#the crush part xvii

[rollingsins]

all hers, part v

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Long before she was Ghostface, she was just Tara. The sweet, pretty girl from your chemistry class who brought roses to your first date and promised to love you forever. Tara and reader’s first time. Smut. 18+

warnings: smut, 18+. first-time, vaginal-fingering.

word count: 2.5k

a/n: thought we’d go back a little bit, obviously set before Tara became Ghostface. As always, thanks for all the love and support, and let me know what you want to see next! Ask is always open for suggestions.

It’s your fourth date. Officially.

You’d been going out with Tara for a few weeks now. When she’d first asked you out, all shy smiles and curious, wanting eyes, you couldn’t believe your luck that a girl so pretty wanted to be with you. To be honest, you still couldn’t believe it.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach. She’d invited you over for dinner and movies, not dissimilar to some of the other dates you’d had. Except this time her mom wasn’t home. The way she’d said it, flirty, voice sort of high at the end, has your stomach in knots.

You’d never felt like this around anyone. There had been crushes, sure. A first kiss, first girlfriend for all of three weeks when you were fourteen. But nothing serious. Nothing like this.

Tara made your heart flutter. She made it sing.

You grip your palms, nervously. Knock swiftly on the door.

Tara answers almost immediately.

Her hair is down, she’s wearing an apron. She smiles, wide, greets you with a kiss.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You hover in the doorway, trying to conceal the goofy smile that wants to overtake your entire face. She holds out her hand, and you take it as she leads you through the house and into the kitchen.

“I cooked for us.” She says. She looks a little bashful. It smells amazing. Sundried tomatoes and chicken, pasta simmering on the stove.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

But of course she could. She was perfect.

“Well, my mom’s not really home that much, so I learned pretty early on.” She shrugs. She lets go of your hand to stir one of the pots. Looks over at you, coy, “Worked out well though, all the girls seem to like it.”

“All the girls, huh?” You tease. She looks back at you, her smile shy.

“Well. One girl. Hopefully.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a small smile on her lips.

You reach into your bag, hold out a bottle of your Dad’s finest red. Stolen from his cabinet. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“I brought wine.”

Tara’s midway pouring out two glasses when it happens. The house creaks a gentle groan, then the lights flicker. The power’s out.

You stand a moment, blink into the darkness.

“Fuck.”

You can make out her silhouette in the darkness. She fumbles around for her phone, presses the flashlight.

“The food.”

The stovetop is out, you watch as Tara flashes the light across the chicken. Half-cooked.

“Perfect.”

“Maybe it’s the fuse?” You suggest, trying to be helpful. Tara flashes the light out the window. All the neighbors are dark too.

“Shit.”

She fumbles around the drawers, drawing out some candles. Lights a couple, illuminating the room. She looks so pretty in the candlelight, is all you can think. Mused hair, pink lips, a little flour on her cheeks from the food.

She turns back at you, chewing her lip. Her pretty brown eyes are wide, mournful.

“Well, that’s dinner gone.” She looks over to the living room, as if she’s just realizing, “And the power’s out so no movie.”

She looks upset. “I’m sorry, YN. Tonight was supposed to be perfect and now it's all ruined.”

“Hey.” You touch her arm, move a little closer, “It’s not ruined. As long as I’m with you, it’s perfect. Alright?”

She looks back at you doubtful.

“We have no food.”

‘That’s not true.” You say. Out of the corner of your eye you spot some bread on the counter. You move to it, help yourself to a couple of plates. “We’ve got bread. Do you have peanut butter? Jelly?”

She bites her lip.

“PB&J?” She asks. “That’s not very romantic.”

Butterflies flutter in your chest. She wants it to be romantic. Of course she does, idiot, you scold yourself, it’s a date. You feel your cheeks getting hot.

“But a PB&J by candlelight is very romantic.” You assure her, a little thankful she can’t see how your cheeks burn in the darkness. “With wine, don’t forget.”

A smile plays on her lips.

“Second drawer on the right.” Is all she says.

She might be a better cook than you, you reason as you slap peanut butter all over the bread, but nobody beats your PB&J’s. When you’re finished, she’s poured out two glasses of wine, gestures for you to follow her past the dining room table.

Her house is nice, much nicer than yours. All high ceilings and leather furniture. This room is maybe the most impressive room, a long, cobbled fireplace sits in its center.

“We were going to eat at the table,” She tells you, setting down the glasses. She reaches for a throw on the back of one of the sofa’s. Lays it down on the floor, right in front of the fireplace, “But this is better. Like our own little picnic.”

She takes the plates off you, lowers them to the floor.

“Here.”

She’s holding out her hand for you, helping lower you onto the floor.

“Do you know how to do that?” You ask, a little concerned with the way she fumbles with the firewood.

“Yeah. My sister taught me.” She assures. She strikes a match, drops it against the wood. It flashes alight, the immediate smell of smoky wood fills the room. She looks back at you, smiling as she settles down next to you.

You hand her the sandwich, push the edge of your crust into hers.  

“Cheers.”

You take a small bite, watches as she does the same.

Lean against your hand. She mirrors you, lets the tip of her pinky brush yours. Electricity flows through you.

The fire burns bright. You’re talking about school when she kisses you. Suddenly, out of nowhere, like she can’t control herself any longer. The surprised gasp that slips from your lips lasts only a moment, before you’re dropping your sandwich to the floor in favor of threading your fingers through her hair.

You kiss for a while, a familiar heat rising in your stomach. You’d often end up this way, making out desperately in the middle of your dates. This time feels different. It feels more urgent, feverish. You shiver as she pulls back, looks into your eyes.

The way she looks in the firelight, lips parted slightly, red and swollen. Beautiful brown eyes, wide and wanting. You want all of her. You want to give her all of you.

You swallow hard.  

“Tara-” You trail off, a little nervous. How do you tell someone you want to give them your virginity?

She leans up to you, brushes the hair off your face with her fingers. You lick your lips. She wants it too, you can see it in her eyes.

“I’ve never-” You swallow. She’s staring at your lips.

“Me either.”

“Should we-”

“Yes.”

You sigh as she crashes into you. All lips and tongue and roaming hands. She’s pressing you back into the rug. Her weight on top of you feels impossibly good. The butterflies in your stomach are gone, instead fireworks explode, electrifying every part of you. Your body thrums hot, cheeks flushed with an uncontrollable desire for her. Her hands roam down your body, a little nervous, apprehensive, like she isn’t quite sure what she’s doing.

She’s gripping the top of your jeans, with her fingers, pulling back from your lips just long enough to ask the question with her eyes.

God, yes.

You nod, and she lets out a breathy, excited little noise as she fumbles with the button of your jeans. It’s not slick at all, it takes almost twenty seconds; her hands are shaking, but the look in her eyes when she’s sliding them down your legs makes it more than worth it.

“Yours too.” You murmur, sitting up slightly to reach for the button of her pants. You’re quicker, help her out of them within seconds. She’s pressing back into your lips, climbing into your lap. The feel of your hands on her bare thighs makes your head spin, her weight in your lap makes you throb between your legs. Your kisses are getting sloppier, more feverish as you pull the rest of each other’s clothes off.

When she unclips your bra, your breasts spilling out, her pupils dilate.

“Oh my god.” She says as she reaches up to take one in her hands. Her fingers immediately find your nipples. She dips down, takes one between her lips. You moan, the sensation new, and sexy. Her mouth is hot and wanting, her tongue flicking gently against your pebbled nipples. She works them in her mouth for a few moments before you’re tugging her back with impatience, wanting your turn.

Hers are a little smaller than yours, but her nipples are just as hard. Your mouth waters as you take one between your lips, suckling gently. Her fingers thread through your hair, she lets out a tiny moan. You hold her by her hips, licking and sucking. When you trail kisses back up to her lips, she’s looking down at you with dark, hooded eyes.

The warmth of the fireplace and her body combined as you flushed red. She pushes you down onto your back, hands wandering as she kisses you.

When her fingers hook your panties, your breath catches in your throat.

She tugs them down your legs, her eyes on yours. As she tosses them away you reach for hers.

She slips her thigh between your legs, groans as her lips crash onto yours.

You gasp. Her wet heat against your thigh, yours on hers. No barriers between you anymore, just you and her, naked and entwined in each other. The lights dimmed, illuminated only by the light of the fire and the candles.

She grinds against your leg for a moment.

The sensation is unreal. Her weight, impossibly good on you, the soft heat of her bare skin. Her desperate lips pressing hot kisses to your lips. Her excitement drizzling all over your leg.

Her hands are on your thighs, prying them open. She bites her lip as she settles in between them, hands roaming from the outside of your thighs to the inside.

Your hands are around her neck, keeping her close enough to kiss.

“Can I touch you, baby?” She whispers against your lips, breathless. You nod wildly.

“Please.”  

It isn’t like when you touch yourself.

Her fingers brush across your slit, gently probing, exploring. She gathers the wetness from your entrance, rubs it down the length of you, her mouth open, eyes filled with desire.

She circles your clit, a little jerky. The moan that escapes your mouth is out of your control. She leans down into you, kisses you as she continues movements.

Small circles at first, warming you up. Everything feels hot: the heat of the fireplace, her swollen lips against yours, the burn of your cheeks. You clutch onto her shoulders, gasp as she dips her fingers lower, teasing your entrance.

When she hooks her finger up, slipping a single digit into your wet heat, you both moan.

Her eyebrows knit together. Your heart is thrumming, you think it might burst out of your chest. She’s knuckle deep inside you, the tip of her finger hitting your g-spot perfectly.

“You’re so tight.” She marvels with wonder. Her voice is throaty and low. “Fuck.”

She moves her hand slightly, movements a little jilted, unsure. You gasp as she hits your spot just right.

“Is this okay?” She asks, “I’m not hurting you?”

You shake your head, bite your lip.

“No.” You say, “That feels so good. More please, baby.”

She complies. Another finger sinks inside of you, stretching you out. She kisses you, tilting her fingers in and out, her pace glacial. Your fingernails sink into the bare skin of her back, trying to take her deeper. Your lips against her neck, groaning into her skin.

Her confidence is rising, the longer she’s in you. She’s paying close attention to the way you clench around her, the noises you make when she thrusts a little harder. It isn’t long before you’re rutting against her, orgasm building.

“I’m going to cum.” You gasp out, right before it happens. Your body goes stiff against her as it washes over you. You moan, low and steady, as it overtakes your entire body, from the tips of your ears to the bottom of your heels. She kisses you through it.

You slump back onto the floor. She presses a gentle kiss to your chest, slowly withdrawing her fingers. When you look up at her, she has her own fingers in her mouth, sucking off your wetness. Her eyes black with want.

You swallow. Arousal surges through you.

Before your mind can even register, you’re reaching up for her, tilting her back onto the floor. You spread her legs with your knees, only one thing on your mind.

She looks a little surprised, but her expression quickly changes to pure want the moment your fingers brush her.

Your heart is hammering again, lump in your throat. You are still so painfully turned on. Feeling her slick heat beneath your fingers only makes you want her more. You’ve done this to yourself before, so it isn’t totally new, only she feels so much better. She’s sticky, so wet, so warm. You graze your fingertips over her clit, watch the way her mouth opens, her eyes close as you tease her entrance.

When you sink inside of her for the first time, it’s like an out of body experience. Warm, wet heat encompasses you. She grips your fingers, like her pussy is trying to keep you in place, exactly where you belong. She lets out a small, breathy gasp each time you curl your fingers up into her. She looks perfect: laid out before you, nipples hard, lips swollen, pussy dripping wet under your fingers.

You tell her so, lean down to kiss her.

She sighs up into your mouth.

You build a steady pace, copy what she’d done on you. It isn’t long at all before you can feel how desperate she’s getting, clawing at you, pussy tightening around your fingers. When she cums, she groans, low, cunt squeezing your fingers, eyes pressed tightly shut.

It’s gorgeous. Beautiful.

You want to do this forever.

You kiss her through her orgasm, slow down as she breathes, her grip on you loosening. When you slip out of her, she grips onto you tight, pulls you down on top of her.

Your fingers are soaked. You bring them to your lips. Her scent is overwhelming, so good it makes your mouth water. She’s bitter, it makes your tongue sting pleasantly, watering for more.

You lean down against her chest, let her shift slightly. She cradles you against her.

Her heartbeat is slowing down. You entwine your fingers with hers, close your eyes.

You feel her lips against the top of your head.

“That was-” She trails off. Squeezes your body slightly.

“Amazing.” You finish for her. “We’re so doing that again. And again. And again.”

She chuckles. You open your eyes, watch as the fireplace flickers in front of you, burning its last log.

All you can feel is the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes against you. The smell of her skin as you breathe her in. Your eyes droop, as her fingertips rub gentle circles on her scalp.

Maybe this is what falling in love feels like.

Next part

[angel-kyo]

Pay it no mind

Part XVIII

In which reader confesses their feelings to Gojo, but it seems these are not returned (maybe?).

Warnings: reader is on the receiving end of rejection (kinda), and the fact that I'm obsessed with unrequited love is a warning itself, and... idk, I didn't mean to put anything warning worthy here, but if you think of something I guess let me know. <3

Previous: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part IV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII

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The days that followed after Satoru told you he liked you, it seemed that everything had gone back to normal and you two were slowly falling back into your usual routine: meeting up early in the mornings, bantering in between classes and missions, and eating lunch with Shoko when all of you were at the school. It was comforting to have things return to how they used to be, or that was what you thought.

“What’s up with him?” Shoko asked across from you.

Satoru had business to attend so he had just left you and Shoko at the table in the cafeteria.

“What do you mean?” you looked in the direction he had gone but could no longer see him.

From your perspective, Satoru had not changed much since that day he walked through the school holding your hand; he had not pressed the subject of whether you liked him back still any further either, and since he appeared to be okay in this grey zone where you two were sitting, you had not brought it up either. However, Shoko, as perceptive as ever, had noticed how Gojo, who always seemed to like your personal space, was moving into it almost permanently these days; how he was not even bothering to be discreet with the way he looked at you or remained by your side when you were in the same room, and how, if he was not careful, it would be evident to everyone pretty soon.

At first, Shoko had believed it was all in her head; since that day, years ago, when she first considered that Gojo could have some kind of crush on you, the notion had prevailed. In fact, she had thought she was looking into her friends’ relationship too much, maybe because none of them seem to pay any mind to how they were perceived, so it was not entirely impossible her eyes were just making her believe what she had accepted as true for so long was finally materializing.

Gojo’s laid-back attitude had been one of the reasons why Shoko doubted he cared seriously about whatever feelings he could have for you. Other than that rocky season in high school and a few other occurrences through the years that followed, Satoru had never taken any steps towards an actual relationship with you. Hence, Shoko thought it's a harmless crush.

But as of lately, he looked more... intent. Or maybe...

He’s losing his grip.

“You’ve never found him annoying, have you?” Your friend looked at her almost empty plate and it somehow reminded you of a similar talk you had had months ago.

“A bunch of times, but I guess I don’t find him too annoying,” you answered.

“Isn’t that all love is about?” Ieiri’s eyes connected with yours.

Her comment caught you off guard, and she might have noticed the way your smile froze because her gaze did not leave yours.

You did the only thing that could think of: laugh it off. “Yeah, I guess, if love is annoying, that is.”

Are you finally annoyed by it, Gojo?

“You tell me.” Shoko smiled and put the last bite of her food in her mouth.

***

“Why won’t she just admit she likes him?” Satoru asked while looking at the movie playing in front of him.

Maybe it was a rhetorical question, but you did not look at him before replying “Because there would have been no movie if they were that direct.”

It was a Friday night and Satoru had made an impromptu proposal to you to have a movie marathon at his place. You had accepted but now, into your first movie of the night, you were having trouble to stay focused on the story, which was supposed to be some sort of romantic comedy, not half as bad as many, but the romantic scenes were making you self-conscious.

You watched the scene where the protagonists had gone from arguing to making out and you felt the need to look somewhere else.

From the corner of your eye, Satoru seemed unimpressed.

He’s unfazed, of course he is.

Actually, Satoru was only calm on the surface. Unbeknownst to you, he had also perceived the change in the air between the two of you when the more intimate scenes started playing. He thought he should have chosen a different film, but suggesting changing it now would only make the unsaid more obvious, so he was sticking it up with the most unexpressive face he could manage as the actors on the screen seemed to melt into each other.

Satoru had not meant anything suggestive by choosing that movie; he had just played the first thing he found as he always did when you had not planned in advance, and under normal circumstances, that would have been fine. You had watched all kinds of films together, including romantic ones, the good and the bad ones, but now…

Satoru was already looking at you when you were about to steal another glance in his direction.

His gaze revealed a question he dared not ask, or rather, a question he had promised himself he would not ask until you were ready.

He was trying to be a good friend, even if he wanted to be more than that. It had took him a while to figure out his feelings, so he had resolved to give you as much time as you needed. Yes, Satoru was convinced he could wait patiently, but…

Is he leaning forward?

At times… His resolve weakened.

“[name]…”

The look he was giving you was that of a kid who wanted to ask for something but did not know how. In his clear eyes, there was need but also fear of being denied.

What is your answer? his eyes were asking.

The winter had also frozen time in your friendship, in this safe spot in Satoru’s place, where you could still be friends and pretend nothing needed to change as it never changed in the years before, not in his apartment nor in your friendship. But time must go on, does it not?

“Satoru...”

His phone rang.

Both of you looked at the phone that was screen-down on the coffee table in front of you, and it seemed to take Satoru a couple of seconds to decide if he wanted to pick it up, but he finally did.

“I’ll be right back.” You got up and went to the kitchen.

Giving him some privacy to take the call was an excuse; part of you just wanted to escape of it all, ask Satoru to take it back, let everything remain as it was, stay in the known, but the other part, the part that had been falling for him all this time wanted to see it through.

Are you in love with him?

For a second, you were back in your living room with Haruki, his question and your answer resonating in your head as you watched the cup of tea travel steady from the table to his lips.

“Some people think knowledge that doesn’t change behavior is worthless,” his eyes did not meet yours, and you did not reply immediately.

“If you knew he liked you, would you act on it?” He had almost finished his cup.

"I don't know," you replied.

Months ago, you had been convinced you wanted to act on your feelings, but now, the idea of change was scary, the idea of trying to later find out it was not what you wanted, was scarier; the idea that you and Satoru would never recover if that happened, was terrifying.

“To change something, you first need to accept the possibility of change, and of course you need to know that those possibilities exist. I guess in that way, that knowledge is not worthless, even if nothing actually comes out of it. We should accept the possibilities.”

His feelings were sudden but if there is a possibility...

“Okay, I can accept that,” you said lowly to yourself.

“You can accept what?” Satoru was looking at you and taking the sodas you had just mindlessly pulled from the fridge from your hands.

The room felt a few degrees warmer with his proximity.

“Nothing, I was just...” Your gaze drifted to the door leading to a small terrace where Satoru had installed a couple chairs to sit on when the weather was nice. He almost never did it though, and you could use some fresh air. “Do you want to go outside?”

A smile played on Satoru’s lips. “Isn’t it cold?”

“Just for a bit.”

That was how you and him needed up outside looking at the city lights. You looked up but it was impossible to see the stars. Satoru mirrored your gesture and then directed his gaze back to the city.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asked.

“Regret what?”

He shrugged. “Staying here, doing what we do, not going somewhere quieter or… somewhere where you could see the stars.” He looked up again and you kept your gaze on him.

Why was he asking that now you did not know, but you answered him honestly.

“I do not regret it.” It was true. Even when you did have the opportunity to do something else or be somewhere else, you chose not to leave. “This is pretty too.”

The lights of a city that never seem to sleep were probably not as fascinating and mystical as the stars that burned millions of light years away, but they had some beauty of their own.

“I guess so,” Satoru agreed, and he wrapped an arm around you, and after some silence he spoke again.

“Aren't you cold?”

You nodded your head. “But can we stay here a little longer?”

And maybe what you really wanted to ask was can we stay like this a little longer?

In any case, Satoru would have given you the same response as he held you tighter.

“Of course.”

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Note: I'll try to proofread... Oh, and sorry about basically disappearing. Thank you a bunch for the kind messages during my silence. <3

Thank you for reading!

@mavs-stuff @witchbybirth @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @tqd4455 @maybe-a-bi-witch @mo0nforme @maliakealoha @zacatecanaaaa @blushhpeachh @astriarose @missesgojosatoru @ba-ks @sukunasleftkneecap @songbirdlully @cole-silas @heijihattorisgf @chokesonspit @hersheyzzz @smolbeanzzz @luciledreamz @avidreadee123 @moonmalice @ratscandaler @sadmonke @allie-jay @username23345 @spin-garden @ashehateaccount @kayzens @blehtotheblehtothebleh @stellasloth @bloopsstuff @cheesemachine44 @tetsuski

[hoonieswhore]

Heavenly

(Figure skater!Hoon x Vocalist!fem reader)

Summary: Being the leader of a band was pretty easy, working on new songs and making covers with your friends was the best. The only challenge in your life was living with a "stranger" and your best friend.

Warnings: SMAU with written parts. This story will contain smut at some point. Kys jokes. Sexual jokes. LOTS of curses. Comedy. Fluff. Reader and Hoon are low-key enemies. Minors/ageless/blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT or you'll be immediately blocked. If you wanna be tagged, just send an ask (read my rules before you follow though)

This is my first smau so please be patient with me. I'll try to update every day but that depends on how busy I am. I hope you all like it and please keep in mind that English isn't my first language so there might be typos or any kind of errors.

Masterlist!

Profiles

I. ...Ready for it? - Taylor Swift.

II. Here comes trouble - Neoni.

III. Ignorance - Paramore.

IV. I hate you - WOODZ.

V. Best friend - Conan Gray

VI. One of the Drunks - Panic! At The Disco

VII. MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT - Elley Duhé

VIII. It's nice to have a friend - Taylor Swift

IX. Want you back - 5 Seconds of Summer

X. Complete Mess - 5 Seconds of Summer

XI. High Hopes - Panic! At The Disco

XII. Kill My Time - 5 Seconds of Summer

XIII. About love - MARINA

XIV. Delicate - Taylor Swift

XV. Rock with you - SEVENTEEN

XVI. Death Of A Bachelor - Panic! At The Disco

XVII. Everything Has Changed - Taylor Swift

XVIII. One Day - Imagine Dragons

XIX. Valentine - 5 Seconds of Summer

XX. Falling In Love - Cigarettes After Sex

XXI. Wildflower - 5 Seconds of Summer

XXII. Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex

XXIII. Lover - Taylor Swift

XXIV. Maniac - Conan Gray

XXV. Babylon - 5 Seconds of Summer

XXVI. Sex, Drugs, Etc. - Beach Weather

XXVII. Sarah Smiles - Panic! At The Disco

XXVIII. Dress - Taylor Swift

XXIX. Puzzle Piece - NCT Dream

XXX. Karma - Taylor Swift

XXXI. Criminal Love - Enhypen

XXXII. Die For You - The Weeknd

XXXIII. seven - Taylor Swift

XXXIV. Not In The Same Way - 5 Seconds of Summer

XXXV. Style - Taylor Swift

XXXVI. I Think He Knows - Taylor Swift

XXXVII. jealousy, jealousy - Olivia Rodrigo

XXXVIII. Afterglow - Taylor Swift

XXXIX. Love Me Now - NCT 127

XL. Love Me Harder - WOODZ

XLI. Paper Rings - Taylor Swift

XLII. Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex

XLIII. Animal - Troye Sivan

XLIV. Adore you - Harry Styles

XLV. Crush - Cigarettes After Sex

XLVI. DON'T WANNA SLEEP - Måneskin

XLVII. King Of My Heart - Taylor Swift

XLVIII. The Shining - The Neighbourhood

XLIX. Don't Stop - 5 Seconds of Summer

L. Timezone - Måneskin

LI. Boyfriend - Dove Cameron

LII. Don't Blame Me - Taylor Swift

LIII. Lover Of Mine - 5 Seconds of Summer

LIV. Wherever You Are - Kodaline

LV. I Like Me Better - Lauv

LVI. Nicotine - Panic! At The Disco

LVII. Mine (Taylor's Version) - Taylor Swift

LVIII. The Only Exception - Paramore

LIX. About You - The 1975

LX. Heavenly - Cigarettes After Sex

[netherfeildren]

Did the loneliness die that night?

A Fear of God story : Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Birdie and Joel's first time.

Content Warnings: Unprotected sex; Creampie; Rough sex; Oral sex; Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Descriptions of medical procedures; Size difference; Size kink; Mutual pining; Emotionally constipated idiots

A/N: Title is from Pablo Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.3K

Read on AO3

“You should head home now, honey. No point staying so late. I think we’re done for today.”

“I will, Connie – soon. Just gonna read for a bit.” He pauses the tidying up of his papers to turn and look at you with those milky, discerning eyes of his. He’s been complaining recently that his vision is getting worse – his eyes tired and weak earlier and earlier in the day. You know he’s getting ready to call it quits soon, leave you with the gargantuan responsibility of running the clinic and caring for the people of Jackson all on your own. Your mentor, your friend, your champion – ready to ditch you.

You don’t think you’re ready. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready. You also know it’s not fair to categorize it as that. He’s tired. He deserves to rest. 

You also don’t think he’s going to give you much of a choice in the matter pretty soon. 

“You felt alright today?” He likes to check in on your confidence levels every now and then, knows you like to second guess yourself behind his back.

“Yeah… good. The surgery went well – I thought.”

“Yes, you were excellent. I have no doubt that our patient will recover beautifully.” He winks at you, slips his coat over his frail shoulders. You let a small smile unfold across your face, excellent, yeah, okay. If you could count on anything it was Connie as your number one hype man. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my dear. I might be in a little later in the afternoon,” he warns, and you roll your eyes into your book where he can’t catch you. 

“Sure thing.” 

You sort of lose track of time into the night. Mainly because a large part of you is loath to go back to your quiet and lonely house. 

Sometimes it feels a little as if you’d spat out your heart in the woods where your sister was killed before you found Jackson, pieces of your memories. And this continuation of whatever it is that you’re doing now, building a life, living, going on, fucking bullshit, is a play act you’re putting on for yourself, for the people you take care of now, Connie who counts on you and relies on you and has been planting the seeds of his future and that of his patients in the soil of your mind. Too many responsibilities for a half girl living a half life. 

What was in that framework of a carved out house, that carcass of that fake life you pretend at when the sun’s high in the sky? Archeological remnants of a person you aren’t anymore, bones of a girl that, in too many ways, had died out there with her sister. 

Too morose. Too morose. Unnecessarily dramatic. 

You have a good thing here, this you know. A second chance, a place to do good. Those things are important. But what else? Nothing but stagnation and the waiting shoes of a great man who expects the world of you, and who you’re more afraid of than anything that you’ll be able to do nothing more than disappoint. Connie expects much from you. His past repeated in bright, shining colors in a world gone to rot. An impossible feat. How to make the most intelligent, most amazing person you’ve ever known, that expects the world of you, understand that all you have to give is little more than nothing?

But besides all that? Besides the crushing weight of expectation and inevitable failure and the certainty that you’ll never be able to be good enough for a world categorized in the before – what else is there for you here?

You stare blindly out the warped glass pane of the window. The house the clinic’s been accommodated to is old. Old, sturdy bones. Reliable. Like the house could weather any sort of storm. Remain standing and provide refuge to any of those who’d seek shelter here. This is what you need to make yourself into. 

But what else is there for you besides this? 

The question rings screaming in your mind. That terribly fraught, agonizingly selfish, humiliatingly ungrateful thought – when yes, you already have so much, but wait, there’s still something, something missing – that whispers that you still want one more thing, something else to fill that hollow ache inside of you. 

You wish someone would just tell you – set the answer before you, feed it to you by hand. Tell me, tell me how to fill the ache, and I’ll do it. You’ve always been good at following orders, doing what you’re told. You like to be told. You like the comfort and security of it. 

And then the bell above the front door chimes – it’s late – and there he is, stepping through your office door. 

“Joel–”

“Went by your house – what’re you still doin’ here? It’s late.” Sometimes it’s like he can read minds. Strange, mercurial wonder of a man. 

You take him in. “Your hand–”

He lifts up his bloody palm, dried rivulets of rust snake up his forearm and down his fingers. “Yeah… got caught on an old nail.” He shakes his head, looks back at you with a grumpy frown, “It’s late, sweetheart. You should be home.”

“I got distracted reading,” you say offhandedly, already up and moving around to collect the supplies you’ll need to patch him up. He really focuses on the most inconsequential details at the most inopportune times. “Come here–” you start dragging a chair over from Connie’s desk towards your own, a murmured, let me, from him, trying to pull the thing from your grasp. You shoo him away, “Sit,” you order, settling the chair in front of your own and pulling your desk lamp to the edge. Stubborn man. 

He falls heavily into the chair, an exhausted sigh following in his wake. “Always getting yourself into messes you shouldn’t be,” you say with a small smile, shaking your head at him. He only grunts. 

“You alright?” he asks gently.

“Yep, I’m okay. You too? Well…besides this.”

“Yeah, I’m alright, sweetheart.” You can’t stand it when he calls you sweetheart, it makes you all soft and desperate and wet. He’s quiet for a beat, and then, as if he can’t help himself, he asks, “Seen Ellie recently?” She doesn’t speak to him, and you don’t know why or what the extent of their relationship is, but you know something isn’t right, that there’s history, and that it hurts him. You know he worries for her because he always asks how she’s doing since you and she had become friends. 

“She came in this afternoon – she’s good,” you say quickly, seeing him sit up slightly at hearing she’d been in the clinic, “She just dropped by to say hi… she’s fine, don’t worry.”

He settles back in the chair. “Ain’t worryin’” he grumbles, another grumpy frown. He’s quiet for another long moment while he watches you set your needle in your forcep, gather the antibacterial to sterilize the wound. “Nancy in?” 

The old nurse who helped you and Connie out with the clinic and lived upstairs was a true wild child at heart. “She’s out with her girlfriend.”

“It’s almost midnight… isn’t she like seventy?”

“Seventy-four, but she has a young spirit, and love has no age,” you give him a pointed look. 

“Jesus,” he sighs. You grip the thick bones of his wrist in a firm grasp, drag the tips of your fingers over his palm, down the lengths of his fingers so that he’ll uncurl them. You think you hear what might be the resonance of something deep and rumbling coming from his chest that has your insides going hot and wet and soft. You want to tell him to not make sounds like that when you’re trying to focus, but you hold your tongue and begin to clean out the gash in slow, methodical strokes.  

 He tilts his head back when you start to drag the needle through his skin with a murmured, here goes. His neck is so thick, strong, the muscles and tendons popping starkly with his exhale, and okay, focus, focus, it’s time to focus now. You start to close the wide gash in his palm with a neat percutaneous closure, a simple interrupted suture with your safely guarded and jealously hoarded Vicryl – Connie has a contact that re-supplies you every few months. 

“Your hands are cold.” 

You pause your sewing to peek up at him. “Sorry.”

A shake of his head, “Should get the heat workin’ better in here.”

“It’s fine,” the drag of the suture through his flesh.

“S’not if you’re cold.”

“I’m fine, Joel.” He hums a displeased sound. 

You can feel his gaze searing into the skin of your face. Your cheeks are burning hot, the backs of your knees sweating. You hate it when he looks at you like this, have caught him several times, more and more frequently, and it fills you with a belly full of fizz and nerves, head dizzy and light. You’re certain that if he were to keep his eyes on you long enough you might get so lightheaded you’d do something really dramatic like faint or throw yourself at him and tell him he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

“Got the longest lashes I’ve ever seen,” he says after a beat, so softly, and you feel your blush burn fever bright and self-respect-meltingly hot. A spearing twist of embarrassment and lust and the deepest sort of yearning you’ve ever experienced in your life boils through you so intensely that you even feel your eyes smart at his words. A tick starts up in your left eyelid from how nervous he makes you. All your anxiety and adrenaline being channeled to that one tiny, singular nerve to keep your hands steady while you sew his skin closed.

“Th– thank you,” you stutter, stupid, you should say something more, something better. What you’d really like to tell him is that he’s beautiful – rough and rugged and beautiful and that you see it, despite how hard he tries to hide it behind his eternal frown. You see him. He hums, and you register the tilt of his head out of your periphery as he settles in to inspect you. You’ve got both your knees tucked between his parted thighs, and as he settles in his chair deeper, he spreads them even wider, pushing his hips forward to slouch low, and fuck, you know you shouldn’t be looking, but you can even make out the thick weight of his cock beneath his jeans. So inappropriate, you chastise yourself, you’re the man’s physician, you’re tending to his wounds, he’s come to you in a vulnerable state, you shouldn’t be ogling and objectifying him. But on the back end of that thought is the whisper that there is absolutely fuck all about this man that is even the slightest bit vulnerable. For Christ’s sake, just look at him, so fucking thick and broad and strong and handsome, with the cockiest air of slight menace you’ve ever come across. You think that there is very little that could make a creature such as this vulnerable. You press your thighs together, pressing one foot on top of the other to squeeze yourself as small and tight as you can, cunt a twisting, wet ache. 

You’d wanted him from the first moment you’d laid eyes on him. It had been something almost intrinsic, instinctual. You’d seen him and all your brain and your body had been able to scream at you was that one, that one, we want that one. So perhaps you do have an answer for that screaming question that wants for more. Sometimes it feels like the two of you have been circling each other like blood in the water all this time. Like you both know, even if you can’t admit it just yet, that it’s just a matter of time until this strange, tense dance the two of you’ve been caught in comes to a head; cracks and splinters like a fault line and swallows you whole.

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

“Twenty years ago.”

You roll your eyes. “We’ll get you one of those then.”

A soft, uncaring grunt. “What were ya readin’?” Really, the most inconsequential things…

“Boring stuff.”

“Tell me.”

You pause again to look up at him, his gaze entirely sincere and demanding. “Foye’s Principles of Medicinal Chemistry, it’s the two thousand and two edition. Last one that came out before…” you shrug, “It’s a text Connie values highly. I’ve probably read it a dozen times front to back at this point,” you laugh as you work slowly. One of the things you admire most about the way Connie practices medicine is how precise and methodical he is in all his movements and decisions. He works with intention and care and a measuredness that’s something you’ve tried very hard to emulate as best as you can. 

“Hell, sweetheart… you do really’ve got a mind that amazes me.” And his voice is so soft, so contemplative as he says it. As if he too possesses that great depth of ability to be as methodical and patient and precise as you’d like to be. The cadence of him is so profound, almost vibrational, as if the words are carried on a frequency that only he exists on. You pause your sewing once again to glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you… distracting. You are a weak girl, never one for much bravery or outlandishness, content to always follow the path laid out before you by other more exacting hands, but the way he looks at you, the fire in that gaze, you feel like you could do anything, be anything, and he’d take it in stride, be able to handle it. His gaze makes you want to be brave and reckless. 

You turn your eyes back to his hand, almost done now. “Ah, well… not so amazing, I don’t think. I was always just well suited to books and studying, and in a world like this… wasn’t so useful, I suppose. My father wanted me to do this, he was a physician – a real one–”

He cuts you off, “Hey, you’re a real doctor too. Don’t diminish what you do here, it’s fuckin’ amazing.” He knocks his knee into yours.

“Don’t jostle me, or I’ll stick you,” you scrunch your nose at him. 

-

You’re fucking flirting with him, provoking him, that little scrunch of your nose that always makes him feel like he’s two paces away from death, the lilt of your words ending in an upwards flutter like you’re singing at him, beguiling him. He feels utterly beguiled in this moment. He wasn’t lying when he’d said you’ve got the longest lashes he’s ever seen in his whole life. Long and thick and fanned out so that they cast shadows across the planes of your skin. You look like you’ve got the softest skin ever spun together, weaved on a loom just to come here and bring him to heel, and he wants to taste you so fucking badly, to sink his teeth into the back of your neck like prey and force you to your knees – utterly deranged thoughts that you seem to force out of him with those eyes and those lips and that voice. Your hair is long and shinning and he can smell you, sweet and soft like the evening after a summer rain. It makes him hard. 

The first time he’d laid eyes on you, he’d been shocked into stillness, speechlessness, thoughtlessness. So pretty and soft and then when he’d spoken to you, your mind, you’re so fucking smart, the sound of your voice, the pure, utter goodness you constantly exude. He wants to be let inside. He wants to be allowed to feel all that goodness and sweetness from the inside out. 

He’d forced himself to turn away from you then, to run the other way like a goddamn coward with his hair on fire. That was how much his initial reaction to you had scared the living hell out of him. 

He watches you work slowly now, that plush lip pulled between the edges of your teeth. The feel of the needle sliding through his skin is almost erotic, and he knows that he’ll remember this only as a gift afterwards. The slight sting of the laceration secondary to the blissful agony it is to have your hands on his skin. He wants to kiss you. He wonders if you’d let him. He wants to own you, even if for a moment, to feel like you belong to him, like you’re his. To hold something as beautiful and good as you in his hands. You should be in his arms right now, impaled on his cock. Christ, he can feel himself thickening in his jeans. He feels even hungrier now than before he got here. Seeking you out, going to your house to ask you for help even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’s been so clumsy lately, uncharacteristically so. He wonders if it hasn’t been his subconscious’s way of getting him into situations where he’d need mending, just as an excuse to get himself close to you. He thinks this must surely be the case, entirely transparent and desperate and pathetic. 

You finish the sutures in his palm, and he can’t even feel the hurt at this point, so hypnotized is he by the look of you deep in concentration, trying to mend him. You obviously can’t see that there’s no mending a man like him – not in any real way. But there’s a tiny voice at the back of his mind that whispers that if anyone could, it’d be you. 

You tie off the line of stitches in a tiny little square knot, and reach for a roll of Curlex to wrap his hand in. You’re so small compared to his brutish size, your knees tucked between his spread legs. You’re not wearing shoes, just some thick knit socks pulled over your feet, slouchy and scrunched around your ankles. The size of your thigh compared to his has his mouth going dry. Delicate and built so finely – like a little bird. He wonders if your bones might be hollow like a sparrow’s too, if you’d fly away from him if he dared touch you, and at that thought, that dazed thought, he can’t help himself. He is a weak man, after all, when faced with something so fine, and as you wrap his hand in the bandage he sets two of his fingers over the curve of your knee, rests them there. You jolt slightly, and he stares, hypnotized, at the point of contact. He feels you pause your wrapping for one second, the burn of your gaze on his face, and then you resume your work. No comment, no admonishment. No… he doesn’t think you’d let anything distract you from your work, from what you’ve set your mind to. You seem like the type of person who once your mind has been fixed on something, you see it through to the end, no matter what. He admires that about you.

You reach for a vial of something, a syringe, a softly murmured, undo your shirt, but Joel is shocked frozen. His eyes glued to the place where he’s making contact with you. He hears the soft exhalation of your breath through your nostrils, and then you’re reaching forward to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. He looks up at you then, eyes focused on your task, brow scrunched, you drag your fingers over the skin of his chest, through the hair there, along his collarbone and over the thick hill of his shoulder as you push the fabric covering him back. You do not look up at him, but he thinks he might be able to feel the heat of your blood thrumming beneath your skin. He sits there and lets you do with him what you will. 

When you bring the syringe to the hard muscle of his upper arm, a murmured, small poke, he does not feel it. The needle sinking into his flesh is secondary to the texture of your knee beneath his two fingers. With only his index finger and thumb he circles the joint of your knee, sliding slowly over your soft leggings. You’re so warm here, it feels like the heat of you is singing the tips of his fingers. Good, you should always be warm, always be comfortable. Perhaps the heat in the house isn’t so bad after all. He thinks, for one fleeting moment, that perhaps he should take the burn as a flare of warning, do not touch, something this good and beautiful, is not for the likes of you. But if he’s honest, he couldn’t give a fuck. After all, Joel’s never been very good. He’s always been a little on this side of too violent, too angry, too fractured, too hungry. And now that he’s got his hands on you he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop. The thought of that, the truth he can feel in it, makes his bones hurt, but he is hypnotized. He grips you more firmly in his hand, squeezes gently to feel the soft give of you. You finish with your stabbing of him, fuss with the bandage some more, and he flexes his injured hand once, still watching the place where he’s touching you, feels the tightness of the stitching, but nothing hurts right now. It couldn’t. It feels like his very bones are on fire, flaming within the confines of his skin, but it still doesn’t hurt. You bring your hands to rest in your lap when you’re finally finished. It’s his turn now, and he slides his hand further up your thigh, squeezing gently as he goes until he reaches your arm and grips the bend of your elbow, mumbles your name softly, cups the sharp angle of it in his palm, slides down the underside of your forearm to your wrist where he drags his thumb over the lacework of blue-hued veins there, beneath the fragile membrane keeping you held together. He thinks that the inside of your wrist might just be the softest thing he’s ever felt in his whole life. 

He can sense the cadence of your breathing ricochet up to a hitched, nervous little stutter, and he finally looks up at you, his thumb still strumming that gentle stroke over the staccato of your pulse. He can feel the beat of your heart in your wrist and he wants to feel it against his tongue, wants to feel you pulse around his cock. Your gaze is fevered, manic, full of fire and a shout that sings, finally, finally, finally, you’re touching me, I’ve wanted this just as long as you have. He can see it in your gaze, and an understanding filled with a juxtaposing poignancy he can’t quite comprehend washes over him suddenly. He thinks he might’ve always understood you, from that first moment, that first sighting. There was something in you that called to him, and he’d tried to resist, as of yet, but he is about to fail spectacularly, to fall into you gloriously.

He wraps his other hand around your opposite knee and brings it up and over the wide expanse of his thigh, and then pulls you bodily into his lap. You let out a soft, perfect little gasp, and then you’re there, straddling him. Both of you pause for a second, taking each other in. Your eyes are so wide, a little wet, he thinks you might be a little overwhelmed by him, hopefully as overwhelmed as he is by you. The feel of your lush ass sitting over his cock has him going almost lightheaded for a second. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a woman, and for him to now make his return to physical intimacy with you, he needs to tread very, very carefully. 

You bring one soft, small palm up to his face and cup his cheek, and he thinks he says your name again, but he isn’t entirely sure. His mind’s gone away from him a little bit. He can see each individual, ridiculously long lash up close like this, the strange amalgamation of colors in your eyes, deep and swimming with wanting him – fucking Christ – he might unman himself right here and now, at that look in your eyes, the peeling, dryness of your soft, plush lips where you’ve chewed on the flesh in concentration. You cup his jaw, drag your short nails gently over the stubble on his cheek and through the thick of his beard. He listens to the soft thwick, thwick of your nails catching on his whiskers, and the both of you shudder at the feel in tandem. You have a way of shaking yourself, as if to loosen your muscles, and he thinks, yes, yes, he wants to be let in, this is his chance. He brings his hand up to cup your own jaw, the hollow architecture of the fine bones, his other hand slides down the slope of your spine to curve over the softness of your ass. “Open up, little thing. Let me kiss you,” he says, his voice is almost unrecognizable to himself, low and gravely. He’s sure you can hear the want in it. 

You give a short, wide-eyed nod, and he presses his mouth to yours – watches the flutter of those long lashes shut, he can feel them ghost against his cheeks as he kisses you. Like a bird’s wings. 

He takes your mouth in long, slow, wet sweeps; licks his tongue into you and tastes the sweet inside of your mouth, runs his tongue over the surface of yours.

I’m inside, I’m inside, I’m inside. 

His hand on your jaw slides to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugs your head back to open you to him, to deepen the kiss, to take you and taste you as deeply as possible, and you moan, drawn out and whining and for him. Your moans, like your words, end on a little lilt that sing to him, and at that sound he loses himself. He thinks you take him away from himself because he is suddenly made ravenous and of only tenuous control. He groans low in his own chest, his hand on your ass pressing you more firmly into his hard cock, grinds the searing heat between your legs into himself. “W– wanted this for so – for so long,” he presses wet kisses into the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your neck, pulls the neck of your flannel to the side to lick into the dip of your clavicle. He undoes the first two buttons of your shirt, the tops of your breasts, the flawless skin, the soft contours of you – “Too beautiful for your own damn good,” he growls, pulls you tighter against himself, you’re not going fucking anywhere. 

He wants to keep you. 

He lifts to his feet then, suddenly, taking you with him, gripping you beneath your thighs to wrap you around his waist, and with one brash hand, he sweeps the papers and books off your desk, hears the clatter of your instruments hit the ground, and plants your ass down on the edge of your desk, grips your jaw to hunch over you and eat at your mouth. Your fingers tug at his hair and beard and open shirt, trying to pull him closer to you, your knees hiking up on either side of his waist to press the heels of your socked feet into the base of his spine. 

“Me too, Joel. Me too. Thought it’d never– never happen,” you pant into his mouth, claw harder at him. 

And fuck, to hear that you’ve been waiting for this, waiting for him to come and take you for himself. If he was not already a thing made of thrumming, uncontrolled energy, then he most certainly is now. You pause to look up at him then, a momentary respite of your frantic clawing, and you give him the sweetest curve of a small smile, the moment so private, so acutely intimate, it makes his knees shake.

You move to reach for his belt, but he holds you at bay, taking both your wrists in his grasp and pressing your hands back to the desk, forcing you to lean backwards so that he can kiss at your neck, taste your skin, he nudges his nose beneath the collar of your shirt to get at your clavicle, bites the strap of your bra between his teeth to drag it over your shoulder. “Baby, if you touch me now, this’ll be over before it’s even began.” He bites into the thin muscles of your neck, and you keen for him, sucks a mark into your skin he hopes you’ll wear for days. He wants you marked and branded by him. Your knees hitch higher at his sides and you press your heels into the small of his back, grinding yourself against the line of his cock. You let out a breathy, urgent sort of noise, rolling your little cunt as best as you can against him with your hands restrained as he’s got you. “You want that?” he grunts, giving you more pressure with his hips. Please, please, please, you’re full of the most delicious sort of supplications, and you’re so pretty and so desperate for his cock, and he must handle you with care. 

“M’gonna eat your cunt, sweet girl.” You whine low. He pulls back to take you in, glassy eyes and a deep flush starting at your chest and sneaking up the column of your throat. He tucks his fingers into the cups of your bra and scoops your breasts out. Fuckin’ gorgeous, bends his head to suck one perfect nipple into his mouth and pulls hard on it, enjoys the song of your mewling. He nips gently at the sensitive bud, gives the other one the same adoring attention, and then drops to his haunches before you. The look in your eyes is slightly manic, maybe a little apprehensive. “It’s alright, don’t be scared. Gotta get you ready for me.” All you do is nod. He hooks his fingers under your waist band and starts to slowly drag your leggings and panties down your legs, pulling one foot out, not bothering with the other. One of his hands slides slowly up the back of your calf, the other pulling your leg over his shoulder and spreads you wide by the bend of your knee. Exposing you to him completely. He groans low in his throat, “Knew you’d be beautiful, but I didn’t expect this.” He looks up at you.

“Joel–”

“Yeah…” He leans forward and presses his tongue into your slit, dragging slowly up towards your clit. He thinks he must growl like some sort of animal because you let out a breathy little hiccup, nervous and stuttered and try and press your knee in his grip closed. Nuh uh, he mumbles into your skin, grips you more tightly. He focuses on your clit, kissing and petting at it with his tongue, brings his other hand up to press gently at your entrance. You’re fucking small here, he begins to push a single finger inside and you start to really unravel at that, fucking tight too. He can’t wait to shove his cock into this tight, wet heat. He gives you his entire finger to the knuckle, drinking down your slick, holds there for a moment, and then begins to add a second finger, pumping them slowly, making room for himself inside of you. He scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist slightly from side to side, stretching you in new ways with each careful thrust. Slow and methodical and precise, ever aware that he is handling a delicate thing right now. He watches your face, your eyes flutter closed, your hips tilting to welcome his hand as he fucks you open. All the while he continues to lick and kiss your clit. His fingers find that spongy, sensitive spot inside of you, and you keen as he starts to pet at it, hooking his fingers and beckoning your orgasm forth. He feels your muscles begin to quicken, your head falling back on your neck as your flushed tits heave, trussed up as they are in your bra, and you're so slick, you’re melting down his fingers and into his palm, sweet and salty and musky. And you start to come for him, whining low and needy, your knee hitching up by his ear to press your little foot into the meat of his shoulder, trying to push him away and sit on his face at the same time. You tilt your hips further and roll your pulsing cunt onto his face. Goddamn, you’re fucking beautiful. He is mesmerized. His eyes never leaving your face as your gush all over his face and open mouth. He drinks it all up, licking and sucking and kissing, all while his fingers continue to work you through the contractions of your orgasm. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, you sing his name for him like a little bird. 

When the throbbing pulses have finally gentled he surges to his feet, licking his palm clean of your slick before he presses his mouth to yours and lets you taste yourself on his tongue. He undoes his belt and frees himself. Thick, brutish cock, the swollen head is an angry shade of red verging on purple, precum leaking from the slit. The fat head of it compared to your tiny, fluttering hole is obscene. The threads of his control snap in slow motion, one by one by one, and when you look down to take him in, the size of him, your eyes go big and round and that little foot is back, toeing at him to futilely press yourself away from him. He circles his fist around the thick length as he presses the head to your swollen clit, starts to slide the underside slowly through your wet cleft. 

“No, no, no, no, Joel. That– it isn’t going to fit. No– it’s too big.”

“It’ll fit. I’ll be gentle, don’t worry.” He presses the head into your clit again, hard, and you whimper. “Have you done this before, sweet girl?” Your blush flames even brighter if possible, and he watches the fluttering of those long lashes as you say quietly, “Once,” looking down at where the two of you make contact. One of your small hands has snaked up to grip at his shirt and anchor yourself to him. 

He slides one hand under your thigh to lift you while he lines himself up with the other, and then slowly starts to press inside. And fuck, so, so tight, your walls still slightly fluttering and trembling from your orgasm, hot as sin– “Jesus Christ–” he grits. He holds for one second, only halfway in, but no, no, it’s too much. “Shit, baby. This– This isn’t going to last very long, I’m sorry,” and then grips your ass and shoves all the way inside, hard, almost brutally, all the way to the end of you. You keen high and breathless, clawing at his shirt and skin as he feels you pulse and struggle around him, your muscles working to accommodate his size inside of you. He feels his tip bump your cervix, and he grinds there for a moment. Fucking Christ. 

“It’s too much, it’s too much, please, Joel – I can’t.” There are tears in your eyes. His cock makes you fucking cry, and he likes it, and he wants more. 

“You’re alright, you can take it,” he soothes, pulls out and then shoves back in. You’re impossibly wet, the slick, sucking sound of your pussy trying to keep him inside resounds in the quiet office. He starts to fuck you hard, in even measured strokes. You have to come on his cock. You have to, he has to feel it. “Easy now, settle. Yeah… just like that. Good girl.” Your wet eyes glisten with tears and your mouth hangs open, panting. You’re trembling, the much smaller body trying to force itself to take something so much bigger and remain intact, but he bends his knees and angles his thrusts up to fuck into your g-spot, and he starts to feel the fluttering of your overwhelmed muscles begin to quicken for him again. 

“Christ, you’re huge,” you squeeze your eyes shut, head falling back on your neck, and a single tear rolls down the smooth slope of your cheek. He bends forward to lick it up, fucking animal, and then licks into your mouth, tasting all that glorious desperation. When he pulls back he watches the fat base of his cock stretching you, red cunt, swollen and split down the middle obscenely. He’s sure your little hole is gonna gape for him once he’s done with it. The sight is so fucking pornographic he begins to feel his heavy balls tighten, a searing heat pooling at the base of his spine. 

“You’ve gotta fuckin’ come for me.” He bends to bite the swinging weight of your tit, sucks hard at your nipple as he starts to thrum at your engorged clit. Your hand twists in his hair, the other supporting your weight behind you. You start to roll into his thrusts, and he can’t hold it anymore, he can’t. He wraps a hand around your throat, stiffens and shoves hard and deep, an animal sound ripping from his throat as he feels you clamp down on him, his fist coming down hard on the desk beside you as he growls the start of your name between clenched teeth that turns into a guttural wordless snarl. He doesn’t even try to stop himself when he feels his balls pull up, almost painfully, and he starts to fill the wet heat of your cunt with his come, marking you as his. Fucking his. 

Your contracting muscles pull his spend deep into your womb, and you sing breathy, little sighs of gratitude right into the shell of his ear, heaving tits pressed up against his chest. He dips his chin to lick at the soft mounds and pulls out to spurt the last thick stream of come over your swollen folds. He rubs the spend into your clit with his thumb, pushes the little white trickle into your fluttering hole – he was right, it is gaping for him. His head feels trapped underwater and there’s a rushing noise in his ears. And then a terrible sort of bliss ruining realization settles over him, fuck, how careless can he be, filling you up like this. 

-

His limbs seem to snap with horrified realization. “Shit,” he spits, pulls away from your grasping fingers so quickly you’re forced to catch yourself on the edge of the desk without his support. “I– I’m sorry– I shoulda asked before. I shoulda pulled out, I’m sorry.” He turns slightly to tuck his wet cock back into his jeans, do up the buttons of his open shirt, and you slide off the edge of the desk onto shaky legs, bracing yourself on your chair to keep upright. Your knees knock together pathetically. 

“It’s– it’s okay. My period’s in a few days. We’re okay.” We. You flinch slightly at the word. There is no we in this situation between the two of you. The look on his face is making that painfully obvious. There’s a light in his eye that gleams peculiarly of anger – of fury. That seems to demand: how dare you make me feel like this, how dare you tempt me like this, how dare this thing we’ve both wanted for so long feel so good. Because it had, it had felt so, so good. 

The awareness of the emptiness he’s left in his wake at his withdrawal is almost painful. You feel stretched thin and filled to the brim at the same time. He’d filled you impossibly full, ramming up against your cervix, and then somehow seemingly pressing even deeper. You’re going to be sore for days. Your flannel is long, reaches mid thigh, hiding the vulnerable sight of your used sex from his eyes, but you can feel his come start to slowly seep out of you. 

He runs his hand through his unruly curls, over his mouth and beard. He’s facing slightly away from you, as if he can’t bear to look at you, and the sight of him like this, fucking coward, almost regretful or embarrassed makes a small pinch of hurt and anger curdle in your gut.

“Are you– was that okay?” he asks softly. You push your leggings and panties off your ankle with your other foot, wrap your arms around yourself. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you say quietly. You think you almost see him flinch at the sound of your words. 

“Alright… okay–” he swallows. “Okay. That– that was the only time. Alright? That– that can’t happen again. I can’t – I’m not lookin’ to start anything up.”

“Okay.” What else is there to say? You can lie to yourself and say that once will be enough. That you can survive on only one time. You’ve always been very good at lying to yourself. 

He nods once. He’s so uncomfortable, and it makes you angry, nods again, “Alright. Good. I’m sorry again… and thank you,” he lifts up his wrapped hand. 

“Sure, Joel.” He turns and stalks towards the door, but pauses when he reaches it, seems to shuffle back and forth, weighing his options – the risk – and then turns, stalks back to you and takes you in hand. He wraps one large palm around your face, from your cheek to cup the curve of your jaw. The tip of his index finger presses into the outer curve of your orbital bone, his thumb on the edge of your mandible to angle your face up towards him, the other at the small of your back to press you up and into him, “Lemme just… I just want to–” he mumbles and takes your mouth with is. He licks into you, a soft groan of appreciation, of hunger, rumbling out of him. He likes the taste of you, he likes the feel of you, you know he does, even if he wants to pretend at recalcitrance. 

He is a thrumming effigy under your hands. There is something immensely sad and vital simmering just underneath the surface of his skin, and you think: he is so important. You know it now, right now, perhaps, since the first moment you’d set eyes on him. It feels like he owns you – already, in this instant – like he always has, and he’s just been biding his time, an apex predator toying with its food before he decides to gorge himself. You moan into his kiss, let yourself go soft and pliant, sceding all control, all of your will to him. He pulls back, tucks his thumb beneath the cleft of your chin to tilt your head back and peer into your eyes. 

“Sure…” he murmurs. He goes after that, out into the dark night. You stand at your window and watch the span of his broad back as he walks away, the wet feel of him sliding down the insides of your thighs, and you think that you might become quite a monstrous thing under the guiding hand of this desperate want, this terrifying loneliness that seems to abate only in his presence. 

-

He’s on your front porch two nights later, that was the only time, yeah, sure, urging you backwards as soon as you’ve got the door open, his hands in your hair and his tongue in your mouth with a rumbled, just one more time. Taking you for himself, once again. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[mal-urameshi]

Riri is oblivious to the fact that Shuri is in love with her,Mama Okoye has to give her hints and help her figure it out 😅

Chronicles of Mama Okoye and Riri! XVII 🌿

Gentle Guidance.

Okoye considered herself to be a very supportive mother. Anything Riri put her mind to and or expressed interest in, Okoye was behind her 100%.

Whether that be her bringing back foreign parts for one of Riri’s more…eccentric inventions, or being there for moral support while simultaneously worrying and asking Riri several hundred times in the backyard if her suit was not going to blow up with her in it. 

Even when Riri expressed to get the experience of jumping off a cliff, she supported it. Making sure there was a body of water to cushion her fall, of course. 

Even the little crush…or should she say gigantic crush on her longtime best friend, Shuri. Okoye supported it. It was quite adorable to say the least. 

And it was no secret that Shuri was unabashedly head over heels for her daughter. You’d have to be blind to not see it. Or at least be named Riri.

Even though her daughter was a genius, she still fell short in some places as people do. And that was the feelings department. It was so glaringly obvious in the way they were around each other that their feelings were reciprocated. But she gave them some leeway. Teenagers could be so…clueless. 

Okoye didn’t meddle much in her child’s affairs with her friend more than she had to. When Shuri comes over, she makes sure to entertain her as usual. Food, drinks, snacks for the girls. Make sure she’s comfortable. Join in on their conversations from time to time and have a good laugh. But usually the girls were left to their own devices.

But Bast. As Okoye leaned on the kitchen island and stared at their interaction in the living room, it was honestly painful how oblivious those girls were about each other’s feelings. They were literally flustered in each other’s presence.

Shuri couldn’t stop smiling and giggling at what Riri was saying. And Riri was eating up the attention Shuri was giving her, playing with her braids and refusing to break eye contact. Not to mention the close proximity they refused to embiggen. 

Now, again, she will give them some leeway because to them, this is no different from all the times they’ve hung out with each other in the past. Doing almost everything together and attached at the hip way before their pre-teen years. So potential romantic feelings they have for each other most definitely is not on their radar.

Okoye wasn’t one to meddle, but she figured steering her child in the right direction couldn’t hurt. The good ole lumping them together for bonding time definitely wasn’t going to work as they were as blind as a bat to one another’s affections. So she had to get creative.

Riri stood on the porch and hugged Shuri extra tight in goodbye, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Not even a question. You know I always look forward to seeing you.” Shuri grinned as they pulled away. 

“Bye.” Riri waved as Shuri and the Doras started their walk back home.

“Bye!” Shuri waved Riri back as she walked backward before tripping over her feet and almost falling down.

“Your pigeon toes turned against you!” Riri laughed as she leaned against the banister.

“If you’re jealous of my height, just say so!” Shuri shouted back before turning forward again.

Riri looked on until Shuri and the Doras disappeared in the distance before returning inside.

Okoye had taken her place on the couch and Riri joined her. Plopped herself on her lap, actually.

“You want to break my legs.” Okoye groaned as Riri adjusted herself on her thighs to get more comfy.

“I’m barely 114 pounds. You put more than that all the time on your thighs. Don’t play that. Gonna give me body image issues and everything.” Riri joked.

“Please. In your dreams.” Okoye grinned.

Okoye looked at Riri who was now fiddling on her beads, looking up those Youtube videos and laughing at something called ‘Vine.’ For the life of her she didn’t get children sometimes.

“So, Riri. Shuri seemed extra happy around you today, don’t you think?” Okoye began her mission.

Riri scrolled through her feed, “Yes. But she’s always happy, you know this.. Besides, why wouldn’t she be happy around me? I’m her best friend. She better be all smiles around me.”

Okoye had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Bast, give her strength. She has to spin another angle.

Riri had just gotten off of a call with Shuri and her mood was elevated. She spun into the kitchen and opened the fridge to get herself some juice. She then danced her way until she got to the back porch where she saw her mother swinging on the hammock while enjoying some ice cream.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Riri extracted the cup of ice cream from Okoye’s hold and replaced it with her juice before sitting down on the wooden floor.

Used to being taken advantage of by her only child, Okoye just sipped her juice in silence. 

“Shuri invited me for a sleepover, Mama. Can I go?” She asked as she put a spoonful of the treat in her mouth.

“Yes, you may go.” Okoye consented, “Tell me, what do you do at your sleepovers with SHuri?”

“Uh, the usual.” Riri shrugged, “Eat a bunch of junk. Play pranks on her brother. Play around in her personal lab. Marathon shows on BET.”

“Do you talk about girls? And your feelings?”

Riri made a face, “Where’s this coming from?” Riri shook her head, “I don’t think we ever talked about that though.”

“Isn’t that what normal teenagers do though? Gush about crushes and such? I’m just curious is all.”

Riri jutted out her lip, “Hm… I never really thought about it…or never really wanted to think about it.” Because the thought of Shuri liking somebody else would be too much.

“So you were never curious about her type?”

“She likes Keke Palmer. And Coco Jones. H.E.R, Marsai Martin.” She ate another spoonful of ice cream.

“Do you think you’d be her type? A good portion of those girl are short.”

Riri choked on her spoon, “Mama!”

“What! I am just asking!” Okoye chuckled and used her hanging leg to rock herself some more.

Riri quieted, she never entertained that thought either, “Me? Shuri’s type? Shuri wouldn't even look at me in that way, much less be her ideal type.”

“So you don’t think Shuri could have feelings for you? Even the slightest possibility?” Okoye lightly pressed.

“She just sees me as a friend. Maybe…even like a sister?”

“But has she ever referred to you as her sister before?”

“No, but that’s probably what she thinks of me. Like a fun little sis.” Riri frowned.

Oh boy. Her daughter was more than blind.

Shuri was over to see Riri again today; they were making a more extravagant version of the American’s paper mache, baking soda volcanoes. The one they made was four feet tall and seven feet in width.

“You got the glacial acetic acid?” Riri grinned behind her mask.

“It can’t explode without it. You have the hydrogen peroxide and soap?”

“Oh, yea! The gunpowder is settled at the bottom too! Let’s fuck some shit up!”

Shuri and Riri made sure that the vibranium tarp covered the estimated surface area the liquid would erupt over. Just so they wouldn’t get chewed out by Okoye for messing up the lawn.

The girls poured the chemicals into the volcano and hastily made a run for it before it blew up.

They both ducked for cover as a loud bang permeated their ears before red suds spewed from the volcanic crater. 

“It is magnificent!”

“YO!! It’s smoking too!”

“We are the baddest of asses!” Shuri high fived Riri.

“Will you ever stop joking like that?” Riri laughed at Shuri’s purposeful botching of the phrase.

Okoye came outside to see the volcano the girls spent the better part of the morning constructing, smoking and still spewing red suds.

“Ma! Careful cover your mouth!”

Okoye was already a step ahead, as she put on her mask so her lungs wouldn’t collapse due to the girls’ shenanigans. She looked at the girls who dissolved into laughter on the grass. They checked their beads to make sure that everything was recorded.

“Ma! You have to check this footage! It’s amazing!” Riri leaned into Shuri as she rewinded the video for the third time.

“Riri is a genius! The gunpowder definitely was an excellent touch!”

Okoye smiled and she leaned on the banister, “Riri is definitely smart, you’re correct Shuri. Did she suggest anything else to make this experiment a success?”

“She was the one that brought it up, actually!” Shuri grabbed Riri’s shoulders and gently shook them while grinning at Okoye, “She said that we could definitely do something better than those lame American science fair projects and we got to work!”

Shuri cradled the sides of Riri’s head and pressed their foreheads together, “She has a big beautiful brain!” 

“She does, doesn’t she?” Okoye smiled at the interaction.

Riri gripped the blades of grass for dear life with the way Shuri was holding her face the way she did. Ugh! And all those compliments. She felt heat rise in her face.

“Riri? Are you okay?” Shuri placed her palm against the side of Riri’s neck and gently cupped her face, “You feel a bit warm. Is the chemical reaction irritating you?”

“Come inside, girls. All that excitement has you famished I’m sure.” She gestured for them to come inside.

Shuri held Riri’s hand as they walked into the house,  “You have any fruit punch, Okoye? You know that’s Riri’s favorite.”

“Of course! It’s right there on the table.”

Riri still was trying to get herself under control. That was just how Shuri usually was. She rubbed her cheek that Shuri just held.

Shuri poured the pitcher of juice into the glass and handed it to Riri who gulped down the whole glass.

“You girls always made such a good team.” Okoye glanced between the both of them.

Shuri smiled as her eyes darted over to Riri, “Yes. We always did. She just gets me and I get her. It’s like…this unspoken connection we have.”

Riri glanced over to Shuri who was fiddling with her thumbs.

“Oh, really? Huh. Do you ever think there is something more to it?” Okoye placed some snacks on the table.

“More…?” Shuri felt herself sweat but this time she didn’t look at Riri. Shit.

“To the connection you have. You know, a deeper meaning behind it. To why it is unspoken”

Riri looked at Shuri and then her Mother. What the hell was her mother doing?

“You care about her a lot, don’t you Shuri? What’s the matter?” Okoye chuckled lightheartedly as she took the pitcher up and poured her own glass, making her tone sound indifferent. 

“Of course I do, Okoye! I love Ri-” Shuri swallowed her tongue and slapped a hand over her mouth with bulging eyes.

No. No. No!

Shuri looked over to Riri in horror.

Okoye took that as her cue to leave as she sipped on her glass. She didn’t expect Shuri to fold that hard. All she did was query the bond. 

The girls didn’t even register Okoye’s exit because they were lost in each other’s gaze.

“Riri, I’m so, so sorry.” Shuri held up a palm and put some space between them on the couch. She didn’t expect it to come out like that. No!

Shuri liked her? “You like me? Well…love?”

Shuri cringed and dropped her head into her open palm before raising it again to regard Riri.

“Yes. But I didn’t intend to tell you. Ever. Because I didn’t want anything between us to change...”

“I like you too.”

“And I didn’t want you to feel weird around me. Just being around you and being friends forever was enough for me. Because I love being in your company….”

“I like you too, Shuri.”

“And I don’t want that to-” It finally registered to Shuri what Riri said.

“I love you too.” She sighed, “It’s been a while now. You know, having these feelings.”

Riri didn’t even register the words coming out of her mouth right then. It feels like everything was happening in hyper-speed and slow motion all at once.

“I didn’t think you’d ever like me in that way. I didn’t even think I was your type.”

“Smart girls named Riri are definitely my type.” Shuri giggled.

Riri shifted closer to Shuri and held a hand over hers that had a deathgrip on the couch.

“So…”

“Will you be my girlfriend.” Shuri blurted out.

Riri snorted out loud, “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Because I felt it in my bones that you were going to ask me so I had to beat you to it!” She poked Riri’s sides.

“Bruh how are you so sure?” I probably was going to ask something else.

“Nope! I just know you were going to be like,” She put on her best Riri voice, “‘Will you be my girl?’”

“Nah! Nah! Don’t do me like that!”

“Yes! You said a few years ago if you ever ask a girl to be official, you’d be like,” Shuri gave Riri a smoldering look, “Will you be my girl?”

Riri shoved Shuri, “Oh my God. Now you have me feeling all embarrassed.”

Shuri fell into Riri’s side with laughter. She wiped her eyes and calmed herself down, “So?”

Riri huffed with a smile, “Yes, I’ll be your girl.”

Shuri jumped up and fistpumped, “Yes! I bagged a girlfriend! I have a girlfriend!”

Riri jumped up and did her own little dancey dance along with Shuri, “I caught a wild Shuri and I didn’t even need a Master Ball!” She mimicked throwing a Pokeball.

Shuri, not being able to contain herself pulled Riri in a hug. “I love you. A lot. So much I feel like my heart is going to explode.”

Riri returned the hug, “I could die right now and transition over to the Ancestral Plane and I’d have no regrets. And…I love you more.”

“Well I love you most.”

“I love you more than most.”

“I love you times infinity and beyond.”

Riri groaned with a laugh, “Not you quoting Buzz Lightyear.”

Okoye looked on at the spectacle from her place at the kitchen island, mentally patting herself on the back, “Aneka would be proud of me for not minding my business.”

Taggies: @somethingcleaverandwhitty @karimwillia @neptoons1998 @pantherheart

[carbo-ships]

The Experiment (Ardis x Aether) Masterlist

An angel named Ardis has been sent to live with the ghouls to test her mettle. Aether thinks her crush on him might be what secures his side the victory. (AO3 Link)

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Alternate route diverts here: Post Hoc AU

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Drabbles (AO3 Link)

Introducing Plushia

Plushia's Nightmare

Good-Night Kiss

Sweet Nothings

Sodo on Duty

Vampire AU: Hunter's Moon

Vampire AU: Ghouls' Night Out

Part 2

Christmas

[oraclekleo]

Hello! If it's possible, may you do a sweet romance between me and Lee Know from stray kids, please? Of it's not, may you do a tarot reading about my future career? My zodiac sun sing is leo, rising leo and moon is aries. My Chinese zodiac sign is horse. My personal arcane is a Emperor, my life way's Arcane is a devil. Thank you ❤️

Hello!

First of all, if you want the sweet romance reading with Lee Know, it's for free now and you can fill the form for it, visit the link:

Book a Tarot Reading (Paid) Instructions (SPECIAL FREE OFFERS AVAILABLE)

Now! Your future career! Let's see...

Future Career Tarot Reading

@teensunshine

Cards: XXXIX The Temple (The Wild Unknown Archetypes), 7. The Rebel (The Oracle of Roses), 3 of Swords, XVII The Star, XI Justice, Page of Cups (The Everyday Witch Tarot), Knight of Cups, 10 of Coins, VII The Chariot

Interpretation:

It’s interesting how your astrology placements are fiery but this reading has more air related cards. It can mean that your career is likely to truly fuel your life in a way, you might even slip into workaholism at a certain point. Make sure to keep the balance between work and fun and don’t push yourself too hard as it could result in exhaustion or burn out.

This was the first thing I noticed but there’s more. It looks like you might be affected by your past when considering your future career. Maybe you are tempted to go for the safe and tried path, rather than risking following your own desires. Maybe people around you are advising you to choose a career that’s most likely to secure you financially but I can also see in the cards that you are hesitant to accept this. Maybe your own dream job is something less secure but more aligned with your heart’s desires. The Star card could speak of social work, the Justice card could mean legal business. Maybe you are studying the law and while your friends and family advise you to make a career in the private, highly paying sector, you would prefer to fight for the vulnerable people as public defence or as a social worker?

I can see a lot of sensitivity towards others while you have the ability to not let their issues crush you. That’s a very good talent to have and maybe you are considering a career as a therapist.

The cards are advising you to follow your instincts when choosing a career for yourself. Job is a major part of most people’s lives and just imagine you would end up doing something you don’t enjoy at all. People might be calling you naive (like the Page of Cups) but you’re a visionary if anything. If you are able to honour your own gut feeling and intuition, and rebel a little bit against the society’s expectations, you are likely to succeed. The Chariot card is telling you that it’s not going to be a walk in rose garden all the time but the 10 of Coins speak of deep value you might gain, not only monetary (though it’s also one of the meanings) but you could become a true asset to the society and your community through your work. The Star card is a reassurance, there’s hope for you. Be true, act with dignity and integrity because you will reap what you sow.

This is the message I get from the cards. Feel free to give me your feedback, I'm always happy to hear from my followers, no matter whether it's critics or praises. 😊

Thank you so much for putting your trust in me and I hope the reading is at least a tiny bit helpful for you.

Please, be sure not to base important life decisions on a tarot reading only. Your faith is always in your hands and when you receive a reading, you can always decide whether you will continue with the path mentioned in it, or whether you change direction.

Be blessed and best of luck with your productive life!

Kleo 🦄

[rollingsins]

all hers, part viii

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Wes is acting weird. Weirder than usual. Ghostface!Tara

warnings: (+18), ghostface!tara, possessive behaviors, murder of an established character. 

word count: 4k

a/n: peep the murder warning for this one, thought we’d get stabby again ;) as always, thanks so much for the love and let me know what you want to see next!

Wes is acting weird. Weirder than usual. 

You’ve felt it ever since the night of Amber’s party. He had always been one of Tara’s quieter friends. Shy, almost. But he was sweet, and he’d always had a lot in common with Tara. They both liked those awful, gory horror movies. Video-games. They had the same taste in food and in books. In fact, out of all of Tara’s friends, you think you liked Wes the most. He’d been the first to welcome you into the group when you’d started dating Tara, and he always went out of his way to make you feel like you belonged. 

But over the past week he’d been acting even stranger. 

It had started in the cafeteria on Monday, when you’d arrived late to lunch and climbed into your usual spot in Tara’s lap. He’d watched you close as you’d kissed her softly, fed her the last of your grapes. He was just lonely, you figured. He wanted a girlfriend of his own, maybe. 

But then Tuesday he’d looked down at your entwined hands in the hall and made a face. Something you couldn’t quite place in his expression. 

Wednesday he’d left the table the moment you and Tara sat down. 

And Thursday he spent the entire biology lesson staring at the back of Tara’s head. And something clicked. 

“Wes has a crush on you.” You tell Tara that night. She’s in the kitchen, one hand stirring the potatoes, the other minding the chicken. You’d been thinking about it all afternoon. Stewing about it all afternoon. The idea of him and her made your stomach writhe with hot, wanton jealousy. 

Tara looks up at you for a moment. Then, she quirks her eyebrow and snorts. 

“It’s not funny.” You tell her, smacking her arm gently. 

“Why on earth would you think that?” She asks. She’s amused, you can tell by the sparkle in her eyes. You’re not laughing. 

“I caught him staring at you today.” You say, “All through biology. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

She stirs the chicken, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Maybe he was daydreaming.” She suggests, a little wry. 

“Babe. He wasn’t daydreaming. He was staring. He has a crush on you.” 

Tara puts down her spoon, reaches for you. 

“Wes doesn’t have a crush on me,” Tara assures. She pulls you into her, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “He’s like my brother. You have nothing to worry about.” 

She makes her point with a kiss. Strokes the hair out of your eyes. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” You mumble. You feel hot, a little tingly. It had been hard for you at first to understand why Tara got so angry when she thought someone liked you. You think you understand it now. Anger burns under your skin. Anger towards him. 

“Stop worrying.” She kisses you once more. Retracts to go back to her cooking, “Wes is harmless. And he doesn’t like me. I’ve known him forever.” 

It feels unfair, the way she’s allowed to brush this off so easily. Your mind can’t help but wander. Dan. Sam. Sadie. Chase. Amber. All with one thing in common. 

“If he had a crush on me, you’d have killed him by now.” You don’t often bring it up, the elephant in the room. It was unspoken between you. Like if you didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist. 

Tara looks up at you. She isn’t smiling anymore.  

“That’s different.” She says, quiet. Your lip twitches. 

“How?” 

“You know how.” 

You do know how. She’d explained it, one night when you were entwined and your curiosity had gotten the better of you. The Rage, she’d called it. She described the feeling. Hot, ever-present, like burning bright fury coursing through her veins. 

“Well, maybe that’s how I’m feeling right now.” 

It feels like a low blow, the moment the words leave your lips. If you were honest, you had no idea what The Rage felt like. This was something different. Something less. Insecurity, maybe. Jealousy. You didn’t want Wes thinking of your girlfriend the way only you were supposed to. 

“So what are you saying?” Tara asks, “You want to kill him? You want me to kill him?”

You hesitate a moment. 

“No. Of course not.”

“Good.” She says. There’s tension in her shoulders. She stirs the potatoes, a little more violently, “Because I won’t. He’s my friend.” 

She points her spatula at you, accusingly, “And besides, you made me promise-”

“I know.” You cut her off. Rub your eyes, “I’m sorry. Forget it. I don’t know why I said that.” 

You lean into her, press your forehead to her shoulder. She’s tense. You press your lips to the back of her neck, trying to soothe her. Trying to apologize. 

“You’re right, he was probably daydreaming.” You say and she relaxes. 

Wes isn’t in school the next day. It’s still there in the back of your mind, the idea that he wants your girlfriend. You try to shake it, the horrible feeling of suspicion that seeps into your bones. He has no chance with her even if he does like her, you tell yourself, She loves you. She wants you. 

If nothing else you can believe that. 

It’s Friday, date night, and Tara’s taking you out to a new place that opened up a couple of towns over. You want to wear something special, look nice for her, so you insist she drives you back to your house so you can grab your outfit after school. She parks in her usual spot, down a small side street so your dad doesn’t see her and switches off the engine. 

“I’ll only be five minutes.” You tell her, leaning over the console of the car to kiss her, “Thanks, baby.” 

And you exit the car and dash up to the house.  

Your dad isn’t home, a small blessing, so you make your way upstairs and rifle through your closet, looking for the dress you want. 

Not a minute later, someone is ringing your doorbell. 

When you answer, it’s Wes standing at the door. 

He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. He’s jittery, nervous. He swallows when he sees you. 

“YN.” His voice is serious, “Can I come in?” 

This is it, you think as he plays with the can of soda you’ve offered him, he’s about to tell me he’s going to make a play for my girlfriend. 

He’s refused your offer to sit down so you stand, watching as he paces back and forth through your kitchen. 

Your stomach writhes, that familiar feeling of jealousy sinking in. 

Tara will rebuff him. 

It’s that voice in your head, trying to calm you. 

But then again, what if she doesn’t?

Wes sits. Flattens his hands on the table. His knee is bouncing, nervous. He looks as though he might throw up. 

“I have to tell you something.” 

You blink back at him. Grit your teeth. 

“Alright.” 

You wait, but he takes a minute. Decent of him to pay you a visit, you think briefly, as decent as a person could be when he’s about to try and steal your girlfriend from you. Your mind flashes to all those times he’d been with her alone. Taking her to the cinema to watch whatever latest slasher was showing. Talking for hours with her about the importance of elevated horror over a plate of fries at the local diner. You wonder if that’s how he’d fallen for her. A beautiful girl talking animatedly with him about a bunch of teenagers who’d been carved up by a masked killer. 

If only he knew.  

“I don’t want you to freak out.” Wes says. His eyes are wide, earnest. “I’ve thought really long and hard about this and I wanted to come here first. You deserve the truth.” 

He runs a hand through his bleached hair. He’s handsome, you suppose. You could see the appeal. They’d make an attractive couple. Your heart clenches painfully at the thought. 

Tara loves you. Tara’s killed for you. Tara doesn’t want him. 

The voice is back. You’re grateful for it. Wes could tell Tara he wanted her until he was blue in the face, it wouldn’t make a lick of a difference. 

“Wes-” You say. You think for a moment, trying to pick your words carefully, “I know what you’re going to say. And-”

“You don’t.” Wes says. His leg is bouncing again, “Please, YN. I need to get this out now or I won’t be able to say it.”  

You stare. 

“Do you remember that party a few weeks back? The night Amber died?” His voice is shaky, uneven. You frown. That’s when Wes realized he was in love with Tara? The night one of his best friends was being murdered? 

“Of course.” You say. 

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You look down at it, see Tara’s name flash across the screen. 

almost done babygirl? not getting any younger over here. 

“Is that Tara? Don’t answer it.” Wes says, voice urgent. “Please.” 

You put your phone on the counter. 

“Wes, I have dinner reservations. Whatever you need to say-” 

“My mom has this theory.” He interrupts, “I’ve overheard her talking about before. The attacks, they’re not random. They’re all connected.” 

Something niggles at you in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’m confused.” You say, “What are we talking about?”

“Amber made a pass at you that night.” Wes continues on as if he didn’t hear you, “In front of all of us, do you remember?”

Your stomach flips. Wes is staring at you, his eyes wild. Suddenly, you think you’ve got everything wrong. 

“Yes.” You say, voice low, “So what?” 

“Sadie was your ex-girlfriend. Chase was your best friend.” Wes says, “Everyone knew he liked you. Including Tara.” 

The room’s getting smaller, closing in. You press your hand to the counter, suddenly wishing you’d sat down. 

“The other two - I don’t know, maybe they liked you. Maybe you had a thing with one of them at some point.” He’s rambling but you can barely hear him. “I think they were killed because they liked you. Same with Sadie, same with Chase, same with Amber.” 

The blood’s rushing to your head. You grip the counter so hard your fingers turn white. 

Wes doesn’t seem to notice. He takes another shaky breath, looks you straight in the eyes. 

“I think Ghostface is killing people who are connected to you.” He says. “YN, I think Tara is Ghostface.”

The room spins. The hair on the back of your neck rises tall. Every atom in your body courses thick, fast, in a mesh of panic and fear and confusion. 

He knows. 

His eyes are wide, desperate to convince you. 

“Please don’t panic.” He says. He rises, reaches for you. His hands press hard around your forearms. Your face is white, he must see how you look as if you might pass out. 

“I know it sounds crazy. I know it’s a shock. But I’m certain. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t certain.” 

Your mouth opens, then closes. You have questions, so many questions. You want to know how he knows, what he knows. You want to know everything. You don’t know how to ask. 

“Have you told anyone else?” The most pressing question spills from your mouth before you can stop it. His mom is the sheriff, god, his mom is the sheriff. If she knows it’s over. Tara will be in a cell by sunset. 

He shakes his head, wildly, “No. I wanted to come to you first. I wanted to keep you away from her before she could hurt you too.” 

You exhale. You can’t hide your relief. He catches it, his eyes knit tight in confusion. 

“YN, do you understand what I just told you? Tara is Ghostface.” 

You take a breath. Look him in the eye. Wes is sweet. He’s nice. And Tara is his friend. You can talk him down, you know you can. 

“Wes, that’s-” You take a shaky breath, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 

He stares at you, shakes his head. 

“No, no it’s not. YN-” 

“Tara is not Ghostface.” You tell him firmly, “She’s my girlfriend. She’s your friend.”  

“It’s her, YN. I’m sure. Think about it. Where was she, that night that Amber died?” He’s staring at you, searchingly, desperate to convince you.

“She was with me.” You insist, “She drove me home. I stayed with her, in her bed. She was with me the whole night. If she had left, I would have known.” 

Something flickers behind his eyes. His eyebrows knit tight in confusion.

“She didn’t drive you home.” He says, voice a little flat. “I saw Sam pick you up. I watched Tara put you in the car.”

Your heartbeat pounds. Idiot, you think, of course he saw you. why did you lie?  

The look in your eyes is all he needs. His blue eyes blink back at you as he pieces it together. Hurt, confusion, realization. 

“Oh my god.” He says, as it dawns on him, “You already know. You already know it’s her.” 

Your fingers grip white on the countertop. You swallow hard. 

“Wes. You’re confused. You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

He backs away from you slowly, runs his fingers through his bleach blonde hair. 

“I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. Are you in on it with her?” He’s staring at you with wide eyes. He’s scared. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

“Wes, calm down.” You reach for him but he jerks back away from you. “Wes.” 

Your mind races. In all your effort to unravel his theory, you’d only confirmed it more. Tara flashes through your mind. Her sweet smile. Dark, chocolate-eske eyes. Freckle-kissed face. 

You think of Wes driving madly to the police station, pointing the finger at her. You think of the Sheriff pulling up to Tara’s house in a squad car and dragging her away in handcuffs. 

You think of Tara in a cell. Tara in an orange jumpsuit. The smack of the Judge’s gavel as he declares he guilty and locks her away for life. Far away from Woodsboro. Far away from you. 

You’re thinking of her when you grab the knife. 

It happens in a flash. Wes launches himself at the door, trying to make a break for it. Adrenaline rushes through you. The handle is cool around your palm as you wrap your fingers around it. You surge forward, grab the back of Wes’ shirt and tug him towards you. In a panicked, heavy swing, you thrust the knife forward and sink it into Wes’ back.  

He cries out, stumbles forward onto the carpet. The knife is lodged deep between his shoulder blades. You don’t think, you act. Rush forward and take the handle between your fingertips. He yells out again as you pull the blade out. Thrust it forward once more, then twice, then three times until his whimpering is dying down and your hands are coated thick with his blood. 

He falls limp beneath you, face down on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. Your hands shake as the knife clatters to the fall. 

Over the blood in your ears, you hear your phone buzzing. 

You stumble backwards, grab it from the kitchen counter. It’s Tara, her smiling face looks back at you as you coat the phone bloody. 

“Five minutes my ass.” Her voice is light, she’s teasing, “Maybe I need to buy you a watch.” 

“Tara.” You whimper into the phone. Your hands are shaking. You stare down at Wes’ bloodied body. 

He stares back at you, lifeless. Dead.

“Baby?” You hear the concern in her voice, “What’s wrong?”  

“Tara,” You gasp into the phone. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out, “Tara, please you have to come, I’ve done something really bad. Tara-” 

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there. Stay on the line with me, sweetheart. Tell me what happened.” 

But you can’t, you don’t even know it yourself. It’s all a blur. The shake of Wes’ knee, his blue eyes earnest, worried. Fearful as he backed away from you. Glassy now as he stares back at you. Tears roll down your face as you sob into the phone. 

By the time you hear the front door open, you’ve sunken down into the floor, wide-eyed, clutching the phone in your hands as you look at the sight in front of you. 

When she enters, you watch as she freezes. Blood splattered across the floor. On the ceiling. All over you. Wes’ lifeless body at the center. Her eyes linger on him, wide and mournful. 

“Baby. What have you done?” 

“I had no choice.” You feel tears spill from your eyes. The awful metallic smell of blood permeates from your red hands. “He knew, Tara, he knew.” 

She’s moving over to you, kneeling down to your level. You sob as you feel the warmth of her on you, her fingers on your face, brushing your blood soaked hair out of your eyes, on your shoulders, tugging you into her. 

“He knew what, baby?”

She takes your hands, looking for something, inspecting. Cuts, maybe. There’s no point. It’s all his blood. 

You choke back a sob. She pulls you in close. 

“He knew you were Ghostface.” You say, tears are streaming thick and fast down your face now, “He came here to tell me. He didn’t know I knew.”

Your voice shakes, “He was going to go to the police, I had no choice-”

“Oh, honey.” She pulls you into her, nestles her hand in your hair. You choke back a sob. Press your face to her chest. Her scent, her arms around you soothe you instantly. But you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve her comfort. You just killed somebody. 

“Tara, what did I do?” 

“Hey. It’s alright.” Her hands are either side of your face, cupping your cheeks. “It’s going to be okay.” 

She presses a long kiss to your lips. Your lips quiver against hers. 

“It’s all going to be okay.” She murmurs as she pulls back. You feel her take charge, “You’re going to go and get into the shower. Wash your hair. Scrub under your nails. Put the clothes you’re wearing in a plastic bag and wait for me upstairs, okay? I’m going to clean this up.” 

A fresh wave of tears falls thick down your face. 

“Tara-” 

“Baby. I need you to be strong for me now. Okay? Tell me what you’re going to do.” 

You swallow. Her voice is urgent, her eyes flitting between yours. 

“Baby.” 

“I’m going to shower. I’m going to wash my hair and scrub under my nails. And then I’m going to put my clothes in a plastic bag and wait for you upstairs.” 

She kisses you. 

“Good girl.” She murmurs against your lips, “That’s my good girl. It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart.” 

You shudder as she retracts. 

“Where’s your dad? What time will he be home?” 

You didn’t even think about him. Panic swells in your chest, fills your eyes. 

“I don’t know. God, Tara, if he comes home and sees this-”

Her hands grip firm around your shoulders. 

“Shh. It’s okay. Don’t panic. Just think. Where is he usually on a Friday? What time does he finish work?” 

You blink, struggle as you think hard. 

“Friday drinks.” You say, finally, “He goes to that bar on 2nd with his work friends. He’s not home until like eight.” 

“Good.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your forehead, “See? Everything will be fine. Now go upstairs, and do exactly what I said.” 

You try not to think. 

You shower, exactly like she said. Put your clothes in a bag and leave them on the bathroom floor. 

Then you slip into one of Tara’s old hoodies and curl up into your duvet and press your eyes closed. Try not to think about how Wes had felt under you as you drove your knife into him. Try not to think about his screams. 

She doesn’t come up for a while. You hear her down there, moving around. You can smell the bleach wafting up the staircase. Finally, after what seems like hours she’s moving into the bathroom and turning on the water. 

She’s naked when she emerges, drops her towel and rifles through your wardrobe for an outfit. Slips on a pair of your sweatpants and an old t-shirt. 

“What did you do with him?” Is the first thing you say. Salt on your lips from the tears. You can still taste the metallic twang of his blood. 

“Don’t worry about that. Come on sweetheart, we’re leaving.” She pulls you up out of bed, wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Home.” 

The kitchen is immaculate. Scrubbed down, perfectly clean. Almost like it never happened. There’s a large suitcase by the door when you get down the stairs. You stop in your tracks. Your heart drops. 

“Tara, is he in there?” 

Her hands are strong on your back as she leads you forward. 

“Yes he’s in there. It’s broad daylight, sweetheart. It was the only way.” 

You didn’t even think about the logistics. The clean-up. The neighbors. The body. The body that was inside your Dad’s suitcase. 

“What are you going to do with him?” Bile rises in your throat. Tara rubs your back, presses her lips to the side of your head. 

“It’s better if you don’t know, babe. Come on, let’s get in the car.” She tries to pull you forward, but you resist. 

“Tara. I want to know.” 

She stares at you for a long moment. 

“I’m going to wait until it’s really late and then I’m going to drive out to the river and dump him in it.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. She doesn’t allow you a moment longer to think. 

“Baby. Come on.” 

The drive home feels like a dream. You stare out through the windshield, trying to blink back your tears. Her hand grips yours tight over the center console. The radio blares some pop song. Kids play in the street. Grief washes through you. Grief you caused yourself. 

Tara helps you out of the car, half carries you upstairs to her bedroom. You can’t stop thinking about him. He’d been here only a couple of weeks ago, laughing and smiling and smoking weed in the living room. The lump in your throat aches at the thought. 

You curl up under Tara’s covers. Breathe deep, trying to surround yourself in her scent. You feel her tuck herself into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, not an inch of space between you. Her lips ghost the back of your neck. 

“Are you hungry?” She’s murmuring, “I’m going to order us some food.” 

“We’ve missed our reservation.” You say, a million miles away. You could have been there by now. Sharing a plate of sushi and holding her hand over the table. 

“We’ll go next week.” She promises, as if things are perfectly normal and there isn’t a body in a suitcase in the trunk of her car. As if it isn’t your fault he’s in there. 

“His mom’s going to be so upset.” You can’t stop the tears from flooding over now. You’d met Wes’ mom once. Judy, the town sheriff. She was a hard ass. And she loved her son with everything she had. Tara squeezes you tight. 

“Don’t think about that, honey.” 

“I’m an awful person.” You whimper. 

“No you’re not. You did what you had to do.” Her voice is firm, “You were protecting me. The way I protect you.” 

She kisses your neck. You close your eyes, try not to think. Feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her body pressed against you. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Coconut, you think, coconut and vanilla. 

“If you didn’t do what you did, I’d be gone now. I’d be locked away. They’d take me far away from you.” 

At that, you turn in her arms. Lean up to kiss her, fierce. 

“Nobody’s taking you from me.” You say. You lock your hands around her neck, brush your nose against hers. “Nobody.” 

Not Wes, and certainly not Judy. You’d die without her. You’d kill to keep them from her. She’s yours. She belongs with you. 

Your heartbeat steadies, slightly. You take a shaky breath as you look into the warm brown of her eyes. Brush your fingertips over the spatter of freckles across her nose. She’s everything to you. She’s more important than anyone else. Anything else.

“Nobody.” She affirms. 

Next part

[thereaderstea]

hybrid bts week

This week The Reader’s Tea celebrates the summer solstice! A time when the Sun King is at the apex of her life-giving power. She provides protection, healing, empowerment, revitalization, and inspiration—and there’s nothing more healing than the companionship of a hybrid. From head pats to warm praises, guarding to scenting, owned to independent, these hybrids have found a taste of warmth, of love, and they’re determined not to slip back into the cold Dark.

Yet, with the Sun King’s climax comes the whisper, a promise: the Darkness shall return...

Monday, the Day of the Moon

Out of the Woods by @angelicyoongie ➵knj x reader | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut | hybrid au | 3 pt. | 26.7k  ➵wolf!namjoon, human!reader ➵Your best friend, Jihyo, brought you to the cabin in the woods for some much needed bonding time and sunlight. Your inspiration (and bad luck) brought you to a wolf who may kill you...or care for you.

1st cup of Tea || 2nd cup of Tea || 3rd cup of Tea

Tuesday, the Day of War

Don’t Care If It Hurts by @hollyhomburg | The Reader’s Tea ➵pjm x reader | fluff, angst, smut | mafia au, hybrid au, bodyguard au | series | 95.6k ➵dog!jimin, bodyguard!jimin, human!reader, human!namjoon, brother!namjoon ➵With the threat of a gang war on the horizon, your older brother and the leader of Seoul’s largest gang buys you a guard hybrid. Park Jimin, a reigning champion of the underground fighting rings, is your new bodyguard, and he’s determined to do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it hurts him.

Wednesday, the Day of Knowledge

desolate by angelicyoongie | The Reader’s Tea ➵myg x reader | fluff, angst, smut | tsundere | hybrid au | series | 64.5k ➵cat!yoongi, human!reader ➵If you had known your newly adopted cat was a grumpy hybrid, you wouldn’t have adopted him.

Thursday, the Day of Thunder and Lightning

Abundance by angelicyoongie ➵ot7 x reader | fluff, angst, smut | e2l, s2l | hybrid au | series | ongoing ➵hamster!seokjin, cat!yoongi, dog!hoseok, wolf!namjoon, cat!jimin, fox!taehyung, bunny!jungkook, human!mc ➵When you adopt not one but three packs of hybrids, your house doesn’t feel lonely nor cold anymore, but the tension is enough to make sparks and fists fly.

☕ for Abundance I-XVI ||  ☕ for Abundance XVII || ☕ for Abundance XVIII || […]

Friday, the Day of Love

hold me tight by angelicyoongie | The Reader’s Tea ➵myg x reader | fluff | hybrid au | part of the 1.2k event | drabble | 3k ➵otter!yoongi, neighbor!yoongi, human!mc

Okay, so maybe you have a slight crush, but who can really blame you [...] when he’s so good at fixing whatever he gets his hands on?

butterfingers by @jincherie | The Reader’s Tea ➵knj x reader | fluff, slice of life | coworkers to lovers | hybrid au | oneshot | 8.2k ➵hybrid!namjoon, teacher!namjoon, teacher aid!mc ➵In your (several) moments of weakness, you fall for hybrid and fellow teacher, Namjoon. Though truthfully? He had you at the first gifted pebble.

Saturday, the Day of Rest and Renewal

A Place Called Home by @agustdakasuga | The Reader’s Tea ➵ot7 x reader | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort | hybrid au | series | 88.3k ➵arctic fox!seokjin, panther!yoongi, golden retriever!hoseok, wolf!namjoon, calico cat!jimin, tiger!taehyung, rabbit!jungkook, vet!mc, human!mc ➵You’ve rescued two hybrids already, and you’re prepared to care for many more. But you don’t want to just care for their physical injuries; you want them to be safe, find the peace and love they deserve, find the place they can call home.

Sunday, the Day of the Sun

ride or die by angelicyoongie | The Reader’s Tea ➵knj x jjk | fluff, humor | hybrid au | part of the 1.2k event | drabble | 3k ➵human!namjoon, bunny!jungkook

jungkook needs an alibi, and namjoon has elaborate escape plans and is ready to risk it all.

Floof’s Tail by @jimlingss | The Reader’s Tea ➵pjm x reader | fluff, light angst | tsundere | hybrid au | part of drabbles 2021 | drabble | 3k ➵guard dog!jimin, lap dog!mc ➵Jimin is determined to protect his territory from newly adopted you. (Don’t worry, it might just take a little bit of time, tears, and scenting to warm up to you).

If Only You Knew by agustdakasuga ➵ot7 x reader | fluff, angst, hurt/comfort | hybrid au | series | discontinued ➵husky!seokjin, jaguar!yoongi, fox!hoseok, koala!namjoon, calico cat!jimin, bear!taehyung, bunny!jungkook, rehabilitator!mc, human!mc

From the start, you knew you wanted to be a hybrid rehabilitator. You needed to help these hybrids heal, learn to live with one another and lead normal lives. Even if they are all different, you hoped that they could give each other a new reason to live.

1st cup of Tea ||  2nd cup of Tea || […]

Looking for more hybrid bts? Check out the Hybrid Bangtan Network @hybridbangtan​!

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIX

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XVI - - - - Part XVII - - - - XVIII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Author’s Note: This chapter may contain triggering material. Depicts canon-typical violence and deals heavily with themes concerning the aftermath of attempted suicide. 

“Commander- Cody- CODY! Would you wait up.”

Someone was calling his name, but now that the briefing was over Cody was having trouble focusing past the faint ringing in his ears. He worked furiously to move past the white noise and marshal his sluggish thoughts towards overseeing the shuttling of the remaining on-planet 212th back to the Negotiator, and finishing crew complement reports for General Krell and-

He had barely gotten his train of thought back on track when it was derailed by someone grabbing his shoulder. He barely managed to restrain himself from punching the irritant in the visor.

“What is it, Waxer?” he asked impatiently.

“Can we talk? Alone?”

“Fine.” Cody grunted.

Waxer dragged him into the closest small armament room. At a sharp gesture from Waxer, the few milling clones inside quickly shuffled out.

Waxer pulled off his helmet, eyes wide and sad.

“Cody-” he said hesitantly. “I’m not going to pretend that I completely understand what’s going on, but I’m here for you, whatever you need, if you ever want to talk. I never even told Boil about the- the trip to the temple, or any of it, ok? But I’m really worried about you and I want you to know that you can trust me- even if you just need a shoulder to lean on.”

The ringing in Cody’s head got louder.  A beat passed.

“Is that all?” Cody finally asked. “I have work to do.”

“...yeah, that was all.”

Cody made for the door but was stopped by a frantic cry.

“I’m Sorry!” Waxer half-shouted. “I’m sorry- you told us something was wrong and we just laughed and I’m so sorry Commander. And then when you started getting weird and the General wasn’t answering comms I just assumed things were good, but then we found he was sick and I was making jokes about bedrest while he was in sickbay- and then I was remembering the surveillance you put on the Cantina and I made jokes about that at the time but I was right next to him at the bar while you over at the table and now I can stop thinking that he got poisoned while I was right next to him at the bar. And then General Skywalker stepped down from Command this morning and I don’t even want to imagine what would make him do that. And I don’t know what the kark all that was with Krell but I’m so sorry Commander- I feel like everything I say is making things worse but I- I’m sorry.”

It took a while for Cody’s sluggish mind to process all that. He stared blankly at Waxer as he quivered at attention.

“Waxer...” The ringing had stopped, and was now replaced with a growing headache. “None of the General’s injuries or anything are your fault, ok? I- its classified and I don’t- I don’t know what happened this morning but...nothing actually happened in the Cantina. You have to keep this secret- but...” Cody hesitated over how much to say.

His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Practically the only thing I do know for sure is that he wasn’t poisoned. It was just regular alcohol and at most it made him slightly vulnerable... Anyway nothing was your fault so just- focus on the mission. Ok?”

Waxer stared at Cody. He cleared his throat. “You said Injuries.”

“What?” No I- what are you talking about?” Cody asked weakly.

“Commander. You said injuries. Not illness. Are you telling me that the General was attacked?” Waxer asked, voice growing quiet and angry. “Are you telling me that the General was attacked and High Command lied to us about it?”

Cody responded with similar hushed irritation, “No! Waxer- look. I can’t talk about this, it’s-”

“I swear to the force if you say classified I don’t care if you are my commanding officer I will slug you.” Waxer took in a shaky breath, clenching his fists. “Is this why you’ve been wearing your bucket? Because you can’t look your troopers in the face while you lie to us about a threat to the 212th?”

“That’s enough lieutenant- there are things you don’t know-”

“Yeah, because I’m being lied to- I’m supposed to be your lieutenant and even if you couldn’t tell me everything I at least trusted that you wouldn’t lie-”

“We didn’t lie- illness is the best description because even if we don’t understand what caused it, that’s what caused the injuries, and the troops needed to know this isn’t going to be fixed even once he’s technically out of the Bacta tank.”

“What the kriff kind of illness causes injuries you treat with a Bacta tank-”

“Fuck. Waxer, please. I can’t do this-”

Waxer stepped forward as Cody shifted back.

“Cody. Seriously. What kind of illness causes injuries you treat with a Bacta tank? That- that doesn’t even make sense.”

"It’s class-”

“What do you mean the alcohol made him ‘vulnerable’?”

“Lieutenant, I’ve got to back to work-”

Waxer grabbed his arm before he could pull away.

“Commander, was this an attack or not?”

“We- we don’t know. There’s Jedi bantha fodder involved...and, Waxer you can’t discuss this with anyone, I can’t-”

“What the kriff do you mean you don’t know- how could it not be clear if his injuries were caused by an attack or an illness?”

Cody yanked his arm away and shoved Waxer back with his shoulder. The lieutenant quickly regained his balance and charged forward, tackling the commander to the ground, helmet make a hard thud as it made contact with the duracrete floor. They rolled around, each trying to gain leverage over the other.

 Cody managed to get on top, knee driving harshly into Waxer’s back, pinning him down. After that, it only took a few more seconds to twist one of Waxer’s arm behind his back.

“Fine!” Cody sneered, pressing hard on his Lieutenant’s neck with one hand while yanking the trapped arm painfully. “You really want to know?!”

“Obviously, asshole” Waxer grit out.

“The general tried to karking kill himself and we have no idea why.”

“no-”

“Or rather we have too many ideas why. Did you know Jedi can take psychic damage from being around too many violent thoughts? Or that the General got abandoned in a fucking planetary civil war when he was a cadet?”

“that-”

Of course, he could have just had a vision that melted his brain and actually he wanted to wake up by killing himself. And if that’s true than it means he vividly remembers the nightmare shit from the hovercar ride. Remember that stuff? Temple burning? Us firing at him while mind controlled? Yeah, could be he just thinks that’s more real than reality, and he’s never going to be able to move on from stuff we didn’t even do. And he might never believe anything we say or do is real ever again.”

“I-”

“Of course, it could be some sort of crazy dark forbidden Jedi attack from Dooku or Ventress because they’re still running around despite all the times we’ve almost captured them, and if it is that then there’s not a karking thing we can do to defend him!”

“Cody, please-”

Cody breathed heavily for a second, staring uncomprehendingly at the trooper pinned beneath him. After a moment, everything clicked into place and he scrambled back, stopping when his back hit a sealed munitions rack. Waxer gasped for breath.

“Fuck- Waxer, I am so sorry, that was, kriff, you shouldn’t have found out that way- I shouldn’t have told you like that, I’m so sorry. I- are you ok?

"Oh yes, I’m doing great,” Waxer wheezed. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.” Cody replied automatically, wincing immediately at the absurdity of the sentence.

“Wizard, so glad we had this conversation.” Waxer coughed, voice starting to get back to normal. 

The door clicked open and a trooper Cody didn’t recognize stepped in, looked between Cody, who was braced defensively with his knees up, and Waxer who was panting face down, a small distance away. He immediately stepped back into the hall, not saying a word, door clicking swiftly closed again, lock audibly activating. 

Waxer flopped over to lay on his back, head turned to the side to pin his Commander in place. 

“...Thanks for telling me, Cody.” Waxer said quietly.

Cody thunked his head back. “You wish you never asked, fuck off.”

Waxer sat up with a groan, “No...Cody you shouldn’t have to go through this by yourself.”

“...Rex knows. Not- not everything I just said. But the basics.” 

“Good.” Waxer crawled over to sit next to his Commander, sitting back heavily.

“...I’m sorry, Cody. If Boil ever- I’m just...really sorry.”

Cody dropped his head to his knees. “I can’t let myself feel like that, Waxer,” he rasped. “I was already hanging by a thread and then- I thought he was there at the meeting for a second, and I- the men need me, I can’t focus on stuff that’s going to make me go nuts.”

“Um... you mean you thought he was there, when the Jedi were ‘sensing’ him?” the lieutenant asked tentatively.

“...yeah,” Cody sighed.

“That sounds like force stuff.”

Cody hummed in response.

Waxer took a deep breath. “Did- did it seem like he died?”

“I don’t...know,” Cody answered softly. “He- was there. And then he wasn’t.”

There was a long pause before the Lieutenant spoke, deliberately cheerful.

“Well then, I bet he’s alive. He’s obviously not very good at dying.”

Cody choked on a harsh breath, coughing heavily enough that he finally yanked off his helmet to suck in air.

“For- for force sake, Waxer-”

“You said you couldn’t go nuts,” Waxer said, shoving him with his shoulder. “We’re soldiers, right? This is how we deal with horrific shit that no one should ever have to think about, let alone have to keep to himself for fear of demoralizing an entire army, eh?”

“Waxer...”

The trooper climbed to his feet with a groan, ignoring his commanding officer.

“Come on, let’s get those kriffing manifests completed for Master Krell. I’ll make sure you keep going. For our Vode.” He offered a hand down to Cody, who tentatively accepted it. Waxer yanked him to his feet, drawing his Commander in for a quick, crushing hug, before ducking down to pick up the discarded buckets.

They both pulled on their helmets, puffy eyes and swollen lips hidden neatly.

“For our Vode,” Cody repeated.

They unlocked the door, joining the throng, all company marching to the familiar rhythm of a quickly ticking deployment countdown.

Next (Part XX)

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XVII — masterlist

concept: you surprise chris for his birthday while he's shooting in italy. the slowest of slow burns. the ever anticipated part eighteen of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fluff. just prepare to melt.

author's note: everyone can thank @tonystankschild for this one. she was deep in the dm's asking for fluff and i intended to deliver the fluffiest of fluffs.

You liked to consider yourself a rational person at the best of times.

That consideration, however, was entirely negated by the fact that you were now on a flight to Italy to surprise Chris for his birthday. There was nothing rational about it.

But you had saved for this trip, and Chris had done so much for you in the past year or so, that you had wanted to do something for him.

And you had decided that no one should be alone on their birthday, no matter how far away they were.

You had caught a flight from Boston after making the forty-four hour roadtrip to drive Dodger there, not having the funds to fly him to the Evans' household. The fees of bringing an animal on board were astronomical, and you were still balking from how high the number was.

Chris was a wealthy man, however, and those types of costs never quite fazed him as much as they did you.

So you had driven him to Lisa's, a thousand thank yous on your lips as she delivered you to the airport to minimize on the extra cost of leaving your car at the airport parking lots.

Scott – who had still been there from the Patriot's game, "tryin' to get as much family lovin' as he could" as he put it – smiled knowingly at you when you had brought Dodger in.

"You go, baby vamp," he'd whispered to you. It was an outdated saying, but you knew it anyways, and laughed him off.

"We're just friends, Scott."

"Yeah, just like these highlights are from the sun."

He had given you a tight hug, wished you luck on your trip, and – like Lisa would later do at the drop off – made you promise to wish Chris a happy birthday from them.

When you touched down in Italy, it was early morning, that hovering between night and dawn.

You had once again called Chris' agent – Mark – to get details on the shoot, ones which he reluctantly handed over.

You thought that perhaps he was trying to save Chris the PR scandal of being seen with another woman while publicly in a relationship with Lily, but you had pointed out that you had been clearly established as friend of the couple with your global third wheel memes. It didn't take much pressing, because Mark knew how much you both cared about each other and how happy you being there for Chris' birthday would make the actor. So he emailed you the shooting location, with a schedule and call sheet. The tagline was very quick: "Don't interrupt shooting :)"

After a quick shower at the affordable three star you'd rented for the weekend, you got ready in spite of the weariness the plane left you with. Hot water did wonders to waken you, and a touch of makeup never hurt.

You stepped out in the warm breeze, the wind toying softly with the skirt of the summer dress you wore. You easily hailed a cab, and, after failing at the pronunciation of where you were headed, let the cabbie read the location off your phone.

The first person you saw when you got out of the car was Chris.

He was stood off to the side by the craft table, a crewmate quickly doing a last minute adjustment to his hair as he went over his lines. Dressed in an Italian pinstripe suit, you remembered what the film was about.

The indie flick told the tale of an arranged marriage between the son of an Irish mob boss and the daughter of a New York mafia don. Most of the film, however, was set in Italy, where the son, Mickey, had to travel to win the favour of the extended mafia family for the blessing on the union. Briefly, the scene with the strawberries popped into your mind.

You were stopped by security, but Mark – who had been waiting for you – vouched for your admittance.

You stood a little ways away from Chris, within eyesight, but not obvious. It was a surprise, after all.

You called him, watching from where you leaned against his trailer wall. Chris, ringtone blaring for his attention, quickly patted down his suit pockets before finding the device. His glance at the caller I.D. was followed by his whole face lighting up, soft smile on his lips.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said into the receiver. "Isn't it a little late in L.A.?"

"It is," you replied. "But it's your birthday tomorrow, and I couldn't resist."

"You know, I've been told I'm irresistible before," he chuckled. "Just never thought I'd hear you say it."

"Well, what can I say? Suits do it for me," you smirked, dropping your first hint.

Scott was right. Chris really could be clueless. "You'd love the one they just put me in then," he murmured, distracted by the food on display at the craft table as he perused the options. "A real classy number."

"What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?"

"They gave me the weekend off to celebrate, but you know me... Probably will go wine tasting by myself and look at some art or something. Oh, man, read a book. Yeah, haven't done that in a while."

You watched as he plucked a strawberry from the table, and your stomach fluttered.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?" He hummed as he bit in to the sweet fruit.

"Aren't you sick of strawberries by now?"

Chris froze, eyes wide in shock. Running his tongue over his teeth smoothly and swallowing the bite, he began swiveling his head, trying to look out for where you may be hiding. "Where are you?" He grinned.

"Guess."

And then he saw you.

And then he had you wrapped in his arms, the force of the running tackle hug sending your back crashing into the trailer, metal creaking.

You laughed breathlessly, hanging up the call as you hugged him back.

"Chris," you strained against the bone crush of his fierceness. "Oxygen–"

He loosened his grip, but didn't take back his arms. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

His whispery breath in your hair as he deeply inhaled the apple scented shampoo clinging to you had electricity coursing through your veins. "My bones have some idea, I think you might've fractured a rib."

The rumble of the chuckle reverberated through his body and into yours, and heat dusted your ears and cheekbones. "Sorry, I just can't believe you're here. I had to make sure you were real." And then, the question you'd expected: "Where's Dodger?"

"Dodger is in Boston with your mom. And I'm here, I'm real," you reassured him, smoothing your hands over the back of the meticulously woven cotton of his suit. "But you also have a real job to get back to."

"Oh, right," he groaned sheepishly. In his joy, he'd almost forgotten where he was. "Just hang around for a bit, we're only filming a little today before we're off."

So you did. You got given a seat, just off camera, and watched Chris do his thing. His performance was breathtaking, the way he embodied such a dangerous man. It was enough to make you flushed, the square of his shoulders, the confidence in his stride – the danger lurking under Italian silk lined cotton. You'd never quite seen him like this.

And it thrilled you to see a man you usually felt so safe around look so menacing.

It was the love proclamation scene that served to be your undoing, however.

The director kept hounding Chris, demanding retake after retake. He wanted that genuine love to flow through, and it simply just wasn't.

"Think of someone you love," the director suggested. "Put them in your mind's eye. You have a girlfriend, yes? Would it help to bring a picture for you to look at off camera? Tell the picture you love her. Someone get me a picture of this man's lover, please! Imagine you've never told her how you feel. And you've been feeling it for a while, and even though it was very... what is the English word? Uncommon? It was uncommon meeting circumstances you met... You love her. Si?"

Chris grit his teeth and nodded, ready to comply. And once the picture was brought out, the call for quiet on set rang out.

But once the director called action, Chris didn't look at Lily. Your heart clenched, your breath catching in your throat.

No, his eyes found you.

"I love you," he said the words you'd never thought you'd hear him say – at least not to you – and the sincerity in his cracked voice was overwhelming. His eyes were watery, relief dropping his shoulders – as if he'd kept this inside for too long and a weight had been lifted. He sighed it again and again, as if it was the only thing that was going to save him, as if it's the only words he'd ever known.

And when the director called cut, singing Chris' praises, he was still looking at you.

———————

"I still can't believe you're wearing that," Chris chuckled.

You dipped your sunglasses lower on the bridge of your nose to observe him critically. He was leaning against a Vespa, arms folded, the sleeves of his loose white cotton button down rolled up to his elbows, barely containing the bulge of his muscles. Black trousers clad his legs, on his feet a pair of black Italian leather loafers he'd gotten as a gift from his co-star. He wore his own pair of sunglasses, hair swept back, being tousled by the passing breeze.

The statement had been made in reference to the silk scarf you wore, twisted around your neck delicately in a way that was reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. "If I'm going to have a Roman holiday," you giggled, tripping a little on your way to the Vespa – Chris moved to catch you, but you righted yourself, "you best believe I'm going to fucking look like it."

You had gone to a wine tasting in a vineyard on the outskirts of Rome, somewhere far into the countryside. You had both goofed off the entire time, earning yourselves scolding looks from the sophisticated tourists and the locals, who had wanted a peaceful afternoon at the farm.

You sniffed the wines, obnoxiously listing all the strange terminology the haughty wine connoisseurs would throw around casually, before taking your sips.

It became somewhat of an inside joke between the two of you, finding yourselves lagging behind the group because you couldn't stop laughing. And whenever you were shot a dirty look, it would only make you laugh more.

"You're meant to taste it," he'd whispered to you.

"I am tasting it," you shot back.

"No, you're chugging it like a sixteen year old whose parent made the unwise choice of leaving unsupervised."

The tour guide had been eyeing the two of you up, waiting for your silence. The rest of the tour group turned their critical gaze too, and you gave Chris' foot a soft stomp to get his attention.

Both of you shut up, giggling under your breaths as Chris had practically bowed in his gesture for the guide to continue.

But now it was time to go back to the inner city, and Chris had waited patiently for you by the Vespa while you'd gone to freshen up a bit. The cobblestones were hell for your tipsiness, but you were wine and laugh drunk, and hadn't a care in the world.

"You know how they say there's always that one pair of annoying people on wine tastings that ruin the experience for everyone?"

"They do?" Chris' brow creased in question as he grinningly handed you your helmet.

"Of course they do. Well, I couldn't find them, so it must be us."

Chris clicked his own helmet in place as he caught sight of the hostess by the front door giving you both a dirty look. "What finally gave it away?"

He slid easily onto the Vespa seat, heeling up the kickstand and righting the orientation.

"Hop on, princess," he beckoned you with a nod. You regretted wearing a dress for this part, but you were serious about the Roman Holiday aesthetic.

Serious enough to risk flashing someone as you mounted the scooter behind Chris. But luckily you didn't.

"Hold on tight," Chris called over his shoulder. You complied, encircling your arms around his waist, pressing your bodies together.

You could feel his heart rate pick up, but before you could think too much about it, he took off – cobblestone streets and ivy climbed buildings flying past you in your bliss.

————————

Two of the three worst things that could've happened to you while riding a scooter in the countryside did.

The scooter had broken down and it had started to rain. Not only rain, but fucking pour. You were drenched through to your skin, pulled over on the side of the road, Chris trying to kickstart the machine into working again.

After his fifth attempt, he came over to you, squinting in the rain.

"It's not working," he shouted over the droning rainfall. "Let's just find some shelter and come up with a game plan!"

There were nothing but open spans of green fields and wheat as far as your eyes could see. But a little while back, just over the hill, there had been lights in the haze of rain, a little nondescript sign on the side of the road that you'd whipped past suggesting the shelter that you so desperately craved.

"I think there was a house back there," you yelled back. "Maybe they could help out."

He nodded imperceptibly in the shower of droplets, hand on the small of your back, fitting so seamlessly in the curve of your spine, and began guiding you.

You both dashed across the road, and then you were tearing through the long grass in a shortcut to the twinkling beacons of the lights in the windows, looking like eyes peering at you in the darkness.

Somewhere along the way, you'd found out that Chris was a little ticklish at his waist, and after you'd discovered it – he'd flinched away from you and begged you to stop, but you'd continued just to antagonise him – you wouldn't let it go. It took you much longer to get there than would be normal, but soon, you were both stood, shivering and drenched on the porch step.

There was a sign on the door telling you it was a little inn – an underused bed and breakfast, most likely for road weary travelers on their way to Rome.

You didn't bother knocking as you entered the lobby, spilling inside with laughter still on both your lips. Muddied shoes squelched, and your sodden clothes dripped onto the floor.

You immediately moved to the fire while Chris went to go confer with the front desk.

His two months in Rome had taught him a fair amount of Italian, but it was still quite broken, and he found himself floundering with a lot of the words.

The landlady – a portly old woman with an extraordinarily kind smile and crows footed crinkles by her eyes – understood the predicament.

She explained to him in English – loud enough in the silence so you could hear over the crackle of the fire – that the road services would probably only be available to come out so far tomorrow morning, and that it'd be best to stay the night.

She didn't seem like someone who would scam you into staying at her little roadside hostel – even going so far as to give Chris some white fluffy towels for the both of you.

He paid for the last room available with soggy money, and returned to you, fresh towels in his arms.

He draped one over your shoulders first, and when you reached out to cling it to your frame, your fingers brushed.

That same electricity jolted through you both, travelling with lightning quick velocity down both your spines to spark alive the restless butterflies you had well and truly thought you had put to rest. You were the first to withdraw, allowing Chris to put a towel over himself.

He ran it through his hair, the pieces that had been plastered to his skin with water raising into spikes.

You laughed, reaching out a tentative hand – giving him ample time to withdraw should he need to – to smooth it back and away from his face.

But your laughter died down, as it inevitably did whenever he looked down at you like that. Because how the hell were you meant to function when his eyes were on your lips the way they were now?

And you damn near choked when he started leaning down, lips pressing closer to yours...

But before they touched, he broke into a gut-wrenching smirk, moving past your tingling and awaiting mouth to whisper in your ear. "I dibs the shower."

And then he was sprinting up the stairs.

You were so in shock that for a minute you couldn't even register what had happened, and when you did, you cursed at him, following him up, swearing you'll skin him alive.

And all the while, the landlady was watching the two of you, a knowing glimmer in those kind eyes. She muttered something in Italian, one she repeated many a time during your stay, a saying you would come to know as "young love."

And she didn't even care that you had tracked mud into her hotel and soaked the carpets through from your wet clothes.

She just cared that there were still kids in love in this world.

———————

Once you had both taken a shower and were wrapped up in your complimentary hotel bathrobes, you realised that neither of you were tired.

Your clothes were laid out, sprawled over the backs of chairs, drying by a fire Chris had taken the liberty of building.

So you both decided to go downstairs, and see what activities you could engage in with the other guests. It would do well to help you forget the prospect of having to share a bed with Chris.

According to the landlady, this was the last room available. And of course, Chris had offered to sleep on the floor, as gentlemanly as ever.

But you couldn't do that to him on his birthday, so you'd told him it would be fine, as long as a pillow fort was built to prevent any unnecessary contact.

The common area was woefully empty, save for a couple of sleepy looking musicians, poised atop their makeshift stage, on the brink of passing out on their instruments.

When you and Chris entered, however, they livened up, striking up some traditional Italian melody you may have heard before in passing.

It wasn't that late, so the bar was still open, and Chris managed to purchase a bottle of wine.

Most of the seats had been stacked on the tables, and he helped you pull some down before seating yourselves.

He poured you both wine, and you sat there in your robes, listening to the music.

The landlady came by, at some point, to light the tea light candle on your table.

When you thanked her, she said the same thing she had said earlier – in Italian, so you struggled to understand.

Chris, however, who had been taking a hearty sip of wine, nearly choked. "Mille grazie," he winked.

She scoffed, patting his cheek affectionately, much like a grandmother would her grandson. You didn't catch much of what she said, aside from one word. Cacciatore, in reference to a flirtatious man.

"What did she say to you?"

"She said amore giovane. It means young love."

You turned to try and find her – wanting to correct the innocent mistake of having her assume that you and Chris were in love. Fact of the matter was, there was still with Lily, and you couldn't stand to think of the PR nightmare it would be if it were to get out that he was at an admittedly romantic bed and breakfast with you of all people. "Oh, no, we aren't..." You faded out awkwardly. "He has a girlfriend!"

"Actually," Chris said softly, as if he had been wanting to tell you this for a while. "I don't. Not anymore. Not since the last day at the Hamptons."

Relief flooded you, followed by something undetermined – hope, you would later discover – before you were floored with absolute sympathy. "Oh, Chris. Chris, I'm so sorry."

You reached over to link your fingers in a reassuring hand hold, and his focus was pulled to that singular touch, that point of joining.

"If there's anything I can do to help..."

"No, it just..." He swallowed, finally pulling those ocean eyes to you. "It just wasn't meant to be, I guess. She wasn't the one."

His eyes told a story much deeper, hinting to something that you didn't have the strength to uncover. You'd been hurt too many times by these false feelings, you really weren't sure how ready you were to face them once more.

"What happened?"

"She thinks I'm in love with someone else." When you didn't say anything again – too stunned to do so – Chris cleared his throat. "I, uh," he tried for a smile, "I believe you owe me a dance."

It took you a while to recall him asking you to save him the last dance at the charity gala, and when it registered, you grinned, questions of who dissipating. "Let's go dance."

The band saw you and Chris approach the dancefloor, and immediately switched to a slow waltz. Chris took you in his arms, and as you both swayed to the music, you could almost imagine you were back in Vegas, before Lily, before everything, when the biggest problem in your life was that you had kissed your best friend on your birthday.

His body was so warm pressed to yours, that you felt every tense muscle in your body relax. That hand – forever fitted so perfectly to the groove of the small of your back – traced delicate patterns through the flannel of the gown.

Your cheek was on his chest, and your eyes were closed, and you couldn't see the way he was looking at you.

Because in his eyes – those beautiful ocean eyes – was a love. The love that you were incapable of seeing, but one that everyone else had – including Lily.

There was worship in every sapphire fleck, and there was pure adoration in the inky depths of his pupils.

And as he held you, body nestled so perfectly against his, knew that the angels would damn themselves for you. Because he sure as hell would.

———————

When Chris had gone to get more drinks – the bottle you had shared being finished – you had gone to speak to the musicians.

And surprisingly, they had what you had requested.

Chris was uncorking the bottle when you had hopped up on stage.

There was no microphone this time, and the musicians were glad to receive a break, joining the landlady at the back for a drink – leaving you and Chris alone in the room. Their departure caught his attention, and he glanced at you, before doing a double take.

You were sat at the edge of the stage – feet dangling off to graze the floor every now and then – and in your hands was a ukelele.

The memory of the last time you played for him was chased away by the excitement of this next song.

You were tuning it when you finally noticed Chris watching you. He had that look in his eye – one you were so used to seeing, but one you never quite let yourself understand – and he slowly sank into his seat to watch you. He propped his head on a fist, candlelight flickering in his eyes.

And without much of an introduction, you plucked at the strings delicately, beginning a ukelele rendition of "La Vie En Rose."

His smile broadened into a beam when you started singing. Never had he felt absolute peace like this – at least without having you in his arms.

Hold me close and hold me fast

This magic spell you cast

This is la vie en rose

You looked up at him, your expression earnest. You always found yourself being much more capable of conveying emotion in your actions, rather than with your words. Words made things messy. Music... that was beauty incarnate.

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see la vie en rose

Chris breathed in deeply, his heart stuttering, but heavy in his chest. The hold – that spell – you so flawlessly cast on him was rising again, and he knew, with all certainty, that he would not wish to break the enchantment for anything in the world. He was Icarus, and you were the sun – the magnetic pull he felt was that strong.

When you press me to your heart

I am in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

Your eyes found his and you grinned, beguiling him. As you played the interlude, you mouthed to him "happy birthday;" and it was. It was perhaps one of the happiest birthdays he'd had in a while, because it was the one he'd spent with you.

And when you speak, angels sing from above

Everyday words seem to turn into love songs

His heart was swelling, throat thick with emotion. His eyes burned, but he was almost certain the tears gathering was from a lack of blinking. He didn't want to pull his gaze away from you, not for a single second. He had told you he had loved you earlier that day – and this felt like more of a response than he'd ever receive. He knew how difficult it was for you to say those words. And he was okay with that. He'd take what you gave, and you were giving him this – a song as lovely as the woman who was currently singing it. And he thought he was going to simply die when you looked up at him with those eyes, and that smile, and that voice reaching out to him, singing that final verse.

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be

La vie en rose

Little did you know, you already owned those things.

You'd owned them since the night you met.

[fragmentedink-archived]

Hell to Pay: Part Fifty- Three

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL, XLI, XLII, XLIII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, XLX, LI, LII

cowritten by @lux-scriptum

Lev put his hands on his hips. Cameron and Ash had done most of the heavy lifting, and Mami and Cameron had gotten the food ready, so Lev really hadn’t done much, but it’d turned out nice, and in the end that was all Lev could ask for, really. They had indeed gone with an ocean theme, to match the nursery, and since despite Lev’s efforts to help in some way or another, Cameron had been in charge of everything and took little input, it was all rather tasteful.

Lev fussed with the placement of the snacks, even though he knew Cameron was going to come along behind him and fix it again. He felt useless, especially with Ash reminding him to not push himself.

As expected, Cameron appeared, smacking Lev’s hand away. “Knock it off,” Cameron reprimanded. “The others should be arriving soon.”

“Is Biela coming?” Lev asked. They’d sent an invite; it’d’ve been rude to not. To Lev’s knowledge, she hadn’t responded.

“Likely not. She’ll probably send Caius in her stead.”

“Mm.” Lev had liked Caius, the one time he’d met him. He was pretty. And seemed kind. Friendly, at the very least.

Cameron lifted a brow, and grabbed Lev’s hand when Lev reached to adjust a platter of pastries. “If you don’t leave it alone, I’ll make you go baby sit Nik.”

Lev opened his mouth to argue, but Nik himself had appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. “What’s the party for?” the pregnant omega mumbled.

“You,” Lev grumbled, making his way over to Nik. At least he was allowed to fuss over Nik, and he did so with a tiny spark of pleasure, pressing a kiss to Nik’s cheek and brushing his green and black hair from his eyes. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet. It was gonna be a surprise.”

Nik frowned sleepily at Lev. “I had to pee,” Nik complained bitterly.

“We’ve been planning for a week,” Lev informed him, before brushing his cheek lightly. “Oh well. Now I don’t have to figure out a way to get you dressed.”

“Planning what for a week?” Nik muttered. “My birthday isn't until next week.” He pulled a face. “And I can’t even get drunk.”

“Your baby shower,” Lev said, guiltily tucking away Nik’s birthday to worry about later.

“My what?”

Lev sighed, and started herding Nik out the door. He could practically feel Cameron rolling his eyes at him. “Your baby shower. Did you think I would let you get away without one?”

Nik shrugged. “I didn’t even think about it.”

With another sigh, Lev slid his arm around Nik’s waist. “I wasn’t going to not give you one. We invited your brothers. Both of them. You deserve it.”

Nik made a face at him.

“Come on. Let's get dressed,” Lev said, bonking his shoulder with Nik’s.

---

Nik let Lev lead him back to the bedroom to get clothes. He hadn't really thought much about clothes lately and had been wearing sweats for the most part.

He thumbed through a few pairs of jeans and frowned. "None of these are going to fit, are they?"

"...Cameron went shopping."

Nik squinted and looked through his jeans once more. He pulled a pair out and stretched. "When did he do this?" Nik frowned at the alien jeans with their stretchy fabric in horror before shrugging it off and grabbing a loose black shirt to go with it.

Lev had no answer other than his own shrug and took it at face value. The idea of Cameron in a maternity store was too hilarious a thought to stay irritable at it.

Nik worked at getting himself slowly dressed. Without any coffee in his system, he was fighting the urge to just go back to bed. Though luckily enough for him, he wasn't showing nearly as much as what he had seen on the internet with people pregnant the same length as he.

"Seems like a pretty big party for like seven people." Nik said. He rubbed his eyes, pulling the last bit of sleepiness away. "Unless you decided to invite his royal prickliness too."

"Well I assume Bay is coming. Celeste too; they'll bring the babies," Lev said. "We also invited Biela too- though we don't think she'll come."

"I should hope not. I might do something hormonal like poison her sparkly punch, or something."

"Nikolas."

"Hm?" Nik started for the doorway, expecting Lev to follow him back to where he was sure the festivities would eventually begin.

By the time they got there, Bay and Nate had already arrived with Lucas sitting contently on Bay's hip chewing on a teething toy. And their boy scout was promptly hovering behind them.

"Silas," Nik said. "Didn't think you'd be here. Unless you're here because of Lev, of course."

Silas' only response was to flip him off, though it was short lived by Nate smacking him upside the head hard enough Nik heard Silas' neck pop. Nate gave Silas a dirty warning look.

Nik snorted. "Need to learn new tricks."

"Hi Silas," Lev said, from Nik’s side.

Silas gave a disgruntled, "Hey Lev."

Nate looked pleased at Silas' newfound self restraint. "The party looks great, Nik."

"I know, I did great," he said, lying through his teeth. Nik smooshed Levs face away when Lev pinched his hip. "My taste: impeccable."

Nate rose a singular groomed brow. "Oh I'm sure." He looked to Lev. "It looks great, Lev."

Already Lev had glued himself back to Nik’s side. He looked a little put out as he said honestly, “Most of the praise should go to Cameron and Ash and Mami. I wasn’t allowed to do much.”

"Well next time don't die," Ash said, appearing back in the doorway. "That way you'll actually be able to do some of the heavy lifting."

Nik frowned deeply at him, especially once Lev froze next to him and looked uncomfortable.

Ash looked perfectly unfazed.

Mami appeared a heartbeat later, to which Nate instantly perked up somehow even more. Though her eyes were trained on the well behaved six month old in Bay's arms.

The tiny woman nearly flew across the room to get to him, only for Bay to stare her down and refuse to relinquish the baby. "No."

Nate instantly jumped in. "He's still, ah, getting used to letting people hold Lucas," he said, quickly. "I can get Eden for you, if you like?"

Nik's hand flew over his mouth at the mirrored glare coming from both Mami and Bay. She sized Bay up, clearly deciding if it's worth it or not to challenge both her king and the omega that carried the partly legless bundle of joy. Bay's eyes narrowed. "I said no."

She huffed and tore her attention back to Nate who gave her a warm hug, though she was absolutely miniscule compared to Nate's height of six-two. When she pulled back, Nate went to disappear, presumably to find the little terror most likely taking a nap.

When he came back, Nate not only had Eden crawling all over him, he also had Adrien and his wife in tow. Neither of them had particularly warm or friendly looks on their faces, though that was usually par for the course for Adrien and Dyaana.

"Hello," Lev offered.

Dyaana eyed Lev, and gave him a slight smile whereas Adrien looked halfway in pain and just nodded once before coming to give Nik a hug.

Lev wisely removed himself from Niks waist before he got crushed by pure muscle. When Adrien pulled apart, Nik said, "didn't think you'd step foot in Demon Territory."

"The things you do for family," Adrien deadpanned.

Nik only grinned.

"Hey where's your clone?"

"Babysitter," Adrien said. "I'd rather not risk my two year old getting eaten by your boyfriend."

"Hey, Cameron doesn't eat infants. If he had, he would have eaten Eden," Nik said. "She's far more appealing as a meal than Mathias."

Adrien's only response to that was to roll his eyes. At that Lev decided to usher Nik to an armchair. "I am not an invalid, Lev," he said, plopping down anyways.

Lev perched on the armrest and kissed the top of Nik's hair. "I know dear."

When Adrien snorted, Nik threw him a poisonous glare. "Oh shut up."

Eden was still screeching happily in Mami's arms, getting all the attention she wanted, even though she was trying to latch her tiny teeth in Mami's shoulder. Mami easily avoided it by giving her a toy worthy of her teeth.

It was another twenty minutes before Celeste arrived. The last time he saw the witch she was about to pop. But judging by the fussy newborn in her arms, that was no longer the case. She came over to offer Nik a hug, and to show off her tiny pale baby. "We named him Dakota," she informed them.

Lev instantly cooed over him. "He’s so cute," Lev said. "Can I hold him?"

Ash found his way over to butt his nose in like he usually did. He squinted at Lev, but Celeste was already moving to hand him over. "Of course. Watch his head?"

"I know," he assured.

"Wait," Nik said, "Do you know that Ash is staying here…?"

"Yes she does," Ash said, "And she also is staying here. They both are."

Nik's brows shot up. "Is Cameron aware of this?"

Ash lifted a shoulder. "I told him."

"You 'told' him," Nik echoed.

"Dunno what you expected. I have a wife and a kid that I need to be with and I have a stubborn friend who refuses to listen to me. I told you I'm making myself everyone's problem."

Celeste looked pained. But Lev seemed perfectly blissed out; he hadn't even looked up from the fussy baby in his arms. "I don't think I'll mind having them here." He looked up at Celeste. "You've always been nice."

She gave him a tired smile. "I certainly try." She cut Ash a look. "Some people make it difficult sometimes."

Ash folded his arms. "If they don't want me to be difficult, maybe they should try to listen to me for once."

Celeste rolled her eyes but looked back to Nik. "I'm very happy for all of you. I'll help however I can."

Lev’s focus was already trained back on Dakota. Nik squirmed a little. "Thanks, I guess."

She just squeezed his hand.

---

Cyrus lit the last candle and shook out the match. He looked over at Darius as he settled on the bed. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad of an idea is this?” he asked drily.

Darius thought on that for a moment. “Probably a seven point two.”

After giving a small sigh, Cyrus laid back on the bed. “Better than I ten, I suppose.”

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer lying on his bed. He wasn’t even in his own house anymore. The walls around him were all earthy tones, the green accents only catching his eye briefly before he settled on Asmi themself.

The god was tall, their dark skin a deeper brown than his own, and bright blue eyes that pinned him in place. After a moment where he froze -afraid, if he was willing to admit it - he dipped his head respectfully. When he looked at them again, he noted that they were still seated in their chair, face thin and tight, bags under their eyes, though they kept their chin high.

“Am I right in assuming that Darius explained what’s going on?” Cyrus ventured.

"You poisoned me once and now you want me to give you the tools to be able to do so again?"

Cyrus forced himself to keep his gaze steady. “If I do it right, it shouldn’t this time.”

"Shouldn't have happened the first time," they said flatly. "Necromancy defies balance and you weakened me for an angel who didn't bother communing with me in the first place. You didn't bother communing with me in the first place. And now that you need my help, you finally deign to bother?"

Cyrus inclined his head ever so slightly. “Ignorance is not an excuse, but it’s the only explanation I personally have.” He folded his hands carefully on his knee. “I made a promise. I don’t break them.” Asmi gave him the time he needed to gather his words. “I am sorry. For everything. I’ve never-” He paused again, frustrated by how hard it was to piece together the words. “It’s not an excuse, that I was never taught how to commune with you. Darius had to teach me, and you’re not even his god. But I want to do right by Darius. If nothing else, he’s been kind to me, and kind to everyone. I promised Cameron I would try. This is me trying. I want to make a deal that will work, not flub the spell again.”

They seemed to think on it; to weigh his words carefully. "What kind of deal?" They finally said.

“Same as the one that brought Levant back.” Cyrus considered his words and then amended, “A similar one, at least. Some sort of exchange.”

"And what's stopping you?"

Cyrus shook his head. “I don't want to risk getting the exchange wrong. That’s what released the dark magic into the earth in the first place. The spell unravelled, and I won’t let that happen again. But I won’t sacrifice Cameron Luain for this spell. It makes both this one and the one that brought Levant back completely pointless.”

Asmi nodded slowly and leaned back in their chair, blue eyes narrowed in thought. "Pick your sacrifice one last time and I will cover the remaining sacrifice to your spell. I warn you, the price will be heavy and I am not so easy to forgive the disruption you have caused me. Make sure this is worth it before you once again defy me."

Cyrus nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said softly. When Asmi didn’t reply, Cyrus added, “If it’s not arrogant of me to ask... I’d like to talk to you again.” He cocked his head ever so slightly. “I know nothing of you, as my god or as a god in general. I’d like to fill in the gaps my education has.”

"It's not arrogant," they said. "It's what's expected of you. So yes, you may. There's plenty you need to get caught up on."

Cyrus limited himself to a small smile. “Then I look forward to speaking to you in the future,” he said politely. “Thank you, again.”

Rather than reply, they gave a tired flick of their wrist.

Cyrus blinked his eyes open to see his own ceiling. Sorin was sprawled against his side, purring as he kneaded his claws gently in Cyrus’ arm. Cyrus rolled his head until he could find Darius. “I think I got permission. I need to call Cameron.”

---

The party had been well underway when Cameron stepped out of the room. He slipped into his office several hallways down before his phone started to buzz. He didn't let it finish its first ring before answering. "Are you ready, then?"

“Sort of.” Cyrus hesitated. “I spoke with Asmi. They’ve promised as long as someone is sacrificed, they’ll take care of the rest, rather than risk the spell failing. I just don’t have anyone to sacrifice, to my knowledge.”

"Well lucky for you," Cameron said, "I currently have a spineless traitor rotting in my basement. Will that appease your morals?"

“A traitor?” Cyrus pressed mildly.

"A person who betrays a friend, country or a principle," Cameron replied, matching his tone. "A traitor."

“How did he betray you?”

"Well now, that's my business, now isn't it?"

There was a long pause, and then, “Did they kill anyone?”

"He's my employee."

The sigh the witch gave was audible through the phone even if Cameron hadn’t been a demon. “Fine. I’ve got a few things to pull together but I’m mostly ready, whenever you are.”

Cameron promptly hung up his phone and smoothed out his suit. He gave himself five heartbeats to settle before joining the festivities.

Caius had finally arrived, with many gifts in tow, despite it being demonic custom to not celebrate an infant until after its birth. Adapting to Nik’s angelic ancestry, he imagined. Cameron hadn't bothered saying as much when Lev suggested a baby-shower. If that was what the angel thought Nik needed, then he would provide.

Nik instantly eyed him from where he was, brows rose in question, but Cameron went to turn his focus to the Crown Prince currently placing the gifts along the table. "You seem to be in a rather generous mood, my prince," Cameron observed.

Caius flashed him a dazzling smile. "Why you make it sound like I'm not always in a giving mood, my loyal subject."

"I imagined a massacre would dampen your rather optimistic spirits."

Grief flickered in Caius' blue eyes. "All the more reason to celebrate a new life."

"Hm."

"I brought you all gifts," Caius said, with an echo of cheerfulness. "Including one for him."

"Much thanks." Cameron looked Nik's way to see him talking animatedly with Ash and Lev and Nate. He seemed to have been brought to a better mood with the sole focus on him. "It's always an honor to receive the eye of the crown."

Caius snorted at Cameron’s ingrained court-speak, but said nothing of it. Merely squeezed his shoulder before disappearing back into the party to give gifts to their respective recipients.

---

Admittedly, after so many months of solitude or just Cameron and Nik for company, the party was a little overwhelming. He drew comfort from the fact that Nik was right there, and Cameron lingered on the edges of the party being Cameron.

The fact that Caius was very friendly helped, though. Lev barely knew the man, but he was pretty and his smile seemed both genuine and calm. He laughed easily and didn’t seem bothered by the amount of angels in the room with him, despite being the Crown Prince of demonic territory.

At some point during the festivities, Caius pulled Lev aside, though. Lev glanced back at Nik, but let Caius with only a flustered, “Okay.”

“I got you something,” Caius said, flashing him another smile that definitely made Lev flush a little.

“Nik’s the one who’s pregnant,” Lev blurted. He flushed deeper, and then said quickly, “I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just Nik’s day, I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“I got everyone a present,” Caius said easily, unbothered.

Lev blinked down at the box, confusion at why it looked very much like a ring box catching him off guard. The brief glance up at the prince told him he was very amused, and Lev had to wonder if he was a telepath like Biela. When he opened it, though, a locket was nestled inside.

“Oh,” Lev said, picking it up gently. He thumbed it open to find a picture of Cameron, Nik, and Eden each in its own little section. “Oh.”

“Were you expecting an engagement ring?” Caius asked.

“Oh,” Lev spluttered. “No, not expected, I-” He gestured helplessly at the box, flushed deeply. “I love it, really.” He ran his finger over the picture of Nik, knowing his face was softening as he did so. “It’s perfect.”

Caius said, “Well I’m glad. You’re not an easy person to pinpoint.”

“I don’t want much,” Lev said honestly.

Caius shrugged. “Just the important things.”

Lev let his attention track through the room, hitting on Cameron, Nik, and Eden one by one. “Exactly,” he said softly. He switched his gaze back to Caius, offering him a smile. “Thank you. Truly. I love it.”

Caius winked at him, but before he said anything else, Nik made his way over. He gave Lev a pointed look. “What’s going on over here?” Nik asked. “You look like you’re about to ask his hand in marriage, Levant.”

“No,” Lev promised, tucking into Nik’s side pointedly. “I was just thanking him. He got me a gift. See?” He showed it to Nik with enthusiasm.

Nik kissed his cheek. “It’s very pretty. Where’s my attention?”

A laugh bubbled up in his throat. “You’ve got a whole party. I wasn’t gone long.” He shot Caius an apologetic look.

"Well let me make it up to you," Caius said to Nik. "As you're doing all the heavy lifting, you deserve a gift of your own, yes?"

Nik arched a brow. "I'm literally doing nothing other than being a rotisserie oven."

“Nikolas,” Lev hissed, poking him gently. “Be polite.”

Nik raised his brows but Caius only laughed. "Even still. Not easy. I understand you like music?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Caius' smile widened. "Great! I actually worked with a few different craftsmen and musicians to have something built for you. Excuse me."

When Caius disappeared back to the piles of gifts he had brought, Nik turned back to Lev. "Very pretty isn't he?"

Lev could feel heat rising in his cheeks yet again. “Yes,” Lev said primly. “There’s no need to tease"

"I have never teased you a day in your life," Nik said. "Merely stating an observation."

“You tease me daily,” Lev informed him, but he still smiled at Nik, reaching up to brush Nik’s hair from his eyes. “Every single day, Nikolas. Every day.”

“Are you calling a pregnant omega a liar?”

“Maybe so,” Lev hummed. He kissed the corner of Nik’s mouth. “Maybe so.”

Caius came back with an elegant cedar guitar. The gleaming guitar’s finish was clearly done to bring out the natural colors of the wood. Nik’s eyes trailed over the body of the guitar and rested on the careful mosaic beadwork around the hollow. “That design work is specific to Tullum,” Nik said, vaguely accusatory; though mostly amused. “Are you trying to buy me off?”

Caius seemed unbothered. “Not particularly. Just trying to gift you something you would actually enjoy. I find personal gifts are more memorable.”

“Sure,” Nik said, but he was still moving closer to run his fingers along that delicate beadwork.

“Thank you,” Lev said, since Nik didn’t seem inclined to.

Caius merely winked at him.

Lev blushed, since Nik seemed too interested in his new guitar to be embarrassed. He certainly was interested enough to take it from Caius and strum a few bars. Lev elbowed Nik gently. Nik ignored him, but Caius seemed pleased anyway.

Caius dipped himself into a mini bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s Cameron’s turn.”

---

Cameron led the prince back towards his office where they could be alone without prying party guests could interfere. He took the gift meant for Darius and sat it carefully on the desk, and turned back to Caius. “I received a call from the witch who will be performing the spell,” Cameron said. “I figured you would want to be informed.”

Caius slipped his hands smoothly into his pockets. “I would.” Caius cocked his head, eyeing Cameron very carefully. “You have certainly come a long way from the bastard whore I met you as.” There wasn’t any disrespect in his words, merely a statement of observation. “Now a lord in your own right, with your own family.”

“I am merely filling in a role that needed filling,” Cameron said. “Though I am grateful nonetheless.”

“Hm.”

“The resurrection,” Cameron said, pointedly, drawing attention from whatever point Caius was clearly trying to make. “Should be happening within the week.”

Caius gave him a look, but let the insolence slide. “So you have someone lined up to be slaughtered for a sacrifice?”

“Slaughtered is a large word for a demon with a weak spine, your grace.”

Caius lifted a groomed brow. “Is that so?”

“The witch’s morals interfered with choosing a warm body, and luckily enough, I happened to have a traitor rotting in my basement.”

Caius snorted. “Traitor? From the rather loud screaming, I did imagine someone was being tortured in this house.” He tapped his temple. “I’d like to see this traitor.”

With little choice to that matter, Cameron led the prince through the house, down to the basement where Sage was still chained up. Cameron had been keeping him well fed and in peak condition outside of his routine torturing. Sage rolled his head towards them, tiredly, but there was a bit of surprise - and a new found fear- flickering in his eyes when he saw Caius next to him.

Caius eyed him slowly, circling the chair bolted into the floor. The impeccable clothes tailored to Caius’ frame were a stark contrast to the sharp bleakness of the room, though Cameron knew the weight of power a good suit held, and how to weaponize it.

When Caius stopped in front of the chair, he had a small smile gracing his face. “I could hear your thoughts from upstairs,” he said. “Clearly you wanted my attention.”

Sage sucked in a haggard breath, trying to not look at Cameron. “Just make him kill me,” he rasped. “I’ve been here for months-”

“My sister was tortured by angels for months on end,” Caius said, unfazed. “She was whipped and beaten and carved up and she hadn’t broken. She hadn’t begged for death, or whatever pathetic attempt at mercy this is. In fact, the difference is,” he said, “this was rather well deserved. Your treasonous actions against your lord led to the events of millions of children dying, so, if you were to die, it’s going to be for something that is definitely not for your benefit.” Caius leaned forward, just enough to keep the blood from touching him. “Don’t worry, your suffering will soon end.”

Caius leaned back and turned to Cameron. “Do what you need. So long as another innocent isn’t taken from these lands, I couldn’t care less.”

Cameron’s mouth twitched, but he just inclined his head.

---

The day had been tense and heavy for Darius. Between getting everything in line with Asmi and Cyrus, and also not returning to the Manor, knowing Destris was lurking the halls, Darius had decided to spend his time that night playing a small game of fetch with Sorin in his demonic form.

A small ball of paper used a rather small amount of energy, so it was easy to keep up. Around three in the morning, they had been playing the quiet game going for the last few hours after Cyrus retired to bed. Sorin had been kind enough to keep him company while his mate slept without him.

It was then that the front door opened silently. Sorin flicked his ears at Cameron, who promptly ignored him and started his way back through the house. Darius rose to his feet and followed him back, veering around him to get to Cyrus before he did to give the witch a heads up.

He touched Cyrus’ shoulder, in effort to wake him. He blinked sleepily at Darius, eyes flashing gold from the amount of swollen magic Cyrus had building inside him. “I’m assuming Cameron is here?” The amount of pure tired that was in Cyrus’ voice didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated by Darius.

Cameron walked into the room not even a heartbeat later. “Have I come at a bad time?” He sounded very unsympathetic.

Darius flashed Cyrus an apologetic wince.

All Cyrus said was, “No,” while rising to a sitting position. “Are you here to speak to Darius?”

If he hadn’t been watching Cameron’s every move the last five hundred years, he would have missed the way Cameron’s jaw set. “Yes.”

Cyrus gave the smallest of sighs, but stood up. “I have my supplies in my study.”

Unsurprisingly, Cameron merely turned around and most likely started towards the study. Darius simply waited patiently for Cyrus to get ready.

Cyrus rubbed at his face, stifling a yawn with his wrist as he followed Cameron. His movements were slow and heavy, but he only made his way into the study and began lighting candles while Sorin followed, tail swishing over the ground like a fluffy ginger ribbon.

Cameron stood stiffly out of the way, slender hands in his pockets while he waited, unblinkingly in pure silence. Darius did not need his magic to know that Cameron getting here was like pulling teeth.

Darius could only imagine the weight in his chest he’d be feeling at the idea of Cameron avoiding him to the point he has to force himself to be here- to speak to him.

There was relief in Cyrus’ voice as he began the incantation for Darius to manifest to Cameron. When Cameron’s pale eyes slid to him, unreadable as ever, Darius curled a lock of hair behind his ear, if only to relieve some of his own tension. “You wanted to speak with me?”

Cameron’s lips thinned.

Darius gave him the time to be able to put together the words he needed to patiently. Finally, Cameron fixed his jaw once more and said, “I am assuming you still want to be resurrected?”

“Do you still want me to be resurrected?”

Cameron’s eyes narrowed. “The Prince has gifted me papers of your reinstatement as a citizen of Razya the moment you are alive. As if you had never been dead in the first place.”

A citizen of Razya? Darius hadn’t even been considered a citizen when he was alive. Bastards hold no citizenship, no rights, no protection. He hadn’t even had a home before he had been abducted when he was a child. Merely living on the streets. A pretty child with no home was easy prey.

“That was very kind of the prince.”

“Mm.”

“Is that all you wished to tell me?” Darius asked, after a heavy silence.

“I imagine you’re aware that Nik is pregnant.”

When Darius nodded, Cameron said, “I mated him, a few weeks ago when his father tried to stake a claim on him. I used the Old Laws.”

Darius smiled. “That was kind of you,” he observed. “I’m sure Nik adores you very much. He and his child will be safe with you.” When Cameron rose a brow, Darius tried to not snort. “I will do my best to not upset the dichotomy of the house, Cameron. I have a rather pleasant personality.”

“I can see nothing going wrong with that,” Sorin said from the doorway.

Darius flicked Sorin a look. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are referring to, Sorin. I seem to get along rather fine with you.”

Sorin smiled, eyes crinkling. “True enough.”

Darius returned his attention back to Cameron, who was giving Sorin his own irritable look. Though the moment Cameron caught Darius’ eye, his expression returned to neutrality.

“I’m sure you will,” Cameron said, as if Sorin hadn’t spoken a word. “However Nik’s shrunken frontal lobe suggests he will not behave accordingly. So when he eventually does decide to overreact, I suggest you be prepared for it. He’s emotional on a good day and as he is pregnant, he’s even more so.”

“Thank you for the precaution.”

“I thought it would be beneficial.”

Cameron’s pale eyes lingered on him momentarily, flickering in the candle light, before he turned back to Cyrus who was kneeling on the ground near the candles. His eyes seemed rather unfocused. “When can we get this over with?” Cameron asked him. When Cyrus didn’t answer, Cameron moved his attention to Sorin in the doorway. “Focus your witch.”

Cameron rolled his eyes when Sorin hissed at him, but moved to crouch near Cyrus. Cyrus blinked at him, and then fixed his gaze on Cameron. “Pardon?”

“When can we get this over with?” Cameron said, irritably.

He always did detest repeating himself.

“Within the next few days,” Cyrus replied. “I’ve got everything ready. I just need to set it up.”

Cameron pulled out his phone, clearly flicking through his schedule. “I’ll give you the next two days to set up and then I will be here at seven sharp the third day. Be ready by then.”

Cameron slipped his phone into his pocket and disappeared through the door without a glace his way.

Darius bit back his sigh. “I do hope that is alright.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Not that I have much of a choice. But I’ll be fine. Once the spell is done, I’m going to take the longest nap, however.”

“And it will be the most well deserved longest nap,” Darius said, solemnly.

With a tired smile, Cyrus began extinguishing the candles, one by one, coating the room with nighttime once more.

Tagging:  @incandescent-creativity @solangelo3088 @lil-miss-red @halstudies @littleyellowdinosaur @caelisis @idreamonpaper

[spookyvalentine]

If you’re still taking the hour themed asks, how about II, XII, XVII, and XXIV for Mercy and/or Stellan?

II. The Velvet Describe a secret that they have. How far would they go to protect it?

mercy was prepared to go to prison and lose years of their life. kasumi and them were a team back on earth, a pair of nightmares for a lot of people. their personal mission led them off-planet, despite kasumi's protests, and when they’re arrested, mercy says they worked alone to keep attention off of kas (and also, why they didn't reach out to find kasumi while under the alliance thumb). not even anderson knew about her, let alone heard mercy say her name, even years after taking them under his wing.

stellan... honestly? they don't really have any "big" secrets that i can think of. they're an awful liar, and also an open person. they might think they're hiding their gigantic crush on shiala, but everyone knows when they've been talking.

XII. The Sun-in-Rags What do they consider to be their greatest loss? How have they coped with it?

i think its a handful of things for mercy. losing contact with kasumi after being arrested. that they couldn't do much for, let alone acknowledge it. they busted ass through officer school because being on the absolute best behavior meant the alliance wouldn't monitor them so closely. the disaster on akuze. that one they hadn't coped well with at all, but anderson was an anchor for that storm. and then finally, when they wake up on that table. the loss of self and autonomy. that really fucked them up, and i'd say it takes them well into the events of me2 to start untangling those feelings.

for stellan it was the raid on mindoir. they were a commune kid, which means every person they lost was part of a closeknit family. great grandparents, grandparents, parents, many many siblings. they were nonverbal for a long time after that--at least a year--and still signs as they speak. chakwas (on paper an aunt but stellan grew up calling her one of their parents, despite the fact chakwas lived off planet ) took them in, and made sure they received loads of therapy

XVII. The Vagabond Describe an alternate version or an au you have of them.

mercy has the sports coach au!!!! no reapers, irikah lives, after akuze mercy joins alliance intelligence to hunt cerberus, and is assigned at a magnet school on the citadel as a sports coach, and teaches kolyat and some others. the pairing is thane/shepard/irikah >:)

stellan doesnt have one quite yet, but thanks to @yellingaboutmasseffect i've been playing around with a howl's moving castle au with stellan as sophie and shiala as howl, and the thorian perhaps as madame suliman. might ignore the reapers to make my life easier

XXIV. The Flint What is their most destructive tendency?

ooooh hoo hoo a toughie. hmm. oh man. i'm sorry these aren't my strongest answers but

mercy's stubbornness, and stellan is prone to isolate. and i'd say they're both prone to assuming too much responsibility