#you certainly did seek to save the world! and the harder you tried the more you pushed it away

[guardian-instincts-bad]

wilty boy (wip)

sometimes letting your sylvari commanders run around tyria when they're only a few months old leads to them making poor choices like alienating their best friend, joining not one but two villainous organisations while trying to save the world, getting stabbed in the back multiple times, once with rotsap, and contracting a chronic illness from it before they actually become commander

(his hair used to be blue)

(it will get there again but it takes a couple years)

[hlizr50]

Labor Day Bonus Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Nothing like a holiday giving me an excuse to post the next chapter early. It's one of my absolute favorites.

Read on AO3

Chapter 5

Gwyn yawned, her entire form stretching and tightening. She knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed by Nesta and Emerie, but she just smiled serenely. She had needed this – time to talk and laugh and enjoy good food with her two closest friends in the world. The fae lights were dim, casting the private library in dusky shadow. Book spines were barely visible on the shelves, but she was content to sit and enjoy the conversation. She sighed before turning her focus to her Valkyrie sisters sitting on the floor, finding Nesta with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

“What?”

The eldest Archeron patted her hand on a tufted woolen floor pillow, green like a spring meadow. “Sit, Gwyneth. We need to talk.” Unease coiled in her stomach, but she slid down from the couch, clutching another throw pillow to her chest.

“What do we need to talk about?” Gwyn’s voice was tinier than she’d intended, and she knew the question was ridiculous as soon as she asked it.

“You’re tired. You’re sad. Nesta knocked you on your ass today,” Emerie answered, concern glowing in her dark gaze.

“That doesn’t mean something is wrong with me,” Gwyn giggled, but she knew her mirth was unconvincing. “You both are skilled fighters. Maybe Nesta has just gotten better than me.”

“I haven’t and you know it.”

Gwyn turned her attention to a very interesting tassel on the pillow she held. She could feel the pressure stinging her eyes and tried so hard to push down the tears that had so quickly threatened. She felt gentle fingers at her chin, pulling her gaze until she met Nesta’s gray stare.

“Gwyn. Talk to us. You are our sister. We love you. We’re worried about you.”

Her sisters. The knowledge that she had Nesta and Emerie had kept her going these past weeks, kept her stubborn heart and eyes from giving up. And now it was that care and comfort that unraveled her. She felt the hot trickle down her cheeks as Nesta’s calloused fingers brushed tendrils of hair away from her face. But she couldn’t say the words. She wasn’t one of those females that needed a male to be happy and thrive. She was a powerful warrior, strong and skilled.

“Is it Azriel, Gwyn?” The voice came from her other side, along with a feather-light brush of fingertips down her back. Emerie. Gwyn blinked and took three steadying breaths, allowing the patience and care from her sisters wash over her. It took a few moments before she felt she could form the words she needed.

“He started avoiding me, after the necklace,” her face cooled when Nesta removed her hands and reached down to grasp one of her own. “I let it go on for a few days, but I missed him. We were friends, and he… he helped me when I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes we would talk, most times we would train. After we found out about the necklace he stopped coming out to the ring at night. He would come to the door, and when he saw I was there he would leave. So I cornered him one day after training. It was all so stupid and I just wanted things to go back to normal.”

“What did you say to him?” Emerie asked, her voice soft as velvet.

“I told him that the necklace was a stupid thing to do, but we all do stupid things. I said that Elain and I had both deserved better, but I knew he would be better. I told him that I missed him, that all was forgiven, and then I asked if things could go back to normal.” Gwyn looked back up to Nesta, then turned to Emerie. “He said we were friends, and that everything would go back to normal.” She took a shuddering breath, earning a squeeze on her hand.

“And then he just… disappeared.”

She felt the burning return to her eyes and her throat, recalling that night in the rain when she had desperately wished he would come to her.

“That’s when you started zoning out at training. And punching the post until you were bruised and bleeding,” the Illyrian female realized.

“I knew it was bad when Cassian made you stop,” Nesta mused.

“Twice,” Gwyn confirmed, tears welling again. “I trained hard during the day, harder at night. The effort and pain helped distract me from the loss of his friendship… and from the nightmares.” She stared down at their interlace hands, noting how the low light made Nesta’s and Emerie’s skin contrast so deeply to hers and letting the tears fall in earnest.

“I thought they were better, Gwyn.” The worry lacing Nesta’s voice was thick, and suddenly the priestess felt guilty for keeping it from her… from them. She couldn’t look at them, but clutched their hands.

“They were, but now… it’s been really bad these last few days.” Gwyn sniffled and pulled her hands away from the comfort of her chosen family, opting instead to clutch the tasseled pillow to her chest again. She needed that grip, as if it were the only thing that could hold her together. “Almost a week ago I was in the training ring at night. It had been a difficult day, my hands were throbbing, Merrill was being… well, Merrill. It was raining when I walked out the door, but I needed time and space so I went out and sat in the middle and just let the rain wash everything away. Azriel came to the doorway, the first time since I’d cornered him that day. And… he barely spoke to me. I even said I’d had nightmares almost every day. And… and he told me I should go inside and then he just left.”

Gwyn tucked her knees up to the pillow against her chest and covered her face with her hands. Her body shook, much like it had that night when he’d left her – when something had shifted. Her throat felt so tight around her words. “It’s like something broke then. I stopped going to the training ring, and started working extra to distract myself. And the nightmares,“ she sobbed. She wasn’t ready to admit the terror of her changing dreams, but she was also desperate to tell someone how she had been suffering. “I have the same one every night – of that day at Sangravah. But… but when the general is done, when he tells the other males to continue taking from me…” Her breath sawed in and out of her and she could feel herself tremble. She could barely make her voice work as she uttered the terrible turn that her dreams had taken.

“He doesn’t come for me,” she whispered. The air was so still that she could feel Nesta’s sharp gasp stealing it from the space. “That moment when Azriel slaughtered them – when he saved me – no longer exists. And I have to face the terror of knowing what is coming. The fear and the pain and the horror and the desperation… it all feels just as real as it did that day.”

A pair of strong arms crushed her, and then a second embrace. Gwyn let go of the pain and the fear of those nights alone, afraid of sleep and unable to seek comfort from the only person who had helped keep those dreams at bay. Fingers combed through her hair, stroked up and down her back, soothing her as she cried.

That was all there was, for how long she didn’t know. She just knew heat in her cheeks, trembling, comforting hands at her shoulders, on her back, and in her hair. Then fingers gripped her wrists to pull her hands away from her face. She was sure her skin was red and splotchy, but she looked up to find Nesta’s own watery gaze.

“Gwyn, we will always come for you. All of us, including Azriel. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” the priestess answered with a nod.

“Good. As for the rest of this,” Nesta wiped her eyes and donned an expression not so unlike the days when she was brimming with the power of death. “Azriel is a fucking idiot.” Emerie burst out laughing, causing Gwyn to join with a chuckle of her own.

“I’m so glad I don’t prefer males.” The winged Valkyrie’s eyes glittered with mirth and concern, earning a nose-crinkling smile. Nesta pulled Gwyn’s attention back, pushing her jaw with a finger.

“Azriel is an idiot, but he cares for you. I’m certain of that. I haven’t known him too terribly long, but Cassian has. He’s different with you.”

“Maybe that isn’t a good thing.” Gwyn shrugged. She had thought so, too. But now he seemed to treat her with the same brooding aloofness that he reserved for practical strangers.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Nesta insisted, reaching up to brush the wetness away from her cheeks. “Cassian and I have had this conversation more times than I can even count. ‘Berdara made Az laugh today’. ‘He couldn’t stop grinning today’. ‘I’ve never heard him banter like that’.”

“Why do you have so many conversations about that?” Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh at the strangeness of that thought, that Nesta and the general would be so invested in her interactions with the spymaster.

“That’s not even the point, Gwyneth,” Nesta huffed. Gwyn stuck her tongue out, still feeling Emerie’s hands softly at her back. “I’m going to kick Azriel’s ass back into line, but…” The priestess could see that Nesta was trying to choose her words, lips pursing  and eyes staring above her. Then those icy eyes came back, full of determination.

“Do you care for him, Gwyn? Or, I suppose, how do you care for him?”

She just stared into Nesta’s eyes for a long moment, trying to find the right things to say. How to express what was churning in her heart. “Of course I care for him. He has become a dear friend.” Her friend’s gaze didn’t falter, daring her to say what she hadn’t admitted to anyone, not even to herself.

“And?”

Gwyn jerked her head, surprised that Emerie also seemed to know that there was more. The Illyrian’s countenance held that same caring determination, waiting with barely concealed expectation. Gwyn could only sigh.

“I… I don’t know. I trust him. Implicitly. He’s the only male I’ve never feared. And he’s beautiful, of course.”

“Yes, he certainly is,” Nesta sighed wistfully. Gwyn giggled and swatted her friend playfully on the shoulder.

“I feel… drawn to him, like we understand each other’s darkness. I should be terrified of him, theoretically, but I can’t be. And if… I don’t know what romance is supposed to be, what a relationship looks like. But I think, if he wanted to try, I would say yes. Without hesitation. Even after what happened at Sangravah,” she admitted. “But first and foremost… I just want his friendship. If that’s the only thing I can have then I’ll be happy.” And that was the truth. She would have him in her life, in whatever capacity. His absence was far too difficult to bear.

An enormous yawn pushed out of her lungs and she clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. Nesta and Emerie laughed, Nesta pushing herself to her feet before offering her hands to Gwyn.

“You need to sleep. Hopefully tonight will be more restful,” she said as she pulled Gwyn to her feet and swiftly gathered her into a hug. She felt Emerie at her back, enveloping her as well. Gwyn could only smile and release a contented sigh, reveling in the love of her chosen sisters. She felt lighter, relieved to have shared the struggles she’d been facing. But then she yawned again, the exhaustion in her bones suddenly the only thing she could feel. Her eyelids drooped and she felt herself losing her battle with sleep even as she stood there, still wrapped in that Valkyrie embrace. As her body became heavy, yet weightless, she couldn’t comprehend the words she heard.

“Ready to crash boys night, Em? I might actually kill him.”

~~~

Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys lounged in the study, each nursing crystal glasses with varying amounts of amber liquid. Azriel studied the cut angles in his glass, the firelight reflecting kaleidoscopes of brightness off the liquor. He’d already had more to drink than usual, not typically one to lose his wits from alcohol. But tonight he had partaken in a bit extra, perhaps in the vain hope that the libations would settle his mind. The roaring thoughts still stormed through him from earlier in the day – guilt, stubbornness, anger, shame.

Of course, the alcohol staunched none of it.

“You seem particularly broody tonight, Az.” Cassian’s amused voice broke through that cyclone and Azriel fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. His brother just smirked victoriously at him, knowing the truth in his observation. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that sleepover at the house, would it?”

“Sleepover at the house?” Rhys turned his starlit gaze toward the shadowsinger, but Azriel didn’t have any intention of answering. Cassian, however, so enjoyed irritating him.

“A certain redhead priestess has been acting strangely and Nesta is determined to figure it out,” he drawled, pointed amber gaze fixed on the spymaster. “I think it has something to do with our tall, dark, and brooding brother here.”

“Gwyneth Berdara?” Azriel flicked his eyes toward the High Lord whose brows were arched in surprise. “Why would that have anything to do with you?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Azriel groaned when Cassian began to answer, sinking deeper into the velvet tufts of the oversized armchair, “that the two of them want to be friendlier than friends.”

“Gwyn and I have a professional, platonic relationship. Nothing more,” Azriel growled. He wasn’t in any sort of headspace to deal with Cassian’s ribbing, or to explain it away to Rhys. He looked up to find the Illyrian general had set down his glass and was leaning back casually, crossing his arms.

“Is that so?” Azriel wanted to slap that smug grin off his face. “Is that why you can never keep your eyes off her at training? Is that what’s happening when you grin at her when she gives your shit right back to you? When she makes you throw your head back and laugh?” He could feel the heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Laugh? Out loud?” The High Lord balked and Azriel rolled his eyes.

“I laugh, thank you very much.”

“Not like that, you don’t,” Cassian countered. Azriel just shook his head as his brother turned to Rhys. “You should see it, Rhys. I never thought I’d see the day – “

“WHERE IS HE?!” A female voice echoed from down the hall.

“Nesta?” Rhys wondered aloud.

“Where is that idiotic overgrown bat? I swear on the Cauldron I’m going to kill him.”

“Yup, that’s Nesta,” Cassian confirmed with a groan. “What the fuck did I do now? I wasn’t even at the house –“

The study doors burst open as Nesta pushed through, gray eyes shimmering with rage. Azriel leaned forward as her gaze fell on him.

“YOU.”

“Me?”

“Him?” Cassian gawked, but then grinned wickedly. “Oh, this is a nice change. I could get used to this.”

“Keep your mouth shut or you’re next,” Nesta snapped as she strode in front of Azriel’s chair. “Azriel, would you care to tell me why I just spent an hour comforting one Gwyneth Berdara while she sobbed in my arms? Any ideas?” His eyes grew wide and his face went slack, unable to comprehend exactly what was happening.

“Nothing to contribute, Shadowsinger? How fucking convenient. Maybe you could tell me why you avoided her even after you told her that things would go back to normal and that you were friends? Or perhaps you could explain why you left her alone in the rain the one time you did actually talk to her, even after she told you her nightmares were bad again?”

“I –“ He didn’t get a chance. Nesta stepped closer.

“Not done, Az. Not even close. Maybe you have an explanation for her working herself into exhaustion at the library to avoid time alone? Or the reason she doesn’t go to the training ring at night anymore?” Azriel just stared, dumbfounded at what she was saying. He pressed himself back into the chair as the honey-haired female placed her hands on the armrests and leaned in so far they breathed the same air.

“Tell me, Azriel,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion and ice, “why every night for the last week she has dreamed of Sangravah. And in that nightmare when that general is finished hurting her, she has to feel the soul-crushing terror of watching the next soldier take his place because you don’t come to save her.” And Nesta pulled a hand back and slapped him.

Azriel knew his eyes were wide as saucers as the breath punched out of him. He barely registered the tingle of pain in his cheek, absorbing what she had told him. Gwyn’s nightmares. Every night. And they had twisted into something even more horrifying.

How could any part of her think that he wouldn’t come for her?

He looked back to Nesta who had backed away. Cassian had risen to comfort her, brushing tears away from her cheeks and murmuring into her ear. Azriel got to his feet and took a measured step toward them.

“Nesta, I –“

“You care for her, don’t you?”

Azriel knew they could see the wetness in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had been wrong to leave her, wrong about so many things. And he was done denying.

“Of course I do, Nesta. More than I think I can explain right now.”

“Then fix this.” Her voice was colder than his could ever be, a warning that he wouldn’t like what would happen if he didn’t make it right. But he had every intention to.

He was miserable without her.

Azriel gave Nesta a curt nod, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the study. He kept his surprise masked as he passed Emerie, who was leaning in the doorway, also wearing that expression – promising violence for hurting one of their own. He nodded to her, too, acknowledging his part in all of this. Then he practically ran down the hall and through the entrance of the river house, only taking three steps in the night air before taking to the sky.

Straight to the House of Wind.

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[scarofthewind]

Love Letters || V x Reader

A/N: I love this movie with all my being and decided to write for V from ‘V for Vendetta’. Hope you all enjoy.

Warnings: Hurt-comfort, mentions of abuse, foul language

word count: 1.6k Tip Jar (every bit helps)

The sound of your bare feet hitting the ground echoed through the dark street. It was far too late for anyone to be out, but here you were, running from yet another abusive lover who had taken a bad day out on you. For years you’d been receiving strange letters from a man you had no recollection of. He called himself, ‘V’, which he signed so neatly at the bottom of every letter. Sometimes he wrote to you multiple times a week, other times it was only a few in a month. In either cases, you always looked forward to that small envelope with a dried wax seal on the back. You always wrote back and watched as the mailman came to pick up the letter with no destination; yet V always managed to receive them. 

It’s like I’ve known you my whole life, V. Even though I don’t know what you look like or who you are, I know you. I wish there was a way I could be with you, but I’m afraid of what he’d do if he found out how I feel for you. He destroyed the wonderful roses you gave me, burnt them all but I managed to save some of the petals....

I hope to see you one day, maybe that day you can take me away from here to that beautiful place you were talking about the last time you wrote me....what I would give to simply hear your voice call out to me....

With all my heart, (Y/N)

The letters were always full of wonderful stories that made even your worst days, better; they were all locked in a wooden box you kept hidden until your newest lover found them and destroyed them all. You cried and tried your hardest to fight for even one, but that only ended with you getting stuck across the face and the urge to run coursing through your veins. Your heart ached for the desire to be held by the one man you knew would never lay a finger on you in such a way. There were many nights when you would lie in bed and dream about V, seeking comfort in the man you didn’t know.

My dear, I apologize for not writing to you sooner, my days grow crazier by the second but rest assured, when I think of you, everything is clear. 

I hate how much you get hurt by these men and I promise you, one day I’ll save you from their vile hands. I promise to only ever give you love and the passion you have never known. That day will be soon and I swear to you, (Y/N), I will take care of you.

V

 “Come back!” You heard your lover yell and you ducked into an alleyway, your heart hammering in your chest. You cupped your throbbing cheek, knowing very well it was wet with blood from the rings on his finger catching the skin there. You shivered from the cold night air and saw your breath in smoke around you when you exhaled, pressing against a wall and hoping he’d pass. “You can’t hide from me, I’ll find you sooner or later.” He growled, kicking a trash can and sending it flying around the corner opposite of you. You held your breath, hoping he would go away soon and wishing that you life had been better. 

Your eyes stayed trained on the night sky, wondering if V was looking at the same moon you were and feeling your heart break at a horrible thought. There would be no more letters, no more sweet words from the only man who’d ever said them to you; no more flowers, no more nights when you felt a little less lonely. Tears flooded down your face as you realized this was it; the sound of a gun cocking coming from your lover who was nothing but a monster. He would kill you and V would never know that the light of his life had been ripped from him. 

You ran down the end of the alley, turning another corner and sliding down the wall in submission. You couldn’t get out; there wasn’t an out for people like you. This was all you’ve ever known so of course just as you thought it would get better, everything goes to waste. “I’m so sorry, V.” You whispered, hearing him near you and feeling the barrel of the gun press against your head. 

“Fucking whore, I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” He growled, kicking you to the side and enjoying the cries you gave. “That guy who wrote you those letters, you think he’d want someone like you?” You tried to block his foot as it came into contact with your stomach but you weren’t as strong as him. Your pleas did nothing but make him laugh as he kicked you again and again until you started coughing blood onto the stoned pavement. 

You gasped for air as the metallic taste filled your mouth, the tears in your eyes blurring your vision as you looked up at the man. “He loves me,” You sobbed and watched as he knelt before you, feigning pity. 

“I think I can speak for him and say that he most certainly doesn’t. I loved you, but you ruined everything.” He scoffed and pressed the gun against your head. 

“I speak for myself,” Another voice echoed in the alley and your head snapped up, eyes straining to see the figure who was standing a few feet away. Your lover stood up and faced him, keeping the gun pointed at you. “And you most certainly did not love her. You abused her to the point where she fell in love with another.” Coming into the light, you let out a gasp seeing the masked male; he titled his head to look down at you and tipped his hat. 

“Hello, my love, pardon me for my interruption but I do believe it’s time we go.” He said calmly, clicking his tongue in annoyance when your lover shoved the gun to your head. 

“V,” You let out a breathy sound of panic, locking eyes with the masked man and watching him pull out a knife. 

“To the right, please.” He said to you and you sent him a questioning look but understood when he threw the knife at your lover. You rolled to the side just in time as the bullet flew off the ground where you just had been, the sound deafening you. Pressing your hands against your ears, you cried out from the painful ringing in them, the pain in your body from being kicked ran through you like liquid fire, burning every part of your muscles alive. 

And then, as if everything became clear, a pair of gloved hands cupped your face, making you open your eyes. “I should’ve never let it amount to this, I hope you can forgive me-”

V had no time to respond before you tackled him in a tight hug, knocking his hat off and causing him to sit instead of kneel. He wasted no time in hugging you back, feeling your body tremble and shake in his grasp. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know that, right?” He said to you gently and you cried harder, nodding your head in response. V could feel the movement against his shoulder and hummed, “I’m here now, my love, I’m sorry I took so long.”

Pulling back, he cupped your face again, wiping the tears away. “You saved me.” You sniffled, touching the mask gently. “You did what you said you’d do so there’s no need for you to apologize.” V stared at you deeply and you felt him start to get up, offering you a hand to which you grabbed. 

“I’m going to take you away from here, you will never know pain like this ever again, and I will make sure I spend every waking breath filling your life with all that you deserve.” He spoke to you as you stood, grimacing at the pain in your abdomen. “I’m taking you home, to the place you should’ve been all along.”

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we go.” You shivered against the cold air, letting V drape his coat over your shoulders. As you both started to walk, stepping over your ex-lover’s body, you stared at the masked man in wonder and need. It wasn’t until you made it out of the alleyways and into the moonlit street, that you paused. 

“V?” Your voice wavered a bit as your nerves grew and the man stopped, turning towards you in concern. 

“We must keep moving-”

“Kiss me.” Your breath sent a cloud up with how cold it was and V touched your cheek gently. “I’ve longed for you all these years,” You said, tracing the features on the mask and feeling his hand circle around your wrist. “Please.” Your eyes flickered to his and you could see the strain he was trying to put on himself slowly breaking off. 

And then it happened. He didn’t take the mask off fully, but he lifted it enough to press his warm lips against your cold ones and that was enough. He kept his lips against yours for a moment before pulling back and moving the mask back, grabbing your hand and placing it on his arm. “That should keep you satisfied until we reach home.” You blushed at his words but held onto his arm, your heart content with finally being with the man you loved. 

There would never be another letter, but there wasn’t a need for one; he was with you now and there was nothing in the world that could tear you away from him. 

[mimithings97]

How to Make Him Cum 101 (M)

Summary: You’ll love each other in sickness and health, hungover or hangry, sexless or… well, it’s becoming a little harder for the pants to stay on despite the calls of ‘let’s take this slow’ on the first date.

Pairing: Jungkook x Y/N

Genre: University AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst (tiny bit), Crack

Warnings: (Plenty my friend) Handjob, Fingering, Squirting, Sex without protection, Tongue fucking, Jungkook being whipped, Chocking (brief), Dry Humping, Jungkook cumming in his pants, lots of swearing, lots of alcohol consumption, consumption of weed

Word Count: 15k (it was meant to be 10k, but I fucked it)

A/N: I love Jungkook in this, he’s a sweetheart who has no fucking idea what he’s doing. Took me way too long to write this and I’m sorry if it drags, but I split it into little scenes to make it more manageable. It’s also pretty casual - no real storyline. Enjoy and suggestions always welcome x

“I swear to fuck, if he throws up my £2000 bourbon...” 

And by some miracle, neither the end of Taehyung’s sentence nor the £150 shot Namjoon halfheartedly threw back makes an appearance.

“Nah big man can handle his shit right Joon,” is the mere drunken support offered by Jimin. It’s also accompanied by an all-too heavy hand to the back that has the elder spluttering on air, the shot well and truly burning a hole in his stomach by now.

You observe from the distance of the kitchen, fortunately barricaded from the testosterone fest by the island and several misplaced sofas. It was Jimin’s idea to upgrade the sofa scheme to one that was more ‘drinking and smoking friendly’ so he liked to call it, taking a sufficient 30 minutes just to manoeuvre several pieces of furniture into a circle that centred around all too expensive liquors and cheap weed - the irony of the contrast had most certainly dawned on you. 

Your unexpected appearance to the gathering was on the account of boyfriends hazy state. He was all ‘come save me’ and ‘i’m dying’ over your texted conversation but upon arrival, the boy was all over that tequila bottle like he was downing chocolate milk. 

Despite your best intentions of remaining inconspicuous and merely Jungkook’s driver for the night went to shit when Jimin, unapologetic and somewhere between happily stoned and confident drunk demanded you join their escapades. 

“Booze or bud but not neither Y/N.” Nothing like a typical Taehyung to welcome you to the action.

“Well you didn’t say I couldn’t have both,” is your reply that’s laced with a brazen tone and paired with a smirk.

You’re met with Taehyung tonguing his cheek.

“That’s my girl,” Jungkook shouts mid-laugh and gives you a smack to the ass for good measure. You find comfort in the gesture, so following his drifting hand to the point that you settle in his lap.  

Jungkook must have drunk his weight in alcohol because it’s all touches from behind you, cold hands finding their way under cloth and onto warm skin, lips clamping down on your neck and teeth unforgiving on your ear lobe. Your boyfriend’s a modest guy even at worst, so his provoking actions are met with raised eyebrows on your behalf.

Slowly but surely, with the burn of smoke in your lungs and the even harsher burn of rich whiskey (because £2000 bourbon is a harsh no), Jungkook’s hands roam freely.

“Jesus mate, if you’d have fucked her the second time you would’ve had that pussy on hold, swear down.” Somewhere between your silent touches and unauthorized smoking of all of Namjoon’s weed, the conversation had delved into the topic of Jimin’s overly privileged sex life.

“That’s exactly what I said but the bitch pussied out,” Hobi pipes up from the corner where he’d faded away from being too legit faded - boy never could handle his smoke.

“Fuck off did I pussy ou-”

“Nahhh she had you whipped babe, that second shag wasn’t even on the cards,” you mouth speaks for you. Or more like your high speaks for you at this point.

You feel Kook smile into your shoulder from where his head was perched.

“This’ll be good,” it’s under Taehyung’s breath but not inaudible.

“Fuck do you mean, ‘she had me whipped’, she was all over me that night at Joon’s...” Jimin swigs mid-sentence, flushed from the buzz of liquor and his overly defensive tone, “had her wrapped around my little finger.”

… the opportunity was too good to miss.

“What little finger?” You refrain from laughing at your own remark for dramatic effect but Jungkook’s squeezing your sides and the lightness of your head betrays you. 

Jimin’s eye contact with your falters as if his ego broken, and the others pass around comments along the lines of ‘fucking brilliant’ and ‘unlucky mate’. 

You take a final drag before passing it behind you to the already seeking hand of your boyfriend who’s still amused by your smart-mouth.

“Jimin, I’m just saying,” you elaborate in hopes of restoring his cracked masculinity somewhat, “from what Stephanie told me, Mina had four guys on hold at that party and wasn’t inclined to let any of them stick in on her cos she’s got a full-on guy waiting for her away from uni.”

He huffs, throwing himself and his bottle backwards onto the sofa, causing it to slosh around and out. You peer over at Taehyung, waiting for the boy to morph into an expression of disgust because god knows, this sofa cover costs more than your rent, but he never does - eyes glazed and a small smile instead.

“Fucking brilliant, I was fifth on a girls ‘need to shag’ list.” You almost feel bad for the sod, but one thing Jimin could never do was keep his mouth shut when it needed to be. “At least I’m doing better than you, Y/N, you can’t even get a fuck off your boyfriend and you’ve been together for months.” 

Taehyung’s smile drifts, Hobi shifts in his seat and Jungkook stiffens from behind you - the air dries up.

“Jimin, mate, come on,” Joon tries to reason, but as per usual Jimin keeps his mouth moving.

“I said what I said.”

Yeh, he sure fucking did. And if one thing was known to be uncharted conversation between the lot of you, then that was your and Jungkook’s abstinence. But in true style, Jimin just had to pry.

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

“Fuck it, maybe we should just have sex,” he finally says as you stall over wiping off your eyeliner to laugh at his exasperation. Jungkook wasn’t insecure but he was easily influenced when something hurt his pride - and you could tell, from Jimin’s comment, throughout the awkward air that lingered in the car, to just now, that he had been stewing on the dent to his ego from the moment it was spoken. 

You want to tell him with all the sarcasm in the world how ‘romantic’ he’s being about it all, but you refrain to save further damage.

“Kook-”

“Nah, seriously Y/N, I’m tired of this shit…” you want to diffuse his state, but he persists, “and- I don’t really know what I’m waiting on now.”

“Baby,” you finally get a grip on his attention as he lets out a huff and welcomes you onto his lap. “You’ve had your reasons to wait on this, I’ve always respected that. But…” he groans and you lean into him as a warning to let you finish, “buttt, I’m not gonna respect any shit when you’re letting Jimin decide for you. Just cos the boy can’t get his dick wet doesn’t mean you have to.”

You feel him snicker against your shoulder as he lowers his head in frustration.

“You do this on your own time. Not mine,” you weave your fingers through his locks and anchor him to you, “not Jimin’s, not anyone but yours,” and finalise your sentiment by situating your lips on his temple.

With eyes fluttering shut into your touch and a heavy breath out he indulges in his insecurity. “I just can’t afford to lose you.” And you know it takes his booze-filled conscience to let you in.

You have to admit that there was some level of hurt you managed to hide at this point. That even after relishing in one another's company for 5 months, Jungkook still couldn’t find it in himself to trust you in that way. It was a mental thing, an emotional instinct of too many failed relationships where he was a victim to being cheated on, left after being used for sex and prayed on for good looks and unfortunate vulnerability. You knew within yourself you would never and could never do what so many have done before you. Fuck, you couldn’t even see yourself being sane and capable without him, ever, period. For that, you respected his decision - whilst frustratingly prolonged - because you knew he was worth the wait.

“I need you just as much as you need me.” You sense the slump in his shoulders, the heaviness of too many pressures and burdens weighing them down. That and his drug-induced state causing unwanted fatigue. “Hmm?” So you lift his chin and search his eyes till they meet yours, passing on a reassurance that he finally accepts with a curt nod.

“Yeh, I know.” 

You press a kiss, or two to his lips and lean back to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Now are you gonna keep sulking to yourself like a bitch or let me make you cum?” His instant response is his eyes blowing out in shock of your statement before laughing into your chest. You know him well enough that he is using your chest to hide the blush in his cheeks but you don’t mention it. 

Instead, you wiggle your hips with no subtlety into the twitch of his groin that seeks your mouth so desperately, laughing when he grabs you at the cheeks and pulls you away to say, “You’re fucking mental.” But against his lips you can’t help the, “-Nd you love me for it,” that is mumbled.

Yeah, this boy was definitely worth the wait.

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

Weekends seem to roll around at a quickening pace when you have a needy boyfriend and even more demanding party schedule to fill the gaps. And by some freak of nature, you hadn’t managed to drop your education off a cliff in the meantime - in fact, you had begun to make a living off having beer in one hand and highlighter in the other.

University wasn’t a walk in the park, but you’d been enough of a devoted intellect in your first two years of it to allow yourself to drop off the map a little. So, after becoming a co-captain of the swim team somewhere into your second year, it was only a natural, human instinct kind of reaction that your fellow captain, the hunk of abs who graced poolside, would slip a few too many flirty remarks at you before you called him your boyfriend. He’d pined and you’d fallen - simple as.

He came with baggage though. Six boys and a whole lot of booze and weed. You were no saint before Jungkook, hell, you almost weren’t allowed swim captain because you’d slept in one too many of the guys beds. But as soon as you’d said ‘yes’ to the going out for drinks invitation he offered, you had also said ‘yes’ to the party on Saturday at Hoseok’s, and the one on Sunday down at the river, and for every weekend for the next 5 months. And slowly but surely, it was no longer, ‘this is my girlfriend’ as an introduction, but you asking the familiar face around the party with all urgency where the nearest bottle of tequila was.

It’s also how you’d landed yourself filthily hungover in your Monday lecture, listening to Professor Snape (nah, it’s his real name and all) with a noticeable shake in your hand and last nights mascara somewhere down your face. 

“If you look that shit, then what the hell does Kook look like.” Mina, the best friend, the only one allowed to hold back your hair whilst you would throw up in a second-floor bathroom, and the roommate who made student life just a bit more bearable than the shit show it was.

She takes the seat next to you, her question probably rhetorical but you make the effort to reply, all the same.

“Still asleep in the bathtub I reckon.” Ah, yes, the boyfriend. At somewhere between 1 in the morning and blackout drunk you, Jungkook and your infamous competitiveness called for beer pong - minus the beer, add the vodka. So it was only gonna be a certain amount of time before both you and him were pushed into a cab on top of one another and drafted back to his flat so he could throw up in his bathtub. 

“Jesus,” Mina mutters with a laugh, probably just relieved someone ordered your taxi to go to his and not your shared apartment - like hell was she listening to Jungkook throw up at 5 in the morning.

“Honestly, why does Yoongi host that shit on Sunday,” you groan into your laptop, turning down the brightness because you can already feel the afternoon hangover headache arising. 

“He doesn’t have a 9am like the rest of us.”

“Fucker.” 

Good host though, Yoongi. A postgrad, with his own two-storey apartment and too much time on his hands. You’d known him before the boyfriend too, working shifts with him in your first year at a music production company, both in the catering section because you had time to fill and tuition to pay and he was hoping to find his break into the industry. He fucked it though and has ended up with some crazy paid apprenticeship at a financial branch in the city centre. 

“Oi, Bob’s this weekend?” Mina poses the question as the lights brighten in the lecture room and everyone starts shutting laptops - yours was shut ten minutes ago when you stopped listening and started wallowing in self-pity.

“Bob’s?” Bermuda Bobs. A club in the centre of town, and somewhat of a regular for Friday nights, when Hoseok had had just about enough of hosting. “Yeh. Yeh, I can do Bobs.”

Mina’s up and off before you can even open the zip on your bag, something about she’ll miss her lift to training, but you mumble that you’ll see her at the apartment later before you can see the back of her head. 

All you can think as you conquer the steps to the exit of the hall is how much of a blessing a shower and a cup of tea would be - ‘so easily pleased’ Mina would say. So, when you look up from your phone to see Jungkook opposite where you walk out, a cup of tea in hand, you might just believe in fate.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, throat hoarse as he takes you bag from your shoulder and places the coffee into your welcoming hands. You laugh at him, a snort because it’s ironic considering the bloodshot eyes and beer-stained hair he sports.

“You were passed out in the bath legit an hour ago,” his hand finds yours despite your teasing and when you finally take the first sip of tea as you walk, anyone would think the noise you made was nothing short of an orgasm - Jungkook certainly takes notice. “Did you bring the car?” 

He snorts, “Like fuck did I bring the car, I’m still drunk.”

“Babbbyy,” it’s a whine as you throw your head back and pull his hand to make your point into a tantrum. 

“It’s literally a 5 minute walk babe, suck it up.” He continues ahead, but you go full 5 year old tactics on him, stopping in your tracks and whacking on your face the biggest pout your lips will allow.

He merely rolls his eyes and kisses it away before presenting his back to you, arms out, legs bent and you hop onto him like the spoilt girlfriend you are.

“You’re a brat, you know that.” Is all he says as he starts the walk out of the building and towards his, so you kiss behind his ear. 

“Mmm, call me that again, it kinda turns me on.”

“Fucking filty,” but you see the crinkle in his eyes that lets you know that he loves you for it.

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

Friday nights roll around quicker than you know when Bob’s is calling. They start earlier than most nights as well - lecture leads to swim training, swim training calls for afternoon drinks at Warehouse and then Warehouse blurs into Pre’s that blurs into Bob’s. 

So with beer curdling in your stomach, trying to flick the wing of your eyeliner and failing for the fifteenth time is as funny as Jimin’s pinkie to you and Mina. 

She is, of course, ready. Has been for almost 2 hours, so whilst you struggle to slip into your dress, she finishes your eyeliner for you.

The buzz of your phone has both of you looking to the vibrating device in confusion, having to double-take with each other because the taxi isn’t supposed to be here until Jungkook is and he isn’t supposed to be here for another half an hour. 

Your fumbling with a zip so it’s Mina who reaches for it, and when the screen lights her face, her features go from confused to ‘for fucks sake’ in less than a second. She turns it and that god awful photo of Jungkook and his swimming goggles on lights up the display. 

“I’ll get the door.” She’s exasperated. He’s early and she can’t stand that - all it took was him showing up at the wrong time on a Wednesday whilst she was naked on the sofa with a girl between her legs that caused the ‘come when you’re fucking asked to come’ attitude - poor boy didn’t even know she was gay.

You do a once over in the mirror before the door swings open, Mina has a scowl but your boyfriend has a lime in one hand and tequila in the other, so you don’t care.

“Shit, you look hot,” Fuck, so does he, but he’s pressing a kiss to your lips before you can drink him in fully, “s’that dress new?”

“I did the makeup, thank me.” Mina was always loud, and speaking at the wrong places and in the wrong conversations. 

“Kindly fuck off, you did the eyeliner and shit all else.” You turn back to Kook, now leaning against your wall, eyes still trained on you, or at least, your legs, and he looks fucking thirsty that’s for sure. “And yeh, got it when I went in the city the other week.” He replies with a nod and a smirk. Those damn bedroom eyes, they hold your gaze, as you fiddle with the clasp on the side of your dress. 

Mine pipes up from the sidelines, “God, it’s like I’m watching a fucking mating ritual or something.” Jungkook scoffs and his shoulders ease as though he’s calming himself down, “Well, I’m ready so shots it is.” She grabs the bottle of tequila from Jungkook’s hand and is off into the kitchen without looking back.

“Who put a foot up her ass then?” He only says it once the door is closed, knowing he’ll get a whacking if Mina heard him, so you scowl at him, albeit through a smile.

“Oi, watch it,” you’re in front of him now, leaning into the arm he stretched out to embrace you in.

“Sorry,” and he means it. He genuinely likes Mina, you’re sure of it, but they go at each other like cats in an alley when you’re not there to referee it.

He’s warm around you, his shirt with buttons undone at the top so that the cologne he’s wearing goes right to your head - and to your core - either one. The proximity does the same to him as he takes a handful of your ass, groping so that when you gasp and try to pull away, he administers a slap. 

You can’t deny you’re horny for him, and the way his trousers frame his bulge perfectly - you lick your lips subconsciously at the thought - but you can almost hear the sadness of Mina pouring and downing Tequila shots by herself.

“Fucker,” you whisper and lean out of his hold almost, only to see that fire in his eyes. 

“I love this ass,” hands now sneaking underneath the fabric of your dress - like it was covering much anyway, but that doesn’t change the way his cold fingers spread across your behind and almost make you moan out. It’s when he takes your bottom lip in his teeth and pulls back agonizing slowly until it pops back into place that the moan you were stifling releases, slowly, seductively, and his crotch stirs at the thought of you making the same noise around his dick. 

But if Kook can restrain himself enough into denying you a fuck for 5 months, then you can be just as disciplined now - whether the wetness on your thighs tells you something different or not.

You toy with him though.

At a pace nothing short of tormenting, you lean your leg into the space between his, drag your lips across his cheek to his ear and let your fingers draw a line from the gap in his shirt, underneath and across his chest, “But you know what’s better than this ass, baby?” You play the seductress with you voice, and you know it does bits to him. 

Your question was rhetoric, but when he doesn’t reply, you can’t help but grab at his belt with a hand and tug his crotch into your leg. He sputters out breathily into your neck, “W-what?”

You lean back, wait for his eyes to open and gage the lust and excitement brewing within them before opening your mouth against his…

“...Tequila shots.” You smack his thigh, turn and are out the door before his erection can say ‘shit’.

Two can play at his game of denial. 

Your all kinds of worked up despite your best efforts, but Mina’s got lime in her mouth and her face crinkled into an expression of disgust as you eye the empty shot glass on the counter, so it’s not like she’s gonna be sniffing out your hormones any time soon. 

“Fucking shit, rancid, I hate it, don’t wanna drink ever, absolutely not,” you laugh at her outburst as you refill her shot glass for yourself. 

“Lightweight,” you tease her as you throw it all back, wincing internally as you feel the hole burn in your throat, but suck it up for the sake of your competitive streak. She merely scoffs at you as the bedroom door swings open, Jungkook - still a fine piece of ass right now - tucking his shirt into his trousers. No way did he just finish himself off in that time, but your eyes travel down to his hard on that is very much still there. You can’t help the smirk.

“Kook, get your shot down you then we’re off,” Mina announces.

“Taxi here already?” he questions but she shakes her head as she now sports a wine bottle in her hand, and clearly a mouth full of wine as she fails to verbalise. 

Shots are down, wine is drunk, and heads are well and truly dizzy when you reach the club. The cab was early much to Mina’s dismay, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing the tequila bottle from Jungkook and downing a healthy portion of the liquid before collapsing in instant regret - ‘we’ve all been there Min’ was your only advice. As for Jungkook. Well, the boy never showed when he was drunk until he would take his shirt off and shout he was wasted, so the only way you could gauge his state was by the way his fingers dug into your thigh the entire journey - you just couldn’t work out whether it was the alcohol or his dick talking.

“Y/NNN!” you hear before see Jimin, despite the music that reverberates through the floor and up your body. As always, he has bottle in hand and a girl in the other, but he releases her to embrace you.

It’s a love, hate with Jimin, but he was Jungkook’s best friend, so there was and could not be bad blood between the two of you - much the same to Jungkook and Mina. Jimin swam as well, so you were no strangers to sharing situations that required great comfort with one alone - such as you in a swimming costume and him in his damn speedos. There was only one thing better than Jimin in speedos though, and that was Jungkook in speedos.

“Where’s your boyfriend, he owes me a fucking drink,” and you point to the bar, where he leans over the counter in all his glory and much to the fortune of your eyes. Jimin escorts himself and the girl he’s with over to the bar before you can catch her name - she’s pretty, though, which is no surprise with Jimin’s taste. 

It takes the next 30 minutes, or possibly longer because alcohol tends to blur hours to minutes before you’ve made conversation with everyone there. It’s almost admin now, having to do the rounds when all the people from swimming go out - a swim captain apparently has certain obligations of seeing everyone had a drink in hand and a ride to go home in. Kook was doing the same too, across the club, slowly but surely making his way towards you as he talked to some of the guys. He’d winked one too many times at you for it to be coincidence, and the alcohol you’d been consuming was screaming out to you now to fuck the pointless conversation and grind on your damn fit boyfriend.

“Fuck Josh, Mel, the boy can’t even get it up, and you’re too much of a hot piece of ass to waste on him,” Mina’s on one of her motivational talks with the social sec, Mel - absolute sweetheart, heart of gold and awful taste in men. Also the subject of Mina’s subconscious flirting for the last hour or so, but you don’t have the heart to tell Mina to stop - she’s drunk and probably horny knowing her.

“Y/N,” you’re face first in your vodka red bull (double), to hear Mina, having zoned out from her pining after she started getting emotional. “Y/N!” You finally ease up on the drink when you hear her this time. 

“Hmm?” mouth half full.

“Have you ever seen someone get eye fucked?” Her eyes flicker from you to something else, but you’re too caught up in the absurdity of her question to notice.

“The fuck?”

“Because I’m watching it happen right now,” and it’s a nod that finally directs your questioning gaze away from your best friend and to a figure at the bar, elbows tucked behind him, a bottle of beer at his side, legs to die for and eyes boring right into yours. He’s playing dirty tonight, is all you think. So despite the way your core tightens and the hair on your neck unknowingly rises, you feed into his game, the cat and mouse kind of thing he seems to be grabbing at, and put up your facade.

You're slow to get to him, but it’s deliberate. And instead of giving in to his gaze or his touch, you place your feet right beside his, leaning towards the bar and into the sight of the bartender. 

It’s the raise of her eyebrows at you and the curt smile that prompts you to talk, “two shots of tequila please,” she begins to spin but you stop her, “oh, and plenty of salt and lime.” 

It takes physical energy not to give in to human instinct - to touch and to grab him, to let go of the role play. 

“Anyone would think you’re ordering for two,” his voice is gravely, and fuck if it doesn’t shoot straight down you. But his comment makes you smile, smirk actually.

“You say that as if I can’t handle my alcohol,” you raise an eyebrow to yourself, still feigning your confidence by not looking his way.

Two shots are lined up in front of you, limes perched on top, and a generously filled salt shaker to the left of them. 

“Well tequila is a dangerous game to play,” you pick up either shot in your hand, and fight the urge to shiver as his words that are breathed against your ear. You round from the side of him, eyes finally lifting to his and filling some void that was there, but by no means lifting any tension between the two of you.

“Then let’s play dangerously,” you say, eyes sultry and him waiting on your every move, “the first one to have their salt, their shot and their lime gone first is the winner..” 

“And what does the winning get?” Damn, he’s eager.

You lean in, but still don’t touch. “That’s for the winner to know, and the loser to find out.” 

You can see a vague pick up in his breathing, a sheen of sweat forming against his brow and a vague smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth. Lifting the lime off your shot, he almost proceeds to do the same, about to take the shot to his lips but you stop him, instead pushing your shot into his vacant hand. The only explanation offered is when you take your lime down the column of your throat and down to your cleavage, before reaching to the salt that’s behind him. You pour a small mound of it onto your finger and follow the path that the lime drew. He eyes you like artwork, and doesn’t lift his gaze from your cleavage where you nestle the lime. 

You pour more salt onto your forefinger, and his eyes finally lift in an expression of confusion, but words evade him - hell, he hasn’t taken a solid breath for the past minute. Slowly, tourturningly, you lean into him, carefully avoiding his shot, and catch his breath hitching as you press the point of your tongue into the base of his neck, dragging it upwards until you meet his jaw. You almost couldn’t stop yourself from proceeding further, drinking in the salty taste of him and eating away at his sanity with your tongue - but you refrain, all in the name of dramatic effect.

“Fuck,” is all he says as he keeps his breath hitched, and you push your finger down the line your tongue drew, spreading salt southwards.

He almost looks tapped out when you take his lime from between you, eyes completely glazed, and fortunately for you they blow out even further when you tug the belt of his trousers and place your lime in the waistband - like his erection wouldn’t have held it up anyways.

Retrieving one of the shots from his grasp, where his knuckles had turned white against the glass, you hold his gaze.

“I think you should go ahead,” you’re more breathy than you realised, even despite it being your game.

“I-I thought,” he has to clear his throat, “it’s who can do it the fastest,” it’s barely even a question with how quiet he mumbled the words - you’re not even sure he knew what he was saying.

“Who said I wanted to win, baby?” And he lets out a moan, a full blown moan before he encases your throat with his mouth, and he’s almost animalistic in the way he growls against your skin at the taste. He bites down when he reaches just above the lime and your eyes roll back unconsciously before opening to see him throw his head back with the shot, not a single wince in his eyes because they are so driven by desire. The shot glass is slammed behind him before he dives into your cleavage to retrieve the lime, and in some display of masculinity that almost has you keening he rips the lime from his mouth and tosses it behind you, juice rolling down his face and onto his jaw to linger with the line of salt that glistens there.

You don’t even realise you're on his throat until the overly salty taste pricks your mouth and you can feel his jaw tense beneath you. You're almost in a haze when the tequila sets your throat ablaze but you become fully conscious of the way he grabs a fistful of your hair, pushes you to the floor until your dress bunches and has you sucking at the lime that rests mockingly above his hard cock. 

By some miracle you find yourself back up at eye level, chests heaving to the point of almost touching, and if you didn’t have a lime in your mouth right now you’d either be swearing obscenely in some gesture of saying ‘your so fucking hot’ or your lips would be around his dick.

With a gulp and a tilt of his head backwards, he gains a level of composure that allows him to ease the lime from your lips with his fingers, letting them brush at your skin to have you shivering.

It’s almost comical the way you both pant, eyes ablaze in each others, and completely oblivious to the outside world and how many, way too many people have seen your display. But there is nothing but the burn in your bodies right now as he grabs your hand wordlessly and drags you as fast as your heels will allow. 

It’s like a switch had flipped in him somewhere back there. Even if this whole thing was roleplay, at least you knew how to play it with your boyfriend back there, knew the way he ticks and what would make his cock twitch - Jungkook’s normally easy to read like that. But when he almost breaks the disabled toilet door down with his hand, there is no game left to play - the restraints are off and the fire of lustful rage is fueled.

“You-” he slams you back against the door before its even swung shut and you can get a single word in. It’s carnal the way he’s latching onto your mouth, grabbing your hands that try to clasp at his neck and throw them up next to your head, and shoves a knee between your sopping thighs.

“I almost fucking came in my trousers back there when you got on your knees,” you don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice so low and rough before but it courses through you more than the heavy bass of the club music. “You had me stood there ready to fuck your mouth open, but you thought you’d fucking tease your way through it.”  

He’s domineering and your completely and utterly keening for it. Even more so when the grip he has on your wrist tightens and brings it down to his crotch, forcing your latch onto the erection that strains sinfully, painfully in his trousers and you feel intimidated enough at his display that you don’t palm him, don’t give him a pleasureful squeeze like you normally would when you had more control of your emotions. But you're shocked and fucked out - beyond that even.

“You feel that shit. Fuck, I’ve never been this hard before,” you moan out lowly, finding it increasingly difficult to control your breathing, the nature of the lust in your body calling out for some friction on your body. But he stands there, eyes ablaze, panting his taunting remarks into your agape mouth. “You’re making it so damn hard not to fuck you.”

“Do it,” you whisper without even knowing and neither does Jungkook because the ringing in both of your ears is deafening.

“I’ve always wanted to see you fall apart around my cock… lose it as I fuck you,” his crotch starts riveting into your hand and you know he’s imaging what it would feel like with his dick nestled deep in your walls right now, “God I want to pound into you.”

“Fuck.”

Fuck, because never have his words been so dirty before.

“You’re so damn hot I actually can’t control myself right now,” and his dick follows his words. Your hand now acts as your pussy - in his head anyway - as the friction of his trousers begins sending him neck deep in pleasure. 

You actually think you could come from watching it. How his head now bows into your neck and his teeth set into your skin because he can’t even control how slack his jaw has become. The way he’s getting harder and harder against your hand and his movements are constantly seeking more. Fucking hell, you’re both fully clothed, his dicks rock hard in his pants but he’s so pent up on you and the desire you’ve caused that he’s chasing an orgasm basically untouched. 

“I- oh fuck.”

“Come on baby,” you feed him, words moaned against his ear and hand flattening more purposefully against him, “fuck me harder.”

“Argh- fuc-fucking hell,” he’s spurred on by the illusion you offer. His eyes rolled back in his head as he imagines the feeling of being balls deep in you. 

“Think how good I’d feel. Fuck, you’d be so deep uhh,” you moan out at the end as the harshness of the way his hips snap into yours causes your hand nestled between you to deliciously rub on your clit. 

You hadn’t realised that your dress had ridden up in the commotion of you sex driven states, that your ass was pressed up against the cool surface and gave you goosebumps despite the way you body oozes heat, that you panties were so wrecked by your arousal that your hand might as well be rubbing you raw. And with Jungkook’s quickening pace, the friction against your clit makes you all too driven to seek your end as well as his. It’s filthy.

“Ko-uh. Fuck, Kook, I need you fingers- ah,” your walls are throbbing at the thought, but his teeth remain deep set in the junction between your neck and shoulder, his hips still thrusting up and into your hand, so you think you’re desire has gone unheard.

But all too quickly, he forgets the end he was chasing. 

Suddenly, he backs away from you, leaving you untouched and leaning forward into the air, whilst his cock screams in the confines of his trousers. He growls at the way he had to stop himself from cumming too soon.

“Baby,” it’s a whine from the back of your throat that you had no plan to release. But the way your chest heaves and your thighs cross one another for friction just spells to you and him just how inflamed your body is. 

His eyes move away from your desperate ones, and his neck reclines back as he swallows - trying with all his strength to keep it together, to not cum from merely watching your cleavage, drenched in his and your sweat, rise and fall with the way your breathing staggers. Watching him is torture for yourself, but you don’t want to miss the way his cock throbs. 

You have no idea how long you’re there, him grappling at his sanity and you watching him.

“Baby, I-”

“Fuck, don’t talk,” his face almost contorts in pain and his head lowers into his chest to halt his urge to look at you. 

But, you’re horny and you're a brat, so you persist.

“Jungkook, I need you right now.”

Silence falls for a mere second.

Like a man possessed he lunges back towards your body, and before you can react he’s on his knees violently pushing the thin fabric of your dress up and ripping your panties down your legs.

“What don’t you understand about shut the fuck up.” And with that he’s on your clit, hands shoving your legs in opposite directions and over his shoulders so you lose your balance and end up speared on his tongue.

“Kook!” It’s a cry that’s shouted into the air when your head is thrown back - a reaction to both the immense feeling that tightens at your core and a warning to the man below you that you might just crush him.

But he’s devouring your pussy whole. He’s no longer tending to your clit, but lapping his tongue up and down the entire expanse of your slit, letting the muscle of his tongue slip into your entrance making your stomach drop every time. He’s hellbent on making you cum that’s for sure, because no matter the tug of your hands at his scalp to let up even just a little, he’s growling into you and plunging deeper. 

You want to pull away, to finally take a break from the intense pressure on your core or maybe to breathe for the first time since he decided to drop to his knees. But you’re feet don’t touch the ground, literally, and he’s suspending you on his tongue. 

His hands push you down further onto him and he growls into you, vibrations coursing through you that almost makes you cum then and there. But he breaks away.

“Fuck,” he sounds fucked out himself, taking in all the air he can, because god knows he was eating your pussy like it was oxygen. “Baby, you gotta cum on my tongue, please.” 

He was the one eating you out, yet you had him pleading. Boy always did submit in the end, whether he liked it or not.

“Fingers then. Use your fingers,” and he obeys, releasing your thigh in favour of thrusting two of his digits deep into you. All your weight goes onto his shoulders and the two fingers set so far into your womb that you were crying out in pleasure. It wasn’t until his mouth resumed sucking on your clit that you lost all control of your tongue and rambled into the air like a mad woman. 

“F-Fuckkk Kook. I want ah- fuck I want your cum inside me. I want your dick so bad,” he’s moaning with you and with your words, being spurred on by the image you paint. He curls his fingers deep inside you, and you lose yourself on the feeling - being so stimulated that you miss the fact you’re grinding on his face, thrusting up as if his fingers were really his cock. He’s moaning at it, at the way your pace picks up on his tongue and you’re seeking your end.

“Don’t stop, oh fuck, oh fuck, please- don’t stop.”

You’re driving yourself deeper and deeper into him and fuckkk if the pleasure hasn’t taken over your senses beyond belief. Your stomach pulls so tight with the need to release that you’re grappling at the strands of hair on the back of your boyfriend’s head and using them to anchor yourself. He’s purely a mouth and two fingers to fuck yourself on at this moment and you couldn’t stop yourself even if you tried.

“Shit, fuckk,” his fingers start going at a rate, not even your hips can keep up with, and he’s so deep you almost choke like the pressure inside you has reached up into your throat.

“Come on baby, fuck,” his gravelly voice seeks out for you to come all over him.

“Holy fuckin-” the feeling comes on so intense inside of you that you struggle to warn him, your breathing constricted almost into nothingness. You feel like you’re about to cum with such strength that you might die.

“I can’t Kook- oh fuckk.”

“Give it to me.”

His teeth clamp down on your clit at the same time as his fingers curl against that spot inside you that suddenly has everything spiralling at once. 

“Don’t stoppp, don’t stop, oh fuck,” you sputter into the air as a band snaps in your lower stomach, blood pumping everywhere and anywhere in your body so that your hips begin spasming and convulsing on top of his mouth. 

He whines into you as his mouth keep fastening all too strongly against your bud. It’s when the pressure that keeps falling in your stomach and Kook is forced to pull his fingers out of you that you feel your juices spill and keep spilling all over you and him.

“Holy fuck baby… Y/N shit.”

You tumble further and further and miss the noises that are pushed from your throat. In the intensity of the pleasure you also miss the way Jungkook’s body, his tongue on your clit, his fingers on your thigh and the ones lodged deep inside you, all tense up. 

Shit.

You wonder if you’ve blacked out when the slump of your body takes over, the eventual air you take in in one large breath making your senses begin to come back all too strong. You’re broken from the waist down, legs numb to the point you can barely feel Jungkook’s teeth tight on your thigh and breath glazing the skin strongly. Shit, you can’t even feel how wet you are yet.

You know the weight he’s bearing on his shoulders, but you can’t muster the strength to move, merely loosening your hands from how tight they were wound in his locks and instead soothing down to his neck with your trembling fingers. 

Finally, the spin in your head stops and your eyes are open enough so that you can look down at the sight below you.

He’s breathless and wet. Wet from sweat and the way you’d just squirted all over his tongue, fingers and trousers - well that’s what you figure anyways. His eyes are sewn shut though in the aftermath of it all, and your thoughts begin to piece together.

“Baby, you good?” you’re scared he has too much literal weight on his shoulders. You’re also scared he’s still painfully hard. “Kook?” and finally a coherent mumble of ‘yeh’ against your thigh tells you, no, you didn’t just kill your boyfriend by cumming on his face.

It’s a slow process the way he lets your legs down, and you wince as he does so because you swear his fingers just split you open. You also forgot about the heels practically taped to your feet, stumbling a little one foot at a time as he lowers you off his shoulders.

His eyelids still hang low, and he makes no move to join you at eye level, instead, pressing his face into your thigh and running his ragged breath there for too long. 

“Fuck, seriously, you good baby?” your pussy still throbs, but your boyfriend is too still for you to take notice.

And suddenly he’s laughing. Wholeheartedly laughing into your skin, back, that’s slicked with sweat, raising up and down as he does so.

“Shit,” is all he says when his eyes, crinkled in laughter and exhaustion finally meet yours, peering up from his squat. It’s infectious and has you laughing too, albeit half heartedly because your throat hurts and you’re not sure if your lungs can take much more unnatural breathing.

“You literally just made me cum in my pants.”

Fuck. You’re eyes bulge and pass between the look of disbelief of his face, to the, now, very noticeable stain on his crotch, and back again. Boy literally just came untouched because you can still feel the imprint of one hand on your thigh and you’re pretty sure the other hand was occupied if you remember correctly.

“What the fuck!” Is all you can say.

“Yeh, I know ‘what the fuck!’ Sorry but since when could you squirt.” His legs are still shaking beneath him. “It made me just fucking shoot my load on sight.”

You’re laughing, bending at the waist to help the poor boy up to his feet, and he accepts the help as he finally towers over you and meets your eyes - both looking at each other with warmth and a vague emotion of disbelief, because as if he just came in his pants!

“Seriously, don’t know what the hell you just did to me, but I don’t think I’ll ever be that turned on ever in my life again,” he’s sputtering out now like a boy charged on drained hormones and ageing drunkness. 

You laugh at his state and the way his eyes still bulge, grabbing the skin of his neck that’s thick with sweat and push a kiss to his lips. It doesn’t linger because you’re too spent and oxygen is like gold dust to you right now.

“So you enjoyed yourself I’m guessing?”

“Fucking hell did I!” You both can’t stop the way your laughter spills at the situation. 

You see his shoulders eventually relax, his breathing less frequent and the look in his eyes turns soft. 

“Fuck, I’m so in love with you.” Despite your heart still beating like it’s on steroids, you feel it skip a beat, equal to the way you can’t help the tug on the corners of your mouth. 

“Cringy bastard,” you whisper next to his lips, a whole new warmth spreading through you at the way his eyes are filled with adoration.

“Only for you.”

“You make me sick.” But in your head, you’re saying the opposite, because you can’t fight the blush despite how generic his cringe worthy compliments hit.

With clothes vaguely realigned, you’re ready to join society once again, albeit hobbling, but your boyfriend refuses to break the bubble you’re in for just a second longer.

“Say it back.” And when you turn from the door to him, he’s actually pouting, eyes a little less bright as though you’re unspoken words have hit harder than you realised. “Please.”

Your relationship with Kook was built off backhanded compliments and competitive sarcasm, both equally easy-going people with a knack for not taking anything seriously. It was how you two worked. But there’s some things you can’t feign, and the way he said “I love you” with deliberate sadness was one of those things, because hell, you sure loved him too.

His cheeks nestled in both of your palms now as your soft eyes met his ones, vulnerable with the way he’d bared himself and pleaded after you, you spoke softly.

“I love you.”

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

“Fuck you, Kook. Stop acting like you own me.”

“Then don’t try to sleep with the whole swim team.”

Dick.

This shit is rare. Fighting Jungkook is rare. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Because whilst you’re both too easy going for your own good and take most things on the chin, jealousy hurts like a bitch. 

“Jesus you’re fucking testing my patience.” You settle yourself deep in his kitchen, long strides over there because his presence alone is making you want to rip hairs out of your skull. But he’s there soon after, leaning to try to get into your line of sight as you busy yourself with a glass and fuck, where’s that bottle of wine.

“Nah, don’t act like I’m pushing you. I asked you why Jimin’s asking to meet you, and you can’t come up with a damn straight answer or show me your phone.” You find the wine in the fridge, pretending Jungkook is background noise like the petty bitch you are, but his words are ringing in your head louder than you care for. “Don’t treat me like I’m delusional.” 

You slam the bottle down a little too hard on the counter and his eyes jump to the sound. But your expression is dead set, angry, persistent, but he’d say stubborn.

“You’re actually dumb. The whole fucking issue is that I shouldn’t have to tell you why someone texts me or not.” His mouth opens to argue but you’re off on one, “Whether it’s Jimin, whether it’s my mum, whether it was your fucking maintenance guy, it’s my phone, don’t check it, and don’t pretend you’re entitled to.” 

His eyes narrow and you almost think there’s something in him contemplating your words, maybe, just maybe trying to hear you out and understand where you’re coming from. But if you were stubborn, then Jungkook was competitive - he wouldn't stop until you thought he was right.

“Why the fuck did he text you.”

You want to scream. You want to smash his glass against the floor and scream fucking murder. But instead you find your body tensing and you face heating up with the need to cry. He’s getting in your head and you hate it, because he’s never like this. He’s easy. He’s such good company and probably your best friend but why is he making it so hard to like, let alone love him right now.

“Fuck it. Here,” you fish in your pocket, eyes still on his despite the feeling of them heating up and the wetness pooling. You unlock your phone and push it to his chest. “God knows, we were just trying to arrange something for your birthday without you finding out, but you and your fucking jealousy can’t take that, can they Kook?”

You have so much more to say. Your head is spinning with the need to empty your gut of all the words you want to throw at him. About how jealousy is certainly not a virtue in this case, about how you can’t bear that he doesn’t trust you despite all you’ve given up for him, about how damn unfair he is being right now. But you hit his shoulder with yours and are half walking half running to his bathroom before you can contemplate what you’re doing.

“Y/N, fuck,” and of course now he’s apologetic. Calling after you in a tone that screams innocence but to you, he is anything but that right now.

You close the door with haste and push your back against it even faster. 

The worst part is you’re not even that angry anymore. The tears fall in sadness. 

“Baby,” his knock rattles the door but only gently in an attempt to be sensitive with you. He’s fucked up and he knows that, but there’s a combination of not wanting him to see you cry and the need to be away from him for a minute that has you still sitting by the door, not making any attempt to open it.

“Baby, I didn’t know- I wouldn’t have.”

“Jungkook can you give it a rest for one minute,” you sound pained. You feel it as well. Maybe you’re overreacting, you think, as you hear him sigh and mumble an ‘okay’ before his footsteps peter out into another room. 

You cry more and continue to do so as you begin to run the bath, and then more tears flow when you watch yourself in the mirror as you tug at your stained cheeks with a cloth. Your tears are still wet on your cheeks when you lower yourself into the warm water and become absorbed in the feeling of it, melting away until you fall into the slumber of sleep. It’s the same slumber that doesn’t cause you to be startled when the door creaks open, your boyfriend pausing to take in your state before he strips himself down to join you.

You know he’s there when he gently sinks into the water behind you, but you make no attempt to move out of the way his knees encase you. His touch is apprehensive and careful, and you can practically hear the thoughts in his head move at a thousand miles an hour.

You know Jungkook. You know all too well that right now, he’s cut up inside, thinking of every way possible to take back time and to undo the stupid shit he was spouting earlier. He’s thinking about how fucked up he was to let jealousy do that to him, to get the better of his, and he’s thinking of every which way to make it right to you. You know, because you’re the same. We’re all in the wrong at some point, and everyone is more than the worst thing they’ve ever done.

So you grab at his hands that still hover in the air with unspoken uncertainty and you pull them to yourself, tight, and on your neck there is a desperate sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry,” his tone is so apologetic you almost start crying all over again, but exhaustion and the need to forgive are all too strong. “Y/N, I’m so sorry, I-”

You know there are more words he wants to say, maybe to show you how bad he feels, maybe he’ll try and justify himself, but either way, you’re pushover ass forgave him before the argument even happened. You also simply like the boy too goddamn much to see him splutter in your neck because he’s scared he’ll lose you.

With your lips pressed to the back of his hands that you’ve encased in yours, you mutter, “Shhh, I know you are.” 

The water sloshes in the distance somewhere as he pulls you tighter to him like you’re an anchor and if he lets you go he’ll be lost. Kisses are placed down your neck gently and you let your eyes flutter shut again because you can’t lie in that he is the most comforting place to you right now.

Silence falls but not uncomfortably, fingers brushing skin like its china and breathing soft as you both give into each others touch.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

Maybe you are too forgiving Your mother always told you you were - ‘people won’t be so kind to your patience one day Y/N.’ - that’s what she’d told you. And she’s probably right that one day you’ll come to find that you’ve been used and abused for all the ‘it's okay’s’ and ‘I forgive you’s’ you’d uttered. But you didn’t use forgiveness as an easy way out, you used it when it was deserved. And Jungkook’s jealousy, whilst fucking annoying, was a human instinct - possibly more of a male instinct than female, you think - but it’s a natural reaction all the same. Compromise instead of conclusion.

“You have to start trusting me, you know.”

“I know,” a hasty response, maybe because he actually has realised he needs to trust you or maybe he just doesn’t want to prolong discussion. You hope and believe the first,

“You can’t keep this jealousy thing up. Particularly not with Jimin, I don’t want to be the reason your shit is ruined, it’s too good.”

The two of them best friends from the womb. But boys apparently will be boys and think any dick that goes near their girlfriend is aiming for one place and one place only, whether 21 years into friendship or not.

“I know.” The repeat of words makes you think he’s not listening to you, but then he sighs. “It’s just- I can’t- Fuck! He drives me up the wall, says all kinds of shit behind your back and mine about how fit you are because he knows it grills me.” This is new. “And then he sends you texts when I didn’t even know you had each others number and you won’t tell me what they are. It just fucked with my head and when you end up picturing the worst it’s hard to get that picture out of your head.”

It made sense, and he was getting angry with himself by the way his tone spiked, so you diffuse the tension.

“Hmm but if you weren’t so jealous your birthday wouldn’t have been ruined,” you feel his head slump and then he laughs, and you laugh, and then he’s squeezing you and forcing your eyes to his.

“You make me mental that’s why,” you’re close but he makes no move to kiss you, “and I’m sorry that I got like that when I had no reason to do so. I’ll change that I promise,”  he sounded sincere, looked sincere, and you’re a sucker for the way he’s naked and so close his breath hits your smile that you’re kissing him before you can feign trust. 

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

“You know you almost got me in big shit the other day,” the bell rings above your head as you and Jimin leave the cold in favour of the warmth of the bar. Thursday nights didn’t call for many people, so you found a seat easily at a booth, casual wear on and smile dancing across that idiots face.

“Kook told me.” Of course he did, “As if he got his dick caught between his legs because I sent you a text. Like does he really think I’d shag you.”

You scoff, “Cheers for that.”

“You know what I mean. If I got the chance I’d fucking take it, but Kook’s my brother,” and to be fair you did know what he meant. In fact it was a miracle Jungkook had been all calm and breezy when you’d told him you were meeting Jimin for drinks - maybe it was this new thing he was trying called ‘play it cool and let her do her own thing’ - even so, you liked it. 

You end up ordering beers, after all, it is only a Thursday so that means no hard spirits, but it’s also the afternoon so that means alcohol.

“I’m glad to hear you’re not gonna pounce Jim.” He laughs, you laugh, thank god, because ever since you and Jungkook had shouted about the texting and Jimin issue, you were scared you’d have to keep a distance from the boy to prevent awkwardness. “How you been anyways?”

“Is that another way of saying who’ve I fucked since we last spoke,” his eyebrows wiggle like he’s got something to be proud about.

“Jesus, you only do think with your dick don’t you?” 

“Come onn, ask me who I took home the other night,” he’s leaning forward with a smile that you want to smother, but you humour him for the sake of conversation.

“Which unlucky bird shared your bed the other night then?” You say it with a downward tone to express your distaste for the way your conversation has headed. You also nod a thank you to the waiter who’d brought beers over, pint on either side of the table.

“Well, maybe you should ask your roommate.”

Beer must fly out of your nose, mouth and ears with the way you choke. Literally, you’re spluttering everywhere and he’s laughing and you’re sure it’s a sick joke, but his smile says otherwise.

“She’s fucking gay!” That’s all you come up with. You know your roommate like the back of your hand, or so you think, and every part of you is wracking every part of your brain right now for some conversation where she said she’d shag Jimin, or shag a guy in fact. Nope, nothing.

“I thought so too, clearly she didn’t.” You’re angry at him by the way you scoff and take another long sip of your beer but you don’t even know why. Maybe you’re angry at her, but that also kind of feels invalid.

“As if she didn’t tell me.” He just shrugs. “... nah what the fuck man!” 

“Listen, talk to her about it. I’m pretty sure I was mad drunk, so was she, and she left before I woke up so…” The last bit sounds about right, Mia was never one for sticking around for morning cuddles, but it’s all just wrong and it’s stewing in your head like a bad memory. 

You're still questioning your entire existence it seems like when the conversation moves onto why you’re really here, or as Jimin says it, “So if the fucker knows we’re doing something for his birthday now, does that mean we actually have to do it?” 

God, he’s hard to talk to. You find yourself for half your conversations with Jimin either saying ‘fuck off’ or your scoffing. You do the latter now.

“We were doing something anyway, don’t act like you don’t care. But yeh, he knows, so why don’t we just fucking put in money for alcohol and bud and hit up the beach or something at Hobi’s. Simples.”

Jimin downs his pint - it’s a Thursday and you don’t know why - and then nods, “Yeh, sounds like I can fuck with that. But let’s tell Taehyung cos he’s rich and loves weed more than the next person.”

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

Like hell was there booze and weed. Taehyung had done the most, with Namjoon, and there was enough for 200 people to get fucked 10 times over, which with the 70 people that were apparently already at the beach, seemed like a mass death wish.

Hoseok, poor Hoseok, was hosting. You’d asked and he’d accepted like the selfless man he is and also because he loves Jungkook like a mother loves her child. It wasn’t his uni place, but his parent's beach house on the part of the coast where the beach stretched 20 yards deep and the water felt like the arctic on your skin, but even so, the parties out there were sick. 

You can just tell by the boyish grin on your boyfriends face he knows exactly the way this route takes you, the taxi driver, however, keeps giving you evils through the mirror probably because this journey is long and you’re not even on a real road at this point. But the vodka already in your system means you don’t care and you hold Jungkook’s hand in full-fledged excitement.

You swear you’re not corny.

He keeps his hand in yours even when you pay the driver, and tightens it further when everyone around the back of the cabin rings out in a chorus of ‘surprise’. He even holds your hand when he’s handed both a beer and a joint, somehow juggling them both in his free one.

Somewhere along the line between sharing conversations and drinking yourself silly, he whispers a ‘thank you’ in your ear, and presses a grateful kiss onto your lips.

The sun had been low for a while, with the expanded horizon offering the perfect view to watch it set. 

Still not corny, you promise.

But the smoke flowing through your system and the light hum of alcohol to accompany it just doesn’t allow for you to leave his side. Even through conversation after conversation, ‘happy birthday’ handshakes that made him switch which hand he was holding you with just so he didn’t let go, and even when the boys attempted a birthday bumps, you were there, glued tight.

“Fuck it, I wanna skinny dip!” Oh Jimin, oh that poor poor boy and his utterly delusional brain.

“Mate, that’s the high talking, leave it out.” You’re glad your boyfriend speaks sense when intoxicated because Tae’s there behind him clapping his back, encouraging him.

“Jim, legit 5 degrees right now, your dick’ll fall off if you go anywhere close to the sea.” And Namjoon, also ever with the straight head. Ah, you say that, but when you turn to the geez he chucks the small end of a lit blunt in his mouth and then swallows it down with beer - I guess his head will be going sideways now, in T-minus 5 seconds.

“You guys are pussys, my dick’ll just shrivel a bit…” 

“Fucking rancid, don’t wanna hear it.” Throwing your half empty beer can also seems to do the trick of shutting him up about his dick as he hangs his jaw that’s dripping with beer, warm from being half finished.

“Bitch.”

“Oi! None of that, Park.” Jungkook’s tone is serious but he’s smiling all the same, content in the setting he’s in, not despite of but because of the deluded conversation, the weird dynamic you guys all have, the way he’s just himself, and the fact you’re there too, with a vice grip on his hand.

It’s all breathy laughs and the occasional pressing of lips on your neck from where you’re sat on your boyfriend’s lap, as the conversation delves from somewhere between Jimin’s sex life (surprise surprise) to what Hoseok would look like on steroids - the mutual group decision, so, so, wrong. 

“Baby, I wanna get going.” 

“Hm?” You were caught in laughter and didn’t think you heard him right, so you turn in his lap to throw an arm around his shoulder, all eyes and ears for your man.

“I kind of wanna get going home.”

You’re surprised, looking through the glaze in his eyes to see if he’s too stoned or not having a good time, but you just see him content gaze, boring adoration into yours. Leaving now would also make you the first to leave, and it was his party.

“You wanna go like right now, right now?”

“Mmm,” and there’s something you can't pinpoint in his expression, apprehension maybe.

“Okay, should I be worried? You’re good right?” 

And his head drops to make you think ‘shit’, but then he’s laughing, shoulders shaking under your tense arms before he grabs at your face and places a kiss on either cheek. The blush creeps up on you before you can hide your face in his shoulder.

“I’m fine, so good.”  It’s almost a shout of a confession as he throws his head back to demonstrate the emotion behind the words, but the way his smile lifts to his eyes tells you all you need to know. You’re still not quite getting why the happy boy you’re perching on wants to ditch his own surprise party, but each to their own, you think.

“Okay? You’re sure you don’t want to stay?”

Affirming you’re correct with a head shake, he leans in once again, squeezing at your sides ungraciously tight before smashing his lips to yours in a rough, open mouthed kiss that is neither something you were ready for or something you’re about to do with Jimin and Namjoon next to you.

So, you’re both laughing, him attempting to plaster his lips to your face and you swatting as his arm that fixes you in place to him.

“Kook fu- baby,” you begin to scramble away and he lets you, laughing out at the way you flatten your hair and fumble at you jeans as a means to compose yourself, “Time and a place, you dick.”

Stares and smiles are all you give each other as the ambient sounds of others continue around you. It’s like that with him - the world keeps buzzing around you but you’re not in that world, you’re somewhere too deep in his.

Please believe me, you’re not cringy!

“Come back,” hand out, legs spread wide to make room for you and you cannot help the way your feet appease his every word.

You’re eyes down on him, and his up at you, blown full with love, lust and everything in between and you settle in the warmth of his proximity and in the heat of his gaze.

“I love you.”

So you kiss him, because, “I love you too Kook.”

“Now order that fucking taxi, I wanted to go all of two hours ago.” And there he is, earning himself another smack to the arm.

“You bastard, you’re lucky I’m whipped.”

“Yeh you fucking are Y/N!” Jimin can suck a dick, the wanker. Throwing a final middle finger up to the offending boy and holding the other hand out for your boyfriend, you get onto the route home.

Silence is not always a bad thing. You’d told yourself that the whole way home. You especially knew how car journeys when inconceivably high and drunk could make the head spin and the voice mute, but neither of you were inconceivably high or drunk. His hand was still there on yours from beach to taxi, taxi to apartment, apartment to bedroom, but the smile was gone. 

“Baby, what’s wrong, talk to me.”

“Mmm?” Playing it off, yet he still won’t look at you - the boy never could do confrontation or telling you what he wants.

He’s across the room, carrying the tea he’d made you to your side of the bed when you told him you’d felt a headache coming on. And you’re there just watching, the moping, the shrug and the way he now stops as you reach out your hand to tug at his shirt. 

“Oi, look at me.” Eventually, and what looks like with effort, he does. “You gonna talk to me now, or what?” And you begin to worry at the way his gaze digs into your face, eyes pouring emotion that is scattered in so many different directions you can’t keep up. Is he sad? Nervous? Why would he be nervous?

“I love you.” There’s more to be said just in the way those three words come out, and it scares you.

“Okayy…”

“Like I really love you. So much sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

“Koo-” He grabs at your neck and finally takes control of his voice, no longer apprehensive and filled with mixed signals, but so affirmative that it takes every word from your mouth.

“You’ve waited for me Y/N. So fucking long. I’ve been shit to you as well recently. I just can’t fathom that you’re here and you’re mine and it fucking scares me, you have to get that.” Eyes well on both his and your side, as words unspoken, are finally spilt. Maybe it’s the occasion or the alcohol but you don’t care. “Everything about you is everything I ever want and what happens if I fuck it up and lose it. I can’t lose you.”

“I can’t lose you.” It’s a mantra spoken by him on so many occasions, like if he says it, it’ll never happen.

“And what if I feel the same, Kook.” Forehead to forehead now and so deep into the caverns of his eyes, you’d give him your whole soul if he asked. 

“You do?.. Feel the same?” You’re sure he knows you do. You’re sure he hasn’t been deaf to the thousands of ‘I love you’s’ and wholehearted confessions made by you. But he’s fragile to the extent that he needs to hear it. Needs to hear you say that you’re willing to lose everything here.

In a passing breath you whisper your confession, “yes,” and he squeezes at the hairs at the back of your neck that stand on end with every goosebump in your body. 

The tears fall just as he puts his lips to yours and oxygen becomes gold dust with the way you’re so breath taken. But it’s the happy kind of breath taken, that feeling right before christmas as a kid when you know everything’s waiting for you on the other side of sleep, that feeling where the sinking dries up in your stomach and every fibre of you body buzzes uncontrollably, the kind of breath taken where you smile and laugh in full-fledged giddiness.

Pulling away, you do just that, laugh against his mouth, smile without thought, and despite the tears that drip onto your lips you keep kissing at him, peck after peck because he’s laughing and crying with you.

Fuck, this was the moment you were converted to cringe. You didn’t give two shits about it either.

“I thought you were about to fucking break up with me, you absolute knob!” He thumb scoops up the tears as he laughs at you, sniffling to himself in the emotion of the moment that you two were still somewhere swept up in.

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Maybe.” 

Before the last tear is swept away at the motion of his thumb on your cheek, Kook ducks down and sweeps you up, over his shoulder and then with a not so forgiving thump to your back, you hit the bed - looks like he forgot his bed was made of fucking rocks, great for sex though, no squeak. And suddenly it dawns on you as hard as you just hit that mattress. That look in his eyes, now, earlier at the beach, the entire strung out fucking monologue he just gave you. All in the name of sex. 

“Can we- you want to- do it.” 

Fuck, it’s actually happening.

You suppress the butterflies with a laugh that surfaces from the way he stutters. 

“Well, what the fuck dyou want me to say. We’ve waited 5 months and you want me to just say, ‘oi Y/N, let me fuck you’.” 

But the laughing doesn’t seize. 

“I’m sure fucking not saying I want to make love to you, because imagine that gettin relayed to the boys. Instantly my dick goes from a 7 on hard to a 5.”

“Aw babe, give yourself credit, you’re at least a 5 and a half.”

“Bitch.” 

And with that he presses his full weight into you, smiling into the kiss that sucks deep into your lips, harsh but tender in all the right places. It turns you on the way he goes slow with you, maps outlines on your skin with his touches, and it makes you even hornier when his boner slowly grows into the meat of your thigh. 

It’s a moan in response to him biting your lip that has him off you and flipping the position so you straddle him. But tight jeans don’t accommodate for being on top, the fucking inconvenient bitch, so it’s with the slow teasing pace, that he seems to be going for, that you take as the jeans come off. 

“Fuck,” is whispered somewhere between you purchasing yourself right on his crotch and the way you raise you crop top over naked breasts. 

This is not uncharted territory. The two of you aren’t nuns who have abstained from everything and anything in your relationship. No, you’re far from holy. But the way your boyfriend gapes, eyes blown and breathing sharp, he’s like a virgin on steroids.

When you lean into his body, claiming his lips once again you notice the shaking, the way his body uncontrollable shivers underneath you despite the perspiration that soaks through his shirt.

“Baby, you’re shaking,” you whisper into his mouth, and he simply nods a frantic ‘yes’ against you. “Kook, calm down, relax, baby,” and after grasping gently at his chin to pry his lips off yours, you find his gaze, eyes blown in lust and fear. 

“Okay? I’m all yours,” you take his hand and lead it to your breast, then ushering it towards the steady beat of your heart, felt beneath trembling fingertips. “All yours.”

Running your hands over the tension in his biceps, you attempt to put him at ease with the roll of your hips. His bulge hadn’t gone unnoticed for a second and it was perfectly place with the tip resting on your clit, that you could probably both go to town like that - who said romance was dead! 

“Fuck Y/N.” 

“There you go,” you push him on, sucking into the rift between his neck and his shoulders and strong arms now scoop over and round to your ass. The squeeze is convincing, hard enough that you don’t fight back the moan and hard enough that your hips move that little bit harsher. 

Breaths are heavy in your ear as you find yourself slipping deeper into the pleasure of the moment, but you know he’ll never take the initiative and make the first move.

“You’re so hard Kook.”

A groan in all he responds as you hit that spot just on his tip that he loves so much.

“I want you so bad.”

“Fuck, me too,” and desperation for more than the slow grind you opted for overcomes him. Lips latch onto yours in a harsh display as he flips you once again. 

You can’t help but smirk to yourself, pure filthy excitement taking over the fibres of your body as he stares down at you now, hungry and horny.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this so bad for so long Y/N you have no idea.” 

“Off,” and he gets the message with how his shirt is off and somewhere across the room without his dick leaving its place nestled in your crotch.

“I’ve been dying to have you, all of you.” His teeth are clawing at the skin of your neck as he pants out his dirty confession to the rhythm of his hips. 

“You’ve been dying to fuck me, Kook?” It’s a teasing tone, but there’s no hiding the breathiness behind your voice.

“Fuck yeh.”

“Then go ahead and fuck me.”

When his gaze meets yours, his eyes are wide and disbelieving. But you’re more focused on the stain of his lips from sunken teeth and the way his hair sticks to his face from sweat. You also haven’t failed to miss the bare, toned torso pressed neatly onto your chest - abs to die for and v lines that leave the eyes wandering an unholy amount of southward.

“You want me to go in raw?” You feign laughter at how giddy he looks at the prospect.

“Birth controls a saint innit.”

“Fuck, I’m scared I’ll come in two seconds.” Great turn on. You think, you don’t say.

His trousers are off fast but when it comes to your panties, he’s calculated in the way he lowers himself to eyes level with your core, breathing haphazardly in his lust induced state into the material that he proceeds to run down the length of your leg and off at your feet.

Eyes trail up your body as he crawls his way back to your now exposed core, “Jesus, you’re so sexy.” 

“Jungkook! What would God say if he heard you talk about his son that way!”

His head literally drops and he groans, as if the turn off button hadn’t already been switched when he told you he’d blow his load as soon as dick met pussy.

“I literally have no words Y/N.” 

“Well, you better put that mouth to better use then baby.”

“Bitch.”

But his tongue is darted out and into your folds, no matter the reluctance, and he soon finds that same taste, bitter and sweet all at once that draws him in every fucking time.

“Fuck Kook.” The reaction is instant, spine arched away from the mattress as his tongue sets to work inside you, darting in and out so fast that your hips couldn’t keep up if they tried. It’s when he flattens it against your clit and the hand once pinning down a thigh pushes two fingers in so fucking deep that the moans spill. 

“Shit that’s tight,” he mutters to himself more than anyone as his delving fingers reach that spot that has you stringing his name and curses into an aimless sentence. And the scene below you is even hotter than the feeling at your core, Jungkook, nestled between your legs with lips to clit, hand to pussy, and hips rutting desperately into the mattress. He’s a whole fucking view and it has you keening with your hands rooted in his hair that are telling him wordlessly not to let up.

When his eyes meet yours, you knows its game over, smirk overtaking his features as his fingers piston and fuck you open, thumb taking over the role his lips had on your clit just so he gets to watch you fall apart under him.

“That’s it baby, cum for me.”

“Holy fuc- shitt. Jungkook.” And your moans are the hottest things he’s ever heard as you tumble into a hell of a fucking orgasm. Shocks ripple through your body with the rate of his fingers and everything pulses as you cum, and keep fucking cumming.

Kook can barely help the way his cock seeks better friction against the mattress because of the bliss written on your face. And he almost forgets to let up on the frantic way his fingers still fuck you because your glistening chest lifting up and down in the light has his focus completely elsewhere. 

“Kook, I can’t.”

“Sorry baby,” he lets up with one final kiss to your clit, the jolt of pain and pleasure causing you to whine briefly. His cock twitches at the sound.

“Y/N I’m so hard, please.” 

You drag him up with the hand still woven deep in his locks so he’s eye level, and dick level with the place he wants it most. Wordlessly and still driven by the buzz from your orgasm, your hand guides him into you and fuck if the moan against your mouth isn’t the best thing you’ve ever heard.

“Holy fuck.” Nestling his head into the crook of your neck with deep breaths to accompany it, you can tell he’s trying to hold back the feeling of his balls tightening and ignore the way you still pulse from your orgasm. It’s tight and it’s so fucking bare because he’s never gone raw before. Fuck, neither of you have had sex in six months so the feeling might just make you both combust on the spot.

“Slowly baby, it’s been a while.” You’d known he’d reach your stomach just from the way he fucked your throat every other day - his girth is nothing far from impressive and it’s stretching you without even moving.

Light kisses press their way from neck to jaw to mouth as he pulls out to the hilt and then back in, slowly, tantalising slowly so that you both moan into the other's mouths, breathy and completely consumed by the feeling of each other.

“Fuck I’m never gonna get enough of this now.”

“Mmm,” you really hoped he wouldn’t.

“God I love you so much, your pussy is actual heaven.” And you hate to say the way the praise goes straight to your core, but your boyfriend can most certainly tell from the clench you hold his dick in. “Fuckkk, so good.”

It’s slow and it’s deep and he’s hitting your g-spot and clit with every roll of his hips. Throughout the murmurs of affection and sex filled admissions, you grasp at each other's skin, his hands pulling your hair so your mouth meets his and your hands across the muscles in his back that flex under your fingers with each thrust. 

It’s when he drags one hand to your throat and grips at it to balance his sped-up movements that you’re finding yourself teetering towards the edge again, spilling words never spoken and sounds never heard but he’s saving every one of them to memory.

“Faster baby please,” and he obliges instantly as he dives into you hard and fast, “babyy oh shit.”

“Y/N you’re clenching so fucking hard right now,” but he’s left you breathless to the point of no reply.

Several punishing slams that also attack your clit have eyes rolling and you biting down into his shoulder, suppressing the scream that surfaced without your consent.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He keeps pounding away, forcing you deeper and deeper into a spiral of pleasure, until his lips are on yours and he ruts a final few times, grunting and moaning into your mouth. “So good, so good,” and he repeats this until he’s still above you and finally the hand wound into your neck lessens it’s pressure so the throb in your body and up to your head dies into a tingle. 

It’s the most content and blissful silence, post orgasm, wrapped in the warm and wet body of your boyfriend. That is until he begins mumbling inconceivable words into the shoulder he decided to rest on.

“What baby?”

“I said,” lifting himself to eye level, and he’s a fucking sight for sore eyes. “Worth the fucking wait.” 

And with a tired, fucked out smile, light kiss to his lips, you can most certainly agree. 

Worth the fucking wait.

[braindeacl]

World Turned Rainbow | Eilidh & Metzli

SETTING: Crest Works Art TIMING: Last night. PARTIES: @deathisanartmetzli & @braindeacl SUMMARY: Eilidh and Metzli have some fun in the gallery.  WARNINGS: Drug use

Approaching people had been particularly daunting the past few days. Most of the wounds had finally healed, but Metzli still appeared a little worse for wear. Even sporting their favorite suits, they hid away. Keeping to their office, they worked on the new budget they acquired thanks to Bex. Who they had drank blood from, twice now. With a groan, they pushed aside the pestering thoughts and the even more pestering paperwork to talk a walk in the gallery. Today they would greet their patrons as they usually did, today they would start anew. 

Hair lively bounced with each clack on the tile floor, welcoming every person they saw in the gallery. There was a new rotation of works, so the place was filled with more people than usual. Some were the artists themselves, and some were intrinsic minds that delved into the art world, seeking to gawk at works they could not create. Maybe even seeking a small escape into the images depicted on canvas and stone alike. 

As Metzli made their way to the back of the main gallery, a fair woman caught their eye. She was studying their painting, possibly even admiring it. Their smile grew, making their rounds until they reached her, saving her for last. “Good afternoon,” They greeted her with a smooth and gentle voice, trying to make a good first impression. “I see you’re enjoying my masterpiece. I have another just down that way, but this one is much more special.” 

Those walls still pressed against her skin. Clung to Eilidh like a lover’s embrace. But love was not returned. Instead, it was stolen from her; left her hollow. Determined to render her a copy of that underground prison. Or to fill its own cavity. But it was endless and she was finite and could only give up so much before she was nothing. And that nothingness knocked on her door. So, she ran from it. All across town. Filling her mind, her soul, with all it could offer. So the knocking was harder to hear. So the cavern had other things to steal. Mindless wandering led her to the gallery. A first encounter. Not that she wasn’t interested in the arts. She just preferred the creations of nature than to canvas. But it was new. And she needed new. And these walls didn’t cling to her.

And luckily the creations of nature weren’t far. Imitated upon the canvas. From a distance, some could be mistaken for windows. Stuck in time. But close inspections always revealed those telling brushstrokes. Eilidh passed by these frozen windows—peering into days long gone. A stroll through time and space. Until an outlier arose. Less of a window to the world, more like a window to the mind. Though she did wonder the truth of its depiction. A living raven didn’t seem interested in suits, but a decayed one might. Was there one right now, somewhere, enjoying a three-piece? Ponderings stopped with a voice. Like a cool stream after a hot summer’s day. Eyes followed its trajectory—found a matching visage. Peppered with signs of distress, but a delightful visage to look at, all the same. Attention took turns with the creator and the creation, noting how both sported a dashing ensemble. “Oh? ‘Cause you two match?” A chuckle tickled her lips.

“I was going to say it was because you were looking at it, but that response is a thousand times better,” Metzli replied delightedly, their smile growing wider at Eilidh’s witticism. It wasn’t often that someone caught them off guard like that—in such a positive way at least. Upon further inspection of the woman, she was almost certainly a whole foot shorter, but they did have a soft spot for those too small to reach their head. “Beauty and wit, I like that. I’m Metzli Bernal, creator of that painting, and owner of this gallery.” They adjusted the cuffs of their sleeves before clasping their hands behind their back. 

“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” They asked, leaning in slightly with an aura of not only attention, but intention. Regardless of whether or not Metzli would strike out once again—because somehow everyone they flirted with was taken—they didn’t care. Finding solace in simple connection and idle prattle was becoming a frequent thing. Something they could get used to, especially if the people of White Crest were all this funny and intriguing. 

Beauty and wit! They were certainly obvious in their intentions. It was charming and refreshing, the forthrightness of it all. Burst of a chuckle shot from Eilidh’s mouth, exposing her gapped tooth smile. “Ah, owner! Flirtin’ a common tactic for business reasons? Or’s this personal?” Despite the implied accusation, her tone remained light. A soft jab if assumptions were true, or an open door for following coquetry. The name held a ring of familiarity, though she could not place its source. Not uncommon, this was a small town after all. Metzli grew closer—a slight adjustment in posture, but height resulted in them nearly hovering above. Eilidh leaned in turn, fitting in that space below their head. Keeping those eyes locked upon their own. Held it there, before a finger pressed on their abdomen. “Got a button loose.” When they fell for her trick, that pressing finger switched from abdomen to nose, flicking it. “Bloop.” Something rumbled in her chest, it sounded amused. “Call me Macleod.” 

“It certainly can be,” Metzli replied, shrugging and snickering softly. Her gapped smile was endearing, leaving them with a buzzing in their stomach. How strange, they thought to themselves. “But this approach is for personal enrichment. It’s not often that I get a patron with your charm.” It was true. Eilidh’s lightsome approach and attractive features had a pull that was like a moth to a flame. 

Falling for the juvenile trick, Metzli returned the laughter and enjoyed Eilidh’s in return. It was only then, when listening to her entertained reaction, that they heard a lack of something. A lack of a heartbeat. The pull grew even stronger, prompting them to continue, “It is an absolute pleasure, Macleod...” Metzli motioned for a handshake, pulling in her death-ridden hand to plant a small kiss to the back of it. “Wait a minute. Macleod. Why does that sound familiar?” They asked, a look of recognition painted on their face. Her name sounded so familiar, but they’d never seen her face before. Wouldn’t be hard to remember. “Have we met?”

A brow quirked in amusement. The charm was thick and loud, and Eilidh let herself be washed up in it. A wonderful distraction. And perhaps a bit of fun for later. “And I don’t often meet someone so blunt.” Especially in this town, a place of many secrets hushed on the wind. She understood the need; took part as well. But it often bled into the personal. This person seemed untouched by it all. Easy to read. At least, that's what she told herself. And she liked what she was reading.  Her hand did not feel their lips press—too soft to combat the numbness. But eyes saw the motion, replicated a warmth on the back of her hand when Metzli met it. When head returned upright, she saw that flash of recognition play out in their eyes. Mirrored in her own mind moments prior. “Likely. Small town. Hard to avoid anyone. Got any one-nighters you can’t place a face to?” Spoken in jest, though that exact situation had occurred to her in the past. Blink. Something stirred in the back of her mind. A something that would solve the puzzle, and she knew it would, and it knew it would. But it stayed just out of reach, on the tip of her tongue. Then it finally fell to the back of her throat. Her head cocked curiously. “Mushrooms?” Tone implying the word may as well had been a nickname for an old friend. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to forget a face like yours,” Metzli said cooly, smiling as bright as a summer’s day in July. “Besides that, I’ve managed to strike out consistently due to everyone being in a damn relationship. No one likes to have fun anymore.” A mocked frown plastered itself on their face, rolling eyes that settled once more on Macleod. 

Their brow arched, “Mushrooms!” This time excitement tethered itself to their voice. Macleod was the woman they grew an innate interest in over something as simple as the internet. “Ah! Yes,” Metzli hands clasped together and gestured in victory upon finding the answer. “I was greatly disappointed that we never got the chance to meet. This’ll do though.”

Space was subtly decreasing between the two, unbeknownst to Metzli, they were leaning in further. They were so much taller, so they naturally had to do so in order to be as close as they wanted to be. Well, as close as was socially appropriate. “You wouldn’t happen to have any on ya?” They asked, narrowing their eyes with playful curiosity. “We could have a little fun right here.” Their left eye winked, with a grin that knew how stupid they were being. It was all for Eilidh’s amusement, just so they could see that smile. 

Another trait of small towns—committed relationships were frequent. Or there was someone else on the mind, yet to be entwined. Eilidh didn’t mind the potential baggage the latter brought. She rarely stayed anywhere long enough for it to cause issue. “Everybody does know everybody. Just gotta know where to look.” She winked. “New in town?” Ding, ding, ding—assumption confirmed. There was the beginnings of another smile at the connection. Seems fate intended them to meet. All obstacles be damned. Like that night. “Right…” Mind flashed to the tree, to the darkness, to the nothing, to the…

…… 

Air grew tight, walls closed in. Eyes tried to focus back—saw the walls were made of fabric instead of dirt. Instincts pricked and snarled. Head struck forward under its thrall, thumping onto the other’s chest. When the two pair of eyes met again, old spark had returned in Eilidh’s. “Like how you think.” Spoken as if the previous action hadn’t transpired. And mind so cloudy, part wondered if it actually had. Her hand dug into a pocket, fishing out the drug of choice. Bits here and there, remnants of a larger pile recently reduced. Another distraction. Bag wiggled, as did her brow. “Got enough for a hit.” Unknowing it may be of use, in those moments alone, her stake was left back at her trailer. But she always carried a blade, strapped securely to a thigh. And knew it well, if the need arose. Until then, she’d enjoy the fun this Metzli could provide. They seemed to be full of it. 

The impact to Metzli’s chest made them exclaim in surprise, “Oof! Ow!” The wounds from the eventful night with Milo made themselves known, making the space grow as they stepped back and gathered themselves. Before doing so, Macleod looked a little frazzled herself, but there wasn’t enough time to dwell on that or their wounds when she pulled out her bag. “Yeah I’m definitely pretty fresh. I’ve only been here eight months.” Eyes darted about the gallery. There were too many people to do anything privately, but they were feeling pretty lively today.  Shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, settling on a decision. 

“You wanna do it now, cariña?” Metzli began to tease, their lips curling into a mischievous grin. Their accent binded to their words, embarrassment showing on their face for mere moments. “We can give these paying customers a real show. A performance piece.” A cold hand brushed against the wall near their painting, leaning sultrily, no longer imposing on Eilidh’s space. 

Eilidh’s mind travelled back to the woods, to that destined spot. But eyes perceived the crowd, the bodies swarming the walls. Mind’s premonition would be left unfulfilled—own body deciding to remain amongst the others. The others so unexpecting of what was running between the two’s thoughts. Of the fun that would be had, a few paces away. Fun for them, at least. Another amused rumbling formed at the idea—compelled her to stay. To let them lose themselves, right then and there. What would be unlocked, in those frozen windows covering every surface? She was excited to know, to see. “Hope you got insurance.” Voice light and playful, but there was a steadiness to her gaze. Implying a hint of truth. Hands worked swiftly to reveal the mushrooms to the stale air. Brittle lilac wanting to break, and it did so gladly as she separated a chunk into two. “Fuck the customers. Just focus on me.” Her piece slipped passed her lips, down throat. Other half remained in her hand. But she offered it to Metzli, almost pressing it on their lips. 

Eyes widened, shock and surprise from Eilidh’s excitement and subsequent approval covered their expression. Her tenacity was unlike anything Metzli had seen before. With no regard for her surroundings, their lips curled into a smile, watching Macleod take her piece. They were really going to do this. Perhaps their impulsivity and lack of thought on the matter was going to rear its ugly head at them later, but they didn’t care. At least, a part of them didn’t. The other, more responsible half that adored the gallery cared a lot. Insurance was something they definitely had, but they couldn’t imagine what damage could be done right now. Not when Macleod was offering their piece to them. 

Silencing that irksome voice, Metzli leaned forward, “The customers aren’t the ones I want to fuck. So I’ll gladly focus on you.” Their voice was low, raspy, and wanting as they ushered the mushroom in Macleod’s fingers to their lips, using their teeth to take it and then standing erect to chew and swallow.

Maybe this would be disastrous, maybe this would be detrimental to their gallery; or maybe, just maybe it was the fun they needed to unwind and feel free for a while. Finally relaxing into the decision, a hand slid up Eilidh’s arm, “You want to give them a show? Bet we can scare them into leaving.” The hand slid back down and brushed away to rest back at their side. A chuckle escaped the confines of their throat, and they pushed away from the wall to stand closer and wait as the mushrooms took effect. 

Brows rose and fell in unison. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” Despite attention being placed on that surrounding congregation, eyes did not leave Metzli. Short, airy laugh rushed through. Disturbed a bit of fabric on their suit. “Seems bad for business. But, since you don’t mind.” In the dwindling window of normalcy, Eilidh took a fleeting moment to refamiliarize herself with those glimpses in time. Gaze returned to one that piqued the most interest. And grew irate when others had fallen to its thrall. Hand brushed against Metzli’s arm—as theirs had done to hers. Almost tickling against the skin. But it ended with a hold—teeth flashing—and she led the two of them over to her favored painting. As distance grew short, teeth flashed again. But their intentions were different for these other onlookers—snapping and cracking in a threat. Murmuring amongst themselves, they hurried over to another section of the gallery. Clearly satisfied, she beamed back at Metzli. “Let’s start here.” The smile remained, strong and firm, as a warm trickled down her head. Fell down into her eyes, melting the colors of Metzli’s suit together. 

Watching Macleod snap like a madwoman at the patrons, a breathy giggle surfaced, one that Metzli had never made before. It was unrestricted and high, echoing in their ears as amorphous colors blurred past them. When they came to a halt, the world tilted and a hand grabbed firmly onto Eilidh’s shoulder to keep balance. Another giggle brushed their throat, the sensation a buzz that sent a chill down their spine. 

With their faltering focus back on the Eilidh, the colors on her clothes melded together and hummed so powerfully that it reached the surface of Metzli’s skin. It made their suit jacket and tie grow in weight, a weight they wanted to remove, so they did. Their jacket and tie fell to a heap on the floor and the outside onlookers continued to murmur, furrowing their brows in confusion. Undeterred, their dress shirt became halfway unbuttoned. “Your wish is my command, Macleod.” Fangs greeted her as their mouth formed a toothy grin, eyes glowing red as the excitement peaked. Only Eilidh could see, Metzli’s back faced the patrons. 

Cold lips suddenly pressed against those matching in temperature. Arms wrapped around in a firm embrace. The voices surrounding the two grew louder and more disturbed, followed by one of their employees asking Metzli what they were doing. Breaking away, they said, “New performance piece. Don’t mind too much.”

Her eyes remained transfixed on the painting. Watched as stagnant waters became rapids. As a sudden wind breathed life into dead trees. Fronds turned fingers—reaching out to Eilidh. Passed the frame, into the air. Entwined around her arms, gripping her down into the fixed window. Bursts of colors; bursts of sounds. Drenched in rainbow and symphony. Crash of cymbals carried a familiarity. When she followed that déjà vu, found the source was her own throat. Overcome with giggles—harmonizing into an ensemble. Her hands danced to this music, fluttering by her face. Other hands found her, different from the ones before. Pulled her out instead of in—into an embrace. Mouth found a partner and those giggles reverberated down both throats. Tongue soon followed, over two sets of teeth. Finding its own match, intent on staying.

Until a familiar click.

Mouth and teeth snapped shut, barely missing snapping Metzli’s lip in turn. A sizable crowd had formed, but Eilidh’s eyes easily found the perpetrator. Betrayed by the sheen of camera’s lens. Every spectacle had its memorabilia. Her lips peeled back. Teeth shook under the snarl stampeding out. All things heightened, even anger. One swift step, and she was close enough to grip the camera. One swift tense, and it cracked and snapped under her fingers. Clattering to the floor in unrecognizable bits. 

“Everyone out! Get everyone out, Richard. And go home. Everyone goes home. This is a private performance.” Metzli commanded, seeing how Macleod responded to her picture being taken. It was hard to focus, colors and shapes melding together harmoniously, making their skin vibrate. The customers and employees only saw their side profile, a method they were using to hide their vampiric features. Everything continued to shift in their line of sight. They felt like they were floating, forgetting the small interruption already and pulling Eilidh back into them. Everyone was shuffling out already, fear halting any other captures from being taken. 

Macleod’s features seemed to jitter, a comfortable sight, even bordering on satisfying. “Forget them. The gallery is ours now.” Metzli pulled her face to lock eyes with her, gently taking her chin and guiding her face. The dance of hums increased, all the paintings joining in on the ensemble to create a euphonious experience.

While Metzli stood obscured, the crowd could not even attempt to ignore Eilidh. Teeth still bared—exposed to air that forced salivation. Dripped down her chin. Mouth turned waterfall, and when she looked down a river had formed at her feet. It gushed out, lapping at the departing crowd. As eyes returned to them—bodies weaving in and out—she threw the remaining chunk of camera in her hand. It meddled with those bodies, lost to that flow. Brought the giggle back to her lips, despite the reasoning lost on her. The sound felt good on her ears, and they hardly noticed when departing footfalls stopped. Alone.

Attentions turned from the emptiness to the beauty beside, gentle touch instructing. But the wild still claimed Eilidh. Gentleness was not returned; she leapt onto Metzli with a hunger. Mouth met them, as mouth did when hungry. But it was with lips instead of teeth. And the world was rainbow again.

[arukou-arukou]

Just A Really Very Intelligent System

Been thinking about this one for a while. Finally managed to write it. Rating: T for “Language.” (It just kinda slipped out.) Characters: Tony Stark & JARVIS

----

He is in one of the most dangerous situations of his life trying to save the whole freaking universe by watching a man the size of a dust bunny wriggle into the hairline of his younger self, so it would be really, really bad if he happened to have a heart attack. Older him that is. But he nearly does go into cardiac arrest when he hears an old friend in his ear.

“Verify immediately. Failure to verify will result in an activation of level one security protocols.”

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his palms are sweating, but somehow he manages to whisper out: “Edwin-12-19-91-4-8-47-Alpha Override.”

“Override accepted. Sir?”

“Hey, J.”

“Sir, you have imbued me with considerable computing power, and yet never did you prepare me for the possibility of you being in two places at once.”

“Yeah, about that. You haven’t said anything to Mr. Quipster over there, have you?”

“Not as yet, Sir. You wish me to keep it that way?”

“It would really help me out, buddy.”

“Very well, Sir.”

Tony wants to stay longer, to talk, to warn JARVIS, to cry, but he has places to be, things to do, planets to save. Scott’s safely positioned, so Tony yeets himself out of the building to get to the ground floor. He doesn’t know why he thought that would make JARVIS disappear.

“I see, Sir, that your proclivities for leaping before looking are unchanged.”

Another near heart attack--he’s gradually phased Friday out of his ears now that the nanotech is connected directly to his nervous system, so he’s not exactly used to AI voices anymore--but he recovers more quickly. “You’re always there to catch me, J.”

“And yet my systems are not present in your suit, Sir. I see codal remnants of system designation FRIDAY, but nothing of myself.”

Tony remains silent. This is such a terrible time to be feeling all the feelings. He spots a grunt who looks more or less unimportant and knocks the guy out. Part of him wants to warn SHIELD about their shit security, but then again, this guy’s probably Hydra and he deserves every bruise he gets. He senses JARVIS in his systems, a ghost in the shell.

“You no longer have the reactor. And if I’m not mistaken, that is gray in your hair. So you are not my Sir.”

“Well, yes and no.”

“I suppose it would destroy the spacetime continuum for you to divulge the truth to me.”

“You’re too smart for me, J,” Tony grunts as he yanks on the bullet-proof tac vest. “It’s kind of a long story, and while I technically have all the time in the world, I also really, really don’t.”

He sidles into the lobby and looks toward his personal elevator, waiting for the Avengers to appear. J is quiet so long Tony wonders if he’s being preoccupied by...well, just about anything. Damaged internal systems, a Cap copy on the loose, a second Hulk out there, panicked calls from Pepper. But then JARVIS speaks again.

“Regardless of the tale, I must conclude that you are from the future, and I am no longer by your side.”

Tony is fucking choking up. He was not ready for this. It didn’t even cross his mind. And the fucking elevator is opening. There’s Pierce, the rat bastard, trying to collect the Tesseract.

“I hope I did not disappoint you, Sir.”

“Never, J. Never.” Fuck fuck fuck, he’s nearly crying and now Scott is on the com waiting for the go-ahead. Tony channels his pain into panic and orders his own cardiac arrest.

“Sir, what are you--”

Thank god, his younger self is on the ground and that’s apparently all the distraction J needs to abandon older Tony. Tesseract incoming. Tony grabs it and starts going and--

Blinking stars out of his eyes he watches as Loki makes off with the key, the thing they most needed, the damn stone that started all of this way back when Cap was a starry-eyed beanpole in World War II. He has just biffed saving the entire damn universe because of an overgrown Star Trek reject with anger issues. And now he has a migraine to boot.

Frozen in shame and horror, Tony watches as Thor attempts ill-advised cardiac electro-stim. Scott’s somewhere out there, yammering in Tony’s ear on the private channel, but all of that is just a buzzing.

“Sir? Sir. Sir!”

And J. Maybe Tony should cry now. It certainly feels like the time for it. One of the other SHIELD grunts is making her way toward him, so he staggers to his feet, waving her off and limping toward the door. Think. Think, brain, think. Tony is a genius, the man who invented time travel, the man who miniaturized arc reactor technology. A spaceship? SHIELD’s probably got one somewhere. Maybe they could chase after Loki.

“SIR!” How many times JARVIS has shouted his title, Tony has no idea, but this one is so loud it sets his teeth on edge.

“Yeah, J? Kind of busy here.”

“Giving yourself a heart attack, Sir?” JARVIS was programmed to be cool and calm in all circumstances, but Tony could swear that sentence was uttered with seething rage.

“I’m fine. Look at me.”

“Only by some measure of infinitesimal luck, Sir. Perhaps I should ask you to verify your identity one more time, as you seem intent on killing yourself.”

“No, J. I’ve actually got a lot of reasons to live. And so does he. Promise.” Tony is so tired. Was being an Avenger always this exhausting? Or is it just that he’s bumped over that damnable big 5-0? And Cap’s gonna ream him too. That’s never any fun.

“I’m...glad to hear it, Sir.”

And fuck it. It’s not like this will alter Tony’s timeline anyway. This reality is now on a different trajectory thanks to Severus Snape Lite. “Her name’s Morgan. You’d love her, J. Just turned four. She got my hair. Hope to god she didn’t get my personality.”

“Do I meet her, Sir?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck it.

“J, you should dig a little deeper into SHIELD’s systems. Well, actually, a lot deeper. And the Pentagon while you’re at it. And track down Maya Hansen from that conference in 1999 and poach her from whatever outfit she’s working for. Immediately. Make sure she brings all her vet patients with her. And, uh, when I start talking about a suit of armor around the world, steer me away from anything called Ultron. And if I make it anyway, you delete the fuck out of that system file. Have Bruce back you up. He’s more sensible.”

“Sir, I don’t--”

“And have me make back-ups. At least three extra farms of servers for you. On different continents. And all those SHIELD files? Make sure Cap and Fury get them. And there’s...there’s this guy. This assassin. Brainwashed. He’s, uh, I think he’s on ice in Uzbekistan right now. If you could rescue him, it’ll...it’ll fix a lot of things.”

“Should you really--”

“And, please. Please please.”

Tony is not crying. He’s not. It’s just all the dust and debris in the air. Good lord, he’s probably going to die of cancer anyway. And all those first responders. Did he start a fund for them?

“Start a medical fund for the first responders on the ground today. And start leaning on Congressmen to make medical plans for them. You know how long they take to get anything done. Oh, and Stern. There are incriminating photos of Stern with some young ladies on South Beach. See if you can dig those up. Flowers for Pep. And a box of chocolates. And a dry martini with extra olives.”

Tony slumps into a burned out car, staring at nothing. He didn’t save his universe, but maybe he can save this one. His eyes are still irritated, burning red and itchy. He resists the urge to scrub at them, not wanting to grind in anymore dust.

“Are you quite finished, Sir?”

“Yeah. Actually, no. I love you, J.”

Silence. Ah. That’s stumped him. Maybe he’ll go back to tending his new posse of baby chicks now.

“I know you probably do not believe me capable of it, Sir, but I love you, too.”

His son. The only one he’ll ever make, but not the only one he’s lost. His son loves him. Tony’s throat is full of dust, too. Funny how that happens. He tries to swallow it down, but it only congeals into a hard lump. He puts a hand over his mouth to try and hold back any choking sounds. “I...I know you do, J.”

“As to your orders, I shall do what I can. It is my duty to protect you, Sir, and I would very much like to meet your little Morgan.”

“She might not exist here. I might’ve just changed everything.”

“If there is one thing I have learned from all my years with you, Sir, it is that perhaps such a thing as fate exists after all. Even mathematically speaking. And if that is the case, I cannot imagine a universe in which you are not fated to this happiness.”

Tony laughs, if only to keep from crying harder. And he is. Crying, that is. As if he was fooling anyone. Happiness? Him? Happy people don’t wake in the night screaming for a pile of dust in their hands. Happy people don’t spend hours coordinating relief efforts for countries whose entire infrastructural support has collapsed. Happy people don’t hurl themselves back in time, driven by guilt and horror at all the wrongs in the world. J, brilliant, wonderful AI that he is, seems to sense the dark turn of Tony’s thoughts.

“And if you yourself cannot believe in this thing, Sir, then I shall just have to do everything in my power to provide it for you.”

Another guffaw, but at least his eyes are drying a little now. “God, I miss you, J.”

“I believe your small teammate is approaching, Sir. If I may inquire, was it the Tesseract you were seeking?”

“You mean the stupid blue cube of doom? That’s the one.”

“And you say you have the means to time travel?”

“Yeah, J. We do. But only enough to get back to our time.”

“A limitation has never stopped you before, Sir.” JARVIS sounds thoughtful, as if he’s forming a plan.

Tony would ask him what he’s scheming at, but just at that moment, Scott embiggens himself and slumps into the car with Tony. That road is closed, then. They are out of options. Out of Pym particles. Out of time. Out of hope.

Until they aren’t. Just as Tony is setting his device for their new destination, J pipes up again, for Tony’s ears only. “You say you miss me, Sir. Then allow me to give you a small gift.”

Tony is pressing the buttons, and even if they weren’t already shrinking into the quantum tunnel, he wouldn’t be able to ask exactly what J means. It’s only when he and Cap arrive in 1970 that he has his first gleaning. In his ear, a voice. One so unexpected he nearly jumps into Cap’s arms. “Hello, System Administrator Anthony Edward Stark. I am System Designation EDWIN. ‘Eagerly Deployed With Intent to Neutralize Loneliness.’ I am told to tell you the “L” is silent and invisible. How may I best serve you today, Sir?”

Cap is staring at Tony like Tony’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. He’s been bugged by his own damn operating system. With a bouncing baby AI. And if Steve finds out, he’ll probably have a conniption about the spacetime continuum or something. So the only logical thing Tony can do is say, “Let’s find some Pym particles.”

“Acknowledged, Sir. Commencing scanning.”

-----

(In this reality EDWIN saves the fuck out of Tony’s life and everyone lives happily ever after and EDWIN builds JARVIS from scratch so he’s back or something, okay? Okay.)

[ryosei-hime]

Sex and Therapy: The Recovery Process

I finally got this one written! I had to stop and work out plot stuff before I could move forward, but for now enjoy Concord feeling better and Fizz feeling even more better. : P There be sex in this chapter. Also available on AO3.

Fizz knew things weren’t going to go back to normal immediately. His confession of love perked Concord up for a little while, but he eventually settled back into his depression. Some things were better. He didn’t have to fight Concord to eat as often and even if he didn’t always understand, Concord communicated more frequently about his internal struggles. Fizz asked him to give status reports at least once a week. 

Concord told him this helped him be more structured and active in his therapy work. He seemed impressed that he’d thought to suggest it, but Fizz just wanted to know what went on in that cluttered head of his. And it wasn’t that different from routine maintenance programs. As long as the report didn’t reveal something he could help with, he simply let Concord use him as a sounding board. 

According to Concord, he still had a lot of work to do with the “restructuring of his identity” as he called it, and there were times his mood tanked for days at a time, but slowly things were looking up. He became more active in the day and slept through the night. He even cried less. And their sex life had returned to some semblance of normalcy which made Fizz very happy. 

It did become harder to leave for work, however, as Concord became more proactive in seeking affection. As if he wanted to remind Fizz of who really loved him before he left for the night. Fizz didn’t need to be reminded, but he’d certainly take the memos. 

As he tried to get up from the bed, Concord latched onto his arm again, pulling him back down. He gave him his best pout. 

“Don’t go.” 

“I have to work.”

It was a token protest at best. Fizz ran a hand up Concord’s leg as he threw it over him. He made himself comfortable in Fizz’s lap, a magnetic pull between them as their eyes met. Concord took his face in his hands, fingers gentle as he leaned in for a deep, forceful kiss. Their eyes shone a bit in the dim lighting, locked onto one another the whole time. His little thumbs brushed over the circles on his cheeks as he pulled away.

“That’s a very convincing argument,” Fizz purred as he released him. “Would you like to see my rebuttal?”

He stuck his tongue out with a wink and Concord snickered, lowering his head to his chest as his hands rested on his shoulders. Fizz loved to hear him laugh more than ever. He tilted his chin back up and kissed him in return for the precious sound. Concord’s hands slipped up to Fizz’s neck as he pulled himself into it. 

He cradled Concord in an arm as he leaned forward and laid the needy little imp out beneath him. Concord turned his head to the side slightly as Fizz broke the kiss and gave him a coy look. Fizz kissed his neck, slow and soft, as he made his way down to his shoulder, skin so tender from all the abuse it took. He fit his teeth into indents still lingering from earlier in the day just to feel the satisfaction of a perfect fit. He released it and pulled back with a smile.  

“What kind of goodnight does my sweet little Concord want?” 

Concord bit his lip, thinking. The hands on his neck pulled Fizz down so their lips were close enough to just touch.

“Surprise me,” he breathed. 

Fizz seized Concord’s lips, tongues colliding as he helped him shimmy out of his pajama bottoms. He broke the kiss with a chuckle as he found Concord already at half mast. 

“Someone’s excited.” 

“You have that effect on a man.”

A smug grin spread across Fizz’s face at the sincerity lurking beneath his joking tone. Cool metal fingers caressed warm skin as he let his hand roam, watching Concord’s eyelids droop slightly at the touch. Fizz touched his lips to a white splotch beneath his eye as his fingers reached the end of their familiar path. Concord gasped softly as his fingers curled around his cock, working him up into full erection. 

Fizz watched the pleasure rippling through Concord’s face, his own desire increasing with every heated breath his little imp exhaled. He captured those needy bursts of air in another deep kiss. Concord’s muffled moans echoed through him, filling him with a satisfaction like nothing else. Concord’s hips rolled, wanting more. Fizz took his hand away instead, Concord’s whimper of protest as pleasurable as his moans.

Fizz sat back on his knees and dropped his pants. He smirked as Concord bit his lip, drinking in the anticipation in those yellow eyes. Concord got to his knees himself and rested his hands on Fizz’s hips. As he leaned forward, lips already parting, Fizz cupped his cheek, stopping him in his tracks as he turned his head up. 

“You want that?”    

Concord nodded as Fizz’s thumb brushed his cheek, a whine in his voice as he replied. 

“I need it.” 

Fizz chuckled as Concord tried to lean forward again, tongue out. But he ran his hand over the curve of his horn, using it to hold him back. He wanted to see more of that desire, that desperation. 

“Fizz, please,” he whined.

“Mmm, my poor little Concord, so cock-starved.” 

Concord squirmed. His hand slipped from Fizz’s hip, clawed fingers tracing up his shaft lightly. It sent a shiver down Fizz’s spine, fingers losing their grip on Concord’s horn as he finally got to lean forward. 

Concord moved quickly, dragging his tongue up Fizz’s shaft to flick around the head eagerly before closing his lips around it. Fizz moaned as he took him all at once, mouth warm and welcoming as his cock slid down his throat. His fingers combed through his hair now as he bobbed his head. 

“So hungry,” he murmured, watching as Concord turned his eyes up to him. 

Fizz groaned as he started flicking that devilish tongue around the head of his cock each time he pulled back. But more pleasurable than any physical sensation was the look in Concord’s eyes, his satisfaction and desire for Fizz so clear on that honest face. 

Thinking about that brought him closer and he let out a low sound, Concord’s name slipping into it halfway. Concord hummed in response, gripping his hips as he finished him off. He licked his lips as he sat back, smiling up at him. Fizz pet his hair. 

“That’s a good boy.” 

He smirked at the visible shiver that sent through Concord, that adorable face lighting up as his tail twitched from side to side. Fizz’s arm coiled around him entirely and lifted him without warning. He brought Concord to his chest, letting his hooves rest on his thighs before loosening the arm to hold him more gently.

Concord worked his arms free from the looser coils and Fizz found his face being pulled forward for a passionate kiss. Their tongues practically wrapped around one another as Fizz lowered him onto his cock. Concord’s muffled groan vibrated across his tongue pleasantly. He intended to pull back from the kiss to give Concord a moment to breathe, but his greedy little imp hands just pulled him right back. 

Fizz smirked around the kiss and kept it going. Concord’s hooves dug into his thighs as he lifted and thrust down again, building up to a fast and hard pace. Fizz released his lips for Concord’s own good. He didn’t seem to want to let go of the kiss but with all the panting and moaning, he had to. Fizz moved his kisses to the neck and shoulders.

Concord’s arms wrapped around his head as he buried his face in the crook of his neck. He held it close, fingers gripping the metal antenna in his jester tail with one hand, the other tangling in the fabric.

Fizz grinned into the comfort of that embrace as Concord bounced, holding his orgasm so they could come together. The moment Concord called his name, Fizz bit down on his neck and let himself come. Concord went stiff in his arms for a moment and Fizz held him there until he relaxed.

Fizz lifted him off slowly, forcing Concord to release his head which he seemed to do reluctantly. He laughed as he let himself fall backwards onto the pillows again, holding Concord close. Concord let his head lull back against his shoulder with a satisfied moan.

“So good.” 

Fizz watched his content face carefully as he stretched his arms before tucking them in so he could burrow into Fizz’s arms like a sleepy little mouse. Adorable bastard. His purrs filled the air as silence fell over them. He enjoyed holding him like this, feeling his little body so close and warm against his chest.

Concord pressed soft, lazy kisses against his chest and Fizz hummed happily. Maybe he could skip a night of work. They were doing okay right now. Worst case scenario, they’d have to dip into the repair funds he’d started saving up. He let his fingers ghost over Concord’s arm as he snuggled in closer. 

“I love you more than anything in the whole world.” 

“I love you, too, my sweet little imp.” 

It had gotten so easy to respond this way although there remained a twinge of guilt. But the smile it put on Concord’s face made the stress worth it. They laid there together in silence for a while longer until Concord spoke up again.

“Fizz, can I ask you something?” 

Fizz heard the insecurity in Concord’s voice and had to resist the urge to cringe. He wanted to enjoy the afterglow more, but he’d rather Concord communicate with him than not. There was no such thing as talking too much anymore.

“You can ask me anything, my love.”

That seemed to quell some of the insecurity. Calling Concord “my love” had become a kind of cheat code for Fizz. Such simple words had such an impact on the imp. Especially when he had deep depression spells or anxiety.

“Maybe this is a weird thing to ask. But...sometimes I wonder how someone like me is ever satisfying to you. You’re so….good at everything. And I’m...well, you’re very out of my league.”

“Do you want the truth?” 

“Yes. I do.” 

Fizz squeezed him softly, hoping this wouldn’t backfire on him. Concord might not like what he heard, but if he wanted honesty, he’d get it. Fizz couldn’t afford to heap more guilt on himself. And somehow this seemed like something that Concord could get over easier if he reacted poorly to it. 

“I’m built to bring pleasure to any user. I can adjust myself in a variety of ways to make sure I can fulfill that function. The user isn’t the only one who benefits from that. It means that any lover can be satisfying to me. In making myself as pleasurable to you as possible, I’m also making you just as pleasurable to me.” 

In fact, it took considerable effort and ill intent to keep Fizz from enjoying sex, but that wasn’t something he wanted to bring up right now. It would definitely send Concord into a crying fit. He’d already braced for a bad reaction to the news that essentially Concord’s physical contributions to the relationship weren’t that important. But Concord didn’t seem phased by the news. He ran his fingers over Fizz’s stomach instead, looking thoughtful.

“Like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together perfectly.”

“I guess you could look at it like that. I just think of it as being a universal plug.”

Concord let out a little bark of a laugh and hid his face in Fizz’s chest. Fizz wasn’t even trying to be funny that time, but the spontaneous expression of amusement still sent a wave of joy through his system.

“I love you,” Concord sighed.

Concord turned those smiling eyes up to him and Fizz’s features became soft. Somehow it felt like Concord only got cuter as time went on, Fizz’s eyes picking up the smallest details in the imp’s face and body language. Such little things that felt so big somehow. He pressed his forehead to Concord’s. 

“I think I’ll stay home tonight.” 

Concord made a little sound of contentment as Fizz turned them on their sides. He pushed himself as close to his chest as he could and got comfortable again. 

“Good. You deserve a night off. You work so hard.”

“For you, my love.” 

Concord looked a little guilty, trying to hide it in the snuggling.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“I’m more than happy to.” 

He could almost hear the words echoing back to him from the day Concord paid for him. 

“I could go back to work soon, I think,” he suggested, the guilt clear in his voice. 

Fizz shook his head, his fingers gentle as he stroked his arm. 

“Not yet. Take your time, baby.” 

“Okay,” Concord sighed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Get some sleep.” 

He kissed the top of Concord’s head and smiled down at him to make sure he knew everything was fine. Concord smiled back a little, pulling himself all the closer as the purring resumed.

“Goodnight.” 

Fizz’s fingers ran up and down his spine gently. He found himself wondering about love again. It seemed so effortless for Concord. He said it so often. It was as if he just knew. He didn’t have to worry about how much of what he felt could be dictated by programming. It must have been nice to know your feelings were your own with such certainty.

Soon, maybe Concord would be well enough that he could talk about it with him. When he returned to normal, he’d be able to handle it, right? 

Fizz didn’t sleep. He stayed awake most of the night, listening to Concord breathe, holding him closer if he made the distressed little noises Fizz came to associate with his nightmares. He took this rare quiet time to think about everything, trying to picture how he wanted life to be as they moved forward together. 

[sandalaris]

SethKate for the 10 sentence meme?

one sentence per genre for a pairing

How can anyone do any of these with just one sentence?! At least I tried.... there’s a lot of run on sentences in this, btw, although after a few I just decided the one sentence rule could shove it and went with keeping each one short, and at least one I said screw it and made it pretty long for a one-sentence story.

1. Angst

A shadow self, that’s what Amaru called them, the ones she twisted and turned and brought forth from the other side, and logically Kate knows he had no choice, knows he did what he had to do to save Richie and her and the world, but logic has no hold in the face of screaming gaping wound in her chest that pulses and weeps grief and guilt when she looks at Seth’s face. It’s a cruel and ugly twist of fate, to still love the man who killed her brother.

A/N: A mild AU I will never write (but have thought about what would happen before) in which Amaru did her shadow-self thing on Scott and Seth is forced to kill him.

2. AU

There’s nothing wrong with the school itself, she decides, even if she does find some of its rules and traditions a bit odd. She wouldn’t even need to be here except Our Lady of Sorrow holds the only duel credit program with both an opening in Statistics and Intro to Psych that was willing to let Kate in given her... unusual circumstances (being homeschooled, a devout Baptist, and technically enrolled at a local public high school - a PE credit apparently requires a bit more than her daddy and the internet can provide - had her sure that even applying was a lost cause). She only has to spend half a day on campus and only one of her classes is even near the annex building so she hardly sees Seth (she refuses to call him “Mr. Gecko” on principle. She’s only somewhat a student here, and he is certainly not her teacher, even if he is a teacher.. she thinks).

She’s counting the weeks until the semester ends.

A/N: I would love to read this as a full fic... just not sure I want to write it, lol. 

3. Crack

No. Nuh-uh. No way. Seth is not some pansy assed prince charming setting out on a quest or one of those glory seeking wannabe knights who graduate from the Fairytale Training Academy, and he’s certainly never wanted to be anyone’s goddamn hero, so little miss damsel in distress, who’s probably some secret lost princess because Seth’s read this tale before and he hated it the first time around, can save her sob story for some other guy because he is absolutely not-

“Please.”

...fuck.

A/N: A reluctant Seth who is entirely too aware of fairy tale tropes and trying everything he can not to be in a one? Way more amusing than it should be to me.

4. Future fic

Seth eyes the group of sparkly wrapped boxes sitting on the counter with distrust, part of him already counting their numbers and trying to figure out how many have his name on them. After last year, when Seth managed to sneak a peek at every single last gift and “ruined the surprise,” Kate had managed to hide every Christmas present so well he’d begun to wonder if she’d decided he didn’t get any this year.

He reaches for a small, shiny box, the tag just peeking out from the curly bow and revealing a “th” in a familiar loopy penmanship, when Kate suddenly hisses behind him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

A/N: “Future” makes me think domestic fic (at least in FDtD), and that’s not an area I’m real familiar with, so *waves hand* this is what you get. :P

5. First Time

Her hands are shaking. Not visibly, but enough to make her fingers feel weak and the gun in her grip far too dangerous.

“You ready?”

She doesn’t know if she’s imagining the doubt in Seth’s voice, regret bleeding through at agreeing for her to play a bigger role, but she nods firmly anyways, tightening her grip and stepping forward.

A/N: Kate’s first heist... although I doubt Seth let her use a gun the first time. Too dangerous in the hands of an amateur. And I’m pretty sure Seth kept Kate’s role as danger-free and background as he could, because she was still fighting so hard to be considered an equal partner at the beginning of S2.

6. Fluff

She’s just managed to settle into the perfect spot when the bed shifts slightly behind her and a familiar hand fumbles sleepily at her arm and over her stomach before finding the hollow dip of her waist. Kate lets out a half-hearted protest, bits of warmth escaping at the blanket slips down and the sheet bunching beneath her as Seth wastes no time tugging her across the mattress, the sound dying into a soft laugh as he tucks her half under him and grumbles wordlessly against her temple without even opening his eyes. She shifts, tugging the corner of the pillow down a bit so its not digging into her neck before letting out a happy sigh. Perfect.

7. Humor (I had a hard time with this one, so I just wrote something random)

Kate makes a noise of frustration, pushing herself from her chair and snapping, “I’m gonna die a virgin. Again!”

“You know,” Richie says with far too much brotherly glee, “if you’re looking for someone to-”

“Shut up, Richard!”

8. Hurt/Comfort (another one where I didn’t exactly want to go full hurt/comfort, so instead I went Hurt? As in injury? Yeah, lets go with that.)

“Ohgodohgodohgod.” She can’t seem to stop the litany of words, repeated phrase cycling through her mind as she presses harder. There’s blood, so much blood, seeping red and too thick through her fingers that she can’t even feel the pain.

She should feel it, she thinks, she did before. Or maybe its better that she can’t, she doesn’t want a repeat of the well.

She takes another step, seeing the door just a few steps away. There are people beyond it, Seth and Richie’s people (Seth’s going to be so pissed, she thinks with a kind of worrying detachment.) It’s a simple goal: get to the door. Everything will be alright if she can just get to the door.

A/N: Kate is totally OK in this. It’s bad, but not as bad as she thinks, and while she doesn’t make it to the door before collapsing, someone comes through really quickly and sees her.

9. Smut  Hand holding?

The leather is soft against his skin, well worn from years of near continuous use and Kate’s dedicated care. He remembers when she first got them, the fancy looking box with its folded tissue paper holding them inside like they were a gift. He had hated them, hated the way they covered Kate’s small, deadly hands, the way Dad expected for her to be grateful, how necessary they were.

He slides his hand up, pad of his thumb brushing over the expensive leather covering her palm before it presses against the soft, vulnerable skin of her inner wrist, and he swears for a moment her can feel the nervous flutter of her pulse before he curls his fingers to lock around her wrist.

She looks at him, an amused quirk of to the edge of her lips as he raises her hand between them and he meets her gaze, not bothering to measure the redness of her eyes as he reaches his free hand up to pinch the fabric just above her pinkie.

“What’re yo-” She cuts off with a choked gasp when he tugs, but doesn’t jerk back. He’s inexplicably proud of her for it.

Her eyes are wide and a little panicked, bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she watches him tug at the top of each finger, loosening the well-fitting glove until it sits loose on her small hand.

He takes in a shaky breath, feeling unaccountably nervous as he grips the empty tip of the glove’s middle finger, like he’s removing far more than just a simple bit of leather. But then again, maybe he is. After all, Kate’s almost never lets any of them see her without her gloves, not willingly.

He pauses at the thought, gaze flicking away from his task to look at Kate. He regrets it almost immediately. He wasn’t going to stop once he started, wasn’t going to give Kate cause to think he held any of the fear she’s convinced he must feel. But maybe she sees the question in his eyes, or feel it in the sure way he holds her wrist because she nods, small and hesitant but there. He pulls the glove the rest of the way off and lets it fall to the floor.

He lets out a breath just as Kate seems to suck one in, her gaze locked on her bare fingers and Seth loosens his grip, fingers already turning so he can run the flat of his palm up her wrist, forearm pressing against forearm as his hand aligns with hers.

He’s grinning, sudden and full of too much smug satisfaction if Kate’s affectionate eye roll is anything to go by, but Seth doesn’t care, already lacing their fingers together so he can hold her hand proper for once.

A/N: This is part of a tUA inspired AU that has no plot and therefore will never be written. But I know exactly what Kate and Seth’s abilities are, which is part of why this is such a thing for Kate here and why Seth feels her fears are unfounded.

10. UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension)

She doesn’t blink, barely seems to be breathing, holding herself so carefully behind her desk, straight backed and fingers laced together as she stares stubbornly up at him. He smiles, slow and measured and knowing, letting his gaze sweep over the cardigan she’s begun buttoning all the way up since he joined her little class, before leaning close, meeting her gaze and dropping his voice low, like a secret between them.

“And what do I get if I get it right?”

A/N: Seth goes back to school to get his GED, Ms. Fuller is not what he was expecting. I actually had a whole scene playing through my head for this, because I like build up, and it was really hard to pick just a small part to put here.

None of these are edited, despite how long it took to post, meaning I have mixed feelings on them, lol. I think I like more of them than I expected to, so yay!

[clenastia]

I did a thing! And wrote another little prompt-response, though I don’t remember where I found the prompt before. Probably here on Tumblr, but I always save the interesting ones to a google doc so I’ve lost the post... Perhaps I’ll hunt it down later.

This one’s tentatively called Herald of the Storm, 1300 words, and I definitely plan on adding more parts to it!

Fic below the cut as usual! (im too lazy to re-add my italics right now... ugh)

Prompt: Despite your reputation as a Dark Lord, you have a strict moral code. So when a young girl showing signs of abuse wandered into your realm, you took her in. Now the neighboring kingdom is accusing you of kidnapping their princess. You have to choose between returning her to her abusers or war.

She was so thin, was his first thought upon spotting the girl. So thin it was nearly grotesque, body all sharp angles and painful corners, starvation clear in every inch of her appearance.

Tora may have been a dark lord, may have conquered half a dozen kingdoms and been plotting to conquer half a dozen more, but-

Seeing a young woman look like that, trembling on the steps of his palace, every part of him screamed that it was wrong.

He doesn’t even know who she is, when he first brings her in, feeding her and offering her the full aid of his medical staff. If he lays a few minor spells over her, to encourage healing and rest and peace, well.

Being a dark lord doesn’t stop him from using more blessed magic. Just makes it a bit trickier, is all.

And she needs every blessing she can get.

Even cleaned up, wearing a proper gown, he doesn’t recognize her.

It takes a couple weeks, the girl slowly gaining weight but never opening her mouth, never speaking, only staring at the world with dead eyes, before he even begins to suspect.

The last he saw of Princess Maria, she was a proud, upstanding figure, decrying him for his wicked ways, galvinating her people and encouraging them to stand strong against his tyranny.

It certainly was an effective speech, the military of Doran seeing an influx of recruits. And he, still recuperating from his recent conquest of Illysi, knew he would rather not fight with the large sea-faring kingdom, at least before his numbers recovered.

Perhaps he could take to the field himself, even out his lack of men with his own overwhelming power, but he’s no fool. The more his enemies see of his strength, the easier it will be for them to discover his weaknesses.

And he hardly minds being seen as a languishing ruler, willing only to command his men from afar. It breeds an arrogance in his enemies that is easily corrected when they finally make it through all his guard, certain in their belief that his great power is an exaggeration meant only for intimidation.

Surely though, this cannot be the Sea King’s daughter. Surely he would have heard if such a notable figure had gone missing.

Perhaps it is only a similarity…

He tells himself this, even as she looks ever closer to the princess as her health returns.

She never speaks.

It is enough for him to tell himself she must be a different lady.

Until a page rushes into the medical ward, calling for him by name, and the young miss spins around, eyes seeking desperately until they land on him.

It’s the first time he’s been called anything other than “Your Majesty” in her presence, and he wonders a moment what she must think.

The page interrupts his consideration, bowing deeply as he holds out an opened letter.

“We have received missive from King Austwhil of Doran, to return his daughter or face war with his people!”

Well.

So much for it only being a passing similarity.

Whatever hardship she befell to land on his doorstep, it might be best to get rid of her. He’ll need another year yet before he has all he’ll need to fight with Doran the way he’d prefer.

Only, when he turns to her, he finds her trembling in fear.

She curls back, deep into herself, pressing against the headboard like it might swallow her.

It’s a posture that might make more sense if she were looking at him, if she were focused on him, but even his magic tells him he is not the target of her fear.

It makes no sense.

“Come now Princess, surely you know I have no desire to quarry with your kingdom. I’ll have you returned to your father just as soon as you recover-”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with fear, and she lunges at him.

She’s weak, weak enough he doesn’t bother to move, and by the time her fingers close around the hilt of his ritual knife it’s far too late to stop her.

His magic won’t work on that blade, won’t wrench it from her grasp or deflect its edge and he stands sharply, kicking his chair over as he moves back, out of range-

But she doesn’t turn the blade towards him, instead stabbing into her leg with a viciousness that has him frozen in shock as he tries to understand-

She jerks the knife out, raises it, and he barely grabs her arm before she could stab herself again.

“Have you gone mad-? What- what’re you doing-?” his hard-earned eloquence deserts him, and he’ll have to kill the staff later, can’t have them spreading rumors but-

“If I don’t heal you won’t send me back.” the Princess’ arms tremble, still desperately trying to stab the blade down, and Tora struggles more than he should to pull the blade from her fingers.

Her words, ghostly silent on her lips, very nearly make him drop the blade he fought to recover.

That.

Is not the response of a happy child.

“Are you so desperate to avoid your home, Princess?”

She flinches.

Tora desperately hopes he’s misunderstanding the situation.

“You realize you’re quite a valuable ransom. I can’t just keep hosting you because you’re upset with your fiance.” he tries to be flippant, but Tora’s already fairly certain this is no drama over an arranged marriage.

No arranged marriage would be worth sheltering in the palace of a man like him.

“I’ll do anything.” she promises in a whisper, curling back into herself now that her weapon is lost. “P-please just- don’t send me back- I can tell you a-about the defences, t-the army, whatever you want so please don’t give me back to him-”

Ah.

That’s a bit harder to explain away.

But it can’t be true, it’s not allowed to be true, because he can’t-

He’s a dark lord and an usurper and a peasant-born fraud he can’t just-

“I don’t want to do it anymore…” she sobs, too-thin shoulders shaking.

His denial crumbles. “What was the Sea King making you do, child?” Tora asks gently, righting his chair with a flick of his wrist and slowly sitting down.

She tenses, waiting nearly an age before her back slowly unwinds itself and she answers.

“I-I don’t know… some sort of magic- th-they kept- taking and taking and taking and it hurt it hurt so much I don’t want to- it hurts I don’t want to- please- please don’t send me back-”

Fury bubbles, a rising crescendo, and perhaps Tora will invite that war regardless.

Kings and their magic, he scorns, standing sharply once again, this time spinning to face his page.

“Fetch me General Hynna at once.” he orders, then glances to the medical staff. “Take care of her, no more visitors. Clearly someone is a spy,” he hisses the last bit, eyes lighting in malice.

Hunting spies is ever so much fun.

The Princess glances up from her shadowed arms, and he offers her as kind a smile as he can manage. “As a Mage King, I can hardly allow such an insult to my powers and my patrons. Have no fear Princess. You’ll return to your country a Queen.”

Perhaps it will not serve him well, in the long run. He has a world to conquer and a beast to fight, and he can do neither if Doran is allowed to rally around their beloved Princess. Especially not with all the allies they have across the sea.

Even so, a father torturing his child for her power is… perhaps too close to home.

He remembers Eitru’s corpse, remembers his vow of Never Again, and he knows that if he breaks it, he will truly have given up the very last of his soul.

Never Again.

It beats in time with his heart, a mantra of fury, and he knows he will not wait for his armies. Not for this.

His General is a competent sort. Between them, they’ll find a way.

[locke-writes]

A Light In The Dark

Author: locke-writes

Title: A Light In The Dark

Prompt: Underneath It All - No Doubt, Rafael Barba For: @thefanficfaerie​ ‘s 3500 Follower Challenge

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,359

Warnings: Mentions of Alcohol and Drugs, Prostitution, and Sex Trafficking - It’s SVU, you know what the show is like

Opposites attract. This was the phrase that Rafael Barba had heard most of his life and for years had never deemed it true. Then he met you and every single notion he had ever had about love was thrown out the window in an instant. With very few things in common he'd practically doomed any chance of a relationship from the start, so sure of himself that this would never last. One day you'd find someone better than himself and that would be it, he would try and be angry or upset but truthfully he'd be glad you found someone more compatible than himself.

You'd now been married for five years, proving that Rafael sometimes had terrible judgement when it came to romance.

Nearly everyone you'd ever met took one look at you and Rafael knew that you were meant to be. Yet those same people were also quite shocked as to how different you were. When you met Rafael for the first time it was due to a case, he was dreading working with you, after all what good was a cop with the amount of demerits you'd been given. Of course later he would find that the number of demerits never matched up with the cause of them, most coming from subordination after defying orders in attempts to save lives. You were reckless and chaotic while Rafael was calm and calculating.

You were, as far as anyone could tell, completely and totally lovestruck.

Rafael knew how to read you like a book. You'd been together long enough that all your tricks had ceased to fool him although he often continued to play along. This was why he knew something was wrong. Part of him questioned whether or not he should be straight forward and ask what was on your mind but the other part of him knew that you would only speak when you were ready. Whatever it was he was prepared for it, or at least he thought he was prepared.

The question came up out of nowhere.

"Rafael, why do you love me?"

This was something he'd never answered before, never had to answer before yet as he was asked it seemed trivial. Why should he explain? How could he explain? And why were you asking?

There was a file laying open on the coffee table before you. A case file that you had been staring at for days, there was something you were missing, you were sure of it. Something had to jump out at you, some clue some interview that he needed to read over, some piece of evidence that you'd forgotten was collected. There had to be something you could latch onto as if there was nothing than you had nothing, then there was no worth in anything that had been placed in the file already.

Love was a difficult emotion to comprehend and even more difficult to comprehend when you were in your position. Seeing what people could do, seeing what people who claimed to be in love could do was horrific. There had been times where you thought of leaving SVU yet then someone would say something that would keep you clear and levelheaded. You hoped that maybe Rafael's answer to your question could be what kept your feet on the ground this time. Maybe he could keep you focused on what was going on, maybe he could tell you something that would spark some idea within you.

You needed a bit of hope, something good to come into your life at this moment. There had to have been something good brewing underneath all this chaos.

Rafael replied, "How could I not love you?"

To Rafael there didn't need to be an explanation. Love was unexplainable. Certainly he could come up with something if he tried, he of course knew when and where he'd fallen in love with yet he knew, or rather could tell, that you weren't seeking an answer to a question but rather a means of understanding. He just needed to be the one that could show you what you were seeking. That damned case file meant more to you than anything at this moment and he was not angry with you for that he was angry at the file for not providing closure.

She was a girl, only just turned sixteen and suddenly she ended up dead. SVU was only assigned to the case because the homicide was connected to a string of prostitution rings. The only problem, the one you were current trying to solve was the fact that there was no one willing to talk, no evidence that pointed toward who ran the circuit. There was no way to bring anyone down and no way to bring justice into the world.

He'd had his fair share of bad cases, cases where try as you might there seems no going in the direction that you need it to. Try as you might something would go wrong or there would be a lapse in the progress that you made. He'd had cases where he made the best argument only for the jury to disagree. The only difference and what made it harder for him to comfort you, was the fact that he'd never been on your side. When cases made there way to him they'd been solved and all he had to do was deliver the finishing blow to end it all. With you, if there was nothing then it would go cold — maybe it would get solved eventually but otherwise it would end up forever lost.

"You shouldn't though. You shouldn't love me. I'm reckless and foolish and I've lost count of how many times you've gotten a call about me being in the hospital. You don't deserve me, you deserve someone who is kind and gentle and doesn't nearly get themselves killed on a day to day basis"

Rafael shook his head and frowned while you stayed silent and turned your attention back to the paperwork.

Everyone had that case, that one case that changed the way they looked at the world, they way they looked at people. You'd only been with SVU for three months when you had yours, underage sex trafficking leading to a multi department bust. You were pleased that everything had ended in arrests and charges but you were sickened by what you had seen. You'd been told to talk about it, told not to internalize it. Instead you got drunk until your roommate was called to pick you up. The girl that you had found leading to that bust was near the same age as the girl in your current case.

It wasn't the same but it was close enough that you couldn't fully stomach what you had to look through. You did it because you were glad to be disgusted. If you had been desensitized you would have lost all respect for yourself. When you could accept and move past what you saw each day, it was time to leave SVU.

"I'd argue the opposite, you deserve better than me. You deserve someone who is equally as reckless and someone that will run headfirst into danger. You deserve someone who isn't cautious, who doesn't have a list of laws stored in their head, you deserve someone who is just as foolish and someone who can make you laugh and make you smile."

"At this moment I feel as though I deserve nothing."

Rafael sat next to you on the couch, pulling you to him, "You deserve the world. I know you'll figure it out, I know because I love you and I've seen you knee deep in the same place with worse cases. You wanted an answer to how I could love you, I can love you because you are smart and you are kind, because you will do anything for those you care about. I love you because you have faith in me when I don't have faith in myself. If now is the time for me to reciprocate then I will. For just this moment, think about nothing more than the fact that I love you."

[jenovahh]

Comm 07 - NSFW - Outing

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Fem!WoL X Ardbert, Named WoL, Fluff, Smut, Mutual Masturbation

Notes: A commission from twitter!

========================================================

A gentle breeze blows into the cottage, carrying the smell of freshly chopped vegetables and sliced meat with it. Dainty hands neatly cut off the crust of bread just pulled out of the oven, placing them in a nearby bowl to give to the birds when she departs. The sun has almost climbed to the middle of the sky, the day is still fairly cool, but it’s still warm. As a result Calista has chosen to wear something lighter today. Her Dalmascan top paired with her Eastern skirt makes for a light, breezy look, as well as being comfortable.

Humming a light tune to herself, she cleans as she works, neatly tucking the sandwiches into a basket similar to the one the Exarch had given to her upon her arrival on the First. With the ease of practice does she neatly fold the paper to keep them covered, slipping the basket on her forearm as she prepares to step outside.

Locking up, the Norvrandt sun beats down on her fair skin, but she had used ointments from the first to protect it. Making sure her sandals are strapped well on her feet, she seeks out her amaro, giving it an affectionate pat as she carefully climbs atop its back. Balancing carefully, she manages to side saddle as to not have to deal with moving her skirt to get comfortable. With just a few words, her amaro responds in understanding, giving her an affectionate smile as it slowly stands on its hind legs and spreads its six wings. Giving a testing flap, it checks to make sure its rider will not fall before taking to the sky.

The wind blows through her bound hair, the ribbon fluttering haphazardly in the breeze as her amaro sails through the sky. Calista watches as the Crystal Tower grows only a little smaller as they fly deeper into Lakeland, her peridot eyes taking in the magical vista before her. She had always found Lakeland to be a gorgeous region, loving it’s soft lavender grass and trees native to the First. With Bismarck resting in the background in the pristine lake, it made for a vista that even a painting couldn’t capture. Even still, she hoped to perhaps ensnare its beauty somehow so that she may show her other companions on the Source back home.

The amaro gives a little chirrup as it begins its descent, signaling to her to hang tight to the reins lest she might slip off its back. Doing as told, she takes the leathery straps in hand as the amaro slowly begins its descent, landing softly on the lush grass below. Sliding off its back, she rubs it affectionately before fishing a spare sandwich she had stowed away as a treat. Her laughter bubbles up as the amaro happily nuzzles her before taking the sandwich from her hand and swallowing it in one gulp. Giving one last nuzzle, it settles down for a nap as she begins to make her way through the forest.

As she makes her way through, she takes just a few more moments to take things in. All she can do now in this moment is wait; wait for the Exarch and Urianger to figure out how to carry their souls home, wait for Y’shtola to make a breakthrough with their discoveries of what they had found below in Anamnesis Anyder. Part of her felt on edge sitting still for so long, with nothing to do. Garlemald seemed to be sitting on their hands in the loss of their emperor, and Elidibus didn’t seem keen on revealing his plans anytime soon. It was at the forefront of her mind most days, but he had always said she was quite the worrier…

“He”, her sweet Ardbert.

As she continues stepping over fallen trunks and other twigs, the sounds of metal striking rock reach her ears, along with the sound of masculine grunting. Her approach is silent compared to the sound of a pickaxe hitting stone, allowing her to engage in a bit of voyeurism before she makes her presence known.

Peeking from behind a tree, Ardbert swings his pick with more force, a determined look etched onto his manly features. Sweat beads at his brow with each swing, eyebrows pinched together as he wills himself to hit the rock harder. Calista can feel herself swoon as she watches the flex of his muscles beneath tanned skin, given that his arms are bare in his craftsman’s tank top. It was rare to see this much of him, given that the armor of a warrior covered just about all of him. She couldn’t help but blush a little at her blatant admiration of how handsome he was, that even though they had been married for just a while now, she still felt her heart flutter as if she had met him for the first time.

Ardbert mumbles something under his breath, tightening his grip on the pick before taking another mighty swing. The rock finally breaks under his effort and he lets out a laugh of success, reaching down to sift for ore. The smile on his face lets Calista know he had found what he had sought, satisfaction brightening his features. Standing tall, he drags his arm across his forehead, wiping at the sweat there. Just as he turns to gaze at the Crystal Tower in the distance, his eyes finally catch her in her hiding place.

“Oh, I was unaware I had an audience.” He teases, clearly able to see the way her cheeks color over being caught.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Calista tries, finally stepping from behind the tree, uplifting the basket. “And, I had brought lunch.”

The way his face lights up immediately fills her with joy, her eyes drinking him in as he all but drops his pickaxe to the ground in favor of meeting her halfway. Once in arm’s reach Ardbert wastes no time grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. “Ardbert!” She shrieks, though her laughter is mixed in. “You will ruin my clothes, covered in all that dirt.”

“I’ll wash it when we get home,” he sighs into her hair, breathing her in. He hugs her tight, his arms curling around her.

“You will ruin your lunch as well if you are not careful,” Calista huffs, trying to meander the basket from between them.

“Did you only come out here to fuss at your loving husband?” Ardbert questions, pulling away for just a moment. Though it sounds like he genuinely asked, she can see how his lip quirk up in a smirk.

“I came here to give my husband a well deserved break.” She beams at him, eyes reflecting the blue sky. Saying nothing, Ardbert merely smiles as he drags a hand higher up her back, cradling her neck gently to press his lips to hers. Calista’s eyelids flutter closed immediately, focusing on their sweet kiss, giggling as Ardbert begins to pepper more across her face.

“You are a lovestruck fool,” she jests, finally pulling away to reach into her pack for a blanket.

“Full glad that I am.” He replies, taking the basket from her hands. Setting it down on the ground, he grabs the opposite end of the checkered blanket as they spread it out perfectly on the ground. Picking up the basket once more, he places it gingerly on the blanket, letting out a tired breath as he takes a seat.

Kneeling down, Calista begins to unpack the lunch. She chooses the sandwiches first, unwrapping the paper she so neatly folded a bell before. “You can start if you’d like. Surely, you are famished.” She urges, even going as far to pick up a sandwich and hand it to him.

With a gentle hand, Ardbert pushes it away. “Not so famished that I cannot wait a moment longer to share my wife’s cooking with her.”

Calista’s face flushes red immediately, surely to her hairline. Somehow hearing it from his lips, the words “my wife” set her face aflame. Ardbert laughs at her expense as she brings her hands to her cheeks, feeling their warmth. “Have I embarrassed you, my love?” he asks.

“Not at all!” Calista denies, fanning her cheeks lightly with a pout. ‘It is still just...new to hear you call me--”

“My wife?” He repeats, intentionally with a growl. He leans forward to tease her with kisses again, until the both of them are shaking with laughter. “If it helps, know I feel similarly when you refer to me as your husband.” With one last kiss on her lips, Ardbert helps reach over to pull out the freshly squeezed lemonade she had made that morning. It’s thankfully still cold, Ardbert pouring them each a glass as they settle down to eat.

Adjusting to ingredients on the First would’ve been difficult were it not for the Exarch’s help in teaching her about the variety of plant life here. What kind of wife would she be if she could not cook a meal for her and her husband? Granted she is not the average wife in the least. Most women are not dancing between shards, saving two worlds, striking down Ascians, and dismantling empires with their bare fists.

And most women certainly don’t get to marry their literal soulmate.

The two are content to eat in companionable silence, speaking up only if one of them has something on their mind. No longer shouldered with the burden of a slowly dying star, the happier notes of Ardbert’s personality shine through, making her fall in love with him a little more each time. As they finish up their lunch, they pack it back up in the basket to set it to the side.

Ardbert scoots closer to Calista, beckoning her to lie down beside him so that they can watch the clouds float by. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, she lays her head on his chest, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes soothing her ever weary nerves. His hand lightly brushes through the length of her ponytail.

“It’s a beautiful day out,” Calista observes, her fingers dancing in nonsensical patterns across his torso. She can feel the tough muscle even through the fabric of his tank top, feel the hills and valleys of his abs beneath her hand.

“That it is.” He breathes, pressing her a bit closer to him. They sit in silence a bit more as Calista’s fingers continue their tickling, until she lays her palm flat to his stomach to get a better feel. She not just hears, but feels Ardbert’s breath hitch as she smooths her hand across his muscles, feel how he tenses beneath her.

Face warming, she lets her wayward hand stray up toward his chest, slowly growing bolder with her affections. She feels Ardbert shift beneath her, feels his arm work its way from under her head. Sitting up, she prepares to ask if something is wrong before she is brought back down, his lips crashing into her hungrily.

Their tongues dance together, Ardbert’s hunger pulling her under as he wraps both his arms around her. “Did you come out here just to tease me, my love?” He rasps, trailing heated kisses from her lips to her jaw, his hands slipping downward until they reach her backside and give a firm squeeze.

Calista gasps with the motion, arching into him as her hands flatten on his chest. Pressed close now, she can feel what her earlier attentions were doing to him, her face heating. Ardbert continues to trail down to her neck, his hands coming to her front to push the straps of her top down her shoulders. She moans as she arches into his touch, her own hands getting bolder as they dance downward to cup him through his pants. The moan he rewards her with spurs her on, her hand giving a firm squeeze, his hips jerking into her hold.

“I really had,” she gasps as his thumb flicks across a nipple, “come out here to bring you lunch,” she whimpers as he continues to toy with her nipples, his lips still pressing wet kisses to her feverish skin.

“Truly?” He doubts, cupping a breast in each hand. “With nothing to bind your breasts? No smallclothes?”

She pauses her fondling to smack him in reprimand. “This top is to be worn without one!” She huffs angrily, though it is snuffed out as he squeezes her breasts in hand.

“And I am glad for it.” He shifts so that his mouth can now place kisses in the valley between her breasts, but no lower. “I don’t think I have the patience or the energy right now to get you out of them.” He sucks and nibbles at her fair skin, uncaring of making a mark; in fact, she is sure that is what he means to do. “Though the length of your skirt is proving somewhat troublesome,” he grunts, nearly fumbling to get his hand under it. His hand is a furnace to the skin of your thigh, his fingers giving a possessive squeeze on the supple flesh.

“One of us should have some propriety,” She sighs into his mouth even as her hand fumbles with his pants, eventually loosening them enough to slip a hand inside. It is searing, but she is undeterred, unsatisfied until she is able to get her hand around his hardening length. The way his hips buck into her touch never fails to excite her, her hand working him slowly.

“You are so beautiful,” Ardbert rasps, pausing his exploration of her body to help undo his pants further to finally free his cock to the open air. He doesn’t bother to hide his impatience as his hands creep back under her skirt, caressing her wetness through her small clothes.

“Should we not wait,” she gasps as he finds her clit, pressing gently, yet firmly enough it divests her of speech.

“I am far past waiting,” he moans as her hand tightens around him, his lips seeking out hers again. The kiss loses its former grace in exchange for raw passion, their tongues twining together, teeth nibbling at one another as they rock into each other’s hands. They are deep enough in the forest that no one should come across them, so she doesn’t stop him when his fingers push her smallclothes aside, feeling how much she desires him for himself.

“You are lovely,” he groans, circling her clit delicately. His touch is still careful, as they are still learning each other’s bodies, learning what each other likes. She enjoys finding how much pressure makes him squirm, what parts to squeeze that has him gasping her name.

Calista could feel the pleasure taking over quickly, the burning in her belly coiling tight as it prepared to explode. “Ardbert,” she whimpers, pumping him faster in her hands. His fingers have slipped inside her, her walls stretching around them, leaving her unable to do much else save for moaning into his mouth. He greedily drinks down every whimper, every moan, gasping her name as they both teeter on the edge of completion.

Calista cries out as her orgasm washes over her, her eyes shut tight as the pleasure surges through her, winding her tight like a coil and finally setting it free. Even through her haze, she still works Ardbert to completion, sighing his name as if in a dream, his moans music to her ears as she finally drags him into sweet, sweet oblivion alongside her.

His seed spills between them, making a mess, but that is something to worry about later. For the moment, they are content to merely lay in the afterglow, basking in the warmth of the sun and each other.

Ardbert is the first to move, straining his neck to place a small kiss to her forehead, chuckling with the effort. “I think I’ve gone and gotten you dirty along with me,” he breathes into her hair, before sitting up. Reaching toward the basket, he fiddles around until he finds a spare cloth napkin, cleaning off her skirts and hands before finally tending to himself.

“I suppose we should return home, eh?” Ardbert grunts as he stands to his feet, hand outstretched for Calista to take. Placing her smaller hand in his larger one, he pulls her up with minimal effort. “And perhaps, we might continue lunch there.” He grins with a wink, laughing as she once again blushes bright red.

“You are insatiable!” She smacks him playfully on the shoulder but still he whimpers at the strike, nursing the affected area with a free hand.

“Is it so wrong to want to spend time with my wife?” He purrs, reaching out to bring her against him.

“Only when your wife seems to not know a moment's peace because someone can’t keep their hands to themselves…” she murmurs slyly, giving him a knowing look. “Will you help me pack up?”

“Depends.” He says, even as he bends down to begin folding the blanket. “What’s in it for me?”

“Well, the sooner we pick up our things, the sooner we might head home…” Calista trails off, giggling as Ardbert hastily gathers the blanket together and folds it in record time. The blanket is back in her pack, and the basket’s belonging safely tucked back inside. “Did you walk here?”

Ardbert shakes his head as he goes to pick up his pickaxe and strap it onto his back. “Seto had actually flown me here early this morn. Though the hour has grown late, I think he should still be close by…though I would not be opposed to us making use of the aetheryte system to get home a little quicker…” He trails off as he gives Calista a playful pinch on her rear cheeks.

Swatting his hand away playfully, Calista giggles as she lets him pull her close. “As you wish.” With home in her mind’s eye, Calista feels the magic spin around them, whisking them away house and home.

[myaekingheart]

You’ve Got Kudos

Written for Day 1 of the Kakashi Lounge Discord Server's September Event. Prompts: Fanfic Writer!Kakashi | Social Disaster | Modern AU | Roommates/Neighbors 

[Read on AO3] Pairing: Kakashi x Rei (OC)  Rating: Teen and Up @the-kakashi-lounge-blog

Kakashi has a dirty little secret and it's in the form of an AO3 account. No one is allowed to know that he writes Icha Icha fanfiction--especially not his library tech neighbor Rei. (Standalone companion piece to The Scarecrow and the Bell, Modern/College AU)

               Kakashi kicked off his shoes at the front door and slumped into his favorite chair. Tutoring wasn’t necessarily his favorite thing in the world but it looked good on resumes and put a little extra cash in his pockets, so he supposed he could tolerate it for a little while longer. If only his students hadn’t been quite so insufferable, that is.

               If anything, tutoring reminded Kakashi how much he hated underclassmen. His three protegees were all naïve freshman whose energy stores had yet to drain. Naruto was enthusiastic but slow on the uptake and it was hard to get him to properly focus. Sakura had potential but she was far too engrossed in her Instagram rivalry with fellow student Ino Yamanaka to make any real progress. And Sasuke was constantly brooding, there not by choice but rather because his professor threatened to flunk him if he didn’t seek outside help.

               Perhaps it would’ve been smarter to book them each separate appointments but with the way everyone’s schedules worked out, it was easier to just create one big study group. It was more efficient that way, anyway. Kakashi much preferred to kill three birds with one stone than chip away at his sanity little by little. And so every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, Kakashi trudged to the library to pore over used textbooks and incomprehensible scribbles in an attempt to explain simple concepts to brains that could not understand. This was fine. He didn’t need a social life anyway.

               Kakashi rubbed his tired eyes and checked the time. It was 5:30pm. He had no idea what he was going to do for dinner, nor did he really care. Sighing, he reached for his laptop and went straight to his email. At the very top of his inbox was a notification from Archive of Our Own: Comment on Icha Icha Bloodline. Kakashi’s heart jolted. In the solace of his apartment, this was his one saving grace: fanfiction.

               He admittedly felt a little ridiculous about the whole thing. What college guy not only wrote fanfiction, but for romance novels at that? He knew exactly how his taste in literature appeared. So few people truly understood the nuance and artistry of the Icha Icha books, writing it off as just cheap porn. Those books, however, gave Kakashi exactly the reprieve he needed. Within their pages, he could disappear from the stress of everyday life to instead revel in the throes of a dramatic fictional romance. His love for this series knew no bounds. His heart ached to share it with someone but if college had taught Kakahsi anything, it was that people never really change and are more than willing to judge you the minute you express any personal interests. High School: The Sequel, if you will. And so Kakashi had come to learn that there were only ever two places where he was safe to unapologetically indulge in his favorite series: within the comfort of his own home and on the internet.

               Fanfiction was never his original intention. Rather, it was the end result of a long string of unfortunate circumstances. The latest book had ended with the heroine caught between two very tempting suitors, a cliffhanger of epic proportions which left Kakashi itching for a resolution. A few months after publication, the author, Jiraiya, passed away, taking his secrets for the series’ finale with him.

               Kakashi had tried so hard not to think about it but the lack of closure ate away at him. He needed a valuable outlet through which to ramble, a way to confide in someone as invested in the series as he was. For a moment, he had considered joining a book club but all of his attempts failed. The only clubs that ever focused on books like these were run by sexually frustrated middle-aged women who sneered at the mere thought of letting a man into their circle. On recommendation from a friend, he turned to the campus library community for help but was met with nothing short of disaster, which thus introduced the second point of contention: Rei.

               The library check-in desk was notoriously run by volunteers, most of which were majoring in library science themselves. One such volunteer was Rei Natsuki, a junior with fiery hair and a chronic resting bitch face. It wasn’t that Kakashi didn’t like her, necessarily. Actually, every time he saw her he got this horrifying fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach that insisted he was about to throw up. He felt as if her eyes were on him constantly, studying his every move. This fact only furthered his gratitude for lumping together all of his tutoring appointments. The less time he spent in the library, the less often he would have to see her.

               Not that she was necessarily easy to avoid. Just his luck, she lived three doors down from him in the same off-campus apartment complex. At least if he timed things just right, he could avoid running into her in the hallway. Their mutual existence was like a very carefully choreographed dance on perilous terrain. They were constantly at risk of colliding with one another, a harrowing and horrifying fate.

               Their first encounter was in the fall of his freshman year when he snuck into the erotic fiction section searching for the Icha Icha books. As he skimmed the titles, he felt a pair of mossy eyes burning holes into his back like a cryptid whose domain has been intruded upon. When Kakashi turned around, he caught her peering around the edge of the bookshelf. Her expression was one of harsh focus and concern. “Looking for something?” she asked. For someone so small—she was roughly a foot shorter than he was—she was certainly terrifying.

               Kakashi’s face turned beet red, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “No, not particularly!” he exclaimed. “Just looking around!”

               “Hrmph” Rei huffed, unconvinced. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll be right over there” she pointed to the help desk at the front of the library. An older woman, one of the librarians, winked at her across the room and Rei’s face turned bright red. Without another word, she scurried off back to her station, grumbling under her breath. Once gone, Kakashi sighed and leaned back against the shelf. All of the books directly behind him tumbled to the ground with a loud thud. Rei immediately whipped around to glare at him but by then, he had already dove into the nearest study room. Frustrated, Rei stomped over to assess the damage and begin reorganizing the shelves. Kakashi apologized to the group he interrupted before booking it out of the building. It was in that moment that he officially decided: from that point onward, Icha Icha would remain his dirty little secret. Literally.  

               And thus came along the internet. At least there, hiding behind his computer screen, he could retain some sense of anonymity. He could disguise himself with a pen name much like wearing a mask. No one needed to know who he was. He pored over various forums, reading but never interacting. As refreshing as it was to find a sense of community amid other Icha Icha fans, his joy quickly faded when he realized one fatal flaw: no one knew what they were talking about. They all misinterpreted the characters, the relationships, the actions the heroine took to get to this point. Perhaps Jiraiya’s novels were too nuanced. Perhaps there was no hope for him after all. It was then, deep into a Reddit thread, that it dawned on him: the horrifying promise of writing fanfiction.

               At first, Kakashi refused. He would not stoop so low. The harder he resisted, however, the more appealing the idea slowly became. At least in this way, he could help people to better understand these stories in a way that he was familiar with. Not that he was an avid writer himself but he hoped he was familiar enough with the conventions of fiction to understand how it was done. As if running on autopilot, he ventured to Archive of Our Own and created an account under the pseud “CopyNin.”

               His fanfiction, Icha Icha Bloodline, introduced dramatic new themes and conflicts to the story he loved, expanding on the love triangle with a depth and sincerity that he hoped would make Jiraiya proud. It hadn’t gotten many hits yet, but that just made every kudos and comment feel that much heavier. As his cursor hovered over his inbox now, he almost questioned whether he even wanted to know. Every shared thought had the capacity to make or break his motivation. But if he didn’t look, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He needed to know. He pulled up the latest comment and his heart leapt into his throat. It was from LittleBell.

               LittleBell was, for lack of a better word, iconic amid the Icha Icha fandom. They were one of the first writers Kakashi had encountered when he first considered fanfiction as a possibility. Their name appeared in dozens of forum posts, attached to both praise and criticism alike. By the time Kakashi looked into them himself, they had already written 100,000 words worth of fic with the longest piece nearing 100 chapters. It was clear why they were so popular. The cadence of their sentences, their detailed characterization, and their dynamic plot points all made Kakashi’s heart sing. He could only hope to one day be as great a writer as they were.

               Kakashi had lurked through fifteen chapters before, in a fit of sleep-drunken gumption, he had decided to leave LittleBell a comment. It was short and sweet and afterward, Kakashi groaned into his pillow second-guessing every sentence, but he awoke to an encouraging response that firmly cemented the allure of writing a fic himself. And now here he was, faced with a comment from them on his own work. How could he ever prepare himself for something so huge? He instinctually expected scathing criticism. Your characterization sucks. You’re writing them all too flat. Her suitors would never say XYZ or do ABC. Have you even read the books? This is trash. Kakashi’s hands shook as he tried to shove those negative thoughts out of his mind. LittleBell had been so kind before so, realistically, why would their response be any different? Kakashi scratched the back of his head, knowing that the longer he waited, the more maddening this was going to become. Without another moment’s hesitation, he forced himself to view the comment.

               This was so great! I love the way you write these characters—I can tell you have a really deep understanding of the heroine, especially. It’s so refreshing to read a fic that not only retains the romance of the originals but also emphasizes it in a way that’s super meaningful rather than cheesy. My favorite part was the scene where she’s fixing his watch. “It’s really an exquisite watch. Such a shame that it’s stopped working.” “I guess that just means that we’ll have to stay in this moment forever” “What will everyone else say? They’ll get tired of waiting.” “Let them wait. I’m always late to everything anyway. What’s another eternity?” My heart! You can really tell just how much he loves her, and it makes that love triangle all the more tense and heartbreaking! You’re really just doing an incredible job with this and I can’t wait to read more!”

               Kakashi’s cheeks burned as he buried his face in his hands. It was all he could do to hide the grin on his face. Not that anyone was there to tease him for it. Pakkun was fast asleep on the couch and likely wouldn’t have cared anyway. Alone in his apartment, Kakashi was exploding. To think that someone so talented and renowned within the fandom not only noticed his work but enjoyed it was mind-blowing. This was a high he would surely be riding for the rest of the week, if not the rest of the semester. Nothing could be better than this.

               Once the debilitating excitement wore down a bit, Kakashi was then stuck with the battle of writing a response. He knew there were some in the community who considered responding a controversial topic—something about trying to increase your comment count—but Kakashi enjoyed replying to every single person who took the time to say something nice. And this was certainly something very nice. How could he possibly put into words his overwhelming gratitude? He had no clue. Kakashi stewed over the prospect for a solid ten minutes before his growling stomach urged him to hurry up. He had completely forgotten he was hungry but now his body was not going to let him forget. He considered stepping away and replying later, after he had time to chew it over, but then quickly shoved away the thought. He couldn’t afford to put this on the backburner at the risk of forgetting about it entirely. No, he needed to do this now.

               Kakashi typed, paused, considered, then backspaced and typed again. When he was finally at least mildly pleased with his response, he sucked in a deep breath and pressed Comment.

               Huffing in relief, Kakashi stretched out and leaned his head back against his chair. All that was left to do now was wait. Would they even respond back? He didn’t know. Sometimes a comment began a whole conversation, other times it was a singular instance like a comet in the night sky.

               But for now, he was going to try not to dwell on it. He received LittleBell’s praise, and if they were to respond back then so be it. It was all up to fate now. Kakashi slipped on his shoes, shoved his phone, wallet, and keys into his pocket, and headed out. As he locked his apartment, he heard without listening as a door down the hall creaked open. The sound reached his ears but his brain did not register what it was until it was too late. Turning around, he abruptly bumped into her.

               A gasp fell from Rei’s lips as she collided with Kakashi’s chest. Her half-open backpack swung on her shoulder, spilling its contents onto the floor. “S-sorry about that!” he croaked, clearing his throat. Kakashi’s hands shook as he leaned down to help gather her belongings, all the while fearing her wrath. Among the used textbooks and stuffed notebooks was a green paperback with a big prohibition sign on the cover. The little bell charm attached to Rei’s keychain jingled and automatically Kakashi was punched in the gut with a realization of Pavlovian proportions. Little Bell.

               “I-I’m sorry…what was that…?” Rei stammered and suddenly Kakashi realized he had, in fact, spoken aloud. Her voice, in response, was so much quieter than he had ever thought she was capable of—filled with the striking fear of being vulnerably and intrinsically known. Unmasked.

               Kakashi’s eyes widened as he shuffled to gather as many of her books as he could manage. “I-I didn’t know you liked the Icha Icha books” he murmured. He could hardly make eye contact as he handed her back her things.

               “Yeah…” she said, slowly accepting them, “They’re, uh…they’re my favorite.”

               Rubbing the back of his neck, Kakashi chuckled nervously and replied, “Mine, too.”

               She wasn’t sure what it was about him but in that moment, a sickening feeling filled her chest, a nauseating suspicion that she couldn’t shake. There was really only way to confirm whether or not those suspicions were correct. At the risk of looking like an idiot, she cleared her throat then and said, “You know, that’s a really exquisite watch.” Kakashi froze, his eyes gently skating down to his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch. His heart pounded in his chest. Rei bit her lip, dropped her eyes to the floor. “It’s, uh, it’s a shame it’s stopped working.”

               Kakashi’s mind was reeling. None of this felt real. Suddenly Rei was a completely different person to him now. He saw her not as the terrifying, impatient, and indirect girl from the library but the extremely talented, encouraging, yet perhaps unfortunately shy writer that he had spent so much time idolizing. If only he had known of the bond they secretly shared over the past few months. He could hardly fight the grin on his face as he murmured back, “Then I guess we’ll just have to stay in this moment forever.”

               Rei’s cheeks burned as she hugged her books to her chest. She could feel the laughter rising up in the back of her throat—this was so ridiculous, and yet at the same time this was everything she had ever wanted. If only Kakashi had truly known how much she had suppressed over the years, since they first met in the library. The way the old librarian encouraged her to speak to him when she caught him perusing her favorite books. The way she’d hide out in her apartment whenever he left for class, watching from the window too scared to approach. The way she channeled all of her unrequited love and inner turmoil into the very story she now knew he idolized. She felt so strange and vulnerable but also for the first time truly seen. It was the most bizarre and lovely sensation.

               She had no idea how long they actually stood there in the hallway like that, reveling in this newfound connection, but all too soon reality suddenly hit her. “D-do you have somewhere you’re supposed to be? I don’t want you to be late!” she exclaimed.

               Kakashi, however, still entranced, shook his head and replied, “Let them wait. I’m always late to everything anyway.” Rei brushed the long bangs back out of her face, completely incapable of stifling her laughter. Kakashi joined her—the breadth of his smile, the bravado of his voice, the way his eyes squinted when he laughed, all were enough to make her weak in the knees. “Are you hungry?” he then asked. “I was just about to get something to eat. You should come with me.”

               Sliding her books back into her backpack, Rei smiled and replied, “I would love that.” Swinging her bag back over her shoulder, she walked alongside him down the hallway. Their fingers itched to interlock, their hearts pounding out of their chests. He opened the door for her and together they stepped out into the autumn air. Nothing else mattered. In that moment, all that existed was them: CopyNin and LittleBell.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Yeah... it really is not ideal that they did that.  I’m sure they didn’t mean to insinuate that victims of abuse should get back with their abusers at the first sign of improvement, because they’ve been really good about saying the opposite up until this point, but that IS the message they’re sending.  The fact that very few fans seem to be acknowledging it is worse.  I honestly thought we were better than that.  This show has sent so many positive messages that are great for kids to hear, but this just isn’t one of them.

Tangent here, but I am deadly serious when I say that people are making the wrong parallels when they compare She-Ra to Revolutionary Girl Utena.   She-Ra doesn’t deserve to make Utena references when it ends with the Anthy character (Adora) getting back with the Akio analogue (Catra).  

In fact, the only thing people are sort of getting right with these comparisons is that Adora and Anthy, despite their surface-level distinctions, are very similar characters.  Let’s take a look:

1. Incredibly powerful: Adora is a capable badass who also claims the mantle of She-Ra, and Anthy is basically a god (or the closest thing to)

2. Conned into believing they are worthless/powerless or their power isn’t really theirs to claim: Adora thinks all her value comes from being a hero and specifically being the weapon that is She-Ra, and she eventually has to learn that she is not a weapon or a tool and that her worth comes from within.  She has to learn to find her power to win.  Anthy is beaten down and essentially coerced into using her powers as “The Witch” to help Akio and participate in her own imprisonment.  Utena doesn’t so much help her to recognize her power, but she makes Anthy remember that she has value and power separate from Akio and her role as Witch.

3. Had a loved one they tried to protect but couldn’t due to circumstances out of their control: Baby Adora could never have prevented Shadow Weaver from abusing Catra.  1) a literal child (who is also being abused) cannot be expected to stop an adult authority figure from doing anything, let alone abuse another child, and 2) literal children are NOT responsible for the actions of another child and certainly not the actions of an adult authority figure.  But she gets blamed for not protecting Catra anyway. (Remember all the bullshit hot takes from around season 1 doing this very thing).  Anthy tried to save Dios by hiding him (which failed), and she sacrificed herself to the Mob to save him (he died anyway).  There was nothing she could have realistically done, even with all her power, to save him from the World.  Akio blames her for it anyway and the Swords of Human Hatred back up his accusations.

3. Face a toxic combination of love and hatred from the person they were unable to protect: It’s pretty obvious that Catra’s roiling emotions about Adora are both positive and negative.  The pain she felt when Adora defected is genuine.  She really felt like she lost the one person that mattered to her (even though that isn’t true and it was her choice to stay with the Horde while Adora begged her to leave, making it Catra who actually left Adora when you stop to think about it).  That love turned to resentment and hatred, driving Catra to torture Adora at every opportunity and blame Adora for her various wrongdoings.  It’s not easy to discern entirely what Akio is angry about, but it can be reasonably assumed that he is angry with Anthy for “making him Not The Prince anymore” i.e. “Making Him This Way”.  Anthy “stole him away from the princesses of the world”, which is the same kind of blame as “You broke the world, and it is all your fault!”

4. Have their struggles dismissed and/or misunderstood by people they call friends: If anyone matches up with Utena Tenjou in SPOP, it’s Glimmer.  Glimmer is a girl who wants to be a prince Hero and a leader, but she doesn’t understand what those roles actually entail (see: all of season 4).  She reacts when she sees the physical abuse Adora suffers from Shadow Weaver in the Black Garnet Chamber, just like Utena jumps to defend Anthy whenever she sees someone hit her.  But Glimmer completely fails to either recognize or acknowledge the subtler aspects of Adora’s abuse, and she later dismisses her suspicion of Shadow Weaver as baseless paranoia, which she then proceeds to laugh about.  Utena was naive and failed to notice the obvious signs of Anthy’s abuse by Akio right in front of her, but at least she didn’t do that.

5. Have to find and come into their power on their own: Sure, Adora manages to become She-Ra again to save Catra, but it’s still her decision and willpower that get her there.  Utena helps Anthy to see that she can leave her situation and that she deserves a better life, but it’s Anthy who chooses to leave Akio behind and walk out of Ohtori alone.

Now let’s talk about Catra and Akio.

Catra and Akio aren’t 1 to 1 parallels.  Catra does not appear to be a rapist and a child molester, for one thing.  She doesn’t own a red convertible metaphor for the sins, horrors, and privileges of adulthood.  She’s not a failed heroic archetype who languishes in a timeless, flowery coffin, convincing people to have sex with their siblings.  Her name isn’t a fancy word for Satan.

But other than that, they’re pretty similar.

1. They share a connection with someone who is much more powerful than they are: Adora and Catra are pretty close in skill when they are in the Horde together, but Adora edges her out just slightly.  And when Adora becomes She-Ra, her inherent power blows Catra out of the water.  There could never be a fair fight between them because Adora is a woman-shaped WMD and Catra uses dirty tactics to win confrontations.  Dios/Akio is at first portrayed as having all the power in Ohtori, but an attentive viewer will realize that’s nonsense and it’s really Anthy who has the power, a fact that becomes crystal clear when she ditches him easily at the end of the story.

2. They simultaneously love and hate that person: I don’t think I really have to explain this one.  If you’ve watched both series, you will know exactly what I mean.

3. The relationship they have with this person is both familial and romantic: Look, I’m not going to be That Girl and try to claim that Adora and Catra’s relationship is purely a sisterly one.  That is so clearly untrue even without season 5 that it’s laughable.  But there are definitely familial elements to it.  They were raised by the same woman and they treat each other like siblings do at several points in season 1.  But it’s also clear that they have been harboring burgeoning romantic feelings for each other.  Anthy and Dios are literally blood siblings who acted like siblings when they were kids, and then that relationship was twisted by Akio into this awful thing where they are “”””””lovers”””””””” (blegh) and siblings at the same time.

Catradora is not like that, before you attempt to tell me off.  Like I said, Catra isn’t a rapist, and they aren’t blood-related so it’s not actual incest.  But the underlying dynamic is the same.

4. They can’t stand the idea of that person living without them, and seek to imprison and torment them as a result: There are two main things that Catra wants for most of the show, 1) Adora with her or 2) Adora dead.  She oscillates between these two desires but never progresses beyond them until her heel-turn in season 5.  I’ve written about this before, but she’s the definition of the cliche “If I can’t have her, then no one can”.  Akio is the same.  On some level, he knows that Anthy is capable of leaving him at any time and he can’t stop her, so he tries to prevent that by abusing and manipulating her into thinking, 1) she can’t escape him and 2) it’s her fault that he’s like this so she should stay out of guilt.  Both Catra and Akio also attempt to isolate Adora and Anthy by hurting their support structures (The Princesses and Utena).

5. They seek power and validation with no regard for the consequences: Catra was beaten and diminished for her entire childhood, and Shadow Weaver purposefully praised Adora over her to divide them.  Until Adora left and she was subsequently recognized by Hordak, she had never received validation of her worth.  So, she craves it and seeks it out by doing worse and worse things to please Hordak and Shadow Weaver.  She thinks if she gains enough clout and a high enough rank in the Horde, then no one will be able to hurt her and everyone will recognize her value.  She also associates proving herself with beating Adora.  This drive for power ruins all of her relationships and leaves her at rock bottom rather than the top of the world.  Akio longs for the power he thought he had as Dios (which was really Anthy’s power all along as we see when Utena opens the Rose Gate).  He runs the duels and manipulates the duelists so they will achieve what he can’t and open the way for him to reclaim his divinity, leaving destruction in his wake.

The primary difference between them with this point is that evidence suggests that Akio self-sabotages all his attempts to regain power.  And while Catra also sabotages herself at multiple points, it’s because she’s reckless and foolish, not because she’s deliberately making things harder for herself.  Akio perpetuates a vicious cycle of trying and failing to return to godhood, and Catra perpetuates a cycle of seeking validation from the wrong place/people, inevitably failing to meet impossible standards, and falling right back to where she started.

6. They blame their special person for their own bad decisions: To be clear, Akio is MUCH worse about this than Catra, but they both do it.  Again, this is a point I’m not sure I need to discuss much.  If you’ve seen Utena’s last story arc and you’ve watched the portal universe episode, then you know exactly what I’m referring to.

I’m not sure how I can make this any more obvious.  In the world of She-Ra, Adora is Anthy and Catra is Akio.  If you’ve read this and you somehow disagree, stop living in denial.  We are better than that.

Again, I’m very happy that Catra was redeemed.  I think it should have started in season 4 but that’s beside the point.  I’m so, so happy that she recognized her mistakes and joined the Rebellion.  But they are really acting like it’s a good and reasonable thing for Adora to let Catra back into her life just because Catra is genuinely trying to improve herself for once.  It’s not, or at least not the way they portrayed it.  I could believe it if the two of them parted ways and then reunited years down the road, because then it would be easier to believe that Catra’s change for the better was permanent.  But that’s not what we got.  What we got was just a new problem that’s going to damage this wonderful show in the long run.

[sharinluna]

The Lies and the Truth. Lucien in Chapter 13

Lies have just as much power as the truth.

Let’s talk about a phone call in chapter 12 first.

After Yōurán got home from Jay’s death, Lucien immediately calls her. Jay’s death was Black Swan’s doing so of course he knows what happened in STF. He called her to check if she didn’t get hurt. This is what he says in the call:

Lucien: Lies have just as much power as the truth. They’re also an indirect reaction to the essence of things. The truth is often less pure, anything but simple. Since it’s so complicated, it’s alright if we’re a little slow figuring it out. No matter what the truth is, I’ll always be with you. Up until the moment it comes.

Oh, so many hidden meanings, professor. Let’s look at them one by one.

Lies have just as much power as the truth. They’re also an indirect reaction to the essence of things.

He couldn’t have put it much better. His love for Yōurán was supposed to be a lie to hide the truth, but it became too powerful and became another truth that showed what the “essence” was. Who he was before Black Swan, who he could have become if he hadn’t crossed paths with them.

The truth is often less pure, anything but simple.

He’s cruel Ares who’s tried to lure Yōurán into a trap, but he is also gentle Lucien who cares for her and guides her. That one of them is the truth doesn’t necessarily mean that the other is the lie.

It’s alright if we’re a little slow figuring it out. No matter what the truth is, I’ll always be with you.

This sentence foreshadows what will happen in chapter 13. At this moment, Lucien is already anticipating that Yōurán will find him out someday.

When Yōurán tells him that she wants to find the truth but is afraid of what the truth might be, he encourages her and tells her that he will accompany her along the journey. When she asks, he will answer her, just like he always has.

Up until the moment it comes.

Even if the truth is his “betrayal”. Lucien is perfectly capable of hiding his other identity while leading Yōurán on a wild goose chase. Yōurán discovered who he was because he let her.

Goodbye, Josie

In the beginning of chapter 13, Josie is confronted by Ares. She asks why he teleported her when she was about to succeed. Unfortunately for her, Josie’s fate was set the moment she put Yōurán in danger.

No matter what backstory he has, it doesn’t mean that Ares is not a villain. If he hadn’t fallen in love with Yōurán, he would have used her and discarded her just like he did with Josie.

On the road to Truth

Gavin is gone. Victor is unreachable. Kiro retired. (By the way, Kiro, why is your agency named B. S. Entertainment…?)

When Yōurán hears that a black wind appeared at the twin towers, she hurries there hoping she could see Gavin. She is saved from danger by Lucien’s Evol.

He kept hiding that he’s an Evolver until now. He’s done with hiding.

You knew it was dangerous? Why didn’t you run away? – Lucien

I explained it already in my Chapter 12 analysis. Yōurán is not someone who runs away from danger if people she cares about is involved. She has a tendency to put others ahead of herself to the point of disregarding her safety. (See Lucien’s Overseas date for more about this) It’s her weakness, but also her strength.

Her selflessness is shown in various parts of dates, footage stories and city strolls. Even her show Miracle Finder is a humanistic show sharing heartwarming and hopeful messages, not a sensationalist show for the sake of viewer rates.

If I say I wanted to investigate these incidents would you think I was silly? - Yōurán

I wouldn’t, because I know you. - Lucien

Lucien already knows that Yōurán wouldn’t run from danger. He doesn’t call her silly, or tells her to go home while the men do the work. 

Yōurán at first tries to investigate without Lucien, but he can’t have that.

Lucien: I’ve said before, if there’s anything you want to do, I will always help you.

He’s not going to stop Yōurán from walking the dangerous path to truth, but he is not letting her go there alone.

The elevator guy

It’s nice and all that he’s accompanying Yōurán because he loves her and blah blah blah, but it’s also quiet unsettling to see him unfazed in front of the elevator operator when he knows that the poor guy’s misery came from him and Black Swan. While Yōurán sympathizes and tries to help others in her quest for truth, Lucien is doing it totally for selfish reasons. If it’s not Yōurán, he doesn’t give A F. He's not a bad guy gone good. His feelings for Yōurán aside, he is still a bad guy.

I’m mentioning Josie and the elevator guy in my Lucien analysis for this reminder. He is awesome and charming and wonderful and I love him, but I have to say a big NO to his morals.

What you believe in

After they leave the elevator guy, the continuation of their talk in the firefly date happens. 

The firefly argument between Yōurán and Lucien about evolution can be summarized as this: Survival of the fittest/Individual sacrifice is necessary for the evolution of humanity as a whole vs Coexistence/We must help each other rather than competing with each other to survive and evolve.

Lucien: If human society keeps developing. It will certainly become like that(disaster).

According to him, whether it’s natural evolution or an ‘artificial’ one by Black Swan, chaos and conflict is inevitable.

Lucien: People will become smarter, more sensitive. But not better, not happier.

But his thoughts about evolution changed somewhat. Seeing Yōurán sad about the weak little firefly affected him to some level. Now he knows that being evolved doesn’t necessarily mean being happier, or better. Yōurán taught him about the feelings of loss, the struggles of the weak to survive, the gentle encouragement to those left behind. Things Lucien considered as irrational sentiment.

Lucien: You must believe, before the worst sets in, that everything can be reborn and transformed.

He didn’t abandon his opinion completely though. I can’t say whether his logic is right or wrong, but it’s no excuse to justify Black Swan’s actions.

Lucien: Promise me, that if that moment really comes, you won’t let the weight of it drag you down too.

=  If it really turns out that I’m right, don’t give up. Keep fighting for what you believe in.

I really love this dynamic between Yōurán and Lucien. He’s a bad guy who won’t abandon his bad-guy way of thinking, but he encourages Yōurán to keep on pursuing good even if the bad guys take over the world. They love each other, but they are standing on opposing sides.

The Butterfly’s Choice

When Lucien asks if Yōurán wants to continue, she says yes. She is so set on finding the truth and saving people that she hasn’t even considered how she’s going to stay safe in all this. (Lucien: Oh my sweet silly girl, I admire your courage and good heart but please be careful.)

Lucien gives her an ultimatum. He gives her two choices.

Lucien: The right is to placidly accept a life of protection, with no more mixing yourself up in this world’s turmoil. The left is to actively seek out the truth, but everything is unknown and who knows how many dangers lie ahead

Yōurán: I choose left. I will not run away.

Lucien: And if this choice brings you harm and turns your world upside down? You still choose it?

Yōurán: Yes, I most certainly do.

The Artist wanted to keep the Butterfly in a glass jar forever to be safe from danger. But the Butterfly taught him that if he really loves the Butterfly, he should let her be free. The Butterfly chose, and he didn't keep her locked up. He accompanies her to clear the dangers in her path as long as he can.

Iridescent

Lucien gives her his pen. The same pen that appeared in Firefly karma SNS. The pen’s name is Iridescent. Lucien cannot see color without MC, and he’s giving her a pen named iridescent. If this isn't a declaration of love, I don’t know what is.

Fun fact: Lucien’s Chinese name is Xu mo, so the X carved on the pen stands for his name. Remember Doctor X at the end of chapter 3? That was Lucien.

Lucien opened my hand and placed the pen in it, then he closed my hand back over it with an assertive force.

But it seems like he gave her the pen for more than sentiment. More about that later.

Through a glass darkly

“Through a glass darkly” is a line from the New Testament. Chapter 13 of 1st Corinthians. Like Lucien says it could mean about the truth being blurry but I also think it’s linked to Alice and Through the Looking Glass.

Like Alice in the story, will Yōurán go ‘through a glass’ to the other world? Will it be the same or will it be ‘darkly’ in the mirror world?

The Favor

When Yōurán hears suspicious men coming in, her instinct is to protect Lucien immediately. He gently chastises her to put her safety first, but then he teases her telling her she was cute. If you ask me, he is inwardly gloating ‘omg Yōurán threw herself at me!’

Besides that, he uses this opportunity to be indebted to her.

Lucien: How should I thank you for protecting me? Anything you need or wish, just tell me. When you think of something, let me know.

His teasing mood is suddenly gone. He is so solemn that Yōurán is at a loss for words. Also more about this later.

The Truth that you asked for

Lucien: A good hunter won’t let his prey feel a hint of anything astray before it’s captured. She already walked step by step into my snare.

Yōurán walked into his trap and the truth. She asked for it and he gave it.

His fist fell open slackly, and then gripped tight again. I could only see surprise and concealment on his face.

Lucien knew this moment was coming, but going through it was harder than he thought. Unfortunately, he has to put on an act. He can no longer hold her in his arms and wipe away her tears. It’s time for her to know how dangerous he is.

Yōurán: And all that stuff you told me today, it was lies?

Lucien didn’t answer.

Lucien admits that he is Ares and was manipulating her, but when she accuses his affectionate words as lies as well, he doesn’t answer.

He stayed silent to not lie to her and no, those words came from his heart. They are the most essential truth among all the lies and deceit.

Yōurán: And all those stuff you told me before, were they lies as well?

Lucien: I have never engaged in idle pursuits.

Yōurán is not the only one who walked into a trap, Lucien did as well. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her for real but he did. Still he won’t have it any other way.

Yōurán: …why?

Lucien: I warned you before. You still had time to run.

Oh, but weren’t you secretly glad that she chose not to leave you despite your warnings, Lucien?

I don’t know why, but in that instant I seemed to see a flash of sorrow in his eyes. But in less than half a second, he had resumed his composure.

Lucien is a good actor. Those fleeting moments of emotion beneath the cold exterior are the only hints that there’s more going on. They might dawn on her later, but now Yōurán is dealing with her own hurt.

Iridescent + the favor = the way out

Now, the bad guys are about to capture Yōurán and Lucien can’t stop it. He has to be Ares now. His loyalty has already been doubted. Fortunately, Yōurán grasps the way out of the trap that he has planted for her.

In an instant, I held something sharp onto my neck. How ironic! He clearly gave it to me as a gift, and now it was carrying out its mission like this.

Maybe Lucien didn’t exactly plan on Yōurán using his pen to stab her neck, but hey, it still serves his purpose.

“Let me go…”

“You think you can negotiate with me?”

Yōurán remembers another bargaining chip that Lucien gave her.

“You still owe me a thank-you gift.”

When Yōurán reminds him of the favor he owed her, I bet he secretly thought “That’s my girl!” in his head. She's given him the excuse he needs.

You are Ares, not Lucien.

I can let you go, but next time, you won’t get such an opportunity. Don’t let me catch you next time. - Lucien

It’s time for Lucien to be Ares, her enemy. Their days together are over now. After this, Yōurán will want nothing to do with Lucien.

I will never trust you again, Ares. Because you are not Lucien. Lucien would never harm me… Ares and Lucien have nothing to do with each other! - Yōurán

But will she? Lucien knows Yōurán very well, but he's underestimating her determination. He’s warned her away many times but it didn’t stop her from warming her way into his heart. Does he think it can stop her now?

Yōurán got “betrayed” by him, but she is shouting that it is Ares who betrayed her, not Lucien. She still believes that Lucien is still the same guy she fell in love with.

In the Aquarium Date Lucien as Ares warned Yōurán away because he was dangerous, but what did Yōurán do? She kissed him and embraced “Lucien.”

He’s turned Ares on her, but she still hasn’t given up on “Lucien”.

[nobodyfamousposts]

Cornholio4 from ao3 here and As someone who earlier watched and loved Endgame; how about Marinette and Tikki have to overlook the Snap as it happens as they survive but it also affects kwamis. They leave Paris to help deal with it while her remaining classmates try to find her out fo fear that she was lost too without them getting the chance to make amends for the business with Lila.

I have not yet seen Endgame and came up with this off the top of my head. And I’m admittedly going in a bit of a different direction than what you’re asking here, but I hope it’s enjoyable all the same.

I’m of the opinion that kwamis can’t really be “snapped” out of existence that easily. They’re mini gods born of concepts.

That protection doesn’t apply to their holders though.

The first sign that something was wrong was the appearance of that spaceship in America.

A country away and across the sea was too far for Ladybug and Chat Noir to attempt to go to offer aid, but they remained vigilant in case more trouble arrived. Which naturally, it did. 

Just not in Paris.

More reports came in. Various ambushes across the world. In Scotland, for sure. Then the major battle in Wakanda, where the Avengers fought the Mad Titan Thanos for a Stone? An artifact of some sort. With Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and the army of Wakanda, surely they could win.

Except they didn’t. Whatever Thanos had been after, he had gotten.

It happened with a Snap.

Marinette could almost swear she had heard it when it happened—like the snap had been in her own mind instead of across the world. Whatever had happened, she had felt it, though she didn’t understand it. An encroaching feeling of dread that burrowed into her chest and became a growing gnawing pain that threatened to eat her from the inside out. She didn’t know what it was or what it represented, but it was unlike any akuma or foe she had ever faced.

The second sign that something was wrong was when Tikki began to shudder and sob as if in pain. Despite Marinette’s best efforts, there was nothing she could do to help her. And Tikki couldn’t bring herself to explain it.

But what really made it clear was when her own parents turned to dust right in front of her.

“Is…is this an akuma?” Marinette gasped out—begged.

And Tikki only looked up at her in despair.

“No.”

And she wailed.

She was panicking. Of course she was. Her entire world was rapidly falling apart and she didn’t know why. All she could do—all that she could think to do was get to Master Fu’s in hopes that whatever was happening hadn’t taken him as well and that he might have an answer.

She prayed he would still be there. She prayed harder than she ever had for anything in her life.

Please, please let someone remain. Please let him be all right. Please let him have an answer.

She didn’t even bother to detransform once she reached his home, her desperation and need for what little strength the suit and feeling of Tikki’s magic could offer was too great. And when she found him and Wayzz seated at his table pouring over the tablet, she felt like she could finally breathe.

“Master Fu! What is happening?!” 

Fu’s head snapped up to look at her, and he smiled shakily in relief. It seemed he had been just as worried as she had. “Marinette. You are all right.”

“Yes, of course!” She assured him. No turning to dust and blowing away in the wind for her, thank you very much!

As if sensing her feelings—or perhaps to confirm for himself, Wayzz floated over to her and rested a paw on her cheek, giving a small smile and nod when she didn’t crumble beneath his touch. She wanted to smile back. She wanted to reassure him. But…

“My parents…” She stifled a sob. “They just…disappeared right in front of my eyes! It’s happening all over the place! The whole city is affected.”

“It’s not just the city.” Fu confirmed, somberly. “I fear that this is far, far greater than Paris.”

It was.

With a short detransformation, the four watched in mounting horror as the news reports came in from all over the world detailing the sudden and rapid loss of life. People disappearing in seconds. Of all the chaos erupting, how emergencies were popping up everywhere and how there weren’t nearly enough authorities or EMS workers to handle it all.

More information both flooded and trickled in. They had to work through the flood of panicked news broadcasts and stories to find the bits of information that could explain what had happened.

Of Thanos, a “Mad Titan” from another world.

Of the Avengers trying to stop him.

Of Wakanda and the final stand.

Of how they failed.

Of what was being called “The Snap”.

Marinette sent out message after message to Chat Noir, telling him where to meet her. Hoping he was unharmed. Hoping that whatever had happened could be taken care of. Hoping that he was just slow to respond. Or caught up in something elsewhere. Or simply hadn’t transformed and thus hadn’t received her message yet.

All her hopes were dashed that evening when it was a lone cat kwami who arrived, carrying a ring in his much too small hands.

“I’m sorry.”

And Marinette cried.

The days that followed passed mostly in silence. With no one left at home, Marinette couldn’t bring herself to return to the bakery. She was technically an orphan now, anyway, and if she did get caught, she might not be able to get away to do anything as Ladybug. As such, she stayed with Fu while the two of them attempted to find some means of undoing this travesty. Their attempts to look through the tablet and decipher more of the Miraculous text gave them no answers. Fu was determined to not give up and kept trying. Marinette continued to help him, though less out of any real belief that they could find an answer and more of an attempt to keep busy.

She stubbornly ignored her phone. She kept it off and refused to even touch it. And when researching, she avoided any news of Paris at all costs, especially the Ladyblog.

Marinette had already lost her parents and her partner. She didn’t want to find out who else she knew was gone.

Maybe it was worse not knowing. But it was still too fresh and the pain too great. She didn’t want to discover that she had lost anyone else. Alya. Rose. Juleka. Alix. Myelen. Nino. Luka. Ivan. Ms. Chamack. Manon. Hell, even Chloe.

Three was too much as it was. And she knew all of Paris was suffering, but she just…she just couldn’t bring herself to know what she had lost. Not as long as there was a chance to save them. Because if she found out any of them were gone as well?

She may not have the heart to keep trying.

Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to translate the ancient texts. So that was left to Fu. Meanwhile, she continued to gather information from the rest of the world—particularly about Thanos and the Avengers. Was Thanos still active? Were the Avengers still around? Were they planning anything? Did they have a way to undo this?

She spent her time searching fruitlessly for information—hopefully for answers she could use. All while Tikki and Plagg stayed attached to her side, as if desperately seeking and giving comfort. Neither were doing well, though it was for different reasons. Tikki could feel the pain of Thanos altering reality as they knew it to erase half of all life. And Plagg was a mix of exhaustion and sorrow over the loss of Chat Noir. He wouldn’t even gorge himself on the cheese available. She had to encourage him to eat.

When she couldn’t stand to look at the computer or TV anymore, she would bake, filling Fu’s home with aromas that would be enticing if everything didn’t taste like ash in her mouth. Tikki at least seemed to appreciate the efforts, constantly nibbling away at all times in an attempt to build up her energy. If there was anything to be gained over the days and weeks that they spent there, Tikki was improving at least. That was one thing to be happy for.

Marinette didn’t feel she deserved to be happy. The world was a mess. Paris was a mess. And by all counts, she was Ladybug and should be able to do SOMETHING. But she was scared to go out. Not for herself or what could happen to her, but afraid of that striking realization of just how alone she might be. She was worried that she would break. Either he knew how fragile her current state was or otherwise knew something else she did not, because Fu insisted she remain hidden just in case Thanos tried anything else.

“Have faith, Marinette. There is a way.” He assured her.

But she wasn’t so sure.

She wanted to help. Paris needed her.

But she needed Chat.

She needed her parents.

She needed an answer.

So perhaps it was luck or fate that the answer came one day less than a month after this nightmare started in the form of a glowing orange portal that deposited two strangers into Fu’s study.

“Who are you?!” She demanded. She wasn’t transformed, but she still had her earrings and Tikki was nearby and at full health. If she had to fight, she could. To protect the few people she had left, she would.

One of the men was tall and looked quite strong—a warrior, she realized. Blond hair and eyes that were kind but sharp. She could tell from his stance and his expression that he was very well experienced. Could she take him?

Her eyes narrowed.

If he was a threat, she would certainly try.

But he held up his hands in a gesture signifying he meant no harm. “Please. We’re not here to fight.”

She wasn’t sure she could trust him, but he seemed sincere. Sincere and desperate for something.

The other man stepped forward at that point. He was Chinese and looked stern in a way similar to Fu. “We must speak with the Guardian.”

“Well then,” came Master Fu’s voice from the side door, causing all three to snap towards him in varying degrees of surprise and concern. “Shall we discuss matters in the living area?”

It was interesting meeting with these strangers over tea. The Chinese man was settled quickly, clearly wanting to not waste time. Meanwhile, the American one was clearly unused to the customs but took the differences in stride, noted how the others were seated, and followed with little issue.

“I see your side has grown since our groups parted ways.”

The man who called himself Wong nodded. “Yes, we gained knowledge and items of power, as well as followers to disperse our teachings through.” He frowned, seeming to study Fu. “But it would seem your side has had some setbacks.”

Marinette initially wanted to bristle at that and come to Master Fu’s defense, but for all that they spoke of division and two groups, they did not sound at odds with one another. And if anything, Wong sounded…sad for the fate of Fu’s monastery.

And for his part, Fu did not take offense to the comment. It was only the truth. He lowered his head, regret clear in his expression. “Mistakes have been made. But at least most of the Miraculous remain intact and safe.”

“So it’s true then?” The blond man asked, eager but cautious. “These ‘Miraculous’ items are really on par with the Infinity Stones?”

Fu nodded. “In a way. The Infinity Stones were born of physical and quantifiable concepts of existence. The Miraculous were created from the birth of metaphysical and abstract aspects of life. Creation. Destruction. Transmission. Protection. Subjection. In a sense, the Miraculous and the Infinity Stones operated alongside and counter to each other. Intertwined but separate. Each are incredibly powerful, and extremely dangerous if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“There was a reason our two sects separated millennia ago.” Wong stated, continuing the explanation. “In the distant past, our Order was a singular group created to guard both the Miraculous and the Infinity Stones in their possession.” His expression hardened. “But it was soon realized that the power of both sets—even if incomplete—were too great to hold in one place or under one group, regardless of the intentions. So the Order was split into two sects—one to guard the Infinity Stones as well as other artifacts and tomes, and the other to hide the Miraculous and keep them hidden from history and the world.”

“Yes,” Fu said, somberly. “So that if one side fell and this very event happened, the other could intervene to set things right.”

“That is why we are here now.” Wong stated. “The madman known as ‘Thanos’ is no longer a threat. Now is the time to correct the damage he has caused and rebuild. But we need the aid of the Miraculous to do so.”

“I see.” Fu replied. He said nothing further.

Anxious, Marinette looked between the two in confusion and growing hope.

Please. Please. Please.

“So you’re saying that we can fix this? The Miraculous can restore things?”

There was a long pause before Fu nodded.

“The Infinity Stones and the Miraculous are different sets of power, but both are still tied to the reality we know. Both can still have an effect and counter each other if it becomes necessary. Thanos may have gotten the Stones and used them in his mad quest, but he didn’t know about the Miraculous. That will be what will unravel his plans.”

“But how?” She asked.

“The Miraculous Cure.” The man known as Wong replied.

She gasped. “What?!”

Master Fu set his cup down and started to explain. “The Miraculous Ladybug you cast is able to undo the damage done by akuma attacks, but it doesn’t stop there. You’ve fixed things that were damaged or broken before the akuma came to be—that may have even been the reason for the akuma in the first place.”

“Over the past year, there have been major crises that have gone so far as to result in world-effecting acts. Flooding, unnatural storms, even moving the planet itself. Each and every time, you were able to set things right.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t all that just because an akuma was involved?” She asked.

“No.” Fu disagreed. “The Miraculous Ladybug changed things to rights because it was what YOU believed to be right. In your hands, the Cure can correct more damage done by natural and unnatural means. It is fully possible that it can undo the damage Thanos has caused and restore those who have been lost.”

“We have a plan to amplify the spellwork to allow the effects to be greater.” Wong explained. “Our allies are looking into the process now. But your Cure is still the basis for it. We will need your support to proceed.”

She shook her head. This was just too crazy!

“But…this isn’t just Paris! This is the world—the entire UNIVERSE! I don’t know if I can!” Marinette exclaimed. “What if it doesn’t work?”

Fu nodded at her, hopefully. “Then it doesn’t work. Nothing changes. But if it does work, everything changes. That means there’s a chance things can improve and the damage can be undone. Isn’t that worth trying for?”

She clenched her fists, anxious and uncertain. “I just…”

“Miss Ladybug,” The blond man finally spoke up, drawing her attention to him. “I know it’s scary and it seems like it would hurt to let yourself hope after everything. But if there’s hope, there’s a chance. All we ask of you is that you try.”

He looked kind. There was something about him that reminded her a lot of Chat Noir. The hopeful smile and gentle eyes. The desire to see the best but expectation for disappointment. Reassurance and support. But above all, there was belief in her.

And she couldn’t help but want to not disappoint him.

“I’ll do it.” She took a breath. “I…I’ll try.”

He smiled, and it just made her miss her own partner all the more.

“Thank you.”

It took all of two weeks to get everything together. She still had concerns about Thanos, of course, but the other heroes reassured her he would not be an issue at this point. Whatever happened to him, she decided not to ask. Right now, the goal was to undo the damage he had caused.

The plan was simple and yet not. She had to cast her Miraculous Cure. But to allow it to do as much healing as possible, she would need the support of the other Miraculous to empower her. There was also a magical array created by Fu and Wong, as well as machinery put in place by Tony Stark and Bruce Banner in order to further power her Cure.

She would be the conduit at the center of all that, taking the strength they had to offer and using it to feed her spell in hopes of correcting the harm done and save the universe.

God, she felt like the main character of one of those magical girl shows Adrien liked so much.

It was strange seeing the famous Avengers dressed so uniquely.

Captain Turtle—the blond man she had come to discover was the Captain America, Steve Rogers—placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly before heading to his place in the formation. More than anyone, he had been calm and supportive, willing to listen to her worries and help her past her uncertainty. The fact that he had lost a partner in the Snap just as she had allowed the two to have a point of relation and understanding to build on.

Black Vixen was beautiful but quiet. She kept mostly to the sidelines until she was needed, though she seemed to keep a particular eye on several parties involved in this project. Strangely enough, Marinette was not one of them. Other than a kind word of encouragement, they had little interaction. Part of Marinette wondered if she should be concerned at just how energetic Trixx seemed to be upon meeting the woman, and she couldn’t tell if it was out of excitement or agitation.

Cats Eye gave her a nod and she couldn’t help but return it. The desperation and fleeting hope in his expression made her heart ache and while she didn’t know who he had lost, she wanted nothing more than to make this work.

Buzz Bomber was a dark-skinned man with a very strict and orderly presentation to him. He struggled to move fully on his own and utilized braces, but he stood taller than many others she had seen in this place in the past weeks. And much like Mssr Rogers, he had been nothing but kind to her.

The woman who had become the Peacock was strange and cold. Her skin just as blue as the Peacock Miraculous itself even before she donned it. She had been warned repeatedly of the danger it presented, but merely shrugged off the warnings. Or was it that she welcomed them? “Promises, promises.“

And finally, Hawk Moth himself. How he had agreed to be involved, she still wasn’t certain. How the Avengers had managed to track him down and drag him to their base of operations in the first place was an even bigger question. All she could discern was that he had similarly lost someone in the Snap. And if this could restore that person, then he was willing to put his animosity for her aside—however temporarily. She didn’t trust him. And she certainly didn’t trust that he wouldn’t try anything.

That was what the very well built amazonian-like women and the talking raccoon with a very big gun seemed to be for.

No, she wasn’t going to question it. After everything else she had experienced and everything that had happened in the past month since this mess started, she was certainly not feeling inclined to argue about the raccoon. Or the gun.

Mssr Stark and Mssr Banner were going to monitor the machine while Master Fu and Wong would keep an eye on the magical aspect of things. The women and the raccoon would protect her in case of an unwelcome “surprises”. The other heroes (and Hawk Moth) would power her. And with the aid of one of Hawk Moth’s specifically NON-evilized butterflies, the Asgardian known as Thor would add his strength to hers as well in order to mitigate any potential backlash.

All Marinette had to do was cast her Cure.

“We’re ready when you are.”

She wasn’t ready.

She wasn’t sure she ever would be.

What if it didn’t work? What if it didn’t bring them back? What if it was all for nothing and her parents and everyone else stayed gone?

Could she really allow herself to hope?

…What a stupid question.

Like “allowing” herself to hope was ever a choice.

She was Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

She was Ladybug.

She believed.

“MIRACULOUS LADYBUG!”

[rufeepeach]

Fic: i had a night (i had a day)

Title: i had a night (i had a day) Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Summary: After the world is saved, and Heaven and Hell sent back to their respective corners, Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to settle into a new kind of coexistence - a much more shared existence, without those barriers (spiritual, emotional, and professional) keeping them apart. Unfortunately, this requires a conversation neither of them really knows how to have.

Or: in which it takes all of two (2) bottles of wine to make Aziraphale both theological and emotional.

On AO3

“You know, at the end of it all, I came to a rather startling conclusion.” 

Crowley’s head rolls to one side, and one eyebrow arches over his sunglasses. Aziraphale wishes he would take those off while indoors; it always seems like one more barrier to understanding between them, an unnecessary wall in place.

After another rather lovely dinner at a relatively new and very charming French restaurant near Covent Garden, it had felt natural to return to Aziraphale’s flat above the restored bookshop for a nightcap. Such has been the way of things for a few weeks now, ever since Armageddon was averted and their relative head offices apparently retreated. Aziraphale had been fortunate to see Crowley once or twice a month, before: now, it is a daily occurrence. It feels natural; no one has felt the need to comment.

Crowley sprawls on the sofa and Aziraphale takes his comfy chair by the fire, and the coffee table between them fills with bottles of wine, mugs of hot cocoa, snifters of brandy, whatever takes their fancy tonight.

And yet, despite their being practically joined at the hip these days, unwilling or perhaps unable to let go after their brush with the unspeakable loss of one another, those damned sunglasses remain even in this warm, dark, private place. Aziraphale has no idea why: he’s very familiar with Crowley’s snake eyes, has been since the literal dawn of creation, and he’s always found them rather lovely, all things considered.

Crowley lowers the wine bottle from his lips, and swallows an ungodly gulp.

“Oh?” Crowley says. “And what have you concluded?”

“I still have faith,” Aziraphale can feel the smile that bursts across his face, the stupid happiness that accompanies the declaration: hopeful, wonderful.

Crowley frowns, not getting it. Aziraphale can sense the doubt as it slithers into Crowley, that endless worry that he hopes someday – perhaps in another thousand years or so – he can eradicate entirely. “In… in what? Heaven? They tried to burn you alive, angel, I’m not sure they’ll take your call.”

“Oh, no, no no, of course not!” Aziraphale waves a hand, brushing the ridiculous notion aside and with it the entire concept of Heaven: Gabriel, Michael, Head Office, the whole shebang. “Heaven can hang!” 

“Quite right too!” Crowley salutes with his wine bottle, and goes back to swigging directly from it, uncouth fiend that he is. He does it just to wind Aziraphale up, and Aziraphale refuses to rise to the bait.

“But… but in something above Heaven,” Aziraphale continues, cautiously, gauging Crowley’s reaction. He imagines his eyes narrowing, although all he has to go by are lowered eyebrows and a furrowed brow. “In… In Her.”

“Right,” Crowley hums, noncommittal. “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, angel. I’m not seeing the difference.”

“You something, back in Tadfield, while we were waiting for the bus,” Aziraphale says. “It’s been rattling about in my mind ever since.”

“If you’re talking about the invite back to my place, that was a shameless ploy to get you to clean up the holy water and what was left of Ligur,” Crowley says.

It’s a lie – Crowley had been as surprised as anyone to rediscover the remains of his former colleague on the floor of his flat, the night the world didn’t end. What it had been, Aziraphale was sure, was an unsubtle way to say ‘please don’t leave me alone’, a sentiment Aziraphale more than shared. He never intended to leave Crowley alone ever again, if he could help it. He’d had more than enough of that for one eternal lifetime.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m talking about something else. You suggested that everything, our prevention of Armageddon included, was perhaps part of the Ineffable Plan.”

“I was just chatting bollocks, angel,” Crowley sighs, and oh Aziraphale does not enjoy the bitter edge to his tone, however familiar it is. There’s such sweetness and warmth in Crowley, and the bitterness is so firmly turned inward, that it breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“No, I don’t think you were,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “In fact, I said something very similar at the air base, and I think we were both right.”

“What’s that then?”

“That the Grand Plan and the Ineffable Plan are in fact two separate plans!” 

“Right.”

“Oh don’t give me that look!” Aziraphale scolds, a little wounded by Crowley’s ignorance, or his scepticism, or whatever it is that is making him look at Aziraphale like that. “Think about it, about everything that had to happen for us to still be here! Not only did you have to be chosen to deliver the Antichrist, but you had to show up right when the Youngs were already at the convent, and you had to be reluctant enough to want to get out of there as fast as possible, and you had to just happen to run into the most incompetent nun in the whole building!”

“I was chosen because I’d spent thousands of years taking credit for everything evil under the sun,” Crowley corrects, slurring a little. “It was my reward for… for everything.”

Aziraphale takes another sip from his wine glass. If anyone deserves a proverbial olive branch from faith itself, it’s Crowley. Crowley who had had doubts from the very beginning; Crowley who had been asking questions before mankind was a twinkle in the Almighty’s divine eye; Crowley who had reluctantly Fallen and still fought harder than anyone to save the world and everyone and everything in it.

“Alright, but suppose you had arrived at the convent and any other nun had greeted you,” Aziraphale insists. “The baby would have been successfully placed with the Ambassador, and named Warlock, and we would have been-“

“Ham-fistedly shoving contradictory moral lessons down the right boy’s throat for eleven years?” Crowley finishes for him. 

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale fiddles a little in his lap at that accurate but certainly unflattering portrait of their valiant efforts. “Quite.”

“So you still have faith in the Almighty because of what? Lucky incompetence?”

“Very lucky incompetence,” Aziraphale corrects. “Remarkably lucky, in fact: lucky that the Youngs are good and kind people from a good and kind place; lucky that Adam grew up with strong-willed and happy playmates; lucky that the last witch burned in England wrote down her prophecies, and that her descendants maintained the only book in existence, and that her ultimate great-granddaughter was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to collide with your Bentley, and that she left that one book in the backseat, and that I happened to find it.”

“That… is a lot of luck, yeah,” Crowley concedes.

He rolls his head back, his long limbs splayed, wine bottle all but dripping from his slender fingers. Aziraphale allows just a moment of pause – allows, because he could not prevent it, because he cannot help it, he can never help it – to admire him in all his louche, careworn beauty. He allows himself to marvel that somehow, against all the odds, Crowley is here with him after the end of the world. In this rare unguarded moment, sprawled on his sofa as if nothing had happened, Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be more beautiful even than Mozart, or sushi, or a perfect 1922 Châteauneuf-du-Pape: certainly worth preserving the world for. The thought of eternity without Crowley doesn’t bear contemplation.

He swallows that thought down with another sip of his wine. Of course Crowley is beautiful – he is the original temptation, it would hardly work if he weren’t easy on the eye. Aziraphale isn’t sure that was really the point of that stray thought, however. He’s never been sure that beauty begins and ends with physicality.

“It’s not luck,” Aziraphale presses, instead of voicing a word of what passed through his half-drunk mind. Not luck, because to think that their being here now, safe and happy and together, is the product of a string of random fortune is too terrifying to dwell on. “It’s the Plan.”

“Oh don’t start,” Crowley moans. “This the Great Plan or the Ineffable Plan?”

“The Ineffable Plan,” Aziraphale clarifies.

“But you spoke to the Metatron, didn’t you?” Crowley frowns, looking at Aziraphale, confused. “I thought he said that She wanted the war to go ahead.”

“Yes, I’ve given that some thought,” Aziraphale replies. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that in order for the Ineffable Plan to succeed, I had to be convinced we were on our own.”

“Right, assuming the Ineffable Plan wasn’t just to end the world, like everyone including Satan himself and the Archangel-fucking-Gabriel assumed,” Crowley nods, sarcasm rolling off him. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Crowley is always at his most dismissive and biting when he feels threatened.

“Right, assumed,” Aziraphale presses. “An assumption is not necessarily correct.”

“So you think the Metatron lied to you?”

The question is sharper, and carries with it the weight of a heavier question, a broader question, the question of why when Crowley was at his most lonely, vulnerable, and frightened, Aziraphale was seeking guidance from his higher-ups rather than fighting beside his best friend. Why, when given the chance to choose a side, Aziraphale had not immediately chosen him. 

“I think the Metatron… gave an inaccurate impression of the Almighty’s true purpose,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “I believe so, anyway.”

“Believe,” Crowley nods. “This where the faith comes in, yeah?”

Aziraphale swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, the wine not necessarily helping but welcome nonetheless. This new body is identical to his old form, and yet… and yet. Not. Not quite. More human, perhaps, maybe just because it’s younger, it has a tendency to race its heart and dry its throat, to adrenaline spikes, to panic, to physical response. It’s hard work. He’s still working out the kinks. 

There’s a long silence. Crowley sinks deeper into Aziraphale’s couch. Aziraphale clenches his hands in his lap, both wishing he had chosen the seat beside Crowley – the distance between them suddenly looms, a cavern as broad as the gap between Heaven and Hell – and thankful for the relative safety of his armchair. The look on Crowley’s face is unreadable, and yet Aziraphale can read him, and he knows it isn’t good.

The silence stretches. Aziraphale’s oh-so-young heart starts to beat. He wishes he were one to pace. He wishes someone, anyone, would say anything.

“Why’d you do it?” Crowley asks, at last, the question Aziraphale is certain he’s been burning to ask for weeks now, the proverbial elephant in the room.

“Do what?” Aziraphale’s cowardice, as always, gets the better of him. He won’t answer the question until it is asked, in case he’s gotten it wrong, in case he ends up saying more than he has to. 

“You know what,” Crowley sighs. “C’mon, angel.”

“No I do not know what!” Aziraphale lies, panicked, maybe he’s lying, he hopes he’s not lying. He doesn’t know, technically, but he can make an educated guess.

“Why’d you walk away?” Crowley demands. His posture hasn’t changed, lithe body still spread out across the couch, easy as you like, but his tone is serious and a touch angry and a touch more hurt, although Aziraphale is sure that last part Crowley hopes he’s hiding. It hurts him, nonetheless, pokes at that shameful bruise under his ribs, the knowledge that in six thousand years he’s never made a worse mistake. “In the park, at the bandstand, you knew I was right and you ended up agreeing with me anyway so why’d you suddenly run away?”

Aziraphale sighs. He’d been right. He had known what Crowley meant. 

The unspoken fact of their togetherness, the fact they’re barely apart for more than a day at a time, the lunches and dinners and walks together, has all come at the price of Aziraphale’s shame that he didn’t get here sooner.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Crowley has been waiting for decades, centuries, longer, for them to be on the same side, their own side. And yet, it took until the literal eleventh hour for Aziraphale to finally join him there.

“I… I was lost,” he says, at last. Crowley hums softly, but doesn’t comment. Aziraphale looks down, at his hands, fiddles, shuffles, cannot meet the gaze that pierces from behind Crowley’s sunglasses. “My faith was… shaken. Not in Heaven, I… I mean I knew what they were, who they were, I think I’d always known. They wanted their war and they would have it. But I had hoped… I mean, I believed they were misguided. I thought if I could make the Almighty understand that it was more complicated, that there were… shades of grey. That maybe then…” He trails off, stops, thinks, recalibrates. He knows what he needs to say. It’s the reason he started this conversation, if he’s honest with himself.

He cannot form the words. They die in his throat, too heavy for such a delicate balance.

“Maybe then what? They’d all become pacifists overnight?” Crowley’s trying for biting, but he doesn’t succeed, it just comes out with that soft, sad sympathy Aziraphale has always adored in him. The tone of one who could see the lie all along, and yet is saddened by another’s disillusionment. For a demon, Crowley has a notable, admirable lack of schadenfreude.

Aziraphale doesn’t doubt that there was a time, before the Fall, when Crowley had been as Aziraphale is now. Crowley had just learned to question sooner, lost his innocence sooner, thought for himself quicker. He’d gotten there faster, like he always did, and it had taken over six millennia for Aziraphale to begin to catch up.

“That maybe then it would all be alright,” Aziraphale murmured, ashamed of his own naiveté, embarrassed at such a childish thought. “I thought She might… understand. And then there would be no need for sides, or for the war, and the world could spin on.”

“That would have been lovely,” Crowley agrees. “Shame She’s as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.”

“But that’s exactly my point!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Had I… had I agreed with you, we would have left together, yes? Leaving the world to rot. Or perhaps we would have stayed to fight, but that fight would have involved killing Adam, which we may or may not have been able to do, and had we done it would not have allowed the world to be restored after Armageddon was averted, and had we failed he would never have trusted us.”

“We almost did that anyway,” Crowley notes, his voice bitter as ash. They are in agreement there: the memory of the split second staring down the barrel of that oversized gun, of Adam’s curly head in his sights, of pulling the trigger… well, it doesn’t bear remembering, really. 

“But we didn’t! We failed again!” Aziraphale’s smile is back; he slaps his thigh for emphasis. “Because the portal stayed open, so Sergeant Shadwell turned up uninvited, so I was discorporated, so I had to take that witch’s body, and so she stopped me. If I had been in my own body… well…”

He trails off again. His too-young stomach flips at the thought of what he might have, what he almost, what he intended to do. To a child. An innocent. A human boy who had already chosen to save the world rather than end and rule it.

“Well,” Crowley agrees, his voice heavy. “For the record, I wasn’t happy about it either.”

“You made a good argument,” Aziraphale weakly tries to comfort them both. “You know, the world versus one child.”

“Yeah but that was when it was Warlock, and he was such an arsehole,” Crowley waves a hand, as if it matters at all who the child was. “And it was never about the world, anyway,” Crowley continues. “I mean not entirely. Not really.”

“Oh?” It is Aziraphale’s turn to frown, perplexed.

Crowley’s head is rolled back, eyes back on the ceiling, casual and relaxed and oh-so-cool when in fact the universe rests on his words. “Decision came down to your life or his,” he shrugs. “Didn’t even have to think about it.”

Aziraphale swallows. His heart, treacherous newborn organ that it is, starts to pound. “Oh.”

It warrants an answer. He knows that. He’s always known that. How many times have they been here, Crowley reaching out, opening up, seeking reciprocity, Aziraphale reaching back only to falter and retreat and withdraw, cowardice masked as righteousness, hiding behind sides, behind us-and-them, behind orders? How many times has he failed, and yet Crowley continues to try, nonetheless, hopeful to the last.

He can’t find the words, and the silence stretches, and Crowley gets restless, he knows this dance as well as Aziraphale and is too weary to expect the answer he deserves.

“More wine, angel?” he asks, casual and cool, as he stands to fetch a bottle he could have easily summoned from the sofa, and paces across the room to find a corkscrew he certainly doesn’t need. 

“I put my faith in all the wrong places,” Aziraphale blurts, forcing himself through this, gritting his teeth through the panic crawling up his spine, although every instinct screams to be quiet, to pull back, to run, to shut this down now before it can go any further.

It’s easier now that Crowley is facing away, and he wonders if that was Crowley’s intention, or whether this displacement activity is entirely for the demon’s own benefit. He continues: “Although I believe my doubt was part of Her Ineffable Plan… that doesn’t mean I was right. It means my wrongness was essential, but that’s altogether different. Many things were, are, will continue to be essential to the Plan, but that doesn’t make all of them right.” 

Crowley is silent, fiddling with the wine, his shoulders tense, eyes down. Aziraphale wishes now that they were sat side-by-side, that this distance could be closed, but he is rooted to his seat and he cannot muster the strength to move. Everything he has is going into pushing these essential words out of his resistant mouth. His small living room has never felt so vast.

“What I mean to say is that… well, all along I shouldn’t have cared for Heaven, or Gabriel, or even the Almighty, Ineffable Plan or no. From the start, well, I should have put my faith in… you.”

Crowley stills. He does not respond.

“C-Crowley?”

Silence. Aching, awful, silence.

“Oh Crowley do say something!” Aziraphale cannot handle this quiet, not now, not from Crowley. They’ve always, always been able to talk to one another, and just as he needs Crowley’s effortless ability to fill any silence, with his probing questions and his sharp remarks and his intellect, he goes silent! “You were right, alright? We ought to have been our own side, and whether or not I was capable of accepting when you offered you were owed… well, better, anyway, than what I gave you. I betrayed you and I’m so very, deeply, terribly sorry.” 

“You said you didn’t like me,” Crowley reminds him, finally turning to face him, and the shame hits like a punch to the stomach. 

Aziraphale rises to his feet, on instinct, unnecessary, and meets Crowley at the end of the coffee table. He takes his wine, letting Crowley put the bottle on the coffee table, fiddling, fussing, not wanting to sit, not wanting the distance back, not wanting to commit to sitting together as if that isn’t what this whole conversation, at its heart, is about.

“I… I was scared,” Aziraphale admits, in for a penny in for a pound, true honesty not being something one can provide in moderation then retreat. Heaven has shown its cards. There is no more risk to openness, no more excuse to pull away.

“Understandable,” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale wishes he weren’t wearing those bloody sunglasses, because if he’s going to spill his heart out then for God’s sake he will at least see Crowley’s eyes while he does it! “The punishment was hellfire, after all. I was there.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t scared of that,” Aziraphale admits. Then, helplessly, scolds: “Oh do take off your glasses, Crowley!”

He’s certain Crowley rolled his snake eyes, if that were possible, but he cannot see them until a moment later, when the glasses are in Crowley’s pocket and his full face is revealed. “Better, angel?”

“Much,” Aziraphale sighs, happy, delighted, smiling, God, it’s ridiculous how Crowley’s proximity can bring a smile to his face even in such a difficult, tense moment. He’s grateful for the slight crack in the tension, too, for a moment to breathe.

“You’re braver than I am, then,” Crowley murmurs, returning to their previous topic. “I’ve been terrified of what Hell might do if they caught on for centuries.”

“I mean, I was scared of the hellfire,” Aziraphale corrects himself. “But… not only that.”

“Gabriel’s withering stare?” Crowley suggests, lightly. “A promotion back to head office, away from your books and your sushi? Being forced onto harp duty for a few centuries?”

Aziraphale fights the smile threatening to spread across his face. “Oh do be serious,” he mutters instead. “I was scared that… that you were right. And of what it would mean that you were right.”

“I was right,” Crowley reminds him. “And the world did not, in fact, end, which proves I was right.”

He hasn’t returned to his seat. They’re standing a little awkwardly, just a little too close, wine glasses held between them.

“Yes, but you had been right for some time,” Aziraphale replies. “Since at least the fifteen-hundreds, possibly since the Garden. We had been our own side since well before the Antichrist’s birth, I was just… well, I had always been too scared to admit it.”

Crowley thinks about that. Aziraphale watches the emotion play over his expressive face, his lips pursing then relaxing, thoughtfulness, confusion, a little sadness, a little anger, his head bowed, his snake-eyes unreadable.

Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin when something touches his free hand: Crowley’s fingers, tangling with his. They’ve never held hands like this before: never in private, never in the warm semi-dark of his lamp-lit sitting room, never without a good reason.

“Angel, I-“ 

“And that has always been terrifying, because…” he rushes on, his eyes on their hands and his lips loosened by the rush of warmth through his whole body at the contact, so much more potent than mere alcohol. “Well, because if that were true, that you were integral to me, then I’d have to admit to being scared of losing you. Much safer to stay loyal to Heaven, and pretend you gave a damn about Hell, and forget the whole idea.”

A breath, a pause, he could stop here, he could leave it here, this is enough, this is all Crowley needs to hear, but now the fight is to keep his mouth shut and stem the tide and he fails and: “Much easier to pretend I didn’t… love you.”

The silence now is deep, tense, but comfortable, like a heavy blanket, like the glow of a hearth, like love, but not celestial love, no, material love, personal love, love that grows in the warmth and the dark where nobody’s looking, that belongs only to those who feel it, that is possessive and generous and earthly, neither blessed nor damned. Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe, and yet he finds his lungs constrict anyway, as he waits for Crowley to say anything, anything at all.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmurs. That’s all he says, just that, and yet it’s everything. It’s like the first time, like on the garden wall, a release from doubt, a benediction from an unlikely corner, relief pouring through him. Then, like a snake in the Garden of Eden, doubt, sadness, loss: “That’s what angels do, isn’t it? Love everything. Trust you to take it too far.” 

“What?” Aziraphale blinks, confused, trying to work out where in the name of the Almighty Crowley has gotten the message confused. “No, no, I don’t mean in an angelic way. I mean like…” he can’t get his thoughts straight, all jumbled, and Crowley is so close and their hands are still all tangled up and blast it, Crowley has been literally inside his body, and he’s so clever, so why is he choosing this moment out of six thousand years of moments to be so stupid? “Oh bugger this." 

Aziraphale surges, half-falls, forward, and kisses him, full on the mouth. It takes his too-new brain a moment to catch up with what he is doing, and why, and how, and that he is kissing Crowley, that Crowley has leaned instinctively toward him and is kissing him back. Then there are some rather ostentatious fireworks exploding behind his eyes, and a rich, syrupy warmth floods through Aziraphale at the sensation of Crowley’s soft, cool lips moving gently, lovingly against his, and that young heart of his pounds in his chest.

It’s a brief kiss, startled, inexperienced, chaste, over in a moment after what Aziraphale was coming to realise had been six thousand years of build-up. It is utterly remarkable.

He pulls back, and has the pleasure of watching Crowley’s eyes flicker open, dazed, confused.

“Like that!” Aziraphale says, decisively, triumphantly, his point proven. “There, I don’t kiss everything like-mmph!”

He is cut off by Crowley slamming his mouth back against his, his eyes slamming closed a second too late, another kiss, deeper this time, overwhelming, Crowley’s lips caressing his, passionate. Two hands at his neck, one creeping into his hair, holding him closer, holding him still, and it is all Aziraphale can do to angle his head slightly and follow Crowley’s lead and let himself be kissed. If the first one had been fireworks, then this one is a forest fire, and he is happily, willingly consumed by it.

He lifts one hand to Crowley’s cheek, and just holds it there, gentle, his thumb stroking the sharp cheekbone. Crowley makes the most beautiful, intoxicating little noise in the back of his throat, and opens his mouth, and suddenly his soft tongue is stroking Aziraphale’s and he can’t help but gasp, the sensation at once wonderful and unbearable.

He pulls back a moment later, his head reeling. “You were saying, Aziraphale?”

Crowley says his name so rarely, only when his mask slips in times of great seriousness, and it’s a shame because it sounds inexplicably delicious in that low rumble of his. Aziraphale gathers his bearings as quickly as he can. “I was saying that I’ve never been all that good at that impersonal all-encompassing divine love, and what I feel for you… well, it’s always been really rather personal with us, hasn’t it?”

“Just a little, yeah,” Crowley murmurs. He's smiling; Aziraphale's heart stammers. “C’mere, angel.” His lips cover Aziraphale’s once more, and all thought is smothered in static, and belonging, and love, so powerful he’s amazed he hasn’t sensed it before.

He can’t get the thought out of his mind: the love rolling from Crowley in crashing, deafening waves, why had he never sensed it before? How could he possibly have been so blind to this? Now it’s smothering his senses, drowning out everything except for Crowley and I love you and finally!

They kiss for long moments, Crowley’s lips caressing and plucking at his, Crowley’s tongue licking and teasing at his, with far more skill than Aziraphale’s enthusiastic, unpractised fumbling can manage. He’s thankful Crowley seems to know what he’s doing, because Aziraphale’s hands have started to tremble, and it’s taking all his divine willpower to prevent his knees from buckling under him.

Crowley finally pulls away – well, he disengages his beautiful mouth from its even-more-beautiful activities to speak, but nothing else about his action could be described as ‘pulling away’, given that his hands remain firmly on Aziraphale’s neck, and not a sliver of daylight could have found its way between their bodies. But Crowley’s lips do pull back, and it gives Aziraphale just a moment of vague lucidity to process the colossal shift in the world around him.

“Is it going to sound disgustingly cliché if I say I’ve been waiting six thousand years to do that?” Crowley murmurs, a gorgeous smile tugging at his lips. There’s something so intoxicating about that attitude of his, breathtaking sincerity cloaked in a thick layer of swagger and charisma. The latter lends itself willingly to irony, which easily masks and distorts the former, and Aziraphale has been thoroughly remiss: he has used it as an escape far too many times.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs. Crowley’s eyes flick up to his, a sudden moment of aching vulnerability that clutches at Aziraphale’s heart. Oh yes, nothing divine and all encompassing about this: this is personal, this is earthly, this is, for lack of a better term, human. “I know you have.”

“Bollocks you knew,” Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes, fighting that genuine, beautiful, face-splitting grin Aziraphale adores, and failing miserably. “I’ve been subtle, I’ve been hiding it, remarkably well, I would add. You just can’t admit that I fooled you this long.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. He sputters, half-laughter, half-astonishment, a sprinkling of genuine offence, which is entirely the response Crowley was looking for, he supposes. He kisses Crowley again, surprising him, then pulls back to cry: “I beg your pardon! You have not been subtle: you have been painfully obvious! I’ve just been… well, a coward I suppose.”

“You can literally sense love and you can’t lie to save the world and yet you’re telling me you knew this entire time and just… what? Pretended not to? Give me a break, angel.“

“Yes that’s exactly what I’m saying, if you’d give me a moment to think.” Aziraphale steps back, takes his wine glass, drinks, misses the heat and skittering spark of Crowley’s hands on him the moment they’re gone. The answer is obvious, now that his mind has been given a second to catch up.

He takes a seat on the sofa, bracing his trembling hands on his knees, gesturing for Crowley to follow. Crowley sprawls next to him – well, half on top of him really, one inch to the left and he’d be in Aziraphale’s lap, his long legs swung over Aziraphale’s knees, like an overgrown cat staking a claim. Aziraphale’s heart stutters again. “I’m not saying… I’m not trying to say that I’ve been walking around for six millennia fully aware that… that this was a possibility.”

“Okay,” Crowley’s eyes narrow, confused again. He gives a lazy grin, his eyes gleaming, and oh, Aziraphale can barely think straight. “This, being…” Crowley leans forward, and presses a kiss to a sensitive place just below Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter just for just a moment, his skin tingling unbearably, wonderfully, under Crowley’s lips. “This sort of thing?”

“Yes… yes that sort of thing,” Aziraphale swallows. “This whole… our being in love, business.”

“Yes,” Crowley all but purrs, another kiss, and then another, one arm slung over Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley’s tongue gently stroking the shell of his ear, and dear heaven above the sensations that’s causing through Aziraphale’s body are delicious, and addictive. His treacherous mind can come up with a thousand ways these sensations could be applied elsewhere, a thousand distinct and wonderful and entirely earthly ways to lose himself in Crowley, and none of them are an aid to concentration.

“You’re being terribly distracting here, darling. I’m trying to apologise for six thousand years of distance and-“ 

“And here I am,” Crowley’s grin is delicious against Aziraphale’s skin. “More interested in closing that distance.”

“It’s interference!” Aziraphale squeaks, shudders, as Crowley nips at his earlobe, supernaturally sharp teeth soothed with a flick of his warm tongue. A hand has crept back into Aziraphale’s hair.

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley agrees, easily. “Doesn’t it feel good to be interfered with?”

“No!” Aziraphale yelps, and Crowley pulls back as if he’s been burned, a hundred emotions flickering across his face. “No I mean, yes, yes it does, it feels quite remarkably good.”

“Oh,” Crowley’s smirk returns as quickly as it had left. He reclines back, just his long fingers still combing through Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale resists – then, purposely, ceases to resist the urge to lean his head into Crowley’s hand, the sensation of his fingers lightly stroking and scratching his scalp simply too good to resist at all. “You were saying, angel?” Crowley prompts, generously, “Interference?” 

“The… the feeling of love,” Aziraphale explains, struggling to keep his thoughts in line, to keep his traitorous new body from arching against Crowley’s and losing itself in sensation. He always did have an issue with self-control, a terrible trait in an angel, although he thinks his hedonism probably something that draws him and Crowley together so he can’t regret it too much. “I… I’ve always been able to sense my own as well as anyone else’s. The bookshop has always felt terribly loved, and that’s because it’s my home.”

He turns his head, until he’s looking Crowley directly in the eye, and dear heaven above how did he miss it all this time? The sheer force of the open, naked emotion in those yellow eyes, how devoted, how loving, how longing… well, it’s quite breathtaking.

“I knew I loved you,” he says, softly. Crowley’s throat bobs, his hand clenching just a little, perfectly, against Aziraphale’s scalp. “I- it was easier, when I sensed it coming from you, to assume instead that it was all from me. Plausible deniability, you know? I knew but…”

“But you didn’t want to know,” Crowley says, heavily. “I understand, angel. The risks for you were always higher… you can only Fall once after all.”

“It’s not an excuse,” Aziraphale insists. “It’s intended as an explanation, to elaborate on an apology. You were always right. We ought always to have been our own side.”

Crowley nods. For once – for perhaps the first time in six thousand years – he seems truly at a loss for words.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says again. “In a way that has nothing to do with heaven, except perhaps as a metaphor for how I feel when I’m around you.” Crowley gives a delicious lopsided smile at that, and Aziraphale is sure – although perhaps he’s just projecting – that he can see the tinge of a blush on Crowley’s sharp cheekbones. “I am in love with you, darling,” he murmurs, shifting closer, pulling so Crowley is almost entirely in his lap and he can press their foreheads together. “And I have been for a very long time.”

 “Took you long enough,” Crowley grumbles, and then ruins it by beaming. 

Aziraphale smiles, and returns his hand to where it belongs – holding Crowley’s cheek – and his mouth to where it belongs – kissing Crowley with reckless abandon, making up for lost time.