#the more i think about lurch for march the more i like it actually

[freaky-flawless]

Alright, I can't get this out of my mind, and I feel compelled to figure this out.

Monster High Months. I have a few figured out, but I'm drawing blanks on others. Some suggestions would be greatly appreciated, even alternatives to the ones I came up with.

January- Fanguary or Janu-scary

February- Febooary or Febu-scary

March- Lurch...?

April- Gravepril or A-shrill

May- Maim

June- Gloom

July- Ghoul-ly or Goo-ly

August- Ughhhgust (Like Zombie speak)

September- Hextember

October- Spooktober (I think this works so much better than "fangtober")

November- Bonevember (Not fond of this one) or Novemboo

December- Dismember

Edit: Added some of the suggestions!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Stranger 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Summary: A stranger buys the farmstead nearby and disturbs your sleepy village life.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You keep a frantic pace away from Clyde's place. Well, it isn't his anymore. You realise then you didn't get a name. You didn't get much of anything. Oh god. That was horrible. You told your grandmother you didn't want to bother. That man doesn't need a pie.

You come to the end of the drive and turn down the country road. At least it's good exercise. You shrug to yourself and cringe as you try to shake off the humiliation. Just stop thinking about it.

'Pie.'

Ugh, could you not think of anything else to say? You mutter to yourself about how stupid you are. What are you going to tell your grandma? She'll have a thousand questions, as nosy as she is.

As you carry on, wiping your sweaty palms on your flowy linen pants, you hear a rumbling. It's the familiar noise of a farmer's truck. You sidle over on the shoulder to make way for the passerby. To your surprise and chagrin, they don't pass. Instead, they slow and keep a snailish pace with you.

"Hey," the man calls. You know it's the stranger, his voice is stamped in your head; 'pie'. His eyes too. His bold blue irises stormy like the ocean. "Hey, let me give you a ride. Must be quite a ways you came down here."

"It's okay," you refuse to look over, "I'm fine."

"It's not too much trouble. I'm headed into town for some supplies. Maybe you know where I can find some chain."

He revs the truck, idling then bouncing forward with each step you make. You ball your fists tight as you stomp on. Why won't he let you go hide in shame?

"It was real sweet to bring that pie," he says, "what kind was it? I couldn't tell."

"Rhubarb," you answer, still bearing down on the country road. "I can walk, sir."

"I... I hope I didn't scare you," he says.

You're silent. You stalk onward. Home, home, always so far away. His stick shift cranks and the truck stops. He leaves it running as the door pops open and his footsteps march over the pavement onto the gravel.

"Will you please stop?" He comes up behind you, "look, where I'm from, we keep things even. You brought me a pie, I'll give you a ride."

You just want him to leave you alone. He might go away quicker if you just let him drive you. Then again, you don't like the idea of being alone in a car with him.

"No thank you."

"Hmm," he as good as growls, "you're the first unfriendly face I've met around here."

"I'm not..." you let your voice trail off, "sorry sir, but it's not far."

"Then it's no big thing."

"I like to walk," you squeak.

"Damn stubborn," he comments as he stops.

You keep going as his footsteps trail away. You don't look back as his engine roars again. He falls back into the same pattern as before, lurching forward little by little with your steps. You want him to go away so badly. You have tears in your eyes.

You look across the field. The Berrys are nice people. You gauge the distance to the trees. There's an old path you haven't been along since Cassidy still lived at home, your old babysitter.

You veer suddenly and fall into a sprint across the expanse of tall grass. You must look ridiculous but you've already made such a fool of yourself that it hardly matters. You're not really thinking, you're panicking.

You hear his engine stop and grumble in place. You pump your arms as you race over the flat ground and disappear behind the old well and down towards the brush. Your lungs burn but you don't stop. You can't.

He wouldn't follow you, would he?

You don't stop until you have to. You gasp and gulp and peer over your shoulder into the trees. There's nothing but the moss and scrambling critters. You stumble and lean on a thick trunk.

Great. You really outdid yourself. That man must think you're insane. Maybe you are.

You catch your breath and set back on the path home. Too bad the village is so small. The only way you'll never run into him again is if you take on a self-imposed exile.

Or you could just become a hermit.

You come in sight of your grandma's house. She's on the porch, swaying in the bench swing as she crochets. You tramp up the steps as she glance over without turning her head.

“That was quick,” she comments. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” you lie.

“You're a mess,” she scowls at your pants, mud splattered up the chambray.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you shrug. “Just took a shortcut.

“Mhmm, aren't you going to tell me about them?”

“Um,” you move to lean on the porch railing, “it was just some guy.”

“Some guy?” She wonders, needles clacking. “Young, old?”

“Er, I guess, pretty young…”

“So no wife? Single, hm,” she mulls.

“I think. I didn't ask.”

“Well, what's his name?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” She narrows her eyes.

“I didn't… get it.”

“Ugh,” she frowns, “I should've gone myself but my hip. I'll have to call Lynette and see if she's heard anythinf else.”

“Sorry,” you pout.

“Well, you never were very social,” she tuts, “but I'd say you're more than old enough to learn. I'd like to have a great grandchild or two before I'm in the ground.”

“Grandma,” you exclaim, “don't talk like that.”

“You need me too. You need sense. You have no sense of urgency, dear. In a place like this, that's saying something.”

You deflate and throw your hands up, “sorry to disappoint… again.”

You push yourself off the railing and drag your feet towards the door.

“Oh don't be a child,” she reproaches.

You ignore her snipe, “what do you want for dinner?”

“Already in the oven,” she states tritely, “silly me, I thought you might invite the new neighbour to meet me, since I'm a but limited at the moment.”

“I… didn't think.”

She hums in disapproving agreement. You continue inside before she can make you feel any smaller. You know you're behind, you always have been. You're just as disappointed as she is.

[tanadrin]

How do you feel about the Gaza war all but ensuring Trump's reelection by destroying Biden politically?

It might; it's certainly hurt his standing with a number of different groups like Arab-Americans. Whether it will translate into a broader erosion of support I can't tell, and there are so many things that are up in the air still about this election (which is over a year away!) that it's kind of a fool's game to try to predict the outcome now.

I'm not sure that Biden's support for the Israeli bombing campaign/ground invasion is "destroying" him politically at all. That would imply he's paying a real cost among the majority of his supporters, but the Democratic party is quite right-wing on the Israel-Palestine issue at the moment. I think Biden is pursuing the policies that he thinks have broad support among his political faction, and unfortunately I think he may be correct in that assessment.

It goes without saying that if Trump or a similar politician was president now, or was president during a similar crisis in the future, he'd probably be even more enthusiastic about endorsing whatever the Israeli government wanted to do. That troubles me, of course. It would be nice if there were options for the American president other than "endorsing mass murder with a sigh of regret" and "endorsing mass murder with cheering and clapping of hands."

I have a lot of worries. I worry that for all the outrage, nothing will fundamentally change--that Israeli politics will (with Netanyahu in charge or someone else) continue to drift to the right, that Oslo will be the high-water mark for hope for a peaceful resolution in my lifetime. More parochially, I worry about the German government cynically exploiting this situation to justify a stronger anti-immigration and anti-refugee policy, hoping to outflank the AfD on this issue; and I worry that Biden will lose in 2024 and the lesson the Democratic party will take from it isn't "we need to be less like a bunch of cynical neoliberal death cultists" and instead "it was clearly our labor policy that was the problem, let's lurch rightward again." I worry that the lessons we took from World War II have faded already, or were always too narrow in scope--that we are sensitive to fascism only if it marches under literal swastikas, that we care about refugees and genocide only if they can be mythologized as the perfect victim, going meekly to their fate (preferably years after the fact, when it is too late to actually do anything about it).

I think there are a lot of good people in the world doing good things, who want to fight for what's right. But this is a really bleak situation, and none of them are in charge. We could use a leader with real courage who can vigorously articulate an expansive moral vision, something beyond massacre-for-massacre retribution with no end in sight.

[anachilles]

hi abbiee!!

for the hurt comfort prompt thingy : 'tell me where it hurts" for clegan pleassee <3

omg finally getting around to this!! thank u so much for the prompt, and i hope you like!!

“Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

"You've been up. Two missions. You didn’t tell me it was like that.”

Bucky knew Buck was sore with him, actually, genuinely for real this time.

Marching through interrogation with him, the chatter of the beaten-up, pale-faced men around them drowned out any notion of being able to continue their at first stilted, turned suddenly distinct lack of, discussion from the tense drive back across base. Buck didn’t so much as turn back to look at him even once on his way to his own crew's assigned table, eyes set ahead of him and weaving around things as if on autopilot.

He hid it well, was able to pull off the 'stoic, rock-solid lean-to' routine better than anybody, but Bucky could see he was shaken; caught the tremble in his fingers where they clutched the cup of coffee, miniscule but there.

After the sit-down debrief, as CO, Buck would then need to see to the injured men, get a run-down from Smokey on how long they'd be out of the fight, even after making it home. Great excuse to not talk to him some more.

Bucky turned on his heel towards the exit, gritting his teeth and biting back the urge to take it personally. Sometimes Buck just needed a minute to himself to work through stuff like this, Bucky rationalised. To process. He’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

Before slinking back off to attend to yet more goddamn Air Executive duties (ones that didn’t involve getting into the actual air and doing something), he did manage to corner Curt, though, struck with an idea.

“Hey, what d'ya think about drinks tonight? You, me, Buck, some of the others, maybe?”

Curt, a little wide-eyed and clearly wired still from the mission - Jesus, it'd been his first mission too - smiled, nodding. “Yeah, sounds good. You ask ‘em yet?”

Bucky scoffed, playfully shoving the empty mug he hadn't managed to discharge yet into the other man’s hands. The bitter taste of whisky-infused coffee sat heavily on the back of his tongue. “You think I’ve got time for that?” he said, disdain clear his tone. “Buck’s in there with the rest of your guys, but I’ve gotta run… you ask him?”

For the rest of the day, through the endless meetings, and briefings, and making sure the guys' goddamn beds were made properly, as the hours ticked by Bucky fought against a knawing worry, Buck's rigid voice from the jeep ride ringing in his ears despite its characteristic stillness.

Maybe he'd had a point.

How could Bucky have let his best friend go up there, without him, and without the full knowledge of what awaited them? As part of their training, they'd of course been told what the dangers were, informed of how crucial but also how perilous the roles they'd play were.

Nothing can compare to what it's actually like, though, experiencing that first-hand. Facing down a minefield of flak and Luftwaffe gunfire and having no choice but to keep on going.

Being behind the yoke and feeling your plane sustain hit after hit, its outer shell shredding apart, and having no option but to keep on going.

Realising one of those hits took one of your engines and feeling your plane lurch menacingly to the left, or the right, under your hand, and there's nothing you really do about it other than manage it as best you can in the moment and keep on going.

Watching helplessly on as ships full of men they'd played cards with the night before or had breakfast with that morning were shot out of the sky, no parachutes emerging from the fiery wreckage, and suddenly feeling the weight of each of your own crew's lives in your hands that much more viscerally. The pressure to make sure that same fate didn't await them.

Feeling your heart leap into your mouth when one of them screamed over the radio that they'd been hit.

And just having to keep on going.

He'd let Buck face that blind and alone.

But at the end of the day, what choice had he? No words could prepare you for that. Any Bucky potentially could have found would've fallen inadequately short, he knew that without a doubt. The last thing Buck, or any man, for that matter, needed was to go up there for that first time more fearful than they needed to be, aware of the full reality of the horrors that faced them. They'd have plenty of time for that; 24 more of the mythical contracted 25.

It helped in some way, to just get up there, rip the band aid off, and dispel that unknown and survive it once just to know that you could. That went further in managing the fear going forward than anything else.

There was no way to go into that other than dry, maybe a little blind, not really.

That evening, he at least did both he and Curt the service of waiting until after they'd downed some of their dinner to press him about the plans for later, Buck's absence from the mess hall a blatant chasm.

"Nah, he said he was stayin' in," Curt reported back around half a mouthful of lumpy, powdered mash potatoes so gluey you'd need a boatful of gravy just to get through them. "...was complaining about his neck, maybe his head, bothering him, I think? One of those. Said he just wanted to go lay down."

Bucky's eyebrows furrowed immediately. If it were even possible, the potatoes solidified a fraction further, getting stuck in his throat on the way down. It could well have just been an excuse to beg off, but until he knew that...

He'd resigned himself to giving Buck space to deal with everything from today however he needed to, and actually hadn't been doing half a bad job at it either. He could've - probably should've - just snuck back into the barracks to freshen up, in and out, leave him be and not say a word, then swiftly head back out to meet the other guys. Since he'd apparently now arranged that, despite the initial motivation for doing so being moot now.

Would've, could've, should've...

He ended up cutting away from dinner early, what remained of his appetite quickly waning. Those nasty potatoes.

He went straight from the mess hall to the barracks, slipping into the still-mostly deserted quarters with a peace offering in-hand. Granted, Buck would probably have preferred it be coffee, but if this was one of those awful migraines he gets sometimes, the last thing he damn well needed was caffeine. Steaming hot, milky tea - just how the Brits seemed to like it - would have to suffice.

Bucky took a deep breath and crossed the room with an affected ease, setting the mug down on the bedside table as he dropped down into the rack beside Buck's own. The man in question lay outstretched, lounging though his posture seemed rigid, holding a book in one hand that he'd lowered as soon as he clocked Bucky's presence.

They held each other's gaze for a silent, expectant moment. Buck looked tired and endearingly sleep-rumpled in the muted lamplight. Always a sucker, Bucky blinked first.

"For you," he said, nodding towards the mug as steam curled up from the rim. "So have at it."

Buck nodded jerkily, seemingly before even thinking about it, as he winced a little at the movement. After a brief pause, he set the book face down and stiffly pulled himself up further into a sitting position, reaching for the mug.

Bucky wasn't quite sure whether he was relieved or unnerved that he clearly hadn't just been making up a convenient excuse for Curt and the guys, that there was actually something wrong.

To Buck's credit, he didn't even so much as wrinkle his nose at the the tea.

"Thank you," Buck murmured, taking a grateful sip.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, unable to help himself, annoyance rising that he didn't just know because of this stupid day-long disagreement. He'd seemed fine at interrogation, where Bucky had left him. "Curt mentioned something about your head?"

Buck tried to shrug it off, though the sudden movement made his face twinge in pain. "Not even. I just..." he started, bowing his head for a second, sounding embarrassed about it. "We got knocked about a bit in turbulence on the way back. Moved my neck the wrong way at the wrong time, must've pulled something. Didn't even realise 'til the adrenaline started wearing off."

A small, dulled kind of smile twitched at Bucky's lips. "You mean to tell me you made it through miles of Kraut artillery fire unscathed, only to then pull a muscle in turbulence?"

Buck sighed, rolling his eyes, though even he couldn't help but have a little chuckle at himself with him. Bucky could feel the ice between them melting away in real time, and suddenly his breath came easier to him than it had all day. Buck's momentary smile was a reflection of Bucky's own, though he quickly hid it behind the rim of the mug as he took another sip. "I don't want to talk about it..."

Even so, bolstered now, Bucky took advantage of the opening and shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the other man's bed.

"Tell me where it hurts, I'll see if I can help."

It must actually hurt a decent amount, with how quickly he gave in, not even bothering with the customarily playful scepticism or the banter Bucky could practically already script in his head. 'All those extra courses you had to take after getting Air Exec - who knew that included massage therapy?'

He leaned forward wordlessly and indicated to Bucky where the pain was focalised, and Bucky got to work. Gentle but firm, his fingers kneaded the muscle beneath, the other man's skin soft and warm under his fingertips. When Buck let out a soft little hiss, Bucky drove his thumb harder into the spot that'd driven it out of him, working, working, working on the tension.

There was an elephant in the room, though. One that only grew bigger, weighed heavier in the atmosphere between them, as seconds ticked by into minutes that it remained unaddressed. In that moment, Bucky prepared himself to speak up on it, when-

"John?" Buck beat him to the punch.

"Hm?" Bucky replied, embarrassingly quick.

"Look, I... I'm sorry about earlier. How I spoke to you. I've had time to think on it since, and I see where you're coming from..."

Bucky doesn't say anything, lets him take the pause before continuing. Buck could be so careful with his words, usually erring on the side of caution and saying little, when he did open up Bucky couldn't help but want to wring them out like a soaking wet rag. So he did, by listening. Making himself still.

It was part of what made Buck a great leader, one the boys genuinely respected the hell out of, as well as the ability to admit when he was wrong about something.

"I tried to imagine what I'd say to someone else who hadn't been up now that I have, and I just... I get it."

Bucky nodded his acceptance. "Still, I should've been up there with you."

Buck smiled, though it was solemn in its affection. "I'm glad you weren't."

He pulled away from Bucky's ministrations then, in Bucky's mind moving a little easier than he had been before, holding his neck steady with one hand as he reached into his bedside cabinet. Pulling out the lucky deuce, still with only the two corners bit off, he tried to offer it back but Bucky wouldn't take it.

"You hold onto it," he smirked, "Until I'm up there myself again to watch your six."

[andorerso]

i think i'm falling back in love with you - for @pfirsichspritzer's prompt: childhood best friends who had a crush on each other meeting again as adults.

Twelve years after the last time they saw each other, childhood best friends Jyn and Cassian cross paths once more…

read it on ao3 or down below

Jyn wasn’t sure what she was doing here. Sipping on her Merlot, the strongest drink they served at this reunion, she watched her former classmates chat, laugh, and greet each other like old friends. Invisible as always, though that was by design. She much preferred to observe from the shadows than to make unbearable small talk with people she hadn’t seen in about twelve years.

Shara and Kes had arrived together, wearing matching rings on their left hands, but Han and Leia noticeably did not. She heard people talk about their separation in hushed whispers, though if rumors were to be believed, it wasn’t official yet. Jyn was sympathetic but unsurprised. How many people stayed together with their high school sweethearts anyway? Shara and Kes were the lucky exceptions, not the rule.

Leia was now chatting with their old English teacher, Mon Mothma, who looked like she hadn’t aged a day since Jyn last saw her. Davits Draven, their history teacher, was also here, sitting alone at one of the tables, though judging by the look that crossed his face when Chewie roared with laughter that echoed in the whole room, he rather wished he was anywhere else. There were other faces Jyn recognized: Luke Skywalker and Wedge Antilles reminiscing about old days, Ruescott Melshi hovering by the punch table, Lando who was now in an animated conversation with Shara, Kes, and Han but who’d actually tried to chat her up earlier, Kay who seemed to be having a heated argument with Cecil while Arthur looked on in amusement…

Jyn’s stomach lurched. If Kay was here, did that mean —

No. It didn’t have to mean anything. Who was to stay they even stayed friends?

Once again, Jyn questioned why she’d come. High school reunions were for the popular kids, right? Although she was friendly with a few of her classmates back in the day, she’d been far from Miss Popular. Quite the opposite, actually. She hadn’t even graduated at Yavin High. Forced to move across the country with her new guardians after Saw passed away when she was 16…

She hadn’t talked to anyone from Yavin since, and that was nearly twelve years ago. They probably shouldn’t even have invited her, yet here she was. Why?

Well, she could pretend she didn’t know and was merely following a whim, but there was only one reason that made sense. One person she’d truly called a friend at this school. One person she was hoping to see here.

Jyn caught sight of familiar brown eyes watching her from across the room.

Cassian Andor.

Who was now heading towards her.

Jyn took a deep breath and another large gulp of her Merlot.

When she moved away, the only thing she cared about leaving behind, the only thing that felt as much of a loss as Saw, was him.

So naturally, she had to make their goodbye as cruel as possible.

She and Cassian went back further than just high school. They went to elementary and middle school together. They grew up on the same street. They played in the same sandbox, for god’s sake.

She remembered the first time they met. It wasn’t long after her parents passed and Saw took her in, and she was angry. At everything. She was angry at her parents, at Saw, at her teachers, at the world. She was angry at herself. So when Saw took her to the playground, and she saw a group of older kids picking on someone smaller than them for still carrying a stuffed toy with him, she was angry too.

It didn’t matter that the boys outnumbered her three to one, or that they were bigger and scarier than her. She marched over there, pushed the meanest, the ringleader to the ground before kicking his shin, then grabbed the white bunny from his hand while he wailed on the ground and the other two ran away. They tore off one of the bunny’s big floppy ears, but she picked that up too and handed over both to the boy who was staring at her with eyes wide in wonder.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the bunny at him before crossing her arms across her chest. “It can be mended.”

“Thanks,” he said, still in shock. He continued staring at her until Jyn looked at the ground, uncomfortable by the attention, and he finally caught himself and shook it off. “I’m Cassian.”

“Jyn.”

“Wanna go play in the sand, Jyn?”

She got in trouble with the boy’s parents who were horrified that a tiny girl made their son cry, but there was a proud gleam in Saw’s eyes when he heard what happened, and Cassian gave her his only pack of gums in gratitude, so it was a fair trade in her eyes.

There was barely a day she didn’t see Cassian after that.

Until that fateful night a week after Saw’s funeral.

She’d climbed through his bedroom window like she’d done so many times before with only one intention — to say goodbye.

Cassian hadn’t been happy. That part, she expected. The despair, the frantic pacing, the desperate offer to let her stay with his family instead, the confusion and hurt at her lack of reaction to any of it. He didn’t realize that she’d already known this was coming, and she’d already raged and grieved and thrown stuff. She’d already had her moment of devastation. By the time she showed up in Cassian’s room, she’d closed off her heart and built a wall around herself. It was the only way to survive letting him go.

But the part she didn’t expect was his confession. And it’d shaken her enough to finally get a reaction.

“You can’t go. I was going to ask you to the winter formal,” he said like that would trump everything else.

“The winter formal?” she frowned, surprised enough to let her mask of indifference slip. Dances had never been her thing, and up until now, she thought they had that in common. “What for?”

“What for? Jyn, you can’t — Do you really not know?”

She shook her head.

“Because I love you. I have for years!”

The ground beneath her feet tilted, and all the things she knew to be true came crashing down.

“Don’t say that.” Her voice was quiet and strained. She wanted to hit him and demand that he take it back. “Not now.”

Why now? When she’d felt that same pull towards him for so long…

“Then when? When you’re halfway across the country?” He grabbed her shoulders, desperation blazing in his eyes. His voice was frenzied, his entire body buzzing with energy, and Jyn… just felt numb. It was already over. “Jyn, I fell in love with you when you gave me Nibbles back.”

“We were eight.”

“Does it matter? I know how I feel about you. You’re it, Jyn, you’re the one.”

“Cassian…” She took a step back, wishing for more space between them. His hands fell from her shoulders, but his eyes remained locked on her face, frantic and hopeful. So hopeful it made her want to weep.

She had to do it. She had to break his heart.

She took a deep breath and went in for the kill.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You think you love me because I’m the closest friend you have. Did you even give anyone else a chance? You’re 16, Cassian, you’re not going to find ‘the one’ in high school.”

Cassian stumbled back a step like he was pushed, and the look in his eyes hurt more than any insult he could have hurled at her. The raw devastation was like an open bleeding wound, and Jyn knew it’d be an image she’d carry with her for a long time as a punishment for doing this to him.

“So you’re just okay with this?” he asked, quiet but resigned, the hope she’d seen in him burned to ashes.

“I have to be.”

Despite how she left, Cassian still wrote to her for a while. Letters that made her heart jump and her eyes sting every time she opened the mailbox. In some, he talked about what he was up to, what their classmates were doing, what she’d missed. In others, he talked about how much he missed her. Some were angry, begging for her to answer, and some were apologetic, telling her that he was sorry about his confession and that they can still be friends. She never responded to any of them — though she still had them all shoved in a box under her bed. After three months without an answer, the letters stopped coming. That was when Jyn knew he’d finally given up on her.

And with the two people she loved most in the world gone, she was a fucking menace to handle for poor Chirrut and Baze. But she’d grown to love them too as time passed and found another lifelong friend in Bodhi at her new school. She’d managed, somehow, and she wasn’t completely alone.

Nothing really replaced Saw or Cassian though. She knew she’d always carry them with her. But Saw was gone forever, and Cassian was not. As the years went by, she regretted the way she left him more and more. She’d looked him up on social media a couple of times, but he was just as private about what he posted as she was, and she was never brave enough to take the leap and reach out. It’s too late, she told herself. He probably moved on. He probably wants nothing to do with you. He probably forgot you already. It’s too late to make amends.

But when she got the invitation to their ten-year reunion, she couldn’t pass up the chance. Face to face, finally, she may build up the nerve to approach him.

She didn’t have to, it looked like, because he was already approaching her.

Heart hammering in her throat, Jyn forced herself to take deep breaths and stay calm. He was just a man.

Even if he was her ex-best friend of eight years with whom she’d been half-in-love with —

What was the worst that could happen?

Well, she was about to find out.

“Jyn.”

“Cassian.”

There was a tremor in her voice that matched his. Jyn couldn’t take her eyes off him. It was hard to believe that after all this time, he was really standing in front of her in the flesh. Hard to believe that someone who’d once meant so much to her could feel so foreign now. Nothing but the memory of the kids they used to be. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d just made him up.

But he was real. Looking at her now as she looked at him, neither knowing what to say. He was wearing black pants and a dark blue button-up, hair styled perfectly, eyes just as brown and just as expressive as she remembered. The same but older. Familiar and different.

He was… well, he was gorgeous.

And he still smelled so damn good.

Oh no. Alarm bells began ringing in Jyn’s head. This was a bad idea. She couldn’t fall back in love with him; she’d spent too long trying to fall out.

“You came,” Cassian said at last, and his words were a testament to how off-balance he must have felt. It wasn’t like him to state the obvious.

Or, at least, it didn’t used to be. She didn’t know him now.

“Apparently, I did.”

Another long pause. She resisted the urge to fidget with her necklace as they stared at each other. Maybe she should say something. Maybe she should ask him to sit. Maybe this had been a terrible, terrible idea…

Cassian gave her a tentative smile and said, “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” It slipped out without thinking, skepticism coloring her tone. It was nothing against him; it was just hard to believe that after the way they parted, someone in his shoes would be happy to see her.

But she regretted the words immediately. Stupid. He handed you an olive branch, and you just had to spit on it.

Jyn wanted to disappear as Cassian faltered for a second, clearly uncomfortable, but then he nodded and pushed on, “Yeah.”

He seemed so earnest that her heart panged.

She exhaled a soft breath before letting her lips curl into a tentative smile in return. Maybe there was hope yet.

xxx

Once they got talking, really talking, they couldn’t stop. It was like the time and distance between them had never existed, and they were teenagers again with no boundaries, and no ideas too stupid or too forbidden to share. He’d talked about his work, his dreams, his sister, his nephew, and in turn, she’d told him about her new job, her new family, her new apartment, her cat…

Their old classmates continued buzzing in the background, but Jyn hardly noticed, and no one dared to interrupt them. Once, when Cassian lifted his glass to his mouth, Jyn caught sight of his left hand, noting that he wasn’t wearing a ring. Of course, he could still be dating someone, but he hadn’t mentioned it…

Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. Bad idea, Jyn. Do not go down that route.

It was easier said than done. She almost wished he’d grown up a little less attractive because his soft hair and pretty brown eyes and big hands were messing with her head.

It probably wouldn’t matter anyway; the emotional connection between them was deep enough to outweigh any physical attraction. But there was plenty of that too, and it didn’t help her situation one bit.

So yes. Jyn was truly and really and completely fucked.

She had no idea how long they’d been talking when the conversation finally lulled, but the crowd was noticeably thinner. A comfortable silence descended on them as she turned her attention to the people who stayed. Han and Leia were having an argument that was getting loud enough in volume that others turned to look, Luke and Melshi, different levels of inebriated, were playing some sort of card game, and Mon Mothma was sitting at a table and smiling at… Davits Draven?

Huh.

“I wanted to reach out a few times,” Jyn began without looking at Cassian, her voice quiet. She’d been holding it in all night, and the words begged to be let out despite how her voice shook. “To apologize. For how… how things ended with us. I wasn’t fair to you.”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. Jyn held her breath, expecting anger, expecting bitterness, but when she finally turned to look, Cassian looked tranquil.

“We were both stupid kids,” he told her simply, and she sensed he could say a lot more but there was no reason to drag up the past. At least not now, not here. “Let’s forget about it.”

In the background, Melshi roared with drunken laughter, and Leia let out a loud noise of frustration before turning on her heel and stomping off. Jyn gave Cassian a nod, feeling like the weight of a boulder had been lifted off her chest.

“Okay.”

xxx

An hour and two more drinks later, Jyn was washing her hands in Cassian’s bathroom while he was making grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. It’d been obvious the reunion party was dwindling down, but Jyn didn’t feel ready to say goodbye yet. So when Cassian turned to her to say that he had a bottle of brandy at his apartment, only a few blocks away, she didn’t hesitate to say yes.

His place was cozy but small, designed only for a single person. Which, from what he told her, suited him just fine. But his bathroom opened from the only bedroom in the apartment, which meant that when Jyn left to rejoin him, her eyes fell on the shelf above his bed. A potted plant, a framed picture, and a couple of books decorated it, too far away to make out any of the titles. It wasn’t what caught her eye anyway.

No, it was the familiar sight of a stuffed bunny sitting next to the picture of Cassian and his sister. She was hardly breathing as she stared at it.

It was Nibbles.

Weathered and old and more gray than white, but still. Nibbles. Just as beautiful as ever.

She reached for it like it was a ticking time bomb as she recalled picking it up from the dirt and handing it back to little eight-year-old Cassian. Sitting around a table with him while his mom sewed back the ear those bullies had torn off. Watching Cassian take it to the playground again the next day, defiant and brave and unapologetic. Clutching it to her chest in bed after Cassian and his family left for a few a week during the holidays and he’d given it to her for safekeeping.

It hadn’t just been his, it had been theirs.

So many precious memories tied to this toy. She felt like she was staring at her entire childhood wrapped up in one innocuous stuffed bunny.

Jyn walked out of the bedroom in a daze, still holding Nibbles. Cassian was waiting for her in the living room, a plate of sandwiches, snacks, and drinks on the table.

“Dinner is ready, I was thinking we could watch a movie —”

“You still have it,” she cut him off, her voice aching. All these years…

Did he still —

Cassian’s confusion melted into hesitancy when he saw what she was holding in her hands. Shifting on his feet, he cleared his throat and didn’t quite meet her eyes as he answered, “Yeah.”

Like that small confirmation had been the key to a door she’d long shut closed, Jyn sank onto the couch, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions escaping that locked room. Regret, longing, heartache… Love.

“Jyn.” Cassian’s voice was concerned as he settled on the table before her. He reached a hand out in comfort but faltered above her knee and let his arm drop. To her horror, she realized a couple of tears had escaped her eyes as the terrible pressure on her chest grew into something unbearable. She clutched the bunny tighter to her chest.

If she hadn’t left the way she left… where would they be now?

“I’m sorry,” Jyn said in a voice choked with tears, staring at her lap and wishing Cassian hadn’t changed his mind before he touched her.

“What are you apologizing for?”

A question with no simple answers. How did she explain that still tasted the past in her dreams, that she still remembered the sound of his laugh and the way he smiled with his eyes and the smell of his cologne when he wrapped his arms around her? How did she tell him that she was haunted by thoughts of him so often she thought they must have been cosmically fated?

“I didn’t want us to end like that. I just thought it was for the best. But it wasn’t. Not for me.” When she finally locked up, Cassian’s face echoed the same aching regret that was squeezing her lungs. “I just hate not having you in my life.”

“That’s what we’re trying to remedy, right?” He gave her a small smile and nudged her knee with his leg. Jyn couldn’t help mirroring that smile for a second before it slipped from her face as fast as it came.

“Just like that?”

“Why not?” Cassian shrugged, but it wasn’t as nonchalant as he wanted it to be. She knew him better. Even now. Maybe they hadn’t changed as much as she thought. “I kept Nibbles for a reason, you know. It was just an ordinary toy. It was you that made it special.”

is own way of saying: I thought about you too, I’d missed you like a phantom limb, I hadn’t truly felt whole until now with you.

Jyn wiped at her eyes and took deep breaths as her heart rate slowed to something bearable. There was more to say, to figure out. The confession he made all those years ago still hovered between them like a lonely ghost that refused to pass over, and she knew they had to banish it someday. Eventually. If they didn’t want it to sour the friendship they just rekindled.

But that would be a conversation with some painful truths she wasn’t ready to confront… and neither was Cassian, she thought. Not yet.

“Well,” Jyn began and shoved Nibbles into Cassian’s hands with a playful smirk. “How about that movie then?”

[karahalloway]

Sex Bomb

Fandom: TRR

Paining: Leo Rys x Adelaide Amaranth

Series: None (this is a one-shot and can be read independently of the rest of my fics)

Word count: 4,000

Warnings: swearing, alcoholic tendencies, smut, outrage, crack ship (you have been warned)

Theme song:

A/N1: This is my long-awaited (and very much demanded) follow-up to the part I wrote for One Night in Cordinia; however, you should be able to read the current fic as a standalone.

A/N2: Since I love killing two birds with one stone, this is also my submission for this year's Smutember event hosted by @choicesprompts. The prompts that this fits into is 'Caught in the act' and 'We shouldn't be doing this...'

A/N3: Certain parts of this fic were somewhat inspired by the scene between Finch and Stiffler's Mom from American Pie. The clip, for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, is below the cut.

Sex Bomb

"Bloody hell..."

Leo dropped the edge of the heavy brocade curtain he was holding, letting it fall back into place behind the dais to conceal his presence once again.

The ballroom was heaving. And the evening had barely even kicked off. Lord knew how many more people were still battling the traffic to get a coveted front-row seat for the royal event of the century.

The Coronation.

...or, as Leo liked to call it, the Royal Nail in the Coffin.

Because in his mind, that's what it was. The final, inescapable blow that would seal his fate for good, and maroon him forever on the desolate island that was kingship... shackled in life-long matrimony to Madeleine Amaranth.

Leo shuddered at the thought. Especially when he recalled his fiancée's naked form getting skewered loudly by that Justin What's-His-Face PR pansy on the steps of Beaumont House mere days ago.

Not because of the fact that she'd had sex with someone else. Hell, he'd tapped more ass than he could count! So, he couldn't exactly begrudge his soon-to-be wife's promiscuity. Especially when she couldn't remember any of it...

No, it was the fact that here he was, on the eve of his engagement to his future Queen, and all he could think about was her mother.

That sexy vixen of a woman, Adelaide. The Duchess That Had Got Away.

Very literally.

Because in the chaos of the Shagging Smog-infused assassination-attempt-gone-wrong — aka the Beaumont Bash — Leo had lost his one chance to notch that coveted mark on his bedpost... especially considering that she would've actually been game for it, given the mind-altering effects of the aerosol-based dispersant.

Talk about fucking irony...

Leo heaved a breath.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be. Maybe there was a reason why—

"Quite the crowd out there, huh, son?"

Leo clenched his eyes shut. "Yes, Father."

Constantine clapped a hand onto his eldest son's shoulder. "It's going to be quite the night!"

"Yes, Father," Leo intoned, forcing himself to swallow down the bile that suddenly threatened to bubble up his gullet.

The King's fingers tightened on his jacket. "All eyes will be on you, lad. Do not cock this up."

Leo felt himself gag. "'Scuse me...!"

Slapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep the scotch-laden contents of his stomach under wraps, he lurched past his father.

Stumbling across the ante-room, he barely made it to the nearest ficus plant before the 20-year old single malt regurgitated itself into the perfectly hydrated potting mix in front of him.

"Christ, you are a royal disgrace..." muttered Constantine as he marched past him. "If God would've had any sense, he would've made Liam my heir instead of you. But here I am, stuck with your worthless hide instead..."

The slam of the mahogany door reverberated around the room.

"The feeling's mutual, old man," muttered Leo, shooting a wad of spittle into the planter to cleanse his mouth.

Lifting his head, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

A drink. He needed a drink.

Mostly because he'd just thrown up the five fingers worth of Dutch courage he'd consumed less than an hour ago, and there was no way he was subjecting himself to the shitshow on the other side of that curtain even remotely sober.

And if Constantine had an epileptic fit...? Well, he deserved it.

The old tosser had given Leo enough hell during his 30-odd years on Earth, trying to mould him into something that the wayward prince wasn't, and never would be.

Making his way to the other side of the room, Leo located the hidden door that led to the service corridors and slipped inside.

A few twists and well-worn turns through the rabbit warren, and he emerged out into the smoking room, a plushly decorated space filled with heavy brocade curtains, velvet armchairs, a billiards table, and — most importantly — a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

Making a straight line towards the blessed promise of inebriation, he grabbed the nearest decanter of scotch, and pulled the heavy crystal stopper out.

He was about to pour himself a healthy serving when he heard the rustle of heavy taffeta behind him.

Glancing around, he nearly dropped the priceless Swarovski crystal on the floor.

"Pinching a cheeky tipple?" asked Adelaide Amaranth, surveying him over the rim of her own glass.

"Shit, Maddy's mum...!" Leo quickly composed himself. "Erm... Thought I'd get a head start on the party."

"Mmm..." purred the Duchess of Krona, perching herself on the edge of the billiards table. "Man after my own heart..."

Leo swallowed loudly as the skirt of her dress slid apart to reveal the length of her toned legs.

After the unmitigated disaster that had been the Bash, she'd appeared to him again, luscious and alone — like a siren rising from the dark depths of his previous failure — tempting him with a second chance...

...or goading him with the unattainability of his crusade.

Either way, Leo felt his guts tighten at her unexpected presence.

"So..." Her voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all set? To become King and all?" she asked, swirling the remnants of her drink around in the crystal tumbler.

"Furthest thing from," Leo admitted, sloshing himself a drink with shaky hands.

Whether it was nerves or anticipation, he wasn't sure. Either way, he was now doubly, triply in need of the hard stuff... in part because he could feel some other stuff becoming hard as well.

"Hence why you're looking for something to take the edge off," she mused, running her aqua-coloured gaze over him. "Smart thinking."

"Tell that to my father..." scoffed Leo, dropping the decanter back on the cabinet top, trying to maintain his cool in the face of her intoxicating closeness.

"Or my daughter," agreed Adelaide with a roll of her eyes. "If anyone needs a bevvy, it's her! Speaking of... have you see her? She's quite disappeared on me..."

"Nope. Can't say I have," admitted Leo, throwing the scotch back greedily.

Adelaide surveyed him for a long moment before shrugging. "Probably for the best, really. She can't stand me on the best of days. She's under some misguided impression that I'll say or do something that will embarrass her..."

"Welcome to my world," muttered Leo, reaching for the decanter again. "I am the living embodiment of my father's resentment. You know, he even told me tonight that I am — quote-unquote — a 'royal disgrace' and Liam should've been his heir instead."

"Hmm..." murmured Adelaide, sliding off the billiards table yo shimmy up to him. "I don't know about any of that... I think you'll look fantastic in a crown..."

Leo snorted. "That is hardly a qualification for kingship..."

"Isn't it?" pressed Adelaide, leaning her empty glass against her cheek as she cocked her head at him.

"I have it on rather good authority that there's a bit more to it than that..." murmured Leo ruefully, unable to stop his gaze from sliding down her neck to the bare skin of her cleavage that sat exposed between the lines of her dress.

"Don't listen to them," chided Adelaide, reaching up to run a finger through his thick, blonde hair. "A king needs only three things — a royal bloodline and an iconic profile. Everything else will be taken care of for you."

Leo felt an uncharacteristic shudder course through him as her fingertip brushed over the sensitive skin of his temple. "Apart from the actual ruling..."

"You'd be surprised..." she smiled. "I haven't set foot in Krona in months! The equerries take care of all the pesky details."

"Running a kingdom's a tad more involved than running a duchy..."

"Pfft!" she scoffed. "Duchy? Kingdom? What's the difference? You sign the odd piece of paper, and throw the occasional ball. That's it!"

"And lead Council meetings, host foreign dignitaries, review petitions, attend—"

"Leo, darling, you are terribly overthinking this!" chided Adelaide with a laugh, reaching for the decanter to pour herself another glass. "You think the kings and queens of old bored themselves with all the minutiae? No! They delegated, so they could have fun fighting battles and posing for portraits."

"Not sure fighting battles was exactly fun..."

"My Prince," she said, leaning in, as if imparting a secret. "All I'm saying is you have nothing to worry about. You could conquer nations with that jaw-line..."

Leo's heart stopped in it's tracks as he swore he felt the tip of her tongue flick over his skin.

"...your sense of duty is just a bonus."

"And... and the third thing?" he stammered.

"The Crown Jewels," she declared, pulling back to fix him with a knowing look.

Leo frowned. "You mean the Apple and th—"

"I mean these jewels," she corrected, grabbing the front of his trousers without warning.

Leo nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt her manicured nails close emphatically around his meat and two veg.

"Holy f—!"

"Mmm," purred Adelaide, tightening her hold on him. "Seems to be present and accounted for..."

Leo merely squeaked in response. He had no idea what was happening, or how he'd even gotten to having Adelaide's hands wrapped around his sex pistol in the first place, but he sure as bloody hell wasn't going to tell her to stop!

"...but one cannot be sure without a proper inspection."

Leo froze. "Inspection?"

Adelaide lifted her gaze to met his square on. "Darling, you are marrying my daughter. I cannot — in good conscience — let you bed her without ensuring that all the royal parts are in working order... and capable of producing grandchildren."

"Trust me..." wheezed Leo as he felt Adelaide's hands reach for his belt. "The lads have never let me down."

"Oh, yes," smiled Adelaide, undoing his buckle and letting the ornate belt drop the floor. "I am well aware of your many... conquests. But I also know the papers like to exaggerate. So, surely you cannot begrudge a mother for wanting to obtain independent confirmation."

"How 'bout a live demonstration?" blurted Leo, grasping at the edge of the drinks cabinet for support as Adelaide wrestled with the buttons of his trousers.

Hell, if this was happening, then he was gonna make damned sure that it was happening!

"Don't jump the gun, darling," Adelaide tutted, ripping the fronts of his pants open. "You need to pass muster first."

Leo gasped audibly as his sexcalibur sprang — finally, blessedly! — free of its confines.

"Not one for briefs, I see..." she observed, running her fingers critically over him.

"I threw them all out years ago," he panted in response to the feel of her silken touch on his heated gherkin.

"Another thing we have in common," she smirked, reaching for his hand to guide it over the back of her dress.

A desperate groan escaped him as his palm skated over the smooth, unencumbered expanse of her backside as she continued to fondle him. "So, what's the verdict?"

"A package worthy of a king," Adelaide assured him, rolling his plums together in her palm.

Leo felt his eyes tip back into his head at the overwhelming sensation...

...before it stopped just as quickly as it had started.

Creaking his eyes open, he saw Adelaide throw him a cheeky smirk over her shoulder as she glided sinuously towards the billiards table.

"Aren't you coming, darling?" she whispered back at him.

Leo nearly tripped over his own trousers in his haste to get to her. He was going to get the chance to live out his dirtiest, most depraved fantasy, after all! He was not wasting one more second!

"Lord, you have no idea how long I've waited for this..." he gasped, stumbling across the room towards her.

"Oh, I know very well," she assured him, leaning back to spread her arms out over the polished walnut. "I've seen you looking at me, Leo."

He faltered. "You have?"

"Of course, my darling," she assured him, cocking her leg seductively. "You were hardly subtle in your attentions. A woman notices these things..."

"You know this is highly improper..." he pointed out as he finally made it to her.

"Oh, sweet boy!" she laughed. "This would be the scandal of the century!"

"Then we better give them something to talk about," he grinned, grabbing her by her toned derrière to lift her onto the edge of the billiards table.

"Mmm... I can think of a few things..." she breathed, planting her hands on his shoulders to push him down towards her nether region.

"I'm sure you can, m'lady," he grinned, shifting his hands to the back of her knees to yank her towards him, the sudden momentum sending the top half of her body falling back onto the felt. "But allow me to put even your wildest dreams to shame."

"Bold words..." purred Adelaide with a coy smile as he lifted her legs up to anchor her Valentino Gavarani-clad feet on his shoulders, causing the skirt of her dress to cascade down towards her hips.

"I've yet to receive anything other than a stellar review," he winked at her, grabbing her waist to invert her almost fully as he lifted her sacred centre up to his face.

"That may be so, darling, but unlike some ladies, I have high standards..." murmured Adelaide, lifting her arms above her head in anticipation. "I don't dish out gold stars to just anybody..."

"I don't intend to disappoint," Leo assured her with a cocky smirk as he bent his head towards her.

"...why must I do everything myself!" seethed Madeleine, stomping down the otherwise empty corridor in her Valentino sling-backs.

She'd known Leo was an immature and unreliable cad who was more interested in finding the next skirt to lift than paying any semblance of attention to actual matters of state.

And while she would've definitely preferred a more dedicated and biddable prospect — such as his younger brother — to share the rigours of governance with, she ultimately wasn't marrying the Playboy Prince because she liked him.

In all honesty, the man could've had warts and halitosis and she still would've gone through with the union!

Because this was a political match, pure and simple. The House of Rys allying itself with the House of Amaranth, the richest and most influential noble family in Cordonia in order to keep Queen Kenna's line alive...

...with the added benefit of elevating Madeleine's own status to that of Queen. A role that she'd been training for since before she could even walk, given her father's unrelenting pursuit of power by any and all means — an endeavour that she very much shared, much to her mother's disgruntlement.

But she couldn't exactly get engaged if her intended was missing! Tonight, of all nights!

Who, in their right mind, disappears on their own coronation?!

Of course, she was well aware of Leo's infamous tendency to pull vanishing acts, but what the blasted hell was the man thinking? To leave an entire country in the lurch?

Certainly not on her watch!

She'd already dispatched Bastien and all available members of the King's Guard to search high and low for the errant prince. But the Palace and its grounds were massive, and given the sheer number of people that had descended on the Rys stronghold for tonight's event, trying to find anyone was an exercise akin to weeding a needle out of a haystack.

So, she'd been forced to join the search herself. Even though it was insulting beyond measure and much below her station.

But, desperate times called for desperate measures, and she'd rather sweat into her ballgown running up and down the corridors now, than stand like a hapless bimbo in front of all the dignitaries and news crews trying to explain why her future king and fiancé had skipped out on an entire nation on one of the most important nights of its recent history.

No. She most certainly did not need those headlines running in the morning... or ever.

Best that she focused her efforts on helping locate the wayward heir, and hope that he wasn't halfway out of the country already... because by God, she'd send the Cordonian Secret Service after him if she had to!

Arriving at the next set of doors on her mental task-list, she wasted no time in pushing the handle down...

"Leopold?" she called, stepping into the room.

...only to freeze in shock at the sight in front of her.

There he was — the next in line to the Cordinian throne — head thrown back, trousers around his ankles, thrusting like an animal into—

"MOTHER?!"

Adelaide raised her disheveled head from the billiards table at the sound of her daughter's distraught shriek. "Oh, sweet pea! There you are!"

Leo raised his hand in a wave. "Hi, Mads!"

Madeleine's rouged lips jerked soundlessly, trying to formulate some kind of response, but nothing was forthcoming.

Never — in all her life! — had she imagined that she'd ever witness such sordid... brazen... obscenity!

She was literally lost for words. Her! The person who has been giving televised interviews since the age of four!

"Darling," soothed Adelaide, propping herself up onto her elbows to reveal the tautness of her age-defying, silicone-enhanced breasts, "I know this looks frightfully ghastly, but I can assure that—"

"Shut up..." she finally managed to croak.

Adelaide frowned. "Darling, are you—?"

"I SAID, SHUT UP!" Madeleine screeched.

Both Leo and her mother's eyes widened in the face of the uncharacteristically deranged outburst... but they nevertheless managed to refrain from commenting.

"I don't know how this..." She gestured derisively in the couple's general direction. "...colossal cock-up happened. Nor do I care. But what I do know — and most certainly care about — is that the coronation ceremony is starting. And I will not let you, Leopold—"

Leo groaned at the sound of his full, Christian name. "Jesus, Mads! I told you I—"

"Do not interrupt me!" snapped Madeleine. Sucking in a breath to collect herself, she continued, "I will not let you fuck this up for me, or the kingdom. So, if you want to keep your royal bratwurst, then I suggest that you pull it out of my mother and get your fatuous arse to the ballroom before I have the Guard drag you there."

Leo glanced down at Adelaide. "You sure she wasn't adopted or—?"

"NOW!!!" thundered Madeleine.

"Okay, okay, sheesh!" huffed Leo, grabbing for his trousers, given that he was already very much deflated, his fiancée having managed to suck the literal joy out of his joystick with her mere appearance .

"And you, Mother..." hissed Madeleine, turning her attention to her disheveled parent. "You have undermined me for the last time."

Adelaide scoffed. "Darling, all I have ever done is—"

"Which is why my first act as Queen will be to banish you to Krona," finished Madeleine with a haughty air of finality.

Adelaide's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare!"

Her daughter's demeanour was icy. "You're lucky I'm not banishing you to Siberia. But if you test me—"

"Siberia at least has decent vodka..." chimed in Leo, sauntering past her out the room.

Adelaide tipped her head contemplatively. “He's got a point, you know…”

"Argh!!" screamed Madeleine, slamming the door behind her with such vehemence that it rattled the bottles in the liquor cabinet.

Vile cretins! The whole bloody lot of them!

Grabbing her intended by the arm, she hauled him all the way back to the ball, ignoring the profanity-filled protests.

Stopping in front of the pair of footmen that were manning the ballroom doors, she snapped, "Inform the King that Prince Leopold is ready for his coronation."

"Actu— Ow!!"

She brutally silenced the forthcoming objection with a heel to Leo’s foot.

As the servants rushed away to do her bidding, she manhandled Leo back into the same ante-chamber that he'd disappeared from earlier.

"Mads, stop!" he pleaded as she pulled him across the Persian carpet like a stubborn mule. "Can you please just—?"

"No," she declared, shoved him through the velvet curtains and onto the gilded dais without ceremony. "You will do your duty, even if it kills you, you ungrateful oaf!"

The hubbub of the crowd instantly ceased as Leo stumbled to a stop.

"There you are!" snap Constantine into his ear. "You have some nerve—"

"Just get on with it..." sighed Leo, the weight of finality crashing down on him as he caught his brother's the eye from across the room. Liam always hated it when his brother and father argued, and Leo didn't want to subject him to a public spectacle.

Constantine looked like he wanted to say more, but quickly decided against it. Turning to the congregation, he spread his arms and launched into his pre-prepared speech.

"Good evening, one and all! It is a great honour to have so many of you come out tonight to show your support not only for—"

"Pay attention!"

Glancing down, Leo caught Madeleine's disproving glower from the foot of the dais.

He suppressed a groan.

How they were going to sire royal babies, he had no idea...

...probably with copious amounts of drugs and alcohol...and possibly even a paper bag.

Because he already knew that there was no way that he wouldn't be able to not think about Adelaide while doing it with her daughter.

As even now, in the midst of his own coronation, his mind kept drifting back to the passionate coitus they'd shared on that billiards table before it had gotten oh, so rudely interrupted.

The way she'd moved... The sounds she'd made... That thing with her tongue... It sent shivers down his spine all over again.

And suddenly he had a stark realisation.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't go through with the coronation.

Not if it meant never being able to see her again.

"...and, now..." his father was saying, holding upon the ancient Rys signet ring, "with the bestowal of this ring, I—"

"I abdicate!"

A collective gasp of disbelief rose from the room.

Glancing up, Leo found his father and step-mother staring at him with open mouths, all semblance of propriety forgotten in the face of the shocking announcement.

But he was not perturbed. He'd made his decision. "I, Leopold Maximilian Fernando Constantine Rys, hereby officially and irrevocably renounce my royal titles as Crown Prince of Cordonia and Duke of Applewood." Turning to Constantine, he added with an apologetic shrug, "Sorry, Dad. Just wasn't feeling it."

The heavy gold band clattered to the floor as the cameras exploded into a frenzy of flashing.

"What the devil are you doing?!" demanded Madeleine, appearing in front of him as he hopped off the stage. "Get back up there and—"

"Better luck next time, Mads!" he shouted over the growing dim as he quickly skirted around the edge of the ballroom.

Reaching the closest set of French doors, he threw them open and — with the practiced ease of a man who'd done this exact manoeuvre a hundred times before — vaulted over the edge of the balcony.

Landing on the gravel, he caught sight of the lone pair of headlights idling in front of the Palace steps, and the figure that was in the process of getting behind the wheel.

A knowing smile spread over his face.

Loping across the drive, he managed to intercept the Aston Martin Vantage convertible before it had a chance to drive off.

The driver raised a brow at him as he approached. "Aren't you supposed to be getting crowned?"

"Realised I had somewhere more important to be," he admitted, coming to a stop by the side of the car. "Room for one more?"

Adelaide's lips curved into a smile. "Always, darling."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Leo, hopping into the passenger seat.

She cast him a sidelong glance. "You know this is never going to work out..."

"And?" he grinned, kicking his feet up onto the dash.

Throwing her head back with a laugh, Adelaide pressed the pedal down, kicking the tail of the Aston as they left the ball to dust.

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[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - March

Ah! I might be crawling on my hands and knees, but I shall give you the monthly OTP nevertheless.

I love you all very much, and I hope you can forgive me for being so absent (and absent-minded) lately. Life is getting a bit much for me...

Either way, have two grumpy singers!

Pairing: Daeron x Maglor

Prompts: Fresh starts, Road Trip, Getting back together/mutual pining, "make me", acceptance, fairy tale AU (of sorts)

Words: 2515

Warnings: Sadness, unprocessed grief, a kiss, Modern AU

“Princess,” Daeron singsonged, irony dripping like acid from his melodious voice. “Your carriage awaits!”

“Fuck off,” Maglor replied in an uncharacteristically gruff hiss and swept past the unfairly tall, light-haired nuisance with what he envisioned as regal equanimity.

Glaring at the small, frantically blinking light at the far end of the luxurious caravan, he wedged himself behind the steering wheel and suppressed a shivering sigh.

After millennia of resentful solitude, his boredom had finally gotten the better of him, and—dusting off his long-forgotten impish streak—the last surviving son of Fëanor had ultimately given in to the temptation of singing again.

The world around him had, of course, changed drastically, and so he had found himself in an endless, milling queue for what was generally known as a “casting show”. Oh! The indignity!

With the rise and fall of one-hit-wonders and the increasing popularity of self-produced clips on various platforms, the format was ailing, and he had felt strangely touched by the faded glory of a dying genre—the dramatic flair of bittersweet nostalgia had always appealed to him, after all.

Never could he have predicted the shock and amazement that had washed through him upon discovering a familiar face amongst the sea of strangers, all of them impatiently waiting to get their fleeting moment in the sun.

Daeron of Doriath had grinned wistfully. “Alive, yeah?”

Even now, as his knuckles were white and tense around the cheap imitation of black leather, Maglor was overcome with helpless ire as he recalled that callous greeting.

His own heart had given a painful lurch, and his tongue had felt heavy and unwieldy in his dry mouth.

In truth, he resented Daeron for having had the readiness of mind to quip however feebly and half-heartedly when he had been struggling to even draw breath.

Evidently, Maglor had heard rumours about Daeron’s disappearance, and—while the world was in the throes of the Black Death—he had even attempted to do some discreet investigations, but he had never expected to behold that sharp-featured, unbearably impassive face in person again.

Once upon a time, they had shared a few torrid nights of illicit pleasure, and Maglor had always liked to think that they would have made for good long-term lovers, had things been different.

As history had played out, though, too many grievous deeds of treason and murder had ultimately fallen like unforgiving scythes between Daeron’s people and his own, and they had been torn apart before their fragile bond had ever truly knitted.

Many a time, Maglor—overcome with loneliness and longing—had assured himself that it had been for the best, despite the nagging sting of persistent doubt at the back of his mind.

“Do you ever think of the fairy tale ending we didn’t get?”

Maglor’s eyes widened as the sharp jerk of Daeron’s head made him realise that he had spoken these words aloud.

In his former life, he had been known to love causing a stir, but he now resented himself for having betrayed his own resolution not to give the vultures of the TV show any material they could cut and mangle into some melodramatic narrative of mutual pining and inevitable heartbreak.

As was to be expected of two musical heroes of another time, Daeron and he had passed the initial try-outs with flying colours, and the producer—who seemed more interested in a marketable storyline than in actual skill—had promptly decided that they were to share a camping car to a yet undisclosed location where the first “challenge” would be held.

Having performed in desolate war camps and in front of highly spoiled, complacent audiences alike, Maglor was fundamentally unafraid of the potential discontentment of a few blatantly unarmed mortals which, quite naturally, only contributed to his popularity with the viewers of the sensationalist show.

His frantically cheery demeanour, especially in juxtaposition with Daeron’s almost hostile aloofness, had thus immediately captured the hearts and minds of the faceless, nameless spectators behind innumerable screens all across the world.

Unfortunately, neither one of them, having always been reasonably popular, had had the good sense to refuse this arrangement, which meant that they were now perched together in a structurally unsound box of laughably thin metal that was hurtling down bumpy streets towards an undoubtedly underwhelming destination.

After a long moment of silently toying with the grotesque collection of porcelain dolls, plush toys, and ragdolls Maglor seemed to carry around like talismans or voodoo dolls, Daeron scoffed.

“Why, Káno, don’t write us off just yet. Returned from oblivion and obsolescence, here we are, competing once more,” he rasped. Maglor took his eyes off the road to witness the mocking twinkle in those enchantingly unfathomable eyes.

Oh, Daeron had always loved speaking in riddles, and nothing amused him more than to harp on the subtext of a situation until its thrumming strings screamed their protest.

Bowing his head in a poor imitation of gratitude, Maglor narrowed his eyes to flashing slivers of bared steel.

“Isn’t that how these tales go?” Daeron chortled. “The princess, singing mournful songs by the raging sea, and the lost knight finding her at the very last moment. I seem to remember a story of a daring prince who found his paramour—captured and detained by dragons and evil monsters—by singing to his lost love. Are you familiar with it?”

This time, Maglor gave an audible grunt. The naked pain vibrating in the sound made Daeron press his lips together as if he could recall the hasty, cruel words he had just unleashed.

“Forget I’ve said anything,” he hissed. “The years have not been kind to my mind.”

Again, Daeron tapped his fingertip against the pale cheek of an antique figurine of a flame-haired angel. “Nelyafinwë Maitimo,” he whispered as if to call one who could no longer hear neither curses nor praise.

With a choked sound of raw emotion, Maglor wrenched around the steering wheel dangerously. “I haven’t heard their names for so long, spoken by a voice that isn’t mine. Forgive me…”

“I have bought your paintings, by the way,*” Daeron confessed, drawn into the depthless pool of the other’s unexpected vulnerability as easily now as that first time they had met under a new moon. “It took me centuries to find them all, but they’re safe with me.”

“Sometimes,” he then disjointedly answered that involuntary question, hanging like a raincloud between them, in a sober, startlingly beautiful whisper. “At times, when the night is oppressive and starless, and the wind sings dirges of another era, yes, then I think of you and of all that might have been.”

Maglor had expected mockery and scalding disdain, but Daeron’s candid reply, drenched in blood and unshed tears, left him speechless as he stared sightlessly at the road unwinding like a drab, greyish ribbon before him.

For what felt like an eternity, they just sat in silence as the empty, barren landscape flew past them.

In their former life, there would have been loud, competitive singing, but they seemed to agree that whatever they shared was too fragile and precious to drag it out into the open under the dispassionate, greedy eye of a soulless camera.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Daeron said suddenly, almost making Maglor veer off the road again with shock as that old-familiar, powerful voice rattled him like a shockwave.

He nodded shakily—usually, he was better at observing and emulating the little weaknesses of the incarnates amongst which they were hiding, but his mind had been obsessively dissecting every minute detail of Daeron’s confession.

Indubitably, a mere human would need to stretch their legs and rest their eyes after hours of driving! Maglor resented himself for not having thought of it himself, and—never one to forego a challenge—he added cheerily that he could indeed do with a snack.

A tiny twitch passed over Daeron’s face—was it exasperated disbelief or earnest amusement?—but he, in turn, nodded as if he did not know that the blessed and cursed prince of the Ñoldor could have covered the distance their rickety caravan had just crossed without resting or eating. “Sure, we can go for a walk.”

They chuckled quietly in unison, remembering with heartbroken melancholy how mercilessly they had once been berated for their half-hearted dissembling and open petulance.

Again, they seemed to concur that they’d bear much worse than the tasteless, guileless prying of a ruthless producer if it meant that they could weather the devastatingly deserved displeasure of their lost loved ones once more.

Alas, they were alone in this world, and thus they could be as dishonest in their demeanour as they wanted.

The playful duplicity and leisurely prevarication that had once been a harmless affectation had seemingly turned into a dire necessity throughout the ages, though, and Daeron rubbed his thumb distractedly across the pendant—old, golden wood, engraved in a language few could read nowadays—as Maglor pulled into a near-empty parking lot.

They moved slowly and clumsily as they exited the parked trailer, masterfully emulating the signs of fatigue and stiffness they’d observed in friends and foes countless times.

“Do you really want to walk?” Maglor asked. Haven’t we walked enough? Even though that second, slightly bitter question never made it past his lips, Daeron could easily discern it between the lines.

“Yes—didn’t you say that you were hungry?” He looked famished, Daeron thought with a pang of agonising nostalgia and resentful pity.

He remembered the soft, full silhouette of Kanafinwë, blessed song of Fëanáro’s and Nerdanel’s love, and he shivered with dismay at the sight of the unbecomingly gaunt, hollow-cheeked creature stalking past him.

This fading shadow of a once glorious prince looked like something cut out of a cheap fashion magazine, paper-thin and oddly flat, which undoubtedly impressed foolish girls and shallow youngsters who, of course, had no way of knowing that Maglor had once possessed the kind of beauty neither song nor hefty tome might ever have captured or encompassed.

“Let me buy you a sandwich,” he said with a forced grin and elbowed Maglor in the ribs. “You look like you need it!”

“A soggy sandwich from a vending machine?” Maglor made a face. “I remember the amazing feasts you used to prepare for me. Do you?”

Clenching his teeth to keep the wailing dirge of lost love—bewept and interred so many ages ago—from bursting from his lips in a hailstorm of fire and blood, Daeron nodded tersely. “You called me ‘nightingale’ then, and you loved the bittersweet taste of the pale berries that only grew in our shadowy meadows,” he whispered. “I remember.”

A barking, unsteady laugh escaped Maglor. “They were like you—complex, acrid, and delicious. I—”

They had reached the edge of the bare, bleak cement desert and sat down under a gnarled, greyish tree that had lost all its colour and vitality in the constant haze of exhaust fumes and empty souls.

“Should I go check whether they have a fresh sandwich for you?” Daeron broke the silence that thrummed like a single chord vibrating endlessly between them. “You don’t look much like the lark I once loved anymore, but you still sound the same.”

Maglor’s head snapped up in a sharp jerk. He had not thought of that silly nickname in a literal eternity—at least as far as everyone around him was concerned—and hearing it spoken so tenderly pierced his heart.

“Lark,” he repeated slowly. “Because I was so loud and annoying.”

“Because you were the herald of dawn, of light, of hope!” Daeron contradicted gruffly.

“Who brought death and destruction, never you forget.” Averting his eyes from the shining hero of his unfinished fairy tale, Maglor felt a surge of that age-old despair and weariness crawling up his clogged throat.

“We did that quite well on our own.” Shrugging lopsidedly—a little too fast to fully hide the lingering echoes of unprocessed feelings of resentment and desire—Daeron gave a long-drawn, distinctly miserable sigh. “Either way, it’s done and over. Your kings and mine, the fair maidens we disappointed and deserted, the kin we betrayed…they’re all gone and won’t come back any time soon. Might as well eat that sandwich, what say you? I want you to eat something—I’ve always loved watching you eat!”

“Make me!” The right corner of Maglor’s mouth twitched, and just as Daeron decided that he’d accept this as consent and wanted to jog back to the small, rancid store they’d passed by on their way to the lonely tree, all the air was knocked out of his lungs.

“You said…you said I loved Doriath’s berries and…that you’d loved me,” Maglor whispered tremulously.

Maybe it was the rare quality of his voice or perhaps it was Daeron’s exceptional hearing, but these words seemed to swell into a deafening crescendo, underscored by the roaring of the blood in his temples and ears.

He had stupidly let this slip, hadn’t he?

“I admit that the past tense, no matter how deserved, wounds me,” the fallen prince admitted in a low, trembling voice.

“No—” Daeron took a deep, audible breath. “That was a long time ago, and many things have changed, haven’t they?”

Crestfallen, the other—still so beautiful underneath the tarnished patina of faded glory—nodded. “I guess all things must change. Nevertheless, your voice still makes my heart skip a beat, so I guess some precious fragments of our previous lives stay blessedly untouched by the ravages of war and the unrelenting destruction of time.”

Daeron could have said a million things—he wanted to object and argue—but, instead, he simply closed his cool palms around Maglor’s drawn face and pulled him in a soft, tender kiss.

As their eyes closed, lids fluttering wildly, they could almost feel the gentle, fragrant winds of a faraway verdant forest caress their clammy brow, and echoes of songs that had not been played in millennia filled the cool air.

That first kiss was as delicate as butterfly wings, but it shifted the world off its axis irrevocably, nevertheless.

“We’re no longer who we once were…and that might be for the better,” Daeron breathed against those sweet, poisonous lips. “But—as that greasy executive didn’t tire of pointing out—we each have a compellingly tragic backstory, fraught with mystery and misery, that only we know about. Let me recite the names of your brothers to you while we hold on to what is left of us.”

“Sandwiches and sad songs?” Maglor teased feebly. “How the mighty have fallen!”

“Whatever you want, princess. It’s just you and me, left stranded in this decrepit, dying world. At the edge of time, afloat in the everlasting darkness of self-imposed isolation, we remain.”

“Are you saying that it is time to go home? Together?” Reluctance and longing wrought a complex melody that echoed through their souls, reviving old grievances and immortal affection.

“Not yet, darling. Let’s give them a show…” Daeron whispered. “One last encore before the final curtain, what say you, my lark?”

* If you want the spin-off story of Daeron travelling around to find and purchase (steal, blackmail, and do crime in general) Maglor's paintings, let me know!

Thank you for bearing with me! Lots of love!

-> Masterlist

[claudeng80]

Private Practice

Obiyuki do-si-do, day 1

Canon divergence: Shirayuki gets a job at the town apothecary in Wistal and never goes to work at the castle.

full story on AO3

The torch grinds against the stones, spitting pitch and sparks in her ear. “Stop running,” Mihaya snarls, his voice entwining with the hiss of the flames. “You’ll be taken good care of! Just cooperate.”

Shirayuki curls her fingers into fists, hidden behind her back. She wants so badly to change his mind, but he’s made it clear that her desires don’t matter to him. She didn’t let the prince of Tanbarun decide her fate, and she’s not about to let some stranger in Clarines do it either, whatever it takes. She’s failed to outrun him, she’s failed to out-think him, but if it’s all she has left, she will do her best to fight.

With a gasp, Mihaya lurches away from her, his torch tumbling end over end to lie abandoned at her feet. Shadows dance madly against the wall as Zen leans in, eyes sky-blue and confident. “Hey there, Shirayuki,” he says. Her heart pounds in her ears, too much for her even to answer.

Zen takes charge of everything, and as much as she appreciates it, as relieved as she is to be hiking down the mountain toward Wistal and not dragged off into the unknown, she can��t help but notice how calm he is. It’s as though this is no surprise to him, like it happens all the time-

She doubts she wants her path to run so close to the palace, if it comes with risks like this.

The smell of the apothecary’s shop brings tears to Shirayuki’s eyes. The bouquet of herbal notes fills her nose, spiced with the tang of antiseptic, and she remembers all too well the night she took down the bell from her own shop’s door, no more than a few weeks ago. Back in Tanbarun it may still be there waiting, the taint of mold overtaking the clean dry smell as nobody airs out the rooms and maintains the drawers. Tears threaten, but she won’t let them fall. It’s a chapter of her life she’s put behind her, now. She was never truly qualified, anyway.

At the far end of the counter a boy, not even into his teens, peers into a box of herbs. He wafts the smell toward his face with a practiced motion, then crushes a leaf and inspects the dust on his fingers. The white-coated man behind the counter, presumably the apothecary himself, waits breathlessly for the verdict.

The boy nods, and the man’s relief is palpable. “I’ll have your order delivered to the palace today, “ the apothecary says. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, as always. Please send my regards to the Chief Pharmacist.”

The boy’s shoulders hunch at the apothecary’s obsequiousness. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, he chokes out a “Thank you,” and drives for the door as though he can’t stand another second indoors. Shirayuki holds the door for him, and he marches through without acknowledgment.

The bell jingles once more as the door swings shut, and Shirayuki is the only customer left in the shop. “Can I help you?” the apothecary calls out, and she hesitates. But one never gets anywhere without taking a first step forward. “I’m not here to buy anything,” she says, standing straight at the counter. “But are you looking for any new employees? I have experience gathering and preserving herbs, and some in compounding medicines.” She rubs at the heel of her hand, the callus where she held the hub of her grinding wheel suddenly itchy.

The apothecary eyes her suspiciously, his eyes flickering down to track the motion, and she tries not to wither under his gaze. “I ran a local pharmacy in Tanbarun,” she adds, pushing back against the doubt trying to seep in. “It was never as grand as this, but it was there for everyone who needed it. It made a difference.”

That’s what she misses, what she needs- if she isn’t helping people, what’s the point? She stands firm, waiting for the apothecary’s response, and reminds herself that nobody he could hire would be more qualified than she is.

“Yes, I think we might actually have a place,” he says at long last, and she takes one step forward. One step closer to where she’s meant to be.

Continue with chapter 1

[altschmerzes]

💔 | ☺️ | 🎲

gonna go with wriggle up on dry land again (baby jamie au) because i'm on a roll with it so-

💔 Share your most heartbreaking line.

SO THERE ARE UH. MANY. AS IM SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE. so here's just. one of them, so far. this is a bit longer, but-

“Jamie?” Though he already knew the answer, Ted was so hoping he was wrong. He isn’t. The person’s head rises from where it had been pressed into his knees, which were pulled to his chest with his arms tight around them, and he looks over at Ted. Upon seeing who’d spoken to him, the expression on Jamie’s face goes from a dull tiredness immediately into shock and embarrassment. Ted feels his heart lurch and skip in his chest, his breath catching and a spike of cold going down his spine. Something is wrong, he thinks. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. “You’re out late, kid,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm and casual. He tucks his hands into his pockets and stands there by the bench as if this is a perfectly ordinary way to run into someone at a perfectly ordinary time. “‘Specially with this lovely weather we’re having.” The rain seems to fall harder as if just to spite them, just to make Ted feel that much more uneasy. “So are you.” The response is a muted challenge, so subdued it barely sounds like Jamie at all.

☺️ Share a happy line.

Seeing Sam’s reaction is everything. And then right after Sam’s reaction on Ted’s list of reasons why this job is worth it every moment and then some is the reaction of his teammates as well. Seeing how happy it made them to make Sam happy is the first time since Ted arrived that he really feels like he’s watching a team interact. It’s bolstering in a way he can’t quite describe.

🎲 Using a method of your choosing, share a randomly-selected line.

since i was talking about my uh. ahem. 'research' last night, here's this-

“I dunno, Coach, I think they might surprise us this year. Or, you know, maybe at least wait until the season actually starts before you write them off, come on. Opening day’s not til March,” Ted says, taking a sip of his coffee and smiling into the cup when Beard snorts in response. “Maybe if they weren’t coming fresh off two seasons with over a hundred losses that might be more persuasive. You gotta stop living in 2015.” Ah, 2015. Beautiful year for Kansas baseball, that’s for sure. Rather than continue debating the merits of the current and far less magical outlook of his home city’s place in America’s pastime, Ted basks in the memory of that instead.

[satans-helper]

Reaching for Stardust - Part V

Read Looking For Space here / RFS on wattpad / Playlists

Word Count: ~4700

Warnings: drinking, some sexual content ;)

Hi <3

---

The drive to the airport felt ungodly. The morning air was thick and humid and the sky was too cloudy to see the stars–pure darkness led the way. No sun, no moon, no nothing, and I kept dozing off in the passenger seat, feeling sorry I’d let Josh talk me into sitting up there next to his dad. Josh was awake, caffeinated but only temporarily I knew, and he kept chatting with his dad and singing along to songs that were drifting listlessly in and out of my own ears. I was still in a daze when we arrived at the airport but uncomfortably alert when it came to TSA time, although we both made it through without issue. Then came the time for us to march our way through the infinite-feeling space, the fluorescent lights lining every wall and tile and creating a false daylight that guided us along. 

We located a Starbucks before we found our gate which we both used to our advantage–Josh could maintain his pep while I could actually gain some–and sat outside the gate, carry-ons in front of our feet, as we sipped our drinks and people-watched, taking note of who would be boarding the plane with us. 

“He looks stressed,” Josh said quietly, nodding at an older man standing, leaning against the column just beyond the rows of seats, who was all tight shoulders and an even tighter face, staring at his phone. 

“Sort of looks like he’s waiting for someone,” I said, taking another drink. I looked past him, half-expecting to see someone else rushing up to meet their friend or husband or whatever he may be, but the back and forth of the external crowd kept moving. I was feeling a little stressed myself with the caffeine triggering more anxiety than excitement–flying was a rarity and there was always some part of me that felt like something would go wrong, but that feeling was even more palpable now, a harsh bite against my gut that sent a red warning sign off in my head. 

It must have showed in some way because Josh put his arm over my shoulders and leaned in close. “You okay?”

I nodded, sipping my drink again. “Yeah. Nervous to fly, I guess.” 

“It’ll be okay,” Josh assured me. “It’s always better once we’re fully in the air, right?” He knew how much I hated take-off. On the other hand, he loved it. 

The shuffle to our seats was slow and it felt laborious, everything and everyone so cramped, but we eventually got our bags in the overhead compartments and settled into our seats. Josh gave me the window and I was immediately fixated on the outside of the plane even without being in motion, trying to sink myself into our surroundings so I could sink the heavy feeling that was still torturing me. I didn’t even necessarily think anything bad was going to happen during the flight–the feeling wasn’t that specific–but it felt like something dangerous was coming. 

I froze up against the seat when take-off began; Josh took my hand and held it gently between us, not saying anything. He didn’t need to. The contact, that soft touch, was enough to make the bad feeling drift a little further away and remind me that the literal physical, lurching feeling of our ascent was temporary–I squeezed his hand when things got a little rocky, as they always did, and kept my eyes out the window, watching the wing gradually tilt more and more, and then we were really soaring. 

“Here,” Josh said, handing me the right earbud of his wireless set. I put it in my ear and Van Morrison was there, giving me some words about searching his soul that felt so right on that it was as though both he and Josh could read my mind. With that and the scenery below me, the two hours began to fly by. I watched the streams of clouds, stared down at the blue rivers, distant green fields and the terracotta mountains that looked so shallow and small from way up above, listened to Van in my right ear and the subdued chatter of passengers in the left, while Josh intermittently stroked my hand, arm and leg, lost in his own world of the book he’d smartly brought along. I always liked watching him read, honestly–he couldn’t control his facial expressions with anyone or anything, certainly not when he was by himself with a book, and I observed him for a couple minutes here and there between gazing out the window. Soon enough, the pilot was announcing our descent and Josh was squeezing my hand to keep me level. 

Josh had also been smart by reserving a car rental before our trip. Despite his ADHD brain and general attachment to the big picture versus details, he’d really come through with this trip. Of course, that was almost entirely because it’d been a secret from me.

I’d imagined lots of walking around the city but when we started to drive to our airbnb, it became clear that we really were staying in the suburbs. That didn’t diminish any of the allure, however–I was transfixed by this new place, mystified by the soft blue sky, the palm trees lining the streets, the thick vegetation growing in people’s lawns and the breeze that drifted through the car’s cracked windows. The air smelled so different and felt different, too–its warmth was unfamiliar but inviting. The neighborhood we were staying in was so different, the streets lined with little bungalows that sat close together but were largely protected by those deep green gardens everyone seemed to be so fond of. 

The neighborhood clearly wasn’t where affluent people lived and the exterior of our airbnb solidified that, but the inside was surprisingly chic and spacious. Dark hardwood floors led the way to an open living room and kitchen, with a small enclosed porch off the living room; the kitchen was all dark tile and granite, the counters bare except for a Keurig machine and a toaster on one end. 

“This is so you,” I said to Josh while we made our way down the short hallway, hauling our bags behind ourselves and over our shoulders. The walls were a warm sienna brown and there was indigenous artwork everywhere. “I see why you chose it.”

“I mostly chose it because of that porch, actually,” Josh said. “It was hard to find a place with any kind of real yard space. That’s the best I could do. Though I bet we’ll be spending most of our time out on the town, you know?” In the master bedroom, which seemed to harbor the most natural light out of everywhere else in the house, he dropped his bags onto the floor and stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, observing. “I like it.” 

I followed suit, happy to free myself of the extra weight of clothes, shoes and toiletries threatening to burst the seams of my bags. I was a notorious overpacker; Josh was skilled at paring down to basic needs and a few “special” things only. I liked the bedroom too–it deviated from the main parts of the house. Its walls were a pale blue and bright windows and sheer curtains that would no doubt make sure we got up early each morning; the king-sized bed that was tucked perfectly with crisp white sheets and harbored a couple interesting throw pillows–one was shaped like a clam shell and the other was a conch shell. Cute, though we weren’t quite ON the beach. We would be soon, though. One thing Josh made sure to tell me as a selling point was Tybee Island being a short drive away. 

“It’s nice,” I affirmed, getting one arm around Josh and holding him close. Since we’d landed, my prior anxiety and dread had disappeared–it felt impossible to have such a heavy heart in such a foreign and beautiful place. “But there’s two other bedrooms. What are we gonna do with those?” 

“Maybe there’s ghosts,” Josh said, grinning and raising his eyes as he looked at me. “Savannah has a lot of them.”

“Can we do a ghost tour one of these nights?” I asked, remembering the slew of information I’d seen on those during my Google research. We had three nights to tear the town up, as far as I was concerned, and why not try to connect with some spirits? 

“Of course, my spooky darling.” Josh got his arms around me in turn and spun us around, careening us both forward so my back collided with the bed and he landed on top of me. He was still grinning, his hands positioned on either side of my head keeping him from crushing me, though he knew I loved feeling his full weight on top of me any chance I got. “I’m so glad we’re here. It’s gonna be the best trip ever.”

I put my hands on his chiseled, hard waist. “Best birthday ever?”

He grinned even bigger, teeth biting into his bottom lip as if he were trying to pull it back. “It could be. Why not?” He let the weight of his lower body fall, pressing his hips against mine, and brought his mouth to my neck. “I’m in a beautiful place with an even more beautiful woman.” 

I giggled softly at the ticklish sensation from his facial hair rubbing against my skin. “So really–what inspired all of this? I mean, why pick this city?”

“Why not this city?” Josh replied, then nibbled my earlobe, making me giggle louder and his whole body making contact with mine and his languid touches that made their way underneath my clothes made me forget how badly I wanted a real answer.

We drove into town later on when we were mostly unpacked and hankering for a real meal for the first time that day. Josh let me decide and we ended up at what seemed to be one of the most popular diners in town, with a line of waiting, hungry people trailing down the sidewalk. Josh and I shifted weight from foot to foot during our own wait and I kept peering at the old apartments across the road and down the street, with large, long windows that were frequently covered in tangled green vines. Everything looked old and full of carefully constructed detail. What had been curious to me, as we’d walked from our street parking spot to the diner, was how there seemed to be very few houses in the actual city, just lots of apartments within what used to be full houses, though many of them looked big, maybe even bigger than the houses in our temporary neighborhood.

After lunch, mostly stuffed with french fries and a giant sticky pecan roll Josh and I had shared, we set out on foot. That was when we saw the sprawl of independent houses–large, colorful, beautiful and no doubt expensive. They were set close together like the apartments though, lacking true yards, but I could imagine waking up within all those big windows and stepping out into the heart of the city each morning and how accomplished those people who actually live those lives must feel. It was like this everywhere though, really–visiting a new place and speculating how the native inhabitants lived, what brought them there, how they got to their place in life, what they did every day.

I often felt like a bit of an imposter when I was in a new place, like everyone there could tell I was just a visitor, but Savannah may have been the most profound in that way. It was a tourist city for sure, with Josh and I being far from the only ones who probably stood out. That helped, to not feel so alone in living up to the stereotypes of a tourist while we perused through little shops selling Savannah and Georgia t-shirts alike, magnets, keychains, mugs and beach bags. Josh kept trying on different pairs of sunglasses everywhere we went, not settling on a new pair until I had managed to settle on a t-shirt with an alligator printed on it, and he wore them as we walked down the boardwalk by the river. 

The sun was high and hot but the breeze helped; more than that, the array of characters along the boardwalk served as a distraction as we moved in and out of those shops and then finally sat on a bench with big iced cocktails. There was a man playing a trumpet in the middle of it all, spouting a different, comical tune for every person who walked by him. I expected Josh to make a point to parade past him just to hear what the man would play, but he stayed sitting next to me, sipping his honeydew and mango drink while I sipped my strawberry margarita. 

“We should go out tonight,” Josh said as we watched a huge boat go by, more music soaring from somewhere inside of it. 

“Even though we’re celebrating your birthday tomorrow?”

“We have every day and night we’re here to celebrate,” he told me, knocking his plastic cup against mine. “Let’s make the most of this first one.”

“That rooftop bar I saw on Google earlier did look really cool,” I said, my eyes still on the boat as its tail end moved further and further away, the people on it getting smaller and smaller. “Can we go there?”

“Anywhere you want.” 

We ate dinner in this small and tightly packed restaurant modeled after a trailer, with photographs of actual trailers backlit by sunsets hanging on the walls. The place was cute but loud–Josh and I had to yell at one another across the little square table, trying to surmount not only the clamor of our fellow patrons but the loud array of pop and soft rock that blared in from the speakers. We ate fried chicken and fried pickles and I had another, albeit smaller, margarita, and then we headed back to our rental to change. 

We both kept ourselves free of glitter for the night but Josh declared us “two stylish cats” nonetheless. Josh was wearing a fitted white tee and a pair of shiny gold pants he’d found at a thrift store and they’d gotten a little tighter since he initially bought them–his glutes, quads and calves were delectable curves accentuated by the fabric–and the bull pendant to top everything off. Once we were both ready, I scouted out an uber to bring us back downtown. I was itching to give Josh his birthday present a little early but kept it in its little wrapped box back in my suitcase, silently deciding this whole night was a gift to both of us in and of itself. 

“Do you think there’s a password or something?” Josh asked me while we approached the main door to the rooftop bar. It was tucked away in the corner of a cobblestone courtyard, not far off from the boardwalk, with a large fountain in front of it. Neon lights glazed the water, making the endless streams glow in hot pink, electric blue and vivid green, giving real truth to its name of Electric Moon Skytop Lounge.

“Doubt it,” I said, though I hadn’t thought about it. I took Josh’s arm in my own, linking us together as we made eye contact with the bouncer standing outside. “Maybe just a door fee or something.” But there was not, just the usual ID check. As always, whenever I caught a glimpse of it, I stifled a giggle at Josh’s old driver’s license photo, with his short-cropped curls and goofy smile, the face of someone I hadn’t met yet but who the universe had generously placed in my path. 

An elevator took us to the roof. The place wasn’t quite packed but it wasn’t dead–it was the perfect sort of in-between, with half of the actual bar flooded with people leaning over the glossy cocktail menus or their phones and the rest of the space harboring plush leather seats. There was no door to the actual outside roof–it was just a huge gap in the space, a wide open entrance and exit that was letting the comfortable breeze waft in and dissipate the clashing scent of various colognes and perfumes from the patrons. 

The cocktail menu was extensive and I couldn’t decide what flavor I wanted–what would fit this mood, with the balmy darkness beckoning us outside, the loud dance music that most of the people were neglecting to groove to, the bar backsplash of bright white lights that bounced off Josh’s crisp t-shirt? 

“You should stick with tequila,” Josh recommended while he scanned the menu along with me, our arms touching. “We’re OLD now and can’t mix drinks as well as we used to.”

I scoffed. “We are not old, Joshua. Young forever, remember?” I caught his smile in the corner of my eye and I smiled too as I resumed my perusing of the menu. “Alright, then. Moon Margarita it is.”

“Wait!” Josh exclaimed, grabbing my arm. “Shots. We should do shots.”

My stomach clenched at the thought. “The birthday boy wants shots? For real?”

He laughed, bouncing next to me. “Yes, for real! Come on, please? When’s the last time we did shots?” 

“Not since we were with the guys, I’m sure.” I sighed and patted the menu, finalizing my decision. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Two shots and two cocktails each later, Josh and I were perpetually giddy and as electric as all the lights shining on the river, sitting at a high-top table at the edge of the patio and sharing a cigarette. He only ever pulled those out on special occasions, keeping a pack to himself that would last for months, and the nicotine was curling through my blood, buzzing in my brain, making everything seem even more brilliant. Sitting there with him, I no longer cared that he’d kept this all a secret–it was a beautiful, fun and special secret and I was actually glad it was just the two of us. At the core of it all, that’s kind of how it had become and years prior to knowing Josh, the thought of that would have nauseated me–being tethered to one person had always seemed scary but, more than that, like simply a bad decision. I’d never questioned it with Josh, though. We had our tribe–my friends, his friends, his family, my family–but the bond between the two of us felt unbreakable in a way I hadn’t known before. The world could crumble around us and I was confident some piece of Josh and I would remain. 

“God,” I said, tapping the cigarette into the blue glass ashtray on the table, then laughed. “I’m wasted, Josh.” 

He laughed with me and took the cigarette back when I passed it across to him. “Me too, darling. But in the best way. Like, just the right amount.” He turned as he took a drag, lashes fluttering as he looked out over the water. “This is great. I really love this place.”

“Me too,” I echoed, following his gaze to the river. “This might be the coolest bar we’ve ever been to.”

“The bar, yes. Or lounge, whatever,” Josh said with a wave of his arm, his hand holding the cigarette letting the curls of smoke soar through the air. “But the whole city, too. I just love it. It’s got such charm.”

I tilted my head, so drunk and forever enamored, and smiled. “It does. So do you.”

He extended the cigarette back to me once more. “Charming enough to buy you another drink?”

“Wait, no,” I protested, putting the cigarette between my lips as I rifled through my bag. Through the obstruction and the slight drunken slur that was happening, I said, “I should’ve been buying you the drinks the whole time. It’s your birthday.” 

“Hey, hey, no, absolutely not,” Josh scolded, laughing, and began to get up from the table. “We’ve been over this a thousand times.” He came over to me, kissed my cheek, and whisked away, calling out, “Be right back!” 

I sighed but laughed just the same and worked on finishing the cigarette as I checked my phone. It wasn’t quite midnight yet but I figured I’d forget later on to text Jake happy birthday, so I sent that text with a selfie of Josh and I in front of the fountain in Forsyth Park and a little sentimental message about missing him. I felt myself slipping into too much of the inebriated heartache and willed myself to stop, bringing my attention back to the glittering black river and the sounds around me, the feeling of the night air and the moon suspended within it, right above me. 

When it was, in fact, officially midnight, Josh and I were walking out of the cobblestone courtyard back up to the streets, preparing to hitch our next uber. I was looking at the map with the little cars following zig-zagging lines when I noticed the clock change; I pulled Josh aside and behind a thick oak tree while real cars wheeled past us on the dark road. 

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” I said, hugging him against my body, with my lips right against his ear. 

He giggled, a sound frequently reserved for drunken nights. “Thank you, darling. Another trip around the sun. I feel wiser for it.”

“You are wiser,” I agreed, closing my eyes, keeping him there. He hugged me right back and left us to slightly sway on the sidewalk, our faces brushed gently by each other’s hair and the night breeze. 

Back in our temporary home, we were a further mess of drunken giggles and increasingly heated touches until we were actively ruining the white sheets with our mingling sweat. I felt less head-drunk since we’d started kissing and touching, Josh’s hands extra exploratory and wandering, but the body buzz was exacerbated; I couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled from my chest as Josh kissed, and inadvertently, tickled my neck and ears and I couldn’t stop my own hands from wandering in turn. His skin was warm and soft beneath my fingers and the muscles in his arms flexed while I grazed over them and he tried to maneuver us both, to get the rest of our clothing off. My fingertips found the column of his neck and I traced up his throat to his jaw, caressing the sharp lines there and the softer lines of his mouth before I brought that back to mine to devour. 

“I’m ready for a present now,” Josh said when he pulled back, dark eyes shimmering in the moonlight filtering through the window. 

“Blowjob?” I asked in earnest, mentally readying myself for the task. 

“Ha!” Josh let out loudly, throwing his head back, which made me laugh in disbelief. He shook his head then and tapped my nose with one fingertip. “Nope.” With that, he crawled down the bed until he was on the floor in front of it, grabbed my ankles to yank me down, then planted his face right between my thighs. 

“Shit,” I hissed, squeezing my eyes shut while I latched onto his hair with my fingers. I hadn’t been expecting that and the sensation was so sudden and intense that I was already trembling. Josh remained there, his hands gripping my thighs, and sent little vibrations up my spine with his muffled moans; it didn’t take long until I was seeing stars and clawing at his scalp, trying to push him off in my hyper-sensitive state. 

Mercifully, Josh did. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he came back up and pressed his hips between mine, kissing me and sliding through the slick wetness that was all thanks to him. I shut my eyes and let go, let myself become lost in all of his touching and the song that expanded in the room with our mutual moans, sighs and soft words. I felt like I was slurred and nearly unintelligible, but Josh was as eloquent as ever; he sighed praise and affirmations into my ears and against my cheeks and lips while he thrust deep and intentional within me. 

Lying in the afterglow, we snuggled underneath the warm sheets; I pet Josh’s curls back and traced lines down his neck and chest while he curled himself against me. “I love you, Starshine,” I said, mostly sober then and not even all that tired. But Josh’s ability to become so quiet and still once we were in bed together was almost contagious, even if my mind didn’t always slow down at the same pace. 

“Mmm,” Josh hummed against my collarbone. “Love you more.” He looped his arms around me and squashed me into a hug while squashing his own face into my neck. “I want us to be together forever.”

I laid one arm over my head to give us both more breathing room. “I think we’re doing that,” I told him. It was true. “I’m either gonna be with you forever or be with nobody forever. You know that.”

Josh nodded. “You’ve told me. Sometimes I just need a reminder.”

I played with the curls at the base of his neck. “I love you more than the sun, moon and stars combined.”

He giggled softly. “That’s a lot of love,” he said, then popped his head up to pop a quick kiss onto my lips. “I love you more than the whole universe.”

I chuckled. “You always have to one-up me, don’t you?” 

Josh settled back down, his eyelashes fluttering against my neck. “No. Just stating facts.”

“Wait!” I said, suddenly alarmed and wide awake, and shot up from the bed to scramble around for something clean to wear. “I have to give you your real present.” I rifled through my bag to throw on a t-shirt and shorts before I retrieved the box wrapped in sapphire blue paper from the small pocket that had been keeping it safe. 

Josh sat up and I met him halfway up the bed, placing the box on his sheet-covered thigh. “You really didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, laying his long fingers over the paper. “This trip was more than enough.”

“I like getting you presents. It’s just one thing,” I said, wishing I’d remembered to give it to him earlier. “But I saw it and thought of you.” 

He leaned back and to the side, straining to reach the lamp on the nightstand. “I imagine I’ll need some light for this. Jewelry?” he asked, grinning at me before he looked down, concentrating on peeling back the paper. 

“How’d you know?” I quipped, smiling too. I never had to worry about whether or not Josh would like what I got him–the bull pendant from our first anniversary was still hanging around his neck and I was sure he’d be pleased with the change. 

When the box was opened and Josh was holding up the chain in one hand, the pendant twirled in the air and the tiny jewels caught the light and it really did look like a small, brilliant golden star he could keep over his heart. He laid the pendant down in his open palm and traced the sharp triangles and gemstones with his fingers. 

“I absolutely love it,” he said, his touch moving up the length of the chain, then he looked up and smiled at me. “It’s very me.” 

“I thought so, too.” I leaned over him and kissed the top of his head. “For my Starshine.” 

Josh put the chain over his head and the starburst–I was committed to it being a star now, not a sun, because it just suited him so well–settled over his chest, right beneath the shiny bull pendant. He grabbed my arm with one hand and the back of my head with the other, pulling me to him, pressing his lips to mine that caused a different kind of starburst in my own heart. 

“Thank you, darling,” he said before kissing me again. 

It was always gratifying when Josh was seemingly at a loss for words. I toyed with the pendant while I stroked his shoulder with my other hand. “You’re welcome,” I replied, knowing he would be in my orbit forever, he’d be my stars and moon and universe forever, he’d be mine forever. 

---

Tagging: @jjwasneverhere @colorstreammind

[thoughtsfromthecowshed]

The Scheduling Au - Pt 8

Next up a little about Wednesday and her life before and during school. Once again told through bullet points because I’m lazy and it breaks things up nicely

The ✨lore✨:

With each child they kinda accidentally picked a favourite parent. Wednesday’s is Larissa. Pugsley’s is Morticia and Pubert’s is Gomez

Larissa has a bad habit of just picking up Wednesday to snuggle with her without asking

The only reason Wednesday didn’t bring her pet spiders to Nevermore is because Morticia reminded Wednesday that Larissa would murder her if she freaked out her students to much

Wednesday likes to play duets with Larissa given any opportunity. (Larissa plays the piano.) Many a student have walked by the music room and stopped to listen to them play

Occasionally when they start to play at home the rest of family will slowly join in. Pugsley on percussion, Morticia sings, Gomez for some inexplicable reason plays the clarinet, Thing likes to conduct, Lurch plays a counter melody on the organ and Pubert plays the trumpet and on the odd occasion the triangle. (When Fester is around he plays the Theremin)

Wednesday found the servant passages at Nevermore and likes to randomly pop up out of nowhere.

Because of Gomez and Morticia’s relationship with Larissa there is a lot less of Wednesday thinking her parents are trying to force their lives on her and so a lot less of a strained relationship. Which leads the dynamic to lean even more towards a moody teenager never wanting to be around her parents but she still loves them and will cuddle and give them small gifts when the mood strikes.

Half of Wednesdays wardrobe is actually stolen off of various family members. (Yes I’m making Wednesday a clothes thief)

Larissa keeps her relationship with Wednesdays a secret. People are aware that shes married but not to who. The way the school finds out who shes married to is because of Wednesday.

Basically Wednesday had somehow transferred her entire office out to the quad the day of a parent weekend. Larissa was so pissed that she marched up to Morticia and demanded that she “teach our daughter to not mess with my things least she ends up being grounded from Enid”

The entire school was both amused and slightly terrified

Yes Wednesday is dating Enid in this Au

A singular piece about Enid and Larissa:

When Enid had that argument with her mum and ran off, she somehow ended up in Larissa’s office

Larissa took one look at a distraught Enid and pulled her into her lap and pet her hair and told her a story about Wednesday

The story was about the first time Wednesday learned about Enid’s mum and how afterwards Wednesday had stormed into Larissa’s office and demanded that she gain custody of Enid so that Wednesday can keep her forever and make her feel better.

It was all very stalkish and adorable

Anyway thats all for now. I might do the next update in a bit. I think it’s going to be about wards of the school.

Prev / Next

[karnaca78]

ohhh for the wips: i would love to hear about light catcher :D

Thank you for your interest!! This story has actually been rotating in my head for a while.

Light Catcher will most likely be the next Dishonored thing I finish. It's a single-chapter story revolving around the invention of the silvergraph by none other than Kirin Jindosh around 1840. It's part of a series of writings about science in the world of Dishonored, but it can completely be read without prior knowledge of the other stories!

It stems a little from personal experience, too. Around the time I discovered Dishonored 2, I was following a class about the history of photography. Our lecturer started with the basics, so, the invention of the process itself and how it worked from a technical point of view, before considering the artistic debates it stirred. It made me think of the silvergraph and the way it inhabits various personal or official spaces in the game.

I don't think it will delve too deeply into technicalities, because it'd be a bit boring to read. Rather, I'd like to explore Jindosh's motivations and a bit of his life before DH2 through this particular topic. (I can't help it I'm a nerd for character and lore study)

And as a bonus, here's a little snippet:

"A glass of wine is suddenly pushed into his hand, and he glances up at the face of a young maid. Too white to be a local, and with a pretty crown of ginger hair; Morleyan. He traces the curve of her cheekbones with observant eyes, notices freckles and red circles under her gaze, and part of him will remember that Lady F— makes her servants cry. The rest; the majority will forget it, dismiss it as unimportant next to the march of progress and the age of enlightenment he seeks to lead.

When he turns his head away from her, it’s as if she does not exist anymore.

His peripheral vision catches Luca’s grin, and he imagines what the Duke’s son would like him to do— to become a mirror image of him, a hound without instinct, trained only to detect the scents of costly perfumes and pent-up desires. He’d want him to woo their hostess with naught but a smile and a few well-placed words, regular as the ticking of clockwork. Kirin can almost taste the sea breeze on her skin and a hint of brandy on her breath. They are sitting too far apart for this, and still; all of it and more is reflected in the upturn of the aristocrat’s lips.

Something makes his stomach lurch in disgust at the thought. His dark eyes scan her face in search for answers, and they find nothing; nothing there to indicate interest or intelligence. She’d take the scalpel in her flesh as a mercy, once freed from the constraints of a world she fails to grasp between her delicate fingers. Those, too, he’d like to see stripped. Bleached white and clicking together; he longs to hear the soothing song of skeletal remains again.

The Academicians destroyed his music machine. Perhaps, if he could recreate it — infuse it with yet more perfection and raw authenticity — then the sound of her voice would no longer screech inside his skull like nails on a chalkboard."

[mistresslrigtar]

Extra chapter to my Zelink Week 2023 Prompt story. This is actually a one-shot I wrote for the Zelinktines 2023 prompt Butterfly Kisses, but it works for this. Enjoy if you haven't already read it.

This one-shot was originally beta-ed by @cooking-with-hailstones. the entirety of Adore was beta read by fioreofthemarch

Read the entire piece below or follow the link to read on AO3

A giant, craggy-faced monster bars the door to the chamber. The moans and cries from beyond have ratcheted Link's nerves to the edge of insanity. He paces back and forth like a caged animal trying to gauge the best route past the obstacle barring him. With the next loud wail, he runs both hands through his messy hair, tearing out a few large chunks in the process. This doesn't do much to assuage the worst of his anxiety as he stands with his back to the beast, body tensed with fight-or-flight instructions blasting from the back of his mind.

"Everything is alright.” His fists pound not so reassuringly against his thighs. "This is all going to plan."

With a loud growl, the beast lurches its way forward, and Link increases his momentum to move out of its path. He listens to the creature’s angry roar as it marches its way closer to him, and then Zelda screams. 

"Link!" Her piercing, terrified cry shatters the room and fractures him to pieces.

"You have to let me in there!" Link whirls to glare at the burly guard.

"Absolutely not!" The beast reprimands him, and Link’s vision clears as it speaks. The monster is just Oksana the midwife’s mother, Ilia, crossing her arms over her ample bosom and giving him a stern look, eyes narrowing. "The father has no place in the birthing room.” 

She has informed him of that fact for what feels like the hundredth time. But Link can’t stand the helplessness that threatens to consume him whenever Zelda screams.

"In Skyloft, the father does!" Link pulls out his most imploring expression, which always works on his wife. Wide, puppy-dog eyes, inner edges of his eyebrows pulled up, and bottom lip pouting.

"Well, you are not in Skyloft, young man!" His plea falls on deaf ears and blind eyes. "On the surface, you are not allowed!"

Link throws his arms up in despair. "This is barbaric!"

And indeed it was. Who had established the rule that men were not allowed at birth? It is an archaic notion. How had the Skyloftians advanced, and the few Hylians that remained on the surface wallowed in intellectual stagnation?

"I assure you, your wife is in good hands.” Ilia reaches out to rub soothing circles in the middle of his back. "You are not doing yourself or her any good fretting here. Go outside and calm yourself."

"Curse the goddesses!" Link emits a wail of anguish that startles even himself. With the release of his expletive, Ilia’s stern look returns, and she strong-arms him to the exit, shoving him outside and slamming the door in his wake. 

Link storms off, fuming, into the apple orchard outside their home, finding what little peace and relaxation it offers. Zelda's cries are muffled, but they still pierce his heart. He has put her in this predicament; he should be there to coax her through it. Damn, that meddling midwife.

Link wishes Groose were here; he'd cajole the senior midwife and distract her so Link can sneak past. But he and Zelda are on their own in this sparsely populated landscape. They settled near a small village, thinking having some semblance of civilization would be better than living in the middle of nowhere. If only they had known how uncivilized the people on the surface were. So small…so insular. They have been foolish; they should have made more effort to search out other races that may be more advanced than the Hylians.

The more he thinks about it, the angrier he becomes. It's all his fault. Now they are stuck dealing with primitive practices, and it's not like he can force himself past an elderly woman as if she is just another beast to smite with his sword.

There's no use thinking about it; Ilia will not allow him entrance. He follows the trail leading to the village's outskirts into a lush field of flowers. It is beautiful, but, oh, how he misses Skyloft and longs for it some days until the ache within feels like it will overwhelm him. Then, Zelda will smile and swing her lustrous blonde hair over one shoulder as she laughs, and the homesick pang subsides. She is his home, always has been, and no matter where they live, will be the only home he will ever need to know.

But today, he misses Red, his crimson loftwing, and he imagines Zelda must wish her violet-blue Keehar were here. The avian companions would be waiting expectantly to welcome the baby. The mother and father would present the newborn to them, and the feathered creatures would greet the infant with feather-light kisses from their wing tips. 

Link does not know how to recreate the tradition here. Most of the birds on the surface are small and wild, and he would never allow any near the infant. How strange that he trusts the giant loftwings more than the tiny sparrows that sing so merrily outside their bedroom window each morning. Not for the first time, he wonders if he is overly cautious, but Link doesn't think his heart could take it if anything were to happen to Zelda or their baby. 

All his strength and courage were expended chasing down Ghirahim, defeating him, only to then have to face the Demon King, Demise. Link still has nightmares of being unable to reach Zelda in time and watching her vanish as he falls to his knees, crying in despair. And a variation of Demise's final words lurk in the darkest shadows of his mind, like poisonous snakes, hissing, "I'll haunt you, Link." 

Pounding his forehead with his fists, Link pushes the foreboding thoughts back and locks them away. There is nothing to fear; Ghirahim is dead, and Demise was absorbed within the Master Sword, now secure in its pedestal within the Sealed Temple. Fi, her work done, is resting in an eternal slumber, and Link can only hope it is a peaceful one.

Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and sits in the middle of the field. He needs to focus on the here and now and not become lost in the past. Zelda needs him to be clear-headed and present; it is the least he can do and, frustratingly, the only thing at the moment. He lies on his back and stares at the crystal clear blue sky. Taking a few deep, cleansing breaths, after several moments, his eyelids droop as they grow heavy, and he dozes.

A tickling sensation on his nose and cheeks awakens Link several minutes later. His head has fallen to the side, and his blurred vision can only make out the various colors surrounding him when he opens his eyes. Then, as he focuses, he sees a few butterflies resting on the flowers beside him. The gentle whispering of their wings has woken him; he remains as still as he can and observes them. The meadow is full of fluttering creatures, as multi-colored as the wildflowers they are attracted to.

His body relaxes, and a butterfly gently lands on his cheek. It rests there for a while, and Link feels the soft brush of its wings against his face. The moment lingers, and his blue eyes grow wide as the grain of thought forms in his brain. It starts out very small but then strengthens, becoming a full-blown idea.

Slowly, Link sits up and rises to his feet. The butterflies nearby swirl around him, and his lips part with a face-splitting grin. He rushes back up the path and bursts through the door of his house.

"Has she had the baby yet?" He calls to Ilia, who is drinking a cup of tea at the scrubbed wood table in the kitchen.

"No, lad," she sighs.

"Great!" He exits as abruptly as he entered, but not before catching a glimpse of the highly perplexed expression on the elderly woman's face. He doesn’t care if she thinks he is crazy as he walks to the side of the house where the garden shed stands. Opening the door, he rummages through the various tools, tossing a hoe and a shovel aside until he finds Zelda's extra large bug-catching net. 

Next to be carelessly shoved aside are a couple of pails, a basket, and a broken shield he has been meaning to throw out but keeps forgetting about. He finally locates a good-sized cage lined with thin muslin windows and pulls it out. Turning it from side to side, he examines it to ensure all the muslin is secure and the door firmly latches. Then, slinging the net rod over his shoulder, Link gathers the cage and kicks the door shut as he heads back to the field.

Walking through the orchard, he snags an apple off a low-hanging branch and takes a big bite. The juice soaks over his tongue, cool and refreshing, and he quickly finishes the fruit before reaching the field. He drops the core to the ground along with the cage.

Pulling the rod from his shoulder, Link shakes out the net and gazes around the meadow. It is still full of butterflies, and he begins to amble through the field, gently waving the net through the air to capture a few colorful insects flitting about.

His mouth curves into a smile, and his eyes crinkle at the edges as he continues walking. "This is kind of fun. I think I like catching butterflies."

He sweeps the net through the air, and when he reaches the center of the field, he stops and balances on the balls of his feet as the winged insects settle around him. Hefting the rod, he preps to pirouette into a slow spin. As he begins to rotate, the startled insects swirl around him. He is in the eye of a butterfly hurricane; the net floats as he whirls, gathering his prizes.

As he comes to a stop, the net is now filled, and he quickly retrieves the cage, opens the door, and gently guides the fluttering creatures inside. He doesn't intend to keep the butterflies trapped for long, as surely the baby will arrive soon.

Now that the task is complete, the nervous energy he had felt earlier begins to creep back from the edges he had shunted it to. Link quells the panic that threatens to rise with the thought that he has tarried too long. He picks a flower bouquet before returning to the cottage nestled in the orchard. As he approaches, he sees crotchety Ilia standing in the doorway.

"Where have you been?" She scolds, shaking her head at him as if he were an errant child. "Come!” She gently pushes him into his home and toward the bedroom just as Oksana opens the door. 

She offers Link a silent congratulatory smile and steps aside so he can enter. He freezes at the threshold, the cage in one hand, a handful of flowers in the other. Zelda sits, propped up by several plump pillows, her sunny yellow hair haloing her face and shoulders, and in her arms, she cradles their newborn baby. She raises her tear-filled sea-green eyes to meet his stunned ocean blue.

"It's a girl, Link," she whispers, a beatific smile gracing her lips.

"A girl.” Link’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops. A girl to love and protect, but she will also need to fend for herself. His mind races with everything he will need to teach her when she is ready - how to fish, hunt, and fight with a sword and shield. And will she possess magical power, like Zelda? Only time will tell. The tiny bundle in Zelda’s arms squirms before he comes to his senses and rushes to her side. He lays the flowers on the nightstand and the cage on the other side of her before sitting on the edge of the bed to take a closer look.

Link gazes at the baby suckling Zelda's breast. The whorl of downy platinum hair, her delicately pointed ears, feathery light eyelashes shadowing her round cheeks, and her tiny, perfect hands curled into fists, kneading against her mother. 

"She's beautiful," he breathes in reverence. "Just like her mother." 

Zelda looks at him above the baby's head, and he leans in to kiss her. She glances at the cage by her side when he pulls back.

"I can't give her loftwing kisses," Link explains. "But will butterfly kisses do?"

Zelda's face scrunches up, her mouth puckered and crooked, as she struggles not to cry, and Link knows she is feeling homesick, too. "Yes, my sweet love."

He reaches past her and unlatches the door. A riot of color explodes from within, and Zelda laughs as a rainbow of fluttering wings surrounds her and the baby. The delicate creatures swirl and twirl around them, briefly clinging to Zelda's hair strands before flying off and fluttering at their cheeks, giving tender, light-as-feather kisses. The baby coos softly, and a small white butterfly lands on her round pink cheek. 

"I think you should name her, Link," Zelda gazes lovingly at him.

What should her name be? She will live an extraordinary life full of wonder, love, and happiness as they explore this strange, new land and unravel as many mysteries as possible. This will be a glorious adventure in a world that is bigger than they may ever know. And the knowledge of all that has passed that her parents hold within them, waiting to be revealed when she becomes curious and inquires. Link knows she will be inquisitive like her mother, intrepid like her father, and want to know the answers to everything. At that moment, he knows what her name should be.

"I would like to call her Fi."

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 4 March 1954

Well, I like the look of this next song, not least because it looks like it might be by a band? We don't seem to see many bands at this point, or not in the way you'd have today. There are "X and His Band" type swing ensembles galore, and backing singers are sometimes credited with a name that makes them sound like a band, but again it's usually "X and the Singing Lads", or something of that ilk. Or a solo singer / a duet. Which makes me all the more intrigued about this next track which actually reached No. 1! The first band to hit the top spot?

I See the Moon - The Stargazers (peaked at No. 1)

Well, we being with a janky pub piano. It's a sound I would have written off as a one-off novelty if I hadn't been doing this project. Since I am, I can fairly confidently say that this is just the logical development of what Winifred Atwell is doing, a sort of deliberately out-of-tune, rowdy style.

The Stargazers, of course, take it one further by featuring a duff-sounding tambourine, a depressed-sounding trumpet and a drunk-sounding mixed chorus. The Stargazers themselves? They don't sound a very professional outfit, if so - you could have told me you pulled this lot out of a gutter at 2 am on New Year's Day and I wouldn't not believe you.

The overall effect should be bad, and I think it is bad? Only it's also somehow quite fun - a rowdy, nursery-rhyme sort of knees-up that you can't help but get behind as it lurches back and forth. It's got the sort of simple nonsense lyrics that you could legitimately sing while drunk: "Over the mountain / Over the sea / Back where my heart is longing to be / Please let the light that shines on me / Shine on the one I love." Repeat ad nauseam, possibly literally if you've had as many pints as these folks sound like they have.

Actually, when I said nursery-rhyme, I wasn't wrong. The "I see the moon / The moon sees me" line comes straight from a nursery rhyme attested as far back at 1784, in the wonderfully named compendium Gammer Gurton's Garland: or, The Nursery Parnassus which is also the first attested source for such notables as Goosey Goosey Gander, Roses are Red and There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. So that's something - a song with heritage.

Then we slip into a bit with lots of people passing the lyrics round, with a bunch of spoken "uh huh" bits. There seems to be a real range of unrealistic comedy accents, including a lot of Cockney and some cod-Italian? The overall effect, somehow, is Muppets. I can't explain why. Just listen, and you'll get the idea. In fact, the whole song could very convincingly be performed by the Muppets.

We get one really annoying bit as a man patronisingly commands the hordes to "let the little lady with the tambourine sing", following by an actually infuriating giggle, and then a repeated gag about her being rubbish at singing. First she tries to come in too soon, then she misses her cue, then the man has to tell her to sing louder, then to sing quieter. It's desperately unfunny.

Still, it's mostly back to likable, especially as she pipes down and contents herself with the odd, rather field-marshall-esque cries of "Everybody all together" and "Everybody once again". Which - and this might be a reach - actually feels like a rather Beatles-like "all together now" moment. It's straight from that most British institution, the music hall. And you know what, I like it! I don't know why anyone committed this to vinyl, or why anyone bought it. But I enjoy that it exists.

That was a journey. I can't wholeheartedly recommend that you listen to this. At the same time, if you do, I really hope you enjoy it. It's a journey, for sure!

Favourite pick of the ambiguously-drunk bunch: I See the Moon

[dcybrck]

closed starter for @faebanes ! | set after all the nonsense deron goes through during the fight.

the dust had seemingly began to settle, or maybe that was just the fog that settled over deron's brain to disguise the pain that was blossoming across his chest. unsteady feet carried him, more stumbled, without him even having to think about it. as if his body refused to rest until he had returned home once more. there'd been a concerned look in the guards that came to their rescue, but he'd brushed them off - knew that their attention was better spent on caring for sibusisiwe. that the fae mattered more in the moment than deron ever would. handed her off to them and shambled up like a shaky skeleton walking a death march. pressed a reassuring, promising kiss to her forehead that he'd return this time. most likely.

     how many times had deron promised that to someone? enough times that he'd never swear it, less the cauldron or mother tear him apart over it - again and again. 

  deron hadn't dared to shout the words to zora when the violence tore them apart, as if his soul knew that voicing them would bind the pair together. tainted her beautiful soul with lies that she'd carry until the day he actually drifted away into the wind. or worse, forge a pact that neither of them could take back once it'd set into the air of the universe.  yet even without the oath, the promise, the old magic bind, his feet still carry him in her direction. they use any energy that remains within his exhausted, torn body to make certain that deron returns to her. to fulfill the unspoken vow that he cannot remember making, but knows will haunt him no matter where he may stray on the continent. like the ocean returning to kiss the shoreline. 

   she appears suddenly, as if the cauldron heard the devotions he was whispering and answered the prayer. her eyes landed on him, the bloody mess of a being that deron feels, and he cannot help the way his mouth forms a smile. the pain matters so little now, lurching forward till he is falling into her arms, chin hanging over her shoulder. " zora," he breathed, trembling arms weakly raise to embrace her. " i found you."

[kasha-formerlydrabbletastic]

Blowing Off Steam

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Things have always been tense between the reader and Bucky, but what happens when things come to a head?

Word count: 4,269

Warnings: Mature readers only 18+ - minors do not interact! Vaginal sex, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, Dom/sub themes (who doesn’t love a bratty sub), unprotected sex (always use contraception), swearing.

.

.

.

.

“You’re lucky I saved your ass!”

“Well, no one fucking asked you to, did they?”

“No, so it looks like I’m not such a fucking prick after all, eh, Y/N?”

“Nope. You’re still a fucking prick, Bucky. Nothing in this world will ever make me change my mind about it either.”

“Need I remind you that -”

“Oh, shut up, the both of you!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the argument, effectively rendering the pair of you mute. It's surprising how long it's taken someone to crack, given the fact that your argument with Bucky started about an hour ago when the team entered the quinjet.

"Every goddamn time you're around each other you gotta argue about something," he continues, holding the attention of most of the team. "I don't want to hear another fucking word out of either of you for the rest of the ride home."

"Good job, Dad," Tony quips.

"But Bucky -"

"But Y/N-"

The pair of you speak at the same time, but Steve cuts you off again.

"Not. Another. Word." He punctuates each word with a jab of his authoritative pointer finger into the air between you. "This is the end of it. Silence. Now."

It takes a moment as you wrestle with the impulse to protest, but you ultimately sit back into your seat, folding your arms tightly over your chest. Bucky seems to do the same, his expression grumpy as ever as the two of you lock eyes.

"Fuck you," you mouth, extending a middle finger toward him.

"Fuck you," he counters silently.

You roll your eyes, settling back once more.

There has never been any real explanation, but from the moment you met him, you and Bucky have locked horns. He's stubborn, pigheaded, so full of himself and the way he operates that you can't help but be annoyed by him.

Then again, a good number of the team are cursed with the same qualities but you seem to get along quite well with them.

What is it about Bucky?

***

Per Steve's demand, there wasn't a single word passed between you and Bucky the rest of the way home. You stripped yourself of your gear after Steve's Dad Moment before sitting back and allowing yourself to take a nap the rest of the way home in your t-shirt and tactical pants. It wasn't until you got into the compound and to your desk in the team's shared office that any of your frustration boiled over again.

"Fucking asshole," you muttered between gritted teeth as you glanced over at Bucky's empty desk; his paperwork sits on the surface, needing to be done, but the man himself is nowhere to be found. Granted you are the only one at your desk doing paperwork.

Or so you thought.

"Thinking about me again?" you hear him say behind you.

You swivel in your chair to face him, his face smug as ever as steam rises up from the two mugs of coffee he holds.

"Well, not everything is about you, Bucky," you say. "Believe it or not."

"I would believe it if it were true," he grins; you make to reply, but he carries on. "I was gonna give this to you as a peace offering," he says, gesturing with one of the mugs of coffee, "but I don’t think you’ve learned Steve's lesson yet. So I'm just gonna keep it for myself. I am so tired, anyway."

He strides toward his desk, swaggering with each step, and it's almost as if you can't help the knee-jerk reaction of sticking your foot out into his path. His feet get caught up with yours, tripping him up enough that he loses grip of the mugs and stumbles forward; the mugs smash on the floor, but Bucky's reflexes refuse to let him fall too. He straightens up quickly, turning on his heel and staring daggers at you.

"Enjoy your coffee, Sergeant Barnes," you chuckle.

"What the fuck?" Bucky shouts.

"Oh, I'm sorry," you begin, wanting to taunt him but you get no further.

"Y/N, Bucky."

The two of you turn to Steve, who has finally returned to the office dressed in a basic t-shirt and jeans. He is more stern than you've ever seen him, standing with his arms crossed and his expression disappointed. He is very much the captain with his stance, staring the two of you down as if you were naughty children.

"Clean this up and then meet me in the conference room," he directs, his voice low and tone ominous.

You watch as he leaves, then switch your gaze to Bucky; you don't know what's about to happen, but something tells you Steve has had enough of the bullshit. It's possible you're about to lose your spot on the team, you think, and panic fills your chest as you stand from your chair, ignoring Bucky to the fullest as you reach for a trash can.

"Fuck," you murmur, picking up shards of mug and tossing them into the bin.

Bucky appears shortly after with several towels in hand, wiping up the coffee and smaller pieces before just chucking them into the bin, too.

With the mess cleaned up, the two of you silently march to the conference room where Steve sits at the head of the table.

"Oh, good," he says sarcastically, "you two managed to work together and accomplish something in a timely fashion, how about that?"

You take your seat next to him, wanting to ask what this is about but knowing full well what he's about to say. Bucky sits opposite you, quiet and brooding, and you feel a lurch of annoyance in your belly. You roll your eyes again, looking to Steve, trying to convey in your eyes the question, "How long do I have to stay here with him?" Steve doesn't look at you, though, his eyes fixed on his folded hands in front of him before he speaks.

"I don't know what it is about the two of you being around each other, but whatever it is, you need to cut it out," he says. "It's detrimental to the team working as a whole, not to mention it is fucking irritating."

Something in you rises to be defensive, but another, more rational side begins to kick in, keeping your mouth shut for a moment.

"The number of complaints I get from everyone else is almost ridiculous, guys. And it's only a matter of time before the two of you are bickering like an old married couple and someone gets hurt because you're not giving your full attention."

You had been so caught up with how much you and Bucky annoyed each other that not much else in your mind spared the time to think about how it might affect the team and your missions. Steve is right - and you know it - that one of these days, you and Bucky will be going at it and one of you will slip. You won't necessarily be the one who suffers, but it's likely that if the two of you continue on with your childish back-and-forth, you might lose track of a target, lose a mission, or worse, lose a teammate. With that thought, shame floods you, and you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest and gritting your teeth to keep from saying anything stupid.

"With that being said," Steve continues, "you two need to figure this out as soon as possible. What really gets me is that you're both so valuable to the team, but you let your bullshit get in the way of your effectiveness." Steve glances at the door, his expression shifting ever so slightly. "Actually... I'm gonna leave you two here for a minute, something just came up."

The slightest surge of panic rears in your chest as Steve gets up from his chair. You watch him incredulously as he leaves you here with Bucky, closing the door behind him. If you're not mistaken, though, you hear the door lock and your panic peaks just a little more.

You rise from your seat, following Steve's footsteps to the door and trying the handle; it doesn't budge.

"Fuck," you mumble. "FRIDAY, unlock the door, please."

"I'm sorry, Y/N," FRIDAY replies, "the orders are to keep the door locked for the next thirty minutes, barring an emergency."

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you grumble, rubbing the palms of your hands into your eyes.

You almost don't register it, but you hear Bucky chuckle, a quiet laugh that brings your attention to him.

"What's funny about this?" you demand, just as quietly.

He sits back in his chair, strangely relaxed given that he's locked into the room with you. There's genuine amusement in his expression as he lounges, setting his hands on top of his head.

"Typical Steve," he says, looking at you with a sparkle in his eye. "Thinking he can save everyone."

You don't say anything, but shrug helplessly in agreement - probably agreeing with Bucky for the first time since you've known him.

"I guess he doesn't realize that he can't save everyone," you mutter, sitting back down.

Bucky shrugs this time. "That thought has never even occurred to him, I can promise you that."

Sparing a glance at Bucky, you fall into silence, unsure of what to say. He doesn't offer anything either, his smile slowly fading as the seconds tick on. The air thickens around you, the awkwardness growing more ungainly the longer neither of you speak. Though, it's possible that the whole thirty minutes have elapsed or that it's only been a few seconds before you figure out something to say.

"I'm sorry I tripped you earlier," you say quietly.

Bucky had been staring at the table, but he brings his gaze to you, studying you with a curiosity he has never once shown you before. He seems to take his time before he replies.

"I accept your apology," he says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. "I'm sorry for... everything."

The moment hangs there, seconds ticking by as the two of you study each other; now that you look at him, finally confronting the reasons why you tease and antagonize him, you figure that maybe he's not always so grumpy-looking. There's a sparkle in his blue eyes, something witty and sweet that you've never allowed yourself to notice before. He's got a strong jaw, pretty pink lips, and a smile to die for. At once, it clicks why you've been so eager to step on every one of his nerves.

Something shifts in his expression, and he pushes his chair back, standing up. He doesn't take his eyes from you as he circles the table, but you push your chair back, too, taking after his lead. By the time he reaches you, you stand, facing him as the space between you shrinks.

Then, as if magnets pull you together, the pair of you collide; Bucky's flesh fingers curve around the back of your head, cradling it as he lowers his lips to yours. Despite how out of the blue this is, you melt into him, your hands finding his waist and pulling him close. His kiss is warm, his body taut under your touch as his other arm curls around your body, pressing your chests together. Your skin tingles in every place it meets his as the kiss deepens, each of you parting your lips for the other as your tongues explore new territory.

Then, as if your bodies can't get close enough, Bucky leans forward, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you onto the table. He doesn't once break the kiss, but as soon as you're settled, his hips knock your knees apart. Instinctively, your legs wrap around him, urging him closer to you. Your arms curl around his neck, too, making sure he doesn't get too far away from you. He responds, taking you in his arms in kind.

You don't know how long it lasts, and you don't care, especially when his lips stray, tracing your jaw and finding your pulse.

"Oh, Bucky," you sigh, your skin on fire from his touch.

"James," he says quietly against your neck.

For a moment, you pull back, staring into his eyes and smiling.

"James," you acknowledge, and he smiles too.

In the next second, though, a wickedness settles into his expression, a sly grin taking the sweet smile's place as his hands meet the button and fly of your pants. He pulls them open, his hand diving immediately into your panties.

"Fuck!" you gasp as his fingers slip between you lips, brushing over your clit to briefly dive into your heat.

"God damn," he groans. "Doll, you feel so good. You're so fucking wet for me."

You scoff, looking him dead in the eye. "Please. I'm sure if it were anyone else I'd still be just as wet."

"You sure about that?" he says, his eyes glittering with promise as he presses his fingertips to your clit, circling the singing nerves as if he's known how to all his life.

"Mmm," you hum, your fingers bunching into the front of his shirt as you pull him forward. "We'll just have to see, I guess."

"You're damn right," he says before crushing his lips to yours. He slips his fingers into you, his thumb working circles against your clit, and you moan into his mouth. "That's right, doll. I make you feel so fucking good, don't I?"

A sly smile of your own tugs at your lips as you pull your head back.

"Meh, I've had better."

He pauses for a moment, staring you in the face before he chuckles. He takes his hand from you as he uses his free hand to push you by the shoulder, urging you onto your back before he tugs your pants off, taking your panties with them.

"Spread those legs for me, Y/N," he orders softly, and you comply.

At once, his hand finds your heat again, his metal fingers diving in and curling against your g-spot as his flesh fingers work your clit. In no time at all, you writhe on the tabletop, the entirety of your energy focused on not coming, not giving in to his ego. It's no use, however, as he hits the right spots at the right time.

"Fuck!" you grunt, your toes curling as ecstasy explodes from your core; the orgasm rips through your body, rushing through your blood with a ferocity you've never known before as your heart pounds from your chest.

"I fucking told you, doll," Bucky teases, his hands slowing down before he removes them. "Look at you. All wrecked for me."

"You wish," you say, rising up onto your elbows to see Bucky's grin falter just slightly. "Why don't you really wreck me, James? Why don't you fuck the attitude out of me?"

Heat floods your body at the idea, but just then, Bucky smiles wider as the mischievous glint in his eyes seems to take him over completely.

"You want me," he begins slowly, his hands dropping to his belt, "to fuck," he undoes his belt, popping open the button on his pants, "the attitude," he pulls on the zipper, slipping his underwear down enough that his cock tumbles from its confines and into his hand, "out of you?"

Your eyes fix on his engorged, weighty flesh as he strokes himself, imagining what it would feel like to be split in half by it.

"You want it," he says; it's not a question at all, but an entirely accurate statement.

You meet his eyes once more to see the cockiest expression on his face.

"And what if I said yes?" you reply.

Bucky leans in, his lips close to yours.

"Beg me for it," he murmurs against your mouth.

"No," you say, pushing him away gently as you slip off the table; your hand just barely closes around his girth and strokes. "I won't beg for it." You get to your knees, coming face to face with his gorgeous cock. "But you will."

"You think so, Y/N?" he laughs, but moans the minute you take him into your mouth. "Fuuuuuuck."

You swirl your tongue around the head before taking him as far back into your mouth as you can. Bucky nearly whimpers the moment the tip enters the back of your throat and you swallow around him. It takes everything you've got to keep from laughing at him as he leans over, bracing himself on the table.

Bobbing your head along his shaft, you listen to him; he curses, making pleas to God as you work him up. He tries to hold it together, but the way you suck and lick and tease has him squirming. Before you know it, though, he yanks himself from you with a growl, picking you up off the floor and turning you around; his erection presses against your ass as he twines his fingers in your hair, pressing your hips against the table.

"Baby doll," he croons in your ear, his chest hard against your back. "You think you're so cute, eh? Just you wait, Y/N. Just you wait."

He presses you down onto the tabletop, his hand still gripping your hair. Almost instantly, you feel the tip of his cock brush your lips, sliding along your heat to press against your clit for just a moment. He does this a few times before he finally presses into your center.

The moment hangs in the air as your anticipation grows, your yearning to be filled finally being granted only Bucky doesn't continue. He stays, just the tip of his cock planted in you for a moment before it slips out again, and you let out the smallest whine.

"Oh, doll," he says, his tone mocking. "Did you want that? Did you want my big fat cock inside you?"

You collect your wits, unwilling to let him win.

"I bet you want to get inside me, James," you say, your hand finding his in your hair. "God, I bet you want to fuck me. I bet you've always wanted to fuck me, from the minute you met me."

He slips his cock along your heat again, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning as it meets your clit; he bounces his cock against it a few times before teasing it with gentle circles.

"I bet you've thought of nothing but this pussy since I joined the team," you continue, baiting him into giving in. "I bet that's why you're such a prick, because you could never have it. You wanna know what I think, James?"

"What do you think, Y/N?" he replies, replacing his tip back into your center as he leans over you, his face growing closer to yours.

"I think," you say, adjusting so you can see his face better, "that there have been so many times that you've imagined having me. Times when you found yourself imagining me in this exact position, with your dick buried inside me, and couldn't help but rub one out. You ever fucked yourself to the thought of me, James?"

Bucky chuckles. "Doll, you have no idea. But if we're placing bets, I bet you've done the same. You think I don't know? On all those missions we've been on, you think I didn't hear you fuck yourself in the next room? That I don't know that's how you blow off steam?"

You smile as he presses just a little further into your heat.

"Doll," he says, standing up and bringing you with him until your back arches against his chest, his lips brushing your ear as he continues, "you think I haven't heard you call my name?"

"Looks like we're at an impasse," you chuckle.

Bucky laughs too, dragging hot, wet kisses along your neck for a second.

"Nah," he says, letting go of your hair as he slowly curls his hand around your neck, pushing your head back onto his shoulder. "Because I've got the upper hand here."

"So you think," you quip as he presses just a little further into you; your body tenses, awaiting the full feeling of his cock.

"Oh, I know, Y/N," he says, retreating just a little. “I know for damn sure. Now, what do we say?”

“I don’t know, what do we say?”

He offers a dark chuckle as he pulls all the way out. “If you’re not gonna be a good girl, I won’t fuck you.”

“I wish I could believe you, Barnes,” you reply. “But seeing as how I haven’t complied with you yet and you’re still here with your hard-on poking me in the ass cheek, I just can’t take you all that seriously.”

“That’s fair,” he says before suddenly letting go of you. 

You turn around, fairly surprised as you watch him hitch his pants back up, putting his cock away.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you say with an incredulous laugh. 

“Well, I’m sitting back down until Steve gets back,” he says, checking the time. "There's still about fifteen minutes before he gets back."

Once more collecting your wits, you smile. With an idea coalescing in your brain, you stride to his side of the table, hopping up onto the tabletop right next to him to ensure that he sees everything you're about to work with.

"Well, then," you say, spreading your legs as your fingers meet your aching clit. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm a little worked up right now and I need to, as you said, blow off steam."

Bucky's smile falters as his eyes drop from yours to between your legs, watching you work. The very fact that he's watching sends another flood of arousal to your already dripping cunt, your need for release growing stronger by the second.

"Mmm," you hum, slipping your fingers into yourself.

Bucky doesn't look away once. On the contrary, he rises from his seat, looking pained as he witnesses your pleasure. You put on a show, your moans and whimpers growing more frequent; the move has the desired effect as Bucky's hand drops to the erection in his pants, palming it through the fabric.

"Fuck," he murmurs, yanking his pants down once more. He moves forward, hand around his cock to position himself inside you, but you were waiting for this; you lean forward, pressing your hand against his chest to stop his progress toward you.

"I'm sorry," you say, "but what are you doing?"

"I'm fucking you," he says, stepping forward once more, but you hold your ground.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

He moves forward again, but you still keep him at bay.

"And what do we say, James?" you purr.

"What?" he replies.

You lean closer to him, your lips almost brushing his as you say, "Beg me for it."

"Are you serious?" he says, getting impatient.

"Damn right I am," you reply.

Bucky struggles with it for a moment, but seems to decide to fold.

"Y/N," he says, stroking his cock, a drop of precum beading on the tip. "Please."

"Please what?" you reply, relishing in the frustration showing through his features.

"Please, please, let me fuck you."

You grin, satisfied that you won, as you let your hand slide around the back of his neck from his chest, pulling his mouth against yours as he immediately buries himself inside you.

"Ah!" you moan against his lips as he fills you to the hilt.

"God fucking dammit," he groans. "You feel so fucking good, Y/N."

At once, he begins thrusting, his hands holding tight onto your hips as he moves. You lean back onto one arm, your other hand finding your clit once again, pressing circles against yourself.

"Fuck, Y/N," he says, his thrusts growing quicker.

His cock drags along your g-spot, the perfect sensation to accompany your clitoral stimulation. In next to no time, you snap, your body bombarded by your next orgasm.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky says through gritted teeth as you pulse around him.

His grip tightens on you as his hips press quicker, harder than ever, before they stutter; he pulls out, his hand grasping his cock and stroking it until he comes. Spurts of cum land on your thigh, thick and warm, as Bucky tries to get his breathing under control, his forehead landing on your shoulder for support.

He takes a moment, straightening up once he’s gotten control of himself. As he backs away, his eyes fix on yours, a soft grin pulling at his lips. He puts himself back together, zipping and buttoning his pants deliberately.

“You win,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“I know,” you laugh, watching as he moves around the table to grab your pants and underwear from where he pulled them off of you. He walks them back to you, handing them over. “Clean it.”

Once more, his mischief is written all over his face as he bends down, using his tongue to mop up his mess. The sensation tingles along your thigh to your core, and you wish you had longer than just the thirty minutes allotted to the two of you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, staying put as he stands back up.

“Good boy,” you say, pulling his face to yours for a kiss.

“Looks like I’m your bitch now,” he says with a chuckle.

“Oh, doll,” you say, taking delight in the look on his face as you use his word. “It was bound to happen.”