#we could have been stacking cash but hes so fucking concerned with appearances or whatever the fuxk it is that were stuxk in this situation

[kicksnscribs]

Wow...

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 4

Charles Vane x OFC slow burn - Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Note: since this story is getting so long, I’ve decided to convert it to a third person OC. She’s really acquired too much specific backstory to be a Reader insert already. So meet Hope Wickham, who hopefully feels like a natural extension of the same character! I’ve never done this before, hope I’m pulling it off gracefully.

Chapter Summary: Acceptance by Vane’s crew comes along with a little drunken violence, but who would expect any less from pirates? Treating Vane’s wound brings more intimacy than Hope bargained for... CW for combat and giving someone stitches.

This episode’s prompt: “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

The tavern is dark, and so thick with smoke that Hope’s eyes are burning around the edges. But the ale is strong, the company is spirited, and all she sees are wide grins around the table. That’s all that matters to her.

The Ranger crew is celebrating again. They’ve just taken port in Tortuga after their third successful hunt since finding themselves on Miss Guthrie’s shit list; the leads she had provided them since the night Captain Vane stormed out of her office had been more insulting than if she had given them none, and so they put their heads together and sought their prizes outside of the neighborhood of Nassau. The takes were smaller, so far, and not everyone here already knew their reputation, yet, but it was well worth it to keep on feeling free.

“This one’s for that Guthrie bitch,” Anne Bonny growls as she thrusts her tankard up for another toast. “Just ‘cause we all know she wouldn’t want us to have it.” Grunts and guffaws answer her around the long, creaking table that the Ranger’s officers and most sociable crewmen have crowded around. “Don’t matter if we can’t fence our prizes, so long as we can drink ‘em!”

That gets a round of cheers and splashing clinks of pewter tankards. Hope drinks deep to that one, short-sighted as she finds the sentiment to be. Because the real point is, with takes like these they’ve managed to keep the morale of the crew up, despite setbacks. They hadn’t lost one capable sailor over the humiliation Eleanor had tried to deal them. In fact, the experience appeared to be knitting the crew tighter together, with Hope right in there with them.

Her expertise helped, as Jack had predicted. The Ranger’s crew had a reputation for idiocy and belligerence once they got into the drink on shore, but every sailor respects the skill of a navigator that can not only lead them right to the richest prizes, but also point them straight back towards a port where they can waste those riches as quickly as possible. It also helped that Hope had drank a few of them under the table that first night, that her wit was only sharpened by liquor, and oh yes, that she had found a few choice words for Nassau’s despot herself on that evening.

Shane, the Ranger’s boatswain, elbows her deep in the ribs. “Tell us again,” he slurs, drinking entirely too fast as he so often does on nights like these, “how you gave the Guthrie woman a piece of your mind last time we was in her joint.”

Hope presses her lips together in a restrained sort of grin. She resists the urge to glance at Captain Vane; if she looks too worried about his reaction it will only set him off worse. But any mention of Eleanor tends to sour his mood, whether negative or neutral. (Positive mentions simply do not happen among this crew). Her eyes travel as far as Jack Rackham, seated beside the captain, and she can see he is checking on him already. When no flash of concern lights up the quartermaster’s eyes, Hope feels safe to at least start telling the story. “I don’t know what she was thinking, approaching me like that.”

Even though she speaks quietly, many of the side conversations cease, heads up and down the long table swiveling around to pay attention to her tale. It seems like no matter how often this episode comes up, there is at least one crewman present that has not yet heard her tell it from her own mouth.

“She had already failed to perturb the Captain, with whatever she said in that private meeting she called him into after we cashed in her lead,” Hope continues, setting the stage.

“Thought she could drag him in by his ear, like she was his fecking mum,” one of the gunmen interrupts. Nods and grunts of agreement pass around the table. Hope just loves the way the men so gleefully rehash the same old stories when they’re in their cups, loves even more that she’s started to be in them.

“He’s not fallin’ for that shite anymore,” Shane piles on, sending a look up the table at Vane that’s half approval, half challenge.

As usual, Captain Vane chooses the path of least words. “Bitch can rot,” he growls over the rim of his cup. His eyes simmer with more complicated feelings than those three words belie, but only to someone who’s looking.

“Which is what he told her, more or less.” Jack’s melodious voice smooths the story along, taking the attention off the uneasy topic of the crew’s feelings about their captain’s… entanglements. “So on to Plan B, Miss Guthrie went.” His eyes turn back to Hope, and most of the crew’s follow.

“She comes by my table, just stands there at first, stiff as you please. Like I’m just going to jump up as soon as she notices me.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

Hope remembers the way her stomach jumped at that point, her respect for Miss Guthrie not yet lost, but there is no reason to recount that part of the story. “Then she does this little cough, when I keep on drinking, take my next turn throwing the dice.”

“It was a good throw, too,” someone pipes in from further down the table.

“It was,” Hope agrees, “and I had a stack of coin on it.” She takes a swig of ale. “But she just stares at me. And as soon as my hand is on my winnings—‘may I have a word with you, Miss Wickham.’” She does a passingly fair imitation of the woman’s voice, higher and snootier than her own.

“What did she want?”

“She told me she was going to get me on another ship.”

The room always gets quieter at this part of the story. A warm, tingling sort of feeling blooms in Hope’s chest, at the way her new crew takes such pride in this exchange. It reassures her more deeply each time, that she made the right call when she took Eleanor’s offer as an insult.

“’It’s terrible, what Vane is doing to you,’ she has the nerve to say to me. ‘But the Nightingale is coming in tomorrow. And the Walrus.” Groans all around the table. They always groan at the mention of the Walrus. “I’ll get you set up with a crew that’s more civilized.” And every time she repeats that line, there is less booing and more harsh, prideful laughter. Hope scoffs. “Like I’m already in her pocket, a piece to move around on her chessboard as she sees fit. She says to me: ‘Vane can’t force you to do anything.’ And I look right back at her, take the drink out of her hand, and say ‘no, he can’t. And neither can you.” Her neck prickles at the way the men look at her when she tells this part. “I like his ship. I like his crew.’ I lean in, sip a drink out of her own cup, and say, ‘I think I might even be starting to like him.”

More cheering, and fists hammer on the table. They love that part. Everything had felt so crystal-clear in that moment, when Eleanor Guthrie patronized to her like that. Hope didn’t want to be protected, didn’t want to be sheltered or assigned. She wanted to earn what she’d got; and here was a crew she was already bonding with, (drunkenly at least) and a captain who respected her skills so much that he’d gone out of his way to get her on his ship, and respected her mind so much that he’d rushed Jack to make sure she felt she could leave.

“So take your fake concern for my wellbeing, I said to her, and go fuck yourself with it. Since Vane’s not at your beck and call to take care of that for you anymore, either.” It wasn’t exactly what Hope had really said. But every story gets larger in the retelling of it, does it not?

Tankards are banging on tables, toasts are being raised, and Shane whacks Hope on the back in comradely approval. “And that’s the night you became one of us.”

She can’t read anything in Vane’s stillness as he regards her from the head of the table.

 Hours later, Hope and Anne are staggering back into the tavern, arm in arm, coming back from a piss ‘round the back of the building. In this town a woman’s got to have someone right there watching her back before she can even think of squatting down. “Where’s everyone?” Anne slurs, her brows furrowing as she inspects the corner where the Ranger crew used to be sitting. Her head swivels toward the other side of the room, Hope’s following rapidly after.

Many of the crew appear to have moved along to some other establishment, or perhaps staggered down to their tents set up on the beach. Jack and Captain Vane are still here, though, sitting at a table with two men Hope doesn’t recognize. All four of them are positively bristling.

Their Captain waves the women over when he spots them. Anne lets herself be tucked under Jack’s arm, and Hope cautiously takes the open chair next to Vane. The strangers at the table look surly, one with long hair tied back into a disheveled tail, the other’s brown locks cropped closer but no less messy. Their once-fine coats, stained and inexpertly repaired, mark them for fellow pirates.

“Captain Mackinaw,” Vane introduces, wrapping a hand over the top of Hope’s shoulder as he does, “meet Hope Wickham, my navigator.”

She braces herself for the long-haired man to comment on her sex, as so many men do, but this Mackinaw is too preoccupied to do more than nod vaguely in her direction. “I can’t just let this stand, Charles.”

Vane nods. Hope has never known him to be a sloppy drunk, but she can feel his inebriation in the careful way he removes his hand from her shoulder and reaches out for the ale on the table. He lifts it for a long, contemplative sip as his fellow looks at him expectantly. “You want me to back you up?” he offers, in slow, measured tones.

Mackinaw looks relieved. “They’re at the north end of the beach. If we make a show of numbers, I reckon they’ll hand it back over without a fight.” He takes another long pull of his own drink, the gesture much sloppier than how Vane had pulled off. Hope resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“And if they don’t?” Jack asks.

Mackinaw smiles sharply. “Then they’ll learn what it means to cross them that used to sail with Edward Teach.”

 “This is a terrible idea,” Hope growls through her teeth, hefting the cudgel of broken wood she’d picked up on their way down the beach.

“Nonsense,” Jack replies. “It appears they have things well in hand.” Less than twenty paces away, Vane and Mackinaw square up against an even-scruffier captain and two of his largest crewmen. Vane’s body language is bristling, and Mackinaw’s looks mocking even from here.

“I don’t believe Charles Vane has ever been known for his ability to talk his way out of a fight,” Hope retorts. She shifts, squaring her hips, attempting to add to the impression that a full crew of violent, capable men is poised to storm down the moonlit beach at a moment’s notice.

“Good,” Anne hisses, sparing one contemptuous glance for Hope as she brandishes both her knives in the direction of the tents. Mackinaw’s rivals are rousing now, recognizing the threat. “I’ve an appetite for blood tonight.”

Hope’s not even sure why she’s here. This could get every bit as bloody as a vanguard charge, if someone says the wrong word, takes things a step too far down there. Violence is not in her skill set; if anything, she should be handling this part, the negotiations that so often stop swords from crossing. But she doesn’t know Mackinaw; barely even understands the grievance he has with the other man on the beach. Something about a horse, or a woman, or a horse that belonged to a woman… and now good men might get hurt, or even killed, because Vane feels loyalty to a man he once sailed with when they both served under the notorious Blackbeard.

An angry shout. Anne takes a step forward; most of the crew lined up behind follows suit. Vane hadn’t rounded up quite all of his men from their carousing around the town, but combined with Mackinaw’s crew they look like a veritable army ready to surround the other crew’s camp.

Said crew is forming up ranks of their own, however. Mackinaw’s rival does not appear ready to back down, puffing up his chest and speaking loudly enough for her to hear the tone of blustering confidence. Hope knows a failing negotiation when she sees one. “Blood it is,” she says wryly.

She doesn’t intend for anyone to hear it, but Jack cocks his head at her.

Vane’s hand has crept to his sword. Mackinaw’s head tilts; the shabby captain grimaces, glances back at his crew, and then throws himself at his rival. The two captains struggle in the sand, pummeling each other.

Is it going to stay between them, or is everyone about to brawl? Hope catches movement from one of the big men who had been backing that captain up. He takes a step that puts him more fully behind Captain Vane, who had turned to watch the men rolling on the ground. “Watch!” she roars, in inarticulate, impulsive warning.

The men behind her surge, evidently interpreting her shout as their signal to advance. They loose themselves down the beach, stampeding Hope along with them.

She grips her cudgel tight, keeping pace with her crew to avoid being trampled. Her face and limbs flush so hot they’re prickling. She managed to see Vane turn before his attacker could strike, ducking under the blow and knocking the man in the gut with the pommel of his sword as he drew it, but after that she loses him in the jumble of bodies rushing past the both of them, to engage the charging Ranger crew.

Hope runs until she’s stopped, feeling like she’s part of a wave crashing into a craggy shore. She sees the shape of a man, arms raised in threat, and she swats at it with her cudgel. The impact of it thudding into him throws her more off-balance than she expects. But the untampered momentum with which she had hit him is enough to knock the man to the ground.

Anne roars beside her, a ferocious sound, triumphant. She kicks that man across the jaw to keep him down, then thrusts her face close to Hope’s. “Atta girl!”

And after that Anne’s bloodlust is infectious, as Hope finds herself suddenly eager to pick her next target to bludgeon. Her crimson-haired crewmate keeps pace with her, seemingly amused by Hope’s sudden spirit.

A man missing more than a few teeth looms up in front of her, and lands a blow that glances off Hope’s head. She falls back, but Jack Rackham catches her from behind and heaves her right back onto her feet again. Her attacker wasn’t expecting her to come up so fast; nor was he expecting her foot to land so heavy in his gut.

She wants to get to Vane. She doesn’t have time to consider why, only knows that the direction that she should force her feet through this fray is over to where she saw him last. She ducks under fists and shoves bodies away from her. Anne and Jack appear to have the same idea, and they’re better at it, too. Hope hears the crunch of a broken nose to her left, turns in time to see a man dropping to his knees, howling. Blood trickles down Anne Bonny’s forehead, and she doesn’t wipe it away when it reaches her open-mouthed grin.

The fighting ends just about as suddenly as it began. “Yield!” comes the voice of the enemy captain, and his men, for the most part, stand down. When the throng clears and Hope can see Charles Vane again, something in her chest loosens even though the side of his face is puffy and his hairline is stained with blood. He’s holding the shabby captain from behind, sword under his throat, and Mackinaw is gloating in front of them.

 And as far as the Ranger crew is concerned, that’s the end of it. No loss of life, and not too many injuries to show for the impulsive brawl. It could have been so much worse. Hope still doesn’t even understand what it was all about. She follows her captain back to their own beach camp. She follows him through the camp, settling the wounded, watching him check on every man without slowing down. Watching him favor his left leg the whole while, and otherwise ignoring his own obvious injury entirely.

When she notices that the size of the bloodstain suffusing the fabric of Vane’s trousers has definitely been growing, Hope finally approaches him. “It’s nothing,” he grunts, waving her off. “Now where’s Jensen? He came down with us, didn’t he?”

“You’re no good to him, or any of the men, if you pass out from blood loss,” Hope scolds.

Vane looks down at himself, mouth set in an ornery line. He brings the lantern in his hand close to his thigh, and wet blood glitters. He grunts, then puts all his weight on that injured leg and gives her a pointed look, brows raised high. He’s still drunk, she realizes. “It’s fine.” His usual growl grinds tighter across the words, though. And when he tries to take a normal stride past her, the leg buckles.

She reaches out to steady him and finds herself wrapped firmly underneath his arm. He lets her support his weight for just a moment, their faces so close as he studies her expression. His jaw still has a stubborn set to it. Her palms feel hot against his body, particularly the right, which landed close to his heart. “Back to your tent,” she orders. “Let me tend to it.”

His brows furrow and she pushes him up the beach before he can argue further. He takes one step with his weight on her, then shakes off her support while muttering something about the men watching. “Jensen?” he roars, still looking around the maze of tents.

“Sleeping it off,” someone shouts in answer, and only then does Vane turn back to Hope, ready to cooperate.

She scowls, shaking her head a little as she accompanies his limping path toward his own tent. “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

Vane doesn’t answer. He may not have even heard it. When they reach his tent, he pushes aside the flap and all but collapses inside. Hope pauses for one steadying breath before bending to follow him in. The captain seems the type to be a very difficult patient.

The lantern he had been carrying is set just inside the entryway. Vane settles onto his bedroll, a weary noise escaping his lips now that there’s no one left to observe him but Hope. She’s going to want more light, to examine that wound properly. She looks around for another lantern amongst the smattering of personal effects he’s brought to shore.

There’s rustling behind her as she gets another light blazing. When she turns around, Vane’s got his shirt off, resting back on his elbows and waiting for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself more comfortable,” Hope says dryly, “but that’s not the half of your body that I need to take a look at.”

Vane grins, and Hope tries to stop herself from blushing. His sun-darkened skin glistens in the lamplight, creating an all-together different effect on her than all the other times she’s seen the man stripped to the waist while sailing. He dips his head in acknowledgment of her words and lifts his hips to remove his trousers.

Her eyes register a long line of pale white skin being revealed to her gaze before she whips her head away, belatedly realizing he’s not wearing anything underneath. The image of the side of his bare ass is going to be hard to get out of her mind now, and she makes an irritated noise at the man. “Cover yourself, please.”

She waits, probably longer than necessary, before turning herself back to face her entirely nude captain. He’s lying back against a cushion once she’s gathered her nerve, with a blanket pulled over only his uninjured leg, and his unmentionables. And is the bastard smirking? She should march herself right out of there.

But then Hope’s eyes fall on the wound that’s been revealed and she forgets her modesty. “Uglier than I was hoping to see,” she mutters, worried, and drops to her knees beside his bedroll.

Vane makes an offended noise. Did he think she was talking about his body? How drunk is he? Hope is a little concerned that he doesn’t seem concerned about the wound in his thigh, slashed down the outer edge about a foot up from his knee. She brings the lantern closer and pokes at the bright red edge. When he doesn’t flinch, she presses a little harder, moving the flesh around to try and get a better idea of the depth of the wound.

“It’s not too deep,” she reports when she’s completed her assessment, “but it could use some stitching.”

“Told you it was fine,” he says gruffly. When she glances up, he holds her eyes. He’s given her many unreadable looks since she’s come to know him. But this one, while he’s laid out naked underneath her, with the flickering light so soft and warm, sends tingles through her body. “You good with a needle?”

Hope blinks. “Yes, yes,” she stutters, searching her pockets for her sewing kit. It’s another feminine role she’s tried to avoid getting stuck in, being the one who mends, but for Captain Vane she’ll make an exception. “Hold the lantern.”

She marvels that his arm doesn’t even waver as she cleans out the wound, holding the light up steady for her above his leg. His face remains almost serene, gaze already on her each time she glances up at him, as if watching her work is all he needs to ignore the pain. She pushes the errant thought away; more likely he’s just drunk enough to feel numb.

She can see the entire length of his body, bare from the swell of his shoulder, down his sculpted waist, over his hip bone and all along his pale white leg. It’s distracting, the way the eye is pulled to the crease where his thigh meets his belly, and—

And perhaps he’s not the only one who’s still a little drunk.

“Hold the lantern closer,” she says, and squints in closer to where she’ll begin her stitching. Tells herself not to think about the body that this leg attaches to.

She thinks she hears a little hiss of air the first time the needle goes in, but it might have just been the wind. When she dares look up again, Vane still has a straight face, contemplating hers.

“It was a foolish risk,” she says as she slides the needle in a second time. “If you took this slash just a few inches in toward the artery, you could have been bleeding out.”

His voice rasps only a little worse than normal. “But I didn’t. And reputations are maintained. It was not an insult Mackinaw could let slide.”

“And his name is worth our risk?”

Vane’s eye narrow. “He would do the same for me.”

“Are you sure?” The needle goes in again, and Hope feels the barest flinch in Vane’s limb. “I’ve known many that wouldn’t care a wit for the suffering of former crewmates.”

“Teach’s crew was different.”

Hope is the one to look levelly up at him, now. She’s heard tell of how Edward Teach came to leave Nassau’s harbor. “Perhaps so. But I would not expect they would still feel that way about Charles Vane.”

Her words cut him, she can see that. He flinches in a way that her prodding at his physical wound could not have caused. “Mackinaw had left before all that,” he says simply.

Hope nods, and drops her eyes back to her work. Just two more stitches ought to do it. Was he trying to make up for that betrayal, was he happy to sacrifice what he had in service to any member of that old crew that might forgive him for having helped Eleanor drive Blackbeard out of Nassau? These are questions she does not dare ask.

“Tonight was foolish,” she says again, after completing the last stitch. She bites off the end of the thread. “Foolish, but noble.” She still feels a small amount of shame when she thinks about the dispersed crew of the Starling, about being one of the handful who now serve under the very captain that had taken their ship and exiled her brother-in-law (although from the letters her sister sends, it seems that he is supporting her just fine pirating out of other cities). She can understand those complicated feelings, the ones that have no easy answer, when facing the fallout of one’s own choices. Any action that smacks of amends must feel like a breath of cool air. Now, exhausted and sobering up in the dim of Vane’s tent, brushing her arm over his lifted knee as she wraps his wound up tight, she finds that she may actually be admiring him.

Part V

Taglist:  @pleasemelafook-outta-ere​ @ladyhubris​​ @summertimesadness101 @acebreathesfire​​ @kind-wolf​​

[myatuesday]

You know there's a lot going on

When there's so much going on

I don't even know how to talk about it

Because I don't even know

How or where to start.

_

But, basically, everything has been turned upside down.

And a recalibration is necessary.

_

I'm extremely worried about money now.

As in... I need to be making it.

_

Due to an emergency and unforseen set of circumstances

Even tho we were :this fucking close:

The new apartment situation has been put on hold, basically indefinitely at this time.

Um...

That relationship is kindof a trainwreck at this time.

Not due to relationship issues

But issues he's dealing with that are frankly life altering for him

Which, of course, effects me by proxy for as long as I remain in the relationship.

_

So very difficult times

Very hard decisions to make

_

I'm caught btwn loyalty

And my NEED to do what's best for me rn

-

In an ideal situation, the two could co-exist

But... that seems devastatingly impossible at this time.

_

Idk wtf I'm going to do.

I just know, I entered this year w a new attitude and new energy

This type of motivation and spike in confidence in my own gifts/talents/whatever doesn't happen much

I need to capitalize on it NOW

I can't squander it trying to solve everyone else's problems, unfortunately.

There is just no time.

And bitch need $$$ now.

Right FN now.

_

So...

Plan A is fucked

Plan B is fucked

Plan C is... who the fuck knows

Plan D is needed

Smh.

Lord have mercy.

_

[Well, no. I take that back.

I still have the same plan for me.

My *personal* plans, particularly where bringing in finances are concerned, hasn't really changed.

It just looks like... I'm on my own now.

No partners. No support. No shared expenses.

So... that is a game changer. Obviously. Smh.

Idk wtf I'm going to do.

I know what I want -

Money wise/career wise/hobby wise, whatever.

I just...

I'm afraid pursuing something like that fully on my own, just me, myself and I... might end up being kind of a wash.

I guess that's my biggest concern.

What's the point of bringing in new income, if I can't stack cash and instead it's all going to support me/pay bills?

That's the current dilemma in my financial house. ]

_

But I'm also ready for independence

I want my life back

I want to make myself a priority again

ALL of this was sort of a subconscious goal for 2021

But... it wasn't really even a goal, just the energy that hit me this year.

But, now, 2021 is here...

And it's a goddamn fucking nightmare.

Is my actual life?

Me, personally...

Not the circus and monkeys around me

But my actual life?

No, not really.

It felt/feels like it, at times, because my life is so connected/intertwined to the people around me

Or because I'm constantly absorbing their energy.

(Which is seriously slowly fucking killing me and has to fucking stop. Immediately.)

But, best I can tell,

Aside from my car issues (yeah, pretty big deal)

My internal personal world

Me, myself and I...

Is still intact.

Which... is just something to consider/for me to not forget, getting lost in the sauce of everyone else's bullshit.

_

I'm terrified.

I don't want to do things 100% on my own

For a multitude of reasons

(And, say I do succeed, what's the point of having money, if I've got no one to share it with?)

But, I've got to do SOMETHING.

_

I've been waiting on this boy for 3+ goddamn years

Yeah, it was F I N A L L Y so close I could taste it

(So to say this goddamn fucking SUCKS is a huge understatement)

But, now, it's fucked.

(For now anyway. Sigh.

Granted, there's nothing saying that a year from now, everything may be better. Idk.)

But it's extremely hard.

And idk what I'm going to do yet.

Somebody gets hurt either way.

But, after 3 goddamn years,

I'm kindof tired of it being me.

I have to move forward w my own goddamn life at some point, with or without him.

It just sucks.

And doesn't sit well with my conscience

At Fucking All.

But... sigh

I'm dying here.

I'm tired of being broke.

I'm tired of feeling stagnant.

I just...

It is what it is

And I have to figure it out

_

I'm constantly looking to the universe for answers

I have been for months now

I'm definitely praying on this issue

Ever since everything changed.

_

Do I want a clear path to magically appear to me?

Um... honestly, yes.

But even though I can't see a clear path

I can certainly see goddamn giant roadblocks, saying NOT HERE.

That's in relationship to pretty much every relationship I have. Atm.

So... everything that's happening, best I can tell, is insisting I must move forward independently in order to get to whatever this next chapter is.

Heartbreaking? Yes.

Terrifying? Absolutely.

But what else can a bitch do?

_

And... the Carter thing

Well, that's a whole other issue

But, equally fucked atm

Totally different reasons

(Mostly being, uh, idk... who the fuck he currently is as a person)

But that relationship, all in all, feels pretty untenable atm.

_

Maybe I take a year for myself

Fall flat on my face, come crawling back begging for mercy (I certainly hope not)

Maybe I take a year and come back, and we're all in a better fucking place

And have a fighting goddamn chance to make something work.

That's the gamble.

_

But I know I can't just sit here and rot

Holding everybody else's hand

While I watch my fucking life pass me by

That much, I know.

How and when I'm going to make those necessary changes remains to be seen.

But... hopefully, time will tell.

And my willingness and drive to reorganize my priorities and put my life (and I pray to god, my money) first will... somehow finally allow the path I'm looking for to magically roll out before me afterall.

I can hope and freakin pray.

[antiadvil]

Roses are Red

summary: Dan wants to buy his best friend Phil an anonymous rose, and also maybe confess his feelings. The problem? Phil is the one selling the anonymous roses.

Luckily, PJ has a plan.

rating: PG13

word count: 3.7k

a/n: this is for @flymetomanchester as part of a valentine’s day fic exhange! additional thanks to @itsmyusualphannie and @sudden-sky for betaing and hyping me up throughout the writing process.

read more or on ao3

Buying his crush a rose for Valentine’s Day really shouldn’t have been so hard. Dan didn’t even need to put his name on it, for God’s sake. The roses sold by his high school’s student council were distributed anonymously. He just had to pay for it, put Phil’s name on it, and write him a note.

The only problem was that Phil was not only the student council president, he was also Dan’s best friend. So Dan was left awkwardly standing near the table, hoping Phil would leave for a few minutes so he could buy Phil a rose from the student council vice president, who was sitting next to Phil, instead.

“Do you want to buy a rose?” Phil asked.

“What?” Dan snorted. “Why would I want to buy a rose?”

Phil shrugged. “Just wondering. You’re kind of hovering.”

Dan snorted again. “I am not.”

The bored-looking girl sitting next to Phil handed Dan a tissue.

“I was, uh, just wondering if you needed any help.”

“We’re good,” Phil said. “Kate and I have got everything covered.”

Dan shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“Thanks,” Phil said. “I really appreciate it. But I think you’re scaring away the customers. See you in English?”

Dan nodded, giving up and slipping back to the lunchroom.

“Did it work?” his friend PJ asked when Dan joined him at their lunch table.

“No,” Dan said, scowling. “He wouldn’t leave the table.”

PJ took a long drink from his water bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Damn,” he said. “That sucks.”

Dan nodded glumly. “He’s never going to leave the table.”

PJ shrugged. “I mean, it’s just a rose. You can get roses just about anywhere.”

Dan glared. “But can I get special, anonymously sent roses with an attached note just about anywhere?”

PJ rolled his eyes.

Dan sat back. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Dan had been cast as the lead in their school play three years running. “Me? Dramatic?”

PJ rolled his eyes again. “If you’re so attached to these roses, you’re going to need a better plan.”

“What, do you have one?” Dan asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “I’m listening.”

PJ smirked. “Meet me outside the cafeteria tomorrow.”

“To do what?” Dan asked.

“You’ll see,” PJ said mysteriously.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Dan said. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past ten years and it hasn’t happened yet.”

“It will,” Dan promised. “Just wait.”

“Sure,” PJ snickered. The bell rang. “See you after school, nerd.”

“Not if I kill you first, dork,” Dan responded.

Dan’s next class was English. He slid into his seat next to Phil. “How are sales going?” he asked.

“Pretty good,” Phil said. “We’ve made a ton of money so far. Decorations for turnabout might not be that bad.”

“Decorations for turnabout are always bad.” The rose sale was the only source of funding for their spring dance other than ticket sales. Student Council did their best, but Dan and Phil’s high school was not known for its beautiful and well-run school dances.

Phil shrugged. “Well, hopefully they’ll be less bad.”

Dan gave up. He knew this dance was important to Phil, and supporting his friend was more important to him than making fun of their school. “Of course they will be,” he said. “You’re doing them.”

Phil smiled. “Thanks, Dan.”

Right on cue, their English teacher entered the room, disturbingly cheery for someone teaching Hamlet to a bunch of second semester high school seniors.

“How was last night’s reading?” he chirped.

The classroom was dead silent. Dan highly doubted anyone in the entire room had read more than the sparknotes, if that.

“What did you think of Hamlet’s treatment of Ophelia?” More silence. “Come on, guys, don’t make me start picking volunteers.”

Someone sitting in the front hesitantly raised their hand.

“Yes! Jamie?” their teacher asked.

“I didn’t like it,” they said.

Their teacher sighed. Dan took that as his cue to zone out. He zoned out in the rest of his classes as well before finally stumbling out of school to meet PJ by his car.

“You’re late,” PJ said.

Dan rolled his eyes. “You’re late.”

“Whatever. Get in the back.” Since Phil had gotten there first, he got the passenger’s seat, and since PJ was driving, that left Dan to sit in the back. Normally, he would be annoyed, but today he didn’t mind being a little more alone with his thoughts than usual. He leaned back and stared out the window, letting Phil and PJ do most of the talking.

“Do we really have to go to Hot Topic today?” PJ asked, interrupting Dan’s thoughts. “You never even buy anything, and if someone sees me there in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty, I’ll lose all my street cred.”

“What street cred?” Dan asked. “And if Phil is dragging us to Lush - ”

“Phil buys things at Lush!” PJ protested.

“I’m just saying, your street cred - ”

“Dan’s right,” Phil said. “You don’t have any street cred.”

Dan smirked. “And neither of us complain about Barnes and Noble, so shut up.”

“Yeah you do,” PJ mumbled under his breath.

Phil shook his head. “We love Barnes and Noble,” he said, with sincerity so sweet Dan nearly believed him.

PJ rolled his eyes. “You two are so lucky I still drive you places.”

Dan let the conversation fade out again. Phil and PJ bickered some more, Dan’s stomach twisted itself into knots, and in just a few more minutes, PJ pulled into the mall parking lot.

“Last one out is gay,” PJ announced, hopping out of the car. Phil, who had been out since middle school, rolled his eyes.

Dan, who had been out for a significantly smaller amount of time, also rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car. “Shut up, token het,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dan and Phil behaved in Barnes and Noble for approximately five seconds before their shenanigans began. They followed PJ dutifully through the stacks before Phil beckoned Dan the other way and held up a book.

“How does this shit get published?” Phil said, giggling at the summary on the back.

PJ glanced back at Phil, annoyed. Phil ignored him, plucking another book from the shelf.

This was their usual Barnes and Noble routine: Phil dramatically read the backs of romance novels to Dan, Dan and Phil fell over giggling at the overly dramatic, flowery language, and PJ pretended not to know who they were.

“You guys are so embarrassing,” PJ said.

“Don’t tell me you’re capable of taking this seriously,” Dan said, while Phil leafed through another novel, looking for the cringiest romantic dialogue he could make Dan act out with him.

PJ just rolled his eyes in response and drifted away. Dan felt slightly bad for a moment - he and Phil had been a unit since grade school, and it usually wasn’t very fun to hang out with them with no one else around. PJ had put up with the third wheeling for a lot longer than most.

His guilt quickly dissipated when Phil thrust his latest find out at him. “You be the girl,” he said.

Dan raised his eyebrows. “That’s what he sa - ”

“Shut up,” Phil whined, but he was also giggling. “You know what I meant.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Fine, but only because my falsetto is incredible.”

“That’s the spirit,” Phil said, but before they could start reading, PJ appeared from around the corner.

“I got the book I needed,” he announced.

Phil let the romance novel in his hand drop limply to his side.

“I’m ready to go,” Dan said. “Unless you needed anything?” he asked Phil.

Phil shook his head, putting the book back on the shelf. “I’m ready.”

“Race you to Hot Topic,” Dan said.

“We’re not going to Hot Topic until after we finish at Lush,” Phil insisted.

PJ rolled his eyes. “You have until I get to the cash register to sort this out. Just, like, fight to the death or something over it.”

Dan and Phil lingered behind to play rock, paper, scissors. Phil won. Dan sulked.

He really didn’t mind going to Lush as much as he pretended to. The soaps all smelled really nice, and the free samples were definitely a bonus. If it wasn’t for the heavy weight of societal judgement he could feel hanging over his head whenever he walked into his house, he would probably buy a bath bomb or two for himself.

He couldn’t help but watch a bit enviously as Phil and PJ picked out products to buy. Their parents didn’t think boys had to constantly act a certain way, had to only use certain products. Dan’s parents were reluctantly accepting of his sexuality, but they still had expectations for him. Expectations he’d never meet.

Dan contented himself with looking at and smelling everything Phil handed him. God, everything here smelled amazing.

After Phil and PJ were done buying their things, the group lingered in the entrance before moving on to the next store.

Phil poured a generous helping of his new rose-scented lotion into his hands, gesturing for Dan’s hand and wiping off the excess.

Dan ran his extremely dry hands together, rubbing the lotion in. “Smells nice,” he said.

Phil smiled. “And now maybe your hands will stop bleeding all the time.”

Dan looked at the cracked skin on the back of his hands. “Sure,” he said.

Phil sighed. “It’s actually concerning how dry your skin is.”

Dan was slightly touched by Phil’s concern, but he’d never admit it. “Are you my mom or something?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Both of you shut up,” PJ said. “And hurry up, I have a paper due tomorrow.”

Knowing PJ, his paper was probably completely finished and just waiting for him to make one last glance over it for typos before submitting it several hours before the deadline and going to bed at precisely ten o’clock.

Sometimes Dan resented the guy, but honestly, under his harsh exterior, he was too sweet and helpful to hate. Dan couldn’t even count the number of times he’d called PJ late at night, panicking about an assignment he’d forgotten about, only to have PJ calm him down and walk him through the entire process, no matter how tired he would be the next day. Dan hoped that someday PJ wouldn’t feel the need to hide behind his sharp remarks. That he’d feel okay sharing the softer side of him.

For now, he let PJ pretend to be mad that he and Phil were taking too long and rush them along to Hot Topic.

It was true that Dan never bought anything at Hot Topic, but he loved going there anyway. Something about the atmosphere reminded him of his full on emo years. Not that that was a good time to be reminded of, per se, but it was definitely a simpler time.

Also, My Chemical Romance would always be good, no matter what year it was, and Dan was not about to apologize for that.

Phil and PJ definitely didn’t understand his obsession, but they were trying, even if they mocked him endlessly for it. PJ stifled his yawns, and Phil stared determinedly past the glaze in his eyes as Dan tried an endless number of outfits on.

“I like that one,” Phil announced for the seventeenth time, when Dan came out of the dressing room in a band T-shirt and jeans that were much more tight than anything his parents would ever let him wear.

Dan wasn’t sure whether or not Phil’s eyes were trailing up and down Dan’s body more than usual, but it made him feel warm and heavy and slightly self-conscious.

PJ nodded in determined agreement. “You should get it.”

“Maybe,” Dan said, the same way he did every time. This time he almost meant it. He hesitated. “My parents would never let me wear them.”

“My dude,” PJ said. “You are eighteen. What are they going to do?”

Phil shot him a look, but Dan just threw a T-shirt at PJ’s head. “Yell at me?”

“Fine,” PJ said, untangling the shirt from his head. “Don’t get it. I don’t care.”

“Get it,” Phil said.

Dan hesitated. His parents wouldn’t like the jeans, but the shirt they might not mind that much, and if they did, he could just wear it under a sweatshirt until he left the house.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get the shirt.”

“Thank god,” PJ said. “Does that mean we can leave? I want to leave.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “We can leave.”

PJ pumped his fist.

Phil offered Dan the passenger’s seat on their way home, but he declined. He still had things to think about. The T-shirt he had tucked inside the shopping bag under his arm and how he would get it to his room without his parents noticing. The rose he hadn’t put Phil’s name on yet. Whether or not PJ really had a plan, or if he was just bullshitting. How tired Dan was, all the damn time.

He let his head fall back. Dan hadn’t fallen asleep in the car in years, but he let the quiet murmur of PJ and Phil in the front seats and the soft noises of the car’s engine and tires lull him to sleep.

He woke up to Phil shaking his shoulder. “I’m not strong enough to carry you to your room,” he said.

Dan blinked. “Yeah,” he said groggily, looking for his shopping bag.

“Here,” Phil said, handing it to him. “Don’t forget your backpack.”

Dan grabbed it. “Thanks,” he said. He was out of the car before he remembered PJ’s plan. He turned back, but PJ was already putting his car in reverse.

“See you tomorrow at lunch,” PJ called.

“Wait!” Dan ran after the car, leaning towards the driver’s window.

PJ rolled his window down. “Yes?”

“You’re still not going to tell me your plan?” Dan whispered to PJ.

“Nope.” PJ smirked.

“I don’t want to leave this to chance,” Dan whispered.

“Don’t worry about it,” PJ said. “I’ve got it all under control.”

“I’m worried about it.”

“Well, don’t.” PJ rolled the window back up and drove away.

Dan worried. He worried as he went home and did his homework, he worried as he went to bed, he had dreams about worrying, and when he woke up for school the next morning, he worried all through breakfast and his ride. He worried until just before lunch time, when he saw PJ waiting for him in the hallway where Phil and Kate were selling flowers.

PJ noticed Dan and waved. “Hey, Dan!” he said, way too loudly, walking over to Dan with alarming speed.

“Hey, PJ,” Dan said, moving towards PJ.

Before they could get too close, PJ tripped and fell. Hard.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Phil immediately leapt to his feet and pushed through the crowd to reach PJ. “Are you okay?” he asked.

PJ lifted his head up. “I don’t know. My leg feels funny. I think I need to go to the nurse.”

Dan smiled and slipped through the crowd to the table where Kate was still sitting, looking anxiously at PJ.

“Can I get a rose for Phil?” Dan asked.

Kate gasped. “That’s why you’ve been hanging out near the table so much!”

“Yes,” Dan said, glancing over his shoulder. “Can you hurry up?”

“That’s so cute,” Kate said, slipping Dan the piece of paper to write his message down on. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”

“Thanks,” Dan said, scribbling a message onto the paper. Keep being amazing. He handed the paper to Kate and quickly went to find PJ.

He spotted them headed down the hallway towards the nurse’s office, and ran to catch up, ignoring that one teacher who always glared at him for running in the halls.

“PJ, are you okay?” Dan asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Dan sighed. “I’ll take him to the nurse, Phil. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Phil hesitated, glancing back at Kate and the table. “Fine,” he said. “See you later?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Dan said absently. “Come on, PJ.”

PJ hobbled along. Once Phil was far enough behind them, Dan turned around to talk to PJ. “You know, you don’t need to pretend to be hurt anymore.”

“Not pretending,” PJ admitted.

Dan groaned. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” PJ said, limping furiously. “Don’t tell me I’m a dumbass, I already know.”

“You’re a dumbass, but you’re my dumbass.”

“Save the pickup lines for Phil. Don’t make my sacrifice in vain.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Your sacrifice?”

“They might have to amputate.”

“They won’t have to amputate.”

“You don’t know that.” PJ pouted.

The school nurse ultimately decided not to amputate, to PJ’s shock and concern. She handed him an ice pack and sent him on his way.

PJ complained the whole way back to the cafeteria, but Dan’s mind couldn’t be further away. He couldn’t wait until the flowers were delivered and he got to see the expression on Phil’s face.

The day after Valentine’s Day, Dan got a rose delivered to him in his third period class. He hadn’t expected to get anything, but it was a pleasant surprise all the same. He looked to see if there was a note attached, but couldn’t find anything. He searched the wrapping it came in, but when he couldn’t find anything, he just put it in the side pocket of his backpack.

Phil also arrived at lunch clutching a red rose.

“It’s pretty,” Dan said, smiling.

“Yeah,” Phil said, staring at it.

The expression on Phil’s face was even better than Dan had expected: the most perfect mixture of confusion, happiness, and wonder.

“Who’d you get it from?” Dan asked.

“I don’t know,” Phil said, placing it carefully next to his lunch tray. PJ had gone to eat with a different group of friends that day, citing “gross flirting and unbearable sexual tension” as his reason not to sit with Dan and Phil until Dan “got his damn act together and asked Phil out already.”

Dan was nervous, but he tried not to show it. All he needed to do was ask a few questions about the rose, confess that it was him, and then have an open and honest conversation with Phil about their feelings (ugh).

“It’s so weird, though,” Phil said, touching his rose again with an expression almost of awe. “I was watching the table the whole time. I would have known if someone wanted to send one to me.”

Dan smiled. “They must have been really sneaky.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, running his hand down the petals. “The weirdest thing, though - ” he broke off.

“The weirdest thing?” Dan prompted.

Phil blushed. “You’ll think it’s dumb.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dan said. “Have you ever told me something that I thought was dumb?”

Phil shrugged. “Probably.”

“Okay, yeah,” Dan said. “But I didn’t say I thought it was dumb, did I?”

“I guess not.”

“Well,” Phil said, his entire face turning red. “I’ve been working on a youtube channel.”

Dan’s eyebrows shot up. “A youtube channel?”

“Yes. And, um, the note referenced it.”

Dan blinked. This was the first he’d ever heard of Phil having a youtube channel, so unless Phil was talking about a different note from a secret admirer, he was pretty sure the note didn’t actually reference anything.

“How?” Dan asked.

Phil shoved the note at him. Dan’s own scribbled handwriting stared back, the same note he had written a few days earlier. Keep being amazing.

Dan stared at Phil. “I don’t get it,” he said. “It just seems like a generic compliment.”

Phil’s face was still determinedly red. “My channel name is AmazingPhil.”

Dan made a note to look that up when he got home. “It could be a coincidence,” he said, but Phil didn’t notice.

“Do you think it’s one of my fans? Oh my god, do you think I have a stalker?”

Phil’s genuine concern made Dan hesitate. “It’s probably just a coincidence,” Dan said. “There aren’t that many words you can use to compliment people. How many subscribers do you have, anyway? He probably - ”

“Almost a hundred thousand,” Phil said.

Dan choked on his sandwich. Phil pounded his back until Dan was able to speak again. “Sorry,” Dan said, “A hundred thousand? When were you going to tell people?”

“Shh,” Phil said, glancing around. “Keep your voice down. I don’t know, okay? Mostly it just never really came up. But I guess someone who follows me must go here or something, because - ”

“Maybe, but they didn’t send you the rose,” Dan said.

“How would you know?” Phil asked.

Dan felt his heart start to pound. “It was me,” he said.

Phil started. “What?”

“The note and the rose. They’re from me.”

Phil blinked. “Why?”

Dan was startled by how clear the world suddenly seemed, like everything had jumped into sharp, eye-watering focus for a moment. “Because I like you, Phil.”

Phil placed his sandwich back on his lunch tray. “Dan - I - ”

“I mean, it’s totally fine if you don’t feel the same way,” Dan babbled. “I know we’ve been friends for a really long time, and I’d never want to do anything to lose that. But it’s gotten to a point I can’t ignore and I need to know how you feel if I want to ever move forward-”

“I sent you a rose,” Phil said.

It was Dan’s turn to blink, confused. “What?”

“I signed the note. Did you not get it?”

“There wasn’t a note with it,” Dan said.

“Well, I put a note in it,” Phil said, “Basically saying all the things you just said.”

“Oh,” Dan said, pleasantly surprised.

“Did it not - ”

“I guess not.”

“Fuck,” Phil said. “But, um, if you want to go out sometime-”

“That’d be great,” Dan said, smiling so hard his cheeks started to hurt.

“Cool,” Phil said, also smiling.

The lunch bell rang.

“See you in English,” Dan said.

Phil smiled. “See you.”

[mistymark]

the one with the soulmates.

johnny suh x reader // 1.5k words // soulmate!au // strangers to lovers!au

summary; in which soulmates can hear snippets of each other’s thoughts and what the fuck is going on his head

warnings; swearing

“I wonder how many teeth I have.”

You groaned, rolling over in bed to check the clock on your nightstand. 5:32am. The voice that seemed to echo in your room didn’t surprise you; you’d gotten used to hearing your soulmate’s voice as if he was speaking out loud, but what really had you shocked was the fact that your soulmate was awake this early.

And counting teeth?

“29? What? Surely, it has to be an even number, right? Let me ask Doyoung.”

You leant back into your pillow, staring at the ceiling to try and clear your mind of all your thoughts, so that you’d be able to hear your soulmate’s more clearly. It was something you did rarely, not wanting to invade into someone else’s mind too often, even if they were your soulmate.

The soulmate bond that you had was rare; most people had more vague soulmate clues, or random ones that made it very difficult to find their soulmate. You and your soulmate, however, had been given a very specific bond, yet neither of you had really learnt to master it. Despite how much you practiced as kids and teens, you were unable to directly control what the other heard nor what you could hear yourself.

However, you had discovered that if you attempted to clear your mind of your own thoughts, you could hear him more often. You had, unfortunately, discovered this at your first and last meditation and yoga class. Whilst everyone had been able to sit in silence and focus on their mind and body or whatever – you can’t really remember what the instructor had been saying – you were trying to hold in your laughter. Your soulmate had been attempting to cook, apparently, and someone had set something on fire…

Either way, you couldn’t go back. Not after being kicked out for not being able to sit still and stay quiet.

“You should go to the dentist,” the voice mocked someone else. Probably Doyoung, you thought. You had to admit, after your soulmate had gone through puberty, you found his voice extremely attractive.

“Wait, shit, I think I really do need to go to the dentist.” You couldn’t help but giggle at times like this; when your soulmate was so scatter-brained or just… humorous.

You threw the duvet from your body and walked into the bathroom, letting your mind wander to your own thoughts; your plans for the day, what time your shift started, did you have enough time to get a coffee before class?

Your own thoughts formed a barrier between the two of you and it wasn’t until later that day that you heard your soulmate again: “Ow!”

The sudden shout of pain almost made you fall out of your chair. Sitting in the silent library, studying for a final you had later that month, it felt like he had just yelled in your ear.

“OW! Ow, ow, ow, stop, stop stop!” You immediately felt concerned for your soulmate, worried that something was wrong, or that he had injured himself somehow. But your concern slipped away when his next thought came through: “This sucks. I hate the dentist.”

You felt yourself raise an eyebrow at him, even though he couldn’t see you. What an idiot.

Your boots squelched in the rain as you huddled under your umbrella, running as fast as you could to the small bookstore just off of campus. Your shift started in less than five minutes, and you had to clock in before the hour started.

“I knew I should’ve brought my umbrella,” the voice chastised. “Where’s Jaehyun; I’m going to go blame Jaehyun.”

Somehow your soulmate’s voice calmed you a little bit in your mad rush to reach the Huddler & Hound bookstore, and you arrived two minutes early. Frantically clocking into the system in the staff room out back, you shook off the water from your umbrella and stuffed your bag into a locker, removing your coat to reveal your green work polo, with a small dog embroidered in the corner.

You made your way to the front counter, ready to begin serving customers when his voice interrupted you again, seemingly much louder than before, “What the fuck is this shit? I mean, a book for babies? Babies don’t read.”

You felt yourself laugh, and you attempted to hide it with a cough when your customer looked up at you in confusion. Sometimes it was easy to forget only you could hear his voice.

The rain stopped outside briefly, and you looked wistfully out the window. God, I would kill for a coffee right now.

“Finally, we can leave.” There was a pause. “Shit, how did I lose Jaehyun again?”

“Is this all for today?” You asked the next customer politely, taking her stack of books and scanning them. “Cash or card?”

“Jaehyun!” You winced a little from how loud your soulmate’s thoughts could be, and attempted to ignore them.

The lady in front of you took the bag from your hand, a sympathetic smile on her face, “Gosh, you’d think he’d know to keep quiet in a book store.”

You felt your eyes widen, “Y-you could hear him, too?” He’s here?

She stopped as she turned to walk away, a confused and slightly terrified look on her face, “The man shouting ‘Jae, hun?’ Yeah, I heard it. Pretty sure the entire block did.”

You didn’t even tell her goodbye, you were already rounding the counter to look for the perpetrator. The person belonging to the voice in your head. Shit, this place is a lot bigger when you’re looking for someone.

You remembered he had been criticizing the baby books, so you decided to check the children’s section first. When you rounded the corner, you saw two boys crouched in the kids’ chairs, reading out loud to each other and dramatically pointing at pictures on the pages. They both froze when you appeared.

They both looked about your age, and were both really attractive, so you were hoping one of them was the owner of the voice.

A faint “damn” could be heard in the back of your mind, but you were too focused on your own thoughts to realise.

“Um, could you guys keep it down back here? I’m really sorry, but we’ve had a few complaints,” you squeezed your hands together, looking at both of them for any signs of recognition. Nothing.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” one of them flashed a smile at you apologetically, and you nodded, turning to walk back to the cash register. His voice was too smooth to be your soulmate’s, too soft. Way to get my hopes up.

“That’s her.” You froze. “Couldn’t forget that voice.” You felt yourself smile a little.

You spun around on your heel and stuck your hand out, “I’m Y/n. What’re your names?”

The taller one of the two slotted his hand into yours, “Johnny.”

You stared at Johnny as you shook the other’s, “Jaehyun.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Johnny,” you breathed. He smiled, his entire face lighting up. My god, you could really get used to that smile. He was gorgeous when he was smiling.

He laughed, “Gorgeous, huh?”

You felt your face go red as blood rushed to your cheeks. You forgot about the bond for a second.

He decided to save you from embarrassment, “I think you’re gorgeous, too.”

You felt a smile tugging at your lips and you beamed at him. God, he was so handsome. You stared at him in wonder and excitement, taking him all in. No wonder he was your soulmate, you were already falling for him. He stared back at you, a smirk on his lips.

“Am I missing something?” Jaehyun glanced between you two curiously, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Johnny laughed, “Oh, right. Jaehyun-” He gestured towards you, “-this is my soulmate, Y/n.”

Jaehyun’s eyebrow quirked up at the mention of Johnny’s soulmate, having known how much it bothered him that he knew his soulmate, and all they had to do was actually meet. He clapped Johnny on the shoulder, “Right, well, we have to get to practice. So… say goodbye, Romeo.”

This seemed to spur Johnny into action, and he quickly dug his phone out of his pocket, holding it out to you, “Can I have your number, gorgeous?”

Your face felt hot. What was this boy doing to you? You nodded shyly, typing in your number under the contact ‘Y/n (gorgeous :D)’.

“A classic emoticon,” Johnny wolf-whistled in appreciation. “You are definitely my soulmate.” He winked at you as he left the store, leaving you standing in the kid’s section of the bookstore, stunned.

You had met your soulmate. Now, all you had to do was ask him on a date.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 3: Sleight

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn A03 Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration & Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge. Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

After surgery, Natasha was wheeled into a private room at NYP/Weill Cornell Medical Center, and once it had been made clear she would make a full recovery, Bucky called a meeting.

Five plastic chairs situated around the bed; every pair of eyes narrowed; each mind determined. Out of all the potential outcomes, none of them could have anticipated this, and it wasn’t just because Steve had chosen to defend himself.  

Natasha was dutiful, cautious, and extremely versatile. She’d carried more than her fair share of the water and had never shirked or shied away from any of the endless lists of tasks and responsibilities they’d given her. Over the years, she’d become the Queen in their metaphorical game of chess, was welcomed and respected in every territory, and was often the envoy, enforcer, and enticer. She was integral to the Families and invaluable to Bucky.

She’d also never been injured this badly before and that put them all on edge.  

“How did this happen?” Wanda inquired quietly.

Thor grunted, “We know how it happened.”

“We need to focus more on the why instead of the how,” Tony remarked.

Clint nodded in agreement, “If I’m being honest, I was glad to hear he’d returned, but now…”

As comptroller, Maximoff was most concerned with finances. Odinson, in his capacity as recruiter, was having trouble getting the fresh meat to settle down. Stark made sure law enforcement on their payroll turned a blind eye to Steve’s return, but this had drawn a lot of attention, and as a result, Barton had been forced to place a temporary hold on all incoming and outgoing product.

One thing they could all agree on was that the matter needed to be approached with even more caution. They still didn’t know the whereabouts of the deceased senator’s wife, nor the motivation behind Steve’s aiding in her escape. Bucky had assumed he’d returned for the funeral, but whether or not that was his primary reason for staying in town was unknown. Nevertheless, Bucky admitted he’d made the mess, and told them he would clean it up.

Clint was tactful when he pointed out they’d tried it his way and it hadn’t gone well. When Bucky asked for suggestions, Thor threw out the obvious option of having someone else finish the job. Wanda alternatively asserted that if he intended to let Steve live, he needed to be placated. Tony decreed it was best to keep enemies close and that Bucky should simply seduce him. Clint recommended backing off and giving Steve a wide berth for the time being.

Bucky sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. While everyone continued to discuss how best to resolve the brewing conflict, he averted his attention to Natasha, who had woken up mid-way through the conversation. If anyone had the right to an opinion, it was her, and when he held up his hand for silence, everyone quieted down.

“Natasha?” Bucky prompted.

“Use him,” she rasped. “Make him an ally again.”

He’d never considered bringing Steve back into the fold, but it was the most practical way to resolve things. As the Families had never formally voted him out, he technically still had a seat at the table, and could return to it at any time. If Steve did return, things would change, but adjusting parameters and expectations wasn’t the issue.

Steve was a natural leader and would’ve been Boss had he not left. Loyalty and tribute were given and paid to the Families as a whole, but Steve inspired a level of fanaticism and devotion that Bucky just could not replicate. Though the title alone commanded respect, Bucky knew some considered him a placeholder; there were big players who’d been waiting for Steve to return, and if he was welcomed back, there would be a power shift. Even though Steve had never expressed a desire to run things, it was a mantle Bucky, if pressured, would be forced to let him have.  

War and peace, love and hate, progress and tradition – they were often two sides of the same coin, one that had been flipped many times over many generations. As head of the Families, it was left to Bucky whether or not to toss it in the air again, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was a gamble, a fifty-fifty chance, and he wasn’t the type of man who enjoyed playing the odds. He tried to look for a clear outcome, but the tide kept shifting, the waters were murky, and he couldn’t yet see in which direction the wind would blow.

“We tried the stick,” Wanda gently reminded him. “Let’s see if the carrot fares better. I’ll reach out.”  

Bucky inclined his head, “Very well.”

With the decision made, the others departed, but Bucky remained. He scooted his chair closer to the bed and when Natasha held out her hand, he took it. She’d been hooked up to an intravenous analgesia pump, but had yet to use the medicine, and that meant both her grip and her words were fierce.

“Whatever you do, don’t fuck with him,” she warned. “I don’t know what Steve’s up to, but I can tell he’s changed, and he’s dangerous. You watch your six, you hear me?”  

“I’ll be as careful as I can be.”

“Have you said anything to the press?”

Bucky hummed noncommittally, “They believe it was an attempted robbery gone wrong.”

Natasha nodded, let go of his hand, and depressed the button to release the morphine, “Good. Now, go away – you got shit to do and I need rest.”

If anyone else had dismissed and dictated to him like that, Bucky would have broken their jaw, but since it came from Natasha, he just smiled. Even with a foot dangling over the grave, she still busted his balls, and because she was the only real and true friend he had, he didn’t fight her.

The drive back to the penthouse was a slow one because of traffic and when he finally pulled into the private parking garage, he was exhausted, irritated, and starved. The guard at the desk greeted him politely and Bucky waved back. It was a quick, smooth ascent to the top floor, and when the elevator doors parted, he stepped into the foyer, and was greeted by an unexpected albeit not entirely unwelcome visitor.

“In the span of twenty-four hours, you’ve botched a takedown and you let me get the drop on you,” Bruce stated blithely. “Didn’t I tell you to change the security code after I installed the system?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and gestured toward the kitchen, “What do you have for me?”

Bruce tossed a folder onto the island’s marble countertop and gave him a rundown on Steve’s activities. The man was good at keeping a low profile, but he was able to piece together some of what Steve had been up to while he was away, and squeeze a bit of information out the people who’d been helping him stay under the radar since his return.

“Steve is independently wealthy now, but where the money came from is a mystery,” Bruce informed him. “If the olive branch Wanda plans to extend involves cash, it’ll be useless. He’s got holdings and properties both in this country and abroad. I can’t find any red flags and it all appears to be legit.”

Bucky furrowed his brow and opened the fridge, “And the plot thickens.”

“Sam admitted he stopped in, but wouldn’t give details on what was purchased,” Bruce explained as he accepted a beer with a nod of thanks. “But knowing what Wilson keeps in that back room, Rogers is probably armed to the teeth.”  

He flipped through the photos and the intel, “I want to know who else he’s visited and where he’s holed up. And find out where he’s hiding that fucking widow.”  

“He knows how to avoid being seen, so, it’s not an easy task. It’s going to take time and cash.”

“Money you can have,” Bucky told him as he headed for the living room.

Bruce followed and sipped his beer while Bucky keyed in the combination to the wall safe. Once it was opened, he collected a few stacks, and handed them over.

“Grease palms and keep digging,” Bucky insisted.

“Will do.”

If anyone could find a needle in a haystack, it was Bruce, and Bucky knew he could rely on him to get it done. The man was a genius with a mind that absorbed and retained information like a sponge. Publicly, he put his Ph.D. to good use via publications and giving lectures at various universities; privately, he helped the Families by being a shadow in the world of data collection. Skeletons in closets, economic shifts, voter mindsets, new product on the street, backroom deals, who was getting up to what behind closed doors – Bruce knew it all, and on the off chance he didn’t, he always managed to find out.  

Bruce tucked the money away, tossed the bottle into the recycle bin, and as Bucky escorted him out, he strongly urged him to reset the alarm code. As soon as the door was shut, he did just that, and went back to the living room.

Exhausted down to his bones, he plopped down on the couch, loosened his tie, and kicked off his shoes. Cellphone in hand, he mulled over what to order for dinner, and after he decided on Italian, he closed his eyes, and settled back into the cushions. He must’ve nodded off for a moment, because when the doorbell rang, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered as he rushed for the door.

Bleary-eyed and absentminded, Bucky didn’t check to see if it was actually his food delivery, and within seconds, he was made to regret it.

He saw the fist that barreled toward his face, but wasn’t fast enough to block it or duck out of the way. Bucky was hit with such force that his head snapped back and he fell right down onto his ass.

Blood gushed from his mouth and nose and the copper-flavored taste rolled over his tongue and slid down his throat.  There was only one person in the world who could ring his bell like that, and when he looked up from his prone position on the floor, he cursed.

“Hello, JB,” Steve deadpanned. “Mind if I come in?” Chapter 4: Erstwhile  

Everything: @jennmurawski13​​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​​

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth​​ The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​ @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety​ @captain-rogers-beard​​ @lilliannaansalla

[stusbunker]

Known: Two Halves, Three Hearts

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: MOC!Dean x Female OC, x Demon!Reader, Claire Novak, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.

Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*

December 11, 2014

The Bunker

           It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

           Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

           “How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

           “Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

           “How many people did he kill?”

           “Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

           CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

           “She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

           Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

           “I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

           “I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

           “Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

           “What do you want?”

           “I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

           “So, who are you anyway?”

           “You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

           “Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

           “Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

           CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

           The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

           “What are you even doing with him?”

           CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

           “Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

           “Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

           “He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

           CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

           Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

           “I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

           CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

*^*^*^*

February 2015

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

*^*^*^*

February 16, 2015

A festering cavern, Hell

           Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

           “Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

           “I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

           He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

           Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

           “I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

           “Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

           “Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

           Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

*^*^*^

Tale End of Executioner’s Song

Dean has killed Cain

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

           CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.

*^*^*^*

Next Chapter: The Mark

[emospritelet]

Dark Heart prompt: #92 “Are you drunk?”

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Send me a ship and a prompt from this list and I’ll write a ficlet.

i am working slowly on the next EC update but in the meantime all I can write is angst :)

AO3 link

Gold had drunk the rest of the bottle of whisky before passing out on the shop’s cot, which in the cold light of day wasn’t the best decision he had ever made.  He woke early, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and his head pounding, and gave himself a severe talking-to.  One glance in the small mirror in the back room of the shop told him everything he needed to know; his eyes were a little bloodshot, dark shadows beneath them and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.  He could deal with that, at least; it wouldn’t be the first time he had slept at the shop, and he always kept shaving kit and spare clothing in the back, just in case.

He felt better for shaving and cleaning his teeth, but he desperately needed coffee if he was to feel more human, and so he looked through a few of his shirts hanging behind a painted silk screen.  He picked out a black one, to match his mood, with a black tie patterned with interwoven lines of tiny squares.  Once it was buttoned, the tie knotted around his throat and a gold pin securing its length, he nodded to himself in the mirror.  Better.

He left the shop and walked slowly up the street to the diner, his leg complaining at every step.  He never had taken the painkillers - although after awhile the whisky had numbed everything - and he certainly wasn’t about to take them now.  All his wits would be needed to deal with Belle.

He ordered black coffee, strong and bitter, and drank three cups as he sat alone by the window, mulling over how best to handle things.  She had said that she was only in town for a week, but from what he heard of Moe French’s ill health he suspected it might be longer.  They had a lot to sort out in the interim, and he spent some time thinking over the different proposals he might make, and what he was prepared to agree to.

Once the last of the coffee had been drunk, the caffeine spreading through his system, he pushed out of the chair, threw some cash down for the waitress and left, stepping out into the pleasant morning air.  The sun was out, and he fished his sunglasses from his pocket, cutting the glare.  It was early, but he suspected Belle would be awake, and as she had not been present at the inn, as far as he could see, he would try her father’s place.

“Mr Gold!”

He turned at the sound of MIss Blanchard’s voice, and she hurried up, flicking her dark hair out of her eyes and looking harassed.

“Thank goodness I bumped into you,” she said, hefting what looked like a bag of books over one arm.  “The kitchen sink started leaking last night: water’s just pouring out underneath!  I think one of the pipes might be cracked.”

“Right,” he said.  “Right, well, I’ll send someone over to look at it today.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, looking relieved.  “I put a bucket underneath, but I have to get to school, and I wasn’t sure if it would be enough, and I couldn’t find where to turn off the water.  You have your key, right?”

“If you’re happy for me to let someone in to fix it, it should be done by the time you get home,” he confirmed, and she let out a sigh.

“Well, that’s one load off my mind,” she said.  “It’s the first problem I’ve had since I moved into the apartment.  Oh, and just to forewarn you, Belle’s back in town to visit Moe, and she’s moved into his place.”

“I can’t think why this would interest me,” he said coldly, and her mouth twisted as she blushed a little.

“It’s just - she has a baby,” she blurted.  “I don’t mean to push in where I’m not wanted, but - but you know how Moe could be, Mr Gold.  I went around a couple of times before he was taken into hospital, and - and I don’t think his house is the best environment for a baby.”

“Then no doubt Miss French will inform me if she wishes a change of accommodation,” he said smoothly, and raised an eyebrow.  “I presume it is still Miss French?”

Mary Margaret looked thoughtful, chewing her lip.

“You know, I never thought to ask, but I guess not,” she mused.  “She said she married a businessman down in Boston, but we mainly talked over old times, and about Gideon.”

“Gideon?”

“The baby,” she said helpfully, and his heart clenched.

So.  That’s what she named him.  The hero in that bloody book she was always reading.  Is she happy with her husband?  Does he comfort my son when he cries?

“Mr Gold?”

Miss Blanchard was watching him curiously, and he shoved the thoughts away.

“I’ll have someone take a look at that leak for you,” he said.  “Good day, Miss Blanchard.”

He walked off before she could respond, his stride swift, and reached his car without having to speak to any of the town’s other residents, which was a relief.  Thoughts of Belle were needling at his brain, digging and twisting as they tried to unearth his memories.  His regrets.  He pushed them away, starting the engine and pulling away at a sedate pace as he headed in the direction of the three-bed house at the edge of town that Moe French had rented from him four years earlier.

Belle’s morning was not going well.

Gideon had woken at just before four, his teeth causing him pain, and it had taken almost an hour for her to get him to calm down.  She had fed and changed him, and had settled in one of the battered armchairs with him nestled against her chest, the two of them slipping into sleep as the sun rose.  Seeing her father’s house in daylight made her sigh in despair; it was filthy, still with dirty pots stacked in the sink, garbage piled next the trashcan and dust on every surface.  She knew that he had never been the best at keeping the place tidy, but things had clearly gotten worse as his illness had progressed.  At least everything she had brought for Gideon was clean, and she set him in his high chair to give him breakfast, banana porridge with pieces of sliced pear.  He was still cranky from pain and lack of sleep, and some of the porridge ended up over her, but he ate most of it.

A knock at the front door made her look around, chewing her lip, and she gave Gideon a piece of pear to chew on, patting his head before wiping her hands on her porridge-covered pyjama top and heading for the door.  Her heart sank a little when she opened it.  Gold was dressed in unrelieved black, sunglasses hiding his eyes, every inch the ruthless dealmaker, and for a moment she longed to turn back the clock to a time when she had felt happy.  When she had lain in his arms next to the cabin’s crackling fire.  When she had told him she loved him.

His eyes swept over her, and she cursed inwardly at what he would see.  A stressed young woman in her PJs, covered in porridge and with tangled hair.  He was as immaculate as ever, and it made her feel young and stupid and helpless.  Which was no doubt his intent, but whatever thoughts her appearance might have given him, he kept to himself.

“Belle,” he said curtly.  “May I come in?”

She stood aside wordlessly, and he swept past her, dragging anger and resentment in his wake and making her shiver.  His eyes flicked over everything, his mouth twisting, and she wanted to sigh.

“Look, before you say anything, I know this place is a mess.”

“It’s not a mess, it’s a fucking health hazard,” he said coldly.  “You brought my child into this?”

“I’m going to clean it up!” she protested.  “I was just giving Gideon his breakfast and then I was going to make a start!”

“It would take you a bloody week to make this habitable,” he said.  “Pack your things.  You can move into my house while I get a team out to clean this place.  And fumigate it.”

Belle folded her arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Move into your place?” she said flatly.  “Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m concerned for my son’s health!” he snapped.  “As you should be.”

“Fuck you, Gold!”

He sent her a twisted smile.

“I believe we already ticked that particular sordid little box.”

“Jesus…”

She turned away, running a frustrated hand through her hair, and heard him sigh.  

“It’s only for a few days,” he said impatiently.  “Are you really going to let your pride make yet another stupid decision?”

She bristled at that, turning on her toes to glare at him.

“You expect me to move in with you?” she demanded.  “What the hell will the rest of the town say?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what they say,” he returned.  “There’s nothing remotely surprising about my child staying in my house.  Unless you’re planning on not telling anyone I’m the father.  I mean you didn’t fucking well tell me, after all, so perhaps you’ve already lied about that, hmm?”

Her jaw worked.  She hadn’t, but she hadn’t exactly been truthful, either.

“I have plenty of room and enough spare bedrooms that you don’t even have to see me if I disgust you that much,” he added, in a wry tone.  “And most importantly, at my house no one is likely to ingest rat droppings.  This is non-negotiable.”

Belle struggled internally, but the plain fact was that he was right.  Gideon’s health came first.

“Fine,” she muttered, and he nodded.

“Good.  Now where is the child?”

“Kitchen,” she said shortly, and he turned away from her without another word, making his way to the kitchen.

After a moment of standing there seething, she followed him, and found him gazing down at Gideon with his hands clenched over his cane.  Gideon was staring up at him as he chewed his piece of pear, drool running over his chin, and Belle swooped in to wipe it off.

“He has my eyes,” said Gold quietly.

“Yes,” she said, straightening up.  “But thankfully not your nature.”

His jaw clenched, and he glanced away.

“Pack your things,” he repeated, and she stuck out her chin.

“It won’t take me long,” she said.  “I’d prefer it if you wait in the car.”

“Fine,” he said stiffly.

He strode past her, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he went, as though he were dismissing her very presence, and she watched him go, knowing that she needed to explain her actions, and dreading it.

[alexandralyman]

we all have our vices (between heaven & hell)

Happy birthday @kliomuse

To my dear friend Cass, for all the times you’ve let me ramble on about this story and for being my sounding board in all things angel & demon, here is a little something to say thank you! Some sinful fun for a late Saturday night/early Sunday morning - which I think is very fitting for this fic!

Enjoy!

Also on A03 here

Boston - 1993

A demon walked into a bar.

It was a dump, the lowest of dives with flickering neon, cheap beer, and a literal angel perched on a stool with a flock of admiring men around her.

Killian felt a flare of jealousy low in his gut at the sight, his vision going red for a moment as he pulled out a pack of smokes from the inside pocket of his jacket and jammed one in his mouth. He lit a match one handed, flicking it to life with his thumb and a touch of infernal fire and taking a deep drag, tasting the bitter flecks of tobacco on his tongue and filling his lungs with harmless smoke.

Well, harmless to him.

The neighbourhood surrounding the bar was decidedly working-class and so were the patrons - dockworkers, plumbers, firemen - in Red Sox hats and worn jeans, heavy accents and heavier looks when they glanced his way and saw immediately that he didn’t belong. His teeth were too white, his shoes too polished, his shirt was silk and his black leather jacket cost more than their beat-up cars.

“Hey, pal.”

The hand never made it to his shoulder, he ducked and turned in a roll that was too smooth, too quick to be human.

“Not your pal, mate.”

Killian smiled at the man who’d tried to grab him, jamming a thumb in his belt loop and rocking back easily on his heels. He wasn't one of them...but he wasn't what they thought he was either, a rich asshole slumming it for kicks in the little hole in the wall bar, looking to pick up a Southie girl for the night and dazzle her with his cash and car and dashing good looks until he’d had his fun. Oh, he was rich, and he was an asshole, and he had a very nice car parked outside indeed, but none of that would dazzle the one he’d really come for, the only one among them who knew him for what he really was and never flinched away.

The tip of the cigarette in his mouth flared bright red and he blew a mouthful of smoke at the man, a dark cloud that was more shadow than smoke and for a split second he saw beyond Killian’s handsome face and caught the barest glimpse of what lay hidden below, unseen to anyone else around them and gone so quickly that it had him blinking in confusion, glancing down at the bottle in his hand and probably wondering if he’d had one too many. Killian winked, turning smoothly on his heel and making his way towards the bar. They let him pass in silence, Boston’s Irish Catholic heritage was still strong in places like these and some old instinct passed down among the generations warned the sheep in the flock that there was a wolf in their midst and none among them was eager to get too close and risk the snapping jaws and sharp claws.

His angel had to sense his approach, even though she hadn't turned around. The already warm room was getting even warmer with his presence, beads of condensation forming on the bottles of beer and ice melting in the mixed drinks. He was hot enough to burn (and he burned only for her) when he leaned his elbow on the bar and forced the wannabe lothario who was sitting on the stool next to her to scoot away in the other direction.

“What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“I think that line is older than you are, which is really saying something.”

Amusement rolled through him while she swung sideways on the stool and her knees almost brushed his leg. She wore a dress of plum coloured velvet with long sleeves and a scoop neck, blonde hair in cherubic curls, white skin and dark stockings - that as sexy as they were from his current vantage point - would look even better wrapped around his hips. The lone bartender scowled, meaty forearms crossed over his chest and even the hundred-dollar bill that appeared almost like magic between Killian's fingers didn't get him to come over to take his order. But when Emma smiled and waved suddenly it was a different story, he was there in a flash and he ignored Killian completely to ask, “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”

The endearment grated on him like sandpaper on his skin and his voice dropped to a low hiss, “The lady will have what I’m having, whiskey, neat.”

Emma neatly plucked both the money from his hand and the cigarette from his mouth, stubbing it out in a foil ashtray. “Keep the change,” she said to the bartender, sliding the bill over and diffusing some of the tension with her generous tip.

“Smoking is bad for you.”

He almost laughed out loud at the admonishment, “Smoking is bad for everyone but me, what am I going to get lung cancer?”

The whiskey wasn't top shelf, not in a place like this, but it was liquor and that was all that mattered. He knocked back half the drink that was begrudgingly placed in front of him and pulled the cigarette pack from his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the bar.

“But if you insist.”

He had plenty of other vices, alcohol and drugs, fast cars, the gambling ring of underground casinos and sports betting he was currently running in the city…

Sex.

It was both sin and sacrament, a virtue within the bonds of marriage and a vice everywhere else, lust was deadly and it was better to marry than burn.

But some preferred to play with that fire instead.

“Come home with me, angel.”

He was her vice, he always had been, the whisper in her ear that promised earthly delights more intoxicating than the whiskey when the lights dimmed and the hour grew late, when cheesy pickup lines became fervent prayers spoken in a dark corner where the shadows hid them and it wasn’t his flashy car or his stacks of cash that had her hand slipping under his leather jacket and into the open collar of his shirt, striking sparks that flared bright under his skin and made him shudder in quiet ecstasy better than any drug while she answered without words.

The low-slung sports car sped north through the winding streets to the much better neighbourhood where he lived and as soon as they were inside his apartment he had Emma pinned to the door, the white-winged butterfly caught with his jacket draped over her shoulders and her legs around his hips. They kissed frantically while he thrust lazily between her thighs in a dirty grind, rolling and rubbing his erection over the silky material that still covered her until she was whimpering into his mouth and he could feel the sting of her nails through his shirt.

“Fuck,” he ground out, chasing both the pleasure and the pain.

“Kind of stating the obvious there, aren’t you?”

Killian grinned, stilling his hips and kissing a path to her ear along her jaw, “Well, I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to just assume that I was getting laid tonight, but if you insist.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Emma tugged on his hair, pulling his head back so that they were face to face. Something flashed behind her eyes that had him frowning, a look that had him immediately concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

He felt her fingers at the back of his neck, threading through the soft hair at his nape. His eyes fluttered shut at the gentle touch for a moment (he liked it more than he could admit) and when he opened them again whatever he had glimpsed was gone.

“Nothing, I just...I’m happy to see you, Killian.”

Her smile was worth more than anything he owned, the light in the perpetual darkness that surrounded him. Was it any wonder he coveted it so much? Another sin among the many he was guilty of and the only one he felt any guilt for. Emma couldn’t save him and he was too selfish to let her go, he’d be her damnation in the end and even though he wanted it more than anything, he still felt a twinge of regret that there was no other way.

“I’m happy to see you too blessed one, as I’m sure you can tell.”

Killian let her feel just how happy he was, pressing the bulge in his pants back to her centre and holding her firm with his hands under her dress. Her pulse fluttered under his tongue when his lips found her neck again while his erection throbbed with the need to be buried deep inside his angel, none of the men in the bar had even known what she really was and she was far too good for any of them anyway. Too good for him, certainly, but he was a demon, he never pretended to be good for her. He was sin, lust and envy and greed, and he was going to fuck away the thought of anyone else until the only touch she felt was his, the only voice she heard was his, the only one she wanted was him.

He carried her easily to his bedroom and they fell back to the bed, Emma unbuttoning his shirt and kissing feather-light along the length of his sternum down to his navel before reaching for the hem of her dress and sitting up astride him to pull it over her head. The black lingerie revealed underneath had him even impossibly harder, the contrast of the dark lace against her pale skin shocking in the very best of ways.

“Was this for me?” he asked in delight, thumbs stroking along the tops of her thighs.

“Well, it wasn’t for the bartender.”

He made a low noise in the back of his throat at the idea and surged upwards, arm around her waist and mouthing at her breasts through the lace while she tipped her head back and arched beautifully into him. He used his sharp teeth to free a nipple, sucking it to a hard point between his lips while he shoved her underwear to the side and thrust two fingers straight up into her slick heat, curling and twisting them until she was shaking in his arms and he felt a rush of new dampness against his palm that told him she was more than ready for the rest of him. Emma was laid out reverently on the bed and he made quick work of his own clothes and then the rest of hers.

Except the stockings, he left those on and slid his hands over them when he knelt between her legs with his hard cock bobbing against his stomach and pushed her thighs apart.

Sin and sacrament both when they joined, one flesh cleaved together and burning with forbidden lust. The angel played with fire and the demon prayed, locked in an embrace of golden light and twisted shadow that spilled from under their skin while he moved inside her. The smooth slide of skin on skin, the delicious drag of cock into cunt, the roll of her hips to meet his every stroke while her thighs cradled him and her arms held him close, it was as potent as any drug and sweeter than any joy.

“Emma,” he pleaded, breath hot and begging shamelessly against her lips, “Stay with me.”

She kissed him in response, whiskey and cigarettes long gone and only the taste of her in his mouth. Other vices were all forgotten, there was only this. What he wanted, what he could never have, what he would defy heaven and hell both to have for his own.

No matter how long it took, he would find a way.

                                .....................................................

Killian wasn’t really surprised when he woke up alone in the morning, his cock finally curled up soft and spent between his legs and his bed completely wrecked and absolutely reeking of sex. It was always two steps forward and one step back with Emma. She always left and while it might be a week...or a month...or a year, he had faith that she’d come back to him eventually.

She always did.

He found a note sitting on his nightstand in the spot where he usually left his cigarettes, a single, obviously hastily written line left unsigned.

I borrowed your shirt.

It was missing from the heap on the floor where his pants and underwear had also fallen in their haste the night before and he felt his lips quirk up in a smile.

“Stealing is a sin, angel.”

He said it out loud to the empty room, tucking the note away for safekeeping with sense of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the carnal. It wasn’t the first time she had pilfered from his wardrobe under the guise of “borrowing.”

Vices came in many forms, after all.

It was highly unlikely that he’d actually get his shirt back but he didn’t give a shit, he knew Emma better than she knew herself. So long as she was only borrowing it, it didn’t really count.

Except they both knew that it did.

His wallet lay untouched and his car keys were still in place, Emma didn’t care about money (unless it was for charity) or flashy rides (Killian had been trying to replace that old VW Beetle of hers for years without success) but she did have one fatal weakness to exploit.

Him.