#should’ve listened to the wisdom of the slide

[dumbikawa]

Taking Care of the HQ Boys

GN!Reader | Fluff | Warnings: None

Characters: Suna, Kuroo, Iwaizumi

A/n: I’m such a simp for these boys it’s insane

SUNA

It took Suna a while to get used to the way you never held back when it came to taking care of him. One night, after a particularly rough practice, he’d sluggishly entered the apartment and practically collapsed on top of where you were laying on the couch. Wordlessly, you positioned yourself so that he was resting on your lap with both his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. It was comfortably silent as you ran your fingers through his hair that was still slightly damp from showering at the gym and in no time at all he was softly snoring.

He'd never admit it aloud, but he loved when you took care of him in little ways like that. From the start, he had always insisted on being the big spoon, obsessed with the way your body perfectly molded against his and the satisfaction of knowing you felt safe in his arms. Ever since that night, though, it became a regular thing for you to see him standing, looking at you like a pouty child, from the corner of your eye waiting for you to take the hint that he wanted you to cuddle him. You'd simply open your arms for him to crawl into without even having to look up from your phone.

Today was no exception.

Suna can feel the physical exhaustion down to his bones as he allows the cool water to wash away the sweat and grime he collected over the course of practice. Mentally he feels the same; completely drained in every sense of the word. He can’t even find the energy to thoroughly dry his hair, opting to quickly rub it with a towel before making his way to the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.

“Rin!” you gently scold, placing the book you’d been reading beside you on the bed. “You’re going to ruin your pillow.”

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, eyes remaining shut as he lets out a content sigh. He did care, actually, but his decision was already made and now that he was in bed there was no way he was getting up. He truly meant that, but when he feels you tugging at his hand for him to get up he begrudgingly obliges.

You’re holding your hair dryer and gesturing for him to sit on the floor. It doesn’t seem wise to disobey when you look so determined, so he slides off the bed, giving you full access to his sopping mess of hair.

His eyes flutter closed as the warmth from the hairdryer and the way your fingers are skillfully brushing through his hair begins to pull him towards sleep. Not to mention, in this position he has the perfect opportunity to use your thigh as a pillow and he makes a mental note to have you dry his hair more often. But, sadly, the flow of warm air shuts off and your voice pulls him back to the present.

“C’mon you big baby,” you laugh, watching him groan and throw himself back up on the bed. He shimmies under the covers, but refuses to place his head back on the damp pillow. Instead, he stares at you with sleepy eyes until you’ve positioned yourself so that you can sit comfortably and open your arms for him.

His arms automatically snake around your waist as he buries his head in your side.

“Do I do enough to take care of you?” he asks softly, turning to look up at you with a vulnerability that he doesn't often display so openly.

“Of course, Rin,” you hum, tracing your fingers down his exposed back. He still seems unsure as he pushes his face against your shirt, but his shoulders relax slightly. “I mean it. I like taking care of you, okay? There’s nothing to repay if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Your reassurance falls on deaf ears, though, as you feel his breathing even out and his grip on you loosening.

“I love you, baby,” you whisper, grabbing your book from where you’d set it earlier and relishing in the quiet as you continued to absentmindedly draw designs against Suna's warm skin. 

KUROO

Kuroo closes the apartment door quietly, finally letting his shoulders droop with exhaustion now that he's inside. He slips his bag noiselessly onto the ground and flicks his watch up to check the time. It was well past midnight by the time he actually clocked out of work and, although he wants nothing more than a dual welcome home/goodnight kiss from you, he hopes you’re sound asleep by now.

However, much to his surprise, you’re curled up on the couch with a book and a warm cup of tea, so enthralled in whatever you’re reading that you don't hear him approach. There’s a strong possibility you aren’t even aware of what time it is, completely lost in another world. He tests this theory by walking behind the couch and wrapping his arms around you, chuckling at the way you jump at the sudden contact.

“Welcome home!” you beam once you recover from the small scare. You press a quick kiss to his upturned lips before he walks around to the front so that he can relieve a proper hug.

“Thank you, babe,” he murmurs against your lips, not wanting to pull away from your warmth just yet. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I wanted to wait for you and then I got to this really good part in my book and just...lost track of what time it was.” The way your eyes light up sends a wave of admiration shooting straight through Kuroo’s heart. “How was work? Why did you have to stay so late?”

Kuroo begins walking you through his hectic day, quickly turning the discussion into an irritated rant about having to fix other people’s mistakes and figuring out schedules for upcoming projects. You listen thoughtfully as you migrate towards the kitchen, your boyfriend trailing closely behind.

Soon, there was a cup of hot tea in his hands and the two of you are positioned on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap as he gently massages your calves.

Your eyes never leave his as he talks, nodding along and asking questions every now and then. He didn’t need nor want any sort of advice or words of wisdom. Simply having you listen to him was enough to have him feeling ten times lighter by the time he reached the bottom of his cup.

“Do you want more?” you ask, beginning to stand up. Kuroo doesn’t answer, instead leaning forward and hooking his arm around your waist so that you fall back into his arms.

“More of you, yes,” he says, smiling into your hair. He can practically feel the way your eyes roll as you let out an exasperated groan at his cheesy comment, but the hint of a blush making its way to your cheeks betrays you.

You make the first move to get up, offering a hand out to him. His hand engulfs yours as you pull him towards the bedroom. The bed has new sheets and the laundry is sitting in a basket freshly washed and ready to be folded. A wave of guilt crashes into him, knowing that you also worked today and must’ve come home afterwards and cleaned up.

“Baby, you should’ve gotten some rest,” Kuroo sighs, gesturing to the laundry and neatly made  bed. "I'm certain it was my turn to do the laundry.”

“Yeah, but when you told me you had to work late I figured I’d knock out some chores since I had the time. It’s not like it’s a big deal, Tetsu.” 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” The words have barely left his lips before he's throwing the covers over the two of you and shutting off the lights. His arms wrap around your middle as he pulls you close to him, relishing in your small giggles. It doesn't take long for you to drift to sleep while Kuroo places soft kisses against your exposed shoulders. He soon follows, matching his breathing with yours and immediately winding down, but until his brain finally shuts off from exhaustion he's thinking of all the ways he's going to show you just how much he appreciates everything you do.

IWAIZUMI

Iwaizumi watches as you begin cooking dinner for the two of you as a quiet pop song plays off your phone. His work day was less than stellar, to put it simply, but watching you dance around the kitchen has already earned the frown from his face and has him smiling like a damn fool.

“Haji!” you exclaim, suddenly noticing the lurking figure from the corner of your eye. He steps out from his hiding place, an amused yet sheepish look on his face as he notices your flustered expression. “Why were you just standing there? Come here and give me a kiss, idiot.” He raises his hands in surrender as he does what you say, letting his lips linger on yours for a moment longer than usual and wrapping his arms around your waist to draw you closer to him.

“Hey, doll,” he murmurs against your skin, resting his face into the crook of your neck. You pull back slightly, ignoring his childlike protests as you do so.

“Are you okay?” you question, eyeing him up and down. Iwaizumi is sure he could get lost in your beautiful eyes that are currently filled with concern. You know him too well, he thinks, as you give him a knowing look. It was still difficult for him to open up about things, especially small things that had bothered him throughout the day. There wasn't a real reason to talk about all the irritating parts of the day because he knows he can handle them himself, or so he claims.

“Y/n, it’s nothing,” he reassures, kissing your nose in an attempt to further prove he’s not bothered. “It was just a very long day, but now I’m back here with you and I couldn’t be happier.” His smooth talking makes it impossible for you to stay mad, but you surely try.

“Alright, well, you know you can talk about it even if it’s ‘nothing.’ In the meantime, stay here and watch the food for a moment while I run you a bath.” Iwaizumi is quick to object, but you’ve already sauntered out of the room and he can hear the faint sound of running water.

It truly did feel nice to be taken care of, he thinks fleetingly as he sinks into the warm water, but it's difficult for him to fully relax when he can hear you bustling around the kitchen. He waits in the bath for a little longer so that you won't bite his head off for how quick he was before changing  into a pair of sweatpants and a comfortable shirt. The sounds of you beginning to set the table echoes down the hallway and he finds himself hoping you'll at least let him help with that.

“You lasted longer in there than I thought," you tease as your boyfriend appears back at your side. "Now go sit down." He opens his mouth to argue, but one look and he finds himself moving towards the table, wondering why you were so intent on doing everything.

“At least let me do the dishes,” he practically pleads, watching you with an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude as you bring the warm food over to the table.

“Or, hear me out, we leave the dishes to deal with tomorrow and spend the rest of the night watching movies cuddled up on the couch." He narrows his eyes as he searches through his brain, trying to remember if he'd forgotten an anniversary or birthday because he surely didn't feel as if he deserved this.

As if reading his mind once again you reach out and hold his hand, gently rubbing your thumb in circles against his skin.

"Can't you just let me take care of you? You're constantly going above and beyond for me, so I just thought I'd try and return the favor." Iwaizumi feels his face heat up as you place a kiss against his knuckles like he always does to you. It did feel nice, but he enjoys taking care of you. He never even thinks twice about it. 

"Alright, alright. In that case, you can do the dishes tonight and maybe also get some desert." He can feel your eyes boring into him as if to say, 'Don't push it.' A smile breaks out on his face as he begins digging into the meal you prepared, peppering you with compliments until his plate is clean.

[author-morgan]

Title: Sweet Caroline

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: One day a man in black comes to take you away and it just happens he’s the best man you’ve ever met. Tagging the crew: @dynamicorbit @kvitravn @wolfxkissed​

Header image by @kvitravn​

BE WARY OF a man in black. In retrospect, you should have heeded your mother’s wisdom and warning —would have saved you a lot of pain and headaches to learn from her mistakes instead of making the same ones. Arthur Morgan had been a man in black when he rode into town at the head of a band of nefarious outlaws one crisp autumn morning. 

The Van der Linde gang left the small town with a dozen bags heavy with gold and silver, a trail of corpses of those who stood in their way lining the streets. That’d been years ago, about seven by your reckoning. You’ve made too many mistakes to count since then but asking Arthur Morgan to take you away from a small-town hell wasn’t one of them. 

Pearson howls like a wolf at the full moon when you dig into the bloody hole on his calf, pulling the slug free. The silver round clinks when you drop it into the washbasin, leaning back with a sigh as John takes your spot, dressing the gunshot wound with a thick salve and torn piece of calico fabric. A quick buck off a set of loaded dice in an alleyway hadn’t turned out in Pearson’s favor —luck saved him from a bullet in the head, just like luck saved him from the loan sharks a few months back. 

Rising, you pat the Fat Man’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody handprint fore wandering off to the edge of camp for a breath of air away from the fire and those gathered around it. Arthur follows after you, not ready to let you out of his sight after he almost lost you in the shootout with the law and those wronged following Pearson’s foolish gamble. There was a reason the camp’s cook was supposed to stay behind on missions and errands —his days as a soldier in the navy were long past. 

You dip your hands into the wash barrel, scrubbing away from blood from beneath your fingertips. Too often, you find yourself with the blood of those you care about on your hands and clothes. Should’ve listened to mother, you think, bitter. Bracing your arms across the barrel, you look down at your reflection —increasingly unhappy with the woman looking back at you. 

“He gone be okay?” Arthur asks, stopping next to you with his arms crossed. He worries about the gang, even if he tries not to show it, but seeing through his hardened exterior is something he almost hates you for. When Arthur Morgan rode out of some rinky-dink town in the middle of nowhere with you on the back of his horse, he would have never guessed it would turn into this. You worked off your debt a hundred times over and still stayed. 

Straightening, you dry your hands with the apron on the front of your shirtwaist and skirt —the finely made ensemble less than a month old and already ruined. “Cooking’ll still be shit,” you laugh, the crooked smile on your lips not quite reaching your eyes, “but he’ll live.” 

Broken chords from Javier’s flamenco guitar fill the air as the night’s revelries startup with a song and dance. Arthur reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you toward him. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day settle in as the sun sets. “I can’t keep this up, Art,” you breathe, hand twisting into his blue-cotton shirt. First, it had been him, then Sean and John, and now Pearson. “One day, I ain’t gone be able to patch you boys up.” 

This work is dangerous, and it’s just a matter of time before someone makes a dire mistake or the law catches up —losing people is inevitable. You know it, everyone knows it. Arthur props his chin on the crown of your head, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “Don’t think ‘bout that day then.” Looking at the heart of the camp, he thinks the two of you won’t be missed too much for just the night. He leads you to his black Arabian steed —a handsome mount affectionately named Topthorn— and helps you up into the saddle before mounting behind you and taking the reins. 

Away from camp, the path steepens and grows rockier. Off in the distance, you can hear the burbling of a stream growing closer. “Where we goin’?” You ask, looking over your shoulder.

His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you back flush against his chest. “Ain’t far,” he says at your ear, “promise.” It’s a place he stumbled across north of camp tracking the poor deer who became supper a few nights back. A quiet spot at the base of the mountains —perfect for a swim, a bath, or even contemplating life. The trees part off the rugged trail, and Arthur pulls back on Topthorn’s reins when the small waterfall comes into view —the water almost glowing in the silver light of a full moon. He slides out of the saddle, hands quickly finding your waist to help you down.

“Been a while since it was jus’ you and me,” Arthur notes, hand splayed across your lower back. 

“That it has,” you agree, turning to drape your arms over his shoulders —fingers locking together at the nape of his neck as you look up at him. Kiss me, you think, and it is as though you’ve said the words aloud. Arthur reaches for you, pulling you closer to him by the hips so he can kiss you breathless. You sigh into his kiss, hands sliding down the broad planes of his chest as you tilt your head so your noses don’t bump together. It’s a lazy kind of kiss—slow, unhurried, but with heat, you’re never quite able to describe when talking to the girls about some of your little escapades with him. 

He pulls back too soon for your liking, laughing softly when you make a sound of protest as you chase his mouth with yours. “What’d I do to deserve you?” He asks, lips curving into a lopsided smile as he takes your face in his hands, thumbs softly stroking your cheeks. You run your thumb over the scars on his chin and reach up on your toes, lips brushing against his. It’s all the answer he needs —I love you.  

Stepping back, you work the mother-of-pearl buttons on your shirtwaist free and then the belt of your walking shirt, shrugging both pieces off and into a small heap next to you. “What’re you doin’?” Arthur asks, scratching the back of his neck as he turns his gaze. It’s far from the first time he’s seen you in this state of undress, but ever the gentleman, he still looks away —even if the curve of his lips says he’ll steal a glimpse or two. 

“You can’t bring a lady to a waterfall–” you pluck out the pin holding the twist in your hair in place “–and not expect her to want to freshen up, Mr. Morgan.” Mr. Morgan, he smirks, shaking his head —it’s the way you say his name like a sweet song that does him in every time. “Now–” you push aside your hair, revealing the laces of your corset “–help me?” Arthur steps behind you, hands working the ties of the undergarment. You turn back to him as he drops the corset atop your discarded clothes, his eyes flitting over curves barely hidden under a threadbare chemise. 

Wordlessly, he sinks to his knees and pushes the hem of the chemise up around your waist. Your fingers brush his as you take hold of your skirt —holding it out of the way. Arthur lifts one of your legs from the ground, sliding off your boot as he drags the stubble on his jaw across the inside of your ankle and calf, stopping just at the bend of your knee with a soft kiss. He places your foot back down and repeats the same teasing motions, but this time, his kiss does not stop at the knee. Scooting closer, he lifts your leg over his shoulder —hot breath fanning across your inner thighs. 

Setting his hat aside, he starts with a slow line of open-mouth kisses and listening to how your breathing hitches and body tenses in anticipation. He drags the flat of his tongue over you, stopping to flick the tip against your clit —sweet torture. “Arthur,” you gasp, hand twisting into his honey-colored locks. He repeats the motion, again-and-again until his fingers brush the inside of your thigh, and he shifts. Your honey-sweet taste and moans harden his cock. First, it’s one finger, then two thrusting and curling inside you as his mouth tends to your clit, laving, and suckling. 

His blue eyes flash upwards and meet your desperate gaze, and he grins, sucking your clit into his mouth. That’s all it takes. You tremble, knees wobbling as you breathe Arthur’s name in a broken voice as he holds you up, still lapping at the sweet release like a he’s a man lost in the desert, and you’re an oasis. His lips and stubble on his chin glisten with your essence as he sits back on his haunches, easing your leg from his shoulder.

When he rises, he trails his fingers along the neckline of your chemise, pushing it off your shoulders, leaving your bare in the cool night air as you step out of the puddle of stained cotton and toward him. You can taste yourself on his lips when they finally meet, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip before kissing you slowly. The kiss is languid and soft, your hands grasping at Arthur’s back to pull his chest to your own. Your hands wander down to his hips, unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his pants as he undoes the buttons on his shirt —adding it to the growing pile of clothes.

Arthur curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone pants, fingers wrapping around his hard cock —stroking him slowly as you pepper kisses along his jaw and down his neck, across his chest. “Darlin’,” he chokes, voice wrecked and breathing heavy. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s like this because of you. As much as he doesn’t want to, Arthur pushes your hand away and hastily kicks off his boots, stepping out of his pants so he’s just as bare as you. 

You take a moment to admire him. Strong arms and legs, a broad chest covered with a dusting of hair, a real man right down to his hard cock, throbbing and dripping with need —built for riding, fighting, and fucking, you’d told him one night drunk on shine when you crawled into his tent. Arthur pulls you down onto the blanket of moss and grass at the water’s edge. His hands leave your waist and slide up to your breasts, cupping them gently. You moan, feeling his smile against the side of your throat. He trails kisses down to the junction of your neck and shoulder, biting down slightly. He kisses down your throat to your chest, stopping when he reaches a rosy nipple. 

His eyes look back up at you, and his grin is devilish before his tongue drags across the sensitive flesh, making you gasp, hips grinding into him. “Arthur, please,” you whisper, back arching as he takes your nipple into his mouth, softly sucking at your flesh. He pulls away after a moment, looking up at you with lust burning bright in his eyes. Settling between your thighs, Arthur braces his weight on one of his forearms —staring down at you as cock presses into your warmth. Your walls flutter around him, and you spread your thighs wider, helping guide him as deep as he can go. 

He groans, rolling his hips into yours as he kisses you again, slow and thorough, mapping out your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he breaks the kiss, eyes looking into yours once again, the lust quelled by something sweeter. Arthur grips your thighs tight, releasing one of them in favor of stroking over your lips and cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. Between the little noises you make, and how your body starts to tense and spasm around him, Arthur knows he won’t last long —not after it’s been so long since he had you proper.

You draw your legs up his sides and push your hands into his hair, clinging to him as his thrusts become faster, harder, more erratic. He slides a hand between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb. “Arthur,” you cry, feeling the budding heat rise in your belly again and control slipping away. “Babe,” you gasp, tugging on his hair. Eyes screwed shut and teeth bared, he ruts into you, even as the wave of fire floods your veins and your walls squeeze his cock. It’s enough to break him as he chases his end.  

He pulls away, hips stuttering, nearing his peak, and buries his face in the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Biting down hard, and you feel the warmth of his release spreading in your core as he thrusts weakly a few more times before stilling. Arthur rests his head on your breast as he strokes your side, listening to the frantic beat of your heart as it slows with your breathing. You whine at the empty feeling when slides his softening cock from your cunt, rolling off to the side. He grabs his drawers and shirt —you both can worry with bathing and dressing in the morning. For now, Arthur only wants to keep you at his side. 

Arthur brushes off his hat and sets it on your head. The black hat is a little big, the brim dropping down over your eyes, you tilt it back into place. “Looks good on you,” he muses with a crooked grin. His shirt looks good on you too —the old blue shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning. 

“Think so?” You ask with a smile. He nods and, it's like you can see the cogs turning in his mind. What’re you even doin’ with an ugly old man like me? You can hear him saying. Sighing, you sit up and swing over into his lap, placing his hat back atop his head. “Well, I think it looks better on you,” you tell him. He won’t argue, not when your lips are brushing against his.

He folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky, and smiles to himself when you rest your head on the crook of his arm. Glancing between Arthur and the clear night sky, you start humming the old song your father used to sing about his sweet Caroline. The tune sounds familiar, and after a moment, he knows the words, it’s one he’s heard before in saloons and whispered at babes’ ears like a lullaby. Arthur draws in a slow breath, picking up at the next verse in a low rasp “…the grave and the garden won’t be satisfied till your name is next to mine.” 

You shift, half sitting up. His eyes fixed on you —gaze softer than a bed of summer wildflowers— with a smile tugging at his lips. In these rare moments, Arthur Morgan is at peace. He reaches out for you, calloused hand cupping your cheek as he tries to memorize the lines and curves of your face and how you sigh and lean into his touch, settling back down against him. 

It’s nights like these you long for the most, and every time you wish they could last just a little longer. Just laying under the night sky forever with Arthur Morgan, the man you loved. No more killing. No more stealing. No more running. Just the two of you and the cosmos overhead. You rest your head on his chest, running your fingers along the trail of dark hair down his stomach as he traces lazy shapes on your back, still softly humming the same sweet song. 

Be wary of a man in black, your mother used to say, holding your hand as you both watched from the front porch as your father rode off into the sunset, he’ll steal your heart. She’d been right, of course. 

[zodiyack]

Kiwi

Requested by @simonsbluee​: hi! can i request a Tommy Shelby story that’s based off the song Kiwi by Harry Styles? all good if you can’t :)

Pairing: Thomas ‘Tommy’ Shelby x Female!Reader

Warnings: Lyrics, angst, swearing, indications to smut

Song: Kiwi by Harry Styles

Words: 1,216

Summary: (See Request?)

Note: I had no idea what on earth to do for this so my apologies and also, fun-fact, I thought I remembered what kiwi was until I listened to it when I started writing and then had to pause and check what song it was- 😅

Edit: After having a friend proof-read it for me and getting their “go-ahead” to post this, I’ve decided to listen to them rather than sit and cringe at myself so uh... Here ya goooo

Key: Bold + Italic = Lyrics | Italic = Memories and sometimes emphasis

Taglist: @captivatedbycillianmurphy​, @stydia-4-ever​, @peakyxtommy​, @cai-neki​, @simonsbluee​, @matth1w​, @redspaceace-writes​, @peakysputain​, @fandom-puff​, @darling-i-read-it​, @marquelapage​, @jenepleurepasbaby​, @thewarriorprincessxo​, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow​

Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist | Cillian Murphy Masterlist

She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes, Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect. And all the boys, they were saying they were into it. Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck

Anyone could spot her in the Garrison, even if they had no clue who she was. Her outer demeanor was intimidating, with or without her husband. Y/n Shelby was one of the most feared yet yearned for woman in Small Heath, side by side on the list with her aunt-in-law, Polly Gray. No one dared act a fool when she was around. Then of course, that depended on their definition of the cringe-eliciting behavior.

Men constantly tried their luck with her. Easy to spot, she sat at a table in the middle of the bar with a cigarette in her hand and a glass in front of her as she conversed with her husband’s brothers. Every time a man came around, she shot them down without hesitation. This time no different.

“Are you without partner, miss?” A male on the younger side asked with a warm yet shy grin.

“Are you without brain, sir?” Her response was serious but held slight sarcasm. Everyone who knew of the blinders knew she was married to one of the many people they didn’t want to mess with. Insulting the poor man was far better than having his eyesight removed.

“N-no?”

“Hm, quite a surprise.” She looked down to her cigarette before flicking her eyes back up to the man. “Nevertheless, a man without brain nor eyes is the same as a man with brain and no eyes.”

The quiver in his voice almost made her feel bad for the quips she’d spat. But alas, it was only almost. “What...what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means yes, I do indeed have a partner.” The brothers around her chuckled and mocked the now cowering man, Y/n herself giving an amused smile and taking a drag of the stick between her fingers.

Tommy stood behind the man, looking at him with a blank expression once he’d turned around after backing into him. He lifted a brow, not once breaking eye contact. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she.”

The man trembled, confused. “Y-yeah-” He stuttered as he shook with embarrassment.

“Her body, face, lips... Smart one too... She’s perfect. Too bad she’s spoken for.” Tommy muttered before walking over and sliding into the seat next to her. Y/n took the cigarette from her mouth and placed it between Tommy’s soft lips, lifting her eyes to his as she watched him endearingly.

Only one man could make the infamously feared woman smile in such an angelic manner. One man and one man only. His name, Thomas Michael Shelby.

She's driving me crazy, but I'm into it, but I'm into it, I'm kind of into it, It's getting crazy, I think I'm losing it, I think I'm losing it, Oh I think she said "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your, it's none of your"

In hindsight, Tommy should’ve listened to his aunt’s words of wisdom. She’d told him love is crazy and makes you crazy, even Y/n mentioned it a multitude of times. Being together was only half the happy ending. Driving each other up the walls, it only drew them closer. Y/n, Tommy’s better half and Tommy, Y/n’s.

Love really did have an impact similar to the legend shrouding it’s definition. And they loved love for it.

But then the darker side of Tommy’s occupation found time to object every good thing his life had to offer. Although it didn’t tear a hole in the romance, it knocked it into a spiral that was supposed to register it as perfectly normal, sane, and very boring. 

However, it hadn’t done anything large than strike a little worry into their hearts. What their enemy forgot was that nothing involving the Peaky Blinders was “normal” or “casual”, especially not boring.

It's New York, baby, always jacked up, Whole tunnels, foreign noses always backed up. When she's alone, she goes home to a cactus, In a black dress, she's such a such an actress

She's driving me crazy, but I'm into it, but I'm into it, I'm kind of into it, It's getting crazy, I think I'm losing it, I think I'm losing it. Oh I think she said "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

Tommy sent Y/n with his brothers and sister while he took care of things at home. He remembered holding her in his arms with a sincere apologetic but loving look in his blue orbs. The smell of her lingered on his collar. She refused to let go of him until John shouted that the train would be leaving without her had she stayed put.

“Wipe your eyes, my love. I’m not worth the tears-”

The sound of her palm coming into contact with his skin made Ada jump with a shriek from beside her other brothers. “Thomas Michael Shelby, don’t you dare fucking say that. That is...that is... It’s bullshit!” Tommy chuckled softly. Y/n couldn’t help but join in, “Stop laughing at me, you fucking- fucking bloody handsome asshole.”

“Alright alright... Promise me you won’t cry...at least, not anymore than you already have. For if you cry, it’ll break my heart and then I fear I won’t have the heart to see you off.”

“Tommy Shelby? Not having a heart? Are you sure me crying will be the cause in this scenario?” She jabbed with a giggle.

“Say what you’d like, Y/n, but my word remains true.” He pulled her closer and their lips collided. There, only for a moment, it felt like time had stopped just for them. “Go with them, stay safe and hidden, always carry your gun, and only have close friends deliver messages. They’re fucking listening on the telephones...”

It was the same things he’d said since they’d started planning this. Always with the essentials that probably really had no purpose to be labeled as essential, plus the minor setbacks that were more than likely never to happen.

Tommy was paranoid, but she couldn’t blame him. Thinking ahead and being prepared for the worst was better than not doing so and dealing with the consequences of unwanted surprise.

“I know. We’ve been over it a thousand times or more, Thomas. I’ll be fine,” she held his face in her hands as she took him in for the final time before her journey, “I promise.”

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your, it's none of your"

She sits beside me like a silhouette, Hard candy dripping on me 'til my feet are wet, And now she's all over me, it's like I paid for it, It's like I paid for it, I'm gonna pay for this

Their lips crashed together and thus began their dance. Practically made for each other, everything of Y/n fit perfectly with everything of Tommy. Their lips, bodies, personalities, everything. A rough performance, full of passion and lust, was regularly preformed after long days, trips, or times that didn’t cause the couple to be apart for agonizingly long periods of time, sometimes death-run-ins were audience enough for their show to sell.

Tommy refused to wait for words or sighs of relief. He would let her know verbally in the morning, if he was done with her by then. Thomas felt at ease once she was back in his arms, like the piece of himself that had been missing for far too long was finally where it needed to be.

If Y/n was to deny her liking of Tommy’s pleasant surprise, she’d be a liar.

Rarely did Y/n become the one in charge, so when she was handed the reigns, she didn’t miss a beat before getting into character. She was always his “right-hand-man” and now she had the chance to show that she was much more than the simple role.

By the end of the night, both had their fun and chance to participate as the leader to their waltz. Heavy breaths and messy exteriors, the two had shown each other the burning passion they held for each other that never died out. Tom swore to himself never to send his wife away unless her life absolutely depended on it.

It's none of your, it's none of your

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

"I'm having your baby, it's none of your business"

The night she sleepily entered their home for the first time since they’d parted ways at the train station, he’d given her passion. He’d given her all of him. He’d given her his control. He’d given her all the love he had. He gave her his child.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I’m uploading this Friday at 12:10 am. Or, at least, that’s when I finished writing this. Yes, we’re still on the angst thing. It won’t last forever, but still.

Chapter 9

“How is she?”

Donatello sits down next to his brother on the couch. “Same as yesterday,” he sighs. “Comatose.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Raphael smirks. “That stupid bitch decided to total the fuckin—"

“Raphael,” he promises coolly, “I will personally make it my life’s goal to make sure you can never open your mouth again if you don’t shut up.”

He puts his hands up. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Will you two be quiet for a minute? I’m trying to listen.” Leonardo kneels in front of the television.

There is a new news story.

“They can’t arrest her, can they?” The tallest brother glances at the others.

“Nah.” Michelangelo is sprawled out on his portion of the couch, eyes dully focused on the screen. “They’ll side with her before someone from a street gang, ‘specially with those…” He trails off. “’ Sides,” he clears his throat, “any good public defense lawyer would call it self-defense, and there’s no way the police would convict a teenage girl of any degree of murder with the injuries she has; bad press.”

“Mikey,” Leo asks, “how come you know that and not how to multiply numbers by seven?”

“Because seven is a stupid number that was created just to make us all feel stupid.”

“Leo—”

“He’s right,” Raph agrees. “They won’t put her away for something like that.” He chuckles darkly. “Besides, there’s no more evidence.”

“After what happened with the neurologist?”

“Donnie,” Leo turns to look at him. “She’s going to be fine.”

He opens his mouth to argue, closes it.

” The perpetrator,” the news anchor reads, ” was found this morning after a panicked nine-one-one caller had seen the hand of the assailant hanging over a ledge. The corpse had, presumably, been flung away from the scene of the incident as a consequence of the explosion, miraculously landing on the roof of a nearby restaurant. The body has been identified as Fong Zhao, who was arrested on multiple charges of armed battery earlier this year. The police have refrained from offering Channel Six detailed information, but we have an anonymous source who claims that he and the gang he is supposedly involved in, locally referred to as the Purple Dragons, was also involved in the hijacking of a truck carrying a substance believed to be tear gas. The driver of the truck testified in favor of this statement earlier this evening. An investigation is currently ongoing regarding the involvement of the men in question, and we at Channel Six implore our viewers to come forward with any information you may have on the case or the supposed ringleader, the recently escaped Xever Montes. More on that later tonight. Up next, a local—”

Leonardo shuts off the television. “Well, there you go.” He stands up. “See? Didn’t even mention her name.”

Donatello breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he nods after a moment. “That’s... good.” He cradles his head in his hand, his concerns hardly pacified by the report.

This, he cannot excuse. This is entirely a matter of his own negligence.

‘I should’ve noticed sooner, insisted to come with.’ He zones out, his brother starting a conversation about something he cannot bring himself to pay attention to. ‘How could she be that reckless? It’s Shredder for fuck’s sake; I should’ve at least noticed the body or something, anything.’ His fingers lace together as he stares a hole into the ground. ‘Even if I couldn’t have stopped her, I should’ve been there, if only after the fact.’ He runs his tongue along his teeth absentmindedly. ‘Some ninja I am. Some friend. Some—’

“So, I broke Y/N’s arms, right?”

His head snaps up. “You what?”

“There he is,” Raph chuckles. “Knew that’d get his attention.”

“Don’t make me go over there,” he glares. His face flushes in embarrassment.

Leonardo rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics. “As I was saying, it’s been pretty quiet, hasn’t it? Since the incident?”

“Now that you mention it,” Raph points out, “since the whole Leatherhead fiasco, I don’t think anything’s really happened. Ya know, besides the Kraang thing.” He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning back into the couch. “It’s been getting’ kinda boring If I’m bein’ honest.”

“It’s that desire to fight that’s going to get you killed,” Donatello informs him, staring at the television screen. “Saw what happened to her, right? Weren’t you just saying how stupid she was being?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.” He smiles sharply. “She’s got exactly no training. As much as you guys seem to have a thing for humility all of a sudden,” he waves his hand contemptuously, “the only reason she got hurt is that she was being stupid, so we’re pretty much undefeated, no thanks to Leo.”

He stands up, deciding against fighting him. “If you need me,” he says curtly, “I’ll be in my lab.”

“Watch it, Raph,” the eldest brother snaps.

“Why should I?” He throws his hands up. “Am I wrong?”

Mikey quietly grabs his comic off the floor, retreating to his room, presumably.

Donatello slides the door in between him and his brothers as he sits down at his desk.

You have been stuck in the hospital for about two weeks now.

‘Technically,’ he corrects himself as he pulls his laptop open, ‘it’s been three hundred fifty-seven hours, meaning it’s closer to fifteen days than two weeks. Why do I know that?’ He pulls up an image, uncapping a permanent marker and working on one of the more mindless parts of his latest project: reviving an incredibly battered map. He already has a frame for it once he is finished, but, knowing his brothers, the fading colors would likely be a point of contention if he did not at least make an effort to make it easier to read. Fortunately for him, it is not laminated. Unfortunately—depending on how you look at it— a lot of the finer details—the integral streets names in particular—are all irreparably smudged and, therefore, will have to be all rewritten by hand, turning a once twenty-minute job into at least a two-hour investment.

He tries to tune out the incessant arguing of his two older brothers as he focuses on making his minute handwriting legible despite the infuriatingly fat marker nib.

“You should have taken her offer for a pen when you had the chance,” he mumbles to himself.

His hand stops.

‘Would it be weird to go check on her again? Just to make sure she’s still alright? I mean,’ he goes back to work, ‘even if it were, how would she know?’

He shakes his head to clear it. ‘Stop that. You’re being a creep again.’

Over those two weeks, his distractedness has become more of a problem than it has in the past in reference to his work. He is hardly a stranger to having a thousand thoughts bouncing around his head at once, but where once a rapid stream of information was there is now an aggravatingly slow sludge. The origin of said mind sludge is not at all a mystery to him, which makes the whole thing infinitely more frustrating. ‘Frustrating? Depressing? Does it even matter?’

He rubs his eye absentmindedly with the heel of his palm as he strains to see what he is doing. The smell of the marker is corrosive in his nostrils. His hand shakes. He sets it down, wringing his hands as if to force them back into submission as he stares holes into the map. ‘This is not supposed to be challenging.’ He closes his eyes, the image of you lying on the ground, a bloody, skeletal figure shaking and begging for your life carved into the backs of his eyelids, a hideous scar.

He can not stop thinking about what you said the night before the incident. Something about being able to care for yourself.

What would you say to him now? He imagines that it would be something to remind him of how the accident is your fault, how he should not beat himself up over it, but all that does is convince him that he should have been faster to act or to respond or something. There had to have been something he, in his infinite wisdom, could have done. What else can he reason? That he is powerless? That he had no say in what happened that night of nights?

‘How come I can plan and build a combat vehicle out of alien technology and an old subway car and I can’t—’

He jumps at a loud banging at the door.

“Donnie!” He can hear Raphael’s wicked grin from behind the door. “Bank robbery! Let’s go!”

He sighs, capping the marker. His breakdown will have to wait.

“Comin’!”

--

The ringing in your ears is already annoying.

You have been awake for about five minutes. You have elected against moving for a plethora of reasons, but the ringing is a relatively large determining factor in your decision. You are, admittedly, not sure where you are until you hear the tell-tale incessant beeping you remember from your childhood. You do not open your eyes yet. You are incredibly drowsy for some reason.

‘Hospital?’

You sit up carefully, wincing as a numb pain permeates through your arms. You run your fingers over your face curiously, feeling for any perceived disfigurement as your eyes scan your surroundings. The small room you have been placed in seems standard; there are a couple of chairs under a window that makes up half of the wall, a television screen in a corner of the room, an inoffensive painting, and a small vase filled with some sort of white flowers.

You feel a protruding scar on the right side of your face. It traces from the bridge of your nose to about halfway across your cheekbone. As you bring your hands down to pull the hospital gown away from your body, you catch sight of your hands. Long, jagged cuts run vertically along the front of your hands, and as your eyes travel up your arms, you notice fewer, shorter scars along the insides of your forearms. You swallow, pulling the cloth away from your body to see long scratches running from your thighs to under your ribcage. You pull the blanket off to find that one of your legs is encased in a white cast.

You blink. ‘What stupid thing did I do?’

You lay back down, fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars. ‘I must have been out for a bit.’ You push the hair out of your face, noting how oddly shaky your hands are as you try to focus on what had happened. ‘Why wouldn’t my folks be here? They wouldn’t ditch me in a hospital, would they?’ You hold them out in front of you, palms to the ceiling. ‘I don’t look old or anything. My nails aren’t much longer than they were before, so I can’t have been out for that long.’

Your eyebrows furrow. ‘Parents…’ You swallow. ‘Oh, right. The fire.’ Your eyes go out of focus. ‘Dead. I was, too, until recently.’ You put your arms down. ‘I’m hungry. Where am I?’ You close your eyes. ‘New York. East coast. How far is the East Coast from the West Coast? I should call her so she knows I’m—no, she’s dead.’

“All dead and gone,” you mumble the tune to yourself.

You cover your face. ‘Focus. What happened?’ You recall what you think is a church. ‘Turtles. Turtle. Oh, TMNT. Where are people? Focus.’ You yank at a piece of your hair, mumbling to yourself as you try to run through the memory again.

The image of that man’s body takes your breath away.

You shut your eyes tighter. ‘Right. Car. Glass. Glass would be a good candy. Could you make glass out of sugar? Isn’t that what a lollipop is?’ You hug yourself tightly, careful of the IV as you roll onto your side towards it. ‘I killed someone. Someones. That’s not a word. Gasoline smells bad.’ You feel tears prick at your eyes. ‘I deserve to die for that. There has to have been an easier way to do that. I deserve to burn again. That explosion was so prettily animated in that episode. I can’t breathe.’

You curl your legs up towards you, using the arm not connected to the IV to hook behind your knees. You bury your head in your shoulder as you force your breathing to slow. ‘I miss her. Where is he? They’re dead and you killed them, you heartless bitch.’

You feel a sob rise in your throat. You swallow it back. ‘Stop being a pussy.’ You hear yourself start to count softly. ‘They’re all dead and gone. You’re on your own here, so get a grip.’ You grip the blanket. ‘After all, who are you going to turn to? The guys who already risk their lives every day? Or maybe Splinter, who will probably tell you some bullshit about letting your pain go?’

‘That’s not fair,’ you argue with yourself. ‘You can turn to Murakami. Casey might be willing to help.’

‘Because Casey’s known for his reliability and Murakami would want to deal with your stupid emotional problems.’

“Twenty-three,” you whisper, keeping your voice even. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…’

You pull yourself back up, bringing your knee to your chest as you wipe any tears that may have leaked out with the back of your hand.

You do not have to wait long until someone comes in to check on you, a taller gentleman with sharp features and sunken eyes behind curly black hair. He introduces himself as Nurse McGrath, gives you a run down of the dizzying number of injuries you had suffered in the accident, what they had done to fix the problem, and starts to discuss what would become of you now.

“The doctor predicts that you’ll be able to remove your cast in approximately six weeks, and that you will regain your fine-motor skills fully in eight.” He is obviously half asleep, but you can hardly blame him; the clock on the wall reads that it is about three in the morning. “The symptoms from the whiplash should completely fade in about three months. If you would be open, there are medications we can prescribe to help with the pain.”

You smile. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not.” You are sincerely concerned what might happen if you start taking any sort of medication right now, considering your mental health.

“I should probably warn you in advance that the police might ask you to come in to identify the guys who kidnapped you.”

You blink, confused. “How do they know I was kidnapped?”

“Anonymous tip, according to the news.” He scratches something into some form or another. “I dunno the specifics, but nobody thinks they’re gonna charge you with anything, ‘specially since the driver was from that street gang.”

You nod. “Gotcha.” You purse your lips. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-fourth, now.”

You sigh. “Well,” you shrug, ignoring the pain it causes, “at least I’m not dead.”

“At least.” He caps his pen. “Technically, you’re free to leave, but the doc thinks it’s a good idea to stay overnight. Your insurance provider has your medical bills covered, so you’re good for it.”

“Honestly? I’m surprised I don’t feel weaker.” You smile. “I’m more than happy to head home tonight, if that makes most sense.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t stay.” He starts heading out of your room. “Your cellphone is locked up. I’m guessing you want it?”

You nod eagerly, realizing quickly that makes the ringing worse.

“I’ll bring it right back, then.”

You refrain from touching it until he leaves.

It looks as if it was put in a blender, but you find it does still turn on. A problem quickly arises: your hands cannot hold the phone. You set it down on the mattress, each movement taking a ridiculous amount of time to coordinate as you type like someone who has never used a phone before. ‘Fine motor skills. Right.’ You type out a message after approximately too long that tells Donnie that you are out of the hospital and heading home.

You check out of the hospital at approximately four-thirteen. The trip home is a straight line of a walk that takes you approximately twenty minutes. Getting in through the door with a walker is a bit of a challenge, but it works out well enough.

You lock the door and windows when you get home, shutting your phone off as you crawl into bed.

You let out a low groan as your head punishes you for your heinous crime of moving. You had realized ten minutes into your walk that you were not at all physically strong enough to walk that long, and you already hate yourself for it, among other reasons. As you crawl into bed, ignoring your body’s protest, you still stand by your decision to not take any medication, especially now.

You feel as though you are being suffocated as you cling onto your pillow, pressing your face into it as you cry silently, the ringing in your ears only getting louder in the silence of your apartment.

‘I feel sick.’

You remember your first night here. You remember the feeling it had caused you, the numb ache of loss as you submitted to the situation you had found yourself in. It feels like an eternity ago, now. You know, logically, it cannot have been more than two months since you got here.

You had decided against taking a cab back home. You had the cash, and you still do, in your bloodstained pocket. You saw many as you walked home, and you had turned a blind eye to them all.

You feel yourself trembling again. You remember the first night you had slept on your own here, the nightmares you swore were the product of a mind much more sadistic than yours ever was. You remember, too, the nightmares you had after Bradford, the way that, for the first time in your life since you were five years old you woke up drenched in sweat and crying for your mother.

What possible dream could come from this?

You reach a hand to the nightstand, hovering over your cellphone as you consider your next action.

Slowly, you retract it, letting it rest next to you. ‘It’s four. He’s not awake.’ You do not have the energy to get up to grab the bottle of sleeping pills from your bathroom.

‘I don’t want to sleep. I can’t take another nightmare.’ You rest your cheek on the pillow, forcing your eyes shut. ‘Mare. Why is it called a nightmare? Are mares truly that terrifying?’

“One,” you whisper. “Two. Three.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 8

Chapter 10

[twinkleomorashi]

Day 2 Desk Wetting

Day 2 Desk Wetting ( Junior Year Preston) 

AN: Yeah big shock, Preston again. It is technically day 2 after all so I managed to get this done just 4 minutes too late lol.

All characters in sexual scenarios are 18 or older. Read my “refz” tag. Preston is 18 in her junior year, the only reason this doesn’t take place when she’s 19 and a senior is because in the greater universe of my fics it wouldn’t make any sense. I care too much about the pissfic universe canon, soz about it. Contains female omorashi. Not your cup of pee? Don’t read!

Not My Fault

Teachers need to chill the fuck out. Listen, I get it that seniors are all little shits who just wanna get out of school already and I wouldn’t wanna deal with us either, but if you’re getting paid to do it there’s no need to be such a massive bitch all the time. Apparently it’s not their fault though. No, apparently it’s my fault. My fault that my idiot friend Josh dared me to chug four bottles of gatorade back to back without hurling. I mean, yeah I didn’t have to do it, but then I wouldn’t have gotten $20. Fine, I can see how that’s kinda my fault. But my third period teacher didn’t have to assign a test today and she didn’t have to make a rule saying that nobody was allowed to leave the room during it. And my fourth period teacher really didn’t have to have such a harsh tardy policy which forces me to sprint to her class everyday or risk detention. 

What I’m saying is, it’s really not my fault that I have to piss this badly right now.

I scribble down the homework assignments I probably won’t do in my planner I never used. The writing is more messy than usual, I have to go so bad my hands are shaking. I finish writing and slam the planner shut before trying to casually walk up to her desk.

“Ms. Perez? May I please use the restroom?” I ask in my nicest voice. 

“No, you’ve already used your bathroom pass for the semester, remember? September 2nd?” she asks.

It was December 14th, of course I don’t remember that. Oh wait.. That’s the day I ditched class in favor of Taco Bell. Fuck, I’ve screwed myself over. I’ve screwed myself over so bad. No way would I be able to last another hour and twenty minutes like this, I can literally feel my bladder pressing up against the waistband of my jeans and I’m already bouncing my legs and squirming in my seat like an idiot.

She shrugs me off and starts to lecture. And lecture. And lecture. She’s lecturing for years. Centuries. I know it’s history class and all, but does it really have to be taught in real time? The scenario is so cliche I’m shocked I haven’t been in it sooner. I have to pee fucking so bad, holy fuck. I jam my hands between my legs and cross them out of sheer desperation to not risk accidentally letting any out, it helps.  I feel a pencil tap my left shoulder. 

“What?” I irritatedly whisper at the tapper, my friend Andrew. 

“Does wittle Pweston have to go to the potty?” he chides. 

“ Leave me alone, dicksack.”

Fuck, if a dumbass like him noticed I’m definitely being too obvious about it. I’m conflicted, do I sacrifice my pride or my (relative) comfort? I slide my hand out from between my legs and hold my legs still. Nope, nope nope nope. It feels like I’m seconds away from pissing myself when I act natural. I check the time. How the hell do we still have an hour left?!

“Ms Perez?”, I beckon, “May I please use the restroom?” 

Some kids snicker, probably noticing that I’m drenched in sweat and trembling like a cold chihuahua.

“Is it an emergency?” she asks.

I swallow my pride for the sake of my pants. 

“Yes.” 

“You should’ve thought of that on September 2nd.” 

The class laughs again. It takes all of my strength not to lose my shit over that. That was over three months ago, how the fucking hell was I supposed to know that I would be on the verge of pissing myself in the middle of her class in a few months? And this bitch has the nerve to keep on lecturing. I have to piss too badly to pay attention, much less write notes. Andrew taps me again.

“What now? More words of wisdom?” 

“She usually gives in at this point. Guess she just hates you.” he shrugs.

“Andrew, if I piss myself I am placing 23% of the blame on you.”

His eyes widen.

“You have to go that bad, huh?” he chuckles as I rock back and forth in my seat with my hands still between my legs. 

I don’t see how he couldn’t have realized that yet. I feel tears prick into my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because this hurts so much or if it’s because I can tell that I’m reaching the end of my rope at a quick and dreadful pace. Panicking is only making it worse. I need a plan. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need a plan. Why can't I think of a plan? 

Then something horrifying happens. I leak. A ton. It surprises me so much that I whimper in surprise and take a sharp breath. A few kids turn their heads so I try my best to act natural to some extent. 

Once they lose interest I quickly inspect that crotch of my jeans. Fuck, it's noticeable. It's really noticeable, there’s a patch about the size of my palm and a couple drops of piss already on the desk chair. I start hardcore freaking out. I can't hold it much longer. Hell, I don't even know if this counts as “holding it”. The stain on my jeans is only gonna get bigger if I don't do anything about it. I shakily raise my hand for the second time in five minutes. 

“I said no, Preston.” she says, barely turning away from the board. 

I whimper again in frustration, more heads turn. Some kids whisper. Holy fuck, this is so embarrassing. I’m usually not so shy with this kind of stuff, but I literally know only one person in here and it’s fucking Andrew. If I was with my friends I could at least laugh it off.

“Miss, please.”, I beg, “I know you don't want me to miss anymore class, but I- I can't even focus right now!” I whine, my voice shaking. I'm willing to do just about anything to not piss myself right now. I can brush off any comments about this, but if I don’t make it I’m never gonna live it down. 

Ms. Perez slams the dry erase marker into the built in tray on the whiteboard and puts her hands on her hips. 

“Fine, but we're gonna use this as a learning opportunity. See, kids? This is why we don't skip class-”

Fuck fuck fuck! She's lecturing again. I leak once more, a small puddle starts to form on the chair. I panic and try to sit back further in it to try and cover it up. The feeling of wetness only causes another spurt to escape, somehow traveling up the seat of my jeans. I'm not gonna make it, there’s no way. This isn't happening. This can not fucking be happening. 

“Because leaving class at all detracts from your learning and then you use up passes that you're going to need later. And on that note, you really should be going before class.”

The leaks become longer and much more frequent. Even if she stops lecturing right this second everyone is gonna see that my jeans are soaked when I stand up and there’s no way I’m making it all the way to the bathroom, but if worst comes to worst at least I can hide somewhere and avoid making a scene over the inevitable. Another wave of desperation hits me and I can tell my time is running out fast. Hell, can I even move from this position? I slowly uncross my legs to test the waters. 

I let out a shaky gasp in surprise as the floodgates stop leaking and burst open entirely. My hand instinctively flies to my mouth as I freeze in shock and try really really hard not to make my heavy breathing obvious. Everybody in the room except for the teacher who's too wrapped up in her fucking lecturing can tell what's going on. A puddle forms on the desk chair and dribbles down to the scratchy classroom carpet. Loudly. To the point where I wonder how the hell she can't hear it. I cross my legs to try and quiet it in sheer mortification but now I can hear people whispering. This can't be happening, this can't be happening. 

“So you can't really come crawling back to me if you miss information, because you chose to leave class.”

There's no point in trying to hold back at this point, there's no going back or covering it up now. I put my head on my desk in defeat. Pissing after holding it for a long time is probably one of the greatest feelings in the world. Even if it is in your jeans during the middle of history class. Okay that was the grossest thing I've ever thought. Ignore that please. But I’m not wrong. But-

“So in short, be smart about your bathroom passes. Now hurry, Preston.” Ms. Perez nods. My face is burning with embarrassment as I nervously bite my tongue knowing I had no choice but to fess up before someone did it before me. 

“T-Too late.” I stutter through the tears pricking in my eyes. I feel like I'm gonna pass out. My face is so hot with embarrassment it feels on fire. 

Her face goes pale, almost sickly so. She stands still, unsure of what to say. All eyes are either on me or her.  I slowly stand up, covering my ass with my backpack and my crotch with my spiral which was nowhere near the right size for the task at hand. 

“So, uh, I’m gonna go now.” I blush, regretting my choice of words but leaving before any obvious jokes can be made. 

And I don't come back. I embarrassedly stormed outside the school, rummaging for my car keys and pressing the car unlock button for way longer than necessary before practically diving into the driver's seat. I start the car and let my head rest against the steering wheel as it turns on, still in park. I glance down at my jeans and can’t help but to find a little humor in it. If people give me shit for it there’s nothing I can do. This so obviously is not my fault.

[ike-sol]

memento mori [part 1]

Summary: With his illness progressing, Shingen has made peace with his inevitable death. Yukimura has not. Characters: Ikemen Sengoku: Shingen Takeda, Yukimura Sanada (platonic! father/son relationship). Mentioned Yukimura x unspecified woman (could be MC or not) Genre: Hurt/comfort Content warning: Terminal illness (lung cancer) Word count: 2,090 Or read on Ao3!

~*~

“I’m coming in-” Yukimura announced just half a second before sliding open the door.

“Yuki, what did I tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotta wait. Sorry. But at least I said something.”

He came inside, closing the door behind him, and placed a bamboo box on the table. Shingen, who had been lying in his futon, slowly propped himself up on his elbows, and smiled at the young man. The sweet scent of still-hot steamed buns wafted through the air, a most wonderful aroma.

“Red bean paste buns?”

“Yeah. I got the last batch.”

Yukimura came to his side, kneeling down besides him, and helped him sit up, before taking his place at the opposite side of the table. He lifted the lid off of the bamboo box, revealing six perfect sweet buns, and Shingen reached out for one with a shaky hand. It was still warm, and oh-so-soft.

“Thank you, Yuki.”

“Sure.” He smiled, but didn’t take a bun for himself.

Then- all six were for Shingen? He hummed in approval, though the unease ate at the periphery of his soul. He was halfway through the sweet when that awful tickle started in his throat, and rapidly grew into an all-consuming pain. And- gods! He dropped the bun as a coughing fit overcame him.

Shingen felt like his chest was on fire. That burning, squeezing sensation, as though some wicked kitsune had placed rocks upon rocks on his chest. A desperate need for air that he could not attain, no matter how quickly he breathed, how he gasped for it in between those awful, suffocating coughs. The metallic taste in his mouth was pungent, and no matter how many times it happened, he could never get used to the taste of blood.

Shingen knew these attacks well by now, how they overcame him at full force, and though it was localised in his chest, they spread to everywhere in his body, until he became light headed from the lack of air. He was used to them, yes, but each passing attack seemed to be stronger than the last, and a dark part of him wondered - was this it?

“My lord-”

Yukimura was instantly by his side, an arm around his back, and eyebrows creased with worry. Shingen waved a hand in a motion as if to signal he was alright, even as the violent cough racked his body. He tried to take deep breaths, but it was too difficult, far too difficult, when his chest spasmed with a terrible lack of air.

Finally, it quieted. Now breathing deeply, Shingen felt the painful irritation in his throat, but at least that was better than the brutal coughs. He reached out with a shaky hand for the box of ointment he always kept by his bedside, but Yukimura beat him to it, and picked it up instead.

“Lie down. I’ll apply it.”

Shingen nodded his thanks, too weak to speak at the moment, and lied down obediently on the futon, still breathing deeply.

He always wore his kimono loosely, to show off his chest with a flirtful ambience. Even now, with his muscles wasting away, no longer the same handsome man, the habit remained. But he no longer had the courage to look at himself in the mirror. The thin frame and sunken eyes, hollowed cheekbones… He couldn’t bear the sight of himself. He hoped dearly, that once he passed, Yukimura would remember him as handsome as he was in his health, rather than the sickly ghost of a man he was now, in what were surely his last days of illness. Of life.

Yukimura pulled apart the collar of his kimono further, to expose his chest fully. Opened the wooden box, intricately carved out of maplewood by Shingen himself, so many years ago. The ointment felt cool on his skin as Yukimura applied it to his chest, his actions a little clumsy, but kind. So very kind. He hated the look of worry on the young man’s face, and attempted to chase it away with a light-hearted comment.

“Thank you. But I’d much rather have a beautiful woman do it, in your stead.”

“Ha-ha.” Yukimura rolled his eyes. “You’re always thinking about women.”

“And you don’t think about them enough.”

Silence. He set the box of ointment aside, and began to rub the medicine into Shingen’s skin. It would take a while for it to work, but it helped to open his airways. Far from a cure, but- at least it made breathing easier. At least it made the symptoms more bearable.

“You know, I really wanted to see you settled down before I-”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“Yuki.” He said gently. “I want to talk about it. We can’t pretend it’s not going to happen.”

Yukimura did not speak. His lips pressed together into a firm line, and his eyes avoided his. Shingen didn’t miss how his eyes glazed over with a sheen - too proud to let the tears fall, but unable to restrain them. Instead, he picked up the half-eaten sweet bun, and placed it back in the basket. Shingen hated that he could do nothing.

He wished he’d died in battle.

This was not a warrior’s death, to wither away at a sickbed. His clothes swallowed him more with every passing day as his muscles wasted away. Hollowed eyes and cheeks and trembling hands. Most days, he couldn’t even make it out into the garden on his own. This weakness, this helplessness, was far more painful than the vice in his chest.

He hated how the others looked at him. How Kenshin never asked him to fight anymore, even though he’d once promised to take his life before the illness did. How Sasuke was coincidentally always there to hold him up when a coughing fit overcame him in the hallway and thrust him off balance. How Yukimura stopped rationing his sweets, and let him eat as much as he liked.

He knew the end was coming. He knew that everyone else knew, too. Still, he wished that things could remain as they always were. What he would have given to drink into the night at a pre-battle feast, and then to lose his life to a sword the following day! Sudden, surprising, and quick. And not like this sickness that dragged on forever and took everyone down with him.

“I’m still here. Don’t mourn for me yet, Yuki.”

Shingen propped himself up on his elbows, and immediately Yukimura helped him up into a sitting position. He leaned against the wall. “Come here.”

Yukimura carefully sat down besides him. Leaned his head against his shoulder as if he were made of glass. Shingen wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and Yukimura turned his face away. He couldn’t see the tears, but he heard his breathing shallow.

The boy he’d taken in all those years had grown into a formidable man. Strong and reliable and painfully honest, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He’d grown into everything Shingen had ever hoped for - except, perhaps, for his uncouth tongue. How he’d not learned to speak around the fairer sex with Shingen as an example was a mystery - it must have boiled down to sheer stubborness rather than incompetence. Or so he hoped, at least.

But right now, curled up against him like this, Yukimura was once again a boy in his eyes. He remembered when he first spoke to him, all those years ago. The troublemaker running around town, catching bugs and swinging his wooden sword until it broke. Who never cried over scraped knees or an empty stomach, and stopped the other kids from tormenting puppies.

The boy was like a son to him. He wasn’t sure whether he’d been a good father figure, but- he loved him with all he had. He’d tried to impart all his wisdom and care onto him, though who knew whether it had been enough.

“I hate that I’m going to leave you.” Shingen said quietly. “I’m glad you have Sasuke. And Kenshin, and Yoshimoto.”

Yukimura didn’t respond. His gaze fell on the floor, on his fingers, as he laced them together. Finally, he spoke up, just as quietly.

“There is someone, you know.”

“Hm?”

“A girl.”

He smiled. “Why didn’t you say so before? Tell me about her.”

“I knew you’d make a big deal out of it-”

“What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

“Wha- I- hell if I know.”

“Yuki-”

He blushed deeply, to the very tips of his ears, and nodded. “...Yeah. Really pretty.”

Shingen closed his eyes. “Good. I hope you told her that. You need to make her feel like the most beautiful woman alive.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s…” Yukimura smiled as he thought over what to say. “She’s really sweet, and fun. And she hangs off my arm, and she likes Muramasa, and her hair’s always messy. And once she starts laughing, she can’t stop, sometimes over the stupidest things.”

The love in Yukimura’s expression was almost overwhelming. He’d never seen it on the boy before, not like this, and it filled Shingen with an immeasurable warmth. He was glad he got to see it on him before the end of his life.

“She sounds wonderful. Perfect for you.” Shingen smiled. “I wish I could meet her.”

“...She’s in Azuchi.”

“I figured. I’m glad - the hairpins worked.”

“Yeah. Guess you were right about that.”

Shingen chuckled. “You should’ve listened to me more often.”

“I- we kissed. At the festival. I really… really like her.” He admitted, red-faced. “I was going to- to tell her who I really am. And ask her to come here. With me.”

The urgent letter must have stolen him back to Echigo before he could do so, and Shingen felt a pang of guilt for that. His condition hadn’t worsened so much as to justify Yukimura dropping everything to come see him again, though Sasuke thought differently, and insisted on letting him know.

Perhaps Sasuke was right. Perhaps this was the final chance to say goodbye. He had to leave Yukimura with pleasant memories, to at least slightly weigh against the pain he’d inevitably be left with.

“I’m glad. You found the person you like. Maybe I can still meet her.”

“Yeah.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I… I dunno. For a while.”

Shingen knew what that meant, what words Yukimura didn’t want to use. He would not force them out of him - it was nice enough knowing that he’d be here, for the last of his days. There was no one he’d rather be with during this time.

He pressed a gentle kiss against the top of his head. “Thank you.”

He felt Yukimura breathe in shakily again, as if to steady himself. Silence, for a moment.  “I’m going to miss you. So much.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Yukimura leaned his head against his chest and grasped his hand. It was warm, in comparison to his. Rough from all those years of training, fighting, but- strong. So much stronger than his. So much more alive.

“You’ve grown into a wonderful man. ...I love you, Yuki.”

He heard him suck in a breath, like a gasp. A strangled sort of sound, and he felt his shoulders shake - just a little - against him.

“Me, too.” He whispered. “I love you.”

Shingen leaned down with another gentle kiss, this time against his forehead. Like a comfort, he hoped, and not quite yet a goodbye. They sat like that, in silence, for a while. Shingen rubbed Yukimura’s back gently, pretending not to notice his quiet crying, to salvage his pride.

When he quieted and righted himself, a long while had passed. Yukimura turned his face away again, and wiped his tears and nose unceremoniously with his sleeve. His eyes were still red, but he was calm. Good, Shingen thought. The boy had to let it out sometime.

“Yuki,” He smiled. He wouldn’t push the emotional issue any further, if the boy didn’t want it. Perhaps this was enough for now. “Pass me my sweet buns?”

He laughed airly - still shaky - as if in disbelief, and relented. “Fine. Here.”

He moved the table closer to them, and returned to his position by Shingen’s side, so that their shoulders were touching. He held out the bamboo box, and Shingen picked up the half-eaten bun he’d dropped before. It was still warm, and tasted just as nice as it did before. A fond look at his surrogate son.

“Tell me more about your lady.”

[squidbatts]

your funny mouth to the clouds

Or: Fabian stresses, confesses, and gets some kisses in

((The last couple of Fantasy High episodes have been Buckwild but IN THIS HOUSE we ignore current canon happenings to write about fabian wanting to kiss ragh and then getting to kiss ragh!!! because i crave ragh/fabian content even if i have to Do Everything Myself))

{ao3}

Fabian Aramais Seacaster, son of Bill Seacaster, knows he’s hot; it’s kind of his whole thing, being a charming, roguish pirate, as dangerous as he is dashing. So, obviously, it makes complete sense that he and Gorgug would be Ragh’s dream makeout partners. They’re all hot athletes and they spend a decent amount of time together, he gets it.

It shouldn’t even be a thing.

Except that Fabian can’t stop thinking about it. When Ragh lances a demon through the eye and then turns to grin at Fabian, manic, muscles straining his letterman jacket, he thinks about it; when Fabian’s trying to teach the party literally anything about the sea and Ragh slides in right next to him, body a point of warmth on Fabian’s left side as he points at completely the wrong part of the map, he thinks about it; when Ragh tears off his shirt and leaps into the water with Fabian, throws a glistening and sea-wet arm over Fabian’s bare shoulders, tugs Fabian into his sculpted chest as he laughs-

The point is, Fabian keeps thinking about it.

Which is why he thinks he should be excused for asking Kristen for advice; she is, after all, their “token gay friend"; the rest of his close friends are straight, so she’s really the only one he can ask.

“Kristen,“ Fabian starts one afternoon when it’s just the two of them on the roof, “You know about gay stuff, right?“

Kristen lights up. “I don’t know if you know this-“

“I do, you say it all the time-“

“-but I’m gay!“ Kristen finishes like she doesn’t come out over breakfast every morning. “So yeah, I do.“

“Awesome, great, listen, I have a question. Have you ever- hm.“ Fabian cuts himself off with a hum as he attempts to word it correctly. He decides to try another route. “Do you think Ragh is attracted to me?“

“Oh, for sure,“ Kristen says and, even though he already knew that, Fabian chokes on air in surprise at her surety. “He’s really into the whole ’straight boy jock’ thing and, I’m a lesbian, but even I know that you’re objectively the hottest person in our party. You and Fig are the hot ones.“

“Obviously,“ Fabian replies, kneejerk.

“Yeah, so, duh. Why do you ask?“ Kristen asks, and Fabian-

Fabian falters because, obviously, he wants to get to the bottom of why he can’t just forget about Ragh’s proposition like Gorgug has, but the idea of talking about it, of telling Kristen makes his stomach twist. Something about it makes him feel weird, the same way he feels weird whenever he thinks about Ragh wanting to kiss him.

“He just said something and I-“ Fabian waves a hand dismissively. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter.“

Kristen’s eyebrows furrow and she places a hand on Fabian’s arm, firm but still kind. “If you’re uncomfortable with a gay man simply being attracted to you, you’re the asshole here. But listen, Jawbone has some pamphlets about it and we can totally work this out-“

“I’m not uncomfortable, I just wanted to know if he had said anything to you,“ Fabian says, the words quick and awkward in his mouth. Maybe I am uncomfortable, He considers. Maybe the twisting how of his gut and the heating of his face are merely symptoms of his discomfort. He’s always been fine with Kristen and Tracker, he was fine with Ragh when he told them about Dane, but maybe he just thought he wasn’t homophobic until it directly affected him.

Kristen stares at him silently for a second, tilting her head as her eyebrows raise. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed that.“ She says, then, “Well, actually, I maybe would’ve because you’re like, supernaturally obsessed with your appearance, but stereotyping is bad and all that.“

“What are you talking about?“ Fabian snaps, irritated with her vagueness. He realizes that he should’ve just gone to Adaine for help, she reads books and knows about a great many things, not to mention that it certainly would’ve been less of a tax on his patience than dealing with Kristen at her… Kristen-est.

“I think… I think you should talk to Ragh,“ Kristen says, and then continues on quickly before Fabian can get the horrified Absolutely not out of his mouth. “No, listen, this is really something that would go best if you just, like, talked to Ragh about it, I think. And like, I rolled a seventeen on persuasion, so you kind of have to.”

Fabian, not blessed in wisdom, fails his saving throw and has to admit that Kristen’s point is pretty compelling. Still, “I don’t even know where Ragh is right now.”

Kristen gives him a look that clearly says We all live in the same vanboat, you have to know that he’s less than three minutes away. She leans away from Fabian and, still holding eye contact, yells into the van, "Hey, Ragh, Fabian wants to talk to you!"

"Kristen, no," Fabian hisses. Kristen just grins back at him.

"Kristen, yes!" She says, "You will so thank me for this."

Fabian is still cursing Kristen's name when Ragh climbs up to join them on the roof. He's wearing his normal jeans but has elected to leave his letterman jacket in the van. Probably a good idea, Fabian thinks, eyes involuntarily drawn to the sheen of sweat over Ragh's biceps as Ragh stretches before he sits. It's been hot all day, but Fabian would bet gold that it's gotten hotter in the past five minutes. He certainly feels rather feverish, suddenly.

"What's the problem, bro?" Ragh asks when he settles down. Kristen makes a face at him from behind Ragh's back and mouths Take my advice!!!! When he pretends not to notice and instead stares pointedly at the sea, she huffs loudly.

"Well, I'm going to go back into the van, I'm real tired," She says, obnoxiously obvious. Fabian makes a face back at her when Ragh turns towards her. "I'll, uh,see you guys later. Don't even worry about everyone else, I'll keep 'em down there."

Fabian tries to infuse enough That is absolutely not what I want! and Don't leave us alone! into a single glare to make her stay, but she just winks at him, like she's a bard or something, which of course makes Ragh turns back to Fabian, puzzled.

"What was all that about?"

"It's nothing, really," Fabian says, forcing lightness into his voice as he waves a hand, as though all this awkwardness could be as easily dispelled as Fig's cigarette smoke. "Kristen is just being dramatic."

Ragh frowns, his dark eyes are stormily serious. Fabian's heart skips a beat. "We're bros. And bros don't have to lie about their feelings, right?"

"... Right."

"Dude." Ragh says as he punches Fabian's arm, clearly about to get started on the Jawbone taught me emotional vulnerability and now I think everyone should do it spiel. Fabian's already heard it at least one time apiece from Kristen and Adaine, and he still thinks he's good on the emotions front, thank you very much. Still, his stomach flips even now with nerves, and he thinks of how Kristen thought that talking with Ragh would sort him out. As truly awful as he imagines it will be, he wonders if Kristen has a point, just this once.

"Alright, alright!" He concedes, "I suppose we can talk about my feelings."

"Awesome!" Ragh grins lopsidedly, shifting to sit lotus style, his full attention on Fabian. "Now, what's up?"

A feeling rises in Fabian's chest, like his ribcage is stuck in a vice, and he feels nearly sick with guilt. Here Ragh is, so kindly and sincerely devoting his attention to Fabian, and Fabian's body can't even relax enough to appreciate it.

"I think I owe you an apology," Fabian says, and before Ragh can respond, he rushes on with, "I think I might be homophobic, but I'm going to work on it and be a better friend for you and Kristen, and I'm very sorry."

Ragh's opens and closes his mouth wordlessly a few times, tusks catching on his upper lip. "I- what?"

Fabian sighs huffily and explains, how he's felt weird and off-kilter since Ragh's proposition and Kristen's offered explanation. Ragh listens thoughtfully, brow furrowed and a hand on his chin. He's still frowning as Fabian finishes his tale and Fabian fights the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.

"I don't think you're homophobic, dude," Ragh says, eventually. He sounds like he's choosing his words carefully, like he's walking on eggshells, and Fabian aches to think that he's made Ragh think that he has to do that.

"Of course I am, what else could it be?" Fabian asks, and Ragh screws up half of his face. "See! I made you uncomfortable with my- weirdness. I'm sorry."

"No, no, I'm not uncomfortable, I'm just trying to… Reconcile some things. Sort stuff out in the old noggin." Fabian tries not to look too doubtful but Ragh must've aced his insight check because he sighs and continues, "Listen, this has got to be weird for you too, I mean, obviously it is if you think you're a homophobe, but I think there's a pretty easy way to figure out what your discomfort means."

"And what would that be?" Fabian asks snipily, turning away. He doesn't like apologizing in the first place, much less when the other person won't just accept it.

"Feel free to say no, but I figured you could just try kissing me." Ragh says, and Fabian’s head whips back to him. Ragh lifts up his hands defensively. “Full disclosure, I think you’re super hot so I'm definitely getting something out of this, but if you can't stop thinking about it… It couldn't hurt, could it?"

Ragh shrugs as he lays his offer down and Fabian-

Fabian's heart pounds like he's in the middle of a Bloodrush play as heat pools in his face and his stomach. He hadn't ever considered actually kissing Ragh, but now that it's on the table, something deep within him twists with want.

"One kiss?" Fabian asks, trying to will away his blush, "I wouldn't be… Opposed."

"Uh-uh, none of that. I need a definite yes or no, bro," Ragh says, "I don't want to pressure you into this."

Fabian feels his flush flare hotter and squeezes his eyes shut. The deep buried part of him has rapidly expanded and spread throughout his body, leaving his fingers twitching towards Ragh and his lips tingling with anticipation. He can't imagine saying no, but to say yes also seems almost insurmountable. He opens his eyes, sees how softly Ragh smiles and the patience in his eyes, and it feels like someone's reached into Fabian's chest and twisted. Fabian nods, excessively, embarrassingly, then says, "Yes, yes, I'd like to try it-" before Ragh is upon him like the tide on a beach.

It's different from kissing Aelwyn; there's no bitter taste of alcohol or sticky-sweet lipgloss, no, Ragh's lips are chapped and he tastes of salt from days at sea, but it's still so much. Ragh cups Fabian's head, gentle, but presses his mouth insistently forward, easily leading Fabian through the sweeping movements of a makeout. Fabian's heartbeat still thuds in his ears, but he can also hear Ragh's slow and steady breaths, feel how he nips Fabian's lips and smiles against Fabian's mouth. When it's over, when Ragh pulls back and Fabian embarrassingly chases after him for half a second, Fabian is breathing like he's been near-drowned.

"Still think you're homophobic?" Ragh asks, teeth flashing in the ocean sunlight, lips slick from Fabian. Fabian burns brightly.

"I have," Fabian clears his throat awkwardly. "A few other theories now."

Ragh laughs, full and perfect, throwing his head back. Fabian looks at the vast muscled expanse of his neck, realizes that the twist of his gut just means that he wants to press a kiss to the juncture of Ragh's jawline and neck, and thinks, Huh.

"Well, that was super fun," Ragh says, clapping Fabian on the back, "Always down to help a fellow Owlbear with a sexuality crisis, dude, just let me know if you wanna do that again."

Ragh heads back into the vanboat, whistling cheerfully, and Fabian waits until he's absolutely out of sight to raise a shaking hand to his lips. He feels a smile giddily crawling over his face and he buries his face in his hands rather than risk someone seeing him like that. He wonders, in a corner of his mind that's not fully busy simply rejoicing over getting his kisses in, if having a boyfriend is much different than having a girlfriend.

[holylulusworld]

Always remembered

Summary: One night was enough to turn her world upside down. Now she must cope with the aftermath of letting him in.

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam

Warnings: pregnant reader, daddy!Dean, fluff, giving birth (nothing graphic), a hint of angst

<< Part 2

“I’m totally able to make me breakfast on my own, Winchester!” You mutter.

“You will sit in the armchair and wait for me to bring you your breakfast. You are nine months pregnant, so no talking back. Do as I say, Y/N.” Dean says staring you into the ground.

“Damn, I should’ve never agreed to come here.” Walking out of the kitchen cursing and muttering you see Sam smiling at you.

Jumping out of the chair he helps you sitting down. Getting pampered by two tall hunters slowly scratches at your nerves. You are pregnant and not handicapped.

“I still can do things on my own, Sam.”

“Uh, Dean asked us all to take care of you. I mean the baby could pop out every day…Right?”

“No! I still got two and a half weeks left. I mean it’s possible, but I got no indications like back pain, nausea or anything else. I should be fine for the next days.”

“But you won’t do anything exhausting, Y/N,” Dean mutters walking into the library with a tray full of pancakes along with fruits, cereals, and pickles.”

“Who shall eat all this stuff?” You chuckle.

“You have to eat for two. I wouldn’t mind having a pancake or two but most of the stuff is for my pregnant lady.” Dean states proudly.

“Damn I will get even fatter, Winchester. I’m already huge.”

“Not fat, nor huge, Baby. Simply more to love. Look at this beautiful baby bump. I bet Sammy is jealous right now.” Dean chuckles starting to rub your belly.

“You know I’m not Budai!”

“Budai?” Cocking a brow Dean looks at his brother.

“It is a Chinese superstition if you want to call it that. Budai was a cheerful Buddhist monk who distributed gifts to children, like our Santa, at least close. Budai in folklore is admired for his happiness and wisdom of contentment. Some folklore says that rubbing his belly brings wealth, luck, and prosperity.”

“Like stroking Santa’s beard,” Dean asks and you start laughing.

“Dean this is so cute. Did you actually do this? Stroked some smeary Santa’s beard in a mall?” You giggle.

“I was six or seven back then,” Dean mutters. “It was Christmas and dad left us alone, once again. I sneaked into the mall to steal a gift for Sammy and there was Santa. I heard it brings luck and grants a wish so I sat onto his lap and stroked the beard.”

Listening to Dean tears well up your eyes. You knew his childhood was far from normal, being a hunter’s child is always hard but at least you had a mother taking care of you.

“What did you wish for, Dean?” Sam asks.

“That dad comes home before Christmas Eve, that I can find the perfect gift for you. Also, I wished no one catches me stealing it. I wanted you to have a nice Christmas, at least for once.” Dean says while his fingers tremble slightly at the memory and your heart breaks.

Getting up, a bit clumsy due to your bump, you move your arms around the hunter. Sobbing into his chest you hold him tight.

“I’m fine…” He whispers.

“No, this is not a nice memory. This is so sad, Dean.”

“I got the gift for Sammy and he was happy. I cooked us some Mac and Cheese, we watched TV and I even stole a tiny Christmas tree.”

“I remember that Christmas, Dean. You stole me the Wizard of Oz. My first own book.” Sam says close to tears.

“I knew you always liked the story, so I stole it for you.”

“You’re such a good brother, Dean. You raised Sammy while you were a kid too. I know you will be a great father for our girl.” You say kissing his cheek softly.

Flustered Dean looks at his smiling brother and he wants to say something but then his pants and shoes are suddenly wet.

“What?” Dean gasps.

“Oh, crap…I think her water just broke.” Sam calls out looking at this big brother with wide eyes.

“We need…shit…Sammy…I…uh…the bag. Call Castiel and we need to hurry. I’m not prepared to help her at birth. God, what do we do now?” Dean asks panicked and you cup his face with your hands.

“Breathe Baby, just breathe. Now we will get my bag, but you should probably change your pants before we go. I’ll wait here and then we drive to the hospital. Just relax, daddy. Everything is going to be alright.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one calming you down?” Dean asks looking at you with wide eyes, the panic visible all over his face.

“Go and change your pants, Winchester. Sam can help me into the car.”

“Okay…wait…I’ll be right back.” The tall hunter stammers running in his wet pants toward your shared room. Starting to laugh you watch him stripping his pants of on his way.

“Why does this take so long? I want to be with her in this goddamn room!” Dean mutters pacing around the hallway. The usually so controlled hunter is slowly going insane.

“Dean calm down. The midwife said something about the child is in the wrong presentation. They try to…uh…turn her or something.”

“Oh…god…What if she dies? What if something’s wrong with the baby? Sammy…”

“Breathe Dean, just breathe,” Sam says. “You need to calm down. Y/N will not die, your daughter will be healthy, and we will bring them home safe.”

“How do you want to know, Sam? Are you a doctor now? What if anything happens. God, I can’t raise a child alone. I even managed to kill the plant Y/N bought last month, I gave her Whiskey.” Dean stammers looking at his brother.

“I suggest you do not give your daughter alcohol, and everything is going to be alright.”

“You think so? I mean, you are not just trying to calm me down?”

“Mr. Winchester?” A young nurse says, and Dean turns around, running toward her while almost stumbling over his own feet.

“Yeah, that’s me… How is my girlfriend, the baby? Are they alright?”

“Everything is fine now. Do you want to see your daughter and your girlfriend? Your brother can come in too. Ms. Y/L/N said she wants to see the two tall guys.” The girl giggles and Dean starts smiling like insane, he smiles so hard it hurts.

“We should enter the room then. Dean…stop smiling and start walking.” Sam teases.

“Walking…right. I need to walk.”

“Look at you, so tiny and cute. Damn, she’s attractive like her daddy.” Dean swoons holding the little bundle of joy in his arms.

“Dean Winchester!” You mutter.

“It’s true, she’s such a beauty. Look, Sammy, look at her. I bet she will break a lot of hearts.”

“Our daughter is barely a day old and you want her to break hearts right away?”

“She already won my heart and according to the look her Uncle is giving her she has Sammy’s heart too. And for sure you’ve got your mommy’s heart.”

Watching Dean with his daughter you smile. It’s the first time you see his weak side, his vulnerable side.

“Not just our daughter has my heart.”

“I know I stole it too.” Dean chuckles, cockiness in his voice he grins at you.

Five years later…

“Why are we going to the cemetery daddy?” The little girl asks.

“It’s mommy’s birthday and Mother’s Day.”

“Do you remember mommy?” She sniffs now.

“Of course, I remember your mommy, I will always remember her.”

“That’s great, daddy.”

Watching the girl talking to her father Dean swallows hard. His eyes land on you placing some flowers on his mother’s grave.

“Thanks for coming with me. I mean she’s not here, the fire took all of her. Honestly most of the time I avoided coming here.”

Gently placing one hand onto his arm you smile at your husband. He barely shows it but deep down inside, hidden behind his strength you can see the true Dean, the hurt boy, the lonely boy.

“We can come here to her birthday too, just like these two. You don’t have to hide your feelings, Dean.”

“I know…”

“Do you remember her?”

“I got a few good memories, but I was a little boy when she died. But at least I got some memories. Sammy got nothing.”

“It’s important to remember people you love.”

“I will always remember you. Even while you are right next to me.”

“I will always remember you too, Dean.”

Smiling he takes your hand into his to lead you back toward Baby. Giving the father and his little daughter one last glance he can barely hold back the need to walk faster.

Hearing his daughter calling his name he starts smiling, kneeling he holds out his arms.

“I guess your daughter will always remember you too, Dean.”

“Not just me, Y/N.”

“We both know she’s daddy’s little sunshine.” You chuckle sliding your fingers through his hair.

“Let’s drive home, Sammy is waiting with Eileen for us to come back and take care of Sammy Jr.”

“Then let’s roll Dean.”

THE END...

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Smut?? *sigh* Oh how i've missed it. Also, how do I choose just one? Okay, how about no. 33 “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.” (Don't mind me, I'm just too fond of jealousy fics)

Your time is now, friend! You picked a good one. It went… places I didn’t expect. I hope you enjoy it!

Best Man (and a Friend of the Bride)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFWWord count: 5717

33. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.”

Peter escaped the banquet hall at a near-run while the guests were still applauding Betty and Ned’s first dance. After the newlyweds had burst into the room not long before, Ned had broken away to give Peter an important heads-up: that Ned’s mom had informed all of his cousins that the Best Man was single and they were just waiting until the dancing to pounce. It freaked Peter out to know that a bunch of strangers had been checking him out while he stood at the head of the aisle, clapping his best friend supportively on the shoulder as the music cued Betty���s entrance.

Even in the face of matrimony (and it had been right in Peter’s face for the better part of two years as he fulfilled his role as Best Man), it wasn’t that Peter was a commitment-phobe, some sort of serial one-night-stand-er. He simply wasn’t in a rush to marry young. Plus, he was trying to keep his wits about him today of all days; May had warned that people could get a little nuts at weddings, what with the atmosphere of romantic gravitas thicker than the icing on the big white cake. She was probably back there right now, trying to intercept Ned’s eager cousins to give Peter a head start.

As he moved away down the corridor towards the front of the hotel, the thud of pop-y bass transitioned into the tones of two people attempting to keep an argument quiet. Up ahead, a dark-haired man crossed out of a room and pushed angrily through the front doors. They didn’t slam, which took some of the effect out of it.

Peter wondered if he should turn back, but if the other arguer came this way, it would look like he was trying to slink away after eavesdropping. He would just… be casual and slip right past.

Except, when he was passing the room the fight had occurred in, the other person, a woman his age, walked out. He grabbed her shoulders instinctively before she could run into him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Peter told her surprised expression, belatedly releasing her.

“Oh, this?” she asked, circling her face with a finger. “It’s not fear, it’s relief. I thought you were Brad storming back in for round two.”

He could guess, but it would be better to ask.

“Brad?”

“My…” The woman paused. “…ex-boyfriend.”

Peter noticed a few tears overflowing her brimming eyes and patted his pants for a Kleenex, coming up empty. Damn, he remembered feeling one when he stuffed his tie into the same pocket after the ceremony.

“Sorry,” he said, meaning it, “I think I had a tissue in my jacket, but I left it in the… in the room.”

‘Banquet hall’ was not coming to him as she gave an unconcerned shrug and tossed her loosely braided hair over her shoulder before catching him head-on with brown eyes that were even more brilliant for their shininess. She made do by swiping away the fullest tears and patting beneath her eyes with her thumbs.

“I’m fine,” she said and he felt bad for not asking.

While she sniffled and angled her head back to keep any remaining tears at bay, Peter glanced down, taking in the length of her dark copper dress. It would probably photograph stunningly outside, against all those red and gold leaves on the trees lining the hotel’s drive. Damn Ned for dragging him into the wedding photographer conversation. Everywhere Peter looked at this place, he saw lighting opportunities and reflections of the couple’s autumnal colour scheme. Stupid scenic, postcard-town venue. He looked quickly back up to the woman’s face, which was now more composed.

“I’m Peter.” He cleared his throat. “By the way.”

She nodded and said, “MJ. Betty’s mentioned you.”

“So you’re… bride’s side?” That term came to him.

“Oh yeah, she and I go way back, or as far as you can go back when people get married in their early twenties.”

“Right.” Peter laughed. “Me and Ned too.” But the small talk was bothering him. He met MJ’s eyes seriously. “I’m sorry, but I really need to know what the fuck that guy’s problem was.”

She laughed in what looked like surprise.

“How do you know I didn’t cause the problem?”

“Did you?” he asked to humour her.

MJ shrugged, appearing genuinely thoughtful.

“Sort of. You want details?”

“Nah, it’s none of my business.” He was just quietly pissed off that some dick could breeze out and leave this woman crying. At a wedding. This was, like, the exact opposite of what May had warned him about. No romance in sight.

She leaned sideways into the wall, crossed her arms, and sighed. He copied her, minus the sigh.

“First, I want to note that someone’s ability to cite George Orwell is not a strong enough reason to stay in a relationship with them. You got that, Peter?”

“Noted.”

She sighed again and rubbed more aggressively at the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

“Would you believe the fight started with a proposal?”

Peter was usually more of a listener, but he could tell MJ needed him to contribute. Maybe she wasn’t a natural conversation-hog either.

“Isn’t proposing at somebody else’s wedding, like, bad manners?”

“Really bad,” she agreed with such vehemence that he understood why she and Betty were good friends. “It’s rude as fuck to take attention away from the bride and groom, but Brad’s a self-centered shithead like that, so I probably should have seen this coming.”

“That’s the problem with the Brads of the world,” Peter observed with sarcastic faux-wisdom. “You’re so focused on how self-centered they are and how much of a shithead they’re being that you forget the unpredictability factor. That’s the killer.”

MJ snorted.

“Right? Anyway, so I pulled him out here, because he started fucking whipping out that ring box while Betty and Ned were still dancing―” Peter shook his head in disgust. “―and while we were getting into it, I had this moment where I just stared at him and felt zero desire to keep talking, or hearing him talk. And, I guess, if I felt like that right after he tried to propose… I mean, that should be one of the emotional highlights of my life. Like, forget that his timing was shitty and selfish, I still should’ve been thrilled, on some level, that this guy I’d been with for the past two and a half years wanted to marry me. And I wasn’t. I think that’s why I started crying.”

She breathed deeply and Peter was staggered that he’d heard someone exorcise their feelings so well and so wastelessly. He admired her. Abruptly, MJ laughed.

“So that was a lot to unload on a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger, I’m your friend’s husband’s best friend!” he joked. “And I’m glad you explained. Otherwise, my plan was to assume that you were crying for Brad, because he doesn’t get to spend any more time with you.”

“You know, I’m impressed that you picked that up so quickly.”

“Well,” Peter shrugged, referencing Ned’s recent vows, “I’ve heard that sometimes you just know.”

They laughed until the front doors opening (not Brad―they both turned to look) shoved a wave of chilly air into the hotel. Peter wished he had his jacket to give her. He felt a little unbalanced, accidentally pairing up with this stranger after actively running away from the potential for that same thing down the hall. Instead of wading in, testing the waters, he’d shot down into a sinkhole. That wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping to find either. Because he hadn’t been hoping to find anything. Yet he really wanted to be around her; attraction wasn’t something he’d closed himself off to.

“We should get out of this hallway,” MJ suggested.

“Do you want to…” Peter jerked his thumb back towards the banquet hall. “…dance?” He winced. “Or is that a terrible thing to ask because, shithead or not, you were just almost engaged?”

She tilted her head side to side, considering.

“Pretty terrible. On a related note, do you want to come hang out in my room?”

His mouth fell open slowly and he straightened up. Saying ‘yes’ too fast… that would be another example of bad manners, wouldn’t it? If she asked though, he’d be lying to say that wondering how the fabric of her dress would feel sliding through his hands as he removed it hadn’t been taking up half his brain power since the second he saw her.

“We’ll go back to the reception in a bit,” MJ assured him. “I just need to take my shoes off and be blissfully alone for a few minutes.”

“I’m flattered that you can already feel alone when I’m in a room with you,” he said sarcastically, smiling to take the edge off. “This conversation is way better for my ego than dancing with one of Ned’s cousins.”

She laughed, easy, and reached out to grab Peter’s forearm. It shot a tingle through him probably even less appropriate than contemplating going back to MJ’s room with her. Unconsciously, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his lip as he watched her mouth.

“Dude, they were talking about your thighs through the whole ceremony. I was sitting in front of them.”

“You probably started it,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair away from her face like he was also a casual toucher. It was tough to tell whether she was blushing or just flushed from her argument.

“Nah, I was too busy looking at your arms. That jacket could only hide so much.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to one of his biceps. With his arms crossed, his dress shirt strained.

They were joking around, right? People flirted at weddings. All people. Including determined bachelors and brand-new singletons.

“Look who’s talking,” Peter countered, sweeping his eyes down her silky dress. The hug and drape of it.

Harmless flirting. Totally harmless. MJ gave him a thorough once-over.

“So… yes or no?”

Her hotel room had only her things in it and he wondered how he would’ve felt to encounter the heavily ridiculed Brad’s luggage.

“He left his bag in the car,” MJ explained, tossing the key card onto a table with an elegant flick. She flung her small purse to land at the head of the bed on a pillow. “He didn’t want us to stay overnight. Figured we could make the drive back into the city when things were winding down.”

“At what time? Three in the morning? Not a great plan.” Peter was puffing himself up every time he cut a slice off the absent Brad. He was aware of it, but he also couldn’t stop himself.

She sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, then changed her mind, crouching down at the mini-fridge and extracting a teeny bottle. Peter stood by as she unscrewed and sniffed it.

“No,” she gasped, quickly returning it to the fridge.

“You’re ok, right?” he asked tentatively.

MJ sat back and turned her head to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to drink myself into a stupor, I’m just curious. I like to explore my surroundings.”

Not quite an answer, but whatever.

She stood and glanced at the blank screen of the TV.

“You want to watch something?”

“Uh, no, that’s ok. We can just talk,” Peter said. Talk about how people hooked up at weddings. Right.

“Talk.” MJ nodded and sat beside him. “Sure. That’s a good idea. I think we skipped some of the general stuff when I dove straight into my drama. We could cover something a little less personal.”

“For sure.”

He caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, just like he was doing to her. In a second, they were kissing fiercely, his hands on her shoulder and the back of her neck, hers clutching the front of his shirt. They twisted towards each other and her far knee nudged his thigh.

“Are impulsive decisions ever right?” MJ wondered, eyes closed, as he nipped her lip and kissed messily over to her ear.

“Don’t ask me that,” Peter mumbled into her ear. His hand played with the strap of her dress, dragging it over her shoulder and back up. Suspending himself in that place of temptation.

“What would Brad think―”

“Don’t ask me that either,” he requested before she could finish the question.

He felt for her knee and tucked his fingers behind it, wrinkling the fabric of her dress between his warm hand and the hot place at the back of her knee. Such a little tug, he thought as they kissed again, to bring her right into his lap. Peter gripped the back of her neck and stroked his tongue into her mouth. MJ’s head was practically lolling, she was so turned on. Ok, he could concede that this was something he missed during his careful state of singlehood. But it wouldn’t have been like this with a Leeds cousin, hadn’t been like this in Peter’s last actual relationship (sorry, Liz) or his handful of Tinder nights.

This wasn’t supposed to happen―his cock thickening in his black suit trousers, MJ’s long fingers undoing the tiny buttons of his shirt―but it could. They’d collided while fleeing in two different directions and now, maybe, they could run parallel for a while. If…

“Actually,” Peter continued, their noses bumping as he shook his head, “could you not say that name again?”

“I could do that.”

His fingers flexed and she swung onto his lap, dress slipping and sliding under his hand. He pressed a palm to the small of her back until she lowered her hips to his, then, as soon as they touched, Peter grew restless and flipped them, hauling MJ up the bed on her back. Her heart was racing, he could see. Her hands were hungry as they roamed his chest where his shirt hung open. She shuffled her dress until she was able to bend her knees on either side of his hips, kicking her high heels to the floor. They (Peter and MJ) had probably damaged her braid.

Propped over her, Peter pushed the delicate straps from her shoulders, one at a time, while she watched him. He peeled the front of her loose dress down with the slight dampness of his palm, caressing along her sternum. No bra underneath. There was a zipper at the side that he hadn’t noticed; she undid it for him.

He dipped his face to kiss the center of her chest, then lifted his head again, looking seriously into MJ’s receptive, unswerving stare.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole. You realize that, right?”

Slowly, he felt her hook her feet securely behind his calves, neck lifting gracefully from the bed as she did so. Always watching his eyes.

“Works for me,” MJ said. “Though that is going to make it a lot more difficult to feel like I’m alone in this hotel room.”

She grinned and he dove into it, kissing her enthusiastically and rocking his hips into hers. Peter shoved his shiny black shoes off with the toes of his opposite feet while using his hands to wriggle the top of her dress down to her waist. With a tremulous breath he hoped wasn’t the beginnings of regret, MJ helped him out of his dress shirt and tossed it unceremoniously aside. He didn’t look away to see if the article even made it over the edge of the bed.

And that was as far as they got, the both of them topless, when MJ felt around for her clutch and extracted a condom that had been intended for another guy’s erection. His excitement was momentarily quelled. As she passed it to him, chucking her purse away, Peter glanced at the wrapper before tearing it open. Good news: it wasn’t some inferiority-complex-inducing jumbo size. He exhaled slowly through his nose in relief and gazed at the peaked nipples of her bare breasts as he unzipped himself, pushed his boxers out of the way, and rolled the condom on. MJ hiked the hem of her dress up her thighs, the entire swishy length now just a fold of fabric around her hips, shimmering softly in the yellow light of the hotel room.

Peter dug his nose beneath her jaw and felt between her thighs with an eager hand. The room was snugly still around them, the sound of his own breathing in his ears. MJ gave a little gasp and dropped her legs wider at his touch. Her underwear felt lacy and―more germane―wet. He groaned and hauled the lingerie down her legs, stretching and wrenching instead of patiently asking for her to lift her hips, unbend her knees.

His fingers returned to her, dipping into her wetness and rubbing it up over her clit until her thighs gave a tremble. He kissed gradually down her throat. Laying her hands on his shoulders, MJ ran them across to the back of his neck. Peter traced a teasing circle around her entrance with the tip of his middle finger and, abruptly, her hand was gripping his hair.

“This isn’t a slow dance, Peter,” she told him, chin tipped up to unconsciously mirror how she’d pulled his head back. Her other hand wove down and found Peter’s wrist, forcing his finger inside her. “We aren’t making memories.”

He laughed, appreciating her bluntness, and raked a hand through his dishevelled hair the second she released it.

“I guess I just normally―”

“I don’t care.” MJ smiled. “Just be the hot Best Man and I’ll be a friend of the bride, ‘cause that’s what it seems like we both need. If you can’t do that, then get on your back and I’ll do it for you.”

Peter laughed again and bit at her neck―lightly, then harder as he felt her sink into the plush comforter they hadn’t bothered to turn down. When she moaned and bucked slightly to get his finger (positioned by her) moving, Peter curled it inside her and kissed her mouth to swallow some of the sound that was making his blood so hot.

“No, you’re definitely staying on your back,” he muttered against her lips.

MJ just nodded lazily, eyes shut, when he added another finger and pumped them faster. Her grip twisted gently around his wrist and Peter’s eyes nearly rolled back imagining the same motion on his dick. He didn’t know her―not ‘that well,’ but know her, period―but he was sure it was exactly what she wanted him to imagine.

He watched her stretch a hand over her head and grasp the edge of the mattress, fingers sneaking between it and the headboard. Kissing her hard, Peter hooked his fingers into her twice more, then withdrew his hand (she moved hers to the back of his neck). Arousal smeared her thigh as he clutched it and nudged his cock against her entrance, pressing inside when the angle felt right.

A little while for him and, for her, the first time in years with a new partner. They both had something to get used to and they both started off gasping, quickly rearranging their limbs to hold each other closer as Peter sunk deeper. A quick squeeze from MJ’s legs tangling around the back of his jerked him all the way inside her and she immediately bore down with her hips like she could pin him there from underneath. The forcefulness of it was hot. Liz had never been very… but no, they weren’t bringing their exes into this. Not into this hotel room, not into this bed.

Peter wrapped his arm all the way around MJ, stretching beneath her back to grasp her ribcage with firm fingers. He resisted slipping his other hand into her hair because it would demolish whatever remained of the braid that suited her so well; instead, he braced his forearm on the bed and cupped her bare shoulder in his palm. The heat and friction of the two of them moving against each other was raising the scent of whatever MJ had massaged into her skin to make it so soft. He inhaled deeply, tracing his lips down to her collarbone to leave a lingering kiss. With his arms bound up by her body and his legs increasingly swayed by the guiding action of hers, Peter went to rapid work with his hips.

Panting and groaning, MJ was as collaborative as she was combative―dragging him in with her legs and rocking her hips fiercely in pursuit of pleasure―and he wasn’t sure at all that she’d really surrendered, despite remaining on her back. But that wasn’t really what he wanted, was it? Wedding hookups, by whatever definition of them existed, were supposed to be easy, and yet Peter wanted a second go-round. Wanted to see her lotion lined up with her hair products and her makeup by the sink in the en suite when he brushed his teeth.

He inhaled and gave his head a small shake. This wasn’t his hotel room and MJ wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t looking for that. He wasn’t looking for that. Ugh, he couldn’t think about this anymore.

Peter struggled to find a good moment to change positions and ended up just flipping them while she continued to writhe. He thought it was reluctance to put too much space between their groins, but, on his back and tossing a curl of hair off his forehead, he was staggered when MJ progressed to torturously drawn-out rises and falls of her hips. Obviously unembarrassed to be suddenly astride a near-stranger, she’d pressed her palms to his chest for leverage as she eased herself up and down.

“Not a slow dance,” he groaned, hips bucking pleadingly each time she withdrew. But it felt deliriously good and Peter smoothed his hands somewhat possessively up her thighs.

“What,” she panted, tugging the pooling skirt of her dress out of the way as she rode him, “do you have to give a speech or something?”

Peter laughed, just once―it was all he could spare the oxygen for, huffing to thrust up into her.

“I do, actually. But Betty scheduled everything to the minute. The speeches don’t start until nine.”

“Lots of time,” MJ decided, jerking forward and back on his lap, so incredibly tight around him after months of his fingers and palm.

“Mmm,” Peter agreed. He slid his hands a little higher and started trying to intertwine their fingers.

She shook him off, returning her hands to his chest, and glanced briefly down and away.

“Not that we’re going to take long.”

“No.”

What could he do but agree? He exhaled, chest falling beneath her hands, wanting to tumble MJ down on top of him. She gave him a look and he thought it might’ve been because he wasn’t totally convincing (spending the night with her would be nice!) and he held her gaze until her eyes appeared panicked. Too intense, he told himself. Then Peter elbowed her wrists aside to collapse her onto his body, rolling them to land on top of her again.

“You’ve got good form,” he joked, slamming his hips forward so he struck deep, making her mouth open in a silent scream, “but you just take too goddamn long.”

“Show me how it’s done then, Best Man,” MJ shot back when she could get the words out.

With an eager grin, Peter pounded into her like he’d warned her he would. She didn’t try to trade places, or even voice a request to do so, too busy sucking in air each time he drove forward. Keeping himself on his elbows, he groped her breasts. Pinching her nipples made MJ speak his name in a high whine―“Peter”― that exhilarated him into a faster pace with his hips. He slid easily in and out of her slick channel, beginning to tremble with the feeling.

Meeting his wild thrusts, MJ reached up again, planting her palm against the headboard. Peter had to move one hand off her chest just to stroke down the underside of her arm. Her mouth quirked up in an unfamiliar expression; he realized what he’d done tickled her. To distract himself from wanting things he couldn’t, shouldn’t, have, Peter dropped his mouth to the center of her chest. He kissed her sternum before tracing his tongue over to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She let out a small scream and clenched fleetingly around his dick.

“Can you get off like this?” he mumbled, barely lifting his mouth from her, hips hastening.

MJ just nodded rapidly and closed her eyes. Maybe Peter watched her expression a second too long, because the question of whether she was imagining that he was Brad right now entered his mind. He still moved his hips, but he was numb until her free hand suddenly gripped his hair (fair, for her to wreck his carefully gelled down hair after his actions had made a mess of her braid). He almost laughed in relief and lowered his head to bite her nipple. He’d only seen the jerk for a few seconds, but Peter remembered Brad’s straight hair, shorter than his own. MJ could only be thinking of him, Peter, as her fingers loosened the curls he’d flattened with product to look more… what? Sophisticated or something, for the bridal party.

For these seconds, as her back arched, trapping his hand between them (not that he minded in the slightest), and MJ called out Peter’s name, she’d forgotten. Like he’d promised her. Fulfilling that promise was so monumental in his mind as his thrusts turned sloppy and he lost himself in her, that he nearly repeated the thought aloud. Luckily, he managed to turn it into a gravelly grunt, delivering forceful final thrusts that shook her beneath him; MJ’s arm had gone limp in her bliss, no longer bracing her against the headboard. Those arms folded around the back of his neck as he slowed to a stop and let himself―just for a minute―rest on top of her.

“My hair is totally fucked,” she murmured against his forehead.

Peter laughed weakly and kissed MJ’s neck, then, with a crease between his eyebrows, drew himself out of her.

“Not to mention my dress,” she sighed as he stumbled a bit on jellified legs into the bathroom to toss the condom.

He fumbled with hitching his boxers and dress pants up and swung the door partly shut for a minute to splash cool water on his face before confronting his expression. Dazed. But would the guests―would Ned and Betty―suspect sex dazed? His gaze shifted up to his hair. Oh right. Yeah, that was probably a giveaway. Peter gave fixing his hair a half-hearted attempt, then left the bathroom, stretching his arms back and his chest forward.

MJ’s gaze was waiting for him. Probably not waiting for the proudly (if accidentally) displayed flex of his stomach and arms, but it seemed like it went over well; her mouth fell open. It had to be retaliation when she raised her hips from the mattress and pushed her bunched up dress down her legs to lie there totally nude. Then, she sat up, stood, and strode past him into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a I know exactly what I’m doing to you smirk. She shut the door and Peter had to mentally get a hold of himself so he wouldn’t walk straight into it like a lovesick idiot and break his nose.

He found his shirt on the floor, looking like a used tissue―it was riddled with an impossible number of creases. Peter sighed and went to the hall closet where hotels always tucked the iron and ironing board. The wrinkles came out easily and he hung it on the back of the chair at the neat, untouched desk, pacing unhurriedly as he waited for MJ to emerge from the bathroom. She was probably trying to salvage her braid. No point in throwing his shirt on until they were ready to go. Assuming she’d want to head back at the same time. Shit, he was overthinking this again.

Peter caught sight of MJ’s crumpled ball of an outfit as he turned and figured he might as well iron her dress while he had the stuff out. His gaze also fell on her lacy black underwear, which he did not approach, for fear of sneaking them into his pants pocket (she’d know―one look and she’d know). He assessed the fabric, letting it slip sweetly between his fingers, then laid it across the ironing board and draped a clean towel (also in the hall closet) on top to protect it from the iron.

Exiting the bathroom as casually as she’d entered it, MJ went first to the bed; she collected and stepped into her underwear. Which was not really dressed enough for Peter’s dick not to care. His jaw tensed. The moment she spun towards him, the situation (his situation) was diffused. She laughed.

“You’re ironing?”

Peter shrugged, continuing to smooth the iron across the towel.

“You were right about your dress. It was pretty fucked and I wanted you to feel good walking back in there.”

She appeared taken aback, but maybe in a good way, a surprised way, dropping her eyes to the floor and smiling to herself. When she glanced up again, she was trying to conceal the softened expression, rubbing a thumb over her eyebrow. Her hair looked good, he noticed. Not as tidy as it had been, but the escaped strands that waved around her face… they looked… well, then looked… Peter swallowed and quit staring.

“I steamed the dress at home and changed into it here,” she offered, crossing her arms over her naked chest. With her wide stance, she looked way more at ease than he felt. “The material’s kind of delicate, so you have to be caref―”

“I’m being careful,” Peter assured her. “My aunt taught me to iron, like, a decade ago.”

“Oh.”

“You’re surprised,” he noted with a grin.

He watched her back up and sit on the end of the bed.

“I’ve never had a man iron my clothes.” She snorted. “I would’ve been so shocked if Brad had ever…” MJ’s expression fell and her eyes flicked to his. “Is it ok if I say his name?”

Peter gave an awkward shrug and shifted the dress to iron the last foot or so. Too awkward. She sighed heavily.

“Peter, we should talk.”

“Hey,” he interrupted in a cheerful tone, “I’m just the Best Man and you’re a friend of the bride.”

“It’s too soon.” MJ laughed humourlessly. “It’s way too soon. Neither of us needs… this.”

Which instantly made him feel like he needed this. Because he’d forgotten everything with one glimpse of the woman in the dress like melted copper.

“I think this is just about done,” Peter said, shamelessly trying to divert her from speaking any harsher truths by drawing attention back to the dress. He set the iron aside, unplugged it, whisked away the towel. Everything was fine.

“I don’t mean this to be condescending,” she said, gently and absolutely not distracted, “but you might not know what it’s like to end a serious relationship. I don’t regret what you and I just did, but I know that, after ending things with Brad, having time to be by myself is vital, Peter. I don’t want you to feel―”

“I was engaged.”

The room was quiet, apart from the faint hiss of the cooling iron.

“Yeah,” Peter confirmed, though she hadn’t said anything. “I was engaged to my last serious girlfriend. Maybe you know Liz Allan?” He met her eye and MJ didn’t say anything. “She’s friends with Betty too. Obviously RSVPed ‘no’ to this particular occasion. It’s been more than a year since we were together, but… There were a lot of reasons.”

“For me and Brad too.” She sighed and he felt like it had come from his own lungs, releasing some tension. “Though it always feels like just one in the moment you break up.”

He nodded and glanced at the dress, then at her. MJ stood and walked over to him. Peter held her dress out to her, zipping it up along her side with intimate care as she got the straps to lie where she wanted them.

“You did an incredible job,” she said, inspecting the length of fabric once again draping her body. “Thank you.” The strength of his desire to tell her she deserved to be taken care of ached in his chest. “Come here,” MJ insisted. Peter was powerless.

With a wry smile, she lifted her hands to his hair, combing the sides between her fingers and pushing the front off his forehead.

“That’s better.”

He chuckled.

“Well, it couldn’t get any worse.”

They went back to the reception together, MJ holding the door open for him with an, “After you, Best Man.” She looked absolutely stunning and, if there were any Leeds cousins around, Peter didn’t notice them.

The two of them danced once or twice, then more when the less committed wedding guests headed to bed. Somehow, Peter and MJ weren’t among them and, with fewer partners in the room and on the floor, it was easy to drift together over and over. Eventually, they just stayed that way, exchanging calm smiles with Betty and Ned until the happy couple left too.

“I didn’t mean never,” MJ whispered when it was just them in the empty banquet hall.

The DJ was off the clock and they’d switched over to music from their combined playlists. Heart thudding, Peter held her closer.

“I know. I can wait.” After a minute, he added, “I’m pretty sure you’re what I was waiting for anyway.”

MJ leaned her head into his as he swayed them.

“You wanna go back to my room? We might as well sleep together in the less exciting sense and I’ll count today as one big exception.”

Peter grinned, leaning into her in turn and settling in for a little while longer.

“Come on, MJ. Give me one more slow dance.”

[hardyimagines]

Lonely Winter

——————

Hi,I ♡ your fics!Amazing writing,really made me feel stuff!😘I'd like to make a John Fitzgerald request if it's okay.{Reader's dad is teaching her how to hunt and survive cause he's sick,and she'll soon be alone but an accident happens and he dies. Alone in the woods the group finds her, almost frozen. John insists they can't let her die cause he secretly thinks she's beautiful. Humor(cause she's basically useless&clumsy and john babysits) &romance on the road? U can choose the ending}10q!!♡♡♡♡♡ — @asukascoffeeramblings

Part 2

——————

“I got it.” The whispered words of assurance were inaudible against the harsh winds that whipped through the trees. Branches shook angrily because of the blows, snow falling from the boughs to crash against the ground beside your worn and tattered boots. The laces were undone, an accident waiting to happen, but it didn’t bother you because you were sat down on a jagged rock, hands curled around a long rod used for fishing. The line was casted far out into the ice cold water, tip of it submerged beneath the crashing waves. The river ran wild, racing downstream — or was it upstream. The shaped brows on your forehead drew together to form a perfect line. Confusion made you wrinkle your nose as you inwardly scanned your thoughts for the correct term, but you didn’t have much time before your father’s voice cut into your thoughts.

“No, peach.” He reached around you. His knuckles were bloody and bruised, a recent injury he’d endured after fighting off half a group of French. You’d been tucked away beneath a snow-blanketed rock, seeking the warmth and comfort it offered while your father fought off the enemies. “Like this,” He pulled you from your scattered brain once more. He adjusted the angle of your wrist, therefore allowing the line to sink further and further into the water. It fell deep, down into the river until the bait on the end brushed the ground. Fish swam by the bait, most of them uninterested, but for the one unlucky fished that dared take a nibble, it jerked your line and caused you to stand.

“Hey!” You gleefully exclaimed. The light in your eyes was as bright as the white snow. Overpowering. Obvious. You curled your hands around the wood in your hands even tighter than before and tugged on it desperately. “Dad, I got one!” The words that left your lips were excited, but your actions as you tried to drag the creature from the stream we’re anxious and rough.

“Steady, steady, you don’t want to break the line.” He laid his hand on your forearm to cease your desperate attempts at removing the fish from the water. “Slow, pull him out.” His voice calmed you just enough to where you could get the fish above the surface and out of the rushing stream, on to the icy snow. The fish flopped and bounced, hopelessly trying to return to the water. You stared down at him with a sad expression, eyeing the hook that pierced the side of his mouth. Your father turned away to retrieve the necessary tools so the pair of you could skin the poor bastard and then eat him for dinner. But the second your dad turned, you set your boot on the fish — a featherlight touch — and swiftly unhooked the sharp end of the bait from his mouth. Lifting the fish, you hunched over and let him go back into the water before letting out a very believable faux gasp.

“Dad! He’s gone- he.. he jumped back in the water!” Your crouched position and grip on the fishing rod were a bit fishy, but your father didn’t question it. His stomach growled out lowly at the loss and yours followed suit, but you couldn’t help it. The big artery in your chest ached every time you even thought about killing an innocent creature. “That’s okay.. we’ll find something else to eat.” You buried your hand into the pocket on your backpack and drew put some nuts and berries. This was all you’d been eating for the last few days - the two of you needed something else, but everything he caught, or you managed to, you’d let go without him seeing. He figured you were the sole reason of all these animals escaping, but he didn’t say anything. Not until now.

“Y/N. You can’t keep letting all of them go. We have to survive too and this is the only way to do it. Fish, fox, bear, horse, deer, whatever it takes, you can’t keep setting them free.” A guilty look was plastered on your face at being confronted, making your father pull his lips in. You had too big of a heart. “I know you feel bad, angel, nobody enjoys killing them, but we need them to survive.. and you keep letting them go. I don’t know how you’ll survive out here on your own.” The man let out a heavy sigh before moving toward the logs he’d set up a few hours ago. It was time to start a fire — this was where the pair of you would sleep tonight. “Tomorrow..” He was quiet for a few seconds. “You have to learn to hunt.”

—

Nothing moved. Not even your chest when you breathed. Everything was still. No breeze, no birds, no crunching from branches or noises in the distance. It was completely silent as your alert eyes followed the deer who made her way through the trees. Your father was laid down at your side, stomach pressed against the cold ground as he aimed his weapon at the creature. She was looking for food, it was evident when she dug her nose into the snow to hunt for something to feed her young. You hadn’t seen the fawn trailing along behind his mother.. because he was too far back. But maybe that was best, for he would spot the things she didn’t. But as your father adjusted the gun in his hand and prepped to pull the trigger, your hand shot forward and ceased the gun from him.

“Dad, don’t.. She has a baby with her.” You whispered. Your father cocked a brow. He couldn’t believe how willing you were to sacrifice your hunger for a creature that could keep you fed for at least a week.

“They won’t survive much longer. We might as well make use of them.” He adjusted his grip, making it clear that he didn’t think he should listen to your pleas. But you didn’t slacken your grip on the gun.

“Don’t. This is cruel.. we can find a rabbit or something, I don’t want to kill a mother and her baby.” The snow crunched noisily beneath your boots and when it did, the fawn raced to his mother and she waited on him before they darted away simultaneously. A little smile of achievement passed over your lips before you released the gun and laid your cold hands on your icy cheeks. “Let’s go.” You whispered before twisting on your heel and setting off into the woods.

Hunting was easy. Find prey. Kill prey. Cook prey. But you were so unwilling to do it. Your father withdrew the rag from his pocket and coughed harshly into the cloth. Blood coated the material from the soft ejection and when he tucked it back away in his pouch to hide how serious his illness was getting, he then hurried after you. You’d never make it on your own, and that scared the man more than any other threat in the forest.

The pair of you made your way back toward the woods to settle down by the logs that would soon be a fire. You heavily dropped down in the snow, eyes sliding to the dying sun in the distance. You could make a fire.. not a good one. You could gather belongings, but you tended to leave one or two behind. This just wasn’t the lifestyle for you and no matter how many times you tried to do better, you just always ended up failing. You wanted to go home, but it didn’t exist anymore. The surrounding trees were the new walls and the leaves above were the roof over your head. This life was tiring and you weren’t cut out for it. Glancing toward your father as he dragged a few more logs toward the center, you frowned. If only it were you that was deathly ill then there would be no problem. The hunched over man, who was wheezing for breaths of much needed air, was doing his best to teach you all he knew, but you couldn’t do those things. Fight off half an army of French men? Catch a bear so much larger than you? He could climb trees like a monkey to retrieve a rare berry, a good looking twig, and on occasion a sleeping animal. But you, you were nothing like your father, he had all these instincts, all this wisdom, you.. you didn’t have any of it.

The glow in the middle illuminated your face as you sat just inches away. “You’re too close.” The man’s deep voice alerted as you slouched. The thick warning made you distance, but not without sighing. Being treated like a child when you were well over the age of adulthood made you want to roll your eyes, but because your father was only doing his best to look out for you.. you didn’t fight him over little things. The snow was soaking your pants, a mistake on your part because you should’ve sat on a pelt, so you were freezing, but complaining to your father only meant that he would realize, even more so, that you would not survive.

The night grew quiet, no sounds apart from the soft crackling of the fire burning the wood. You took your place against a leaning tree, slumping against the wood sleepily. It wasn’t the warmest place to lay, but sometimes comfort came before warmth.. and other times it was vice versa. The soft sound of your father’s snores could be heard faintly, most of them being carried away with the breeze. You shuffled against the tree, exhaling audibly as you found the perfect spot. Deeper and deeper, you sunk further into oblivion and once you were completely out, your father woke. His green eyes fluttered open to examine you, to ensure you were asleep. Fake snoring and sleeping wasn’t difficult to do, so the second he heard your moving about stop, he sat up. This part of the woods was completely untouched. Nobody ventured this far out to the left because it didn’t lead to anywhere. He stood on shaky legs, worn from the day’s work, and snatched his bag. He needed to find something to eat, a large animal that he could bring back to you. He needed to get water, to have a bath, to do all the things he should’ve been doing instead of worrying about if you could light a fire or catch a fish. He lifted the heavy bag on to his shoulder and set off through the dark trees toward the stream. He’d be back in an hour.

An hour came and went. Night did the same. The sun in the distance warmed you in the slightest since the dead fire no longer did its job. You let out a quiet whimper, a noise of discomfort because you’d slept in your soaked trousers all night. The icy chill that clung to your rear and thighs made your teeth chatter. Shivering visibly as you spoke, you pressed your hands together harshly, both numb and useless. “Dad?” You called out absentmindedly, expecting him to be just within a few feet out of sight. “My trousers are soaked, I can’t feel a thing!” Your voice grew a little louder in hopes of getting a response. When the only thing you received was silence, you slowly lifted yourself up and on to your knees so you could look around. White continued to blanket everything. Trees, rocks, the ground, the leaves, but your father was nowhere to be seen. Lifting your hand to the sturdy branch that extended from the tree, you pinched the limb and hauled yourself up. “Dad?” You tried again. The silence filled you with a wave of worry. Standing completely now, you moved cautiously around the dead fire, eyes alert and scanning the perimeter to ensure that nobody had ambushed your father. It was silent. It was still. You lifted your bag and withdrew your knife, clutching the blade securely as you made your way through the trees and toward the river. You came to a stop at the top of the hill, not daring to venture further and not needing to. At the bottom of the cliff, in the snow beside the stream, your father’s bag sat, along with sprinkles of visible blood. Blood meant one thing. It didn’t hit you that he was gone until your knees buckled and you collapsed in the snow. All of his things were still here, but he wasnt. There was no signs of a struggle, no angry footsteps in the smooth snow. Just his, two set beside the water, and then nothing.

You cried for what felt like forever, muffled sobs as you mourned the loss of your dad. You knew he wouldn’t have lasted much longer, but you wished he could’ve had at least one more day. You wanted to spend the majority of said day loving on him, talking to him — not hunting or fishing or learning. But it was too late for that because now he was gone.

Mustering up all the strength in your weak, trembling body, you slid down the cliff and toward his bag. Pinching the strap loosely, you lifted the thing with a sniffle. Thinking on what happened to your father would only bring more pain. What if’s. Guilt. ‘What if you could’ve prevented his death?’ ‘What if you’d been with him?’ Shaking your head roughly, you grabbed a strong branch and began to drag yourself back up the mountain. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you made your way back toward setup where you’d wait for the inevitable. You’d starve before you hunted.

—

1 week later.

“No good sons of bitches. Was a waste of my fucking time to come out here with you.” The man’s deep voice was almost muffled because of how quickly he spoke. He trudged forward in the snow, two loads of pelts held on his shoulders as he barged through the trees and in the direction he’d been directed. Fools. There was nothing this far out, but arguing would only bring on fights and fights led to deaths and they really didn’t need anymore of those. “See, Captain, what exactly were it that you was looking for way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere?” He continued to speak, no care in the world in that moment for being heard because he was set on the fact that the group was alone.

Glass rolled his eyes visibly before setting his hand on the base of Hawk’s, his son, neck. Pushing forward with no comment to Fitzgerald’s ramblings, they passed him with no care for his continued grumbles of disapproval. Adjusting the hood on his head, Glass did the same to Hawk before they came to an eventual halt. “Logs.” Glass ushered toward the mess. “Loads of em, but they’re not burned.” He narrowed his eyes toward the wood before taking in the surroundings. A bag, some tools, wet pelts, spilt berries, and finally, his eyes widened at the last thing he found. A girl.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Fitzgerald stepped forward and around the two. He let the pelts on his shoulders go, careless when they collapsed loudly in the snow. “It’s a girl.” He alerted the crew before approaching your form. You were stiffly laid on your side, strands of hair draped across your features as you slumped helplessly in the ice. It was evident you hadn’t been able to get the fire going. Your lips were blue, your eyes were closed. There was no way in hell you were alive. Fitzgerald pressed his finger against the side of your neck to search for a pulse and was stunned to find a faint beating. Henry and Anderson were already hunched over the logs, warming them as quickly as physically possible so they could get a fire going. Even if you were dead, at least the lot of them could sit down and enjoy the warmth. “She’s alive.” Fitzgerald spoke up breathily. It was the softest tone any of them had ever heard him use. As easily as he had carried the pelts, he lifted you into his arms and moved over to the wood. Glass watched with a tint of envy. He’d spotted you first — he should’ve been the one to care for you, but he figured Fitzgerald really had nothing better to do, so he let it go.

“How the hell is she alive?” Anderson spoke up before handing Fitzgerald a cloth to wipe the ice from your skin.

The man who held you shook his head in response — you should’ve been dead — before he slowly setting you back down in the snow. “Her clothing’s soaked.” He looked toward Henry. The pair of them exchanged a knowing look before he hauled off his jacket and draped it over your body.

“Alright men, clear out! Find some food. More logs!” He clasped his hands together loudly, ensuring that the men obeyed and once they had, Fitzgerald got to work. Slipping his hands beneath the coat, he pried at your wet clothing. He couldn’t see any part of you and he figured it was the most respectful he could be whilst trying to do you a favor and save your life. He tugged harshly at your trousers, fingertips already going numb from how cold your clothing was. He eventually managed to get the cloth to your knees, but this poisition was difficult and the wet fabric was clinging to your body. He heaved a loud sigh before slowly kneeling up. Moving his jacket out of the way, he moved faster. Peeling the slacks from your body, he chucked them to lay by the fire so Anderson could dry them. His hands moved up then to your shirt. Dragging the material up and off of your body, he was quick to lug the jacket back over your form and wrap you in the thick cloth.

“I don’t see no animal bones.” Anderson uttered. “No ash or burns. She’s been freezing and starving.” He pointed out before looking toward the man who lingered at your side. Fitzgerald nodded his head, eyes glued to the way the fire danced over your face.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we’ll keep her with us.” Fitzgerald told Henry. The man furrowed his brows. It didn’t make much sense to bring you along because it was just extra weight to carry, an extra mouth to feed. Henry frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He thought maybe they’d just nurse you back to consciousness and then be on their way, but he could tell as Fitzgerald loomed over you, that you’d be his responsibility.

—

It was louder than you were use to. Voices overlapped, hushed whispers, but still audible and too loud for your liking. It made you think an army of men was near, but you convinced yourself otherwise. It was just a bad dream. A lingering one. You were slumped against a mountain of pelts, Fitzgerald’s jacket still wrapped snugly around you. Your cheek was pressed against the fur, legs curled inward as you sleepily shifted. Fitzgerald was the first to fall silent and look toward you, laid out directly beside him. Glass and Hawk were now gawking and Anderson, Henry, and Bridger had stood. You sucked in a deep breath of air before slowly opening your eyes. He was the first one you saw. Fitzgerald. Breathtaking to look at. Piercing blue eyes. Full pink lips. Thick facial hair. You sat up in shock, a poor action on your part for the jacket on your body slid south and almost revealed your nude form to the surrounding men. The man at your side was quick to grab the coat and lift it back up and around your shoulders.

“Easy, girl. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” He assured you. His touch was tender and his words were believable. You swallowed thickly before looking toward the fire. It was then that you saw the rest of the men, all gazing at you with curiosity evident in their orbs. You bit your bottom lip before slowly cowering away inside the jacket.

“Where.. are my clothes?” The question was almost inaudible so only John heard it. He sunk his hands into the bag at his side and pulled them out. He’d assumed you’d thrash, cry, and beg for mercy.. it just seemed like a typical response to waking up to foreign men. But you were calm, collected, doing very good at masking the sure fear in your belly.

“Dried.” He handed them over to you before standing. “Come.” You looked up at him, a tower above you as you stayed seated. He seemed like he was the one you were meant to listen to and because 1, you, vs 10, the surrounding men, didn’t sound like very good odds, you obeyed. Standing, you clutched on to his jacket, dragging it around you tightly. All you were clad in apart from that were your boots which hadn’t grown to be all that wet. Following him as he led you into the darker part of the setup, he stood so his broad body blocked your own from the men behind him. “Get dressed. I’ll hold the coat.” He waited for you to hand him the material, fingers outstretched. You were left to assume this coat was his because all he had on was a green v neck and a thin jacket on top of that. Peering up at him, you bit your bottom lip before slowly doing as he said. Handing him the jacket, you hurriedly tugged on your blouse. He opened the fabric of his coat up and lifted it above his eye-line. Hiding you behind the thick cloth, from his eyes along with everyone else’s, he listened to your constant shuffling as you struggled to get dressed quick.

Anderson looked toward Henry, both of them silently wondering why the bloke with the coat was so eager to assist you, but they figured it was because he hadn’t seen a woman in six months. None of them had. Fitzgerald stood patiently, shoulder pressing against a nearby tree. “I’m finished.” Your quiet voice alerted him. He nodded his head before lowering the jacket.

“Wear this. Your body temperature isn’t quite where it should be so you’ll need all the warmth you can get.” He held the coat open still and waited for you to stick your arms into the sleeves. Closing it around your body, he fastened the middle button before stepping to the side so you could retake your seat. He followed you to the space before sitting himself back down. You bit your bottom lip before focusing intently on the fire. Nobody knew what to say. It was very rare to come across a survivor that wasn’t a threat. And a female survivor at that. All the men stared at you, like you were treasure, something to be kept safe and unharmed. But the man at your side stared at you with something much more defensive. You weren’t quite sure who they were and what their intentions were, but you’d been nude beneath a coat, unbothered by any of the gents, and also nursed back to consciousness so you figured they couldn’t be too bad. Nobody said anything, they all just stared. Waited. Someone would eventually say something, but for now, the only thing that spoke was the fire in the center, continuing to crackle and burn in order to warm the surrounding survivors.

———————————————————————

Part 2

Tagged: @peakblogbecauseimweak @bsotstory @mollybegger-blog @morphoportis @ghost-of-student-sufferings @drippydownes2002 @ellar21 @sovereigngoth @willowick13 @xxxxxeroxxxxx @wheresthewater @anrm1 @pansexualginger @marvelgirl7 @evilspretty-dead @heyitscam99 @wow-he-cute @haroldpain @justrepostandlove @sparklyreaderx @emerald-bijou @multireality @innerpaperexpertcloud @goodiesintheclosetlove @giftofdreams @ihclipse @meer0rauschen @inkedfandom @thatsamegirl @doct0rstrange @jakechillenhaal @shanty-lol @centerhabit @clevertheoristpainter @jamierdr @favouritereadings @badmaax @thephuonganh @wewillfindourwaythere @uhhhemilyrose @scarrasco1325 @matoki-darkpanda @bignastyfan-nz @97freaknik

[sweetestgrethan]

First and Last

Ask: I’m always trash for first kisses. Like realizing they have feelings more intense then normal. Like maybe Ethan just got dumped and Gray is trying to comfort him?

————

Solitude can be good. Inherently. Escaping from the noise of responsibilities, of appearances and personalities, was good. It was good to step back from all of it, at least for a little.

Not right now, though. Not for Ethan.

Life had been going, well, shitty, for lack of a better term. It was one thing after the other, one shitty realization after the other. Maybe ‘shitty’ was a strong word. ‘Unpleasant’ maybe worked better. ‘Uncomfortable’. ‘Unbelievable’.

Ethan supposed it was his fault for letting this happen. He should’ve called more often and he should’ve made a greater effort to be a better partner. He should’ve done a lot of things a lot differently, he was the first to admit that. Did he think it would end with him being dumped? No. Did he think he would handle it better than he was? Absolutely.

Ethan wondered if he was always destined to fail in his relationships. Maybe this was all for a reason? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have a person, or a love of his life? Maybe God truly thought he was that undeserving. Maybe him being alone and letting his thoughts circle around and around themselves wasn’t so good.

It was quickly remedied when Grayson sat next to him on his bed. Ethan still sat, hunched over with his face in his hands. He’d briefly announced his new relationship status to Grayson when he came home earlier, but had rushed to his room before he could explain. He didn’t really want to, anyway. It was too much to even sit here and think about, there was no way he could put all of it into eloquent words. Ethan doesn’t want to talk it out. He would rather die, he decides, than have to explain to Grayson what a horrible boyfriend he is. Dying actually sounds pretty nice compared to what’s happening now, the tense silence between seeming to grow bigger and louder the longer they endured it.

Grayson is the first to do something, one of his hands reaching to rest warmly between Ethan’s shoulder blades. Ethan doesn’t want to admit it, but it helps immensely. It’s wordless and barely anything, but it’s like Grayson said a thousand words. I’m here, you’re okay, it’ll be okay, you’re not as horrible as you think, just breathe. Ethan does, lets out a long sigh and lifts his head finally, looking straight ahead.

Ethan feels a disconnect, because he knows Grayson doesn’t quite understand what he’s feeling, but he tries anyway. That’s what Ethan loves so much about his brother, how willing he was to open himself up to him, for whatever it may be.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Grayson starts first and gently rubs at Ethan’s back with his thumb.

The gesture makes Ethan’s skin burn pleasantly in the shape of a hand.

“You don’t have to explain anything, either. I know you want to.” Grayson is almost cooing at him, it makes Ethan nervous. He doesn’t really understand why. “What do you need?”

The question catches Ethan off-guard. He doesn’t feel like he deserves the kindness Grayson so willingly gives up to him. He finally turns his head to look at Grayson, searching his face for any kind of judgement. Nothing. It was almost terrifying, how difficult it was to read him right now. “To not be alone.” He says simply. It comes out weaker than he wants it to.

Grayson nods. He’s so good with this kind of stuff, Ethan is jealous of his strength and wisdom on all these things, even though Grayson hadn’t necessarily gone through them. “You want a hug?” Grayson cracks a small smile, like he already knows the answer.

Ethan wishes he could be stubborn and resist, but he nods and watches as Grayson snakes his arms around his shoulders and squeezes him tight, interlocking his fingers together to keep Ethan in place. Grayson rests his chin on Ethan’s shoulder and lets out a sigh of his own. His touch is much needed, at least on Ethan’s part. Especially after feeling like he was completely unloveable. It calms the jitters of loneliness.

It’s quiet again for a long time. Ethan thinks maybe they could stay like this forever, but his mouth stays four steps ahead of his brain. “I’m terrible, Gray.” Ethan croaks out. “I deserve this.” Ethan says hopelessly. Grayson doesn’t believe it at all, always a sucker for second chances. “I deserve to be alone. I don’t know how to treat people right.” He rambled a bit, letting his head hang and rest in his hand again.

Grayson’s brows are furrowed in thought as he listens to Ethan. It hurts, having Ethan believe such bad things about himself. He wishes he knew how to prove to his brother that he’s not those things at all. “E, you’re in your head right now, and you don’t realize how ridiculous you sound.” Grayson’s voice is gentle, and understanding, still mindful of the state Ethan was in while delivering the truth. “And how untrue all those things are.”

Ethan winces as Grayson tries to convince him otherwise, lifts his head again and leans it against Grayson’s, his cheek pressed against his twin’s forehead. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should. Why do you think I’ve stuck around for so long?” Grayson whispers. Ethan can hear the smile in his voice and it makes something ignite inside of him.

Grayson pulls away a little and the arm crossed over Ethan’s chest slides back until his hand finds its new location, resting over his heart. It shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, Ethan thinks fleetingly. “If that was true, then why would you have been born with a twin, huh? You don’t see that you’re the opposite of all those things? To me?” He murmurs and the hand on Ethan’s chest moves up to his neck, his thumb stroking his jawline tenderly.

Ethan is taken aback by Grayson’s unexpected insight. Ethan thinks he’s starting to understand why he’s so bad at this whole boyfriend thing. He focuses on how Grayson’s hand feels so big on him, swallows thickly and knows Grayson can feel his adam’s apple bob nervously. Grayson had a point. Ethan did treat him with a special kindness and love he reserved especially for him. It’s not like he did it on purpose. It was.. innate. Maybe that’s why it had taken him so long to put it in its own league. Because, it was normal.

Grayson’s smile seems to widen. There’s something in his gaze that Ethan can hardly process. What is it? His brain racks itself over and over for some reasonable explanation for it, only to come up again and again with a blank. Holy fuck. “You are... absolutely the opposite. I don’t think you realize how good you treat me.” Grayson speaks so languidly. Like this is rehearsed, or something. “I don’t think you deserve loneliness. I think you deserve the world. The stars and the moon, too. You deserve-“ Grayson cuts himself off and Ethan is utterly terrified.

Oh, God. No, no, no. No.

“You deserve more than I can give you.” At that, Grayson looks kind of sad, but that smile, that pretty, flawless, concrete smile, doesn’t change.

What can Ethan say? What can he do?

“I can try though, can’t I?”

It clicks.

Solitude can be good. Why would Ethan prefer it, though? Why would he ever prefer anything other than the feeling of Grayson’s lips against his own, fitting against Ethan’s like they were made for it?

Ethan’s eyes are closed, but he can feel as both of Grayson’s hands cup either side of his face. Grayson pulls away too fuckin’ soon. Ethan shows a sense of urgency when he wraps his fist around one of his brother’s wrists and Grayson responds by pressing his forehead against Ethan’s and smiling, again.

Why does it feel normal? Why does their intimacy, taken past boundaries they could never again redraw, feel like it makes sense?

“How long?” Ethan finally lets out meekly.

“Forever.”

It’s not what Ethan expects, but it’s what he needed. Suddenly, he’s instigating the affection, kissing Grayson hard and forcing the younger twin to open himself up to him. This time, in a way Ethan never knew he would crave. Ethan doesn’t pull away immediately, no, he licks into his mouth and is pulled even closer as Grayson’s arms loop around his neck.

Oh my God, Ethan thinks. How did I not see it?

“Do I have say it?” Grayson breathes after he pulls away, smiling like the absolute idiot he was.

“Yeah.” Ethan smiles slowly and it feels like the whole world fades away around them. “I want to remember what it sounds like, coming from you.”

Grayson kisses Ethan lightly before speaking again.

“I love you.”

————

[pendergays]

Fool (1/???) (Kamilah x MC x Priya)

A/N: Hi. I’m back with a new fic. I wrote it in about 2 hours without proofreading so apologies for any typos.

Rating: PG-13 for now.

Contains: major angst, heartbreak, love triangles, strong language and implications of sexual situations.

MC’s name is Amelia as always.

Btw, if you want to be tagged in anything just send me a DM. It might be more convenient since my masterlist is acting up.

--------

AMELIA

You’re back in Priya’s club, and you hate it. The pounding music is much too loud, deafening, dizzying. In your chest, your rib cage seems too small for your heart, squeezing it hard like a vice. The patrons around you are laughing, sharp smiles playing on their shadowed faces, and you can’t help but imagine that they’re mocking you. Stupid girl. Falling for someone like that. Didn’t you know what was going to happen? Priya’s infamous for not staying loyal to any of her partners. Only an idiot would think that she was the exception.

The most painful thing is, you used to love this studio. The bass used to elicit a pleasant thrumming in your veins as adrenaline pumped through you, and you basked in the darkness between the neon lights as her touch brought you to cloud nine. You would anxiously count the seconds until you could bolt from Raines HQ and get to her, sacrificing your time and your work-life for just a sliver of that alluring smile. You were an addict. And you still are.

That’s why even though you’re trying to avoid her as much as possible, a stubborn part of you wants to run into her arms and succumb to achingly familiar habit. Apparently, the shards of your broken heart haven’t gotten the memo that she’s bad for you. That she’s the reason why you’ve been crying into your pillow and listening to depressing songs for the past week. And despite the fact that you’ve scrubbed yourself raw, you can still feel the ghostly whispers of red lips pressed to your skin. The bitter truth is, her kisses have left scars. But you will never mark her in the same way. She will never care the way you do, never hurt the way you do. And in time, she will forget about you, like it never happened.

Your nails cut into your skin as your knuckles turn white. You’re shaking, and it hurts, but you need it to hurt. She’s been puppeteering your emotions since the night you met, and even though she’s nowhere near you, you still bleed inside at the mere thought of her. If nothing else, you need control over who hurts you.

“Can I have a drink, please,” you ask the bartender, voice hoarse. “The strongest stuff you have.” He glances at you, at your smudged eyeliner and disheveled dress, and seems concerned. The last couple times you’ve been here, you were dazzling, draped in gold and silk and furs. Now, you’re much less dressed up, wearing the fanciest clothes you have that aren’t… hers. Your eyes unfocus briefly as unwanted nostalgia assaults you, but you wipe any hint of tears away roughly before you have a chance to fall into the gaping chasm of memories that is Before. Shooting the bartender an expectant look, he eventually relents and goes about mixing up a cocktail. When he slides it in front of you, there’s pity in his gaze.

Fuck. Is it that obvious I’m broken? That something– someone–’s missing?

You bring the glass up to your lips, the liquid burning a trail of fire down your throat. Turning around on your stool, you look around for Kamilah or Adrian. Hopefully they’re done with the negotiations…

That was your mistake. The shot glass slips from your fingers, shattering at your feet in a spray of glass. Just a few feet away, there she is. Just as gorgeous as ever, a mischievous grin dancing on her ruby-painted lips. A perfectly coiffed, barbie-doll girl hangs from her arm adoringly. The carefree, untroubled look in her eyes is what breaks you, in the end. The absolute certainty that you didn’t mean anything to her.

You can’t breathe. Your chest constricts painfully, not allowing any air, and your heart feels like it’s going to burst. You rush in the opposite direction from her, stumbling through the faceless crowd to get to the bathroom. Everything about it is so her: the crimson tiles, the dark, elaborate accents, the golden faucet.

Don’t you fucking cry. Don’t you fucking dare. You chant the words like a mantra, fueled entirely by desperation.

You make it twenty seconds.

KAMILAH

The negotiations were absolutely, utterly, completely useless. You can’t say you’re surprised. Lester and the Baron are not ones for compromise. It was a miracle they agreed to the meeting at Priya’s club - an ostensibly neutral place - at all.

You walk out of the Red Room fuming. None of it shows on your face, of course, but you’d really like to punch something. There’s nothing more satisfying than layers of brick giving way underneath your fist, though you stopped indulging in mass destruction as a form of stress relief centuries ago. Humans don’t handle collateral damage, which is unfortunate but something you’ve long since accepted.

To distract yourself, you shift gears. Where’s the girl? How is she holding up? Not well, you assume. You have no idea how Adrian thought bringing her to her ex’s club was a good decision. Sometimes he can be so dense. In the corner of your eye, you spot someone jerkily storming through the crowd; under closer inspection, you realize it’s Amelia. After a moment of contemplation, you decide to follow her. Just to make sure she won’t have a nervous breakdown.

When you get to the bathroom, she’s having a nervous breakdown. Curled up on the ground, head cradled in her arms, obviously trying not to show that she’s crying but doing an awful job of it. Your first reaction is Fuck. I don’t get paid enough for this. But then you remember you’re a billionaire whose paycheck benefits quite extensively from capitalism.

Your second reaction is that you should get Adrian to deal with the mess that is his assistant. But then again, you don’t know how the girl will deal with being left alone. With dawning dread, you realize that you’re going to have to… comfort her yourself.

You drop into a crouch until you’re eye-level. Or you would be, if she was actually looking at you. “Hey. Amelia. What’s wrong?” It takes a couple more questions and two pokes until she lifts her head. You’re taken aback at the sheer misery on her face. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try not to, you forget how fragile humans can be– not just physically, but emotionally. But oddly enough, accompanied with the surprise, there’s a spark of anger. Lacroix, you foolish, hedonistic wretch. What have you done?

“What’s wrong?” you ask again, ignoring your own emotions in favor of hers. That’s when the floodgates open.

For the next half hour, she babbles away into the crook of your neck, soaking your $1600 Gucci jacket with tears. Most prominent in her sobbing are the words “I’m an idiot”. While a few weeks ago you’d be tempted to agree– what wisdom could a naive little mortal carry anyway?– for some reason, a deep chord of sympathy is struck within you. Thousands of years of memories come bubbling to the surface: friends you didn’t save but could’ve, had you not been so stupid. Lovers you should’ve protected but didn’t, because you were just so short-sighted and cocky and–

You sigh. “You’re not an idiot,” you say softly at last, wistfully. “Love makes fools of us all.”

--------

Don’t worry, Priya’s point of view will pop up next chapter. It’s very... complicated. If no one at PB will write her redemption arc I’ll do it myself

[builder051]

Morning after (a Captain America MCU sickfic)

This is basically ch. 2 of the one about Bucky getting drunk (This shadowless night).  Thank you to Royal Ermine on AO3 for chatting me up to this.

Steve wakes to an unfamiliar room streaked with morning light.  He shifts onto his hip and sits up, letting his legs slide through the empty sheets on the other side of the bed.  The events of last night come rushing back up to meet him, and Steve struggles into yesterday’s jeans before slipping down the hall.

As expected, Bucky’s in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet.  He’s mid dry heave when Steve steps through the doorway, muttering, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and spitting out mucous.

“Hey,” Steve whispers.  “Still not feeling good?”

“Yeah…”  Bucky gags hard, his body jerking forward around a tremendous empty belch that brings up nothing for the effort.  “S-sorry.”

Steve ignores the apology and squats at Bucky’s shoulder, running his hand down Bucky’s bare and sweat-damp back.  “How long you been up?”

“Don’t know.  Was still dark…”  Bucky swallows convulsively.  The clock is just now turning 7:30, so Steve credits him an hour.  Certainly no less than 45 minutes.  Which is still impossibly too long to spend doing…this.

“You should’ve woken me up,” Steve says.  “No one should have to do this alone.”

“Maybe I, uh, didn’t want you to see me,” Bucky groans, too deep in the toilet bowl to make eye contact.  “Pay for my sins…”

“What, you turning religious on me?” Steve asks with a smile to mask his pitying expression.

“Naw,” Bucky says, coughing.  He surfaces and turns his head to look at Steve.  His eyes and nose are streaming, sending drips of snot and saltwater down his paper-white face.  “Turning stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Steve says.  “I mean, this definitely wasn’t one of your better ideas, but it’s ok.  This kind of stuff happens to everyone once in a while.”

“Not to you,” Bucky exhales.  His skin goes a shade of grey, and he starts to heave up nothing again.

“Hey, alright,” Steve intones, patting Bucky’s back.  “Breathe through it.”

Bucky hacks.  “Sorry, Stevie.”

“It’s not about me.  Or you listening to me,” Steve says.  “I think the lesson here is…you can get through stuff.  We can talk about stuff.  And you’re doing fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Steve says, smiling in spite of himself again.  “But you’re sick ‘cause you’re hungover, not because you’re having a panic attack or something.  That…kinda feels like progress.”

“I guess,” Bucky whispers.  “Fucking messed up, though.  I’m never doing this again…”  He does a decent job suppressing the next gag, but squints and furrows his brow against the obvious dehydration headache.

“Yeah, good,” Steve murmurs.  “What do you say we get you some breakfast?”

“Ugh.  Not hungry,” Bucky groans.

“That’s why you feel so sick, though.  ‘Cause you’re starving.”

“Fuck.  I know.”  Bucky shoves himself back onto his heels and pushes his lank hair back out of his face.

“Ok.”  Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple and gets to his feet.  “Put some clothes on.  I’ll see what I can get going for you.”

“Thanks,” Bucky sighs.  “That…didn’t really sound right.  I mean it.  Thanks.”

“I know you do.”

In the kitchen, Clint’s making coffee while Laura fries eggs, and the kids are at the kitchen table sorting M&Ms by color.

“Morning, superdope,” Clint says.  “Hate to break it to you, but we’re all out of pumpkin spice.”  He pours Steve a cup of black coffee.

“No, this is good.  This is better,” Steve says.

“How’s Bucky doing?” Laura asks.

“He’s, uh…still feeling pretty rough,” Steve replies, wondering how appropriate it’ll be to bring his hungover lover out to crash family breakfast.

“I’ll put on some toast,” Laura says.  “Will he go for that?”

“I think so,” Steve answers.  “We’re both pretty out of practice with this.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m a dad and a party animal,” Clint brags.  He sets a place at the table with a cup of coffee and a bottle of orange Gatorade.

Steve sits down with the kids and munches through the brown M&Ms Leila and Cooper have generously shared.  It seems to be taking Bucky an absurd amount of time to get moving, and Steve’s on the point of going to check on him when he finally appears, his jeans sagging on his hips and his wrinkled flannel shirt unbuttoned over his sweat-stained white undershirt.

“Hey, here you go.”  Clint finishes pouring his own coffee and points Bucky to the seat between Steve and Cooper.  “I didn’t know if you were starving more for caffeine or electrolytes, so I got you set up with both.  Laura’s working on your protein.”  He nods at his wife, who waves back with her spatula.  “And the kids are doing a number on the sugar.”

“Hm.  Ok,” Bucky grunts, still looking like he’s fighting down nausea.

“Or, you know what?” Clint starts with an aura of mock wisdom.  “November first is the magical day where Starbucks puts away the PSL and brings out the peppermint mocha…I could always run down and grab you one of those.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Bucky croaks.  “But it sounds terrible.”  He wraps his hand around his hot coffee mug and hunches down so his chin practically rests on the table.

Steve claps him on the shoulder.  “Yeah, you’ll probably want to leave that one alone.  At least till you’re feeling better.”

[earlyback]

If I were well, I would take you to my bed, and I would show you as much passion as any woman could.

to Cam surprise, she was smiling up at him steadily, her eyes midnight. his expression turned quizzical. "What's so amus­ing?" Amelia toyed with a button on his coat. "I was just thinking . . . tonight those two old hens will probably go to their beds, cold and alone." An impish grin curved her lips. "Whereas I will be with a wicked, handsome Rom who will keep me warm all night.

I love you," she said wretchedly. “and if I were well, no power on earth could keep me away from you. If I were well, I would take you to my bed, and I would show you as much passion as any woman could.

Lisa Kleypas, Seduce Me at Sunrise

and I don't know exactly what makes it love, but when I saw you in the House of Mirrors, it was like I already knew exactly who you were. and I should've been wrong-that would've made more sense-but I wasn't, and I love you. I'll always love you. And someday maybe we'll have a bad breakup or grow apart and -curse or not-all the stars will burn out and the planet will have another ice age, but I'll go on loving you because I see you, June O'Donnell, and I can't unsee you.

his mouth slides down my neck, the side of his face settling over my heartbeat. "I hear you," he whispers, kissing my collarbone. "I can hear all of you, rushing around in there.

I was just a moment, and you gave me a million Junes. I was just a moment, and you made me forever.

Emily Henry, A Million Junes

04.26.21.06 am | a happy new day wishes - I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses. missing  you and no.1 virtually matter till we meet again - for us being in love. | 15.38 pm

04.26.21.06 am | a happy new day wishes - I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses. missing  you and no.1 virtually matter till we meet again - for us being in love. | 21.16 pm

come and hold my hand I wanna contact the living Not sure I understand this role I've been given I sit and talk to God and He just laughs at my plans my head speaks a language I don't understand

Scare myself to death that's why I keep on running before I've arrived I can see myself coming I just wanna feel real love feel the home that I live in 'cause I got too much life running through my veins going to waste and I need to feel real love and the love ever after I can not get enough

04.26.21.06 am | a happy new day wishes - I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses. missing  you and no.1 virtually matter till we meet again - for us being in love. | 21.19 pm

Even through the darkest phase Be it thick or thin always someone marches brave here beneath my skin and constant (constant) craving (craving) has always (always) been maybe a great magnet pulls all souls to what's true Or maybe it is life itself that feeds wisdom to its youth

craving ah, constant craving has always been has always been has always been (has always) always been (has always) always been has always been has always been has always been

04.26.21.06 am | a happy new day wishes - I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses. missing  you and no.1 virtually matter till we meet again - for us being in love. | 21.38 pm

Love is blindness, I don't wanna see Won't you wrap the night round me Oh, my heart Love is blindness. I'm in a parked car On a crowded street, and I see my love made complete. the thread is ripping the knot is slipping. Love is blindness. Love is clockworks, and it's cold steel fingers too numb to feel Squeeze the handle blow out the candle blindness Love is blindness I don't wanna see Won't you wrap the night around me Oh my love blindness

04.26.21.06 am | because I am quite certain it would be nearly possible to live with you, somehow I knew that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to love you.missing you and no.1 virtually matter till we meet again - for us being in love.

On your pillow was a note that read:

“Everyday the mood gets jealous of the sun, but once the night comes you would never know a thing. Just like the sun gives it’s light to the moon, no matter what the day brings, every night you’ll know I’ll always love you.

Sleep Sweet - till we meet early morning - we can feel each other. love you.take care, miss u.

You - m i S S

#3563

to them - listen adequate music : c - d - s - k - k - a

post time : 21.46.04.14 pm

VW - SN - us being in fervent love.

[bowiebwe-blog]

Bowie’s Favorite Albums of 2017 Big List! (#40-21)

—

40. Childish Gambino - Awaken, My Love

Huh. This album seems to get better the more I listen to it. Right off the bat though, it’s easy to tell how well-made it is. Definitely deserving of its Grammy nominations. The thing is just it doesn’t click with me super well yet. I dunno, guess it just falls into that “not exactly my cup of tea” slot. But don’t get me wrong, I still really like this one! It’s cool, cold, slick, and full of groove. There’s a lot to like here. And as a side note, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see Donald Glover as Lando in the upcoming Han Solo movie the same after knowing/seeing this whole side of him. That guy’s got talent.

*Redbone, Terrified, Me And Your Mama

—

39. Joey Bada$$ - All-Amerikkkan Bada$$

If you haven’t already gathered it, this is a very opinionated album haha. This guy’s not afraid to speak his mind on current social affairs and, political opinions aside, actually makes a really good rap album while at it. Tonally, think something like Kendrick Lamar’s “To Pimp A Butterfly”’s little cousin. So pretty good. To be honest I only recently remembered this album though, and I’m not quite sure yet if that’s more a diss on me or the album.

*For My People, Good Morning Amerikkka

—

38. Alt-J - Relaxer

Alt-J’s weird. Obviously. Buuut they’re one of the few who do weird exceptionally well. This is one of those albums where I have to be in the mood for it to really be able to get into it, but there’s no denying it’s one great, strange, uber-alternative album. Maybe don’t start with it if you’re just starting out with Alt-J, but it’s at the very least a great vibe album worth checking out.

*In Cold Blood

—–

37. Macklemore - Gemini

Mack’s back! I loved he and Ryan Lewis’ last two albums, but I was skeptical when I heard Ryan wouldn’t be a part of this album. Well, it’s not quite as good as those two, but Macklemore came up on his own and now shows he can still keep up on his own too. Given, the production and beats aren’t as unordinary and extraordinary without Ryan working it, but they’re good enough to succeed and Macklemore still works his ways with words to make them impressive. So it’s more on the typical side of the rap spectrum this time around, but still a solid album. Well done, Mack.

*Good Old Days, Excavate

—–

36. Brett Eldredge - Brett Eldredge

Alright ladies, let’s get this over with. Take one quick swoon and then we’ll talk music.

…y'all ready now?

Brett Eldredge is definitely one of my favorite newer country artists. He’s got a certain enthusiasm and swagger in his songs that catches on real quick (and have you seen those videos of him nailing Sinatra songs??). Not all of his songs convince me of genuity (as opposed to being another cog in the pop-country music machine), but all of them are a good time. And I like the new sounds he worked around this time, using some added reverb and simple synths, especially so on “Castaway,” which might be my favorite country song of the year. There’s a lot to like here.

*Castaway, Cycles, The Long Way

—

35. Foo Fighters - Concrete And Gold

I’m gonna say something bold here, and some of y'all might not like it. The Foo Fighters’ albums are largely insignificant. I listened to their discography (their entire collection) this year, and here’s the thing; their albums never really change. There never seemed to be any significant evolution between them or sounds thay distinguished them between each other (besides the first basically sounding like Nirvana). You could shuffle all their songs and basically treat it like one big album. But here’s the thing, it’d be a dang good album. They do what they do incredibly well, and it definitely works. There’s a reason they’re possibly the biggest rock band in the world. So it’s not what I’m usually looking for in my favorite albums, but it’s a great collection of songs.

*The Sky Is A Neighborhood, Dirty Water

—

34. The Killers - Wonderful, Wonderful

Ya know, I’ve never quite been able to get into The Killers as much as I want to. They have their moments of greatness, but some songs just slide by for me. This album’s pretty much that for me. They still have that same punchy, charismatic sound, but, as with seemingly all artists that start to grow up, it feels like some of the edge is starting to be taken off a bit. But even so, the Killers deliver another solid album here and keep their title as one of the very best alternative bands of our generation.

-Wonderful, Wonderful, Tyson Vs Douglas, Rut

—-

33. Jay Z - 4:44

Interesting album here. Jay-Z’s growing up. For better or worse, he’s definitely not the same guy that was busting out “99 Problems.” His rapping ability and all that is still there and tight as ever, but the subject matter of these songs has definitely caught up with his age, which I personally actually dig seeing. He’s not grasping at the past trying to force where he’s at, he’s writing about life as it is, and it makes for a great, down-to-Earth honest album. And the production of these songs is fantastic (“The Story Of O.J.”). Great album by one of rap’s greatest-ever.

*The Story Of O.J., Bam, Legacy

—

32. Drake - More Life

Drake just feels like classy rap. Or is that just me? Like, “Get It Together” is super classy, right? Anyway, I dig this album. Subdued synths under popping beats, auto-tuned chill vocals, night vibes, I dig it. It’s kinda on the long side as far as albums go, but it’s definitely enjoyable and creates some great vibes. What else can I say, Drake’s just Drake. Just watch how you speak his name.

*Get it Together, Passionfruit, Lose You

—

31. Walk The Moon - What If Nothing

If you’re not raising you’re eyebrows with the “hey!”’s on “One Foot,” you ain’t doing it right. But this Walk The Moon again, and they’ve come right back to form with another fun, good/great album. I’d probably rank it ahead of their debut album but not *quite* as good as “Talking Is Hard.” These guys have such good vibes in their music, and that’s always more than welcome. Probably one of the most “fun” albums on this list. And on a side note, I’d recommend checking out their live show sometime. These guys always impress me.

*Surrender, One Foot, Tiger Teeth

—

30. Brad Paisley - Heaven South

Oh, Brad Paisley. Easily one of my favorite country artists. He’s got wisdom, humor, has some of the best guitar work in country and always makes enjoyable albums. I was a bit skeptical of this one after 2014’s Moonshine In The Trunk, but nah, he’s back and killing it again. He’s one of the best at painting portraits of the South and what life is like among those folk (or at least at heart), and this album does it again. It feels like the Brad Paisley we’ve come to love over the past couple decades, and that’s always a good thing.

*Today, Heaven South, One Beer Can

—-

29. Queens Of The Stone Age - Villains

This was actually my first-ever QOTSA album I’ve listened to all the way through, which is kinda crazy when I think about it, due to the huge amount of songs I’ve heard of theirs in the past (thanks, Guitar Hero/Rock Band). It didn’t disappoint! They’ve always been a solid rock band, and they obviously still do their thing exceptionally well. I also dig the sense of groove in this one with the added electronic influences. Easily one of the best rock albums of the year.

*Villains Of Circumstance, Domesticated Animals

——–

28. Royal Blood - How Did We Get So Dark?

Why are Royal Blood not bigger than they are? I mean, they’re much bigger in the UK than America, but these guys make bleedin’ awesome rock albums. This one doesn’t make any big changes to the formula of their first album, but if it ain’t broke… you know haha. I still consider them to be one of the best rock bands out there today. This album is dark, gritty, powerful, but never overbearing or overstaying its welcome. These guys do rock music very, very well, and they’re worth knowing.

*How Did We Get So Dark, Hook, Line & Sinker

—–

27. Niall Horan - Flicker

While not as surprising as another certain One Direction member’s solo debut, this album was a pleasant surprise. It feels like a dark night chilling by the warm fire. Niall seems to have had a very clear direction in his mind of where he wanted to head after breaking free of 1D, and he made a great album with it. The most stripped-back songs are the standouts to me here (“Flicker,” “This Town”), and it definitely seems like him pulling his music back down to Earth after the bigger-than-life years with 1D was a great choice. It feels like he’s very comfortable with this new direction, and it makes it a pleasure for the listener. My only notable complaint here is that “On My Own” should’ve been kept as a B-side instead, but pish-posh! I enjoyed this album thoroughly.

*This Town, Flicker, Since We’re Alone

—-

26. Khalid - American Teen

Good Vibes! Good vibes! Some artists preach it, but not all truly radiate it. Khalid just feels good to listen to. That’s not to say all songs on this are upbeat, fun songs, but Khalid seems to give the vibes of feeling good and keeping it even during the down moments. It’s a cool thing. And tonally, it’s a very cool album as well. Mixing 80’s with modern, throw some chill reverb on there and Khalid’s mellow, feel-good vocals and you’ve got yourself a great album. Keep an eye on this guy, because he’s just going to keep getting bigger. My favorite new artist of 2017.

*American Teen, Angels, 8Teen

—

25. Halsey - Hopeless Fountain Kingdom

Halsey’s first album kinda blew me away a few years ago. It was definitely unique and a bit inventive, but it came at at the cost of not really having a place on the radio. Well, she fixes that here, but at a cost. These songs sound bigger, pop-ier, catchier, all that. She uses more typical trendy beats and production this time around. But it’s still the Halsey that made her debut album. Her she reaches out of the pop box often but keeps enough in to make the everyday music listener be able to know her by more than just her growing image. Love or hate it, she did it pretty smart and walked the tightrope presumably exactly how she wanted to (and is now able to headline arenas because of it). Not as solid as her first album, but I still really like it.

*100 Letters, Sorry

—–

24. Kelsea Ballerini - Unapollogetically

Props to Kelsea for taking a big step up from her last album with this release. I wasn’t all that impressed with more than a few songs on her debut album, but she came back around on this one to make a pretty dang good country album that I thoroughly enjoyed. She’s probably sick of the comparison, but it seems like Kelsea Ballerini’s finally starting to fit pretty snug in that void that’s been open ever since Taylor Swift decided to hop the fence and go full-on pop. The songs are definitely on the pop side of country, but they’re actually pretty dang good. I dunno, I just really liked this one. If she keeps moving up from here, big things might be in the future for this girl.

*Get Over Yourself, I Hate Love Songs, Miss Me More

—

23. LCD Soundsystem - American Dream

This one’s gonna have to marinate with me some more haha. It very could be the most “intriguing” album to me on this list, partly because I have no idea what I’ll think about it in a year. I could love it, I could think it’s okay. Don’t think I’ll hate it. But right now there’s a lot to like. Sure, each song is probably a little long, but they’re good songs with a lot of spunk and life in them. And there aren’t any great melodies to speak of, but there are enough catchy licks to make these songs come together. I dunno. It’s interesting. Very different, but very good. I’m interested to see how it holds up.

*Oh Baby, Other Voices

—

22. G-Eazy - The Beautiful & Damned

Young Gerald doesn’t let up. He’s a master of his “late-night drive” raps. Cool vibes all around. His flow is better than ever, his beats are better than ever, and I’m thinking this album takes the cake for my favorite album of his (probably his best too). Maybe it could have been shaved down a few songs, but it’s a solid, solid album. I’d be surprised if none of these songs take off more than “Me, Myself & I” (“Sober”). Some of the beats and production here were actually a pleasant suprise too, like him using heavy themes from Halsey’s “Hold Me Down” on “Eazy.” G-Eazy once again continues to impress and earn my professional respect as an artist.

*Him & I, Summer In December, Fly Away, Eazy

—-

21. Lorde - Melodrama

The thing about breakups is that they can make great albums. This was one of my most-anticipated releases this year, and it largely didn’t disappoint. Lorde continues to push her sound further and deeper here, and opens up about the pains about an ended relationship. She seems to get really honest here, and it makes for some great, emotion-filled tracks. And though not every song clicks with me 100%, the production on these tracks is fantastic. Rightfully in the running for best album of the year.

*Supercut, Liability, Hard Feelings

—