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bokugaos · 3 years

Text

Perfection

pairing: Bokuto x f!reader

length: 4.3k

summary: You are taken away and kept as the yakuza head’s trophy toy in exchange for clearing your father’s debt.

tags — traditional yakuza AU, dubcon, breeding, spanking, overstimulation, cum bulge.

a/n: (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ this is a secret santa gift for @kuroos-babygirl! it’s also my first fic of 2021 and we’re starting the year right!!~ HAPPY NEW YEAR <33

You look so petulant and angry in your defeat and sink down on your knees as soon as you are dropped off to your own feet inside the walls of the estate. Still you press your clamped hands against your lips, and murmur encouragement for yourself.

“It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Your mouth is trembling in frustration—it makes Bokuto’s victory all the sweeter. He can tell that you haven’t heard him approach because you flinch back when his shadow suddenly falls across you.

Your pupils become little pinpricks of fear, then dilate again when the first confusion settles as you stare up at the yakuza boss, remembering why he is standing there now, tapping his foot impatiently.

He is slightly hunched over, yet still towering so high above you. A menacing grin slowly stretches his mouth. He looks a lot less tired when he smiles—and a lot less creepy. It doesn’t keep your heart from throbbing. You stare up at him quietly, your thoughts running across your face clear as day—so when you try to flee, he already knows about it long before you even move the first muscle. His arm shoots out to grab your hair and keep you right where you are.

“A deal’s a deal.” he murmurs into your grimacing face. You reach up and curl your hands around his wrist, but… it appears that he doesn’t even feel your fingers around him.

Bokuto doesn’t do deals with just any commoners, but your father is in too much debt, one that he wouldn’t even be able to pay back in an entire lifetime. Your father knows that, and the yakuza lord does too. Hence why he very kindly offered to clear the debt in exchange for, well, you. And of course, your parents agreed in a heartbeat. If there was even a slight hesitation or remorse of the fact that you were practically being sold to the city’s lord, your parents didn’t show any of it. You clench your thighs together, belly tight and prickly, tears ready to spill from your eyes.

Bokuto’s smile widens. The fist he has in your hair tightens and as you wince and whine, he pulls you closer to push your face against the growing bulge beneath his hakama.

He moves his hips, fucking against your face while you make choked little sounds and half-heartedly try to turn yourself away despite you becoming stupidly excited at the heat and smell of his dick through the fabric. You could use your hands to push him off of you, but you don’t.

“Take all your clothes off. The maids will take care of them.”

You pause at that. You’ve forgotten that you’re not alone.

You start to glance around as much as possible while he distractingly keeps smearing his bulge against your face. There are shadows slinking around the edges of the buildings.

You know that none of them would be able to help you.

—

It is rather embarrassing to admit this, but Bokuto takes care of you better than your parents ever did. He makes sure the servants make you good food, drapes you in lavish clothes, have you bathed in the finest of flowers; practically everything you’ve ever dreamed of about being in the higher class in the society.

And yet, you still spend your time as if you’re counting down the days to your release from a place so godforsaken. At this rate, and with the way you are behaving, you are quickly becoming more of an embarrassment to him than something he can show off.

Hurriedly spreading out the futon and sitting on the edge of it, he pulls you into his lap, only slightly sated by hearing your small yelp of surprise. He quickly locates the hem of your kimono and pushes it up to bunch at your waist, not even bothering to untie your obi. You try to get a word out at the same time his open palm comes down hard against the flesh of your exposed ass, and any would-be protests die in your throat.

Silently fuming, Bokuto holds you in place with a firm hand on the small of your back. Holding you close like this while also getting to take out his disappointment on you satisfied several needs at once, save for a particular need he only becomes aware of when the feeling of your belly against his crotch becomes too good to ignore.

However, his conscience sternly urges him to hold back. You are not perfect yet. This is not the right time.

If you are not responding to his graciousness, maybe you are the type who learns from being punished.

Once that thought crosses his mind, Bokuto feels like a man possessed as he hoists you off of his lap and onto the futon. You fall on your front with little more than a muted sound of surprise, and he pins you down with his own body before you can even attempt to find your bearings. In his haste to fulfill the desire that has finally been fully recognized, he begins tearing away your intricately wrapped kimono. You are in no position to refuse his grabbing hands, though you do become bolder in your soft cries of protest. You are becoming confident enough to use your words.

So Bokuto holds you in such a way to force you further against the sheets, quite literally taking your breath away. He is much, much bigger and stronger than you, holding all of your struggling limbs at once with ease.

He pins your arms behind your back and moves on to your legs and seizes you specifically by your ankles to spread them open in a humiliating pose. The position left your pussy open and vulnerable to him, and he can’t rid himself of his hakama fast enough. He catches sight of you glancing over your shoulder just in time to see his hard, leaking cock, and the look of fear on your face practically has him throbbing. When he grabs your thighs and aligns the tip with your distinctly unaroused entrance, he shoves in as deep as your body will allow.

You can no longer keep your pain silent, the pathetic cries bubbling out over your quivering lips as he holds you tight and prepares to spear in further. Your walls are beginning to grow slick from what he suspects is not desire but necessity, as the experience would have been much more painful than it needs to be if you were not at least a little wet. Every thrust slowly becomes easier, but the delicious resistance of your tight body remains dominant.

Bokuto buries himself within you and only moves his hips slightly at first, before starting a pace that wrings out the volume you are still holding back. You are crying out like a bitch in heat and it only encourages him to fuck you harder.

Bokuto hoists you back up just enough to arch your back towards him. This way he is able to look into your eyes, brimming with emotion and the primal fear of prey that felt its flesh being torn apart by a predator. He groans as his hand moves to your throat, holding you tight so he can feel you tremble and gasp for breath.

“I’ve been very patient. I gave everything you needed to adjust to living here with me. Yet you still refuse to fulfill your purpose,” he murmurs harshly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear with every word. “If you continue to refuse me, you’ll be sorry.”

With little more than a grunt of exertion, he spills himself directly into your abused womb. His hand slowly lets up its grip on your throat and you are able to breathe, though each breath comes out ragged and pitiful. Your body falls slack against the futon as soon as he lets you go, and he moves in to catch your legs and lift them up. Then he shifts to move closer to you, pulling you close and slipping a hand downwards to scoop up his release and push it back inside of you.

He feels you shiver against him when he presses his lips to the back of your shoulder. The hand that is not between your thighs is idly rubbing your belly, and his voice came out smooth as silk. “Don’t disappoint me again, you hear me?”

You are quiet, but Bokuto knows better than to read this as hesitation. It is more like you are tired and trying to catch your breath, or to find the proper words to say.

You are not yet in love with the idea, but rather, it’s as if you are at peace. Like you are finally coming to terms with what your life is now. The thought brings a bright grim to Bokuto’s face. Acceptance constitutes progress too, and it brings you one step closer to perfection.

—

There are many days where he is rough with you. Bokuto has taken over leadership at a very young age, and oftentimes, he takes his aggravation with him and takes it out on you. Part of him is dimly aware of this, but not aware enough to make him stop. Today is one of those days, and he is in a sour mood, desperately in need of both an outlet to pour his anger out and consolation.

You are shivering when Bokuto returns to the room, his steps heavy even on the carpeted floor. It is not exactly cold but you are naked, without even a single strand of hair out of place and your slender neck is on display just as the rest of you, and so nothing gets caught within any straps and hinges.

It is more the trepidation—and anticipation—that has you nervously dancing in place despite the thing he has carefully strapped you into a few minutes earlier. The wood is polished within an inch of its life, cinched around your neck and wrists, keeping you forced to bend over, ass to the door—just another little twist to his games that will keep you nervous and whiny because the thought of someone else stumbling in and getting an eyeful of your cunt is getting you tingly all over.

His little slut.

For the first time, Bokuto stays quiet. He is known as loud and boisterous young yakuza boss across the land, so to experience this silence is extremely unnerving for you. He does not even address you as he makes his way over with slow, heavy steps, but the thick air in the room makes his labored breathing all the louder.

It’s as if your cunt is glowing like a stop sign between your thighs, beckoning him closer. He wants to drag his fingers through the soft gape of your lips and pay some attention to your plump clit; torture it with some mean pinching like he knows you’ll go crazy for, but first, he slowly rounds to the front to have a look at your expression.

Your eyebrows are furrowed, anticipating his every move. You try to look up at him but his height and your position makes it impossible. He reaches for your chin, and you try to turn away from it but he grabs you anyway and slowly leans down, bringing his face very close to yours. You jerk away and abruptly avert your gaze elsewhere when you remember that you’re not supposed to look at him—not yet, not until he gives you the permission to—but he can see your face: bright and every bit scared as is excited.

He breathes slowly and measured, staring at you a bit longer just to unsettle you—then he lets go of your face and carefully tucks a lock of your hair back behind your ear. Some of the nervous fear seems to vanish from your expression after that.

Satisfied that everything is back in order, Bokuto stands back up and rounds you, watching the sway of your tits hanging down, and how your nipples are already swollen and needy. He pinches one—hard—and you cry out in surprise, your hips jerk as you automatically try to get away from the pain and realize you can’t go anywhere.

“No!” You whine, but it sounds weak. Your voice is trembling. He ignores you and pinches again, slower this time; increasing the pressure bit by bit until you start whining louder and louder, your knees bending then stretching again as you try to somehow mitigate the pain radiating off the tip of your breast.

He pulls down slowly, stretching the tissue until your whining becomes a short, rough cry of real pain, then he lets abruptly go.

When he leans over, he can see your cunt clench and relax desperately, slick already starting to glisten at the opening. You’ve always been a slut for pain.

He rounds you slowly, making a show out of letting his belt jingle loudly so you know he’s getting his cock out. You start whining again but a sharp two-fingered slap to your cunt has you shut up quickly.

Bokuto presses down with one big hand on the small of your back until you bend for him to have a comfortable grip on your hips as he drags the wide head of his cock through the valley of your ass.

Finally, it catches at the pouty rim of your pussy, pressing against it and forcing it to start spreading for the massive intrusion. He can hear you gasp for breath and he smirks in triumph.

“Squeal for me,” he murmurs, deep and ominous, then presses forward in earnest.

You do, because there’s no way you can keep quiet when Bokuto is fucking you open on his dick. You spread your toes against the carpet and curl them, trying to twitch out of the way but being held in place by his huge hands and his heavy weight on your back.

You are pinned in place, made to take his cock—basically letting him use you anyway he wants—and you couldn’t be more happy that he’s not hurting you too much, even though it is so very scary. You trust him, deep down. Of course you do.

But when you are like this, deep in your head space and reduced to a breeding sow gagging for dick, it is difficult to remember that you are nothing else but a trophy for him.

Bokuto tells you to squeal—and you obey. Simple as that.

His cock digs into your hole, spreading you so wide you are sure you are going to tear right through the middle. You don’t know when he stops existing as Bokuto in your mind and becomes your owner; domineering, possessive and belittling.

“Gonna put some little babies in you, yeah? Get your belly so swollen you can only waddle around.”

The words settle like hot coals in your belly, burning through you and sparking electric and delicious at the tips of your nipples. Bokuto can be really mean to you when he is angry. And while you are scared of his wrath, his words only serve as the fuel for your slippery slide down the slope. “Have to piss standing up because you’d not be able to get back up by yourself.”

You groan low—more a gurgle, really—and helplessly clench down on the big fat dick fucking into you. With everything compounded, you feel hot and suffocated. He’s fucking destroying you from the inside out, starting at your poor womb that will get massively dilated by the time he is done with what he is going to put into you.

Because that’s what you’re meant to be. He wants you to be waddling around with your holes sloppy and gaping from that massive dick of his you regularly get. Think about the others seeing you like that and knowing exactly that you’re nothing more than a disgusting breeding sow, made to be pumped full of his cum.

He fucks you like a beast and you grunt with every filling of his dick you receive. You can feel his balls swinging between your thighs; full and ripe, ready to fill you up until your belly is distending and your guts are gurgling with the cum he’s filling you with.

He increases his pace and you’ve never felt more animalistic; he groans deep and drawn-out, his hands cupping your belly to feel it starting to bulge with the sheer amount of cum he’s flooding your with while your eyes roll up into your head and your tongue is lolling out, drooling onto your chin, undignified and animalistic.

When he pulls out, it is not smooth. Even the head of his cock is big, and despite the massive spread of your pussy lips, it gets caught behind it anyway and needs to be dragged out with a humiliating wet pop like a plug getting pulled.

His cum immediately starts flowing as you can’t help but bear down, knees bending and clit pulsating needy and ripe between your thighs when the warm mess slides down your thighs as if you had pissed yourself in your excitement.

You don’t notice much of what is going on around you, not when he unclasps the thing from your neck and wrists, until big hands carefully touch you and turn you around into his big arms.

He carefully pats your cheek with a wide fingertip until you blearily blink open your eyes that feel glued-shut from the tears.

His anger should have dissipated by now, because there is a spark of affection in his bright, gold eyes and he nods before cradling you closer to his wide chest with one arm as the hand of the other descends between your thighs.

He’s gentle as his massive fingers slide into your cunt, fucking you slow and gentle while his thumb presses just this side of pleasurable against your swollen clit, dragging painfully tight circles into it until your body is strung tight as a bow string again, your teeth clenched together, sharp little nails digging into his huge forearm.

He keeps at it until you come, messy and loud, crying out as you jerk in his secure hold and gets everything wet as you squirt and he fucks you through it all.

Afterwards he holds you close, warming you with his massive body as he gently rocks you and leans his cheek against your forehead.

Bokuto can be awfully affectionate like that.

And that’s the only sign you need to see that he adores you just as much as you trust him… so far. But trust and security is different from love, and you’re not sure if you will ever be able to. He’s your owner and nothing more, and you’d be naive to think otherwise.

—

Even though you’ve grown accustomed to his presence as well as your new life in the estate, you still tense at the sound of his footsteps as they draw closer and closer over the floor.

You are still not sure about just how much you are allowed to see—your every question in that regard is easily ignored.

By now, you are more eager—as much as that makes you loathe yourself to admit it. You begin to anticipate his visits, lying on your back on the lush mattress he equips your room with and fucking your hole with your fingers as fast as you can without getting a cramp in his arm.

Your loud whimpers suffuse the air and bring an indulgent, broad grin onto Bokuto’s face as soon as he finally emerges in the doorjamb.

“So eager, my feather,” he purrs, slowly collapsing the stick in itself. He strolls casually to where you are wriggling on the sheets, and you turn your face away from him, subsequently baring your throat. Predictably, a large hand finds it without problem as if that’s the only thing his eyes are focused on.

“Are you ready this time?” he rumbles, the deep voice making you shiver and your nipples tighten into sensitive, little nubs. You wet your lips with a quick tongue, legs spreading wide for the hand stroking down his throat, between the valley of your breasts and down your abdomen, in order to vanish between your legs. A soft whine escapes you as he circles your hole, sensitive from getting fucked so often, before one of his fingers dips inside alongside your own fingers, making you strain and gasp.

“Is this… is this going to be the last time?” It is your standard question—almost like a ritual by now. It’s familiar to you like the broad length of Bokuto’s cock was, spreading you open and fucking you breathless. “Are you going to let me go after this?”

His lips stretch into another smile, his free hand stroking over your hair like a parent consoling their child.

“I told you I will breed you full,” he coos—just like always, seems like he’s in a good mood today. “Can’t let anyone see my little toy if she’s not well-bred now, can I?” He seems to take amusement in your predicament, setting you on edge, the humiliation driving ever deeper because you know you could do nothing against it.

You huff, ready to turn around and present your ass on all fours, but…

“Not this time. Stay just like that, beautiful.” Bokuto leans down, his voice—impossibly—dropping even lower as he slides onto the bed and between your thighs; still clothed.

He huffs a laugh, his tactile fingers sliding along your inner thighs, gently rubbing on the lips of your puffy, stretched hole, then curling two fingers inside you.

Your body is moving on its own—hips curling up into his stroking hand. You hate it. You love it.

“Have you been waiting long?” Bokuto asks in amusement, opening his own pants and drawing out that length that makes your mouth water and your hole clench in anticipation. Endorphins rush through your body, making you tingly and needy to be filled with nothing but his cock and cum.

You’ve already been trained so well by now… and from Bokuto’s triumphant grin, he is obnoxiously proud about it. Can’t wait to show you off and brag to his friends about his sweet little plaything; his trophy toy.

He leans down, his deep breaths ghosting along your collarbone. The fact that Bokuto likes your scent the most—he told you himself—and he likes to breathe you in while sucing on your neck, the artery there, feeling the pump of your blood there—is just as arousing as it is intimidating.

“You are... exquisite,” he whispers against your bare neck, dripping the words onto you like they were poetry even as the head of his cock slowly breaches you. You gasp—every time surprised at the fact that you could prepare yourself as much as you liked… Bokuto’s cock will still split you open and make you feel so fucking vulnerable.

“I will groom you to perfection.”

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his hips snap forward, driving himself in deep with the first thrust. He could feel tears prickling in the corners of your eyes, but whether from how much it burns (it still does, and you love it) or from the fact that he so casually tells you about his plans to corrupt you… you cannot tell. You don’t even want to tell.

You whimper, arms and legs curling around him, drawing him closer as he leisurely fucks you, his tongue and teeth scraping over your throat and collarbone.

“You are going to be the best there is.” Bokuto raises his head, mouthing along the line of your jaw. “Everyone else is going to wish that you’re theirs,” he sounded entirely too smug for that sentence, “but you’re mine. I own you. ”

You can feel Bokuto’s muscles flexing where your calves lay on his sides. He is so broad, so huge that you can barely wrap your whole body on him and yet… and yet…

Fuck, your whole body is primed to him. To this man brimming with strength and vitality and intellect.

Bokuto is the perfect owner to breed anyone… and your body welcomes him greedily—needy hole opening up despite the burn of the entry; just swallowing that cock again and again, clinging sweetly as if it loathes to let him out on every second stroke.

He laughs—low and painfully happy as if he has read your thoughts. The sound rumbles through his chest and directly into you, your toes curling and feet scrabbling at the backs of his thighs, fingernails scratching along his back as your lust spirals higher, soft sounds of satisfaction spilling out of your throat, no matter how hard you try to hold them back.

“Open up for me,” Bokuto whispers right into your ear—his voice sweet and deadly like poison. “Open up, sweet thing. Take it… take me.”

The last word is rasped in a low rumble—more carnal than human as he thrusts more harshly, grinding deep into you and making you cry with your head thrown back. You hear the breathy, rasping chuckle of him filling you up good and proper.

You love how satisfied you feel at being a good bitch for him.

—

Afterwards, when Bokuto is gone, you realize your face is wet. You think you must have been sweating more than you thought.

Yes. That’s it.

#bokuto smut #bokuto x reader smut #bokuto x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader smut #haikyuu x reader #bokuto koutarou #yakuza!bokuto #tw dubcon #.bokuto!#.fics!

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cheekygreenty · 3 years

Text

Little Witch - Part 16

The Darkling x Reader

'It's work-related Baghra, I'm not here because I miss you'

'Then get to it.' She snapped and walked around you, settling in her seat by the fire.

'How is Alina getting along?'

'Like a wounded animal' You sighed. As much as you hated the woman, she had a knack for training Grisha and always succeeded so this wasn't good.

'How bad is it?'

'She can't light a doorway on her own without Aleksander clutching her wrist.'

'Surely she's not that weak. Maybe you're just losing your touch'

'Get out.' She snapped.

'The Fete is 2 weeks away, it would do you well to make sure she doesn't embarrass herself' You let a subtle threat slip into your words but in reality, you couldn't touch Baghra, Aleksander forbade it himself.

'Or else what? You'll wrap my own shadows around my neck and wring me to death?'

'Perhaps.'

'Foolish girl. You have a pretty face but deep down you are uglier than the Black Heretic himself.' Baghra always seemed to have a paramount of new insult ready to throw your way.

'Well isn't it lucky that I share a bed with him'

'You are absurd'

'Only the best of us are.' With that, you left the blistering heat and made your way back into the palace, your mind drifting back to your first ever encounter with Baghra.

----

'You'll train with Baghra' General Kirigan said as you awkwardly stood in your lavish suite, feeling the ill-fitting Tidemaker kefta weighing heavily on your shoulders.

'I can fight already there's no need' You didn't want to be here, you wanted to go back to your regiment in the First-Army and sleep on an uncomfortable cot surrounded by your friends. The Palace reminded you too much of your old family home to the point of it making you uneasy.

'Not that kind of training' As handsome as the General was, you didn't let yourself succumb to his looks or that faint smile, even if it did erupt small butterflies in your body. Don't trust him.

'Do I have to wear this coat?' It was the first time you'd put it on and although it was very well made, you didn't think it suited you.

'That's your uniform from now on I'm afraid.' He gestured to his own black kefta. It was magnificent.

At the time, you hadn't yet known you could possess more than one Grisha power, but that was about to change really soon as he led you down the narrow steps leading to a hut.

It was nestled deep in the Palace gardens, and you longed for the same privacy. It wasn't anything like the Little Palace with its dull exterior and homely interior. But the heat, oh the heat, it was scalding. You fiddled with the kefta belt and buttons, tugging the thick coat off of you as you looked around, awaiting the woman the General referred to as Baghra.

'Hello?' You folded the blue coat over the back of a chair, feeling too awkward to sit down.

'You must be the Elemental, child you stick out like a sore thumb' An old woman appeared in the doorway. Her hair was graying and her clothes looked worn.

'An- wha- elemental?' You tested the words on your tongue, were you not a Grisha?

'Sit.' You did as you were told as she sat opposite you, leaning forward and having a good look at you.

'I've only ever met one of you, you're very rare'

'What am I' The urgency in your voice was strong.

'You take powers from other Grisha. You don't have any of your own.'

'So I'm not a Grisha. Why am I here then?' You scoffed.

'Just because you can't conjure up on your own doesn't mean you are not Grisha'

'I don't want to be here.'

'You've made that quite obvious.'

The room stilled as you thought about which questions to ask next.

'Is it hereditary?'

'Most likely. One doesn't don't know they are an Elemental until they touch a Grisha who is conjuring, hence why you're so rare. There's no test for it.'

'I don't fit in'

'No. You don't.' At least the old woman agreed. 'But don't let that be the reason you flock to change. There are those out there that would kill to have you in their ranks.' She eyed you again, a hidden meaning in her words that you couldn't decipher.

'I can be more than just a Tidemaker?'

'You can be much more, but only if you know how to control it.' She gripped your wrist suddenly, and a weird feeling spread through you, much like the one when General Kirigan touched you. It was like a rush of calm and surety.

'You have potential, a lot of it.'

'How are you going to train me if you've only ever known one of me?' You didn't mean to sound as harsh as you did, but you were growing impatient.

'Grisha science is simple child, even for those who come from Merzost.'

'Merzost?'

'Maybe in due time, Y/N. Maybe then I'll explain.'

-----

She never explained it, never mentioned it to Aleksander, never taught you properly. She held you back constantly and consistently. It was only when you left and almost died did you learn the true reason behind your kind and it still made you apprehensive.

You had yet to dabble in Merzost yourself even though your whole being came from it. You had felt drawn to it sure, but you understood that there was always a price to pay. Like Aleksander with the Fold, or Ilya when he created the amplifiers. You weren't willing to satisfy that silent thirst just yet if it meant sacrificing something dear to you.

The Palace was swimming in life right now despite the brutally cold air. The children had just finished school for the day and were running around playing in the snow while the Summoners were practicing on their grounds. It was nice to hear their laughs and content conversations, a stark contrast to the life you led a mere month ago.

The Little Palace wasn't perfect, but it was the sanctuary Grisha needed and you took pride in the fact that you helped achieve that. Aleksander may have done the bulk of the work, but you put blood, sweat and tears into ensuring that all kinds of Grisha felt safe in Ravka.

You watched as the young Tidemakers used all their might to break through the thick layers of ice on the lake. They worked in unison and in silence as the water shot up and behaved as if it were their puppet and they controlled the strings.

'Reminiscing?' Aleksander appeared at your side in his dramatic black cape.

'When I first came to the Palace, I truly thought I would be stuck as a Tidemaker forever' You laughed at your childish insolence.

'What's so wrong with being a Tidemaker?'

'Hmmm, maybe the fact that East Ravka is land-locked?'

'We have a lake' He pointed out with an amused grin. 'How is Alina?' He changed the topic.

'Your mother is doubtful'

'Isn't she always' His eyebrow raised in a sign of annoyance.

'Claims Alina cannot do anything without an amplifier by her side.'

'She's holding back.'

'Alina or Baghra?'

'Both.' You turned away from him, returning your gaze to the Tidemakers.

'You think she's up to something?'

'When is she not up to something, I fear your return has made her antsy.' You couldn't help but let out a giggle.

'Baghra is unnerved by me, my life goal is complete.'

'She thinks you corrupt me.'

'Does she know it is the other way around?' You mused and took hold of his hand, the action hidden behind his cape.

'I'm offended Ms.Y/L/N. I was under the impression we are both as bad as the other.' He squeezed your hand back, the cool silver ring pressing against your skin. You shivered, cursing yourself for not bringing a cape.

'I think I have to go back in' You said as you watched your breath leave in a cloud of fog.

'I think that's best.' He gave your hand one last tight squeeze and let go, leaving a brief kiss against your temple. You watched the elegant sway of the black material as he made his way to Baghra's hut.

You ran back to the warmth of the indoors and requested a food tray be brought back to your chambers while you dealt with stationing new Grisha around the camps. It was tedious and boring but once you got this done, the rest of the day was yours to do whatever you wished. The library was calling your name, but so was the banya. You had spent so much time in the Little Palace covered in mounds of work you completely forgot to enjoy yourself.

As you signed the last station order, you leaned back into your chair with a sigh and sipped the rest of the kvas in your glass. It wasn't even dinner time yet but you found yourself stifling a yawn. Your mind wandered to Aleksander for the umpteenth time that day. Why did he go to Baghra?

-------

His steps were loud as he descended the stairs into the main part of the hut. Baghra was still sitting in her chair from her previous talk with Y/N when she heard the door squeal open.

'Mother.' His voice echoed throughout the small building alongside the crackling of the fire.

'Have you come to ask about your Sun-Summoner? if so then the Witch has already beat you to it'

'Don't call her that, she's your Deputy now'

'I will call that brat whatever I please.'

'Baghra, I am warning you.' He didn't care for her petty games.

'Do you not see her for what she is Aleksander? She hasn't changed. You cannot go back from the atrocities she has committed.'

'Have you forgotten who I am, who we are?' He spat through his teeth.

'But you have a cause Aleksander, she craves power for the simple reason of it being addictive.'

Baghra had tried to reason with her son countless times about the girl. She pleaded with him when he'd first given himself to her, she's a monster, she will ruin you.

'I have shown you so much mercy Mother, am I not kind enough to you? Must you curse the woman I love?'

'Love is foolish my son and it never got you anywhere. She is trouble, let her go.'

'You would be an amazing court jester' He laughed and sat down beside her leaning in closer 'I am an arm's length away from finding the stag and when I do, the sun-summoner will be at our disposal and Ravka will be ours.'

'The stag is fictional. A myth. You are wasting your time.'

'If a Sun-Summoner walks amongst us, a magical stag isn't in the least a doubtful tale.'

'I'll believe it when I see it. Besides, your biggest worry right now is getting rid of the plague that haunts this Palace.'

'And what would that be, do enlighten me, mother.'

'The woman who came in here earlier bragging about sharing your bed.' Aleksander's heart leaped in his chest. She wasn't ashamed to admit it.

He leaned in closer to his mother, taking her worn hand into his.

'I suggest you find a way to get over your hatred for Y/N before it's too late. Nobody disrespects the Queen and gets away with it'

He got up and made his way to the door, ignoring the look of fury on his mother's face. He was too far away to hear her whisper;

'My boy, you will never get either of those things as long as I live.'

-----

Part 17

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @lifeisingrey @edithsvoice

#shadow and bone #the darkling #imagine #the darkling x reader #ben barnes #alexander #alexander morozova #fanfic #grisha #alina starkov #black general #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #black kefta #baghra morozova

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allegra-writes · 4 years

Text

“Fool’s gold”

Peter Parker x Reader

NSFW

Warnings: Smut. Sex pollen.

This is an alternative version to my fic "Fireproof", where the reader gets doused by the sex pollen instead of Peter, but you don’t need to have read that first. As any sex pollen fic, this can qualify as non/dub-con, so read at your own discretion and responsability.

Dedicated to @angel-spidey because without her this would have never seen the light of day💓

MY MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

Peter knew it was wrong. He knew it. He wasn't delusional enough to believe it was something other than the pollen making you act that way. Making you say those things. You had always been sweet to him, that was true, but you were sweet to everybody, didn't make any difference if they were a janitor or an avenger, it was one of the reasons he liked you so much.

He also knew he wasn't the only one. His eyes weren't the only pair of eyes that strayed to you in the lab, Harley too seemed to be rather distracted whenever he was in your presence. And in fact, Peter didn't think he had ever seen Steve visit the lab that often before. Ever. And the guy was freaking Captain America, how could he ever compete with that?

You didn't feel the same way about him, he had resigned to that a long time ago. To watch you from afar. To love you from afar. Because at least that much was true: the only way he knew he beated the other two men, beaten them by a long shot, was that he loved you the most.

That was why he had left the med bay, because he couldn't stand it, seeing you like that, fighting against your restraints, skin flushed and eyes on fire, calling him, begging him to…

He wasn't able to resist it.

And why he had walked away from the lab, leaving Bruce and Tony and even Stephen, to wrack their brains trying to find a cure, when the obvious solution was right in front of them.

That was how he had found himself alone, in the dark, pretending to nap in the little on call room right outside the med bay, still in his suit after that disastrous mission they should have never let you tag along in the first place. Far enough from you not to hear your desperate pleas, but close enough to help if something happened. If the damn alien substance raised your fever enough to- No. He wasn't going to think about that. Dr. Banner was going to come up with an antidote. They still had time.

Yeah, he knew it was wrong. He knew he should have told FRIDAY to alert mister Stark as soon as he heard the soft sound of your footsteps on the hallway. He knew he should have fled as soon as the knob turned and you entered the room. As you made your way to him. But he was paralized, frozen in place, as you leaned down over him, running your hot, way hotter than normal, hands down his chest, leaving fiery trails in their wake over the thin skin tight fabric of his suit. You raked your nails over his abs, feeling the muscle riple under your touch.

"Y-you shouldn't be here" He stammered, as your fingertips came close, dangerously close, to the place where his suit was already starting to feel tight around his hips.

"Hmm… but you won't tell on me" your thumb traced the base of his length, a barely there caress that nonetheless had him jumping. "Will you, Peter?"

He breathed you in, another mistake. He could practically smell your desire, leaking through your pores. Pheromones, sweet and mouthwatering.

He wouldn't. He couldn't.

Even in the dark, he saw you smile bright at his surrender. Discarding your lab coat, you straddled his hips, little blue skirt riding up your thighs, and released your hair from its ponytail as Peter watched, entranced by your every move. You spread your legs a little more, letting your center come in contact with his by then obvious erection. He could feel your heat through his suit, choking on thin air when he realized you weren't wearing any underwear.

"F-fuck…" He gasped, eyes rolling back inside his skull as you started rocking above him.

He tried desperately to hold still, to stop himself from bucking his hips up to meet yours, but it was impossible. Every cell in his body telling him to move, to touch, to take what he had wanted for so long. What he had never dared to dream he could have.

You moaned at the delicious friction you were creating, and you could hear him starting to breathe harder too. He felt amazing, a soothing balm to your burning skin everywhere you touched. This was what you needed, what the chemicals running in your blood demanded. He was warm, and hard, and male. But more than that, he was Peter, and he had to be yours. There was no other way, no other ending for this story.

You grinded your pelvis against his harder, the pressure on your clit just perfect, the coarse texture of his suit only adding to the sensations. You were making a mess of it, ruining it, but it was worth it just to hear his groan the moment your wetness seeped through the fabric.

"We can't… we can't do this" Peter tried to protest, even as his hands flew to your waist to aid your movements.

"Why? Because an alien pollen is messing with my head?" You got rid of your t-shirt, and Peter's reply died in his throat, you weren't wearing a bra either "because it's wrong? Because It's dirty and-"

A wounded sound left Peter's mouth, a wordless surrender, a sob at his own damnation, and he snapped, his fragile control finally shattering to pieces. One second you were on top of him, teasing him within an inch of his life, and the next you were trapped between the soft mattress and his hard body, as his lips ravished yours, one hand roughly massaging your breasts, the other slipping under your skirt, searching blindly, fingertips digging into the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He was furious in his onslaught, desperation clear in the way he was kissing you, all teeth and tongue. Greedy. Ravenous.

Because if this was all he was ever going to get, just one night with you, as you used him to scratch an itch, then he was going to make the most of it. He was going to commit every little detail to memory: The shape of your body under his, the taste of your skin, the smell of your hair, vanilla and cinnamon and something else, something uniquely you. The sweet little moans falling from your lips.

"Peter, please"

He almost died when you said his name like that, breathless and needy.

"What do you need, princess?" He sobbed, "Anything… it's yours…just-"

"You. I need you" You replied, graceless fingers clawing at his suit, "take it off, please, I need to feel you"

He obeyed, pressing the spider on his chest and practically kicking it off in his haste to return to you. You welcomed him back with open arms and open legs, as he crawled up your body, kissing every inch of skin he could find in the way. Your breath hitched when he got to that little spot just under your breast, and you could feel his smile against the curve of it, right before his lips enveloped your left nipple, calloused fingers circling the other one clumsily, unskilled. But you were too delirious, too far gone to notice, the miles of skin against yours both soothing and stroking the fire within at the same time.

You cried out,

"Peter! Please, it hurts so much, please! I- I can't-"

He kissed the tears away, softly, delicately. A stark contrast to his own demeanour just minutes ago.

"I-it's ok. I got you" He cooed, caressing your face "I'll make it better. I promise"

He braced himself on one arm, elbow digging into the mattress next to your face, as he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around himself, aligning with your center. It took him a few tries, even slipping out once. He had no idea what he was doing, only knew that you needed him, and he wasn't going to let you down. Your life depended on it, and it was too important, too precious for him to even think of failing.

You raised your hips just a bit, and he was sliding in, easily, so easily, as if he was meant for it. As if your bodies were two pieces of the same puzzle, finally falling into place.

"Oh god…"

You clutched as his shoulders, burying your hiss into his neck.

"Oh my god are okey? Did I hurt you?" The panic in Peter's voice made you smile despite yourself. He was still Peter, the sweetest most caring guy you had ever met. Soft, even with his hard cock so deep inside you, you could feel it in your soul, in your very essence, already claiming you as his.

But you didn't need gentle. You didn't want him to thread softly. You needed hard, and fast, and more.

"Peter… fuck me"

"I-..." His eyes met yours, and you saw a new determination in them, jaw squaring as he withdrew almost completely, only to surge again, tearing a new cry from your lips.

He let instinct take over, starting to thrust in and out of you, your tight, silky heat making his eyes roll inside his head

"Fuck! Oh god… oh my god… you feel…" He panted, amazed, handsome face scrunching in pleasure, eyes closed and mouth slack, "Fuck, you feel so good!"

You wanted to reply, to tell him how amazing he felt too, every inch of his thick hard cock stretching you just right. Every ridge, every vein sending shocks of pleasure to your body until you couldn't see straight. You could feel you peak already building, with every delicious drag.

"More… Peter, please… more"

How could he say no, when you were begging so prettily in his ear, hand tugging at his curls making it hurt so good? He picked up his pace, hips slapping against yours. Over, and over, and over…

You were still on fire, every inch of your skin alight, exploding in sensation but it didn't burn anymore. Now it was a simmering warmth, making everything sharper, more intense. Better than anything you had ever felt before. He was better than anything you had felt before.

And Peter was lost in you, in your moans, in your body, in your cunt. In the way you were taking him, consuming him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle, letting him reach deeper, bury himself almost to the hilt. Your blunt nails digging into his back until he smelt blood.

He fucking loved it, love the idea of carring your marks even after this was over. He knew he wanted you to wear his.

His lips found your neck almost of their own accord, sucking and nibbling until the sounds leaving your throat were nothing short of pornographic, the wanton whines and moans resonating in the room until he was sure Bruce and Tony could hear them all the way to the lab.

"Yes, scream for me baby girl, let them know how good I'm fucking you" Peter didn't know where it was coming from, that arrogance, that… possesivenes. He knew you weren't really his. It was the pollen, you would never be doing this otherwise. And he probably wasn't that good, it was his first time after all.

But your cries, the way your whole body was trembling under his, were giving him confidence.

"Oh god… you're coming for me, aren't you? You gonna come on my cock?"

You opened your mouth in a silent scream, and he almost fell on top of you taken by surprise by the feeling of your walls squeezing his cock for the first time ever, triggering his own release. But he didn't have time to recover before you croaked a weak but firm,

"More"

He met your eyes, stunned, but all he found there was assurance and passion.

He turned around on the small bed so it was you the one on top.

"Ride me"

You didn't need to be told twice, straightening on top of him, rising slightly on your knees only to let yourself fall back down, impaling yourself on his dick. He licked his lips, looking like a king with a hand behind his head, gazing up at you through hooded eyes.

"Show me"

"What?"

He gestured towards the mini skirt you forgot you were still wearing.

"Lift up that pretty skirt, and let me see how good you take my cock"

A little whine left your mouth at his words, and you did as you were told, never stopping your bouncing motions.

It worked as Peter imagined it would, his softening cock coming to life again as he watched it disappear inside you.

"Look at that" he whispered, almost in awe, "such a beautiful pussy, looks so pretty, stuffed full of my cock…"

You picked up your rhythm, a little unstable on shaky legs, both hands still holding the fabric up and out of the way.

"Peter…" you whimpered.

"What do you need, baby girl? I told you, anything you want is yours… I'm yours"

You moaned, incapable to find the words. Thinking was impossible, speaking was inconceivable, not with him still between your legs.

He bucked his hips,

"Uh!"

"That what you want, princess?" He smirked, smug, "Like it better when I give it to you?"

You nodded, shamelessly, your legs burning with the effort but stopping was not an option. He sat up on the bed, enveloping you with his arms, thrusting up into you faster, deeper…

You felt the head of his cock stab your cervix, and he must have felt it too, because he groaned, eyes glazing over.

"Can you feel me? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes" You hissed.

"Gonna come like this…" He took hold of your hips, bringing you down hard as he thrusted up, "come so deep inside you… mark you… from the inside"

You could feel it approaching fast, the pleasure he was inflicting on you too much, too soon.

"Fill you up so good…"

"Yes"

"Until it's gushing out of you… and then… gonna fuck you again…"

"Yes!"

"Come inside you again… make you my little cumslut…"

"Yes! Please… please give it to me"

He could feel you tense around him again,

"What do you need, princess?"

"Your come" You screamed, "Give me your come, Peter!"

"Fuck! My pretty little slut… take it… Take it!"

And you did.

…

You passed out somewhere between rounds five and six, utterly sated and exhausted, but Peter couldn't sleep, terrified of the moment you woke up, all the pollen consumed, the spell broken. He knew it wasn't real, but for a few hours, he had been happy, pretending you truly did love him, wanted him, as he had loved and wanted you since the first time he had seen you, all that time ago, the day mister Stark had entered the lab with you in tow, announcing Peter that he had a new lab partner.

He was running his fingers softly up and down your naked back, a barely there caress, watching you sleep, relaxed and happy, when he heard the buzzing coming from your lab coat, long forgotten on the floor near the bed. He took it out and saw Tony’s name lighting up the scream.

He slid to pick up.

“Fucking finally! Y/n, where the hell are you?!”

“Mister Stark, it’s me” He whispered his reply, as not to wake you up.

“Peter! Thank God! What happened? Please tell me you didn’t-“

“Sorry, Mister Stark,” Peter interrupted him, “We kinda did…”

“Shit! Please, Peter, please tell me you kids used protection!”

“Uh…”

Tony left out another loud curse at the other side of the line.

“Where are you? Y/n did something to Friday and now it won’t tell me where you are in the tower. You still in the tower right? I need the both of you to come to the lab right now” Tony was talking a mile a minute and Peter knew something very bad, not of the good was going on.

“Why?”

“Because,” Tony’s voice was frantic as he tried to explain the gravity of the situation, “That pollen thing? That’s not an aphrodisiac like we thought, it’s a fertility treatment. It messes your hormones and hers up with every fluid exchange! Like an artificial heath”

Peter turned to look at you, peacefully asleep, curling up to his side, blissfully unaware of anything and everything going on outside that bed.

And maybe it was the alien substance fucking up his brain, maybe he was the one fucked up, all by himself, but the mental image of you, round with his child, sleeping like that next to him every night? It wasn’t half as horrifying as Tony seemed to think it was.

After all, the girl of his dreams was finally his, and a baby would guarantee she would remain his, forever.

“You know what, Mister Stark? I have to go now. Talk to you tomorrow…”

“What? No, kid, don’t hang up on me! Peter Parker I swear-…”

Tony Stark heard the line go dead.

The end.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader smut #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland imagine

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hi-hey-haechan · 4 years

Text

THIS POST ISN’T SHOWING UP IN THE TAGS, AND I’M SO MAD

“Can I req a smut of Mark Lee, you wake up to him grinding against you and he's so turned on but you have plans but he convinces you to have some needy morning sex”

The light that poured in from the window was what pulled Mark out of his dream. He couldn’t decide if the awakening was a blessing or a curse, based on the contents of his dream.

Despite him having awoken, the dream was still fresh in his mind, devoid of any haziness surrounding the recollections. This, too, may not have been the best thing in that moment, for just remembering the dream caused him to feel himself grown even harder. His loose sweatpants failed to hide his erection.

Mark’s brain honestly scared him, at times, especially when he woke up following a dirty dream, one that felt so real. The way his mind was able to capture every perfect detail, from the way your voice would rasp and grow huskier with desire and pleasure, to the way every inch of his skin would feel like it was ablaze with flames, burning him wherever you touched.

He was so hard that it almost hurt. Mark was sensitive, and practically anything would rile him up. If you just barely touched him, especially where he needed you the most, his body would react to it so easily.

What really surprised Mark was the fact that you were still asleep. His body had already been pressed right against yours while sleeping, and now you unknowingly had his erection poking into you with alarming intensity. You were sound asleep, and he knew that both of you had to be somewhere not too long from then. Mark glanced at the clock, seeing that the alarm was to go off in seven minutes.

He could take a cold shower, but you two were tangled together, and you’d wake up if Mark got out of the embrace. A pool of heat was present in the bottom of his stomach, screaming for release, for him to relieve it. Mark was so needy, so incredibly desperate, that if he didn’t fix the problem right then, it would start to hurt, almost.

His hips bucked forwards, and his hard-on was met with the warm skin and hard muscle of your thigh.. Friction, something his entire being had been yearning for. He almost sobbed out of relief, the slightly involuntary action soothing the ache for a moment.

Again, he ground his erection against you. Mark wanted to go faster, harder, to make himself cum as fast as he could, to get rid of the problem between his legs. Waking you up was also a risk that he needed to avoid, for you’d refuse to help with his problem, claiming you had to be at work (which you did). As much as you loved him, you knew that wasting time in the morning wouldn’t end up well for either of you.

Your thigh stimulated him decently enough, and his eyes shut from the pleasure. He allowed a few sighs and quiet moans to slip past his lips. The state of desire Mark was in made him even more sensitive than usual. The smallest touches could make him jump from the sudden contact, distracting him.

He realized then how badly he wanted you to touch him. Any place you’d graze your fingers, mouth, or tongue, would ignite a fire within him. As soon as you touched him, he was all yours, turned to putty by you alone. Desperate for you, Mark pressed himself even closer to you. In doing so, his hard member pressed up against your thigh harshly. He whimpered from the friction, pleasure, and heat radiating from the two of your bodies, pressed close together.

It felt so good, so impossibly good, and he almost sighed from relief. He didn’t hold back, and his hips moved subtly and fluidly as he humped your thigh. He wanted more, but at this point, he took what he got, simply trying to get himself off as quickly as he could.

You were asleep, arms entangled around your boyfriend, just as his were around you, but you felt something poking against your thigh. You felt more pressure applied to your leg, before it was removed partially. This repeated, which confused you within your groggy state. Slowly, you grew more conscious, feeling your body begin to awaken. Your ears picked up on the noises coming from Mark, hearing him moan quietly and even release the neediest whine, at times.

“Mark?” you asked, slightly confused, as you opened your eyes. The movement against you stopped, and the room fell silent. When you looked next to you, wide, innocent eyes stared into yours steadily. During the night, you two had shifted unconsciously, Mark shifting downward and you upward. Now, you were able to lean forward and kiss his forehead, as opposed to what it commonly was.

However, the sudden tenderness of the moment didn’t change your confusion. “What are you doing? Or rather, what were you doing?” you inquired.

Mark momentarily panicked, wondering what to say. “What do you mean?” he inquired innocently.

The alarm began to beep, so you quickly shut it off, rolling over in an annoyed huff. You needed to wake up, to get out of bed and prepare for the day. You always enforced this, refusing to allow yourself to cuddle with your boyfriend longer. It took a lot of discipline, but you’d probably get fired for constantly arriving late if you didn’t force yourself awake.

“You know exactly what I mean.” You pulled away the covers from the two of you, exposing the outline of his member in his gray sweatpants, which had an obvious bulge in them. “Though looking at the state you’re in, I think I can guess.”

“Help me?” Mark asked, “Please?”

You wanted to help him out, to make him feel good and hear the sounds he’d make for you. Really, you did. But, “Mark, we both have to go. You have practice, and I have work.”

He knew you’d reply with something like that. You always did, which was why there was rarely any morning cuddling. This time, he refused. He hugged you, entangling his legs with yours. “No,” he almost whined.”We can just shower together or something, to take up less time. I need you so bad. I had a dream, and then I woke up like this. Please, I’m so hard.”

“Anything else?”

“Um...I love you?”

You kissed him, and Mark almost whined. Your hand grazed the bulge in his sweatpants, and he bucked his hips against you. He was so sensitive, and the way his body was so responsive to all your actions was so hot to you. Without further hesitation, you straddled his narrow hips, once again connecting your lips to his.

The way he kissed you back was eager and desperate, and it almost made you laugh. When you ground your hips down onto his clothed erection, it was almost self-indulgent -- you wanted to see how he’d react, for one, and two, it stimulated your clit at the same time. Mark bucked his hips up to your crotch, and he grabbed onto your waist, squeezing lightly. A sound of pleasure was audible from him, despite the noise being stuck in his throat.

Deciding to stop teasing him, based on the time crunch and his neediness, you removed his shirt. For a moment, you touched his torso. Greedily, you felt the hot, smooth skin under the palms of your hands. Your fingertips grazed his collarbones, before running down his chest and even the line down his toned stomach. Mark’s body shuddered under your touch, and his grip on your waist tightened. Your mouth connected to one of his sensitive nipples, knowing he’d go crazy. He legitimately cried out, which was uncommon, even for him. Mark, you realized, must have been hard for a while, for him to be this reactive. Taking advantage of this, you sucked a few hickies on his chest and collarbones. You stayed away from his neck. Despite the company knowing about you two, he didn’t want to show up to work with hickies, where he could be forced to end the relationship at the drop of a hat.

Finally, you got to his sweatpants, which you removed swiftly. Mark exhaled a sigh of relief, free from the fabric that restrained him, despite it being just a slight difference. Seeing his member spring free, you couldn’t help but feel bad at the sight. He was so hard, and his red tip was smeared with precum. You ran a finger over the tip excruciatingly slowly. As much as you knew you were on a time crunch, seeing him writhe from sensitivity was something you enjoyed too much to not observe or focus on.

“If you’re in such a rush,” Mark rasped lustfully, “then why are you taking so long?”

“You know how much I love to tease you,” you replied, as though he should have known this all along.

You stripped, too. Mark’s eyes followed as you pulled your shirt up and above your head, taking in the sight of your bare torso. He pitifully grabbed your waist so he could look at you, and part of him just wanted to touch your bare skin.You pulled off your comfortable shorts and panties, leaving your entire naked form sitting on his bare crotch. You scooted back, and that was when you felt his hard member, which was sitting straight up, met with your wet area.

Seeing him turn to putty never failed to turn you on. The fact that your touches and words could have so much of an effect on him was so hot. Your wet pussy dragged against his hard member, and Mark hissed out from the stimulation.

It felt good for you, too, the way he dragged through the lips of your crotch. Refusing to waste another second, you sunk down on his lengh. Mark whined out in pleasure, and your teeth momentarily gritted together, trying to adjust to the pain of his length inside of you. Despite how wet you were, the initial push felt like a sudden intrusion.

“You okay?” Mark’s voice was hoarse, and the fact that he already had a deep voice made his statement sound quite hot. It took your mind off of the pain for a second, which you very much appreciated.

You nodded, shutting your eyes and inhaling a shaky breath, waiting for the pain in your lower abdomen to suddenly melt away. Soon enough, though, the sharp, stabbing pain faded, awakening sparks of pleasure to take its place. In the meantime, you had been clenching tightly around Mark, just from the intrusion of his member inside you.

As soon as you started moving, he knew he wouldn’t last. The slide of his cock against the slickness of your walls brought him so much pleasure, and you were so tight around him, especially when you’d clench involuntarily. Mark threw his head back against the pillow, and his eyes were screwed shut. .

His hands were squeezing your waist, and this helped you move up and down on his member, thankfully enough for you. This position allowed him to hit parts inside of you that you had no idea he could hit, parts that felt so impossibly good, causing white to blaze behind your eyes. The tip of his member was right against your g-spot, which sent shocks of pleasure through your entire body. You weren’t expecting so much so fast, so you cried out a bit, as well as clenched, which earned a loud moan from Mark.

Your hands were placed on his chest, bracing and steadying you and your movements. You flicked a thumb over his sensitive nipples, and Mark’s breath hitched in his throat. When you pinched them, his hands squeezed your hips tightly, and his breaths grew uneven, exhales coming out as whines, at times. He bucked his hips up into you.

You gyrated your hips slowly, teasing him. The entire time, with him pressed against your g-spot, you were already practically on Cloud 9. It was hardly a note-worthy movement, but at the same time, the new angle stretched you out further, making you feel incredible.

Mark forced your torso down against his, and he flipped you over, the action being quite ungraceful but successful nonetheless. Your eyes bore into his, a shocked look on your face. He’d been submissive to every action just a second ago, so what was this spark of dominance?

He didn’t hesitate to pound his hips into you, thrusting desperately, needing to cum as soon as he could. He’d been on edge for so long, and it wouldn’t take much more for him to climax. Despite being on top, his moans were loud, his deep voice sounding higher-pitched than usual at the moment.

You, however, were an utter mess. His thrusts were sharp and powerful, and they were fast, too, barely giving you a second to breathe. You grasped his shoulders, hardly able to find something to grab onto as his hips continued their assault on your pussy.

The string that was being pulled more and more tightly in your lower abdomin was prepared to snap at any second. “I’m so close,” you almost sobbed, feeling so incredibly high on the pleasure he was giving you.You could barely let him know as you came, voice gone. Your legs quaked almost violently, and you called out his name loudly, curses and moans slipping past your lips.

The clenching of you around his member as you came, as well as the way you cried out his name, sent Mark hurtling to his climax. You were coming down from your own high, yet were still being stimulated, when Mark came. His seed coated your walls, the hot sensation almost making you want to cum again, right on the spot. Any sound he made was some type of moan, some more breathy than others, but he was crying out from pleasure all the same.

You were barely aware of him pulling out and flopping beside you, both of your chests still heaving. You didn’t even try to speak for a moment, and instead allowed yourself to catch your breath.

Mark was the one to speak first after a few seconds. “See? Aren’t you glad you helped me out?”

Ugh, he had been right. Not that you didn’t think he would be, but the time crunch was honestly worth it. You nodded and rolled your eyes. “Fine, you were right. But I’m getting the hell into the shower.”

As you got out of bed, not wasting another second, Mark was following right behind you. However, you stopped in your tracks on the way to the bathroom.

“Oh, and Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“No round two in the shower.”

#if this doesn't show up in the tag #i will be mad #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct #nct dream #nct imagines #mark smut #mark lee smut #nct 127 smut #mark #mark lee #mark imagines #nct hard hours #kpop hard hours #kpop smut

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averykedavra · 4 years

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Set All My Regrets on Fire

Anyone up for some post-POF Roceit angst? I’m way late to the party, but hey, let’s do this. This is for a WTIYS by @hitmewiththatfanart33, who’s a great writer and seems like a really nice person. Check ‘em out if you haven’t already! Congrats on 1k, you deserve it!

This is based around Out on the Town by Fun, a banging song, and I played it on loop while writing this! You can find this fic on Ao3 here.

Words: 10,756 (yeah I can’t write oneshots what of it)

Pairings: platonic Roceit

Warnings: self-hatred, bad self-care, food mentions, extra arms, negative self-talk, sleep deprivation, a bit of an identity crisis, fire, anxiety, panic attacks, crying, some symptoms of depression and/or disassociation, very brief suicidal ideation (only in reference to ducking out), sympathetic everyone including Remus (even though there are some less-than-charitable mentions, it’s because Roman and Janus are in a bad place).

Summary: Roman wants to apologize. Janus wants to explain. It’s a shame neither of them can work up the courage to say hello.

---

I knew there would come a day when all was said and done.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

It’s a nice door, rather simplistic, with a golden doorknob and a little knocker in the center and a peephole set right below it. Roman’s carefully avoiding the peephole, but if Janus tried hard enough, he could probably see Roman standing in the hallway like he’s waiting for a coffee.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize Roman, though. Roman isn’t wearing his usual costume. He needed something soft and comfortable, so he stole Virgil’s old hoodie. It’s a darker color scheme than he’s used to, but not too bad, and it settles around his shoulders and makes him feel protected. He’d worry about being teased by Virgil, but Virgil hasn’t come out of his room for days.

Roman pulls it tighter around him. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like he’s getting a hug, or he’s weighed down by blankets during a sleepover, Disney playing in the background as he does Patton’s nails.

That hasn’t happened for weeks. Janus has watched movies with Patton and nobody else came. Roman lurked in the doorway before turning away, retreating to his empty room and a too-dark hoodie.

A little voice in his head says, you should get used to the dark.

Roman ignores it. He’s good at that, ignoring anything he doesn’t like. Logan, for instance. Or the flaws in his own ideas. Or Janus’ biting words.

Well, that last one has evaded him. They flit around his head like fiery butterflies, searing away his thoughts, whispering when he tried to sleep.

That’s why he’s here.

Standing in front of Janus’ door, one hand raised, trying to work up the courage to knock.

He is courage. He’s a Gryffindor, bold and brave and passionate. So why can’t he make his hand fall? The whole world has frozen around him, waiting in expectation, eyes crawling up his spine. He’s always loved the stage. He always bears the burden of being the center of the attention. Now he feels exposed, wrong, a glossy photo cut from a magazine and pasted into this scene. He scuffs his feet on the floor and hopes no one walks by at this moment and sees how ridiculously pathetic Roman is being. There’s a slim chance of that. Virgil’s in his room, Logan’s in his room, Patton’s in the kitchen baking mounds of cookies and smiling a brittle smile at anyone who enters. Maybe Remus will show up and knock Roman out again. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad--it would be an excuse not to talk to Janus.

He tries to picture Janus’ reaction. Maybe Janus will ignore his knock. Maybe Janus will attack him, berate him, tell him he’s not welcome here. He hasn’t been hostile towards Roman whenever they cross paths, but he hasn’t been kind, either. Mostly he’s just ignored Roman. Roman’s done his best to return the favor, skipping family dinners and staying in his room. At first Patton tried to get him out, but Patton must have given up, because the knocks stopped coming.

Worse, Janus might pity him. He certainly looks a mess, standing in the hallway in his best friend’s hoodie, hair greasy and falling over his face. Janus might forgive him more easily if Roman looked pathetic. However, the very idea stings. He doesn’t want reluctant or guilty forgiveness--he wants the real thing. And isn’t that so selfish of him?

He could fix everything, of course. He could snap his fingers and get rid of the hoodie, sweep his hair back from his face, rub away the bags under his eyes from several sleepless nights, rub the wrinkles from his black shirt. But that wouldn’t erase the fact that he’s forgotten how to smile.

It’s easy. It should be easy. He’s practiced it in the mirror a thousand times. Crinkle the eyes, lift the corners of the mouth, scrunch the nose, pull the smile tight until it tickles his cheeks. He’s an actor. He should be able to look like he’s happy to be here, look like he’s happy at all, yet he can’t find the right combination. He tries to smile and it feels too stretched, too forced, too disjointed. He lets it fall because he doesn’t think he could bear to let it exist a moment more.

Janus isn’t the only liar here, is he?

It’s just one smile, he tells himself, trying again. This time he barely manages to lift the corners of his mouth before he lets his face collapse.

And he’s supposed to be an actor. Pathetic.

Roman rubs his face and clutches the jacket for warmth. He should give it back to Virgil. Virgil doesn’t wear it anymore, but he tends to panic whenever something isn’t in its place. Yeah, he’ll go give it to Virgil, leave it in a bundle by the door or just sneak it back into the closet. He can conjure his own jacket. Even though it won’t feel the same, won’t have the same comforting weight, like Virgil has his back.

He’s really a mess right now. His lips are cracked and he won’t stop curling into himself like he wants to disappear.

Maybe he does, just a bit.

Roman sighs and turns away from Janus’ door.

He’ll come back when he looks the part.

---

Everything I was is everything but gone.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

If he’s being honest--which is a hilarious concept--it’s a little too gaudy for his tastes. He’s all about tasteful theatrics and dramatic decor, but this is so over-the-top it’s almost sad. Still, he supposes he can appreciate the effort put into it. Years of effort, in fact. It’s practically a mural of different designs. Roman clearly kept painting over sections when he had a new idea, never bothering to erase the whole thing. There’s also an excessive amount of glitter and enough rainbows to make a leprechaun faint in delight. A large sign reads Prince Roman, Creativity in red sparkling cursive.

It looks like a five-year-old made it, which is the sort of charitable assumption Janus feels he should keep to himself, based on Patton’s advice. It might “hurt Roman’s feelings.” And if he only manages to antagonize Roman, then this entire trip was a waste.

He doesn’t want to be here, of course. He would much rather be reading, or looking after his snakes, or perhaps planning the downfall of society at large. Or...maybe with Patton, baking cookies or watching movies or exchanging puns as they pass.

Hanging out with Patton. As if they’re friends. Despicable. Friendship is a boogeyman, affection is a social construct, and Janus has no use for it.

He told this to Patton, who laughed and said “You’re so silly! Can you grab my oven mitts?” And Janus did, because lulling Patton into a false sense of security meant his master plan could go undetected. He’s not quite sure what his master plan is, yet, but he’s sure he has one. He’s certainly not spending time with Patton for the fun of it.

Definitely not.

Lying to himself is harder than lying to other people, which is annoying. He supposes that deceiving himself would compromise his ability to deceive others. He needs to know the truth, deep within him, so he can obscure it and twist it and use it as he sees fit.

It’s the others who enjoy lying to themselves.

He should be proud of that, that despite their self-proclaimed hatred for Deceit, they lie to each other and themselves every day. He’s not. It stings how much they lie, it eats into his skin and burns. Logan says everyone lies. Well, that’s a paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. Patton never liked to hear that. Patton still doesn’t, but that’s not an issue anymore, since Logan hasn’t been there to say anything.

It’s Janus’ fault, of course, and it was a necessary sacrifice to get Thomas to listen. He doesn’t mind if Logan hates him. Logan is Logic--he’ll come around He’s always been the smartest of the sides.

Roman, however, keeps grudges.

So Janus is here to ask for forgiveness. Or at least to explain what he meant, why he did what he did. Then Roman can start rejoining the group at dinner, Thomas’ creative pursuits will regain their spark, and Thomas will be alright.

That’s all Janus needs. Janus is self-preservation. He’s only here, standing awkwardly in front of Roman’s door, because Thomas is suffering and his function is to help Thomas.

If Roman hates him, that’s perfectly fine. He just needs Roman to hate him and keep doing his job.

Janus wishes so deeply that he was better at lying to himself.

He stands there, hand raised, poised to knock, for a frankly embarrassing length of time. He’s not sure what’s stopping him. His chest itches and his eyes burn slightly as if the golden glitter of Roman’s door is blinding him.

“Janus?” he hears. “Do you wanna watch Winnie the Pooh?”

“Of course, Patton.” Janus glances at Roman’s door and gladly twirls his cloak and walks away.

He’ll come back when Patton doesn’t need him.

---

All my big mistakes are bouncing off your wall.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. He’s got two deadlines in the next week, one after that, and he missed a brainstorming session with Logan and Logan’s been badgering him about it. Besides, he didn’t hit the word count for the story he’s writing, and he has to squeeze in some more writing tonight. Long story short, he has much more important things to do than loiter in front of Janus’ door and watch it like it’ll knock for him.

Yet he’s here. Self-control has never been his strong point.

Besides, he’s almost glad of the change of scenery. His room is a magical place filled with ideas and inspiration and lights that dance around the ceiling like fairies or birds. It’s also a mess, the bedsheets half pulled off the bed, pillows strewn about the floor, candles burned low, Spotify playing a million Disney medleys that blend together in his ears, his desk covered in papers with slowly deteriorating handwriting and unfinished stories and reminders of things he knows he’ll never get around to.

This hallway is blank and empty with a gray carpet and a slightly different shade of gray for the walls. But it isn’t filled with his own scratchy words, taunting him for his failure, the grandfather clock skipping around as time seems to scrunch up and speed past like it’s falling in dollops down his windows.

When’s the last time he even left his room? He can’t remember.

He really should be working.

He lets his hand fall to his side, picks it up, and hovers over the knocker.

Roman can’t bring himself to knock.

His eyes itch. He’s tired. He should be sleeping, but he doesn’t feel like it. He knows he can’t. Not until he’s wrung out every last idea, scribbled his way to the finish of each story, made something that’s crappy and unrealistic and vapid but something. He’ll settle for a terrible idea that Logan will tear into the next day, as long as it’s an idea, something coherent from the snarled mess that’s inside his head.

He’ll feel better if he eats or sleeps or just takes a break. The voice that tells him that sounds like Logan and Patton. But he doesn’t have time. There’s never enough time. His mind runs ahead of his mouth runs ahead of his hands runs ahead of the clock that ticks steadily in his room, reminding him that time is running out, that his days are numbered and soon he’ll shatter and fail and crumple to the ground and still, it will never be enough.

He needs to go work.

Why won’t his legs move?

Why does he insist on standing here, one arm raised, frozen in limbo?

He needs to work or they’ll all hate him.

Usually, that gets him moving. Today it barely stings. Of course they’ll all hate him. They’ll hate him no matter whether his ideas are complete or not. The only person he creates for is Thomas, and Thomas doesn’t care.

Sometimes deadlines keep him going. Sometimes passion keeps him going. Sometimes validation keeps him going. He has a lot of the first one and none of the last two. His mind is empty at the bottom and leaking from the side. His joints and limbs are mismatched like a doll’s, and he feels out of control of all of them, like he’s just a character in someone else’s story.

He really needs to go work.

Janus can wait.

Janus probably isn’t even awake--it’s sometime past midnight. Or maybe it isn’t midnight yet. Roman can’t quite remember and doesn’t really care about the difference. He’s wearing bunny slippers and has several ink stains on his fingers and probably looks as exhausted as he feels. He shouldn’t be here. He’d just been thinking too much in his room, and he figured if he could finally see Janus, his thoughts would finally shut up and let him work.

Pathetic, he tells himself, and tries to make that be enough to turn away. It should be enough. Fear and panic have always kept him going before. The one thing that gets in the way of any great adventure isn’t fear--fear is what pushes him to rehearse, keeps his mouth shut, helps him scramble to reach a deadline. What gets in his way is apathy. The sick, cotton-filled nights where he’d much rather close his eyes and sink into the hole in his chest than write another word.

He’ll get through it. He always has.

He doesn’t have another choice.

Roman wrenches himself back into his body and walks down the hallway, each step hesitant and disjointed, his mind buzzing and still at the same time.

He’ll come back when he isn’t so busy.

---

The bottles never break, the sorrow never comes.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It’s late. He’s already had dinner and really should be sleeping, since Logan always says to sleep at ten o’clock and Janus can’t argue with self-care. However, he knows that Roman is up. There’s a small light under the door, flickering, and he knows it’s a candle. At first he was scared it was a fire, but that was just instinctive after dealing with the other Creativity for so long. The burning is controlled and flickers on and off. Occasionally shadows shift and Janus steps back instinctively.

Roman does not open the door.

Good, Janus thinks, although he has to admit he’s disappointed at the same time. Perhaps it would be easier if Roman opened the door. Roman would have questions, surely, but it would rid Janus of the obligation to knock.

He is far too tired to knock. He’s practically leaning on the wall. He should go to bed.

He doesn’t want to go to bed. Not yet.

It’s been a long day. Thomas is struggling with the most recent video idea. Remus has become even more manic and disruptive than usual. Patton is sad, Logan is angry, and Virgil is nowhere to be found.

Of course it’s Janus who has to put the pieces back together and calm everyone down. He’s the self-preservation side. He’s the only one somewhat sturdy after that disaster of an episode.

Still, it’s rather tiresome, he has to admit. This is why he doesn’t help people. You do it once, and suddenly everyone has expectations. Suddenly you’re cast in the role of the Good Guy when Janus has always been comfortable on the other side of the battlefield.

But there’s no time for shoulds and shouldn’ts, doubts and worries, the question of whether he deserves this or not--he has a job to do. The world is collapsing, Thomas is struggling, so Janus will tie rope around all the sides’ wrists and puppet them back into position. An unsavory metaphor but an accurate one. He is not their friend, sitting with them until they calm down. He is just playing a part. He’s been called on to steady the ship, and he will do that, because that is his job.

He is not their friend. He only lets them call him that because it gets him what he wants.

That is just how things are, and nothing can change that.

He could leave them behind entirely and go back to how things were. He’s thought about that more than once. He could crawl back into the darkness and lie on a messy couch and watch Good Omens and laugh whenever he hears a white lie. However, things have changed, for better or for worse. Regrets and would-have-beens are other things Janus is not built for, cannot allow. The truth is that the past is the past. He cannot rewrite the story, only play his part to perfection, a hollow face with a useless name and a meaningless place among the sides he barely cares for.

He’s tired. He wants to go to sleep.

But Deceit cannot sleep when he still needs to glue in the cracks.

And he knows Roman should be on his list of Ridiculous Idiots to Help. He knows he should be talking to Roman right now. He knows it’s his job to check in on Roman, who has been more frazzled and angry every time Janus sees him, barely noticing when Patton says hello.

Roman might not want to see him.

And Janus really wants to sleep.

It’s a coward’s move to turn away from the door. But it’s what Janus does, because Janus is self-preservation and cowardly and selfish and that is what he is. It is all he is ever going to be. Pull off his gloves and scrape beneath his scales, and there is nothing there at all, nothing but a name and a title and an ever-shifting voice.

He can imitate any side he likes, help any side he wants, and hurt any side he chooses. Whenever his own desires and emotions get in the way, it only ends in turmoil and trouble and hurt.

He shouldn’t have even shared his name. Not because of Roman’s response, but because now everyone believes he’s their friend, a person in his own right, someone they’re capable of getting to know.

It’s Janus’ greatest lie, and it’s the one he hates the most.

He wants to sleep.

Janus is not in the mood to play pretend with Roman, to bait him into forgiveness, to pacify him with lies. Janus is in the mood to snap back. To bare his teeth and poke at weak spots and say whatever it takes for him to be left alone. He’s bubbling up with emotion and his walls are turning to swords. He can’t talk to Roman like this unless he wants Roman to stab him through the heart.

Janus groans and kicks angrily at the wall. It hurts. He enjoys the sensation of doing something other than sitting still and playing nice.

He’s going to go sleep.

He’ll come back when he’s less tired.

---

So come on, let me in.

Roman is standing at Janus’ door.

He wrote a letter this time. It took him an embarrassing number of drafts to get it, and he’s still not entirely happy with it, and he’s pretty sure he misspelled something in the third paragraph. He’d ask Logan for help, but Logan’s been prickly ever since Janus replaced him--and they were never on the best of terms to begin with. Logan, Roman is pretty sure, would gladly exchange him for another Creativity.

It stings in the way that only the truth does.

His letter is crumpled in his hand. He could simply slip it under the door and disappear. But he feels the urge to explain it, apologize for it, try to say something for himself instead of hiding behind shields of sentences. If only he could figure out what to say.

The letter is simple. It’s an apology and a request to try and work together. Roman ended up going for a short and sweet letter, even though it goes against all his instincts. Being extra like Roman usually is might not be the best idea. Being Roman might not be the best idea. If he wants to convince Janus that he’s not a bad guy, he should act like a little less of a self-centered, impulsive, cruel side with no tact and intelligence.

Wait. Why is this about convincing Janus that he’s not a bad guy? This is about apologizing. All Roman needs to do is apologize. It didn’t matter if Janus thinks he’s the bad twin--Janus has a point, after all.

Roman shakes his head. He shouldn’t be focused on what Janus said. They were just words and he could handle them. He’s the one that needs to apologize. Then Janus could forgive him and things could go back to normal--

Wait.

Was that why he was apologizing? Because it gets him what he wants?

Roman swallows and backs away from the door, letter limp in his hand. No. That can’t be right. He’s guilty. Some days he feels the guilt might tear him apart at the seams, rip through his blood vessels, curl around his heart and strangle his lungs until there’s nothing left but ash.

That’s a very Remus thought.

Roman shakes his head violently but it can’t dislodge the voice in his head. Evil twin.

This doesn’t matter! He doesn’t need to think about this. He can just drop off the letter for Janus and be on his way. He doesn’t need to try and apologize, or ask Janus what he meant by evil, or ask if Janus wants to replace him or if he’s already trying or if everyone’s decided Roman is worthless and needs to be replaced. He’s heard nothing about that, but he’s been in his room. For all he knows, Janus could be ousting him from his spot.

That should make him furious. Why doesn’t it make him furious? Where’s that burning passion that always gets him into trouble?

Is it because Janus is right?

Roman squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t cry. He needs to knock on Janus’ door and hand him the letter. He doesn’t even have to say anything. The letter--the stupid, poorly-written, not-enough-to-take-back-everything letter--can do the talking for him.

He could say he’s sorry. He could say, why did you say what you said? He could say, are you the bad guy? He could say, am I?

He could say a million things. None of them would give him the right answers and none of them would be enough to fix things.

All he has is one stupid letter.

Roman leaves it on the ground by Janus’ door and walks away,

Ten minutes later, he walks back over. The letter is still there. Roman grabs it and rips it into pieces. It spirals around his feet like confetti. He snaps his fingers and the little pieces burst into flames and blacken, crumbling to bits of ash. He kicks the ash into the corners of the hallway and walks away, hands clenched, chin high.

He’ll come back when he thinks of what to say.

---

I will be the sun.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

He knows Roman has been nearby. Janus’ hallway now smells like smoke. It could be Remus, of course, but Remus wouldn’t light a fire without making a big deal out of it. So Roman lit something on fire in front of his door, whatever that means.

Janus doesn’t know why that makes him feel worried.

He’s here to confront Roman about the fire, nothing else. It should be in and out. “Hello, Roman, might I inquire why you burned something in front of my door? And could you tell me how to get rid of the smell? It would be very kind of you.”

Of course, Janus’ hands have to betray him, and he’s stuck hovering around Roman’s door as if it’s shielded from him. He summons another hand, then another, then all of them. They all curl their fists and rise up to meet the door. None of them fall. None of them make a sound.

Janus almost hisses in frustration. Why is this so hard? What is he so afraid of?

He’s not supposed to be afraid. He’s Deceit. He’s faced down the worst parts of Thomas’ psyche. He’s tamed wild monsters in the Subconscious, gone toe-to-toe with Remus, dealt with Virgil when he was wild and fiery and didn’t know how to stop fighting. He holds the key to every secret Thomas has ever possessed. He doesn’t get scared.

And yet, a simple closed door is enough to bring him down.

Pathetic, he thinks. Then he catches himself. Negative self-talk is unhealthy. Even though it seems to be everywhere these days, his mind falling into old habits and ruts he didn’t know existed, slipping and sliding down a slope until he’s left spiraling and wondering if he’ll ever be able to fix things, if he’ll ever be more than a liar, if being Janus means anything at all or if he’s just fooling himself into believing he could ever have a family--

Janus clenches his fists. Not the time. He needs to talk to Roman.

And say what? Roman, I’m sorry. Roman, don’t hate me. Roman, you’re affecting Thomas. Roman, Patton is worried for you. Roman, I’m worried for you.

Roman, why did you light a fire outside my room?

Roman, why did it take so little work to break you?

He hadn’t even meant to. He always aims to protect Creativity, and well-placed flattery was the best tactic to lure Roman out of Patton’s grasp. He didn’t count on the insecurities beneath the surface that burst into being the moment Roman saw himself as a failure. They were just compliments. It was just a little manipulation. He hadn’t meant to--hadn’t meant to make Roman cry.

Some grand puppet master, hurting the one person he needed on his side.

This is why he can’t be trusted. This is why he isn’t meant up here in the light side. He isn’t good and pure. All he does is destroy things, people, dreams. He should have learned his lesson from Virgil. Instead, he jumped in where he wasn’t wanted and miscalculated the landing, and now Creativity is sulking with the door closed.

Creativity is broken.

Maybe he’s always been--maybe it just took Janus to throw all the fractures into the light.

Janus is good at unearthing secrets. He’s less good at dealing with the messy aftermath. Yet here he is, struggling to knock on a door, running through every word in his head. He is a master of deception, the lord of the lies, a silver-tongued trickster who could slip into skins and play any part he wishes. Yet he runs dry when thinking of what to say to Roman. There is nothing he can say.

Roman is only feet away, but so far beyond Janus’ reach.

Janus leans against the wall, two arms hugging himself, one hand reaching up to grab a fistful of hair, another covering his mouth. His final two still hover over Roman’s door, but Janus might as well have lost control of them entirely, since they refuse to knock.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Roman would surely take well to Janus’ interruption. And Janus doesn’t feel like being mocked for the state he is in--reduced to shudders, holding back tears, as if he has a right to be upset. As if he should be upset. He needs to pull himself together. He’s better than this.

Janus tightens his hand over his mouth. He can barely breathe. Was that what it felt like when he did the same to Logan? To Roman, to Patton, to Virgil? His gloves are soft and rough at the same time. Janus remembers taking one off, holding his hand up, feeling so exposed. He let down all his barriers--and he should have known that would backfire, he was Deceit, he wasn’t meant for truth and openness and friendship. He’d let his guard down and he’d gotten hurt.

Of course, it didn’t hurt him. At all.

Hello, Roman. Sorry about tearing into your insecurities and everything, but could you please apologize for making fun of my name?

Pathetic, Janus thinks again, and this time he doesn’t bother to stop himself. He is pathetic and a mess and about three seconds away from crying in front of Roman’s door.

Janus sighs and turns away, vanishing his extra arms into his cloak, leaving Roman’s door behind him. He supposes he’ll never know about the fire. He supposes it doesn’t really matter at all.

He’ll come back when he thinks of what to say.

---

I will wake you up.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

He’s angry. Perhaps more furious than he should be, under the circumstances, but he kind of enjoys the way the anger sparks in his chest. It makes him feel more awake and in control than he has for months.

He’s not even sure what he’s angry at. It could be anything. The obvious answer is the fun little exchange he had with Thomas this morning--Thomas wants to bring Remus into more of their discussions. Thomas wants to “explore different directions in his content.” Thomas wants the other twin.

Thomas swears he wants Roman there, too, but Roman sees what this is really about. This is the beginning. This is how it starts--one word, one offer to join in movie nights, and soon Remus will be taking his place. Roman will be ousted from his seat at the table and be thrown into the darker side of Thomas’ mind. Forgotten, ignored, hated.

He’s known this was coming. He knows he deserves it.

But to actually hear it from Thomas himself--it stings. It aches and claws at him until he turns to anger, because anger is safe and anger allows him to find someone else to blame. Or maybe he didn’t choose anger. Maybe anger just came of its own accord, because emotions don’t always make sense, and Logan does always call Roman irrational.

He’s standing in front of Janus’ door and has the urge to pummel it to the ground.

Stupid Janus. Sneaky snake. Slimy boy. A two-faced trickster with a silver tongue and silly gloves. Why had Roman even considered apologizing to him? Janus doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t--he hasn’t even tried to talk to Roman after everything. He’s just let Roman sit in his misery forever.

Maybe Roman doesn’t deserve an apology, but he’d sure as hell like one.

Maybe he’ll apologize too. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll leave Janus hanging, unsure of their position, struggling to get a grasp on whether Roman is serious or lying or hates Janus or hates himself or just wants some peace and quiet. Maybe he’ll make Janus confused, like Roman is every single day, and he can finally see Janus’ face when his insufferable righteous in-control expression falls away.

He’ll see the Janus behind the mask.

And maybe everything will make sense then. Maybe nothing will. Maybe Roman’s just grasping at straws, clawing at the sides of the hole he’s falling into, desperately reaching for anything that will keep him from

He’s wearing his prince costume. It feels wrong and itchy around his shoulders. Too square, too gaudy, too ridiculously heroic. He got black ink stained on the shirt yesterday and panicked because he thought the Mindscape was turning him evil already. He should have known. Evil is a choice, in the end, and soon Roman will have to make that choice. Let himself fall, for the good of everyone, and learn what it’s like on the dark side.

Broadway, here he comes.

Still. Not yet. Roman has always been irritatingly persistent. And he needs to talk to Janus. Yell at Janus. Shake Janus until he gets answers to every question in his head. He doesn’t know what he’ll ask, but hopefully Janus will know, because Janus knows Roman better than Roman knows himself.

Roman raises his hand to knock on the door.

He taps quietly, once, twice.

The door creaks open.

Roman steps forward and looks into the room. It’s empty and still. There’s a surprising amount of dust on every surface. Books line the walls, almost more books than Logan’s room, and there’s a record player by an armchair, and some small lamps that glow the same shade as Janus’ eyes. His bed is old and mahogany and the sheets are rumpled.

Janus must be out, then. Perhaps talking with Remus or arguing with Virgil or debating with Logan or baking with Patton. Maybe he’s talking to Thomas, thinking through how they’ll break the news to Roman that he’s useless, that they’ve decided to lock him in his room and shove him into the back of the mind where he can’t mess up anything else.

The thought is burning and furious and climbs up Roman’s throat. His hand goes to his sword. He looks around at the room, dim and serene.

He could destroy it, if he wanted. He could tear it to pieces. He could burn the books on the walls, slice through the carpet on the floor, throw the record player against the wall and watch it break in two. He could open up the floorboards and read through the books and check under the bed and try to find something that tells him more about Janus, that’s something real and tangible beneath a million layers of deception.

He could. He wants to. He wants to so badly, and this is why he never gives himself what he wants, because desire is a sickening sensation that scares him.

He could destroy everything.

He is Creativity--he is meant to create. But if his title means nothing, what’s wrong with using the other side of the coin?

He could burn this place to the ground.

Everything is so still and perfect. It’s all waiting for Janus. Roman can almost picture him curled up in that recliner, reading a book, humming along to a song on the record player. His hair falling over his face, his capelet messed up, his eyes half-closed.

It’s a beautiful room. Elegant and refined. He should have expected nothing less.

It seems wrong for Roman to destroy it.

Right and wrong have gotten him in trouble before. He’s no authority on the subject. He is wrong. All he does is wrong. That’s what Patton thinks, he’s sure of it, and that’s what Thomas thinks. That’s what Janus thinks. Deep down, it’s what Roman thinks, too.

He is not going to add one more mistake to his tally. He is already falling--there’s no need to tug anyone down with him.

Roman steps out and closes the door.

He’ll come back when Janus is there.

---

I am who I was.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

He vowed to only come back when he thought of what to say. However, he’s already breaking that promise. He’s in this accursed hallway again, lurking in the shadows like the villain he is, eyeing the door and wondering if it’ll spring open of its own accord.

He shouldn’t be here, of course, but his mind won’t leave him alone.

He wishes Roman would just talk to him and make things simple. But Roman appears to have no interest in communication. Roman has been avoiding him, cutting him off, slipping out of every room Janus enters. It would be irritating--it is irritating--but Janus is more concerned than irritated.

That, in itself, is irritating. He shouldn’t be so worried about Roman. He should be furious with the side, not appearing at his door once again, preparing to apologize when he’s received nothing of the sort in return.

He should just leave Roman alone.

But he’s worried.

Maybe he should just shelve the apologies for now. Maybe he should simply knock on Roman’s door and see if he’s okay.

That sounds like a better plan than stammering through apologies he’s not sure if he means, throwing away every mote of dignity he has left, shattering every wall he’d work so hard to build.

Janus raises his hand to knock on the door.

The door bursts open.

Janus stumbles backwards, tripping over his feet and barely managing to steady himself, trying to look like he was just walking past and not standing in front of Roman’s door like a stalker.

It must not work, because Roman scowls deeply and asks “What are you doing?”

“I...” Janus pulls his capelet tighter around him and tries not to panic. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Make it quick,” Roman says. His eyes are red and there’s a smear of ink down his cheek. Janus has the urge to reach out and wipe it off.

“I was worried,” Janus finally says. “I am worried.”

“About what?” Roman asks.

“You.”

That gets Janus an even darker glare.

“Everything’s under control,” Roman spits out. “No thanks to you.”

“Are you sure?” Janus finds himself asking. “You’ve been--”

“I’ve been what?” Roman’s lip curls. “I’m doing fine. I’m doing my job. I have so many ideas, you wouldn’t believe. If there’s a problem with what I create, it’s because you won’t leave me alone.”

“That’s not what I--” Janus swallows. “I’m not concerned with your output.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve already decided it’s not worth anything.” Roman looks Janus up and down. “Still wearing that? Thought you’d get a wardrobe change now that you’re officially one of the good guys.”

“I like this,” Janus says weakly.

“Don’t see why you do. It looks like a curtain swallowed you whole.”

Bile rises up in Janus’ throat. “And you certainly look like the pinnacle of fashion,” he snaps back before he can stop himself. “You’re giving Virgil a run for his money with those eye bags. I thought princes were supposed to be poised.”

He seems to have hit a nerve, because Roman’s eyes flame. There’s no other word for it. They snap and crackle like a bonfire.

“What are you still doing here?” Roman grits out. “I’m busy.”

“Like I said, I’m worried.” Janus holds up his hands. “But clearly, I shouldn’t bother.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” It’s almost a scream. “I don’t need you here! I’m doing fine!”

“You do know who you’re trying to lie to, right?”

“Yes, I do.” Roman sneers. “Deceit. I know exactly what you are. And you will never take my place, understand me? I am never going to be a villain. I know you want to oust me, but you’re powerless. You’re a two-faced trickster with a million lies who doesn’t care about anything, and I’m Thomas’ Creativity. You go up against me, and I will win every time.”

“Is that a threat?” Janus asks, his mind whirling.

“It’s going to be if you don’t leave.”

“Look, listen--” Janus spreads his hands. “I’m just trying to help, no one is replacing anyone, if you’d just listen to me for once in your life--”

“I listened to you and that’s why I’m here.” Roman waves a hand. “I’m done hearing what you have to say. Leave me alone.”

“But--”

“Leave!”

Roman slams his door loud enough to rattle the walls.

Janus is left standing there, part of him knowing that he probably caught Roman at a bad time, but his chest squeezing despite of that. He shakes his head and tries to think on the bright side. He’s gotten his answer. Roman wants nothing to do with him. Not a surprise, and not something Janus can blame Roman for. So everything was alright. He now has an excuse to go about his day and stop worrying about Roman all the time.

He sighs and turns away from the door, tears rising to his eyes unbidden. He swipes them away. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. He’s heard worse.

Janus leaves, planning to curl in the corner of his room and listen to his favorite playlist and try to scrub Roman’s fiery eyes from his mind.

He’ll come back if it’s desperate.

---

Just open up your heart.

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

Well, no, he isn’t. He’s crumpled in a ball at the foot of it, back pressed against the wood, arms around his knees and his head tucked between them. He figures he probably started out standing, but he can’t remember. He’s been here for a while. It’s late--maybe past midnight, maybe not. He doesn’t really care. Everything’s dark. He could conjure a light, but that would take energy he doesn’t have, energy that’s going towards trying to stop his breathing from stumbling over itself and stopping.

In and out. In and out. What are the numbers Virgil always uses? Four, five, eight? No, four, five, six. Does it even start with four? He should remember this. Why is he so stupid?

In. Out. In. Out. His breathing is shallow and too deep at the same time. It rasps at the edge of his lungs. He squeezes tighter at his thighs. His throat is choking up. At this rate, he’ll be crying or fainting soon enough. He hopes it’s the second one. He wouldn’t mind just going blank for awhile. Everything’s so loud in his head.

He’s crying now. Great. Never gets what he wants, does he?

He tries to rub away the tears. They keep coming. They drip over his hands and burn like fire. They trickle down his skin and he tries to scratch at them to make them go away. All that happens is irritated red skin.

Something’s itching and tugging inside him. He wants to grab it out of his chest and unspool it until he feels less like he’s trapped in someone else’s skin, thin and papery and about to shatter under his fingers.

In. Out. In. Out.

Breathing is so simple. Why can’t he do it? Why won’t it work? Why does he have to mess everything up like he always does?

He should at least move. He should sink out. He should get away from Janus’ door. What if Janus sees him like this?

Then again, that’s all he wants, isn’t it?

He wants Janus to see him. He wants to look Janus in the face. And he wants to beg for forgiveness.

He wants to--he wants to say sorry.

Say everything.

He wants to tell Janus his name isn’t stupid--it’s beautiful and unique and drips with the mythological implications that Roman loves. God of doorways. Beginnings and endings. Two-faced. There’s room enough for both evil and good in Janus. There can be both friend and foe. He may have ended things for Roman, but he’s also found the beginning of something new, and as a fellow creator Roman can respect the change Janus has wrought.

Janus is wondrous and hilarious and smart and so, so worthy of the place he’s finally received.

And he’s worried about Roman.

And Roman yelled at him.

Because Roman can’t stand the idea--the fact--that he’s going to be replaced. He’s such a coward. He thought he could step down gracefully, but he had to claw his way back to a place he isn’t wanted, because he’s desperate. He’s so desperate. He would do anything to get Janus’ approval. Or Patton’s, or Logan’s, or Thomas’. He would do anything in the world to be loved.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic--

Roman curls tighter.

Maybe he won’t mind being a dark side if it gets the knives in his lungs to stop slicing deeper.

Maybe he should just duck out before he causes any more trouble.

Everything’s itching and spinning and his breath comes in short gasps and he can no longer tell if he’s breathing in or out.

He closes his eyes, opens them again, blinks away the tears clustered on his lashes, tries to tighten his grip on his legs so he can finally be crushed into little pieces or feel safe or pretend that someone is there with him, running him through exercises, saying that he’s worthy and loved and still a hero even when he’s crumpled on the ground with a heaving chest and wrinkled pajamas.

Logan would do it. Maybe. If Roman asked. Logan would calm him down, at least. Maybe Virgil would, too.

They’re nice that way.

They’d calm him down.

Then they’d kick him out and say he’s too weak to ever be a prince.

He should leave. Why is he still here? Why can’t he move?

Why is everything collapsing around him?

Why is he such a failure?

He’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s going to die. He’s going to fall to pieces in this hallway and they’ll find his burned edges tomorrow morning and they’ll kick the ashes into the corners and move on.

He needs to go.

He doesn’t want to go.

He wants to slam his fist into Janus’ door and break it down and collapse around Janus and sob into his shoulder and promise he’ll be better, promise he’ll make things right, if Janus just gives him one more chance and opens up his heart--

Roman takes a long shaky breath.

In. And out. In. And out.

You’re doing good, says a voice that might be Logan’s and might be Virgil’s and somehow manages to cut through the haze in his head. Keep breathing.

In, out, in, out.

Roman lets his head loll forward. He’s done. He’s exhausted. He wants to curl up under his blankets and sleep forever.

He raises one hand.

He could knock on the door.

Janus is probably asleep.

Janus hates him.

Janus is right to hate him.

He needs to go.

Roman closes his eyes and lets his head thunk against Janus’ door. Cold and stiff and hard and telling him to go.

Roman snaps his fingers and sinks out.

He’ll come back when he’s less desperate.

---

I know I could be more clever, and I know I could be more strong.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It wasn’t his idea this time. He’d been perfectly happy avoiding Roman any chance he got. But Virgil had come running into Janus’ room, insisting that Roman had been on-and-off panicking for the past few days, and begging Janus to do something about it.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Janus had said. “I’m not exactly the best side for the job, and I’m sure he’d love to see me.”

“Please,” Virgil had said.

Janus had always been weak for Virgil, a fact he abhorred, and Virgil was asking him for help. Janus. Virgil trusted Janus to help Roman, even though Janus had done nothing but help Roman sink to even greater depths.

What was Janus supposed to do, just turn Virgil away?

So now he’s here, knocking twice on Roman’s door, ignoring the nerves that crawl up his throat and tickle under his scales. He hopes Roman isn’t here. He hopes Roman is in a good mood. He hopes Roman is okay.

There’s no answer.

Janus knocks harder.

“Go away,” he hears.

Janus contemplates shifting into Patton or Virgil or someone else. But Roman is remarkably good at catching him in disguise, and the idea just feels wrong to him. Besides, that would certainly get Roman to trust him--once again impersonating one of his closest friends.

Janus knocks once more.

“Go away, Patton,” Roman calls.

Janus opens his mouth to correct Roman and finds that it’s gone too dry for speech.

He settles for knocking again.

“I’m coming!” There are rustling noises. The irritation in Roman’s voice is plain, but so is the fatigue, and so is a crackling, cutting edge that betrays he’s upset.

The door flies open. “I told you, Patton, I’m not coming to dinner--”

Janus waves sheepishly.

Roman stares at Janus for a few very long seconds.

“Roman?” Janus asks. “I...I came to check on you, Virgil says you’ve been upset lately and you seemed rather--volatile when we last spoke. So...I...is everything alright? Would you like to talk?” He laughs to himself. “I know I’m the last person you want to see, but I could fetch Patton, or--”

Roman keeps staring at Janus.

“Roman?” Janus asks again.

And Roman bursts into tears.

He tries to stifle them, if the way he presses a fist to his mouth is any indication, but it doesn’t work. Tears drip from his eyes and he starts sobbing softly. It’s a pathetic sound and it makes Janus’ chest ache.

“Hey,” Janus says frantically, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“‘S not your fault,” Roman chokes out between sobs, “just bein’ stupid--”

“You--” Janus gives up on words and reaches out, touching Roman’s shoulder. He expects Roman to throw himself away from the touch. Instead, Roman whines and throws himself forward, latching onto Janus’ clothes and curling up against his chest.

Janus bites back a gasp--when was the last time he’s been hugged? He doesn’t remember--and slowly slides to the floor, bringing Roman with him. He sits in the doorway with Roman practically in his lap, sobbing into his shoulder.

He expects Roman to stop crying soon. He waits for Roman to realize exactly what he’s doing--that he’s in the arms of a side he hates. But Roman doesn’t. He must be really upset.

Janus swallows and shifts into Patton’s form. A cat hoodie settles around his shoulders and he clucks his tongue, running his hands through Roman’s hair.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he says in a voice that’s not his own, “let it out, okay? Let it out.”

Roman makes an unidentifiable wailing noise and pushes at Janus’ shoulder.

Not Patton, then. Janus slouches and lets a purple hoodie form around his arms. It’s surprisingly comfortable. He huffs, his bangs fluttering a bit, and rubs circles in Roman’s back.

“What happened, Princey?” he asks in Virgil’s growling tones. “Who do I need to yell at?”

Roman shakes his head vehemently.

So Janus straightens again--as much as he can, he’s still gay, and why is he making ridiculous jokes when Creativity is crying into his shoulder--and a tie knots itself around his neck.

“Breathe in for four,” he instructs in Logan’s clipped voice. “Hold for seven, out for eight. You are figuratively breaking down and you need to steady yourself.”

Roman flinches away.

Janus switches back to Virgil, because he’s feeling anxious and he’s run out of people and Virgil seems to be the person Roman likes the most.

“Stop,” Roman pleads, looking up into Janus’ face that isn’t Janus’ face. His eyes are red and tears cling to his eyelashes.

“I don’t know what you want,” Janus blurts out. “I can be Thomas, I can get the real Thomas, I can leave you alone--”

“Don’t leave.” Roman clings to him tighter. “Don’t.”

“Thomas, then?” Janus coughs and shifts into Thomas. It’s the hardest one yet and it makes him feel rather bad. He’s never impersonated Thomas before. That’s been an internal rule for him--Thomas is off-limits. But if Roman needs it... “Keep breathing, buddy--”

“Stop!” Roman yells. “Stop pretending to be people!”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Janus asks, his panic probably showing. “What do you want me to be?”

“You!” Roman shakes his head. “You’re who I want, stop hiding and just be you.”

Janus is silent.

Roman starts crying again, making a mess of Janus’ clothes, but he finds himself barely caring.

“Shh,” he says, cupping the back of Roman’s head, remembering all the nights he had to talk Virgil down, the little spider curled up next to him. “Shh, easy, okay? In and out. You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

“I--” Roman stumbles over his words. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t talk. Focus on breathing.”

“I’m sorry!” Roman insists. “I-I’m so sorry, Janus, please--”

“I know.” And Janus finds he does, at least right now. “I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Roman murmurs into Janus’ shoulder.

Janus smirks. “Don’t tell me what to do, Roman.”

“You--” Roman sits up straight, eyes wide. “You--please don’t make me leave--I’m sorry--I can do better, I promise, I know you want to but I don’t want to leave--”

“Leave?” Janus repeats. “Where on earth are you leaving?”

“H-here.” Roman waves a hand, his face crumpling again. “‘Cause I’m bad. I’m the evil twin.”

Janus feels horror clench in the pit of his stomach. “That is not--I said that as an offhand jab! Roman, you’re not evil--and for that matter, neither is Remus--Roman, listen to me.”

Roman has disappeared into Janus’ arms again, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Listen,” Janus orders. “You’re not leaving. Remus is not replacing you. I have no idea where you got that.”

“You’re lying,” Roman says miserably. “That’s all you do.”

Janus hisses between his teeth. “That’s not--”

“I know. Sorry.”

“It’s not.” Janus pauses. “Your name is Roman. You are the embodiment of Thomas’ creativity. You like Disney and love to write and want to find Thomas the prince of his dreams.”

Roman shifts a little in Janus’ arms.

“You have a brother named Remus that you aren’t proud of. You are friends with Virgil, who you used to dislike. You often fight with Logan but you care for him nonetheless, and he feels the same for you. You are good friends with Patton.”

“Not anymore,” Roman says.

“You are. Things will work out between you two. He still views you as a close friend.” Janus reached out and swept Roman’s hair off his forehead. “You are Creativity. You are strong, passionate, and indispensable. Everyone here cares deeply about you and forgives you for your mistakes. You are not broken or evil or a dark side.”

Roman shudders.

“I can speak the truth,” Janus says, and it sounds wrong but also so right. “I am not only my lies, and you are not only your mistakes, and I speak the truth when I say that I will never make you leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Roman says. “I’m so sorry.”

Janus sighs. “I’m sorry, too.”

And they fall silent, with nothing left to say, Roman still clutching Janus like a lifeline, Janus rubbing the back of Roman’s neck and bringing out another arm or two to help keep Roman in place. Roman doesn’t flinch. Janus finds this oddly reassuring.

“It’s late,” Janus finally says. “I’m sure you’re tired after that.”

“Yeah,” Roman admits. “But I’ve got work to do, I can’t just--”

“You can’t possibly get any work done in this state, unless your creativity is increased by mental breakdowns.” Janus sighs and pulls Roman to his feet, wiping away the last of his tears. “Go to sleep, Roman. I’ll be able to tell if you haven’t.”

“Creepy,” Roman mutters, but he grins shyly and turns to go into his room.

"Roman?” Janus asks before he can talk himself out of it.

“Yes, Nag-gini?”

“Ouch,” Janus says blandly, to convey that he isn’t hurt at all. On the contrary, the nickname makes him feel somewhat bouncy. Ridiculous emotions. “I wanted to...extend an invitation, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Janus tucks one hand behind his back so he can fidget. “I...my room. Tomorrow afternoon at three or so? Just knock on the door.”

“What’ll we do?” Roman asks.

“Whatever we feel like.” Janus swallows. “Of course it’s perfectly understandable if you wish to spend your time elsewhere, I was only raising the possibility--”

“Calm down, you sound like Logan.” Roman laughs a bit. “‘Course I’ll come. Um--thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” Janus says smoothly, neatly avoiding mentioning the several weeks he’s spent trying to work up the nerve to talk to Roman. “I’ll see you then. Now get some rest or I’ll send Remus to knock you out.”

Roman laughs again. It sends fluttering happiness through Janus’ chest. He hasn’t heard Roman laugh for weeks.

“Bye,” Roman says, closing the door and waving.

“Goodbye,” Janus says back.

Janus lingers for a few more moments before turning away.

He’ll come back soon enough.

---

I'm waiting for the day you come back and say "Hey, maybe I should change my mind."

Roman is standing in front of Janus’ door.

It should be easier this time around. He’s been invited! Janus expects him to knock on this door, and if he hasn’t suddenly decided he hates Roman again, Janus will welcome him in.

What if he has changed his mind?

No, that’s ridiculous. Janus wouldn’t do that. He’s steady and ridiculously one-note--if he says one thing, he sticks by it.

He said Roman was the evil twin.

Then he said Roman wasn’t.

And he’s a liar, a trickster, so Roman can’t figure out which one is right.

One was said during a fit of anger. The other was said to calm Roman down. One is the truth, one is a lie, and Roman knows well enough that he’s very bad at telling when Janus is lying. Maybe Janus only complimented him to manipulate him later--maybe it was all flattery--maybe it was a joke Roman was too stupid to get--

Roman’s mind is spinning. He needs to stop overthinking this or he’ll start panicking again. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Janus invited him and it’s going to be fine--

Unless this is a trap. Maybe everyone’s waiting in there, ready to send Roman to the Dark Side. Or maybe it’s a test, and Janus will interview him, see if he’s realy changed. And he’ll find ouut that Roman hasn’t. That Roman is a failure and always will be.

He doesn’t want those piercing eyes staring him down.

If Janus can sense lies, he’ll know all the things Roman lied about.

Is he lying? Is he telling the truth? Roman runs back and forth in his head, exploring every possibility, but it all comes down to the fact that he doesn’t know Janus at all. Janus could be doing anything with this. He could have changed his mind and Roman could be pushing himself into a space he isn’t wanted. He should just leave before he causes any more trouble--

“Roman?”

Roman flinches back as the door opens.

And Janus smiles. “There you are. Come inside!”

Roman does, hesitantly, still feeling like any moment the other shoe will fall. He tries to look around at Janus’ rom like he’s never seen it before. Janus would surely be mad if he learned Roman had snuck into it before.

“What are we doing?” Roman asks after Janus has settled into his armchair and Roman has perched on the edge of the bed.

“A little bird told me you’re struggling with your ideas,” Janus says, pulling a few books off the shelf. “I figured a change of scenery might help? And I fancy myself rather good at telling tales.”

“Really?” Roman asks.

“Of course.” Janus smirks. “Would I lie to you?”

Roman’s indecision must show on his face, because Janus sinks a little bit and sighs.

“I know you can’t trust me,” Janus says quietly, “but I really am just trying to help.”

“I don’t trust Deceit,” Roman agrees.

“You shouldn’t.” Janus nods. “It’s not wise.”

“I don’t trust Deceit,” Roman says again. “But...I think I could trust Janus. If I got to know him a bit.”

Something flashes across Janus’ face. “Janus doesn’t exist.”

“It’s you.”

“No, it’s not, it’s--” Janus is getting worked up now, and Roman has no idea what he did. “I can’t explain it. Janus isn’t real. Deceit is who I am.”

“Janus is real,” Roman argues, because he doesn’t know Janus that well but even he knows that.

“No it’s not! I’m not!” Janus throws up his hands. “I’m a liar, I’m a fake, I’m a fraud, why don’t you get that?”

“You’re not.” Roman leans forward. “You’re a dork and ridiculously dramatic and you like musicals and you don’t like being wrong and you look good in a suit and you can pull off a hat the way I can’t and you love sarcasm and--” Roman shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not Deceit. That’s Janus. And I’d like to see a little more of him sometimes.”

“Don’t...” Janus pauses. “Just...I’d like not to be Janus. For a while. Janus...I’m scared of that. I’d just like something between Deceit and Janus, if that’s alright. ”

“Dee?” Roman asks. “Does that work?”

“Dee,” Janus repeats. “That’s...” A smile flashes over his face. A real smile. “I like that.”

“Dee, then.” Roman smiles. “Aladdin?”

“Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“Snow White.”

“Black Cauldron.”

Roman grins wider. “The Incredibles?”

Janus laughs. “Not Disney.”

“Pixar, and we’re doing it.” Roman pauses, searching for words. “Um... you alright, Janus? Are we...good?”

Janus is silent for a long time.

“We could be,” Janus says. “I think we’re getting there.”

“Great,” Roman says. And finds he means it. Things aren’t perfect, but he can get better. He knows that.

Roman can leave some things unspoken for now. Janus hears them anyway.

And he’ll come back to them when he’s ready.

---

I was out on the town so I came to your window last night.

Janus is standing in front of Roman’s door.

It’s open, so he slips inside, sits next to Roman on the bed, and stares at the swirls of paint across the ceiling. They look like the currents of an ocean, the sweep of galaxies across the sky.

“Everything’s changing,” Roman says.

“Yes,” Janus says.

“I don’t like change.”

“Nobody does.”

“This...this is good change, though.” Roman pauses. “Right?”

Janus thinks of the discussions they’ve had. The way Thomas is really trying to put himself first when necessary. Patton’s cookies, Logan’s debates, Remus’ little octopus plushies that he gifted them all after getting accepted. Virgil, who gave Janus a quick “sorry” over breakfast cereal, and somehow that said everything that needed to be said.

He thinks of Roman. How wrong he was about Roman. Roman is not broken and never has been--he simply stumbled, and with help, he is rising again. He smiles more often. He sings along to Disney movies. He laughs at Patton’s puns. He’s started reading wit Logan in the afternoons. He’s even sparring with his brother, and it seems less vindictive than it used to be, as if it’s only a playfight now.

Roman is happier. Not happy, not perfect, but better.

And Janus feels...a little better, too.

“It’s good change,” Janus agrees.

“You want to do some Shakespeare?” Roman offers.

“I was thinking Dante’s Inferno,” Janus responds, like he always does.

“Boring,” Roman says like always, wrinkling his nose. “Disney?”

“Disney,” Janus agrees.

“I’ll get it ready, Janus--” Roman pauses. “Um...is Janus good today?”

Janus thinks about it. Because Janus has connotations and weighty moments and Roman’s laughter still rings in his ears. He doesn’t want to be Deceit. He’s scared to be Janus. He wants a little space in between, to find out who he is without the lies, to find out how he could be...more. More than his job. Maybe a friend, maybe a confidant, maybe somebody worthy.

Janus could be that. If he wanted.

Some days Janus crawls over his skin, wrong and itchy and reminding him of how much of a lie he is. Today it settles in place--strange and a little new, but not bad. A change. Not a bad change.

Sometimes things need to change.

Sometimes you need to talk a leap of faith and knock on the door.

“Janus is alright.” Janus smiles. “Janus is good, actually.”

“Yeah,” Roman agrees, smiling back, “he is.”

The door is open. It’s remained so for weeks. And even if it wasn’t, Janus would find the courage to knock. Because he knows Roman would do the same for him.

He’ll always come back.

He’ll always try again.

---

Now I'm causing a scene,

thinking you need a reason to smile.

General taglist (ask to be included or removed!):

@the17thmeatball

@most-likely-fandom

@csi-baker-street-babes

@caffeinated-cryptid

@thefivecalls

@ollyollyoxinfree

@the-gay-is-back

Taglist sourced from @the-taglist-repository:

@callboxkat @nonasficcollection @supernovainthenightsky @evoodo123 @idont-freaking-know @hekking-happy-nonsense @cottonwoolsocks @aceawkwardunicorn @just-your-typical-trans-guy @legendsgates @itsabsurd-and-terrifying @k1ngtok1 @itsabsurd-and-terrifying @smileyzs @robinwritesshitposts @thatgaydemigodnerd @potatsanderssides @arya-skywalker @somehow-i-got-an-account @star-crossed-shipper @a-fandom-trashdump @locked-prism @kieraelieson @rainbowbowtie @10moonymhrivertam @katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @royal-stormcloud @ananonsplace @intruxiety @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun

#roceit #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #roman sanders #janus sanders #averywrites #tw panic attack #tw anxiety #crying #angst #angst with a happy ending #roman angst #janus angst #roceit angst #platonic roceit #well actually kind of debatable? i'm sticking with platonic tho #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction

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aimee-maroux · 4 years

Text

Plato-nic Love (Part I)

I sadly didn’t finish the whole story in time but this is part one of Seren and Plato’s epic love story for the ages XD

Illustrations were done by the wonderful @sigeel 😍😍😍

So this submission is by the two of us!

Plato-nic Love

Seren poured a libation of wine and started working on the grapevine that had been growing in the family garden for a while. At first, her mother had tried to get rid of it but it had proven the essence of indestructable life and so they had accepted its presence much like Seren had come to accept the presence of its patron god. She was about to cut off a branch to use for making a crown later on when she heard a familiar voice. "How is my favourite bacchae?" She sighed. It had been about a year since she had agreed to become his faithful follower and needless to say she was still the only one. "Do you know what day it is?" Seren started frantically going through all the calendars she had studied, from the reconstructed Attic calendar to the Roman calendar before and after the Julian reform -what moon phase were they in again? "You always think we don't care about these things but I have a sursprise for you." Dionysos flashed her a bright smile. "What?" she said flatly. A surprise from a god couldn't possibly mean anything good.

"I SAID: I have a SURPRISE for you!" Confetti and flower petals started raining down on them and from above sounded a rustic melody played on pan pipes. Seren looked up to see Hermes sitting on a treebranch, grinning as he played the instrument his son invented. "Ha ha, very funny, Hermes." Dionysos took Seren by the shoulders. "He was supposed to play the Time Warp. Because it's exactly ONE YEAR TODAY that you became my bacchae and do I have a surprise for you!" "Yeah, you said so. But maybe it would be better if-" "Nonsense! As your patron god I am exceedingly generous. You see, I have noticed your infatuation with Plato." "You don't say." "Yes. Anyway, Hermes was so nice to pay grandfather Kronos a visit and relieve him of a little artef- well, details, it doesn't matter! What is important is that you will get to meet Plato!" "Really?!" There was a nagging voice in Seren's head that told her to be careful but Dionysos had just told her she'd get to meet Plato! "Really. All you have to do is take my hand. But I have another gift for you. Hermes, come down here!" The messenger god swung himself lazily from the tree and floated down until his winged sandals touched the ground. "My brother pointed out that you might have difficulties speaking ancient Greek fluently so he will grant you the ability to speak it like a native for as long as you give up your native English." Seren gaped. "That... is surprisingly thoughtful of you." "Hermes, do it! And no nonsense like giving her a lisp or a foreign accent!" "Of course not. Why would I do that?" Hermes grinned at Seren. "I'd not even be there to see it." "What? Now? Wait!" Seren cried out as divine magic rearranged the synapses in her speech centre. "I did not agree-" "She'll speak fluently once you arrive in Greece," Hermes said, "Once you return, the magic wears off." Dionysos gave his brother a suspicious look. Then he beamed. "Perfect!" Dionysos clapped enthusiastically. "Hold on tight!" He pulled her into his embrace and Seren instinctively hugged him. The world around them began to blur and the heavens seemed to turn back as they sped through time and space. There was a sudden jolt and the world was clear once again. Only, it looked strange. But not strange enough for Seren not to recognise her patron god had spoken the truth. This was ancient Athens! She felt a nasty queasiness but she was much too excited to care about that just now. She had known about polychromy but the sheer explosion of colours in the city made her heart sing. The reconstructions were mere shadows of the vibrant paint on the statues, buildings, and clothes. And the Akropolis! It looked majestic even now but the ruins were nothing compared to the magnificence of colour and architecture. Seren stood in awe, even though they were miles away down in a sidestreet. Potters had laid out their painted vases and other works as they created new ones. Seren couldn't decide what to see first, jumping this way and that until the unsavoury sound of regurgitation briefly diverted her attention. Dionysos leaned against the mudbrick wall of a house and puked his guts out. "How can you be so chipper?" Dionysos groaned, wiping his mouth. "You're mortal!" We travelled both time AND space. You should be barfing like a youth at his first symposion." But Seren just ignored him in her euphoria. "It's Athens!" she cried. "ANCIENT Athens!" "That fleet-foorted son of a-" "What? What is it?!" "Nothing, nothing. Everything is fine. I just..." Dionysos leaned against the mudbrick house. "Hermes could have said something about the inconvenience of travelling." Seren shrugged. Who cared, they were already there. "I want to see EVERYTHING!!! The sculptures! The pottery! The architecture! The clothes..." "Speaking of which..." Dionysos grinned. "We should get you something less 2020. If you want to meet Plato, we need a certain disguise. And you want to look your best for him, right?" Seren screwed up her face. "Plato isn't about looks. He's about the beauty of the soul." "Well, if you want to go dressed in that tasteless pink sweater and leggings combination. But let me tell you, nothing looks better on a woman than a finely woven chiton." "Yeah, you're not at all biased." "It's one of the few things even Apollo and I agree on, so it must be true." Seren would have been happy just roaming the streets of ancient Athens for a couple of days. Or for however long this time thingy would allow. The prospect of meeting Plato both exhilarated and terrified her.

Dionysos bought her an elegant chiton in the extremely crowded agora. Seren hardly suppressed a squeal when he paid with real ancient drachmae. Only they didn't look ancient at all. "Why is nobody staring?" she asked, as another group of people walked past them without paying them any mind. "Did you put glamour over my modern clothes?" Dionysos laughed. "No need, honeybee. This is Athens. At a time like this they get tourists from all over the world. One strange, foreign costume is not going to turn any heads." He pulled her away from the merchants and splendour of the agora into the entrance of a seemingly abandoned house. "Put it on," he said, handing her the chiton. "Don't peek!" she reminded him before she changed into her new garment. It felt cool and pleasant on her skin and the quality of the linen was indeed fantastic. Despite the loose fit the fabric was so delicate it hugged her figure in an almost revealing way, making her feel exposed. "Is this really acceptable dress?" she asked. "Only with this worn over it." Dionysos came up behind her, closing another layer of cloth over her shoulders with simple dress pins. "You look great, honeybee," he said sincerely. "Plato can consider himself lucky. You got the brains, you got the looks, and even that austere, joyless personality to match." "I get the impression you don't like Plato much." Dionysos slung the belt around her waist and fastened it. "What gave it away? My graffiti, my groaning everytime you bring him up, or the charming way I speak about him?" "The graffiti was a pretty obvious hint." "I hope you appreciate my gift all the more, honeybee." "I do." She smiled. "But I don't think I could appreciate it any more than I already do. This is a dream come true. The most exciting day of my life. More exciting even than Delphi." "Be careful not to tell Apollo," Dionysos warned but he looked pleased. "Sure. If I ever run into him I'll remember it." As they stepped outside, the streets were empty. "Where is everybody?" "Oh, it must be time to crown the victors." "Victors? Of what? It's too cold to be July, isn't it?" "Not the Panathenaic Games." Dionysos smiled broadly. "It's not an athletic contest. Today..." He made a dramatic pause. "Is the last day of the Great Dionysia!" "Oh." Seren was disappointed. "So we can't go and watch any of the plays?" "I'm afraid it is too late for that. But I can show you my theatre and the temple with my cult image if you want."

Seren politely admired the simple wooden log that was supposed to be a representation of Dionysos and genuinely marvelled at the masks that had been dedicated below it. She patiently listened to Dionysos as he recounted the story of the very first Dionysia in Athens and how he used to mingle among the crowd every year to watch what the people of Athens had put on the stage in his honour. Once they arrived at the theatre it was already empty but it was a stunning sight all the same. Seeing everything intact and in its full glory filled Seren with unknown joy. The decorations, both permanent and temporary, were as colourful and flamboyant as the god they honoured. When they made it back to the streets of Athens, there were already groups of shouty drunk people roaming about. "Victory parties," Dionysos explained when he saw Seren's face. "In fact, we are about to attend one too. But first..." A purple mist shrouded the god's body and when it dispelled, his simple chiton had given way to a slutty ankle-length skirt that hung low enough to expose part of his bum cheeks, his arms, wrists, and ankles adorned with golden jewellery. "I know you practiced with the aulos. You're gonna be a flute girl." Seren startled. "What? No! I'm not nearly good enough!" Dionysos shrugged, making his golden bracelets clink. "I don't think I need to tell you that other kinds of women are not allowed at symposia. Unless you want to play the role of a hetaira..." "F-Flute girl is fine."

They arrived at a house that obviously belonged to someone well-to-do. "A group of revellers is about to show up here any minute. We'll join them to enter the symposion. Trust me, they're too drunk to realise we don't belong." Seren nodded nervously. "Now would be the time to ditch that respectable dress." Reluctantly, Seren freed herself of the protective extra layer of clothing and received the aulos flutes Dionysos handed her. The revellers did indeed show up. Loud and obnoxious, it was impossible not to notice them. A man in his late 20s or early 30s led the group. Half-naked and well into his cups, crowned with a wreath of ivy and violets, he was all but carried by two sturdy lads who looked like they were half-naked professionally. "Come!" Dionysos tugged on her arm and they danced along, she awkwardly, he with a grace and confidence she envied. The leader of the group pounded against the door and yelled for "Agathon". Seren's heart skipped a beat. "Is that... Alkibiades?!" she whispered to Dionysos. "The very same." "We are at THAT Symposium?!!" "We most certainly are." Seren gaped at the man who would eventually be the ruin of Athens by defecting to Sparta and then to Persia. He rattled the door, shouting "Agathon!" and dropped his single piece of clothing in the process, quickly picked up by his lads. Seren shrieked when the man suddenly leaned heavily on her, his arms reeling for support. Dionysos was quick to jump to his other side, taking most of the load off his bacchae. "AGATHON!" Alkibiades yelled once more, in the manner drunks yelled on their way home from the pub after closing hours. He kept demanding to see Agathon with a heavy tongue until a servant boy finally opened up and led them to the andron. Alkibiades managed to stand on his own, stumbling towards the host of the party while announcing how completely and utterly wasted he was. "Let's bring the bacchic spirit to this lame party!" Dionysos cheered. Seren gazed around with stars in her eyes. The room was bright with torches and the klinai were populated by men both young and old but all shirtless and all with crowns of ivy on their heads. She looked more closely at the guests while Alkibiades spoke to Agathon, probably congratulating him for his victory. But none of the symposiasts looked like any of the artworks she had seen of Plato. They were most likely created after his death anyway. "Soooo..." She leaned on Dionysos' shoulder. "Where is Plato?" Dionysos gestured at the kline at the very end of the room, occupied by two young men. "The dark-haired one."

"THAT is Plato?! I thought he'd be at least in his 30s!" Dionysos grinned a smug grin. "He wrote the Symposion in his late 30s. But this, honeybee, is the year the titular symposion actually took place. The first year of the 91st Olympiad. Or, as you would say, 416 BCE." Seren gaped at the young man seated on a couch with a blond youth. He had long, curly hair crowned with a wreath of ivy like all the symposiasts, young and old. A strong, Greek nose gave his face a distinct personality. Who would have thought the man Seren knew only from his words and artwork showing him as an old man could be so... hot. The blonde guy leaned over, whispering something to him. Maybe they were flirting. It wasn't anything unusual back in the day, Seren knew that. But they seemed to be about the same age. Shouldn't- "Play, flute girl," Dionysos nudged her with his elbow, "I'll clear the kline for you."

Seren watched him shimmy over to the pair and tried to remember how to play the aulos. She had practiced so much but right now it felt as if she knew nothing at all. Her idol, Plato, might be listening! Her cheeks burned as she blew into the wooden instrument, the tune an embarrassing version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". Despite playing the role of a dancer, Dionysos sat down with the two no doubt aristocratic young men in his usual impudent manner. The blond youth's face turned sour. "What is the meaning of this?" "I came for the entertainment." "We are very well entertained by each other's company, thank you." Dionysos gave the blonde guy a cheeky grin. "Does your company agree?" He crawled on the kline until he basically sat on Plato's lap, prompting the young philosopher to blush. How cute! "Some people can be such a dull affair, talking about nothing but themselves all the time." The angry blond yanked Dionysos off Plato. "This was a philosophical symposion before you arrived!" "Yes. And to shame! You are celebrating a victory at the Dionysia. Where is the revelry?" "There are countless symposia all over Athens. Why did you have to come and ruin this one?" "You know exactly that I didn't ruin anything. But please, if you have any grievances take it up with my master. Alkibiades." "You know what? I will!" The blond aristocrat got up from the kline and grabbed Dionysos by the wrist, effectively pulling him off the kline. He dragged the god behind him as he made for the door, leaving Plato all alone on his bed of colourful cushions. Dionysos winked at her as they passed and it was at that moment that Seren noticed that his "friend" was the only one wearing laurel instead of ivy. Did they just... cock-block Apollon? But not all is lost, she reasoned, if Plato likes Apollon, he likes blondes, right? Right?

Shyly, Seren sat down next to the man whose teachings she still hadn't figured out. And maybe neither did he. He was so young and handsome. She was close enough to smell his heavy perfume and either oil or sweat or both made his chest gleam in the firelight. It really was quite hot in here. He didn't fit the stereotype of the philosopher at all, being so young and handsome and quite brawny. But no matter how hot he was, his physical appearance was dwarfed by the beauty of his brain and thoughts. His intelligence was that much hotter. That being said, Seren liked to think she would be less flustered if the man were old enough to be her father. But he was not. He must be about her own age. "We got rid of the other flute girl." "Wa-What?" "You must know there were already celebrations with heavy drinking last night. Surely you played at Alkibiades' place or some other house?" Seren nodded timidly. "So Pausanias suggested we refrain from drinking tonight and we ended up sending away the flute girl as well. A shame, because before you came in, it was all boring speeches of the old men assembled here. I enjoy the delightful harmony of music much, much more." "You don't like philosophy?" "Of course I do, but not at a drinking party celebrating the Dionysia. You're not from here, are you?" "Ahm, no?" "I don't think I've met a Spartan flute girl. Most of them come from Peiraieús." Seren laughed nervously. What the fuck, Hermes?! "I hope it's not a problem?" she mumbled. "No, no. I'm just surprised. Do you have a name, dear?" "I... I am Seren." "Seiren? What a fitting nickname! My name is-" "I know who you are!" Seren gushed, "I-I-I admire you greatly, Plato!" "Oh?" To Seren's great relief he smiled. "So you have seen me compete?" "Uh, yes, of course!" Seren would be thrilled to see him at any competition, really. "It's just a silly name my wrestling coach gave me. To intimidate my rivals, he says." "I like it!" "You like my broad shoulders, Seiren?" Seren blushed. "No, that's not what I, uh..." "It's all right. Lots of women admire them." "Ahahaha." Was he flirting with her? Or just bragging? "You may be an outstanding athlete," she said, "But I admire your words even more." "My poetry?" Now it was his time to blush. "Did you play it?" "Not yet." Seren decided to be bold, "People want to hear the same songs, Sappho, Pindar and the like. But... But maybe you can teach me how to play yours?" "No I... I burned them all." "Why would you do that?" "I wanted to focus better on my studies. Maybe I made the wrong call. Mousaios, the guy who just left? He said music is like medicine and can create harmony between opposites, that a musical education is helpful in the study of philosophy. Ah, I don't know. I don't want to bore you, flute girl." "You're not boring me, Plato. Please, tell me your thoughts!" And then, all of a sudden, a large drunken group walked into the room and joined the party, Dionysos among them. There was noise everywhere, and Plato leaned in very close and asked: "What do you say, Seiren. Shall we make our excuses and leave?"

to be continued...

#Quarantined Bacchae #The Last Bacchae #fanfiction #The Last Bacchae fanfiction #Linda Sejic #fanart #The Last Bacchae fanart #Seren Calvert #Dionysos #Hermes #Platon #Plato #Apollon #Apollo #Seren x Plato epic love story for the ages?#Plato x Apollo missed romance #I hope you have a good laugh #written with love

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flowerbeom · 4 years

Text

Double Pepperoni | LJB

Part of The Pleasure Chest | A GOT7 Cringe Collaboration

Lim Jaebeom x Female!Reader Genre: College AU, Crackhead Comedy Smut Rating: Mature. So very mature. Warnings: Bad puns, Swearing & Explicit smut scenes. Word Count: 4k

Concept: to: [email protected] hey cass, its me. your best friend. or what’s left of her. remember that kinda hot but kinda gross pizza delivery guy? the one with the nose ring and always smelt of cheetos? yeh, he’s looking less gross these days. what?! don’t judge me. desperate times call for desperate measures. it has been 154 days since i’ve had sex. shit’s dire here man.

A/N: If you lean into how bad this is purposefully meant to be, you’ll really enjoy it.

All GIF credits for this series go to @defsenses.

Day 97

📧 to: [email protected] hey cass! yes my phone is still broken, and i have no idea when im going to get a new one cause im broke from visiting you in another goddamn country - so just suck it up and reply to my emails like the good best friend you are. fuck i miss you already! why the hell did you have to be smart and shit and get into that international program and go to college in Seoul of all places! do you know how far away that is?! 16 hours cassandra! 16 fucking hours on a plane with no leg room, subpar food and a middle aged balding man snoring next to you the entire time so you get no sleep on a 16 hour flight AWAY FROM YOUR BEST FRIEND. it was really good to see you though, can you thank mrs kim again for me - you really struck gold with that housing sitch you got - especially your roommate! that fine ass college freshman you DID NOT allow me to fuck! yeh yeh whatever, i get it - how the hell are you meant to look mrs kim in the eye again when your childhood best friend who you talked up to be an angel fucked her only son on the fold out couch. yes i get it, stop rolling your eyes at me. either way, its still the dry season down here. miss you, love you. bye.

It’s funny how jet lag after coming home from a holiday feels almost identical to a hangover; it’s a painful reminder that something that was quite enjoyable is over. The headache feels almost the same, along with the cotton mouth, hunger, dehydration and utter disappointment and resentful emptiness that the fun you were having is completely done - but only one makes you hurl your guts out at the smell of orange juice. Condolences to those who are unlucky enough to hurl in both instances.

Either way, that’s where you found yourself - Thursday night, half unpacked suitcase lay in the middle of your living room, eyes bloodshot and staring blankly at the television; an all consuming headache pounding between your temples. Lucky for you, you knew a sure fire way to get rid of it without painkillers. Insert Mr. Pene Falso. No literally, insert it. You didn’t call your vibrator Fake Penis in Spanish not to insert it. And in case anyone hasn’t caught on yet, an orgasm legitimately helps get rid of a headache. Try it next time.

As ever, positioning is important - preparation is key. Sweatpants pushed down to your ankles, one leg completely fished out. Sideways lean, cushion under one elbow, completely bare leg propped up onto the couch; allow for maximum spread when those pre-orgasm hip rolls start. Set Mr. Pene Falso on one, there is no need to go hard straight away - ease into the session, let the endorphins build. You have been deprived of a real penis for a while, so you know you’re eager; but a little self control will yield the most delicious of results.

You will run the long race to Destination Stimulation and you will bite that bottom lip as your eyes roll back into their sockets as your long awaited, slow built, easy increase of settings on Mr. Pene Falso brings home the most delectable of orgams. It will not be a dry night, no sir. So lower that beautiful vibrating, bright pink silicone wand onto your clit--

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Who the fuck..? Your eyes snapped to the front door, your hand clenched around your vibrator just millimetres away from your clit. A small loosening of your grip dropped the angle and the tip of your vibrator dipped against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body. A gravely moan escaped you; your focus immediately brought back to the task at hand. Literally.

Ignore it, it’s probably no one important. That’s what you told yourself, shaking your head and leaning back against the couch once again. You licked your bottom lip at the enticing notion of self-induced euphoria. Spreading your legs further than before, you corrected your grip and pushed Mr. Pene Falso into you. Your head dropped back involuntarily, your teeth marked your bottom lip and those pre-orgasm hip rolls started slowly. It felt devine, finally some release; a little bit of pleasu--

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

“Who the fuck?!”

“Pal’s Pizza!”

Tossing Mr. Pene Falso aside, you yanked on your sweatpants, wiped the one bead of sweat off your brow and stampeded to your door.

“You got the wrong house, buddy!” Ripping it open, your rage was greeted with a face you had not seen in a long time. Your eyes blew wide, as the eyes of the man before you narrowed; complimenting the smirk etching across his face. The ever familiar smell of cheetos, weed and pepperoni of years passed filled your nostrils and nostalgia wasn’t a word you wanted to use in that instance, but repressed memories were being dug up nevertheless.

A few moments of stone-cold silence passed before a subtle hum started to invade your auditory peripherals. Leaving your eye-line, Mr. Pal’s Pizza leaned sideways, throwing his smirk into the apartment behind you and directly onto the bright pink silicone wand still vibrating on your couch. All colour drained from your obviously stiffened face.

He scoffed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your alone time. Mind if I join you instead?”

Day 106

📧 to: [email protected] hey cass did you know that there’s a woman in Georgia, who due to a rare disorder, experiences hundreds of orgasms a day? she’s just persistently aroused and will climax any time, anywhere - even in the most obscure of places. whereas I cannot even have one, in my own goddamn apartment. because you will never guess who delivered a pizza to the wrong house last week. Crusty Jae. Yyu heard me. Fucking Lim Jaebeom from high school! Who by the way, still looks like a tryhard 2006 Skaterboi with his stupidly baggy jeans, Stussy t-shirt and bad haircut - or lack thereof who fucking knows. AND he still smells like damp. No no, he doesn’t smell damp. He smells like damp. Like the idea of damp. but istg i could still cut myself on that jawline of his. and come to think of it, I haven’t had pizza in ages. miss you. love you, bye.

Day 114

“Seriously dude, you need to stop ‘delivering pizza to the wrong house’. It’s getting pathetic.” You feigned irritation despite taking the box out of Jaebeom’s outstretched hand.

“Bruh, I am not. The guy’s next door never answered. So you--” He shook back his overgrown fringe and shifted all his weight back, angling his pelvis towards you. His eyes traipsed up and down your frame, saliva clearly pooling under his tongue. “-- get a free pizza delivered by this handsome mug.”

You didn’t even try to bury the scoff that escaped you as Jaebeom dug two thumbs into his chest; a pungent smugness wafting from his stained Pal’s Pizza t-shirt. You practically laughed in his face. Yet he didn’t waver.

“You’re still the same overconfident creep from highschool, Jae.” Jaebeom faked offense, a hand slapped on his heart - leaving a faint damp hand print.

“And I still managed to nab all the ladies.” Sliding his tongue over his top teeth, he winked and you almost gagged. The fact that Crusty Jae, the school’s resident stoner, managed to have the highest body count by graduation is something that still baffled you. Something must have been seriously wrong with the girls who let that inside them. There were rumours of course, but you weren’t willing to explore any of them to prove if fact or not.

Lifting the lid, you inhaled a glorious whiff of mozzarella and pepperoni but caught Jaebeom scratching his head from the corner of your eye; little flecks of dead skin floated to the ground and you couldn’t help but focus on the flakes of what looked like parmesan on the top of your pizza. Horror ensued, visible in the quiver in your voice.

“You.. you don’t make the pizzas do you?”

Jaebeom smirked, and ran a clammy hand through his greasy hair.

“Nuh babe, I just deliver them.” He punctuated his statement with a wink and pucker of his lips. You were not comforted and turned away before he could see the grimace on your face. You dropped the pizza box onto your couch and fished a twenty-dollar-bill from your wallet and returned to the door to slap it into Jaebeom’s hand.

“Nuh baby, it’s free.” He insisted with a stupid slanted grin. You shook your head, pushing the money harder into his hand and away from your door.

“Keep the change.”

“Damn, thanks for the tip.” He smiled softly. Maybe he isn’t so much of a creep anymore.

“Want a taste of mine?”

You couldn’t have slammed the door in his face any harder.

Day 129

European. What about Lebanese? Kirby? No, too short. Continental? Way too long. But then again Kirby cucumbers have girth, and it’s not all about length. It’s how you use it. Would you go raw? Or would you wrap it? How sturdy are Kirby cucumbers? You’d obviously have to wash it first. Oh shit, could they poison you if it smooshes up while inside you? No, well you eat them so they can’t be too dangerous. How much lubrication would you need?

“Little to none if you’re warmed up enough.”

Cutting off your mental ramblings and ripping you back into reality, your head snapped towards the voice. Jaebeom’s voice. Of course it had to be Jaebeom. Why is he suddenly everywhere?

“Excuse me, what?!”

“Lubrication. You wouldn’t need any if you’re warmed up. Cucumbers just slide right in.” He said with total confidence as if speaking from absolute experience. If anything, the pompous smile was enough to tell you what he was saying was true. You tried to swallow and gasp at the same time, causing you to start choking in the grocery store.

“Wh-wait-what, I was saying all of that out loud?!” You prayed it didn’t say all of it out loud.

Are you really that delirious from lack of sex that your pathetically curious and completely comedic wonderings about cucumbers as dildos was said out loud in the grocery store?! Have you become that incapable of controlling yourself that you can’t even keep being a horny bitch on the inside?! Must you zone out in full stereo?!

Jaebeom giggled.

“Maybe. I heard from about ‘What about Lebanese?’.”

You froze, the hand gripping your shopping basket growing dangerously limp.

“So pretty much all of it.” Jaebeom laughed again and reached across you to pick up the thickest Kirby cucumber from the pile and dropped it into your basket.

“Think of me.”

“What!?”

His smirk thawed you completely, leaving you standing in a lukewarm puddle of distaste. “Later babe.”

Seriously, you needed to find every girl who fucked him in highschool and just ask them “WHY?!”

Day 147

📧 to: [email protected] hey cass he ran out of battery I have no spares I live in a wasteland of despair miss you love you bye

Day 165

ring-ring-ring

“Pal’s Pizza, can I take your order?”

“Hey Jae, it’s me. The usual please.”

“Stuffed Crust?”

“No thanks.”

“No probs. How about I stuff you?”

“Bye.”

“See you in twenty minutes!”

Day 167

📧 to: [email protected] hey cass I think I’m living in a permanent fever dream today in my tech drawing class my professor told me if I lick the tip I’ll get better results so I asked him, if i let him lick my tip would I get extra credit? HE MEANT MY PENCIL CASSANDRA, HE MEANT TO LICK THE TIP OF MY PENCIL SO I GET THICKER LINES what the fuck is wrong with me?! oh I know. it has been 167 days since I’ve had sex ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY SEVEN DAYS and Mr Pene Falso still does not have new batteries. miss you love you bye

Day 175

You had never felt more accomplished in your life. In one hand rested your brand new phone, shiny and in-built with all the things to keep your easily distracted brain entertained. No longer did you have to make calls from the decrepit pay phone outside your apartment building. No longer did you have to sit on buses and pretend to like reading. No, you were reunited with the technology of your generation and you were ecstatic. Full time college and part time employment didn’t always meet the needs of your demanding lifestyle, but you saved enough to finally get a brand new phone.

And in the other hand lay two beautiful AA batteries. You know perfectly well what they were for. You were equally as ecstatic. But for some reason there was one person you wanted to talk to about it.

Your fingers dialed the number almost on their own; muscle memory taking over. It rang six times.

“Hello?”

“CASS!” So excited to hear your best friend’s voice you tripped on the corner of your rug; your body colliding with the couch.

“Holy shit, you finally got a phone. Took you long enough.”

“Shut up, I’ve been busy.” Rubbing the part of your shoulder that managed to miss abundant cushioning on the couch and hit the tiny piece of wooden framework beneath it all.

“Sure. Busy trying to get yourself off every chance you get.”

The fingers trying to unscrew the bottom of your vibrator halted; your bottom lip folded between your teeth - a pout formed in your silence.

“I--” Lost for words you resumed unscrewing the cap, placing one battery into each slot.

“You’re probably gonna go masturbate after you get off this call.”

The last battery dropped in with a clang, albeit muffled by Cass’s muffled laughter.

“You know I’m messing with you right?”

“..Yes.”

“Good. So how’s Crusty Jae?” She continued to laugh as you groaned.

“Dude, can you please explain how he managed to pull so much in high school?! Please! Am I the only one who doesn’t get it?!” Suddenly incredibly frustrated, you screwed on the vibrator cap with so much gusto that your grip accidentally turned it on; the abrupt buzzing ripping out a quiet yelp.

“You know his nickname used to be Double Pepperoni.” You scoffed so hard, you felt it in your ribs. “Nuh apparently he was packing.”

“What? Like what, like he always had slices stuffed in his pockets?”

“No, like p-a-c-k-i-n-g.”

“I highly doubt that flat-ass McGee is huge.” You smirked while Cass tried to stop herself from choking on laughter. “And even if he was, dude, I still don’t understand how that seemingly unhygienic mess can score so much.”

“Bro, I don’t know either. But from all the girls I’ve ever talked to about him, they all say that whatever he did to seduce them or whatever - their reactions were purely carnal.” You made a pathetic noise, like a dying car horn to highlight your skepticism. “Like apparently, he would do something or they would see him do something and they’d just snap. Fuck him once, have a great time but then refuse to ever bring it up again. Except to me.. Cause after all, it was Crusty Jae.. But that’s beside the point.”

“They’d just ‘snap’?”

“Yup. Like a fresh green bean.”

“Weird metaphor.”

“But you got it.”

“Sadly. I’m going to go now.”

“Happy Orgasm!”

“Fuck you.”

“Miss you.”

“Love you.”

“Bye!”

From putting down one electronic device to picking up the other, you settled into the couch cushions with Mr Pene Falso in hand - recharged and ready to go. Yes, you were obviously going to prove your best friend painfully correct by getting off as soon as you hung up that call, but honestly - fuck it. You deserved it.

Remember, preparation is key. Sweatpants pushed down your ankles, one leg completely bare. Hair pulled up into an overeager and messy as ever bun. Sideways lean. Mr Pene Falso, setting one.

It’s not meant to be pretty, the faces you pull while masturbating. And the sounds one makes, equally as carnal. But who the fuck cares. You’re doing this for you. And as those pre-orgasm hip rolls get more and more intense as your clit is vibrated right down to Destination Stimulation, you moan in pleasure for you know you are finally getting what you’ve wanted for so lon--

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

“Hey it’s me!” Your head snapped so fast to the door it cracked every bone in your neck.

“Jae!?”

“Yeh, can I come in please?”

“Oh come on, what the fuck!?” Fury swallowed you whole, Mr Pene Falso slamming into the ground in a fit of rage. “What do you fucking want, Jaebeom?!”

“Please, I need--” Jerking your pants back on, you charged at the door; ripping it open.

“Need what?!”

“-- to use your bathroom.” Sheepish eyes met your own; blown wide and shaking. Jaebeom stood before you, pizza delivery bag hung loosely in his hand; completely soaked from head to toe.

“Sorry, it’s fucking pouring outside and I delivered next door and I just want to dry off a little, that cool?”

His usually loose shirt clung to his body, every inch of his torso outlined. His hair, normally shaggy and overgrown, was completely pushed back off his face; slick and saturated to show every carved line of his face. Was his eyes always this piercing? Or was it only because it was in context with the rest of his beautiful face?

“So..?” Jaebeom reeled you back from your slow descent and you shook it off violently.

“Uhh yeh, that-that way.” Throwing a thumb over your shoulder to show him the way, Jaebeom slinked past you; a marginal waft of damp weed followed behind.

What has gotten into you? This is Crusty Jae we’re talking about here. You are not meant to find him attractive. Nothing about him is meant to be attractive. But there you were - standing in your hallway, dumbfounded as you watched Jaebeom take off his shirt and wring it into your sink. You tried to tear your eyes away from how broad his shoulders were, or how all the muscles around his waist tensed as he squeezed all the water out of his shirt. You couldn’t even fight off the shiver that crawled down your spine when you watched his triceps flex when he pushed his hair off his face. You swallowed hard when that shiver landed right between your legs.

“Like apparently, he would do something or they would see him do something and they’d just snap.”

He didn’t see you come up behind him but he felt the hand you placed in the middle of his back. Turning to face you, his eyes were as dark as yours were crazed.

“Sup.” His cheeto breath didn’t deter you.

“You’re a pal, right?” You swore you couldn’t sound any more desperate.

“Says so on my shirt.” You couldn’t quite figure out if it was Chipotle or Flamin’ Hot cheetos. But it wasn’t the time or the place. You had needs.

“Be a pal then.” Jaebeom quirked a lewd and curious brow. “Get me off.”

The speed of which he had his hands under your arms and lifting you onto the benchtop was frighteningly fast. Your shirt was pulled hastily over your head and thrown aside, your pants were torn down your legs equally as fast. You had no time to question, no time to doubt - not when Jaebeom’s mouth was on yours, his tongue rolling over your teeth as if searching for hidden cheetos in your cheeks. But with the way his thumb circled over your clit through your underwear, you weren’t going to complain. Go on, fish for those cheetos baby.

Through wet and messy kisses, your hands tracked down his chest; stopping at his belt buckle. Of course, you thought, it was one of those snap closure canvas belts - ridiculously too long and matched his ridiculously baggy jeans. Nevertheless, you snapped open the buckle, fished it out of the loops and his pants fell instantly to the ground.

Jaebeom broke away from your mouth, leaning back to make room for his hands to pull off your underwear; just to have his lips crash back into yours the moment the lace garment hit the floor.

“Conmg-do. Cone--. Con-” You mumbled against his mouth. Strong hands pushed against his chest; disappointed eyes flashed for a moment, before turning devious at the sight of your naked breasts.

“Condom.” He nodded and you swung around to grab one from the medicine cabinet. Rounding back to face him, you saw his underwear was on the ground, his very erect penis greeting you fully. Double Pepperoni…

He ripped the wrapper open with his teeth, slid the condom expertly onto his length and caged you against the mirror in one fluid movement. He waited, paused for effect if you will and you weren’t having any of it. One hand scratched into his hair, the other pulled on the chain around his neck.

“Oh, you want me to stuff you do you?” Said with total hubris.

“Like cheesy crust.” Who have you become?!

Jabeom’s heavy hands found themselves on your hips, pulling you down onto his dick. He filled you wholly, deliciously; throbbing against your walls so achingly good that you didn’t even care that you could feel crumbs of garlic bread that did not belong to you in your mouth.

He pounded you roughly; each thrust making you bounce on your porcelain sink. His hair, still wet, dripped onto your shoulder and down your back as his teeth marked your neck. Your bathroom began to fill with lewd and erotic noises, squelches and squeaks of wet flesh against wet flesh and some against hard surfaces.

Jaebeom snapped his hips harder and harder into you, moans tumbled from your mouth as the orgasm you have craved for finally rounded the horizon. He was merciless, relentless, completely determined to drive you home.

You yanked harder on the fist full of hair in your hand, ripping a loud and gravely groan from Jaebeom. Not one to be upstaged, Jaebeom shoved his hand into your hair, tangling his fingers into your bun and pulling down to expose more of your neck to him. His pace had not slowed down at all.

He marked your neck, sucking and biting on your flesh so gloriously that you began to mewl - high pitched and needy, and it’s what sent Jaebeom over the edge. His hips snapped harder, forcing his dick deep into you; hitting spots you had forgotten about completely.

Different colours were flashing behind your eyelids and you were close, so close.

And as Jaebeom neared climax, he tore his hand out of your hair. Though in his earlier fervour, got so much of it tangled around his fingers and stuck under his ring, that your whole body was torn sideways and off the bench.

Landing on the floor, shocked eyes watched Jaebeom ejaculate all over your sink as your own orgasm retreated away; shrivelling up into dust and blown away in the wind - his hand still stuck in your hair. How the fuck, wasn’t he wearing a condom, you thought, only for you to reach down and find it stuck inside your vagina, half hanging out. There was literally nowhere lower you could go. This, this is rock bottom.

“Haha, holy fuck. Sorry babe.” Jaebeom leaned down and carefully untangled his fingers out of your hair. Towels were passed around for hygiene purposes and you almost vomited when you saw cheeto crumbs wedged between Jaebeom’s butt-cheeks.

You weren’t really sure what happened after. You think Jaebeom said something crass. Or maybe he said thank you. In a crass way. Either way, he eventually left and the two hour shower you took still didn’t make you feel clean. Especially not after finding a half-dried pearl of cum on your toothbrush.

But there was one thing you knew for sure. You totally snapped.

Day 0

📧 to: [email protected] hey cass in the interest of our friendship and for the purposes of full transparency it has been 1 day since ive had sex and we will never speak of it again

#got7 #got7creators #ksmutclub #got7 smut #lim jaebeom #jaebeom #jaebum #jaebeom imagine #jaebeom story #jaebeom smut #got7 story #got7 imagine #got7 fanfiction #rating: mature #🌙#double peperoni #the pleasure chest

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nekojitachan · 4 years

Text

Hmm, I have no idea what this is, to be honest. Okay, so I know this is ‘what if Jean didn’t go to the Nest, if he ran away from home and stumbled across Neil/Nathaniel/Abram and Mary. And of course I’ve more in my addled head than this. But IDFK what I’m doing. *sighs* It’s been a bit of a crappy week and I’m still trying to focus on writing and at least I got this out.

Uhm, warning for Mary’s and Jean’s parents stellar parenting skills (child abuse but nothing too intense/graphic).

*******

“You will do as you’ve been told! Go pack the suitcase your mother has left in your room, and tomorrow you’ll-“

“No, I won’t! I won’t go,” Jean dared to argue, to yell at his father, confused and hurt by the unexpected news that he was being sent away, that his parents were getting rid of him. “I-“ His arguments were stopped by a harsh slap to his face, the blow just as startling as the pain; he heard Sophie gasp in surprise before his mother ordered his sister to go to her room.

He stood there with his hand pressed to his aching cheek while his father glared at him. “Go to your room and pack,” the man said, anger harsh in a voice which normally was bland with disinterest.

Jean fought to hold back the tears which threatened to spill down his cheeks, aware that his parents wouldn’t be affected by them in the least. No, most likely he’d only be slapped again, then shoved into his room for being so ‘emotional’.

Once he was inside his room, he heard the hushed voices of his parents as they discussed going to the airport in the morning and something about the Moriyamas, about things being over soon.

They didn’t mention when Jean would come back home.

He tried to do as he’d been told and pack his best (favorite) belongings in the suitcase, but then he caught his mother mentioning something about them moving, finding a better apartment for the three of them. A pain worse than the slap to his cheek made Jean double over when his father shushed his mother and told her they’d discuss it more tomorrow (after Jean was gone?), and then their voices faded as they walked away.

Maybe he really wasn’t coming home again.

It wasn’t… things weren’t always great. There were so many days when his parents left him and his sister to fend for themselves, when he had to feed Sophie (and himself) and get her ready for school. They moved around all the time, too, sometimes to horrid apartments where he and Sophie shared the same bed, and sometimes to very nice apartments. He never really understood what his parents did (and they discouraged any questions), but there were times when they had money and times they didn’t.

Rarely did his parents have any interest in him or Sophie, so it had been a surprise when they’d encouraged him to play Exy. They never attended any of his games, but at least he knew that Sophie was safe when she stayed to watch him practice or play, and his parents seemed somewhat happy when his team won.

He thought that maybe, if he kept improving… but no, all his parents wanted was to send him away, in the end.

The apartment was quiet for the next hour or two; he sat huddled on his bed in misery until he grew bored and got up to look at the suitcase as something to do. Unsurprisingly, it was cheap, poorly made and unlikely to last very long, adding to his suspicions that his parents weren’t expecting him to return. He gave it a sullen kick before he began to sort through his belongings to figure out what to pack. It was while he searched through his small dresser that he heard his sister’s voice; it appeared she wanted to know why he wasn’t joining them as his family went out for something to eat, and was told to shut her mouth.

Jean once more felt that sudden pain and remained as if frozen while the front door of the apartment closed behind Sophie and his parents. He didn’t move for at least a minute, until a sudden resolve made him lunge for his school bag then dump its contents onto the floor. Once it was empty, he filled it with the most important items he’d already set aside to pack in the cheap suitcase; a few pairs of underwear, his favorite tops and sweater, the most comfortable jeans, the pajamas Sophie had gotten him for his last birthday, and a small bag of toiletries. There was a pang of remorse over leaving behind everything else, only partially soothed when he tucked a picture of Sophie into a small pocket of the bag.

He crept out of his room, suddenly fearful that his father might have stayed behind, and let out a slow breath in relief upon finding the apartment empty. Right away, he went to into his parents’ room and looked for the one shoe box in their closet which he and Sophie had discovered one day was used to hide money. The amount changed over time, but there was always some stashed inside of it, and that day was no surprise.

The numerous rolls of bills inside of it were.

Indecisive for several breaths, he finally snatched about half the money and shoved the rolls into the bottom of his bag before he replaced the box then stumbled toward the front door. A tumultuous mix of guilt, panic and exhilaration made his heart race as he ran down the steps, still filled with disbelief over what he was doing and afraid that his parents would return at any moment.

He didn’t stop until he was several blocks away from home, out of breath from running and stunned that he’d dared to run away, to leave Sophie behind. Yet what choice did he have? Stay there and go through with whatever his parents had planned for him?

He might not know exactly what his parents were involved in, but he knew enough that the people they associated with were… well, not very nice. There was a spike of fear for Sophie, but his mother always made sure she was in her room or with friends when those people came by. As much as it hurt, he forced himself onward.

(What else could he do?)

The next few hours were spent wandering the city while Jean attempted to figure out what to do next; would it look odd if he rented a room for the night? Should he buy a bus ticket and go somewhere else? If so, where? Maybe he could go back in the morning and fetch Sophie? But what if his parents (or worse) were looking for him?

Tired and confused, he sat down on a bench overlooking the Old Port; he would have to decide what to do soon for the night. He hugged his bag against his chest and struggled with the urge to cry when he saw an older couple with a young child walk past, appearing to be tourists, laughing and pointing at the seagulls.

What was it like to have a happy family?

His view of them was disrupted by a middle-aged man who approached him with a wide smile on his face. “Hey, I haven’t seen you here before. What-“

“Ah! There you are! I thought we were going to meet at the café!” A young boy suddenly dropped onto the bench next to Jean and nudged him in the shoulder. “You’re buying now!”

“Eh?” Jean barely noticed the man, now frowning and muttering to himself, walking away since his attention was focused on the stranger next to him; he looked at least a couple years younger than Jean and was tiny, barely bigger than Sophie in fact, with a mop of unruly brown hair and light brown eyes. There was a light sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks and upturned nose, his clothes were over-sized and baggy, and he had a large backpack hung over his left shoulder. “Who are you?”

The boy glanced to the left, where the older man had been. “Nobody, really,” he said in a quiet voice. “You need to be careful. Guys like Phillipe jump on newbies like you.” At Jean’s confused look, the boy’s thin brows drew together. “You’re a runaway, aren’t you?”

Jean gaped at the boy. “How did you- who are you?” He hugged the bag even tighter to his chest and flushed with embarrassment when his stomach rumbled in hunger.

“Nobody,” the boy repeated with a sad smile, “but you can call me Lucien.”

Jean frowned as he studied the boy; did that mean that ‘Lucien’ wasn’t his real name? “I’m Jean, and how did you know that about me?”

Lucien shrugged as he slung his bag forward then rummaged through it to pull out an apple, which he offered to Jean; after a moment’s hesitation, Jean accepted it. “You’re out here alone, holding that bag as if it contains your most important possessions. You also have a lost look to you.”

Jean thought about that while he ate a few bites of the apple. “I… my parents… they don’t want me anymore. I don’t know what to do,” he admitted as he stared out over the port.

It was quiet for a few minutes, until Lucien sighed. “No other family?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

They sat there in silence once again, yet Jean was grateful for the companionship, the warmth at his side. They drew a few odd looks, but no one else approached them; it made him feel safe while he once more tried to figure out what to do. Perhaps a homeless shelter?

He was startled when Lucien stood up. “Oh, you’re leaving?” For some reason he felt sad about that, even though he’d expected the boy to go back home at some point.

“Come on,” Lucien said as he tugged at Jean’s left arm.

“What?”

“You going to stay here all night? Have anywhere else to go?” When Jean shook his head to both questions, Lucien made a tsk’ing sound. “Then come with me.”

Jean stumbled to his feet, grateful that he wouldn’t be alone any longer. “Thank you.”

“You’re too trusting,” Lucien chided as they hurried into the ‘old’ section of the city. “We need to work on that. And let me do the talking when we get to the apartment, okay? My mom… she’s strict and she doesn’t like surprises, but she looks after me.”

“Okay.”

Lucien was fast on his feet; despite their height differences, Jean struggled to keep up with the younger boy. It took them over ten minutes to reach an apartment on the fourth floor of a building which had seen much better days, into which Lucien slipped in after undoing several locks. “Mum, I’m home, and I brought a guest,” he called out, almost like a warning.

A small woman with similar brown hair cut into a shoulder length bob and light brown eyes stepped out of the kitchen to give Lucien an intent look before she turned to Jean. She stared at him for a moment before she grabbed onto her son’s arm and dragged him into another room. Confused by her actions, Jean jumped when he heard what was clearly the sound of someone being slapped, then a furious voice speaking quietly. It sounded like a woman’s, and the words were in English.

While he could speak English somewhat well, he couldn’t follow the conversation in the other room, other than a few words – ‘danger’, ‘foolish’, ‘confuse them’, ‘three not two’, ‘no one else’. Jean got the impression that Lucien was arguing for him, and after several minutes, things quieted down. There was another slapping sound, and a few seconds later, the two came out into the sparsely furnished living room.

Lucien’s mother gave Jean a cold look, her arms folded over her chest, while Lucien, his left cheek reddened from the slaps, offered an encouraging smile. “My son tells me that you’ve nowhere else to go.” Her voice was had a slight rasp to it, as if from smoking, and her gaze was sharp as if she missed little. Jean’s impression of her was that, despite her small stature, she was someone to listen to and respect.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave a slight nod as in approval for his respectful manner. “My son thinks we should take you in, even though we’re not in the best situation ourselves. Are you truly willing to leave everything behind, to do exactly what I say and not ask questions?”

Jean thought about Sophie… then thought about the cheap suitcase, about all the money in the shoe box, about his parents’ plan to move on without him. “Yes,” he agreed; if he had to leave everything behind, at least it was his choice. “Uhm, I can help out a little,” he offered as he dug into his bag for the money.

There was a slight (very slight) thaw in the woman’s demeanor (what did Jean call her?) when she saw the money; she motioned for Jean to set it down on the small coffee table. “That will help,” she said with an approving nod. “Go with Lucien, listen to what he says since you’re his responsibility now.” She gave her son a stern look while she fetched a coat which was draped over the back of the worn couch. “I’ll be back in a few hours. We’re leaving in the morning.” She grabbed three rolls of money which she stuffed into her purse and left the apartment.

Confused and amazed over what had just happened, Jean turned toward Lucien, who motioned him into a tiny kitchen. “Let’s get something to eat while I explain things to you,” the boy said. “It’s going to be a busy night.”

Jean set his bag down and followed his new friend.

*******

So without being all info-dumpy... Neil argued for Jean to tag along so they throw off anyone looking for them by there being three people/ a woman with two boys not a woman with one boy. Or even hey, a woman with a boy and a girl, not just a woman with one child. Mary (and even Neil, let’s be real) probably thinks that she can dump Jean in a few weeks or something, but yeah, that’s not gonna happen. It’s JEAN.

I figured this is within the first year after they left Baltimore, so Neil is easily swayed by Jean’s big grey eyes. He’s a bit of a softie. Mary is willing to try something different for a couple weeks (ha!) and the money helps.

And no duffel bag yet, the thing would be about the same size as our little Neil. He’ll get one in a couple years.

#aftg #nekojitachanfics #mumbling into the void #jean moreau #neil josten #mary hatford #jean's crappy parents #would this make him jean hatford?#neil as abram #neil as nathaniel #neil and jean growing up together on the run #idfk why my brain does this to me #oh it's raining #very nice

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lilyshadowwriter · 4 years

Text

Augustus’ Story Summarized

As there’s a story summary for Gemma, I figured I’d go ahead and write one for Augustus too, so here’s what’s happened up to this point:

While Augustus and Gemma are twins and two of the closest people you’ll meet, they are also in many ways opposites. Whereas Gemma is known for her cool logic and has difficulties putting herself in other people’s shoes, Augustus is all about the heart- both empathetic and compassionate. They do, however, share a tendency to be introspective and introverted, so rarely will you see either of them surrounded by friends or frequenting large gatherings.

Augustus has a much easier time talking to people and has several casual friends, but rarely does he let people into his own private world. He finds it difficult to completely let down his guard, which is why it was so significant when he met someone he was willing to let go for completely. That person, of course, was Isaac Santiago Taveras.

The two met when they were 15 (So, What Are We Now Pt. 1 and Pt. 2) and had an instant connection despite outwardly seeming like two very different people. Isaac was athletic, cool, and popular, whereas Augustus stuck mostly to his sister and was more interested in art and doing well in school, but it didn’t seem to matter because they each thought of one another as if they’d hung the moon. They spent all of their time with one another, but were always unsure if the other felt the same for them- whether they were seen as simply a good friend, or whether they too, felt something more.

This confusion was made even worse by the fact that Isaac wasn’t out- not even his parents knew that he was gay and because of events that happened when he was quite young, he was terrified of them finding out- terrified of anyone finding out. After a messy debacle in which Isaac’s best friend Elena kissed Isaac in the middle of the school hallway and Augustus saw though, he chased after a hurt Augustus and told him everything.

The two shared a sort of secret, shy, and “unofficial” relationship afterward, sneaking glances, fleeting touches, and even surprise ambush hugs, haha. It was precious, and it was good, and despite the need to hide, they were happy simply being with one another.

This all changed quickly though after one fateful afternoon, when under the orange hues of the setting sun, Augustus attempted to kiss Isaac. Isaac panicked and pulled away, suddenly pointing out some random turtle on the bank. Augustus was thrown off and embarrassed, but as he tried to fumble through an apology Isaac received a call from his parents that he needed to come home immediately...and he left, but not before promising Augustus that he didn’t do anything wrong. Augustus lets him go, still embarrassed, but hopeful at least that he didn’t mess things up between them.

It turns out to be the last time they ever spoke.

Isaac moves away and never speaks to him again, save for some generic text message informing him that he was moving out of state and that he didn’t think he would be able to keep in contact with him anymore. Isaac’s phone gets disconnected, any emails sent to him get bounced back undeliverable, and no one ever hears from him again.

It leaves Augustus devastated because he loved him. It leaves Augustus devastated because it leaves him with the conclusion that despite everything, Isaac had clearly never felt the same as him.

Years later and Augustus had never really dated anyone. There were some half-hearted attempts, a mindless first kiss from a guy who’d kissed him at his junior prom who he’d had to awkwardly turn down, and that was about it. He never thought much about it though, simply chalking it up to having not found anyone he particularly liked.

This changed his sophomore year of college though (A&G I) when a certain purple-haired young man, Patrick O’ Doherty, manages to get through to Gus’ heart after literal months of failed and awkward exchanges that usually left Augustus perplexed and confused, lol. Eventually though, Augustus realizes that maybe he liked Patrick too, and so he gives him a chance, surprising Patrick with a sudden kiss in the middle of the campus grounds.

Ever since, they’ve had a rather sweet and happy relationship, often spending time with one another and never failing to make the other smile. However, even within its sweetness it’s also remained quite superficial, with Augustus clearly keeping Patrick at arm’s length for unknown reasons, and Patrick too nervous to rock the boat and risk losing him.

This begins to cause issues for them, particularly as Augustus’ worries grow about his twin sister, Gemma, who more and more seems to struggle to get through the days. It makes him feel like he’s failing, like he’s wholly lacking, because no matter how hard he tries to stop it, he keeps seeing Gemma slip. Augustus keeps this to himself though, never sharing his fears and worries with Patrick.

Then, during his junior year, Augustus bumps into someone he never thought he’d see again: Isaac (A&G II). It sucks, abruptly bringing back everything Augustus thought he’d forgotten years ago. He honestly tries to forget this brief encounter, but then Augustus sees him again (A&G III) and this time instead of cutting the conversation short and running off, Isaac insists that they talk. Augustus doesn’t want to hear anything that he has to say, but eventually gives in and learns the truth of what happened all those years ago.

The truth was, Isaac did feel the same for him. The truth was, Isaac did want that kiss, but despite wanting it, panicked when the moment came, not as ready as he thought he’d been. The truth was, that night, Isaac was so frustrated with hiding that he came out to his parents, and it went worse than he could have imagined. They accused him of ridiculous shit like being ‘tempted by the devil’ and threatened to kick him out of the house, and when Isaac bit back that he’d just go to Augustus’ place, they concluded that Augustus was the problem, and moved the whole family away.

They took his phone after he snuck a message to Augustus and his friends, they took his computer, they had him on a 24/7 lock down and they told him if he ever spoke to Augustus again, that would be it. And Isaac, hundreds of miles from anyone he knew, cut off the world, and scared out of his mind, gave in.

It would be another 3 years before Isaac confronted his parents again, and this time firmly stated that they could either accept him as he was, or they would never see him again. He was 18 then and had had enough. His parents shocked him by asking him to stay and promising to try and do better, but it’s been a rocky process.

Augustus feels awful for what Isaac went through. He forgives him, much to Isaac’s surprise. He still hates what happened, but doesn’t blame him. He was 15 and it was an impossible situation he never should have had to go through. They part on awkward, but mostly good terms. They agree to maybe try to be friends again.

A&G IV Pt. 1 finds Augustus quite shaken by all he’d learned, and annoyed with himself for being shaken in the first place. It was all in the past, after all. Why should it have mattered anymore? It didn’t, and yet Augustus can’t stop thinking about it.

That’s when he finds out that Gemma is doing worse than ever, and discovers her practically unresponsive with a knocked over bottle of sleeping pills lying on her bedside table. He panics, and even after he discovers that she’d only taken a few and that she was fine, just tired, he can’t get that image out of his head. He can’t rid himself of the horror he’d felt when he’d thought he’d lost her. He can’t forget Gemma’s tearful, mumbled words to him as he tried to comfort her, “I don’t want to kill myself, but sometimes I do wish that I’d never existed.”

It has Augustus throwing up because of the stress and feeling worse than ever, but it’s then that Isaac happens to text him some light-hearted, silly thing. Augustus texts him a thanks for the laugh and Isaac asks what happened. He debates not saying anything, but reveals he had a shit morning and that he can’t get it out of his head. To his displeasure, Isaac calls him, but they end up talking and little by little Augustus shares with him what happened. Afterward, he feels a bit better, maybe even happy that he got to talk to Isaac, that maybe they really could be friends again and that could be a good thing.

When he later admits to Gemma that he’s been talking to Isaac though, his sister has a negative reaction, shaking some of his previous confidence. She points out that Isaac probably could have done more to reach out to him despite his situation, and Augustus counters that Isaac feared losing his family and that the risk was too great. Gemma reluctantly relents, but still expresses some concerns, worrying that Isaac might hurt him again. Augustus reveals that he’s really missed Isaac, and that he wants to give him a chance again- that they would only be trying to be friends, after all. Gemma lets it go, but not without advising that Augustus should reflect on why this meant so much to him.

Later, when Augustus is talking to Patrick and on his way to having lunch with him, Isaac texts him a simple follow-up and asks how he’s doing and Augustus replies that he’s fine now and that he’ll talk to him later. It’s a rather nothing exchange to Augustus, but Patrick happens to see the texts and asks him what happened. Augustus evades, giving a general answer about Isaac happening to catch him after something occurred that morning, but that it was all fine now and that’s why he hadn’t mentioned it.

To his surprise, Patrick abruptly announces that he forgot he needed to go to work early that day and ducks out of their lunch date, but before he goes, asks Augustus if he’ll come over to his place after his shift. Patrick assures him that it’s nothing bad, but that he has something important to talk to him about. Augustus has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but agrees...

...and that’s where we catch up to him now- sitting on Patrick’s doorstep and wondering what it is that he wants to say......

#Augustus Winters #Long post #Different Winters #Sims 3 Stories #DITFT Legacy #DW Summary #BonusCharacterFacts #Queue will start soon!

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batcourt3 · 3 years

Text

a few Ways to Store some sort of Exercise Board Safely.

Throughout the Spring as well as typically the Summer season, my paddleboard has been extremely happily living in the boot regarding the cars and truck. Still, currently were racing quickly via Autumn to wintertime, My spouse and i will certainly be sufficiently keeping our paddle Board equipment apart till following 12 months. Very well, there are limitless ways in order to save your own paddleboard at home. The means your stand paddle (SUP) board is definitely saved relies on whether you would certainly prefer it to be indoors or outdoors, and also whether it be inflatable or solid. Exactly how to save a paddleboard securely? Your paddleboard can be securely looked Inside or outdoors, as long because you ensure anyone: Laundry and completely dry it Remove any type of inner moisture (for inflatables). Keep it out of direct sunshine. Keep the SUP far from warm. Maintain them up and running. Obviously, the storage within your paddleboard will also depend upon what sort of board you may have. A tough or Blow up paddleboard can be saved in really various methods. We have simply washed and also dried out my paddleboard and rolled it up and also place it in return in it is bag and placed the idea under the staircases to the wintertime. But hard Paddleboards don't portable so well and also may require a little bit more imagination to store them. You may intend to raise them aside or wish to have yours as an attribute in your house. This specific write-up will offer you fantastic ideas and ideas of just exactly how you are able to going about coping with a good paddleboard over the along period. How to Suspend a good Paddle Panel around The Garage. A garage is just one of the best areas to help store your paddleboard, despite the material (foam, timber, fiber glass, or plastic). Below, your board is completely safeguarded from the components and also harsh climate. Although temperature levels can get quite warm in some garage environments, the board will likely do better right here than outdoors, as temperatures will not obtain as severe as they would outside. You can find 3 main means in order to keep your paddleboard in a garage:. 1. On a Rack. Racks can be placed from the wall surfaces or maybe ceiling of your garage. Some stands are usually created for you to store a single board, while some others are usually made for storage space of multiple boards. Often the perk in this storage space alternative is that you aren't not really needed to get rid of typically the fins (As longer like they are positioned in such a way that stays clear of damages to help on your own or various other planks, of course ). Something to help keep in mind is that, using rack storage, your board will go through the stress of its fat against benches or whatsoever parts are made use of with regard to postponement, interruption. There are choices to steel or other difficult products: you can hang up your current board by straps. By using straps, you might ease any kind of pressure your current table might be subjected in order to with other products. It's not excellent for hanging, particularly heavy boards this means , as bands may be incapable to support the weight. For those who want in order to store their particular boards inside threshold, however have no help throughout raising it truth be told there, there are specific storage space sets equipped with pulley systems. 2. In the Trusses. This is certainly essentially the like utilizing a rack to keep your own board, yet this set is the totally free option. An advantage of keeping your panel inside rafters is the fact that, since the is essentially ensured being dispersed uniformly, any kind of prospective problems associated with pressure around the covering are usually practically gotten rid of. For this storage approach, it truly is advised that you do eliminate the particular fins. It may be a lot more testing to navigate your board into the particular rafters than a common rack, so you intend to get rid of any possibility involving damaging this fins by doing this. If selecting this alternative, consider the and also size of the panel for the duplicated training of the board into and from the rafters to establish issue choice is best in your case. 3. Standing Upright. Because a standing storage space choice for your board does indeed not call for removal connected with the fins or recurring lifting, this is potentially the safest and almost all safe and secure alternative for storage space, as well as most hassle-free. As it takes up flooring area, this alternative does not provide itself to those looking to conserve room. There are minimal styles to be able to upright storage space, to be able to keep your board in position even though standing. It is usually not advised to trim your board for the wall from the flooring, because the unpleasant surface of typically the floor can harm your current panel in time. There is definitely likewise the particular risk involving your SUP sliding as well as dropping without being protected by a physical construction. Saving Your Stand Up Excersice Panel in your home. With regard to late season storage space, a preferred technique associated with packaging away your current plank is as an attractive piece inside the house. That is more typical using strong boards in comparison with inflatable boards, as these lend themselves even more to modification and the aesthetic appeals deserving of being proudly shown inside the residence. 4. Wall-Mounted simply because Residence Decoration. Storing the stand up paddleboard in your home does indeed not necessarily offer often the very same width of options the fact that garage does, nevertheless, this does offer by itself to many very aesthetically-pleasing sets up. Once more, you will certainly need to cover special attention to be able to the excess weight as well as length of your aboard to be able to figure out one of the most appropriate location for storage. It can be not advised to pick an upright alternative with regard to storage in the home, thinking about the amount of feet website traffic inside. At this time there is a lot higher capacity for the table for you to be overturned and harmed when saved in this manner, as opposed to flat mounted. Obviously, it really is an option to store the board on the ceiling inside the house; nonetheless, this particular type of beats the function involving the idea playing straight into aesthetics as well as design. No one wishes to have to stare at typically the ceiling to see every one of your lovely art and also images, so why should these people need to do so to view your board? Wall surface mounts for indoor storage space could both follow a minimal layout to allow your board shine or maybe serve as an extension of the decor like wood wall installs to match a great earth-toned board. Despite the fact that the idea will be stored indoors, you will still wish to understand the placement involving your plank. Keeping it directly across from a window in the most popular aspect of your home also subjects it to warm and sunlight. Because of this, that can still undergo staining. Ideal Ways to Store a Exercise Board Outdoors. When picking to store your board outside, know all the dangers associated with doing so. Straight direct exposure to the sun is actually Ultra violet rays could lead to extreme discoloration, cracking, as well as bending within your board as well as its covering. Also strong planks, particularly those made of foam, might be warped by exposure to help heat. The space-age foam creates this specific, just like often the air in an inflatable paddleboard, broadens when subjected to high temperatures, resulting in a twisted table. This reduces this board's integrity and produces a responsibility in future use. When the board goes through rains whenever kept outside, this can certainly produce an atmosphere that welcomes rust, bacterial growth, as well as this growth of mold or maybe mildew. These points might damage both the shell as well as seams associated with your board. In the event you need to store your panel outdoors, make certain that the idea is usually somehow safeguarded in the elements by sometimes saving the idea beneath some protect, this sort of as a color structure associated with an outdoor patio or shed. You are able to additionally store the aboard within a board carrier, which would certainly serve to shield it from direct contact with the elements. Using this choice, you would certainly even so require to save often the board beneath this cover to prevent any type of dampness by making it through the crevices or openings of typically the bag's seal. 5. Freestanding Paddle Panel Racks. To make outdoor storage space a bit less complicated by getting rid of often the demand for an accessory blog post, wall, or threshold, presently there is the alternative associated with a freestanding rack. These, as well, are made with solitary or several board storage alternatives. If saving your board outdoors, it truly is a lot more vital to make certain that the aboard has definitely no straight contact with the land. Direct exposure to rough surfaces and dirt will harm the particular coating as well as covering of your board. Because of this specific, you do not want to make use of the leaning approach when storing your panel outdoors. Whenever keeping only one or more decks, possibly this best means to make use of a free standing rack for your current board would be in order to choose one that can be reasonably close to the ground, to stay clear of any potential damage from the top-heavy storage option. Freestanding racks will usually require that your board possibly be saved flat, so pay out special attention to typically the weight circulation:. With a person board, double-check that it is correctly fixated this rack. With two, guarantee that you do definitely not store the boards about an angle or incline for you to decrease any type of chance connected with the shelf falling over, specifically if there are significant excess weight differences between the forums. For more than two, keep the boards these kinds of that the particular weightiest board is kept under and also the weight lowers while they obtain closer to the very best of the rack. 6. Auto Shelf. This kind of is definitely not a choice implied for long-term storage space. If you are somebody that utilizes your paddleboard frequently, this is a feasible alternative for you. A considerable point to know along with this storage option will be the type of roof covering rack an individual 've picked to safeguard your board. If a person have one which requires straps that tighten around often the board itself, then these kind of demand to be loosened up before leaving the table for more than a day. Leaving your board strapped down will certainly likely cause it bending. Vehicle storage deserves the very same factors to consider as any outside storage approach, however there is usually added safety in picking a shelf which is used in addition to storage bags. You would do well to area under a carport, ideally, to better boost your own board's protection from your components. Keep in mind the opportunity of strong winds as well, because this is an additional element of which can make an individual shed your own personal board completely. One more main worry is usually security against theft. Storing your board outside on top of your lorry is convenient for ease of prep work for your next trip, yet it likewise provides itself to reduce of accessibility for any individual along with sticky fingers. Will i Get away from My Paddle Plank Inflated in Storage? Inflatable stand-up paddleboards (iSUPs) will be made of PVC layers connected by way of fibers woven for you to link the top as well as bottom layers. These panels are comparable to the rigidness connected with solid boards when inflated; nonetheless, they require slightly different treatment. It is definitely suggested that iSUPs get decreased when saved and secured from the aspects and direct sunlight. This can be due to the fact that it aids through maintaining the longevity involving the product of the particular board. As long as the board is maintained away from straight sunlight and also rough temperatures, it can remain filled with air without any type of issues. Bear in mind that leaving the board pumped up will also lead to air pressure being lost daily. When you recognize that typically the temperature of the storage space area could rise to potentially hazardous levels, once again, it is suggested the fact that the board be decreased. If that is not really a choice, this board requires to be at the very least partially deflated, as atmosphere will expand in high temperatures. Disregarding to eliminate a percentage of air from the board might cause harm in your SUP. Prior to you decrease and roll up your own blow up paddleboard, there can be a few more tasks to check off the particular list. These steps are important to the secure storage space and the total long life of your board and also are not distinct to blow up boards, because your solid boards need to be regularly cleansed too . Treatment Recommendations for Your own personal Paddle Board Prior To Storage Space. Prior to storing your paddleboard, you need to constantly give this a complete cleaning. This will certainly assist maintain your paddleboard in good problem with regard to years to come. 1. Wash it out. You'll need to be able to rinse your blow up excersice plank before storing this. It is integral to the particular maintenance of your respective board, as it gets rid of any type of yellow sand, dust, or various other debris that can damage this material gradually. It is not essential to wash your own personal board after every trip for you to the freshwater system, however it is certainly not necessarily a step to always be missed after having a dip within the severe deep sea associated with the sea. Not only can the abrasion associated with beach sand and also salt bits harm the mother board with time, but the deserving of can corrode and also weaken the material as well as seams. Pay special attention to the fin field, add-on points, manages, and also terrace pad location whenever washing. 2. Tidy. That is very important for the same reason as rinsing; nevertheless, the use of some sort of cleaner makes sure often the elimination of persistent debris that was not gotten rid of using the preliminary rinse. It is definitely recommended to make use of an all-natural naturally degradable cleanser. That protects against any prospective damages for your board from any type of harsh chemicals. You will certainly intend to prevent rubbing as well difficult on the entire board, but be particularly gentle within the traction sleeping pad to avoid accidental damages. several. Rinse... Once more. Certainly, anyone will certainly intend to remove no matter what cleaner a person made use of to be able to scrub the table in order to avoid build-up in your aboard. Be sure to eliminate all residue. 4. Dried out. This board needs to be dried out completely prior to storage space. You can either towel completely dry or air dry, but do keep in mind the potential results of keeping this inflated board outdoors or perhaps in the sunlight, seeing that discussed over. If anyone are going to utilize the board reasonably soon, a comprehensive drying out is much less associated with a worry as contrasted to help if you are going to get away from your board in storage for a prolonged duration. It truly is important that some sort of board that may be going to end up being stored intended for long periods for you to be dry to help avoid microbial development as well as development of rust, which will eventually harm the board's integrity. 5. Deflate (For iSUPs, Of Course ). Once more, this is vital to deflate your iSUP to avoid any kind of development of air due to high temperatures, stressing the material of the board because of rising cost of living over a too much quantity of their time, or steady decline regarding inflation between uses. Deflating and folding your iSUP is the very best, almost all safe and secure way to save your blow up paddleboard. Positioning your own folded up iSUP inside a storage space bag will better shield it from often the elements as well as guarantee a long life for your board. How to Select a Storage Space Technique. When choosing a storage space approach, consider the objective regarding the storage space: does the plank be kept over an extended period or only for a short time? Are you gonna be wanting to save room, as well as would you such as to find out your own personal board as decoration around the residence off-season? Planks that are going to be stored over extended periods need to offer the fins removed, no matter storage space selection. This will be because many of the that remain tightened over an extended period can certainly cause cracking or splintering in the board's product. Also, the resin that accumulates around the screw openings can cause problems with elimination and also substitute of the fins and also screws themselves. Consider the weight connected with your board: a particularly heavy board would most likely not have to get best stored put on hold through the ceiling. A much heavier board may react in a different way to the pressure of suspension with steel racks (i. age., end up being flawed or deformed as a result of too much stress about the covering ). Inevitably, no storage is necessarily mosting likely to help make or damage your board. It is definitely merely a matter associated with exactly what you prefer in storage space benefit as well as looks. paddle board

#paddle board

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jacensolodjo · 4 years

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Will you love me in my darkness as I love you in yours I’m not afraid of your darkness i can only love you more Don’t be afraid of my darkness I’m not afraid of yours Just love me in my darkness as I love you in yours

————-

Pairing: Sheres/Mereel

Rating: T for war themes

Warning: PTSD and its symptoms, gore, cloneshipping

Summary: Because beneath the jokes, beneath the brush-offs, there are two men who have seen and done so many things that will forever weigh on their very soul. And those who have never done or seen those things will never understand on the same level as they understand each other.

Notes: Tagging @izzyovercoffee for reasons that should be obvious. It may be my birthday month but izzy gets the gift. I hope u enjoy it! I did my best to subvert the trope of ‘triggered person goes on rampage against people who don’t deserve it’ while also avoiding any kind of fight with a loved one. Please don’t feel obligated to read if your own mental state isn’t secure but neither is it TOO detailed.

************

An ARC was supposed to be fearless. That was what everyone said. But Jango had been very clear that a man must know fear. That any man who said he did not fear anything was a fool. Jango had been afraid of so many things. Afraid that the training wouldn’t be enough, afraid that they would all wind up dead, afraid they would blame everyone else but him for what was their life (especially that last one while also hoping they could forgive him in time).

Sheres hated whenever he could feel the slight up tick in pulse when a mission started to feel like the one he had lost Cyclo and Nas on. Luckily his hands always stayed steady. He had spent so long learning to put a cap on things, to work through everything outside of a mission instead. But he still could not stop the physiological symptoms. But he knew Jango wouldn’t be disappointed with him about it. So long as he knew the where and when for dealing with it.

He couldn’t really remember how he had arrived at the rendezvous point. All he could remember was the mission environment resembling the one he had lost his vode in. At least he knew he had gone after the right person. He was in civilian clothes so he didn’t have gloves to hide the cracked skin of his knuckles, his blood mingling with the blood of his target. His training had been thorough enough that even in a semi-blackout state his body had gotten him out of the vicinity and to friendly territory. A more ignorant person may have bandied about the explanation of the Force. But their training had made so many things second nature, augmented with good old fashioned experience in the field.

His head jerked up from his study of his bloodied and cracked hands when the door in front of him hissed open and he was met with a face that strongly resembled his own but bore different lines, different scars, slightly different shade of iris, and sometimes a different bulkhead stare. He was still too concerned about his own situation to be too thrown by the fact his counterpart had also decided on different hair.

“Hey, I was starting to wor–” the teasing smirk that had been forming fell away in an instant as he took in the sight before him. Sheres was slouched over, holding his hands limply in front of him as if unable to figure out where they should go. Within another fraction of a second, Mereel quickly yet gingerly pulled Sheres into the building by the lapel and upper torso of his shirt, a gently whispered ‘C’mere, I got you’ heard at the same time. Sheres didn’t struggle and mutely allowed himself to be led, his feet on autopilot to let Mereel guide him over to a couch that was barely holding together like a metaphor for Sheres’s own mental state.

Mereel couldn’t remember the last time Sheres had returned looking the way he was. Regardless, he didn’t bother asking what had happened, it was neither important nor unknown to him what the look and nonverbal state meant.

Instead he removed the shirt that was also covered in blood. He carefully checked over Sheres’s torso just to be sure he only needed to worry about the sniper’s hands. Once he was certain, he brought over a bowl of water, bacta spray, bandages, and a small length of cloth. With expert precision, Mereel wiped off all the blood starting to cake around Sheres’s knuckles and in the creases of his palms.

Mereel was extra careful drying the skin with the cloth, his own hands showing tiny scars from his own missions. He then carefully wrapped Sheres’s palms with the bandaging that was sprayed by bacta. Once finished, he offered a calming smile to Sheres who stared blankly back.

Another person may have been annoyed by Sheres not even saying thank you, but Mereel was experienced enough to know Sheres was incapable of saying it at the moment, not even a greeting would pass his lips for a while. All that mattered to Mereel was that Sheres had made it back relatively safely.

With another reassuring smile, Mereel got up and went about cleaning the area of the supplies and getting rid of the evidence that was the bloody shirt. He was far more used to their roles being reversed, but didn’t mind the chance of paying the Alpha back.

By the time the Null got back from tossing the shirt far away from both the safe house and the scene of the somewhat botched assassination, Sheres had managed to finally stand up but was still in a bit of a daze as he raided the conservator for something, anything, that his stomach wouldn’t disagree with. Mereel hovered by the door as it hissed closed behind him to give Sheres time to look over and not be startled too badly, which he did barely a second after the door closed.

Sheres was still silent but gave a nod of thanks. Mereel nodded back before walking closer. He gently touched Sheres’s lower back and dipped his head to lightly contact with Sheres’s temple. The side Keldabe kiss brought a smile to the Alpha’s face for the first time that standard day.

Even though only one of them was actually mute for the time being, Mereel didn’t say anything if only because this wasn’t the first time this had happened and so it was just easier to be together in silence rather than Mereel awkwardly filling the room with his voice. He lightly tapped a short rhythm on Sheres’s lower back and the Alpha stepped away from the conservator.

In no time, Mereel had gathered up some of the meager foodstuffs he had stocked for the duration of their mission. Not long after, the smell of food filled the small apartment. Sheres watched nearby; it was calming seeing Mereel practically dance through the kitchen like master chef.

Sheres was halfway through his meal when something of a trauma aftershock darted through his mind. Before Mereel could ask what was wrong, Sheres was almost all the way down the hallway to the tiny bedroom. The Null caught up with the Alpha quickly, though, but made sure to keep a respectful distance. Forcing Sheres to talk through it at this stage would have been a terrible idea. But he hated just watching.

The sniper paced restlessly, mouth moving but no words actually coming out. His hands opened and closed, but any pain the action caused was ignored. Eventually he sat on the foot of the bed, though it looked more like he collapsed on it.

Mereel waited a few aching heartbeats. He then stepped closer, slowly, watching Sheres for a sign that he didn’t want company. But instead Sheres just sat, staring at the floor and cradling his hands together.

The Null crouched down in front of Sheres and reached out with both hands to cup Sheres’s slightly larger ones. The touch startled Sheres slightly, but that in itself was a good thing.

They sat like that for what felt like hours but was actually minutes, but in a good way. The touch, the quiet, gave Sheres time to put his mind back in order.

Again, Sheres’s mouth moved but no words came out. Even so, Mereel whispered soothing words and insisted Sheres not force anything. Sheres gave a look of frustration. Now that he was out of danger, out of his violent visit down memory lane, he needed to debrief Mereel.

Mereel felt guilty, though. They both knew that regardless of the fact Sheres had the training for it, close quarters stuff was not in his wheelhouse. Mereel should have been the one to do it. But the Alpha had insisted since Mereel had just come back from another mission that had not involved Sheres. Missions together were sadly quite rare, despite the reasons being rather ridiculous.

“Blood,” Sheres rasped suddenly, the word automatically coming out in Mando'a rather than Basic. He had, after all, grown up with Mando'a first with Basic ironically second.

“Gone. No trace.” The response was in the same language. Mereel did not entirely mean the blood itself, but all that it had splattered on.

“Hands,” the word came out with an almost forlorn look.

“Will heal fine.”

The short phrases were often a hallmark of recovery from “episodes” as they were known. Neither was doing it to be condescending.

“Ambush,” Sheres finally ‘explained’ why he had come back in the state he had. Mereel could not hide his surprise at the word. They had been so sure the target was unaware of the so-called price on his head. “Seemed clear. Explosive. Distraction.”

“You don’t have to debrief me right this second, cyar,” Mereel reassured.

In response, Sheres lightly squeezed Mereel’s hands as if to say “I must”. It wasn’t the first time he had been ambushed, but too many variables had lined up to dredge up the memories of the worst one of his life. In fact, he was usually triggered by smells instead of action or sight.

Sheres was about to continue when a soft kind of chime interrupted him. His gaze turned to the datapad nearby that had been programmed to let them know whenever a news report mentioned certain words. Mereel begrudgingly untangled his hands from Sheres’s so he could get up and pick it up. He angled it so his partner couldn’t see the screen, making Sheres frown.

“–it will take some time to piece together the events here today. As you can see, barely any part of this room is bloodless. For some time it was assumed the victim had been ripped apart so badly there were no solid parts left to piece back together.”

Mereel almost muted the datapad until Sheres gave him a look that stopped him. He needed to know.

“And indeed, it seems he is one step away from being mere pulp. At this time there are no suspects and basically zero leads. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, even if they seem to have gone a little out of control. In this next room we found the very few remains of a weapons dealer that the Republic has been after for some time. We found traces of a second person but no indication that they were also brought to an almost pulp. While they may be the cause, the investigators will not be treating it as a manhunt but rather a rescue effort.”

Sheres looked away and down to his hands. While Alpha 17 was the most proficient of the Alphas in close quarters, Sheres was no slouch in rendering his opponent to being mush. The explosive had helped though, in ways the target had not expected.

Even though it was sanctioned, the two ARCs were quite used to their missions being swept under the rug, the paperwork filed under ‘highly classified until further notice’. So neither were surprised at the prospect that the local law enforcement would investigate. They knew that if the local LEOs got too close to figuring it out though, that Republic spook overseers would take the necessary action.

If only Sheres had managed to take the target out in the way they had planned it. They had leeway for mission success that many other clones didn’t but that also did not mean Sheres would shrug over how it had truly gone down.

“Sorry,” Sheres mumbled as Mereel turned the datapad off.

“No. Not your fault. You got the job done and came home. That is what matters.”

Sheres clenched his eyes shut before slowly burying his face into Mereel’s shoulder. I want to be better, echoed in his head. Mereel sighed and rested his cheek on Sheres’s head.

“Vor’e.”

“Always.”

#izzyovercoffee #sheres #shereshoy fett #mereel skirata #shereel #r: boot polish and blaster smoke #izzy #my writing #source for icon can be found by clicking the icon #ptsd tag #gore tag

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finalfantasyxivwritings · 5 years

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Echoes of Mortality

AO3 Version

Relationship: Silence/Reader/Indulgence (OCs)

Rating: Teen

Summary: It's been a long time since the Lightwardens Indulgence and Silence have understood what it meant to be alive. Despite this, they've found feelings in but one fragile mortal who serves to remind them of who they once were, if only vaguely. It is through that mortal's kindness that they are anchored to the world anymore--and for them, the wardens would do anything to keep their mortal safe and happy

....even if it means they have to wait outside a city, allowing their mortal but a short excursion among their own kind.

More information: Silence (Samilen) | Indulgence (Khalja)

It’s late into the evening, though anyone may be hard-pressed to notice that by a simple glance up towards the sky. Where once-fabled darkness may have filled one horizon to the next, there’s nothing but washed out brightness that echoes across the thicket of ethereal clouds–it’s as bright as it would be at noon, with yet the only difference between the times being the mild chill on the air and a lack of people shuffling in the streets.

Despite the seeming freeze of time, mortals are yet stubborn to their habits.

‘I hate this.’

The words come unspoken from a form that stands under the eaves of a building, one of several that lay abandoned on the outskirts of the settlement, where next to nobody would think to travel–especially not when so many sin eaters were readied for any excuse to hunt. The form is humanoid, but it’s hard to pick out any detail beneath the thick cloak that covers their body.

The only point of detail that can be seen comes but in the moments when their hands slip out of the cloak and gestures in what some may know as handspeak.

A chuckle comes at a response to the silent words from the form’s partner, another cloak-covered shape that stands against the wall of a second building so close to the former that the two nameless forms are in relative shade despite the everburning light above them.

“And yet here you are,” the second form but purrs, having to duck their head slightly to be level with the first. “Though, I see not why you could hate these moments–do you not even mildly lust for the feeling of being alive again?”

‘I am alive right now,’ the first signs with motions nearly as sharp as the metal clawed gauntlets over their fingers. ‘It is mortality you speak of so fondly, which you are quick to forget all of the pain that came with it.’

“Worthwhile flaws, of course.”

A breeze flutters through the space between the two buildings, gently catching on the hoods of both shapes and offering but a glance at the faces hidden in darkness.

To the ignorant, both appear as if living marble statues. Their skin is pale, bleached completely of any color that may have once resided. It is so bright, in fact, that it gives off a vague glow, as if their very flesh is wont to revel in the very light they hide from.

The first form, a head shorter than their partner, turns a gaze towards them.

From beneath the hood, a pair of golden eyes burn as hot as the sun, irises laid upon a backdrop of ink that contrasts starkly with the empty white of their skin.

‘There is but one mortal worthy of our time and attention now.’

It’s hard to read the expression upon their face, especially when the words are communicated through silent motion alone. Still, the second form offers but another chuckle–the noise sounds inhuman, a rumble as strong as thunder that is somehow contained within their ribcage.

“You need not explain that to me, Silence.”

‘When your obsessions seem to lie elsewhere, I question that.’ The hard gaze of the now named form, Silence, turns back outside of the shaded alley. Searching. ‘I hate having to conceal my light.’

“You would do well to do it more often, my fellow warden,” says the other. “You would be far more comfortable with practice, and then you would be able to join our dear mortal more often–how you not tire of that drab cave I haven’t the slightest clue.”

Even from beneath the thick cloak, one might even be able to see a faint glow rise and fall with the creature’s amusement.

Silence tries not to listen despite there being some vague truth in the others words. As much as he would like to deny any length of connection to his past mortal life, some habits truly could not be killed in the transformation that ascended him to he creature he is now.

A monster, some may even say, and Silence would not be one to disagree with the accuracy in it.

Still, the words yet catch on nerves. He turns his burning gaze to meet with a set of eyes, equally bright in the colors of polished emeralds. Though he is forced to restrain some level of fury in his motions for the sake of letting his light leak for form break, it’s not difficult in the slightest to see his normally-cold expression crack.

‘So says the warden named for his craven search of debauchery. Indulgence. I dare think you would even have your way with our mortal in the center of this town if they would but allow it.’

The taller of the forms says nothing, though the smirk along his snow-white lips is all the answer needed to confirm the accusation–as well as show for his infamous lack of shame in it.

It’s not worth a fight, though Silence assumes his fellow lightwarden is getting more amusement out of it than anything. As a statement, he crosses his arms within the sweet concealing embrace of the cloak, mind finally wandering back to the thoughts of the one mortal he and Indulgence were yet waiting on.

How long did they need to purchase food? Wasn’t all sustenance the same? It had been so many years since Silence had yet breathed air, so many moons since he could recall feeling a heartbeat, the warmth of the sun upon his now stone-cold flesh.

Perhaps that is where Indulgence holds truth. Maybe, in some regard, there is the faintest cloying desire to feel it again; mortality, being alive in a way that set him apart from his current twisted form. To eat and drink and enjoy the foolish notions of hope and courage and sacrifice.

Maybe, in a fashion, it is why his obsessive desire for the mortal runs so deeply. Why he frets over them, lusts for them, wants to curl his entire being around their soft and fragile form and keep the entire world from even tainting their soul with its cruel nature.

Indulgence may remember much of the good in his past life, but Silence too remembers much of the bad. The trauma, he pain, the endless cycle of death and sacrifice that made no dent in the history he sought to change. The shorter of the two lightwardens is glad that the other hasn’t yet asked about the guilt that yet lingers deep within his breast, an emotion that has never once left him no matter how long he’s existed as a blighted creature of holy influence.

It is as much his own emotion as it isn’t–Samilen Jawantal is a name he but barely remembers, just in kind as much of the man’s memories. They are there in his soulless body, but faint, like old dreams long forgotten in the hours of wakefullness. Silence is sure that his fellow lightwarden must have similar experiences to his past life as a warrior as Khalja Kahkol, but the topic has never been brought up for them to discuss at length.

And Silence doesn’t want it to disturb their mortal.

Still so gentle, so loving, so very fragile in mind and body both and yet with a glorious well of aether untainted by the twisted and deformed world around them.

They are the only reason Silence hasn’t tried to rid the emotions and memories through the spilling of blood. The only reason he hasn’t tried to cleanse the world of its sin, to swallow it entirely in the burning embrace of light. They are the one reason that mortality is yet a mystery to him, for how could such creatures birth such wonder and beauty?

For a once-man who prizes knowledge and logic and the knowing of all things he can wrap his timeless self around, the answer yet escapes him. The purpose, the reason, the point is beyond his godly grasp.

“Silence,” the sound of Indulgence’s vaguely inhuman voice catches the warden’s attention, pulling him from deep in decade’s old thoughts. “I believe they are finishing their lovely little errands of sorts. I can sense their sweetness growing closer.”

‘Then let us leave this place,’ Silence motions with his hands, the vague shape of Miqo’te ears flicking somewhere beneath the hood. ‘I grow weary of being near such a cluster of noise and futility.’

They leave from where they are hidden, timing near-perfect as you come hurrying down the messy dirt road, a full basket clutched tight to your body and somewhat overfilled with goods.

“Sorrysorrysorry-” your words run into one another so that it sounds like one noise, a look of worry laden in your eyes. “I know you gave me only a bell, but there was a new merchant in town and I got distracted and-”

“Shush,” Indulgence coos, silencing your words and bringing a softness to your expression. “A few extra moments of discomfort is worth the joy it brought you.”

Silence says nothing, nor does he make any motions with his hands. You may say that the warden looks annoyed, but it’s hard to say for certain when his expression is always rather unreadable with half of his face constantly hidden beneath a mask of metal.

He but looks at you with those eyes of burning gold, ones you once heard about burning men with but a single glance. Though you don’t feel even the slightest tinge of fire upon your skin, you do feel a blooming warmth in your belly from the attention–the weight of the gaze brings forth a great many feelings, if only because you can yet sweetly remember how the creature held you in his arms the night prior, promising you in the embrace of climax that you would be allowed an hour among your people.

Mortals, as the wardens oft referred to them.

His eyes linger for a moment, then flick towards your hands.

“What is it that you’re holding, dear one?” Indulgence asks, approaching you gently, his height seeming to tower over you even when in his echoed form. Perhaps it is the fact that he cannot change the lifeless white of his skin, or the burning brightness of his eyes, things that showcase their otherness even without their size, glow and ethereal wings.

You suddenly remember yourself and fumble for words.

“Oh! That merchant I spoke about–they….they were trying to sell some flowers they managed to grow and….”

Nervously, you hold out one of your hands; clutched against your palm are but two simple flowers, old names lost to time when so rarely are they able to grow in the nutrient-scarce soil. They are half-withered, but yet they peak with colorful petals and strong stalks that allow both Indulgence and Silence to see how they must have but recently bloomed.

Silence’s eyes widen for but a fraction of a moment at the gesture, but it is Indulgence who response first; the once Au Ra reaches his hands out to gently hold your fist within them, as if he was cupping something fragile.

“Your kindness is hardly worthy for creatures like us,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded and staring at the flowers for a few moments. Despite how he touches your skin, you notice that he does not touch the flowers directly in any way. “We will find a place for them to live their last days when we return home.”

You feel heat start to gather over your cheeks, but you’re not given more than a few moments to consider the feeling before both wardens move; Indulgence takes the basket with a gentle care, while Silence pulls you into his arms though careful of the cold touch of his claws as they wrap around your form.

He doesn’t look at you as the wardens all but disappear into the light-washed lands.

Still, even as the two creatures shed their cloaks and retake their true forms, even when they appear not even minutely mortal, even as they glow in layers of ethereal light-bleached aether, you swear you can see the faintest touch of a blush somewhere along the top of Silence’s cheeks.

Though monsters as they may be, there was but a shred of who they once were still left–and moments like this prove it to you.

#ffxiv #lightwarden au #writing #samilen readerinsert #khalja readerinsert #silence readerinsert #indulgence readerinsert #poly samikhalja #poly samikhalja readerinsert #sfw #sfw readerinsert #oof #poly silgence #poly silgence readerinsert #i'll settle on tags eventually #shb spoilers #shadowbringers spoilers #5.0 spoilers #I GOT RLY INSPIRED ALRIGHT CAN U BLAME ME

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sergeant-shorty · 6 years

Text

Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’

Requested by: @carolyn-stark-91

Pairing: Tony Stark x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1900 ish

Warnings: Smut (18+ only), unprotected sex (don’t be a fool cover your tool), oral male receiving, slightly rough sex, some spanking.

Summary: You loved everything about your job, despite the fact that your boss was the definition of attraction, but what happens when you’re finally given the chance to experience your desires?

————————————————————

Your alarm clock buzzed loudly next to your head jolting you awake from a dreamless sleep. You reluctantly rolled out of the sweet comfort of your bed and wandered over to your closet preparing yourself for another day at work. You found and put on your favorite grey pencil skirt and blue button up shirt that accentuated every curve on your body. It’s not like you were necessarily dressing up for anyone in particular, at least that’s what you were going to tell yourself.

You see, being the personal assistant to Tony Stark was one of the most amazing and yet absolutely frustrating jobs on the planet. You were always challenged at work which you loved, whether it be creating different projects or helping Tony come up with different business plans. Trying not to drool over your boss? Now that was the most challenging task you had to deal with on a daily basis. You couldn’t deny the fact that there was always playful flirting between the two of you, but what girl wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity? But you promised yourself you’d never push it past flirting, you didn’t want a workplace romance to go terribly wrong.

So you started your short commute to work, as you did every morning, walking briskly to the coffee shop to get your daily dose of caffeine. You made sure to grab a cup for Tony before heading up to your office. Once inside you were greeted by a remarkably well dressed Tony with a smile on his face and two cups of coffee in hand. He laughed lightly at the situation, “Looks like great minds really do think alike.” He set the coffee he had gotten you on your desk taking the one you got him happily, “But I do have to say (y/n), it’s almost like you knew exactly what I needed.” Now it was your turn to laugh, “Isn’t that apart of my job?” he smirked at you, “Not always, if you did you wouldn’t have walked from your apartment to work this morning,” and with that he turned to walk into his office a smirk plastered on his face. You were so used to the banter that you quickly refuted, “Oh Tony, you think I’d let myself end up in your bed on a work night?”

He stood in the doorway of his office directly across from yours turned slightly, “So should I schedule you for this weekend?’ With that he laughed and turned on his heel and into his office, and thank god he did or he’d see that your face was a new shade of crimson. The rest of the day continued similarly as it had for the few years you had been here, if HR were to hear some of the things you said you’d both get in some serious trouble. Around noon Tony called you into his office, “Did you finish calling the vendors for the party tonight?” You nodded proudly, “All of the final touches have been completed and they are currently setting up as we speak.” He nodded to himself before looking up from what he was doing, “I know you don’t do snobby rich people parties but I need a gorgeous woman on my arm as my date tonight and I think it’s only fair since that very same gorgeous woman helped organize the entire event.” You blushed looking down at your feet, “I wouldn’t say gorgeous, but yeah, I’ll go with you.” He grinned at you, “ Alright, I’ll grab you around 7?” You nodded and walked back to your desk panicking. What on God’s green earth do you wear when you’re the date for Tony freaking Stark?!

As soon as you punched out for the day you ran to the nearest boutique in hopes of finding something remotely decent enough for the occasion. You searched the racks for what seemed like hours, trying on dress after dress until one of the kind ladies that worked there pulled the perfect dress from out back. You rushed to try it on, your jaw dropping when you saw yourself. The dress was a ruby red satin gown that hugged your body before flaring out towards the floor, the top was modest while the fabric hugged curves you didn’t even know existed. What you loved most about the dress was that it was backless, it was a sexy detail without taking away from the elegance.

Once you got home you got ready instantly. You decided to leave your makeup simple with a bold lip and your hair in loose curls around your shoulders. Just as you were checking yourself one last time in the mirror you heard a knock at your door. You opened your door to see Tony in an all black designer tux with gold detailing and a pair of his signature sunglasses.

He looked at you eyes wide and you could hear the gulp right before he spoke, “(y/n), wow, you look absolutely stunning.” You blushed looking down at the ground, “Thank you, I really don’t look that great.” Tony stuck his hand under your chin lifting your face to look at him, “(y/n) you’re going to put every other person in that ballroom to shame tonight, trust me.” Your smile was plastered to your face as you took his arm and he lead you to the limo.

Once you arrived even you were shocked by how elaborate it all came together. The lights and decorations gave the room a romantic feel, guest talked and danced around you as the music echoed throughout the ballroom. Tony places his hand on your lower back, just above where the openning on the back began on your dress, leading you across the room to meet different guests.

You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, being so close to him like this causes you to barely focus on who you were even talking to. Tony interrupted your thoughts leading you to the dancefloor, “I hope you don’t mind but I needed to get away from those stuffy businessmen for a few minutes, plus you look too damn good not to flaunt my gorgeous date around the room.” You giggled at him rolling your eyes, “Well unfortunately for you Mr. Stark I don’t know how to dance. I’ve never been asked.” Tony gave you his best shocked expression before resting a hand lightly at your waist and taking your hand in his, “Luckily for you Ms. (y/l/n) I’m a great teacher.”

You rested a hand on his shoulder looking down at your feet making sure to not step on his shoes, “(Y/n), look up at me, don’t worry I won’t let you do anything stupid.” He smiled warmly at you as you lifted your gaze. You looked into his beautiful brown eyes as you began swaying effortlessly to the music, “Tony thank you for tonight.” He smiled at you, “I should be thanking you. This party is a hit and you’ve been the best date a guy could ask for.” You decide to rest your head on his shoulder as you continue to dance, unluckily for you the song changed to something a little more upbeat.

You almost pulled away when Tony stopped you. He continued to lead you dancing rhythmically to the best a grin on his face as he laughed. You kept up fairly well for being in heels, matching his movements perfectly. As the song was nearing its end he spun you around and dipped you slightly holding you upright. The song ended and you both looked deep into the others eyes, tension thick in the air as Tony held you. He pulled you up slowly, his face leaning closer to yours. You met him halfway kissing him back with more passion than you even knew you could muster.

That kiss was years too late, eliciting a fire from deep from inside you, heat pooling in your core. You pulled away for air breathing heavily, Tony looked at you his eyes dark with lust, “Why don’t we get out of here?” You didn’t hesitate practically dragging him out of the party and into the limo.

Once at his house he led you upstairs to his room, he backed you up against the wall a smirk on his face, “I hope you don’t mind but we can save the house tour for tomorrow.” And with that he attached his mouth to your neck sucking and biting at your overheated skin. You moaned loudly for him desperate for something more than what he was giving you. To your surprise he turned you around undoing your dress and letting it pool at your feet.

He brushed your hair to the side kissing at your neck whispering next to your ear, “I’m glad to see you wore such cute panties for me, but no bra? Now that my dear is very naughty.” You moaned at his words arching your back against him, he slapped your ass getting a yelp from you. What you didn’t expect was for you to like it that much. He gently began to soothe your cheek with the palm of his hand, “Now I really love the way you sound princess, but I want to see what that pretty little mouth can do.”

He rid himself of his clothing sitting over on the bed, you walked over to him swaying your hips knowing he was staring. You knelt in front of him, eyes widening when you noticed his size. You took him in your hand pumping slowly, Tony’s low moans were sin to your ears encouraging you further. You took just the tip of him into your mouth swirling your tongue to tease him. His head fell back as he tangled his finger in your hair. You took this as a signal to take him further, and you did.

You took almost his entire length bobbing your head and hollowing your cheeks sucking lightly. Tony was a moaning mess from the dirty things your mouth was doing to him. He lifted your head feeling a knot in his stomach, “You’ve gotta stop or the fun is going to end a lot sooner than you want it to. Get on the bed, face down princess.”

You quickly took your panties off laying on the bed with your ass in the air for him, your back arched. Tony crawled behind you lining himself up to your entrance, he eased into you slowly savoring the feeling of you squeezing him. He began thrusting into you slowly your hands fisting the sheets from how good he felt at this angle. You were panting and moaning but you needed more, begging him to go faster. He gave you every inch of him, thrusting hard and deep causing you to scream out in pure bliss. You could feel your orgasm approaching, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer, “I’m so close Tony don’t stop!” He kept up his pace bringing you to orgasm. Your legs shook as your walls fluttered around him, bringing him to his own release.

Tony helped clean you up, making sure to be gentle with you. He grabbed one of his dress old tshirt’s for you to wear helping you get it over your sleepy form. When he finally laid down you snuggled close to him and he wrapped his arms around you. You began to relax when Tony quietly spoke, “I don’t want this to be a one time thing.” You nodded in agreeance, “Me either.” He smiled to himself rubbing your back slowly, “By the way tomorrow is a work day.” You sit up slightly looking at him confused, “And?” He laughed with a grin, “You get to go to work from my place tomorrow, because you ended up in my bed on a work night.”

#tony stark #tony stark x reader #tony stark smut #tony stark fluff #tony stark one shot #tony stark imagine #marvel one shot #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #marvel #marvel smut #marvel fluff #avengers x you #avengers x reader #avengers one shot #avengers imagine #avengers

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trippydooda · 5 years

Text

another snippet of the Tangled AU thing, i’ll post a link for its AO3 page soon

Pairing: Kim Seokjin/Jeon Jungkook

Word Count: 2,291

Rating: T

Yoongi’s pub had quickly become a safe haven for the less than endowed in society, and that’s exactly where Jungkook is sitting at present, grinning wildly at a not grinning Yoongi behind the counter.

“One of these days you’ll rot in a cell forever,” Yoongi tells him, entirely fake intent behind the words.

Jungkook smiles against the rim of his mug and drinks down. “Hasn’t happened yet,” he counters.

“I wait with bated breath for when it does,” Yoongi retorts, swiftly turning on his heel.

Swirling around on his stool, Jungkook watches the pub with a strong familiarity and comfort of home. In one corner someone is playing an aggressive game of chess, in another group of people (including Taehyung, of course) are playing a game of poker. Taehyung cheats, everyone knows, but everyone is also too afraid to say anything about lest they invoke the wrath of Jimin, who when Jungkook looks is sprawled across a chair, no doubt trying to sleep. A wasted effort to be sure.

The only two who were missing was Namjoon and Hoseok, who had been out running errands since their faces weren’t as hated as the Terrible Trio. The two of them had made a silent agreement to wear masks whenever they did business with the Trio, and it would have been a good idea all around if it wasn’t already miserably too late for the other three to even try. Besides, Hoseok took more enjoyment enacting acts of violence against the castle guard and having them not have any clue who was doing it.

Jungkook sits back, resting an elbow on the edge of the bar. He’s smiling, Yoongi makes some rude remark about keeping his bar clean thank you, but Jungkook just laughs under his breath.

This was his home.

— — — — — — —

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home means.

He reads books on it every day, the same ones he has read hundreds of times, and can only conclude where he is trapped is the closest thing to “home”. And that was the reality, Seokjin was trapped in this tower and doesn’t even know what it is to feel the grass between his toes. He has no idea what a breath of fresh air is truly like, and can only imagine it through dreams and hopes of one day being free.

His keeper is Yi Jihu, a younger man but still older than him who had found him as an infant, helpless and alone. Jihu is a nice man, Seokjin thinks, but has told him the horrors of the word below and although he doesn’t want to believe them, he has no point of reference to counter otherwise. It was his hair, he’s always told, people want his hair for intentions laced with malice. Seokjin tugs at his golden shoulder length hair, playing with it in between his fingers, and finds he resents it.

One night he had tried to cut it, but Jihu had found him and ripped the scissors from his hair and bursting into an anger Seokjin had never seen before. His face turned red and the veins in his eyes popped as he shrieked and screamed at Seokjin, saying he would let him starve if he dared to cut his hair. He hasn’t questioned it since, hasn’t even bothered to try, knowing Jihu watches him constantly under the guise of concern, but Seokjin knows there’s something more sinister hidden underneath.

It’s magic, Jihu had told him the first night he experienced it. Seokjin had been singing mindlessly, letting tunes flow off his tongue and not even knowing the words he sang. It was in the midst of this his brilliant golden hair had started to glow wildly, emitting flecks of what looked like stardust to him in abundance. Jihu had walked in then, holding it in his hands with the look of what Seokjin thought was like how mother looks at her child. He had brushed his cheek against it and sighed deeply, thanking Seokjin for finally giving him what he was hoping for all these years. Seokjin didn’t get it at the time, still doesn’t as much, but it made Jihu happy so it made Seokjin happy.

Seokjin isn’t happy though. At first he was, always happy to be around his books and his small sugar glider (who he named Cane as a pun to himself), and thought he never needed anything else. Anyone else. He had Jihu, he had food and a home, and there was nothing else he was missing. It was only when he first noticed the stars that he had seen the error in his ways.

Up in the sky where Seokjin can’t reach, where he can’t even begin to understand the complexity of, sat balls of super heated light that looked down on him. He watches them every night until he falls asleep at the window, watches them while he sings tunes to no one, and watches them like they’re his salvation.

Kim Seokjin doesn’t know what home is, but when he looks at the stars he thinks he’s getting somewhat closer.

— — — — — — —

“This is the most idiotic thing you’ve ever proposed,” Namjoon says, “And that’s including robbing the brothel that was, if I need to remind you, full of palace soldiers.”

Jungkook shrugs and grins. “It was funny seeing them realise we had the blackmail power to use against them.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung pipes from the chair.

Sighing, Namjoon runs a hand down his face. The pub had recently closed, and it was just the six of them sitting around trying to figure out how to make some quick cash. Boring breaking and entering had lost its luster, and it never made much money. You always had to do multiple robberies, and that made it easier to be caught and it just wasn’t fun anymore. Jungkook liked to raid, and come back with more than a leather cap and a few gold coins. He wanted bigger, badder, and harder to get.

Enter his master plan to steal the crown that belonged to the “long lost” prince, if you believed the stories.

“We have Hoseok to lead us around and find the best way in,” Jungkook reasons when Namjoon continues to stare at him.

Hoseok squeaks, “That’s not a lot of pressure though.”

Jungkook shrugs again. “I’m just saying, imagine how rich we would be if we had that thing.” He smirks, showing a toothy smile, “We’d have the kingdom wrapped around our fingers.”

“You seem to be forgetting the part where you could get executed,” Namjoon grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not, I swear,” Jungkook pouts, “Besides it wouldn’t even be on you if I died, it would totally be on Taehyung,” he finishes just as Taehying yells an indignant, “Hey!” And Jungkook is being hit in the shoulder by a blunt butter knife.

The thing was, Jungkook harbours more than a little animosity towards the king and queen. Ever since he could wrap his head around thoughts beyond he was hungry and pillows were comfy, he had seen his fair share of turmoil surrounding the monarchy. It didn’t care about its citizens really, it only cared about the rich ones. They would try to guilt the citizens by saying the king and queen still mourn their lost son, but if Jungkook can get over his dead parents he thinks the goddamn leaders of a nation can get over their son.

It’s because of this that he wants to steal the crown. He wants to covet it and dangle it above the kingdom’s head, taunting and bribing for them to get it back. He wants to see them suffer like the poor and ill, wants them to know what it’s like to not be born into royalty or the aristocracy. Perhaps it’s a bit childish, perhaps he was just being petty, but it doesn’t change how he feels.

It turns out the best way to get into the castle is through the roof. Jungkook doesn’t pretend to understand, just scales the sides of the castle with a foolish grin and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’s always loved climbing, always climbed trees and hills when he was younger, much to his caretaker’s dismay.

Jungkook reaches the place where they will quite literally drop in before everyone else, because of course he does. He’s bouncing foot to foot, squeezing his hands into fists only to let them go in rapid succession. The whole gang decided to come this time, even Yoongi. He mentioned something about being bored out of his ever loving mind in the pub and was keen to see them all fuck up. It was an empty insult, because everyone knows he came because he was worried about Hoseok getting hurt again. Jungkook wishes they would just fuck already and get rid of the sexual tension he can practically smell every time they’re near each other. It literally makes him nauseated, and even more so when he sees them eye fucking each other. Absolutely ridiculous.

“I don’t like heights,” Taehyung idly comments, staring down into the throne room. It’s where the king and queen keep the crown, moping about it every time they held council.

“I’ll go in then,” Jungkook says, already reaching for the rope Jimin is holding.

Jimin keeps it taut against his hip, resisting Jungkook’s grip. “Shouldn’t I be the one to go? I’m the smallest,” he says, gnawing at the bottom of his lip.

The thing is, everyone else is always slightly wary about doing big heists. They’re always quiet as they prepare, quiet as they start, always hesitant. Jungkook, by contrast, welcomes the chaos that no doubt descends upon them. He relishes the fact that he’s in danger, that he could be thrown in prison forever, or even worse he could die. It was exhilarating, knowing he had control over what he could do. And that was the thing, it was all about control. All about the thrill.

So Jungkook forcefully yanks the rope from Jimin saying, “We can’t have anyone be scared or unsure about this, or we’re all fucked.” To that, everyone slowly nods. He’s right, he knows, and he knows everyone else sees it as well. It’s why, despite being the youngest, Jungkook is the leader.

“Ah, bravery,” Yoongi muses with a chuckle, “A far better term for stupidity, is it not?”

Jungkook shoots him a look, lips thinning. “No one needs your poetry bullshit right now,” he retorts, but there’s no venom in it, not when he grins wildly right after. Yoongi grins right back, raising his hands in mock defeat.

“Don’t die,” is what he says next, and it’s the best evidence of concern Jungkook is going to get out of him.

Jungkook is let down slowly, needing both Namjoon and Taehyung to hold him steady. “You’re all muscle what the fuck,” is what Taehyung had muttered as they first dropped him through the glass ceiling. He dangles more or less stably as he’s brought closer to the crown perfectly sitting on a silk pillow, atop a pedestal adorned with so many jewels it makes Jungkook’s mouth water. If he could, he’d rip the damn thing out and keep it for himself it was so pretty. It’d be like a trophy, since he really has no plan on what to actually do with the crown once he gets it. He’ll figure it out.

A sweat has built up on the nape of his neck when he first grabs the rim of the crown in front of him. He holds it close to his chest, looking up at where Jimin is peering down at him and grins. He motions to be let up when one of the guards sneezes, turning his attention back down.

“Hay fever?” He casually asks, and can feel the grip on the rope stiffening.

“Like a bitch,” the guard says, and Jungkook can tell he’s wiping his nose from where he stares at his back. It takes a moment for the guard to realise where the comment came from, and turns to Jungkook with eyes blown wide. “What the fu—”

“Sorry, got to go,” Jungkook interrupts with the most shit eating grin. He can feel himself be pulled up only slightly, and he’s pretty sure the assholes are considering letting him go altogether.

As he’s being hoisted up there is nothing short of chaos that erupts. He can’t tell if he’s hearing his friends curse or the plethora of guards below him, but it doesn’t matter when he feels an arrows slice his cheek. Still clutching the crown with one arm, he instinctively jolts a hand to where he’s no doubt bleeding, sending an incredulous glare at the trembling guard who no doubt tried to kill him. So rude.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” is what Jungkook is greeted with when he finally clambers onto the roof. “Can you not be a cocky bastard for one minute of your life?” It’s Yoongi snarling at him, but it’s clear he’s afraid. Poor bugger shouldn’t have come along.

“I have to agree,” Taehyung adds, dropping the rope right as Jungkook stands. He points an accusatory finger at him, “If we all die I am so haunting you in the afterlife.”

Wriggling out of the rope tied around his waist, Jungkook grins. “Fair enough.”

— — — — — — —

He finishes singing for Jihu as the sun starts to set.

“Beautiful, as always,” Jihu says to Seokjin, sliding an affectionate thumb across his cheek.

Seokjin smiles, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Cane wriggles in his lap, and he softly pets his head. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Jihu kisses the top of his head as he stands, brushing off his knees. He had been kneeling in front of Seokjin as he sang atop of a terribly worn down wooden stool. It had been like this ever since Seokjin can remember, singing for Jihu before bed. He’s always thought the dynamic was supposed to be the other way around, but it always made Jihu happy so he never questioned it. It got old after maybe twenty years when Seokjin realised he doesn’t get much in return. Sometimes a nice muffin, but he hardly considers it compensation.

It started to get old when Seokjin’s back hurt from sitting too long, his hair sometimes not wanting to glow how Jihu wanted it to.

It started to get old when Jihu would strike him for not wanting to do it, and then immediately cradle him and telling him he was sorry.

It started to get old when Seokjin realised he was alone.

He always has Cane, who scurries up his arm to rest in the crook of his neck, but sometimes he wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Cane’s fault of course, and he usually was enough to keep Seokjin sane. But the thing was, Jihu would be gone sometimes for weeks at a time, and instead of welcoming Seokjin into his arms when he returned, he would always drag him to the wooden stool and practically beg Seokjin to sing for him, bags latent and obvious under his eyes.

Seokjin has never denied him in those times either. The pain on Jihu’s face made his heart hurt, and he would stop whatever he was doing to help. Perhaps he was chasing a feeling that maybe Jihu would show him true love, and not just something he has to covet. Seokjin frowns at the familiar sentiment that crawls upon behind him. It’s been getting harder to ignore as of late, and when he tries to be more affectionate with Jihu, he’s pushed away. Seokjin only matters when he sings.

Sometimes he wishes he would fall ill and lose his voice forever. What was the point of being able to sing if he could never share it with the world? He’s always told how cold and unforgiving the outside world is, but when he looks out his window into the endless woods with its singing birds and beautiful elk, he thinks maybe Jihu is wrong. He thinks maybe if he was just given the chance he would be able to think for his own.

He thinks many things, but never voices them.

He belatedly realises Jihu is trying to talk to him when he blinks up to an impatient face. “Sorry?” He asks.

“I said,” Jihu says, “It’s time for you to sleep now. I have to leave early tomorrow and I need to know you’re safe in your bed before I sleep.”

Seokjin rubs his lips together. He has grown accustomed to Jihu treating him like a child despite his age, but there are moments where it infuriates him. Surely they should be equals now. Surely Seokjin isn’t the stumbling infant he once was. In any case, he nods. “Of course,” he replies, standing delicately.

Jihu watches him, a shadowed figure as Seokjin crawls into bed and holds his blankets close to his face. He hides it enough to know when Jihu leaves, obviously convinced he’s asleep already. The sigh that Jihu always lets out as he leaves has not made Seokjin find comfort since he was a small child, and so when he hears Jihu’s bedroom door close, he promptly sits up. Cane comes over to sit atop his head as he does what he’s done as a ritual for years now.

He props himself up, crawls into the expansive window sill he has, and stares at the stars. He stares at the stars and definitely doesn’t cry.

#Jinkook #that's the pairing name i'm going with k #Jinkook fic #BTS fic #i should probably mention this is a slow burn #like trying to make a fire with two sticks sort of slow burn

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