyed man shaking the hand of various stars and accepting awards. You’re beginning to wonder if you’ve seen him before when the receptionist interrupts your thought.

“How can I help you?” she asks kindly.

“I’m here to meet with Shawn Mendes,” you tell her.

“Ah, I see. What was your name? I just need to check you’re on the list of people allowed in the studio.”

“Yeah, Y/n Y/l/n.” Her fingers clatter across the keyboard.

Noah gasps from his stroller, pointing across the lobby.

“What is it, baby?” you ask, crouching beside him.

“Y/n!” someone calls out from across the room. You look up to see Shawn striding across the white-tiled room, a familiar bright smile on his face.

“Hey, I’m glad you came,” he greets you as he approaches, smiling at you in a way that makes your breath hitch and the fluttering start in your chest again. He waves to Noah before addressing the receptionist.

“Y/n has full access to the studio, any time I’m here she can come in with Noah.” The receptionist shoots you a quick inquisitive look but nods. Shawn turns back to you and gestures for you to follow him.

Noah wriggles to be unclipped from his stroller so you let him out and follow the two of them into the lift.

“Can I press the button?” Noah asks as the doors close. Shawn nods with a grin and lifts the boy up, pointing at the number 6. Noah beams as the button lights up.

When they ding to open, Shawn takes the toddler’s hand and walks him down the hallway, pointing out different photos and room and telling him about them. You follow behind, watching the pair of them. You didn’t expect for them to connect so quickly or for Shawn to be natural with him but watching them now it felt like he’d been there all along, learning how to be a parent alongside you. For the first time in years, a tiny bubble of hope was swelling in your heart.  

“And here,” Shawn announces, placing his hand on the last door, “is where I work.”

He pushes the door open and walks in, holding it open for you to follow. Noah darts in, quick as a flash, you follow more hesitantly.

“Ah, Shawn, you’re back,” a lady says from the desk, her back turned. “We think we’ve fixed that thing-“ she stops abruptly when she sees the people with him. “Oh, I didn’t realise you’d be here so early.”

Everyone in the studio stopped what they were doing to look at the newcomers and a heavy silence falls across the room.

“Oh my God, Y/n?” a man’s voice says from the back corner. Nick looks flabbergasted as he stares at you. “God, it’s been years. How are you?”

He strides across the room and sweeps you into a tight hug before you can reply.

“Really well, I’m surprised you remember me.”

“How could I forget you? God, Shawn, I didn’t know when James told us you might have a guest it would be Y/n.” Shawn shrugs with another of his sheepish smiles.

“You probably don’t remember me; a lot has changed,” the woman who first spoke when you walked in the room says.

“Charlie, of course I do.” You smile and hug her too before Nick speaks again.

“And who’s this little guy?” he smiles at Noah, who’s shifted himself behind Shawn’s leg.

“This is Noah,” you introduce him, smiling encouragingly at him. He waves shyly at all the people looking at him.

“He’s yours? Who’s the lucky guy?” Nick chuckles, echoing Shawn’s words from the supermarket. You blanch, turning to look at Shawn.

“You haven’t told them?”

Shawn blinks, his mouth popping open like a goldfish’s.

“I thought James would have.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlie asks, a frown settling on her face.

“Noah is-“ Shawn is cut off when the door swings open again, and a stocky middle-aged man steps through the door. You instantly recognise him as the man in all of the photos in the lobby.

“Oh,” he says, seeing all the people staring back at him. Finally, his eyes land on Y/n and Shawn, and the tiny boy behind him. His face goes as white as a snow, as though he’s seen a ghost.

“I see you’re already here,” the man says.

“Apparently you’ve forgotten to tell us something, James,” Nick says, eyes flicking to the man.

“Have I?”

“I thought you would have told them I was bringing my son to the studio,” Shawn answers with a slight frown.

“Your son?!” comes the collective gasp.

“But how?” Nick asks, stunned. “How long have you known?”

“Only a week.” At there incredulous looks he adds: “It’s a bit of a complicated story.”

“Shawn, can I talk to you for a minute?” James interjects. Shawn looks surprised but follows him out into the hall, leaving you to face the shock and questions alone.

“You didn’t tell him?” is the first question from Nick.

“I tried to but-“ You break off, thinking about how you can explain to them. “It really is a complicated story.”

“Start from the beginning.”

*

Another heavy silence lays thick in the room, making it hard to breathe as they absorb the story you just told them. You’d barely managed to stop yourself from crying throughout, how many times would you be forced to relive the hardest part of your life? Noah giggles from across the room where Charlie is showing him all the buttons on the boards.

“And you still have all of the texts too?” You nod at Nick’s question. “Damn, I can’t even imagine what you must have been going through. And you really believe Shawn didn’t send them?”

“You didn’t see his face when we saw him in the supermarket, he really had no idea. I don’t know who those messages came from or how it happened but I really don’t think Shawn was behind them.”

Nick nods but he looks withdrawn.

“Do you believe me?”

“I do, I just don’t know who would have sent those messages. Who cares if Shawn has a kid? It’s not going to stop his career or ruin him. You were dating when you got pregnant too, it’s hardly much of a scandal.” He runs through the scenarios aloud, eyes distant as if he’s lost in thought.

The door swings open again and Shawn steps back through the door, his face stony.

“Hey man, what was that about?” Nick asks cautiously.

“Nothing really, just something I needed to think about.” He catches sight of Noah on Charlie’s lap and his eyes soften. “Do you want to have a go on the drum kit?”

An hour goes by and Noah is tired out from all of the excitement. He falls asleep curled up on a couch at the back of the room, you sitting right beside him. Shawn is back at the microphone behind a wall of soundproof glass, singing his heart out. You’re mesmerised by the intensity of his focus and the way his eyes squeeze shut as he hits the powerful notes. Again, that little bubble in your chest is swelling, but it doesn’t feel like hope this time. It feels like something you only feel when you look at your son. But it isn’t. It can’t be.

The spell breaks as soon as Charlie calls for a break and Shawn takes his headphones off. He’s just walking out of the soundproof room when the main door to the room bursts open for the third time in the last two hours.

The tall silhouette is backlight so intensely by the fluorescent lights of the hall and you’re temporarily blinded until the door swings shut. An incredibly tall and slender woman with glossy platinum hair cascading over her shoulders and square-framed designer sunglasses perched on top of her head stands in the wake of the shut door, bright white teeth beared in a dazzling smile.

“Shawn!” She exclaims, dashing to him and throwing her arms around his neck. He catches her, somehow, his arms wrapping easily around her tiny waist. She pulls his face to hers, meshing their lips together messily in front of everyone. Your stomach drops.

“I missed you so much!” she cries out as she drops her feet back to the floor. She turns back to the rest of the room, smiling as if she was embarrassed by her sudden show of affection without actually being sorry at all. “And it’s lovely to see all of you again. Sorry to barge in but I couldn’t wait.”

The team smiles weakly back at her, a few offering small ‘hello’s and ‘nice to see you again’s.

“I thought you were getting back later tonight,” Shawn murmurs to her.

“I was but I changed to an earlier flight so I could come and surprise you.”

There’s a tiny moan from behind you. Noah pushes himself up from his curled-up position to rub his eyes and blink blearily around the room. The girl’s gaze falls on him and then on you as you reach down to pick him up, hoisting him up on your hip.

“Uh, Abigail, this is Y/n and Noah,” Shawn introduces you, voice tense. She glances inquisitively at him and then back at you.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “How do you know my boyfriend?” Boyfriend.

“Oh, um-“ you stutter. Why does your chest hurt all of a sudden?

“I didn’t want to say anything until you got back, I was going to tell you tonight.” Shawn interrupts.

“Tell me what?” she asks, a coldness creeping into her tone.

“Y/n is an ex. Noah is her son,” Shawn says quickly. “And my son too.”

“What?!” she cries into a dead-silent room, her lipsticked lips falling open in a perfect ‘O’.

[slutzle]

bud lights & bruises - noah hanifin

Masterlist!

gif by @nhanifin

prompt/request: I heard this and really wanted to write a bathroom scene lol🤷🏼‍♀️

warnings: a ‘fuck’ here and there, lil makeout sesh, mentions of alcohol, mentions of blood and bruises

author’s note: this only the second thing I’ve written so feedback is much appreciated!!

word count: 1312

You burst through the creaky bathroom door, the rap that’s bumping downstairs fading out as it shuts. There he is, frat boy extraordinaire in all his glory, but instead of seeing his usually flawless face, you notice a purple shiner on his left eye. “Hanny, what’d you do this time?” you question, a little frazzled and out of breath, and you can feel a headache coming on thanks to the amount beer in your bloodstream. You had to sprint up the stairs when Noah texted you ‘Meet me in the upstairs bathroom. It’s an emergency’.

“Um, well me and Cam were fucking around a bit, and he kinda sorta accidentally decked me in the face.” Noah explains, the words come out a little rushed and you have to take a moment to process his sentence.

“Seriously, Noah? I was in the middle of like, destroying Jeff at a game of pong, and you interrupt my victory for this?” You glance back at his face to examine his black eye which seems to be getting darker, and there’s blood running down the bridge of his nose. “Man, you hockey players really are as dumb as they say.”

Your comment earns an awfully dramatic eye roll from Noah, though it’s interrupted by a wince due to the bruising. You’re a little annoyed because he still looks perfect despite his bloodshot eye and flushed cheeks. “Y/N, please help me clean up,” Noah begs. He looks a little desperate, but his eyes are soft and his lips are parted and you can’t say no.

“Ugh, fine. But you owe me, this is interrupting the time I intended to use to get as drunk as possible.”

Noah has a lazy smirk on his face. “Of course. We’ll do shots as soon as there isn’t like, blood running down my face.”

Things between you and Noah have always been complicated. You've always been just friends, but you’d be lying if you say that you never wonder what would happen if you two were more. He’s incredibly attractive and your buzz and the glow of the fluorescent bathroom lights make him look even more so.

You turn from him to rummage under the sink, looking for a first aid kit. “Aha!” You exclaim, pleased with your findings. You flip to face him and find him staring. You feel your cheeks burn a little, but you immediately look down to filter through the kit, praying that Noah didn’t notice, while also wishing you were a little more drunk.

You hop up on the counter and scooch forward, motioning for Noah to step closer. He stands between your legs and rests his hands on your thighs and you swallow so loud that people in the hallway can probably hear.

You feel tiny under his 6’3 frame and you’re a little distracted by how broad his chest is and how bad you wanna touch it. You look back up to meet his eyes. The whites have turned more pink, but his irises are like looking into the Atlantic Ocean and it’s a little too much for you.

Your hands fumble with the plastic package containing cotton pads, and you look at Noah shyly through your lashes. You want so badly to blame your shakiness on the amount of Bud Light you’ve ingested in the past three hours, but Mama didn’t raise no liar.

“Here,” Noah says, taking the package from your grasp and tearing it with ease, removing a soft pad from the bag and handing it to you.

You pour rubbing alcohol onto the material. “This might hurt, dude. Just tell me if I should text Skinner to come hold your hand.”

“Oh please, I’m a big boy.” He puffs his chest out and flexes his right bicep.

You shrug, “Suit yourself.” Noah lets out a low hiss as soon as the liquid touches his cut, and his grip on your thighs tightens a little bit, causing the breath to hitch in your throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes and you relax and let out a giggle, a small smirk playing on your lips.

You continue nursing his cut and he watches you carefully. You keep your gaze locked on his forehead, knowing that if you look into his stupid blue eyes you’ll melt like the Wicked Witch of the Fucking West.

“Okay,” you toss the used cotton pad in the garbage. “Time to deal with this monster.” You motion to Noah’s black eye. You find an instant ice pack and crack it, immediately feeling the cold.

You place it on his eye, holding it there to stop the swelling. Noah places his large hand over yours. You’re a little shocked and you aren’t sure of you should leave your hand under his. After a moment of contemplation, you let your small hand rest under Noah’s.

In the silence, you absentmindedly begin to hum to the faint music booming from downstairs. It’s a song by The 1975 that you know all too well, ‘Robbers’, you remember. It’s muffled, but a wave of nostalgia washes over you.

Noah smiles at you, easy and calm and gorgeous and you smile back, his grin easing your nerves. The feeling in your tummy is warm and gooey and you hate yourself for how much you admire him and how badly you want to run your fingers through his dumb hockey flow.

“That should be good,” you offer, expecting him to step back and return to the party. Neither of you make a move, you keep your bum planted on the marble counter and your eyes just above his.

“C-can I kiss you?” Noah asks and your eyes come to see his blue orbs flicking to gaze at your lips for a split second.

See, any sane person would say no, but the beer flowing through your system says otherwise. You nod your head a little too quick, clear your throat and drop the ice pack from Noah’s eye. He leans in to close the gap between the two of you, hips hitting the counter. It’s chaste at first, tentative.

Your eyes flutter closed and you bring your hand to his left cheek. It feels warm, his face having been flushed by the multiple drinks that have lead to his bruised situation. Your other hand finds its way into his hair and tugs gently, earning a sound from Noah. You begin to lean back and he chases, pressing kiss after kiss on your lips. You both pull away and rest your foreheads together.

“You know, when I imagined our first kiss I definitely didn’t picture it in Brett’s bathroom,” Noah says, grinning widely at you.

You pull him back into you, tilting your head and slotting your lips together. “I could say the same thing,” you mumble against him, feeling comfort in the fact that he’s thought about your first kiss too.

You breathe him in as he begins to kiss you again. He smells like beer and faded cologne that he bought with you, it’s intoxicating.

Your lips fit together and the kiss becomes deeper as your head tilts to the left. You start to become dizzy, getting high off of Noah. You can feel his warm hands through the cotton of your body suit and -knock, knock, knock.

The two of you immediately disconnect, frazzled by the interruption. “Is someone in there? I think I’m gonna puke.”

You and Noah look at each other, disappointment written on his bruised face. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying this, I believe you promised me shots,” you wink.

He pulls you off of the counter and tugs your hand through the door frame, apologizing to the poor stranger waiting to go in to the bathroom.

Though your moment is cut short, the night holds plenty more dancing, alcohol, and hopefully, making out with Noah.

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

My Favorite Nerd-Edward Nygma Imagine

Requested: No

Warnings: Some eeriness but nothing too bad

  As soon as Edward saw Y/N, his breath hitched in his throat. Though the woman had acted as Lee’s assistant for the past year, her stunning features never failed to, well, stun him. Her y/h/c was pulled away from her face, revealing her focused gaze on the files she was organizing in the medical examiner’s room. 

   “Good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N,” Edward finally said.

   Y/N almost jumped out of her skin and dropped a couple of files when she heard Edward’s voice. Slowly, she relaxed as she turned to face  him. “Goodness!”

    Edward’s eyes widened as he felt himself fill with embarrassment and guilt. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Miss Y/L/N. That certainly wasn’t my intention.”

    Y/N sighed with a laugh and set the files on a table. “It’s fine, Ed, and don’t you think we should be on a first name basis by now? I have known you for a year.”

   Edward could feel his face beginning to flush as he glanced down at the tips of his shiny black shoes while pushing his glasses further up against his face. “Of course, Miss, I mean, Y/N.”

   No one made Edward feel as nervous as Y/N did----not even Kristen. Y/N had that same shimmering aura the popular cheerleaders in high school did except Y/N was much kinder than any of those girls were----and much more intelligent. Just hearing her laugh made his heart skip a beat and a compliment from her would have him grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. 

     Y/N grinned and shoved her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “I suppose if you’re here that means you have a riddle for me to solve.”

    “What is always on its way here but never arrives?” Edward asked.

    Y/N bit her bottom lip and scrunched up her nose, a tick of hers when she was in deep thought. “Tomorrow?” 

   Edward grinned. “Yes, exactly right. You’ve gotten better.”

   “I know. You come up with some complicated riddles, Edward----it’s one of the things I like best about you.”

   If it weren’t for Edward’s riddle habit, he probably never would have spoken to Y/N in the first place. He had been giving Jim and Harvey some information about a case they were working when he’d asked “What has neither nails or bones, but has four fingers and a thumb?”. Neither detective could come up with the answer nor tried to when Y/N said, “Isn’t it a glove?”. When Edward faced her, it was love at first sight----something he never believed in until that moment. All of a sudden, talking to Kristen didn’t seem too important to him anymore since Y/N actually showed interest in him and listened to him prattle on about whatever was on his mind. 

    “Thank you,” Edward said, noting the files strewn around the room. “What’s going on here?”

   “Lee wanted me to pull some other burn cases from the past month and note similarities I find between them and the last burn victim.” Y/N gestured to the files on the table. “Those are the ones I have to look at and the others have my notes.”

    “Have you found any similarities?” Edward asked.

    “Just the basics: only the victims themselves were burned, nothing around them, so it’s most likely an act of arson.” 

    Edward glanced at an open file, sensing the dark Ed trying to break through the more he stared at a picture of a charred man’s body. “It’s amazing how easily the human body can be reduced to nothing but ashes.”

    “I suppose.”

    Edward blinked, forcing Ed back in his cage, before turning to Y/N. “I’m sorry about that, I have no idea where that came from.”

   “It’s fine, Edward, I’ll see you later.”

   “Definitely.”

   Edward turned on his heels, angry with himself that he wasn’t brave enough to ask Y/N on a date. Of course, he knew that she only thought of him as a friend but he wasn’t bold enough to try to break from that mold.

   “You’ll never be bold enough, Eddie. Y/N needs a real man and you’re not him,” Ed hissed.

   “Stop it,” Edward muttered.

   “It’s fine, Eddie, I’m man enough for the both of us. Y/N will love me. Let me out.” 

   “No, she doesn’t deserve that, she deserves so much better----better than both of us.” 

   “Eddie, it doesn’t get better than me.” 

   It actually did, but Edward didn’t say anything. He shook his head as he tried to push the darkest form of himself as far away from him as he could. Later on that day, he saw Officer Daniels, a tall brute of a man, leaning against the doorway of the medical examiner’s room, obviously flirting with Y/N. Y/N covered her laughing mouth with her hand as she slapped his chest flirtatiously. Edward felt a hole burst open in his chest as he watched their intimate exchange. He felt so incredibly broken and with that brokenness, he felt rage coming from Ed. Edward knew that Y/N was out of his league but she was also far out of Officer Daniels’ league.

    “No one touches what’s mine,” Edward grumbled.

     That moment he promised himself that he would make himself worthy of Y/N, and make himself worthy he did. Over the following months, he began honing his darker side and learning the best techniques on how to kill people and dispose of their bodies without getting caught. Finally, Ed had gained some control over Edward, making the once shy and nerdy forensic specialist much more confident. When Edward sauntered into the medical examiner’s room, both Lee and Y/N knew something was different: he stood up straighter, his hair was combed back instead of parted, and his smile was close-lipped.

      “Hi, Edward, how are you?” Lee asked.

     “Good morning, Lee, I’m doing just fine.” He turned to Y/N. “Morning, Y/N.”

     “Edward, I’m so sorry it’s been so long since we’ve spoken. I got caught up with Alex, then we broke up, and I feel like I completely abandoned you.” 

    “It’s fine, I’ve been quite busy myself, but I can’t say I’m very sorry about your relationship.”

    Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

    “If you hadn’t, then I couldn’t ask you out for dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight?”

     Y/N blinked again. “Um, sure, yeah.”      “Great, see you then.” Edward turned to walk away, smirking to himself at his conquest when Y/N’s voice stopped him.

    “Don’t I get a riddle?”

     Edward paused and faced Y/N. “Of course. A nightmare for some. For others a savior I come. My hand’s cold and bleak. It’s the warm hearts they seek. What am I?”

     Y/N bit her bottom lip and scrunched her nose. After a few seconds, she smiled bashfully. “I don’t know.”

    “Death. I’ll see you tonight, Y/N. Good bye, Lee.”

     “Bye, Ed,” Lee said. 

     Y/N didn’t say anything as she watched Edward walk out of the medical examiner’s room, which made the man swell with pride. He never thought there would be a day when he left her speechless, but his darker side seemed to have that effect on people. 

[lena-went]

Prima Comunione Pt 3

F: What is happening? How is this happening? It can’t be happening…can it? Speak Frederick damn it, use words. “No it is not…” I managed silently cursing myself for not saying something more welcoming and warm. She smiled and I avoided her eyes as she sat down in front of me placing her coffee cup towards the center of the table near mine. “My name is y/n .” She offered as she shifted to get more comfortable in her seat. “That is quite an unusual name.” I quickly responded with a cold tone. Her eyes narrowed and then she paused expectantly for a few moments. “And you?” She inquired leaning forward. “Hmm?” I took a carefully calculated sip from my cup not daring to spill a drop and appear clumsy. Her smile widened, “Your name?” I nearly choked in my hurry to answer, “Dr. Chilton…ah—Frederick Chilton.” I had meant for it to come across as a simple slip of the mind but I was certain my desire for her to acknowledge my status as a doctor was quite clear. 

She pulled her cup to her lips and took another sip but not before I saw the slight smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. God, I am such a fool, she must think I’m pathetic. The pause lasted for a moment longer and then she spoke. “So Doctor…” I raised my eyes to meet hers at hearing the playful note in her voice “What kind of doctor are you?” I felt I had been given a second chance and quickly I assumed the persona I used commonly at the hospital and various galas I had been required to attend over the years. “I am Chief of Staff at The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and a noted psychiatrist in my field. I have been part of many research efforts and trials on the forefront of modern psychology. Most recently I have been used as a consultant by the FBI in relation to a very high profile case.” I knew I was coming off as arrogant but she was just so beautiful and I felt the need to capture her interest in order to prove to myself that I really did exist. She tilted her head to the side with an expression I couldn't quite read. In this moment I truly could not predict what she was about to say nor divine meaning from the look in her eyes. I began questioning and replaying every word I had spoken during this encounter. Then as if God had heard my mind on the verge of explosion she spoke. “I’ve heard the expression that often psychiatrists are crazier than their patients.” God, I released a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. She was so playful, I looked at her and realized the unreadable expression was playfulness mixed with genuine interest. I chuckled softly on an exhale, ”Perhaps, it depends on the psychiatrist I suppose.” She leaned back in her chair taking her coffee with her. “Ah… key words being it depends, now we are entering my realm of mind games.” She grinned widely and took another drink of coffee peering at me with those wonderful eyes. I raised an eyebrow in curiosity at both her suggestion that psychiatry was mind games and that apparently her realm dealt in some sort of mental work as well. She leaned in settling her arms on top of the marble table. “I’m a law student, and I'm sure you understand the mental hunger games grad school can be.” Once again I found myself chuckling even though normally reminiscing about grad school, medical school in particular often left me anxious and agitated. She continued speaking and we soon fell into an easy conversation relaying horror stories from higher education. Her eyes widened as I told her a story from my days in medical school and I found myself leaning into the conversation instead of trying to remain above it. She smiled so easily and every time she did my chest would swell and I felt such a jolt of pride and then affection towards her. Jesus, I hadn't spoken to someone like this in years. Soon we were laughing as if we had known each other since childhood. I learned that not only was she a law student, she had a BA in Art which she knew seemed general but it was intentionally done and surprisingly useful. She loved museums and art galleries and from the stories she told I gathered that she was exceptionally intelligent and strategic. This woman, as she illustrated a point of conversation by using her hands in a very animated fashion, had captured me. Every breath she took drew me in closer and on every exhale and pause I feared I would lose her. It was like being caught in a riptide, pulled and pushed on the whims of nature. She had just begun describing to me a dish she had eaten at some restaurant a few doors down, how delicious it had been but more so how the dish had been presented so perfectly. At that moment I felt a surge of excitement flow through me as I awkwardly shuffled for my phone in my suits inner pocket. “Something like this?” I pulled up an image I had snapped at Hannibal Lecter’s last dinner party. The logistics of taking a picture like this were very complicated and well timed. To avoid being seen taking photographs of his impressive display I had arrived early feigning interest in the preparation of the dishes when in reality my aim was to recreate them at home. As I recounted the backstory mentally I began to feel that familiar pang of inferiority and as she zoomed in on my phone while exclaiming at the quality of the dish I leaned back into my seat and sighed. “This is incredible, did you do this?” She looked at me expectantly as I contemplated the hole I had just dug myself into. I thought about lying but knowing my luck she would catch me in the lie and I would feel far worse. “No, the culinary masterpiece you're looking at was created by another crazy psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” I spoke knowing that now the conversation would turn to the more interesting and refined Dr. Lecter. The regret of showing that picture became foremost on my mind as I kicked myself mentally. She laughed softly at my words and then leaned even further towards me. “Poor Dr. Lecter…” She mused as I raised a questioning eyebrow in genuine surprise. “It seems he's pulled to two very different extremes of interest.” I smirked slightly happy to hear someone criticize the man who by many was held at godlike status. “And those extremes are?” I pushed her as she leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Food is the epitome of the physical world, designed to feed and nourish mankind in its most basic forms. Dr. Lecter’s creations have elevated these basic foods to the level of art and art is worship. Art is taking what exists and exponentially pushing it to the point at which it can inflict and illicit new emotions despite being a representation rather than a utilitarian object.” My smirk grew as her explanation continued. She was wasted as a law student, she should study psychiatry. “And the second?” I inquired as she paused and traced the rim of her now empty coffee cup. She met my eyes with a slight smile. “He’s also a doctor of the mind, which suggests an interest or dare I say passion for the metaphysical and intangible elements of life. These interests when dabbled in are harmless, and though I know little about his success as a psychologist I can infer that because you admire him he must be very good at his job and the photo you have shown me illustrates that he excels in his other more physical interest as well. A man who is excellent in all his endeavors must suffer greatly knowing there is no more he can learn or conquer, thus…poor Dr. Lecter.” With her final words she handed me back my phone which I had forgotten she held. “What makes you think I admire him?” I inquired coldly with a hint of resentment hanging on the words ‘admire’ and ‘him’. She took a pause for a moment and then answered, “I think you're a man of great taste, I also think you're drawn to things and people for the sake of observation itself. You admire most everything because you see things ordinary people don’t.” She said these words with such a tenderness and air of affection that I lost the facade of poise I had maintained for most of the conversation. A breath escaped me as my heart nearly burst. This woman after sitting and talking with me for only an hour and a half spoke as if she had known me, the real me for years. I felt my eyes sting and I quickly lowered them to my hands which had begun to shake. She lowered her head in an attempt to meet my eye line but I shifted them again. “I also think you're unappreciated both professionally and personally.” She added slowly and even more softly. I looked up at this and met her eyes. God, I could not have been more consumed by this woman. She reached a hand slowly and placed it on top of one of mine. I couldn't remember the last time a woman touched me so kindly. My eyes stung again as I turned my palm up so her hand would rest in mine. I treasured the touch, her fingers so soft and warm. I was struck suddenly by how small her hand looked in mine and I raised my other hand to cover it in what I suppose was a protective gesture. She smiled at that and placed her other hand on top of the pile that had now formed. She brushed my knuckles lightly with her fingertips as I tried to will away all the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long. I don't know how long we sat like that, the cafe becoming a blur around us as we stared at each other. “I would like to see you again.” She broke our silence and tilted her head slightly waiting for my response. “As would I…like to see you again…I mean…yes.” Her smile grew into a grin at my struggle for words but for once I didn't feel mocked…I felt…admired.

This was a lot longer than the introductory POVs. Ah well.