#relatively simple right? they give you a sheet you have to fill out

[swirlmup]

It’s le piece of resistance, the episode of Fixing RWBY I contributed the most art to! Let’s take a look, shall we?

Believe be when I was obsessively looking at reference pictures of the castle both from canon and from RWBY: Fairytales, and hating the design of it more and more the more I studied it. xD It’s just not super great lmao, so I did some tweaking to the castle’s design throughout my scene, mostly adjusting some of the tower roofs and the layout. In this scene I’m particularly pleased with the statue of Salem’s mother now inset in the roof above Salem’s room. I had to extrapolate her mother’s design from the silhouette we saw in RWBY: Fairytales, and kept it relatively simple in the interest of honoring the silhouette. I think my favorite detail I added to her was giving her a fox-skin scarf. I also downloaded a star brush on CSP to fill in that sky, very fun to paint in.

Another thing I hated from canon and canon-adjacent material was how empty Salem’s room was. You look at canon or Fairytales and it’s like, “My God, does anybody actually even live here? How dull! It looks like an Ikea display!” So that was another one of my goals for this scene, that I wanted to design Salem’s room with a lot more Stuff(tm). Just stuff everywhere, as many necessities as I could think of for living, and clutter because she’s a teenage girl and she probably isn’t super tidy. A bookbrush I downloaded saved me a lot of trouble as well, for filling in even more Stuff everywhere. xD

You may notice that there’s a lot of stuffed animals and depictions of animals in her room, and that’s because I headcanon that Salem likes animals a lot, especially fanciful animals that have wings. xD I also felt the need to give Salem other hobbies besides just reading and writing, since even the biggest reader would get bored of that reading. Hence the painting easal, the embroidery ring, and the violin and deck of cards and dancing ribbon. Bitch(affectionate, Salem is my daughter) needed more stuff to do in a day. xD

This is an interesting drawing, because it’s actually right when I was shifting my style a bit! I’d discovered another artist whose art I admired, and so I was training myself to incorporate elements from their art that I liked into my own repertoire. It’s kind of hit and miss sometimes in how well I pull it off, but I like how this one turned out. :) Salem’s pajamas were designed at the last second as I was working the scene lol. I like how plaintive her expression is here.

This was a fun and quick drawing to do, and the first peek we get at the redesign we made for Salem! Explicitly, once we learned that Salem was canonically 16 when she was rescued, according to RWBY: Fairytales, we felt the need to redesign her so that she accurately reflected her age at that time. More on this further down when I share her reference sheet!

One of those more awkward moments on trying to work in a style I wasn’t super comfortable yet. xD More extrapolation on her father’s design, although it’s much easier to work with him since we have more visual reference on how he looked.

Another view of Salem in her room. The perspective was very difficult to do here! I wanted it to be like the camera was set right on Salem’s writing desk, and make it obvious that’s where the camera was and that we could see her writing implements in the foreground. But because the writing desk I gave her has an angled surface, it greatly complicated things in terns of trying to maintain a dead-on perspective and still keeping her writing stuff in frame. I kinda fudged it a little for the sake of visual clarity, after all was said and done. xD Her pen was fun to just doodle on lol.

Another fairly quick drawing. The longest part was lining up the text on the edges of the paper so that it displayed the way it ought to. Curious about what Salem wrote in her letters exactly?

text reads: Brave hero who finds this note, Please come and rescue me immediately! I am imprisoned by my father with no hope of escape. He refuses to let me go and I fear I shall never know the feel of grass beneath my feet, or the embrace of a husband. Please, I beg, rescue me from him. I am in the tallest tower of Dawnfall Castle, in Duskerfield Valley of the Kingdom of Scatheudo. Should you succeed, the Kingdom and all its lands shall be yours, and I your happy wife, to stand by your side as we explore all the realm we will rule together. —Graciously awaiting you, Princess Salem.

You just can’t help but feel sorry for how desperate she must’ve been, to offer her hand to the first guy who can reach her. And think of how lucky she was that it was Ozma who reached her, and not any of the rough-looking folk we saw in the RWBY: Fairytale episode. I made up the names of the location of the castle on the spot pretty much, and looked at proto-germanic for the name of the Kingdom. Would you believe me that I took inspiration for the structure of the letter from that bit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? xD

More castle tweaking and redesign, put an actual wall around the whole place so that it was, ya know, defensible? xD perspective remains the bane of my existence, but I did a convincing-enough job with this. Happy Salem’s so cute, I don’t get to draw her smiling and showing off her dimples enough. :3

RED. I did also redesign the soldiers of the king’s castle. I actually forgot that we were given a glimpse of the soldiers in RWBY: Fairytales, and so went through the process of researching what armor style to use and how to dress them and this and that. And then I double-checked the episode and saw we actually had a glimpse of them. Oops. xD But I liked my design more than super-heavy duty one shown in canon, which I felt clashed with the castle’s overall aesthetic and the role of archers I wanted to portray them with. And so, I used the design I came up with for them anyways wwwww.

No longer happy Salem. :c Throughout each of the frames I drew for my scene, I kept playing with how the colors were done. It’s mostly filters to save on time, and lots of experimentation was done each time to achieve the exact looks I wanted.

I love when I can work on a drawing and profoundly feel the emotions the picture is meant to have. The perspective is fucked but once again i didn’t care very much lol. My main focus was showing Salem’s magic mirror now shattered, as she’s given up on ever leaving her tower. ;n;

Highlighting Ozma as the other main player in the story by him being the only other person given a full palette and not just colored with a contrasting solid color with the bg. :0 I did not give a flying fuck about attempting to replicate the actual design on Ozma’s staff, so we get a bunch of swirlies(and sometimes not even those LMAO).

This was almost a completely different image! The script talks about Ozma facing the King and his forces, and at first I just sort of copied what we were shown in RWBY: Fairytales. However, that never quite sat right with me. We’re told that Ozma used his cunning to defeat the king, but then the Fairytale just kind of showed him generically fighting the soldiers, albeit with magic instead of a sword? That never seemed very cunning to me though, and I couldn’t tell what the difference was supposed to be that made Ozma more qualified to rescue Salem than the others.

And so, I came up with the idea that Ozma really does use trickery and cunning to circumvent the castle’s main defenses and approach the king directly. It’s a little complex here and there was a lot of information to try and get across, but basically what’s happened is that Ozma has disguised himself as the dead queen in order to gain access to the castle and to the throne room without having to dismantle all the defenses. The king, of course, is able to see through the disguise with his own magic, but was allowing to hear out the charlatan if only for the novelty of their trick and the chance to see his wife again. I also felt it would be cool if Ozma used the image of the dead queen to chew out the king for his actions, abusing their daughter the way he has, and no doubt planning even worse atrocities in the future towards her in order to keep her locked up for the rest of her natural life.

A poignant moment  that deserved a frame by itself, and a minimal-effort floor lmao.

The big meeting! This was a moment I was very excited to draw. In small contrast to canon, I felt that the way Salem was portrayed in the show was that she was just a little too ready for Ozma to burst in all swashbuckling. So here I made a point to portray Salem as having been in the middle of something, because obviously why would she expect a visitor to bust in, let alone a complete stranger? She was occupying herself the way she always does, with her hobbies, in this case playing the violin.

From here on out the scene also uses more and more vibrant palettes for the environment, because ooo salem’s world is expanding and becoming more colorful thanks to ozma ooooo symbolism oooooo

Also a fun moment to draw. Salem’s delight contrasted with Ozma’s shock at seeing how young Salem really is. Plus I love dramatic height differences in characters, they’re so fun lol. You think Salem hurt her head at all against Ozma’s armor, rushing him like that? :,)

One of those trickier scenes to do, it’s always hard to figure out a character’s height relative to another when they’re kneeling. I think I accidentally drew Ozma a little small here, breadth-wise if not height-wise, but oh well. This is also the last view we get of Salem’s bedroom, fare thee well!

Here, it was all about the expressions for me. I wanted to emphasize the kindness in Ozma’s eyes as he pities this child who was prepared to offer him literally everything just for helping her escape a bad situation, and the lovey-dovey look in Salem’s eyes as she’s completely smitten for her rescuer. As a side note, I consistently struggled to draw Ozma. From his armor to his face and hair, he was just very challenging to me. xD

Some commenters from the video thought it was kinda funny that Ozma was covering Salem’s eyes as he led her out of the castle. I agree. xD It’s one of the smaller, practical things that I think make for very nice touches in storytelling. Such as Ozma realizing “it would probably be really bad if she saw her dad’s corpse on the floor, or the corpses of any of the other people who worked in the castle, I better cover her eyes and lead her out by hand.”

Some might note this is very different from canon, where it states that Ozma and Salem fought their way back out of the castle together. But tbh that didn’t really make a lot of sense, especially after the RWBY: Fairytales episode came out? If Salem could fight her way out the whole time, why did she need Ozma to rescue her? If Ozma had to defeat the king and his soldiers first to get to her at all, then who the hell were they fighting on the way out? The straggling survivors, the noncombatant servants? So we cut that detail, in the interest of maintaining logical continuity. Salem will have her chance to be badass and uber-powerful later in life, it doesn’t need to happen while she’s still a teen.

There’s also something I quite like about the imagery of a knight using his cape to help shield his maiden from something, very noble and chivalrous.

Had to shrink this image a bit for tumblr! The last frame of my scene, and the most colorful. Ozma’s horse here is a peacock leopard appaloosa! I was looking for horses so that I wouldn’t just give him a generic-looking one, and decided that appaloosas were perfect for a mage like Ozma. Spent a little more time detailing the forest here as well, I’m pleased with how it came out. It would’ve been nice to include a frame of Salem looking back and seeing for the very first time that there was a statue of her mother positioned over her room like a guardian angel, but alas, it would’ve been superfluous. :,) and i was tired by this point wwww

Now let it be said we like Salem’s canon design, quite a lot actually, but we like it for adult Salem, not a Salem who’s meant to be 16. xD We never expected we would need to do this, but @themixedcoffee​ whipped this up in the discord and me and Butterfly pretty much fell in love with it, it’s so cute and perfect, and so we just pretty much went and wholesale made it her official teen design. I like how she looks kind of bookish and unkempt, sort of like the awkward teen you might expect Salem to be, quiet and raised with good manners, but raring to let loose and run wild.

Of course, there were other redesigns which made their appearances this episode. O.O We reaallly weren’t jazzed by the technicolor mannequins that canon gave us for the designs of the Gods. xD We felt they could use more style, more flair, some pants, and just generally be more interesting to look at. For Light, we leaned into those eastern influences from his dragon, and went very bishounen for him. We also thought that Light/life as a concept was more nuanced than just creation, and that there were elements of a need to fight and defend in order to protect life, hence giving him the armor. We figure that Light specifically makes himself approachable for humans, which is why he’s so human-like(despite being 8 feet tall lol). Though i also liked adding the touch that when he’s angry the facade starts to drop and his features become more inhuman. O.O Another thing I quite like about his design here is adding a point of sharp contrast by giving him a purple gem. The darkness within light type of thing, to kind of bring the brothers more towards a yin/yang dynamic. Speaking of...

For Dark, our perspective was that he wouldn’t care about trying to impress humans or be approachable for them. He was the less-acknowledged yet still very important half of his brother, for without destruction there can be no creation, and volcanoes distribute fertile soil vital for plant growth after their eruptions.

As a slight compensatory act and a nod towards the more general prevalence of darkness as opposed to light, he gets to be twice as big as his brother. We were looking at all sorts of references and inspirations for him, to explicitly make as inhuman and macabre looking as possible. The cracks on his body also came from volcanic allusions, like his skin is cracking rocks. The floating, expressionless mask in place of a head came from a claymation movie about Mark Twain and a very creepy scene in it featuring The Actual Devil who also uses a mask instead of having a head. His forearms having gaps in them came from the 80s Bakshi movie Wizard, wherein the villain in that had a similar thing going on with his arms. Not really human, not really alive, and not really there either. I think my favorite part is probably his eyes being the sole spot of bright color in his design, light shining in the darkness.

And finally Maria!! I was very excited to work on her design and for people to finally see it in our rewrite. Some may think that it’s surprising that we redid Maria’s young design as well as her old design, but if you ask me, her young design isn’t very good either. xD I wanted her to have more colors, to have contrasting colors. To make the blue really pop and to make her look like the Grimm Reaper she was supposed to be. Hence the use of black and gray, with blue and orange as highlights to capture the eye. Tweaked the design of her mask as well to be more elaborate and a little more sugar-skull like. C’mon RWBY, you’re a 3d animated show, you can go for the fancy patterns and textures way more than a 2d artist like me can. xD We also made a point of making old Maria a more normal size instead of being a midget. I get that aging can make you shorter and Maria canonically as terrible posture, but it’s not that extreme. xD In both cases, I paid special attention to suggestions that were made by the members of our team who were actually mexican/hispanic/latino, which is actually quite a lot and they were very helpful to me. xD Maria’s goggles were also simplified just a bit.

Wow that was a lot of art to cover! This post almost didn’t survive it, had several failed uploads happen. xD But we’re not done yet! Even more art and redesigns are waiting in the future, which I’ll be just excited to talk about! So stay tuned, and thanks for watching/reading! ;D Btw, if you want a better view of the images in this post, here’s the twitter thread I made featuring all of them, so check that out as well! https://twitter.com/Erica_D_C/status/1624121234010013721

[lavienjin]

brightside | knj

synopsis: you're giving your husband one more chance to set things right, before the snow covers not just the ground but whatever remainder of love you have left in your heart.

pairing: namjoon x reader

wc: 8k

genre/rating/au: pg-15 | est. rel., christmas/holiday, breakup/divorce au | angst, fluff

warnings: husband!namjoon, swearing, allusions to divorce/breaking up, heaps of feelings, supernatural elements, angst with a happy ending

a/n: written for @mochajoon as part of the @btswritingcafe secret santa programme! surprise! it's your bestie snickerdoodle ♥ thank you to @kithtaehyung and @jjksblackgf for betareading this 🥺

m.list | ao3

Once upon a time, your memories of winter were filled with laughter – of family members coming from out of town with presents as you sat around and played games with your cousins. Dinner would be a whole affair; with boisterous aunts and uncles reminiscing their younger years while the kids played in the snow. You can still hear your mother calling you downstairs to open the present she snuck under the tree, or your favourite cousin coming over to ask you about boys in the pretense of play. Those were the days.

You let the glitz and sparkle of the golden-tinted memories wash over you as you watched the first snowfall out of your bedroom window with a sad smile.

Yes, once upon a time, the holidays meant something to you.

“When did it all change?” you mused to no one in your empty bedroom.

You know the answer. After marrying your husband, you moved a thousand miles away from your family, and the laughter eventually died with each season that's colder than the last, though the wind is not the sole reason as to why you're unable to enjoy the holidays.

Turning to your left, you find only rumpled sheets, an indication that your husband did come home that night, though he has since disappeared to do God-knows-what. You wondered if he’ll remember his promise this time, or if you’ll spend Christmas Eve staring into the fireplace again, wine in hand, only to be dejected, though not surprised, when he’d only return home in the morning smelling of cheap booze.

Oh, but he’d always make it up to you, right?

The first time he kept you waiting into the night was for your anniversary dinner. After returning home haggard in the early hours of the morning, he had gifted you a beautiful Love Cartier bracelet, with two intertwined rings in the chain, as an apology. You had forgiven him so easily, welcoming him back into your arms as you kissed him in thanks. But, with every passing day where he stopped being your husband, and instead became married to his work, the presents, along with the simple ‘sorry’ scrawled into the cards, weren’t enough to keep the growing resentment at bay.

You tried your best to talk to him about what you’ve been feeling, but Namjoon seems just too busy to care, or maybe, he’s stopped caring at all, relying heavily on the materialistic objects to appease you.

You leave your room with a bitter cackle, making a wager against yourself as to what present you’ll receive this time.

Perhaps it’ll be a necklace or a ring with a diamond the size of your eye. Surely, your husband had a stack of presents for you in his office, ready to whip it out should he smell the first hint of trouble or displeasure from you.

There was a time when he swore that he loved you, but you’ve come to learn that the seasons were cruel to all manners of love. As the wind picked up and the cold settled in, it must have also robbed your husband of his warmth.

He wasn’t mean to you or anything, in fact, you could spy a glimpse – a sliver of humanity left in him during the parties they held for the investors. Though you were nothing more than arm-candy, it’s during these functions where your husband seemingly returned, and perhaps you’re pathetic, but the familiar warmth of his hand finding a home on the small of your back again makes your traitorous heart beat faster, and you couldn’t help but hold out hope that your beloved is still in there somewhere.

You made your coffee this morning, like all mornings that came before it, with a heavy sigh. The large, opulent house was quiet save for the shuffling of your feet, and you made your way through the hallway lined with smiling pictures of yourself from the past. Before entering the living room, you stopped at the largest of them all, a gold-framed portrait of you and your husband on your wedding day. The brilliant photographer had captured a quiet moment between the two of you, with your foreheads pressed against one another. And though both your eyes were rimmed with tears, the grins on both your faces were more than enough evidence of the happiness you felt on that day. You contemplated the painting in silence. A stray tear rolled down your cheek and then another, and another, until a continuous downpour wets your face as you searched for an answer in the vision of the past, one that was once full of serenity and love.

You touched the portrait with shaky fingers, wishing that you’re able to return to that day. Your wedding was chaotic, not only with the normal hustle and bustle of a grand party, but also because the cake had fallen when the two of you tried to cut into it. There were a lot of gasps amongst your family and friends as they watched in horror; white fluffy frosting flying everywhere, covering your dress and his shoes, but you could only laugh, filled with too much joy to worry over the dry cleaning (that ended up costing a few hundred dollars).

“Do you linger in front of this picture like I do?” you choked.

The coffee in your hands was cold by the time you made your way into the living room.

One more chance, you plead to the Gods above as you sipped the bitter liquid. The snow was falling faster now; the cold, a perfect match for your sombre mood. One more chance for him to fulfill his promises.

And if he breaks your heart again? A cynical voice responds in the back of your mind. What then?

Your tears were your answer as you gazed longingly at the now empty house you’ve built with him. With a heavy sigh, you pulled your nightgown tighter to your shivering figure, and glanced at the neat stack of documents that you left on the coffee table. Undisturbed; the papers still in their rightful places. You’re unsurprised. He hadn’t bothered to look through it. Maybe the bolded print on the first page wasn’t large enough to catch his attention.

The documents felt heavy as you gathered them into your arms. It wasn’t so much the paper, but the weight of the words that laid across the pages.

Then I suppose there’s nothing else for me to do but leave, you concluded before disappearing into your bedroom.

---

Busy.

It’s a word that could sum up the holiday season perfectly for Namjoon and his current state. He had loosened his tie and undid the first two buttons of his dress-shirt sometime in the night. Though he let his team off early to spend time with family and friends during the holiday season, he was unfortunately tied to his desk – like most days in the year.

There’s a deal that was proposed last week for the upcoming fiscal year, a chance to increase business by working with talents from the entertainment industry to sell more products, and what better way to get people to buy things than during the holiday season?

Papers rustle as he signs off document after document, until the letters begin to jump out of the page and dance in front of him. He shut his bleary eyes for a moment, counting to three before continuing on with his work.

There’s a knock on the door of Namjoon’s office that interrupts his thoughts. “Sir?” Jimin, his secretary, pops his head in. Namjoon hums absentmindedly, going back to reading through reports as though he wasn’t just interrupted. Taking a quick glance at the younger man, Namjoon finds that Jimin’s already bundled up in warmth, the scarf gifted to him by his lover wounding itself tightly around his neck. “I’m going to head out,” he informs. “Shouldn’t you leave soon too? I thought you were having dinner with the missus?”

Namjoon’s pen pauses in midair. He doesn't need to be reminded of his familial obligations, least of all, from an unmarried man. Exhaustion seeps into the lines of his face, and though he didn’t mean to snap at the good-natured secretary, he couldn’t help but feel irritated all the same. “That’s my business, Mr. Park,” he mutters coldly, just like the wind outside. His secretary bows and offers his apologies, though Namjoon raises his hand to silence the bumbling man. “Enough, leave me to my work, please. Have a great night.”

“Happy holidays,” Jimin replies quickly before closing the door.

Namjoon ought to apologize, but the stack of papers refused to let him go. He could make his amends to Jimin by giving him an extra day off or something. Presents seem to weaken the anger in everyone’s hearts. With a sigh, he glances at the clock on the other wall, noting how late it’s gotten. He had a feeling you’re going to be upset with him if he comes home. Oh well, perhaps he could stay at a hotel again to avoid your wrath. Setting his pen down, he opened his desk drawer to rummage through a series of trinkets in hopes to find a suitable gift for you.

Smiling to himself, he found a sapphire necklace amongst the stack of presents that could pass for this exact reason. All he has to do is get down on his knees and apologise, and just like that he’s in your good graces again. As he wrapped the necklace up in a light blue box and redid the white ribbon, he couldn’t help but hum. Truly, you’re so lucky to have such a thoughtful husband, and he’s so lucky to have an understanding wife.

As the wind wages war outside, Namjoon sits content in his quiet office, going through his mountain of work without much thought for his lover at home.

Just as the clock chimes for the twelfth time that night, the lights flicker once and shut off all at once.

“Huh,” he whispers under his breath as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It’s not uncommon for the electricity to shut off in the middle of a raging storm, but his office is eerie with the absence of light. He sits for a few moments, staring into the inky blackness before fumbling for his phone to shine the little beam of light around the office. His tiny flashlight can’t seem to penetrate the dark, but it’s better than nothing, so with a gulp, Namjoon prepares his nerves as he ventures outside.

His Oxford shoes slap against the linoleum floor loudly as he makes his way to the other end of the hallway for the fusebox. Though he’s used to being in the office alone at night, the howling wind makes for an uncomfortable companion as it follows him to his destination. While he walks, the wind whispers secrets into his ears, though Namjoon isn’t able to catch the words. He almost sighs in relief when he spies the fusebox at the end of the hallway.

Creaaak.

The hinges on the metal slate of the fusebox must have rusted. Namjoon winces as he pries it open, the sharp creaking noise unpleasant to his ears. He forgets his fears for a moment as he squints at the faint writing on each switch. He holds his breath as he tries the first one, and waits… nothing. The second and third switches also yield the same result.

“Come on… Give me something,” he grunts, flipping through each switch. Namjoon’s senses are on high alert, and despite his desperate pleas, the lights remain stubborn in their refusal to turn on. Perhaps this is a sign from the universe to head on home, yet he can't just leave, not when the company is on the line for another major sale! No, he has to stay.

Click after click; his breath begins to puff into wispy clouds as he waits, the heater having shut off long ago, causing the cold to sneak in and settle in his bones. Yet the lights are stubborn in their efforts to remain turned off.

His paranoia also increases with every failed attempt. More than a few times, he calls out into the darkness because he thinks he hears his name, only for silence to reply to his answer. He curses, begs, and mutters under his breath, but the universe refuses to let him walk away with victory.

There’s only the last row left.

The first two switches yield nothing, unsurprisingly.

Four left. Click. Nothing.

His hands begin to shake as he goes down the row, waiting a little longer before going through the buttons this time. Maybe the electricity is just taking its sweet time to travel through the old wires of the building. That's how it works, right?

Three left. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Come on, come on.”

He jumps when the wind picks up, slamming a door from the other end of the hallway, as though it’s protesting against Namjoon’s actions. He must've forgotten to close the windows. Yeah. That's it.

Sweat collects along his forehead, and he swallows thickly at the fear that clings on his shoulders. When he reaches over the second to last switch, the windows rattle loudly against the force of the storm outside, and Namjoon yelps in surprise. In his attempts to calm himself down, it happens again. More howling. More rattling. Heart picking up pace, his shaky hand manages to pull the lever, only for nothing to happen. He’s engulfed in a sea of sound; his blood roaring in his ears and the loud crashes of the wind against the windows.

One to go. The last switch.

Namjoon doesn’t wait, gripping the black plastic tight between his fingers. “Please!” he yells with his eyes squeezed shut, flipping the switch with a great force that he’s surprised the plastic didn’t break.

Nothing.

His heart begins its slow descent to the floor.

But, after a few more seconds, he hears the familiar hum of electricity before the room floods with light. Namjoon’s shoulders sag with relief as he crouches on the floor to gather himself. The wind itself seems to quiet down, as though sulking at his success.

Namjoon doesn't care about all that though. His pride had been hurt. Thank goodness he’s alone. He couldn’t imagine having to explain his panic to his coworkers, because who would believe that their shrewd boss is afraid of the dark?

The anxiety left his body in a sad state of shock however, so when he tries to stand, he finds that his energy has been sapped clean, rendering his legs useless. White-hot frustration fills his eyes with tears. This wouldn’t have happened if he just left the office.

Breathe, Joon.

Namjoon's eyes widen and flit around the room hurriedly to find the source of your voice, before he stops when he realizes where he was. How ironic, even with him focusing all his thoughts on work, you still manage to wiggle your way inside.

“Oh my god, I’ve gone crazy,” he chuckles, sliding his palm over his face. Yet, he listens, and breathes. Purposeful slow breaths that fill his lungs with oxygen, and soon enough, his heart returns to its former pace.

When he tests his legs, he’s able to stand.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, Namjoon walks towards the direction of the office, only to pause when he spies his reflection on the window. There, a mirror image of him stands, looking just as exhausted as he feels. The bags under his eyes tells a story of late nights in the office; of a person that hasn’t relaxed in some time now. How could he? There’s a whole company resting on his shoulders. Perhaps once things settle down after the dawn breaks in the upcoming year, Namjoon could go on holiday. Somewhere tropical… Lombok, maybe? The thought of plunging his toes to warm sand as he soaks the sun’s rays sounds delightful, but he’s forced to rid himself of fantasies when he nears his office, as he’s unable to resist the siren’s call of work.

When he opens the door, however, he’s startled to find you standing by his desk with your back turned towards him. You’re in an off-white dress with a tiara neatly placed on your hair. The image looks familiar yet foreign at the same time, and it’s only when you turn to face him does he realize that something is wrong.

It’s no wonder that he finds the view familiar. You are wearing your wedding dress, complete with the sash that cinches your waist and the veil cascading around your face like a halo.

Yet instead of joy, your beautiful face is painted in sadness, with tears collecting in the rim of your eyes; a torrent of emotions ready to be released.

“D-Dear?” Namjoon calls out in disbelief, refusing to enter the room. “What are you doing here?”

You smile sadly in response, before crossing the threshold until you stand a foot in front of him, extending your hand towards his still figure. “Joon,” you beckon. “Come here.”

Namjoon remains rooted to the spot, warning bells ringing in his mind. There’s a strange blurriness to your form, like the universe isn’t too happy with your existence. That being said, the wrinkles he’s gotten to know doesn’t exist in this version of you… as though you’ve transformed yourself like your younger self. Could makeup do something like this? Then again, when did you have the time to come over in the middle of a blackout without letting him know?

He steals a glance at his phone, trying to find the notification that indicates that he’s missed your call, but his inbox remains empty of your trace – save for the dozens of messages from his employees wishing him well for the holidays.

There’s no way the person in front of him is his wife, no matter what his eyes are suggesting otherwise. He must be exhausted, and the fear from earlier is making him see things. Yeah. That's what's happening. Yet, mind intrigued, and mouth running faster than he could catch it, he voices his confusion. “Who… are you?”

Upon his reluctance, you close your hand into a fist and let it fall to your side, though the smile never leaves your face. “I’m your wife, of course,” you answer, but then your brows knot in confusion. “Wait… we did get married, right?”

Namjoon looks around. Was this some sort of prank?

Why are you entertaining this woman, Namjoon? He scolds himself. Get back to work.

“I am married, but not to you,” Namjoon snaps with a shake of his head. “Whoever you are, please leave before I call the cops.” He holds his cellphone like a weapon, tightening his grip on the device, as he stalks towards you.

He means to haul the stranger away, but as soon as he steps foot in his office, the world melts. Gone is his desk and subsequently, your present and the stacks of papers. Gone is his shelf, filled with photographs and awards from his lifetime. Gone is his world.

When he blinks, Namjoon is suddenly standing in the midst of a sea of people. From their outfits, there seems to be a party of some sort. Just as he deduces that his environment isn't threatening — he's surrounded by bodies, all exclaiming 'Congratulations' to his face. But in his panic, his eyes are unable to make sense of the details, causing the crowd to look nothing more than faceless mannequins. And then, just before he sinks to the floor to curl up into a tight ball of anxiety, he spots you, or at least, the version of you that was in his office mere moments ago, laughing with a few people as you sip on champagne.

Time seems to slow as Namjoon makes his way to reach you; the crowd parting seamlessly to let him through. When was the last time he’s seen you smile, let alone laugh, like that?

In that moment, whatever panic he feels doesn’t matter, because you’ve returned to be the centre of his world.

Oh.

There's a surge of emotions as Namjoon continues to study your smiling face, and finally, he remembers. This... feeling. Familiar and foreign at the same time.

Helplessly, he stares, transfixed and awestruck at your beauty. His foot melds into one with the floor. His mouth that was once formed into an 'o' closes by itself before a corner lifts, up and up, to transform into a lopsided smile. And when his heart picks up its pace once more, it’s not out of fear or terror, but a strong affection whose name once escapes him, but has now returned home.

Love.

At that moment, you turn around and spot him. Your initial surprise at seeing him just standing there dissolves into a bright smile. “Namjoon! Over here!"

Wait. Could you see him too? And… you're not… upset? Namjoon points to himself in disbelief as he looks around to see if there's any other versions of him in the vicinity.

“Yes, you,” you giggle with a shake of your head. Namjoon watches you excuse yourself from your conversation partners before coming towards him. He can smell the perfume you're wearing - a subtle hint of floral that melts beautifully with your skin. You lift your hand and touch his cheekbones, wearing a half-worried and half-amused expression. “Are you drunk already? The party’s just starting!”

Namjoon is unable to tear his eyes away from you. From up close, you’re so beautiful, your eyes catching the light to sparkle like the most brilliant of diamonds. “What’s going on?” he asks, unsure if the scene in front of him is real.

You return his question with a quirk of your brow. “Umm… we just got married like 4 hours ago?” Then, standing on your tiptoes, you cup a hand by his ear to whisper conspiratorially, “Should we cut the reception short and get the hell out of here? We can start our own ‘party’. You know… with just the two of us.”

The teasing, almost salacious, voice is one he's not used to, not anymore. But, Namjoon remembers it well, because it's the very same one you once used when you’re scheming with him, during a time when you were both his best friend and lover. The memories of cutting class during college to spend just a few moments alone together come rushing in as he continues to stare at your face - ones filled with stolen kisses behind the bleachers and sneaking around the dorm hallways to avoid the strict RAs.

If the dress you wear wasn't enough of a clue, he finally remembers this day; this exact moment. Though the memory is slightly altered, the words you utter are the exact same. Namjoon's sure of it now; in just a few moments, you'll be introduced to the world as Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

What he doesn't quite remember is your expression. Forget witnessing you laugh vivaciously in front of nameless figures, this was something else. The bright, almost bewildered look, like you couldn't believe that today was real; that soft curve of your lips of a serene smile; and the joy that you radiate just from standing next to him. You're looking at him like...

Like you're in love... With him.

Just as he contemplates this revelation, the master of ceremonies’ voice booms through the speakers. “Ladies and gentleman,” she announces enthusiastically, waving an arm towards your general direction. “It is time for the couple’s first dance. Let me re-introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Kim!”

Beside him, you cheer loudly along with the guests, laughing and high-fiving the people closest to you.

“Ready, husband?” You waggle your brows. “That’s our cue to dance!”

The crowd clears a path for the two of you, a spotlight shining on the centre of the room. You’re already walking a few steps ahead of him, before stopping when you realize that Namjoon is still stuck where he stands. Turning around, you extend a hand towards him.

“What are you waiting for? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” you chuckle, waving your outstretched hand impatiently. “It’s too late now, mister. We’re married. And you and I both know that we're both too lazy to go through the divorce proceedings.”

In a daze, Namjoon reaches out and grabs your hand, the warmth instantly spreading all over his body. He ignores the fleets of chuckles amongst the crowd, having heard your words; no, he focuses solely on you.

With a knowing smirk, you tug him towards you until the two of you stand in the middle of the dance floor. A hush falls over the room, the silence of anticipation rippling among the guests as the first few notes of soft piano music begins to play. What was his wedding song again? He can hardly hear the notes, his brain too filled with committing your lovely face to memory.

He moves instinctively, circling your waist with his arm to pull you close to him. You let out a soft ‘oh’ of surprise at the touch. Your bravado seems to drop, your movements robotic as Namjoon guides you through the dance.

“Now who’s getting cold feet?” he teases low before pressing his cheek on your head. He's unable to stop the smile from crawling up his face at the quiet sound of indignation from you.

“Shut up,” you complain. Namjoon's dismayed when you shrug him off from you, but he's quickly relieved to learn that you're not angry when you stick your tongue childishly at him. “You’re lucky I love you or else I’ll divorce you right now.”

Namjoon gasps scandalously, despite having a difficult time trying to keep his smile at bay. “You wouldn’t dare!”

The two of you burst into laughter while still swaying along to the music, lost in the world of each other's arms. In the comforting silence, Namjoon prays that this dance doesn't end, and if this happens to be some sort of dream, he hopes he never wakes up.

You're holding onto each other tightly, not even an inch apart between your bodies. And when the music reaches its peak, Namjoon stops dancing to lift your chin upwards before lowering his lips to meet yours. He hears the gasps from the crowd, and he smirks into the kiss, feeling a sort of pride from being the only person who's able to do this to you.

Alas, you are in public, so Namjoon reluctantly pulls away, but not before ensuring that your breaths come out staggered as though oxygen isn't the only thing he's taken.

“Oh, you'll rue the day you break my heart, Mr. Kim, because I swear that you’ll know pain,” you pout with a poke on his ribs.

Namjoon knows you're not the biggest fan of public displays of affection, but how can he stop touching you when you're just so lovely?

“You wound me, Mrs. Kim,” he counters with a snicker gracing you with a serene smile. He cradles your cheek, staring deep into your eyes as he promises, “You know that I would never break your heart, my love.”

But as soon as he utters those words, the music stops, and the room’s occupants freeze in place, the once boisterous laughter cut short, like when you turn off the TV in the middle of a laugh track. The sudden silence is so eerie that it causes Namjoon to falter, dropping his hands to his sides as he surveys the room with terror. What’s happening this time?

“’Never’, you say?”

It’s nothing more than a whisper, but in the deafening silence of the room, your words carry themselves to his ears, and Namjoon has to suppress a chill that runs down his spine. He doesn’t dare to turn around and face you, afraid of what he might find.

Why does your voice sound so… cold?

“You swore,” clack. “That you’d ‘never’,” clack. “Break my heart,” clack.

Namjoon’s shivering now, and if the clicks of your high-heels, coupled with your clipped words, are indications of a warning, he should probably start running for the hills by now. He takes a small step forward, and another, but his attempts are futile at best because the crowd is an unmoving wall, refusing to part for his trembling figure.

With a deep breath, he turns around, eyes expanding in fear. Namjoon must be brought here, to the past or whatever this world may be, for a reason… but that fear, the very same one that spikes his heart rate to a million miles an hour, only melts away at the sight of your face.

Grief swims in your once sparkling eyes, but what surprises him most is how exhausted you looked – like you’ve been holding yourself back from breaking numerous times, only to be disappointed by something repeatedly.

Or someone.

“Did I... do this to you?” he whispers, taking a step forward to meet you toe-to-toe. He moves to touch your cheek, but his hand freezes in the air when a single tear escapes.

However, you lean into the touch, closing your eyes before heaving a sigh. Instead of an answer, you wave your hand into the air. A mirror appears in front of Namjoon, decorated with ornate gold trimming. He could only gape as he stares into his reflection, but truthfully all the panic and anxiety over the past few hours has rendered him incapable of surprise. Nothing in this world, and probably the next, could ever phase him anymore.

“What’s this?” he asks, though he has a feeling he’s about to find out.

Sure enough, the sad smile reemerges. “Just watch and you’ll see.”

Namjoon only nods. Before him, the surface of the mirror swirls until a scene begins to play out like a grand TV.

There you sit in your living room, wearing a deep-plum gown, anxiously checking your phone for the time before fiddling with the gold band that adorns your finger. Namjoon smiles warmly at your little habit, the intricacies that make you all the more lovely even after years of living together.

You looked beautiful, that's no surprise, matching the floor-length gown with the dangly earrings he got you for your birthday the year before. He remembers the garment vividly; having seen it hang on the door of your shared wardrobe because you were planning on wearing it… to your fifth anniversary dinner. The very same event that he cancelled last minute because he chose to work.

His smile drops.

It’s the first of many promises that he’ll fail to keep.

Namjoon could only stare helplessly as you continue to wait. The scene skips forward a few times until the mirror shows you pacing around your living room with your phone pressed into your ear. You've bunched up the plum-coloured gown by your knees to make it easier for you to move.

His heart sinks. How many times had you called him that night?

You keep trying his phone, and with every call that he ignored that night, the panic inside you continued to build. He can’t hear what you’re saying – your words overpowered by the sound of guilt and regret – but at this point, you’re probably calling everyone you know to see if anyone could get a hold of him.

“Jimin?" You carded your fingers in your hair as you sighed in relief to hear Namjoon's secretary's voice. "Is he okay? Where's Namjoon? I’ve called him again and again and—What? He’s… where?” Your voice in the mirror is slightly distorted, but Namjoon can hear the tightness in your words before the tone switches to disbelief. He doesn’t have to hear the rest of the conversation to remember where he was that night.

“No, don’t bother him. Yeah, I’m fine," you lie. "Good night.”

When your call with Jimin ends, you sink to the floor and weep.

The mirror swirls again, showing more scenes of you waiting around for him in various shades of refinery – an emerald gown, a scarlet cocktail dress… the list goes on. With each passing scene, Namjoon could see the hope in your eyes diminishing, and with It, regret piling high on his shoulders. He's not sure how much more of this he can take.

In one scene, only after waiting for what seemed to be an hour, in a blush-coloured top that he hadn't seen before, you left and returned with an open bottle of wine. After cursing Namjoon under your breath, you brought the neck to your lips and drank, and drank, and drank. Never once taking a breath for air, until a fourth of the bottle is gone.

Yet even through your grief, he could see the sliver of hope you held onto, because you kept on agreeing to his promises, giving him chance after chance that he doesn't take. His heart breaks continuously, the already shattered pieces crumbling further into dust as he could do nothing else, but watch.

Then the mirror shifts once more to a scene from this morning, focusing on how you lingered at the large portrait of the two of you on your wedding day. He watches you shuffle into the living room and stare at something on the coffee table, but it’s not before the angle shifts again that he could see what it was. He could do nothing else but stare at the bolded words on the stacks of paper with his heart lodged in his throat.

It’s only when his vision begins to swim that Namjoon realizes that he’s crying.

After the last scene, the vision shuts off, returning the looking glass into a normal, albeit unsually ornate, mirror.

The after-images of you dance in Namjoon’s mind: of you drinking, of you worried, of you waiting for him. All of a sudden, it doesn’t matter that he’s the president of his company, everything ceases to have meaning when there’s a chance that he could lose you forever. And he's sure that nothing, no amount of expensive gifts in the world or pretty words, will bring you back once you leave him.

“How do I fix this?” he cries, wiping the tears away with his sleeve. “I wanna go back to my world.”

Your expression remains doubtful, but Namjoon presses on. "Please, I want to make this right," he begs, falling to his knees while pressing his forehead on the back of your hand. The gold band you wear glints in the light, and he cements his final promise with a light kiss on your finger. "Please."

"Okay," you relent quietly. “I’ll return you to your world, but Joon… can you promise me that you won’t break her heart—our hearts again?”

It’s his turn to offer a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’ll take a miracle to convince you that he’s changed, but he’s willing to risk it all. Namjoon is more proud of his title as your husband than the president of his company, and he hopes that the ambition in his eyes convinces you of that.

“I swear it.”

And the world fades to black.

---

Namjoon gasps awake.

The ballroom is gone – replaced by the familiar surroundings of his office, but he has no time to rejoice in his return because he has to leave. Now.

Just as he puts his coat on, he spots your gift sitting prettily on his desk. He almost took it with him, but he remembers what the present symbolized – empty promises and apologies – and decided to leave it and run. His footsteps pounding against the pavement is indistinguishable from the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage; his breath coming up in puffs as he yanks door after door open, taking the stairs two–sometimes three at a time, in his quest to get to his car.

The snow that pelts against his windshield makes it hard for him to see the road. Even his fog lights are of little use with the storm raging outside. The tires slide against the sleek pavement, unable to find purchase on the unpaved ground.

“Come on!” Namjoon snarls, white-knuckles gripping on the steering wheel as he squints to find a path through the glittering snow.

This trial, however, is nothing. No mere element will stop him from coming home to you.

Wait for me for one last time, he prays, powering through the sleet and flurry dancing outside. Please. Just this once.

---

It’s your last night sleeping in this giant bed.

When the morning comes, you’ll head to Namjoon’s office and hand him the papers yourself, ones that contain your signatures to dissolve your current arrangement. Will he cry? Beg you to stay? Maybe once upon a time he would have, but you’re not sure if the current Namjoon’s the same person you married all those years ago.

The clock had chimed twelve times before you decided that Namjoon wasn’t going to make it home for Christmas again this year, and you had to peel your weeping self back to the bedroom to get ready for bed.

Now, in the darkness, little else matters. Come morning, you’ll be gone, leaving only the photographs lining the halls of this empty house as evidence of your presence.

Still, you hope he’ll think of you fondly from time to time.

---

Just a little bit more.

With the roads devoid of its usual traffic, Namjoon’s able to make it inside his neighbourhood in a quarter of the time it would normally take. Turning the corner into his street, his heart sinks when he sees that the house is dark. You’ve turned all the lights off, save for the one that shines above the front porch.

She’s just asleep, he thinks as he takes the front steps two at a time. Please, god, let her be asleep.

The only time he stops is to discard his wet shoes and coat into a pile by the front door. He doesn't bother with the lights, not when he's too much in a hurry to be by your side. He walks briskly past the couch where you sat, and the beautiful portraits of the two of you, hammering home the promise that he hopes to make things right.

Yet when he reaches his destination, he stutters to a stop, his hand hovering in the air. The door to your shared bedroom has never been this imposing. It towers over him like a giant, mocking his small figure despite Namjoon being close to six feet tall. This was far more nerve wracking than when he proposed to you all those years ago. With a final plea that you haven’t left him for good, his clammy hand wraps around the door handle, and Namjoon walks inside.

“Baby?”

He would have otherwise been terrified of the silence, but in this case, Namjoon’s relieved. He spies your curled up frame in the covers, with half your face buried into the pillow. Even though there’s a storm raging outside, there you lay, a vision of peace.

Namjoon could feel his throat close up again, the tears threatening to spill out from inside of him. He could watch you all night, counting the breaths while watching the rise and fall of your chest. In the shadow of the night, he stands, debating on if he should wake you. It’s no doubt an urgent conversation, but could it wait until tomorrow?

With shaky fingers, Namjoon sweeps his fingers across your cheek. A tear escapes, falling into the sheets. How long did you wait this time? How many hours did you spend checking your phone and looking outside before you realized he wasn’t coming home? Guilt and regret stabs at his chest. All this pain, this sorrow that lines your beautiful face, it could have all been avoided if he just listened.

“Baby… I’m sorry,” he whispers.

At the sound of Namjoon’s voice, your eyes flutter open. “Joon?” you croak, your own voice thick with sleep as you sit up. “Is that really you?” Your eyes expand at the sight of your husband’s eyes, ringed with red and full of anguish. What's going on?

“Yes,” he cries. Namjoon's fingers graze your cheek, before his palm cradles your face. “It’s me. I’m here. I’m late, I’m sorry, but I swear that it’s the last time I’ll make you wait for me.”

Your own eyes well with tears at the raw emotion in his voice. Your hand moves to touch his face. Though his cheekbones are cold, there's an undeniable realness to this. It isn't a dream. Namjoon's really here.

You have spent countless nights wishing for him to return home and into your arms, but now that it's happening, you can't find yourself to forgive him so easily. Willing your tears at bay, you move away from his touch. You try not to wince at the crestfallen look on Namjoon's face.

"Why are you here?"

He doesn't reply, though his mouth opens and shuts a few times. "I came… to make it right," he finally utters in a small voice.

Heat rises to your cheeks. How dare he say that without knowing anything; not how long you've waited or how much you've cried? And how convenient, just as you're about to leave, he somehow miraculously comes to his senses?

"I can't believe you!" The weather outside can't eclipse your fury. "You have no right coming back here to seek forgiveness." You can't stop the hot tears from falling, causing the edge of your words to sharpen more than any knife you could wield. He's going to feel it all; your grief from having to wait, and the results of your patience wearing thin.

"Namjoon… I waited for you for months. I tried talking to you about it too, but you didn't listen," you accuse, trying not to be swayed when he winces at the truth. "The first time it happened, do you have any fucking idea how scared I was? Every time I call, no one seems to know where you are! I was worried that something bad had happened."

He sits in front of you solemnly, with his chin tucked into his chest.

"But everything was fine, wasn't it?" you chuckle bitterly. "It wasn't until I called Jimin that I realised… you've changed. You stopped caring about me, and about our relationship.

"And now, you want to come here and apologise? All I ever wanted,” you hiccup, but you don't let the sob stop you from talking, “All I ever needed was you, Joon. I couldn’t have cared less about the expensive presents.”

“I’m sorry," he cries, tears flowing steadily from his eyes. “I’m an idiot for taking you for granted, and I can't believe how long it took me to figure out just how badly I've fucked up. Please," Namjoon offers you a hand. "Just give me one more chance."

Funny. How long have you extended your own hand only to be met with refusal?

You shake your head, clenching the blanket tightly under your grip to avoid the temptation. “Why couldn’t you have prioritized us sooner, Joon?” Your words come out broken, exhaustion seeping into every word. “You kept pushing me away, and I don’t get it. I just wanted it to be you, only you."

The silence takes over as you let the words sink in. But from the lack of response from Namjoon, you continue after a heavy sigh, "God. I'm stupid," you laugh ruefully with a shake of your head. "I should’ve left you a long time ago, back when I first realized that our relationship was no longer a priority—but a convenience.”

Your husband in front of you only repeats his apologies, hanging his head so his hair covers his face. The 'sorry's… they ring hollow now, having been repeated so frequently without change that it ceases to have all meaning.

And for you. After spending so much time wishing, there is truly nothing more to be said; no more tears to shed.

The fury has died.

All that's left of you is an empty shell, a person completely devoid of emotion, aside from this heavy weariness.

You don't spare him a glance, staring straight at the storm outside instead.

"You’re right. I took you... I took us for granted," Namjoon whispers, his voice just as seemingly exhausted as yours. Even if you wanted to be angry at his audacity, you couldn't. There's truly no more you can give him. What good is a relationship without trust?

Yet when his shaky fingers clasp around yours, you can't stop the seed of hope from planting itself in your heart, and finally, you bring your eyes to meet his.

"I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure that this doesn’t happen again," he vows, marking the promise with a squeeze of his hand. "Please. Is there any way that you can give me a second chance?”

Your heart shatters as though it hasn’t been broken before. You want to give in; to believe that things have changed, but you can’t hold out hope that this sudden revelation of his would last, because there's no way you'll survive if this all turns out to be a farce.

“I can’t forgive you yet, Namjoon.” You could feel him stiffen, but you can't care about that. You're just tired, so tired. “I just… I just need some time away to gather my thoughts.”

He lets go of your hand then, but his eyes continue to bore holes into you. It’s funny how, after all this time, you finally understand one another, just at the possible end of your relationship.

You expect his pride to pull out all the stops; to oppose - not above begging for you to stay, and you know you'd give in if he had, but to your surprise, Namjoon only nods.

“Take all the time you need,” he sighs, trying to smile, though gravity keeps pulling the corners of his lips downward. “But I want you to know that I won’t stop trying to make it up to you.”

And maybe, just maybe, that little seed of hope can grow into something beautiful; something that marks a new beginning.

But only time will tell. And you're willing to wait only until spring.

---

The next few years were hard.

Though you decided against moving away, you and Namjoon spent most of it in counseling as you learned to communicate with each other again. The progress was slow, and it’s often frustrating when you don’t see eye-to-eye, but when you started feeling distrustful, you held on to the promise that Namjoon made that night.

Even when the seasons changed and his work got busier, and you worried that he’d return to his old habits, Namjoon stayed true to his word, shifting his priorities so that your relationship came ahead of his job.

You're proud to report that the two of you have let the grief be a turning point to forge for a better future.

The holidays came early this year, it seems, because by the middle of November, your house was all decked in streamers and lights. Namjoon had purchased a real Christmas tree last week, claiming that it was more festive than the fake one you normally used. Much to your dismay, he also purchased some red and green sweaters for the two of you to wear while posing for the camera.

“Ugh, it’s a scam!” Namjoon complained as you descended down the stairs. “How could you make an ugly sweater look good?”

“Remember that this was all your idea, okay? Sorry that I have a super model body,” you laughed as you came to greet him with a kiss.

Namjoon joined you in your laughter before throwing you a wink. “Ah, you finally acknowledged your good looks! God I'm the luckiest man in the world.” He smiled before pulling you in for another kiss, and you couldn’t help but smile as his lips glided over yours. “Should we just forget about the presents? I don't think I can stop kissing you."

You giggled before pushing him away. "No! You bought these wonderful and definite not itchy sweaters. It would be a shame to take it off," you wink.

"Actually, I can't think of a better idea," he grins before pulling you into his arms.

The heat from his kisses have returned - just like the old times when you first fell in love, but along with it, comes a quiet reassurance built from years of hardship, something neither of you take for granted. When you part ways, you sigh, already longing for the moment when your lips could reacquaint with his.

Oh, how you used to recoil away from his touch, and look at you now, unable to spend five seconds apart from each other.

And Christmas, once as dreary as the season that it belongs to, has returned with laughter. And even though the wind had kicked up a storm again, your body’s warm against Namjoon, and your heart is finally safe as it remains nestled in his hands.

moon's notes: were you surprised!!! i hope you loved it ash!! your prompt choices were so interesting, so i hope you liked the way i tied it all together. cheers, my dear. i hope you have the BEST holiday 🎄

to ash: i decided to write something a bit extra because i really wanted to sneak this in, but couldn't figure out where to place it in the story. but i hope you enjoy this! consider it a bonus present ;)

ash's stocking stuffer:

The first thing you did when you woke up this morning was laugh. In front of you, Namjoon holds a tray of burnt toast and what looks to be coffee. "Joon... how many times have I told you not to set the toaster to the highest setting," you chuckle in disbelief. "I'm sorry! I just... I wanted the food to get done quick for you, my love," Namjoon smiles sheepishly. "Will you accept this offering anyway?" You nod, propping the pillows behind you so you can rest comfortably as he set the tray on your lap. "Eat up." "Thanks, babe." You pull him down to plant a quick kiss before looking at the spread. Rather than having burnt toast, you opt for the drink in the white porcelain mug. At first, you thought it was hot chocolate, but upon further inspection, you realize it's something else... something you haven't tasted in some time now. "Oh my god... is this your famous mocha, Joon?" You stare at your husband with excitement before drinking more of the bittersweet taste. Namjoon's all smiles, dimples on full display. "Only the best for my wife."

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[lepusrufus]

To bargain for immortality pt.1

It's here fellas, the mutation sequel that I've mercilessly teased you with!

Content warnings: gore, torture, blood (like... lots), just a bunch of puking up blood, Miranda being her usual mad scientist self, torture in the name of science, Nicole be sick af (both literally and of crow mommy's bullshit), a little bit of blood drinking as a treat, medical procedures.

////

Tic toc tic toc

God that clock is so annoying.

Nicole wasn’t nervous. No. She chose this, at least for the most part. She had a long conversation with all her family, Alcina and Esteria both assuring her that it would work. It’s been years since the beginning of the experiments and by this point the process was almost perfected.

Miranda knew what she was doing.

That mattered little to her nerves though.

She instinctively pushed herself further into Cassandra’s side, who’s grip around her waist tightened ever so slightly.

The waiting was downright tortuous.

She, along with Cassandra and her two sisters were in her infirmary. The room mixed the ancient decor of the castle with modern medical equipment in a beautiful way. Not that anything less would be acceptable. Not that the familiarity of her workspace brought her any comfort either.

All their eyes snapped in the direction of the door when a heavy set of footsteps, with two lighter ones, were heard down the hallway outside. Soon the door opened with a barely audible creak and the two matriarchs entered, followed suit by Mother Miranda. Her presence alone was enough to make Nicole’s breath get lost somewhere in her throat, on its way to an exhale. The black wings, even partially folded as they were, did their job of making her look so much more intimidating than she was. Not that she needed them to begin with, a look from those icy gray eyes more than enough to send anyone to their knees.

Mother Miranda was, in all ways that mattered, a goddess.

A goddess that was about to infect her with the same thing that failed countless times in the past. The same thing that made the crawling mindless beasts used as guard dogs in the undergrounds. Or that made all the lycans.

Nicole gulped, a gesture gone thankfully unnoticed to anyone other than her painfully dry mouth.

But Miranda didn’t spare her a glance. She simply busied herself with some tools she had brought on one of the metal tables. With each clink the room seemed to close in on her slightly more, until Nicole felt as if she somehow ended up in one of Heisenberg's death traps. Spikes moving closer and closer until they would pierce her body and leave her in a messy pool of blood and entrails.

She shook her head and took a long inhale. No. This was going to work. She was not about to lose her family over a pesky thing such as mortality. She was not about to lose Cassandra. If getting infected by the Cadou was what it took to spend eternity with her lover then so be it. Possible side effects be damned.

Mother Miranda finally seemed to have finished, a now empty flask labeled Cadou sitting on the desk behind her while the parasite was writhing in her hand, thin whip-like tentacles extending frantically around itself. She called her over with a nod, and with a deep breath and a parting hand squeeze from Cassandra, Nicole forced her legs to take her across the room. Her steps didn't waver, she'd be damned if she'd show any hesitancy in front of this.

"Shall we begin."

It wasn't a question really, merely veiled impatience. Miranda did not like her, plain and simple. The fact that she was there to begin with was already a miracle. Miracle that wouldn't have happened were it not for the Ladies themselves asking for it.

"Yes of c-"

Before her words even had time to completely slip out of her mouth, golden talons plunged into the base of her sternum.

"Hopefully this can teach you that I don't like people going behind my back."

Nicole let out a choked gasp, hands instinctively wrapping around Miranda's arm, weakly grabbing at black robes. Ironically enough, those very talons were keeping her upright and, when they were removed from her flesh with a disgusting squelch of blood, Nicole curled in on herself, falling to her knees.

"Wha-... cking ki-... -er!"

Cassandra's voice reached her ears broken up, barely passing through the deafening ringing. Miranda also gave a reply and then seemed to address someone else but her much calmer tone meant that it only sounded like a vague mumble.

Not that Nicole particularly cared at the moment.

She curled into a ball, her hands almost clawing at her chest trying to find some sort of relief. It seemed as if vicious tendrils were making their way into every vein and muscle, tearing their way through any tissue they found. Her chest felt as if it had a hot iron pressed directly onto the skin, searing pain radiating in a cruel pulse matching her frantic heartbeat. By that point she was either sobbing or heaving, something that involved shallow breaths for sure. Her lungs were protesting fiercely, emptying of oxygen and then refusing to refill if not with great strain.

To make everything worse, the pain seemed to shift, now engulfing her spine and sending jolts that made her head spin and want to throw up despite her jaws being clenched shut so tightly that she was sure she'd start to taste copper soon.

She was only vaguely aware of hands shifting her body and soothing words that fell on deaf ears. She was now on a softer surface, but that did nothing to alleviate the assault on each of her senses. Probably she had thrown up at a certain point as her sinuses felt like being scraped by sandpaper with each shuddering breath. Her mouth too had a lingering taste of both bile and blood that made her stomach turn all over again. She would give anything for her body to finally shut down.

Why was she still awake and conscious god damn it. There was only so much her body was supposed to take before the brain shut down and she was reaching her limit of how much agony she could endure at a moment.

Please please please just pass out please.

She didn't though. Her body seemingly deciding to feel every single bit of the infection process, complete with the unending waves of pain and nausea that hit her more than she wanted to count. Any bit of sanity left in her would've probably disappeared had she tried.

---

It took two days for the agonizing pain to subside. Another two for Nicole to be able to form any kind of coherent sentence. Cassandra's soothing voice was of immense comfort, always there to tell her how well she was doing and how it would all be better soon.

God she hoped.

On the fifth day, her stomach still lurched at any movement too sudden. Her lungs seemed to fill with blood, courtesy of the still gaping wound at the bottom of her sternum, with any inhale too deep. The fact that she got used to the coppery taste rising up in her throat was disgusting in and of itself. At least there weren't jolts of pain shooting through every nerve and muscle in waves anymore though. That was something.

The fog in her brain was still clearing. It was hard to focus on anything, and each time Cassandra, or anyone else, asked her a question they would have to repeat it at least three times. It was beyond frustrating, the mind that got her through med school drunk half the time was failing the insurmountable task of saying whether or not she'd like some water. Glorious.

A faint knock on the door reached her ears. A redundant gesture really, as she didn't exactly have the clarity of mind to answer. Besides it was hard to catch her in a more compromising state than curled up in the fetal position, covered in sweat and most likely blood clots stuck to her lips.

Esteria came in, her one blue eye that wasn't covered looking at her with all the gentleness neither of her parents had ever offered her. Or it was just the cruel trick of a delirious brain. Either way, light barefoot steps took the Mistress to her bed. She sat in the chair adjacent to it and, with taloned fingers brushing strands of auburn hair out of Nicole's face, she spoke softly.

"How are you feeling today?"

Her voice was just as melodious as ever. It was the voice one imagines they would hear from an ancient being found deep in the forest. It made Nicole just a tad guilty when the only answer she could give was a pathetic whine.

Esteria simply hummed, talons running through the long messy locks of hair sprawled on the sheets.

"Would you like me to braid this for you dear?"

Nicole frowned. The Mistress was an expert at braiding, quick fingers able to make beautiful designs, both simple and complex. Comes with having floor length hair, her hazy mind guessed. On any normal day, Nicole would've accepted without a second thought. But now? Now she was painfully aware of the state she was currently in.

"It's filthy," she croaked, her voice raw and like stones in her mouth.

And it was. Her hair was waist length and right now it was slowly becoming a curse. It was greasy and sweaty thanks to barely being able to move a limb for nearly a week, which meant no showers. Not to mention how she lost count of the times she bent down to empty the contents of her stomach into a bucket, only to have some rebel locks fall in her face and get subsequently dirty. God she felt awful.

Esteria didn't seem to care too much though, as she simply helped Nicole shift slightly and talons started to work at some pesky mats. In no time, her hair was in a comfortable braid that started relatively high, keeping the locks away from her nape which meant just a tad less overheating. Not to mention it kept it in place and away from her mouth that she didn't trust in the slightest right now.

"Thanks," she actually managed to not let her voice crack this time.

"Oh it's no problem. Also," there seemed to be an odd strain in her voice, "Mother Miranda is coming this evening. She said something about an examination."

Nicole couldn't help but openly wince and curl in on herself a little more at the mere mention of the woman. Her chest seemed to pulsate painfully at the memory of the golden talons embedded deep in her flesh. Right now she wanted those hands anywhere away from her.

"What time is it?"

Esteria looked at the clock placed somewhere on the wall behind them. "About twelve. Still got time."

How hard would it be to drag herself to the adjacent bathroom for a quick shower? The only way her situation could get worse was if none other than Mother Miranda came in to see her in that state. She took a deep breath that her lungs protested against and pushed herself onto her elbows. At Esteria's skeptical expression she tried to sound less horrible than she felt.

"I need a shower."

Esteria pursed her lips. "Sorry dear but I don't believe for one second that you can stand for more than a minute. I'll ask a maid to draw you a bath."

Nicole only nodded weakly and let herself fall back into the cushion.

---

It took far longer than Nicole would ever admit to get herself fully clean. Her muscles were sore and protesting at every pass of the soapy sponge. Her hair was a whole other battle and she had to bite down on her pride and ask the maid positioned outside her door for help. It was a tortuous fifteen minutes until the poor girl managed to detangle the long locks enough to be shampooed and washed.

After she was content with the level of cleanliness of her body and the maid was dismissed, she stood there preparing herself to get out of the basin. In the meantime she looked down at the wound at the bottom of her sternum. Maybe wound wasn't the right word. It looked more like a gray and black scar with vein-like tendrils spreading across pale skin. It looked downright gruesome. Miranda really did not try to do a clean job in the slightest. Didn't even think to use anesthesia, like she had with most other experiments, according to Alcina.

She sighed and finally pushed herself out of the water with shaky arms.

By the time Mother Miranda arrived she was feeling slightly better. Why she came personally was still a mystery to Nicole. Maybe some sick sense of satisfaction in seeing her in pain.

Either way, by the time their so-called goddess came into the infirmary and told Nicole to lay down on one of the tables, she managed to shuffle her way over without her body protesting too much. Cassandra also quietly made her way on the opposite side of Miranda, gaining herself a glare.

"Must you hover over her like that?" Miranda's tone was as even as ever, but her eyes betrayed annoyance.

"Does it hinder you?"

Cassandra was not an idiot, the growl she wanted to add into her question was instead replaced by a tone not too dissimilar to Miranda's own, who simply tugged her lips into a grimace.

"Very well."

At first they went through a normal examination. Pupil dilation, reflexes, all things a normal doctor would do. Then Miranda told her to unbutton her blouse so she could take a look at the infection scar.

Nicole couldn't help flinching when thankfully gloved fingers would poke and prod at the sensitive flesh there. Her cold digits felt like hot coals were spread on her chest and nails dragged uselessly on the metal underneath her body for some sort of distraction.

Mother Miranda decided to get a tissue sample and that's when Nicole decided that maybe she would rather spend eternity as a ghost. She squeezed her eyes shut when a scalpel was brought to the overly sensitive skin. It took her back to when she would do autopsies, years ago. Tissue samples were always an integral part of her work. How ironic that she found herself on the other side of things.

It's fine.

She winced when the blade cut into flesh and sent a jolt of pain through her chest. Nicole couldn't help but think of the long days she spent agonizing while her chest felt like it was burning her alive and hoping that it wouldn't repeat. A sigh of pure relief slipped past her lips when whatever fake deity there was besides this woman, listened to her and the sensation died out quickly. She dared to open her eyes, only to see Mother Miranda frowning down at the small vial in hand.

It was quickly given to an assistant and she unceremoniously grabbed Nicole's wrist, dragging the blade across the length of her forearm.

Nicole gasped at the sudden sharp pain, and even Cassandra dropped a few choice words in romanian due to the surprise. No. No no no. What the hell-

Any questions, or less dignified reaction, died in everyone's throats as they watched the skin stitch itself back together. The repairing muscles gave a tingling sensation but soon the only proof that a cut had been there were thin trails of blood.

Mother Miranda chuckled and wrote down something in the notebook she brought with her. "Accelerated healing. That can be of use."

Nicole couldn't help but throw a glance at Alcina, who was sitting in one of the many chairs with Esteria by her side. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of conflicting emotions flashing in her eyes like rapid lightning. She would've tried to decipher their matriarch's probable thoughts were it not for the smell that was starting to assault her senses.

"Ugh what's that…blood… "

Coherent sentences were still not something her brain wanted to do apparently, but judging by how her nose scrunched up in a grimace, Cassandra got the gist of what she meant.

"Um… your arm," she pointed to the still fresh blood slowly dripping from her skin.

Right. Dumbass.

"Or damaged sinuses. Should go away soon," Miranda added from where she was noting something down and giving instructions to her assistant.

Also fair.

She sighed and tried to ignore it. Her sinuses still felt like sandpaper all the way to the back of her throat. Every time she swallowed, it felt like needles scraping the inside of her neck down to her stomach.

Ugh.

Thankfully, Mother Miranda did not linger for much longer. She wrapped up any samples and was out of the room soon after with her assistant in tow. Then, Nicole could finally go back to laying down in bed and feeling miserable.

And miserable she felt. Her body seemed to have decided to rewire itself into its new mutation. It didn't have any effect on her physical appearance, but the insides seemed to want to liquefy only to be mended back together. It was another week of basically living with a bucket in her lap and throwing up blood clots that seemed to invade her lungs and organs. How she didn't straight up asphyxiate was a mystery that she didn't think she wanted solved.

And to top it off, she was starting to think that humidity from some leaky pipe somewhere in the castle was causing a slight mold problem. Almost everywhere she went, there was this faint moldy scent lingering in the air and it was mixing horribly with the coppery feeling inside her still offended throat and sinuses. Nobody seemed bothered by it though, so maybe it was simply a side effect of the infection that was yet to go away. It wasn’t nicknamed the Mold for nothing, after all.

[midnightwinterhawk]

I put together a little collection of Sterek and Steter fics for funsies. “Just a few fics”, I thought, “nothing too crazy.” Thirty fics later I had to cut myself off and finalize the list. You can thank @the-cookie-of-doom​ for the inspiration. 

These primarily fall under the Hurt Stiles Stilinski category because I apparently like to see my comfort characters suffer. Most of these have hopeful/happy endings but mind the tags. For reals.

Placed under a cut since I have no self control and this turned into a long post.

Sterek

adore to see your eyes fly by @1001cranes

(11,309 l E)

stiles is a pyromaniac, derek is a sociopath. a match made in some kind of heaven. teen wolf kink meme fill.

take my heart from me by @areiton

(23,188 l NR)

He didn't really mean to adopt Derek's pack of puppies. He didn't mean to make himself important to them.

To Derek.

He just wanted to keep them all safe.

That's all Stiles ever wanted.

"Why Can't You?" by @asterekmess

(3,602 l T)

Now. This was happening now, and he couldn’t be less prepared.

-

After a long night, things between Stiles and his father come to a head.

And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi

(30,314 l E)

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

A Victory March by @churkey

(2,688 l T)

When Stiles is eight he learns that nothing will be the same. His dad comes home one day after work and sits Stiles down for a talk. He explains that werewolves and all the monsters are real.

They're real and not hiding under anyone's bed.

Bury the Moon by darthjamtart

(16,592 l M)

First things get bad. Then they get worse. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s sacrificed until it’s too late.

Dying is the easy part.

Love's Violent Delights by @dexterous-sinistrous

(10,685 l E)

Derek caught the way the man’s eyes looked over Stiles before lingering on his ass. He waited for the clerk to place the key on the counter before he reacted.

Stiles startled at the loud noise, turning away from the pamphlets in the display box to see Derek pinning the clerk’s head against the counter. He drew in an even breath, looking between the struggling man and Derek.

Derek briefly looked at Stiles, hesitating before he saw the gleam of excitement in Stiles’ eyes and the hint of lust in his scent. “Ever look at him, or any other Omega, like that again, and I’ll slice your eyes out with my claws.” He shoved the man back, not caring of the commotion that was made as he snatched up the key from the counter.

Empty by @discontentedwinter

(48,034 l M)

Jordan Parrish is the new sheriff of Beacon Hills, a town haunted by its past.

Your Vision Borrows Mine by hazyascent

(188,781 l E)

Stiles has encountered a fair share of monsters before, way out of his league - the kinds that children are afraid are hiding in their closets and under the bed.

He’d even become one himself when he was void. The nogitsune was in his house, his body, and his mind.

But the worst monster he’s ever faced took even more from him and got away with it.

It’s why Stiles has never really been as terrified of werewolves and kanimas and darachs as he should have been. They’re really not that scary, relatively speaking, and he has a whole team on his side. They always found a way to win - until they lost someone they really loved.

Stiles doesn’t know how to be normal, not after everything he’s done and everyone he’s hurt. The nogitsune is gone, but another monster is on its heels.

His uncle is back. And Stiles has never felt more alone.

It Was a Wednesday by @isthatbloodonhisshirt

(80,129 l M)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”

Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.

Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.

“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.

“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Tiny Houses by @ohmyjetsabel-blog

(77,183 l E)

"So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.

God, he dreams.

He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."

I'm There in the Water by @spaceprincessem

(15,878 l T)

“But it’s—” Derek paused, his words unsure, “it’s not like us,” he swallows hard, chin dipping to his chest in frustration, “it’s like a…”

“An abomination,” Stiles finished, nodding his head as he finally lets his gaze really look at Derek since Scott had pulled them from the water.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t because the way Derek looks at him makes Stiles feel like he is ten years old again. Like Derek is seeing him for the first time since they accidentally fell into each other’s orbit all those years ago. Like Stiles isn’t a burden or invisible.

Like he is enough.

Or five times Stiles felt like he was drowning and the one time he finally caught his breath

Gunplay is Not Really Our Kink by theroguesgambit

(2,577 l M)

“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”

--

Derek and Stiles are captured by a group of hunters and forced to play a twisted game that only one of them might walk away from.

The Price by theroguesgambit

(18,452 l M)

Stiles must surrender the most important thing in his life to protect the town… and no one can figure out what it was.

Nieważny by Zethsaire

(2,037 l E)

The pack is gone, everything they've ever cared for destroyed. Now Stiles and Derek hunt the hunters, taking revenge in the only way they know how; blood.

Steter

Make Me Bleed by @asarcasticwitch

(2,304 l E)

Peter’s expression contorts, impressed or surprised, Stiles can't decipher, but the grin on his face proves he’s not exactly disappointed with the unexpected turn of events.

“Which bite exactly were you hoping for, hm?” The older man curls one hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, trailing his thumb along his pale, fragile throat.

Stiles tilts his head back in unyielding submission, giving the wolf no room to debate his sincerity. “I’m sure you can figure it out, Alpha.

Two Roads Converge in a Graveyard Town by @cywscross

(15,645 l T)

The Deadpool brings one more assassin to Beacon Hills. A man's gotta eat after all.

when you're going through hell (keep going for me) by cywscross

(57,022 l T)

Peter is abandoned in the aftermath of the fire, and Eichen House takes ruthless advantage. Six years later, when he's finally able to move again, he finds himself in a cell with a boy in a straitjacket.

(Kate’s biggest mistake was letting Peter live. Eichen House’s biggest mistake was letting Peter meet Stiles.)

Don't Fail Me Now by @discontentedwinter​

(36,315 l E)

Stiles goes to Derek looking for help.

He finds Peter instead.

Peter takes what he's wanted for a very long time.

Sanctuary by DiscontentedWinter

(56,525 l M)

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

Bite Down by EclipseWing (@shadow-of-the-eclipse)

(27,586 l M)

In which Stiles is forced to survive the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic murdering werewolf for company.

Into Eden by @graciebirdie

(12,232 l M)

Stiles deciding to bring home the stray alpha he'd hit with his jeep probably made him certifiable, if it hadn't turned out Peter was as crazy as he was.

Before you let go (and the light takes you in) by Issay

(4,032 l E)

Stiles makes one last errand - goes to leave flowers on all the other graves. Fuck, so many graves. The grief is as endless and as inescapable as the sky.

He goes home and there is a thing wearing his father's face, waiting for him in the kitchen.

Call My Name by KouriArashi ( @gingersnapwolves )

(81,370 l M)

After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.

Hide my tears in the rain. by MrsRidcully

(6,865 l M)

After  years spent successfully dodging werewolves, evil spirits and wendigos,  it was a drunk driver who stole his Dad, a drunk driver with a  suspended license and a record sheet as long as Stiles’s arm. Stiles  would have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been so busy screaming.

In My Veins Like Disease by romanoffbarton

(1,140 l T)

He tries to leave once.

Foreshock by @twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(22,816 l E)

The day Stiles’ mom died, he almost leveled his house.

Not on purpose. Not even by mistake, really. More by instinct.

Since then he's dug his fingers into everything his has left, holding on with desperation.

Desperation never stopped an earthquake.

Your Touch is My Choice by twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(2,171 l T)

The first time John does it, Stiles is two years old and about to run into the road.

“Mieczysław!” Heart pounding, John grabbed him by the back of his neck and got a hand around his tummy, snatching him back. “No, you have to stay away from the road,” he said firmly.

Shameful Company by Whispering_Sumire (@whispering-sumire755)

(38,779 l E)

"Did I turn into a unicorn?" Peter asks dryly, and Stiles glares at him for a moment before the laughter bubbles up, unbidden, nearly unwilling, and he looks so surprised at the sound, his shock dimming it for a moment before it bursts through with even more trembling ferocity. A long, thin, willowy hand curls into a soft fist over his mouth, and he's shaking, frail, more tears falling, but the copper of his eyes are glowing, crinkling around the edges and scrunched with mirth.

"No," Stiles chokes, chuckling wetly. "No, fuck you, a unicorn? What, like, Rainbowcreep? Zombiesparkle?"

[About a year before the fated Hale fire, Peter starts having nightmares that involve a woman with red hair. The nightmares lead to a spell that brings a man back through time, and, eventually, though the time-traveler is traumatized in the most horrific ways, and Peter's never been good with or for people, in general, they develop a bond that neither of them expects.]

Would You Forgive Me If I Called You Hope, Peter Hale? (Hope, By Any Other Name) by Whispering_Sumire

(10,099 l T)

Stiles has scars. He owns that, he accepts it, he's cataloged and memorized every single one, he's hyper fucking aware of them all.

//

"What do you want, Peter?" Having the more untrustworthy of the Pack getting protective weirds him the fuck out, leaves an odd fluttering in his chest, like moths, waiting perilously and suicidally to be burned.

He doesn't like it.

"You're injured," the man says, "and whatever it is, it's put you in enough pain that I nearly fainted when I-"

"- Used your werewolf mojo on me without my permission?" Stiles smirks, and Peter gives him a black look, crossing a leg over his knee and smoothing out some invisible wrinkle on his pants.

"Tell me the truth Stiles, how bad is it?"

[Or: The one where Stiles has scars, is more than a little fucked up, and Peter notices. He helps.]

[twiceinadream]

Twice React- Alpha S/O Mates Them

Requested: Yup

Request: alpha s/o officially mates them

a/u: Hey, everyone! I’m back and hopefully I’ll be able to get more works out since my workload has lessened for the time being. Thank you so much for all the love and support, you all motivate me more than y’all will ever know. And thank you so much for 2.7k+ followers! I love you guys!

Category: NSFW and Fluff

Nayeon

“Do it.”

You and Nayeon had been dating for nearly two years and had long since realized that there was no one in the world either of you ever wanted to be with. So you both decided that it was finally time to take the next to step in your guy’s relationship. You panted hard against your girlfriend’s neck as you continued to thrust inside her, your knot beginning to swell at the base of your cock as Nayeon’s nails raked against your back. “Y/N...plea..please.” Your teeth grazed against the junction of her neck as your hips stuttered, “Are...are you sure?” Nayeon gulped in a breath, nodding her head rapidly, “Yes, I’m sure.” You smiled, “I love you.” Your girlfriend smiled at your words as she began to respond, “I love you t...ahh!” But before she could finish your teeth sank into her neck, the taste of blood hitting your tongue as you stayed latched on for a little longer, ensuring your mark was placed securely before pulling away and licking the wound. Pride swelling your chest as you looked at the mark, “Love you.” Nayeon smiled lazily, “Love you too.”

Jeongyeon

“I’m ready, promise.”

Jeongyeon didn’t like giving up control. But she could make an exception this time. Your bodies met with one final thrust as your knot slipped inside, your releases wracking every nerve in your bodies as Jeongyeon wrapped her legs around your waist, “Bite me. Please.” You hesitated for a second looking down at the blank expanse of your girlfriend’s neck, you licked your lips as you lowered your lips so it brushed against the sensitive skin. “Are you sure?” Jeong nodded her head furiously, “Positive.” You smiled as you inhaled deeply her scent filling your lungs as you placed a kiss to the base of her neck as you felt your knot grinding against her entrance, you rocked your hips back as you began pushing your knot inside. Your girlfriend moaned loudly as you slammed your hips forward, your knot popping inside you felt her walls clench around you, all of sudden you felt her body tremble under you as she came. Your instincts kicked in as you sunk your teeth into her neck leaving your mark on your mate as you felt your release wash over you. A goofy smile on Jeongyeon’s face as you placed a kiss on the mark, “We did it.” You smiled softly as leaned up to kiss her, “Yes, yes we did.”

Momo

“I trust you.”

Four years, three months, and twelve days. That’s how long Momo had known she loved you, and she was ready to make it forever. You leaned to nip at Momo’s ear as you pounded into her from behind, her walls squeezing around you as you felt your knot begin to swell at the base of your cock. Her scent made you dizzy as you palmed one of her breasts in your hand, tweaking the nipple as she let out a high pitched whine. Her breathing grew rapidly as you thrusted harder, trying to get your knot to fit into her tight hole, “Bite me.” It said barely above a whisper as your hips faltered from its blinding pace, “Wh..what?” Momo grunted as she felt her orgasm starting to fade, “Mark me Y/N, make me yours!” You stared at your girlfriend in shock before she started pushing her hips back into you, your knot barely breaching her entrance as you shook your head roughly, “Okay, let’s do it.” You redoubled your efforts as you pounded Momo into the bed, her moans muffled by the comforter as you felt the coil in your stomach tighten, “I’m gonna cum.” Momo moaned loudly as she raised her ass higher, “Together.” You nodded as you slammed your hips forward one last time, burying your knot inside her as you came. And before you knew it you had sunk your teeth into the tender flesh of your now mate’s neck.

Sana

“I’m sure.”

As an Omega, Sana was always told to never trust an Alpha. But she knew from the day you had walked her home in the rain she wanted you to stay. It had been a lot like the day she had realized she loved you, rain pattered hard against the window as the two of you were tangled in your guy’s bed sheets your bodies moving in sync as you rolled your hips forward eliciting a soft moan from Sana as her nails dug into your back. “Ah, I’m close.” The Japanese woman husked as you picked up your pace, your bodies colliding to provide a wet slapping sound that now filled the room as you propped yourself up on your forearms continuing your pace as your knot swelled at the base of your shaft. Sana felt it bump against her entrance as she pulled you closer, “I want you to bite me.” Your eyes widened at her request pulling away to see if she was being serious or if it was just the heat of the moment. But when she stared back at you, you knew she meant it, a smile growing on your lips as you nodded. Your thrusts grew harder as you finally got your knot to breach her entrance pleasure coursing through both your bodies as you descended on her neck, your teeth baring into the flesh as Sana came undone below you. Her eyes rolling back as you emptied out inside of her, “I love you.” Your now mate whimpered as she came down from her high, “You too.”

Jihyo

“I love you too.”

You couldn’t remember how it started, but you both agreed how the two of you wanted it to end. Your hips stuttered, as you cried out. A flood of cum shot from your aching cock. Your seed splashed against the Omega’s clenching walls. You thrust through your own release, your movements sloppy and uneven. Jihyo’s walls didn’t feel quite so tight, stretched as they were to hold your come, but it felt too good to stop. As soon as you bit down, the Omega arched. A breathy gasp escaped her, followed by a discordant moan. Your jaw locked, and you bit deeper, this was a mating bite. A bonding hold. Coppery blood hit your tongue, as you heard Jihyo cry out in ecstasy. She was yours.

Mina

“Please.”

Mina could barely think straight as she struggled to make it back home from the company, heat pooling in her lower belly as she practically threw herself at you. The Japanese woman whimpered as she grinded down your cock, rocking her hips back and forth as she sought out to quell the burning inside of her. You grunted as you felt the base of your cock swell, her scent making you dizzy as she rode you harder impaling herself on your shaft as you grunted. Reaching your hands out to hold her hips as you waited for when her rhythm stuttered and you flipped the two of you over so that you were plowing her into the bedsheets. Your bodies colliding together as the sound and smell of sex filled the room as you bared your teeth, grazing it against the side of her neck as you felt your knot barely enter her. A loud moan filled your ears as Mina whispered, “Make me yours.”

Dahyun

“C’mon Alpha.”

Dahyun loved you. And you loved her. It was as simple as that. Dahyun’s back hit the wall as you lifted her into the air, your lips pressed together in a desperate kiss as her legs wrapped around your midsection, your cock striking against your boxers as your girlfriend balled your t-shirt in her fists. Whimpering as you pulled away for air, “I need to be in you.” You rocked your hips forward as you set the brunette back on the floor a coy smile on her lips as she hooked her thumbs into your underwear and pulled it down slightly to free your raging erection, “Then do it.” You growled lowly as you used your free hand to position your length at her entrance, waiting for her confirmation before thrusting into the molten heat that awaited you. Your hips moving on their own accord as your teeth grazed the junction of her neck and shoulder, “Mate me.” You smiled against her shoulder as you placed a kiss on the spot, “Yes, ma’am.”

Chaeyoung

“Stop teasing!”

Chaeyoung didn’t mean to be a brat, but then again...she was your brat. Your girlfriend had been riling you up all day and not that you’d ever let it show, it was working. You growled as you laid her down in the backseat of the car after your shopping trip to the mall left you with a massive hard-on that you could barely hide as your scent poured out in frustration making Chae give you her signature dimpled smile, but as she stared up at you it faltered slightly as you grinded down into her. But having an attitude greater than her height she matched your intensity with a smirk, “What’re you gonna do Alpha?” The teasing lilt in her voice wasn’t lost on you as you brought her into a bruising kiss, clothes being thrown off or moved as you were now thrusting into the woman below you. Her toes curled as you filled her just right, she had gotten what she wanted and you were all too happy to give it to her. Chae threw her head back as she felt her orgasm teeter on the edge as you slammed your knot inside of her, but she felt like something was missing. You kissed her neck and suddenly it clicked, “Bite me.” You cocked an eyebrow in confusion, “What?” Chaeyoung growled as she sat at the line of no return, “Mate me, Y/N!” Her small explosion caused you to panic as you sunk your teeth into her neck, her body seizing as she toppled over into a plane of unthinkable pleasure. Her voice soft as she looked up at you, her chest rising and falling with each breath she took, “My Alpha.” You smiled warmly, placing a kiss to the tip of her nose, “My mate.”

Tzuyu

“Give it to me Y/N.”

Tzuyu had loved you for years. And you wanted to make it official how much you loved her too. A loud moan broke through the relatively quiet morning as you jerked your hips forward, your cock sheathing itself inside your girlfriend as you moaned lowly into her ear. Pulling out so that just the tip remained inside before shoving yourself back in and letting a fast tempo take over the movements of your thrusts as Tzuyu captured your lips in a heated kiss, “Y...Y/N, ple..please, mark m..me.” Her words were barely above a whisper as you wrapped your arms around her torso holding her closer to you as you felt your knot swell. “Okay.” Your confirmation was all Tzuyu needed as she hooked her legs around your waist causing you to thrust in at a new angle that allowed your knot to slip in causing a rush of endorphins to your brain as you were suddenly surrounded by a tight heat. You acted on instinct as you felt yours and your girlfriend’s orgasm approaching, your teeth finding purchase at the base of her neck as you came.

[eroselless]

hopelessly devoted [1]

Pairing : Sebastian Stan x reader│regency au

Summary : When Y/N Brighton finds herself suddenly married to a strange older man, she thinks her life is completely derailed. Wha happens when she starts to get close to him?

Warnings : slow burn, age gap, fluff, a tad bit of angst, a little injury but not much Word Count : 3.6k

Notes : I'm sorry it took so long for me to get this out! I hope y'all like it! I rewrote it twice just so I could get it as perfect as I could. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated! I didn't expect to be writing a Part 2 BUT it should be up very soon :)

Also let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

here's what I listened to while I wrote :)

find part 2 here!

As a young child, Y/N Brighton had imagined that she would have the most lavish of weddings. She had imagined walking down the aisle in the arms of her father, smiling at relatives as they watched her join her husband to be. She had hoped for a grand exchange of vows with him, ones that would leave the crowd in tears. She had even hoped for a choir to sing her in and hoped for petals to be showered on her and her beau as they left the chapel for their extravagant and much needed honeymoon. What she hadn’t imagined was this.

Y/N slowly walked down the aisle, with no one by her side. The chapel she was in was dark and the seats, instead of being filled with family, stood empty. There were no flowers in sight and the mood in the room was of sadness and melancholy. Her hands were clasped around nothing, a bouquet she had desired being absent. She quietly stood still in front of the man she was to marry, seeing but a stranger and not someone she had grown to love.

Viscount Brighton was a man of many flaws, just as any other human being. He loved to drink, he loved to smoke but most of all he loved to gamble. Many times he had won money, bringing it home to spend on his daughter and wife but many more times, he had lost and come home significantly more empty handed than he had been when he left. Viscountess Brighton had found herself one night, sitting in the seat of her husband’s desk. It felt as if smoke was steaming out of her ears as frustration built up inside of her. In front of her, there were piles of paper and in her hands she clutched the newest additions of the pile. There were bills upon bills upon bills, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she added up the amount of money that her husband owed. What they had left in their accounts was almost nothing. Even the dowry belonging to their only daughter was gone.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, as if to stop the tears from flowing out.

“What have you done?” She seethed at her husband, who stood guilt ridden at the door of his own office.

“No w-worries dearest,” he began. “We can always sell a few things and we’ll be fine!” If looks could kill, the poor man would have been 6 feet deep in the ground.

“With the amount of money we have due, we’ll have to sell the house and everything in it!” The viscountess cried. Shaking her head, she dropped the pieces of paper on the desk and stormed out.

“How could you?” She asked once they were laying in bed. The lights were blown out as they both lay with their backs to the other. He could not answer her question. How could he? That’s the thing, he didn’t. He clutched onto the sheets of the bed as tears threatened to spill from his eyes, the guilt was beginning to feel heavy on his chest. He prayed for a miracle, he prayed for someone to come pull them out of the hole he had pushed his family into.

Y/N didn’t really know why there had been visits from a stranger to her house. She had been introduced to him briefly. His eyes were electric blue and he had a beard that was full but not too big or fluffy. His hair was a beautiful shade of brown and was always brushed to perfection. He always gave her tight lipped smiles and there was an eery feeling of pity behind each one. She couldn't help but feel attracted to him, despite him being almost the same age as her father. It was a little innocent crush. It didn’t really mean anything.

Lord Sebastian Stan was in search of a wife. He was the most eligible bachelor on the market, though he was quite older than most of the girls in age of marriage. He had never really planned to marry. He had gotten close many times but had never found the right woman to fill the seemingly gaping hole in his heart. If it hadn’t been for a trip to his native Romania, he wouldn’t have bothered to begin a search. He had gone to visit his grandmother, she was very much expecting he would finally have a maiden at his side. She had explained that if he didn’t marry, there was a possibility that his title and home would be stripped from him. He remembered how he panicked, not so much for the loss of his title but where would he go without his home? Where would he live then? It was as if fate was on his side when he had run into the hysterical Viscount Brighton. The poor man was desperate, searching for anything that would help him with the sinking boat he found himself on. Sebastian didn’t jump at the deal immediately. He couldn’t help but feel for the young girl who was essentially being sold away. But after much thought, he spoke to the older man and agreed to marry his daughter.

“Lord Stan has agreed on marrying you.” The viscount said to Y/N. It had been days after the agreement was finally settled.

“He needs a bride in order to keep his estate and seeing as how you are in the age of marriage, he has agreed to marry you even though you are without a dowry.” Her mother said, trying to be gentle with the words she said to her daughter.

Y/N simply looked at them with tears in her eyes. They had sat her down in the office where her mother had been sitting only a few nights ago.

“He said he will help the family with whatever we need in exchange for your hand in marriage.”

And that was that. Now Y/N found herself standing face to face to Sebastian as he whispered the words of I do. She watched as he stood there expressionless, staring down at the floor. His eyebrows were furrowed, as the priest recited the marital words to her. She was so caught up in his features that she almost missed her cue to agree to the marriage and echo him with the words of I do. Each slipped on a simple wedding band on their ring finger. There was a sigh of relief ringing out behind her as her family officially joined with him. Now they would not have to live out on the street, they were saved.

The ride to Sebastian’s estate was quiet. The only sound that was heard was the crunch of carriage’s wheel on the ground and the subtle sound of the pairs breathing. As she had expected, there was no celebration of the marriage after the ceremony, no shower of wedding rice or petals on them. There was only the silent signing of papers and the quiet goodbyes from her family. Here Y/N took the time to really look at him. He had a slight crease etched between his eyebrows. He had a mole on the left side of his forehead and his lashes didn’t quite curl up but still had a slight wisp to them. His eyes looked darker, they were like the deep colour of the ocean. They were a pool that, in a different circumstance, she would be more than willing to swim in.

“We don’t have to lay together,” Sebastian began, breaking the silence along with her long stare. “We each have our own rooms, so you don’t have to worry about anything. The maids will have everything ready by the time we get home.” Y/N nodded, taking in the information. Part of her knew he wouldn’t force her to consummate the wedding, he didn’t seem like that type of person but part of her still wanted the chance to sleep next to him, to get to know the person she was to spend the rest of her life with.

They soon arrived. The night was warm and the stars shone brightly above them. If they had wanted, a stroll through his vast gardens wouldn't have been a very romantic way to start the night. The mansion was lit up from the inside and Y/N couldn't help but find herself in awe of it. They had come through a gate and down a long road in order to reach the house. It had three towers with the rest of the building having been built around them. There was a grand balcony right above the main entrance. It was all very green, trees and bushes surrounding the mansion.

“Welcome Home, Lord and Lady Stan” The head housekeeper said, ushering them in from the night. Many of the staff stood on the stairs leading up to the front doors of the home. They kindly nodded at them as they slowly walked in. Y/N was shown to her room, just across the hall from Sebastian’s.

“If you need anything, don’t be scared to give us a shout.” The housekeeper told Y/N. Sebastian had followed behind, making his way to his room. He nodded politely in her direction before he slipped through his door, closing it behind him.

Y/N stood there for a second before letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. She made her way into her room. It was big. Bigger than the one at her family home. The walls were a pale blue and the room had golden accents, with more variations of blue scattered around. There was a small table on one side of the room with a single armchair. On the table was the most elegant and beautiful tea set she had ever seen. When she went to grab it, it was warm. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. She blew on it as steam came up from the cup. She stared at the wall just above her large bed, reflecting once again on how fast the days changed.

It took her a while to acclimate. Sebastian had mostly left her to her own devices, leaving her to roam around the mansion alone. She would get lost every once in a while, asking maids to help her find her way back to her room. She wasn’t prohibited from going anywhere, Sebastian had made that clear to her. This was her home now and he wasn’t going to keep anything from her. She ate breakfast with him every morning, sitting across from him at a long dinner table. He would always mumble a quiet good morning, taking her hand and gently pressing a kiss to it. He couldn't bring himself to ever look into her eyes.

One afternoon, she stumbled upon the library. As a little girl, she would spend her time reading the day away. She never tired of the smell of old books. Her eyes widened when she pushed open the double doors of the library. She hadn't ever seen such a grand collection. There were many many rows of shelves and a flight of stairs that led to a landing where she could sit, surrounded by a few more shelves and a grand window. She spent the next hours exploring the rows, climbing high onto the ladders to reach the books on the highest shelves. She took her time, taking deep breaths and inhaling the comforting smell of the pages. She didn’t recognize many of the books, a lot of them being in Romanian or French. She delicately dragged her fingers on the spines of the books, careful when pulling them out to examine them.

She was searching the shelves for something familiar, when a book caught her eye. The title on the spine was one that she had heard of before but couldn’t quite remember what the story was about. It was high up, too high for her to reach on her own. She looked around the library, seeing if there was anyone that could help her reach the book. She sighed as she realized she was completely alone and would have to climb the ladder that was placed on a set of railings on the front of the shelves. She huffed as she hiked her dress up as much as she could, sticking her feet out to climb onto the first rung of the ladder. She grabbed on tight as she ascended higher and higher. She heaved slightly as she reached the right shelf, only to realize that the book was just barely within her reach. She frowned, trying to pull the book out with the tips of her fingers. Feeling her fingers slip slightly, she moved to the edge of the rung she stood on. A loud creek sounded through the library as she started to feel the ladder tip to the side. Finally grabbing the book, she tried to push herself back onto the ladder, only to jerk farther away from the wall. She felt her feet slip from under her, a panicked squeal coming from her lips. Her eyes squeezed shut as she waited for her body to fall and hit the ground with a painful thud.

Sebastian sat at his desk, looking through his small collection of books, in search for one in particular. His head was full of thoughts, not a single instance of silence. He had also needed time to acclimate to his new housemate. He tried his best to interact with her and to be civil but part of him felt like he was doing it all wrong. He remembered when he had first seen her, roaming her old home. He remembered the cream coloured dress she wore when her father first introduced them, before she was told of her fate. She seemed happier. He tried to make her happy but no matter what he instructed her handmaiden to give her, she still didn’t seem as joyful as she used to be.

In a way, he understood her. She was now living in a house with a strange man that she had only known for a very short time. She had left behind her family and her friends and with no official duties, she spent most of her time by herself. She was alone. He had tried to be husbandly, eating meals with her and bringing her along for strolls in the garden but still even then, she would not come out of her shell.

Over the weeks, he had grown used to hearing her steps through the halls. He had learned to enjoy the little songs she hummed when she accompanied him on walks in the garden. He had started to pick up on her small habits. She would always put her pinky finger under her glass before placing it on the table. She would tug at her left earlobe when she was in deep thought or when she was reading. He usually found himself scolding himself when he watched her walk about the mansion. He couldn’t help but feel like a villain who took any plans for her future away.

He resigned his search, deciding to make his way down to the library. He was in for a long hunt. He walked the empty halls, the only sounds being the clicks of his shoes against the stone floors. He came upon the doors of the library to find them open and saw his wife begin to climb on the many ladders in the library.

He watched as she began to shuffle to the edge of the ladder. Knowing fully well how this would end, he made his way up to her. His heart began to race as the ladder began to creak and tip. With a few long strides, he was at her side. He heard as she held her breath, waiting for the floor to come at her. He grunted as he slid under her, managing to catch her before she collided with the wooden floors.

Before this, he had never touched her before. He hadn’t really taken the time to look at her face. The skin of her bare arms felt smooth against his, the fullness of it feeling soothing. Her chest was heaving, just as his. The adrenaline was coursing fast through their veins. His eyes wandered her face, taking in each freckle and scar. He even noted the lone eyelash that lay on her cheek.

“Sebastian,” She cried, completely surprised. She pulled herself to her feet and out of his arms. She still held tightly to the book in her hand. Sebastian’s hand lingered on her shoulder, a small sign of affection. He looked over her, checking for any afflictions.

“Are you alright?” he asked her. She nodded, catching her breath. She had placed one hand on the shelf, wincing slightly. Her knuckle had bruised, hitting it on the ladder as she fell. Sebastian pulled it from the shelf, cradling it gently.

“You must be more careful,” he warned. She felt her stomach flutter as he stretched her fingers out in his hand. It almost felt like what she was doing was wrong, forbidden.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She mumbled.

“Let’s get you some ice for your hand.” He said and led her to the kitchens. It was only when he sat her down that she realized how dark it had turned outside. It was nearly nightfall. How long had she been in the library? She pulled a face when she felt the coolness of the ice hit her skin. Sebastian was kneeling in front of her, tending at her hand. She watched as he masterfully soothed her wound, even though her pain was almost gone.

“Thank you,” She told him when he looked up at her. “For everything.”

She said everything and she really meant it. Even though she didn’t have the life she expected, her family was being taken care of and that’s really what mattered. He nodded, smiling briefly before standing up. He held his hand out towards her, helping her up to her feet. They then walked up the stairs to their rooms. Stopping, Y/N turned around before opening her door.

“Sebastian” She called out to him, hand on her doorknob. He turned back to her. “Goodnight.” He smiled, his teeth coming into view.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

They were to attend their first party together. The most elite were going to be in attendance, most of which Sebastian knew. They rode in the carriage in almost complete silence and then proceeded to walk in together. When she let go of his arm, he hadn’t exactly expected her to go to the big group of ladies that stood ion the far side of the room. It had seemed like she recognized some of the ladies waiting there. He stood at the entrance of the ballroom, watching as she interacted with them. She was laughing and smiling. Something he didn’t see often. He admired how the dress she wore clung to her frame. It was a gown he had tailored just for her, and now he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her. Ever since the incident in the library, he couldn't get her out of his head. Something was blooming in the back of his mind. As music started to play, couples started to make their way to the dance floor.

Y/N watched as the girls from her old friend group excused themselves to dance with their husbands and fiancées. For s second, she had felt like she was still living her old life. She had caught up with her friends for a couple of minutes, the feeling of happiness returning and the sound of laughter escaping her. She wasn’t ungrateful for the grand favour Sebastian was doing in helping her family in return for her hand. She really wasn’t but she felt lonely and as her friends took their leave into the arms of their lovers, she felt the loneliness settle back into her bones. From across the room, her eyes met Sebastian’s. His eyes were more blue than ever. They sent chills down her spine. With a nod, he signalled to her. They met at the edge of the dance floor, joining the rest of the dancers. The tempo of the music was slower and the people around them were moving slowly to the same beat.

Y/N felt her breath hitch in the back of her throat as she locked eyes once again with Sebastian as they danced around each other. She couldn’t put her finger on whatever was growing in the air around them. The movements in the dance had them inches away from each other, never touching but always close. They twirled around the dance floor for what seemed like hours, narrowly missing each other. As songs came and went, Y/N found herself smiling and making jests at her distant husband. It felt like progress from where they had been just nights before.

For a single moment, time felt like it had slowed. Sebastian felt his heart race as he gave Y/N a last twirl and brought her to his chest. She looked up at him with sparkles in her eyes, a smile adorning her face. Many times he had stopped to admire her face but here under the chandelier, surrounded by music he felt like the luckiest man in the world. He felt himself lean down, just barely brushing his lips over hers. But then as quick as their moment had begun, it ended. He felt a bubble pop inside his head as he pulled away from her. Guilt had filled his mind once again as he grumbled and motioned her that it was time to leave. Y/N watched in disbelief as he stormed out of the room and out to the carriages. He had been so close and now he felt miles away.

tags: @lharrietg @carleywhittaker @tonystankschild@headheartbellarke @baebee35 @lady-loki-ren

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 8

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language? Warnings: None? I think? Please let me know if I missed something Notes: Bit of fluff with some anxiety/update on primary conflict. Next chapter will be a cute date with Dani, the one after that will be maximum h*rny, and then what will likely be the finale. Music for this chapter here. PS this one is a bit on the shorter side, but I hope y'all still enjoy it. Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy, Pt. 7: Harmony

Chapter 8: Obbligato

(Obbligato: An instrumental part which is essential in a piece of music)

“Okay, okay, serious this time, please? I’ll give you a kiss if you try hard enough,” you promised, grinning up at Daniela as you did. A week had passed since your talk in the library, with the two of you spending most days together, and you were progressing nicely with the musical lessons. Still, your girlfriend (you would never get tired of saying that word) was prone to getting a tad ‘distracted’. By you, usually. Not that it was intentional by any means. There was only so much you could do to keep her focused when the two of you were this close together.

“I could just kiss you anyway,” Daniela teased, leaning in with familiar intent. Right before your lips touch, however, she pulls back and smirks. “But if you insist, I can handle the challenge.” Then she’s turning back towards the piano, carefully finding the starting position. Even with her prior experience, you were impressed with how much she had already learned, and couldn’t help but be immensely proud of her. If anyone could meet Lady Dimitrescu’s expectations within a three month timeframe, it was the two of you. Except, of course, you still had to double-check just what her expectations were.

In the meantime, you were excited to hear your girlfriend play through the sheet music you had written up. Most of what you were working with had come from the family’s storage room, but you had also found some blank sheets, and figured it couldn’t hurt to create songs of your own. This particular one was relatively simple. It had been based on a song from a game you had played years ago, and only posed a moderate challenge due to its interesting rhythm. Daniela had seemed to enjoy playing it, with you even hearing her practice the song outside of your lessons, but had so far today refused to play it seriously.

Finally that was going to change. Once she found the starting notes, she nodded to herself, then started playing. For the first time today her expression is stern, focused. Seeing her like this was nice. She was always cute, you just thought that she was extra cute like this. But you tried not to let yourself get too distracted, knowing that you couldn’t give her feedback if you didn’t pay attention. In your head you “play along”, fingers miming the movements, knowing that it would help you catch any possible mistakes. Throughout the piece there are only a couple that you catch, none of them being severe enough to ruin the experience. Finishing with a little flourish, Daniela returns her gaze to you, grinning expectantly.

“Well? I seem to recall you promising me a reward,” she said, perking a brow. Laughing a little, you roll your eyes, before moving in to give her exactly what she wanted. Both of you are smiling into the kiss, enjoying every moment of it. Soon enough Daniela is running a hand through your hair, and pressing against you more, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss. You’re blushing hard now, thoughts going everywhere other than music. It’s not until you pull back for air that you remember what you’re supposed to be doing right now.

“As wonderful as this is… we still have a few more songs to go over,” you murmured, despite how much you wanted to keep kissing Daniela. By the way she groaned in frustration, you figured she felt the same way, more or less. “Hey, don’t fret too much. Think of this as an opportunity to earn a few more rewards,” you teased, gently patting her on the shoulder. For a moment she simply pouts, but eventually she sighs and gets ready to play another song…

------------------------------------

Rushing up the steps, practically two at a time, you desperately hoped that you wouldn’t be late. This was your third “update meeting” with Lady Dimitrescu, which by itself was enough to make you a nervous wreck. Add in the fact that this was the first time you’d be meeting alone? And in her personal study, no less? Well, it was safe to say that you were terrified. You hadn’t even been told why things were different this time. No, you were about as clueless as could be, given the circumstances.

By the time you make it your Lady’s study, you cannot tell whether your heart is racing due to stress or physical exertion. Regardless, you make it there in short time, arriving precisely at the scheduled hour. After taking a moment to settle your nerves, you briefly knock on the chamber door. There’s the sound of movement from inside before the way opens. Lady Dimitrescu has to bend a little to see out, but quickly smiles when she meets your gaze. Which was rather unexpected. The last time you had met with her she had been distanced, although still polite. Then again, Daniela had also been with you, and the focus was, as always, on her.

“Lady Dimitrescu,” you greeted, giving a short bow per customs. Then you were being waved in, brought over to a small sitting area, where you waited for permission to sit down. Once it was given, you relaxed a little. Maybe I don’t have as much reason to be nervous as I thought, you muse.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. There are no reasons for you to be unsettled, as far as I am aware,” Lady Dimitrescu said, smile disappearing for a moment at the end. But it’s back as quickly as it had vanished. Did she suspect something? Perhaps she had seen the way Daniela looked at you, or even overheard the whisperings of your roommates. Both thoughts do little other than renew your anxiety. Noticing this, Alcina frowns and shakes her head. “I was merely joking. Now, let us get to the reason for our meeting: How are Daniela’s lessons fairing? There is only so much I can glean from listening.” Glad to have something to think about other than your secret relationship with your boss’ daughter, you nodded and began explaining.

“Lady Daniela is making outstanding progress, in my opinion. Even with her occasional… lapses in attention, once she puts her mind to something, she’s quick to master it. At this point she can sight read nearly as fast and accurately as myself. However, we’re still going over vocabulary, as well as keys and their corresponding chords,” you answered, barely able to maintain eye contact with your employer. Thankfully, she seems to have accepted the inevitability of your nervousness. You were especially thankful now that you prepared to ask her a question. “My Lady, may I inquire about what specifically you expect from my teachings? If there are certain genres you wish for Daniela to be familiar with, or techniques-... I must admit I am unsure as to how to best meet your requirements.”

Slowly reclining in her chair, Alcina appears to ponder your question. In the meantime she sips at her beverage, holding the cup as if it were a fragile heirloom (which it could very well be), eyes looking into the middle distance. Then she gives a soft hum, setting her cup down and returning her attention to you.

“I suppose I can understand your concern. In some ways you have already exceeded my expectations,” she said, expression oddly plain in comparison to her positive phrasing. “My daughter has rarely invested herself in anything as much as she has in your lessons. For this, I am left wondering what she finds so captivating- the music, or the one who pulls the strings?... But that is not the answer to your inquiry, is it?” In that moment, you are incredibly still, willing yourself to keep a straight face, despite the racing of your heart. At your silence, Alcina perks a brow, expecting you to respond. You can’t, your mouth suddenly dry. “What I expect is a passion to educate, a drive to see my daughter flourish. I expect you to teach her exactly as much as she wants you to, focusing on whatever brings her the most joy. But I expect professionalism. Your duties come first, above your health, happiness, and all other desires. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my Lady. Of course, my Lady,” you replied, stuttering, eyes wide. Did she know? Or merely suspect?... There’s another thought, one you try desperately not to voice, only to hear the words fill the room before you can stop yourself. “May I ask where Lady Daniela’s desires fit into this?” Silence hangs heavy over the room for several seconds. Your employer has narrowed her eyes, lips curled downwards into a sharp scowl, watching you with thinly-veiled anger. All you can do is gulp and wait for her response. When it comes, you are surprised by the stability of her tone. It was almost as if she respected your gall.

“She is young still, with the mind of a lovesick maiden. Daniela does not know what she wants, not really, nor does she understand what she needs. If her… flirtatious nature begins to interrupt your instruction, then your response must be swift, and uninterested. Regardless of how unkindly she takes your rejection, I will ensure that she does not harm you,” Lady Dimitrescu said, giving a stern nod at the end. Though her tone was reassuring, you hardly felt better, considering you were far past the point of turning Daniela down (if anything, you had only turned her on). “Now, with that settled, I believe I should let you return to your duties. Oh, and do tell Cynthia that the tea she brewed was perfect, should you happen to see her.”

Then she looked away, practically ignoring your continued existence. So you rose to your feet, gave another bow, and left before your panic could devolve into a breakdown. Daniela is not going to be happy about this.

[beccascribbles]

hi! can i ask for a scenario where ushijima, tsukki, kenma said something maybe out of the line that hurt your feelings and you just give them the silent treatment or become distant?? then like how they'd react to it and stuff :) thank you vm, have a good day 🙈

a/n - sorry this took me so long to write (and post). anyway, i hope you enjoy it. it was my first time writing for kenma so i'm not sure if i portrayed him right but let me know what you think!

"you're acting like a child," he sighs, pushing you away from him. your arms fall to your sides, missing the feeling of ushijima's warm body. "stop being so clingy. it's annoying"

you knew he was honest, but there is a time and a place for him to voice his opinion on your affection, and in front of his friends was not one of them

all you had wanted to do was give him a hug in greeting. yes, you may have stayed attached to him longer than was necessary but you had barely seen him all day

"okay," you say, turning on your heel and walking away. you don't even bother saying goodbye, too hurt and annoyed to bother

ushijima's brows furrow in confusion as he watches you walk away. tendou is watching the scene with wide eyes, fighting the urge to snicker

"did i do something wrong?" ushijima questions, staring after your receding figure. tendou finally does let out a snort, quickly slapping his hands over his mouth when ushijima turns to look at him

it is semi who gives ushijima's shoulder a squeeze in reassurance, though his eyes hold slight judgement as he says, "you hurt their feelings because you were being too blunt. you should probably apologise"

ushijima nods and then follows after your figure, his strides lengthening to catch up with you

his hand, warm and large, encloses around your own as he catches up to you, matching your pace

you remain silent, choosing to ignore his presence beside you

the silence settles between you, heavy and unwanted. though his mouth opens to form words, he can't bring himself to say anything. maybe it's his stubbornness, but he can't see how his words may have hurt you when they were the truth

"now who's being clingy?" you mumble angrily, yanking your hand from his grip and increasing your pace. your arms cross over your chest so he can't take your hand again. this increase in pace doesn't bother him and he easily matches it

he is persistent, irritatingly so. when he follows you into your room, you almost snap. instead, you silently fume, collapsing onto your bed and turning away from him. he watches your figure, expression holding slight confusion

"why are you ignoring me?"

you stay silent, stubbornly staring at the wall instead of him. when the mattress dips slightly under his weight, you scoot closer to the wall. his frown deepens

"what did i do wrong?" he questions, and you let out a sigh at how oblivious he is. "i was just being honest..."

your scowl deepens, especially when you feel him rest his hand on your back soothingly, rubbing circles into it. it is ushijima's turn to sigh as he looks at you

"i'm sorry if my words hurt you," he admits, the words causing you to turn slightly to look at him. his expression is as stoic as usual, though his eyes soften when they meet yours

"i just wish you had more of a filter sometimes, toshi," you explain, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. you hug your knees to your chest, head tilting to look at him. "i know you tend to say what you're thinking but i sometimes wonder if you understand how what you say can effect other people. you called me a child, clingly, annoying. that's hurtful, toshi. you probably didn't mean it like that but you did hurt my feelings. i hadn't seen you all day and, when i hugged you, you told me that?"

"i'm sorry," he says again, a slight frown to his face as he considers your words. his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his body. "i'll try to think about my words before i say them from now on"

he hugs you tight, and you relax in his hold, savouring the closeness

it's normal for him to send a teasing remark your way, just as it's normal for you to return the favour

however, today, his words hit a little too close to home, targeting an insecurity he wasn't aware of

you were frowning down at the maths sheet in front of you, brows furrowed as you struggled to work out the problems

you never usually felt inferior in terms of academics, but, right now, as you struggled to work out what was relatively simple maths, it started to grate at you

tsukishima wasn't really helping the issue. he seemed oblivious to your stressing, leaning back in his chair as he nodded his head along to the music

his eyes slid over to you, to your figure scribbling away on the paper. he pulled his headphones off, shooting you a teasing grin (though this went unnoticed by you)

his voice, light and teasing, cut through your focus, the words immediately putting you on edge

"if you focus any harder, you're going to be even more stupid than you already are"

your lips pursed but he went on, oblivious to your discomfort

"i can actually see the last bits of your intelligence leaving yout skull." this was punctuated by his finger giving your forehead a poke

you flinched away from him, a scowl lining your features. mumbling under your breath a number of unflattering things, you gathered your work and shoved it into your bag

"where are you going?" he asked, sitting up straighter in his chair, eyes filled with confusion and a bit of concern

you ignored him, pushing open the classroom door, deciding to head to the library to get away from him

for the rest of the day, tsukishima's attempts to speak to you were met with stony silence

so, naturally, he got annoyed, pissed off, and decide to ignore you to

it got to the point where both of you were simply staring through the other as if they weren't there when in a group situation, which was awkward for everyone involved

it was kageyama who told you to get your shit together, while hinata and yamaguchi could only agree

"i will when he apologises for being a dick," you said to kageyama, while tsukishima's eyes narrowed into a glare

"what the fuck," he snapped. "you've been giving me the cold shoulder all day and it's somehow my fault? bullshit"

you spun to face him, arms crossing over your chest. you spat, "you called me stupid when i was stressing over my math work. was i supposed to say thanks? fine. thank you, kei, that was really fucking helpful"

"what?" he blinked, looking at you im confusion. yes, he had teased you. but, he assumed you would know that he had been joking. if he had thought you were struggling, he would of helped you

as this was happening, your friends had edged away to give you some privacy. this was why tsukishima felt fine in admitting this to you

"if i thought you were struggling, you know i would have helped you." his hand reached out to take your hand, finger stroking your knuckles as his eyes met yours

you let out a frustrated sigh, your resolve crumbling. "i know... sorry for being a bit of a brat about it. i should've just told you that you had hurt me"

"yeah, you should've," he teased, pulling you closer to him. his lips pressed against your forehead in apology for getting annoyed at you in. "but, it's fine"

when you came over that weekend, he was busy gaming, like he usually was

ordinarily, when you walked through the door, he would start to wrap up the game, saying goodbye to who he was in the call with

today, however, was slightly different

he was playing a particularly difficult story game, which he had been struggling to complete all week (his choices, much to his frustration, kept getting the character killed)

therefore, you could understand why he was engrossed enough to only give you a simple greeting, a nod of the head

expecting him to only take an hour at maximum (you were content to just be in his company), you relaxed on the bed and pulled out your phone. two hours later, he had still not said a word to you

you sat up on the bed, moving towards him to drape yourself over the back of his chair, resting your head on his shoulder

"kenma..." you said, drawing out his name slightly, "are you almost finished?"

"urgh, just fuck off," he sighed, shrugging your arms off of him. "can't you see i'm busy?"

"fine," you snapped, stepping away from him and heading towards the bedroom door. you pushed it open and let it slam shut behind him

for a moment, you paused, waiting to see if he would react, maybe realise what he said was wrong. instead, the room remained painfully still

when it became clear he was not coming out to find you, you straightened and walked out of the house

kenma didn't realise you were avoiding him for a couple days until he picked up his phone to see no messages from you

it became clear that you were making every effort to avoid him when you made no effort to see him in person

he got so confused as to why you were clearly distancing yourself from him that he went to kuroo

it was after talking with his friend that he realised he had been insensitive and rude

however, you were hard to get alone, using every excuse avaliable to you to get out of spending time with your boyfriend

the whole thing was frustrating, to say the least. he missed you (though don't expect him to openly admit it)

it took him saying 'i'm sorry' rather loudly in a public area for you to turn to face him

your pause gave him the chance to grab your hand, to keep you anchored to him in case you left again

"sorry, are you?" you asked, head cocked slightly. "not a nice feeling, being ignored, is it?"

you would admit you were being a bit bratty, but, to be fair, he deserved

naturally, kenma didn't bother to reply, but it was fine, the gentle way he squeezed your fingers and the quick kiss he brushed to the side of your head more than enough to convey his apology

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 19: Prinxiety/Loceit (pt 3)

Part 1

Part 2 

Part 3 is here, with a little added something thrown in! Hope you enjoy!

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 19 - Everyone is born with a compass on their wrist, the needle of the compass points towards your soulmate. 

Trigger/content warnings!! Dissociation, PTSD, talk of conversion therapy and aftereffects/internalized homophobia, food mentions, nausea, anxiety/panic attack, unintentionally skipping meals, emetophobia/vomiting, pulling hair (does that count as self harm?).

Word count: 5k 

He barely remembered the hospital. It was all just a blur of doctors and police officers and more sleep than he’d gotten in weeks. After the first night of twitching in the dark confines of his hospital room and waking up screaming from nightmares the few brief seconds his consciousness faded, he was given sleeping pills, and the rest of the visit was quickly forgotten. The clearest part of the two week stay was near the end, when he was deemed physically well enough to give a statement to his social worker and a policeman, describing his ‘therapy’ and his life at the foster home, which quickly dissolved into a panic attack. They had enough though, and he was left with a sick satisfaction that they weren’t getting away with what they’d done to him. 

They’d lied to him. They had told him the system agreed with what they were doing, allowing it, condoning it. At first, he’d refused to believe them, because that made no sense. But they took his only form of contact, didn’t allow him to leave the house except for therapy, and his eventual addition of medication far too strong for him made him paranoid. Maybe he didn’t believe them as much as he was just trying to survive. He still didn’t know how they’d managed to keep up the charade when they were being checked on bi-weekly; he hadn’t even known when said visits were happening. 

“They’ll be spending some time in prison for child abuse. Not nearly enough, but still,” A social worker said quietly as he drove him back to his old group home. Virgil stared numbly out the window. “The kids were taken from them for the time being. They were deemed unfit parents. Foster care until they can find either some relatives or the parents are allowed them back.”

He didn’t react, although his heart nearly stopped in his chest. The parents hadn’t been great, but the kids had been happy enough. And now they were forced into a shoddy system… because of him. Virgil blinked rapidly to stop the tears that threatened to flow.

“You alright, Virge?” 

He finally turned from the blurry mass of green trees out the car window, turning blankly to the man driving. The worker glanced from the road to meet his eyes, sighing. 

No, he wasn’t alright. But he’d never say otherwise. Volunteering information about himself was how he’d gotten himself into this situation in the first place. He wasn’t about to do it again. 

----------

That had been almost a month ago, and he was still to break out of his selective mutism. It wasn’t as if he was choosing not to speak; it wasn’t stubbornness. He felt as if his brain and his mouth were disconnected, like his thoughts were less coherent and more just abstract emotion, and he couldn’t turn them into words. Any question that couldn’t be answered by a simple nod or head shake was met with a blank stare, a far off gaze, that was unnerving to anyone. They’d tried to put him back into therapy, but the moment it was mentioned, Virgil spiralled into the worst panic attack he could ever remember having. 

He’d gotten his old room back, with two new kids as his roommates. He quickly built up the same reputation as before: this room is mine unless you’re sleeping. No kid wanted to be near him when he was awake, staring at nothing, his only movements being his occasional blinking. Frankly, the younger ones were scared of him. 

And he didn’t care. 

Some days he fell so deep into dissociating that he didn’t even react when he was called for dinner. The world around him dissolved, blurry and unfocused and just quiet, retreating into his own mind where he could breathe. Reality was too much. It was just… too much. One of his doctors had said it might be a side effect as they eased him off his criminally high dose of antipsychotics they’d hidden in his drinks, but that was an afterthought. He was warm, he was full (when he was aware enough to eat), and so he faded into his head. He’d cope with his trauma another day. 

“You haven’t eaten all day, honey,” A soft voice said and he blinked, looking up from his bed sheets at the worker. She was one of his favorites; gentle, quiet, respecting his boundaries. In her hands was a plate with dinner on it.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, barely more than a single bob, and she sat across from him on the bed, placing the plate in front of him. With heavy hands, he lifted a cold green bean to his mouth. It was gross, but the plate was empty in minutes. Apparently it had been a whole day. 

“Virgil, I want to talk to you,” She said. Now full, his brain would let him stay present for a little while until dissociation took over again. He pushed himself back against the wall and brought his knees to his chest, watching her movements. 

“It’s not anything bad, I promise. I’ve been talking with some other workers, some connections I have across the state.”

He didn’t like where this was going. 

“One of them suggested a couple that’s fostered for over a decade. They have a fantastic record, so I got into contact with them-”

“No.” The first thing he’d said in weeks, his voice scratchy from disuse. For once, the mess in his brain came together to form the single word, an immediate rejection. He pushed himself farther away from her, shaking his head violently. “No, no, no.”

“Virgil, breathe,” She reached out a hand and Virgil flinched so hard his head hit the wall. The hand retreated. “You don’t have to go with them if you’re uncomfortable, hun. Please just trust me, though, they’d never do anything that they did.”

He glared at her, trying to read her expression in the dark room. Silence stretched between them as Virgil’s thoughts drifted back to their state of quietude, leaving him unable to form words, beginning to drift away from reality. His eyelids flickered as focusing became harder, his mind’s eye suddenly alight with the blinding white lights of the therapy room. 

“Will you meet them at least, Virgil? Just for a few minutes? And if you still say no after, I’ll never bring them up again.”

He found himself nodding without properly meaning it. He just wanted her to leave… he just wanted to be alone. So he could drift away, without having to fear anyone hurting him anymore. 

She left, taking the empty plate with her. 

----------

Just because he knew today he was meeting his potential (not gonna happen) foster parents, it didn’t mean he was allowed to be present for the rest of the day. His favorite worker had come back again, motivating him to get ready and dressed, since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to find the energy to even just put on a sweater, much less get himself completely ready. 

Looking in the mirror hurt. His hair was starting to grow back, just barely long enough to run his fingers through, never mind getting anywhere long enough to cover his eyes like it used to. The bags under his eyes were darker than he could remember them ever being and his hands shook as he brushed his teeth. Biting down on the bristles, he grabbed a towel and threw it over the mirror, feeling a slight tinge of relief when he was no longer forced to look at himself. The social worker watched from the doorway, silently. 

He was tempted to go to sleep when he was done, completely exhausted from the little bit of work. But she brought him breakfast and his stomach growled in agreement, so he ate enough of the oatmeal to satiate his hunger, and not a bite more. A nervous nausea was already swirling in his gut and he didn’t need to add to it.

“Would you like to be left alone?” She asked, taking the empty bowl. 

Virgil nodded, already feeling the heaviness and emptiness that came with dissociation starting to creep through his limbs.

“I’ll come let you know when they’re here, okay?” He had no recollection of her leaving the room, but the next time he drifted back to the present, she was gone. 

He took a nap around noon, too tired and overwhelmed to stay awake for any longer. Plus, with new rushes of anxiety flooding his system every couple seconds, he was ready to not be conscious for a hot minute. He tried to convince himself that it would be okay, he’d struggle through an awkward meeting where the foster parents would eventually give up on him and leave, and he could spend his remaining year and a month in the system. Hopefully in that year he could figure enough out to survive when he was alone. 

A joyous child screeching downstairs woke him up three hours later, jerking him awake with a pounding heart. 

It wasn’t an hour later when there was a soft knock at his door and he threw himself into the corner, pulling his blanket up to his chest. No, no, no, he wasn’t ready- The door opened painfully slowly, spilling the light from the hallway into his pitch black room. 

“Virgil? I’m here with one of the foster parents, can I come in?”

She poked her head into the room and squinted to meet his eyes in the darkness, eventually finding his hunched form on his bed. Wordlessly, she opened the door all the way and walked up to him, flicking on the bedside lamp. A pleasantly soft light filled the room, illuminating the man standing at the door. Virgil began to shake. 

He wasn’t overly tall, probably just a head or so taller than Virgil, dressed in a plain yellow button up and black jeans. At first, he didn’t seem too intimidating, but neither had the other family at first glance. When he walked into the room, just so he was less of a silhouette, Virgil eyes were drawn to the large burn scar covering the left side of his face, just a shade darker than the right, but the skin mottled and textured. 

“Virgil, this is Janus Oakmen. His husband was unable to join him today, but-”

Husband? Virgil’s breath hitched. His husband, his husband, he’s gay, gay gay gay- His anxiety skyrocketed, and he couldn’t help the electric-like impulses that ran up his spine and out his fingers. He clenched his fist to hide the remaining twitches. 

She seemed to stumble over her words, trying to hide her shock. To her luck, the man interrupted, smiling softly down at Virgil.

“I’d like to speak to Virgil alone, if he’s alright with that.”

“I’ll be waiting just outside the door,” She said hurriedly, rushing out and closing the door behind her. And they were alone.

Janus looked at him for barely a second before taking a seat on the bottom bunk on the other side of the small room, folding his hands on his lap.

“Technically, I asked if you were okay with it, but…” He gestured weakly to the door. “Oh, well. I was told you don’t talk, Virgil.”

He stared in response, wrapping his fists up in the blanket. The man gave a breathy chuckle, but there was no animosity behind it.

“That’s okay. Just wanted to double check. Is it okay with you if I just talk, then?”

No adult had ever asked Virgil for permission for anything twice in under a minute. His social workers kind of just did what they had to, and he’d never been in a home where that kind of thing was the norm. It was more ‘the kids ask for everything, and the parents get what they want, no questions asked’. Needless to say, he was taken aback. 

He nodded weakly, realizing the man was waiting for a response. 

“Fabulous. Ignoring all the boring details you wouldn’t care about, my name is Janus. Like, from mythology, not a PTA mom. I’m thirty-five, and my husband Logan and I have been fostering since we were twenty-two, so we know what we’re doing. We love it.”

Virgil slowly let his legs unfurl, stretching them out in front of him under the blanket.

“We actually weren’t intending to foster this year, since Logan is looking for a new job. His current one just made it necessary for him to travel more than he would like to, so we wanted to press pause until he was happy at a new one. And then we got a call from good ole Bev out there.” He waved at the door again, cracking a smile. “She told us a little bit of your story, and Logan and I instantly said yes. If you’ll have us, that is.”

The vague idea of “why?” crossed Virgil’s mind, and it must have translated to his face, because Janus continued. 

“When I was fifteen, I came out to my parents as gay. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but they weren’t such big fans, and they put me in conversion therapy.”

His heart stopped. Another round of shocks through his arms. 

“We can talk about that more another day, if you want. I know that’s a tough topic for you. Needless to say, it didn’t work. Because it doesn’t work,” He shrugged, an annoyed tone finding its way into his words, “I understand what you’re going through, to an extent. If anyone can help you, it’s us. I’ve been there. And I promise, we’re fiercely protective. We’d never let anything bad happen to you.”

He stopped, leaning forward on his hands. Virgil realized he probably couldn’t see him that well except for his outline, due to him being pressed into the darkest corner of the room. Despite every cell in his body screaming that it was a trick, he scooted forward into the light of the lamp, still shaking. 

“There you are. Hello, Virgil.”

Virgil raised a trembling hand in a half hearted greeting. 

“I know this is a big, terrifying thing to ask of you. And I’ll understand if you say no. But if you feel safe, we’d love to have you for however long you’re comfortable with. Would you like to think it over?”

He nodded immediately. It wasn’t the hard ‘no’ he had expected himself to feel, and that was more unsettling than it should have been. 

“Okay. You do that. Take however long you need,” Janus said as he stood up, straightening his shirt, “It’s been great to meet you, Virgil.”

And he was gone. The social worker came back a short while later, but Virgil was completely gone by the time she did. He didn’t respond to her dinner calls, didn’t eat when the meal was placed in front of him, safely retreated into the silent part of his mind where he was safe from panic attacks and hard choices.

--- 

He said yes. Of course he did. He was far too intrigued by the man he’d met to refuse. He was scared shitless, that was a given; the first week after meeting Janus, he’d refused to leave his bed, refused to eat or shower or leave his huddle against the wall until the caretaker was basically pleading with him. Even then, it was a struggle to not throw up from sheer terror. 

But his social worker must have seen the way he was giving in, yearning for a grasp of hope in equal parts as his fear, because she set about to convince him. Promised more thorough checks once a week, daily phone calls to keep in touch, and an immediate pick up the moment he was unsure. Bit by bit his resolve was broken, until he finally agreed to give it a try, rushing from her presence moments later to hurl his dinner into the toilet. Hopefully his nerves would relax over time. 

The day came when he was to leave the group home, and he spent none of it in the present. He was so dissociated, so deeply embedded within his own mind, that he wasn’t even able to pack his belongings. His social worker was kind enough to do it for him (though the task itself took less than half an hour- he didn’t own that much) and he didn’t even notice she was in the room, talking, until his black garbage bag was placed on the bed in front of him. 

“ -unresponsive like this all day. We’re not sure what to do.”

“No doubt a response to his overwhelming fear of being placed in a new home after the disaster of his previous one. May I speak to him alone?”

“Of course.”

“Want me to leave too, Lo?”

“No, Janus, you can stay. It may be nice to have your expertise in the subject lest it become pertinent.”

There was some shuffling at the very corners of his consciousness, the light from the hallways lighting up the divots of his rumpled clothing bag, and one of the people were gone. His bedside lamp was flicked on.

“Thank you, Janus.” 

A weight on the bed was the first thing to really snap Virgil back to the presence, for the first time noticing the two men before him. The one standing, he recognized as Janus. The other sitting in front of him, though, he didn’t know. Virgil blinked rapidly, slowly pushing himself further back into his bed frame, despite how it dug into his shoulders. 

“Hello, Virgil. My name is Logan. I take it you’ve met my husband?”

Janus shot him a soft smirk, copying Virgil’s little wave from when they’d first interracted. He barely restrained a rush of twitches, playing it off as a shuffle to rearrange his blanket. 

“Do you think you could move forward just enough to place your feet on the ground? You don’t have to stand, just to begin the process of grounding?”

Virgil didn’t trust this guy for anything. He didn’t know his intentions, knew nothing about him, and his repressed mental state wasn’t making his cognitive reasoning any better. If Logan could help him ground, maybe it would be easier to figure out if they were trustworthy. Odd, that for this to work, he had to trust them enough to ground around them.

He scooted forward, letting his feet flutter off the bed and rest on the floor.

“Well done, Virgil. Press them to the floor firmly. Janus, do you have- ah, wonderful.”

Virgil looked up, nearly throwing himself back as Janus reached out a hand to him. There was something clutched in his fingers, but all the youngest could suddenly think was electrode electrode it’s going to hurt they’re going to hurt you don’t let it touch you don’tletittouchyou DON’T!

“It’s just gum, Virge, it’s okay.”

Oh. His hand paused as he reached out for the offering, a new thought coming to mind. Should he trust food from strangers? What if they’d drugged it, like his old foster home? He bit his lip, slowly retreating back into himself. 

The man seemed to see his hesitation, popping the piece into his mouth and offering one right from the package.

“I didn’t mess with it, I swear.” 

He took the gum, recoiling at the harsh taste almost instantly.

“Yeah, it doesn’t taste great. But I chewed like a pack of this a day when dissociation was a bitch. Snaps you back to the present like-”

“Language, Janus.”

“I’m sure he’s heard worse.”

“That doesn’t mean we should encourage it.”

Virgil couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He hadn’t seen just casual bickering in a long time.

“We brought one more bribe-”

“It is not a bribe-”

He outright snorted at Logan’s aghast tone, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise. Janus looked utterly pleased with himself, slowly handing over a bundle he’d had wrapped under his arm. 

“Again, to help with grounding. And it’s a bit of a drive to our place, so maybe you can get some sleep in the car.”

It was a deep purple blanket, almost impossibly soft to the touch. Virgil couldn’t help run his fingers over the plush material, fighting the urge to just smash his face into it. Keeping an eye on the two, Virgil unfolded it and wrapped it tightly around himself, settling to just let his cheek rub against where it was draped over his shoulder.

It took another twenty minutes for him to feel able to walk without stumbling, but if he left the group home in a fuzzy blanket and starting to feel safer than he had in months, that was his to admit. And he wouldn’t… not yet.

-----------

Virgil stared down at the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand, re-reading his shitty handwriting for the millionth time. He knew it was proper grammar, and nothing was spelled wrong, and it was clear and concise, but a part of him was still nervous about the idea of giving it to Janus. He was still hesitant to speak, and his new foster family was more than accommodating, giving him a small white board to write on, and even teaching him the most basic sign language for simple questions (courtesy of Logan). One day, he hoped he’d get his confidence back enough to speak, but right now, he felt no rush. 

Being surrounded with these new people, even for the three short weeks he’d been there, had already been enough to minimize his dissociating spells. Logan didn’t have to leave for another work trip for another week, and Janus worked from home anyways, so he was getting way more love and affection than he was ever used to. He hadn’t quite given in to Janus’ offered hugs, or any casual touch at all really, but he was getting used to one of the two just sitting with him for hours, covering him with weighted and fuzzy blankets, and gently distracting him with puzzles or that god-awful gum or just repeating where he was, and that he was safe. Was this what being loved was supposed to feel like?

So he trudged down the steps, hearing the shower running as he walked past the master bedroom, and slowly approached Janus at the dining room table. The man turned to greet him, giving him that soft smirk.

“Morning, kid. Happy birthday.”

Virgil smiled shyly, remembering the sign for thank you after a moment, and dropped the note onto the table next to Janus’ mug. He took a seat across from him, hiding his shaking hands in his lap, and watched with bated breath as he took the slip of paper and read it.

“‘How long did it take you to feel okay with Logan after CT?’ As in, feel okay dating a man?”

Virgil nodded and then, just for practice, signed yes. 

“The short answer? Probably two years, and I was still hesitant going into the relationship. It took us a longer time to get to the comfort level we’re at now. You need to go at your pace, Virgil. You shouldn’t force anything.” 

And then, as he tended to do when no one was there to fill the silence, he began to rant. This was also something Virgil was surprised he had come to enjoy, pulling up his feet so he could sit cross legged on the chair and setting his chin overtop his folded arms on the table. 

“I think it’s ridiculous that our basic human rights are still up for debate,” Janus sighed, taking a long sip of his tea, “Soulmarks are more than enough proof that we have no control over who we love- not that we should need that kind of proof to be validated. But people are afraid of what they don’t know, so they portray us as monsters who need to be fixed.” He’d begun rubbing absentmindedly at his wrist and Virgil’s eyes tracked the movement, noticing for the first time the small compass that was just a couple shades darker than the man’s skin. It almost blended in, and he probably never would have noticed it, if the small needle in the center weren’t slowly rotating towards the stairs. 

Logan entered the dining room from that direction, greeting his husband with a small kiss on the head and his foster child with a relaxed smile. He must have noticed Virgil’s occasional glance at the other’s wrist, wordlessly flipping over his own arm. His matching compass was pulling towards Janus’, an ever present symbol that they were meant to be together. Then, he patted his husband’s shoulder, going to get the coffee his husband always made for him. 

“You’re not broken, Virgil,” Janus murmured. Virgil’s head shot up, surprised at his bluntness, “You’re not. And if anyone tells you differently, they’ll have to deal with me,” He said firmly as he took a long sip.

“No threatening, Janus!”

Virgil snorted into his fist, grinning as Janus winked at him and said, “Sorry, Logan,” into his mug.

“Incorrigible.” Logan sighed as he exited the kitchen with his coffee, dropping into the seat between the two. “And happy birthday, Virgil. Would you like to choose what we have for breakfast, or would you like us to decide?”

That was something they’d learned about him quickly; he had awful choice paralysis. Choosing between two choices was already anxiety inducing, but a variety of things, like having to narrow it down to one food item? Lethal. Virgil quickly pointed to Logan, who chuckled. 

“French toast, then?”

Virgil nodded.

“I’ll get started on that in a moment. Janus, do you have his gift?”

“It’s in the living room, let me go get it.”

And that got his heart racing. ‘Gifts’ weren’t good things. They were leverage, blackmail, with a promise of a ‘returned favor’ in the near future. Virgil didn’t like things held against him like that. What if they gave him a present, and then demanded he pay them back for it the moment things weren’t peachy? Who was he kidding, he was in the honeymoon phase of this new foster family. It would take a month, like it did with the others, and then they’d find something about him that they hated and they’d force him to change it and he wouldn’t be able to refuse because they gave him food and shelter and above all, a gift on his birthday, and he would owe them a debt and he was stuck and-

“Virgil? What are five orange things you can see?”

His head popped up- when had he grabbed his hair like that?- and he noticed how heavily he was breathing. His foster parents were looking at him in concern, not pity, but legitimate concern for his well being (wack), Janus holding his hands behind his back. It was Logan that had spoken.

“Five orange things you can see, Virgil. You can just point.”

Don’t disappoint them more, his mind screamed, so he pointed at the far wall, near the entryway.

“The bridge on the calendar picture, very good. What else?”

Point through the pass through window into the kitchen.

“The sponge, well done. Three more.”

In front of Janus’ empty seat.

“The letters on the mug-”

Quick point to the book shelf in the living room.

“-and the book on my shelf. Last one?”

It took Virgil a longer moment before he found a cup of pens on the small coffee table behind the sofa, gesturing to the orange capped pen amongst the others. 

“Wonderful. Are you feeling a bit better now?”

He didn’t respond, choosing to track Janus’ movements as he sat back into his chair, adjusting his hands so they were on his lap, most likely holding the gift he was hiding. Logan leaned against the couch as his husband spoke.

“Kid, I need you to understand something, alright? You don’t owe us anything. We want to give you a gift because it’s your birthday, and we want to celebrate you. This isn’t some favor that you have to return.”

How Janus understood Virgil’s distress, the younger could only guess. But his words of reassurance were enough to get Virgil to accept the wrapped package as he presented it with minimal shaking, for once demanding his brain relax. Neither of the men mentioned how delicately he unwrapped it, carefully tugging at the tape as to not rip the paper. Why risk it?

His mouth gaped when he saw the present for the first time, holding the box in a white knuckled grip.

“We were told yours was taken from you and never returned, and figured that you needed a new one,” Logan said. 

It was the first new thing Virgil had ever gotten. His clothes were from thrift stores or hand downs, his school supplies consisted of a found pencil and a ripped binder from the group home’s storage, forget ever having his own computer or video games or…

“This is a phone!”

“That it is.” Janus was smiling, taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

“I can’t- You can’t just- I don’t-” 

“We can, and we did. You’re seventeen, you kind of need a phone just for everyday life. And unless you give us a reason not to trust you with it, we have no worries.”

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t- 

Janus slid the tissue box across the table, but Virgil elected to ignore it, refusing to take his eyes off the box in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he barely choked out, “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome, Virgil,” Logan responded for the both of them, returning back to the kitchen nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just given Virgil more than he’d ever gotten in his entire life combined. “I’m going to start on breakfast.”

“I can help you set it up. Then you can download some music… maybe contact the soulmate of yours again.” Janus switched chairs so he was next to Virgil, careful not to touch him, and Virgil couldn’t help grinning blindingly up at him.

It would only be after breakfast that Virgil would realize that he’d spoken. It would be a longer journey until he’d be able to talk again effortlessly, but he was a step closer. 

Part 4 HERE!

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[mavericksy]

Back Where He Belongs (Kiribaku)

Summary: Kirishima tries to stay up late to wait for Bakugou to come back from his first night patrol.

Words: 1388

Kirishima shook droplets of soapy water from the bowl and picked up a towel. He turned his back on the kitchen sink and instead gazed over the kitchen island, where noise from the television buzzed in the quiet room.

He watched silently as the two news presenters discussed a recent political controversy, trying to wobble his lower lip into an optimistic smile.

“And so, the question is, should the prime minister have…”

He hoped that the old adage ‘no news means good news’ was ringing true tonight.

He turned back to the sink, placing yet another clean bowl on the side. He looked down dolefully at the scant remaining pieces of cutlery lying at the bottom of the washing up bowl. He sighed and picked up a tablespoon, turning back to the TV.

“But it just speaks to the growing social unrest in this country…”

A noise from outside the apartment door caught his attention. He stopped smothering the spoon- which must have been bone dry at this point- and fixed his eyes on the entryway. There was a series of shuffles and clanks. Light footsteps slapped past the door, probably made by the old lady down the hall in her house slippers or the young dad in his canvas sneakers rather than Kirishima’s beloved in his heavy boots.

He sighed and put the spoon down on the side. Seeing the sky beyond the windows turn deeper and deeper shades of blue, filling his apartment with thick shadows, he walked over to the light switch on the wall and pressed the middle one, making the lights over the island flash on.

The white light radiated across the open plan room, illuminating how empty it was. Magazines laid strewn across the glass coffee table, but nobody was reclining in the red vinyl couch to read them. Nobody had moved Kirishima’s towel from the treadmill since he had finished using it several hours earlier, or turned to give him a half-hearted earful about putting his things away.

Trying to focus on the latest human interest story, he kept turning his head towards the television as he lumbered around the kitchen putting the dishes away, but his gaze kept wandering towards the large windows behind the flashing screen.

A tray slipped from his hands.

“Shit-” His hand darted towards the falling sheet of metal, trapping it between his forearm and the white cabinets before it could clatter against the floor. He reached up to put it in the cabinet above the sink, blinking as it connected brashly with the other trays.

He rubbed his eyes. His muscled arms felt heavy in their sockets, and he was beginning to need to lean against the countertop to keep himself from keeling over. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

01:41

With a great sigh, he chucked the remaining forks and spoons haphazardly into the drawer and ambled towards the TV to turn it off. The broad grin of the host grew sharper as he neared the screen, only to wink back into relative blurriness as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“What do you think of the…”

He cut them off abruptly as he pressed the button on the side of the screen, drawing his hands away from it slowly to rub his eyes, mouth stretching into a cavernous yawn. When he opened his eyes again, the smooth lines and shapes of the couch greeted him, but he knew better than to try and squeeze his broad shoulders and long body onto its hard, unforgiving frame. He stepped past it, patting the back for support on his way to the main light switch.

He took one last look over the empty room.

Click.

Allowing himself to stretch and yawn fully, he swished his way over to the bedroom in his daytime sweatpants, making an effort to yank off the button-up shirt he had grabbed earlier for warmth, but not much else. It hit the floor behind him with a gentle whumpf, but he barely registered the noise as his feet rolled towards the expanse of dark cotton bedsheets and a half-rumpled cover.

His head crashed into the pillow. An exhausted groan trickled out of him as his eyes roamed across the opposite wall. Dark shapes prickled over a large motivational poster, the words barely legible in the light stolen from the streetlamps several storeys below. As he struggled to make them out, his right hand closed around a pair of dog tags hanging around his neck, trapped under his thick torso.

The metal was warm from him wearing them close to his skin all day. Some last vestige of thought at the back of his mind told him he should take them off, in case the chain strangled him to death in his sleep- or, worse, in case he damaged them overnight.

His hand clutched them tighter.

Be better than the…than the…

The posters words continued to elude him. He woke up facing that poster every morning, yet the shapes of the bold white letters grew hazier and hazier the more he stared at them.

His eyelids fluttered. He inhaled heavily into the pillow, drawing the duvet cover tighter around him with his legs.

There was nobody at his back. The only thing between him and the bedroom door was the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He gripped the dog tags tighter, letting his eyes roll back into his head as he waited for sleep to take him.

“Hey…”

A whisper rasped across the room, so soft he almost didn’t catch it. At once, he scrambled to roll over, kicking his legs as they tangled in the sheets. The room was almost pitch black, but the last breath of the streetlamps had cast the other man’s face in the dimmest of grey. His lips were pressed together, and his eyes were sloped downwards, following the drawn-out lines of his mouth and jaw as he leaned over the mattress.

Kirishima licked his lips, not realising how dry his mouth had suddenly become. He sensed Bakugou’s deep red eyes flicker over him, and saw from the orange digits of the clock on the nightstand that it was 03:16.

“I didn’t mean t’wake you…” Bakugou mumbled, kicking his clothes to the side. He reached out as he flopped onto the bed, fingering the dog tags. “You shouldn’t sleep with those on, you know.”

His index finger brushed Kirishima’s chest. With that simple touch, a last reserve of energy coursed over him, and he felt his arm jerk out to grab his forearm and pull him in. Bakugou’s warmth engulfed his torso as he dragged him on top of him, lying chest-to-chest. He wondered if he’d be able to feel his heart hammering underneath his skin.

His hands fastened behind Bakugou’s neck. Bakugou’s entire body relaxed as he settled almost instinctively on top of him, his hands curling inwards on either side of his head. The shaved side of his head brushed against Kirishima’s as he tucked his chin underneath his jaw, so close Kirishima could feel him squeeze his eyes closed.

“It was just a normal patrol,” he grunted, his chest flexing into Kirishima’s as he spoke.

“I know,” Kirishima whispered. “But it’s the first time you’ve been gone at night.”

“You miss me or something?”

Kirishima coughed out a laugh, his breathing somewhat restricted by the pressure of his partner’s body.

“I was worried about you.”

“Yeah…?” Bakugou shifted his hips, trying to buck the cover further over him. Kirishima pulled it upwards, not caring that it left his own feet poking out. “Well, you shouldn’t have been…dumbass…”

“I know. But I was.”

“But why? You know I’d never let anything bad happen to me…not while I’ve got you to live for…”

Kirishima’s chest puckered as he laughed again- silently- tightening his grip around Bakugou’s sides and letting his forearms squeeze against his warm sinews of muscle. He nuzzled his temples against Bakugou’s hair, pressing a light kiss beneath his ear. Bakugou’s chin dug deeper into his shoulder.

An easy smile flickered over his face, the movement completely disconnected from any sense of tiredness, as he gazed up at the blackness of the ceiling.

“Because that’s what you do when you have somebody to love,” he whispered into the night.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965089

✨requests are open! feel free to drop me an ask! ✨

[sunflowerstache]

Lifespan

A/N: Hello! This is very different from most of my writing, not only because its an OC, but because the storyline is just something out of my comfort zone. But I really hope you enjoy it(: I got the inspiration from a ad I saw on Facebook a long time ago lmao but yeah, come say hi once you’ve read it and tell me what you think! It’s much appreciated! I love you all so very much! Also hugeeeee shoutout to @devil-in-bw-the-sheets​ for spending like six months reading and re-reading this every single time I rewrote it and changed things and encouraging me each time! And @emotionally-imbruised​ for beta reading it for me!💛💛

Word Count: 7.3k

“Doll?”

The fog that seemed to have settled over your mind instantly melted away upon hearing the barista’s voice, her sweet drawl grounding your focus back on her. She was an older woman, probably nearing her sixties based on the collection of grey hairs scattered throughout her small ponytail. But still so incredibly full of life. She had red glasses perched atop her nose - which perfectly completed the red polka dots covering her black dress - a beaded chain dangling from the end to the front of the frame, a pair of silver peace sign studs resided in her ears, and the anatomically correct symbol for caffeine dangled in necklace form on her chest.

“What? I’m sorry.”

“Just asked if you wanted the cream on that.” She smiled, thin lines spreading out and away from the sides of her eyes as her mouth widened. Upon glancing down quickly, you took notice of her clearly hand drawn name tag filled with swirling letters - different then when you stopped by earlier in the week when she had used stickers to spell out “Rita”.

“Oh, um yeah sure. Why not.”

“My husband always says that during weather like this, the calories don’t count. That they disappear with your shivering. Can I just have your name, dear?”

“Georgie. And your husband sounds like a very smart man.”

“Oh, he is.” A dreamy look took over Rita’s features, like just thinking about the man made her heart race. “Been together for forty-two years and he still teaches me new things.”

Your heart ached with each word; the fog slowly started to creep back through your mind while you watched her grin fondly. The hope and excitement for the future that was always so very clear in people’s eyes was what made it so hard not to explain everything you knew, every secret you held. However, as much as you wanted to urge everyone to live the life they’ve always wanted, you knew there was a natural balance to life, and opening your mouth would undoubtedly throw that balance off. So instead, you grinned and nodded your head.

“He sounds wonderful.”

“My best friend. Counting down the minutes until the end of my shift. We’re heading up to see our grandbabies for the week.” It was like she knew exactly what kind of secret you were keeping and made sure to hit you where it hurt each time she opened her mouth. As if her being impossibly sweet didn’t hurt enough.

“That sounds nice.” Digging around in your bag for your wallet made it much easier not to focus on the ticking time bomb in front of you. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh my! I’m sorry, I know I can’t talk forever if no one stops me.” her laugh was soft, inviting, one you would love to listen to while storytelling. “It’s four pounds.”

“You can keep the change.” You said when handing her some cash, but stopped yourself before you turned to walk away. Even if you weren’t ever going to outright explain anything to anyone, slipping in tiny, reassuring comments made you feel at least a little better before parting ways. “Have an amazing night with your family Rita.”

The coffee shop was relatively empty at the hours you stopped by. Other than the same group of men that were there every morning, chatting over the newspaper and a black coffee and a young nurse who was just getting off of her night shift, only customers on their way to work stopped by. But that was just how you preferred it. It was much easier to avoid running into people when the sun had barely just peeked over the morning horizon. You suppose the city isn’t exactly the best place to reside when you’re on a mission not to get close to anyone, but you’d much preferred the hustle and bustle of the city than the silence of the countryside. At least here you were able to escape your thoughts when they got to be too much, out there you were left to drown in the weights you held.

Rita was right when she said the weather would bring shivering. The moment you stepped through the café doors, all sense of warmth you previously had was sucked out of you, leaving the tips of your fingers tingling against the warm cup. You hadn’t ever really gotten to know the woman behind the counter, a few kind greetings every now and again, but she seemed to be someone who brought a lot of joy to those around her. And she always put extra chocolate curls on your drink. You made a mental note to send some flowers to her family within the coming days.

It was a car horn that initially took your attention off of the pavement, turning to look for who was in such a rush at 5:30am, but the hard torso smacking into her shoulder is what brought your attention back. Followed by the searing heat of your hot chocolate spilling down your front.

“Oh fuck!” you yelled, immediately dropping the paper cup and trying to pull your shirt away from your body to decrease the chance of a burn. There goes your chance to get home and drive right to work without any issue.

“Oh my god! Oh shit!” the man that had ran into you gasped, stopping in his tracks and grabbing onto your elbow to steady your wild movements.

Even though his words were quite loud on the empty street, his voice was still husky, almost like he wasn’t awake yet and still had some left over sleep in his throat. And when you turned to look at who had ruined your shirt, your own voice got stuck in your throat. He was tall, which made sense considering your head had bounced right off of his chest. He was wearing black basketball shorts with tall white socks and a light grey hoodie, which was pulled up to cover the dark grey beanie resting on his head. With one hand he was holding a water bottle with ease, while the other was frantically pulling the airpod from his ear. But apart from his sheer stature, you couldn’t ignore how beautiful this man was. How even the worry lines littering his face were perfectly accenting his features. Or how the green of his eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim light of the Whole Foods you had been stopped in front of.

“I’m so sorry! Shit are you okay?” he quickly asked, shaking his head before you could even respond. “Obviously not, that was probably hot. Oh god I’m so sorry!”

Finally getting your bearings back, you couldn’t help but nod. “Yeah it was pretty hot.”

“Shit, I don’t even know how that happened. I must’ve taken my eyes off the pavement for one second. I’m so sorry.”

“So you’ve said.” You chuckled, bending down to pick up your now empty cup at your feet and tossing it in the bin by your side. “Don’t worry about it. Really it’s fine.”

“It’s not, I’ve ruined your shirt.” If the disappointment in his voice wasn’t evident enough, the small pout on his lips definitely was. He looked absolutely distraught at the sight of what he’d done. “Let me at least get you a new drink. It’s the least I could do.”

“Oh, um, that’s alright.” You’d always known it was rude to speak to someone and not give them eye contact, it was something your father had drilled into you as a child, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Looking someone in the eyes meant seeing above their head, and that was an area you actively tried to avoid looking. But there was something about him that drew you in, and you couldn’t help glancing up at him quickly again. “I actually have to be getting to work. Thanks though.”

“Are you sure? I feel terrible.”

“Positive. Have a good morning.” Your touch was soft on his arm as you made your way past him, leaving the mystery man standing on the pavement staring as you walked towards your flat.

You didn’t mean to be so short with him, but it’s just how you’d grown accustomed to living life. It was the easiest way you found not to get close to many people, which meant less hurt in the end. And you’d been around enough hurt in your short twenty three years. It may be a lonely life, but you were happy with your cat, comically named Lucifer, and living a simple life. Sure, there were times you wished you could live the carefree life everyone around you got to experience, your only issues being stresses of work or relationship drama, but that wasn’t who you were. After living the life you did, there’d be no way you could live a normal life.

“Don’t give me that look, Luci.” you grumbled when walking through your front door, your cat perched on the dining table just watching as you moved through the living room, ripping your destroyed shirt from your body. “This wasn’t my fault.”

You’re sure that you looked like a crazy person if anyone was watching on, talking to your cat while walking around your flat in nothing but a pair of black slacks and a bra. But you didn’t care, because this was your normal. You ranted to her after a long day at work or a particularly draining day, and she always sat and listened. Mostly because she was a cat.

“He just ran right into me, like he literally couldn’t see me. How odd, right?” you stopped briefly while searching your closet for a new shirt. “God Luci, he was cute though. So cute. And tall.”

Just because you secluded yourself in the world didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy taking a peak at what it had to offer. It was the forming relationships that put you off, not because there was a level of uncertainty - nothing was uncertain to you - but because you always knew the timeline of said relationships. It was always the same. So why put yourself through it? But also, why not? What if that was just what you needed to make such a painful existence a little more bearable?

“I didn’t even get his name. Maybe I’ll see him around the cafe sometime.” you hummed, throwing the new peach colored blouse over your head and peeking your face out of the hole. “No. No Georgie, don’t go there. Who are we kidding, it’s not like anything could ever happen anyway.”

Lucifer meows loudly at your comment., making you turn around to glare at her. Obviously she didn’t know what was actually going on, but it was nice to entertain the idea of someone listening to your problems and helping you talk them out. You were a secluded young woman, not crazy.

“What? Like I’m wrong? It’s not something I’d be able to keep from a boyfriend forever. And It’s not like I’d be able to just flat out tell them.”

She meowed again, jumping off the table and prancing her way to your feet, rubbing her side against your ankles.

“What would I even say? Hey, I was born with this thing where I can see a floating clock above everyone’s head that literally counts down to the day you die? Yeah because that won’t get me sent to the looney bin.”

From the start of time, there has always been a beginning and an end to everything. No matter if it was an Oscar award winning film, delicate relationships, or even life itself, it all ended. People come, and they go, but the world continues on; taking care of those who stay to see another day. And on a daily basis, the idea of the end rarely floats through anyone’s mind. Except for you.

For you, it was impossible not to think about when it was quite literally staring you in the face. For as long as you could remember, you walked through life with a different outlook on the end than most other people.It wasn’t because you had some near death experience, but due to a gift. Or at least what some people in the world would consider a gift, because in no way would you call being able to see the exact day someone is going to die, a gift.

It was something that over the years you had grown to ignore, trying not to look too far away from people’s eyes and never thinking too hard about the ticking numbers.They weren’t obnoxious or flashy signs hanging above everyone’s heads - like you had seen some films try and depict - but instead, just a simple, faint, white clock just above the tops of everyone’s head, showing each individual’s lifespan. No matter how many hours you sat down and tried to rationalize why you were able to see this, there was never any answer. No one else in your family carried the burden, and because of that, you never mentioned it to anyone in fear of sounding crazy. But you knew you weren’t crazy, not when you prayed night after night for those numbers to disappear or for someone’s clock to be wrong, only to be let down.

You knew you weren’t crazy when you finally saw your favorite florist Don after he spent some time away, and his clock suddenly read 3 years, 20 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, and 6 seconds instead of the 27 years you had grown used to seeing on him every day before he left. It didn’t take long for you to find out he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and treatments had stopped working.

You knew you weren’t crazy when you got to watch Kim’s clock - the very sweet receptionist at your job - begin to slow down the more she adjusted to a healthy lifestyle of eating right and taking care of her body. What was once a ticking time of a measly 21 years adjusted what would be a long and fulfilled 59 years more.

And you knew you weren’t crazy when at only seventeen years old, you watched as your best friend’s clock suddenly dwindled down to zero’s across the board like a slot machine while laying on the bathroom floor of a house party. The drugs in her system being too much for her young body to handle and completely consuming the 72 years she once had left.

You weren’t crazy, you just carried a burden no one should ever have. And because of it, you made sure not to get close to anyone in fear of watching yet another clock strike zero.

So you moved on with your life, forgetting all about the tall man who had spilled your drink and run into your mind, making you think things you hadn’t in so long, and instead, focused solely on getting through your days at work and getting back home. It was an easy routine, one you hadn’t strayed from much since moving to the city six years ago; wake up, feed Luci, get coffee, go to work, go home, shower, watch tv, go to bed. And as happy as you were that life wasn’t so painful these days, boring would be the only word good enough to describe your life.

Until your neighbors moved in.

You were standing in the kitchen, lifting the collar up to your mouth to try and quickly lick the hot sauce off the old, ratty Elton John Tour shirt you were wearing before it left a stain, wearing nothing else but some shorts, a nice pair of cheetah print slippers to cover your chilly toes, and one of the two hundred paper face masks you’d ordered off of Amazon in an attempt to clear your skin, when the loud bang on your front door startled you. Not only did your family not live in town, but your neighbors knew that you weren’t a people person. Ever since you made that very clear to them upon moving in, they hadn’t tried to contact you, so you just assumed whoever it was had gotten the wrong flat number.

But the knocking persisted.

Lucifer’s head had picked up from her lap upon hearing the first knock, now watching as you made our way closer to the front door. “What do I do?” but the only response you received was her head tilting to the right, like she was saying ‘Really? Answer it you idiot.’

You wanted to be angry, you really did, because you were nearly ready to be completely settled in for the night after a terribly long day and you just wanted to watch some bad tv with Luci, but the moment you twisted the door knob and peered into the hallway, any anger you had felt, completely washed away.

“Hey! Sorry, my mates and I-” he abruptly stopped mid sentence once his eyes landed on you, like his train of thought literally face planted into a brick wall. A look of realization flashed across his face quickly, and in a matter of milliseconds, what was once stress turned into a look of excitement. “Hey! It’s you!” he smiled.

“It’s me.” something about him made it very difficult for you not to mirror his smile, but that desire was overpowered by the confusion coursing through your mind.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again! I still feel terrible about what happened, are you sure you were alright? You didn’t burn yourself, did you?” The man was incredible at changing his emotions at the drop of a dime, for now his eyes were laced with concern where excitement had just lived. “Or I guess I should say I didn’t burn you, did I?”

He was much more put together this time, the workout attire you had last seen him in was traded in for a pair of light red slacks that looked to be a crushed velvet material paired with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black vans. He looked like any university boy you’d see walking the streets, but at the same time, like nothing you had ever seen before. Something about him standing in your doorway brought you a sense of calm, like just his presence was enough to wash away the stresses of your day.

“I mean I can’t say that it felt particularly good, but I didn’t get burned, no.”

“Oh good. That’s good.” he nodded, and you made the mistake of following his hand with your eyes as he lifted it up to his curls to fix the glasses perched on his head. You didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see what kind of fate the universe had in store for him because the peace he had brought to you in the few moments he’d been standing there felt better than anything had in the past few years. But you were never that lucky.

Your eyes quickly casted back down, looking back at the white of his shirt while you cleared your throat. “Did you need something….” you dragged out the end of the word to indicate that you didn’t know what to call him since he hadn’t bothered to mention his name.

“Oh, right. ‘M Harry.”

“Georgie.

“Hello Georgie.” if possible, the grin on his face doubled in size, causing two dimples to appear at the corners and the air in your chest to feel as though it was tightening.

The two of you stood in your doorway without saying anything for another moment before you spoke up; “So did you need something or…”

“Fuck, yeah.” his voice was breathy when he responded, standing up straighter, “My mates and I just saw you come home and we’re in desperate need of a needle and thread. You’ve got one?”

It only took a second for him to realize his words and that surprised look from when you first opened the door was back. His eyes widened and his hands raised in front of him as a way to stop you before you could respond.

“Not in a creepy way! We weren’t like watching you or summat, swear! My mates Niall and Louis just moved in across the hall.” using his thumb he pointed to the open door across the hall where you could see two other guys watching yours and Harry’s interaction. Upon realizing they were spotted, they raised their hands in a small wave. “We heard you come in. Not that we were actively listening! Just - ‘m sorry. I swear we aren’t creeps.”

“Good. Thought I’d have to sic my monster of a dog on you.” you replied, turning to dig through the small table in what could barely be considered an entryway. The table had started out as a place to keep your keys and mail, but like most did, quickly turned into a junk drawer. An abyss to put any and everything only to never see it again.

Harry’s eyes frantically looked behind you like some crazy monster was about to lunge at him for bothering you at night, even going as far as taking a small step back when the door opened a bit wider while you were looking for the tool. You laughed when glancing up quickly at the movement. It was obvious he was panicking at the new information of potentially getting mauled by a massive dog while simply asking for thread. So you put him out of his misery.

“There’s no dog. I’m just joking…”

As if on cue, Lucifer waltzed up to see what was going on at the front door, her small body weaving between your legs to get a nice scratch while checking out the never before seen man. “Oh! A cat! I love cats!”

“Yeah she’s pretty great.” you nodded, closing the drawer and holding your hand out to Harry. “Here you go. Um, not sure what colour you need so you can just take the whole bag.”

“You’re a lifesaver, thank you! Niall has a date in ten minutes and he’s split his only good pair of trousers.” he turned his head to look over his shoulder at the boys inside the other flat, trying to seem like they weren’t listening to the conversation, but very obviously doing just that. “Have to sew him in like ‘m some sort of tailor.” he chuckled, turning back to face you.

“Sounds like an exciting night.”

“Oh riveting. I would ask if you’d like to join but you look very busy-” the corners of his lips were trying hard not to curl upwards with the light sarcasm, wobbling a bit as he continued speaking, “-so I wouldn’t want to interrupt anymore than I already have. I’m sure I’ll see you again, I practically live with these two idiots.”

“‘M sure I will.” Luci hadn’t left your side since joining you at the door, instead, she began meowing quite loudly, so you bent down to scoop her into your arms.

You liked Harry, not only because he was a very obviously a good looking man, but because he seemed to pick up on your social cues fairly quickly. He didn’t linger and try to get as much out of you as possible or make the fact that you clearly didn’t have much interest in talking uncomfortable. And it was the first time in a long time that you felt content being around someone. Not fearing what the future brought.

Harry halted his movements halfway between flats and spun back around quickly. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you press kisses to Lucifer’s head while standing in the doorway. Something you gathered from the very brief times you’d shared an encounter was that Harry was not very good at hiding his emotions. It was almost like he had no control of his mouth, because you could see him try to stop the smile from spreading, but it was no use. The dimples popped out in full force.

“I still owe you for that coffee.”

“Oh, um not a coffee.”  you tried not to be loud enough for him to hear, noting that the fact that it wasn’t a coffee was not really that important, but he heard you anyway.

“Pardon?”

“Just um, it wasn’t a coffee. More of a hot chocolate drinker actually.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead just continued watching you with fond eyes and a now very prominent smile. You felt as though he could sense how out of touch with relationships you had begun to get over the years. What other explanation could he have for being so soft with someone he had just met and barely even known

“Right, well keep your schedule open so I can take you out for that replacement cocoa.”

Your door swiftly closed the second he turned back around, not leaving any extra seconds for him to turn around and look at you again. And the second she heard the click of the lock, Luci leaped out of your arms and made her way over to the sofa, meowing her entire journey.

“Yes that was him.” another meow. “I told you he was cute, and I also told you nothing would be happening there.”

Harry wasn’t lying when he said you’d be seeing him again. It seemed as though every day when you got back to your flat, he was there. Sometimes on his way out, other times just standing outside the door waiting for the other boys. And despite how at peace being around Harry had made you feel that day he came knocking at your door, you never put in much more effort than a “hello” here and there. He and the others had tried quite a few times to get you to join them on their night out, but each time you came up with a different excuse. Even if they were comforting, what was the point in forming that friendship when you knew you’d just isolate yourself again eventually. You had made it this long without getting too close to anyone else, and you weren’t going to start just because two attractive lads moved in across the hall who happened to have a very fit, very inviting, friend.

It wasn’t until nearly a month later that you actually had a full conversation with Harry again.

Typically you tried not to go to the coffee shop by your flat any later than lunchtime because it just got too busy. There were too many people for you to fully avoid them all and seeing too many clocks dampened your mood significantly. But you had already had a shitty morning and needed something to give you a boost.

The place had felt very melancholy since Rita’s unfortunate passing last month, she’d passed peacefully in her sleep while spending time with her family. You’d sent the family flowers as remembered, and also made sure to drop a few bills in the jar on the counter each time you’d been in the shop. Other employees were setting up a fund for Rita’s family since she was such a loved member of the community just with the joy she brought from behind the counter.

“Just a large hot chocolate for me, please.”

“For here or take away?”

“Take away please.”

“Actually she’ll have that for here, please.” a familiar voice behind you spoke up as you were digging through your bag for your wallet. You could see him out of the corner of your eye move from his spot behind you, to gradually standing next to you, looking directly at the barista behind the counter.

“Um..” you felt bad for the young kid, he couldn’t be any older than eighteen and all he wanted to do was get to work and get out. But here you were making his day more stressful than it needed to be. “So… for here then?”

“Harry I -”

“Come on Georgie. Please.” never in your life had you seen a grown man bat his eyelashes, but here he was, trying to lure you in with his breathtaking green eyes.

“Fine.” your voice came out soft and you rolled your eyes, but on the inside you felt giddy, like what you remember life to feel like before you started isolating yourself. “Um, sorry. I’ll have it for here I suppose.”

“Do you want the cream?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ll have a -” Harry’s profile was something you could get lost in. How the tip of his nose seemed to bounce with every word he said, how it looked as if his lips were made to form the words falling from between them, or how no matter how many times he tried to get it to stay back, one of his curls would continue to break loose from the rest and fall past his forehead. From what little you’ve seen of it, Harry had a great sense of fashion. Comfortable. A brown teddy bear jumper was covering his upper body, sleeves long enough to gather just past his hands and torso short enough that you could see his white shirt peeking out from underneath, ripped black jeans, a pair of black chelsea boots, and  those same tortoise shell glasses perched on his nose completed his look.  

“Ready?”

“Huh?”

“You ready? ‘ve got a table back by the door.”

The two of you made your move to walk back towards the front of the shop, but you halted in your tracks when you saw that yes, he in fact did have a table waiting for him, but it was also being inhabited by the two boys you had seen behind him when he came to ask for thread. Neal and Liam? And a girl was sitting between the two as they chatted amongst themselves.

“Harry I don’t -”

“Come on, I promise we don’t bite.” Apparently you still didn’t look convinced because he leaned down to be at your eye level and stuck his lip out in a pout. “One drink. Please? I owe you remember?”

“Yes and you’ve already bought me a new one, thank you by the way, so you don’t owe me anything else.”

“I know.” the apples of his cheeks began getting pinker the longer he stared at you, “But I’d very much like to spend some time with you.”

Just like he did when he knocked on your door, his eyes widened and immediately seemed to want to backtrack what he had said. “Wait no, not in that way. In like a ‘hey I think you’re cute -’ no fuck that’s not -”

“Harry.”

“Yes?”

“One drink.”

The relief was instant on his features, his shoulders sagging and eyebrows un-furrowing at your words. “Good. Afraid my mates were going to start thinking I made you up.”

“I live across the hall, they’ve seen me.”

“Well yeah, but I talk about you so much they thi- I - fuck.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that fell from between your lips. You may not have had many friendships or relationships of any kind, but you did know excessive rattling wasn't generally how people spoke to one another.  “You babble a lot.”

“Only when ‘m nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?”

Harry wasted no time in his response, taking a quick glance over to you. “Because I finally get to spend time with the pretty girl across the hall.”

The heat rushing to your cheeks had become something of a common occurrence when speaking with Harry. It wasn’t obvious if he knew what he was doing or not, but you couldn’t imagine someone like Harry not knowing how to flirt. Thankfully, however, someone from the table spoke up before you could dwell on his comment longer than necessary.

“Finally!” the man sitting at the end of the booth spoke. He was dressed very similar to Harry in color - a tan quilted shirt was hidden beneath a cream colored teddy bear jacket, and pleated brown trousers. The light facial hair stubbled along his cheeks made him look slightly older than Harry, but his complete baby face counteracted that.

Harry looked at you briefly, raising his eyebrows with a ‘what did I tell you?’ kind of look as he bent down to slide into the booth next to the other man. His style was much different than the other two, more streetwear. He was wearing black trackies and an old gray band tee under a denim jacket, baseball hat and the very apparent smell of cigarettes finishing off the outfit. Another difference with him was that he had a girl with him. What you assumed to be his girlfriend by the way her head was resting on his shoulder and his hand fell on her knee. She was beautiful, long brown hair fell loose around her shoulders, only kept back by the fragile looking sunnies that rested at the top of her head. She was wearing a simple white top and a pair of white,black, and brown plaid trousers, both of which were overshadowed by the beautiful black Balenciaga jacket hanging off of her shoulders.

“Was starting to think you’d been lying about actually knowing her, Haz.” the one closest to Harry spoke, earning a light slap to his chest from the girl on his shoulder.

Harry disregarded all of their antics and turned to pat the seat next to him, indicating he wanted you to sit down, and he gave you a reassuring nod when you nibbled your lower lip between your teeth.

It was subtle acts like Harry letting you sit on the outside of the booth so you could make a quick getaway if needed that reminded you how easily he seemed to pick up on your social cues - even if you didn’t realize you did them. It made your chest tickle that even just from the two substantial conversations you’d had with him, Harry picked up on things you did.

“Piss off.” Harry chuckled, reminding you a lot of friendships you’d seen on tv where they all take the piss but it was easy to see that they all cared for one another. It was something you’d always been envious of while watching the world from the sidelines. “Georgie, this is Niall, Louis, and Louis’ girlfriend Eleanor. Everyone, this is Georgie.”

You were met with a chorus of hellos and you would’ve loved to just jump right into their conversation about the best places to get guacamole, just so that they knew you weren’t intentionally being rude to them. But not only were you not good at this conversation thing, but you also were still on edge about forming any sort of connection with these people. Apparently you should get used to Harry and his all knowing mind, because before you could excuse yourself from the awkwardness, he spoke up.

“So, how long have you lived in the building?”

Unprepared for the question, you froze for a second. “Oh, um going on six years now.”

“Impossible! What are you, like twenty? No way you’ve lived there that long!” Eleanor asked, her head no longer on Louis’ shoulder, instead she was sitting upright and looking directly at you. Of course, over the span of the years, you had gotten quite good at looking at people without really paying any attention to what was only visible to you above their heads, but it still made you uneasy. The best solution was just not to look at them at all. But these people, people who had no idea who you were a mere ten minutes ago yet were now welcoming you into their lives, made you want to work on avoiding the numbers. Because this was the most alive you’d felt in years.

“‘M twenty three. Be twenty four next Friday.”

“No shit! Alright well I’m coming over so you can teach me your skincare routine because you look flawless.” she gleamed, leaning forward on the table to jot down her phone number on one of the many spare napkins littering the tabletop.

“As much as I love a good skincare routine, let’s not skip over the more important part of that sentence. Your birthday is next week?” Harry asked, gently shoving his shoulder against yours and offering a kind smile when you glanced up at him.

“Oh, it’s not a big deal. I haven’t really celebrated my birthday since I turned like eleven.” your parents used to throw you a party every year while growing up, a lavish over the top kind of party where all of your classmates were invited and family you had never even heard of pinched your cheeks. But as time went on and you didn’t give up your ‘ridiculous fantasy’ as your mother so kindly put it, they began to stop throwing the party. Now, you were lucky if they sent you a card on the day. Plus, celebrating your birthday alone is kind of a downer.

“You haven’t celebrated your birthday in over a decade?” Niall’s mouth hung open like that was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

“Nope.”

“Well that just won’t do.” you may not know very much about the people seated around you, but the smirk on Louis’ face told you everything you needed to know. “We’re having a party.”

“Um, thank you. Really. But parties aren’t really my thing. Plus I’m working that day so…”

“Oh, where do you work?” Harry asked, thoroughly interested in where you spend most of your days.

“Good Samaritan.”

“The nursing home down on Adams?”

“That’s the one. I’m a caregiver.” when you first applied for the position, you thought you were crazy. For someone who doesn’t want to get close to anyone in fear of their untimely demise, you definitely went for a job exactly the opposite. But that was the appeal to you. Sure, it was terribly sad to see one of your patients pass, but in the time leading up to it, you knew exactly who needed a little extra love. It was nice to be able to remind their loved ones to visit while making routine phone calls, and to do things to make them smile in what only you knew were their last days. It was the only time you thought what you were born with was some kind of gift. The tiniest most unwelcomed gift.

“That’s wonderful.” Harry’s voice was gently next to you, like he was hanging on to every short word that you said.

“Well, we’ll just have a party once you’re done with work.” Louis shrugged, but held his hands up when you opened your mouth to remind him you didn’t want anything. “Not a party, a friendly get together with friendly neighbors and alcohol.”

That day in the cafe was the beginning to a new start for you.

Obviously Lucifer had to hear about everything that happened that afternoon, but she was there to experience it first hand when Eleanor came knocking on your door the following day. She got to watch as you bent over in genuine laughter at your shared banter. She watched from the kitchen counter as Harry came by with food one night, saying he just happened to order extra lo mein and heard you come home. And as the two of you sat in the living room watching Big Brother, talking about everything from your favorite color to why he majored in physical therapy in university. Luci got to watch you break out of the shell you’d worked so hard on forming around you, and even though you knew she couldn’t understand what was happening, you liked to think her frequent meows were those of encouragement.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” The yells came from all corners of the room when you walked into Louis’s flat the following Friday, making your eyes widen and shoulders straighten. As much progress as you’d been making in your life, with branching out and slowly losing your fear of connection, it would take more than a week to crack down those barriers you’d built so high for so long.

“Thank you.” you laughed, putting down the bottle of wine you’d brought just in time for everyone to start surrounding you in hugs.

“Happy Birthday, love.” Harry’s voice was soothing in your ear, like a sense of relief in the overstimulation the other three had given you. You didn’t regret their company like you would have only a month ago, instead you welcomed the foriegn feelings. But it was still nice to have a moment of calm to fully process everything.

“Thank you Harry.”

“I hope it’s not too much. I told them to cool it on the balloons and confetti - especially since we all know I’ll be the one to pick it up in the morning.” he laughed, offering you a glass of wine that everyone else seemed to already be enjoying.

“No, no, it’s great. A nice segway from doing nothing every year.”

“Still can’t believe you haven’t celebrated your birthday in so long! That’s a day that should be celebrated by everyone!”that same look you’d grown to quite enjoy flashed over his features, his momentary distress as he realized he said something he wasn’t planning on sharing. But the look disappeared when he saw your knowing smile. “Don’t start.”

As promised, there was no party, per say. Everyone was just scattered around Louis’ living room telling stories about absolutely nothing that had everyone in stitches. It was the kind of party you’d always been envious of, one where mates could hang out and lose themselves in the company of each other. It was the first time you didn’t have a single thought about impending doom for more than an hour, a feit you would be sure not to forget.

Niall was laid out on the floor under the windows, a half empty bottle of rum in his hand and the other rested on his stomach, occasionally itching an invisible nuisance. Louis was seated in the arm chair directly across from Niall, a very buzzed Eleanor draped across his lap and the more the night went on, the less chances you had of seeing their faces separated. And Harry was seated next to you on the sofa, his arm hung on the back of the cushion in such a way that everyone so often you would feel the very tips of his fingers skim the exposed skin on your shoulder.

You wished you could freeze this moment in time, because a photograph or video would never do it justice. It was almost as if you were watching the night play out in front of you like a movie, not really in your body but watching from afar. Watching as the girl who hid herself from the world began to hatch, slowly cracking the hard exterior surrounding her. And you would do anything to bottle the feeling of pride that swelled in your chest knowing you had achieved that.

“Literally right in the face mate. No joke.” Niall cackled, his laugh a contrast in that moment; escaping his mouth loudly but carrying throughout the room softly. Taking off like a leaf blowing through the fall breeze.

“Georgie.” your name slipped from between Harry’s lips beautifully, like he was created for the sole purpose of saying your name over and over again; forever. “Alright?”

And sitting in the living room of Louis’ flat, listening to your friends’ wine induced giggles, looking at the most captivating pair of green eyes and curly hair that only whatever magical being that was above could’ve created, you were alright. You were so alright that the minuscule ticks of the clocks of your new and only friends, ticks you tried so hard to avoid paying attention to, almost seemed to disappear completely. Almost.

71 years, 2 months, 10 days, 3 hours, 16 minutes, 55 seconds. 68 years, 11 months, 3 days, 19 hours, 43 minutes, 2 seconds. 68 years, 7 months, 21 days, 1 hour, 58 minutes, 33 seconds. 62 years, 8 months, 9 days, 11 hours, 12 minutes, 2 seconds. 2 years, 1 month, 30 days, 23 hours, 34 minutes, 56 seconds.

[atths--twice]

Wednesday Night at the Fluff and Fold

Had an idea for a little “on the run” story the other day. Thus this little story was born. Hope you enjoy! ❤️

Late on a hot summer night, while on the run, Scully and Mulder spend some time in a small town laundromat.

September 2003

Juliette, Georgia

10:00 p.m.

There was an odd feeling of calm to pairing socks, seeing them piling up beside the other clothes, everything organized into neat stacks.

Scully smiled as she remembered helping her mother fold clothes when she was younger, loving the feel of them when they were warm from the dryer, or even helping to take them from a clothesline. Sheets were always her favorite, lifting her side up as high as she could, her mother smiling as she held tight to the other end. The sound of the snap of the fabric, the perfect fold, meeting in the middle to hand it off to her mother… she loved it all.

Socks were saved for her to do on her own, large piles of them from the whole family, left to her to sort like a puzzle. She liked being able to differentiate between them, giving the right socks to the right people, proud that she never got it wrong.

As an adult, she found that same pride in the tidiness of her own home; the dishes always washed and put away in their place, the pictures hung to her taste, her clothes always organized, going through them often and getting rid of any taking up unwanted space.

Space, she thought with a snort. That’s definitely something we are lacking these days.

Folding one of Mulder’s t-shirts, she placed it on top of his pile. One of her shirts was next and she placed it on her own pile with a sigh. Turning around, she looked at the dryer in front of her and saw it still had twenty minutes left before the cycle would be complete. Looking around at the empty laundromat, she sighed again.

Fanning herself, she lifted her long hair off of her sweaty neck. The weight of it made her think again of cutting it short like she’d had it in the past. Instead, she took the rubber band from her wrist and tied it up into a messy bun, a few pieces falling down and brushing her face. As it did, she sighed at the dark brown, nearly black color of it.

She’d had it dyed for months now, but she was still taken aback by it when her thoughts were elsewhere and it suddenly fell into her view. She did not mind it, but it was a drastic difference from her normal red.

The door to the laundromat opened and Mulder walked in with a plastic bag in each hand.. Even in khaki shorts, a black tank top, and flip flops, she could see he was just as warm as she was, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.

“God, it’s like walking through numerous layers of warm wet paper towels. I’m sweating like crazy.”

“It’s not much cooler in here,” she said with a gesture toward the dryers. “Thankfully it’s the last load.”

“Should I get the bags from the car?” he asked, setting the plastic bags down on the counter beside the piles of folded clothes.

“Nah. Might as well wait until those are done and folded.” He nodded and jumped up to sit next to the bags, smiling at her as he did. She let out a deep breath as she glanced at the dryer timer again.

Eighteen minutes until they would pack up and head away from this small town, all of their clothes clean, for a while at least.

It had been nearly a year and a half since they had been on the run, staying in countless motels, trailers, tents, the car itself, and even once a teepee, which they had both found highly offensive, especially after seeing the decor. But it had been cold and the place warm, so they had stayed for a night before leaving the next morning

In that time, a system had been created. They had bought large plastic totes and kept everything they needed inside of them: sleeping bags, pillows, extra blankets, two tents, tarps, camping cooking supplies, some food- but not much as they did not want to attract any unwanted animals.

They also had two duffel bags which held all of the clothes they owned, rotating them by need and season.

As it was the tailend of a very warm summer, the warmer clothes had been stored in one of the totes, not needed for a few more months. The two duffel bags were now full of shorts, tank tops, shirts, and even a few sundresses, the breeze welcome as it cooled her everywhere.

The bags also held their simple toiletries inside plastic zippered bags. It was organized and fit just so in the car, allowing them to grab whatever was needed quickly. Every item was replaceable and held no sentimental value, easily able to be left behind if the situation called for it.

Clothes were worn until only one outfit remained, the dirty clothes placed in trash bags. All laundry was done at one time, visiting laundromats late at night, or any motel with on-site laundry service. The clean clothes were then put back into the duffel bags, the trash bags slipped into the totes, ready to be refilled.

It was a system that worked well, keeping them away from crowds of people, Mulder remaining safe and relatively unseen.

Sighing again, she shook her head and glanced at the bags he had brought in with him.

“So, what have you got there?” she asked with a smile, one of the bags smelling of something delicious and causing her stomach to growl.

“Well,” he said, opening the bag and removing take out containers, handing one to her. “The Whistle Stop Café is open late tonight for a summer barbecue-”

“Is it?” she said, looking at her food cautiously and he laughed.

“Pork, not human,” he assured her with another chuckle. “Someone in front of me made that joke and the woman serving food gave him such a look, I knew better than to make the same mistake.”

“Can’t really blame people when it’s heavily implied in the Fried Green Tomatoes movie and in the book… well…” She raised her eyebrows and opened the container, sniffing the delicious aroma of barbecued pork, her mouth watering.

“I also got mashed potatoes and biscuits. Homemade biscuits that I ate one of on the way over here because they had only just cooled enough to be served when I ordered them. Try one of those first.” He handed her one and he nodded encouragingly.

Taking it from him, she took a bite and then moaned as the sweet taste of butter hit her tongue. He nodded again with a smile as she took another bite and he took out utensils and napkins. She pushed herself up to sit beside him, her legs swinging as they ate, the dryer continuing to tumble the last of their clothes, both of them hot, sweaty, and sticky.

As they finished eating, the dryer stopped and while he cleaned up their food and trash, she took out the clothes, walking them to the counter to be folded. He came back in with the duffel bags, setting them on the empty counter, and began helping her fold the clothes.

In no time, they were filling the duffel bags, everything once more arranged and in order. She threw out the dryer sheets she had used and picked up the now empty trash bags, ready to put them back into the totes in the car.

“What’s in this bag?” she asked and he nodded at her to open it. When she did, she smiled, finding it full of paperbacks.

“I found a used bookstore and came back to the car, taking out the ones you’d wanted to swap if we found one. I could only find up to “O,” but maybe we’ll get lucky at the next place and find “P” and “Q.””

“There’s a “Q”? I didn’t know,” she murmured and he nodded as she looked down at the books.

They had stayed at a cabin in March and the sparse amount of books available had led to her reading ones she would normally have passed over. Particularly, a series of detective novels, the titles of each one beginning with a different letter of the alphabet.

Finding that she enjoyed them, when they had been in another town, she had popped into a used bookstore, finding the next in the “alphabet series” by Sue Grafton. She had loved them all, a distraction from their own lives for a little while. It had been some time since she had finished, and even reread the last few, holding onto them to trade in for new ones, and she was happy he had found them.

“Thank you,” she said softly, looking at “L” is for Lawless and “M” is for Malice. “I know it’s not my usual reading material…”

“Scully, there isn’t much that is usual right now.” He smiled at her and shrugged. “You enjoy them. I do too. Especially when you read them aloud and we try to figure out the ending.” She nodded with a smile and ran her fingers across the titles.

“Thank you,” she said again, lifting her head to look at him. He smiled with a nod and picked up one of the duffel bags, kissing her as he did.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered against her lips, reaching for the next duffel bag.

She put the books back inside the plastic bag and picked up their black canvas backpack. Everything else could be left behind and abandoned at a moment's notice, but not the backpack. It held everything of importance inside of it and was never far from sight.

One last look around, making sure they had everything, they walked out into the muggy and sticky Georgia night. Bags were placed back into the car and then bottles of water were taken from the totes and carried to the front seat.

Mulder turned on the car, blasting the air conditioning as they both sat, the warm air gradually becoming cooler. She closed her eyes as she twisted her head and leaned forward, letting the cool air hit the back of her neck.

“What were we thinking, huh? Coming to the south in the summer? Should have stayed up north,” Mulder said with a deep sigh and she smiled.

“It’s summer, Mulder. It’s hot everywhere.”

“Hmm. Not moist hot though. I feel… well… it’s not the best situation in my southern region either.” She laughed and opened her eyes, looking at him as he raised his eyebrows with a shake of his head.

“How does a cold shower sound?”

“Make it lukewarm, and not a solo one, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said with a smile and she tilted her head.

“You’re asking me to join you even after you’ve so eloquently divulged a bad case of swamp ass?” She raised her eyebrows at him, a half smile on her face, and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Absolutely. I’m sure you could do with a…”

“Yes?” she asked, her eyebrows raising higher, waiting to see how big of a hole he would dig himself into.

“Well…” He shrugged and smiled, the one that made her heart race. Innocent and sweet, with an air of mischief hiding behind it. “A nice refreshing shower after standing in that warm laundromat for so long.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, licking her lips and his eyes followed its path across them.

“And if it leads to some sex… well…” He shrugged again and put the car in gear, looking around before he backed up and out of the parking spot, continuing out of the parking lot. “At least we’ll get clean as we’re being dirty.” She laughed and nodded, already anticipating the feel of the water cooling and cleansing her sweaty body, his hands on her wet and slippery skin making her ache with need.

He grinned at her as they pulled up to a stop sign by the Whistle Stop Café. People were still there enjoying the barbecue, music playing and laughter ringing out into the night. They drove past the now closed used bookstore and she smiled, remembering the books waiting to be read. Looking at him, she smiled and he winked as he caught her eye.

“A refreshing shower sounds wonderful.”

“And the sex?” he asked, stopping at a light and staring at her, waggling his eyebrows.

“Sounds orgasmic,” she said in a low voice and he growled, stepping on the gas as soon as the light was green, hurrying out of town as she laughed happily.

[bopbopstyles]

1. December 26th, 2016

SERIES RATING: M (sex)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 6.4k

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | ASK

Y/N promised herself she would never date a musician. It was her one rule–her only rule, actually–when it came to dating. But then, Harry Styles rolled into her life and asked her to break it, just this once. And this is what happened.

A/N: welcome to chapter one of THE ONLY EXCEPTION! i’m so flipping excited i could scream!!!!!! this fic is going to be a long boi so buckle up. also thank you to @meetmeinfleetwood​ for supporting this fic from the start ilysm!!!! xoxo, willa

pls reblog to spread the word about only exception! 🥰

Y/N’s dad had been having these Christmas parties for the past five years or so, each time on the 26th of December, each time packed with music industry people and lots of bottles of tequila and red wine. Her first time had been two years ago, and she had found it surprisingly enjoyable—she had expected it to be boring and to want to leave after the first hour. Instead, it was full of people she had known since she was a kid, musicians and producers and her dad’s old A&R guys who she had grown up hanging out with in recording studios and backstage at her dad’s shows. They had come to family dinners before and after her parents’ divorce, and so when she ran into them at the parties it was easy to catch them up on her life and suddenly it was after midnight and the party was emptying out. 

This year she had volunteered to help set up. Her dad had rented a massive house out in the hills and it came already decorated, but it was on Y/N to make sure there were chairs set up for the music circle, a massive bar laid out and plenty of glasses ready. Her dad’s friend was making the food, eager to use the opportunity to promote the new restaurant he was opening, so when Y/N opened the door it already smelled like garlic and olive oil, her favorite scents on earth. 

“Karl!” She called through the house, shutting the heavy oak door behind her. Her arms were laden with boxes of plastic glasses—her dad was too scared of the guests breaking glass ones—and she wandered into the kitchen. The tall ceilings of the entryway where a massive Christmas tree sat adorned with ornaments gave way to a modern, sleek kitchen. Karl twirled around to greet her, a grin on his face. “Smells delicious in here.”

He set down his spatula and came over, grabbing a box and giving her a kiss on each cheek. “Hello, darling. Are there more in the car?” 

She shook her head, unwinding her scarf from her neck and placing it on the counter. Karl had been her father’s college roommate and somehow they’d stayed close over the years, every one of Y/N’s birthdays spent at one of Karl’s restaurants with all of her favorite dishes made special, a birthday cannoli with a candle in it for her to blow out. “This is all of the glasses. Dad told me to get the bar ready—he’s bringing the booze in a bit.”

“Hope there’s a glass of wine in there for the chef,” Karl said and Y/N chuckled—there always was a bottle of Karl’s favorite expensive wine set aside when he did one of these things and he knew it. It was part of the pay, her father always said. “Want to taste test?”

“Always.” Y/N joined Karl at the stove, eagerly tasting the sauce he was cooking. It was a simple sage butter sauce, but Karl always excelled at the most simple dishes. “Delicious, as usual,” she said. 

Karl jabbered her ear off about the updates on the restaurant—they’d run into problems finding a good sous chef and he was about to do the job himself if he didn’t find someone soon—while Y/N decided where to set up the bar. Finally, she settled on a high table against the glass wall in the wide hallway between the kitchen and the sprawling dining room, which opened up onto the patio. She tugged open the accordion glass doors and breathed in the cool Los Angeles air, thankful for a relatively cold evening, since she always got overheated at parties like this, where people were crammed into every corner. Her dad seemed to know more people every year. Satisfied with the position of the table, she set out the glasses and paper napkins, before asking Karl if he had an extra cooler he’d brought with. She’d forgotten to ask her dad for one before she had left. She filled it with ice and set it next to the table with a scoop, and grabbed the special shot glasses her father had told her to bring, placing them on the table next to a bouquet of flowers. 

Her job done, she wandered through the rest of the house. It was gorgeous—she wondered how her father had found it. If she remembered correctly, he had said something about it being an official venue for music and parties, he’d done a private gig here a few years back and the owners had loved him enough to offer it for this party. It’s not like anyone really had gigs on December 26th anyway. She closed all the doors to the back bedrooms, remembering her father’s request, and set up a coat closet of sorts out of the bedroom closest to the front, before heading to change into her outfit for the evening. 

“Y/N!” She was securing her favorite pair of earrings in her ears when she heard her father’s voice through the halls of the house. “Where ya at, sweetheart?”

“One sec, Dad!” She grabbed the hanger she had kept her top on and shoved it into her massive purse, settling it into the back corner of the room for safety. Her father was waiting for her in the kitchen with Karl, also getting a sample of the sauce she had tried earlier. 

“Hi you,” her father said when she came in. His salt and pepper hair was balding a bit, but his bright smile was what drew people in, olive skin that tanned easily in the California sun. Y/N had selected his suit for the evening, a maroon red and a black tie, something a bit out of the ordinary for him, but Y/N loved it. “Look gorgeous.”

She hugged her father tightly. She had spent Christmas with her mother, as usual, so this was the first time she’d seen her dad during the holidays. “Not too bad yourself, captain.”

“Ha!” Her father pinched her cheek softly, just as he had when she was a child. “I’ve got your present in the car, come grab it with me?”

“Sure.” They had decided to exchange gifts at the party and Y/N had hers tucked in the back pocket of her jeans—dinner on her at Karl’s new restaurant, something she’d discussed with the owner a few weeks ago. Her father’s car sat in the driveway, trunk open where boxes of alcohol laid waiting to be carried inside. “That my gift?”

“You wish,” her dad answered, and Y/N gave him a pouty look that he just shook his head at. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope. Y/N couldn’t help but hope it was cash—she needed a new computer and was running a bit short. She knew her dad would help if she asked, but she hated asking him for money. 

She took the envelope and opened it, a sheet of paper and something thicker hiding between its folds. She opened the letter and found a homemade coupon of sorts, just as she had done for him. 

TWO TICKETS TO ANY SHOW IN LA - NON-REFUNDABLE, FUN REQUIRED!

“Papa,” she said, giving him a beaming smile. “My favorite!” She threw her arms around his neck and he chuckled, hugging her right back. 

“Just give me a few weeks heads up, okay?”

Y/N nodded, and looked back down at the letter, eyes running over her dad’s sweet words of love and pride. It was their thing—homemade cards always, never store bought, despite that neither of them could draw. “Thank you.” 

“Welcome, sweetheart.”

“Now yours!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out his envelope, aptly addressed, Dad, and handed it over. Her father read her card as well, and chuckled at her drawing of them at dinner together. 

He kissed her forehead gently. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, squeezing his side. “Now let’s get all this booze out of your car before I drive away with it!” Her dad laughed and followed her to the back of the car, them each grabbing a carton of wine. There had to be enough for over a hundred people, Y/N thought to herself. Who would be new this year?

The party was in full swing, her dad’s favorite music playing softly through the speaker system, people littered all over the house with the alcohol flowing. Karl was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, his food a massive hit, and Y/N couldn’t have been happier for him. She’d caught up with her dad’s friends and people who were essentially her godparents, sharing how her job was going (fine) and her relationship prospects (non-existent), sipping tequila and red wine on rotation. 

Y/N leaned against the patio railing overlooking the hills, a glass of tequila on the rocks settled in between her palms. She could hear her father’s voice in the distance calling people to come and start the music, the scrape of chairs and strumming of guitars. It was about time for her to go in, but she lingered, relishing the quiet of the night and the biting air wrapping around her. Since she didn’t play an instrument, despite her father’s attempts, this part of the evening was the part where she just sat back and observed. And also usually got quite drunk since all she had to do was drink and sing along. 

“Y/N, right?” She turned around, eyes focusing on the person standing a few feet away. “I’m Harry.”

Harry Styles. How had he ended up here, and how had she not seen him yet? “Nice to meet you,” she answered, standing up straight and taking a sip of her drink. “Not going in to play?”

He shook his head. “Bit nervous, if I’m honest. Lot of talent in that room.”

She cocked her head to the side as he joined her at the railing. “You’re plenty talented,” she told him. It was true. She was a huge fan of his, had been for a while, following his work in One Direction since its inception, and now in the solo career her dad had mentioned. He was recording with some guys out at The Village a few months ago and called her at the end of the day, saying he ran into Harry Styles in the middle of a session doing some solo stuff. Said it sounded good, which she wasn’t surprised by in the slightest. 

But Harry just chuckled. “Nah, those people are legends,” he said. She knew who he was talking about, too. One of the Dixie Chicks was there, some guys who had written with John Mayer and Kanye West, a dozen other Grammy-nominated musicians, some record label execs who had practically formed the industry as they knew it today, the A&R people who had found them. It was intimidating, definitely, but for Harry she didn’t think it would be. 

“Just people.” She sipped on her drink, studying him. He was in a long black coat, a loose black v-neck silk shirt and red and white plaid pants that tapered at the leg, his cropped curls falling into his face slightly. He also had a tequila on the rocks gripped in his hand, rings adorning every one of his fingers. A skull, a red stone, a silver band, amongst them. “Having fun?”

He smiles at her, thankful for the change of topic. “Loads. Haven’t been at a party like this in a while.”

“What do you mean?”

The breeze passed between them, ruffling his hair a bit. “I don’t know. Just, people who didn’t really give a shit about me, if you know what I mean? Holidays can be a bit much sometimes.”

She nodded as if she understood what it felt like to be a popstar of his fame, which she didn’t, but she could imagine. “Didn’t go home?”

“My mum and sister came here, actually,” he said. “They were craving a respite from the cold English winters.”

“Well, this is definitely a respite,” Y/N said, and Harry chuckled.

Silence stretched between them and Y/N tapped her fingernails against her cup. Maybe it was time to go inside, she thought. “So, Y/N, what do you do?”

His question pulled her out of her head easily. “Brand strategy,” she answered, thankful for a comfortable topic. “I work mostly with fashion and product companies, preferably sustainable ones.”

“You like it?”

“Love it.” She did. She loved her work—she’d gone to school for it and thrown herself into it after school, loving pitching projects for clients and helping them understand their core purpose and how they could grow and evolve  most authentically. “It was that or books, but I decided this was a bit more profitable. Also wasn’t too keen on living in New York.”

Harry nodded, twirling his glass in his hands. She took the opportunity to run her eyes across his face—he was gorgeous in this way that you weren’t sure was real. It was interesting to see how much he’d grown up. At 22, his cheekbones were cut and his jaw defined, his former long locks he had recently cut and Y/N liked these more, she decided. “What are your favorite writers?��� He asked, pulling Y/N back into the conversation. 

“That’s like asking which one of your children is your favorite,” she joked, and he chuckled, the sound music to Y/N’s ears. “Dunno, really. I read so much it’s hard to choose, you know? Reading a Louise Erdrich book right now that’s absolutely stellar. The Round House—you should give it a go if you’ve got the time.”

He pulled out his phone and she watched him type in the name to his Notes app, the action making her smile. “Been looking for a new book,” he said. “Just been reading The New Yorker and my mum about took my head off for not reading enough.” They both laughed, the sound filling the night air. 

“Harry!” A man was standing in the doorway to the patio, a guitar in hand. “Come sing, mate.”

Harry glanced back at Y/N. “Coming?”

Y/N nodded and followed him inside, refilling her glass on the way. Harry handed her his, and she did the same, giving them both another glass of tequila to sip on while they listened to the circle of musicians. Someone had decided to do some Christmas tunes she Y/N smiled when she heard her father’s voice—he’d made it a bit country, just like he loved to do with popular songs. He’d grown up on a steady diet of folk music and country, just as Y/N had, and he always joked it was in his blood. Harry took a seat next to his friend who Y/N didn’t recognize—probably some producer her dad had met recently, maybe one of the guys from The Village if that was how they’d connected, and Y/N grabbed the seat her dad had saved for her next to him. 

She joined in immediately, knowing this rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” by heart, since it was the same one he had made up when Y/N was eight or nine. Karl was in the circle too, a plate of food in his hands and his bottle of red wine on the ground, and he gave her a warm smile. This was her favorite part of the night—feeling a part of something her father loved so dearly. When he gave her a kiss to her temple and introduced her to the group, she couldn’t help but find Harry’s eyes, his irises twinkling back at her under the lights. 

At one o’clock, people finally began filtering out of the party, and Harry decided it was probably time for him to head. Jeff, who had invited him to come with, had already left, exhausted from the holidays with family, but Harry had stayed, hoping to talk to Y/N for a little while longer. He had unfortunately failed to catch her, though, the music running long and after it had wrapped up people had tugged her in for hugs and conversation. Despite knowing who she was through her father, he was still in awe of how intimately she knew all of these people. He overheard snippets of her conversations, asking about children and partners, parents who had cancer and career-defining moments she’d missed out on because of work. Harry was in this world too, but many of the people at this party were a bit older than his usual set—they belonged to the group of his heroes, rather than necessarily people he felt were his peers. He was still getting his solo career together, still only a boyband member in their eyes. He tried not to feel less than, but sometimes it was hard when you were sat next to Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks with utterly nothing to say but awe-inspired ramblings. 

Finally, Y/N was alone, the older couple she was talking to having left for the door, and Harry seized the opportunity. “Y/N,” he said, and her head popped up from her phone to look at him. Her dark brown hair was soft against her skin, and he eagerly wondered what it felt like against his skin, brown eyes that searched his soul. “I loved talking to you earlier.”

She smiled and Harry loved it when she did. Lit up the whole room, just about. “Me too. Glad you came—with Jeff, yeah?”

He nodded. “He introduced me to your dad when we were at The Village.” Y/N nodded as well, obviously having figured out the story. “I—I was wondering, would you want to grab coffee sometime? I’d love to chat more, get to know you.” He restrained the urge to bounce on his heels, nervous in front of her. He felt like a kid asking out his crush, but that’s what this was, a crush. Even if it came to nothing, she was kind, interesting, and fit into the world he revolved in. It wasn’t the most important thing, but he appreciated it all the same. 

“Oh,” she said, tone somber. “Sorry, Harry, but I don’t date musicians. Get home safe, yeah?” She turned away from him, feet carrying her back into the living room, presumably finding her father.

What? She didn’t date musicians? “I’m sorry—what?”

Y/N turned back to look at him. “I just don’t. Bit of a rule.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Don’t feel the need to explain it. Bye, Harry.” Then, she walked away and Harry was left in shock. The abrupt change in tone was like whiplash—she had seemed so interested, involved in their conversation, only to tell him she didn’t date musicians? What the fuck kind of rule was that? 

He huffed and tugged out his phone to tell his driver he was ready, and went outside, leaving behind Y/N and her confusing rule. But this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her, he decided. He wanted to know why she had this rule, this stupid rule that was stopping her from getting to know him. It wasn’t like he even asked her to date him, just to get coffee for Pete’s sake. Harry sat down in the car and pulled out his phone, composing a text to Jeff. 

Could I write with Peter? Seemed like a great guy, really talented. Maybe if she got to Y/N’s dad, he could earn some brownie points. Maybe then she’d bend her rules for him, because despite their short conversation, Harry was intrigued. 

Definitely, Jeff replied. I’ll text him tomorrow.

Harry closed his phone and smiled. Hopefully this worked, because Harry was dying to know more about this rule of hers. 

Y/N’s eyes narrowed when she pulled into her dad’s driveway. There was another car sat in the drive, a black 4-door SUV she’d never seen before, the windows tinted so she couldn’t see in. It reminded her of those cars the FBI drives in crime dramas, which obviously led her to a part of her brain that was not necessarily a hopeful place. She scrambled to grab her bag from work and her keys, launching herself from her car and towards her dad’s door. 

“Dad!” She called into the house, slamming the door shut behind her. “Whose car is in the drive? Didn’t tell me we’d be having company!” Gripping the wall for balance she toed off her shoes and set her bag on the floor next to the door, shrugging off her coat and setting it on a hook. “Dad?”

“He’s in the toilet.”

Her head whipped around and found Harry Styles standing in her hallway, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. As much as she had planned to forget about him after the party, never really expecting to see him again, she hadn’t been able to. And now he was in her house, hair pushed back from his face, a grin painted on his lips. It was irritating how gorgeous he was. “The fuck are you doing here?”

A hand went up to scratch the back of his neck and for a second Y/N regretted being quite so aggressive. “‘M writing with your dad,” he explained. “Guess he didn’t tell you.”

“No,” she answered. She brushed past him into the living room where, as Harry had said, it was obvious they had been writing. Her dad’s treasured old Gibson guitar leaning against his favorite armchair where he’d set it, computers out with GarageBand up for recording demos, papers with scribbles strewn across the coffee table. “Good session?” She decided that there was no way he was here just to pursue her—he was there for professional reasons, after all. Her dad and Harry must’ve hit it off at the party last week. There was also the fact that her dad was a really fucking good songwriter, so of course Harry would want to work with him. Ever since he’d stopped touring, her dad had started doing mainly writing, his songs appearing on records from everyone from up-and-coming artists the label found him to John Legend. 

Harry just nodded. Her eyes drifted to his own guitar, a soft brown wood that had obviously seen some heavy use and travel. She recognized it from her dad’s own guitars that he used to take on the road with him, the nicks and faded wood at the base of the bridge. 

“Y/N!” Her dad’s voice fell through the silence of the room as he re-entered. He was wearing his favorite old UCLA shirt, where she’d just graduated from not too long ago. “Home earlier than usual. Was going to give you a heads up about this one,” he pointed to Harry then, “but I see you’ve already found out.”

Her eyes drifted to Harry, who stood awkwardly next to the couch, unsure if he should sit or stand. “Finished my projects early and didn’t have any meetings, so thought I’d get out early and surprise you.”

“Well,” her father said, giving her a quick hug, “glad you did. I’m getting hungry, how about you?” She nodded, she was always ravenous after work. “Harry, would you want to stay for dinner?”

No, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to sit at a table with a guy she’d rejected and her father and eat an awkward dinner on a Friday night. She just wanted a massive glass of red wine, her delicious romance novel from her bedside table, and maybe lighting a fire in the pit in the backyard. 

Instead, Harry said, “Sure. Don’t want to impose though.”

“Nonsense! Y/N why don’t you go change and Harry and I can tidy up from working. We were about done anyway.” Her dad kissed the top of her head sweetly and she just did as he said, Harry a forgotten thought behind her as she went to her room upstairs. 

It was her childhood bedroom which she had been residing in for a month now. How her landlord could put her out for this long was beyond her, but she hadn’t had the energy to fight it—plus, it was an opportunity to spend some quality time with her workaholic father. So she was spending her evenings in her light blue colored room, sleeping between her soft pink sheets, and picking her work clothes that butted up against remnants from high school she’d left behind as memories. Y/N pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt that probably belonged to an ex-fling from college—Daniel maybe? Y/N couldn’t remember. Slipping on a pair of socks to keep her feet warm from the tile floors of the kitchen, she left her room, tugging her door shut so if Harry went exploring he wouldn’t stumble into her room. 

Downstairs, Harry was sat at the kitchen island with a glass of wine and a smile on his face, deep in conversation with her dad about Fleetwood Mac’s chord progressions. A glass of red was waiting for her on the counter and she picked it up, wandering over to where her dad was cooking

“Whatcha making?” She asked, peeking into the pot. 

“Pasta,” he replied. “Now stop being a nosy Nelly and talk to our guest while I try to focus on not burning the pasta.”

“Dad you haven’t even put it in yet.”

Her dad shooed her from the stove and she chuckled, backing away. “Get out of here, ya pest.”

She turned to Harry, realizing her dad was actively trying to get them to hang out. He was so annoying sometimes. “How do you feel about a fire?”

“Positively,” he answered and she led him outside into her backyard. 

It was chilly out, but nothing too bad. She set her glass on the table and went over to the stack of wood her dad kept against the fence, picking up some logs and carrying them over to the fire pit they’d had for years. At first it was so Y/N could roast marshmallows at home, her father trying to do anything to get her to come over to his house more after the divorce, and as time had gone on it had become her favorite place in the whole house. When her dad was out of town and she came over to check up on the house in high school, she’d bring her weed and smoke out here under the stars. 

Harry sidled up next to her and picked up a few logs, following her to the fire pit. “This is cool,” he said, words breaking their silence. 

Y/N dropped the logs into the fire and looked up at him. “Favorite part of the whole house.” A box of matches sat next to the door and she grabbed them, as well as some kindling, and brought it over to the logs, setting the kindling under the logs before lighting them. The fire leaped up, the wood nice and dry from the lack of rain recently. “So, who got in touch with who?”

Harry looked at her in confusion. “Huh?”

She settled into one of the chairs set by the fire, wine tucked between her fingers. “The writing. You or my dad?”

“Oh,” he answered, joining her in the chair next to her. “Me, actually. Through Jeff.”

As expected. “And?”

“He’s really good,” Harry said, to which Y/N chuckled. 

“That he is.”

“What was it like growing up with him as your dad?” He asked, breaking the silence between them.

Y/N shifted in her chair. She’d been asked this question so many times over the years, but it still was hard to answer. “Hard, if I’m being honest,” she told him, truth surprising her. But she had a feeling Harry would get it to a certain extent. He was a hugely popular star, after all. She’d heard rumors that he was a part of a movie coming out this year, something historical. “Like, my parents are divorced, which I assume you know.” He nodded,  probably having figured it out by now. “And with my dad’s tour schedule when I was in school, I didn’t see him all that much, especially in elementary and middle school. He was gone all the time, even missed my birthday a couple times because of tour dates, so I just didn’t really know him that well, I guess. Fuck, sorry, this is a lot,” she breathed out, realizing she was rambling. Harry was just surprisingly easy to talk to, his eyes steady on her, intently listening to her every word. Boys didn’t usually listen to her like this.

“S’fine,” he replied. “When did it change, if you don’t mind me asking? Seem so close now.”

The fire, having grown by now, crackled in front of them. “Late high school, but mainly when I was in college. My mom moved to San Francisco for a job and I went to UCLA, so my dad was closest. Came over to do my laundry sometimes, have a home cooked meal, he’d take me to dinner, that stuff. Came to football games with me, sometimes, which he always tried to be interested in but never succeeded.” Harry chuckled at that and Y/N smiled at the sound. Harry was obnoxiously pretty. Like, impossibly pretty in this way where you couldn’t help but look at him again to make sure that yes, he was a real person. And it was really fucking distracting. “His touring kind of stopped when I went into college too,” she added, trying to refocus on the conversation. “Started writing mainly, putting out music only when it suited him. He’s a lot happier now, I think.”

“That’s good,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “I’m glad you guys were able to have that kind of relationship, even if it was later.”

Y/N blinked at him, his words so kind and honest. “Me too.”

“Always been one of my fears, if I’m being honest,” he said, words soft in the cool night air. Sun was starting to set and it was getting dark around them, the light of the fire putting an orange ember to his face. “About having kids with my career, you know? I want to be a dad, but it’s like…how do I do that while being gone all the time?” His honesty shocked her, but then again Harry Styles seemed to be excelling at that in every regard. “Sorry, that’s a lot to unload on you.”

“No it isn’t,” she reassured him. “Just told you about all my daddy issues, yeah?” He chuckled, and it lightened the mood just enough. “You’ll figure it out.”

Harry nodded, taking another sip of his wine and she did the same. It was her favorite, the one her dad bought multiple of whenever she came to stay. Even though they’d gotten closer over the years, his desire to make his house perfect for her never seemed to fade. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Shoot.”

“The rule—I—why is that?”

Well, fuck. This was the exact conversation she didn’t want to have, the one she was hoping he wouldn’t bring up. “It’s actually related to what you were just saying,” she said slowly. He’d get it after everything she’d explained and the fears he shared, right? “I don’t date musicians because they’re always gone.”

Harry was quiet, absorbing her answer. It was true, they always were gone—she had every right to her rule, she told herself. She didn’t want a repeat of what her parents had experienced, what she’d experienced. Her dad’s job had ruined everything in their family, ripping her parents apart, keeping him away from her for more of the year than he was home. She didn’t want the same thing for her kids. “That’s a pretty broad stroke, isn’t it?” Harry said though, pushing back against her. “Like all musicians. Kinda a generalization ‘bout us.”

“You said it yourself,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and resting her elbows on her thighs. “You’re gone all the time. How do you build a life with someone who isn’t there half the time?”

“Devil’s advocate,” Harry said, setting his wine on the arm of his chair, “but hypothetically you’re dating someone who tours all the time. But they make you a priority, coming home and seeing you, putting your relationship first. That wouldn’t matter? You wouldn’t even take the chance that it could work out okay?”

This time it was Y/N who was quiet. “I mean, musicians only have so much control over their schedules,” she said, remembering the excuses her dad used to tell her. “Plus, it’s not the relationship that’s the problem. It’s the part when you get to marriage and kids.”

“…So it’s better to just avoid the whole thing entirely?”

Y/N nodded, her logic laid out in front of her. She’d never had to do this before—most times, guys just took her at her word and dropped it all together. Harry pushed though, wanting to understand in a way the others didn’t care enough to do. “It’s safer.”

“But then you miss out on the opportunity to fall in love with someone,” Harry says, his words like rocks in her stomach. “And what if that person was a musician?”

Y/N had a feeling they were no longer talking in hypotheticals. “We can fall in love with tons of different people.”

“No soulmates and shit for you, then?” She shook her head. She didn’t believe in all that crap, never had. Relationships were about work, effort, time. The person was important, but the life that person led mattered more to her. How much they’d prioritize the relationship, the kind of life they wanted to build. “That’s kind of depressing,” Harry said. 

The fire crackled and popped. “I don’t think so. It’s…practical.”

“Love isn’t supposed to be practical, Y/N.”

Y/N found herself speechless. She didn’t have an answer for him. She’d never been in love before, that was for sure. Hadn’t found that kind of love that people like Harry write songs about and she’d often found herself wondering when it was going to happen for her. There just hadn’t been any guys that were right for her yet. 

“Y/N! Harry!” She turned and her dad was in the doorway, pasta sauce splattered on his shirt. He’d always been a messy cook. “Dinner’s ready.”

Y/N took one last look at Harry before grabbing her wine and heading inside, Harry following at her heels. 

After dinner, Harry decided this was his last chance at Y/N. He couldn’t exactly use the same excuse twice and after understanding her rule, he was determined to be the exception. He helped Y/N clear the plates while her dad settled in at the TV in the other room, telling them it was his time to watch the nightly news and they could clean up since he had cooked. Harry had missed being in a home like this, the kind where he got told to clean up from dinner and there was calm and normal conversation at the table, Y/N talking about her day at work and Harry sharing about his activities from his mum’s visit. It brought him a kind of peace he didn’t know he needed. 

The plate clattered on the counter as he set it down, Y/N turning, her hands soapy with the water from the dishes. “Gonna break our dishes,” she said with a snort. “Be careful, please.”

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. He’d cleared the table, so he grabbed a dish rag from the peg and joined Y/N at the sink, taking the clean dishes from the rack and drying them, stacking them on the counter since he didn’t know where they belonged in the cabinets. 

They worked in silence, the only sound her dad’s TV from the other room. He could hear Rachel Maddow’s show on NBC, the same one he liked to watch, learning from her commentary on American politics that he was still trying to wrap his brain around. 

“Y/N,” he said when they’d finished the dishes. “I promise I heard everything you said earlier.” She looked at him with curiosity in her eyes, trying to figure out where he was going with this. Harry tried to pick his words delicately, wanting to make sure she knew he did hear her, he was just entranced by her and couldn’t give her up. “But what is the likelihood you would be willing to give it a shot? With me?”

She took the dish towel from his hands and dried her own, considering his words. The waiting was killing him, but he didn’t want to rush her. He knew what her worries were and he was asking her to put them aside. 

“We’ll take it slow,” he told her, stumbling over the words. “Promise. You set the pace, you decide about commitments. I just…” Can’t stop thinking about you.

But then Y/N surprised him by saying, “I know. I feel that way too.” His eyes widened, not believing the words from her mouth. “I’ll give it a shot,” she said slowly. “Better make the date good.”

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t ask again unless you’d like me to change my mind.”

“Can I get your number then?” She nodded and read it off, Harry typing the numbers into his phone next to her name. Then Harry shut up and just smiled at her, following her like a puppy dog into the other room where her dad sat watching TV. She curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket her dad had so it would cover part of her and his heart softened at how sweet she looked. He loved seeing her like this, at home, comfortable in her space. “I’m going to head out,” he said. “Thank you so much for dinner, Peter.”

Y/N’s dad turned from the TV and gave him a wide smile. “Of course, Harry. You’re welcome anytime—wouldn’t want you to get lonely out here!”

His eyes drifted to Y/N and he knew that with her around, there was never anyway he could be lonely.

TAGLIST

@smokeinherperfume @afire-hes @harryinsweatersandbandanas @marinalima3 @havethetimeofyourstyles @ursogoldenshan @inmygardensuit @marinalima3 @amaridon @harrys-watermelons @dontgiveupthedayjob @cronias13 @apples2019

Would you like to know when I update The Only Exception? Let me know here!

NEXT CHAPTER COMING JULY 4TH @ NOON CST

[rukia-writes]

Eren K. X (fem) reader

Setting: modern au

Storyline: Kruger’s daughter introduces her sexy friend from college to her father and the summer gets hotter.

Masterlist

Warnings: 18+, no minors 🔞, sex in the laundry room,a bit of angst

“Oh, that isn’t my shirt. It’s belongs to (Name), our clothes must have gotten mixed up in the laundry. I have one similar in color.”

Kruger quickly thought of a quick lie as his mother then nodded her head and smiled while handing over the shirt. Telling her son that he should return it to her as soon as possible, (Name) thanked her lucky stars silently while still in the closet naked with only a bedsheet around her. She managed to grab her shorts but she forgot about her shirt, everything just happened so fast. It wasn’t long before Kruger had managed to get his parents out of his room, locking the door he sighed in relief.

“You can come out.”

“Sorry about that, I forgot my shirt.”

Kruger watched (Name) come out of his closet trying not to trip over the bed sheets, Reaching to grab her shirt Kruger quickly snatched it away surprising her.

“You don’t need this shirt right? You have plenty of shirts.”

“Yes, but what are you going to do with my shirt?”

“Keep it as a souvenir.”

That was all Kruger replied with as (Name) let him have her shirt.

“Well that’s fine, I have to wash clothes anyways.”

Awhile later opening the door to laundry room (Name) steadied carried her basket of dirty, which was getting heavy as she had to go nearly across the world to reach the laundry room. The laundry room matched the rest of the house, the room itself was huge in size as it had a marble counter in the middle of the room with multiple cabinets and even a little wash station with double appliances.

It was all first for the college student.

Closing the tall door behind her she walked in and turned the corner to see Kruger folding his clothes with his back turned her, with no shirt on oddly enough. Careful not to make a sound (Name) took the moment to examine all of Kruger’s back muscles and admiring several scratches that ran down his back that she caused. Nothing but lewd thoughts ran thru her mind as she scooted closer for a better look. Folding the last piece of clothing Kruger cleared his throat to say,

“How long are you going to look at me?”

(Name) had a look of surprise that Kruger knew it was her as she walked over to the washing machine.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I just know.”

Kruger turned around to see (Name) putting her clothes into the washing machine, it was early in the morning and of course she had another pair short styled pajamas. Kruger was already mentally taking in the sight of (Name) in her short sleeved shirt and shorts that were the design of her college. Of course, they were really short in length, Kruger really took in the sight.

“So, since you took my shirt..can I have one of yours?”

“A shirt of mine?”

“Yes, specifically one you wear to work.”

Smiling (Name) pointed the neatly folded clothes that Kruger just folded, earning a smirk from the man as he simply looked at his stack of clothes and handed over a simple white shirt making her nearly run over to him.

“You can have this one..”

There was a sparkle in (Name)’s eyes as she reached for the shirt only for Kruger to snatch it away making her pout. The gap between them was almost non existent as Kruger dangled his shirt and would quickly snatch it away from her everytime she tried to grab his shirt.

“Kruger, come on. Give me the shirt.”

“I’ll let you have this shirt, if you let me fuck you.”

(Name) blinked a few times thinking to herself did she hear what Kruger said correctly.

“What? Here? Now?”

“Yeah, why not?”

That was all (Name) needed as she rushed to lock the door and of course quickly put her clothes in the washing machine and turning it on. Doing so rather quickly, which Kruger could only smile at he watched her the whole time. Soon enough Kruger had her face down on the washing machine as he took her from behind while the washing machine was of course on and his cock deep inside her hitting her sweet again and again.

The moan and whimpers that came from (Name) were simply shameless as she felt her orgasm arriving faster with each thrust from Kruger. While Kruger on the other hand muttered countless “Fuck” and “so damn tight.” Fucking in the laundry room was a spur of the moment but Kruger made a mental note to do it more as he felt how wet and tight (Name) was on his cock was making him lose restraint. Usually (Name) would get in a few dirty lines but this wasn’t the case as she was too busy getting ready to have yet another toe curling orgasm, Kruger was close as well. Quickly moaning a “Fuck, (Name).” Kruger gave a (Name) a few spanks to her ass making clit twitch making her whimper the man who practically balls deep inside her.

“Spank me-spank me again.”

Kruger obliged as his hand spanked her over and over again until her whimpers were cries, her mind was a complete haze as she took all of his cock and his thrusts until she reached her orgasm with a loud moan that made her toes curl and clench her hands.

The sight made alone made Kruger reach his own climax, as he filled up (Name)’s cunt to the brim with his cum giving a few more sloppy thrusts. The washing machine beeped as the sound in the room was Kruger and (Name) catching their breath.

A few minutes later Kruger smirked in pride as he listened to (Name) catch her breath while putting on her clothes, knowing full well he was the cause as he unlocked the door to see his daughter who was just about to open the door herself.

“Good morning, how are you feeling today?”

“Good morning dad, no headache today. Doing your laundry too?”

“Yeah, I just finished.”

The two talked for a bit before the two seperated, Kruger’s daughter had started walking into the laundry room to see her best friend a bit out breath while straightening out her shirt. Smiling nervously (Name) did her best to play everything off as she talked with her best friend, still she was a bit out of breath and still feeling the endorphins running through her veins giving her a pleasure feeling.

“You okay? You seem a bit of breath.”

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine. How’s your hangover?”

“Much better, sorry I was out there. I really over did it at the bar.”

The two continued to talk while doing their laundry, Kruger’s daughter didn’t notice (Name) putting Kruger’s shirt in her laundry basket. (Name) took one last look at it before continuing on her conversation with her best friend while trying to ignore the fact that she just had another toe curling sex experience, in a laundry room of all places.

That afternoon, two people were missing from the beach home and were out and about in city. Currently watching baseball at a stadium that was packed with people, new reporters and television cameras. Both were actually relieved to be out the house and to have some quality time together. (Name) having to explain what a Snapchat and Instagram was to Kruger as he had no idea what the social media platforms did but he wanted to be in the loop with his daughter and now his young summer love. (Name) did sneak a few pictures of Kruger with her phone without Kruger noticing, they would be for her only. While Kruger explained the rules of the baseball of the game and even how sponsors work when they make an offer to baseball player.

Kruger did spot a few paparazzi in the crowd but he would take care of that later, he just wanted to enjoy his date for right now. So, in his first time in a long time he held (Name)’s hand surprising her at first but then making her look at him with a smile. A smile that made his pulse race.

The two had an amazing date, from watching the baseball game to simply walking in town hand and hand. The two even managed to win a few carnival games before relaxing on the beach, as luck would have it the sun was setting when they arrived giving the beach that orange glow. It was a day (Name) would never forget.

A perfect day.

Later that night, after arriving home the two went their separate ways. (Name) went to her room and Kruger went to his, while taking a shower Kruger was in a relatively good mood. After all, he had a fun and exciting day. Starting his day off with having fun in the laundry room and then having an amazing date. Soon, he thought about the beginning of summer up until today.

That’s when he looked at his marriage finger.

The wedding band that was once there was now gone, however now all of a sudden it felt as though it was there and with it a new feeling Kruger hadn’t experienced in awhile and that was doubt. Once Kruger was out the shower he wrapped around him and rubbed his left shoulder. Many thoughts came to him and they were anything but perfect.

What would his wife think?

If he made things official with (Name) what would his daughter think of him? Would she accept (Name) as his girlfriend?

For that matter what would the world think once the paparazzi found out?

What would his mother and father think?

All these thoughts and more came to him, his door opened and he nearly had a heart attack as he had only a towel around him. (Name) sighed in relief as she began to apologize for being late while taking her clothes off, making Kruger smirk a bit as she in nothing but his Kruger’s shirt that he gave her earlier.

It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

All his worries went out the window.

“You’re not in your pajamas yet? I figured you would be. Then again, you night owl.”

Kruger watched as (Name) crash on his tidy bed sneaking peaks underneath the white shirt she was wearing and of course getting a sneak peak at her breasts his Achilles heel. Clearing his throat he managed to get (Name)’s attention.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? I thought you had tiring day.”

“No, I’m fine. Why don’t you come over here and I’ll pat your abs- I mean ass-I mean dick..I mean head! Pat your head.”

Kruger watched his summer flame turn bashful at what just happened, thinking it was rather funny. Patting the spot next to her with a smile Kruger did as she wanted and laid his head down on her lap as she played with his hair. The two talked about everything from college to their date to Kruger’s job. It was a calming atmosphere a romantic one as well. For the first night the two didn’t have any sexual intercourse instead the two cuddled until they fell asleep.

Weeks passed and finally the day before (Name) was to leave back for college had arrived. To Kruger it felt like the end of a great movie, yet he wanted to go back and relive it again and again. That night would be the last night the two would get to share and as always it was late at night when (Name) was able to sneak into Kruger’s room.

This time however was a bit different as Kruger had a few gifts for her from a diamond necklace to her favorite colored roses in a designer hat box. In all honesty, it had been quite some time that Kruger had to be romantic. However, he didn’t seem to be bad at it as (Name) smothered him in kisses. In truth, while sharing a romantic moment (Name) had something she wanted to ask but was a bit too nervous to ask. After all, this would be the last time she would see him. While on the bed she scooted closer to him and decided to give him her sweet eyes which made Kruger put his guard up knowing she was going to ask something a bit bold.

“Hey, I know this might be a bad time but I had to ask...where is the ring or rather are you going to wear your ring?”

The air was a bit tense until (Name) heard him sigh which was usually not a good sign. However, holding (Name)’s hand he gently kissed the back of it making her pulse race a bit.

“The ring is in a safe and no. I don’t intend on wearing it, even after you leave tomorrow.”

Looking over at (Name) he saw her smile at him in one of the sweetest smiles he had seen on her to date. Clearing his throat he scooted closer to her now and asked a question that had been on his mind.

“Just as you promise not see anyone while away.”

“Of course, you have my word.”

“Also, try to keep my daughter in line. I know she likes to wander off.”

(Name) had to smile at Kruger’s comment knowing full well that she wasn’t the only one. Cuddling up to him and placing her head on his chest only muttered a “I don’t want to leave tomorrow.” Kruger heard but he knew it was best if she left and the next day when he had to say good bye to both his daughter and her he wished them both nothing but the best of luck. No matter how much he wanted (Name) to stay with him.

A few months later the summer weather was cooling off, and fall was starting to arrive. It was late at night on campus in (Name)’s dorm as she had on Kruger’s white shirt and was playing with her diamond necklace that Kruger gave her which she received many compliments on. Now if the man could simply text back, it was true she had a test to study for but her mind was definitely on him.

The same could have been said for Kruger as he just finished some paperwork while at home did he realize he fail to text back (Name). Reading her text message he read something he wasn’t expecting.

Winter break?

Ah, that was true.

Colleges did let out for a short period of time for the winter.

Leaning back in his chair he smirked a bit at what all they could do for the winter. From taking her into one of his cabins to simply staying home and watch it snow. Whatever she wanted to do, Kruger just simply missed her not being there. While their love may have been a secret for now it’s possible that one day this wouldn’t be the case. Although currently, for the moment Kruger had something to look forward to.

A winter break with her.

The possibilities like summer would be endless.

Summer series: End

✨Rukia-Writes✨

[giorno-plays-piano]

Sleep tight Part 2

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, kidnapping, non-consensual drug use, allusion to breeding.

Words: 3571.

Summary: You know someone tried to break into your apartment, but no one believes you since you live in the very same building as famous Captain America. Who is willing to risk it?

Part 1

____________

Your instincts were telling you to ran and shout and scream until somebody would be aware that you were trapped in your own room with a psycho beneath your bed. You needed to get out and find your cousin before it was too late, before he took you away like he promised and did to you whatever his sick mind was telling him to.

Strangely, your legs were not moving as if you lost control over your own body. You were shaking feverishly, but you couldn't force youself to stand up.

Wasn't it too late already? He knew who you were. He knew who your cousin was. He knew all the places where you could hide and all your relatives who would try helping you. How easy would it be for him to kill them all? He was Steve Rogers, the man who had never failed. If he didn't get you now, he'd make sure to tear your world apart in revenge.

You tried moving your legs but failed miserably again. Did your own body betray you? Was it Captain who gave you more of his medicine?

You were stuck here. There was no way out.

"S-steve?" You whispered, bending down a bit and looking at your feet.

When he touched your ankle with his cold hand, a ragged scream ripped from your throat - you were watching him getting out from under your bed like a spider, a mutilated monster, a nightmare in a form of a man. You landed on the floor with a heavy thud, trying to get away from him, crawling to the door, but Steve was already on top of you, injecting another medicine with syringe into your neck. Though he didn't finish yet, you already felt your body freezing. You were getting cold, your eyelids heavy. You thought it was the end when you closed your eyes, listening to Steve's loud heartbeat right above you.

Of course, it wasn't the end. He didn't plan on murdering you now; he only wanted to take you to the other location where you would be safe and sound with him. He'd prefer you to stay conscious, but you had enough stress already with that unhealthy lifestyle of yours, too much work on your shoulders, and lack of sympathy from the people surrounding you. Steve couldn't demand too much from you - you needed some rest.

_____________

The awakening was torturous. Your neck hurt badly from the rough injection, and your head was spinning. You felt like you were on a ship constantly rocked by the waves only to discover you were laying on a bed in a simple room, not a cabin. You didn't recognize this dark empty place, but it was the least of your worries.

You couldn't feel your body below waist.

Moving your fingers, you weakly grabbed the blanket that covered your body, feeling the soft  cotton texture. Your arms lost their strength, but they still felt like a part of you. But your legs... regardless how much you were shaking, your body refused to move even the slightest bit. It was like your lower half wasn't intact anymore. Like somebody cut you in half.

No. No, please, no. NO!

"Shh, honey." His quiet voice cut through the heavy silence, and you find him sitting in the corner of the room in complete darkness. "Please don't stress yourself. It's not good for your health."

You'd laugh at his words if you could, but you weren't able to force even a single sound out of your mouth. He did something to your body. He broke your spine. He made your legs completely useless to you. He made it so you would never leave him, unable to walk.

When Steve got up from his place, you looked at him with pure horror, your eyes filled with tears and open so wide it hurt. He had a concerned expression, watching you tremble with fear. Wasn't he supposed to be happy because he had finally caught you?

The closer he came, the more your teeth chattered almost to the point of breaking. He had taken away your legs. He broke you and he would keep doing it more and more because no one was going to save you from America's most favourite hero. You would die in agony in his hands because he wanted you to.

"Everything is going to be alright, darling." His hand brushed against your forehead, and you whimpered, a thread of saliva running down your cheek from your half-open mouth. You couldn't make yourself speak to him, too shocked and frightened to death. "We're almost there. It's going to take one more day or so, and then we will finally settle down. You don't need to worry about anything."

I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

His eyes watched your madly shaking figure, and Steve reached out to take your frozen palm in his.

"Why didn't you tell me you're cold, honey?" He frowned and stood up immediately, making you let out a little cry. "Wait a second, I'll give you more blankets."

Blankets. As if you needed any. As if you cared about your body that wasn't functioning properly, half of it just a useless piece of meat now. You felt like you couldn't breathe anymore, gasping for air and feeling like somebody squeezed your lungs with a stony arm.

Steve had returned from the other side of the room shortly with a pile of blankets and carefully unfolded them one by one, covering you with several layers. When he saw you choking, his hands flew to your chest, but your eyes were already rolling back from the lack of oxygen. It didn't take you long to go into the great darkness, sinking into it, feeling nothing at all, even the man's shouting quickly fading away.

It took you even more time before you awoke the next day, your body aching from staying in one position for long, apparently. You were feeling groggy again just like all those mornings in your apartment when your life seemed so boring and uneventful to you. Little did you know, it was heavenly comparing to the complete nightmare you were living in now.

You suddenly realized you could curl your toes on your right foot. And then on the left one too. Your hips felt warm under that huge and heavy comforter.

You could feel. You could feel your lower body.

Then you were crying so hard that at one point you became afraid of being suffocated in your own tears. Steve Rogers didn't break your spine. He did something to you, but your body recovered, nevertheless. Oh, you were strong. You were so strong. He would have hard time trying to break you.

Your euphoria was slowely going away with every minute you spent in solitude in that pretty little room with floral walls. It was the complete opposite of the dark place you woke up after being kidnapped - the new room was furnished very nicely, way better than your own apartment stuffed with cheap things straight from Ikea's sales, and it smelled like roses. Was there a vase with flowers somewhere? It could be. That sick psycho was still playing the role of your loving fiancee.

Wait. Was he under your bed? WAS HE UNDER YOUR BED?

Caring little for the noise you made, you leaned down and lost your grip on the headboard, falling to the floor. You hissed in pain, but then saw there was no one hiding beneath and let out a loud sigh. Relief washed over you. Steve wasn't there. You were completely and utterly alone in the room.

You spent some time listening to any sounds, but you didn't hear anything at all. If Steve was somewhere close, he decided not to show up just yet.

Trying to move as quietly as you could, you got back on your bed and glanced over the room - it was so girly with light pink bed sheets, pillows, chair's upholstery and even a carpet. There was a beautiful vintage vanity with a large mirror - lifting your head, you caught a glimpse of yourself and quickly laid back. You weren't ready to see that just yet.

It was light as day here, but you didn't find any windows. You doubted he would give you a chance to escape through one, and you heart sank at the realization: it wouldn't be surprising if he locked you somewhere underground. Maybe he didn't chop off your legs, yet he took away your opportunity to run away, nonetheless.

Anyway, you could still cry from happiness knowing you were able to walk. It felt like the biggest present somebody could give you.

You didn't know how much time you spent there, staring at the white ceiling and imagining Steve Rogers waiting with an axe behind your door. You didn't hear any sounds whatsoever, even the clock if there was any in the room. Slowly, you started moving your legs again and then clenching your fists real tight. You were in full control of your body, and you wept a little at the thought.

Soon you lifted the comforter and stepped on the pink carpet. Did he put floor heating in here? Your feet felt oddly warm.

Dropping your gaze to your pink silk pyjamas after that, you almost threw up in both disgust and fear. Did that sick pervert do anything to you when you were unconscious? You glanced at the door nervously and took off your top, covering yourself with the comforter in a second. Then you looked at your skin, touching your neck, your breasts and your arms: as far as you could see, there were no marks on your body. It didn't hurt. After that you put the top back on and took off your pants, repeating the same manipulation and finding nothing. Good. He didn't rape you, at least. He couldn't hide this with whatever medication he forced you to take.

Watching youself in a mirror, you wiped a tear running down your cheek. Well, you didn't look as bad as you expected. Certainly not that bad, even after all those horrible things that happened to you.

You searched the room for anything that could help you protect youself but found bothing, not even a pen. You tried grabbing a lamp from your nightstand like the last time, but, apparently, it was glued to the surface. Anyway, how would you protect yourself with it against Captain America? He could break your body in half with his bare arms, and he certainly could have more syringes with whatever fucking drugs he used on you.

You had to go with empty hands. You cringed at the thought, but moved on regardless.

The door was unlocked, and you threw a quick glance at the corridor before stepping away and waiting for Steve to storm into the room. He wasn't there, still, and you swallowed the knot in your throat before opening the door wider with your shaking hands. The dark grey - or green, you weren't sure - colour of the corridor walls made you feel nauseated. It was so much different comparing to the pretty room you woke up in. These walls, however, looked like the walls of a prison.

Was it prison? Had that room ever been a cell before? You covered your mouth with your palm and tried to pull yourseld together. No, it wasn't the right time to vomit. You needed to move.

The room you walked out just now was in the middle of a very long corridor with doors to your left and right. With a lack of light you saw poorly, but you were sure there were no people, at least. After you spent a bit more time standing there to give your eyes time to adjust, you realized that this place had to be huge - the corridor was abnormally long.

Having no clue where to move, you went to your left, feeling very disturbed by the huge difference between the corridor's and your room's appearances. If Steve spent so much money and efforts decorating that place with beautiful furniture and other pieces of interior, why he didn't care to do it anywhere else? Was the room you woke up in the only decent one here?

Oh, you didn't want to open one more door. Breathing heavily, you were covered with cold sweat as you reached for the door knob and softly pushed it, jumping back to the wall beside you.

No sound, no movement, nothing.

Tears were clouding your vision, and you spent one more minute trying to wipe them off before you gathered enough strength to move further. The room you opened was a bedroom just like yours, but not so girly - the walls were covered with light green color, yet the furniture looked as exquisite as in your room. No vanity, however, and nothing to give you at least some protection too. You moved forward.

All those rooms looked pretty fantastic, you had to admit with displeasure. They all were comfortable and completely new.

You stumbled upon more bedrooms, several living rooms, a dozen of restrooms, a walk-in closet, two kitchens and an almost empty cabinet. Although all of them varied in size, you still saw no windows anywhere. And when you found a nursery you cried hard, clenching the fabric of your pyjamas with your teeth.

This place was a maze with more corridors and God knew how many rooms. You had no idea how Rogers could have this house - or whatever it was - running. Well, with his position of Avengers' leader he probably had a fortune to spend.

Oddly enough, all rooms looked pretty as pictures, but not the corridor. It was ugly in every part of the house as if you were supposed to be repulsed to even step outside the room. Maybe it was his intention, you thought. The other strange thing was that Steve was nowhere to be found - you checked every goddamn bed and sofa he could be under, but saw only a dusty floor. Where was he? Wasn't he supposed to be here with you? Not that you objected, though.

You felt tired and hungry after your long jorney.  There was food neither in the kitchen nor in any other room, and your stomach hurt at the thought of chicken nuggets. You'd give up anything for your usual McDonalds meal.

Before you chewed your lips thinking of hot French fries, you heard the distant sound of the door opening - a very heavy door. Probably a metal one.

You were in a bedroom you discovered at last without even realizing what you were doing. The thought of Steve coming to assault you, kill you, and dismember your body caused you to have a panic attack when you were getting behind a huge chair standing in the corner of a room. You couldn't hear anything but the blood pounding in your brain. You didn't remeber whether your screamed or not when the man entered.

Dragging you out the corner you were tucked in, he pushed your head into his chest and then put you onto the bed gently, holding your arms in his when you struggled and kicked involuntarily, not realizing what was happening as the world spin around you. He reached out for his pocket and took out one more syringe - you saw it later as he left it on the nightstand while you were laying on the bed with your body going limp again. But after taking away your strengh, the drug made you regain your sanity instead.

You were laying under the blue blanket, Steve sitting close to you and watching you with a sickly sweet smile of his as he caressed your hair with his hot palm. A few grocery bags were dropped to the floor near him, and you saw a pack of dark red cherry tomatoes almost falling out.

"You must have been scared to be all alone in such huge place. I'm sorry I wasn't waiting for you to wake up in your room, dear." His face lit up when you looked at him, chewing your lips to bits from fear and all that tension, your body pretty mich useless again. "I give you my word to become more considerate in the future. By the way, did you have a good look at our house? You got pretty far."

Pretty damn far. The entrance must have been so close.

You couldn't make youself speak to him again, so you simply nodded, weakly grasping the blanket in your trembling hands. Well, at least you could still feel your own body.

"I wasn't sure what you would like, so I just... filled the space, I guess. Of course, we can make any changes you think are necessary."

Changes? Oh yeah, like having windows and ten times less rooms, not even talking about that obviously thick door preventing you from leaving.

"You'll think about it later. How do you feel now, honey?" His shamelessly pretty eyes looked at you almost innocently, and you felt something like anger rising in your chest. "You will have to take some pills before coming into norm, I have them all here. Nothing that could harm your health, of course! They were prescribed by a very good doctor. The best I could find."

You were close to weeping, listening to Steve talking. You were under his full control again, and of he wanted to break a few of your bones, he could do so easily since you were barely able to move again.

"I'm better." You managed to whisper and shut your mouth when Steve smiled at you, rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Good. I was getting worried about your constant anxiety. I've told you so many times your lifestyle isn't good for your health, darling! Why have you never listened to me?"

God, he was a madman while you were confined to bed. Your chances to stay alive were miserable.

"I'm sorry, d... dear." You basically pushed these words out of your throat, afraid to make Steve upset. "I will do better."

"I'm glad you heard me out." You shivered and closed your eyes when he leaned closer and dropped a kiss to your forehead.

You expected him to get away and sit straight, but Steve didn't. His face was inches away from yours, and you were afraid to look at him knowing you'd see nothing but the frenzy in his eyes. Captain America was long gone. Someone else had taken his place, and that someone wasn't a good guy ready to sacrifice himself to save his people.

Listening to his erratic breath, you tried to prepare yourself for the end. That was it, right? He'd take that syringe and plunge it into the socket of your eye or into your carotid artery any second. You could feel his madness showing itself on his face even with your eyes closed.

"Why won't you look at me, sweetheart?" His kind voice made you shook. "Come on, open your eyes."

You refused, still. What did it matter?

His breath burned your ear when he spoke next time.

"If you're so willing to run away from me, do you want to play a game?" Steve planted a kiss on your cheek and smiled when you finally opened your eyes. "It's an easy one. Do you like hide and seek?"

You gulped down, watching him like a dangerous animal ready to plunge its fangs into your soft flesh.

"I'll give you ten minutes, and you have to run and hide from me. If I won't find you soon, I'll let you go." His gentle smile was quickly turning sinister while you were left gasping for air. "But if I am going to catch you, I will..."

"No."

He stopped talking and stilled, watching you with wide eyes. The pure confusion on his face looked strange - he didn't understand what you were trying to do.

"I'm not a child." You said, watching him with determination emerging out of nowhere as you spoke. "I don't like these games and I'm tired. I wanna see a movie, Steve."

Was his madness contagious? You certainly felt so, giving him what sounded pretty much like an order. No, you wouldn't play his sick games just to end up mutilated and broken. You'd play yours. You felt so bold and intent to resist him after dreading torture and death so many times. It was like that syringe injected some magic potion into your body, leaving your mind free of fear. What there was for you to lose, anyway?

"Of course, honey! I'm so, so sorry. Of course, you're a grown woman, and it was silly of me to offer you this." He looked... apologetic? Bewildered? Ashamed? "Let me take you to the living room... yes, like that, darling. You're doing so good."

Lifting you in his arms, Steve showed you that warm smile of his once more and carried you away, humming some melody. You put a hand on his chest and listened to his heartbeat that was quickly slowing down. You just escaped your own death, probably. Maybe being a little crazy would actually help you survive.

Once you got an opportunity, you would slit his throat the very first night, you thought.

THE END

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