#leave you gutted on my kitchen floor telling you how to die because i love you and death makes life meaningful and i fucking love you so mu

[cuntyfieddemon]

just watched mizumono for the first time and i just think that i gave you such a rare gift but you didn't want it– didn't i ? you denied me my life– no. not your life. my freedom then. you would take that from me you would confine me to a prison cell. Do you believe you could change me the way i've changed you? i already did and honestly i think that's love in its most heartbreaking form. and something about teacups also

[viennakarma]

Say something (I'm giving up on you)

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: Your husband tells you the truth about Vegas, and it makes your perfect sandcastle crumble.

Word count: 6k

Tags: Female reader, established relationship, wife reader, reader is an architect, cheating, smut, mild somnophilia, mentions of pregnancy and children, very very angsty, no hea, not beta read

Relationships: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Notes: To be honest, this is very personal and something I needed to get off my chest before going back to my WIPs lol. Sorry if it's rushed or something, I was just going with the flow. Feedback and opinions are appreciated xx

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Ending 1: moving on

Ending 2: forgiving

Ending 3: a secret third thing (blurb)

As soon as you got out of the shower, a robe on your body and a towel around your head, you noticed how Lewis was sitting there, looking somewhat defeated.

“Hey, I know this season wasn’t what you expected but I’m sure it will get better,” you muttered, noticing how he was down, you stood between his legs, holding his head, pushing his braids away from his face, “I’m hoping you’ll have a great car next year. I’ll put the kettle on, so we can drink a little tea.”

He didn’t answer as you pecked his lips and went downstairs. You had just turned the kettle on when Lewis came down too, stopping in the middle of the kitchen.

“I need to tell you something,” he started and you paused, waiting, “something happened in Vegas.”

You felt your heart accelerate, you didn’t like that tone, so instead of asking more, you just waited, holding your breath.

“I cheated.”

It’s like you were punched in the gut, and you gasped for air. Your eyes immediately teared up, but you held in, waiting for his next words. You held yourself up with both hands on the kitchen island, because your legs felt like they might just give in. You stared at him, numb. Waiting for it to be some sick and unfunny joke, but the guilt in his eyes was so real.

“It happened in Vegas, and it didn’t mean anything at all, and I’m so so sorry, I know I should never have done it, and I regret it. I love you so much, I never wanted to hurt you, please believe me, I’ll do anything for your forgiveness, whatever you want just say th-”

At that point you stopped listening, looking down at your hand sprawled on the countertop, the wedding band and the engagement ring you wore on top of it felt like they were burning, like a curse just about to ruin your perfect life.

Like a beautiful sandcastle crumbling under a big wave, your perfect life came crashing down, with a couple of words and one single decision that never came from you. Your plans, your dreams, your future that always had Lewis beside you now were turning to dust. And it hurt like fucking hell, like you were under the wreckage, something heavy compressing your chest leaving you to die an agonizing death.

Lewis walked up to you, trying to take your hand but you moved out of his reach, taking a step back.

“Please, just say something. Anything. Please, love. Scream at me, hit me, key my car, anything. Please, say something,” He begged you, and all you could feel was pain, a knot in your stomach as you walked away, numbly going back to your room, locking the door behind you because you could hear him coming after you.

You held your head, this feeling of despair gnawing your insides, and you pulled the wedding band and engagement ring out, leaving it at the bedside table. Your tears came down and you looked at the bed were you had made love on the night before, were you had fucked his brains out just because you wanted him to feel better, after being upset with how the season ended. He hid this information for more than a week, because you had been in Abu Dhabi with him for moral support. Crying, you pull off the bed sheets, leaving them on the floor when the knot in your stomach makes you too nauseous. Running to the bathroom, you puke your disgust away, crying and dry heaving after there was nothing left in your stomach.

You were going to leave your job next year because you two were planning to try for kids. You were going to dedicate yourself to finally writing your book. You were going to join him the whole season, to never leave his side, to go wherever he went. You were going to buy a place in his hometown too, to be close to his family whenever you two had the time. You had planned to have a baby in England, because of Lewis.

How after five years together, after two years of marriage you had crafted your life around his. How you’d drop everything to make him happy, because his happiness made you happy. He knew cheating was your only and strongest dealbreaker, you had told him countless times during your relationship, you had reminded him before the wedding too, and he had said he would never be interested in anyone else.

You pulled a towel from under the sink and sobbed into it. You could still hear his voice outside, muffled by the door. Going back to bed, you put your wedding band back again, staring at it as a token of your happiest years.

You cried yourself to sleep.

The next morning you woke up and did your morning routine in pain. It was like you had to live feeling the pulsating pain of a broken bone. As you opened the door, Lewis was sleeping on the hallway floor by the door. Avoiding him, you went to the kitchen, but you didn’t have the energy to cook anything, so you grabbed the key of one of his cars and left for a coffee shop.

Everything felt like an out of body experience, like you were in automatic mode, going with the flow, buying a muffin and a tea because that’s what you did every time. Greeting the waitress with a small smile, like always. The only difference was going back to the car instead of eating inside the cafe, and eating there, pushing food inside so you could have some resemblance of normalcy. Your phone had been ringing for the past thirty minutes non stop, the ringtone you had put specifically for him, the song you had your first dance in your wedding. You think about that Lewis, that man who would never do anything that could hurt you. The one with dreams and promises, the man who would say he wanted kids with you, the one who always had a description of the kids you would have. She’ll have your eyes and my hair, he would say, daydreaming, hopefully she’ll have your beautiful smile, Lew, you would add.

Driving around for a while, your phone on Do not disturb, you watched the streets of Monaco, bustling with people, locals and tourists, walking around, going to boutiques and cafés, and you noticed how Monaco had never been your first choice to live in. You would rather a place a little bit colder, with lots of libraries and historical places, with mountains and lakes.

You went back home hours later, and as soon as you got inside, you were faced with Lewis, pale and visibly worried, phone in hand.

“Oh my god, I was so worried! I thought- I thought you had left me- Where were you?”

“Driving” you kicked your shoes and went to the kitchen to drink water. After downing two full glasses, you went outside, sitting by the view of the city.

You painfully loved him, the kind of love you once were happy to let yourself dive in, and now you were drowning.

“Please, can we talk about it?” He asked, by the balcony door as if he were afraid to scare you away like a skittish animal. You nodded, and he carefully sat on the chair beside you. “Can we work on it? Do you think you may have it in your heart to forgive me?”

“I don’t know, Lewis, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“We can do marriage counseling, we can do anything you want, we can- we can move, buy another place, we can adopt a kitten, like you’ve always wanted, or we can renew our vows, I can gi-give you a pass, so we’ll be even-”

“I honestly don’t know how to fix this, Lewis. I’m not sure it’s even fixable.”

You two stared into the horizon, lost in thoughts.

“Give me a chance, and I’ll fix it, love. I’ll do everything in my power to fix it.”

“Tell me what happened,” you commanded, not looking at him.

“Love, please, don’t do this.”

“You want to fix this, right? Then start by telling me the whole truth.”

And he did. He told you who was, Kate-something, an influencer who had been a fling of his from the past, before you. They had met unexpectedly during the Vegas Grand Prix, she had been invited by some other team. He told you almost everything, leaving out details about the sex, but he told you everything else, and you listened, unmoved, only the tears falling down nonstop.

The next couple of days consisted of Lewis buying you things, food, jewelry, clothes and planning a trip for after the holidays. You slept in your room, and Lewis slept in the guest room, giving you space, to whenever you were comfortable to share a bed with him again. You had every meal together, sometimes he cooked, sometimes he had it delivered. You tried to engage in conversation, but in the end, Lewis was doing most of the talking. Chatting about news of his friends, about his team, about the plans for the trip.

As you sat in the office, you opened a drawer and picked up your resignation letter. You had left it written to hand it when you got back from the holidays. The letter was brief, thanking everyone for the opportunity to work at their company, thanking your boss for all the lessons and explaining you were leaving to become a homemaker. You scoffed at it now, ripping the letter in half and throwing it in the trash.

Maybe you needed to take a step back from everything. The plans and the dreams and the future. Maybe you just needed to give him a chance, you loved him so much, and this kind of love doesn’t go away with a snap of the fingers.

Maybe he was right and if you two started all over, maybe you could fix this.

“I know it might be too soon, but would you consider going on a date? Just like the old times,” he asked one morning a few days later, as you ate breakfast.

“Sure, Lewis.”

He nodded, and you knew he was feeling the way you didn’t call him love or honey anymore. He planned a date that same night. You dressed up to the nines, just to feel some normalcy, just to feel like yourself again. You had dressed in a black long sleeved dress, with some transparency in the sleeves, a black scarpin and you tied your hair in an elegant high ponytail and those bright red lipsticks Lewis liked.

He looked at you in wonder as you came down the stairs.

“You look stunning, my love.” He whispered, taking your hand and making you spin. You felt that spark in your stomach again, well, a little bit of that.

He took you to a two star restaurant, one you’d always go on date nights. He also drove you there in your favorite Mercedes. You decided to put in the effort, to make conversation, to engage with him the whole night. You ate, talked, laughed and drank a couple of wine glasses.

By the end of the night, you had felt a resemblance of normalcy again. When Lewis was picking the tab, you went to the toilet, and you saw a woman trying to change a baby’s diaper. She dropped the box of wet wipes, and you bent down to pick it.

“Thank you, lovely!” She said as you handed it back. You peeked at the baby, a little girl who couldn’t be older than a year.

“Hi there, princess!” You said with a baby voice.

“Can you keep an eye on her just as I pee quickly, I’m sorry to bother,” the mother asked.

“Don’t worry,” you said, carrying the baby she had just finished changing. As the woman entered the stall, you decided to ask, “How has it been, being a mom?”

“Oh, it’s amazing. Of course it’s not easy, but my husband has been a great help around the house and the baby. I couldn’t be happier!”

You looked to the mirror, the baby in your arms, and you imagined living this with Lewis. And you just couldn’t. Because he wouldn’t be there all the time anyway. He would be traveling the world, racing for his championship, you would follow him, but at some point you would have to stop, you would have to settle home the last trimester, and he wouldn’t be there. Would he miss your baby’s birth?

You wondered if he would cheat again when you weren’t there.

As you left the toilet, your mood had dwindled again.

Lewis noticed as you were quiet going home, head against the window, watching the city and mumbling the song playing in the car.

As you arrived home, you pushed Lewis against the sofa, he looked confused, but his eyes followed your hands as you pulled your dress up, bunching it around your hips so you could straddle his lap.

“Baby, I don’t think w-” he started talking, but you held his chin.

“Shut the fuck up,” you said, pressing your lips against his.

You kissed him like you were starved, showing him how much you missed him, how much you loved him. He let you guide the kiss, opening your mouth and entangling your tongues, your hips grinding on him. He whispered nonsense as he kissed your face and neck, I missed you so much, love, nibbling at your neck, I love you my baby, pulling your dress down to free your tits, sucking on your nipples, missed this, baby, you’re so fucking sexy, you ground on him, moving and moaning as his hand held your ass, guiding your movements. You were so wet, you missed his touch so much.

As you looked down, seeing his lips latched onto your nipple, your mind drifted, wondering if he touched the other woman like this, if he talked dirty to her like that.

And you were immediately turned off.

“Stop, stop,” you pushed him and he let you go easily, scrambling to the sofa and away from his lap, “red, red!” You shouted your safe word.

Breathless, Lewis nodded, as you quickly pulled the cups of your dress up, covering your boobs and pulled your dress down, eyes watering. He stared at you, confused and not knowing how to act. You two were very creative in the bedroom, but you only used the safe word a few times whenever you two were in the mood for some BDSM scenes, you had never used your safe word in a normal setting.

“Are you ok?” He asked, finally and you just shook your head.

“Was she better than me?” You asked, voice small and vulnerable.

“What? Baby, no, never! You’re my everything.” He sat by your side, but you stood up in wobbly legs, nervous.

You wanted to ask why, if you were enough, if you were everything, then why he felt the need to do it. Why would he throw away so many years, such a beautiful love story that you used to joke you would tell your grandkids about.

You started walking away, but Lewis ran up to you and blocked your path.

“Please, let’s talk it out,” He asked, eyes pleading. You stared at his lips, and something inside you just snapped.

“I don’t want to talk! FUCK!” You pushed past him, “I look at you and I can only picture you with her! I feel your hands on my body and I hate it because I can only think of you touching her, and kissing her and fucking making love to her! Look at us! Look at everything you ruined because you just couldn’t not get your dick wet! Because you couldn’t wait five fucking days for me!”

You tried not to sob, running a hand over your face.

“And you were perfect and I love you, and I hate myself for loving you because I don’t trust you! I keep thinking that if one day I miss the flight to your race, will you cheat again? If- if I have to work and you suddenly feel lonely, will you cheat again? If we fight for some reason, will you cheat again?”

“We can fix this, we go to counseling or-

“FIX WHAT? I didn’t break anything! Because I love you so much that the idea of lying with another man disgusts me! You broke my heart, our home and our future!”

He was crying too when you looked at him.

You took the keys to his car and slipped away, driving around, trying to clear your head. Deep down you wished you could forgive and forget, you wished you could get over that mistake, but now everything around the house reminds you of his mistake.

You lost control of the car and crashed against a tree. It wasn’t a big crash, even though the hood of the car looked totalled. You called someone to take the destroyed car away, and you took an Uber to the hospital, just to make sure you didn’t hit your head too hard. In the hospital, they put a bandaid on the small cut and you held an ice pack above the swelling in the side of your forehead, they also gave you a few pills for the pain and possible headache.

You went back home hours later, and Lewis was waiting by the living room.

“Where were-” he stopped short, seeing the small cut on your forehead, “oh, god, what happened?”

“I crashed your car, I’m sorry. It wasn’t a big deal, I’m ok,” you walked into the kitchen to take one of the pills for the incoming headache.

“What? Why didn’t you call me?” Lewis followed you.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you repeated calmly.

“Are you kidding me? You’re bleeding!”

“I’m not, it was just a small piece of glass that grated my forehead, but I’m ok, it doesn’t really hurt,” you muttered, wanting to go to sleep, “I’m sorry about your car, I’ll pay to get it fixed.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the car! I’m worried about you!” He came closer, holding your face with both hands, looking around for any more injuries.

You stared at his face, his eyes that had been such a source of happiness and unconditional love were now painful to see. Handsome still, but you couldn’t see him as yours anymore. You took his hands off you gently.

“I’m ok. I’ll pay for your car.” You reinforced, taking a step back.

“Our car, love. You’re my wife. And you don’t have to pay for it.” He corrected you, but you couldn’t feel anything.

Because the car was his. All the cars were his. The house was his, too. The dog was his. The properties. Everything belonged to him. You belonged to him the whole time. And now you just didn’t anymore.

You had signed a prenup before the wedding, which had been an idea that came from Lewis’ lawyer. Your husband had been angrily against it, but you didn’t mind signing it, because it was never about the money. Even upset signing the prenup, Lewis still took all of your expenses, bills, house and cars, and everything else. There was a cheating clause on that document, one you never bothered to read or memorize because cheating was never on your mind.

A couple of days later you had barely said a word to him, and you were having breakfast when he approached you.

“I’ll call mum later, to tell her we’re not going to her birthday dinner,” Lewis informed you.

“No, we’re going. We’re not going to spoil her celebration because of our problems,” you shook your head.

So you went to dinner at his mom’s. Everyone was there and you brought her a gold necklace with a peony pendant, since it was her favorite flower. You and Lewis tried to pretend nothing was wrong as to not ruin the mood of the night. You still sat by his side, ate and talked with everyone. Lewis knew you were faking being ok, because your smiles didn’t reach your eyes anymore, and every time he tried any physical touch like holding hands, putting a hand on your shoulder or pulling you to his lap, your body would tense up, so he would let go of you.

By then end of the night, you were pretty sure everyone had believed your act, but when Carmen asked for help with taking her presents upstairs, you knew she knew too.

“What is going on, love? You’re not your usual self today.”

You felt your eyes filling up and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You adored Carmen, you adored Lewis’ family, his siblings, his parents and his nephews and nieces. But Carmen had become a second mum to you from the beginning, being the first person to welcome you with open arms.

“Talk to me, dear,” she asked and the kindness in her voice made you cry even more, sobbing so much she had to hug you holding you tight.

“This is probably the last time we’ll see each other as family, Carmen,” you warned her, and her face crumbled just like yours did.

“No… No, honey, what happened?” She asked, and you shook your head.

“You talk to him later, and I’m sure he will tell you whenever he’s ready,” you muttered, not wanting to meddle in a mother-son relationship, not wanting to poison it. You pulled the engagement ring from your finger, the beautiful engraved jewel, that had belonged to Carmen's family for generations, had ended up with you, and you had expected to pass it down to a kid you’d have with Lewis. You gave the ring back to her.

“For when he finds the one.”

“No, you’re the one for him, honey,” she exclaimed, teary eyed.

“I wish I was, but I’m not,” you stared longingly at the ring sitting on the palm of her hand.

“One day he will need it again, and he will find someone and you’ll love her just as much. I’ll be just the distant past, but I hope you save a little space in your heart for me, yeah?” You laughed a little bit, wiping the tears on your cheeks. She only nodded, her own tears falling down. “Thank you for taking me in all these years, for embracing me into your family, I’m very grateful for that.”

You two cried a little more, and you tried to mask your crying face after a few minutes in the bathroom.

In the end, unfortunately, Lewis' family convinced you to stay the night since it would be a long drive back to Lewis’ place in London. You ended up sharing a bed for the first time since he admitted to cheating. You laid there with your back turned to him in the dark.

You couldn’t sleep for a couple of hours, but he did. When you turned back around, you stared at his beautiful face. Your dreamy, handsome husband. You softly traced imaginary lines in his face, tracing his eyebrows and nose, the tip of your finger running over his lips and cupids’ bow. How could you love someone so deeply and still not want to be with them? How could you not just put everything behind?

He knew you so well, he knew of you past of being cheated on, of going through abusive relationships. He knew where you draw the lines. He knew your limitations and still went ahead with cheating on you.

You got up from the bed, you went to the small armchair, opening your iPad to try and watch a movie or something to help you sleep. But as you unlocked it, the tab open was the project you had made for the family home you and Lewis were going to build for when you had kids. The finished project hit you like a punch in the gut.

You went inside the bathroom and took a break. It was the middle of the night, and everyone was asleep, so you just sat on the closed toilet to try and calm down the aching pain in your chest. When you came back, Lewis was awake going through your iPad you had left unlocked.

“What’s- What’s this?”

“It’s the project for our home, I was going to gift it to you on your birthday,” you whispered, sitting by his side on the floor, your backs to the bed.

Lewis sniffled, and you didn’t look at his face because you didn’t want to see him cry. He kept looking at the project, going page after page, seeing all the details you had thoughtfully put there. He started crying even harder when he saw the nurseries you had designed. When he saw the tennis court, because you and him loved playing with his dad, and talked countless times about teaching your kids to play. When Lewis saw the big kitchen with the panel wall where you could place pictures and drawings and notes. When he saw the sunroom, with toys and your small library, and Lewis’ videogames. All the tidbits you and him had dreamed about during your five years relationship.

“We can’t let this all go, love” he said between soft cries.

“God, I hate metaphors,” you whispered, drying the tears that came down, “but we’re a broken mirror, Lewis. We can try and fix it, and glue all the pieces back together, but the cracks will still be there.”

“I don't know how I messed up this badly, I don’t even know why-” he set the iPad down, staring at his hands, “I’m so sorry, so so sorry.”

You only nodded, getting up. You went back to bed, laying under the covers.

“I know,” you whispered after a few minutes. He came back to bed too, laying beside you without touching you.

“The project is beautiful. I love it.” He muttered staring at the ceiling.

“I do too.”

When you left his mom’s house, with a tight goodbye hug with Carmen, Lewis had to go to Brackley for work and you went back to Monaco. 

You thought you may have a chance to fix everything. But as the days he was away passed, you started to wonder if he went to England to really work. If he wasn’t going to meet someone, the Kate-something, or any other of his flings from the past. If he even was in Brackley as he said he was.

The trust was gone.

As if it wasn’t bad enough as it was, the lady, Kate-something texted you. You had no idea how she got your number, and the text read:

“Ask your husband what he did after the Las Vegas GP.”

You scoffed, thinking she was a little late for a shocking revelation. You screenshotted the text just in case and blocked her number after, without bothering to let Lewis know about it.

You were one foot out of the door already.

The dreaded day came when you met with a lawyer, a big shot famous lawyer who always worked with famous people when they wanted a low profile divorce. She was very respectful of all your wishes, though with the small fortune you were going to pay for her services, being polite and helpful was the least she could do. She drafted a divorce agreement following all your requirements, especially in regards to the prenup.

The next few days, you read and reread the divorce papers, leaving them in the locked drawer in your office.

When Lewis came back from the Mercedes factory, it was night and you were having a glass of wine by the balcony.

“Want a nightcap?” You offered your glass to him. He nodded, taking a sip off the half full glass, “how was work?”

He told you about all the work in the factory, going to dinner with his teammate and meeting with his boss. It was almost like before, for a few minutes it was just a regular day in your married life. Lewis helped you put everything away in the kitchen and you went upstairs.

When he was about to go into the guest room, you stopped him.

“Lewis,” you asked and he looked at you hopefully, “can you sleep with me tonight?”

“Whatever you want, love.”

So you settled in for sleep, both of you going through your nightly routine, and finally, laying in bed. You took the initiative to cuddle him, nose against his neck, inhaling his scent and your ear above his heart.

You slept great for the first time since you were in separate beds. But you woke up in the middle of the night. And the way the little lampshade by the bedside table lit up the side of his face, peacefully asleep, handsome and yours. Fully yours still.

You couldn’t help the small kiss on his chest, above his heart, the other kiss on his cheek, and a third one on his neck, that had him waking up.

“Baby?” Lewis looked at you. You kissed his lips, open mouthed, sloppy and desperate.

“Shh,” you kissed his chest again, now he was fully awake, surrendered under your touch. You straddled him, your body missing him so much, his touch and his love, and the twilight making everything feel like before, you couldn’t help but desire him with burning passion.

“Love,” he stopped you, holding your jaw softly, “are you sure?”

“Please, just be mine tonight, yeah?” You asked him in a small voice.

“I’m yours forever, love.”

And so you drowned in him, one last time. You tossed your pajamas away, as he sat up in the bed, kissing your neck down, biting softly at your nipples, taking it painfully slow just in case you changed your mind. You ground against him, his cock hard under your ministrations. You pulled his pants down, and he kicked it to the floor, as you slid your cunt over his length, dripping over him, moaning loud and hearing his groans as his hands settled on your hips, letting you take control, doing whatever you wanted.

You got on your knees just so you could line him up at your entrance, pushing down slowly, letting him stretch you well, your body accommodating him perfectly like it should always be. And so you started riding him, slowly at first, but then you pounded him into the mattress, fucking him into oblivion. His hands were all around, pinching your nipples, gripping your waist and slapping your ass the way he knew drove you crazy. He fingered your clit, making you cum around his cock shamelessly fast, hips shaking and cunt gripping him tight.

“Can- oh, fuck,” he asked after a particularly hard clench of your dripping cunt, “-Can you give me one more, my baby?”

Then, he changed positions, laying you by his side, hugging you with one arm and using the other to lift your leg so he could have room to fuck you slow, lazy and nice, pressing your g-spot again and again. He smothered your lips with his tongue and teeth, stealing your moans, as your hands pressed his body into yours. You wanted to melt into him, to leave fingerprints and nail marks all over him. You wanted him to have a permanent indentation of your body pressed to his.

Selfishly, you wanted him to never forget you. To be a part of him in the forever he promised you. Even if you won’t be there.

“Look at me,” he asked, and you opened your eyes to meet his dark molten embers so full of love that it threatened to suffocate you, “you’re the only woman for me. You’re my everything.”

He picked up the pace a little, going harder, until he had you gushing around him, making a mess of your sheets and milking him until he was groaning, hips stuttering into release.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so good. Feel so good for me,” he murmured into the dark, “I love you so so much.”

You two hugged back to sleep.

In the morning you showered, brushed your teeth and changed. You stopped in the middle of the room, staring at Lewis’ sleeping form. In the closet you packed a bag, putting clothes and shoes on it, then you grabbed your iPad, laptop and work stuff, then you called a taxi and waited.

You left the divorce agreement on the kitchen island, alongside your wedding band, your lawyer’s contact information and a small note. You were crying as you got into the taxi, leaving behind the future plans you had hoped to live.

It took you a couple of months to get your shit together. You spent Christmas with your family only for the first time in years, and you didn’t travel for New Year’s Eve with Lewis as planned, you didn’t resign from your job, instead opting for a relocation so you could move away.

Finding a new place in Scotland was relatively easy considering you had a good amount of savings because Lewis always paid all the bills, you found a place where you could dedicate yourself to work and to write your book and to heal.

•

Lewis found the house empty that next morning. You had made love to him again, and he thought that maybe you two could salvage the marriage. But as he looked for you around the house, he found the divorce agreement in the kitchen. His stomach dropped as he held your wedding band, and the other hand found your note.

“Seems like I’m a coward too, since I can’t face you to say goodbye. Take this divorce agreement to your lawyer, and any questions you might have, please forward it to my lawyer, she’ll explain everything. I love you, but I don’t trust you. And nothing good can be built in a trustless marriage. The next time you find a good one, don’t break her heart.”

He cried like a baby, going over your divorce agreement that was signed by you. You had given up everything, you didn’t want anything of his, not any cars or property, not any financial support, not even the house that had your name on it too. You voided the prenup, stating that you didn’t want the alimony that came with the cheating clause. Looked like a clean break, like you didn’t want anything that could tie you to Lewis.

He tried calling you and texting you, but seemed like you had blocked him on everything. He went through the motions, meeting with your lawyer who, despite the fame of being tough, was really kind to him. He told your lawyer that he wanted you to take the alimony that came with the cheating clause because it was only fair, and he wouldn’t sign the divorce if you didn’t accept the money.

So after a few weeks, Lewis' lawyer got in contact to tell him you accepted the money, as long as he would sign the divorce as soon as possible. By the New Year, you were officially a divorced couple.

•

You got settled on your new home by the end of the first month of the year, three weeks after the divorce was finalized. You moved to a little north of Edinburgh, not too far from the city, but far enough that you could have some sense of peace and privacy.

You still had a tan line on your ring finger of the left hand.

You only realized your period was late the week later, as you were doing grocery shopping and house supplies, and you noticed you haven’t got your period for a while. Despite being a grown woman, worker and independent, you felt shaky fingers as you took a pharmacy test.

While you waited, you stayed in front of the mirror. You had felt a bit of nausea, but you attributed it to stress and disgust, and you had been feeling tired but you thought it was because of the moving and all the paperwork. You ran your palm over your stomach, trying to feel something, but it felt so normal.

When the time’s up and you leaned over the sink to check the result, you sighed reading the 8 - 10 weeks pregnant.

“That’s ok, baby,” you whispered, teary eyed, “we’re gonna be ok.”

Ending 1: moving on

Ending 2: forgiving

Ending 3: a secret third thing (blurb)

[you-did-well-moon]

Werewolf!Yunho meeting his mate

Type: Werewolf au, angst, fluff

Pairing: Werewolf!Yunho x HumanFemale!reader

Word count:  2,994

A/n: I know this took a long time, trust me, it felt like a long time for me too. With how I view Yunho, I expected this to be happier than it is. I was having a hard time while writing this, and it reflected on the story. Anyways please enjoy and stay safe!

TW: toxic relationship, financial struggle, deadlines, stressed reader, emotional and verbal pain, toxic masculinity, if I missed anything please tell me.

You sat at the foot of your bed, still not made, staring at the mirror resting against your dull colored wall with lifeless blank eyes. Your posture slouched as you finished tying the laces of your running shoes huffing and letting your arms flop to the ground. Looking at the mirror, you tried smiling, but it was meak and disappeared as soon as it appeared. 

You hadn’t smiled a real smile in so long, you forgot what it felt like. To smile. To be happy. The forgotten emotion was one you took for granted when it was easy to to bask in the warmth of it. Now it's just cold. Cold and empty. 

You looked away from the mirror with a tight feeling coiling in the base of your chest not being able to bear looking at the stranger staring back at you any longer. Your gaze fell to the laptop, abandoned, due to frustration on your desk in the forgotten corner of the room. The thought of unfinished drafts and incomplete sentences shook violently in your mind. Disappointment in yourself pooling in your gut remembering your editor’s words. 

“If you can’t give us at least a first draft by the end of the month, we’ll have to unfortunately let you and your novel go.”

How pathetic was it that you couldn’t even come up with a simple sentence. A description, dialogue, a metaphor. Nothing. Anytime you sat yourself in front of the desk, your mind went blank. The cursor blinking at the top of the page mocked you with the possibility of millions of words. Not one ever made its way onto the page.  

The end of the month was in two weeks. 

You felt tears of hopelessness stinging the corner of your eyes, and you abruptly stood up grabbing your wireless earbuds, phone, and bag. Making your way into the kitchen you grabbed the water in the fridge and placed it inside your back, nothing but a numb feeling alienating you from reality and its broken expectations. You heard the front door of your little apartment open and slam close shaking the thin walls of the building. 

Your heart lurched as you winced immediately feeling like you were walking on eggshells. You were usually quick enough to leave before he got home from work, but you had been a tad bit late this one time. You gripped the strap of your bag tightly hoping for it to ground you through whatever vile words came from the one person you should have been able to trust with your ugliest feelings. 

Trying to walk past your boyfriend, eyes trained on the chipped wood of the front door did no good when he kissed his teeth and huffed as soon as he caught sight of you.

“You’re never home when I get home from work, and the one time you are here, you run away not even saying hi to me? Not even a “hey honey how was work today” or maybe a “hi love what would you like for dinner?” and never a “you’ve worked hard would you like a massage?” It's the same shit every day. You treat me like nothing when I'm the reason you even have a roof over your head woman.”

You kept your mouth the whole time he rambled on trying to ignore the clear stench of beer being able to reach you even with all the distance separating you, and the feeling of disgust mixed with desperation pooling at the bottom of your gut at yourself for not speaking up for yourself. Opening your mouth instead of letting your voice be taken from you. A long time ago, you would always say you would rather die than be without your voice. In a sense, you had died a long time ago. 

Around three months after you had started dating. That had been two years ago. 

Your English degree really did you no good. Not having enough time to be an intern in college really screwed you over when no job would take a bright eyed girl with the same passion in her heart for writing as a Karen’s passion for business that wasn’t hers, but with no experience. Even if the apartment was under your name, you’d probably be kicked out in weeks time.

You hated all of it. Everything that made up both the small and big parts of your life, you hated it. You hated his greasy hair and beady eyes, the nasty rough stubble covering the lower part of his face as a result of his laziness. You hated the hesitation in leaving him because of the fear of the stack of bills piling up next to the fridge. You hated the editors who couldn’t find it in some part of their greedy selves to extend your deadline. You hated the empty drafts sitting in your laptop collecting what could only be dead dreams and despair. You hated the cold emptiness that was always present in the confines of your chest. 

You recoiled at the way he said “woman” the same way someone would talk about a bug. Small and insignificant. Patronizing and confident in the worst way. You set your mouth in a tight line not even being able to look at him. Shifting your feet, you crossed your arms and looked up to the sky as if calling out to some unknown being to get you out of this pathetic corner you were trapped in. You cursed under your breath looking at the dying flowers on the coffee table with distaste as they wilted towards you mocking you. 

“What was that?” His voice got rougher with the menacing edge of fanned masculinity and control. Something that could put you in a dangerous place in a very fast amount of time. You looked at him with dull eyes poking your cheek with your tongue as a cold feeling settled in your gut. 

Your hands fell limply to your side and you chuckled humorlessly. 

“Fuck you”.

Those two words were enough to set him off as you slowly blinked and looked at the ground feeling your heart falter when he abruptly got up. You tried to stand your ground, but the surge of confidence was quickly withering away with fear taking its place. 

Ethan was bigger than you. Even if he wasn’t that much taller than you, there was a noticeable difference in his frame and yours. Weirdly enough, you didn’t regret your curse at him. The words still burned brilliantly on the tip of your tongue. 

It was bittersweet of course. His nose flared, and his eyes bulged as he took large strides over to you knocking the coffee table over on his path to you.

“What did you say to me you-” his words were said through gritted teeth, brash and loud in the silent apartment.

 Maybe he was bigger and stronger than you, but you were faster.

You inhaled sharply reacting fast as your hand reached behind you, turning the knob and slipping around it slamming the door close. Your bag bumped against your back while you bolted to the door with the word “stairs” painted in big bold letters across it. You were already at the door when you heard your apartment door open and Ethan angrily called your name. Threatening to break your laptop if you didn’t go back right this instant. 

You couldn’t help but snicker at the weak attempt. It’s not like there were much but empty pages anyways. 

A heavy feeling soon settled on your chest as you went down the stairs. Your apartment was on the 4th floor, and the stairs weren’t the most taken care of, but it’s not like you had much of a choice anyways. It seemed these days you were always wanting to run away from something. 

Your heart felt a little lighter when the warm rays of sun met your skin and the fresh air outside flooded your senses. Your walk to the park went as usual. Cars racing to get where they needed to, people chattered about everything and nothing, and your thoughts wandered to a world far away from this one. 

A world that wasn’t as dark as this one. At the same time your mind became your executioner, it became your safe place. The sick contrast making a nasty feeling flood your chest.

You arrived at the park with a small smile. The normalcy of the day bringing a little comfort to your still racing heart. Kids ran around, laughter ringing in the air around them as their parents watched on benches gossiping among themselves. People raced fast either by foot, bicycle, or skateboard, a visible sheen on their necks. You looked for the kind old man who always looked after your bag while you ran. 

He owned a music store a few blocks away, and he always sat on the bench closest to the pond with his cute corgi and habitually feeding the ducks peas and lettuce leaves when finished  with a certain chapter of his book. You walked up to him with a small smile as he looked up and took the sight of you in with fatherly worry.  

“You look a little pale kid, everything alright?” 

You did your best to liven up and gave your best customer service smile which the older man immediately saw through.

“Of course Mr.Jung. Why wouldn’t it be? I’m just a little tired from the editors. They’re on my back more than usual”, you laughed nervously as he hummed in understanding.

“I hope that boy of yours isn’t giving you any problems. Hey kid, have you ever heard of the term “break up?” he looked so serious you had to compose your shocked face. 

You waved your hands rapidly “I promise Mr.Jung everything is fine there is...I...oh my” you took a shaky breath as he simply shrugged his shoulders and pet his smaller companion who was having a very serious stare down with a duck. 

You wiped your sweaty palms on your yoga pants while you looked around at the tacky named paths trying to decide which one to run today. 

“The Pupper Runner path looks particularly nice today,” he suggested. You looked at the path pursing your lips in thought. The path wasn’t one you ran frequently. Since it was one of the wider and flatter paths, there were more people such as families or people walking their dogs. You also didn’t like having run-ins with the cyclists who were grouchier around this time of day for some odd reason.

After contemplating it, you shrugged and decided why not. Getting run over by a ticking time bomb on wheels wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen today. With a small smile sent in Mr.Jungs way, you checked your shoe laces before starting out with a light jog making your way down the specific path.

There was nothing really different about today’s run than others. Just having to dodge the wheel demons and kids happily running ahead of their worried mothers. You were grateful for the distraction. It kept you from straying too far into your head. It was just you running. Running like you always did these days, your shoes slapping on the concrete path and Got7 blaring in your ears. 

The heat of the sun shone on your skin, but oddly you still felt cold. It was always cold these days. A light breeze fresh to your burning skin as desperate eyes caught yours, and you were once again bought out of your stupor. 

A small boy was kneeled down fingers clutching his untied shoelaces not far from his dad who was trying to calm a crying baby. You didn’t really have a strong adoration for kids, but his panicked pinched face compelled you to come to a slow stop in front of him. Your chest heaved as you bent down to his level sitting on your heels and wrapped your arms around your legs.

“Hey bud, you need some help there?”

The kid made a distraught sound as he nodded his face shaking his hair out of his eyes. He looked dumb founded as he stared at his shoe laces in search of answers they would never give.

“Mama said to make a bunny, but this looks more like my aunt Carol’s dog” he sadly told you.

You snorted reaching out gently to tie his laces with a double knot.

With a grin you looked up at him ruffling his hair and giving him a thumbs up which he happily returned with a toothy smile.

“It’s alright kid, you’ll eventually get it. Just keep trying yeah? Don’t settle or you might catch yourself tripping next time you go on a walk. You’ll get hurt. Wouldn’t want that would we”, you said, lips still stretched kindly upwards, but something in your words struck stingingly deep in your chest. 

As the kid nodded happily with a carefree laugh you were about to get up when you heard the air being split and a strained voice yelling “watch out!!”. 

You looked up, panicked, only to see a frisbee racing right in your direction with alarming speed. With the goal of protecting the small child, you quickly turned your body. Your shoes making a rough sound against the concrete as a startled light cry left the younger boy’s mouth.

With your hands ready, you easily caught the frisbee gasping at the shock of the situation. You quickly shook it off as you gripped the frisbee turning back to the child who profusely thanked you, his small hands shaking as they clutched onto the hem of your shirt. 

You simply smiled reassuringly tapping his shoe and ushering him back to his father who has begun to successfully calm the fussing baby down. 

With shaking knees you tried to get up only to wince and slightly waver at the sharp sting that hit your ankle area. You clenched your jaw feeling more than annoyed at the current situation in hand. 

You stood up grumbling under your breath as a tall figure jogged over to you. While he made his way toward you, your narrowed eyes met his wide, apologetic ones. 

You felt the world shift around you as a calming warmth shot through your body melding with the confusion and panic pooling in your gut, and his eyes widened impossibly as he stumbled managing to stabilize himself right in time in front of you. His figure standing just inches away from you as his hands trembled, and his lips slightly parted.

You got a slight whiff of cologne and mint, but more than anything, the weird feeling in your gut was making a way for the dreadful panic clouding around your heart. 

You felt warm. 

After feelings of feeling nothing but the hollow cold licking at your veins, there was a nice warmth settling in your chest. 

You were scared of it. 

With a heavy chest you slightly inched back left somewhat immobile due to the aching pain in your ankle. “What the hell?”, you immediately set off on questioning him leading him to shake his head frantically at you. 

“I’m so sorry, i really am.” He put his hand on his chest as if trying to prove his sincerity to you, but you breathlessly took a step back stunned by the intense feelings taking over your heart and mind. 

You tried shaking it off, but the warmth lingered. 

You weren’t sure you wanted it to go away. 

“There’s kids here”, you were so distracted by all the emotions circling your mind you couldn’t possibly put any effort into arguing with the young man. His lips parted to make way for his lips as he nodded his head in understanding. “I know, I'll be more careful next time. I promise.”

Somehow, you knew he was being truthful. You went to say something, possibly something dangerous, but you shook your head and waved your hand. 

You tried taking a step but lightly hissed at the sharp pain that shot from your ankle up your leg. The man instantly dove forward steadying you with a heavy hand between your shoulder blades, and the other hovering in worry near your collarbone. 

With wide eyes you looked at him as he realized his un-asked for touch and immediately went to back away. 

He couldn’t.  

Your hand was clutching the cloth of his shirt near his shoulder blades. Hands slowly uncurling, you smiled awkwardly, but he kept his hand where it was. At his touch, the warmth licking the insides of your body became all the more distracting. 

“Um, I don’t think you can go all the way back home like this”, he cleared his throat looking at you shily under his bangs. Flustered, you smiled at the ground before looking back up and timidly asking “I can't. Mind helping me out?”.

At your question he let out a beaming grin nodding eagerly. He went to stand in front of you, and he crouched down looking at you over his shoulder with soft brown eyes. You did a small jump, and were caught by his hands slightly gripping under your thighs. 

He gave a low chuckle that somehow was felt from where your chest was pressed up against his shoulder blades. “So...what’s your name?”. You let a light giggle escape, “Y/n, yours?”. You saw his jaw move with the syllables of your name whispering it to himself. 

“Yunho”, you smiled also sounding out the name on your own mouth. You gave a shuddering exhale, and you laid your head on his shoulder letting yourself really rest for what seemed like the first time in forever. 

That night you walked right past Ethan who was quick to begin yelling at you, and you tucked yourself under the safety of your blankets feeling the warmth still encasing your heart, so comforting and alive.  

[carelessannie]

Winterspider, Peter x Bucky, omegaverse, smut, nff, other specific warnings in the tags

For this prompt from @femmeparker

Me: let’s do this, but something kinda different

❤️❤️❤️ I love these two honestly Hope you enjoy!

- - -

There’s not much on the TV. Someone made the mistake of giving Steve the remote, and now everyone is subject to watching each channel fly by at an alarming rate, the only constant sound in the room the rhythmic clicking of the next channel button. None of them complain, though. It’s very rare that they all have a quiet night together, and everyone seems content to watch Steve surf the cable box.

The six of them are spread around Tony’s living room. Pizza is already gone and at any moment Tony or Nat will take away the remote and turn on a movie, but Bucky could care less. He usually sits back and watches from the outside, anyways. He looks over at Bruce, and they share a knowing glance— both of them happy to stay quiet and let the others take the lead.

He could go for a drink, though. Bucky ambles to his feet, offering to grab stuff from the kitchen as he heads there. With his head in the fridge, he sorts through the drink options, gagging dramatically at the thought of one of the fruity wine coolers Tony has tons of. He looks at the bottle, scoffing at the ingredients and alcohol content. Four percent? Why even bother?

“Those are mine,” a sweet voice chirps, and Bucky smacks his head trying to turn around.

“Ow, fu—” Bucky lets the curse die on his tongue as he gets an eyeful of the prettiest boy he’s ever seen, swamped in a university sweatshirt and wearing a playful smirk. He holds out his hand, expectantly, and Bucky stares at it, unsure of what this angel wants.

Deciding to play it safe, he shakes the boy’s hand.

“Bucky,” he says, like an idiot.

The boy just giggles, tightening his grip and tossing his unruly curls, “Peter. And honestly, I just wanted you to hand me a drink— but it’s nice to meet you. I feel like since I’ve been at college, I haven’t been able to meet any of my dad’s friends,” he pauses, giving Bucky an obvious once over, “and I think I would have remembered you.”

Bucky knows his face is glowing red. He clears his throat and pops the top on the fruity drink, handing it over to Peter, “And your dad is?”

Peter takes a sip, “Tony Stark. I guess it makes sense he didn’t mention me.”

Oh, he did. Bucky— like the fool he apparently is— just didn’t realize Tony’s son is only a few years younger than Bucky himself. And drop dead gorgeous. Definitely a no fly zone for ex-assassin, centenarian soldiers with war trauma.

He backs up, heading towards the living room in a hasty retreat, when the air suddenly shifts, catching Peter’s scent, and throwing it in Bucky’s face.

“Oh, shit,” this time he does curse, smacking into the wall as he holds his nose, politely stopping himself from smelling the ripe Omega scent beckoning him closer. “I’m so sorry, fuck, I didn’t realize...”

Peter takes a step closer, placing his drink on the counter. He has Bucky cornered against the wall, and the Alpha has never felt more terrified.

“Shh, it’s okay,” the tiny Omega whispers, no doubt getting a nose-full of Bucky’s fear scent, “you’re not gonna hurt me.”

He watches, helplessly, as Peter steps into his space, his maple-honey gaze wide and pleading. The young Omega wraps himself in Bucky’s arms, burying his nose in Bucky’s chest, and starts to purr deep, soft breaths that shake Bucky to his core.

Not heat— no, not quite— but something very close is burning through Peter’s small body. Bucky realizes he’s supporting almost all of Peter’s slight weight, and searches for a chair. There is no way he’s carrying Peter out into the living room like this.

He must black out for a moment, because the next time he’s aware, it’s pitch black and Bucky’s sitting on the floor, still clutching the Omega to his chest. He looks around, hoping to catch sight of something familiar. Rice. Flour, sugar, Raisin Bran— great. Of course his Alpha instincts would not only den them up, but put them in the pantry. Stupid, practical hindbrain.

There’s movement outside, and Bucky growls, low and menacing in his throat.

“Buck? Are you in there?”

It’s Steve. Another Alpha. Best friend. Threat.

“What?” Bucky snarls, running his fingers through Peter’s hair comfortingly.

Silence for a beat, “Do you... Tony thinks you have his son in there, Bucky. Please tell me that’s not true.”

“He’s safe, Steve.”

The other Alpha curses under his breath, “Dammit, Buck. Okay, let me grab Tony. He’s gonna help.”

Bucky wants to protest, but the Omega in his arms has started gently nibbling on his fingers, holding his hand and sucking on them lightly. He hums his approval, and Peter just smiles sweetly, never once opening his eyes.

“James Barnes, do you have my son in there?”

Tony sounds strained, trying to keep his tone neutral as he paces in front of the door.

“He’s safe in here, Tony.”

“Can you give him back to me, Alpha?” Tony asks, a hint of panic coming through his tone. “He’s unbonded and needs his pack.”

Bucky whines, looking down to memorize Peter’s features in the low light. It’s safe in here, warm and dark and full of food, but Bucky’s instincts insist Peter will be safest with his pack. Dammit.

He stands up, hauling Peter into a princess carry, and slowly opens the door, checking for threats. Tony stands on the other side of the room. His hands are tightly clenched around the countertop, and his face is riddled with worry. Bucky walks slowly to his side, and drops Peter into his waiting arms.

Without the Omega in his grasp, Bucky is suddenly on the verge of tears. Peter whimpers, a painfully sad sound, and Bucky has to retreat before he does something to make this worse. “M’sorry,” he rasps, and turns to head for the door, passing the group of Avengers on the way. Steve tries to lay a comforting hand on his back, but Bucky just brushes it off.

He rifles around the living room, grabbing his phone and wallet, and then heads for the door. As he’s slipping his shoes back on, he feels a painful tug in his chest. Then there’s a loud sob from the kitchen. Bucky’s stuck, frozen, with one arm in his jacket as he listens for more.

A small wheezing noise. Urgent whispers. Bucky’s on his knees. Another sob. Quiet pleading and begging. Bucky curls up against the door, feeling his stomach cramp up. Footsteps approach.

“... don’t think he could’ve gotten far— oh! Barnes, what the hell?”

He barely glances at Clint, “... couldn’t... leave,” Bucky breathes out, groaning as another wave of pain clenches in his gut, tight in his chest.

Bucky’s not sure how long he stays pressed up against the front door. He hears voices around him, but can’t understand them. There’s someone pulling on his arm and picking him up. He tries to protest— they can’t take him away— but suddenly there’s a weight in his arms, warmth against his body, and his nose is firmly pressed into the top of his Omega’s head.

Thank god.

He rolls them slightly, pressing Peter up against the soft wall and hiding him from unwanted gazes. He closes his eyes, letting the comfort of his Omega close by lull him to sleep.

- - -

When he comes to, it’s light outside. Peter is snoring gently in his arms, and Bucky’s head is clear. He sits up, taking in his surroundings. He’s in Tony’s living room and sitting on the largest couch, hovering over Peter’s still sleeping form.

“He imprinted on you, Bucky,” a voice behind him, Tony’s voice behind him, breaks the silence. He turns reluctantly to face the man, an apology already on his tongue.

“Save it,” Tony says instead, drinking from a coffee mug absently, “god knows why, but my kid, my only fucking son, chose you as his Alpha yesterday. I don’t get it. How did you even meet? Temporary mating bonds usually take weeks to form— but yours formed overnight.”

Bucky is speechless, so Tony rambles on, “That is what this is, right? Maybe scent compatibility, maybe his oncoming heat, but my Petey chose the world’s most deadly and unstable Alpha to imprint on. Not only that, but you had to go den him away— basically confirming your side of the bond in the process. You’re a fool, James. Actually, I’m a fool. Thinking you could be trusted—”

“Stop it, Dad,” Peter’s small voice interrupts, and the tiny Omega wiggles out from behind Bucky to stare down his father, “s’my choice. I want Bucky.”

“But why?” Both Bucky and Tony ask, in unison.

Peter just hums, looking up at Bucky with his precious doe-eyes, “Dunno,” he murmurs, addressing his dad while holding Bucky’s gaze, “He feels safe, Dad. His scent is different... calm and gentle.”

“Dammit,” Tony hisses, never taking his eyes off the pair, even as Bucky sways closer, enchanted by the perfect Omega pressed into his side.

“You sure, angel? You could have anyone, any Alpha you want would be head over heels to be with you.”

“Are you?” Peter asks, slotting his delicate thumb into the dimple on Bucky’s chin, tilting his head in a sweet, curious gesture.

“Am I...”

“Are you head over heels to be with me?” he smirks, but Bucky can see a sliver of vulnerable uncertainty in his eyes. His hands are still on Bucky’s face, and the bigger Alpha turns, pulling Peter to sit across his lap. He threads his fingers through pretty amber curls, smiling as Peter’s lashes flutter and tremble.

“More than anything— you’re already more precious to me than a hundred years could prepare me for.”

“Then let me choose,” Peter insists, twisting to look back at Tony, “please, Dad. Let me choose?”

Tony looks like he just ate a whole lemon, face twisted and body rigid in carefully controlled anger. Bucky gets it. He would never have dreamed of mating his friend’s son, but now— now that Peter has claimed him and invited him to stay— there is absolutely nothing that will separate them.

“Under no circumstances will he get pregnant, do you understand, Barnes?”

Bucky nods, but Peter fucking mewls, squirming on Bucky’s lap as arousal pours off of him in waves. The Alpha looks to Tony for help, terrified of the Omega slipping into heat in his arms.

“— fuck, no. Of course. Of fucking course,” Tony jumps to his feet, making his way down the hallway, “bring him with you— c’mon, Barnes. Hurry.”

With Peter cradled against his shoulder, Bucky runs, following Tony down the hall and into a bedroom. Tony’s bedroom, by the looks of it. The older man pulls out a tote bag, throwing it at Bucky, “Take inventory. I’ll be back in thirty-five seconds. Do not touch him.”

As Tony sprints from the room, Bucky upends the bag on the bed, keeping one arm around Peter as he sorts through the contents. Damn, this is the most thorough heat kit he’s ever seen. As he takes stock of meal supplements, electrolyte tabs, compresses, an embarrassing amount of toys and plugs, lotion and lube and even a few bath bombs, Bucky has a realization.

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t curse around my son,” Tony quips, tearing back into the room and tossing a small packet to Bucky, “these are his contraceptives. He takes one every morning, so set an alarm, do what you need to do— he’s not missing that.”

“Tony...”

“Also, you had better wrap it up. Alpha condoms are in the bag— we’re not taking a chance with your super soldier swimmers.”

“Tony,”

“— what?”

“... are you an Omega?”

There’s a moment where Bucky feels like he’s overstepped, “I just mean... I’ve never seen a heat bag so thoroughly stocked, even by a parent...”

Tony brings over a few of Peter’s clothes, shoving them in the bag, and laying a protective hand over Peter’s head. His eyes are steel when they look into Bucky’s, “Yes. Not a lot of people know that. I take high functioning suppressants, so I haven’t had a heat in years— not since I was pregnant with Peter. So you’ll understand if I’m a bit protective of my child, James.”

Bucky just reaches out, taking the bag from Tony, “You know I won’t tell a soul. The two of you are safe with me, Tony.”

Tony whips around and yanks him close, holding the collar of his jacket for leverage, “If you’re lying, you won’t be safe from me, Barnes.”

With one last, scalding look, Tony steps back and lets Bucky sweep his son away. Bucky shoulders the bag, heaves Peter into his arms, and runs out of the mansion, suddenly urgent to get them back to his den. There’s a car waiting, and Bucky settles them in the back seat, holding Peter close as they speed back to his apartment.

He’s so thankful for his own place. Living with Steve had been fine, but after a while, they realized that as Alphas, they desperately need their own territories. So Bucky bought an apartment in Brooklyn, thankfully only a twenty minute drive from Tony’s house.

It’s hard to pay attention, though, when the most alluring Omega is settled on his lap, pawing desperately at his pants and mouthing at his neck. He smells sickly sweet: caramel apples and funnel cakes with sugar and sprinkle-dipped ice cream cones all in one feverish body. Bucky rolls down the window.

When they arrive, Bucky hastily thanks the driver and heads right for his den, locking the doors and windows before settling Peter on his bed. He quickly unpacks the heat kit and fills a pitcher with water, letting Peter wake up and explore his space.

He almost drops the pitcher when he walks back into the den. Peter’s university sweatshirt and pants and pretty lace panties are all in a pile on Bucky’s floor, and damn do they look good there. His Omega is grinding, languid, on his bed sheets. His skin is flush and soft grunts escape his cherry lips as his hips move, flexing between an inviting presentation and a perfect bow of submission.

“Omega,” Bucky growls, causing Peter to freeze and look over his shoulder. His eyes are dark, needy and wild. “Look atcha, angel. So pretty ‘n desperate for me.”

Peter arches his back higher, showing off his perfect ass and pretty pink holes, “All for you, Bucky.”

Bucky makes sure to set the water pitcher down near the bed and grab condoms before climbing up next to Peter, kissing his flank and slowly stripping layers off. As he crawls to the headboard, Peter lifts his head up and pushes up onto his hands, tilting his chin up for a kiss. Bucky chuckles, more than happy to oblige.

It’s sweet, just like Peter’s heat scent. Bucky would be happy to drown in his Omega’s kisses and fade away in his arms. Peter's lips move slowly, tongue flicking out and tasting every so often as Bucky sits against the headboard, settling Peter in his lap.

They both groan. Peter’s tiny cock is straining against Bucky’s belly, snuggled smooth and wet against Bucky’s own length as they rut together, enjoying the dull pleasure and saccharine kisses.

“Touch me, Alpha,” Peter begs into Bucky’s throat, nibbling lightly and flexing his smaller fingers against Bucky’s hips.

Bucky sits up taller and uses both hands to part Peter’s supple cheeks from behind, slipping a few fingers underneath to trace along his delicate folds, scooping up a bit of the sweet slick he finds there.

“Open up, darling,” he murmurs, giving Peter a peck on the cheek as a reward when his Omega drops his jaw, mouth hanging open and tongue sticking out obediently. Without pause, Bucky shoves his fingers deep into Peter’s mouth, letting the Omega taste himself. Peter looks shocked, but sucks on Bucky’s fingers anyways. The inside of his mouth is scorching hot and velvety— tempting in a way that they do not have time for right now.

When he slips his fingers free, a slur of pleading and begging falls from Peter’s lips, urging Bucky on and ramping up his own aroused heat scent.

Bucky hitches Peter up further on his waist, sucking a swollen nipple into his mouth as he eases two fingers into Peter’s dripping entrance.

“Ho-oh-ly mother of shit, Bucky, please please... mm, need more. Please, more. Alpha!” Peter yelps as Bucky bites down, hard, on his nipple, using the distraction to work a third finger inside his Omega. He pumps them in and out, bouncing Peter on his hand. He shifts Peter’s weight, lifts him high, and uses his left hand to reach down and thumb at the throbbing clit he knows is just behind Peter’s tiny balls.

His mate screams, “Alpha!” and clenches down, coming violently while speared unforgivingly between Bucky’s hands. Clear, thick release spills from Peter’s cock, and Bucky leans down to suck it into his mouth, never stopping his assault on Peter’s sweet spots. He tastes absolutely divine, and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head. Peter yanks on his hair, panting and wheezing as he trembles, thighs quaking around Bucky’s head.

“Bucky! Oh, oh oh oh,” Peter chants in between breaths, and Bucky jerks in surprise as his mouth is flooded, again, with his Omega’s cum. He strains to look up, to try and see Peter’s face as he comes apart a second time. Bucky swallows every drop and slowly lowers Peter to the bed. His pretty mate is still twitching, breathing hard, and is now staring at Bucky in shock.

Bucky crawls forward, leaning over his small mate, “Didja find nirvana, angel?” he asks, leaning down for a kiss.

Peter barely returns it, sighing happily into Bucky’s mouth, “Yes, Alpha.” His mouth suddenly pulls into a pout, and he turns sad, wide eyes to look at Bucky.

“What’s wrong,” Bucky panics, running his fingers lightly over Peter’s skin, searching for injury and making the Omega giggle and squeal, “what is it, angel?”

“You’re... you’re still gonna knot me, right?”

Oh. Bucky throws back his head to laugh, tossing Peter onto his front and lining up his straining cock, “You think you’re ready for this, sweetheart? You ever taken an Alpha cock in this pretty pussy?” he lets the tip tease in between Peter’s intimate lips, listening to his Omega wheeze below him.

“No, no no, not n’Alpha cock, Bucky please. Fill me up, fu-fuck me, Alpha.”

Bucky groans, “Damn, you sound so pretty with those dirty words in your mouth. So pretty begging for my cock.”

His Omega keeps begging, arching his back and wiggling his ass in the air as Bucky slips on a condom, kneeling behind his mate and lining up. God, Omegas are so pretty from behind— perfect pink holes are glistening wet, and the tiny cock and balls are just the cherry on top. So precious. Untouched and innocent.

“Take a deep breath, angel. It’s gonna be a stretch,” he waits until Peter obeys before pushing forward, inch by inch, into the hot, wet clutch of Peter’s body. Holy shit. Bucky falls forward, panting into his Omega’s neck as he bottoms out. This is heaven.

When Peter gives him the go ahead he starts a steady pace, withdrawing fully before slamming home in one, strong thrust. Peter yelps, tearing through the sheets, and Bucky just smirks, fucking into him with renewed urgency.

He tangles their fingers together in the remains of the torn sheets. Peter meets each and every thrust, cursing and desperate, lost to his heat as he’s split open on Bucky’s cock.

Then Bucky feels it, feels his knot expanding— bumping up against Peter’s entrance and catching on the flexible skin— and feels his orgasm build, deep in his gut.

“Gonna... oh fuck, Peter, angel. Gonna come. Holy shit, gonna knot you up so good, getcha stuck on me, baby. Fill you up, all nice’n full. Shit.”

He knows there’s a litany of profane promises spilling from his tongue, but he could care less as Peter flutters around him, shouting, “Alpha, oh!” as he comes for the third time. The passage around Bucky’s cock is suddenly slicker, sloppy wet, and he realizes what happened.

“Damn baby, I think you squirted on my cock. Fuck, that’s hot, oh. Oh my god. I’m coming, Peter. Fuck, Peter—”

His instincts wash over him, forcing him to rut until his knot is locked inside Peter’s still soft, still trembling body. He wants to bite, to claim, and sinks his teeth into his own bicep, growling deep as his cock is milked through a gut wrenching orgasm. His eyes roll back when Peter clenches down, and he can’t stop coming.

Peter wiggles around, shifting the intimate lock of their bodies and causing both of them to groan. “You’re heavy, Alpha,” he whines, clenching down again.

“Mercy, darling— fuck.” Bucky shivers as a smaller wave of pleasure blinds him, and he flops onto his side, pulling Peter along with him and tangling their legs together.

“How long, Alpha?” Peter mumbles, yawning gently and turning his neck to look back at Bucky sleepily.

“Bout half’n hour. We can rest until then.”

Peter just hums, content to rest in his Alpha’s arms.

Later, they’ll talk. They’ll learn middle names and talk about their favorite colors and dream of a future together. Bucky will watch him go off to college, and Peter will watch Bucky go off to battle.

Until then, Bucky looks down at his dozing mate. He has absolutely no idea where this perfect Omega came from, or why he would be lucky enough to mate him, to knot him, to possibly love him. But Bucky decides not to care.

With a warm Omega in his arms, smiling and squirming on his knot, Bucky will take whatever Peter is willing to give, and return it with as much of himself as possible.

[a-cure-for-writers-block]

#100 (more) Angst/Argument Prompts

This has been highly requested recently and I had a bit of time whilst I was on holiday, so here we are! 100 more angst/argument prompts~ I’m sorry if it’s a little repetitive of the last one, I hope I didn’t recycle them- anyways, enjoy!

“Don’t touch me, you lost that privilege when you let him into our bed.”

“You just keep acting like everything’s fine! It’s not fine!”

“I hate you, I hate everything you stand for, every fibre of your being.”

“I don’t have the energy to yell at you, you’re not worth it anyway.”

“Show up here again and you won’t live to see the end of it.”

“You killed her! She was the only person I ever loved and you killed her!”

“There’s not a single reason I can think of for me to let you see her. You may be her father, but I’m her everything.”

“You broke me! You ruined everything we had and- for what?”

“I know you hate me, but you should hear yourself. You sound just like him, you sound just like your father.”

“Nothing you do will fix things, no amount of money will turn back time.”

“I wish you’d just leave me alone, I wish I’d never met you.”

“You really were the worst thing to ever happen to me. I mean that.”

“I wouldn’t hate myself as much as I do now if it weren’t for you.”

“Thank you for ruining my life, I know exactly the kind of person I don’t want to become now.”

“Don’t look at me like you’re sorry. You’re not sorry.”

“You’ll never love me like you loved her. I know that now.”

“Not now, not ever. You’ll never be the person I love.”

“I can’t believe I was ever stupid enough to think I knew you.”

“Yell at me, scream until your throat hurts, put a damn bullet in my chest, but you will not touch him.”

“I would rather die than be the person who climbs into bed with you at the end of the night.”

“You lied! You lied again and I fell for it!”

“Everytime you open your mouth I want to push you over the edge of a cliff and I mean that with all my heart.”

“Don’t pretend there’s more than years of pure hatred here.”

“We were never in love, we were simply caught up in a nightmare that felt like a dream.”

“You’ll never forgive me, I know that, but please just pretend you love me. Just until the kids are old enough.”

“Shoot me, I dare you, it’ll make you feel better.”

“And if I die, I swear, I’ll crawl out of my grave just to ruin your life.”

“I promised you a lifetime of misery, do you really think I’m done just yet?”

“You’ll end up dead if you keep that up and it won’t even be at my hands.”

“Hit me, hit me and see what happens to you.”

“Let’s just say that if I saw you bleeding out on my kitchen floor, I’d act like I hadn’t seen you.”

“It wasn’t an accident! It wasn’t and you know it!”

“It was assault, it was you.”

“There’s no one I can hire, no one I can call that will give you a torturous enough death.”

“You could’ve left! You could’ve run away with me!”

“Anything- anything- but this!”

“There’s nothing I can say to get you to fix what you did, there’s nothing I can do to understand why you did it.”

“You should’ve just killed me, I could’ve just been a nameless body in an abandoned cemetery. You could’ve just set me free.”

“He’s the only person left! He’s the only thing I’ve got, the last good thing in my life!”

“You can’t take her, please! I’ll do anything, I swear!”

“She was nothing to you, was she? Then prove it.”

“Don’t even look at me, everything about you is everything I tried so hard not to be.”

“You’re not someone I’ve ever understood, but I never thought I’d hate you as much as I do at this moment.”

“Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself, I want nothing more than to ruin your life.”

“Jump, I dare you, but will that really make you happy?”

“You sound just like the person I used to love, but you’re not him anymore, are you.”

“I asked for your help, I begged you for it, now do you understand?”

“Don’t romanticise death if you won’t follow through.”

“Hate is a pitiful emotion, but then again, you are a pitiful person.”

“What is stronger than love? Nothing? Then you will simply not win.”

“You could’ve defeated me, broken me, left me as a pile of flesh. What stopped you?”

“I never have been someone to take the moral high ground, blood and broken bones is much simpler, don’t you think?”

“She wasn’t your person to ruin.”

“I had it under control! I had a plan!”

“She’ll bleed out before nightfall and you think we should stay? Are you stupid?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t remember your face when he wakes up, your eyes always were horribly distinctive.”

“You shouldn’t have come, I don’t want you here.”

“He doesn’t own me! He can’t keep controlling me anymore!”

“I refuse to keep being a pawn in your game, this has to end.”

“If I loved you, would I really have kept you around? Love is a weakness, I don’t have weaknesses.”

“I must admit, it would’ve been easier to get rid of you if you weren’t so beautiful.”

“Nothing will change if you stay here with me! Nothing will ever change!”

“It should’ve been an easy decision to make, but you’ve never made things easy, have you.”

“The worst part was that I saw it coming, I knew you’d hurt me, hurt us, but I still kept you around.”

“I can keep this up for longer than you can stick around for. Cut my hair, change my name, you’ll never find me.”

“What did you want in the beginning? What did you think would happen?”

“You’re not him! You’re not him and that’s the problem!”

“Hire a necromancer so I can tell her how much I hate her guts for leaving me like this.”

“There’s nothing you can do, this is it. This is how it goes.”

“You never let me go, that’s why you’re miserable.”

“I’m not the person at fault, I never was. It’s you, it was always you!”

“Just pretend we’re okay, just for tonight, just for show. I’ll be gone by sunrise.”

“So none of it was real? You didn’t mean any of it?”

“You’re the last person I want to talk to right now. We can’t just put things aside because I’m having a bad night.”

“People talk- people will always talk- and you never listened.”

“The last thing I want is for you to think I’m grateful for what you did back there.”

“I couldn’t think of a worse outcome, unless of course, you had some other way to ruin my day?”

“Seven billion people in the world and I got put in a room with you. Either I’m cursed or God likes playing house with us.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the problem? All these people keep leaving and you keep acting surprised.”

“You betrayed her! You betrayed her trust and look where it got us!”

“I should’ve stayed in San Francisco, I shouldn’t have ever met you.”

“Even after everything, you still won’t admit this was your doing. This was your fault. It always has been.”

“I can’t risk her getting hurt anymore, I can’t put her in danger just to keep you safe!”

“You’ve never been someone I looked up to, I just wished you’d at least acknowledge me.”

“This was never how I wanted things to go.”

“Living is so much harder than dying, are you sure you’re fit for living?”

“I wanted her heart, everything good and pure, but nothing in this world is ever what it seems.”

“You should’ve seen the look on his face- he’s going to destroy you.”

“She’s my daughter, can you really blame me for hating her when she’s just like me?”

“You never should’ve left, it never should’ve been an option.”

“Somehow, whatever you do seems to be the wrong thing. I’m sick of it.”

“Do you actually hate me or is it just the idea of having someone to despise that you enjoy?”

“Nothing you guessed about me was true, I’m nothing like anyone’s ever met before.”

“I’m not the person you thought I was, but neither were you.”

“How can you care for her? You’ve never met her, have you?”

“You’ll never meet again, life in death is like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

“I wish a lot of things, but most of all, I wish you didn’t hate me.”

“These days, I think about you, but you’re never the same person I created in my mind.”

“It could’ve been worse, we could’ve fallen in love.”

“At least I can forget him- he’s easy to forget- but her, I’ll never forget her for as long as I live. And it’s all your fault.”

[earliebirb]

nosedive

steve/tony, fluff, (newly) established relationship, 3250 words

Tony stares absentmindedly out the airplane window as he puts his phone up to his ear, watching people run back and forth, performing last-minute engine checks. Some of the guys look sweaty and out of breath.

From the comfort of the air-conditioned Stark Industries private jet, he feels a slight twinge of sympathy for the people having to suffer in the humid summer heat.

He loosens his tie and sinks deeply into his seat, closing his eyes with a massive yawn as he listens to the ringing tone. He hadn’t been able to sleep very well throughout his five-day stay in Tokyo, too anxious about the contract to rest properly. 

The ringing tone goes on for a few more seconds before ending with a click, replaced by an achingly familiar voice greeting him in his ear. 

“Hello?” 

Tony’s eyes spring open. Outside, an aircraft marshaller walks by, speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie.

“I had a blueberry muffin for lunch today. One single blueberry muffin.”

“...What?”

“It didn’t even taste that good. I couldn’t finish it. Too dry.”

“Tony, that’s not good. Is that all you had for lunch? You should really eat—”

“The meeting went well, by the way. Mr. Watanabe finally signed the contract, everything went as planned. My ride to the airport, however…”

“I told you things would go smoothly, you had nothing to worry about. You’re a brilliant negotiator—”

“The traffic? Fuck. I had to keep shifting in my seat to avoid pins and needles.”

“That sounds awful, are your legs okay—”

“Did you know that Tokyo is number nineteen on the list of cities with the worst traffic congestion in the world? I know that, because I looked it up on the way to the airport. But boy, did it feel like it deserved the number one spot. I think I lost feeling in my ass.”

“I did not know that. And, uh, is your ass okay—”

“Thank God for my private jet. These plush seats are the best things I’ve ever spent my money on.”

“That’s objectively not true, and you know it—”

“Then again, I think these seats in particular were Pepper’s choice? We remodeled the airplane’s interior like… two years ago. I couldn’t be bothered to meet with the airplane seat people and I just told her to pick whichever looked best. I had much more important things to tend to, like sewing up the holes in JARVIS’s Christmas stocking.”

“I am concerned about how you sort your list of priorities—”

“Hm, that’s right. I think it was around two, three weeks before Christmas and I didn’t want JARVIS to be upset about the whole stocking thing, you know?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have—”

“Also, you’re right, the single blueberry muffin was a bad idea because now my stomach won’t shut up. So I’ve ordered some pasta for my in-flight meal. Robbie’s making it, you’ve met Robbie—”

“I’ve met Robbie, yes, he’s—”

“Larry’s replacement after he resigned. Gotta say, I was sad to see Larry go. Guy worked for me for seven years. But then there was that thing with his grandma, and he had to leave, so… But! Robbie makes a mean carbonara, maybe even better than Larry, don’t tell Larry I said that—”

“I don’t even know Larry like that, how would I—”

“Mr. Stark, we’re ready to go.” The pilot—Paul—emerges from the cockpit, staring at him in anticipation.

Tony nods and makes a few rapid gestures with his free hand that he supposes Paul is only able to interpret perfectly after years and years of working for Tony. The gestures roughly translate to something like “Copy, I hear you, just let me wrap this up and then I’ll let you know when I’m done. Capiche?”

Paul—bless him—just gives him a curt nod and retreats back into the cockpit. 

“Anyway,” Tony takes a deep breath and puffs his cheeks out with the exertion of his exhale, “I called because… I got a feeling, Steve.”

“A… feeling?”

“Just— A gut feeling. A feeling in your gut. Inside of me. Like a hunch?”

“Okay,” Steve says patiently, his voice low and warm, “what are you feeling?”

“I… got a bad feeling. Today. A few hours ago. The feeling came to me when I was sitting in traffic, and I just— I feel like something bad’s gonna happen today, Steve. I can feel it in the air. In my heart. In my gut. In my joints.”

“Your joints? Like… the feeling old people get when it’s about to rain?”

“Okay, maybe not in my joints. Also, are you calling me old, grandpa?”

“I did not, you told me you felt something in your—”

“Anyway, so yeah. Where was I? Oh, right. Feeling. Bad feeling. Like, like, I don’t know, something bad’s gonna happen. Like an accident. Like a plane crash.”

“God, please don’t say that. You’re scaring me, Tony.”

“And I guess, I just called because I… I feel like I need to do this before the plane crashes and I die a violent and fiery death.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen, Tony—”

“Like, if I didn’t do this today, maybe I’d never get to do it, you know? And, uh, okay, I’ve honestly been ranting to stall for time, but the longer I keep it in the more nauseous I feel, so maybe I’m just gonna do it now so I can die in peace—”

“Do what? And stop saying that—”

“Look, I’m trying to be brave and honest here and— Wait, actually? Maybe I’m being a coward because if the plane actually does go down, I won’t have to face the consequences of my actions, so I guess I’m just going to say fuck it, and say that I love you.”

“The plane is not going to— Wait, what?”

“I, uh. Love you. I’ve known it for a while now. And, uh, I know we’ve only been dating for like, a week, but—” Tony blinks. They’ve only been dating for a week. 

“...Fuck.” Tony can feel his own pulse starting to race. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Tony?”

They’ve only been dating for a week. What is he doing? What the hell is wrong with him? Normal people don’t do this. 

“Fuck. Shit, I mean— Uh, I’m sorry. That was super weird, huh?” Tony laughs nervously. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth and cursing his stupid brain. Of course it’s weird. He always gets too attached to people way too quickly. No wonder Pepper was his only long term relationship. She was the only person who could put up with him—everyone else just got weirded out. “Uh, see you tomorrow? Or not. Fuck, sorry, I’m just gonna hang up before this gets—”

“Tony, wait.”

“...Yeah?” Tony says, hyper-aware of how breathless he sounds. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears. Everything is going to be fine. Right? Right. The worst thing Steve could do is… break up with him.

Oh, God, that is the worst case scenario. He really should’ve just kept his stupid mouth shut. 

“Tony, are you freaking out? I feel like I can hear you freaking out from all the way over here.”

“No, I’m not, of course I’m not. Who says I’m freaking out? You have no proof. I am calm, I’m calm as a clam, is that the saying? Did I get it right? Or was it happy— Anyway, I am absolutely calm, I’m the calmest I could possibly be. Any calmer and I’d be asleep. I’m—”

“Tony. Breathe.”

Tony forces himself to drag in a slow breath as he grips the arm of his seat with his free hand, focusing on the soothing hum of the airplane’s engine.

“Look, Tony, I—”

“No, listen. I’m sorry I jumped the gun, I hope I haven’t weirded you out or anything. You really, really don’t have to say it back to me. I mean it.”

“Tony—”

“No, in fact— Please don’t say anything. It’s fine. Let’s just pretend this never happened, okay?”

“But—”

“Drop it, Steve. Please?” Tony pleads. Clearly, his brain hadn’t been firing on all cylinders. That is the only reason that could explain his temporary lapse of judgment. “Look, I feel like talking about it more right now is going to send me spiraling into a panic attack.”

“...Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you. Uh, I’ll see you when I get home. If I get home. If the plane doesn’t crash. Haha.”

“Would you please stop saying that? It’s not funny.”

Tony latches onto the change in topic like a lifeline. “It is objectively true, you know. In order for me to be able to see you tomorrow, the plane has to land safely, and unfortunately, some things are just beyond my control. Like, who’s to say the plane won’t explode mid-air and—”

“The plane is going to land safely and you’re going to come back home to me in one piece. This is non-negotiable, Tony. You hear me?” Steve demands, his voice all hard authority and no-nonsense, like there will be Consequences should Tony fail to comply. 

As if he could ensure Tony’s safety with the force of his willpower alone. 

Come back home to me. 

That sounds good. Really good. Tony closes his eyes and pictures Steve’s baby blues in his mind’s eye. Warmth flowers in his chest.

“I hear you.”

“Great.”

“Awesome. I, uh, I gotta go now.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

Tony hangs up and lets Paul know that he is done with his phone call. The jittery feeling left over from his call with Steve refuses to leave him, however, so he pulls up the drawing application on his phone and begins sketching something just to give his brain something else to fixate on.

He tends to lose track of time when he is hyperfocused on a project, so he isn’t exactly surprised that the next time he becomes aware of his surroundings, the plane is already well up in the air, his sketch of what looks like a flying coffee pot is almost finished, and Robbie is placing a plate of spaghetti carbonara on the table in front of him. 

“Spaghetti carbonara. With extra cheese.”

Tony’s mouth waters as he eyes the mountain of grated Pecorino Romano sitting atop the pasta. He sighs dreamily and smiles up at Robbie.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Enjoy, Boss.” Robbie grins and slips back into the kitchen.

He only realizes just how truly famished he is after taking his first bite, and proceeds to finish the rest of his meal with gusto. Afterward, he spends the majority of the remaining flight time sleeping, the result of post-carbonara food coma and his sleep-deprivation finally catching up to him. 

It’s well past two in the morning when Tony finally makes it to his floor in the Tower, which is why he is surprised to see Steve sitting on his couch, one of Tony’s fantasy novels open in hand. 

“Steve, what are you doing here?”

Steve’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice. Tony frowns. “Actually, why are you awake at all?” He is usually an early sleeper, unless—

“Nightmare?” Tony gives him a sympathetic smile. It wouldn’t be the first time. In the early days of their friendship, Tony and Steve would sit together in the living room whenever they had trouble sleeping, talking to each other until the sun came up.

Steve shakes his head, closing the book with his eyes still trained on Tony. “No, I was just… waiting for you.” Tony blinks. 

“It’s…” Tony glances at his watch. “Half past two. In the morning.”

“I know, I just…” Steve stands up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He ambles over before coming to a stop right in front of Tony. “I wanted to see you.”

Tony stares at him uncomprehendingly. “You’ll see me later anyway.”

“I couldn’t wait any longer. I didn’t want to go to sleep without seeing you first,” Steve says, low and earnest. His gaze wanders around Tony’s face, as if he were cataloguing each and every facial feature and trying to locate any changes he might’ve missed during his absence.

“Oh.”

Steve steps closer, arms snaking around Tony’s waist and pulling him close. His next words are whispered against Tony’s shoulder.

“I knew you’d make it home safely.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You were wrong.”

“I was… wrong.” Tony swallows. “Uh, turns out the bad feeling completely disappeared after I woke up from my nap on the plane, so I suspect that perhaps the bad feeling I got was due to my severe hunger and sleep deprivation. I mean, I’ve heard about hallucinations caused by hunger or exhaustion, but this was—” 

Steve presses a soft kiss to the column of Tony’s neck, effectively cutting off Tony’s ramblings.

“Tony,” Steve whispers against his skin.

“Yeah?” Tony squeaks.

“Please don’t call me before a flight and say that you think the plane is going to crash, ever again.”

“Right. Noted. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Steve says, pulling away slightly and loosening his hold around Tony.

Tony allows himself to relax, letting out a quiet sigh. This thing with Steve is so new and delicate that every single physical contact still sends his heart fluttering, butterflies going crazy in his stomach.

Which makes, in retrospect, his abrupt love confession—as truthful as it was—that much more insane. God, Stark. Never do that again.

Except, it turns out that Steve only pulled away to slide his hands down the back of Tony’s thighs, wrapping his hands around them, and then lifting him up without warning.

Tony yelps, and in his alarm, promptly locks his ankles around Steve’s waist. When Steve begins moving, Tony quickly wraps his arms around Steve, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“Uh, Steve?”

“Hm?” Steve says, calm and nonchalant, as he begins walking away from the elevator. 

“Um— Wait— My suitcase—”

“Leave it. It’ll still be there in the morning.”

Tony blinks, staring dumbfoundedly at his lonely suitcase, abandoned by the elevator. It becomes smaller and smaller with every step Steve takes. 

“Where are we going?”

“Your bedroom.”

“Why are you carrying me there?”

“Because I want to.”

“You know it’ll be faster if you just let me walk, right?”

“Maybe. But you won’t be in my arms.”

“Um.”

“Bear with me, will you? I missed you.”

“I, uh, missed you too.”

Steve hums, satisfied. Tony lets himself settle more comfortably in Steve’s arms.

When Steve has successfully carried him to his bedroom, Tony fully expects Steve to deposit him on the bed. 

That is not, in fact, what happens. 

Instead, Steve turns around and begins walking backwards towards the bed before sitting down on it. Tony, still seated on his lap, swallows and pulls back slightly to look at Steve. 

“Look, Steve, as much as I’ve missed you, I’m kind of tired right now. I mean, don’t get me wrong. This whole carrying thing? Great. Very romantic. Ten out of ten. But I’m just not in the mood for sex, you know? Like, I’m not even sure I would be able to get it up if—”

“We’re not going to have sex.”

Tony blinks.

“We’re not?”

“We’re not. I’m just here to tuck you in.”

“Oh.”

Steve reaches up and begins undoing his tie. After setting it aside on the bed, he begins to unbutton Tony’s shirt. He takes his time, one button at a time.

“So…” Steve begins with a deep breath as he unbuttons the final button. “Did you mean, uh, what you said to me? On the phone?”

Tony closes his eyes, feels his own cheeks heating up. “Steve—”

“I’m sorry, Tony, I know you told me to drop it. But— I feel like if you did mean what you said, I owe it to you to… set the records straight.” When Tony opens his eyes again, Steve is looking up at him, blue eyes solemn.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… We have only been together for a week. Well, eight days. In fact, we’ve only been on one date. And it was interrupted. By giant lizards.” Steve chuckles incredulously. 

Tony remembers that day very well. They were in the middle of dessert at Tony’s favorite Italian place when they received the call to assemble—something about giant lizards wreaking havoc in Central Park.

The lizards had green, gunky blood that got into the nooks and crannies of the suit. It had taken forever to clean.

“But Tony…” Steve gathers the material of Tony’s unbuttoned shirt in both of his fists, pulling him closer until their noses are only inches apart.

The second their eyes meet, Steve smiles the sweet, lopsided smile that never fails to make Tony’s stomach flip.

“I need you to know that… I didn’t have to date you to know that I loved you. I figured that a long time ago.”

Tony stills, breath frozen in his lungs.

“I guess, what I’m saying is… I love you too. I’ve loved you for a very long time, Tony. Even way before—” Steve breaks eye contact, looks down as he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is tight. “Way before we got together. I’m talking… years before.”

Tony still finds it hard to breathe. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, the word more breath than sound. He meets Tony’s dazed gaze. “So you don’t have to worry about… jumping the gun. Not with me. I’m in it for the long haul.”

“...Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Tony feels a lightness growing inside of him, spreading outwards to his extremities.

“Good.” Steve smiles, warm and impossibly fond.

“...Glad we’re on the same page.” Tony’s gaze drops down to Steve’s lips.

“We are.” Steve inches closer, nose brushing Tony’s. He then tilts his head ever so slightly and takes Tony’s lower lip between his, kissing him so tenderly Tony’s heart feels like it’s about to burst with it.

Steve’s warm hands slide up Tony’s naked back under his open shirt, sending goosebumps breaking across his skin. Tony buries his hands in Steve’s hair and relishes the feeling of the soft strands caught between his fingers. They stay caught up in each other for a few moments, capturing and releasing each other’s lips until the need for breath becomes too unbearable.

They break apart eventually, accompanied by soft chuckles. Steve smiles up at him, lips slick and cherry red, courtesy of Tony. He reaches up to caress Tony’s right eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, fleeting and affectionate.

“Get some rest, okay? You must be really tired. I should probably go to bed, too.”

Tony looks down at his lap, clearing his throat. “Uh, I know that we haven’t done this before, but…”

Steve waits patiently for Tony to gather his thoughts, hands stroking up and down Tony’s sides.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?” Tony finds the courage to meet Steve’s eyes, holding his breath.

Steve’s blue eyes are gazing at him intently, looking at him like he’s the only person in the world worth his sole, undivided attention.

Tony swallows. “No sex. Just to sleep. If you—”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Tony feels his own lips slowly curve up into a smile, wide and unbridled. 

“Good.” Steve nods, lips twitching, his eyes never leaving Tony’s. 

Tony grins, feeling near giddy with delight. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“We are, sweetheart.” Steve looks up at him, blue eyes fond and smile radiant. “We definitely are.”

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone's Symphony | Day One | Persephone

Hey lovelies— so as per my usual shenanigans I've decided this will have no schedule and that I will play god to my own creation because what is life without some chaos? The pros are you might not have to wait a week between updates, the cons are you might have to wait a week between updates. In all seriousness, please enjoy my lovelies!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Mentions of death, at times semi-graphic, eventual smut

Word count: 3.1k

Previous | Next

Master List

She can’t hear what the man in the truck says to him— the walls of this house are surprisingly thick. She supposes that’s a good thing. It means she will be able to go about her days normally while cooped up here. Well, as normal as possible. She doubts she’ll be able to get away with her three am rom-com marathons and ice-cream binges. She doubts she’ll get away with screaming in her sleep— and in the shower and at the breakfast table and when doing any, little thing that makes her remember that her life is one, constant nightmare.

It’s only three days— all she has to do is stay awake for three days.

While his head— her body guard’s head— is turned she leans against the kitchen sink, inching back the white lace curtain for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s like a little game at this point. She peeks at him, his eyes snap to hers, and she squeals and drops the curtain. Thank god the walls are thick. It’s almost unnerving how tuned he is to every little movement— not almost, it is unnerving but she supposes that is what makes him a good fit for this job. A good fit for keeping her alive. Like she has been doing for months now, she ignores the way her chest squeezes painfully.

Through the little strip of window that she allows for herself, she traces over his features one last time. Cropped black hair, a square jaw, at least two days worth of stubble. He looks like a bodyguard— rough, dangerous, manly— and that’s before taking into account the sheer size of the man. She is on her tiptoes, one hand pushing against the stainless steel below her for dear life, and she still has to crane her neck to properly see his face. She refuses to let her eyes wander any further than that— she had already glimpsed at the rest of him when he had made the short walk from the truck to the house. She already knows he’s massive.

His eyebrow twitches and she drops the curtain— she may not be as fast as he is but she’s a quick learner. Had she held the curtain open longer she is sure his eyes would have flicked to hers again. Those are the rules of the game, after all. She hears a muted thumping and the door handle jiggle from across the room, spinning towards the faded farmhouse door. She watches as the door handle turns, her throat tight, wondering where all the air in the room went— it was there a second ago.

The door pushes open and she jumps away from the sink, only just realizing what it’ll look like if he comes inside to her still hunched over the window. Of course, he’s already seen her but that’s beside the point. Part of the game is not talking about the game. A boot comes into view— the black, military grade kind— and it hits her like a punch to the gut that this is real— there really is someone out there trying to kill her. Now she really can’t breath. She can only force her lungs to expand to draw in some oxygen before her bodyguard finds her sprawled in an unconscious heap on the ground.

The boot is quickly followed by a leg, which is then, by default, followed by a torso and a head. A head that turns and watches her freeze, red handed like a bandit, in the middle of the kitchen. Gods, she should have just kept leaning against the sink— this is worse! Her hands are up and everything, shot out in front of her like she’s about to jump him or something. Yes, her— the girl currently in a hoodie that pools around her legs, displaying her knobby knees and bad posture— about to jump him— the man who had to practically duck to get through the doorway. She could laugh. In fact, she almost wishes he would laugh at her. She wishes he would do anything but look at her with that blank expression and those ice blue eyes.

“Uhm—” she blinks, trying to think of something to say other than holy shit you’re a giant— which, for the record, is what she wants to say— “hi?”

Are you serious, y/n?

He tilts his head at her and she almost cries. Not the same fear ridden, heartbroken, panicky cries of late. More so the awkward, why the fuck would you say that to the man charged with keeping you alive brand of cries. The normal kind. She drops her hands to her sides, slipping them into the pouch of her hoodie and tangling her fingers together. She can only allow herself to display one embarrassing thing at a time.

The man stays silent for a moment, each second of which makes her cheeks flame hotter and hotter, before finally opening his mouth. “Hi.”

Her chest deflates— some of the heat subsiding. He copied her. Whether purposefully or mockingly it alleviates some of the stupidity she’s feeling. She takes a few steps backwards, her bare feet pittering rather loudly over the worn hardwood. Well, that didn’t last long— there’s that embarrassment again.

“I’m y/n,” she squeaks out— gods, is Mickey Mouse in the building? “I guess you already know that though, huh?”

It was a stroke of genius putting her hands in her pocket— at least now he can’t see the way they shake furiously. She has to resist smashing her head against the sink. Nothing about this situation is optimal, to say the very least. Here she is making small talk with a man who could tear her in half. Her eyes drift to where his red henley pulls taut around his biceps— are they bigger than her head?

“James—” her eyes flick back up, face hotter than the sun, both from her blatant staring and the deep gravel of his voice— “but most people call me Bucky.”

Her eyes widen. She doesn’t know why, probably because she’s an idiot or because she isn’t expecting him to say more than three words. He seems like the strong, silent type. Maybe that is just the rom-coms though. Maybe her brain is just mush now.

“Okay,” she all but whispers, backing further into the sink. His piercing eyes have yet to leave her— something which makes her knees knock together and fingers clench. “Which should I call you?”

He tenses, his dark eyebrows pulling together, and she has to swallow the bile that rises in her throat. It’s day one and she’s already offending him. She pulls her lip between her teeth, biting down until the tangy, metallic taste that she has grown too familiar with these past months floods her mouth. She tells herself that she does it to keep from cursing. Lying to herself is another game she likes to play.

The longer he remains quiet, the more she regrets asking the question. His blue eyes are still latched on her, drifting over the space between her eyes and her busted lip, but somehow they also seem miles away. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her— seeing her— or if he’s seeing something else entirely. It isn’t until she pushes off the counter, taking a hesitant step forward, her foot slapping against the wood like it’s trying to embarrass her again, that he blinks. She pulls one of her hands from the puddle that is her hoodie, sliding it over her hair. Can he see the way it shakes?

Probably.

“Nevermind, forget I asked. It was a dumb ques—”

“Bucky,” the word is rushed out, falling over her own stuttered babbling. He slows after that, his face remaining stoic but his cheeks dusting with the slightest hint of pink. “Call me Bucky.”

She doesn’t point it out— she doesn’t have a death wish. Her being here right now, standing across from a literal giant, barefoot and shaking, is proof enough of that. Instead she nods gently, lowering her hand slowly. He’s not going to attack her— he isn’t a wolf— but still she takes the precaution. Better safe than sorry.

“Bucky it is then.”

He nods stiffly and she pretends like it doesn’t make her hands shake harder. She waits for him to speak, eyes drifting over the blue cupboards and the breakfast nook, taking in the applications of the home and trying not to scream. She feels so out of place, not used to the warmth in the room— the lingering smell of yeast and the flowers in the vase on the table. She used to bake all the time. Now she can barely bring herself to microwave frozen dinners. The sun that filters through the crack in the curtains and lands against her cheek feels like pure fire. She spends her days in the dark— she wouldn’t be surprised if she was allergic to the sun itself now. Allergic to all the things she used to enjoy.

The silence is too much— she has to speak to keep her throat from closing. If she doesn’t then it may not open again.

“So—” she draws the word out, her eyes flopping to the floor where her toe scuffs against a particularly worn board— “we just kinda follow each other around then?”

His face doesn’t change, his lips remaining in the same, expressionless line— a master of one trade. “Pretty much. I follow you.”

“And make sure I don’t die.” She fills the rest in— there’s no point not to. He’s definitely seen the pictures.

Finally his expression shifts, his lips pressing together tersely. It’s an answer in it’s own right— he pities her. He shifts his weight between his feet, the floorboards creaking below him. It could just be her but the sound slices through the room— loud and unforgiving— and she can’t stop the way she flinches. He freezes, obviously noticing her reaction. She almost slaps herself. Leave it to her to make an already tense situation worse. Is it going to be this awkward the entire time?

“You’re not going to die.” His voice is softer than his boots, barely reaching her ears as it cuts through the rigid atmosphere.

She doesn’t know what to say— how do she tell her bodyguard that she doesn’t believe him? He’s supposed to be the one saving her life. It feels risky to suggest that he wouldn’t be able to do that. Like telling the universe that she wants to die. She doesn’t want to die. It’s just hard not to think about death when it follows her everywhere she goes. For twenty-four years she was just y/n. Now look at her.

The queen of death.

She doesn’t know what to say so instead she changes the subject.

“Are you hungry?”

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

She makes grilled cheese for lunch. It is nothing special but the smell of the butter alone makes the energy she has to scrape together to make them worth it. She can’t remember the last time she cooked like this— the last time she tasted anything but freezer burnt macaroni and lumpy gravy. A couple times she almost drops the spatula, her fingers not used to having to be so coordinated, but the promise of melted cheddar has her fighting through the tremors. That and the audience of one, standing next to her with his arms crossed like he’s judging her culinary skills rather than looking for snipers.

It’s all in her head. That’s what she tells herself at least.

“You want extra cheese?”

She can feel Bucky’s eyes on the side of her face— is there something on her cheek? “Sure.”

It’s all in her head.

She flips the sandwiches, watching as the fluffy white bread is replaced with a perfect, golden brown toast. Her stomach growls, the sound somehow louder than the sizzling pan in her hand. The scream bubbles in her throat again— fuck. Why must everything she does be so humiliating? Why can’t she just keep it together for three days!

“Bacon?” Cue the voice crack.

“Bacon?” He repeats the word back like he hasn’t the faintest clue what a pig is— like somehow he’s a giant of a man but has never touched a piece of meat in his entire life.

Like it’s the dumbest question he has ever been asked. She swallows— hard— her cheeks pooling with heat again. She’s starting to wonder if it ever even left. If he asks she’ll blame it on the steam rising off the pan or her hoodie or both. But he won’t ask— he won’t speak until he has to. It did not take her long to gather that fact.

“You’ve never had bacon on grilled cheese?” It feels like he’s glaring at her.

It’s all in her damn head.

The floorboards groan underneath Bucky again and instead of flinching this time she tries to imagine what they might be saying. Save me, he’s crushing me! She flicks her eyes down, glancing at those military grade boots and then at her own toes, tiny and feeble compared to the size of his gear. One wrong step and her foot would likely be broken. She isn’t too worried about that though— he seems careful. His movements thus far have been slow and calculated, skirting around her and leaving at least a few feet between them at all times. Maybe that isn’t to keep from stepping on her though— maybe he just doesn’t like her. She wouldn’t blame him.

“You say it like that’s unheard of.” He doesn’t say it angrily but there’s no exuberance in his voice either— just the monotone she’s come to expect. It’s been one hour and she can already see how the next seventy-one are going to play out.

“Where I’m from it is.”

There’s a pause— the sound of butter crackling against the pan and of the steady picking up of rain against the kitchen window as it eats away at the sunshine— and she’s expecting the conversation to drop there. He isn’t there to entertain her, after all. That’s what the TV is for— what Leonardo DiCaprio is for.

But then there’s an answer. “Where are you from?”

The corner of her mouth lifts— an action so foreign she can practically see the dust shedding from her rusty smile— and she turns from the frypan long enough to meet his icy eyes and to throw out an arm, putting the front of her hoodie on display for the stoic man.

“SoCal.”

Her mouth lifts higher when Bucky raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. He could be mocking her but she chooses to believe he’s interested. She chooses to believe that they are making progress and that she won’t have to spend three days talking to the walls. She turns back to the sandwiches, flipping them for the last time before laying down a few strips of bacon next to them.

She isn’t expecting him to keep going but she also isn’t complaining when his voice tickles her ears again. “Caltech, huh? S’that Pasadena?”

She tries to keep her smile from morphing into a full blown grin— she isn’t sure if her poor lips would be able to handle it. It’s been too long since she last used her mouth this much; both for smiling and talking. “Yes sir— born and raised.”

He hums and she watches from the corner of her eye as he leans to the window, peering out of it for a moment. There’s no one out there— at least she strongly doubts there is. This place is in the middle of nowhere. She hasn’t even heard a car since the truck that dropped Bucky off drove away. It’s supposed to be peaceful. She doesn’t see it. All she sees is the dreadful but necessary silence— at least hopefully that way they’ll hear someone coming.

“How about you? Where are you from—” she flips the bacon, pushing it around the pan, her mouth watering at the thought of the greasy, gooey goodness she’s about to consume— “You mind finding some plates?”

She hears him rummage through the cupboard above his head— well, above her head, in front of his— before two mismatched pieces of dishware appear before her nose. Grabbing them, she lets the corners of her lips tick up just the tiniest bit further.

“Indiana— but spent most of my time in Brooklyn.”

“It shows.” She muses, not turning to see whether or not he appreciates the comment.

It’s true regardless— she can hear some of the mannerisms of New York in his voice. Not many. He hasn’t said enough for her to truly gauge just how strong his accent is. Still it’s there, in the gruffness of his tone, just like she’s sure the SoCal shines through in her. At least it normally does— lately she hasn’t exactly been the picture of sunshine.

She removes the sandwiches from the pan, layering them carefully onto the plates. After staring at them for a moment she settles on the one that she wants, handing Bucky the bigger of the two. It’s only fair— he could probably eat at least four. She watches as the giant gives it a glance, rolling her eyes when he hesitantly lifts it to his lips, taking the smallest of bites. Is he afraid of a sandwich?

“I promise I’m not trying to poison you— I need you to stay alive, remember?”

He only grunts.

She has to turn away when he takes a bigger bite, her eyes refusing to detach themselves from his lips. Unprofessional and inappropriate. The orphan and the bodyguard. She takes a bite of her own sandwich, shoving the thought to the back of her mind and replacing it with the heavenly taste of gooey cheese, melted butter, and greasy bacon. She doesn’t have to dissect the thoughts of her delicious food like she would have to the other ones. Cheese doesn’t require a checklist about whether or not her grief quota is up to code. Clearly it’s not— clearly she’s just sick in the head. She takes another bite.

The two eat in silence for a couple minutes, the tension in the room melting for the first time since she introduced herself. Thank gods for cheese.

After a few more moments Bucky sets his plate down, turning back to the window. At first she thinks she is hearing things— like her mind is now also playing tricks on her as well as making her feel like a terrible person— but then it registers and she has to fight back another inappropriate smile.

“You were right about the bacon.”

Maybe three days won’t be so bad.

____________

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license​

[kinglazrus]

Dead Man Walking

Phic Phight | AO3 | FFN

Submitted by @syrren: Instead of making him half-dead, the portal accident makes Danny unable to die. This....changes things.

(or: how canon changes if the accident leaves Danny with deadpool-style regeneration abilities to make for a horrifyingly self-sacrificing vigilante, or with some kind of reset ability every time he dies to equally horrifying implications)

Summary: The accident changes Danny in ways he never thought possible. Sam and Tucker watch him fall from the portal dead and burnt beyond recognition, but he doesn't stay dead for long. He never stays dead. Of all the things Danny expected to happen when he walked into that portal, getting unlimited regeneration wasn't one of them, but now that he has it, he's going to put it to good use. Deadpool AU.

Word count: 3606

The first time Danny dies, his friends bear witness. They will never forget the ominous whirr of the portal as it turned on, the warning crackle of electricity, the final throat-tearing scream of their best friend. There are other things, too, that burned into their minds that day. How his body hit the floor of the lab with a thud, burnt beyond recognition, burnt so bad there wasn't any blood. How it smelled, to their horror, not so different from charred barbecue.

They like to pretend that part never happened. It's easy when all they need to do is call his phone and hear his voice, unaffected by the savage electrical heat that brought him to ruin that day. When he doesn't stay dead, it's not hard to pretend he never died at all. It took minutes for his body to fix itself, blackened skin overtaken by fresh pink muscle, which then sprouted new skin, perfectly unblemished.

Even the scar he got when he was fell off his bike at six years old disappeared.

"I liked that scar," Danny says, pouting when he finally notices its absence three days later.

"I don't think that's the right thing to get hung up," Sam says.

"But it looked like a spaceship!"

"I always thought it looked like an upside-down nine," Tucker muses.

"Or six," Sam says.

"Upside down nine is more fun."

They proceed like this for three weeks, mentioning the accident only in the lightest of terms, joking about their new, shared trauma. They are content to move on with their lives, forget it happened, go on as normal high schoolers. Until Danny dies again.

—

"What do you mean you don't want to hunt ghosts?" Jack exclaims. He gapes down at the trio, wholeheartedly baffled by this confession.

"I'll stick with tech, thanks," Tucker says, holding up his phone.

"Ghosts just aren't cool anymore," Sam says.

"Can I go back upstairs now?" Danny asks. At his question, Sam and Tucker fall silent. None of them make eye contact, and neither do they look toward the portal innocently humming only a few feet away. Danny is very aware that this is his first time in the lab since the accident. The same thought runs through Sam and Tucker's minds.

Jack doesn't notice the sudden change in mood. "Nonsense, Danno! You love ghosts. Why, I remember when you were just a tyke, you wanted to be a ghost when you grew up." He clenches his fist. "It was unacceptable. But that's okay! You can hunt them instead!"

He turns his back on Danny and his friends, eagerly going over the array of tools laid out on the counter. Ghost detectors, ecto-guns, protective shield, and an empty space where a thermos should be. "I forgot the best part! Wait right here, kids." Jack charges upstairs, leaving the kids alone.

Danny glances at the portal, unable to suppress a shiver. "You think he'd notice if I snuck away?"

"Nuh-uh, if you go, we go, too," Tucker says.

No one gets to go. Two sets of slimy green tentacles poke through the portal, probing the empty air. Their soft bodies soon follow, revealing a pair of ghostly octopuses.

"Holy shit ghosts are real." That is all Tucker has time to say before the ghosts attack. They launch themselves forward, shrieking in excitement. One goes for Sam and the other charges Tucker. They try to jump out of the way, but the ghosts are faster. The ectopuses tentacles wrap around them, pinning their arms down.

"Danny!" Sam shouts.

In retrospect, a smarter person would have gone for the ecto-gun lying on the table, freshly loaded and ready for a demonstration. Or, they might have shouted for his father, a ghost hunter who has trained his entire life for this scenario. But Danny acts faster than he thinks. He dives toward Tucker, the closest of the two, and digs his fingers into the ghost's tentacles. It screams as Danny's nails dig into its flesh.

The ghost's body goes translucent. Tucker slips out of its grasp, dropping to the floor in a heap, but Danny's hold stays firm. The ectopus panics, thrashing and tugging, its flailing limbs cutting through Tucker over and over without harming him. No matter what the ectopus does, it can't shake Danny loose, and his nails are starting to cut.

"Dude, you're doing it!" Tucker says, too soon.

As it flails, one of the ectopus' tentacles smacks Danny in the face, making his head snap back. At that moment, he and the ghost have the same realization. If he can touch it, it can hurt him back. The ectopus gives another shriek and its remaining seven tentacles surge forward. They wrap around Danny's arms, his chest, curling so tight his bones ache. The last one closes around Danny's throat.

His throat, weak like the ghost's flesh, crumples in an instant. His air disappears. No sound leaves his mouth, not even a wheeze, and his eyes bulge as panic sets in.

"Danny!" Sam and Tucker scream. Sam struggles against her captor kicking and gnashing her teeth, but her boots can't reach its body. Tucker grabs Danny, tries to pull him away, to bat off the ghost’s grip, but it is no use. The ghost is too strong, and Tucker can't touch it in this state.

Danny loses focus of them, then. His brain goes fuzzy, everything blurring around him while his face grows hot. All he can feel is the burn, the ache, the need to breathe, breathe, breathe damn it! The haze of the ghost looming over him fills his vision, slowly overtaken by red, then black spots.

As everything goes dark, Danny's last thought is this:

I guess I'm dead after all.

—

He hears the sobbing first. It starts off quiet and distant, but quickly grows louder, great hiccupping coughs scattered between heart-wrenching cries.

"Mr. Fenton!" someone screams. It happens fast, after that. Thundering steps, a deep cry of shock and pain that cuts him to his core. A piercing whine followed by two quick blasts.

The ectopuses' retreating shriek cuts through Danny loud and clear. His eyes snap open and air rushes into his lungs, a hoarse, wheezing breath that he holds for a moment. Then he takes another, and another, and he's breathing again, and he's not anymore.

Sam and Tucker, kneeling at his side, cry out as one. They throw themselves on him, blubbering messes the both of them. Danny's father, facing the portal, turns disbelieving eyes on him.

Danny's gaze drops to his father's hand and the ecto-gun clutched in it. "Oh, right." The word scrapes against his throat. He swallows, twice, until speaking doesn't hurt and says, "I forgot we had the gun.

"Danny!" Jack dashes toward them, dropping to his knees beside Danny. Sam and Tucker scramble back, giving him room. "Are you alright? What happened? You looked..."

Dead.

Because he was. Again.

"I'm fine," Danny assures him. "Lost consciousness, that's all.

"Danny, your face was blu—" Tucker yelps when Sam punches him in the shoulder, cutting him off mid-sentence. He rubs the spot, shooting her an offended look, but Sam's eyes are only on Danny.

Danny nods, just enough that she can see, a silent thanks.

"I think you kids should go upstairs now." Jack's voice trembles. He raises his hand, about to run it through his hair, but stops when he sees the gun he's still holding. "I'll take care of things down here. Call your parents and all that."

For the first time, Danny notices the green splotches littering the floor and the wall. Probably from the ectopuses.

Sam loops an arm around Danny's shoulders, hoisting him up. He stumbles when he gets to his feet, bracing himself against her as the room spins. It settles after a few seconds, but he still feels a bit lightheaded. A side effect of choking, maybe?

Tucker helps from Danny's other side. They go up to Danny's room in silence, their steps thumping up the stairs. Only once they're safely behind his closed door, and Danny is lying on the bed, does Sam speak.

"You died again," she says.

Danny touches his throat. "Yeah." Pressing gently, he feels is no lingering pain. Just like before, he healed without a trace. "Can I just not die now?"

"More like you can't stay dead," Tucker says.

"Tucker!" Sam hisses.

"What? It's true! Sorry that I'm not handling seeing my friend die twice very well!"

"Be quiet!"

Danny cuts in before they can devolve into shouting. "Let's just leave it at two, okay?"

Sam and Tucker share a glance over Danny's prone form and nod. The weight of that action is lost on Danny, whose only thought is that he wants to sleep for a very long time.

—

The knives don't kill him. They hurt like hell, but they don't kill him. He sees them flying toward him and leaps out of the way. Something strikes him in the gut, a solid punch that blows the air from his lungs and knocks him back into the walls. He thinks one of the frozen steaks got him, but when he looks down, he sees the handle of a kitchen knife sticking out of his stomach.

He stares at it, stunned, not feeling anything at first. Then, his body jolts, like a shock of electricity is running through him, and his nerves scream, heat building, until every little twitch sends a jolt of pain so deep coursing through him that he can hardly breathe.

"Danny, look out!" Tucker, or Sam, he can't tell which, so lost in his pain, cry out a warning. Danny doesn't move in time and two more knives bury themselves in his body, another in his stomach, and the other through his chest. The Lunch Lady cackles with glee as Danny gurgles. The last knife got his lung, and he can feel it slowly filling.

The pound of Sam's boots on the tiles reaches his ears. She shouts something, but he doesn't hear it. Trembling, Danny grips the handle of the knife in his lungs. In first-aid, they tell you to leave whatever object stabbing you in. It keeps the wound plugged, stops you from bleeding out. But Danny's instincts cry out against everything he was ever taught.

Take them out! Take them out!

He braces himself, then yanks. It hurts so much worse coming out, now that he's aware of the pain, the sharp edge searing as it rips the wound wider. He drops the knife and goes for the next one. All three fall to the floor beside him with a clatter, their blades shiny and red. Danny can't breathe, can barely think through the pain. He presses a hand against his chest, feeling the wound beneath his shirt.

It stitches itself together beneath his fingers. The searing pain retreats, replaced by a dull ache. By the time Sam reaches him and rips his shirt open to see his wound, his chest is healed.

"Technically, I didn't die," Danny croaks.

Sam sobs, covering her mouth with her hand. There's relief in her eyes, beneath the horror, and she makes a noise that might be a laugh, choked and garbled as it is.

Danny dives back into the fight with renewed vigour. Twenty minutes and one Fenton Thermos later, the ghost is gone, but not before half the student body saw some bloody idiot fighting it bare-handed.

"Did you see who it was?" Dash whispers to his friends.

Danny, clean of blood and wearing his gym t-shirt, slumps against the wall nearby, listening. Someone called the police when meat started flying through the hallways, and they apparently called Danny's parents. Ghosts are real and everyone knows it now, but Danny doesn't care about that at the moment.

"No, man. I wasn't close enough," Kwan answers Dash.

"Whoever that was, he totally just saved us all," Paulina says. She clasps her hands together and leans against Star. "He's such a hero."

Hero. The word resonates with Danny. He can't explain it, but it pulls at him. A hero. The school is in chaos, the yard covered in raw meat, the hallways hacked and slashed, but everyone is safe and unharmed thanks to Danny.

"More like a dumbass," Sam mutters from Danny's left.

"Semantics," Tucker says.

Between them, Danny only grins.

—

Jack paces in front of the portal, a tub of fudge cradled in the crook of his arm. Every few steps, he grabs a square and pops it in his mouth, chewing furiously. Between bites, he mutters.

"I'm telling you, Mads. He must have been some kind of ghost," he says.

"I don't know, Jack." Maddie, staring at the computer screen, tilts her head. They managed to grab a few stills from the school's security footage of the figure who fought off the ghost, but they didn't come out right. The surroundings are a little grainy, but no more than a standard security camera, so they know there's nothing wrong with the film itself. The ghost, who called herself the Lunch Lady if Maddie remembers correctly, is little more than a green haze in the image. They expected this. Ghosts don't interact with most technology well, not unless it is designed to interact with them.

But the smaller figure is distorted, a twisted shadow obscuring their form. Not ghostly, but not human either.

She clicks to the next image, getting the same results.

"Are you saying it's a human?" Jack asks without breaking stride.

"It's humanoid, but I don't think it's human, either. Yet it bled, so it's not a ghost. And look at this." She closes the files, revealing a folder full of pictures, all of them taken over the past couple of weeks as ghost sightings increased. "They show up at most fights and leave lots of bodily fluids behind." Jiggling the mouse, she circles a series of four images with the courser, all pictures of significant blood splatters. "But the samples..."

As one, she and Jack turn to the sample tray sitting on the far counter. Where the blood is deep red in the pictures, the samples they took have slowly turned to a dark, murky brown, like thick mud. The oldest sample from the first sighting is black.

Jack grabs a handful of fudge and shoves it in his mouth. "Not to mention," he speaks around the chewy squares, "what does it do with the ghosts?"

The lab door squeaks as it opens. Maddie and Jack fall silent, gazes turning toward the stairs. A pair of red sneakers appears on the top step, creeping down, until the wearer slowly reveals themself. Their son, Danny, with what looks like a thermos clutched in his hand.

"Sweetie, are you only just getting home?" Maddie asks.

Danny yelps in surprise. He jerks the thermos behind his back and swivels to face his parents, freezing on the step. "Oh, hey. I didn't think you guys would be here..."

Maddie narrows her eyes. "What did you do, young man? You were supposed to be home from school an hour ago."

"Nothing! I just got held up." Danny tugs the collar of his jacket.

That's odd. Maddie doesn't remember him leaving with a jacket this morning. The sleeves drape over his hands, down to his knuckles, and he has the collar turned up to cover his neck. It must be cold outside, even though September is only just ending. "What held you up?"

"Uh, that's kind of why I thought you guys wouldn't be here? There was another ghost fight. It got pretty bad." He shifts, pressing his arm against his side. Is his jacket darker there, against his ribs?

"Another ghost?" Jack exclaims. He slaps the fudge down on the closest surface, rattling the test tube samples. "Mads, we gotta go! There might still be some evidence!"

Maddie's eyes widen. "Oh, shoot. You're right! We need fresh samples." They race to grab their equipment, snatching up sample gathering packs from their desks, and charge up the stairs.

Danny presses himself against the wall, offering them a nervous smile as they go. "Stay safe!" he calls. The front door slams as Maddie and Jack make their exit, leaving the house in silence. Still, Danny doesn't relax until he hears the rev of the Fenton RV and the familiar squeal of its tires against the pavement. His shoulders slump and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"That was close." Taking his hand out from behind his back, he looks down at the Fenton Thermos. "Now let's get you taken care of."

As he empties the thermos back into the Ghost Zone, his gaze wanders to the computer screen, still open to the photo evidence. Danny reads the title of the folder. "Challenger?" He snorts. "That's lame." As he skims the photos, a couple jump out at him. In most, he can barely make out the shape of his own body—something he tries not to think about—but in one or two, he can recognize the colours of his clothes beneath the distorting shadow.

Danny slaps the cap back onto the empty thermos before moving closer to the computer, frowning at the screen. "That might be a problem."

—

Danny stands in front of his friends, fists resting on his hips, and shows off his new look. "Well? What do you think?"

Tucker looks him up and down, body shaking as he suppresses his laughter. "Is that a paper superhero mask? Did you spray paint your hair white?"

Danny's hands rise to his head. "It's a spray-on dye! I thought it was cool!"

"Ten bucks says it's super crispy."

"Don't be mean," Sam admonishes Tucker. "I think he looks pretty good. For a discount Jack Frost."

Tucker snaps his fingers. "Emo Jack Frost! The real one would never wear this much black."

"We are no longer friends," Danny says, turning away from them.

"Come on, don’t be a spoilsport."

"Nope, too late. I'm already dead to you."

Sam and Tucker share a confused glance. "Don't you mean we're dead to—" Before Sam can finish the sentence, Danny turns and throws himself out his bedroom window. "Danny!" They scramble after him, falling against the sill as they lean outside, peering down to the alley below.

Danny lies face-first on the pavement.

"Are you dead?" Tucker asks.

Danny raises his arm and gives them a thumbs up.

—

Valerie holds back a startled shout when the metal suit crashes onto the sidewalk next to her. She is not scared, but anyone would be surprised if two tons of metal suddenly fell from the sky. A scream, rapidly increasing in volume, drawings her gaze upwards just in time for a black-clad figure to plummet inches from her nose and land with a sharp crack on top of the suit.

This time Valerie cries out because holy shit, is he dead? Her panic sputters out when she peeks at the possible corpse and gets a good look at exactly who, or what, came falling after. A human figure dressed in all black with poorly coloured hair. It looks crispy as hell.

Valerie sneers. What kind of cheap dye did they use?

She recognizes the Challenger on sight. By now, more than half of Amity Park can, although Valerie can't account for the sudden style change. Maybe they realized how lame their regular t-shirt and jeans are and decided to switch things up. This isn't much better, though. Black hoodie, black pants, black boots, no style.

No one knows their name, but the moniker the Fentons gave them seems to have stuck. Valerie thinks it's a little on the nose, though.

Something wriggles in the corner of her eye and she looks to the Challenger's fist. It clutches a bright green blob, with stubby limbs and a wide mouth.

"Let go of me!" The blob beats its penny-sized fists against the Challenger's thumb. "You are my prey!"

The Challenger groans. "Can you shut up for a second? I think my neck broke." They squeeze the blob until it squeaks.

"Hey. Watch where you're throwing this stuff around." Valerie kicks the arm of the metal suit. "You nearly crushed me!"

The Challenger jolts. Their head whips up, accompanied by a loud crack, and they lurch to their feet. A mask covers their eyes—cheap like the hair dye, probably from a costume stored—but judging by the way their eyebrows shoot up, they look at Valerie with wide eyes.

"Uh, hey, Va—citizen." Their voice drops a solid octave. "Sorry about that! I'll watch out next time." They are about to say something else when a loud squeal interrupts up, the signature sound of the Fentons' approach. The Challenger pales. "Sorry, gotta go!"

They dash into the nearest alley before Valerie can get another word in, leaving her with the empty metal husk and the sound of the Fentons from two streets away. She gapes after them, unsure what to make of the brief exchange.

"Actually, wait a second." The Challenger pops back around the corner, leaping over the ghost's suit to reach Valerie. They grab her shoulders in a cold grip. "Are people really using that dumb name for me?"

At a loss for words, Valerie nods.

"Ugh." The Challenger groans and lets her go in favour of rubbing a hand down their face. "Stop that. It's so boring. Just call me... Phantom. Okay? See ya!" They spin away, too fast, and trip over the metal suit.

Wow, Valerie thinks as Phantom scrambles around the corner once more. We have the lamest superhero ever.

[taechaos]

i got a fluff drabble idea for you!!

Jungkook and the oc were sleeping together, and jk had a nightmare of oc leaving him. When he wakes up(at around 3 a.m.), he doesnt see the oc beside him, he starts thinking that she actually left him because of his toxic behavior. While the oc was actually in a different room/kitchen/balcony for a reason. And when she comes back, she sees jjk panicked/shocked/crying. The oc comforting and babying jk, and jk too being a baby and complaining how she shouldnt have left him alone.

-from 🍠anon

angst and fluff 😎 tw: panic attack

Jungkook weaves his fingers through your hair that falls over his chest where you head lays, your breath hot on his exposed skin while you try to sleep to the comfort of his scent. There's an issue, one that makes him uncomfortable to discuss with his girlfriend, but discussing it is mandatory.

"Have you been busy?" he whispers into the darkness of his dorm room where another mattress sits empty without the presence of his roommate. Seokjin's night-out gave him the opportunity to dress you in one of his shirts as a pajama top, and your leg is bare over his thighs. If he didn't have something on his mind, he wouldn't bother striking up this conversation.

"Hm? No, why?" you murmur and start drawing patterns on his ribs.

He swallows hard, almost reserved in his approach. "Then why are my grades so shitty lately?" That came out harsher than intended, and he grimaces when you freeze along with your fingers. He knows he can't treat you the way he used to due to change in circumstances, but his ass is on the line.

"They are? What are your grades?"

"B-," he grumbles.

"That's shitty?" you sit up with a deep frown. "Jungkook, I've been preparing for my finals while making the time to do all your formative assignments. They barely take up your final grade, B- isn't shitty in the least."

"I appreciate it," he forces out through a tiny snarl, "but if you're going to do something, do it well."

You scoff, offended by his lack of gratitude and hurt by his demeaning attitude.

"I'm only telling you this because if you can't do it, I'll ask someone else. It's not that hard." His tone indirectly implies you're overreacting to such a minor topic.

"Might I remind you that I don't even major in law," you purse your lips into a thin line to swallow the lump in your throat, "nor do I attend your lectures, and I still get you semi-good grades. You can't find someone else who'll do better than me, let alone without your money."

He licks his lips and applies pressure on the back of your head to lay you back down on him. You're hesitant, but stay put anyway with a prominent pout on your face. He gently pets you as he softly says, "Don't be so sensitive. I needed to tell you so you can improve. I need to be successful for the better of our future, baby. I'm telling you because I love you."

You mumble incoherently, and he assumes you said it back. A few minutes later, he hears your soft snores and eventually drifts off with the worry of his career in the back of his mind.

And it feels like he only slept for a minute when he wakes up. Waking up is an understatement, for he shot up in his bed with a silent gasp while the sun is still down. He's almost breathless with the way he pants before sighing, realizing this is reality, not what he saw through closed lids.

It wasn't a prank this time. You really broke up with him after graduation, telling him that he'd find someone else to kiss in his workplace for them to write his reports because you wouldn't be there. He promised loyalty, but he didn't show it because you thought he dated you for selfish reasons without the inclusion of love. That's stupid because he remembers telling you he loved you before falling asleep. He knows he meant it, so why didn't you believe it?

He wants to show and not tell, make you feel loved by the hug of his arms, but there is no you to love.

You aren't there.

He touches the spot you previously occupied, and the warmth of your body is slowly fading. Maybe it's an extra early morning lecture, he thinks before checking the time. There is no lecture he knows of that starts at 3 AM. His heart starts to race.

No need to panic. You'll be here any minute now. He waits and waits, and the seconds feel like minutes, the minutes feel like hours, and it's not long before his heart hurts from the rapid pace of his pulse. You're not here.

Trying to control his breathing proves to be difficult, almost like being aware of your blinking and you forget how natural it is for you to do it every three seconds. He shoves the blanket on his lap to the side and stands up to pace his room. He can't take his eyes off the ceiling, otherwise he can't hold the tears at bay. No reason to panic, no reason to cry, no reason to feel so suffocated.

But they well up to the point that they start streaming down his face regardless of what he does, and now there's nothing that isn't out of his control, similar to your midnight disappearance. His breaths are shallow, and his guts twist uncomfortably, just like the discomfort in his lungs. Everything hurts.

"I was too harsh on her," he says in a broken whimper and tugs on his hair. "Shitty grades? You can't even stay awake in class."

He sounds so pathetic in his ears, practically gasping his words out, but his thoughts are so scrambled that he can only voice them to get some sort of relief. It doesn't help, not when he's not in a position to do anything. He can't even smoke due to the fire alarm.

He falls on the floor to crawl to the bed so he can lay his back on the footboard, hands relentless with their pulling on his hair. He leans his forehead on his bent knees and convinces himself that he's been the one overreacting all along, like he is now; not the other way around.

"You could've said something before leaving, you bitch," he hiccups in utter misery. There's no other way he can comfort himself other than to blame you. "A-And I'm the harsh one? You're worse."

"Jungkook?"

He doesn't look up at you, shaking his head with his eyes shut tightly. You rush to his side and he flinches at the contact before aggressively snuggling into you. A patch forms on the center of your shirt from the result of his tear stains.

You're shaken and in shock. You left to the communal bathroom, and since it's strictly for males, you had to wait inside until a dialogue down the hall died down so you don't get reported. Not to add your attire isn't exactly public friendly.

You rub his back soothingly with another hand scratching his scalp. You're aware that Jungkook is more prone to panic attacks than you are, which was a strange discovery considering his tough exterior, and you feel bad for being the cause more than once. Leaving him alone at night after an argument is apparently enough for him to break down, and you feel guilty for taking his attachment lightly.

When his cries start to cease little by little, he hoarsely scolds you as expected. "You shouldn't have left," he rasps and sniffles, "was a punishment really necessary? W-We can talk things out like adults, you know."

"I was in the bathroom," you quietly reassure with a peck on his nose. He scrunches it in response. "You're so paranoid."

"E-Excuse me for misunderstanding why you left while you were still angry at me. I had a dream where you more or less did the same fucking thing."

You coo at him when he shyly looks to the side with knitted brows. You gaze at his tinted nose and flushed cheeks that are still wet from his crying before tucking a hair strand behind his ear. "I would never up and leave like that–"

"But you did!"

"–because of a minor disagreement. I went to pee and had to wait out some bystanders. And I wasn't angry at you," you giggle.

He puckers his lips, still tense and upset. "But you were hurt."

"Just a tad bit," you hold an invisible pencil between your fingertips just to show how much.

He blows out a deep breath and wipes his face. Taking the hand you held up, he kisses your knuckles. "I'm sorry. I can't even get those grades on my own and you still manage to do better than I ever could with so many other courses you take."

You ruffle his disheveled hair and he wears a distasteful expression. "I know. You're cunning and clever, but you're extremely lazy."

"Rude," he huffs. His red eyes droop lazily and his gaze turns downcast. "I was being paranoid about you and my academics. Stupid, rather," he sighs. Before you can deny it, he stands up and pulls you along to get back in bed.

He forces you to lie down on him completely, overtaking your whole body as he wraps his arms around you. You get comfortable on his firm torso and tangle your legs with his.

"What do you have to say to me?" he grunts.

"What do you mean?"

"Three magical words, but preferably more explicit."

You laugh breathlessly and peck his collarbone. "I love you so much, I would kill and die for you," you play along to his innocent request, "I want to be with you until the world caves in. What else..."

"Don't stop until I fall asleep. Keep going."

You confess your undying love for him until his snores fill the air, prompting you to drift off alongside.

[withoneheadlight]

oh man that one with billy convincing steve to skip work has got me thinking trophy husband billy

Oh, anon! 💗💗💗💗adkahdshdhdkhkhdYESSS. I LOVE this idea!

And I’m SURE he would be the happiest trophy husband. And also the kind that's showy. Has so much fun going over the top with it, being gossip material. All cliché-y, and Diva-like. Basically confirming what everyone thinks about him (about them) precisely because it’s the diametrically opposed to what it really is.

Doing things like:

Mowing the lawn in mini-mini-shorts. Working on his tan on their lovely backyard on the sunny Sunday Summer mornings (in that exact spot where –coincidentally– Mr. Walker, their blatantly homophobic next door neighbor, would have to get out of his own backyard with his eyes closed not to see). Being reaaaally polite with everyone around (Mr. Walker included), smiling and waving his hand like “Hiiii, Janice! How did that new face treatment go?” because they live in a Nice Place now, six years after Robert Harrington made Steve climb his way up the company ladder right from the bottom “Exactly like everyone else”, both as a punishment and a trial; after working their asses out of their shitty one-bedroom apartment, having to prove themselves in every single step (as Steve and Billy, but also as SteveandBilly), but,

Here they are.

And now Steve has a very good job, one he’s genuinely good at, one that pays for much more than hardly the bills and maybe having dinner out from time to time. And they’re happy and they are together and they fucking made it, despite barely anyone around them given two shits. Now, Steve slicks his wild hair back from Monday to Friday, wears the nicest suits, so fitting and sexy and oh so preppy Billy sometimes gets a hard-on just from seeing them all together in the dressing room, hanging in a perfectly tidy line, made of the same material of sins.

So. 

He just doesn’t see the point in not treating himself every once in a while.  Make Steve run late for work or not getting there at all. In no letting himself enjoy the way those tailored beauties emphasize the shape of Steve’s glorious ass. Enjoy the certainty that in a big, stylish, impeccably neat office downtown, Steve’s dad is rolling his eyes all the way back into their sockets.

And also.

In not letting himself revel in the exhilarating feeling of sliding full into this ‘hot-mess trophy hubby’ persona almost everyone around them assumes he is. Steve’s Harrington boy-toy. “That California scum. Must be real good at sucking dick to get a deal like that.” Make the rumors roll down the small streets of Hawkins and under the door of his own father’s house. Thrive in the knowledge that every time Neil Hargrove hears any or those rumors or gets even the tiiiniest glimpse of them two together, going out and about holding hands,  feels like he’s about to puke his guts out thinking about what his son has ‘become’.

And aside from that, he kind of––enjoys, this trophy husband thing, to be honest. It’s been ten years since they got together now. Billy likes to keep things spiced-up. So when Steve is promoted and they move to be close to the new office, along with the house Billy buys a pair of powder pink slippers, fluffy ball of floating fur on top, and a see-through, fur-riveted robe to match. Some days he goes to his morning cockteling&tanning session in the backyard wearing only that (“Heeeey! How ya doin’ Mr. Walker?”). Kisses Steve goodbye long and filthy at the door, where everyone can see, opening the robe wide to wrap it around them both together, pressing their bodies flush, biting at his ear and whispering “Bring me a diamond when you come back, honey bunny” making Steve snort but say "You deserve a million of them, babe" making Billy melt, feel a bit like he's dripping love out of all the pores of his body, making a puddle that will permanently stain the glamorous white marble of the entryway as he waves Steve goodbye, scratches with feign indifference at the trail of fair hairs coming out his flashy-green pants to counteract the way Steve's killer smile makes him blush as hard as the first time, a whole decade away, that cold November night when he grabbed Billy by the collar of his T-shirt and said "I'm gonna kiss you. And then you're gonna punch me. And I don't care.”

It’s like a fucking fairytale. The way things were going? The most Billy expected out of life was live if fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse behind. But now, he’s got the guy of his dreams. He’s got a life he could have never dreamed of. He’s got Steve, now. Steve, who’s good, is caring. Always fights him back. Doesn’t buy any of the shit he tries to pull off. Steve, who's got lips like that moment the earth forgets about gravity when you’re riding down the hill of a rollercoaster. Got eyes that can rip out of you promises you never thought you'd make (like: I do and forever and not even death). That always see Billy when they look at him.

And now, he gets to wake up every morning before he does, put the Moka pot on the stove. Gets to see Steve’s sleepy face right after rolling out of bed, hair still untamed, pouty lips, bare feet dragging over the floor. See the way he beams, smile wide and devastatingly sweet when Billy tells him “I made you coffee, babe”. Gets Steve kissing him like a daydream, laying him over the kitchen table, fucking him before even touching breakfast with his fancy pink robe on.

And Billy thought he would have to change. Give something, to have something. Didn’t really mind. Too lucky to complain. Thought he would have to stop being mean once they got married. Play the tamed part. Thought he was going to have to behave to fit into the rich and respectable life they had landed at. But. No-No. Rich people? They’re way meaner than regular people, turns out. Billy’s just been upgraded to play for the Asshole’s World Championship Cup.

And he’s always been good at sports.

So he goes to the hair salon the afternoon before any important event. Gets a facial. Does his nails. Buys new clothes. Gets all Pretty Woman on himself just so Steve can show him off. And oh. OH. OHHH. Steve does show him off. To his dad. His mom. The whole party. Doesn’t give a fuck about whatever people keeps on whispering behind their backs. Offers his arm to Billy and Billy clings to him, keeps his chin up. He’s never been as afraid of anything as much as Steve not loving him back. He’s fearless now. Because here they are. So he lets Steve walk him through the crowd as the King he was born like. Brilliant. Proud. Letting Billy to deal with the vultures if he fancies to do that.

“Awwww. But look at you!! Anyone can tell you two are soooo in love!”

Fake boobs. Fake Louboutins. Fake Smile. Billy is Queen Bee now. He’s got this.

“Oh, no Miss Treadaway. I dearly appreciate you noticing how good my acting skills are. But it’s exactly as you said to Miss Walton the other day. I only married Stevie here because he’s got a big dick and it’s loaded. And he only married me because of how good I look on all fours. You’re too perceptive to hide it!”

But with Steve’s parents? With Steve’s parents Billy is relentlessly n i c e.  When Robert Harrington won’t even look at him. When Crystal Harrington blows saccharine all over him like in a bad magic trick, deceivingly sweet when she says, “Well William. Maybe it's time you get a real job too now our Steven is running his own branch" cold war buzzing between them when Billy spreads his most honest, open smile, not a millimeter of animadversion showing “But I already have a real job, Crystal. I take care of your son. And there’s also, you know, that side thing I do of running Garage” making her fingers clutch hard around her cup of fine champagne, making Steve’s lips fight to repress a grin, eyes fond, and soft and in love. And Billy will do whatever it takes, endure whatever he has to, if what he gets in return is this:  the way the narrow space keeping them apart feels like inevitability when they're about to kiss.

And everyone thought he was going after the money, when they married. Most still do. But Billy never actually asked for diamonds. Well, not for real. But he gets one anyway. Tenth anniversary and counting. It shines unreal on his finger, as much as this life he has now, as the liquid shine of Steve’s eyes when he says “They come from fire, just like you. I always thought they would fit so well. And looks like I was right” and just a few years before, Billy would have said “This is too much, I can’t take it” too afraid Steve would get the wrong impression too, too afraid to not be up to him. But now, he understands, that this is just another way Steve is trying to take care of him, to show him love. So now, Billy lets Steve spoil him as much as he wants. Take him out for dinner without reason. Hand him a sealed envelope saying, “What about showing me that ocean you love so much?” Kissing him in front of everyone, all the time, ringed fingers intertwined.

Lets him buy them a California King just to make a stupid joke, get Billy Hargrove to blush.

“We can ditch all of this, if you’re not happy. You know that, right? I don’t care about anything else as long as it’s you and I”

Billy shakes his head. “I am happy, pretty boy. Happier than I ever thought I could be” Tickles Steve’s nose with the fluffy, pink fuzz all around his robe until he sneezes and chuckles. “But I wanna know,” he says, tone pouty and tragic “It is true, what everybody says? Am I really a trophy husband?”

Steve shuffles closer, rumbles low in his throat. It’s an early Sunday morning. They’re gonna spend all time left until breakfast fucking in bed. Then cockteling&tanning together ‘till lunch. And then, after, he’s sure he can convince Steve to put on one of those gorgeous suits, let Billy grind against the soft fabric, make a mess out of him. Make him beg and squirm. Pull down his fly real slow, down on his knees. Suck him off. Eat him out. Make him moan I love yous brighter than diamonds when Billy gets inside him. But right now, Steve just kisses him silly, lowers down the covers to take a look down, at his leopard print, see-through, hideous new briefs. The cheapest ones he could find.

Because Billy’s trash. Will always be trash.

“Oh yeah, babe. You are. A fucking trophy. The best anyone could have”

But he’s posh trash now.

💎

The original post (xxxx) xD 💍

[hecatescrystaldagger]

𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓽𝔀𝓸

Wilhemina Venable x Reader

TW: abuse, brief mentions of drugs, descriptions of insanity, and descriptions of dead bodies.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇. Her dead body lays on the kitchen floor, cold, pale, and surrounded by the remnants of my destructive love. The dinner she’d so dutifully set out on the table is still left untouched even though the wine she’d carefully poured into my favourite glasses surrounded her corpse like a gut wrenching reminder of the blood that no longer circulates throughout her body. As I kneel beside the ruins of my picture perfect life; I question how and why I allowed my twisted love to stamp out the beautiful stars that glowed inside her eyes. She was like a beautiful sunflower, crushed to death in the harsh claws of a heartless and immoral monster. The stained kitchen tiles freeze against my legs further highlighting the emptiness of my soul. I loved her with every fibre of my being but it was never a true and pure love. I loved her like an addict loves drugs. I loved her because she was caring and pure. She was convenient and reliable, always there to worship me and bare the brunt of my foul moods.

𝐼𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝑒’𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓇.

I’d scrubbed the floor with bleach to remove the wine stains and brushed the glass shards into the bin. The plates full of food were still abandoned on the table in favour of moving her body. She was stiff and difficult to move throughout my house but I managed to get her to the basement. I stand in the bathroom trying desperately to scrub the wine off my hands. The stains it left leer at me like crimson blood and the air reeks so strongly that I can taste the iron. There was no blood but even still it hangs in the air and suffocates me.

She wasn’t supposed to die!

She wasn’t allowed to escape me! My fury boils over and the world stains itself scarlet. I glare into the mirror as I question how I could have lost my carefully crafted control and it’s like the air leaves the room. Everything is freezing and I feel phantom hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing with all their might until I’m blue in the face and wheezing. She’s there in the mirror; her eyes piercing my own as I feel the pressure on my throat release.

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝒶 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝓇. I can’t take my eyes off of where her ghost stood. She’s gone now, but I can still hear a faint rattling wheeze echoing around my pristine and expensive bathroom. My hands grip the edge of the sink; white-knuckled and and a heavy reminder of the way they’d gripped her throat and forced the life out of her not even two hours earlier. The wheeze is louder now. It bounces around inside my soul and I feel cold and lifeless fingers hold my shoulders in a bruising grip. Her perfume creeps around the back of my skull and into my nose and throat. Her hair tickles the tops of my shoulders where I discarded my shirt and blazer during my earlier cleaning. As the panic and fury rises inside me, I hear her voice carefully whispering into my ear. “You’ll never escape me Wilhemina.” her once gentle voice growls. “How could you kill me!” a shrill voice whispers.

𝒯𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓉. She’s not real. She can’t be real. I killed her. I choked the life out of her in my own kitchen. How could I have murdered her? I spent so long breaking her down, training her to take my abuse, training her to be silent and subservient, and training her to worship me and look after me like my own personal slave. Her corpse lays cold and stiff on the old oak table in my basement but even still it feels like she’s still alive and walking around my house. I slide carefully down against the side of the bathroom cabinet until I’m sat on the floor. The whispers of her voice, begging me to tell her why I’d killed her and that I’ll never get rid of her, fill my ears. It’s so loud. The wheeze is now a hollow moaning as her ghostly form stands in the doorway. Her face is an icy shade of blue and a ring of purple bruises litter her neck. I can see my fingers in the stains around her neck. I’ll never escape her.

[yes-or-no]

Andrew Almost Stabs Nicky for the Thousandth Time - Part 2

(tw torture, child abuse, sexual abuse mention, suicide mention, knife and blood/injury mention)

Part 1

* * *

Neil turned his head as the door clicked open and Aaron walked in, his face flushed and a ghost of a smile on his lips. He’d been with Katelyn, no doubt. The smile disappeared the instant he saw Kevin’s face and worry filled his eyes when he followed Kevin’s gaze to the floor, where Neil was crouching in front of Nicky, tending to his neck.

“What the fuck happened?” he asked. “Neil what did you—“

“Shut up Aaron, I didn’t touch him,” Neil said before Aaron could accuse him of something. Neil turned back to Nicky. He had a smile on his face, but Neil could see past it. There was sill fear in his eyes, and his hands were still trembling.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Aaron pointed out, gesturing to the cotton pad Neil was using to clean Nicky’s cut. Neil ignored Aaron and looked at Nicky.

“Hey, Nicky,” he said, trying to get his attention from whatever world Nicky was in right now. He looked at Neil. “I’ll talk to him, okay?” Nicky shook his head.

“No, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have—“

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Neil cut in. “You shouldn’t have touched him. But Andrew can’t shove a knife against your throat every time you do something stupid. You’d be up against that wall all the time if he could,” Neil said, trying to get some sort of reaction from Nicky. It worked, and Nicky huffed a laugh. He was still shaken, but he’d relaxed slightly. “Are you going to be okay if I...” Neil trailed off, gesturing to the door. Nicky nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Go kick his ass for me,” he joked. Neil hadn’t seen Kevin move into the kitchen but when he came back he had a tub of ice cream and a spoon in his hands. He walked over to Nicky.

“What?” Nicky gasped. “No vegetables?” Kevin glared but shoved the tub of ice cream to him. Neil stood and turned to Aaron. He threw the bottle of disinfectant to him as he made his way toward the door.

“You do it properly, then, Doctor,” Neil said, finally answering Aaron’s comment from before. Aaron only levelled a sneer his way and walked over to Nicky.

* * *

Andrew was sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling off the side of the building and a cigarette burning between his fingers. He didn’t turn at the sound of the door clicking open. Neil cleared his throat in case Andrew hadn’t heard and approached slowly. Andrew didn’t pass Neil a cigarette like he usually might’ve, but he didn’t object when Neil grabbed the packet next to him, took one out and lit it. Neil sat where the packet had been, keeping his distance from Andrew and letting his own legs hang in the cool afternoon air. Andrew let the smoke escape his mouth. Neil took note of the tremble in Andrew’s fingers. He thought back to his first trip to Columbia with the monsters, when he’d first witnessed Andrew going trough withdrawal from his medication. It had been the first time Neil had seen Andrew looking weak. Andrew flicked a rock off the ledge and watched it fall.

“It’d be easy, wouldn’t it? Tragic, too. Perfect end for a traumatised Fox like me, no?” Andrew pulled one knee up to his chest and puffed on his cigarette. Neil breathed in the smoke of his own cigarette and tried not to imagine watching another person he loved die. He’d seen enough of that already.

“If you wanted to die, you’d have done it already,” Neil shrugged, looking out over the campus. “So there has to be something you want to live for.” A moment of comfortable silence fell between them like a blanket over the troubles of the day. Andrew’s next words were quiet, like he didn’t quite want to say them.

“You,” he said. Neil snapped his head to Andrew. He hadn’t been expecting that bit of honesty. “And Aaron, and Kevin and even fucking Nicky,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. Neil did the same and shifted closer to Andrew, but still kept his distance.

“Why?” he asked. Andrew knew what he meant. Why’d you react so badly?

“He touched me without my permission,” Andrew said. That was enough, Neil understood. But he’d seen the way Andrew’s eyes had shifted at Nicky’s words. He knew there was more to it than that.

“When my dad found out I was ticklish,” Neil started, and it got Andrew’s attention, “he had—he had Lola run knives all over my body. Any time I flinched, or squirmed or laughed, the knives would cut me, just slightly. Every day until I could keep still with a straight face. It took three weeks,” Neil finished. Andrew’s eyes raked Neil’s torso like he could see the scars underneath. He nodded. Andrew knew what Neil was asking. I gave you something, now you give me something. Andrew knew, just like Neil did, that he didn’t have to return the favour. That if he decided he didn’t want to talk about it, Neil wouldn’t push. But Andrew watched his trembling hands for a moment and looked back at Neil.

“Drake found out I was ticklish,” he said simply. Neil felt the words like a blow to the gut, even if he’d been expecting just as much. He nodded. Andrew turned and laid along the concrete ledge, one of his legs still hanging. Neil lit his cigarette again, breathing in the acrid smell of the smoke.

“Nicky’s pretty shaken,” Neil said. Andrew blindly threw another rock off the edge and Neil watched it miss a student on the ground by a few inches.

“I warned him.”

“You can’t keep putting a knife to Nicky’s throat when he does something dumb.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Junkie.”

“I can’t.”

“What?” Andrew sat up, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and staring at Neil.

“I don’t know how many times you’ve told me I can’t put a leash on you. I don’t want to,” Neil said. Andrew raised his eyebrows. “I can’t tell you what to do and I don’t want to tell you what to do.” Neil thought back to the day Andrew had put Neil’s hand on his chest. I won’t be like them, Neil had said. I won’t let you let me be. Neil knew Andrew was thinking it too. “He needs to know something, even the smallest amount, or one day, Nicky’s gonna grow a spine and he’s going to walk away.”

“That’ll be his choice, then,” Andrew said.

“And you’ll let someone that’s supposedly one of your reasons to live go just like that?”

“One down, three to go,” Andrew said, locking eyes with Neil. He’d been holding four fingers up but now there were only three.

“No,” Neil said. Andrew blinked. “You’re not getting rid of me, Drew.” Neil stood and walked closer to Andrew, but stayed out of arm’s reach. “I’ve been running my whole life. I’m tired of it. I’m not running anymore. Not from you.” Neil waited for Andrew to say something, and after a while he started to think that maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Neil wasn’t very good at doing that, though. Finally, Andrew stood, leaving only inches between him and Neil.

“What would you have me say to Nicky?” Andrew asked, like he didn’t really care for the answer.

“I- you don’t need to tell him why. Not really, anyway. I think just be real with him, Drew. Sit him down and tell him that he needs to respect your boundaries and you don’t want him to touch you unless he specifically asks.”

“I’ve told him,” Andrew responded dryly.

“With a knife to his throat.”

“That should get the message across clearly enough, I think.”

“Andrew,” Neil said because he knew not to say please. That seemed to get Neil’s message across clearly enough, because Andrew took the cigarette—almost burnt down to the butt—from Neil’s hand and let it drop to the ground.

“What are you tired of running from?” Andrew asked. There was a glint of something in Andrew’s eyes then. He wasn’t used to asking for help, but Neil thought this was something close to that. Andrew was admitting something—that he needed Neil.

“Reality,” Neil said. “I’m not used to being a real person. You proved to me that I could be. With you.” Andrew looked away, like the statement was too heavy to bare right now.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asked. Neil furrowed his brow, confused.

“Yes,” he said anyway. Andrew nodded.

“I don’t want to be touched right now,” Andrew said. It was Neil’s turn to nod this time, and as he did so, he shoved his hands in his pockets. Andrew took his own hands out of his hoodie and placed one on Neil’s chest, using it like a spacer between them as he leant and kissed Neil.

Andrew tasted like smoke and vanilla and Neil had to clench his hands into fists in his pocket to stop himself from reaching for Andrew, from pulling him closer and kissing him deeper. When Andrew finally broke away, he handed Neil his lighter and the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“I’ll talk to Nicky,” he said. Neil nodded. As Andrew made his way to the door that would lead him downstairs, he glanced back at Neil.

“Don’t run away, Rabbit.” Neil only sent him a two fingered salute in return.

[fallingoverharrypotter]

Torn a New One

This is based on the @drarrymicrofic​ prompt for pretend, and got very long. Heres the ao3 link :).

The shirt is supposed to make Harry look like that one Bratz doll meme; you know the one. 

Thanks for reading <3 <3

Harry is a stoic man. That’s what Hermione calls him.

He’s sitting on Ron’s plush carpeted floors in his shiny new flat. Ron himself is passed out on a couch that costs more galleons than a year of Hermione’s tuition, with Hermione herself teetering on the edge of both her couch and hers and Ron’s refusal to bring up that they’re still fucking on the side of their tumultuous breakup. She brings up Harry’s problems to distract herself, and Harry tells her not to bother. Harry also tells her that she and Ron should just own up to their idiocy and sort their crap out sooner rather than later, and then Hermione yells loud enough to wake Ron with: Harry James Potter, you’re a complete and utter hypocrite. Ron does wake up when their voices raise like this, and then cordons Hermione off to the main bedroom leaving Harry to pretend that he’ll floo home, before the three of them end up eating cereal whilst sitting at/on Ron’s granite countertops the next morning.

All three look a right picture. Hermione is staunchly refusing to acknowledge that she’s wearing a t-shirt of Ron’s – old Canon’s merch that she’s absolutely swimming in. Harry, in solidarity, is also wearing one of Ron’s shirts without pants – the newest Wheezes rollout collection, classic stylized lettering (Ron’s got this beautiful flat because every single Witch and Wizard between the ages of 14 and 37 owns Wheezes now). And Ron himself is shirtless and in nothing but underwear.

They’ve seen more of each other than is completely normal over the last 15 years, but they’re still indulgent enough not to bring up any of the shit they refuse to talk about. They need a balancing force, Harry often thinks, someone who is outrightly honest and refuses the stupid little games that the golden trio fall into to avoid talking about their true feelings. That’s what Harry thinks inside his head, but his body ends up groaning and bending forward so his forehead smacks the countertops none too gently. His consciousness sounds more and more like someone he refuses to think about whenever he’s been drinking. Merlin save him.

“Oi,” Ron admonishes without looking up from his bowl. He’s leaning atop the counter on forearms and staring into his cereal, swirling the spoon around the stodgy mess and eating no longer.

Harry grunts first, and then says “gonna sick up, Ronnykins?” and gets glared at by Hermione who is onto her third bowl of cereal at this point. Right. Can’t joke about Lavender either, apparently. That fling definitely didn’t help the dynamic, Harry reminds himself.

“Jus’ don’t wan’ you bruising my bench with your fat head.”

Harry kicks out at Ron with his closest foot and makes contact, gets an immediate groan for his efforts, before Ron’s pulling up from his slouch and getting Harry into a pretty tight headlock. Harry resorts to elbowing Ron in the gut over and over. Ron groans and releases, making a mad dash for the fancy powder room into which he projectiles.

Hermione, for all she looks dazed and noncommittal this early into a hangover, manages to give off an air of created aloofness about the violent noises coming from down the hall. Harry smirks at her, and gets his own kick in response that makes him exclaim “ow, fuck. You two are so bloody violent.”

Before she responds, there’s a tapping at the window. Owl. Hermione stares at Harry to let him know that there’s no way she’s moving from her lounging for the bloody post, so Harry straightens up to open the window for the tawny. Efficient things these post owls are this morning; just drops the paper on the countertop near Harry’s bowl before flying right out the window without even waiting for a treat.

Harry’s shaking his head to brush away the last fuzz of the evening with the assistance of the scent of fresh air. Hermione gasps out loud. That makes Harry turn around quick enough for whiplash, and then he wishes fervently for death by sustained head trauma when the figure on the front of the paper, unfurled and sepia, winks right at him.

“Fuck,” Harry says. His gut churns, and then he’s running down the hall, past the occupied powder room to Ron’s master bath, and vomits up his guts.

 ***

Ron’s back in the kitchen by the time that Harry stumbles back in. Three strong cups of tea are quick-brewing under Hermione’s wand, even though both her and Ron’s attention is maintained by the Prophet’s front page. Because that is Draco Malfoy wearing a Wheezes “I shagged Harry Potter and all I got was this stupid shirt” collectable.

“It’s ironic!” Ron and George had insisted on its’ inception 4 years back. Only 100 had been made, a necessity: scarcity is key. They resell for a lot of money these days. Harry would rather die than see another in person. His face, a terrible photo of him caught by photographers during a pretty brutal night out, is plastered right on the middle along with stylized fireworks that go off every couple of minutes. He’d been convinced into making them, to try and control the narrative or whatever bullshit the Weasley’s had spouted just a couple of days beforehand when Harry had started stomping around the burrow or the floor of the joke shop or Hermione and Ron’s old shoebox apartment in anguish. It worked, he guesses, and he doesn’t see many of them anymore, as they’re kept in the strongest of imperturbable charms and modified protegos by anyone lucky enough to get one. But this one. This one he didn’t know about.

Hermione’s been muttering to herself as she read the accompanying story, when her voice perks up. “Merlin, listen to this: ‘this intrepid reporter asked what I’m certain all our readership will be most curious to uncover now that we are sitting down with the one and only Draco Malfoy. When we had sat down in Mr. Malfoy’s beautifully appointed drawing room, I too was especially shocked at his choice of attire,’” Hermione pauses here to roll her eyes and mutter “oh here we go,” before continuing in a higher and haughtier voice. “‘We all know the poise that Mr. Malfoy holds, one of Wizarding Britain’s most darling Stars, his performance in Wizarding Wireless serials having taken our world by storm the past 6 years. I must myself mention the serialisation of the modern take on the Wizarding classic story of Millicent Mimbletonia’s Marvelous Manor; captured this reporter’s heart, it did.’ What a load of absolute nonsense.”

“Oh, come on, Herm,” Ron says and knocks into her arm to get her to continue the story.

“Fine, but this is all absolute tripe. What was Draco thinking! Okay. Blah blah blah, you can’t believe how long this person goes on about Draco’s drawing room, blah. Okay here. ‘On questioning Mr. Malfoy’s choice to wear the now famously collectible Wheezes’ Harry Potter shirt, the gentleman seems to look slightly pensive.’

“‘‘Monsieur,’ our Star addresses me, ‘when you have been in the business of telling stories for as long as I, you start to have a great fondness for truth. I must now admit to you, and all of your lovely readers, that I bought this shirt on release and whilst under Polyjuice’. Now readers, you must bear with Mr. Malfoy here. Yours truly was very shocked-’ Good God, can this man obfuscate. Okay, then Draco says, ‘‘I’ve kept my ownership of such an item close to my chest, and away from my closest relationships. I have found over the years that true mutual affection, friendship, and love, have foundations built on beds of uncertainty and trust simultaneously, and thus I was afraid to expose myself.’ I but in here and ask what we must all be thinking at this admission: is he such a big fan of our Saviour that he is ashamed? But Mr. Malfoy continues: ‘No, monsieur. In all honesty, I am the man’s biggest critic.’’” Harry ducks his head, his hands shaking as he reaches for the now over-brewed tea.

Hermione looks up at Harry and Ron with wide eyes. Ron looks back at her wide eyed too, glancing small looks at Harry every now and again when he finds something particularly salacious, but he says nothing. Harry is hiding his trembling hands and trembling mouth behind a blisteringly hot cup of tea. She receives no objections, and continues. “‘‘I am livid that he’s been out of the public eye for so long regardless of his exceptional ability to bring about change in those around him; Potter has worked the same archival job in the Ministry for 5 years, with no end in sight, I fear. He refuses to allow those outside of his closest friends and family to know him in any sense, and I would argue that this is truly detrimental to his relationship with the Wizarding community. Although I disagree with the man on many things, I will be the first to say here and now that if any person deserves privacy, it is him. But the relationships we build with those we love-’’” and Harry snatches the paper out of Hermione’s hands.

“Harry,” Ron starts, reaching out a hand and grasping his upper arm. Hermione too has hopped down off the counter and is crowding Harry’s other side. He wants to shake them off, but he can’t. He can’t stop looking at the paper in his hands with Draco’s figure. Draco’s white blond head of hair turned beige on paper, his eyes sharp and flirty to readers, his hands restlessly gripping at his shirt. The shirt with Harry’s face.

Harry is a stoic man. Hermione tells him that exactly, Ron tells him that adjacently, and Draco. Draco has said the same thing in so many ways and at so many times that Harry has had it drilled into his head. His eyes are watering now, a little. And he can’t read much more of the article, but he doesn’t really need to. Because Draco will skate around enough of his personal life that it seems as though he’s come clean about something when he’s actually just marketing his next serial; it’s what he does.

This time, though, he’s wearing one of those terrible shirts that almost single-handedly sparked the Wheezes fashion line and bought Ron this apartment, and he’s saying things here that Harry knows are true. Knows are directed right at Harry. Knows because a week ago Harry had walked right out of Draco’s “well-appointed” drawing room, slamming the door and not answering the following owls. Harry hasn’t slept at his own sparse flat for a week. He’s spent time at Ron’s, spent time at Hermione’s, spent time at the Burrow. He’s even spent time in the dark halls of Grimmauld, which he hasn’t wanted to touch for years, no matter how many people around him shared their opinions on it being the perfect. Home. One day.

They’re standing there, the three of them, when a knock sounds on Ron’s front door. Harry freezes, but Ron staggers out into the hallway, still in nothing but underwear.

“Sweet Merlin, Weasley, could you put on some bloody pants? You do know it’s ten o’clock?” Says the visitor, and Harry just lets his back go limp, setting out to truly bruise Ron’s beautiful granite countertops with his forehead once again. He can hear Ron sarcastically mumble something along the lines of ‘yes Malfoy, of course you can come in’. Hermione grips his arm slightly in sympathy, but turns to face the entrance to the kitchen anyway. Like a traitor.

“Hermione, lovely as always. I see the three of you are in similar states of distressed undress this morning. Have you finally succumbed to your polyamorous destiny?”

“Nice to see you too, Draco. Lovely article.”

“Thank you. Do you like the shirt, too? Catches a sweet mint in resale these days.”

“You don’t say…”

“Yes, yes. Now, Harry, please pick yourself up off of the place we civilised people prepare our food.”

Harry groans into the cool surface, but can’t stop himself from responding. It’s a natural reaction to the bullshit that comes out of Draco’s mouth most times. “If you’ve ever made a meal by yourself in your life, I’ll eat the countertop.”

“Harry,” his voice is menacing, and his footsteps are getting closer, “I’m not civilised.” And at that Draco grabs Harry by the shoulder and turns up around and back up against the counter top with not a small amount of force.

Harry’s reply comes out breathless from the impact. “You said ‘we’.”

“It was a universal ‘we’.” Draco says this through gritted teeth. His blond eyebrows are sitting right on top of his grey eyes and they scream murder louder than they’ve ever done before, which is saying something since Draco was once a Death Eater, no matter what the admiring general Wizarding public would like to remember.  

Harry doesn’t have a retort prepared, per se. It would be a more concise comment on how Draco hadn’t taken a single English language course his entire life, and what would he know about the universal ‘we’, but Harry meets Draco’s eyes and he’s a bit lost. A week of blanket non-communication. A bit extreme. Not gone longer than a couple of days without talking for years, have they.

“Cuppa, Draco?” That’s from Ron.

“Yes. Two sugars. Level.”

Ron scoffs, but Draco beats him to it. “Weasley it’s two-level sugars, please, for once, reorient your sense of balance before you spill the entire sugar pot into the cup.”

“Just don’t give him any sugar, Ron. He’s obviously already mental, we don’t want him to go into cardiac arrest.” This from Hermione.

“Uh-”

Draco scoffs before Ron can respond. “Settle down Granger. I’m not going to pretend to like black tea for some sense of superiority like some of us.”

“It’s better for your-”

“You know what’s good for your health?” Draco all but yells and spins around to face Ron and Hermione. Ron, still next to naked, and Hermione drowning in Ron’s clothes. She’s back to sitting on the counter, Ron leaning back next to her. They look like they’ve looked for the past 10 years – drawn to each other, allies, et cetera. Draco huffs. “What’s good for your health is you two sitting down and talking about your absolutely bloody insane coupling. What’s good for your health is not getting blackout drunk every Friday night and ending up sleeping with each other, and then not talking about it, until the next week when you can do it again.”

Ron and Hermione are shifting where they sit, Hermione, looking as though she’s getting herself ready to argue back, and Ron in a more protected position behind his ex-girlfriend. Harry feels a little sorry for them, getting the third degree from Draco when he looks as unhinged as he does now. The Harry on his chest, a mess when the photo was taken, is now looking at them disappointedly like he’s on Draco’s side. Like a magical recreation of a Harry who was in quite an intense meltdown at the time has any right to be “on Draco’s side” about any issues of wellbeing.

Hermione does get the strength to pipe up. “Don’t take that tone with us, Draco Malfoy.” But that’s all she can get out. Harry’s pretty sure she’s stumped. Doesn’t have an argument. Draco, Harry knows, has refused to get involved in this situation. Has watched from the side-lines and stewed. Harry’s been all for letting the two of them work their shit out in their own time, but he’s a stoic man, what does he know about all that?

“Don’t take that tone with us, Draco Malfoy,” is Draco’s retort, mocking back in a high-pitched squeak that Harry winces at. Hermione was about to hop off the counter, he could see, but Ron’s sudden arm around her waist kept her down. “You two just have to talk about it. So what if Hermione slept with Lavender? You guys weren’t together at the time!”

Hermione splutters, eyes wide, all thoughts of advancing physically on Draco gone. Ron sat eyes wide too, flicking between Draco and Hermione as if waiting for more.

“Wait-” he starts.

Hermione wails “Ron I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I know. It was such a bad thing to do-”

“No wait! You’ve been acting weird because of that?” And Ron looks incredulously at Harry. Harry sends him an incredulous look back, equally as surprised that Draco hit the nail on the head.

“What! You knew?” Hermione is still wailing.

Ron turns fully to face her and wails himself: “Of course I knew! How could I not know! Harry told me! Draco told me! Lavender told me! Hell, a month ago you got so drunk you told me.”

Hermione’s eyes are so wide that Harry’s afraid she’s going to start crying, and he grabs Draco’s arm in shock. Draco tenses all of a sudden and then Harry consciously remembers why he’s not doing that and shrinks back again. Ron and Hermione aren’t really focusing on anything but themselves now, so they don’t notice how Draco turns slowly back to face Harry, backed against the kitchen’s island like he has been since Draco arrived.

“And you, Harry Potter.” Draco pauses, and Harry has time to do a quick pass over. Draco on the front page of the Daily Prophet and Draco in the middle of Ron’s stylish London flat are two very different Draco’s. Quiet, pensive, charming and loveable Draco in the papers. Thoughtful. Friendly. A bloody myth.

This Draco. Angry, flustered, dishevelled, loud. This is the same Draco who, when Harry slipped up the other week – the week when everything changed – went red, went silent, went unresponsive in so many ways. Harry, fresh off the first love confession he’d ever given, so incredibly off the cuff that it had shocked him and scared him, had had to storm out of the apartment, slam the doors behind him, and apparate away to his own flat he barely spends any time in.

He’d slipped up. They’d never even suggested anything romantic between the two of them. They’d been close for a long time at this point and. Feelings. His feelings. They were supposed to be unspoken. He’d been nursing the growing beast of his feelings behind his stupid chest, which was okay as long as they were unspoken. Pretending every day that they weren’t eating at him alive.

Eating at him when he woke up in Draco’s spare room on more mornings than he’d liked to count, early enough before work that they could sit for breakfasts in Draco’s kitchen. And then Harry’s co-workers at the Ministry archives asking him questions about Draco’s new shows or his schedule or his favourite foods. Draco and Harry having dinner with Ron and Hermione at hole in the wall restaurants in the muggle world. Birthdays together; dinners at Draco’s or Ron’s nicer flats; bickering over anything and everything they could get their minds on.

“You hate my job.”

Harry’s eyes bulge open. Did he mean to say that? Sweet Merlin. It was definitely him, and now Draco is staring at him in confused consternation, as if he has to come to terms now that Harry’s gone insane.

Harry doubles down, though. Trusts his subconscious decisions. “Yeah, you hate my job!” he repeats.

“Are,” Draco starts, slowly, “you kidding me.”

He could respond, but Harry just shakes his head instead.

Harry’s thought Draco’s been properly angry this whole time. He was wrong. “I hate your job? Who doesn’t hate your job!” Draco’s arms reach out and grab tightly around Harry’s upper arms. Harry’s not above flexing, just a little. He tells himself it’s to test the grip, but honestly, he’s hoping to distract Draco from the rage.

“It’s not that bad!” Harry repeats, and Draco groans loudly.

“Not that bad? Are you trying to give me a stress induced ulcer?”

“What do you know about stress induced ulcers?” comes a faint response from Hermione.

Draco turns his head, hands still tight around Harry’s biceps, and says “don’t you two have make-up sex to attend to?”

Harry responds. “Ron’s sick.”

Draco glares back at Harry for a second, and then turns back to where Ron and Hermione haven’t moved. “Get out, you’re distracting him from the fight.”

“We’re the emotional support,” and “lame fight” come respectively from Hermione and Ron.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Draco yells in their direction, but Harry’s sure that he’s ignoring Ron’s comment. “Emotional support! You two have let this wanker,” a thumb thrown at Harry from over Draco’s shoulder, “probably crash on your couches rather than forcing him to face me. You’re all as bad as each other.”

“Draco,” Harry feels he has to say, and draws Draco’s attention from his two best friends who definitely have been letting him crash on their couches and had not once tried to force Harry to face his problems. He loves them a hell of a lot.

“Don’t you try to lessen this, Harry Potter.” Harry’s been on the receiving edge of worse glares from Draco, so this one isn’t that bad. Harry’s actually feeling a lot better now that Draco is in the same room as him. Feels his terrible, traitorous heart almost relax. “I’m sick of you three. You’re the worst bloody enablers for each other.”

Harry scoffs. Sure, they’d never force him to do something he didn’t want to, but it’s not like they agree with his decisions all the time.

Draco hears the scoff of course, and gives up on trying to chase the others out of the kitchen. He turns around towards the entrance, faces away from all of them and talks to himself at top volume. “This is what my life has become. The sole source of constructive criticism for the bloody Golden Trio.”

Ron snorts to cover up a laugh.

“I survive working for a fascist dictator, successfully rebuild my image, forge a new path for myself in the world, but I’m here. An overworked, under-rewarded, glorified therapist!”  

Harry, Hermione, and Ron exchange glances. The other two look at Harry in commiseration, but Harry is starting to think that Draco has a bit of a point when he realises that Ron’s arm is still around Hermione’s waist who is leaning right into his side.

“Okay.” Draco takes a deep breath and turns around to face Harry. “Since they’re not leaving, you all get to hear this.” He steps closer. “I hate your job. I hate your flat. I hate that you won’t face up to hard things, and I refuse to be okay with any of that.”

Harry swallows hard.

“People are letting you get away with anything at the moment, and when you told me you loved me, I got scared. Because I thought that I’d become one of those people to you too.”

“That’s not-”

“No.” Draco stops Harry for butting in. “No. We’re not pretending any longer. I love you-” thump goes Harry’s heart in his chest, eyes bulging and smile unable to be stopped “-but sometimes I seriously don’t like you.”

Harry’s smile does dim at that, but only slightly.

Draco looks away at last, his hands on his hips, and starts pacing. “I couldn’t believe-” sharp glance at Harry through the pacing, “-you just left after you said that. I couldn’t believe you’d actually not answer my owls. You’re an absolute coward sometimes.”

“You didn’t say anything…” Harry mumbles.

“Oh,” Draco responds with an eyeroll, still pacing, “so you get to freak out for a week, but I’m not allowed longer than a couple of minutes to compose myself?”

Harry ducks his eyes, ashamed.

Draco hmphs, and pauses in his pacing to look down his nose at Harry. “That’s right. You should feel bad.”

Shirt-Harry shakes his head at real-Har- “God Draco, take the shirt off!”

“What?” Draco is shocked into pausing his restless movement. “Take my shirt off? You haven’t even apologised and want to get me half naked like the rest of you? I think not!”

“That’s not- ugh, forget this.” Harry reaches forward and grabs Draco mid-pace. “Draco.” Deep breath. Harry meets Draco’s eyes. Draco looks like he’s been through his paces. He doesn’t even look angry anymore, he just looks like the culmination of a week of stress. Ron and Hermione are eating dry cereal right out of the box from their perch as they watch, and they both give Harry nods and a thumbs up in encouragement when his eyes stray to them.

He’s a stoic man: Draco and Hermione are right. He hasn’t had to be brave in a long while. This is a moment that’s worth it though, even if he has to fake it at first.

“I’m sorry.” He has to pause at that, because he can feel the emotions bubbling up a bit too high. He takes a deep breath, and makes sure that Draco’s eyes don’t stray. “You’re… you’re right. About a lot of that-”

Draco buts in with “I’m right about all of it, actua-”

“Shut up, do you want me to get this out?”

Draco concedes.

Harry takes another breath, but the nerves have disappeared in the face of Draco’s unfiltered verve. “I shouldn’t have left. I was-”

“A coward.”

“Draco.”

“…sorry.”

“I was. I was a coward. I was scared. You didn’t respond, which never happens. You’re so good with your words.” He has to take a minute to collect his thoughts, but finds the right thread. “I love you, and have done for a while. I ran because I kind of didn’t mean to say it then. We were already fighting about something, and it just came out, which wasn’t right, and sometimes I’m so afraid that things will change, because you’re my best friend-” “Hey!” “-my best friend and I didn’t want to lose that.”

“You should have said that then.”

Harry closes his eyes. God, feelings are so bloody hard. “Yeah, yeah I know.”

“Oh well, as long as you know.”

“Draco. Shut up.” He swallows. “I like my job.”

“No, you don’t. You come home-” a sharp breath “-you come to mine, I mean. You come to mine after work and you can’t stop complaining. We like our jobs. I’m sure when Hermione finishes her ChP and becomes the Minister she’ll love her job too.” (“It’s a PhD, Draco, I’ve told you a million times.” “Maybe another time, Herm.”)

Harry has to breath deeper, because his blood is pumping a bit too fast in his ears. He drops his hands from Draco and takes a couple of steps back. A retreat. “I think,” and he has to swallow a couple of times before he can force the words out of his throat. He looks up and meets all of their eyes. “I don’t think I can do important things anymore. I. I don’t want to- I.”

“Merlin sakes, Harry.” Draco says. “I think it may be time we force you into therapy.” And Draco just looks impatient. “You can’t keep pretending it’s not a problem, and we can’t keep letting you!”

Harry. Harry nods. He thinks he nods. It’s what he wants to do, but he’s not really looking at anyone anymore, eyes to the ground, heart a bit too fast in his chest for comfort. He wishes that he was still eating soggy cereal in the kitchen before the post arrived this morning. He’s a stoic coward.

Draco seems to take a deep breath, and then he turns around to face the others. “Okay, get up. I’m sick of standing in Weasley’s kitchen.”

Harry takes a pause and looks at Draco’s face. He’s perfectly serious, and so is the Harry on his shirt.  Harry’s heart is still racing, but Draco just looks resigned and present. He can’t help himself from smiling a little when his eyes catch on Draco’s. He gets a pretty severe glare in response, before Draco just walks right out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Harry follows, and hears the small grunt from Hermione hitting the ground behind him. Two sets of feet follow his own.

“Don’t forget my tea, Weasley!”

Ron scoffs, but still walks back into the kitchen to make a tea he’d promised about 20 minutes earlier.

Harry sits down on the floor in the same place he sat last night. Draco’s chosen the armchair near the fire; where he usually sits. Hermione stomps over to take the seat on the couch closest to the armchair, and Ron can be heard pottering around the kitchen.

“PhD.”

Draco looks to Hermione with a frown. “What?”

Hermione looks haughty yet contrite. Like she actually can’t help herself from making sure that Draco knows he was wrong, and feels a little bit sorry about it. “It’s a PhD, not a ChP or whatever you called it.”

“Honestly Granger, what does it matter?”

A harrumph from Hermione as she settles back into Ron’s expensive couch cushions. “It’s a very important thing.”

Harry chucks her a grin, and she smiles back proudly.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Why do you all insist on patting yourselves on the back constantly. You don’t see me singing my own praises.”

Ron let’s out a violent laugh from the kitchen, and Draco flushes a little bit, his eyes flicking to Harry who grins at him too.

Mugs float out from the kitchen, Ron trailing behind. Harry grabs his out of the air and cherishes the sent of the strong tea. He can’t help but laugh when Hermione grimaces at the taste of her milkless cup, and Draco looks at her as if he’s won something.

Harry’s won something. He’s won Draco sitting here in Ron’s expensive apartment, Draco rolling his eyes when Hermione chides him about his too sweet tea, then Draco chiding Ron when he argues that Ron made it too sweet anyway, and that if he has to have teeth work done it’ll be Ron’s fault.

“You can make your own tea, you know, you’re not that famous.”

“Actually, Weasley, I’m more famous than all three of you, currently. The only thing getting you through is dumb luck and a gullible consumer base. I get by on pure talent.”

“Sure, Draco.”

“Also, I expect thanks when Wheezes gets the significant boost in sales it’s sure to this week, what with the Prophet this morning.”

“Sure, Draco.”

Harry smiles. His arse will probably start hurting before his mug is drained, and the sounds of arguing will get tiring soon after that. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt a little. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Therapy. I’ll do it.”

Ron and Hermione smile at him like they knew it was coming all along, pressed up against each other on the expensive couches. Draco just looks at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for who knows what. Probably an oral manifesto of Harry’s recognised faults and his plans to change them. Harry just smiles right back at Draco, wide and unashamed. Draco shakes his head a little bit, lips pulling up too.

Harry’s worried that if Draco keeps looking at him at all that he’ll have to walk over there and kiss him without warning. He picks his mug up and keeps sipping though, pretends he doesn’t absolutely need to do just that. Because there’s going to be time. Lots of it.

His stoicism has its uses sometimes, maybe.

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

a festive one from @sleepyowlwrites :D (and @vellichor-virgo with the same words!)

my words are sweet, snow, smile, shine, save, (sugar, special) 

sweet (Hurricane) (tw romance) (in which Aella’s ex is the first to ship her with Theo... as one does. bless you Franco) 

The Hurricane women began to leave. Aella went to follow, but Franco caught her arm. “Besides, I think he is sweet on you.” He indicated Theo with his head. 

Aella just stared at him. Franco laughed. “He’s not bad-looking, either. Are you sweet on him?” 

“I haven’t known him that long.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

She didn’t have one for him, nor for herself. “I—I have to go.” She pulled her arm free and followed her crew. 

snow (Dragonsong) 

Baya made good tea, Isi reflected, wrapping her hands around the hot mug. It was still early in the morning; the night’s chill wasn’t quite gone from the air, nor the snow from the ground outside. But Baya’s fire and her tea were doing a good job of fighting back the cold. Isi took another sip from the mug and leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her. Thanks to the early hour, the inn’s main room was all but deserted. 

She’d barely had the thought when others began to pile in. Chairs scraped across the floor, and creaked as people sat down into them. The sound of activity in the kitchen swelled in volume; frying bacon, the scrape of knives and spoons, a flurry of footsteps.  

smile (Hurricane) (yay mother-daughter bonding!) 

A heavy footstep sounded behind her and she jumped. When she turned, Tempest smiled at her and gestured to the other women at work. “Thank you. Good work.” 

Aella smiled back, a little uncertainly. “Thanks for coming to catch me last night.” 

“I’ll always come for you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.” 

“More than the Hurricane?” 

“Always. More than anything.” Her expression softened. “I’m so sorry for how I’ve been behaving. I should be angry at Anvindr, not you.” 

Aella shook her head. “I did screw up. So I’m sorry too.” 

shine (Dragonsong) (tw stabbing) 

The urge to cough rose in Isi’s throat. She swallowed it down. If she coughed, it would be in Bethany’s face, and she had no desire to do that. 

“But you still aren’t telling me everything, are you?” 

Someone punched her again in the side, under her ribs. Isi grunted, but kept her eyes on Bethany. A sharp pain spread through her gut, starting from the spot she’d been punched. She glanced down. 

Bethany jerked the knife back, its short blade shining red with Isi’s blood. The wound burned deeper, somehow hotter and colder all at the same time. 

Oh. 

Isi gritted her teeth, because if she didn’t she might scream. “I told you… everything.” 

save (Hurricane) (Laila my beloved. honestly this flashback, which is new this draft, does such wonderful things for her character. not everyone can face down a pirate captain and bargain with him. i love her.) 

She didn’t turn, though her throat had choked up. She couldn’t let anyone else die, and especially not her father. This might let her save them all. She had to do it. “I will come with you. All I ask is that you leave the Nasir alone—this ship. You will—” She couldn’t make demands. She amended her words. “Please let my father go. Let him and all his crew go safely, and I will join your crew.”

He stood silent, considering. “I’m intrigued. You say you will work for me? Do as I tell you?” 

If that was what she had to do, she would. She’d never expected to willingly join a pirate’s crew, but she would do it twenty times over if it would save her father. 

sugar 

special (Dragonsong) 

Even aside from the recruitment patrols, people sent their children away to the citadel to give their children an education. She’d counted that under willing participation. But was it really? Did those children have much of a say in it? And even if they did, was it truly voluntary if it was the only way they could get an education? On reflection, that didn’t seem fair. 

Most knights were knighted around Robin’s age, around seventeen… but seventeen-year-olds weren’t really adults. They were only adolescents. How was it fair to put such responsibility on their shoulders when they wouldn’t even be adults for three years? Especially if they’d never had a chance to be kids. 

I shall pass this onto @zmlorenz @vellichor-virgo @isherwoodj @diphthongsfordays and @talesofsorrowandofruin! your words are love, lie, lean, live 

[mmvalentine]

Home is Where You Are pt 1 | Feysand

Girl next door AU. Part 2 now up.

Rhys hadn’t seen Feyre in over ten years. It was strange for him to think about, because they had always been so close. They had grown up next door to each other, and had been best friends as children. As they got older, Rhys had flown into fits of jealous rage when Feyre suddenly had a hundred other friends and he was left behind. Then there was that one night, when they were thirteen and camping out in the Archerons' back yard, and giggling in the tent, they had decided to find out what all the fuss was about kissing.

They had leaned in, pressed their lips together, and held their breath. Five seconds went by, and then Feyre pulled back, laughing.

“It’s kind of... wet,” she had said, wiping her mouth of the back of her hand. But Rhys been too stunned to say anything. He followed Feyre’s lead as she lay back in her sleeping bag and launched into a story about a particularly annoying boy at school, and Rhys had pretended to listen. But all the while, his fists were clenched tight at his side, as he fought to get in control of the strange, hot sensation that had started where Feyre’s mouth touched his and had somehow pooled in his stomach like lava. More troublingly, it was moving further south, and the young teenage Rhys was baffled by the apparent autonomy the lower part on his anatomy had lately been growing.

And then the next day Feyre’s mother had a stroke in the kitchen, and hadn’t survived the ambulance ride. And her father, grief stricken and barely functional, and up and moved the whole family to the other side of the country to avoid any reminder of his dead wife. Hadn’t actually managed to sell the house, just abandoned it and let it sit empty and decay over the years. And Rhys, Rhys was left alone with his drunk, bitter father, and he never got to tell Feyre that he was sorry her mother had died, that he knew exactly what it felt like and wanted to be there for her, that he was pretty sure he loved her with all of his thirteen year old heart.

Over the next decade, Rhys’ father got older but not more sober. His arm weakened, thankfully, although his aim somehow never did. Rhys cared for him the best he could until he died- liver failure of course- and then up and moved to the city using the money from his fathers estate. There was a surprisingly large amount of money for the frequency with which Rhys had been fed hot meals as a kid.

He had looked Feyre up on social media, but she was working as an artist now and her photos were all of her work, very rarely with her in them. He had wanted to message so many times, but when he saw how well she was doing, it hadn’t seemed right. Not when he felt like a stark reminder of such a bad time in her life.

And then her father had passed away, leaving them both orphans, and she had reached out to him.

By email, for chrissake. Like some kind of professional courtesy.

Hi Rhys,

Long time no see. I’m guess you’ve head the news by now. Cancer, in the end. But I think he was sort of waiting to die for a long time. Anyway, Nesta and Elain have pretty much checked out of the situation, and so I’ve taken over the big job- selling the old house. My sisters basically said just do it and send us the money.

The upshot is, I’ll be travelling back to the old neighbourhood in about a week. I know it’s been forever, but you lived in that house most as much as we did. I was wondering if you wanted to come down and hang out, before we sell it. I’ve been talking to realtors and I’ll probably be there just a few days, and then leave it to them. I don’t know how any of this works to be honest.

You’re welcome to come with me if you want, but no pressure.

Feyre

Rhys had written back straight away, and before he knew it he was on a plane. Back to that sad little suburb, with its malignant houses and crumpled people. To his father's house, where there were cracks in the wall that Rhys' younger bones had bade. To the Archeron home, where he had found refuge after the old man had passed out, drunk.

To Feyre.

He had no idea what to expect. Had spent the whole flight full to the brim of jitters, and wondering what it would be like to see her again, and cursing himself for letting it get this far and then to not have been the one to reach out first.

And then his feet marched themselves down the crooked streets, knowing where to go instinctively, so before he knew it he was standing before his old house. And hers.

Actually being there was like a punch in the gut. Rhys suddenly felt eight years old again, and even the anticipation of how his old house smelled had nausea rolling in his gut. He didn't think he'd be so affected by it. He wondered if anyone had moved into the house- there were no cars or toys in the front yard, but the garden wasn't overgrown. Not like the Archeron house.

His old neighbour's place looked terrible. Mould was growing over the peeling paint, a few of the windows in the front were cracked, and weeds reigned over the garden. So different from when the girls had lived here, and Elain had been so dilligent with her botanical care.

Rhys remained in silent contemplation for another minute or so, and then, taking him quite by surprise, the front door opened. And there stood Feyre.

Rhys eyes threatened to throw themselves out of their sockets. He worked to keep his jaw shut, and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest at the sight of her.

Feyre was gorgeous.

Little girl Feyre had white blonde hair, skinny arms, and blue bug-eyes. Little boy Rhys had loved her exactly how she was, and had thought she was the most perfect person in the world.

Grown up Feyre was astounding.

Her hair had darkened to the colour of gold and honey, and now curled gently over her shoulders. Her frame had filled out to accommodate softly curving hips and a modest cleavage. She had grown into her eyes, the delicate grey-blue of them like rain-clouds on the horizon. Rhys had been waiting and waiting to meet Feyre again, but this... this was ridiculous.

Since leaving his father's house, Rhys had to admit he spent a lot of time on his body. He never wanted to feel so weak as when he was six years old and unable to protect his mother from his father's rage. Thankfully, as a teenager he started to pile on muscle quite easily. And then after moving out, he made sure to tattoo over the scars on his chest so that his father had no say over what his skin looked like.

And yet now he felt tiny again, and devastated that this Feyre was completely out of his league. He didn't know what to say to her.

Turned out, he didn't have to.

"Rhys!" Feyre said, seeing him standing there. She crossed the yard in a few strides, and before he got so much as a 'hello' out, Feyre had wrapped her arms around him. The smell of her neck right under his nose floored him. She pulled back, with her hands still on him.

"Rhys, I can't believe you're here!" Feyre looked him up and down, and laughed. "Well you got big, huh?"

God, her laugh. He didn't remember it being so musical.

"Hey Feyre," he said out loud. "I'm sorry about your dad." Feyre squeezed his arms. "Thanks. And thank you for coming. It's really good to see you." "It's good to see you," Rhys said. "I'm so sorry it's taken so long." "Well, we're here now," Feyre said, and in that moment Rhys was determined to never let her get that far away from him again.

"So how have you been?" Rhys started to ask. But at that moment, the door opened again, and a man with a blonde man-bun stepped out. He looked like one of those surfer dudes Rhys had never liked.

"Babe," he said. "There's definitely termites in there. It's gonna lower the price point for sure."

Rhys stared. Babe?

Feyre rolled her eyes. "Great, just add it to the list."

It was then that the man noticed Rhys. He extended a hand.

"Hey buddy, I'm Tamlin," he said. "Hey... buddy," Rhys replied tersely. Feyre jumped in. "Tamlin, this is Rhys, he used to live next door when we were kids." Feyre put her hand on Tamlin's arm, and smiled a heartbreaking smile at him.

"Rhys, this is Tamlin. My fiancé."

****

So okay, it has been one week since I hit tumblr and spewed my story telling guts all over you lovely, sweet, kind people.

I know you connected really well with Lockdown Lovers, and it seems maybe a bit less well with Circus of Dreams? So I am throwing out one more AU, a little darker this time. I will keep posting CoD, but please let me know what you think and what you guys want to read.

Anyway I have been uploading manically over the last 7 days and at the moment I feel like I'm bombarding you with my filthy daydreams, so I'm going to try very hard to take a couple days off writing and let people actually read the damn things!

Finally, thank you so, so much for the support and love. I've been using this place to escape from personal problems and you have been outstanding. Hopefully in a few days I'll post at a more reasonable rate and from a better head space.

Thank you, lovers.

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies

[awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands]

I love you in every language of the world, but English ( Nikki x Tommy)

A/N: All of this was born from a conversation between me and @witchy-tombstone-smile​ so a big thank you to this person to be my delirious italian partner in crime!

Summary: Nikki can speak Italian, Tommy can speak Greek but they can’t do one thing: say I love you to each other in English! ( plus Vince calling Mick a bruja)

He was a fucking idiot! What was he thinking?

He was drunk! However, that was not the problem, being drunk and alone with Tommy Lee were the issue there. Look he was Nikki Sixx, he built his reputation on being drunk or high, so he wasn’t worry about being wasted per se, neither he was worried about the dumb shit he could have done because he and Tommy were Terror Twins for a reason, not doing weird shit together would have been the issue… he’s referring to the sappy shit he does whenever his defenses are down.

Such things include randomly hugging Tommy, telling him how much of a good friend he is, yanking him off girls to do crazy shits together and his “favorite” telling Tommy sappy stuff in Italian. He has lost count of how many times he used pets name in Italian without the drummer understood it.

However, now it was much worse because they were alone and Tommy looked so fucking beautiful under the stars with his ever present smile and glossy brown eyes, he wasn’t a romantic type but the other guy changed all his prospective, he didn’t even realize he could like a guy before he knew him.

“C’mon Nikki! Tell me something in Italian, pleaseeee!” Tommy slurred, giggling.

Fuck why he was so adorable when he was an absolute walking idiot?

The bassist knew Italian because his father had Italian origins and he hoped that learning it would have meant connecting to him… yeah it was before he discovered he was an asshole.  What a fucking dumbass he was when he was younger! At least he had the opportunity to meet some amazing Italian-American folks while he was a runaway, so jokes on his dad because the chicks really dig dirty talk in another language.

Tommy loved the fact that he was bilingual, well technically so was the drummer, but he thought his Greek was quire rusty, and he constantly nudged him to say something because “you sound so cool mate! I wish I could speak my Greek that smoothly too.”

He looked the drummer into the eyes, he was always so fucking excited for everything and that only made Nikki feeling even more for him, fuck if only he had the cuts to tell him how he really felt. He wasn’t a coward simply he knew he could never be with Tommy without major consequences, however that doesn’t mean it hurt any less.

“Ti amo idiota.(I love you idiot)” The words left his mouth before he could stop them… fuck, fuck, fuck!!!

“Mh… what does that mean?” Tommy asked confused but with his silly drunk smile.

Great now he was panicking because how he was supposed to tell him that he just admitted to be in love with him?

“It means you are an idiot.” It was such a lame answer but hopefully Tommy was too naïve and drunk to care.

“Oh… then ti amo idiota, too Nikki.” Tommy giggled, but Nikki felt his stomach drop. It felt like the universe was taunting him by having his wonderful Tommy saying I love you to him without even knowing it or meaning it!

He started to feel emotional and fuck was not the alcohol supposed to help with that? It was just so fucking unfair that he was in love with the drummer but they could never be together, no holding hands or kissing or any other sappy bullshit.

Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes and he knew he had to go or otherwise he would have shown his vulnerability and he fucking hated that, he needed to drink so he stood up and quickly followed him.

“Ti amo idiota.” He repeated with a laugh and Nikki wanted to fucking die.

He needed a drink. Now!

- - -

Tommy woke up in Nikki’s room. It wasn’t unusual for the Twins to fall asleep in each other’s rooms when they were too drunk to reach their own, so usually one of them would pass out on the floor and now was Tommy’s turn.

He couldn’t help but staring the bassist who was sleeping on the bed, he was head over heels for him but he would never admit it. Sure he was all love all the time but  with Nikki it was different, he meant too much to him to potentially ruin everything by confessing his crush, so instead he was rotting into this unrequited love pain that made him jealous and angry.

Why couldn’t he be just like his parents that fell in love as soon as they met each other? No he had to suffer. They didn’t even speak the same language and they manage to get married meanwhile he knew Nikki for a while now but couldn’t have found the courage to tell him the truth. Sure he wouldn’t give up but he wasn’t sure how long he could still resist.

However, something else was on his mind too, Nikki seemed acting weird all the previous night, especially after he asked to him to say something in Italian. It’s like his eyes dimmed for a moment after he said that to him, could it be because speaking in Italian reminds him of his dad? It didn’t seem like that, there must be something else going on for sure, but what?

Tommy knew a thing or two about using another language to say stuff you don’t have the guts to say in English… It’s not like he wrote silly nicknames in Greek for Nikki whenever he had to leave a note for him about buying stuff or that he went outside. Sometimes Nikki asked what it meant and Tommy would always say an insult.

“Oh, it means you are a dumbass!”

He heard someone stirring and soon enough Nikki was staring at him with his eyes half open.

“Fuck my head hurts so bad” His raspy voice was too much for the poor Tommy who quickly decided to go grabbing some painkillers for both of them, anything to prevent having a fucking boner, but when he entered back the room he saw Nikki with his eyes closed again. He looked at his relaxed face and black hair, which did not hide his eyes like it usually would be and he could not help whispering something to him.

“σ' αγαπάω Nikki” (I love you Nikki). He learned that from his mom since she constantly told his dad how much she loved him.

However, Nikki was not asleep and Tommy’s whisper was not as quiet as he thought because he saw the black haired man turning toward him.

“What did you say?”

Panic. Tommy wasn’t usually the type that gets easily scared but right now his brain decided to shut down, leaving him unable to formulate any words. Fuck what he was supposed to say now? He wasn’t even sure if he remembered English at that moment!

“You are an idiot… it means that, ya know like you said to me yesterday.”

Nikki seemed hurt but he quickly shrugged it off and took the pills.

“Fuck you T-Bone!” He scoffed, but then he let out a laugh.

There’s no way he could have held it for much longer. He was screwed, so fucking screwed.

---

Mick was sick and tired of watching the Twins being oblivious, they were obviously in love yet they seemed to be blind. It was getting frustrating because anyone could see Tommy’s love struck expression whenever Nikki wasn’t looking or how the bassist seemed to hate anyone but Tommy.

He suspected they used their languages to say stuff the other couldn’t understand and honestly he was sick of not understanding a fuck so he started to write down what they said and search it on the dictionary. What? He was sometimes bored and this situation seemed interesting, especially if it meant that the two idiots would have been finally together and that he could use this information against them.

“What are you doing Mars?” Vince looked at the older man curious, trying to understand what he was reading.

“I’m trying to translate whatever the Twins said to each other yesterday morning.” He said nonchalantly.

“Wait you know Greek and Italian? Don’t tell me you have been learning it just so you could understand them!”

“ Well I’m sick and tired to hear them saying shit and not understanding it, now they can’t fool me and I’ll know whatever they are saying how much they love the other or plotting to make the kitchen explode! However, especially I’m so over the fact that they can’t tell each other their true feelings” Mick said firmly.

“How are you going to make them confess though?” Vince looked both scared and confused.

“Well I will tell them what the other really meant!”

“You scare me man… bruja” Vince whispered the last part.

“Hey, do not call me a fucking witch!” Mick replied threatening.

“ YOU ARE DOING THE SAME WITH ME TOO?”

“No more fucking with me in Spanish, Malibu Barbie!”

---

Mick plan was simple: smacking them with the truth and making sure they wouldn’t run away, for that he instructed Vince to block the door at any cost.

“Nikki will try to escape so you must prevent that.”

“Why me Mars? Furthermore, how am I supposed to do that?” Vince asked confused.

“Well I know that you can fight and because if you do not do that I’ll tell Nikki what you say about him in Spanish when he doesn’t hear you.” The guitarist replied with a smile.

“Oh c’mon, that’s pure evil. You are the devil!”

Right at that moment, the front door opened and Nikki stepped in, soon followed by Tommy who looked like a puppy with heart eyes only for the older man.

“What are you doing Mick?” The drummer asked curious.

“Nothing much, I was reading stuff… did you know that “Ti amo” means I love you in Italian? Does not Nikki say that a lot?” Mick shot Vince’s a glare and Nikki’s eyes got huge as he understood what was going on, but before he could get out the blond quickly went to lock the door right before he could reach it.

Nikki looked like a caged animal, terrified yet ready to fight anyone, it scared him very bad because what if Tommy got angry or decided to end their friendship? What if they kicked him out of the band or they left him like anyone else in his life? Suddenly he felt so fucking angry with Vince for blocking the door because he needed to get out and escape all this situation! He couldn’t give any explanations

 He was about to charge on Vince and knock him out of the way but Tommy’s voice cut through his train of thoughts.

“ Wait you told me that yesterday. Does this mean…” Tommy looked confused as fuck but before he could do anything Mick continued, adamant into making both boys suffer in misery.

“Also I discovered that I love you in Greek is written like this “σ' αγαπάω” He showed a piece of paper “ Which isn’t very similar to what  Tommy always writes on his notes?”

Now it was Tommy’s turn to be absolutely shocked and scared as his eyes bolted anywhere but where Nikki was. It had to be a joke, right? They were playing with his feelings because they knew he loved Nikki and all of this was a big prank… unless it wasn’t. However, that would have been too good, even for a hopeless romantic like him, he needed to know the truth.

“Nikki… “ He stopped and Mick to take as the signal that they should have left the two boys alone, so he took a very interested Vince and pulled him away.

“They are right it means I love you, I couldn’t find the courage to tell you so I said it but in a way you wouldn’t understand. I love you Nikki, so much but I didn’t want to ruin our friendship…”

Tommy never felt afraid but at that moment he knew he could have lost everything from his band to his best friend, but also he knew he had to be the first one to speak otherwise Nikki would have never done it. The bassist still looked at the ground but he took a deep breath and he started talking.

“ Fuck Tommy I’ve liked you for as long as I can remember, but I was so fucking terrified you would never want to see me again if I told you my real feelings! I couldn’t lose you or the band so I just didn’t say it. You have no idea how many fucking time I just wanted to pick you and make you mine!"

His eyes were still glued down, but he forced himself to look at Tommy, noticing his big smile and how his eyes were lit up for joy. He couldn’t help but smile back because he looked absolutely gorgeous like that, little did he know that Tommy felt the same way about him, a smiling Nikki was a beautiful Nikki.

They stayed like this for a couple of seconds until Nikki felt something inside him and before his brain could stop him, he cupped Tommy’s face and kissed him on the lips. It wasn’t sweet but neither super heated, it was just a passionate kiss, one that held all the longing and promises they would make to each other. It was a kiss of hope and courage, and a kiss between two people who are not afraid anymore.

Tommy was the first to pull away but only because he wanted to hear Nikki say something.

“Can you say it again, please?”

“ Ti amo, idiota.” Nikki said with a smile. Saying I love you felt still very scary but this was different in a way, even if it was the same meaning. He was sure one day he would be able to say it in English too.

“ I love you too, idiot!” Tommy replied hugging the bassist.

“Wow how did you know that it would have worked?” Vince whispered, as he was totally not spying his friends kissing.

“Call it six sense.” Mick replied shrugging his shoulders.

“Bruja”

“I heard you, little blonde bitch.”