#Anyone else ever wanted to be small enough to be able to climb these like some fairytale stairs?

[upsidedownwithsteve]

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.3K] 18+

THE TIMELINE

“All I want is nothing more, to hear you knocking at my door. ‘Cause if I could see your face once more, I could die as a happy man I'm sure. When you said your last goodbye, I died a little bit inside. I lay in tears in bed all night, alone without you by my side. But if you loved me, why did you leave me?”

- All I Want by Kodaline

III. LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK: 1922

Opening the side door to the manor was easy when everyone else was occupied in the foyer.

The whole house was still alive despite the early morning hour, the air still smelling of the fireworks that lingered, gunpowder and spilled champagne. There was broken glass in the kitchen, from cocktail saucers or the smashed chandelier in the hallway, Steve wasn’t sure. But it crunched under his leather shoes as he snuck into the dark scullery, empty of the help and the silver platters of food they’d spent the day making.

He could see the silhouette through the frosted glass, impatiently waiting as he fumbled with the brass lock, the vibrations of the trombones and sax from the floor above making the handle buzz in his fist.

Steve barely got a chance to look at you before you had flung yourself at him, arms around his neck and chests colliding. He laughed, a small catch in his throat leaving him breathless for a second, your enthusiasm contagious. You still smelled like work, like cigar smoke and other peoples perfume, expensive cologne and top shelf sherry. It clung to your beaded dress, to your skin and Steve liked these nights, he liked the challenge of making you his again, even when you really weren’t supposed to be.

“They’re still going?” You asked, your words muffled against his chest. You’d get lipstick on his white shirt but neither of you cared. Steve had learnt long ago how to hide it from the maids.

He hummed in confirmation, any words he wanted to say stolen by your lips, your hands climbing up past his neck and into his hair. You tugged at it, ruining the style, hating when he slicked it back for the sake of the parties you were never allowed to attend.

It was a ferocious kiss, the kind that smudged your lipstick onto his mouth, the kind that told him you wanted to claim what you could of him in the short time you were able. Steve groaned, responding in kind, his arms winding around your waist to haul you even closer to him, his lips parting for your tongue.

It never grew old, it never waned - this feeling. Every kiss like the first, every time like nothing he’d ever felt before, never like anyone else. Your touch sent something through his bones, a deep kind of love that felt older and stronger and more powerful than the earth itself. He saw you one day in the city, under the bright lights that lit up Times Square and something told him that you were made for him.

Not a voice, just a feeling, one that his friends scoffed at because you weren’t from any kind of money that his family would accept and your dress didn’t come from Macy’s. But you’d turned and caught his eye, lips painted the prettiest red, eyes all bright like you felt the same when you looked at him. Days had turned to weeks and first dates had turned into nights in his locked bedroom and he still remembered the first time you pressed your ruby lips to the side of his throat and told him you were sure the gods themselves created him for you.

You kissed him now like you were remembering those words, your small hands diving into the already open collar of his white shirt, his black tie slipping from his neckline and you kissed that same spot, two moles that you claimed were somehow yours. They seemed to burn when you touched them, every pass of your lips and tongue making him feel weaker and weaker. And when you bit down a little, teeth grazing, Steve didn’t even notice the rain that had started to fall outside.

He felt feverish with you, greedy and desperate and never able to get enough. The brass band that his mother had hired for the evening started up another song, the China plates in the pantry cabinets rattling from the dancing feet above. He was on borrowed time, he knew that. So he let his tongue lick over your own once, twice, three times more before he pulled away, just enough to get his words out. You were as breathless as he was, too pretty in the dim light with your perfectly done make up, the pearls around your neck that no one knew came from him. Your dress made you glitter and from the faded lipstick around your mouth, Steve knew the majority was stamped on his own lips, his neck, his jaw.

The idea of it made him hold you tighter.

Thunder rumbled, a storm moving in over the lake outside the manor, the small yacht that was docked by the boathouse dipping with the current.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, kissing at the corner of your mouth between words. “Before they need to come for more champagne.”

So you let him pull you out of the kitchen, despite how well you knew the house you were never supposed to be invited into. Steve took your hand and led you like a secret, peering around corners before running past open doors, each room bigger than the last. The manor was all cherry oak floorboards and velvet drapes. There were chaise lounges in every bay window, baby grand pianos under crystal chandeliers and Steve’s father made sure the golden bar carts were always stocked and kept in every room.

The party was still thrumming in the largest lounge, where the hired band stood on the curved stairs and people danced on the tables. The glass doors were opened to the pool, a bright blue rectangle in the otherwise dark night and flecks of gold confetti lay atop the water, never sinking, looking like real life magic.

People spilled from everywhere, women shoeless and men missing their dinner jackets, hand in hand with girls that weren’t their wives and some of the richest of them showed their greed with a scantily clad dancer on each arm.

A door opened to the right, a server who was working well past his paid hours, still in his suit and carrying a large tray of champagne saucers, his expression bored. Steve grabbed you before the man could spot you both, tugging you behind a marble bust of a Grecian goddess, a piece of art that should’ve been in a museum.

The vacant eyes and kind smile of Aphrodite stared back at you both, seemingly amused at your lover's embrace, the one you had to hide.

“We’re not going to make it upstairs,” you whispered. It was too easy for Steve to let your touch linger on his waist, fingers tracing his belt, greedy and searching beneath his crumpled shirt for the feel of his warm skin. He needed you yesterday. He needed you always. “They’ll see us before we reach your room.”

Steve winced, knowing you were right. He could hear his mother from the lounge, singing too loudly, calling for another glass, her laughter making his jaw tense. “Library,” he said, nodding towards the door across the hall. “C’mon.”

You both made a run for it when the hallway seemed clear, the party goers too drunk to make out your faces, to recognise the girl that wasn’t supposed to be here, who certainly wasn’t supposed to be hand in hand with the man that wasn’t meant to be hers.

Steve closed the door with a soft click, turning the brass key in the lock just to make sure. The music was duller from behind the thick oak, the shelves and forest green curtains that draped along the walls. The library smelled like rich wood and old cigar smoke, older books and leather. It was stuffed with wingback armchairs, low lights from behind emerald glass lamp shades and dark, dark wood. A large fireplace took centre stage in the middle of the room, family photos and golden candlesticks along the mantle, the clock huge gilded mirror above it showing you and Steve standing together.

Outside the stained glass window, lightning flashed in the distance, the lake turning white, just for a second.

You didn’t have time to worry about the storm, nor think too hard about its sudden appearance. They’d always scared you, the too loud sounds, the crashes that seemed to vibrate in your bones, the lightning that always appeared way too close. Steve moved to stand behind you, his hand coming to smooth the collar of your dress away from your neck so he could dip his head down to kiss your skin.

His lips were a warm trail over your throat, his nose pressed underneath your jaw and you felt his smile when you tipped your head for him, granting him access. His hands, always so big and wide, spanned the sides of your waist, the beads and crystals that hung from your dress singing a soft song at his touch.

“Missed you,” he breathed, running the tip of his nose underneath your ear. He sucked at your throat, biting softly and you could only watch in awe as you stood in front of the mirror. “I missed you so much, honey.”

You knew why you hadn’t gotten to see him in so long. Eight whole days of being apart, seeing him in the city when he took his car to work, always flanked by business partners or his father. Worse still, you saw him one Saturday morning with his mother, another woman on his arm, a stiff smile on his lips as they entered a tea house. You knew the woman’s name, you just didn’t like to say it. His future wife, although Steve liked to remind you that they weren’t yet even engaged. But his mother was sure of it, the agreement made like a business deal because her father was head of the bank and Steve’s mother liked money.

A loveless marriage, set up for wealth, for survival, for good genes and even better business opportunities. But you saw the way the other woman looked at Steve, blown out curls and peach coloured lips always smiling up at him, ready to give him children and more.

A housewife. Ready made and picture perfect. The very thing that you were not.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, unable to help it the way your voice cracked because long gone was the idea that you could pretend this wasn’t anything more than a fling.

You ached without the man. The longer you were apart the harder it became, a pain growing between your chest like an open wound that was pulled too tight. And now, as his hands trailed your hips and his lips found your jaw, you could feel it knitting itself closed, a pretty, red string tying the cut closed.

You’d seen the other woman, you knew what was meant to happen. You knew you’d lose him, eventually. That he’d no longer be yours. He’d have a ring on his finger and children with someone else and live in a house even bigger than this one and you’d never, ever be snuck in through a back door again.

It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right. There was nothing in the world that you’d ever felt that was yours. No real money, different jobs for different months, an apartment above a bookstore in Brooklyn that you had to share with three other girls and even the dress you wore was borrowed.

But Steve? Steve Harrington?

It felt like someone created him just for you. Carved from marble, drawn on a canvas and brought to life, a man beyond perfect. Because he had his flaws - just like so many others that you’d dated - but you accepted his with more love than you’d ever felt before. The world seemed to still when you were with him, the entire planet slowing on its axis just so you could savour his touch a little longer.

You lay in his bed, in his arms, wrapped in his expensive cologne and cotton sheets and you knew.

You knew.

You knew that there was no way there was anyone else in this world that you were supposed to be with. His hand fit in yours too well, his lips slotting between your own like they were made from the same thing.

From a time before, when someone or something decided to create the Earth and built you both from the same bone.

Steve spoke into the crook of your neck, his finger spanning wide as his hands travelled over the front of you, feeling every curve, the softness of your stomach, the beads of your pretty dress, the dip of your waist. “You know, sometimes I think it would hurt less to drown in the lake than go without you,” he whispered, eyes closed as if at confession, murmuring his sins and secrets into your skin.

He kissed your throat again, revelling in the way your head fell back to top against his shoulder. Your eyes shut, your lips parted, your body trusting him to hold you up. “That’s awfully melodramatic,” you said airily.

Steve hummed, the ghost of his smile on your jaw. “Isn’t it? But it’s true. I’ve missed you more than I can understand.” He nudged you forward then, took the zipper at your shoulder blades between his fingers and tugged. “I needed you in my bed, in my sheets. They don’t smell like you anymore.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give into the questions that were bitter tasting and stuck in your throat: “has she been in them? Do they smell of her? Does she know about me?”

Because Steve pulled fully at your zipper and you shrugged your shoulders, letting the dress fall to the wooden floorboards, you turned in his arms and saw his eyes. Full of love, sadness, complete adoration and something else that you’d never seen in another man’s before. You were almost naked before him, blush pink undergarments made of silk and lace taught across your skin, silken thigh highs held up by suspenders, all costing an entire paycheck.

Steve wasn’t even looking at them, not yet. His hands went to your face, fingers cupping your jaw so gently that you even thought to yourself, that you might just break. It felt like it. His thumbs smoothed away the worry etched on your skin, frown lines disappearing under his touch and when he breathed out, you breathed in.

Sometimes you wondered if you shared the same heart.

“I love you,” he told you, his forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, a tear slipping down one cheek and Steve kissed it away. “I love you, too.”

“Desperately,” Steve reminded you, bringing his mouth to yours. His kiss was feverish, pulling away too quickly before descending on you again, lips parted, tongue swiping across your own. “Insanely,” he groaned.

Your back hit a bookshelf as you tugged his shirt out of his trousers, the linen crumpling in your hands, a button hitting the floor when you became too impatient. Your fingertips traced the red lipstick marks on his neck, the ones that had smudged onto his clavicle and it was everything you needed to see and more.

A brand, hardly permanent, but yours nonetheless. If not just for tonight.

“I need you,” you told him, your skin on fire as his hand found your thigh. He pushed you into the spines of the books, cold leather on your skin as he hitched your leg to his hip and rolled his own against you. “Steve.”

“I know,” he murmured and his voice was hoarse, weak sounding. “I know, honey,” Steve assured you.

His belt rattled as it fell apart in your hands, the buckle cool to the touch and before you could push your hand into his underwear, Steve spun you both. You found yourself against one of the armchairs, tweed and plush, Steve kissing you from shoulder to shoulder as he stood behind you and coaxed your hands onto the back of it.

“Hold on,” he told you and you nodded, eyes half opened from the anticipation. You heard his zip, the slick sound of him stroking himself and you keened, impatient. Steve tutted and just as your eyes slipped shut, his fingers were under your chin, his bare chest curving along your back. “Eyes open, sweetheart. Look up. Watch yourself.”

Staring straight ahead, you saw how he’d positioned you both. In front of the fireplace, where the huge mirror hung above. You could see yourself, a scandalous sight, half naked and dripping in expensive lace, one strap of your brassiere falling from a shoulder. Smudged lipstick, darkened eyes and the most handsome man in Long Island draped over your frame.

Steve was pressed against your ass, his cock waiting hot and hard against your lower back as he moulded himself to your body. He was kissing your shoulder, mouth open and his jaw and neck decorated in your lipstick. His hair was already a mess, his white shirt hanging open and his hands wandering up your bare stomach to cup your breasts, finding your nipples through the silk almost too easily.

His eyes, half lidded and heavy with lust, found yours in the reflection of the mirror.

It was sinful.

“Watch what I do to you,” he said.

So you did.

You let the man push a knee between yours, spreading your legs for him so he could work his fingers into your underwear. You shivered as he talked you through it, telling you how wet you were, how good he knew you tasted. How he could spend days and nights and entire weeks between your thighs, how we wished he could have you on his tongue. Two fingers, achingly and annoyingly gentle, rubbed circles to your clit as he spoke, his eyes on your own the entire time and you felt too hot under his stare, his smile that grew when you gasped and whined.

He reared back when he pushed a finger into you, his other hand braced against the small of your back and he urged you to please him in a voice that sounded like sex itself. Steve was choked, his words tight in his throat and they came out in a rasp, pleading as he fucked two thick fingers in and out of your cunt.

“Let me see you,” he begged, his eyes taking down your frame and he groaned, almost too loud, when you dragged the cups of your bra down. Your tits were pushed against the back of the chair, moving with each motion his fingers made inside of you, the slow rock that had begun as Steve rolled his cock against your ass.

“Beautiful,” he told you, and he sounded like he was kneeling at an altar, talking to a god. “You’re so beautiful. You’re mine—”

“Inside me,” you interrupted. You were close to tears, your eyes glassy, everything too much. You felt as if you’d die if you didn’t have him closer. “Steve, I need you— I need you inside me.”

Outside, rain slammed against the large window, the lake nothing but a grey-blue blue behind the streaked glass. The wind howled and if you’d cared to listen, you would’ve heard the faint shrieks and laughs of the party-goers as they fought against the wind, trying to close the patio doors. Thunder cracked above the house, as if disagreeing, as if fighting back.

You didn’t hear any of it over the sound of Steve moaning in your ear as he slipped his cock against your folds, the head nudging once, twice at your clit before he pushed his hips back and slid into you. He fell forward, feeling like a man who’d been broken down and fixed again, his head on your shoulder as he wound his arms around your waist. You were held, truly held against him, feeling full and loved and adored as he whispered every sweet word he knew into your skin.

The two of you stayed like that for minutes, maybe a few longer than you realised, before it became too much. You whined, a needy sound that made Steve’s cock twitch inside of you and then you were being hauled up with him. The two of you standing behind the chair, your back to his chest and as the thunder grew louder and the windows rattled, you both gave in.

Your hands found home in Steve’s hair, reaching up and back to ground him to you, one of his hands moving your knee up to rest on the chair, opening you for him. Your pretty pink underwear was stretched out, allowing room for his cock to slip into you further. It was a dirty grind, you barely pushing your hips back as Steve snapped his into your own, his hand on your neck as he kept you facing forward, your eyes locked on each other.

His kisses became more lips than teeth, biting at your jaw, your earlobe, his fingers only leaving your throat to play with your bouncing tits, pinching at your nipples until you clenched around him. It was raw, dirty, watching each other in the mirror like that, seeing how wet you were with your legs spread open, Steve’s cock shining from you in the low light as it disappeared inside of you over and over and over again.

“Could stay like this,” Steve gasped, fucking you faster now. The sight of your body slack against his had him reeling, your perfume on his skin, your lipstick on his throat. “Could stay like this forever, could hold you forever, want you forever—”

His words were cut short as you came suddenly, clenching around him with a cry, your eyes shut tight in bliss and your head thrown back on his shoulder. You tugged at his hair, pulling him down, silently begging for a kiss that he gave you, a slow, deep push of his mouth to your own and he came with a wrecked noise when you breathed his name against his parted lips.

Steve had barely softened inside of you when he spoke. “Run away with me.”

You weren’t sure you heard him above the harsh breaths leaving both your lips, chest heaving and body’s lax against each other. His lips traced the line of your jaw, his mouth finding the corner of your own, he kissed you, once, twice, three times, his arms pulling you into his embrace and you could smell his cologne, the remnants of cigar smoke, sex and you.

“Run away with me,” he whispered again. “Let’s just go, we can— we can leave. Tonight.”

“Steve—” your voice was already pained and you slipped from his arms, fixing the lace until your skin was covered, watching as Steve tucked himself back into his dress pants. He left his shirt open as you searched the floor for your dress, his lips twisted with the rejection he knew that would come. “You know we can’t—”

“I want to spend forever with you,” he said and you knew he meant it.

Maybe the sky did too, because the rain fell heavier and lightning flashed across the lake, turning the world ultraviolet, just for a second.

“We can’t,” you said sadly, your voice a whisper. The words cracked in your mouth. “You’re not mine to keep.”

Steve watched you drag your dress up your legs, the unshed tears glittering in the corners of your eyes. His breath left him in a heavy gasp, like someone had punched him in the chest.

“But I am,” he told you, his chest heaving, burning. He blinked, eyes stinging, his vision blurring. The sky above the house cracked. “I am yours.”

It hurt to say it but you shook your head and spoke anyway, your eyes fixed on the way your lips had left tattoos on Steve’s skin. You were all over him still, even separated by five feet. And still— “you’re Nancy’s.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You’re Nancy Wheeler’s and she is yours and that’s— that’s how it’s meant to be.”

Steve shook his head, moving forward with his shirt still hanging open, his hair curling across his forehead and his hands caught your own. “No. No, no, no—” he look pained, fingers reaching up to brush across your damp cheek and you should’ve pulled away. But you couldn’t. “No. That’s not— it’s not like that. You know this.”

Steve bent, lips finding the corner of your mouth as you moved out of guilt, his touch chasing you. He made a noise of protest, ducking his head closer until he could steal a kiss and you bent to his will, lips yielding under his own he tasted like you, like sex and like home, like something you felt you’d know your entire life and maybe the one before too.

“Run away with me,” he murmured into the kiss, forehead touching yours. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know that he was crying, his voice wet, cracking like the clouds outside and when lightning struck the dock on the bay, he pulled you closer. “We’ll find somewhere else for us. Another town, another country. Another home, another life.”

You kissed him then, stole the words from his lips and swallowed them, kept them locked somewhere close to your heart and you knew you had to hold onto them. For as long as you could. Forever, if you had to.

“Maybe,” you started, voice hitching, “—maybe we weren’t supposed to have this life.”

Steve groaned, a soft sound of agony, of protest. The storm was passing, the party louder than before. He hated how this felt like a goodbye.

“Maybe, we just need to promise that we’ll find each other in the next one.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve Harrington fanfiction #steve Harrington oneshot

[roosterforme]

The Younger Kind Part 31 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley knows there's only one way to contend with what Carl did, and he will gladly do it for you. All he wants is his house, his kid and his girl. You on the other hand don't know quite how to deal with anything that's going on, because it all seems out of your control. 

Warnings: Angst, swearing, fluff, fighting, blood, and age gap (18+)

Length: 3500 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! The Younger Kind masterlist.

You were so anxious for your first day of work, you actually woke up way too early and spilled blazing hot coffee all over your scrubs, forcing you to make a detour back to the bedroom to get changed. All you seemed to be able to think about was that video. That goddamn video. You wished you never looked in that box in the attic.

Once again, you were on the verge of tears as you pulled on a clean top and went to wake Noah up for the day. Everything felt like too much right now unless he was with you. The fact that you were as dependent on Noah as he was on you was probably nothing to brag about, but he really lit up every time you read to him or made him food. And you felt much better inside when he was snuggled up with you or holding your hand. 

You felt like his mom. You felt like you belonged here with him. He trusted you to take care of him, and you always would. But your confidence where Bradley was concerned felt stunted now, and you couldn't even talk to him about it. If you were even strong enough to bring it up at all. 

Noah climbed out of bed and went right to you for a hug, never questioning if he was welcome with you. "Morning, sweet Noah," you whispered against his soft hair. "Did you have happy dreams?"

He yawned and said, "Yeah. I was a pink dinosaur, and all of the other dinosaurs were afraid of me. So I got to eat all the Skittles."

"Wow," you said with a laugh as you carried him into the kitchen for breakfast. "That's the best dream I've ever heard of."

"Yeah, I know." 

He ate some eggs while you successfully drank your coffee and vanilla creamer without spilling it this time. And when you dropped him off at daycare, the same girl was working at the front desk.

"Hi, Noah," she said sweetly before handing you the clipboard to sign with a bland expression. You kissed Noah on the cheek and watched him walk in with the other kids before you signed your name. "And will you be picking him up again today, or should we be expecting another babysitter?"

You froze, and a startled laugh escaped your lips. "I'll be picking him up. And I'm the only babysitter." She appraised you again, so you added, "Only the best for Lieutenant Bradshaw and his son," before you spun on your heel and strolled out to the parking lot. 

You were driving the Bronco. You were in charge of Noah. Bradley was acting like some sort of sugar daddy boyfriend with the credit card you had tucked in your wallet. You shouldn't have been feeling insecure at all. You tried not to think about anything except getting to work on time for your first day. 

And being out of the house did help. You met all of the doctors and other nurses, and some of them were your age. Dr. Kelly treated you to lunch, and you got to chat with her a bit. You learned you'd get to assist with a few special needs kids later in the week. It was exciting. You had your own tiny workspace. Being there occupied your mind. 

But when you were asked to fill out a small stack of new hire paperwork in the afternoon, your pen stopped on the page multiple times. You hesitated twice before you eventually wrote Bradley's address as your own. You wrote his name and phone number down as your emergency contact, but you felt ridiculous writing 'boyfriend' where it asked for your relationship to him. After a brief debate, you wrote it anyway and moved on. And a beneficiary for your life insurance? Well, you didn't really have anyone else, so you put Noah. 

And then when you handed everything back in, you felt kind of like you were pretending to be an adult. 

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

Bradley waited on his bunk for Carl to return. It was getting late, and he wondered where the fuck he was. Without completely dismantling the tiny room, Bradley had searched through as much of Carl's shit as he could. And that was after confirming that he was only missing the one polaroid that you sent with him. 

His ears were ringing. Fingers twitching. He was absolutely repulsed by the thought of anyone else looking at that picture. But especially Carl. That was a line you just didn't cross with a bunkmate. Bradley had seen some wild shit in his days, walked in on some things he wished he could unsee. But you simply did not mess with personal items. And you certainly didn't take anything under any circumstances without permission. And if it was anything pertaining to a wife, girlfriend or significant other, it was absolutely forbidden. 

And if you broke any of these unwritten rules, well... you should know what you were in for. 

When Bradley heard a key in the door close to midnight, his hands automatically curled into fists. Your pretty face popped into his mind, smiling up at him, a teasing smirk on your lips. Even though you weren't here, you deserved to be defended right now. He'd protect you and Noah until he used up his dying breath. And that just meant things weren't looking too hot for Carl at the moment. 

The other man strolled in wearing his gym clothes, and it struck Bradley that Carl was probably a little older than he was. He was in good shape, too, but that wouldn't stop Bradley from beating the absolute shit out of him if necessary. 

"What's up, Carl?" he asked, remaining seated with his fists planted on either side of him on the bed. When Carl seemed barely able to meet his eyes, Bradley knew for sure.

"Hey," he replied awkwardly. "Just wanted to hit the gym when it was empty."

Bradley just watched him for a few seconds, silently demanding eye contact. When Carl finally stopped bumbling around and met his eyes, Bradley slowly stood. "Where is it?"

Carl's eyes flashed with panic as Bradley rolled his shoulders and took a step closer in the already limited space. "What? What are you talking about?" He tried to back away, but there was really nowhere to go. 

"If you make me ask again, it's going to be a lot worse for you, man."

"I... I..." Carl's eyes followed Bradley's left hand as he loosened his fist. And then Bradley slammed him back against the door. 

"You know better," Bradley growled. "This isn't your first deployment. You know the rules. And it belongs to me. Where. Is. It?"

"The photo?" Carl whispered as Bradley pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum with even more pressure. 

Bradley raised his voice. "Where the hell is it? It better have never left this fucking room."

"I have it!" Carl swore, and Bradley released him.

"Get it," Bradley said as calmly as he could, but his voice was shaking. He watched Carl dig around in his bedding, procuring the photo of you and your perfect tits and your barely concealed pussy. Bradley had a flashback to Noah's birthday party when Jake kissed you. Then he pictured you at the fraternity house, drunk and helpless. Carl was about to pay a pretty large price. 

"Here," he grunted, extending the polaroid out to Bradley. Once he set it down on top of his dresser, making sure the photo was still perfect, he turned back to Carl and sucker punched him right on the nose. 

Blood was gushing onto his gym shirt as Bradley said, "That's fucked up, Carl. You had my photo in your bed."

He was holding his nose, looking at Bradley with guilty eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"That's my girl, you piece of shit." Bradley was seething as he rammed Carl back up against the door. 

"She's your girl?" he asked, trying to stop the bleeding with both hands now. "She looks barely legal. How old is she?"

Bradley released him and took a step back before he did more damage than he intended to. "Do you really think it's a good idea to ask me that, Carl? You probably jerked it to my girlfriend after you stole my photo, and now you're asking me how old she is?" He was panting, letting the rage flow through him, and then both hands curled into fists again.

"Shit, I didn't- I wasn't-"

"You're not very bright, are you?" Bradley asked, cutting him off. "I'll let you walk out of this room with your face mostly intact as long as you guarantee that you'll wear your bruises around this carrier without even so much as looking in my direction. And don't you dare visit the infirmary. Your indiscretion doesn't blow back on me. You got it?"

Carl looked resigned as he lowered his hands from his face and nodded. "Yeah. I got it."

Then Bradley landed one more punch, hard as hell, and Carl staggered around the room for a few seconds before he managed to take himself out into the hallway and toward the bathroom. Bradley carefully picked up his polaroid, and his heart ached. He was yours, and he'd have done anything to see your beautiful face in person right now.

And if Carl didn't so much as speak to him or look at him again for the rest of the deployment, it would be just fine with Bradley.

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

You always felt like you were rushing around. When you got out of work an hour early one Wednesday, you decided to use the time to go grocery shopping before you picked up Noah. It was easier to get just the necessities this way. The downside was that you were definitely getting lost in your own thoughts as you stood in the produce area selecting apples. 

It was almost a relief that Bradley hadn't contacted you yet. If you had to look him in the eye right now, you weren't sure you could do it without crying. That USB drive was currently on top of the refrigerator where you couldn't see it, but it was still enough to upset you when you thought about it. But at the same time, you missed your boyfriend and wanted him to come home, and you knew Noah would benefit from talking to him.

You wasted so much time looking at fucking apples that you were going to be late if you didn't get going. You winced as you used the purple princess credit card to pay for the food, and then you organized everything in the back of the Bronco. You loved driving it and briefly wondered if he'd still let you after he got home. 

You pulled into the gas station that was just a few blocks from Noah's daycare, once again using Bradley's credit card. You sighed as you inserted the card for payment and then started to fill the tank. And then you looked up toward the next row of pumps, and you were sure you knew that BMW. A second later, you met Meredith's gaze, and a chill went through your body.

You were afraid your voice was going to shake, but you called out, "You're not supposed to come near me."

She laughed maliciously. "This is a gas station, and I was here first. So maybe you should stay away from me."

"With pleasure," you snarled. You had to close your eyes against the sick feeling that rose inside you. Naked. You could picture her naked. Bradley used to love her. 

"You already ruined my life," Meredith snapped. "So your little restraining order stunt really doesn't matter to me." Then she was climbing into her car, and you watched her peel out of the parking lot and into traffic, heading in the opposite direction from Noah's daycare. 

Your hands were unsteady as you finished up at the gas pump. She was right; she had been at the gas station first. She was with Bradley first. She was Noah's mom before you ever came into the picture as his babysitter. She was everywhere, and she wouldn't go away.

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

Bradley emailed you days ago to let you know he would be able to FaceTime with you and Noah tonight, but you'd only written back, "Sounds good." You didn't give him any updates. You didn't call him Daddy. You didn't say anything else. 

Sounds good.

He grunted as he worked out in the gym. The sooner he could get this deployment completed and get home, the better. Carl's face was starting to look better now, but Bradley smiled every time he saw the bruises. He had no idea what excuse the other man had given for looking like a raccoon with two black eyes and a bent nose, and he didn't really fucking care. If anyone assumed he was the one who caused the bruising, they probably also assumed it was warranted. 

Those polaroids were wrapped up and put away now. But Bradley wanted the real thing. Your body and your voice. He'd been thinking about how insufficient it felt to call you his girlfriend. Just the same way you'd always felt like more than Noah's babysitter to them. But now with your lack of a real response, Bradley felt a little foolish for thinking about proposing to you. 

When it was time to make the call home, he sighed deeply. And when you answered your phone on the living room couch, your expression was hesitant. 

"Princess," he rasped, holding the iPad with both hands. "Baby. I miss you."

It felt like an eternity before you responded. "We miss you, too." 

He had so much he wanted to say and talk about, but your voice was just a little too soft, and your eyes were just a little too sad. "What's wrong?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head.

"Here. Talk to Noah." And then you were out of the frame, and Noah was there. Bradley laughed as he talked about daycare and making something called peanut butter snails and going for hikes. He held up some of the coloring sheets he had worked on, and Bradley noted that you had dated all of them. You always did little things like that. Now he'd be able to see which days his son worked on the coloring sheets when he got home. 

"I miss you so much, bub."

"Will you come home soon?" Noah asked, and Bradley's heart absolutely melted. 

"Really soon. And we can go to the beach and maybe take a little vacation, okay? Now can you sit with Princess so I can talk to her, too?"

And then you were immediately back in the frame and scooping Noah onto your lap. So you must have been standing right there the whole time. 

"That's better," Bradley sighed. His house, his kid, his girl. "You have no idea how much I wish I was on that couch with you." 

You smiled softly. "Do you know when you'll be back?"

"I'm not sure, Baby. Not soon enough. Tell me about work."

So you indulged him in a few stories, and it sounded like you fit in there. You liked your coworkers, especially Dr. Kelly. You loved all the kids you got to talk to and care for all day. But you still seemed a little distant.

"Are you sleeping okay?" he asked. "Any issues?"

You pressed a kiss to Noah's cheek and said, "We just miss you. That's all."

"We want you to come home," Noah whined. 

"Please?" you added softly. 

"So soon," he reiterated, wishing he could give you both a kiss. "Watch for my emails?"

"I will," you promised. 

"I love you. Both of you."

Then you and Noah said in unison, "I love you, too." And then he had to end the call.

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

Well it was done now. You were on your way to get the last few things from your place with Noah before you turned your key over to your landlord. Or former landlord. You were done paying rent here, and now you could start helping Bradley pay his mortgage. In fact, he would be home in a few days, and you'd talk to him about it then. There were actually a lot of things you wanted to have a conversation about.

"Do you remember when you came here for dinner? And I made you spaghetti in my little kitchen?"

"That was a long time ago," Noah insisted, and you held his hand as you walked up the sidewalk. "You live at my house now."

"Yep," you replied softly as you let go of his hand and dug around in your bag for the key you hardly ever used now. "Let's just hope that makes your Daddy happy and not annoyed since I never really gave him a verbal answer," you mumbled, finally locating the key. 

As you shoved it into the lock, Noah knelt down and picked something up from the porch. "What's this?" he asked, reaching his hand up to you.

Your eyes went wide. "Drop it," you said right away, and he let the piece of broken glass fall back to the porch. But there was more. Both of you were standing in it, and when you reached to turn the knob, there must have been a shard there.

"Shit," you gasped as your right palm started bleeding. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you kicked the door fully open. One of the panes of glass in the door had been smashed, and there was more of the mess on the floor inside. "Don't touch anything," you hissed, and Noah started crying. 

You kept him close enough to take a few pictures as soon as you were able to fumble with your phone. You took seven photos of all the glass plus the item that had been left. For you. It was just a dollar store coloring book, but there was a note on top of it written in crayon. Have fun playing house.

It had to have been from Meredith. Who else could have done it? She was already claiming you ruined her life. And ever since you saw her at the gas station, you were nervous that wasn't the last of her.

Blood was starting to pool a little bit in your upturned palm, and there wasn't much you could do at the moment except for ruin your shirt. "Let's get out of here," you whispered, and the two of you walked back across the porch, the glass crunching beneath your feet. 

You were able to buckle Noah with one hand, but even when you got back to Bradley's house, you were still bleeding. And the glass needed to be removed. So you finally caved and called Natasha. 

"I kind of need your help," you told her vaguely over the phone.

She laughed in response. "I kind of need a lot of things. What can I do for you?"

"Can you come by and help me remove a piece of glass from my dominant hand?"

"Fuck. Of course. I'm on my way," she replied, all tones of joking  gone. 

She was there in less than fifteen minutes, and she washed her hands right away. Then she used the sterilized tweezers that you handed to her to carefully remove the glass. "Just the one piece?" she asked, meeting your eyes. 

"I think so. I already checked Noah really thoroughly."

Nat's expression darkened. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

You were pressing some gauze against your palm now. You might need stitches. You would probably benefit from getting stitches. But you couldn't do them yourself with your left hand, and you didn't want to leave Noah right now. Not even with Nat. He was watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon on the couch, and you didn't want him further away from you than that. 

"It was just some broken glass," you replied. 

"Here?" she asked, looking around the kitchen.

"No. At my old place. It's fine. I just need to tell my landlord about it, and I'll replace it." You were amazed how easily you were able to keep your voice steady. 

"Right," Nat replied with an unamused look. "Bradley will be home in a couple days? Do you want me to stay here until he's back?"

"Of course not. We're fine," you insisted, averting your gaze.

She stood to leave and sighed deeply. "Please call me back if you need anything, okay? And do us both a favor and don't lie to Bradley when you pick him up."

You pressed your lips together and nodded. "I won't," you said softly. And after she left, you took Noah into bed with you and snuggled him tight. 

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

I hate Carl. I hate Meredith. I want Daddy to come home. Hope you enjoy your fic, @beyondthesefourwalls And thank you @mak-32 !

PART 32

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[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 11

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

//

Section Warnings: language, tense situations with dangerous vampires, kissing, the precarious presence of fangs lol wc: 4.7k

You’ve never seen transportation like that which will take you to Scores’ territory, the region called Lucrotio. From the outside, it seems like a longer version of a carriage, pulled by a dozen amarisca, all pawing the ground and tossing their manes as they wait to run. Inside seems more like a luxury train car - thick drapes around the windows, plush carpeting, comfortable chairs that seem like they could have been plucked out of a sitting room.

There’s no one on board yet when Satuel and Dansoo accompany you and Namjoon inside.

“Where should we sit?” you ask.

“Wherever you’re comfortable,” Satuel tells you.

You and Namjoon settle into two seats with a small, round table between them. As Satuel and Dansoo settle in - one in the rear and one in the front of the coach - Namjoon begins to quietly go over with you what he’ll be looking for in the archives.

Despite the early hour, the sun not yet peaking over the horizon, the bruise-colored sky still littered with stars, you listen attentively. It boils down to the end-of-life intention you’d found in the curse; death magic is technically an elemental magic, and Namjoon is optimistic he’ll be able to find something useful, some clues to how to combat this thread of intention without having to end anyone’s life.

You both fall into silence when Prince Taehyung climbs inside the coach, followed by three of his personal guards, and the young Infracti he’d introduced to you as his best friend, Jimin.

“You’re still here, I see,” Jimin greets you, something mischievous in his glinting smile. “Well done.”

“So it seems,” you say tightly.

Should you trust Prince Taehyung’s best friend? Probably. Should you trust his hand-picked guard? Probably yes to that, too. But you can’t help feel on edge as the coach shudders into motion.

It’s silent in the coach at first. Namjoon seems to be done explaining his research theories with you, and you both look out the window at Infracticus passing by. The last time you passed through, in a smaller carriage, had been in the dead of night as they’d smuggled you in.

Curious, that the prince has no qualms bringing you along today, in plain sight of the Scores. You make a mental note to ask about it later, when you’re not surrounded by Infracti you don’t know at all.

You watch the sky turn from nearly black to violet, finally settling into a periwinkle as the sun rises high enough above the distant treeline to be visible from your window.

The landscape takes your breath away. You watch it rapturously, trying to drink in every stream, every knoll, every flowering field. You want to commit it all to memory; you want to forget that eventually you will have to leave it behind.

After some time, you feel the weight of eyes on you, and you sit back. You meet Prince Taehyung’s gaze in his reflection in the window. You hold his gaze that way, feeling bolder than ever before - maybe because to everyone else, you could still be staring out the window. Maybe because you aren’t looking directly at him - like the sun, it’s too strong that way.

Whatever it is that emboldens you, it doesn’t matter. You hold his gaze and wonder what you see in it. Ever since your last attempt to cure him, the attempt that almost took you out with it, something seems to have shifted between you. The looks you share are heavier, weighty meaning behind each small touch, each exchange of words hiding truer meaning like flower petals slipped between books pages, pressed and saved for later.

Each time you’d come up against these kinds of thoughts, you’d stopped yourself, told yourself it couldn’t mean anything, couldn’t amount to anything.

And yet.

Perhaps you ought to let Prince Taehyung speak for himself. Perhaps you both ought to speak freely, for the first time since meeting.

Something about him watching you through the reflection feels intimate, and you warm under his gaze. You wish you were alone with him. You wish you could ask him to take you to his private stable, maybe even back to his little hideaway island. Somewhere you could ask him what that look means. Somewhere you could ask him if you’re crazy for wondering.

You’re not and you can’t, so you keep your eyes on the window in silence, until at some point your eyelids grow heavy and you lapse into fitful sleep.

It’s Namjoon who wakes you, shaking your knee.

“We’re at the archives,” he says quietly as you slide your eyes open, casting a look around the coach to see what’s happening. The building outside is tall, so tall that you can’t see the top of it from your side of the coach.

You catch Namjoon’s sleeve as he stands. “Are you sure you’re okay going without me?” you ask quietly. You know that everyone else can still hear you, since they’re all Infracti, but you try to be quiet anyway, to give the semblance of privacy if nothing else. “I’ll go with you, you know. Just tell me.”

The smile he gives you is warm and understanding. He knows what you’re offering, what you’re willing to give up, and his smile tells you it’s appreciated.

“Satuel and Dansoo are staying with me,” he says. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. You’re keeping him safe - who’s keeping you safe?”

“I think it’s gonna be a kind of mutual thing,” you say lightly. But, probably, it’s kind of true.

He gives you a long look. “Be careful,” he says finally, before following your two guards out of the coach and into the street.

You expect the coach to rumble back into motion, and you look around in confusion when it doesn’t.

Prince Taehyung has risen, stretching lithely like a cat. Then, wordlessly, he picks up two bundles of fabric and tosses one to you. Surprised, you fumble to catch it, causing the ball to unravel in your hands, revealing one of the hooded cloaks that you’ve worn a few times in your stay here.

You look at him in confusion.

“You and I are going on foot,” he tells you, swishing the cloak around his back and tugging the hood up and over his head, obscuring his dark curls. “The guards will follow at a bit of a distance. The coach will gather too much attention - I don’t want to be recognized on our way there.”

“Where are we going?” you ask, mostly just curious, as you don your own cloak, pulling the hood up and over your forehead.

“A tavern,” he tells you, shooting you a sideways smile.

“A tavern?” you echo as you follow him out into the street. Beneath your feet, the road is cobblestone, the buildings around you thatched like you’ve stepped into feudal Europe instead of an Infracti city. “Are we going to drink?”

He doesn’t respond to this, instead starting to head down the alley beside the archives building that Namjoon must be inside. You follow at a clip, burning with curiosity. The guards fall back, but Jimin - in his own cloak - brings up the rear.

“I might,” Jimin quips, and Prince Taehyung turns to shoot him a dark look over his shoulder.

“No, we’re not,” Prince Taehyung says firmly. “And you shouldn’t either. We’re going to meet someone.”

“Who?” you ask. You can’t help it - you hate being left in the dark, hate finding everything out as it happens.

Prince Taehyung sighs, turning back to look where he’s going. He leads across another cobblestone street and down another narrow alley. You don’t see another soul as you walk. Above you, white clouds float lazily through the purple sky, and you can hear what sounds like bird calls.

“We’re meeting with Seokjin,” Prince Taehyung says tightly, as if that means anything to you. Needless to say, it does not.

“If the wars had gone differently,” Jimin says, suddenly at your elbow, his voice quiet, “Seokjin would have been prince. He’s the Taehyung of the Scores, essentially.”

Something in your stomach turns to ice, and you will your feet to keep following the prince. “Is that… safe?”

Jimin shoots you a look that seems to say, you already know the answer to that. Out loud, he says, “Why do you think Taehyung wanted his little witch to stay close? The Scores don’t have as much natural magical ability - you should be able to send them running, if it comes to that.”

You wish you had half of his confidence in you.

“It won’t come to that,” Taehyung assures you, without turning.

The tavern blends in with the stone buildings around it. You only know you’ve arrived when Prince Taehyung stops walking and grasps the doorknob. You look up and see a hanging sign above the door, touting no name but a picture of beer steins.

You wonder if they even serve beer here - could you order a lager, or just type O?

Prince Taehyung pauses, his hand lingering on the door, and faces you. “Your presence will draw some attention,” he warns you. “Don’t look at anyone until we’re at our table. I promise - Jimin and I won’t let anyone touch you.”

You nod, suddenly too nervous to speak. As soon as you’re through the door, you feel his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in tight against his firm frame. Jimin sidles up to your other side, effectively flanking you.

The noise hits you first; as your eyes adjust you see that the tavern is packed with people wall to wall. The noise of conversation, glasses clinking, vague musical noises in the background - it all washes together into a dull roar.

It’s dark inside, and the Infracti with you leave their hoods up so you do as well. It’s true that the Infracti at the tables you pass notice you - either they smell you, or they hear your human heart pounding - but as soon as they see the arm around your shoulders they seem to lose interest; you’re not an easy target if they have to fight for you.

Guiding you through the crowd, Taehyung leads you to a table, and the closer you get, you suddenly realize there are two Infracti seated there; it was like they were rendered invisible until you got close enough - or until they decided to reveal themselves.

The two men at the table are beautiful, with glistening black eyes and dark hair, flawless skin, and wolfish smiles. The broader of the two leans back in his seat when he notices you. He looks quickly to the prince, that wolfish smile turning suddenly sharper.

“You didn’t say it was B-Y-O,” he says, one side of his mouth curling up in mirth. “Jungkook and I would have brought a snack, too.”

“Watch yourself,” Taehyung snaps, eyes narrowing. You notice he’s let them go black - outside, they’d looked human, deep and brown. The only time you’ve seen them like this, in their natural state, was when he was under the effects of the curse. You shudder, and the Infracti watching you - Seokjin, you assume - smiles even wider at this.

Beside you, Jimin lifts his chin just slightly. “I wouldn’t try snacking on this one,” he warns, his sweet voice coming out cool and unbothered. “She put a hole in the palace walls last time someone tried.”

Seokjin raises a brow, clearly still amused with himself, but curious.

Prince Taehyung opts not to explain who you are or what you’re there for. You stay silent, hoping the hood creates enough shadow to really obscure your face. Let them wonder about you. Let them wonder what you can do.

“So,” Seokjin says finally. “I suppose you asked me here to talk about the fires.”

Brave of him, you think, or maybe stupid, to just say it like that. But, to your surprise, Taehyung shakes his head no, and sits in one of the empty chairs around the table. Jimin follows, so you do, too.

“Not quite,” Prince Taehyung says, something resigned in his voice. “Though I certainly didn’t appreciate that.”

Seokjin and Jungkook just watch him, wait him out, faces impassive.

Taehyung sighs, pushes his hood back just a bit, enough that his face is visible. He looks around the table imploringly. “I’m not here on the crown’s business,” he admits. “I’m here as your friend.”

Seokjin stares him down, but after a tense moment, he seems to break, his shoulders losing some of their tightness.

“My friend,” he muses. “What could my friend Taehyung want to talk to me about?”

You watch as the prince casts a look around the room. When he determines that no one is paying your table any attention and that the noise level is high enough to cover this conversation well, he says, “It’s about my father. About what your family, and the Cleaves, have accused him of.”

“We didn’t accuse your father,” the slighter Infracti, Jungkook, points out petulantly. “We accused you - all of you. The Runes, at large.”

Seokjin waves a hand at him, effectively silencing him. He eyes Taehyung with clear interest, as if this conversation is going nowhere near where he’d thought it would, but he’s pleased with the twist.

“Come to deny it?” Seokjin asks lightly, but it doesn’t seem like he means it.

“On the contrary.”

Taehyung is always a vision, unearthly beautiful, striking and intense. But when he levels a look at Seokjin, eyes flashing, jaw jutting slightly in determination, something goes through you like lightning.

Taehyung shakes his head, once, tightly, black curls swinging above his brow. “I’m here to discuss what we should do about it.”

—

Seokjin folds his arms over his chest, looks sideways at Jungkook. They seem to have a silent conversation, at the end of which Seokjin’s frown deepens. He looks at Taehyung seriously, then glances at you and Jimin, as if you include you in his displeasure.

“Since you’re here as my friend,” he says, a touch of sneer on the word, “then consider it a kindness between friends when I tell you that I don’t trust you.”

Your heart sinks, but if Taehyung is disappointed, he doesn’t show it.

“I wouldn’t either, in your position,” Taehyung admits.

Seokjin shakes his head. “Your father won’t hand over control of the kingdom, not now, when things are already fragile.”

“Then help me make them less fragile,” Taehyung says intently, leaning forward. “Back down. Call off the Scores. Get the court families back in line.”

Seokjin’s eyebrows shoot up, quick as a flash, and beside him Jungkook lets out an indignant breath of a laugh.

“Even if I fully believed you,” Seokjin says slowly, as if explaining a complicated concept to a child, “even if I thought Taehyung will be true to his word, even if I thought you had a solid plan for after - which, I don’t - none of that is up to me. I can’t call anyone off.”

“You can,” Jimin says, palms flat on the sticky tavern table. “You can and you know it; maybe not officially, but we all know how much sway you have. Your people will do as you say - they’ll do as you do.”

“So you want me to say what, exactly?” Seokjin tilts his head to the side. “That there’s a plan to overth-”

“That isn’t the plan,” Taehyung bites out, and Seokjin stops mid-word, the first sign of deference he’s shown this whole time. “The transfer will be willing, you just have to trust me to handle that part. What I need you to say is, perhaps, don’t attack the palace, or even maybe tonight your family should attend dinner at court.”

Jungkook leans in, shoulder to shoulder with Jimin. “Let’s say we do,” he says, eyes glinting. “Then what?”

“Transfer of power,” Taehyung says, much more quietly, his lips barely moving. “Then, justice. Change.”

Seokjin purses his lips. “Those are big promises, Taehyung. I’m not sure I can really cash them in when all is said and done.”

“My father will see justice,” Taehyung says, his deep voice firm and cool.

“And then?”

“And then we’ll build something better.”

“That’s the part I find hardest to believe.”

“What’s the alternative?” Taehyung demands, frustrated. “The Scores stay powerless? Or worse, another thousand years of war, fighting for the throne? We know how that story goes - someone will win, someone will rule… until another family tires of it, and the cycle begins again. If we do this my way… it never happens like that again.”

Seokjin lets out a deep breath, but it seems to indicate that he’s listening, that he’s considering, even if he isn’t fully convinced. He turns to you, which is so surprising that you barely register the question he levels at you.

“What about you, venefici?” he asks, and it both startles and pleases you that he’s clocked you as a magic-wielder without being told. “What do you think about His Majesty’s plan?”

He asks it with a bite, a bit sarcastically, but you press your lips together, considering.

You look at Taehyung, who looks back at you impassively. He hadn’t talked to you about his plan before now. It is as new to you as it is to the Scores at the table.

“I believe him - I believe that he’ll try,” you answer, your eyes still on the prince. You’re not sure what you expect to see - gratitude, maybe - but his face remains as unreadable as stone. You remember the day that Taehyung brought you to his little island, had talked to you about his guilt and grief after the curse had led him to violence. “I believe that he’ll seek justice. And I believe that he’ll try to create a better way forward.”

“Try,” Seokjin echoes. His arms are still crossed over his chest defensively. “Do you think he can succeed?”

You’re not sure why he’s asking you - someone from the human world, the person at the table with the least experience with Infracticus and the ancient politics.

You meet his gaze anyway, and tell the truth. “Not alone,” you say, trying to emulate the even way you’ve seen Taehyung speak when he’s making a tricky argument. “That’s why we need you - now, and after.”

Everyone is quiet for a long time. Seokjin and Jungkook exchange another look, another silent conversation. Taehyung and Jimin do the same. You watch Taehyung, only Taehyung. Your magic can feel his, has gotten acquainted with it, and you can feel it thrumming, telling of his nervousness.

Finally, Seokjin purses his full lips. “I’ve known you a long time,” he says finally. “I know you mean well - I know you want what you say you want. I’m just not confident we’ll see it through. I’ll do what I can on my end, and if the power transfers to you… let’s talk again.”

“When the crown passes to me,” Taehyung says, something dark simmering behind his words, “I’ll send for you.”

You’re not sure how they communicated that this little meeting is over, but everyone but you rises to stand, so you hurry in suit.

“As an act of good faith I’ll tell you,” Seokjin says, and then leans very close to Taehyung’s still-hooded head, “don’t take the main road home tonight.”

Outside, the sun has slipped towards the treeline, indicating late afternoon. Seokjin and Jungkook vanish - solidifying your theory that they can control their visibility, and Taehyung and Jimin lead you swiftly around a corner and into a dim alley, their hoods still drawn.

Immediately, they begin to gameplan a new way home.

“We should send the coach back the way we came,” Taehyung reasons. “They’ll see it go that way, they’ll be prepared to attack and won’t watch the back roads as closely.”

Jimin nods seriously. “Send me with one of the guards,” he says. “If we’re stopped, they’ll find no one that they’re interested in. I’m sure we won’t have to fight.”

Your stomach twists as you understand the plan. You’re hardly close with Jimin, but you’re immediately nervous for him. And for yourself.

“And the rest of us?” you can’t help but ask.

Jimin and Taehyung look at each other seriously.

“I’ll send you with two,” Taehyung says decisively. “Then we can send back Satuel, Dansoo, and the human in a carriage on the western bank. We’ll take the two remaining guards and take a carriage up the eastern side a bit later.”

You gather that you’re included in the we, that you’ll be staying with Taehyung.

Jimin nods curtly, then clasps one of Taehyung’s hands in a firm handshake, leaning in close in some semblance of a quick hug. He gives you a quick nod and peels off back to the road the tavern sat on. As he leaves, one of the three guards who had ridden in with you appears out of nowhere to tail him.

“Come,” Taehyung says, holding a hand out for you to take. “We’ll go commandeer a carriage.”

As you often find, here in Infracticus, you just have to trust him, and you follow him deeper down the alley. You walk through town this way, hoods up, ducking into alleys, until you emerge on the far side, near a lazy stream. You can see, further upstream, a few water wheels turning slowly with the water’s movement.

Taehyung leads you to a stable, where a carriage sits on the cobblestones, two deep green amarisca already hitched to the front. Apparently, one of Taehyung’s guards beat you here and put in the request.

Taehyung helps you into the carriage and closes the door, untying the woven curtains and tugging them to cover the windows. You hadn’t seen a single employee of the stable, and your stomach twists with nerves again.

Taehyung removes his hood, but leaves the cloak on, so you do the same.

“One of my guards went to tell Dansoo and Satuel what happened,” Taehyung explains quietly, turning to face you. “So, we can’t leave until he returns.”

You nod in understanding. “I’m sorry that didn’t go as well as you’d planned,” you say, thinking of Seokjin’s cold expression as he’d heard Taehyung’s ideas.

To your surprise, Taehyung cracks a smile. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “I expected him to try to fight me - that’s why I brought you to put up your walls. That went way better than I’d hoped.”

You must look bewildered, because he laughs a bit at your expression.

“Infracticus has always been ruled the same way, even when different families had power, thousands and thousands of years ago,” he explains. “I didn’t expect anyone to trust my plan immediately. But I think he’ll come around - the fact that he’s willing to hear me out is huge.”

“Well,” you say slowly, “good, then. I’m glad. It’s a good plan, Maiesti. I want to help you make it happen.”

“You already have,” he says seriously. He reaches across the plush carriage seat and takes your hand, his touch cool and soothing. “I wanted to thank you. For today - for supporting me in there - but also, for this whole time.”

You feel your face heat, and you look away, watching your hand, small in his, instead of his face. “Of course,” you demure. “I’m just doing my job.”

You expect this statement to act as a splash of cold water, to deter Taehyung from the intense way his eyes - human again, now that he’s in the carriage with you - roam your face. It doesn’t; he pushes on.

“You continue to surprise me,” he admits. “Even when I think I’ve seen the true measure of you - you surprise me again and again.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. It just slips out.

He smiles, head shaking a little. “Your talent shocks me,” he says, “but it’s more than that. Your bravery - your unwillingness to back down. You’ve faced so many frightening things, I keep expecting each one to be the one that sends you packing, back to your home. But you never go. You stare down each new threat, and you dare it to try you. I’m amazed every time.”

You try to smile, embarrassed. “People say brave and foolish are two sides of the same coin.”

He shakes his head. “I’m foolish. You’re… incredible.”

His eyes are on you, and you bite your bottom lip, looking up at him through your lashes. This is an Infracti, a powerful one, a magic-wielder like you; this is a ruler, a crown prince of a land you don’t belong to; this is a man so beautiful and charming that you feel dumpy and awkward in his presence. And somehow, he is looking at you with something akin to admiration.

“What you’re doing… what you’re trying to do… is very brave, too,” you whisper.

“It’s selfish of me,” he says, voice also near a whisper, although you’re quite alone here, “but I really want you to be here, to help me see it through.”

God.

Is that an actual invitation to stay?

He shifts closer, just slightly, and your body mimics his. He’s still holding your hand, you realize.

“You’d make a hell of a Queen,” he murmurs, leaning closer. Your eyes fall to his mouth, finding the little freckle on the edge of his beautiful, bottom lip.

Could you kiss him? What would it be like - to have his lips on yours?

“I think I might like that,” you whisper back, raising your eyes back to his and leaning to fill the space between you.

His mouth on yours is cool and tentative, gentle. You lean closer, pressing your mouth more firmly against his, trying - already - to have more of him. He smiles against your mouth, lips quirking, and then he kisses you again, more insistently, dropping his hold on your hand to rest a chilly palm against your cheek instead.

You’d wondered if kissing someone with fangs would be different, or challenging, but he must have them tucked away, because when he licks into your mouth they aren’t there at all. His fingers twitch where they rest near your jaw as you bunch his white shirt in your fist, trying to pull yourself closer as you open for him.

He shifts, leaning up and over you, sending you laying back against the carriage door behind you, your head finding the window with a dull thud. Neither of you cares, kissing more frantically now, hungry, mouths moving together as you taste him, as you pull him over top of you.

He holds himself up over you, one arm snaking under your back to pull your torso flush against his as he devours your mouth. You clutch at his upper back, half to help hold yourself up, half to feel the muscles move there as he shifts. His spare hand caresses your waist, then slowly explores its way up, skating over your ribs, climbing higher and higher.

He breaks the kiss, both of you panting heavily, and then he attaches his mouth to the warm skin of your neck, tongue laving as he traces a path, chasing your pulse. You close your eyes and whine, low, the feeling of him washing over you like a rising tide.

And then, something sharp, tracing a line up your throat so lightly that it tickles. Your eyes fly open, your hands tighten on his back, your body suddenly screaming with adrenaline. Those are his fangs teasing your carotid artery.

“I won’t,” he promises, ragged, sounding half-broken. He nuzzles his nose against the spot, breathing deeply. “I won’t, but god,” he gasps, before placing a closed-mouth kiss against the same place. Your pulse thunders, but you loosen your grip on his shoulders.

He pulls himself away from the temptation, presses a hard, lingering kiss to your lips again, and then sits back, breathing heavily. You sit up, too, readjusting and trying to get yourself under control.

He smiles at you sideways, shy and playful, as he tugs his shirt back into place from its rumpled state.

“Like I said,” he teases. “Brave.”

“Like I said,” you shoot back, but your heart is singing singing singing and you’re sure he can hear it. “Foolish.”

<- Prev | Next ->

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEY DID THE THING!!!!!!!!!!!!! lots more to come!! thanks for reading!!

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts supernatural au #bts royal au #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung angst #taehyung x you #taehyung x y/n #kim taehyung fic #kim taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung smut #kim taehyung angst #supernatural au #royal au #s2l #magic au #fic: of ruin

[fatuismooches]

Thinking about fragile s/o suddenly going to dottore hugging n sitting on his lap n mumbling about after they die hes gonna replace them with someone else and forget about them 😭😭 just s/o being so depressing n insecure with their illness

-🤠

Fragile reader angst part 274892 guys ❤️ GOD DAMN IT. IT HURTS. It was the middle of the night, at some ungodly hour. And you hadn't slept a wink despite having gone to sleep hours ago. Tossing and turning, fixing your pillow dozens of times, kicking off the blankets, and pulling them up again. But to no avail. Nothing could hope to give you peace of mind. Not when your thoughts were so loud. This was a common occurrence, you losing sleep from not just your illness, but the horrible thoughts your illness caused you. You hated not being able to do anything for yourself. You hated having to receive help for everything. You hated being useless. You hated being looked down upon. You hated having to stand next to Dottore like this. You hated him having to waste precious time and resources on you when he could be pursuing far more interesting endeavors. You hate the way he looks at you as if you're the loveliest person his wise eyes have ever looked at, when you couldn't help but disagree. You hated the fact that there were so much people out there better than you, for him too. You hated...

Quickly, you threw the covers off and pulled yourself out of bed. Working yourself up like this always made you feel worse and unbearingly hot, close to tears. Yet it always seemed to happen anyway. But this time instead of weeping to yourself you just wanted to see Zandik. You needed to, otherwise you may not survive the night. He's immediately alarmed when he sees you in his office, surprised as well you managed to dodge any of his segments. When he inquires as to why you're here at this time, your only response is to shut the book he was writing in and physically take the pen out of his hand, indicating you want his full attention. And then you climb onto his lap, Zandik's arms supporting you as you buried your face into his chest... mumbling some things so quietly he wouldn't have heard you if he didn't focus his hearing on you. Things that make him utterly confused. Replace? Another person? Forget? Most importantly, you, die? He can't wrap his head around it, such nonsense. First of all, nothing else in this world could ever hope to be even a fraction of what you are to him. Your intelligence, personality, looks... anyone being close to you is preposterous. Foolish. Even if you happened to be erased from Irminsul he shall never forget you. And you shall not die. He's declared it a number of times. He downright refuses to accept that outcome. Seeing Zandik vehement about anything other than his research is rare, but when it comes to this topic he is rather forceful about his ideology.

When you peer up at him after his words, only replying with a small "really?" he sees that your eyes look so, so tired. He wishes he knew how to make it better. But he doesn't. Though his confident "of course" makes your stiffened body slack against him, as you retreat to nuzzling his chest again. And soon enough, you're asleep. You're fine, for now. But you won't be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Tenderly, he lifts you and carries you to his own bedroom. Il Dottore doesn't know what to do. Things won't get better immediately. But they will one day. So what he'll always do is alleviate your pain whenever he can, even if it'll never be enough, for he loves you so.

#smooches talks #🤠 anon #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #let dottore and fragile reader have some happiness 😔😔💔 #regardless im growing to love angst (im not okay)

[wxnderlustfandoms]

sparks fly [yj! robin x reader]

[not my gif]

pairing: [yj!robin x reader] (romantic), [yj team x reader] (platonic) 

description: You and Robin have known each other since you both became sidekicks at roughly the same time. And when you joined the team, you realized that you felt different with him than you did with anyone else. Maybe this mission will finally help you both confess your feelings

word count: 3799

warnings: robin, sb, and aqualad being overprotective, reader getting hurt, prolly like 2 cursewords

a/n: This is during the 5 year gap between season 1 and 2 so reader and dick (still robin) are both 16. Flora is your hero name

“Recently we’ve been getting reports of people going into the Forest of Eld and not coming out. A recent flyover by Captain Marvel confirms that there seems to be scorch marks in the trees, and some parts of the forest burnt away and reduced to ash.”

“I guess they named the forest correctly*,” You whispered to Superboy next to you and he smirked a little. 

“Your mission is, as always, recon. Go in, don’t get noticed, gather intel, get out. We don’t need 4 members of the team turned into char,” Batman explained the mission assignment you’d been called in for. 

Next to you, listening as well, were Superboy, Aqualad, and Robin. Miss Martian had taken a small squad in her bioship on another small assignment, meaning the four of you would have to take the Super Cycle. 

“Flora, Aqualad, you two especially need to be careful,” Batman turned to you both as he wrapped up. You both nodded and started to walk over to the S-Cycle as she folded out into the bike form. 

“You sure you’re both up for a mission that’s potentially throwing you into your weaknesses?” Robin asked, climbing into the seat right next to you.

“Of course. We can handle ourselves. It’s not like we can avoid any mission that could potentially expose us to our weaknesses. Risk like that comes with the job,” Kaldur explained. 

You nodded, agreeing. “Plus, I’ll just throw Superboy in front of the fire if it comes to it,” You joked, causing him to grunt. You knew he thought it was funny too. Ever since you helped Kid Flash, Robin, and Aqualad rescue him at Kadmus, he became like a brother to you. Of course, the entire team was very close and most of them were very protective of you, but Superboy was definitely the closest to real family to you. When Robin added to the joke, causing you all to laugh, you looked over at him. 

Now, with him, it was different. You didn’t feel as though he was your family. You felt strong emotions for him, and have since you met as sidekicks. You only recently figured those emotions out to be love. But you were stuck as friends. He had only just recently (2 months ago) broken up with Zatanna. And you didn’t want to compromise your position as his best friend (sorry Wally) and obviously didn’t want to make working with him on the team awkward, because you were sure he didn’t feel the same way. 

You all started to get your game faces on when you arrived at the forest. It was a good thing you all started to focus, because as soon as Superboy started bringing the S-Cycle down to land, a giant ball of fire came from the forest and hit the Cycle dead on, causing her to start falling. You took a hold of Robin and jumped out of the Cycle. Causing your descent to the ground to slow, as you controlled the air currents around you both to carry some of the weight. As you all reached the ground, Superboy and Kaldur being able to get themselves down, you all immediately went on guard.

“Well, that was a nice warm welcome,” You joked.

“Stay on guard,” Kaldur ordered as you all started moving into the thick of the trees. Eventually getting to a point where the thicket was so dense it was dark enough to barely be able to see two feet ahead of you. 

“Superboy, can you see anything with infrared?” Kaldur whispered.

“No,” Connor replied after he scanned the area. You, however, were not convinced. You closed your eyes and felt the earth around you with your powers and were able to see a group of people surrounding you, raising their hands in what you assumed would be an attack. You immediately reached out to hold as much of the surrounding air as possible and cause a large dome of rushing winds to surround you and your friends. Just in time too, as all of the people started cascading the dome with fire. It was like they all had flamethrowers. You stomped on the ground and caused vines to come up and catch every assailant you could feel just as your dome started to dissipate. The flames had all but stopped, but you didn’t have time to react when another person dropped from the trees and punched his fist out at you, a puff of flames coming directly at you and making contact with your upper arm. You let out a scream of pain and your teammates were immediately by your side, turning towards the attackers to protect you.

“Wait!” The attacker who burnt you, took a step closer, holding his flame out to provide light. Kaldur held his water sword towards him, telling him to not step any closer. “Robin, Superboy, Aqualad, and Flora! You guys are heroes!” He said, his voice filled with shock. 

“We do our best,” Superboy replied, still on guard.

“I am beyond sorry for attacking you, and for burning you,” He directed the last part of the statement to you, bowing slightly out of respect. You, who was still holding your scolding arm in pain, looked up to him in confusion, not completely believing his apology. Robin was the closest to you, holding an eskrima stick in one hand, and keeping his other one on your shoulder as a reminder that he was right there. While the man - well, he seemed to be no older than 18, so he wasn’t necessarily a full-grown man -  ordered his fighters to stand down, you all were still holding fighting stances, not letting your guards down. “There's no need to be on guard, we are on your side,” The teen boy in front of you said. 

“You have to realize how hard that is to believe. People have been disappearing in this forest, and there are scorch marks and ash everywhere.” You defended your team's actions.

“And you did just burn our teammate,” Robin added, keeping his arm pressed against yours. It was comforting to feel his touch, even in such a high-stress situation.

 “We can explain everything, but first we need to treat your friend’s burn,” The leader said. 

You all looked at each other. Being able to communicate without speaking would’ve been easier if Miss Martian was here, but none of you needed her telepathy to be able to come to a conclusion.

 “I can handle my burn myself, thank you. We would like the explanation,” You stated, crouching down to grow the plant you needed to treat your burn. Again, he bowed slightly to show he respected your wishes and began to explain the culture and nature of the people in his village.

“1000 years ago, the sun-blessed the leader of my village with a gift. The gift was to produce and control fire,” The man showed a small spark from the palm of his hand to emphasize the point. “The gift ended up being hereditary and now there is scarcely a person in the village who isn’t able to control fire.” While the man was explaining, Robin helped cover your wound and tie a leaf wrap around your upper arm. You whispered a small thanks and focused on the story he was telling.“The thing is, 30 years ago, our village was attacked and destroyed. Many of the villagers managed to escape. My father, who was 14 at the time, promised to rebuild the village and bring back any villagers who remained alive so that our village would thrive again. He has only just now finished the village completely, and the last few villagers are finally returning. The reason there have been reports of people disappearing is because the few people that have waited this long to return created lives for themselves outside the forest in order to survive before they could return, but they always meant to come back. I promise, no one is here that hasn’t decided of their free will.” 

You all looked at each other as the man finished his story. You four excused yourself to be able to discuss what you heard. 

“He was being sincere,” You told them, as you were able to feel his heartbeat stay steady and his breathing was normal while he spoke. “Or he’s just a really good liar.”

“Okay, so, we got our intel, should we go back?” Superboy asked.

“How? S-Cycle is still folded up to heal from the attack. We’re kind of stuck for a while. Besides, shouldn’t we, you know, check out the village to double-check their story?” You responded. Kaldur nodded, agreeing with you. 

“Okay, but you stay in between us while we walk there,” Robin said after hesitating to respond, obviously still worried about you. You gave him a look. “I know, you can handle yourself, and you did save us from being barbecued, but you still got hurt and I’m not about to let that happen again.” He replied, giving you an equally serious look. You sighed after seeing the Aqualad and Superboy felt the same and nodded. The group of fire wielders were very enthusiastic when you asked to see the village, and led you all through the forest. When you broke through the leaves to a bright clearing, it took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the light. But when they did, you couldn’t help letting your jaw slacken a little as you gaped at the sight before you. There weren’t any houses on the ground, there were stairs, ramps, and ladders up to the top part of the canopy where huge treehouses were built. Lanterns, string lights, and torches lit the way and made the village look almost magical. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The man from before that was leading the group said to the team, but his gaze was focused on you. You nodded, not taking your eyes off of the treehouses and surrounding scenery. The rest of them were less focused on the scenery and were still on their guard, so they all caught the guys piercing gaze towards you, and none of them liked it. Especially not Robin, who moved closer to you, if that was even possible as he had been sticking to you like glue the whole time. “I’m Ray,” The man finally introduced himself, sticking his hand out towards you. You finally looked down and met his eye, glancing at his hand. You would feel bad if you didn’t shake his hand, but you still felt reluctant about trusting him. So when you didn’t shake his hand, his expression fell a bit, but it caused Robin to smirk next to you. Ray cleared his throat to clear the awkward air, “Well, would you like a tour of the village?” He asked, but yet again it seemed like he was only asking you. 

“Yes, we would appreciate that. Thank you,” You gave him a polite smile and motioned for him to lead the way. You caught how his expression fell slightly yet again. You were starting to feel very suspicious of the situation you and your teammates were in, but you needed to tread lightly to be able to figure it out without endangering them. As the tour concluded, you felt like you just hiked a mountain. The number of stairs you had to walk up and down was impressive. You were in shape enough to still be okay, but you definitely needed a bit of a break. 

“Flora, can I talk to you in private,” Ray asked, holding his hand out to you. 

“You can’t say it in front of my teammates?” You asked, quirking your eyebrow in suspicion. 

“It would be better to speak away from them,” He replied. 

“Fine, but somewhere they can still see us,” You answered, taking his hand and letting him lead you a bit away from the group. As you started walking, you looked at Superboy and gave him a slight movement that he knew meant to listen. 

“I think you would do well here.” Ray started. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I think you’re one of the most talented, beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I want you to stay here with me,” He said as he took both of your hands in his own.

“I’m not one of you. I don’t have fire powers. I do not belong here,” You replied, removing your hands from his grip, which was a bit hard because of how strong his grip was on you. 

“I’m disappointed to hear you say that. But I will still try to convince you that you belong here until your team decides to leave,” He said, a look of determination evident on his face, mixed with something a bit more malicious. You did not like the vibes on this guy at all. However, if you were going to find more out about the village, you needed him to trust you. 

“Hmm, I’ll think about it. Maybe you can tell me more about your village’s history, so I can become more familiar with everything,” You prompted. 

“I would love to! But unfortunately, it will have to wait until I have a meeting with our village leaders,” He explained, excusing himself with a bow. “I look forward to seeing you again.” 

You gave him a polite smile as you walked back to your team, and before you could divulge your plan to them, Superboy cut you off.

“You’ll ‘think about it’?” He asked, not amused at all. “Is this not the same man who just burnt you?” 

“What are you talking about?” You asked.

“SB told us about the convo you just had. You’re not seriously thinking about staying here, are you?” Robin asked.

“You cannot choose these people you just met over your friends,” Aqualad added.

“I ‘cannot’?” You were going to explain yourself until you heard that. “And who, exactly, said you could control what I do or do not? You may be the team leader but that does not mean you can tell me what decisions to make with my life,” You tried controlling your voice, but it started to get a bit aggressive. You understood that they were only trying to look out for you, but you were fed up with them treating you like you were breakable, someone they had to constantly baby, and you were certainly fed up with them trying to make decisions for you. 

“Flora, calm down,” Aqualad tried to get you to contain your voice, but also your powers as the wind started to pick up. You sighed and looked away from them, taking a deep breath to control yourself. 

“Flor-” Robin started to speak but you cut him off.

“I need some time by myself, to think.” You put emphasis on the last word, hoping it would get them to reflect on their choice of words while you calmed down away from them. You settled on a high platform in the middle of the village, your feet swinging off the side. You looked over the village and observed what they were doing, the buildings people were going in, and the places they avoided. You were trying to do what you originally came here to do, but you heard footsteps behind you. You had memorized the breathing pattern of the person so you didn’t even need to look over as they sat down next to you to know it was the same Boy Wonder you fell in love with years ago. You sighed, and played around with your hands, fidgeting as you started apologizing. 

“Listen, I know you guys just want to protect me and get the mission done, so I’m sorry I added more drama in the mix. I was just trying to find out more about the village,” You explained looking over at him, your cheeks flushing a little as you saw how close your faces were, and how his eyes gently looked into yours. 

“I’m the one who should apologize. You’re a powerful, talented member of the team, and you’re capable of taking care of yourself. But I just… I can’t stand seeing you in pain so when I know I can try to prevent it, I do,” He looked down, avoiding your gaze.You reached out and cupped his cheek with your hand and gently brought his gaze back to you. 

“Getting hurt comes with the job, but knowing you’re there for me makes all the difference,” You explain. “Thank you.”

You smile softly, looking at his mask-covered eyes wondering if they were filled with the same look of love and admiration that yours were. You felt the distance between your faces close and your lips press against each other delicately. You felt sparks fly in your mind and butterflies in your stomach. The wind around you started whipping around you both in a circle, and unbeknownst to you, flowers sprouted in your hair. When you separated, you kept your eyes closed for a second, lightly smiling until you heard robin chuckle, feeling the air of his laugh on your cheek because of how close you two still were. You opened your eyes and looked at him with a questioning look and he reached into your hair and picked out one of the flowers, showing it to you. Your eyes opened wide in surprise. 

“That’s new,” You said, your voice nearly above a whisper.

“For me too,” He joked, saying he’s never had a reaction to his kisses like that before. You laughed with him before pressing your lips against his again. However, this kiss was shorter as you heard someone clear their throat near the tree. You and Robin separated quickly and looked over, now on guard as you both stood up. When you saw Ray, leaning against the tree, you sensed something completely different about him. Robin caught onto it too and moved in front of you a bit. You couldn’t help but smirk ever so slightly at his over-protective nature kicking in again, but you found it so endearing about him. Focusing on Ray as he started speaking, his voice void of that obviously fake friendly manner. 

“It’s a shame, I did try to warn you, Flora. I mean, I obviously wasn’t explicit, but you’re a smart girl, I know you caught onto my little act. If only you were a bit smarter and promised to stay here with us, and be on my side. I could’ve saved you from all of the hurt you’re about to feel.” He taunted, obviously not scared at all as he was nonchalantly looking down at his nails, and still hadn’t separated from the tree. 

“So was anything you said to me true? Because I’d hate to have to figure out the truth of your village on top of kicking your ass,” You mixed the threat in, trying to get to the bottom of what was happening. 

“It's true that the legend of our village says we got our power from the sun, and it’s true that our village was attacked 30 years ago, but it wasn’t by any opposing village. It was by our own. Traitors, who opposed my grandfather’s rule. He was a great leader, making plans to expand our village and spread our gift to the rest of the world. But there were some, short-minded families who believed that it was wrong, and we needed to stay within our forest. A civil war broke out, killing my grandfather. Once he was dead, the village was abandoned. Both sides retreated. When my father returned a year later, he promised to take vengeance on any of the families that killed his grandfather. Those are the people who have been “disappearing”. They don’t deserve your pity, they're traitors.” He told the story, finally stepping towards you two, causing you to shift into a more secure fighting position.

“It’s not your place to decide who lives or dies, and it’s definitely not a welcome idea to try to force your way of life onto other people,” You explain, though you knew he was way past reason. 

“It’s disappointing to hear you say that,” He said, looking away from you for a second, before quickly turning back and fire two streams of fire directly at you two. It was your turn to move in front of Robin and quickly blast the attack away from the two of you. You quickly took his moment of blindness to your advantage and moved up to him, scratching your skin and releasing a toxic mix of plants, inducing sleep. He tried to fight it, grabbing your arm, which you quickly grabbed his and sent him flying into the tree bark. He groaned and fell on the floor, knocked out.

“All bark and no bite…” You quipped, looking at Robin with a goofy expression before pointing at the bark and then the man passed out on the ground. He rolled his eyes before grinning as well, pulling you in close with one arm. 

“And I didn’t even have to do anything,” He said.

 “Of course not, I couldn’t let you get into harm's way. I can’t stand seeing you in pain so when I knew I could try to prevent it, I did,” You quoted him from earlier and he smirked down at you. 

Once you got the violent villagers in custody, you finally went back to the cave. 

“So I heard you guys had an eventful mission,” M’gann said, flying over to you all as you arrived through zeta tube. She ran and hugged Superboy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” You looked at Robin and smiled and he smiled back at you.

“Hah! You owe me $30!” Artemis yelled at Wally. 

“What? You don’t even know if they’re official or not, are you guys… dating?” He looked at you two. You both just smiled at him.

“Aw, man! How’d you even notice?” He threw his hands up in the air as he forked over the cash to his girlfriend. 

“Just look at them, they’ve got lovey-dovey-new-couple written all over them,” Artemis explained.

“Yeah, but they’ve always been like that,” Superboy pointed out.

 “Hey! You know what that means! We can go on triple dates!” M’gann said excitedly to you six. “....Sorry Kaldur. You can come too?” 

“I will pass, but thank you for offering” He responded lightheartedly. You all laughed and you leaned over to give your new boyfriend a peck on the check.

#Young Justice #young justice x reader #young justice imagine #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #robin #robin x reader #yj!robin #yj!robin x reader

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

communication skills

anthony beauvillier x f!reader; platonic!mat barzal x f!reader

warnings: swearing, throwing up, based slightly on 'hits different' by taylor swift, i wrote a good 80% of this drunk so i apologise for everything

word count: 8.7k

The water was warm – not too hot that it burned your skin, but warm enough to encourage you to stand in front of the mirror – refusing to look at your own reflection – and keep your hands held under the steady stream. There was something relaxing about it, watching it cascade off your skin, fragmenting the light.

It was a twisty tap, and after a long period of you washing off the feeling of his last words, desperate to scrub any and all traces of him off your skin, even despite the pathetic futility of such a feat – another hand reached out from behind you, twisting it off and handing you a small pile of paper towels.

Much like your own reflection, you refused to look at the man on your right, keeping your head down and eyes entirely focused on the task at hand. If you even so much as caught a pitying or equally heartbroken gleam in his face, you’d be done for; that unwanted well of emotion would shatter, and Mat would be left to pick up the pieces in a bathroom of a club you’d only been to once before.

The last thing you wanted to do was talk about it, but when you chucked the scrap towels in the bin, the frustration had gotten the better of you, and your words spewed out of your mouth seamlessly. Mat was leant against a wall, nodding along to almost everything you were saying, and you could tell from the grave expression on his face that he was just as affected by the matter, too.

How could he not?

He’d known Beau since they were kids, and because of the inhumane system surrounding transfers, they’d be separated from each other for the first time in years.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” He asked, leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a stern yet altogether curious look about him. 

You froze, knitting your brows together in slight bewilderment, “What am I gonna do about him getting transferred?” You checked, puzzled as to his query.

There wasn’t much you could do about anything; transfers were legally bound contacts as far as you knew, and you wouldn’t be able to hammer even the slightest dent in that framework – not that you’d even thought about doing that anyway.

It wasn’t your career, he wasn’t your boyfriend, and you weren’t going to mess with something set in stone. Still, that harsh truth didn’t exactly do anything to numb the stinging hurt prickling at your chest. Your throat tightened, and you pressed your lips together, trying to suppress the mounting build of sadness climbing up your throat.

You hated the helplessness of it all; you couldn’t control a single aspect of anything that had occurred within the last fifteen minutes and it petrified you. It sent goosebumps trailing down your skin, and a spike of adrenaline through your system.

“No,” Mat frowned, blinking at you, “What are you gonna do about Tito moving to Vancouver?”

You swallowed, trying to maintain the knot slowly building, “I don’t follow.”

You weren’t going to do anything. He was the one that had ended it. You were, however, going to go home and watch New Girl to cheer yourself up. Maybe call your parents; the time difference would mean they’d still be awake – and long term? Probably mope.

You weren’t sure you could quite stomach the thought of someone else at that moment – which was a shocker to you.

Moving on was always easy for you to do – it tended to be a benefit of never truly giving yourself to anyone. Yet, somehow, Anthony Beauvillier had worked his way under your defences and you’d given yourself to him in ways you never pictured yourself ever doing.

“I mean,” Mat rolled his eyes, “Are you going to let him break things off and jet across to the other side of North America?” He asked it like it was obvious, his shoulders shrugging as he watched you carefully. 

He thought you were taking the entire situation rather well. You had since Anthony had panicked and dumped everything on you – how he’d literally just shouted in your ear ‘I’ve been traded to Vancouver and I’m leaving within the week’ – and how the only reaction you had was a poor ‘oh’ after you’d ingested his words. Other than that, you’d been in a sort of reverie, floating around the rest of the night, a haunted look on your face as you watched him leave.

He’d broken up with you, and Mat was almost certain that you didn’t know why.

Mat knew, of course he did. After Tito had told him, the first thing he’d worried about was you.

“I don’t want her to leave New York for me. She deserves better than that.”

And no matter how many times Mat had tried to persuade Tito that, no, you deserved each other wholeheartedly, Tito was insistent on the fact that the only way to solve that issue of his was to break up with you.

Obviously, he’d neglected to confide exactly why he’d broken up with you, to you.

And that left Mat in this current predicament: you in shock hiding in the bathroom, and Tito, no doubt, packing his suitcase and mourning your entire relationship.

Honestly, Mat was sick of you both. You were too blind to realise that you guys were made for each other – you were just too stubborn to connect the dots and allow yourselves to be happy – with each other.

Your reactions just seemed to lack emotion; it was as if someone had snuffed out your ability to feel – you looked subdued, an empty vacancy hidden behind your eyes. 

And when he’d asked you if you were going to go with Anthony to Vancouver, you’d just stared, looking mildly unwell at the prospect.

“What else am I supposed to do?” You asked, placing a hand on your stomach as though to ease the rising sickness. Where had it come from? “He told me he was moving to Vancouver and that he didn’t want me to go with him. In fact, his exact words were ‘I don’t want you to come to Vancouver with me’ and ‘I want to break up’.”

Mat blanched, frustration fisting an angry hand in his chest, slowly pushing its way through his sternum. 

He swore you two would be the death of him.

He didn’t say anything, but took your silence as an answer. You’d been throwing hopeful glances at the door, and he’d elected to ignore it in wanting to try to get you to see sense, but it seemed Tito had left that job even more difficult to follow through on with his harsh words.

Reluctant words. Words that Mat knew absolutely killed him to say to you.

He’d seen the way his friend had looked at you, and to know that he was moving to Vancouver – away from him and New York, a feat that he’d be doing alone – and leaving you behind was something that broke even Mat’s heart, and in that, he knew that it destroyed both yours and Tito’s.

If Mat hadn't known that Tito only broke up with you because he didn’t want you to drop everything for him, he would have assumed the guy was running from something.

In a sense, he was running away from you – but in doing so, he was running away from quite possibly the best thing he’d ever had in his life, and Mat wasn’t about to let either you or Tito make that mistake.

He didn’t voice any of that, however, just moved aside and let you through the door, making sure to keep a steady hand on your back in reassurance as you both made it out of the club, past the millions of couples devouring each other – who only served as a sour reminder of the night’s events – and outside.

It was chilly, and the frosty air nipped at your exposed skin.

You’d barely had time to string together a coherent thought before hands were tugging you in all directions; cold and clammy as you were pulled back and forth, concerned touches on your elbows, shoulders, and chin. You barely even registered exactly who you were looking at.

“Are you okay?”

“There’s a cute guy inside that’s been checking you out all night–”

“I can’t believe he just broke up with you.”

“Why isn’t she looking at us?”

Questions were fired left, right and centre, and you were numb to it all; their voices trickling in through one ear and flowing out of the other seamlessly. They sounded like they were underwater, and you felt Mat’s comforting hand on your back once more, gently guiding you away from your friends.

You heard him say something, it must have been something about getting you home because they all let out a chorus of disappointed ‘ohs’ and patted you sympathetically on your arm.

For some reason, hearing the truth of what actually happened barely half an hour ago seemed to set it into stone; it felt different keeping the breakup in the bathroom just between you and Mat – it felt more private somehow, like you could walk out of the room and pretend Anthony hadn’t left you in that club, heart shattered into oblivion and mind stuck on his words and the way he looked like he might break if you so much as even stepped towards him or touched him or whispered even a word of protest.

But you’d wandered outside in the hope of clearing your head, only to be bombarded and heralded and overwhelmed when you were busy trying to deal.

Why did he break up with you? You would have gone with him - you knew you would.

Did he get bored of you? He couldn’t have; he’d just told you he was wildly in love with you three weeks ago.

Had he met someone else? Was he in love with someone else?

And that was when you saw it; although they were further down the street, Mat pushing you into a walk as you both strolled down the sidewalk, you could just make it out in the hazy darkness.

They must have been illuminated by the light from the inside of the bar, because each time a door opened, their section of the sidewalk practically glowed, highlighting them.

You couldn’t see who the girl was, she seemed to be hidden from view by the man, but it was him who’d caught your attention. If it weren’t for Mat coaxing you along, you’d have frozen in place, eyes fixated watching them with the slow drip drip of dread pounding your body.

You were entranced by the way he brought his hands up to the side of her face, throwing his head backwards in a laugh – a real one, unbridled with joy – and then leant forwards, peppering kisses all over her face as she giggled sweetly at his attentions and affections. It wasn’t the PDA that had you stalling.

That man was Anthony. You could only see the back of his head, and he was further down than you, but he was around the same height and you could see the curls in his hair. He was even wearing a typical Anthony outfit.

It was simple, and you were sure almost every guy in the vicinity was wearing some variation of it, but what caught your eye was he was wearing the same grey t-shirt Beau had just left in.

It could have been any grey t-shirt.

But Anthony had just left wearing it and it was logical that he’d broken up with you because he was in love with that girl.

Mat seemed to sense your hesitation, and he slowed to a stop, brows furrowing at the intensity with which you were watching the young couple in front of you. His eyes drifted from you, his hand now gently grazing your forearm as though he was afraid you’d peel and leave him, to the couple.

He didn’t understand what was so compelling about them that had you completely fascinated. Granted, you looked horrified, and your eye twitched, a flash of pain appearing and then disappearing almost as soon as it had made its presence. If he thought you looked ill before, you looked like you were about to throw up–

He’d barely managed to steer you against a wall and wind your hair up before you’d thrown up on the side of the road.

You quickly pulled yourself up, hating that your eyes instantly drifted back over to the couple.

You frowned. The man wasn’t Anthony.

Then you hurled again, and Mat’s level of concern skyrocketed.

“How much did you have to drink?” He asked, helping you to stand back up, a slight grimace to his face as he made sure there were no splashes coating his jeans.

You briefly shut your eyes, stomach turning, feeling your heart break in real time as the emotions you’d bottled started to manifest itself in physical symptoms – completely against your will. Your eyes pricked with hot tears and the lump in your throat was back as your chin wobbled. You tried to hide behind your hand, but Mat had caught the momentary vulnerability before you could turn away.

He sighed, letting your hair fall back down and automatically pulling you into his chest.

“I didn’t have anything to drink.” You admitted.

His chest rumbled, and you didn’t know if it was the comfort he brought, because no one else seemed to understand what you were feeling at that moment, or if you simply craved a human touch from someone you trusted, but you felt your demeanour shatter, the tears tracking down your cheeks before you could catch them and reel them back in.

“I didn’t have anything to drink.” You repeated, shaking your head.

All you’d done was picture Anthony Beauvillier with other girls in love, and then promptly thrown up on the street.

Yeah, you were pretty fucked.

___ 

Yet, despite the fact that Anthony had moved to Vancouver, there was a temporary feeling about it – as though you didn’t believe the breakup had actually happened, or you didn’t believe it was really…a breakup?

It definitely had something to do with the fact that Mat was currently in your apartment, a rental, pre-furnished – one that rather conveniently, you hadn’t had the time to move into properly yet, and he was helping you box your belongings, taping the edges together and piling them up in the corner. 

You were sorting out your clothes, placing them into a suitcase, and he was in the living room, going through your kitchen.

It hadn’t happened quickly. It took Mat a week to plant the seed in your mind, and it took you another three to decide to move out. Honestly, after Mat had pointed out that, in fact, your ‘friends’ weren’t really your friends; your job had previously offered you a different position in Surrey, not too far out from where you’d just rented another apartment – and it was a career move. That was what you kept telling yourself; technically the job move was a promotion – your salary had been upped and it was more of what you actually wanted to do job-wise.

Plus, your parents lived in Vancouver. You grew up there, went to school there, your friends still lived there. The only reason you stayed in New York was because you’d managed to snag a job straight out of college and you’d established a sort of life for yourself. Albeit, completely apart from your family, but you’d gotten used to the loneliness in college.

If anything, the only reason you’d stayed in New York and hesitated to accept that job offer in the first place – one that you’d gotten even before Anthony had dumped that bomb on you – was because of Mat.

You guys were pretty close, and it felt like a betrayal leaving him (especially after Anthony had just done the same thing, though it was out of his control) for the person he’d introduced to you.

And to say he was eager to send you back to Vancouver – ‘for your job opportunity’ – would be a bit of an understatement, if his volunteering to help you pack had anything to do with it.

It almost felt like someone had taken the knife already living in your chest and twisted it when you heard the song playing through the speakers. The song.

The melody was instantly familiar, even more so the croning of the voice, and it sent a pang of nostalgia ricocheting off the inside of your skull.

There were people everywhere; though it could have had something to do with the fact the venue was only one room – a large one at that, with tall ceilings and rather gorgeous curtains. The back wall was made up entirely of windows and the view overlooking the city was gorgeous from where you were standing. You swore you could see stars when you looked up.

Not that you looked very hard; your eyes were indefinitely locked onto Anthony as he leant back against the glass.

You were both sitting on the floor, him with his back to the glass, and you perpendicular. Somehow you’d both managed to find a quiet corner – literally – and sit down, because after you’d gone to get drinks, your chairs were occupied by some unfamiliar faces, and it was the perfect excuse to get him alone, at least to some extent.

You weren’t entirely isolated from the celebrations, but you made it work.

Your legs were stretched out along the floor, and because of the limitations of you being able to wear a dress in public, Anthony had elected to place his legs over the top of yours like some sort of criss-cross pattern. You were pressed together, him almost sitting on your lap, and you could tell he was comfy.

He’d shrugged his blazer off and a few extra buttons had come undone somewhere along the lines. Your hand stroked delicate motions on the material of his suit trousers, and although his head was resting against the glass, his eyes were watching your fingers.

There was a glass of champagne on either side of you both, yours empty, his only half.

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind your exaggerated reaction when you heard ‘Crazy in Love’ begin to play over the speakers.

You smiled to yourself, unaware of the soft look of mild amusement he was giving you. You’d noticed a pattern recently, and even through your high state of mind you’d somewhat remembered it.

“What?” His voice had your attention snapping back over to him, the motion of your hand on his leg never stopping. You could tell he was trying not to laugh, and you rolled your eyes.

“You haven’t noticed?” You ducked your head, disbelieving of his obliviousness. You threw your free hand in the direction of the music, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“Clearly not.” He breathed a laugh, eyes lighting up at the mock offence you’d managed to implicate on your face.

“Everytime we go somewhere together, ‘Crazy in Love’ plays. Yesterday, at the restaurant; Mat even played it when he hosted dinner the other day…it’s just something I’ve noticed.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” He trailed off, a cheeky smile donning his face as his cheeks turned a rosy pink.

“Now that I’ve mentioned it? How convenient–” You started, but were promptly cut off when he leant forwards, reducing the short distance already between you both, and kissed you.

It was an effective silencing method, one that he’d used on you many times before and one that you’d used on him before. You were at that stage where little displays of affection, no matter how intensely they made those butterflies swarm, didn’t swerve or particularly hinder the one-sided conversation anymore. In other words, they’d lost their effectiveness, and even after this realisation, it didn’t seem to stop either one of you giving or accepting such attentions.

“I was thinking,” he muttered, pulling away whilst you kept a hand on his wrist, preventing him from moving too far.

Usually you would have teased him, warned him to be careful in doing such a thing, and it seemed he was expecting some sort of comment, because he paused, brows furrowing when he was met with silence. You nodded, however, unable to hide the fact that you were completely enthralled by his existence – you were sure he could see it on your face; you could even feel your cheeks heat up for no apparent reason at all other than the magnetic pull you felt towards the man sitting in front of you – and urged him to continue.

“Maybe it should be our song?” He asked, lifting the hand in your grasp up to your face, momentarily brushing a strand of hair from your face with his thumb.

He wasn’t nervous about the suggestion, that much you could tell. He was comfortable, eagerly anticipating your answer.

You smiled, tilting your head and you felt your eyes widen slightly. It didn’t seem like a silly idea.

“Why?” You asked, unable to help the quick glance at his mouth.

“I think it’s fitting to us.” He shrugged.

You nodded, not entirely surprised by the implication. You hadn’t said the words yet, but you knew how you felt. Rather shockingly, however, it didn’t fill you with a sense of dread or unease. 

So you replied, “I think it is too.”

Despite the complexity of love, it seemed remarkably simple with Anthony.

It certainly didn’t feel that way when you walked into your living room, seeing Mat half attempt to dance along with the music as he placed various cups and mugs into a box on the kitchen counter. 

It felt irrevocably wrong to hear it without Anthony there, and that mere fact was what spurred you on to lean over the phone on the coffee table and hastily press the skip button.

You ignored Mat’s groan of disapproval as you wordlessly made your way back to the bedroom.

__

“What are your neighbours like?” It was Mat on the phone, his face in the frame on FaceTime as he virtually kept you company as emptied the last couple of boxes.

You’d officially moved back to Vancouver a month ago, your parents offering your childhood room back for the first few weeks until you moved in properly. You didn’t exactly have the heart to say no to them, but their coddling (however attentive it was) had begun to get a little overbearing, so you’d taken every opportunity to sneak over to your new apartment and empty as much as you could.

It was fairly livable now: your main priority had been the kitchen and bedroom, and you’d emptied nearly everything to the point you were comfortable actually moving in. In reality, you knew if your parents hadn’t been there you’d have easily put up with living in a skeletal apartment – so for that, you were grateful.

All the nighttime sneaking out of your parent’s house and into your apartment had meant that you’d neglected to actually talk and meet your neighbours. All you knew was there was an elderly couple living two doors down, who’d only smiled at you in passing, and there had been a card posted under your door from your neighbour on your right, but you didn’t know what they looked like.

So when Mat asked you that question, you sighed, “I don’t actually know.”

He didn’t seem too shocked, and nodded in understanding.

“I probably need to, to be honest, I got something posted under my door the other day.”

At this, his interest peaked, and you saw him look up from his plate, raising an eyebrow, “Who was it from?”

You frowned, his rather exaggerated interest raising your suspicions, and froze from where you were unwrapping a glass, “Why?”

He shrugged, playing it off, “Because I think it’s important to know who you’re living around. What if something happens and you need help? Forget your key?”

You returned to your previous task, mulling his words over. You knew he was right because you’d had that exact same reasoning drilled into you since you’d left home in college, but your why hadn’t really been directed at meeting your neighbours, more, “Why were you so interested in who it was when you asked?”

He swallowed, shrugging once more, “Just am. No reason.”

You didn’t believe him, and he could clearly sense it, because he rolled his eyes, not saying anything else.

“It was from ‘Number Twenty-Three’.” You answered, watching him carefully, still not entirely trusting him.

He just nodded, ensuring to keep his facial expressions impassive as he shovelled another spoonful of rice into his mouth, not caring when a few grains fell back onto his plate.

There was a few more minutes of general chatter, and you found yourself sitting back against the sofa, pensieve as you took in your new living quarters.

“Do you think I was silly moving here?” You asked Mat, not looking at him as he pondered the question.

“No.” Was all he said, and you turned your eyes back to him.

The thought was something that had been majorly playing on your mind since you first agreed to move back to Vancouver. There was a part of you that knew you wouldn’t have even considered moving back if Tito hadn’t gone – and it freaked you out. You were aware putting Tito above all else was risky, especially considering the fact you hadn’t messaged him since you’d broken up; you didn’t know where he was or if he’d even want you anymore, if he had a girlfriend. It had been months, and you knew he was a desirable guy. You wouldn’t blame him if he’d moved on.

But there was always that nagging thing that had you feeling like you’d moved only because of Anthony, and you hated it so much. It made you want to curl up and teleport back to your old life in New York, but even the thought of that made your stomach turn because you knew he wouldn’t be there.

It just kept coming back to him.

You didn’t know what would happen if he saw you – that was assuming you ever gained the courage to actually face him again.

A part of you felt almost sheepish at the mere idea of seeing him. Sure, your heart rate picked up and your hands trembled against your will, mouth going dry as you remembered the night he broke up with you.

And the only reason you knew you could confide in Mat was because he had both sides of it; although he didn’t talk about it much – presumably for your own fragile heart – you knew he talked to him as much as he could, if not, everyday. You felt like you were using him as a bridge, and even then his words of encouragement fell on deaf ears, your own insecurities drowning them out with fears of rejection.

You wouldn’t have even moved to Vancouver if it hadn't been for Mat’s support and help.

He sighed, and you could tell he’d sussed you and your doubts out.

“He told me he’s not been able to even look at another woman without feeling like he’s gonna hurl.” He started, pausing to gauge your reaction. You swallowed, feeling a little guilty at the relief you’d felt upon his confession, “He asks about you everyday, and he’s not doing too well. I don’t even know if he’s sleeping properly.”

You remained silent, instead choosing to reach a hand into the box next to you.

Fuck.

One of Anthony’s Islander’s caps.

Almost instantaneously you felt your eyes begin to water, both at the hat and everything Mat had just told you. 

It was a lot, all of this new change, in one go.

“I think I’m gonna go.” You said quietly, trying to hide the way your voice cracked a little at the end. You refrained from sniffling, not wanting to raise Mat’s concern.

“Okay,” he muttered, his voice soft, “Look after yourself. Call me if you need anything.”

You nodded, pressing your lips together, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Maybe think about replying to number twenty-three? Look at making a few new friends, yeah?”

You laughed, though it was watery – the kind that had you questioning if you wanted to cry or not, “‘S not one of your worst ideas, actually.”

“Hey.” He mocked, faking offence, “But, really, I think you should.”

“I think I might.” You admitted.

You missed the way he sagged.

“Good.” There was a brief pause, “Anyway, love you, miss you, have fun unpacking.” He waved at the camera, flashing you a charming smile, which you didn’t hesitate to reciprocate.

“Miss you too, Barzy. Try not to hurt yourself before I next see you.” It was a low blow, and you saw the hurt flick over his face momentarily.

Then you promptly ended the call, unable to stop yourself laughing a little. 

___

Tito had just finished washing up when a piece of paper slipped under his door.

He’d stopped what he was doing, midway to the living room. The paper had slipped under his door coincidentally at the exact moment he was walking past it, and he’d frozen, creeped out at the timing. It was almost as if the person on the other side had known he was walking past the door and chosen that specific moment in time to post the letter through with the purposeful intent of freaking him the fuck out.

Nevertheless, he’d put his coffee mug down on the counter, reaching to inspect the piece of paper.

He almost dropped it when he saw the writing.

His face drained of blood, and before he’d even opened it, he’d thrown the door open, hastily checking the hallway.

It was empty.

Disappointment clawed at his chest, but he remained somewhat hopeful, his fingers working quickly to unfold it, his foot holding the door open in case they decided to make another appearance.

Why did he spend so long looking at it? He could have caught her, for fuck’s sake. 

It was a stretch, in hindsight. There had to be at least a million people who flicked their ‘f’ like that, and there had to be even more who wrote at an angle like that, with their letters remaining round.

It had to be common.

Thank you for the welcome, 23.

Then when his eyes tracked down to the sign-off, he swore someone was playing tricks on him.

Obviously, his immediate reaction – completely bypassing the excitement and blinding fear of her having moved on from him bubbling in his stomach – and shut the door behind him, scrambling for his phone.

Mat picked up almost instantly.

“You fucking prick–”

Needless to say, the injured Islander knew exactly what he was talking about.

___ 

He’d not wanted to scare you, truly. 

Since Mat had admitted to everything – from the reason you’d moved to his helping hand in finding you a place to live temporarily – he’d taken measures to ensure you didn’t run into him without any semblance of warning, but he’d found it much harder to put into practice.

He’d almost run into you three times in the past week, and every time he had to leave or enter his apartment, he’d take a cautious look down the hall and run – not wanting to startle you too much.

He just didn’t want to catch you off guard was all.

He knew you’d probably want to see him under your own control, and he was all for waiting for you. From what he’d been told, you weren’t doing much better than him.

But he’d known his luck was bound to run out at some point.

Which was how he’d found himself in this exact predicament.

___

You’d been weirdly wanting to go downstairs. You didn’t know why you’d had the sudden urge, but all you did know was that there was a lounge and a bar, and you were in desperate need of some socialising. It had been a gruelling week – and incredibly dull – unpacking your things and overthinking your first day at work, and you needed to escape from it all.

Each and every time you’d left your apartment, you’d cast a curious glance at your neighbour’s door. Number twenty-three.

They were a perfect neighbour: very rarely did they disturb you, and when they did it was only the quiet hum of some music that you guessed must have been played in their bathroom, because when you pressed your ear against the wall it felt as though you were standing right next to a speaker. 

The only issue you’d had with them was that you hadn’t seen them; whenever you’d heard their door shut, you’d immediately gone to look through your peephole, only to be met with an empty corridor.

It had frustrated you to no end, but you’d coped, helplessly wondering when you could thank them. They’d been the first person to welcome you and you hadn’t even seen them yet – there had been a nagging in the back of your mind that perhaps they’d been dodging you, but there was no way it could have possibly been intentional. You’d barely been at work a full two weeks, which hardly gave them time to actually deduce your timetable or hours.

You’d been watching the Canucks, unable to help yourself from consuming every piece of media Anthony was part of, and then you’d switched off the TV a few hours later, completely alone and needing to get out of the confines of your apartment – desperately and immediately.

That was how you’d come to be locking your door from the outside – ever-weary – and frozen, nerves tingling and heart pounding with nerves as you heard a pair of footsteps coming down the hallway. They were slow, and you could vaguely make out the sound of their trudging, so you’d stalled, secretly hoping that they’d be Number 23.

You’d pretended to fiddle with your keys as you waited for the footsteps to round the corner only when they did, you heard them stop short of you, a quiet “Putain” whispered under their breath.

You frowned, not yet looking up at the person. There was something familiar about their whisper, something you couldn’t quite place immediately.

It was a different story when you looked up.

You could immediately tell from the soft echo of sorrow on his face and abundant lack of shock at your appearance that he wasn’t entirely surprised at your presence. His hand was firmly holding the end of his duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder, and he was wearing the usual suit, his cheeks still a little flushed from the match you’d only been watching a while ago.

You couldn’t help thinking that the TV screen did him no justice, because even though he wasn’t smiling or expressing any semblance of excitement at your presence, he was stunningly breathtaking in your opinion. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was parted – he hadn’t wanted to see you at that moment, that much was obvious from the expression stagnant on his face.

You, on the other hand, found yourself quite unable to draw oxygen into your lungs at his sudden appearance. You were completely frozen, unable to do anything other than stare dumbly, your jaw half-dropped in sheer shock.

Your heart was thunderous, practically clashing against your ribcage so hard you were sure you could feel the pain of it, and your mouth had dried, eyes watering. You weren’t on the verge of tears, by any means. In fact, you felt rather numb to any sort of emotion, because you’d prepared yourself for this moment for months, and now that he was standing in front of you, looking almost sheepish at your lack of understanding, you were unable to string even a coherent thought together.

There was a moment when you had thought he’d arrived in your hallway purely to see you, but that had quickly dissipated when he regained his composure, seemingly on the verge of saying something, and slowly walked past you, unable to tear his eyes away.

You let out a shaky breath when he reached the door branded ‘23’, and furrowed your brows.

He’d been in front of you this entire time–fucking Mat.

He’d orchestrated this car crash. He was the one who’d suggested you speak to your boss whilst he’d look at possible apartment rentals for you, and you’d naively agreed, assuming he had no ulterior motives in his uncharacteristic generosity considering he’d been nothing but helpful with your entire move, but right now you hated his guts. 

Anthonylooked away, briefly, considering something for a second, before looking straight back towards you, a hand smoothing his hair back unconsciously. Neither of you said anything as he blindly unlocked his door, taking one last look at you, before stepping through.

It was only when his door slammed shut that you were able to take a breath.

The hand that had been fiddling with your keys dropped to your side, and you were hardly able to realise what you were doing before you’d unlocked your door, flinging it open and making a direct beeline for the box you’d purposefully avoided since your unfortunate FaceTime call with Mat. Your hand immediately sought out the cap, and operating purely on adrenaline and the mindset of ‘what-the-fuck-I-have-nothing-to-lose’, you’d made your way back out of the door, plans to head downstairs completely forgotten.

You wouldn’t have done it if you hadn't had the confidence instilled in you from Mat, that Tito had been miserable since he’d left New York, even despite the efforts of his new teammates to introduce him to Vancouver society.

Your brain must have been running a mile a minute, because when you clashed into a suit-clad chest, not entirely taken aback by his sudden appearance, you were pushing the cap at him.

“You made me cry over a fucking hat, did you know that?” You asked, the Islander’s cap hanging between you.

Tito blanched, unable to speak.

You waited in anticipation, pursing your lips harshly to stop yourself from speaking.

You wanted him to say something to alleviate the doubts you’d had.

He gave you nothing.

“Say something.” You implored, hand dropping.

He took a breath, relaxing as his shoulders slumped forwards, “I’m sorry I made you cry over my hat.”

Your jaw clenched, fighting the burning in your eyes. You absolutely refused to cry until he confirmed what Mat had been telling you – only then would you let yourself break. You also had to be inside an apartment; you weren’t about to let yourself cry in the hallway for all your new neighbours to see.

“I’m sorry I broke up with you.” 

It was quiet, so much so you would have had to strain your ears to hear him. His voice sounded broken and weak, and when you looked up at him his eyes were pooling with regret, lips turned down in what you could only place as sadness. It was plain and bare, and so hopelessly effortless than you felt yourself soften, even despite the bitterness you still held against him.

“Why?” You asked, not reaching for him. You were determined to keep him in the balance, refusing to give him even a snippet of what you were feeling. It may have been a harsh play on your behalf, but you weren’t about to forgive him too easily for unnecessary heartache. 

He hesitated, fingers tapping his thigh uneasily, “Because we’d only been dating a few months and I didn’t want to ask you to uproot your entire life to Vancouver just for me.”

His honesty was startling, and you took a sharp step backwards. 

It seemed too good to be true, yet you hated the doubt and mistrust placed in him to the point you felt like you were betraying him.

“I uprooted my entire life to move from Vancouver to New York in the first place, you know that.” You replied, somewhat coldly, turning around and entering your apartment.

There was that prickling feeling as though you were being watched through peepholes, and you desperately needed space to breathe. 

You heard Anthony follow you, the door clicking shut behind you with ease, and you threw yourself onto the sofa, dreading and anticipating the late conversation.

“I do.” He admitted, hands in his pocket as he seated himself on the coffee table in front of you, “But I also know that you don’t enjoy change and I felt guilty even—”

“You didn’t even ask.” You interrupted, irritation flaring up.

He sighed through his nose, and you could tell he was almost as fired up as you were. This argument had been a long time coming, the reasons and excuses simmering beneath your skin for far too long, and now you were facing each other with no particular time constraint considering the fact you now shared a wall — something you couldn’t quite decide if it was a blessing or a curse. 

“If I had asked, would you have come?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” you snapped back, looking at him as he rolled his eyes, “You really fucking made sure of that, didn’t you?”

“Well I apologise for trying to protect you from making a decision that could have ruined your career–”

“I don’t need protection, Beauvillier,” he winced, the surname jab stinging, “I can make my own decisions perfectly well.”

“Let me rephrase: I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to come with me because I wanted you to.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, jaw clenching.

“I would have wanted to go with you, dipshit.” You fired back.

“Would have?” He repeated, tilting his head, that wild element of determination flashing through his eyes. He was clearly referring to the past tense you’d used.

“Yes.” You breathed, “I would have, because I’d gotten a promotion located in Vancouver, and the only reason I would have said no, as much as I’m ashamed to admit it, was because of you and your stupid hockey team. I thought you’d stay an Islander so I held off–”

He spluttered, “And you didn’t think to tell me?” His voice raised in pitch, hands flying in front of him as he tried to convey his exasperation.

“No!” You raised your voice incredulously, unable to hide your appall from him, “You left before I could even argue against the breakup and I haven’t seen you since.”

“Ah,” he held up a finger, dodging your lame attempt to swat it away, “But when did you get the offer, huh?”

You paused, feeling your cheeks flush with colour, “You don’t have to patronise me, Tito.”

“Tell me when, and I won’t have to.” He explained, eyes wide as he waited for your answer.

“I got it a couple of days before you broke up with me.” You admitted, voice now a few notches lower.

“And why didn’t you say anything before?” His voice tipped with an edge of regret as he spoke, desperation coating his words as he finished his question.

You were both breathing heavily, adamant to portray your points and frustrations. Neither of you seemed to be thinking much of anything but about the other – much less of what or who you’d been doing since your departure – Mat’s words to both of you seemed to have eased that question, allowing you to freely have at one another without any holding back or worrying about the other’s antics.

You were both clearly still hung up on each other, and that knowledge had you feeling both euphoric and hopeful – a dangerous concoction you’d acknowledged amidst partially yelling at each other. Despite that, it was obvious you’d both been holding back – voices strained for the sake of not wanting to disturb your neighbours, even if you were closer to the wall you shared with Tito than your other neighbour.

“Because I didn’t want to be that girlfriend who says ‘oh, by the way, if those crazy rumours of you getting transferred to the other side of the continent were true, you totally wouldn’t have to worry about our relationship because I’d most definitely go with you anyway’, and then before I could tell you that you ran out of the club. Then when I tried to ring you literally a day later, you’d blocked me on everything!” You rolled your eyes, groaning when he took his blazer off, his hands on his hips after loosening his tie.

You didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose to gain an upper hand in the argument, but it had you losing your train of thought briefly.

“Oh, so now it’s all my fault?” He frowned, a crease forming between his brows.

You laughed bitterly, “Dude, of course it’s your fault. You didn’t let me not allow you to break up with me.”

“But you didn’t tell me about the job offer – which, by the way, is amazing, so congratulations, I’m incredibly proud of you,” he sidetracked, his voice becoming gentler and allowing himself to express a little sincerity within his facial expressions, before returning to its previous sternness, “But you telling me about that job offer would have quietened any doubts I ever had about dragging you here.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” You muttered sarcastically.

“You’re telling me? I just didn’t want you to be unhappy for the sake of my own happiness, okay?” He held up his hands in surrender, waiting for you to respond.

You shrugged, still not quite believing where he was coming from, “Why were you doubting it, I’m literally in love with you. I told you that.”

“Well, I’m in love with you, too. But I guess my guilt overpowered that. I wanted you to come to Vancouver because you wanted to, not because you felt like you had to.”

“You didn’t even ask me, though. You took that right away from me.” You said.

You’d both softened, voices dropping a few octaves and flailing limbs reducing as your frustrations slowly poured out of you.

“And what would you have said if I’d have asked?” He echoed from before, slightly breathless as his chest heaved.

He was looking straight at you, curiosity and a destructive hope practically radiating from his face. He wanted you to say no, to reassure him he’d made the right decision.

“I would have said yes.” 

His face collapsed, and his hands immediately went to cover his eyes for a few seconds. You stayed rooted to your spot, watching him mutter to himself and shake his head. You couldn't hear what he was saying – some complex French mutterings, your ears may have picked up a string of profanities.

Then, just as you were beginning to submit to the gravitational pull towards him, he lifted himself back up, eyes watering and rimmed red – it had you wondering if this was how he’d spent your days and nights apart; torturing himself with what could have been if only he’d had the courage to ask you the question. You knew you were in no position whatsoever to criticise his lack of action, however. It was just the only thing you could stomach to blame.

At least this way you knew the fate of your misery the past few months had been out of your control, even if that small voice in the back of your mind screamed against that.

“Of course you would have.” He nodded, foot tapping against your floor. He still had a lot of pent up agitation begging to be relieved.

He’d just played a match and he still had energy to burn.

Instead, you did the thing you weren’t entirely expecting, and you could tell from his face that he wasn’t expecting you to pull such a move, either.

What you really wanted to do was launch yourself at him – there was no doubt in your mind he’d catch you, he always did – and not let him go, but you held back, both for your own sanity and his, as well as the fact that you knew you were both going to have to spend the night in your own beds, absorbing and mulling over every single thing that had come to light.

“We’re both idiots that should probably work on our communication skills a little more.” 

The trace of a small smile worked its way onto his face, an idea flashing through his mind, “What was that?”

You didn’t even think before you’d picked up a cushion from the sofa and launched it in his direction. It felt like you’d been anticipating such a trashy joke because your aim was spot on; the cushion smacked him squarely in the face, eliciting a shout of surprise.

After he’d let it fall to the floor you both stood in your half-made-up living room, both your hands on your hips and considering each other carefully.

You didn’t know how you were going to go from here, but you knew what you wanted to get out of it, and what you wanted was the man standing in front of you, bravely looking as confused as you felt.

“You played really well tonight.” You said, desperately wanting to break the tense silence.

You could tell what he wanted to do, and you couldn’t exactly deny that you also felt that same desire begin to burn you from the inside, but you knew you had to make him work for it.

“Thank you.” He replied earnestly, not entirely shocked by your revelation. Since he’d found out you were his neighbour, he’d been keeping an ear out for your TV patterns.

On more than one occasion he’d been able to hear the NHL channel blast through the walls.

“No problem.”

“I think I should go.” He made no move to do such a thing.

“I think you should.” This time, he took a few steps towards your door, his hand hovering over the handle as though expecting you to change your mind, before throwing it open and leaving as quickly as he could.

Your head was a mess and your chest was surely about to implode.

You let yourself think it over for about five minutes, hands pressed together and resting against your mouth as your eyes darted across the room. You caught sight of the Islander’s hat on the sofa – when had you even let go of it? – and picked it up, leaving your apartment to knock on his door.

He must have been standing behind it waiting for you because it swung open only on the second knock and you barely had time to breathe before you were tugged roughly against his chest, your hands not wasting any time in burrowing themselves in his hair, and moving your mouth against his, tongues intertwined and breathing just as heavy as it had been when you were arguing.

It was short, possibly about ten seconds of unadulterated desire and lust and love, before you were shoving him away, attempting to maintain some seriousness. It failed drastically, your eyes working to keep up the act, but your mouth giving you away hilariously as you still felt the remnants of his kiss on you, leaving you able to do nothing but smile dumbly at him.

“I’m giving you this back.” You shoved his hand against his chest, but he made no move to take it off you.

“I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I.”

“It looks better on you.” He argued, taking it from your hand and placing it on your head.

You pulled a face, and swiped it off, “I’ve always been more of a Nucks fan than an Islanders, so, no thank you.” You let it drop between you, before failing to resist pressing another hot kiss to his mouth, dodging out of his needy hold and leaving. You hear the vague protest of “I’m telling Mat you said that!” and you spun on your heel, inappropriately shouting, “Fucking go ahead!” Before you shut your door, unable to process anything until you collapsed onto your bed face-first, cursing Mat Barzal’s wicked plotting.

#tito beauvillier x reader #anthony beauvillier x reader #anthony beauvillier imagine #anthony beauvillier oneshot #tito beauvillier imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

[hellolulu]

MAN Shigeo has grown.

[WARNING Another long post about Mob Psycho 100. Contains spoilers for s3 of the anime]

In season 1 any small situation was cause for a sudden +30% or more, and any danger immediately overwhelmed him and put him straight to 90%-100%. He was so easy to upset and anger, and we know that's because a. he's a teenage boy, b. he's not like the other kids, and c. he was always subconsciously trying not to feel anything, so as to not cause anyone any trouble. And anyone who has ever done this knows it is absolutely the best road to destruction.

Then in season 2 he started thinking more about himself - his place in the world and what he wanted. Accordingly, his % climbs (though still fast) were smaller, or at least took a longer time before hitting 100%. He had more control over his feelings but was still easily overwhelmed or swayed by the thoughts and feelings of others.

I think something that goes a little unnoticed is that during season 2, when he met Mogami, who was stronger than him and technically won their battle (but technically he gave up to Mob's ideals instead, which definitely impacted Mob's thought process of "I can help people by talking to them" which he never gives up on) - he learned an extremely interesting and unnoticed lesson from the guy; sure, he re-learned that he loves his friends, aw, but also, he learned that he of all people is easy prey to become an evil spirit - I think that's a big reason he spends the whole season considering his own feelings more, enough to argue with Reigen, based on Mogami's story, but I can talk about that in another post or this will get REALLY long. He also met that spirit family and realised some spirits just Live Here, which definitely pushed him to question his ideals on spirits and people blah blah (this happened before meeting Mogami, in case u need the refresh, and once again, I can talk about this in more detail another time).

He also met Suzuki senior in season 2, someone that he felt he could have an equal fight with. He enjoyed the fight, and finally got to have a feel for his powers. For a moment, he stopped ignoring the extent of them, truly feeling his powers out and letting them be destructive, even if only for one battle (the manga readers will understand my deeper meaning that the whole story is literally teaching him how to handle the final arc, anime watchers hold onto your hats - it's Good.) He was grinning and having fun, fighting someone that could match his energy (until he couldn't aha Suzuki senior loser moment) but when he remembered the people who needed him to protect them, he calmed himself down. And he really did!! Underrated Shigeo moment! He remembered his goals and he refocused himself toward them after being carried away by his feelings for much much longer than ever before!! Boss energy!

So in short, he spent the whole of season 2 questioning what his powers really mean to him, how much they are a part of him, and how despite them, he can live as a person just like everyone else. He's discovered that it is possible to be an esper and a person, and he goes into season 3 balancing these two sides of his life much better.

And now we already see in season 3 (there are only 5 episodes so far as of writing this) that Shigeo is not only able to think coherently about how he feels, and able to contemplate on much more complex, abstract thoughts, but he's also consciously able to choose how he wants to express them. He uses his powers in a new way through the season, moving and thinking at the same time, confident in his powers AND the way he wields them (the first instance of his gentle-but-powerful power show was probably during the end of the separation arc tbh, using it on all the cameras and such in front of a big crowd of people - able to show his powers in front of people, knowing with confidence that he's in control of them. Again, I can elaborate later).

And geez, the things he's encountering in this season would have made s1 Shigeo climb to 100% in a heartbeat - Hanazawa earnestly trying to fight him again despite being his close friend; everyone he knows being brainwashed in a way that leaves them intact but makes him their enemy; Dimple trying to push him to fight while also pulling his punches - the complexity of these situations are things s1 Shigeo definitely wouldn't know how to deal with: season 1 mob would be a mess. And WHEW, he would NOT have been able to calmly move past Ritsu getting brainwashed (regardless of Reigen's impact on him, s1 mob would have handled it much worse).

But s3 Shigeo is out there, consciously trying to understand the situations he's encountering, his own feelings, and the complex feelings of those around him, figuring it all out while he's in the moment. The extremely slow incline of 1% at a time again and again throughout this episode (s3e5), is so new to see, but it proves that he's got himself handled, and it's a true testament to his growth! He's in control of his own actions and feelings now, because he knows with confidence that he won't use his powers to hurt people unless he makes the conscious choice to - and he knows when it's appropriate to fight, to talk, and to run. He won't hurt people because he chooses peace.

Man, just, he's grown so much from the boy who was afraid of losing control at any given moment, and I'm really proud of him. That's one cool protagonist.

Side note: I cannot WAIT for the people who haven't read the manga to see what's coming in the rest of the season - it's incredible and I'm already losing my mind with excitement.

#mob psycho 100 spoilers #mp100 spoilers #mp100 #mob psycho 100 #shigeo #shigeo kageyama #kageyama shigeo #mob #mp100 shigeo #mp100 mob #lulu on the mic #I'm proud of all the characters and I cannot WAIT to write a post about ritsu too #give me a character and I will write an essay #mp100 I love u #mp100 s3 #essay #mob psycho 100 essay #mp100 analysis

[unicyclehippo]

one word prompt: lavender

i shouldve brought flowers right?? that would have been polite shit

oooooh it's THAT sort of dinner date

Irritation prickled at the back of Imogen's eyes. She closed them. Imagined irritation and the cruelty that followed it as a vile little bug, imagined plucking out of her brain and squishing it, crushing it in the fist she clenched tight at her side. She wiped her hand on her jeans and messaged Fearne back.

i dont think so, she said, entirely sincere. Laudna was truly unlike anyone she had ever met before, in a way Imogen didn't have the words for. She could say the woman was kind - but Orym was kind, so that wasn't what set her apart. She could say the woman was clever and beautiful - but Fearne was those things as well, and Imogen didn't feel this way about Fearne. Imogen thought that the truth might be very simple - whatever was different about Laudna was different in Imogen as well. Some lonely part of her mind that she had ignored forever was suddenly loud - and she liked it. She liked what it said, how it talked. She liked being able to hear her own thoughts after a lifetime being bombarded with everyone else's. So no, it wasn't a date. Not the way Fearne was suggesting. It was just that Laudna - Doctor Bradbury - was kind and clever and beautiful and she listened to Imogen so intently that Imogen could finally hear herself and someone like that deserved flowers.

She didn't tell Fearne that, of course.

are you at her place yet?

not yet. close, maybe five mins? why? gonna dotdash me a bunch?

no silly just look for a garden its free cant be assed to find the meme but just know. itsfreerealestate.meme

i dont think thats a real image format

no it is

ok.

plus!! it's sooo romantic to give a girl just one flower it tells her that she's Singular & beautiful

it tells her that you plucked it out of some random person's yard.

and you did that just for Her c'est tres romantique

so if someone turned up on Your doorstep with one flower they yanked outta someones yard you'd fall head over heels for them

There was a strangely long pause before Fearne replied to Imogen's teasing. When the reply finally came, it was heavy with amusement.

i thought you said it wasn't like that

Imogen scowled down at her phone. She could practically see the coy upturn of Fearne's lip, the mischievous sparkle in her eye like she knew the punchline to the joke life was playing on you and found it funny too.

The screen of her phone went blank and black. In the reflection, she saw her own face - the scowl, the permanent frown creasing between her brows, and somehting new. A hint of colour in her cheeks. It was easier to look into the dull reflection than it had been at Fearne's apartment. Her apartment was so bright. There had been no way to avoid seeing herself, to avoid that pang of discomfort - of irritation. But her phone screen was smudged from handling and the dim light of the train and it was small enough that it couldn't show all her face at once. Imogen tilted it so all she could see was the new spots of colour high on her cheeks.

It wasn't a dinner date. She knew that for sure.

Did she want it to be?

Her phone screen lit up. Despite herself, Imogen smirked down at Fearne's message.

i want a full debrief when u get home ESPECIALLY if u end up "debriefing"

//

It was a short stroll from the train station to Laudna's apartment. The hill was steep but it was worth the climb when Imogen turned back to face the way she'd come, hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath, and saw the view. The sky was dull and grey, clouds packed tight together like thin sardines. In between, there were tiny streaks of blue but they were disappearing even as Imogen watched. The sea, though. The sea was wild. They probably didn't have long before the wind that was whipping it into a frenzy hit Emon, bringing with it a decent storm front if she had to guess, but Imogen wasn't afraid; it was awe that held her still. For a moment, she wasn't Doctor Imogen Temult, modern-day archaologist - she was Imogen, a woman standing on the cliffs, watching the churning of the waves and seeing a goddess, her fury, in that power. Stampedes of seafoam horses thundered ahead of the blue-black waves that bore them up onto the rocky shoreline. Ships began to hurry back to the port, appearing and disappearing between the climbing, curling waves. It was reassuring, in a way. Imogen hitched a smile, felt a little of her tension fade. No matter how badly the night went, she had her feet planted solidly on the ground.

Imogen turned and kept walking. The wind began to pick up. A fluttering of purple caught her attention - a different colour to her hair - and she turned to see two large grey-green lavender bushes, shivering in the worsening wind. Imogen stepped toward them and from her belt she took her pocket knife and snipped a few of the flowers, the perfect ones. She tucked them carefully beneath her jacket and hurried past the last few remaining houses that kept her from Laudna.

The gate creaked.

A little ache throbbed behind her eye. This was stupid. The flowers. She shouldn't have taken them.

Imogen dragged in a deep breath. Planted her feet. And knocked on Laudna's door.

#tagging my stories #prompt fill #museum au #imodna my beloveds #cr fic

[transdunbar]

for @thiamappreciationweek day 2: season 6

It made sense that Theo should skip town after the Ghost Rider incident. Why wouldn’t he? The pack had made it pretty clear that he had no place in Beacon Hills, and that his past actions were unforgivable even in the best of contexts. So, with no friends or emotional ties to anything in town, it was only logical that he put the too-cheery “Welcome to Beacon Hills!” sign as far behind him as possible.

So why was he still here, lingering in his truck on the side of some road smack in the middle of town?

The answer, he realized with a sigh, was in a house across the street, in a bedroom with one window facing the road. The answer had blue, blue eyes that haunted Theo’s dreams, brown hair that was getting long enough to curl behind the ears, and an inability to leave the chimera’s thoughts. The answer had raised him from the skinwalker prison, had broken the only thing that could send him back, and then fought beside him against the horde of undead cowboys. The answer had done more for him than anyone else in his life had, and he probably didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Even this far away from Liam’s room, the beta’s scent still drifted down towards Theo, filling his nose with the faintest trace of Old Spice and something spicy that nothing could ever fully cover up— Liam’s natural scent. Theo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation.

He didn’t know what kept drawing him to Liam. Every time he tried to leave, he found himself here, parked outside of the Geyer residence. Somehow it always came back to Liam. The obvious reason was a mix of chemicals that Theo thought his brain was incapable of making anymore, but he had never been one to accept things at face value. Whatever the reason was, it had him suffering through the incessant tapping of deputies on his window as he tried to sleep, had him second guessing where to park for the night, had him going out of his way to avoid the rest of the McCall pack, even after he risked his life for them (again), all to apparently keep an eye on Liam whenever he could.

A light flickered on in Liam’s bedroom, and Theo looked up to see the beta come into the frame of his window. He was dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, checking his phone and brushing his teeth at the same time while he paced around his room. The scene was so domestic, and filled Theo’s chest with a sense of longing, the likes of which he had never felt before. His stolen heart skipped a beat at the thought of sharing a domestic life with Liam, of brushing their teeth in their shared bathroom while they get ready for bed together. It was such a weird fantasy, something Theo had never wanted before, but still it existed, and now was permanently lodged into a small part of his brain that he refused to acknowledge in the daylight.

Theo waited until Liam’s back was turned, then started the truck and sped off down the road. He may feel like a giant creep, but he didn’t need Liam to see him and think he was one. The farther away from Liam’s house he got, the less his scent lingered, and the worse he felt. He tried to convince himself it was the sleep deprivation, or his diet of gas station food and pre-packaged snacks, but he knew enough about the human body that he wasn’t able to convince himself that the ache in his chest was from a physical cause instead of an emotional one. He wanted to turn around, to climb through Liam’s never-locked window and tell him… He wasn’t sure what he would say to Liam, but he squashed the urge nonetheless and kept driving.

Later, when he looked out the driver’s side window and found himself staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun, he wished he had had the strength to tell Liam something, even if he had no idea what his heart wanted him to say. At least then he wouldn’t be taking this knot in his chest to the grave with him. 

#theo raeken #liam dunbar #thiam #thiamweek23 #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf fanfic

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “you make me happy. that's all that matters.”

For Tolya x Reader please!!

Ask and you shall receive

To Willingly Belong To Anyone Is A Rare Thing - Tolya Yul Bataar

Content Warnings: Implied Threat And Violence. Confined Spaces (Forced Proximity Trope Anyone?). No Beta/Proof Reading, We Die In The Fold Baby. ((Does this feel ooc I am insecure and cannot tell))

"We need to go," You insist.

Tolya is still searching one of the many draws in the room for something but he hasn't told you what. Despite being sent on this job together, him at the request of Sturmhond, and you at the request of Brekker, it seems that there is a lot about this job you aren't telling each other. But more accurately there is just a lot you two aren't telling each other at all.

You had tried to argue that going with Tolya wouldn't work, that the two of you could not work together, not because you didn't like him, but because of the opposite, you liked him too much, and it was a distraction you had to balance whenever he was around.

Brekker had told you to take the job with Tolya or not take the job at all, and knowing how invested you were, you'd known that he knew you couldn't turn the job down. So you'd taken it, and your concerns about being not fully present for the job due to your company were not unfounded, but so far they hadn't gotten you into any trouble you hadn't been able to get yourself out of.

Except now. Had it been anyone else you would've had enough, and left without them, or dragged them out of the room yourself. But Tolya, was not the type of man you could drag places, besides you had a small but not unreasonable fear that if you grabbed him you would give far too many things away about yourself that you weren't sure you were willing to share.

"Tolya," you start. His back straightens and he turns to you, holding a finger to his lips. "Toly-,"

"Shush," he hushes you, listening carefully.

"Saints," you whisper, "what now?"

"Six heartbeats on the second floor, approaching," Tolya explains quietly.

"We were supposed to be in and out unnoticed," you remind him.

"I was under direct instructions for there to be no casualties," Tolya states.

"I was under direct instructions to not get caught," you reply.

"They're coming this way," Tolya says, backing away from the door.

"But there is no other exit," you say gesturing to how you would not be able to climb out of the rooms singular small window, yet again Tolya.

"Then we hide," Tolya says, taking your hand and pulling you further back into the room and through some thin bamboo doors that lead into a small but relatively bare closet.

Tolya had wondered why Nikolai had sent him on this task, although he wasn't eager to question any job he was sent on when you were involved it did seem strange that given the nature of the mission was covert, that Tolya would be the one to be sent on it. Then again Tamar although substantially smaller in size than her brother, had much more of a habit of making herself known.

Tolya keeps listening, as you keep as quiet as you can in the small space, your back pressed up against Tolya's chest. He can hear the heartbeats as two men go a further floor up, and four continue towards the room. The sounds of rushing, and strange fast paced drums, the sounds of mixed languages and butchered linguistics echo through the emptiness of the rooms.

"How long do we have to stay here?" you ask.

"We have to wait it out," he replies. You exhale deeply and Tolya can feel the way the blood rushes around your body, so close to him it's impossible to ignore you. Not that he has ever found it easy to ignore you, not that he has ever wanted to.

"It's been a while," you say quietly. You could not stand this time in silence, and a quiet whisper through two doors was no threat to you right now. Those four words were so simple as they left your mouth but they meant so much more than they said and both of you know it.

You had missed him, even if you hadn't tried to, and he had missed you.

"That's why I took the job," you say, finally admitting it to yourself. For all your fussing about wanting to be clear of mind and not distracted, the louder part of you wanted to see Tolya again, it needed to see Tolya again, even if it wasn't practical. Even if you knew you shouldn't.

Something in Tolya speaks to you in a way you've never known before. It makes you calm. It makes you happy. It makes you feel like home.

Tolya realises in this moment, you so close to him, the air hung in this quiet suspense as you could do nothing but stay still and hope. Those drums he had been hearing before, all the way into the building and even now, they weren't drums at all, they were his own heartbeat, and yours. He was not sure how things would work, this life was messy and complex and you both had things you owed loyalty to, both had purposes you must fulfil, but here with you in the quiet, waiting and unknown, the question of how it would work doesn't matter to him anymore. Because love works like love does, with or without permission, with or without practicality. When it came down to it, he loves you, and he cannot and will not run from that fact. Rare is a love so honest, a love that creeps up on you, rare a love that loves without caring for love in return, but receiving it gladly. He loves listening to you talk, he loves the way your voice changes as you are filled with excitement, he loves how you never know exactly when you should stop. He admires your confidence, and he loves the willpower behind it. He misses you when you are gone. He was yours, he was already yours, he had been yours for so long he wasn't sure he knew how to be anything else. He didn't want to be anything else.

He knew he would not care to be anyone else's.

And you did not need to be his for all that to be true. But something in him understands that you are, that you have been, and as he will continue to be yours, you will continue to be his.

"Come back with me," he says.

"What?" you ask a little too loud. You raise you hand to your mouth, disappointed in your own surprise and foolishness.

"Come back with me," he says again, voice gentle. You cannot see him, the space in this closet too small for you to turn around and look at him but you know exactly the type of gentle glow that will be in those golden eyes of his.

"Tolya I can't," you say. "I want to, but it would never work. I think," you sigh, not wanting to admit the words you are about to speak but knowing you must say them nonetheless, "I think I would get in the way of you."

“You make me happy," Tolya whispers. "That's all that matters.”

"All that matters?" You ask.

"We can figure everything else out," he says, and then wonders if maybe he misunderstood, "I just... I do not like being away from you, but if you do not wish to-,"

"Tolya, every moment I am with you, you cloud my every thought, and yet every moment you are away my soul tries to find it's way back to you," you say, you're no Heartrender but you feel his heartbeat as it steadies with your words, calmer as you talk. "There is nothing I would want more than to go with you."

"Then say you will," he says, "and when we get out of here, we can figure it all out," his hands move to gently wrap around you, holding you closer in this small space, making you feel safe, making you feel at home. "Just say you will."

"And the duty owed to family. Do I satisfy my long craving self Failing to respect responsibility? Or to my lover's vows turn deaf And pay homage to ageing sagacity?" Your Ravkan is far from perfect as you recite the words that you had heart Tolya state so long ago, back when you had first met, and you thought you could love him, but you decided it would be wiser not to, and then did anyway.

"Even poets can be wrong," Tolya says. "And yet."

"And yet?" you ask.

"I am no longer good through deliberate intent, but by long habit have reached a point where I am not only able to do right, but am unable to do anything but what is right."

"Okay," you whisper sinking back into him.

"Okay?" he asks.

"I'll go with you Tolya, wherever you go in this life and after."

#shadow and bone #tolya #tolya x reader #tolya yul bataar #grishaverse #six of crows #tolya and tamar #fluff #tolya my darling i adore you #tolya yul bataar fluff #netflix shadow and bone

[queenimmadolla]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬

(jonathan byers x fem!reader)

Summary: Your boyfriend seeks you out in his time of need. You hold onto him for as long as you can.

Warnings: Angst, a little bit of fluff and comfort, implied Jancy.

a/n: My dumbass lost the ask about this request. I had an original character x steve harrington plot, once upon a time, my first ever OC for a fandom and it started off a lot like this, so writing this was very nostalgic. Hurt like hell, though. Anyways, hope the jonathan lovers (other than me) and anyone else who gives this a read likes it. I know he's not one of the more popular ST romantic interests, but he should be.

You hummed along to the song crooning low from your battered radio—the poor thing having taken one too many tumbles from its resting place on your dresser.

  Sometimes you got a little too into it, and lacked special awareness, dance moves too much for your secondhand furniture. 

  The main ceiling light was off, your safe space only lit by a few candles and the lamp on your desk, providing you enough light to complete the essay you were working on. 

  It was peaceful, almost. Ideally, you’d rather be in bed reading a book or watching some movie, maybe catching up on Dynasty but you needed to clear your head—or rather, distract yourself.

  You’d been plagued with a sense of foreboding for the last couple of weeks, and anxiety. It had only intensified in the last couple of days, still, you were determined to push through it. You were being stupid, silly.

  You let out a sigh, dropping your pencil in favor of running a hand over your face. You’d gone right back to thinking about the cause of your silent anguish. Danggit.

  You let yourself stew in silence for a few moments before you forced yourself to pick up your pencil again, ready to move onto your next paragraph when you heard the unmistakable sound of knuckles rapping against the glass of your window.

  Glancing up and over, you found your boyfriend’s face peering down at you. He smiled, sheepish, as he waved.

  You abandoned your homework (it wasn’t due until Friday anyways), hurrying over to the wall to unlock it for him. Your bedroom was in the basement, the house was only a two bedroom, so you’d shared a room with your younger sister until just a few months ago, when your father had finally cleaned it out and done it up for you just before his sudden passing. 

  Jonathan had no problem climbing down through the small, rectangular window, he’d done it a couple of times already—though your mother had no problem allowing him in, not when he made you so happy after the loss.

  “You could just use the front door, you know.” You reminded him, lips pulling into a smile as his nose scrunched up in distaste.

  “Didn’t want to ring the doorbell, I know your mom’s probably exhausted from all the flying.” He shrugged off his jacket, resting it over the washer (hey—it might have been a spacious room but it was still the basement).

  Your heart warmed, pleased with the fact he’d remembered your brief mentioning of her return home that morning while he’d walked you to your algebra class. She was a flight attendant, taking on more flights to support you and your sister now that your dad was gone. You rarely saw her anymore.

  “She’s got her earplugs in.” 

  “Did she have to pay twenty dollars for those or does she get them for free?”

  You laughed, shoving at his shoulder. Jonathan chuckled, giving you a playful push before he dragged you back to him, holding you against him as he swayed you and pressed his lips to your crown.

  Your eyes fluttered shut, soaking up his affection like a peace lily deprived of the sun.

  Then he let himself fall back onto your bed, taking him with you as you squealed. 

  “Jonathan!”

  He shushed you, hand on the back of your head to press your face into his chest, “Your mom is asleep, Moody!”

  You groaned at the use of the nickname you’d never be able to escape. You’d swallowed a mood ring on a dare in elementary school and threw it up, along with your breakfast, during recess when you’d grown anxious, believing a doctor would have to cut your stomach open to fish it out. 

  The mean kids had used the name to taunt you, but when a shy little boy with shaggy hair used it to call you over and ask if you wanted to take turns pushing each other on the swing, you’d decided it wasn’t all that bad. Not even a little. He also never took a turn on the swings, pushing you the entire time.

  That hadn’t been the beginning of your love story, while you’d play with Jonathan—always running to him whenever he called and even when he didn’t—your crush on him prevented you from developing a real friendship with him, too shy whenever he’d acknowledge your existence. It was a Peppermint Patty and Charlie Brown kind of thing until high school.

  You’d always been pretty, always been likable and nice—to those who deserved it—and your popularity in high school was a result of those traits. You’d been pursued by boys since middle school, but you were too focused on your pursuit of one boy in particular to pay them any mind.

  Your love story finally started just after freshman year had ended. Jonathan was going around, taking photos of the messy hallways filled with celebration. You’d clocked the moment his camera was on you and gave the lens, and the boy behind it, a brilliant grin.

  The picture was clipped to the visor in his car with a copy resting, framed, on his bedside table

  You let out a small puff of breath, eyes closing once more as the anxiety faded from you. Jonathan was your flame, always driving away the cold.

  The two of you laid there on your bed in comfortable silence, his hand stroking over your hair. You’d almost been lulled to sleep until you registered the change in the silence. It was anxious again, but it wasn’t you.

  You moved your head to stare up at him, chin resting on his chest.

  He wasn’t looking at you, gaze focused on your ceiling with an emotionless expression. You knew what he was thinking about.

  “We should hang up more flyers,” You commented, mind filling with thoughts and memories of the little boy who often accompanied you on dates with your boyfriend and for whom you often babysat before you were even able to call Jonathan yours. Despite his young age, you considered Will a friend (felt a little wrong to call him your little brother seeing as how you were sleeping with his older brother). You loved him and you missed him, having been plagued with worry since his disappearance. 

  You’d searched the woods with Joyce, Jonathan and your sister day after day until your group finally had to admit Will wasn’t in the woods. You’d also helped plaster his missing posters all over town, putting them back up when some asshole tore them down (you hadn’t told Jonathan about that).

  Jonathan hummed, unblinking and you wiggled further up his body, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck as you pressed a few gentle kisses there. You could feel the tension leaving him.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” He finally asked, voice a whisper even for your soft spoken boyfriend and laced with fear.

  You moved onto your forearm, shifting your weight to your side as you used your free hand to grasp his chin, turning his head to look at you. 

  There was a wet shine to his pretty brown eyes, one you knew he rarely allowed himself to show.

  You thought of your sister upstairs, older than Will but still  younger than you. If anything happened to her, you wouldn’t know how to go on with that missing space in your life. You could barely do it with the space your dad had previously occupied being empty.

  You knew Will, though. Maybe not as well as his brother, but you had a special bond with him, your friendship pure and full of trust. He’d comforted you on the nights you were babysitting him and your feelings for Jonathan became too much for you, always reassuring you that his brother was the greatest but severely stupid if he couldn’t see how much you cared about him and ask you out. You’d laugh, make him popcorn and let him watch a scary movie to apologize for being a teenage girl around him.

  He told you his secrets, too.

  Yeah, your bond with Will Byers was strong, unbreakable even. And you knew he was alive. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

  “Without a doubt. Will is gonna come home. He is, and we’ll all cry and hug and never let him out of our sights again, but he’s coming home.”

  You watched his face give in, crumbling as the tears finally trailed down the sides of his face, disappearing into his sideburns.

  It was your turn to hold him. You pulled him to you and he went willingly, burying his face in your chest as he quietly sobbed, shoulders shaking. 

  You carded your fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead, willing away your own hurt so you could help him through his.

  “He might not be here right now, but Will isn’t gone. You haven’t lost him, Shutterbug.” You promised, squeezing him so he didn’t feel like he was falling apart.

  All your previous worries were gone, fear of Jonathan’s seemingly growing friendship and secret rendezvous—he hasn’t told you about but you know of—with Nancy Wheeler forgotten, trivial compared to the matter at hand. He’s in your bed, came to you for comfort and you got to hold him. She’s got a boyfriend, one who isn’t yours. The foreboding can take a seat in the back of your mind because you wouldn’t pay it anymore attention.

  You were right, Will did come home. You didn’t know the whole story, not buying the one fed to you but you didn’t push it, happy and relieved your little friend was back home safe.

  And you were right about the other thing, the foreboding. By the next fall, you weren’t able to hold Jonathan anymore. 

  And he stopped being yours.

#jonathan byers #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers x you #jonathan byers x y/n #jonathan byers imagine #jonathan byers blurb #jonathan byers fanfic #jonathan byers fanfiction #jonathan byers fic #jonathan byers x fem!reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things 2 #stranger things 3 #stranger things 4 #charlie heaton #charlie heaton x reader #queenimmadolla

[sylkiddsey]

Here’s a little snippet of an AU that has been rotting in my drafts forever and maybe posting a part of it will spark some inspiration again :)

:::::

Prove It

Sylvie Brett moves to Chicago the second her divorce goes through. It’s inevitable she and Harrison split. He never understood her to begin with.

She wanted to work. He forced her home to cook and clean. She wanted a social life. He practically chained her to the front porch. She loved helping people. He loved destroying her spirit.

They lasted a year until she couldn’t take it anymore. She no longer cared if she disappointed her family. She didn’t care whether the town would gossip or how her life would be hell if she left him.

She serves the papers, signs them and leaves Indiana for Chicago. It’s the city of dreams after all and she’s sick of living a nightmare.

She obtains her paramedic license and starts floating around at the stations. It’s not a permanent position, but at least it’s something. She’s still able to do the job she loves even if it’s for one shift at a time.

After a month bouncing around firehouses, she impresses the Chief at house three. It’s small, consisting of one fire truck and one Ambo, and overpopulated by men, but she’s just happy to land somewhere.

Her partner, Chris Rosales is older than her and quite the showboat. He has a reputation for treating women like shit and it’s spot on. He’s either objectifying her or ridiculing her work. There is no in between, but she’s no stranger to interacting with jerks. Harrison gave her enough practice to last a life time.

He invites her to an event for The Gaffeny Medical Center. She’s worried it’s a prank, but then he produces the pamphlet out of his pocket. It’s a legit invite so she goes.

She squeezes into her favorite black dress, straightens her hair and applies a a pink shade of lipstick that’s strawberry flavored on her lips. Rosales of course whistles when she arrives and the rest of house 3 all make comments about how they’d pay money for her to give them mouth to mouth.

Safe to say, she needs a drink. She orders a martini, chewing on the olive while her parade of pigs engage in a conversation about sex and scoring.

“I bet Brett’s never made a move on anyone,” one of the engine crew says. He scratches his mustache and winks. “We all know you’re not bold.”

They don’t know anything about her. Hell, no one has ever asked her a single question in the last month and a half that didn’t have to do with her body. She feels like an object that all the guys chose so they could stare.

She wishes she had another woman at the small house besides Lucinda (who doesn’t like her either since Sylvie’s younger and the new eye candy).

She scoffs. “You’re wrong once again, Kipper.”

Rosales claps a hand on her back, stinging the skin and causing her to spill her drink. “Bullshit. We all know you’re a prude.”

A prude? She’s not that! Well, she’s not super flirty or anything, but she’s not timid either.

“What? You all think I’m a wimp?” She asks the table.

“Pretty much,” another man says. What’s worse, is he’s the most bearable one of the group. Sure, Max is just as sexist, but he never leers at her in the locker room like everyone else.

“You’re vanilla,” Chris shrugs, as if that’s the simplest fact in the world.

She took all those assumptions without a word in Indiana, but she’s not doing that again. She’s a new woman after moving to Chicago and frankly, she’s sick of their bullshit.

She tips the rest of the martini in her mouth. “Oh, you guys are so wrong about me. I’m not bland or a wimp.”

“Prove it,” Kipper challenges.

She sure will. She’s tired of being underestimated. That ends tonight. “I will. What do you want me to do? Climb up on the table and shimmy my hips?” She’s hoping that isn’t their plan, but she’s so fired up that’s she’s willing to do it.

“Hell, yeah,” Max grins.

Rosales nudges him. “Um, no. That’s too easy.” He looks around the room at the assortment of medical professionals dressed to the nines. She sees his wheels turning. “Ask one of these guys out. Better yet, make out with one of them.”

Of course the bet would be so sleazy. She shouldn’t have expected more from Rosales. “You’re not serious. I don’t know anyone and I’m not gonna jump them without consent.”

Her ambo partner purses his lips. “Vanilla.”

Nope. This is not happening. Screw the rules and common decency. She’s not about to let Rosales go home smug and gloating. She’ll grow a pair and kiss someone here. Most of them are probably doctors or rich donors anyway. She’ll never see them again.

Oh god, this is entirely crazy, but she’s not looking like wimp. She sets her glass down. “Fine. Prepare to eat your words.”

She leaves, shivering a little because their eyes are no doubt glued to her ass. Whatever happens next, they’ll see.

It’s just a random stranger. It’s fine. Most men here by themselves have to be single. She passes a few couples, searching the crowd for the simplest target.

She brushes past a man about twice her age because she’s not going to kiss someone so old. That won’t make her look great. She just needs to find a nice looking guy who won’t cuss her out for essentially jumping his bones.

Doubt creeps in as she navigates the crowd. Maybe she could cause some sort of scene to make them forget about this stupid bet? If she collapses, surely they won’t force her to kiss someone.

She’s planning the most believable way to fall to the floor when she spots a man leaning against the wall, separate from any crowd or beautiful girl.

He looks somewhat familiar, but she’s probably reaching. Maybe he’s a doctor? She could’ve seen him at the hospital.

He’s in a navy suit, sleeves rolled up with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Truthfully, he’s a very attractive man. She thinks if she kisses him, her annoying house will commend her for choosing someone out of her league.

He catches her staring, and she thinks it’s now or never. Screw it. Her reputation means more than one embarrassing kiss with a complete stranger. Well, a possible, but incredibly hot stranger.

His eyes track her movements, most likely expecting an introduction or conversation. He raises an eyebrow when she crowds his space.

Just do it, Sylvie. You have a lot riding on this.

She looks behind her shoulder to make sure they don’t miss her victory. There’s no way in hell she’s doing this twice.

She faces the attractive stranger again, who seems very confused by her actions. She doesn’t blame him and she hopes he doesn’t blame her for this.

Sylvie grabs the back of his neck and pulls his face to hers. She kisses him slowly, making sure Rosales can’t accuse her of chickening out with just a peck.

Cute stranger freezes, but quickly complies with her movements. He kisses her back and she takes it a step further, pushing them flush against the wall.

No way those idiots can ever refer to her as Vanilla.

She’s thoroughly enjoying this kiss. Mystery guy tastes amazing, like chocolate and whiskey. He smells great too so she’s in no hurry to end this, but she can’t breathe much longer without air.

She pulls away, gasping. And oh god, what is she supposed to say to him? She ambushed his lips out of nowhere. He probably thinks she’s insane.

She glances behind her shoulder again. Kipper’s jaw is on the floor and Max looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Rosales looks resentful and victory has never tasted so good.

Or maybe it’s the man out of her league that tastes great.

Mission accomplished. She’s satisfied but also incredibly mortified because the poor unsuspecting party guest is staring at her in utter surprise.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, fixing her lipstick with her finger. She doesn’t want to explain to him how she kissed him to prove a point to a table of pervs behind her. “So sorry.”

She detangles herself from his arm, speed walking towards the table as fast as she can so she can grab her purse and leave.

“That too vanilla for you?” She asks the guys, stealing Max’s bourbon and chugging it in one gulp. “See you on shift.”

There’s no way she did that. She winds her way through the crowd and out the lobby doors. Harrison would go into heart failure to learn she kissed some random stranger for the hell of it.

Wow, she feels electric.

#chicago fire #my writing #writing wip #matt casey #sylvie brett #brettsey #season 5 #AU #so much potential #so little motivation

[vanoincidence]

Pointed Conversations || Van & Cass

TIMING: current. LOCATION: regan's apartment. PARTIES: @magmahearts & @vanoincidence SUMMARY: van and cass hang out! CONTENT: none!

Van flipped through a few pages of the comic book she held in her hands, tilting her head to the side. “Why do they always draw the boobs so pointy? It’s weird.” She knew why. Sexism, or something. Van looked over at Cass with a small smile, the plethora of snacks spilled out on Regan’s coffee table. Thea was at work, so it was just the two of them. “You stole this, right? The pointy boobs lady, I mean.” She closed the comic and set it onto the table, still respecting that it might hold sentimental value for Cass. “I don’t think it’s worth spending your money on, so if you did, I think you should go and get a refund.” Things had been… weird, to say the least. Between Regan practically pawning off her apartment after deciding she was going to go back to Ireland, to finally accepting that she did in fact have magic, she hadn’t been able to focus on anything else, much less anyone else. She wanted to pay attention to Cass, so she cut those thoughts and looked at her friend with a smile. 

—

“Most of them aren’t super great at anatomy,” Cass replied, a little absently. She’d been doing most things absently lately. Ever since Alex left (not because of you, everyone said, but what did it matter? Even if Alex hadn’t left because of Cass, she hadn’t been enough to stay for, either.), she’d found it harder and harder to interact with the world in a cheerful manner. She used to be better at at least faking happy, but… It seemed like such an impossible feat these days. Cass had never met a mountain she couldn’t climb, being an oread or all, but this was what she imagined it would have felt like. Like even if she got to the top, she’d trip and fall all the way to the bottom again. She glanced back to Van, trying hard to keep herself present in the moment. She was here, in her friend’s apartment. There were comics strewn on the table. There were dead mice in the freezer that she was trying not to ask about, because she understood the Regan of it all. There was an ache in her chest, but when wasn’t there? All she seemed to do was ache, these days. “I stole it,” she confirmed. “But I buy some sometimes, too. There’s a comic shop here in town, and the person who owns it is really nice, so I don’t mind buying from her. Not this one, though. I stole this one from an old guy’s house.”

—

“You’re right, I don’t think that… anybody who draws women like this has like, ever actually seen one.” Van closed the comic and put it to the side, cupping her hands beneath her chin to look her friend over. She wasn’t the best friend a person could have– she was regularly anxious, always distracted by her own woes, but it was a new year! She could be somebody else, and she wanted to be somebody else. Desperately. As Cass confirmed that this specific comic was stolen, she nodded. “Good, I’m glad you did the great deed of theft.” She slapped her hand over the pointy boobed woman and got up from where she sat at the table. “Do you want anything to drink? Red bull, water– I think the orange juice might be Thea’s…” She opened up the fridge and peered inside, frowning at the leftovers that were beginning to grow more and more dull with every day. “Hey, I bet we could order something…? I have some money since I haven’t been paying rent and stuff. If you want.” She hung off the fridge door as she looked at Cass. 

—

Cass managed a small laugh at that. “Probably not.” Most comic book artists were, like, stereotypical nerds, weren’t they? The kind people shoved into lockers in movies, who didn’t talk to girls because they were afraid of them. It was kind of nice to focus on the novelty of that instead of the ache in her chest, and Van was always good at that. When she was with Van, she got to think about things other than what was wrong with her. She got to imagine a world where she was less of a mess, less of a terrible thing that everyone always left in the end. With Van, Cass got to be a support system, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it? That meant Van wouldn’t want to leave her. Not for a while, anyway. Not until she found someone who could support her better. She watched her friend slap the comic’s cover, nodded a little. “He probably didn’t even appreciate the story,” she added, because despite the pointy-boobed art, this comic did have a good story. That seemed a common sacrifice in comics; you got good art, or you got a good story. You rarely got both. Cass turned her head, watching as Van got up to cross the room. “Red Bull sounds good,” she agreed, even though she didn’t really like Red Bull. Van liked Red Bull, and Van would be more likely to like someone who liked the same things she liked. Right? “We should totally order food, too. What are you in the mood for? I could eat whatever.”

—

“I don’t think so either.” She frowned, thinking about the story and how it meant more to her than the art. She wasn’t sure how the art had gotten approved, or if he was some senior artist who had tenure and that meant something more. It pissed Van off, despite not really knowing the reason. “Maybe…” Van considered their options, pulling two red bulls from the back of the fridge. She took her seat back across from Cass and slid one of them over, lips quirked to the side, gaze settling on her friends face as she tried to pull from the options that suddenly disappeared from her mind. Finally, Van perked up as she popped the tab of her red bull, “what about thai food? I think a new place opened up, and I’ve heard their curry is like, really good.” She took a sip of the drink and felt the bubbles ease down her throat– a familiar and comforting feeling. “Oh, we could get papaya salad, too!”

—

To Cass, the story of a comic was always more important than the art. She knew opinions on that sort of thing varied from person to person — she’d known people who would tolerate an awful story for good art the same way she’d cope with awful art for a good story — but she’d always been firm in her opinion. The story was what mattered. It wasn’t important what it looked like. She wondered if Van felt the same, watched the way she looked at the art before she went to fetch the drinks. Would Van accept a bad story if it was pretty? Cass took the can that was offered to her, popping it open and taking a sip. She pretended to like the taste more than she did. “Thai food sounds great! I love curry.” It was true, though she would have said it even if it weren’t. “What’s the number? I can call them!”

—

Van shrugged, pushing her phone over to Cass after opening up to their website. If Cass were willing to make the call, then Van wouldn’t refuse. She wasn’t particularly fond of making phone calls, much less when it came to things like ordering food– she always fell over her own words. It was why she had so much patience for people who came into Sly Slice, even if they only had four different kinds of pizzas. Usually, most of her time was spent explaining why they only had a few options instead of trying to get down the exact order. “Ummm, I pulled up their page. You should be able to just tap it!” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of the red bull, watching as her friend took on the great task of ordering their food. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of the curry and the papaya salad. Van leaned forward, “you should ask for thai iced tea, too– two of them.” She had lactaid prepared, she would be fine. 

—

Cass took Van’s phone as it was offered to her, browsing the menu for a moment just to see what all they had to offer. The photos on the page looked good, and she hummed quietly to herself. Hearing Van’s stomach growl, she let out a little laugh. “I guess we should hurry,” she grinned, tapping the number on the page. The phone was already ringing when Van made the request for tea, and Cass nodded dutifully. Once the line was picked up, she carefully ordered, tacking the two thai iced teas on the end and flashing Van a thumbs up as she did so. She hung up the phone when the task was done, handing it back over to Van. “They said about thirty minutes,” she said. “What do you wanna do while we wait?”

—

Van grinned at Cass once the order was complete, taking her phone and making sure to switch it off of do not disturb so that she wouldn’t miss a phone call if they got one. Normally, she might go and pick it up, but it was cold and her car was still… not great, so it was easier to get it delivered, even if it meant paying more. “Hm…” Van looked around, then down at her red bull. “That’s a really good question. I still don’t have a lot of stuff here, and I don’t think we have any cards.” She frowned before getting up from her chair, retreating to the living area where she and Thea had pretty much taken over. She rifled through some of the items on the coffee table before returning to Cass, unearthing the etch-a-sketch she had bought in the grocery store line. “We could um, draw something with this, maybe?” She began to squiggle around, frowning as the small wheel came off with the force. “This thing was like, really cheap, anyway.” Slightly embarrassed, she put it to the side. “We could… talk?” Van didn’t normally suggest that– it meant showing things that were wrong, half the time, but Cass looked like she could use somebody who could listen. “About whatever– pointy boobs, rocks, our lives?” 

—

Food delivery was a marvel that Cass wasn’t sure she’d ever quite get used to. The idea that she could sit here in Van’s borrowed apartment and wait for a stranger to bring her food to her with no promise binds or thank yous was a pretty marvelous thing, really. But, of course, it did… leave them with not a lot to do. If they’d had to go pick up the food, at least they’d have a ‘mission’ in mind. Instead, they were stuck waiting. But, of course, Cass didn’t mind it much. She had a friend to wait with, and that was all that she’d ever really wanted. She watched Van rummage through the room with a look of mild interest, eyes widening a little at the etch-a-sketch. She’d never actually seen one in person before save for on the shelf at the store. “Whoa,” she said, marveling at the toy. “That’s cool! Maybe we could… draw and talk. At the same time?” It made the talking easier when she had something to do with her hands. She suspected the same might be true for Van, too.

—

“I don’t think there’s any glue to fix it.” She tried to press the wheel back onto it, but it came off easily as she spun it around. The metal part that was sticking out was hard to grip, but Van did her best to twist them around so that the line appeared across the grey background. “It’s… sort of working.” She slid the etch-a-sketch over to Cass with a smile, pulling her knees up to her chest as she leaned into the chair back. “You…” She squinted, trying to think of how to phrase her question, “how well do you know Dr. Kavanagh? Do you like, know her life plans and stuff? Or…?” She wasn’t sure who knew who, it always surprised her who was close, or who considered each other enemies of the state. 

—

“I could melt it back on…” But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it in a way that actually allowed it to remain operational. Magma was so much better at destruction than it was at repair, and Cass didn’t want to break Van’s etch-a-sketch. If it worked a little now, that was better than it not working at all. Cass took it carefully, picking it up and fiddling with the controls. The thin line grew longer, twisting and turning as she moved the dials. There was no real direction to her attempts. Mostly, she was just mesmerized by the movement of it. “I don’t know her super well, but… She helped me out a little while back, when I was hurt.” Her mouth felt dry at the mention, the memory of laying on the table in Dr. Kavanagh’s morgue still a terrifying one even now, but she shook it away. “I know about her plans, yeah. She’s moving to Ireland, or whatever. I think it’s stupid. She should stay.” But no one ever stayed, did they?

— 

“I don’t know if I have a lighter anywhere.” Maybe a match? Even then, probably not. Everything that was usable was at her house, not Regan’s apartment. It was bare bones here, and Van didn’t actually mind too much. As she listened to Cass explain her connection to Regan, she nodded slowly. “Right, when you were hurt.” She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it seemed like Cass was fine now. Her own scar ached with the intensity of their fight with Debbie, but those were just phantom pains, weren’t they? “Right? I think it’s stupid, too. Her grandma seems like, really bad. I don’t know why you’d willingly go move to a grandma who is bad.” She shrugged as if it were the most simple thing in the world. “I don’t think she’s going to listen to anyone, though.” She closed her hands around the can of red bull and moved it from side to side. “She said I can stay here though, and I think that was nice of her.” 

— 

“Oh, I mean, I don’t need a lighter.” Van had seen her melt things before, hadn’t she? Cass tried not to think about the supermarket, about how she’d helped tend to everyone’s injuries after Debbie was… gone by heating up the metal to cauterize their wounds. Maybe Van didn’t want the reminder, though, so Cass didn’t push. She’d rather not talk about that supermarket, anyway. “Yeah. Back in, um… October, I think.” She looked down at her hands, throat feeling tight. Rhett, Debbie, the man who’d shot Alex… this town was full of people who left bad memories in their wake, wasn’t it? People who set out to do nothing but hurt. Cass ached with the thought of them. “I don’t know,” she replied, looking back up at Van with a small shrug. “It’s her family, right? Family is important.” If she’d had any family, she thought she could have looked past the bad parts, too. She thought she’d do anything just for the feel of it. “That is really nice of her, to let you stay. Do you have to keep paying rent in bones? How will you get her the bones in Ireland? Like, did she give you her new address?” 

—

“Oh, okay.” Van decided to drop it. She could melt things, but it’d become putty, and it wasn’t like she could actually control that. Cass had already seen her in action when it came down to it, and she wasn’t exactly keen on gearing up her anxiety for a display of show and tell. “October is supposed to be the best month.” Her mouth tasted like acid as she said it, because was there really any best month now? Her view of the world had been shattered more than once. “I guess so…” It was clear that she hadn’t been important to her family– her grandma had left without a second look back, and though maybe it’d been her fault all things considered, she couldn’t help but feel like she didn’t totally understand the desire to give into a family’s wish. “Um– no, no bones, I don’t think.” Van laughed softly, indenting her red bull with her index finger. “I don’t think there’s a new address or anything? I need to ask her still.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and shrugged, “but I guess she’ll tell me before she leaves. That’s what usually happens– the rules come at the last second, right?” 

—

Cass lifted her shoulder and dropped it in a quiet, listless shrug. She used to think October was the best month, too — as much as any month could be. But she had a feeling every October from now on would do little more than stir up unpleasant memories of a hand at her throat and a blade sinking into her skin. Even the happier parts of the experience that happened afterwards — telling Alex she loved her, hearing it said back — seemed tainted now that Alex was gone. But what month had good memories anymore? There were ghosts on every page of the calendar now. Her friends got hurt, people died, terrible things happened over and over and over again like clockwork. Maybe all you could do was celebrate what you could and ignore the rest. Because there were things to celebrate. Things like Van’s apartment that she’d apparently be living in rent free when Regan left for Ireland. “That’s cool that she’ll let you stay here without rent, then! If she does make rules at the last second, I don’t think it’ll matter much. She’d have to come back to, like, make you follow them.” And Regan had made it pretty clear that she had no plans of coming back, so… Either Van got to live rule-free, or they got Regan back in town. Wasn’t that a win/win? 

—

“Yeah! It’s really um, cool of her…” She looked around them, a small frown pinching at the corners of her lips. She did feel a little guilty, and really, Van was wondering when the rug would be pulled out from beneath her. It always seemed to happen, one way or another. She was exhausted by the mere idea of having to go back to her house. Her house, with its stupid memories and its stupid creaking ceilings. At least Regan’s apartment consistently had hot water, and at least the light bulbs stayed good for a few months– her ceiling fans rattled too much, rendering the bulbs useless within a month of installation. 

“Yeah, I guess that’s true, too.” She would follow them anyway out of fear that Regan would somehow know. Van’s hands lay in her lap, now gnarled together, thumbs pressing into opposing thumb. “You can come and stay here, if you want– I know that you didn’t… want to go back to your cave and stuff.” She still wasn’t sure what had happened, and wasn’t sure she wanted to know, because then she might start having nightmares about Cass getting hurt again. She’d already seen the girl’s blood spilt once, she didn’t want to have to see it again, even if it was her brain’s own reenactment of what had happened. 

—

“Definitely cool,” Cass agreed quickly. But… she couldn’t help but wonder what the price on the apartment might be. As much as she loved people, she knew that no one ever really did anything for free. Not even Dr. Kavanagh, who was nice and kind and a lot squishier than she pretended to be. She thought of Kuma, of how Cass had only been allowed to live with her until she’d been deemed too scary to belong. If Dr. Kavanagh knew about Van’s melting thing, would she kick her out, too? It was hard to say, hard to know. 

But it still remained true that, even if Regan did want Van to leave, she’d have to come back to Wicked’s Rest in order to ensure she actually did. Would she do that? Cass wasn’t sure. She’d been pretty insistent, after all, that her departure would be forever. Cass looked down at the etch-a-sketch as Van spoke, twisting the dials and watching that line grow longer and longer and longer until it reached the edge and had nowhere else to go. “That’s okay,” she said quietly. “I’ve been hanging out at Ariadne’s a lot since Alex…” She trailed off, lump in her throat. She kept twisting the etch-a-sketch’s dials, even if that thin gray line had no more room to move. Her fingers trembled a little, and she ignored them, picking up the etch-a-sketch and giving it a shake, and then another and another until the line disappeared completely. She forced a smile, then held the toy out to Van. “It’s nice of you to offer, though. I really appreciate that.”

—

Van looked down at her hands as she continued to indent the half-empty can of red bull, thumbs pushing against the branded logo. “Yeah…” She didn’t know why Alex had left, as she wasn’t all that close with her to begin with, but she knew that Cass had really liked her, and the harm her departure had done was written all over her friend’s face. Van understood why people left, even if she didn’t really like it. Sometimes that was just the way things went, so who was she to judge? As somebody who’d only ever been in one relationship that’d ended beyond badly, she wasn’t really sure what to say. She scooted her can across the table, perking up as a knock came at the door. “That was so quick.” 

She was a little grateful for both the distraction and the comfort the food would bring. After pushing a wad of mixed bills into the delivery driver’s hand to cover both the tab and the tip, she closed the door with her foot before heading back over to Cass, arms full of the food they’d gorge themselves on. Van set everything down, tearing open the paper bags. “It smells so good.” She smiled at her friend, hopeful that this would serve as a reminder that she wasn’t alone. “Let’s eat!” 

#para: pointed conversations #para: cass #wickedswriting #//i love cass and bex

[javier-pena]

conquer

Part 5 of Hubris

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Was running from Dieter the biggest mistake you've ever made? Or will it finally allow you to find peace?

Warnings: feelings, a lot of them | overthinking everything | Dieter is finally showing us his soft side | discussion of birth control | unprotected (p in v) sex | multiple orgasms | breasts (no mention of size though) | a bit of dirty talk

Notes: I'm very sorry it took me so long to write this fic (somehow I always start my notes like this haha), but I hope I could do the expectations justice. There will be two more parts to this story; however, I will take a short break from writing it to focus on Kinktober, but I will come back to it whenever I hit a wall with that project. Also, huge thanks to Dani @adricnchase��� for reading this and stopping me from embarrassing myself, even though she's very busy right now.

***

You stop your car outside your small bungalow, your hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, as if it’s the only thing on Earth that will save you now. It’s like you’re waking up from a trance – you have no memory of how you found your way back home, but it’s evident that somehow you did. And you managed not to crash your car in the process, even though your thoughts were miles away, even though you haven’t felt so many things all at once ever before, so many that make you want to curl up in a small ball on the cool ground and weep.

Mostly, you’re angry. You’re angry with yourself for running, for pushing him away yet again, when he was right there for the taking. He just wanted to kiss you, nothing more, but it was the urgency to kiss him back that made you run. Its implication is something you should have faced a long time ago, but didn’t, and now your tendency to avoid letting anyone else in because it means you could get hurt again is ruining one of the best things that has ever happened to you.

You can never go back to him now, not after the way you left things. He’ll never forgive you.

With a groan, you open the door of your car and climb out, your naked feet hitting the wet concrete with a loud slap. It makes you realize two things: You still haven’t put on your sandals and it’s pouring. It’s not only your feet that are wet within seconds, it’s also your hair, your shirt that clings to you, the side of your car that feels slick under your grip. Cursing, you rush to your front door, allowing yourself a brief moment of weakness. Two or three tears run down your cheeks, merging with the rain already there, hiding between the drops that hit you with every step. Even in front of yourself you have to pretend, you have to act like nothing is wrong, and it’s just the rain wetting your skin.

With a slightly trembling hand, you unlock your front door, eager to get inside and dry off. But before you can close it on the storm outside, you hear the sound of a car behind you and turn around. Who would be crazy enough to drive around in a storm like this?

It’s a sleek, black Jaguar, and it stops in your driveway, right next to your car. You wait with bated breath, torn between finding out who would come to see you at a time like this and wanting to close and lock the door. Before you can come to a decision, Dieter steps out of the car, eyes wide, hair ruffled, still wearing the same gray shirt, the same dark red pajama pants.

White hot anger shoots up from the pit of your stomach into your heart. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not supposed to violate your trust and privacy like this. Your hands ball into tight fists when you begin to understand the full scope of his betrayal – you want to push and shove him until he goes away, until he finally gives up on you.

He followed you home, robbing you of the last crumb of autonomy you had left. All that anger, all the resentment you have for him for not being able to forget about him, finally spills out of you, as you toss your sandals and bag to the floor, as you prepare yourself to push him away for good. Just like the storm raging around you, you’re your own kind of tempest as you stalk toward him, eyes blazing, feet slapping against the wet concrete. He doesn’t even have the decency to flinch, to pretend that he’s intimidated by you, and it just fuels your anger until you have to let it out somehow.

“Can you never let anything go?” you shout over the howling wind before you even reach him, voice breaking on the third word.

Now he finally realizes he’s made a mistake by coming here, and he raises his hands in defense. Or maybe he’s trying to calm you with that simple gesture, by showing you he’s unarmed in every sense of the word. But you’re so fucking angry it goes right over your head. All you want to do is scream and shout and fight him, push him until one of you breaks. This might be your only chance to fix things with him, but you couldn’t care less. You’re not strong enough for that; it’s so much easier to push him away because fighting means you don’t have to confront your own feelings, those feelings for him that scare you so much. The people in your life leaving you, giving up on you, that you can handle. What leaves you clueless and frightened is them fighting for you.

You don’t stop until you’re toe to toe with him, and very aware of how much taller he is than you, how much stronger he seems, how he could easily grab you and hold you and do whatever he wants to you. But this ends here, tonight, right now.

“Just leave me alone.”

“No.” That’s all he says. That’s it. You’re not worth anything more than that.

“Don’t you have any respect for my boundaries?” you ask, but it’s not enough. You need to push harder if you want him to leave.

You raise your hand, determined to give him a good shove, to show him how much he’s hurting you, but before your palm can make contact with his shoulder, he grabs your wrist and holds your hand between your faces. Suddenly the world is quiet, except for the patter of rain against your cars and the pavement, except for the distant rumbling of thunder, except for the desperate thumping of your heart inside your chest.

And then he adds another sound, the sound of his voice, just as broken as yours. “I can’t go another second without knowing what you taste like when I kiss you.”

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. Maybe things made sense in the past, maybe your life made sense in the past, but the second his lips touch yours, you are lost. He tries to be slow, he tries to be tentative, but he fails. You feel him fail, feel how he crumbles and gives in and lets his primal side win. Because from the moment his lips touch yours, he makes you his. It’s not that small, innocent peck you associate with first kisses, it’s deep and demanding as he tries to taste every corner of your mouth at once. He licks and bites and sucks while you freeze against him, surprised, confused, lost. You should resist him, you know you should, this cannot end well. But then you taste the whiskey he had earlier on his lips, and you taste the sharp flavor of arousal, the one that comes with months of holding back. It makes you yank your arm free and pull away from him.

That makes him crumble in a different way. Hurt flickers in his eyes, and you know this is your way out. If you send him away now, he’ll never come back. But you don’t. Instead, you grab the collar of his gray shirt, feel the soaked fabric beneath your fingers, and you pull him close.

The second your lips touch his, he is lost. He holds onto you with everything he’s got, holds your face between his big hands as he pushes up against you in an attempt to get closer to you, always closer. It’s not enough that his lips are on yours, he needs to worry them between his teeth. It’s not enough that your tongue brushes his, he needs to tease you with hot licks until you fight back. And nothing matters anymore. The anger you felt earlier is gone. The fact that you’re outside in your driveway in the pouring rain is insignificant. And that all your neighbors can see that you’re kissing one of the most famous actors alive? Who gives a fuck?

You should break the kiss to invite him in, but you can’t. All the months you spent fighting this have taken a toll on you, and you can do nothing but let this happen. Still, you walk backwards toward the shelter of your house, pulling him with you, and he follows willingly. Everything is so wet – you’ve been standing in the pouring rain for a small eternity, your feet naked, and yet you don’t even feel the ghost of a shiver. All you feel is Dieter’s lips on yours, finally! Looking back on the last couple of months, you have no idea how you could have gone so long without having him this close to you, without feeling how much he wants you.

But there lies the problem, doesn’t it? Feeling. If you let him in, if you feel for him, he’s going to break your heart. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he breaks it in a week or a month or a year; all that matters is that you got to experience this. And from the way he clings to you, from the way he follows you willingly, and whimpers and groans and sighs, you’re not so sure this will end in heartbreak after all.

Somehow, you make it back to the front door in one piece. You are completely soaked, but that doesn’t matter either. For a second, you try to catch your breath, you pull back just long enough to look into his clouded eyes, to push the wet curls sticking to his forehead out of his face and smile up at him. A smile tugs at his lips too, but he’s too impatient. You’ve opened a floodgate and there is nothing that can stop the wave crashing into you. He cannot bear that short break, that one tiny moment of being apart from you, so he pulls you close again and latches onto your neck, your jaw, leaving a trail of hot kisses wherever his lips fall.

Is your door closed? Can the neighbors still see you? You can’t be bothered to care. Dieter probably kicked it closed and even if he didn’t, no one is going to glance in the direction of your house on a night like this. Your hands land on the waistband of his pajama pants and you yank them down impatiently, making him lose balance for a second or two. When you wrap your hand around his length, you’re not surprised to find him rock hard. But before you can let that feeling of smugness in, that feeling of superiority you get whenever you’re confronted with the evidence of how much he wants you, he groans into your mouth.

It's the single greatest sensation you’ve ever felt. You’re immediately addicted, craving your next hit, but before you can make him do it again, he’s lowering you to the floor, one arm securely wrapped around your waist. You only let go of him when he flicks open the button on your trousers and pulls because you both know you’re done teasing now. There is no patience in his movements, no indication that he wants to take his time, draw this out. His entire body is vibrating with pure, desperate lust and heat. You know he’s going to die if he doesn’t get closer to you, because you feel the same. If you have to take just another second of this, your heart will give in.

His lips are back on yours, and he kisses you like this is your first kiss after a year spent apart. He doesn’t even stop when he lines himself up, he doesn’t stop when he pushes inside of you, he doesn’t stop when you raise your hips slightly to adjust. You feel so full, so claimed, and when you feel him twitch inside of you in response to you nipping his bottom lip, you groan. He catches that sound on his tongue and gives it back to you, a deep vibration you feel against your chest.

That’s when it starts, that thrust of his hips, not slow, not gentle, but hard and fast and urgent, pushing you up your hallway floor. He’s fucking you, there’s no other word for it, and it’s so different from what you’re used to, so different from the way he did it whenever he was inside of you before. Because this time this doesn’t feel like a transaction, something you both do to get rid of stress and tension – it feels like you will both die if you don’t share this with each other. This is the only thing that matters; everything else pales in comparison. You don’t register the lightning and thunder, you don’t register the rain hammering against the windows of your bungalow. All you know, all you will ever know, are his wonderful lips against yours and the way he takes you apart with his tongue and his cock.

It doesn’t take long for you to reach that bliss, that high you’ve both been chasing ever since that fateful night in his trailer. You’re tumbling over the edge, fast, violently, and you hear yourself scream, “Dieter! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” but you’re not aware it is you who is making those sounds. You feel nothing and everything at once, intense relief yet the urge to keep going because this orgasm is barely scratching an itch. Your desperate pants, the way you scream his name while you clench around him, pull him in deeper and refuse to let him go, just spur him on, and he snaps his hips faster, fucks you through it and keeps you right on edge. The only indulgence he allows himself is to stop kissing you for a moment so he can watch you fall apart beneath him, to bear witness.

Your body is still trembling, you still feel the aftershocks in your muscles, and he is already flipping you over so you’re on top of him, straddling his hips with him securely seated inside of you. His cheeks are flushed, his neck and chest are a deep, angry red, his shirt is torn at the collar (did you do that? you can’t remember), and his lips are swollen from your nips and bites. It is the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but stare at him in wonder. He allows you a short break, but the urgent rise and fall of his chest gives away how impatient he is, how he needs you to move. You can’t help but smile at the realization of how much he wants this. A week ago – hell, even a few hours ago – you wouldn’t have let him see. All you were after then was some quick, carnal release. But now you want him to know how much you’re enjoying this, enjoying being with him like this. You want him to know how good he makes you feel, how the way he tastes when he kisses you is something you’ll never be able to forget.

He deserves to know.

You begin to roll your hips, still feeling tender and overwhelmed from the orgasm you just had. To keep him entertained, you pull your shirt over your head, then open your bra and let it fall to the floor next to you. His eyes grow wide as he carefully cups one of your breasts, running the pad of his thumb over your nipple, before he pulls you down to where his eager lips are waiting for you. It’s like you unlocked something that was buried deep down inside of him, something thought to be lost and forgotten. He cannot stop kissing you, drunk on your taste. Everything else becomes a secondary concern to him, even his own pleasure. The way he pushes up into you becomes sloppy and it won’t bring him any release, just leave him frustrated if he continues like that. So you pull away from him – even though it feels like you’re cutting a piece of your own heart out of your chest, especially when you hear him whimper brokenly at the loss – and rest one hand against the torn fabric of his shirt, keeping him in place. When you begin to ride him, just rolling your hips at first, you’re rewarded with his eyes falling close in pure bliss.

The way he trusts you with his pleasure ignites a spark of mischief, but also the urge to finally let him know because he deserves to know. You lean down again, not missing the way his lips part in eager expectation, and you whisper, “You feel so good when you fuck me. I haven’t been able to think about anything else since that first time in your trailer.”

Your words have the desired effect. He moans so deeply you feel the rumble of his chest under your palm, and it feels like a small victory. But then he whispers, “Please kiss me.”

And just like that he wins.

Your heart leaps all the way into your throat, and you give in without a single second of hesitation, pressing your lips to his. Before you can claim him fully, he snaps his hips up into you, and then he’s coming. It knocks all the breath from your lungs, the feeling of his hot release coating your walls, and you bite down on his bottom lip in an attempt to keep a desperate groan contained. But then you realize there is no need for that anymore, there is no need to hold onto caution or dignity. You’re allowed to enjoy this, you’re allowed to have this. The hand that is not pressed against his chest makes its way in between your two bodies, and you find your clit, hard and swollen and oversensitive, but you press down against it nevertheless. It doesn’t take long, just a few rough rubs, and then you’re there, joining him. It’s so intense you forget how to breathe, caught up in the way you clench around him, drawing every last drop out of him.

It's only when he hisses sharply that you stop moving. He must be feeling just as sore as you, so you try to get off him to give you both time to recover. His hands land on your thighs immediately, keeping you in place. A soft smile spreads across his face as he pulls you close, having you rest against his chest, so you feel his breath tickle the top of your head. As you breathe together, you feel him soften inside you, and the second you raise your head, he’s there to kiss you lazily. You share quiet smiles and big grins, soft nips and warm breaths.

All of this, it makes you so fucking happy.

Until you feel him freeze beneath you and panic sets in. There is no rational explanation, but you know you somehow fucked this up already.

“Fuck, shit …” He groans in frustration. “I forgot the condom.”

You cannot stop the laughter erupting out of your chest, pure relief in the form of air that was held in too long making its way out of your body.

“Stop it.” He glares at you, but there is no real fire in his eyes. “This is serious. I mean,” he hesitates briefly, “it’s been only you for months, but …”

That admission makes your heart skip a beat, but you ignore that for now. He needs to know that it was okay. “Dieter, relax, I’m on birth control.” No, that’s not enough of a reassurance, there is more to say, more he should know. “Besides … I wanted you to come inside of me since the first time you fucked me.”

Your words make him groan again, but it’s a different kind of groan, deeper, more breathless. “From now on, please promise me to tell me these things, okay?”

He is probably right. If you hadn’t been so shut off to begin with, you could have spared you both a lot of grief and second guessing. If you had known that he only wanted you … had he known how much you wanted him - no use crying over spilled milk.

“No,” you reply, feeling that familiar tingling of mischief, “I like it when you’re all frustrated and riled up.”

You are rewarded with a growl. “Don’t push me.”

Now that you’ve started, you can’t stop. “I didn’t think that a simple kiss was enough to make the great Dieter Bravo forget about birth control.”

“You know there are ways to shut you up, right?” The threat would be more menacing if you couldn’t see the flush creeping up from his chest to his neck, if you couldn’t see how short of breath he is.

“Now, who’s teasing who?” You can feel him stir inside of you, and your body responds to that with a clench. “You know,” you add, “my mouth isn’t just good at kissing.”

He pulls you into a kiss that tastes of relief, one that leaves you breathless, one that leaves you hungry for more. Despite all your teasing, despite being so careful with your heart, it is obvious now that you’re not able to resist him at all, not when he kisses you like this.

When he pulls away to catch his breath, you ask, “By the way, what do I taste like when you kiss me?”

With a smirk, he answers, “Like lightning, baby.”

[<< Part 4] [Part 6 >>]

***

hubris taglist: @0ni0nb0i | @1andthesame | @allfoolsinluv | @apricotparker | @astravoyager | @babydarkstar | @badnewssunshine | @batdarkladyvampir | @becksxoxo | @bobafvcker | @boliv-jenta | @chaoticgeminate​ | @cyantomatos | @deadhumourist​ | @dinandgone​ | @doin-stuff​ | @elegantduckturtle​ | @empress-ofdesire​ | @everythingfan589​ | @ezras-channel-rat​ | @fireproofmarta​ | @frankie-catfish-morales​ | @fuckyeahdindjarin | @gamingaquarius​ | @girlofchaos​ | @gracie7209​ | @grogusfather​ | @honestly-shite​ | @imaginativefanatic​ | @javierpenasimp​ | @jettia​ | @kaqua | @katareyoudrilling​ | @kesskirata​ | @kiwi-the-first​ | @ladydjarin88 | @lavenderluna10​ | @leannawithacapitala​ | @livingoutsidethetardis | @lovesbiggerthanpride​ | @mandobloggin | @marionmcpherson | @max--phillips | @medusa-lith​ | @MSWarriorBabe80 | @movievillainess721 | @murbeft | @nembees​ | @noctiscorvus | @pedropascalsx​ | @pedrosbrat​ | @pedrostories | @perropascal​ | @pookipedia​ | @prettyoutlaw​ | @prettypedros​ | @pumpkin-stars | @queenofthecloudss​ | @rebel-fanfare​ | @redcrvette​ | @rosiefridayrogersunday​ | @saffronpersimmon​ | @sainteredhood​ | @sam-not-so-wise​ | @scruffylookingpiratecaptain​ | @shirks-all-responsibilities​ | @shsoba05 | @silver-pieces​ | @spacenerdpascal​ | @spanishmossmagnolia | @stealyourblorbos​ | @tanzthompson​ | @tentacruels​ | @the-fic-baker​ | @thelemongeneration | @thesmutslut​ | @tincanfics​ | @trickstersp8  @underwood0723​ | @unlightsabered​ | @wannabcool-blr​ | @wardenparker | @wildemaven​ | @zootndingo​

dieter bravo taglist: @sweetgirlray​ | @vanemando15

permanent taglist: @adricnchase​ | @amneris21​ | @aurelacmoon​ | @chronic-nosebleed​ | @din-jarhead​ | @harriedandharassed​ | @jazzelsaur​ | @lestradeslover​ | @littlemissthistle​ | @martellthemandalor​ | @nyfeeer | @nobodys-baby-now​ | @pedrorascal​ | @radiowallet​

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #the bubble #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #i love you guys for getting hubris to 1k notes #this is absolutely crazy!!!

[kithtaehyung]

I don’t wanna invalidate opinions but I would like to throw some things out there that might help reframe window for those who didn’t like it (and correct me if I’m off base here Ryen also I never properly talked about window yet so I guess this counts as part of it 🫣😂) but like….

Okay so feel like most media, especially the ones I grew up with is supersaturated with unrealistic, rose colored portrayals of intimacy, both platonic and romantic. Conflict is shown as only an external force that can be overcome with “true love.” But…love is not always enough. It’s a powerful motivator but it isn’t an airtight bottle you can shove all the difficult conversations and thoughts in until the pressure peaks . It’s only recently that creators are starting to push back against the cliche stereotypes that we’ve had for decades. And we’ve never had more diversity and freedom to be creative than we do now but we still have a long fucking way to go. There’s still a lack of depth that leads to expectations that can never be met. It leads to so much unnecessary disappointment with real life. And it’s lowkey toxic af. How is anyone supposed to know how to actually relate to another person, how to be a good friend or even how to know if someone else is being a good friend if we never get to see the little things. The small moments shared in silence, the tears, the misunderstandings, the effort it takes to stay feeling connected to someone else, to stayed connected to yourself.

Real intimacy is not a straight, even valley you need to pass in order to get to a beautiful meadow of “happily ever after.” Real intimacy requires patience, persistence, and communication. It’s a never ending fluctuation of real work. No one can give 100% all the time, but that’s why it’s shared. When you can only give 20 percent, the other person needs to be willing to give the other 80 and you have to be open to do the same. And most importantly it requires grace; the ability to be patient and forgive others when they find themselves being less than. Getting to have a peak into Yoongi’s mindset in 3tan is a privilege you can’t get in real life bc we’re not mind readers. In fact, it highlights that fact. We can’t know what others are thinking unless we ask and truly listen. Period. It reminds us that there are in fact two individually complex humans involved that have their own needs and wants and worries and doubts. And like communication between two people is one thing, but communication with yourself??? That takes a lifetime of conscious effort. You have to choose to improve, to self reflect. And it’s going to be uncomfortable, no might’s or maybe’s. But how can anyone know what they need in a relationship or what they can even bring to a relationship if they don’t sort it out with themselves first?

Reader and Yoongi have realistic flaws that they are not only aware of but are willing to work on in order to make a relationship work. They have internal battles they have to work through if they’re ever going to be able to fight the external ones. Instead of judging each other for how they’re feeling, they push each other to be vulnerable enough to share so they can listen and understand bc they want this. They want it all. Yoongi climbing through that window was him giving reader that 80 percent when she could only give 20. I also don’t think it’s fair to fault reader for that when we’ve seen proof they’re willing to do that for Yoongi too (I guess I haven’t seen what specific things people didn’t like about it so I’m making some assumptions). We saw it, staying to wash those dishes and refusing to leave unsaid thoughts floating just out of reach between them was her 80 when Yoongi was shutting down. She deserved an explanation to his change in behavior that felt complete and genuine and she was brave enough to stop hiding behind the coy words that were keeping them both safe, that they both were using as a shield. They were lucky, they got to hear exactly what they thought they could only hope for. But even if they hadn’t, at least they could walk away knowing they had done all they could. They could have mourned what could have been with less regrets.

And last thing before I step off my soapbox and end this Tedtalk (have we reached max capacity for metaphor yet??? 😂🤦🏽‍♀️), I understand that people use escapism as a coping mechanism (and like all things is def unhealthy in excess). I think it’s safe to say we’re all pretty much here for that. We’re on this platform and following and reading content from creators like Ryen who are willing and excited to share their work with us as whatever we need it to be bc we are looking for something to connect with. Ryen has stated multiple times she wants this to be a comfort for people and that it is one for her. It’s scary sharing a story like this so publicly. It’s intimate and revealing and she shared it knowing that she doesn’t have complete control on who has access to it. If you’re looking for a story that paves a smoother path then maybe 3tan is just not for you 🤷🏽‍♀️ and that’s more than okay. We’re so lucky to be in a digital age where a large portion of the population has access to an obscene amount of content. There’s going to be something out there that fits what you’re looking for if that’s what you want. But my completely unsolicited advice and hope for everyone is that they consume media that allows them to not only escape from the unpleasantries of life but also expands the way we might think about the complex dynamics of just…existing. Nobody has all the right answers but I bet if we all share the things that help and comfort us like Ryen does and meet it with “I’m so happy you felt you could share this with me and I feel like I know you better now” when it doesn’t fit into what we want or whatever expectations we create, then we’d all walk through this life feeling a little more understood and a little more understanding. And I’m not saying I don’t also enjoy and even love the easy, rosy happily ever afters. I do, but I’m beginning to understand that they give me something different than the complex and angst filled stories. I’m 100% not always up to diving into a story like 3tan that really gets me thinking and analyzing (this is like 1k words too late to say hi don’t perceive me and my many long winded 3tan reviews 🫣🙃😂 but like…shhh) and so when I’m not, I don’t 🤷🏽‍♀️. Luckily, for now, it’s there for whenever I want and that’s amazing. And when I do, I try really hard to put even a fraction of the work it takes the creator into my response/ reception BC WOW PEOPLE ARE SO TALENTED AND BRAVE AND DOING THEIR BEST.

If you made it this far, thanks for coming to my Tedtalk and welcome to my overthinking and exhausted brain. Did I write this on my flight home as a way to push back my post concert depression? Yes, yes I did.

(Ryen I love you and am endlessly grateful for your big beautiful brain and I hope you enjoy LA 🖤🖤🖤)

i…. i….. wow?? thank you?? what the hell do i even say to this i’m speechless🧍‍♀️

mikayla i guess i won’t say much (because you’ve pretty much said everything so eloquently and beautifully, and i barely slept on the whole flight here and am just now getting to lie down) but just know this made me feel a whole lot better. damn.

thank you for saying all of this. at its core, 3tan is about life. beauty in the mundane. extraordinary in the ordinary. a lot of my inspiration comes from hayao miyazaki, tbh, because i’ve been so enamored by the way he took time to add in the most simplest of things like fixing a shoe that wasn’t fully put on, or someone staring just a bit longer at the surrounding scenery. it’s those moments that i wanna capture here, too, because there’s something to love even in the milliseconds.

and as far as love and communication and trust and self-reflection, it’s been quite a journey writing this series bc even though i’m writing it, i truly feel like I’m learning and growing alongside these people, too. it’s been quite the pleasure, and i’m grateful as hell for anyone that’s here, was here, or will stumble across this series somehow. I wanna keep it a comfort series and one that, as you said, makes people think about their own journeys, too.

gahhh I really don’t have any other commentary bc you’ve said plenty and it’s incredible.. seriously, thank you. i’m unbelievably touched and will think about this tedtalk ask for a long, long time.

#this is gd amazing #thank you babe #wow #mikayla! #asks:3tan #3tan #3tanW #3fan:them<3 #lovely people #*ryenfictalk #mailbox💌 #3tanhof #for sURE #long post

[ultfan]

KOMAEDA THE BYSTANDER

one thing i notice people don't realize about komaeda is that he isn't actually a killer. or — at least — he never goes out of his way to kill with his own two hands. as addressed in my last meta, his first "murder" attempt was actually a ploy to tempt hanamura into killing him. and, if that failed, the only logical next step would be suicide, since there's no way komaeda would be able to find anyone to stab in the dark aside from himself.

throughout the game komaeda always offers himself up as a sacrifice. he never says he'll kill for the other students — he says they can kill him. after all, he has no desire to survive the killing game. he's already got a limited amount of time left, so surviving is the furthest thing from his mind when he can instead be of use to everyone.

even when he turns on everyone he doesn't ever directly harm any of the ultimates. the bomb he blew up was far enough away to not hurt any of them. and while he could've easily used the things he picked up in the final dead room to kill them, instead he opted to kill himself. of course this was mainly because he was attempting to save the traitor — who he didn't know the identity of. it's possible if the traitor did come forward he would've found a way to kill everyone else all at once (himself included). but that's not what happened.

komaeda never cared to be in the spotlight. never desired to be on center stage. the only reason he started acting that way near the end of the game is because he realized the truth — and realized if the traitor didn't come forward he was the only person who could do anything about it. and he gave the traitor ample time to do so. because he didn't know her identity he couldn't directly act as a stepping stone for her. so he used his death as an indirect stepping stone instead — fancying himself a martyr. it's hard to tell how genuine his claims of grandeur were at the end, but i'd say they were fueled by a martyr complex more than anything else.

prior to that, though, he constantly expresses how he doesn't care to be on the same level as his peers. that he wants to be used as an object they can climb towards success. he likes to pull the strings from behind the scenes. he never really takes credit for his deductions in the trial, only offering small hints here and there but encouraging everyone to think and solve the crimes for themselves. my favorite example of this is when he points out a clue to hinata — and then hinata comments on it — and komaeda's like "wow! you noticed such a small detail? that's incredible!!!" — and hinata's like "bro you're the one who brought it up??? tf???" even when komaeda knows the killer he would never go out of his way to out them. because that's not his place.

komaeda wants to see a powerful hope. he wants to be a witness. the most contribution he wants to have towards it is as a stepping stone. if someone can trample over him for the sake of ascending to greater heights that's all he needs. like he says: he believes his love to be a selfless one. he doesn't want to bring this about himself. he won't take direct action. he'll merely become whatever people need to help them succeed. it's never about his own success.

even in ultimate despair komaeda never takes direct action. he pulls strings behind the scenes. for example, in udg: he gives komaru her weapon, he sends kids to help her, he employs fukawa to bring komaru to where he wants to be. he works from the shadows behind the scenes to ensure things go swimmingly. the most direct he is in that game is when he uses pepper to bring genocider out. but even then — he doesn't intend to get his own hands dirty. he lets another ultimate have the spotlight.

komaeda is a schemer, a martyr, a manipulator, a stepping stone. he refuses to be in the spotlight longer than needed. he will orchestrate despair to bring about hope, but never directly. he never does it by his own hand. rather, he encourages others to reach the conclusion he desires. and i find that a really important distinction for his character. komaeda isn't the type of person to go and murder someone he wants to see dead — but he is the type to frame them for a terrible crime worthy of a death sentence.

#murder tw #suicide tw #♡₊˚ ☘️・₊✧ » ic : study ─ 𝘏𝘖𝘗𝘌 𝘚𝘗𝘙𝘐𝘕𝘎𝘚 𝘌𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘍𝘙𝘖𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕 𝘉𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘛. ❞