#fic: come alive in the neon light | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

historiaxvanserra · 1 year

Text

Ruin

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: Velaris is beautiful but under all the pomp and ceremony it is a den of hedonistic desire. Since you arrived you have tried to hide from that desire. But tonight, Azriel just might be your ruin.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: drinking, dirty talk, teasing, unprotected sex, pinv, public sex, rough sex, slight blood kink if you squint and I think that's it.

This is the first part of a 2 part fic but they can be read separately. Part I here.

The room is ablaze with electricity. It’s humming and pulsing and coming alive with the movements of the patrons. It’s palpable. The air is thick and sweet, tainted with something darker. The marble floor is awash with dancing bodies and you find yourself entranced in the sway of the waltzing sea, the people pressed against one another twisting and contorting, like columns of technicolour seafoam. Your body moves in similar a similar fluid motion as the current sweeps you up. For a few moments, you allow yourself to get lost in the primal give and take of the dancing tide and the sound of hypnotic music is enough to calm your jittering nerves.

The lavish reception at Rita’s seems exhume decadence. The glittering chandeliers cast the room in an amethyst glow and as you wade through the crowds the eyes of males and females alike seem to stand in silent judgment, lingering over the curve of your hips and unusually low neck line. In makes you feel exposed. As though you are a sacrificial lamb and they hungry wolves baying for blood.

The world of The Night Court is a world away from your home; a colourful oasis into which you had been welcomed with open arms. But, under all the grandiose and ceremony of Court life, Valeris was a den of iniquity. One you felt compelled to avoid lest you surrender yourself to your most base desires. Tonight, though you had acquiesced to Mor’s pleading and Cassian’s knowing glances and agreed to be initiated into the seedy underbelly of Velaris’ nightlife.

Or as Cassian so eloquently put it to Nesta, We need to get her laid.

In reality, you don’t think that their goal is to get you laid at all. Only to tear down the walls you had built so tall that no one could seem to climb. It’s touching really that your friends want you to feel comfortable enough around them that no want is too taboo to confide in them but growing up where you had untamed desire is a dangerous vice and lust a short-lived fire that threatened to burn those walls to ash.

The mirrors are hung in a long line along the back wall of the club, their reflections felt like a taunt. Like holding up a mirror to your own perverse desires.

Looking at your own reflection you hardly recognised yourself; the chandeliers shadowed light becoming entangled in the siken tresses of hair that is usually tightly braided, now falls freely, and the dress that Mor had selected melts into the curves and contours of your body in a way that leaves little to the imagination. This woman before you is not the lamb she is the wolf.

In your inebriated state, you press your empty glass flush against your chest, the cool glass drawing the fire to the surface of your skin, as you observe the main room from your spot in the corner. By now, the rest of the Inner Circle has trailed one by one into the private lounge next door looking for a reprieve from the glare of neon light and the rhythm of the music. The alcohol had done its job in setting your throat ablaze and the fae wine pressed its burning kisses against your skin, staining your cheeks with a gentle blush.

It’s then that your eyes find Azriel. He’s standing against the bar with a Female whose face is concealed from view, she’s lithe and willowy and you try to fight the feeling of jealousy that burns through you then. Try not to think about him taking her hips in his beautiful hands as she thrusts lucidly in his firm grip. Or what her garish cobalt dress will look like on his bedroom floor.

You’d been a goner from the moment you arrived in Valeris with Feyre and Lucien. For months you have hidden away from him. Played the meek and studious exile all the while longing from afar for a man who you think you could love if only he’d let you.

Tonight though, you feel as though your inhibitions had been utterly compromised. Perhaps its the alcohol running hot in your veins or the way he looks at her under his darkening amber gaze but it’s a deadly combination of wanton desire and weeks of unspoken longing and the threat of ruination lingers on your mind.

Azriel is handsome in the way an angel might be; lust incarnate and devastatingly beautiful, with an almost sordid quality to him, that hinted at unspoken sacrilege. He looks at home here, in the thick of it, soaked in the neon glow, his signature sly smirk ghosting his lips. In these indulgent moments, you think that he is the only thing in this room worth looking at. In the cool light, he looks almost ethereal. His onyx hair is tousled purposely, the longer strands of hair curling away from his face and his eyes look like molten gold in the shadowed light. He has since shed his outer tunic and was left in a white undershirt, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and in the summer heat, it clings to him like a second skin.

It’s hard not to think about him like this; he’s sex personified. He’s built like some great Adonis with a face that could launch a thousand ships. But he’s not just beautiful. That’s the complicated part. He’s more than meets the eye; he’s dark and brooding, with a kind heart and sad eyes. He makes you want to sink to your kness and pray to him in reverence until he sees in himself what you see in him.

You find yourself turning over Rhys’ words in your head. Azriel has a great many lovers. He’s just better at hiding it than the rest of us.

Okay, so maybe he isn’t that lonely but none of them ever last that long. Of that you are certain.

It’s Cassian’s laughter that rouses you from thought as Mor motions for you to follow her into the next room. You trail behind her somewhat reluctantly as she takes your hand in her own. You venture deeper into the masses of bodies as Mor tightens her hold on you.

You cast your eyes over to Azriel once more only this time he is looking back. From here he is only an arm's length away as he shouts over the music. Only it’s futile and his shouts fall on deaf ears. Instead, you gesture to him that Mor is here. You point at the entrance to the private room and he seems to nod in acknowledgement before holding up a finger to you. Only before he can finish signalling to you, Mor’s gentle tug on your arm sees you gone from him once again.

Having reached the other end of the bar you and Mor separate before venturing further into the private area of the club.

“There you are,” Rhys says, opening his arms to you and drawing you into a friendly hug, “we wondered where you might have gotten to.”

The private room of Rita’s is reserved just for the Inner Circle only. It’s smaller than the main room but more inviting. The chandelier casts the room in a honeyed glow and the walls are hung with rich oil paintings and portraits rather than the mirrors and cold, neon light of the main bar. It’s quiet and cool and the frosted glass doors offer some privacy from the club beyond.

You shift uncomfortably as the group looks at you expectantly for an explanation for your absence but you offer none. Your throat seizes and the familiar heat of embarrassment pools in your stomach.

“Never mind,” Nesta says reassuringly as she pats the empty seat next to her, “you’re here now.”.

Cassian casts you a sidelong glance before opening his mouth to speak.

“We’re going to play a game,” he says, the devilment clear in his voice, “do you want to join us or just stare at Az all night?”.

“Sure, I’ll play,” you say opting to repress the thought of Azriel from your mind lest you look like even more of a lovestruck fool.

The booth in the middle of the room is a large, crescent moon shape, the seats are upholstered with emerald green leather and the table is a complimentary black. The table itself is high and round and set with enough drink to supply an army. Rhysand and Feyre are seated in the middle of the booth, his arm draped over her shoulder in a lazy show of affection and they share one cup of wine. Cassian and Nesta are sat to the side of Feyre and Mor, Amren and Emery pile into the opposite side next to Rhys.

You pay them little mind as you slide into the spot next to Nesta, who presses herself closer to Cassian as the group settles in.

“Right, the game is Truth or drink,” Cassian announces happily, the perverse implication clear from the look in his eye, “Mor you can start.”

Just as Mor begins to open her mouth to speak she is interrupted by the double doors swinging open unceremoniously. In the doorway Azriel leans languidly, he’s covered in a thin veil of sweat and he has forgone the first three buttons of his shirt, exposing the taut muscle beneath.

“I brought a guest,” he says in his cool tenor as the beautiful Female from earlier strolls in, with an air of confidence, verging on arrogance that irks you to no end.

You avert your eyes feigning ignorance until his commanding shadow looms ominously over you. When you crane your neck to look at him he’s already staring intently at you, his eyes meeting yours; soft ochre and flecks of molten gold. The booth strains under his hulking mass as he slides in beside you. You’re nearing delirium when his sculpted thigh presses against yours and the beautiful Female takes her place perched on his knee.

You cast him a sidelong glance and you swear he’s smirking at you. He brings his cup to his lips, drinking deeply before speaking to the group.

“Shall we play?” his voice is dark and laced with menace.

Mor clears her throat before turning to Nesta and asking her first question which Nesta answers with ease.

The group has been passing their questions back and forth along the row and at some point you let the inebriation take hold. Letting go of your inhibitions has you confessing to playing truant to practise with Cass, cheating at game nights and having your own small collection of dirty books stashed away in the library, much to the amusement of the group.

‘Not so innocent now, eh?’ says Mor over a glass of wine.

‘And to think!” exclaims Rhys, cluthicng at imaginary pearls, “I thought you were the good one”.

‘Dirty girl’.

At your side Azriel stiffens against you, his calloused hand sinking beneath the table, his fingers accidentally ghosting the exposed skin of your thigh. You try to catch his attention and in silent protests but he is not looking at you, his eyes are trained dead in front of him as Rhys asks the question.

“Come on then Az,” he starts with a jovial chuckle, “Have you ever had a sex dream about one of us?”.

“I have.” Azriel admits, his voice is loaded with indecency.

Mor sends you a smirk as she points to you and one by one, seven sets of eyes turn on you as you drink.

Azriel still will not look at you.

“Truth or drink,” Mor starts, “Have you ever imagined anyone in this room when reading your one of your books?”.

You swallow hard then. Mor isn’t playing fair at all. You had confided in her your most shameful thoughts and now she was trying to play matchmaker while the object of your desire sat at your side with another woman in his lap.

The eyes of the group linger on you expectantly. You know their game and you don’t care to play it tonight.

“Um I-i,” you start, your voice wavers with uncertainty. You drink deep again and hang your head low in lieu of confession.

As the game continues your mind begins to wander and you abandon yourself to the thought of Azriel. His hands were deliberate and rough against your thigh. His chest and how its all taut muscle and raw power. His low growl as he sinks into you for the first time.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” the whisper comes low in your ear, his voice is laden with transgressive desire.

Your eyes seek out Mor’s in the small room but she seems all too interested in the game that they are playing now. Instead, you will play him at his own game. Your eyes are trained forward and Azriel turns back.

“Tell me, darling,” he implores you, “who is it you think of?” his voice is measured as he slides his big palm to your thigh.

“All those late nights in the library,” his breath is hot and accusatory against your neck and he sinks hisa calloused finger along the soft flesh of your thigh, “I wonder.”

He lets the implication hang in the air unanswered as the female on his knee draws his attention back to her. She’s fussing with her dress and saying she wants to dance. The commotion draws the attention of the Inner Circle and it’s then you catch Mor’s eye. You must look thoroughly frustrated as she raises her eyebrows at you in question. All it takes is a glance in Azriel’s direction and Mor seems to grasp the situation. She slips from her place between Amren and Emery and begins to move in time with the faint hum of the music next door. Her body is beautiful, graceful and tempered as she turns to the stranger hanging off Azriel’s arm and holds out her hand to her.

“Dance with me, sweetheart.” it’s not an invitation but a command to which the woman obliges happily. You send Mor an apologetic smile as she backs out into the darkness of the club next door.

As the door closes on Mor the group quickly resumes their previous conversations and once again you stare ahead at the paintings hung on the wall, trying your hardest not to look Azriel in his eyes lest he see the truth. That he will be your ruination.

“Is it Cassian perhaps?” he asks, eyeing his friend as he laughs loudly at something Rhys is saying.

Looking at him through half-lidded eyes you shake your head and attempt to put distance between your body and his. He only laughs to himself leaning in closer.

“Mor?” he presses, inclining his head to the door, “Rhys even?” he continues.

“Amren?”, there’s amusement in his tone.

“No?” His hand resumes his assault on your thigh daring to climb higher and higher with every heaving breath you take. He buries his head in the crook of your neck breathing in your scent like it's a lifeline.

“Feyre? Nesta?” you’re silent, as his finger finally reaches the apex of your thigh under the material of your dress.

You look at him now. His eyes are like wildfire and his pupils are blown wide; he looks like a fallen angel. Divine and annihilating. And there, in the sulk of his bottom lip, you are reminded of the pull of your body to his. It’s instinctual. A need.

“Then that just leaves…” you cut him off before he can finish.

You stand abruptly drawing the attention of your friends who all look between you and Azriel confusion written on their faces as you push past him and slip out of the booth and into the night.

It’s witching hour and the club is saturated in hues of inky blue and indigo. The floor is awash with dancing bodies. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of lust lingers in the air. It’s savage and indulgent. You brace yourself against the wall, pressing your forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, looking at yourself through dark lashes; shame and arousal still hot in your veins. Your breathing is deep and slow, your cheeks are flushed and your hair falls in haphazard waves around your shoulders. You are no wolf, little girl.

You feel his presence before you see him. He cuts an intimidating figure in this light. He’s tall and hardened by rejection and white-hot fury burns through him. He meets your eyes in the mirror; they’re glinting and profane against the black. He stalks towards you with a resolute coolness entirely his own. His approach is unchrateristically lax. Feigning surrender. It’s a trap. This you know; one you will let yourself fall into.

He’s a wolf and you are a lamb being led to the slaughter.

He reaches out a sculpted arm to cage you between the mirrored wall and his rippling frame. He smiles then as he slides in behind you. He’s all potent power and brute strength that encircles you completely. Shrouding you from view.

His head sinks into the junction between your neck and collarbone and drags his teeth along the skin there. A threat. A promise.

The neon lights colour you in shades of pink and blue and over the blaring music the sounds of drunken whispers are a savage rhapsody in the stilted air. In the reflections the bar is littered with glasses and bottled of wine and at the far edge of the room you can see Mor and the girl that Azriel has long forgotten dancing by the bar.

Suddenly, his hips thrust sharply into your ass and you have to brace yourself against the mirror as you’re pressed flush against the wall. Your shock comes out in a sharp inhale. Azriel chuckles darkly at that.

His hand gently brushes the hair out of your face, gathering it in his fist before tugging at it gently. Turning in his bruising grip you look up at him like you look at the sun. Reverence and agony.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces your gaze forward.

Arousal pools between your thighs and you press them together desperate for some semblance of release.

“No, darling,” he says, “I want you to watch.” he elaborates tapping the mirror with two sturdy fingers for emphasis.

You make eye contact with him in the reflection. Your gaze is unyielding and defiant as he comes to whisper in your ear again.

“Do you think you can do that for me pretty girl?” your consent is all her needs. You can’t utter a single word but a look passes between you that says what words cannot.

Please.

“Fuck” he says, “I can smell you from here.”

The thought sends rippling waves of pleasure right to your core, the friction of your thighs doing nothing to quell the dull ache for him.

Despite the layers between you, you can feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass as he roughly thrusts against you. You angle your hips away from him as he pushes you against the wall a second time, the cold railing digging painfully into your hips.

Azriel frees you from his grip, taking his free hand to tear his member from his leather breeches. The sound breaks through the haze of lust and suddenly you are painfully aware of the people around you. Although, no one has cared to notice any of the depravity that has passed between the two of you. If they have they haven’t said as much.

“Azriel-I” you stop yourself as he looks at you, taking his hardened length in his hand and stroking the head, coating it in the first beads of sticky pre-cum.

Azriel hisses sharply, throwing his head back in unbridled pleasure before taking you in his rough embrace again, searching your eyes for a hint of protest and when he finds none he uses one arm to spin your around so that your cheek is pushed up against the mirror held in place by the pressure of his fingers tangled in roots of your hair.

He hurriedly gathers the swathes of fabric that separate you and in one swift movement presses his naked hips flush to yours. You feel his cock like cool marble against the bare skin of your ass. He lets the material of your dress fall freely now, covering your sin. He uses the same hand to snake under your dress, his hands pressing odes into your thighs as he had before under the table. Only now his hand doesn't stop only climbing higher and higher until-

“Fuck Azriel,” the gasp tears through you as he reaches your pubic bone before sinking lower, spreading your folds, gathering your wetness and drawing it up again to rub slow circles into your most sensitive parts. His circling is deliberate and poised, his fingers knowing what you body craved almost instinctively. It sends electricity through your body, enough to bring you to your knees if not for Azriel holding you upright.

The ghost of a smile graces his perfect face and he presses a kiss to your pulse point.

“I need you to be quiet, y/n,” he sighs into your shoulder as he peppers kisses along the exposed planes of skin, leaving a trail of angry red marks in his wake.

“Can you do that for me?”, he asks, raising an eyebrow in question through the mirror. But it’s not a question. It’s a dare.

You take another look at yourself in the mirror; you’re pressed against it, your eyes veiled with this a desperate ache. It’s almost tangible. It’s intoxicating and all consuming and any notion of shame or self-respect had been abandoned the minute you laid eyes on him tonight.

You could be quiet.

Your vow of silence is all he needs to continue.

He continues down to the curve of your shoulder as his mouth roams freely now. His teeth on your neck feel like divine absolution. Or maybe damnation. All the while the scarred pad of his thumb presses deft circles between your thighs, the contours and ridges of scarred skin providing all the necessary friction to send you into delirium as your orgasm rages like a tempest through your body. His name, one fierce on your tongue comes out broken. You whisper it. Like prayer. Azriel.

“I thought I told you to be quiet.” he reprimands, it comes out in an almost broken pant pressed against the clammy skin of your shoulder.

“If you are,” he offers, “I’ll let you come on my cock.” his voice is different now; no longer the cool, low tenor he wears so well. It’s filled with the dark promise.

That this will be your undoing. Your ruin.

His movement is hypnotic as he takes your delicate throat in his hand, his fingers nipping cruelly at your jaw and the flesh of your cheeks so that your mouth opens for him. You moan gospel around his fingers as your eyes meet in the reflection.

So you will let him ruin you.

He touches you with urgency now as he gathers the shroud of fabric about your waist, letting the cool air fan the tops of your bare thighs. He uses your hip as leverage, angling your body away from his granting him access so that his long fingers trace a agonising line down the seam of your aching cunt.

His length is hard and punishing against your tightness as he sinks into you for the first time tonight. Azriel burns. It’s blasphemy but the thick tip of him fills you in a way that, when he is gone from you, you feel hollow.

He growls in your ear as he is sheathed to the hilt, your walls a velvet vice that flutters around him so beautifully and he swears no one could have foretold that bliss could feel so profane. His hazel eyes blaze golden as he sucks at the skin of your throat. His kiss is vehement, devout, fervent. His relection watches yours and you swear that when his eyes meet yours at the same moment his teeth draw blood from you, you see a God looking back at you. The bite is ravenous and your blood pools like rubies in the valley of your breasts. He moans into your neck, your blood staining his lips and you know there is beauty in the bite.

Then he starts to move and oh Gods!

He fucks like a seraphim. All pleasure and pain; brought together in perfect unison, melting into one another as he begins to seek his redemption in the flutter of your walls around his cock. Scarred hands kiss hymns up your sides. He sanctifies your body. Worships you in the way a devil worships sin. It’s hedonistic and pleasure-seeking. Greedy and his.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he whispers it like a vow into your skin, bringing a hand to flex around your throat before dropping it again, “so good for me.”

You feel the pad of his thumb pressing sharply into your folds, drawing moisture upwards from where his cock threstens to split you in two. His circles on your clit align with the punishing pace that he is fucking you; it’s savage and feral.

“Look at me when you cum on my cock.” he commands.

You crane your neck to look at his face. Devastating and elegant. But he only laughs cruelly, twisting your back towards the mirror. Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as his reflection meets your gaze.

So you watch him. He’s surrounded by shadow and framed by the neon light of the club; his hair falls in raven tresses, the longer stands, becoming damp and curling away from him, his jaw is set like perfect marble and he stands tall and statuesque behind you. He bares his teeth to you, nipping at your ear as he resumes his assault on your clit.

Through the reflection, you can still see the dancing sea as it rages into a tempest as if goading you to reach your peak before the wave breaks against the shore. The liquor runs hot in your veins and your gaze hardens on the woman at the bar and her vulgar cobalt dress.

Azriels breath in your ear comes in sharp rasps that cut through the haze of jealousy as he buries himself in you again.

“Takin’ my cock so well.”

“Azriel I-” The words dissolve like sugar on your tongue as his wild eyes bore into yours.

“You need to come, baby?” he coos in your ear. It’s perverse the way it sounds on his lips.

You nod in his direction, it's desperate and any altruistic desire you may have had is long gone. You’re drunk on his touch and chasing your release above all else. So you surrender yourself to him completely.

“Then come for me.”

“Want to feel you come on my cock, darling” It’s all the permission you need.

Coming undone around him is a fall from grace. It’s desperate; all teeth and tongue as he presses his lips to your bare shoulder blade with an ardour akin to worship. In those moments where your world melts away like some psychedelic fever dream you are reminded of the fervid desire that holds you both in thrall as he fucks you through the waves of your orgasm as it comes crashing down around you.

Muscles spasm and contract and Azriel refuses to yield to the orgasm that tears through you, setting synapses on fire and leaving wildfire in its wake. You brace yourself against the mirror once more to stop your legs from giving way. He takes you firm in his arms, one hand kneading the skin of your hips roughly and the other holding you by the throat as his orgasm begins to take root.

The world frays at its edges as he buries himself so deep in you that you feel the thread that runs from his body to yours go taut. It snaps into place as the hot ropes of his come spill into your tightness.

In the quiet moments that follow he says your name; whispers it. Recites it like poetry. You cast your eyes onto his reflection. He’s looking at you now and there, through dark, romantic eyes you relish in a heaven that only exists when he is looking at you.

You’re not sure how long you stay this way, wrapped around his softening length, as fingers rub delicate circles into the swell of your hips and his lips leave almost kisses running from your ear to the tip of your shoulder.

And then he is gone from you, pulling out of you with a pained growl, as he lets the material that once separated you fall back into place. He smooths the fabric of your dress, his hand firm and calculating as it grazes over the sensitive skin of your hips and ass.

The remnants of your shared orgasm pools between slicked thighs as Azriel comes behind you again, taking you by the shoulders so that you are facing him now.

His smile is easy now and his voice is filled with his usual careful tenor he twists a loose curl in his finger before brushing it from your face as he starts to speak.

“Let's get you home now, darling”

He takes your hand in his and places the other on the small of your back as he guides you through the winding crowds and out into the cool night air.

Velaris at night is beautiful; it's alive. The stars are hung in the sky with care, each a brilliant white that glints against the canopy of twilight and pearlescent cloud and the moon is ghostly and annihilating. From here you can see the House of Wind as it stands monumental on the distant horizon. You could get used to this.

The stirring of the body next to you draws your attention back to Azriel. He’s looking at you again. Like he wants to ruin you. Like he wants to love you.

So you will permit to him put his lips upon yours once again, and let him learn to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other.

You know then that he has ruined you.

#acotar #acotar smut #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x female!reader #azriel headcanons #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel smut #azriel acotar #a court of silver flames #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses

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1dcommunityficrecs · 2 months

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Historical AUs!

We have 26 incredible fics submitted to this list, stretching from the fifth century up to the 1990s. We have stories that fit into just over 2,000 words, and others that are more than 200,000! This list includes one LiLo fic, and we also have our first ever non-English rec, with a French language fic -- truly the language of love.

To all my fellow history lovers, it's time to go apeshit. Read, reblog, comment, kudos, bookmark, tell your friends, all that jazz -- your local fanfic writer appreciates it!

Here In The Afterglow by fondleeds (88649, Not Rated, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: Violence, bullying, homophobia, slurs

1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

Reccer says: The beautifully chosen words, the captivating story, the queer joy!!!

Unrequited by babyhoneyhslt (144000, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Omega Prince Harry is send to France to marry Prince Louis, but instead of the nice boy he knew when they were children, he is met with a cold and distant husband and no idea as to why.

Reccer says: It was so interesting to follow along with this and try to figure out why Louis was behaving this way. And then later see them fall in love. Really liked it and can't recommend it enough.

Danger I can’t hide by CelticSky (227290, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: War, homophobia

Flying Officer Styles and Sergeant Tomlinson would have likely never crossed paths in a time of peace, their lives laid out neatly, predictably before them. But then the world became unrecognisable. Too soon they grew accustomed to fear, surrounded by death and destruction, not even their freedom a certainty any more. Until they found each other. Comfort. Companionship. Understanding. Another person to lose.

Reccer says: It's one of those fics that I'd describe as monumental, masterful, epic. In my opinion, it should be made into a film, and brought to everyone's attention. The script is brilliant and relentless. The characters are subtle and nuanced. The writing is exemplary. A masterpiece.

Secrets in Winter by softfonds (82582, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

If Harry Styles thought he was going to have a peaceful winter while staying far away from the rake who lived across the street, he was sorely wrong on two fronts. A Victorian AU.

Reccer says: I loved the plot and the character development of the main pairing.

A cycle of recycled revenge by Brokenbeaks (103302, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Foxburgh, England, 1983. In the heat of summer, wreathed by pastures, rolling knolls, and thatched-roof cottages, Louis takes on a new job: caretaking for a recently blinded man named Harry. As it begins, what seems like a simple task turns into a quest that costs him every last bit of his pride and tolerance. Harry is, in practice, a two-legged curse. And Louis is just gonna have to put up with it. Or: The one where Harry likes to infuriate Louis almost as much as he enjoys straddling his lap.

Reccer says: Absolutely excellent. I was a bit worried about how Harry's blindness would be handled, but it was done wonderfully. Perfect fic. Perfect writing. Perfect plot.

Through Lonely Streets and Neon Lights by Sweetly_disposed (25107, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

1920's era, Great Gatsby inspired. Harry is a poor boy living in the South Village. Every night he watches the North City come alive and longs of crossing the river to be a part of it and escape his dreary life. The infamous Mr Tomlinson lives across the river from Harry. His parties are the stuff of legend; people on both sides know about them, and all Harry wants is a chance to go to one. When fate swings his way and he finds himself in Mr Tomlinson's house, he gets much more than he could ever have bargained for.

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Chasing empty spaces by Lis (Domesticharry) (79028, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

The year is 1934 and Harry Styles was to inherent the largest tobacco firm in the south. His parents have picked out the “perfect” girl for him to marry and he has the privilege of receiving the highest education possible. The problem was, Harry hadn’t realized he didn’t actually want any part of that future until he met a mechanic named, Louis Tomlinson.

Reccer says: This fic is simply magnificent. A must read

An invincible Summer by Brooklyn_Babylon (44627, Explicit, Harry Styles Louis Tomlinson)

Never content to stay in one place for long, a few months down south researching for his novel seemed like an idyllic, slow-paced summer to Louis. He wasn't ready for the blistering heat, the backbreaking work of watermelon picking, or how stifling the attitudes in rural Georgia would feel. And he definitely hadn’t anticipated falling in love with the farmer’s son. The summer of 1946 would turn out to be everything worth writing about.

Reccer says:

Box of Rain by Indierection (amandamoraisa) (26631, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

1970 AU, Louis is a boxer and Harry a ring boy

Reccer says: The era is well transcribed (the way of life, the music), and the story is very charming.

Cela aussi passera (French-language fic) by Hazzunah (110721, Not Rated, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

1993: Louis is 16. It's summertime, by a lake in France. He meets Harry. 1999: Louis is in Japan; he hasn't seen Harry for 6 years, since that fateful summer. He thought he'd lost him forever.

Reccer says: For years, I've been reading only in English, but there's still the odd French fic that I come across that's really good. "This too shall pass" is one of them. It's set in the 90s, it's beautifully written, it's moving, and the characters are well characterized. For me, it's a gem. So I recommend it. For anyone who can read in French.

You Make The World Taste Better by LiveLaughLoveLarry/loveislarryislove (10000, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: Harassment and threats from the rival baker, culminating in physical violence and a grisly end in keeping with the fairy tale

A twist on Hansel and Gretel as a rivalry between bakers, based on Hans Traxler’s fictional non-fictional text "The Truth About Hansel and Gretel"

Reccer says: This fic is such a wild adaptation of a story almost everyone knows, capturing both the sweet (literally, since Harry is a baker haha) elements and also the darkness of the tale.

No One Like You by myownspark (20000, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles were noted painters in the 19th century. Louis was a Neoclassicist, Harry a Romantic -- totally different, nothing in common, no connection. But centuries later, art historians Niall and Liam find something that suggests perhaps the two were more intertwined than people think.

Reccer says: I love the parallel timelines, watching Louis and Harry's relationship develop and fracture and heal at the same time as watching Niall and Liam discover things. We see pieces of history they're trying to puzzle together, and then we see the history as it happened, what it really was and what it meant to them.

Bloom by LadyAJ_13 (28909, Teen, Liam Payne/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: Non-graphic violence, period-typical attitudes

In early 1970s Oxford, Detective Sergeant Louis Tomlinson has to deal with the dual pressures of a case that hits too close to home, and the arrival of new colleague Liam Payne.

Reccer says: This was an incredible, atmospheric, moody historical mystery fic. Topped off with a lovely, happy ending that had me tearing up.

Under Electric Candlelight by littleroverlouis (5051, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

In the 1970s, small town veterinarian Louis moves to NYC and meets a beauty at the bar named H who sometimes goes by Lola.

Reccer says: So immersive you feel like you're in 1970s Manhattan. The characters are truly electric and lovely.

this is my jam by disgruntledkittenface (4513, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Harry goes to a gay bathhouse for the first time. 90s AU.

Reccer says: This story is so much more than it first appears. I could feel the atmosphere and the emotion of the moment of the characters finding a freedom that didn't exist for them outside of the bathhouse's walls. It's an absolutely beautiful (and hot) exploration of such a specific time and place. So layered and thoughtful and hopeful and real.

After Dark, After Light by QuickedWeen (71440, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: Kidnapping, battlefield

Louis Tomlinson is the mysterious commander of the Sutherland army sent back with Harry on orders from his laird to help shore up Clan Edwards' defenses. As the winter draws nearer by the day, the two are thrown together to prepare for the invasion that they expect as soon as the ground thaws.

Reccer says: This fic just sweeps you away to the Scottish Highlands! Such a fun historical romance!

the sanctity of patience by scrunchyharry (22521, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

When young Lord Harry was chosen by King Louis of Bavaria to become his husband and prince consort, Harry thought all of his dreams had come through. His illusions came crashing down when he understood it meant living in isolation in the alpine castle of Neuschwanstein with a husband who turned out to be far from what he had hoped for.

Reccer says: The writing is gorgeous and immersive. The characters are so vivid and I loved the way their journey to love played out.

Ace of Spades by allwaswell16 (78000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: depictions of violence, drug use

Louis is a pirate, Harry is his captive, and no one is who they say they are.

Reccer says: Once I started reading, I couldn't put it down. The plot twists! The suspense! The intrigue!

Adore You by Isthatyoularry (66979, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson)

Arrange marriage AU, Harry initially hates Louis and their arrangement but goes along with it for the summer. Louis is perfect for him tho, as much as harry hates to admit it. They last.

Reccer says: The word building. Stubborn harry. Pining louis. Catching feelings. Hate to love.

We Can Find a Place to Feel Good by yeah_alright/uhoh-but-yeah-alright (8000, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

1960s AU inspired by Treat People With Kindness. Harry attends school dances over the years, meeting Louis and learning more about himself and what he loves.

Reccer says: Just so completely sweet and hopeful! Captures the vibe of the song so well!

The Garden Part 1 by Throwthemflowers/hazzabeeforlou (13000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post Warnings: Major character death, war

Biblical AU - 5th Century. A prince (Louis) falls in love with his father’s musician (Harry) in the midst of war.

Reccer says: This story is so hard to describe (it's Part 1 of a truly incredible 3-part series) but it's intense and brilliant and epic. The love here is all consuming and it comes through in the writing. Completely unique.

Ever Since I Tried Your Way by fairytalefemme (25896, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: internalized homophobia

40s/50s AU. Harry leaves his bride-to-be at the altar, runs away from his life, and finds a kind farmer who lets him stay.

Reccer says: Such a sweet, tender exploration of love and self.

With Words Unspoken by jacaranda_bloom (18000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Older Louis and Harry. 50ish Louis returns to a cabin he'd visited many years before and it's a hippie commune type place where he finds Harry.

Reccer says: It just made me SO HAPPY. Peaceful and lovely.

1957: here to take my medicine by zita17/louisandtheaquarian (2652, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) - fic post

Beat poets Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles blow off some steam before a reading.

Reccer says: Literally transports you to this particular time and place. And so so hot.

The murmur of yearning by Mediawhore (93300, Mature, Harry Styles/ Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: Rape/non-con attempts, death of character, slurs etc

Harry upon the death of his husband he was forced to marry find companionship and support in the arms of Land steward mr. tomlinson. Together they try to prove harry didnt murder his husband.

Reccer says: Regency era. Dark academia. Mystery and suspense. Forbidden love trope. The angst and mutual pining. Harry in corsets!

Love you in the dark by Perzikze (9225, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: Dubious consent i think, loss of virginity

Story of a historical wedding night. Innocent Harry has no idea what goes down during the wedding night; Louis eases him through it.

Reccer says: Innocent harry. Supportive Louis. It's adorable and sexy at once!

Stay tuned for the next list theme! It's similar... but different... ;)

#rec list #category 5 #historical au #one direction #louis tomlinson #harry styles #liam payne #niall horan #zayn malik #1dsource #1dficvillage #ficsfor4am #tracksintheam #trackinghome #allwaswell16 #alwaysxlarrie #1d rare pairs #hlcreators #girl direction source

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tired-biscuit · 1 year

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Can we get a fic like manipulative bestfriend Kirishima but it's Katsuki instead?

18+ mdni, fem!reader // cw: manipulation (guilt-tripping), sort of dubcon-ish...? bsf!bakugou

"stay."

a hint of a smile tugs at your lips at the seemingly innocent request katsuki slurs into the darkness as you get him into bed that friday night.

the bedroom you're in, his bedroom - and which you've come to know so well that you might as well consider it your own instead - is neat and tidy as ever. perfectly him.

every piece of furniture has its own rightful place. the decoration is scarce, but surprisingly tasteful; that is if you ignore the shelf full of all might figurines that's situated right above the desk. adorned with starlight and a hint of blue-ish purple light coming from the neon sign that's right across the street, shadows of all shapes and sizes cover the walls.

and they dance, the shadows and their odd shapes. twirling and spinning all across the flat surface whenever a car drives by the window that overlooks the street outside, they remind you of living things. and speaking of living things; the night itself can be considered as one of them. it makes the city feel alive.

people walk the streets no matter the hour in a city this big. they share inside jokes and they laugh and gossip and spill secrets they'll talk about further about in the morning, when they're feeling a bit more sober. but besides the occasional chatter and the low hum of turning car tires, it's quiet. peaceful - if you're used to tuning out all the traffic noise and other nonsense. you, living in the very center of the flashy city havoc for quite a while now, find it oddly comforting at almost one in the morning.

however, to you, the room you're currently standing in also beats the comfort the city brings any day. most definitely.

because as you inhale, savouring a nice, deep breath, you realize that it smells fresh and familiar; like home, or rather the person you think of as home. like the fabric softener that wafts from the newly-washed bed sheets you've just finished tucking him in, and the chilly breeze of late spring that's only snuck its way into the room because of the fact that katsuki 'blood running as hot as his temper' bakugou prefers to sleep with his windows open no matter the season.

and that's completely fine, it's just dandy - even if it does tend to get a little too cold for your taste, personally. the problem at hand is that besides the open windows, your best friend also prefers to sleep with you in the room with him. right by his side, where you belong. constantly.

most don't believe it if they've gotten the chance to meet him and know what he's like, but it's true. he actually likes you. and sure, it may seem like he simply tolerates your company instead of enjoying it more often than not, with his constant eye rolls and low-spoken grumbles for answers, but you know him better than that.

you know that just from the way he wishes to have you around, like now, willing to share his comforter and pillow with you whenever he's at his most vulnerable - a sight he never lets anyone see but you. it's the little things when it comes to katsuki, and you also know that the action alone is the same as if he were to tear the very moon off the sky every night for you before placing it into your awaiting hands.

he trusts you with it. he trusts you with his heart.

and it's been like that for a long while, ever since you were kids, actually. since you'd borderline forced him to be your friend by smiling those big, foolish grins at him even if one of your teeth was missing at the time. since you'd brought him neat little presents, most of them candy and gum, for his birthday every year, even if he wasn't particularly a fan of sugar and you only found out about it years later. since you weren't afraid to hold his hand even if it got much too warm, much too quick all of a sudden and could even make sparks fly, while yours had been simply covered in bright yellow sidewalk chalk instead.

and katsuki, well, he had pretended for a long while that he didn't appreciate the way you'd persisted and consistently kept putting in the effort into getting to know who he truly was. had feigned that he didn't care about all the smiles and the kind gestures and even sweeter gifts. never being a boy with a tendency to display affection all that much, he found it hard to demolish the walls he'd spent ages building around himself and to really portray what he truly felt.

but years passed, as they tend to do. by the time you had both grown up and parted ways, he realized how special it was what he had. how he took it for granted. and once for a change, he was the one reaching out to you this time, over social media he rarely used but still had because everyone else - you - did. he was the one attempting to grow closer. to rekindle the spark and all the warmth to accompany it. because he missed it.

he missed you.

so you met up whenever you could. you partied a bit on the weekends; whenever school would let you. you held study sessions for entirely different subjects because you attended entirely different schools. he helped you move into your new place, and you helped him move out of his parents' house. he taught you how to cook because you were, in his words, absolutely shit at it. you taught him how to not kill all of the plants in his new apartment when he'd gotten tired of his college dorm, because he was, in your words, an incompetent plant dad.

you laughed, sometimes you cried, but mostly laughed. shared experiences and adventures that you still like to reminisce about to this day. and your friendship grew with them. it got more solid; sturdy. different, in more ways than one. and it's even more different now.

now that he's no longer a boy, but a man.

"hey," said man's voice brings you back to reality now. you blink as you feel his fingertips touch the sleeve of your sweater. his touch is warm as it always is. "you still in there, dummy?"

reaching down to pat the top of his head playfully, you try to ignore the way he angles it further into your palm as you say, "funny! but i can't stay tonight, kat."

he truly is just that: a cat. one that nearly purrs at your touch whenever it gets drunk, that nuzzles its face into the crook of your neck and that turns oddly clingy, too. but only when he feels like it. not you.

"sure ya can," he answers almost immediately even if his tongue feels way too heavy and slow to sit inside his mouth properly. the answer is simple but it's also assured. definite. like it's up to him to choose what you'll do. how you'll live.

come to think of it, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. your best friend does know you best. it's right there in the title.

a sigh leaves your lips at the thought as you look at him with slightly narrowed eyes now. he's relaxed; pleasantly tipsy because he allows himself to lower his guard down around you and drink more than he normally does with others. his irises are hazy and dark red instead of crystal clear, pupils big and eyelids as heavy as your heart. the signature spikes of ash blonde have turned sort of droopy and ruffled.

maybe they've absorbed some of the alcohol as well. it's funny to think about.

"katsuki," you start, stifling a chuckle, "you know that i've got work tomorrow-"

"c'mon," he interrupts with a mere murmur, his grip a surprisingly tenacious one to wrap around your wrist as he grabs it with his much bigger hand. "stay with me tonight."

"i can't," you repeat softly when he tugs at your hand for a second time. his fingers are so hot now that it feels like they're making your skin burn the moment they touch it, and you wonder if that's what the perps he's constantly chasing after experience whenever he gets close enough to use his quirk on the poor suckers.

there's a beat of silence between you before he chides, "can't or won't?"

"stop that." that makes me feel bad.

"well, you'd stay if you wanted to... just sayin'. 'cause i know you don't start work that early." he pauses to yawn. "but it's whatever, you do you. i don't care." i hope you do feel bad.

you don't respond to that. you don't know what to say. you never do.

so seconds pass. one, two, three.

"ugh... i didn't mean it like that," he says at some point as he rubs his temple. "i just-"

"it's fine. don't worry about it," you let out through a tight-lipped smile. "it's no biggie, really."

"it's not fine. just... lemme drive you to work tomorrow as an apology? i promise that i will, if you stay," he insists when he sees you starting to drift away again. pushes, because he wants to have his way with you. "please? i need you."

please.

you know what he actually wants, the thing he's been taking for months now, and yet the word still makes you fold because it's sweet and kind. makes you sigh again as you give in and pull your sweater over your head so that you can change into one of his t-shirts instead. makes you climb into bed with him the moment your jeans pool at your ankles and the comforter covers your bare legs. makes you allow him to wrap his arms around you in the too-tight way he prefers, but that leaves you awake, with your breaths awfully shallow in return.

because what matters most is that he's happy. and nothing makes him happier than when you're safe; right there in his arms, even if they do have a tendency to squeeze you just a little bit too much for your liking. even if they are just a little bit too possessive because you feel good, and good things must always be within reach to a man like him. only him, no other boys allowed.

please. it's so rare for him to say a thing like that that it almost tastes foreign on his tongue. but he still says it. just for you, no other girls involved.

please, he says as he presses your spine against his chest and sneaks his way under your - his - dynamight t-shirt, lifting it until the hem is touching the collar and your tits are exposed. please, he whispers whilst kissing your neck as that same hand glides all over your front in a way a best friend's shouldn't before he slides it into your panties instead.

please, he mumbles as his cock glides between your soaked folds a minute later; savouring the skin on skin contact even if it's messy and sticky all over. please, he grunts even if his sensitive tip already catches right at your fluttering hole and pushes in, in, in. until your breath hitches in your throat and your back arches in a way that makes you stick your ass out for him, as if in invitation even if you've never said the words.

please, he moans as he turns you over until you're laying flat on your stomach and he's pounding away like it's the last thing he'll do; making your curves jiggle and the headboard of the bed slam against the wall that's still covered in shadows. please, he grits out through clenched teeth when he feels your soaked pussy squeeze around him and try to push him out.

you're so close that you feel like your heart is about to give out any second now. he's heavy and too hot, too rough, too drunk; you need him out, out, out. you're going to burst if he doesn't stop because of how full you are.

"please, katsuki," you whimper, tears staining the pillow, his pillow that smells just like him as your nails claw at it until the softness is right inside your palms. it's all his.

"please, pretty," he says in return, pushing right back in. he's always pushing with everything. "just a lil' more for me. i need a lil' bit more from you." and you're gonna give it to me.

and yet your back arches again. and again. and again. accepting every thrust deeper, even if you said you couldn't. accepting his hand in your own because you're not afraid of the sparks and the danger it brings along - never had been. accepting the rude ignorance from your best friend in the heat of the moment because he otherwise does care about you.

he cares about you so much. just not while he's balls deep inside of you. just not while that same hand presses against the back of your neck so that he can gain the leverage to fuck into you better.

and it's your fault, or at least that's what he silently tells you with his actions. you made him like this. you crawled into bed with him. you let him take and take and take. he just asked. he used to be just fine on his own, but now he can't live without his best friend anymore. you're the pushy one. you, you, you.

and you also come with benefits he can't possibly resist.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou #biscuit drabbles #cw dubious consent #cw dubcon

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scandinavianfairytale · 3 months

Text

Abyss

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, mentions of war, mentions of drugs, insomnia, coming to terms with PTSD, teeniest moment of verbal violence, soft Jake, Jake cries 🥺

A/N: Continuation of the fic 3 a.m. 😊

Jake woke up drenched in sweat again with his heart beating so fast his chest vibrated. As his mind flashed with images of Apachi planes and his hand clutched his chest, willing his heart to slow, he glanced around the room, trying to point out 20 things that he could see in his bedroom at that moment. Finally, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he mentally facepalmed. It was 3 am. Like clockwork. His therapist mentioned that his body recognized time and woke him up at 3 a.m., precisely, just before the attack happened. PTSD she called it.

Bullshit. Jake thought, but in the back of his mind, he knew it made sense. No one was expecting the attack to happen at all, much less as 3:15 am. Not after the agreements were signed. Not when they were so close to going home.

He knew that if he closed his eyes and thought of it, he could name everything that he saw as he was jolted awake by heavy fire and screams. He could name every smell that invaded his nostrils. He could pinpoint the color of red he was drenched in after his comrades found him. As they pulled him out of the rubble of what was previously a bustling city...it was a miracle he was even alive.

Even though he knew it was PTSD, his mind didn't want to admit it. Others get PTSD, not him. Not Jake Seresin. Not Hangman. Everyone else but him.

Jake quickly turned on the small mushroom-like lamp, bringing some light into the dark room, and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his face to wake up. He stared at the sky, the stars littering the otherwise dark space, and he willed himself to stand up. He stretched and walked to his window, looking for the familiar lit-up apartment on the opposite side of the street.

Sure, enough you were up. It never ceased to amaze him how you were always up at this ungodly hour. If he could, he would've been peacefully asleep by now, but alas, it wasn't his choice. So he was ticked off that you willingly chose to stay awake when he didn't have the luxury of a choice.

It wasn't like you didn't want to sleep. Contrary to Jake's belief, you also didn't have the luxury of a choice when it came to sleep. Sure, you didn't have PTSD, thankfully, but your chronic insomnia made your life much much harder. And you tried everything, from meditation to pills. Hell, you even tried weed, but nothing made your insomnia better, so you ditched everything and just embraced the fact that you will be chronically tired and that you'll be awake at all the hours of the night. But, the good thing about you was that you managed to find the beauty in everything. You quickly realized that when everyone else slept, that's when life got beautiful. There was almost no noise, and you could really hear how the wind traveled through the streets, trying to find its way out of the labyrinth. The streets were safe. There were no catcallers, no people trying to pick you up, very few annoyingly bright neon signs that tried to lure you in. Life was simpler. And you loved it.

You were propped up on your windowsill on the fire escape stairs, thinking when you'll be able to go to sleep tonight, when you saw the light in Jake's apartment turn on.

Like clockwork.

As you saw his light turn on, you knew it was 3 a.m., meaning that you would probably again sleep for only an hour or two if you're lucky. Since that first time, when you actually met the handsome insomniac in person, you have met up regularly. Always in the middle of the night.

Immediately after making eye contact with you, Jake pointed down, and you nodded, jumping off the windowsill and disappearing into the light cream colored curtains. Jake grabbed at his tracksuit pants and a black T-shirt, getting quickly dressed. As he made his way to the curb on your side of the street, you were already there.

"No smoking tonight?" Jake asked, surprised.

"I know how much you hate it. You make it a point every time." You rolled your eyes in response.

"Thank you."

"Do you wanna take a walk with me?" You asked. Summer finally made it's appearance and with it, it brought the late summer nights you loved so dearly.

"I'd love to." He offered you his elbow and you stared at him weirdly.

"Just take my hand." He insisted, annoyed at your look. You really looked at him like he was offering you ecstasy or something.

"God, you really are from down South." He smiled at your surrender as you interlocked your elbows, and together, you slowly started walking. The walk was aimless. But you loved every second of it. It was like a ghost town, and it felt like you were completely alone. It calmed you down. And you suspected it also calmed him, by the way he decompressed as you walked.

"Was it bad tonight?" You asked as you looked at him. He met your eyes and inhaled deeply before nodding and exhaling.

"It was like I was there again. It's been a while since it was this bad."

"When is your therapy session?"

"On Wednesday."

"Have you thought about what she suggested last time?" You carefully asked.

"You mean if I want to start medicating?" He asked, his whole body tensed. You knew it was a sensitive subject, not just from his response but also from your own past. When anyone suggests medication, it feels like they and you are giving up. But you also knew that you could fight the demons only for so long before you need help.

"It doesn't make you any less capable of fighting PTSD."

"I don't have PTSD." He countered immediately. You both stopped, but your elbows were still linked. "And I don't want any drugs, I don't want them to distort my way of feeling, my way of living."

"How long do you think you can withstand this? How long can you hide from reality?" You raised your voice by a fraction. "The nightmares are only making it worse, make it harder for you to sleep and then because you sleep less, it makes you more anxious-"

"Stop talking." Jake pulled his elbow away.

"- and susceptible to the nightmares, which makes your PTSD worsen. -"

"Stop." He turned away from you.

"And on and on it goes. In circles."

"I said, knock it off!" He turned back to you, taking a step forward and shouted in your face.

"It makes you more irritated, angier." You calmly stared at him.

"Not yourself." Your eyes softened as his expression faltered and you embraced him as he crumpled onto you, crying. His hands clutching your sides, he clinged to you as if the reality really sunk into him for the very first time.

‐-------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading 💙

The GIF doesn't belong to me - belongs to the amazing creator 🙏😊

It's been a LONG while, life really got in the way of my creativity 🙈 but it was good (life), it still is, but I missed this rush where an entire dialog plays in my head 🥰

#glen powell #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #hangman #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake hangman seresin imagine #top gun maverick #abyss #short story #fanfiction

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neverevan · 26 days

Text

Fuck It Friday 🧇

Aalrighty. First of all; BI BUCK IS CANON, WHAT A DAY TO BE ALIVE?! Second of all; check out my new header, isn't he ever so pretty?? 🥹

Anyway, I have been sitting on this for ages and I thought since 1) this is literally the beginning of the fic and 2) it is more than likely getting scrapped at this point (or just majorly reworked, we'll see what will the finale bring), why not share one of my favourite bits from it?

(And for the people keep asking me why I wanna scrap them just because they aren't canon compliant: because I don't care to write something that doesn't line up with canon unless it's an actual AU where I can tweak things, this is just my personal neurosis but I'd appreciate if everyone just left it at that, thank you. 💛)

Buck had always thought that the term ‘love of one’s life’ was too broad. For starters, how do you even go about defining it? How would you even know?

When he was with Abby, he thought that she was the love of his life — and probably that was the truth at the time — it was an affection that burned with the uncareful fire of first love, destroying much of everything in its wake when pushed off balance by the winds of eagerness and fear of loss.

With Ali, it was more casual and Buck liked her a lot, truly, but in the end, they barely had the time to settle into anything more serious, before a ladder truck crushed Buck’s leg and put an unexpected strain on their relationship.

How can you really tell when you love someone so much that it’s actually not possible to love anyone else more, ever again?

He learned the answer to his question just before he started dating Taylor.

Apparently, the love of your life doesn’t always come into your life with loud fanfares and bright neon lights reading “HERE I AM”. No.

Instead, you meet them, you learn to like them and somewhere down the line you fall; you fall so deep and so gradually that you don’t even realize that you stepped into a bottomless pit until you’re too far from the mouth of the tunnel to crawl back up.

It came in stages and yet the realization hit Buck like a punch to the gut, sucking all the air out of his lungs and leaving him numb in his fingers.

✨I've been tagged by and am totally no pressure tagging the marvelous @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @goforkinard @exhuastedpigeon @nmcggg @bidisasterbuckdiaz @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @honestlydarkprincess @watchyourbuck @actualalligator mwuahhh 💛

#what a night #what a day #bi buck is canon and i can't stop thinking about how lucky we are to have a cast like this #buddie #911 #the jealous eddie fic #wip

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rebel-walnut · 1 year

Text

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

Steddie Season 3 time travel fic, Part 2

Ao3, Pt. 1, Pt.3, Pt.4

Eddie's dying. Screaming, maybe. He doesn't think he has enough energy for it though, his eyelids already too heavy to stay open. There's so many sets of hands covering his chest, his neck, his whole body really. They're all going back to their owners bloody and red with the stuff that's supposed to probably stay inside Eddie, but he's choking on enough of it right now that he'd be perfectly content with it staying outside his body forever.

His fingers light up in pins and needles and travel up past his wrists, overwhelming the rest of his body. He feels someone glance their fingers against his cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, with a soft press of something to his forehead, before the tingly sensation pulls all feeling away from him. There's a dropping feeling like he's falling, wind all around him, and bright red behind his eyelids.

And then nothing. Save for the pins and needles that begin to fade into nothingness too.

Except that Eddie opens his eyes and is greeted by a severe lack of grim reapers, and an overwhelming amount of neon lights and screaming children.

The tingling wipes itself from his fingertips and is replaced instead by his usual anxious shakiness as Eddie rapidly blinks his eyes into his new surroundings. Only thing is, they're not new at all. He's behind the stickered wooden counter of his old gig at Hot Wax Records that he had to drop after the mall blew up. Or burnt down, whatever. Point is, the mall is very much still standing. More important possibly, Eddie is fucking alive.

He grips the counter hard enough to splinter and digs his nails into the palm of his free hand, willing himself to- what. Wake up? Go back to being dead? Doesn't matter if you ask him, all Eddie knows is that either he was tripping incredibly hard off his ass for what seemed like a year, or all that fucked up alternate dimension D&D-come-to-life-bullshit was actually real. He's not sure which he's more inclined to believe.

He scratches his nails into the wood of the counter top again, stabilizing himself before he faints or his knees give out, other hand traveling everywhere he still feels the fantom sickly stick of his own blood. Despite his finger tips coming away dry from his torso, Eddie can't help the panic rising in his chest. His hand finds its way to his throat, feeling for his pulse and the swell of his breath. Still no blood. Heart still beating. Good.

His breaths are coming out raggedy and forced as a flash of blue from outside the door catches his attention, the man in the bright costume spinning around in a similarly frenzied state to mirror Eddie's own.

Eddie's hallucinating. Or dreaming. Because no goddamn way did he get blasted to a year ago, but more reasonably no way is King goddamn Steve Harrington standing in front of him in an honest to God sailor costume with sinfully short shorts, and possibly lip gloss. And blonde highlights.

Hallucination-sailor-Steve is staring at him like Eddie's the answer to all his problems, like Eddie's pitiful half panic attack that he's currently having will help Steve at all. Yet, Eddie finds himself shifting towards Steve on instinct just as Steve does the same.

"Eddie?"

It comes out almost inaudible from where Eddie's standing, but he recognizes the shape of his name nonetheless. Especially when it's coming out of hallucination-sailor-Steve's mouth. Eddie drops the hand that's been slowly tightening around his throat, still staring shock-eyed and slightly disbelieving at Steve.

It takes Eddie a couple tries to get his mouth around the word, trying and failing to push past the blood from another life that's clogging his vocal cords. He finally gets out a hushed "Steve?" that he's almost certain hallucination-sailor-Steve couldn't have heard, but apparently it's enough to spring Steve into action.

Steve's at the counter in seconds, hands reaching for Eddie and then halting in a half aborted grab, his eyes equally reaching for everything Eddie had to offer.

"Are you-" Eddie starts, not sure where to go with that. Steve makes another half gesture towards Eddie, not quite something that would've been a hug but maybe more of an urgent grab. His eyes are dead serious and deep with a complexity Eddie has never seen before. It would be enchanting if they weren't in a possibly life threatening scenario.

"What do you remember?" Steve asks, all seriousness and hard edges. Eddie gets himself around the side of the counter on wobbly legs, getting as close to Steve as he can without them touching.

"I- I was dying. Or maybe I died, I don't know. Whatever happened when I was bleeding out from a bunch of demon-bat bites," Eddie swallows hard at his own reminder, "I swear it happened in '86, and definitely not while I was working at a mall that I'm pretty sure shouldn't be standing right now."

Eddie waits for Steve to give him a weird look, a look that says what the fuck, freak? You think you're a time traveler? Or maybe he just expects hallucination-sailor-Steve to finally disappear into gossamer and mist and leave Eddie to pick up the pieces of his likely DMT fuelled year long psychotic break.

Instead, probably unsurprisingly, Steve just looks at him with understanding while his brow knits itself a little closer together. A grimace of unfortunate understanding, if you will.

"So we're in the same boat, then," Steve grits out with his eyes still searching Eddie's. Eddie can't help the snort that escapes him despite his current state of panic.

"No way the first thing you do is make a sailor pun after we find out we literally just fucking time travelled, dude."

Steve's brow furrows impossibly tighter as he fights back his own smirk.

"Not the point. We need to figure out how to get back. Or at the very least, what to do if we're stuck," Hallucination-sailor-Steve is back to his serious face, all urgency and end-of-the-world scowl. Eddie's stomach lurches at the thought of being stuck back in time, his hands subconsciously reaching for stability on Steve's arms. Steve pulls his arms back like he's been burned before Eddie even touches him, panic threading through his features.

"Wait!" Steve shouts over the sound of the sting of rejection in Eddie's palms, but the fear in his voice is enough to push Eddie's personal problems aside for a moment. "Aren't we not allowed to touch each other?" Eddie's confused and skeptical glance is enough to get Steve to keep talking. "I mean like- in time travel movies and sci-fi shit, you're not supposed to touch or talk to your other self and all that. It fucks with the space-time contin-whatever the hell."

Eddie blinks for a moment at the pure sight that is Steve Harrington in a sailor costume explaining sci-fi nerd shit to him. Maybe dreams do come true. Regardless, Eddie says, "Yeah, but we're not the same person. Besides we came here together I think, so it should be fine. Right?"

Eddie is 100% not confident in this theory, still pretty confident, but he'd rather explode into a million timey-wimey bits than never be able to touch Steve in this universe. Plus, maybe touching each other will send them back to their proper timeline. It's such a convincing theory that Eddie tells Steve as much.

Steve sighs the most dramatic sigh Eddie has ever heard in his life that didn't come from Eddie's own mouth. "Yeah, you're right. We should rule it out, or at the very least see if it does anything," Steve says as he tentatively raises his hand up between them, palm facing Eddie. He quirks an eyebrow at Eddie, gesturing for him to do the same.

Eddie pulls his shaking hand up an inch away from Steve's own, palms facing each other. They both take in a shuddering breath, Steve giving a silent nod to Eddie before gently pressing their skin together.

Eddie waits to explode. He waits for the walls to crack and shatter, a red chasm of nightmares opening beneath him. He waits for his insides to become his outsides, for the world to snap into darkness and leave him behind. Instead, he only feels the gentle warmth of Steve's hand against his.

They both release their breath at the same time, a timid laugh escaping Steve's lips with his breath. Eddie breaks into his first smile since his death, and against his better judgement, laces his fingers between Steve's. Steve doesn't make any move to dislodge him. The euphoria of not spontaneously combusting is short lived as Steve's face turns grim once again.

"We need to get back to Scoops and fill Robin in."

"Buckley's here too?"

Steve doesn't bother answering Eddie's question, just turns to the exit of the record store. For the moment, Eddie doesn't bother asking again. Fully content to let himself be led somewhat frantically through a mall that shouldn't exist with probably-not-a-hallucination-sailor-Steve's hand warmly in his.

_____

TAG LIST: @estrellami-1 @melodymeddler @songbird-garden @gregre369 @croatoan-like-its-hot @messrs-weasley

Working on the next part! This may end up being a full length fic, in which case it will also be up on my ao3 which I will link once its up. Thanks for reading!

EDIT: Now on Ao3 HERE

#steddie ficlet #steddie fanfic #steddie #steddie au #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #shovel writes

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obimaulartfire · 6 months

Text

October 26th- "Seduction" for the @sithobiwanevent

Mini-fic connected to this piece under the Read More tag! I had so much fun with this prompt, hehehe

Maul walked down the neon-lit streets of Coruscant, out of the Jedi Temple. The mission he just finished had been hard, but successful.

His clone commander offered to take him out in celebration, but Maul turned him down. He wasn’t the social type; he preferred to do things on his own terms.

Besides, he felt…it, again.

“It” was a presence that had been following him like a shadow for the past few years.

It felt like fire and ice at once; cool, prickly fury mixed with a warm affection. At least, that was what the Force told him.

“It” never hurt him. In fact, it was often a comfort when he felt completely alone in the world, whether that was in the Temple, out in the street, or off-world. When he was sorrowful, overwhelmed, or angry, it was nearby like a cold pillow on a hot night. But it felt stronger than usual today, like it was about to smother him.

Therefore, he couldn’t risk anyone else getting in the way. Today was the day he would find the source.

He walked down the street, keeping his sixth sense open and his eyes over his shoulder. There were so many people here; any one of them could be the source of the Force presence. Frustrated, he grumbled to himself as he walked towards no destination in particular. But then, he remembered that the presence only made itself known when he was alone.

He chided himself. Was he really about to put himself in danger for the sake of his curiosity?

This is stupid. He was a Jedi. If anything came at him, he was more than certain that he could win in a fight.

While he thought, his feet took him down the back streets, towards a part of town that he knew would have no one in it at this time of night. He got there, found an open alleyway and walked in. And he waited.

He felt the presence, but couldn’t see anyone. Of course. He’d never seen the source of the presence, so it was unlikely that they would simply reveal themselves immediately.

He grit his teeth and gathered up his courage.

“Come out. I know you’re there.” he said, trying to hide the slight shake in his voice.

There was no answer. Until there was.

“You’re calling for me? What a surprise.” said an elegant, icy voice.

Maul spun around, and his hearts dropped in his chest. He recognized the face that appeared before him immediately.

Ten years ago on Naboo, his master was killed by none other than the man before him. He was older now, had grown out a beard and his hair, but otherwise looked exactly the same. His yellow eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, silhouette outlined by the multicolored lights around him. Maul didn’t know his name, but he did know him, and always would. It was impossible to forget the one who stole your loved ones.

Despite this, he radiated the exact same presence. That same Force signature he felt when he was alone in the Jedi Temple in the middle of the night. Now, instead of it being a background hum, it wrapped around his mind and threatened to crush him with its force.

Somehow, it was still comforting.

“You…” Maul started.

The man interrupted.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk alone at night? You could get hurt.” he said with an outpouring of protective affection, and walked closer.

Maul instinctively backed away, towards an alley.

“Why? But you- I killed you. I thought-”

His eyes darted to the man’s right arm and leg. They were advanced prosthetics now, but made almost no noise as he strode forward. Maul had cut those off. He remembered pushing this man down the reactor shaft, so why was he alive? Why was he here?

Maul made a soft grunt when he turned and his back hit the wall. The man came closer to him, and leaned over; their height difference becoming apparent.

“Your questions have easy answers.” he said, though Maul had asked no questions. It was like he knew what he was thinking.

He opened his prosthetic hand, and took Maul’s hand in it; a gesture of reverence.

Maul flinched at how cold the metal was, but did not pull away.

“The simple answer is that you killed me, and I came back.” he said, lacing his fingers with Maul’s. “I’ve been obsessed with you ever since you cut me down on Naboo. You’re the only person who has ever defeated me, undone me. I should hate you for it, but instead I find you… fascinating.”

Maul swallowed thickly, his hearts pounding in his chest. He’d never had anyone be interested in him before, not to this degree. It was intoxicating, and it drew him closer.

His mouth moved, looking for words to say. They came out jumbled and choppy.

“So all this time. When I was alone, and I was sad, and I felt a presence. That- that was you?”

The man raised his prosthetic arm, and pinned Maul’s arm against the wall.

Without thinking, Maul wrapped his fingers around the metallic ones, to ground himself.

The man leaned closer, his warm breath brushing Maul’s lips.

“Does that disturb you, my dear?”

Maul stared up into glowing, yellow eyes. It was very strange. Though this whole situation should scare him, Maul found himself incredibly calmed, almost hypnotized by the man in front of him. He didn’t want him to go.

“No.” he replied, and meant it.

“I’m glad.”

Before he knew it, Maul was kissing him. He lost himself in the moment of finally coming face-to-face with the presence that, in some way, kept him sane for the past few years.

But, when the man pulled away, Maul looked at his face again and remembered who he was looking at. This was his master’s murderer. And yet despite himself, he couldn’t pull away.

“This… this is wrong.” he said, his sense finally coming back to him.

He shouldn’t feel safe around this man. He should run. He should pull out his lightsaber and finish the job he started years ago. So why? Why didn’t he pull away?

“Is it, now?” he replied, conversationally.

“Of course it is. You killed my master. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be doing this.” he said.

I shouldn’t want this. He thought.

“And yet, here you are.” he said, with a light chuckle. His breath tickled, and his beard brushed against his cheek.

Maul found himself kissing him again. One hand was pinned to the wall, but the other grabbed at the bow on his back, pushing him closer. Force, what was wrong with him?

The kiss ended too soon. His master’s murderer pushed away from him, ever so gently, and looked into his eyes.

“Come away with me, Maul. I could teach you so much.”

Maul swallowed and nodded his head.

At this point, it wasn’t even a question.

He took his hand, and pushed down his own self-loathing for saying ‘yes.’

#sith!obi-wan #sith!obi-wan kenobi #sithywan #obimaul #roleswap au #jedi maul #maul #star wars #star wars fanart #star wars fanfic #i've had this idea in my head for a while #based off “dangerous” (the song) by big data #but like with more consent obviously #anyways i may post the snippet on ao3 as well haha #sith!obi-wan kenobi event 2023

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iinryer · 2 months

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Failed threesome?

- @try-set-me-on-fire

HAHAH oh the failed threesome fic, my white whale… the concept started out as a joke but then i wrote like six thousand fucking words about it and realized I actually had a lot I wanted to say!! the idea was some time in a nebulous early s5 where buck and taylor stayed weird friends and never got together, but eddie and ana decide to try something out (threesome). they ask buck, he agrees, they go through the motions of planning, and then ana and eddie break up like, the night before. the rest of the fic is them dealing with the fallout of I know, in great detail, everything you would have let me do to you. and having several crises and breakdowns about it lol. they fight a lot <3 it’s fun <3

the current conundrum is whether or not i want to drag it into a post-s6 timeline and have it be marisol instead, i kind of want a scene i wrote between buck and taylor to be buck an kameron. because i like her and it would be funny chchdhdh BUT i haven’t decided anything yet. i do love this fic. it’s kind of insane but it’s very special to me. here’s the opening scene:

—

“He asked you what?!”

This conversation was a mistake. This friendship was a mistake. His whole life was a mistake.

“It’s not even a big deal—,” Buck tries feebly.

Taylor’s jaw drops cartoonishly before she bursts into near-hysterical laughter. Barely managing to get out, “Buckley. You are quite possibly the stupidest motherfucker alive,”

He’s decided that he hates having friends, actually.

He throws the pillow he’s been strangling with white knuckles for the past few minutes at her head, where she sits a few feet away from him on his living room sofa. It half-hits and is half-caught as she wheezes, tears in her eyes, and throws it back at him.

Taylor had come over to his loft for their whenever-we’re-free wine and bitch night and immediately clocked that he had something on his mind. And he did. A very big something. And luckily for Taylor, the nosiest asshole he’s ever met, she’s probably the only person he could imagine telling about it without dying of mortification. She doesn’t bullshit him either, which he thinks he might need right now.

Or, at least, he thought he did, before she started laughing at him.

Buck makes a half-hearted attempt at suffocating himself with the newly returned pillow, groaning into it dramatically.

“God, no— wait,” Taylor gets out, breath hitching as she tries to compose herself around the bubbling giggles, “He— You’re telling me that he invited you to have a threesome?”

“Not in so many words,” Buck whines, muffled into the pillow, “and technically, it was his girlfriend inviting me,” he levers himself back upright, letting his head fall against the back of the sofa, “but yeah. Yeah he did,”

The exact words used were ‘You can tell me to fuck off if this is… uh, way off base, but Ana was wondering if I’d—well, we’d talked about—we want to invite you into bed. With us. Sometime. If that’s something that would interest you,’ expression stoic, gaze anywhere but Buck. His whole face had turned deeply red under the neon lights of the bar where they were grabbing a drink, and Buck would have been delighted by the sight of it if he hadn’t been using all of his brain power not to choke on his beer, ‘we talked about… new things. To do. And she knows I trust you. Obviously. So. Yeah,’

And he had the audacity to shrug afterwards. Like the entire concept didn’t entirely rearrange Buck’s brains.

#mailbox #iinryer wip #try-set-me-on-fire

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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

Text

(come alive in the neon light tag)

He tries again, because Steve Harrington is nothing if not persistent. The way he figures, he just needs to find a middle ground between how they normally hang out and like, a candlelit pasta dinner with roses and chocolate. Robin’s obviously no help, and like hell he’s asking any of the kids, and unfortunately those are all the options that he has for talking to people. This thing with Eddie really needs to work out ASAP so he can have another freaking adult around.

He sets up a movie night, because that’s a classic for a reason, right? Tells Eddie that Robin might be coming over too, tells Robin not to show up on pain of death, shrugs it off when Eddie shows up.

“What did Buckley say she had to do, again?” Eddie’s following him into the kitchen, messing with the fridge magnets. He’s been jittery all day, fidgeting with anything he can get his hands on and messing with his jewelry all the time.

“Not sure.” Steve busies himself with the popcorn so he doesn’t have to meet Eddie’s eyes. He’s not a great liar, so he’s trying to keep it simple.

Eddie hops up onto the counter and starts tossing the magnets he’s swiped up and down, one hand to the other. He looks like he’s maybe thinking about juggling them, a little bit. Steve’s not a hundred percent sure but he doesn’t think Eddie can actually juggle, so he sort of hunches protectively over the popcorn as he tips it into a big steel mixing bowl.

Sure enough, he feels light plastic thunk against his shoulderblade a few moments later.

“Sorry!” calls Eddie, not sounding sorry. Steve sighs noisily, but he’s facing away from Eddie so he lets himself smile all soft and happy about it. It’s probably a really dopey expression, but nobody’s watching, not even himself, so it doesn’t count.

By the time he turns back around with the popcorn under one arm to grab a six-pack from the fridge, he’s got his face back under control. “C’mon,” he says. “You’re not gonna run away to the circus with skills like that, so you’re stuck here with me another night. Put the movie in, will you?”

They start off a respectable distance apart on the couch, like they always do, but one of the reasons Steve planned a movie night is that Eddie can’t ever sit still or shut up while watching. Robin hates it, actually—she’s always shushing Eddie and batting him away when she actually cares about watching the movie, though if they pick something dumb enough, she’ll give up pretty quick and start making fun of it with the rest of them.

Steve still doesn’t know how Police Academy 3 ends, because halfway through, Robin and Eddie had goaded him into a full-on re-enactment of The French Connection to make some kind of argument about how Police Academy 3 should have been rewritten. Given that Eddie hadn’t in fact seen The French Connection, it had involved a lot of Eddie making things up on the spot. That suited Steve just fine, actually, because Robin’s always making him sit through a billion old movies and he couldn’t remember much about that one in particular. Eddie had spun up a whole dramatic speech in a New York gangster voice about living outside the law because he couldn’t handle the lines at the DMV, and Steve had laughed so hard he’d almost passed out.

The few times it’s been just Steve and Eddie watching, Eddie doesn’t get as big and loud with his comments. He does keep talking in quick impulsive bursts whenever he’s got an opinion on what’s happening on screen, though. He’ll grab Steve’s arm and poke Steve’s side when he gets worked up, or at the very least he’ll lean in close and talk right into Steve’s ear like they’re not all alone in the house.

Tonight, though, Eddie’s quiet. Tonight they’re watching Blade Runner, because Eddie’s never seen it, and Steve’s always okay with rewatching Harrison Ford being all cool and badass. It’s not the most romantic movie of all time, but Eddie doesn’t really watch romantic movies, so Steve’s just working with what he’s got.

Steve’s no expert, but he thinks it’s a pretty good movie. He likes how moody and dramatic everything is, even if that’s usually more Robin’s thing. Plus there’s robots and fight scenes, and the lead actress is pretty hot.

Eddie’s taken over the popcorn bowl and is sitting cross-legged on the couch, bowl nestled in his lap, nursing his beer. Steve scoots closer to grab some popcorn, and leaves his arm across the back of the couch. Eddie doesn’t seem to notice, but he also doesn’t lean back into Steve’s arm like Steve was sort of hoping.

Eddie isn’t shifting around every couple minutes like usual, but he does keep playing with his rings. He’s only wearing a couple today, but he shuffles them from finger to finger, hand to hand, turning the around, stacking and unstacking. Sometimes he slips his thumb under the thin silver bracelet on his wrist and just holds it there for a second.

Steve watches him and wonders, just a little, if he’s thinking about the last time they were on this couch and all the noises that he made.

Steve realizes he’s staring, and jerks his attention back to the movie. He tunes back in just as Harrison Ford is driving off for the last time with the lady robot, faces all lit up in warm sunlight. Harrison Ford’s voiceover goes: I didn’t know how long we’d have together. Who does?

“What’d you think?” asks Steve, as the synths pick up and the credits start to roll over tree-covered mountains.

“I think that ending came out of nowhere.” Eddie swirls his fingertips around the rim of the empty popcorn bowl. “Not bad, though. Kinda makes you think about, like. What it means to be a person.”

“Oh. Yeah,” says Steve, who does not want to admit that he hadn’t been thinking about that at all.

“I mean…it’s like that one replicant was saying, right? We’re just the sum of our experiences. And then we die, and the experiences disappear.”

Steve takes a long swallow of his beer and rolls the nearly-empty bottle in his palms. “I dunno. I think it’s nice that they fell in love anyway. Like—maybe it doesn’t matter. The, uh, experience is the same. The experiences that people have, it’s all kind of the same, you know?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a while, but when Steve glances over, Eddie’s looking back with his head tilted, just looking and looking. He’s not exactly smiling, but his face isn’t unhappy, either. He’s got a thinking kind of expression on.

Finally, he just says, “Yeah. That’s a pretty good point, Steve,” and gets up to take the bowl to the kitchen. Steve trails after him, grabbing the empties just for something to do.

“You staying over tonight?” Steve asks. “It’s getting kind of late.”

“Sure,” says Eddie, casually, but he looks over at Steve like he knows exactly what Steve’s really asking. He seems less fidgety as he heads up the stairs without checking to see if Steve’s following, but when Steve walks into the bedroom a few steps behind him, he’s already perched on the windowsill, trying and failing to light a cigarette.

“Are you. Is everything okay,” says Steve.

“Everything’s peachy. Listen, can we just,” says Eddie, and stops abruptly. He doesn’t finish the thought. He drops the unlit smoke, paces over, and threads his shaking fingers into Steve’s hair, pulling him in.

#fic: come alive in the neon light #steddie #I looked up SO MANY release dates for this snippet #this breaks at a less natural place than usual but the scene was getting pretty long and I just wanted to post some of it

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 8 months

Text

Nothing and Everything - Part 4

Summary: Certain times of the year are harder than others. This is the first year where they have all been present to face the memories of all the trauma. How can they come together when they each have their own traumas to face?

Pairings: Gen fic (they love Layla and she loves them)

Warnings: Heavy dissociation, Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Depression, mentions of self harm, mentions of hospitalization, PTSD.

Word Count: 5094

Part four: With the moon boys approaching crisis, Layla has called in an expert. But this expert knows that this is no easy task, after all, he's worked with them before. Is it mission fail or will it work?

Previous Chapter HERE

Jean-Paul sat waiting at a cafe in the high end of London. He had always wanted to try this place. It served croissants that just about melted in your mouth and coffee that reminded him of a night he once spent in Turkey.

The table was set with a fruit platter, macaroons, a chocolate croissant, and two cups of coffee. He was considering ordering a slice of quiche to top it all off.

It was extravagant and the bill far exceeded the quantity of the meal, but he didn’t care. He had made a promise to himself after his last mission that he would never deny himself a moment of happiness.

He was retired. A label that most mercenaries never lived to see. Considering that all his former comrades and friends were in the ground, he took a special moment as he sipped his coffee to savor the moment.

The smell brought him back to bright string lights across a street, vendors lining the path with food and drinks, the bright neon signs that advertised bars and clubs and the dark paths that lead to drugs and other unsavory places.

Most of all, the taste brought him back to a young man at his side, smiling and laughing as they ate kebab and celebrated being alive. Dark eyes and dark hair, and a smile that was so rare and beautiful…

Jean-Paul breathed in the smell deeply, holding the cup gingerly. Bitter sweet as it was, the moment was gone, along with the regrets and opportunities that he had let pass him by.

He set the cup down as a familiar head of curls appeared next to his table.

“Ma chérie… It has been too long.” He smiled up at Layla and gestured to the open seat across from him.

Layla sat down and looked down at the spread before them. “Jean-Paul, thank you for coming.”

She immediately picked out a macaroon and bit into it with a sense that she had needed something sweet and wonderful in her life right now.

He waited for her to settle in, knowing that sometimes you just need to remind yourself that life outside of stress and pain and panic existed.

At last she sat back and looked up at him with a smile. “How are you? Are you staying here in London?”

“Ah, we are starting with the small chat?” He smirked and picked up a slice of honeydew. He took a bite and waved his fork vaguely. “I have a lovely hotel that overlooks some favous garden that I could care less about, but it does serve the most wonderful breakfast and the mattress is perfectly firm to support my poor back. I cannot stand these super soft beds people like these days. False decadence, is what it is. I would just as soon sleep on the floor.”

Layla laughed and reached for a strawberry. “I’m all about the pillows, really. Give me five and I’m happy.”

“Five? Hmmm… Two for the head, one to hug, one for the hips…Where does the fifth one go?” He smiled sat back in his seat.

Layla blushed and gave him a mischievous grin. “Depends on if I’m alone or not.”

Jean-Paul feigned a scandalous gasp. “If only I were straight. I would steal you away from Marc and go on a wild romantic excursion through all of Paris with you.”

“I have been through enough wild excursions.” She shook her head. “And I am sure there are plenty of men begging you to fly them away.”

“Not as many as there used to be.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “I’m not as handsome as I used to be. I’m waiting for time to turn me into a silver fox. Perhaps I can turn into someone’s… What do you call it? Candy daddy?”

Layla made a face. “I just call Marc a dirty old man.”

They burst out laughing, her stress finally melting away and letting her relax for the first time in weeks.

When the laughter faded, she ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry filled with jam. Her sweet tooth was just as bad as he remembered.

They chatted a moment about mundane things. Her life in London and work in translation and identification of artifacts. His life in private flights and mechanics.

They talked about old days and the more recent adventure he had missed in Egypt. Of all the talk, he noted that she kept a wide circle around the actual subject of their meeting.

At last, she stared down into her cup and found nowhere else to go. “Have you heard from Marc?”

“No. Not since you all came back from Egypt. It was more of a courtesy call, really. I think he felt bad for ghosting me. Perhaps he feared I too would track him down like an angry ex-wife.” He smiled at Layla gently.

“Idiot didn’t sign the papers. We were never ex-anything.” She rolled her eyes. “Did he talk to you about…Steven?”

Jean-Paul took a moment to cross his legs and arms, deep in thought. Perhaps to her, it looked like he was trying to remember.

In reality, he was deep in memory.

“Swear to me, mi corazon…. Don’t tell him. He cannot know…”

A memory filled with dark eyes and a deep regret for things lost.

“If you are asking if I know about his… condition…” He treaded lightly.

“Dissociative identity disorder. D.I.D for short.” Layla said it with the air of someone that has had to explain it a lot. “You knew?”

Jean-Paul looked down into his coffee and at last put the tiger to bed. “I knew about Jake.”

Layla dropped her fork. “Jake? Jake Lockley? You knew about Jake?”

He groaned and looked up at her sheepishly. “Please tell me that you know him now. I do not like being the one to cause problems.”

“Oh, I know about Jake.” Her jaw was firmly set in a line. “That man… That man…” She sat back and shook her head. “It took a long time for me to know about Jake, though. Steven showed up when the whole thing with Egypt happened. It’s how I found Marc when he ran off. Jake took his sweet time to introduce himself to the rest of us. Marc certainly didn’t know.”

A lot of things were starting to click into place and Jean-Paul laughed softly to himself. “Does Steven happen to sound like a little English fellow? The sweetest smile you’ll ever see? The kind that melts into your heart and makes you wish life were different?”

Layla stared at him for a long and hard moment before she nodded. “Did you know about Steven?”

He tapped a finger on the table, knowing full well that the tiger may be in bed but it was still dangerous. “I met him once. We had brunch.”

She raised an eyebrow and Jean-Paul held up his hands in surrender. “Marc is not as in control as he thinks. When things were hot, of course he was Marc. I would not want to see that sweet English tart out into the things that we got into, either. But when things cooled down… When it was quiet and we went into town to spend money and have fun… Sometimes the quiet could set in and we went to the right town…It was like he couldn’t help but let Steven out to enjoy it.”

Layla mouthed the phrase ‘sweet english tart’ incredulously.

“Steven probably thought he was there to have brunch and some strange French tourist randomly joined him. I’d be surprised if he remembered it.” Jean-Paul sipped the coffee with a smile, remembering the smile and the joy. Joy he had never seen on Marc’s face. So open, so beautiful…

“What about Jake?”

Jean-Paul picked at his croissant, eating it piece by piece. How much to say? How much did Marc know at this point?

We have to keep him safe, do you understand?

“Sometimes things were very hot. Very stressful and we both have our fair share of scars. Sometimes Jake was needed.” He sat back and smiled at the past. “My god that man knew how to fight. Marc was good, but Jake…” He placed a hand over his heart as if to ask it nicely to be still. “Sometimes after the fight, Marc could not settle. We all had troubles sometimes. Things we wished we hadn’t done in the moment… Things I wish I could forget. Jake was there for him. For me. He could help the nightmares fade away.”

Layla nodded and looked away. “He stayed hidden really well. He saved us in Egypt. Marc had no idea. Denial I suppose. It wasn’t till Steven insisted that someone else was there that we found Jake. Even then, it took a long time for Jake to start to trust us enough to talk.”

Jean-Paul laughed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Jake didn’t just saunter up to me and introduce himself. I was the only one he spoke to of the group. Pretended to be Marc for years. It took time for him to trust me.”

Layla relaxed a little. Perhaps she had felt insulted or left out at the idea that Jake had so openly been around Jean-Paul when she had been with Marc for years and not known about him.

“I must be the worst wife in the history of wives.” She hunched down in the chair over her coffee. “Steven and Jake… How do I miss two whole people?”

Jean-Paul reached across the table and placed a hand on her arm. “Non… Chérie… If people don’t want to be seen, you will not see them. They could be sitting here plain as day and if they don’t want to be known, you will never know them.”

“How do I help them? If they don’t want help?” She held his hand gently. “Marc is depressed, Steven is depressed, and Jake won’t talk to me. Jake talked to me all the time when things were fine. Now he’s shut up again and I think he’s trying to handle it all on his own.”

“Is that why you called me?” Jean-Paul leaned forward.

Layla looked up at him, looking tired and like she was utterly exhausted. “You’re his friend. Maybe seeing you will put him in a better mood. Distract him. Or… Talk him into maybe… getting help.” She sank down, looking ashamed.

Jean-Paul raised his eyebrows. “You want me to talk Marc into seeking help? Like with a psychiatrist?”

“Or a therapist.” She mumbled.

He ran his fingers over his mustache, smoothing it out. “Does he still have a temper?”

Layla waved a hand in a way that suggested that he still very much had a temper but she didn’t want to say so.

“You know about his past, right? Has he told you?” Jean-Paul looked at her seriously.

“He mentioned that he spent some time in a hospital once. He didn’t elaborate and Steven didn’t know anything.”

He finished his coffee and stared into the empty cup. She didn’t know. It wasn’t his place to tell her.

Yet, she had come to him for help. Perhaps she sensed something there. Perhaps this was a line she knew she couldn’t cross alone.

He pulled out a wallet and tossed down enough money to cover the check and tip then stood up. “Finish up here. Don’t let this go to waste.”

“Where are you going?” She looked up at him in alarm.

“I’m going to go make sure my affairs are in order before I do this suicide mission.” He muttered and put on his sunglasses and looked up at the English sun. His instincts told him to wait until evening.

“Thank you Jean-Paul.” She sat back and ate another macaroon. “I owe you.”

“Mmhmm.” He looked down at her again. “Between you and Marc, I could ask for the world.”

“Give me a day. I need to plan. You don’t go on a mission like this just jumping in. Text me his schedule, address, and car information. I need time to steak-out the area. And don’t tell him I’m in town.”

“Thank you. I’ll get you the info you need.” She grabbed her phone to start sending him the info.

Jean-Paul headed out. “You’re lucky you and Marc are beautiful.”

A simple mission. He just needed to look at this like it was another mission. Find the target, track the target, get a feel for their movements and come up with the best time and place to ambush him.

Back in the day, he would have called this sort of mission a breeze. Find one man in the city. Easy.

The problem was the target. He knew this target. He knew the files that would have come with this target. He would have taken one look at this target and charged a king’s ransom.

Marc Spector. Not many people who crossed paths with Marc Spector were still alive. Friend or foe, the man was cursed.

It was enough to make him wish he hadn’t given up smoking.

He spent the first half of the day walking the paths near Marc’s home. He watched the building and looked up at the window, taking in the view that Marc must have during the day. No one would be able to look into his flat without difficulty, but he could see down into the street easily.

The location was good. Something discreet yet close to many public transit lines and a lot of good shops. It was obviously chosen with the idea for convenience and discretion. No one could even see who was going in and out of the building without walking down a side street that was narrow and crowded.

It was clear that Marc had thought this through when going into hiding. It would be unwise of him to approach while Marc was near his home.

The next thing he had done was locate the car.

That had taken quite a bit of thinking. Layla had listed several streets where the car could be parked, which implied that he moved it a lot and seldom picked the same location.

Most people would find a good street near their home and keep to it.

If it had been Marc, he would have parked as far away from home as he could. He might have paid for a spot with cash and kept that spot. The fact that he moved it and parked it in the street and not a garage made him think that this was not Marc’s car.

When he found the car, he had to change the file on who his target was.

Jake Lockley loved his car. It was clean and well kept, but it still had enough trash inside and dirt outside to help disguise it from being too obvious of a target.

Going after Marc was bad enough…But Jake? He would have charged triple his normal asking price back in the day.

Jake was like trying to find water in the desert. You knew it was there. You could see hints and traces of it having been there, but actually finding it?

If Marc didn’t want to be found, Marc wasn’t found. If Jake didn’t want to be found, you might as well be looking on the wrong planet.

He continued down the streets, slowly widening his path until he stopped before a bookstore. It was a small run down looking one with a sandwich board out front and old hand painted signs in the windows.

He had to double check the addresses that Layla had sent him to make sure he was even in the right place.

Jake was not a big reader. The man liked to work with his hands and had liked more practical things like newspapers and magazines. He’d even caught Jake working with crossword puzzles and sudoku a few times.

Marc was a very particular reader. He liked to quote big classics that he had obviously read while in school, but he never touched more modern things. He didn’t read for escapism. His attention span never stayed long enough to dive into a mystery and thrillers hit too close to home.

Of the three of them, this file scared him the most. An unknown and unpredictable asset.

He thought back to his brunch. An excursion into London for reasons he didn’t want to think about. Marc had been bothered the whole while there, constantly looking over his shoulder and acting far too distracted for his taste.

Once the mission was over, he had disappeared altogether. It had been pure chance that he had come across Steven sitting at an outdoor cafe looking pleased as punch to be there.

Expecting Jake or Marc, he had been fascinated by the childlike joy and wonder Steven had exhibited as he talked about London and how much he wished to live there someday.

It wasn’t until partway into the conversation when Steven had suddenly quoted something in perfect French that Jean-Paul suddenly got the sense that Steven was incredibly smart and hiding it very well.

By the end of the conversation, Jean-Paul had felt more than a few heart flutters and was utterly prepared to die for the man.

What little information he had on Steven, made his head spin.

Avid reader, researcher, self taught, multi linguistic, and well skilled in the art of negotiation and sass. Not to mention advanced knowledge in Ancient Egypt, poetry, astronomy, puzzles, and according to Layla, a very fast study and pretty good at fighting.

His only advantage was that Steven had no idea who he was. Yet, Steven left it all out on the table. There was no mystery and Steven did nothing to hide himself. It was Marc that had hidden Seven. Marc that had been so protective of Steven that he had gone to scary and often self destructive tactics to keep the man safe.

And leave it to Marc to put them all in danger as he chose the most dangerous profession. Keep him safe, as long as Marc didn’t get them killed.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered who he was eventually going to approach. How was he going to get them to listen? How did he get Marc to listen?

Marc, who he knew the best, was also the most trouble he had ever experienced in his life.

Jean-Paul wondered if Jake might be better to approach, but Jake was so protective of Marc… Not to mention what Jake had told him about his experience with the medical field.

Any time one of them had been injured enough to mention a hospital, Marc had resisted. At least one occasion had Jake jumping out the back of the truck with a bullet in his shoulder.

It was time for the next step and the most dangerous one.

He waited at a safe distance until one of them left the house. He was not prepared for the bombardment of emotions that hit him when he saw those familiar locks of curls. Even from this distance, he could see the dark eyes and familiar shape of his nose and chin.

Years. How many years had he ridden side by side with this man…These men?

How long had it been since he last saw them? Since that last moment in the desert with Marc dying and bleeding in the sand? That last moment as he and Layla left on their last adventure?

Jean-Paul took a moment to compose himself then started to follow at a reasonable distance.

He knew that walk. The weave between the people as he seemed to slip through them without leaving a trace. He somehow managed to take that body and make it smaller, closed off and impervious to the outside world.

Jean-Paul pulled back further. Jake would know if he was being followed too closely.

Jake would also know if Jean-Paul came at him with an ulterior motive and shut him down.

The day dragged on as he tailed them. He watched Jake get coffee and food at some diner. He watched Jake smile and talk to people that he obviously saw often.

Did Jake have a life here? No longer hiding in the shadows and popping out when no one was looking? Something he never thought he’d see.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little jealous.

The more he watched, the more he started to realize how free Jake was. His sense of style, the way he moved, and even his relaxed demeanor now that he was no longer expecting to be shot at every second of every day.

Jean-Paul backed off, slowly letting Jake fade into the crowd. Who was he to bring the past back in when it was clear that Jake wanted nothing but to move forward?

He pulled out his phone and pulled up Layla’s number. He couldn’t do this. Maybe he was selfishly thinking of his own pain or maybe he just couldn’t stand to see the look of betrayal in his target’s eyes.

He was about to text her a mission failed status update when he sensed someone standing at his six.

“It is incredibly hard to tail someone with a mustache like that.” Jake’s accent was no longer strangled out by pretending to be someone he wasn’t. His voice was confident and soft.

Jean-Paul smiled weakly then looked back at him. “Mon Ami… Tailing was never my specialty.”

Jake looked him over, hands in his pockets as he contemplated something. “You look good.”

“I��m alive. Mostly in one piece.” He shrugged.

Jake hesitated then pointed to the phone. “Layla?”

“Yeah. Is Marc…?” He felt like an awkward teenager again and he did his best not to show how defeated he felt.

Jake shook his head. “No, but he’ll be happy to see you. As happy as Marc gets, anyways.”

Somehow, that made him feel a little better. “Can we talk?”

Jake shifted his stance then pulled a hat out from his coat pocket. He pulled it on and adjusted it carefully as if it were some sort of ritual.

He glanced at Jean-Paul and sighed. “Grounding. I don’t want Steven to try anything.”

“And Marc? Are you keeping him away too?”

Jake tilted his hat back and gave Jean-Paul a hard look. “Until I figure out why you’re here, yeah.”

“Fair. Is there somewhere we can go?” He glanced around. “I don’t suppose you’d let me into your flat.”

“You guessed right.” Jake continued to give him a look that made him sweat.

“Still playing the protector.” Jean-Paul shook his head. “Come. We are near my hotel. There’s a garden patio I’ve been told is very nice.”

Jake walked at his side, hands still in his pockets and silent.

How many times had they sat in silence together? How many times had Jake been forced to stay silent as he pretended to be Marc? How long had it taken Jean-Paul to notice?

He let the silence be. It was familiar and comfortable. Silence was safe.

When they reached the hotel, Jean-Paul guided him to the back patio with a fancy garden full of large tropical things that would surely die in the winter and a fragrant rose garden that must have been hell to upkeep.

Stepping out into the area, Jake paused for just a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering softly to himself. “No, Pendejo. Go away.”

Jean-Paul moved to take a seat at a bench and waited.

Jake sighed and moved to take a seat at his own bench. “Steven likes the flowers. Thinks this place is very fancy.”

“Fancy enough.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “Reminds me of that place in Brazil a bit. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Every place reminds you of somewhere else.”

“Marc hated it there.” Jake shook his head. “He was pretty pissed about the language issue.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t know they spoke Portuguese.” Jean-Paul smiled. “I’ve never seen a man so confused and angry at the same time.”

Jake laughed softly then held up a hand. “Enough reminiscing. You’re going to wake him up.”

He knew Marc wasn’t really sleeping. It was something else. Floating in a void? Hiding in the back room? Jean-Paul didn’t really know, but the way Jake spoke of it, it made it sound like Jake had tucked Marc into bed and was standing watch for nightmares.

“Do you have a cigarette?” Jake looked at him hopefully. “Steven tossed all mine out. Pretty pissed when he found out about it.”

“No. I quit a year ago.” He smiled to himself. “I’m six months fully sober come next week. Do you know how hard it is to be a Frenchman and sober? Mon Dieu…”

There was surprise on Jake’s face. “Everything? I’m impressed. What changed?”

Jean-Paul looked away. “What was the point of surviving all of that shit if I was just going to kill myself? The drugs weren’t going to bring any of the people I killed back. I had to face the fact that I was miserable and I didn’t want the past to win anymore.”

Jake took off his hat for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. For just a moment, Jean-Paul got the feeling he was sitting with Marc, nervously wringing his hands as he stared down the demons of his past.

The hat went back on and Jake shook his head a little. “Layla threw out the alcohol last month. Marc keeps a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the wall. I let him keep it there. He likes knowing that he can trash himself should the need come. I wouldn’t exactly call that sober, but so far he hasn’t broken down and drained it.”

“Merde.” Jean-Paul laughed. “I kept drugs taped to the back of my ceiling fan for ages. I used to lay there watching the blades spin and wonder how long it would be before I cracked. I didn’t need to use it to be under the spell. My sponsor helped me get it down and flush it when I was finally ready to admit I needed the help.”

“Can’t flush all our problems away.” Jake muttered. “Marc would have tried to flush himself if that were the case.”

“That’s sort of why I’m here.” He leaned back a little and looked at Jake fully. It was time to take the leap. “I want to sponsor you…three.”

“We don’t do drugs.” Jake paused as if asking someone inside just to be certain. “Only Marc drinks and I just need Steven to keep tossing out my cigarettes.”

“Not that kind of sponsor. Though it would be nice to see Marc give up the drink.” He took a deep breath. “You need help. Layla thinks it’s getting pretty bad. She’s worried.”

Jake stiffened. The look of terror that flashed across his face shot through Jean-Paul’s heart horribly. It was the look of a man trapped and desperate to escape. The look of a wounded animal that knew it was only a matter of time before it was hurt again.

“No one’s going to commit you.” He rushed ahead to try and reassure him. “Not unless all of you agree that it’s bad enough to need it. I’m not here to lock you up.”

Jake swallowed hard. “I have this. I told her I had it. She didn’t have to call you up. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” He stood up and made for the door. “It was nice to see you again, Frenchie.”

“I spent three months in the hospital.” Jean-Paul stood up. “Self committed.”

Jake stopped but didn’t turn around. “Because of the drugs?”

“Because of the memories. The guilt.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Because I couldn't stop seeing the face of the woman I killed in the crossfire. I was a mercenary before you were. A legionnaire before that. We all did things in our endless search for gold, glory, and attempt to escape the past. I burned down villages before Marc crossed his first battlefield.”

“Did it help? Do you sleep at night now? Did you forget her face?” Jake looked down and worked his jaw, clenching it till Jean-Paul worried about his dentition.

“I don’t want to kill myself anymore. I also joined a veteran’s support group. It wasn’t just one thing, but it was the first step for me.” A step that he had struggled with the whole time. One he had wished that someone had been there to support him on.

“I’m not going to a hospital.” Jake clenched his fists at his side, prepared to fight anyone that disagreed with him. “They don’t know the first thing about our…problem. Half of them think they can drug away the issue and the other half think we’re faking it. And that doesn’t even consider the ones that think it’s fascinating or the ones that think we just need to heal into a full grown singular normal person.”

“I’m not asking you to go.” Jean-Paul sighed. “I’m asking you to consider the possibility that if you are so far down the hole that one of you tries something… If Marc tries something… You might not get that choice anymore. I don’t want you to get that far.”

“So what do we do? Hm? Tell me that.” Jake turned to look at him and the anger was gone. “What choice do we have? Do you have any idea how hard it is for someone like us to find the proper help? I can’t put them through that. The let down as yet another so-called doctor or therapist offers the wrong solution or hurts us again. How do I get Marc on antidepressants without Steven being terrified that somehow the drugs are going to make him disappear because he thinks he isn’t real? How do I get Marc to talk to someone without putting up so many walls that even I can’t reach him again? How do I… How…I can’t do it again. I can’t. I have to hold us together. Just let me do this.”

“Mon ami…”

“Don’t you fucking dare follow me again, amigo.” Jake turned again. “If I catch you trying to get Steven to agree to any of this, you’ll regret it. Don’t even go looking for Marc. Marc isn’t as forgiving as I am.”

With that, Jake was gone, once more leaving Jean-Paul alone in the garden.

Part Five HERE

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight fic #Jake Lockley #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Layla El Faouly #Jean-Paul Duchamp #Frenchie #This one took me forever to finish #He's doing fine everyone #Real concerns though #That's the second time he's watched that man run off on him

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therealnightcity · 8 months

Text

Word Search Tag Game

words: cigarette — light — running — mischievous — car

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I don't have any multi-chapter fics, so I'll be pulling these from drabbles/one-shots instead 🥰

Cigarette

Upcoming spicy ficlets, October is just around the corner 🎃

When he did kiss the man, it wasn’t because he’d seen him in a bar and wanted to forget, or pass the time, it’s because he was genuinely relieved to see him alive, and they’d been in each others heads, finally a way to voice the tension between them. He tasted like cigarettes, and smelled like the cologne he’d been borrowing, but more than that—it was proof. They’d both lived through it, he was here, and they were themselves again. He has to stand on his tiptoes to reach his lips, something the man notices, can feel his hand steadying him, warmth that radiates through him at the simple gesture. It’s unconscious, reflexive but it’s so much more than either thought they’d have.

“Sometimes ‘m glad you can’t read my mind anymore.”

“Don’t need to.”

Light

The Spider and the Fly--an series of drabbles focused on Hiro's early years in the claws

The first time he met the man was a night as unremarkable as any other—he got there as the lights were starting to dim, neon signs giving the streets an otherworldly glow. He supposed they were pretty in their own way, clustered thick enough you could scarcely see the sky. Slipping through the door, he nodded to the bartender, and received a curl of his shoulder in return. He was already busy wiping down glasses, a stained towel in hand, motion routine, a furrow on his brow. Rolling his sleeves up, he leaned against the bar, murmur neatly drowned out by the music. “Need help?” And then seeing the preoccupied expression, “anything wrong?” There’s a moment of hesitation, deliberation as he glances at the door. “Boss is in tonight. Said not to bother him.” Ah.

Running

A very self-indulgent Sandman Drabble

The writing bug bit me HARD with this one and got up at 4 and had to get it out before I forgot pieces--might go back to it eventually and write more. I still loves bits of it.

Consciousness comes with the realization that he still hasn’t gotten off, and is still frustratingly hard, running an errant hand through his hair, shoving the strands back into something presentable. He can still taste the man on his tongue. A quick glance at the cat sleeping in his bed, legs twitching in a dream. Not like she could see him, it was fine, before wrapping his hand around his length, getting off to the thought of bruising kisses, pleasure taken from him. He knows it’s demeaning, maybe says something about his psyche but as he cums, a cry muffled in his hand, he can’t bring himself to care.

Mischievous

Nope!--the reason behind this one is stupid. It's one of those random words I have a VERY hard time spelling, even if it comes to mind often. I usually end up using impish instead, or re-writing the sentence entirely.

Car

Didn't get this one. Hiro rides a bike, and I seldom write him in cars. I've definitely written about it in really loose RP snippets but not in a drabble/anything solo.

————

tagging:

@shinycorvidae, @dreamskug, @a-pirate, @wraithsoutlaws, @dustymagpie, @ghostoffuturespast, @depyotee (and anyone else who writes, I'm sure I'm missing quite a few) and everyone who wants to do it. No pressure though!

words:

neon — knife — choom — hope — relic

#wips #cyberpunk 2077 #sandman #oc: hiro oda #johnny silverhand #my writing #tag game #drabbles

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apprenticestanheight · 5 months

Text

Hopelessly- chainshipping

all right!! This is part one of I don't know how many--the fic that this chapter is apart of has been prewritten and I'm aiming for like, 2-3k words per chapter so around ten chapters maybe?? I'm getting this ready to be queued with 21 minutes until two in the morning so it's not unreasonable to expect my math to be off

requests are underway!! yay!! I wrote one yesterday and at least two more will hopefully come out before the end of the week (most of, if not all, will be done around the 21st because I have a super epic queue planned in the lead up to christmas)

Fic type- this first bit is generally angst and hurt/comfort

Warnings- referenced homophobia on the part of Adams parents, discussion of saw-canonical events (lawrence sawing off his foot) and related (adam has pain in his shoulder bc he was shot there), implied/referenced crappy parenting (adams parents get into arguments so loud that he recalls the walls shaking)

The first days after Lawrence had left were terrifying. They were spent in the dark, drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to stay awake in moments where he was awake but never really managing to do so.

In moments where Adam was awake, he was thinking of Lawrence. Wondering if the doctor had meant what he had said. Had meant it when he said he’d get help and make sure Adam made it out alive. He wondered if the doctor was thinking of him in turn, doubted he was.

When Adam was awake, Lawrence persisted in his mind. When he was awake, Adam was remembering Lawrences voice, trying desperately to keep it in his mind and not forget it. He was yearning for Lawrences presence, for his nonchalance and the blond of his hair.

When he was asleep, where there were not nightmares there were memories.

Laughing with his older sister as the two ate at a discount burger joint with a neon sign. Stealing cigarettes from his dad, scolding his younger brother for stealing the stolen cigarettes. There were memories of his sister reading on a beach towel while his brother splashed about in the open sea, where Adams choice had been to pull a pair of sunglasses over his eyes and watch the skyline.

There were memories of his dad being sweet to his mother from when he was a kid, memories of his father going off on tirades about college while his older sister sat, glaring defiantly at their father as he paced and gesticulated with his hands to accentuate a point that his older sister would choose to misunderstand on purpose and out of spite.

There was the memory of his older sister “running away”—or in other words, being kicked out by their Dad—when he was fifteen and she was eighteen. The memory of being kicked out himself when he was just four days away from his eighteenth birthday and leaving his brother behind in a choice that was made for him.

There was the memory of Lawrence, too—his hands slick with Lawrences blood and his own, begging and pleading to be set free, begging for Lawrence not to leave him. There was the memory of John Kramers voice saying “game over” and the horrifying sound of the door sliding shut.

And then, when it feels like it’s been a week but has probably been closer to a month, Adam is jolted awake by hands against his shoulders.

“Adam?” Comes a feminine voice. “Adam. Are you awake? Are you alive?”

Adams lips go to form a response, but his mouth is dry and all he can do is hum out confirmation, a whispered “what? What’s happening?” befalling his lips as he feels the hands on his shoulders attempt to move him to the right.

And then the feminine voice is sighing in relief. “Okay,” she says. “I can help you, Adam.”

And then Adam is dimly registering the feeling of the cuff on his foot being loosened. And he’s feeling himself get dragged down a series of corridors, and then light is blinding and it’s in his eyes again as he’s dropped onto the concrete without care, though not without thought.

He feels a hand on his chest. A woman says “I’m going to call 911 for you, sir. Are you feeling okay?”

And the pain in Adams shoulder renews, and he groans because it hurts.

“No,” he fumbles with the word. “Sore. Everywhere.”

And then Adam is falling asleep again, dimly wondering if he should bother doing as he’d meant to in the time spent in the bathroom, the thing he’d debated doing if he’d escaped.

For the first time in eight years, half asleep on the concrete with a woman pressing a hand supportively against his chest as she talks to the 911 dispatch, Adam Faulkner-Stanheight is absentmindedly wondering if he should call his parents.

Adam wakes in a hospital, finding that every bone in his body feels heavy. Even his eyelids feel heavy, and he’s startled to realize that he's almost not sure where he is at first.

He clues into it the very second he registers a foggy feeling in his mind. That kind of fogginess can only come from painkillers being given to him through an IV, and then he hears the sound of his heartbeat as it thrums in a steady rhythm from the heart monitor on his right side. His IVs, he knows, are probably next to or near it.

A nurse comes in as he opens his eyes, fighting the heaviness away with a surprising amount of willpower. She laughs when she sees he’s awake, a smile spreading across red painted lips.

“Glad to see you awake, Mr. Stanheight,” she says, pulling a strand of red hair behind her ear. “You’ve caused quite a stir for a group of people. One of them is this hospitals very own, Dr. Lawrence Gordon.”

When Adam hears Lawrences name, his heart nearly catapults out of his chest.

“Who—who are the others?” He asks despite wanting desperately to know more about how Lawrence is doing. The nurses words outside of Lawrence have piqued his curiosity, too—Adam Faulkner-Stanheight has not had people caring about him, let alone enough to have those people referred to as a group, since he was still in high school, even if he was failing miserably at that point in his life.

“One was a girl of about thirty, I believe,” the nurse says. “The other a boy not much older than twenty two or twenty three. The girl said her name was Alex, and the boys name was Thomas. Said they’d heard about you on the news, they’d be around to visit before the end of the night. Girl also said she was called—she's your emergency contact, apparently."

He breathes a sigh of relief. A supermassive weight has been lifted off his shoulders and his chest, and it’s almost like he can breathe again.

“And Lawrence—how’s Lawrence?”

The nurse smiles apologetically at him as she checks his IVs and looks at his chart. “He’s in a different recovery unit, but he’s recovering. Once his ex wife brings a cane down for him to use, we’ll let him walk to your room for a visit. How are you feeling, Mr. Stanheight? I think hearing of your current state will certainly brighten Lawrences day.”

Adam spends a long few seconds thinking on it—he feels tired, confused, grateful, hungry, thirsty, discontent with the fact that he has yet to see Lawerence, scared. There is an entire scope of emotions within arms reach, and though he kind of hates it, Adam is feeling every last one of them all at once.

Scared, angry, confused, grateful, tired, exhausted. Wide awake, happy, relieved, almost overjoyed to find he’s awake and in a white hospital room with plenty of light over a dark bathroom that he was, at one point, convinced he was going to die in.

“I’m okay,” Adam says. “My shoulder is sore and I could definitely use a bite to eat, but other than that, I am peachy keen.”

The nurse laughs. “I’ll report that to Dr. Gordon, and he’ll be here to see you whenever his ex wife brings a cane by. Are you aware of how long you were held captive before you were let go?”

“I assumed it was a week, week and a half?”

“Nearly two according to the day that Lawrence escaped,” says the nurse. “Surprised you survived that, Mr. Stanheight.”

Adam sighs. “So am I,” he says. “I thought I was going to die there.”

“Well, you didn’t.” says the nurse. “Despite the insistence of the woman who came here searching for you and the boy at her side, I ought to think Lawerence will be the most excited to hear of your condition. You have a good rest of your morning, Mr. Stanheight.”

Then she’s gone and Adam is alone. He hates it the second it starts—part of him never wants to be alone ever again.

Adam drifts off, but when he next wakes it’s because of the smell of food from Alejandros Discount Burger Joint. It’s a place his sister had taken him to a lot when they were teens, Adam fourteen and Alex seventeen with a license that no longer required a licensed adult present in the vehicle. They stopped going when Alex was kicked out of the house, but Adam just got his license and kicked the tradition off with his brother before he dropped out of school and was kicked out in the same year.

“Hey,” Alexs voice is different from how Adam remembers hearing it last. “Heard you survived a Jigsaw trap, Adam. How’d you manage that?”

“Food,” is the first word out of Adams mouth, a word he says before he can stop himself, and he watches with a slight smile as Tom elbows their older sister. She gets it for him and Adam can’t help but devour the stuff—he’s been getting his nutrients from IVs but they’d taken him off them while he was sleeping, from the looks of it. All he’s got in terms of IVs now is an IV to hydrate him and one for painkillers.

Alex—full name Alexandra—is three years older than he is, which puts her at twenty nine, and that means it’s been nine years since they last talked. She looks like their mom, with the same brown hair he and Tom both inherited, brown eyes to match hers over the green that he and Tom inherited from their father. Her skin is pale, her jaw sharp and her smile a mirror image of Adams own.

Adam and Tom look like an amalgamation of their parents—brown hair from Mom, green eyes from Dad, pale skin from both of ‘em. Tom wears glasses and has hair that he's grown to his shoulders and put into a low bun, where Adam hasn’t really ever let his hair get past his forehead because the thought of briefly having an 80s style mullet feels too embarrassing, even if the long hair would look decent.

Adam finishes eating in a matter of minutes. He thanks Alex for the food, who tells him it wasn’t that big of a deal as Tom throws his garbage away.

There’s a pause in the air. The tension in it grows thick, and Alex manages to break it in two by grabbing Adams hand and giving it a squeeze.

“When the doctors called, I was amazed to find out I’m still listed as the first person on your emergency contact list,” Alex says. “They said they didn’t know if you’d survive because of your shoulder, but holy hell am I glad you did. Don’t really the idea of burying my baby brother, y’know? You’re younger than me, so I’m supposed to die first.”

Adam laughs a bit. “Oh, sure,” he says. “You die first, Tom and I bury you, then I die and Toms gotta bury me, but who buries Tom?”

“Our parents, if they’d ever come the fuck around,” Tom says. Adam shakes his head because he knows they won’t. They didn’t like that Alex wanted to take a year off once she graduated high school, berated Adam over his grades to a point where he just…dropped the fuck out before he could graduate, and from the last conversation he’d had with his brother, they’d kicked him out on his eighteenth birthday, three months before he was due to start living on his college campus because of the fact that he’d been caught sleeping with a classmate who happened to be a guy.

“In your dreams, brother,” Alex says. Adam squeezes her hand and closes his eyes. It’s the afternoon, but he’s tired still. He doesn’t aim to sleep, just to rest his eyes for a few minutes.

“How’d you escape?” Tom asks. “If you remember, anyway.”

“Some girl came and got me out,” Adam says, opening his eyes and deciding he’ll commit and take a nap later. “I can’t remember much—she said that she could help me, unlocked my foot, dragged me through a couple of hallways and then I was outside. Another lady called 911 for me and here I am.”

“Glad you didn’t die, brother,” Alex says. “Seriously. Thank you for not dying on the behalf of everyone who would’ve been left to grieve you.”

Adams brow furrows as he looks at his sister. “You’re—you—you’re welcome?”

Tom laughs, and that breaks the tension in the room. Adam laughs a bit, too, and so does Alex.

“Been hearing a lot about this Lawrence guy from the nurses,” Tom says. “You know him?”

“Lawrence is among the only reasons I hoped I’d escape,” Adam admits, swallowing a yawn as it comes up. “At first, anyway. Then I stopped hoping, but now we’re here so maybe hoping was a good thing.”

“Was he in the trap with you?” Alex asks.

“Yeah,” Adam nods. “Then his family was threatened, and he was basically running on adrenaline when he cut his own foot off. Promised to send help, told me he wouldn’t lie, and all of that stuff. I probably should be telling the police this stuff instead of you guys.”

Alex laughs. “I’ll drive you to the station once you’re given the clear to go,” she says. “For now, though—you should be resting. Tommy and I’ll be back tomorrow morning, okay? I’ll make sure you’re on a healthy diet of hospital cafeteria food by tonight, and I’ll bring breakfast by first thing tomorrow, brother.”

Adam sighs, nodding. “These painkillers are wicked,” he laughs again. “Morphine, I think? Maybe Benadryl, but either way it’s good.”

Alex laughs, and for the first time since they were kids, leans down and presses a sisterly kiss against Adams forehead.

It used to serve as a gesture of comfort, really. It was something she would do before hugging Adam tightly upon getting home and discovering their parents were screaming at each other in another of their arguments. It used to mean “everything is fine, the screaming will be done once their voices start going hoarse, and I’ve got you, and you’re not alone in this.”

Now, it kind of feels like a genuine “thank you for not dying on us,” said without the words. It feels like Alex is saying that she's glad he escaped the trap, that he was rescued.

It feels like she's saying "you were put into a Jigsaw trap, but you're okay now. You're all right, Adam. I've got you, and Tommys here too, so he's got you, and neither of us are going anywhere." It feels like something that should be celebrated with an entire elaborate party and a gut punch all at once, and Adam swallows thickly, squeezes Alexs hand. He doesn't say anything because he doesn't know what to say to her, doesn't know what to say to his brother.

Adam knows that he and his siblings all love to cope with humor and the nature of their occasional jokes is not at all surprising given the circumstance. Still, though, when Alex presses a kiss to his forehead, Adam feels like he’s nine years old again, watching his parents marriage fall apart because they don’t care to hide it like they did when he and Alex were in elementary school and Tom was still in daycare.

He feels like he’s pulling a pair of corded headphones over his brothers ears, like he’s trying to make sure Tom doesn’t notice the vibrations of their parents yelling through the walls while he panickedly grabs a cassette from Alexs collection and pops it into his Walkman. He feels like he’s the kid who protected his brother while Alex was with her friends at a sleepover and had yet to come home.

As Alex gives his hand a squeeze, meaningfully holds his gaze, Adam wants to cry.

“See you tomorrow, brother,” Alex says.

Because he’s not sure if he’ll be able to speak without choking up, Adam nods. He watches Alex and Tom go, presses the back of his head against the pillow, and lets it all out.

For the first time since before Lawrence left him in that bathroom, Adam Faulkner-Stanheight starts quietly sobbing.

#adam stanheight #lawrence gordon #adam stanheight x lawrence gordon #saw 2004 #chainshipping #sawposting

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nire-the-mithridatist · 5 months

Note

Hello, Nire! I saw your reblog earlier and it made me reread. Thanks! Gosh, I miss them.

Picking a passage from this piece was /hard/. In the end, it's either The Mirror/Glass or The Wall, but I went with Mirror.

“I’m okay—it’s just… I’m really dead,” she said wonderingly. “You know, they say people never really get to see what they look like, because mirrors are reverse images and cameras distort and—what I’m saying is, have I always looked like that?”

“No,” he replied, low enough that if anyone walked in, they would assume that he was talking to the dead body. “You were alive.”

“I don’t feel dead, is the thing,” she said. “I can feel everything you’re feeling. When you walk, it feels like I’m walking. When you see things, I see them too. I mean, sure, it’s a little different—you should really get your eyes checked, by the way, I think you’re slightly myopic—and I can also sort of read your mind, but none of this feels like how I thought being dead would feel like.”

And then—

“Is this normal? I mean, you… you did this, right? I feel like this isn’t normal. Also, can you look away from my cadaver for a little bit? It’s disturbing.”

He obliged, turning his gaze ceiling-ward. His eyes watered in the face of the dry brightness of the neon lights, his throat a knot of fishbones. There were no words to quite explain what he was and what he had done; instead, he let himself think it, hurling his mind to the past—distant and otherwise—and allowed her to watch the memories unfurl, from the first time he’d eaten a soul to the moment he panicked and entombed her within him.

Eventually, she said, “I see,” and he wasn’t ready for the sheer relief brought by her matter-of-fact response. She added, after a while, “I don’t suppose you can… reverse it? Pour me back into my own body?”

A futile question, futilely asked. He didn’t bother with lies and platitudes. The knowledge was real in him: she was a shard of glass lodged in his flesh; pulling her out wasn’t going to make the mirror whole again, and he might even bleed to death from the wound. Now, there was only living with it, with her—only the pain of her fragmented life as he carried her around with him.

- i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

((THE soulmate & cohabitation fic EVER. But watch out.)) I adore this so very much and I adore you. 🧡

HELLOOOO

OKOKOK sorry this took a while but this fic is actually one of my biggest pride and joys, and definitely my favorite of all the fics I've written for Vincenzo (and I wrote... some. lmao). Anyway, the Wall is the scene that I had wanted to write from the beginning, it was probably the reason this fic existed at all. I can talk about that (and the media that inspired it in the first place) FOREVER.

But that's not the scene you asked about, hehehe, so I'll restrain myself.

The Mirror scene as you dubbed it is part of the story set-up; as far as fantasy stories go, this one is definitely very soft fantasy, but I needed to set some rules anyway. Like, the obvious question is, can he spit her soul back out into her body? Definitely not or we wouldn't have a story (or well. it would be a very different story) but Cha Young would ask that question, and the reader would probably ask that question. So the main thing the scene asserts is that she's not coming back to life like nothing ever happened. This is permanent. The story is about them permanently stuck together in his body. I was actually kind of worried people would be mad at me for not giving them a "happy ending", but to me the happy ending lies in them learning the joy of this new shape of life they now have, rather than him carrying the guilt of her death the whole time, and I was hoping to hint at that ending through this scene.

The thing about how people never can actually see themselves is a fun fact that every so often haunts me. We don't 100% know what we look like! We know how we look like in the mirror and how we look like photographed, but neither of those are the same as how we can see other people directly, as they really are. And even here, now, Cha Young isn't really seeing herself and she never will. She's seeing her own dead body -- and dead bodies look very much unlike living ones -- through a slightly myopic pair of eyes that's not her own.

(Yet.) (Part of the story is also about how the body turns from something she borrows from him into something she actually shares ownership with him, and that's why around the wall scene their body and body parts are referred to as "their" and not "his".)

Anyway I'll stop rambling before I bore you but thank you SO much for asking about this fic and giving me an excuse to revisit it <3 <3 <3

send me a short extract from my writing and i'll give you a "dvd commentary" about it!

#ask game

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lune-de-miel-au-paradis · 6 months

Text

Red as crimson, green as jade and gold confetti rain

Summary: Nina just wanted a night out with her best friend , to dance a little and release all her pent up frustraiton of her stressful life. However, she meets a pair of particularly captivating eyes and their owner.

Pairing: Darth Maul x OC Nina Cerasus

Warnings: Mention of dealing with illness, anxiety, trust issues, daddy issues, alcohol use. (Let me know if I left out something.)

AN: This fic means a lot to me and I worked on it a lot. If you have any advice or comments, please share them with me kindly. I'm posting for the first time in years and I don't want nasty comments to discourage me from posting again. If you don't like it, please go to another blog. I did my best to translate it, so pls forgive me, English is not my first language. Moodboard made by me, pictures from Pinterest. Please enjoy reading!

previous chapter

It was late, just the time when night stretched its dark substance across the sky. The three moons in different moon phases illuminated the night above the city of Theed. Despite the night, the streets were not deserted. This is when the streets near the city's university center really started to come alive. The streets were full of cheerful young people and many other species going from one place to another to have fun. For those who liked to relax but in a more peaceful environment, there were art bars and night cafes. Here it was possible to chat cheerfully, take part in a slam poetry evening, and play various games such as dejarik or sabacc. However, the back streets were filled with entertainment places where you could dance and drink. One of the best such places was the Pantheon. With it’s ornate columns and carvings, Naboo paid tribute to the ancient culture. It is both a reminder of the past and a monument to the future.

Inside, however, neon lights flickered and illuminated the dancing bodies on the dance floor. The place had a good reputation not only because the best DJs and bands held concerts here every night and served the most special drinks from faraway places, but it was also notorious for it’s serious security. There was no place for mischief and fights here. The security guards immediately threw out the troublemakers. Jedi were not welcome here, although they were not banned either. But the entertainers did not miss the superior judgment from those "monks”, it was way more exclusive anyway for them.

It was also forbidden to take pictures inside, so all objects suitable for taking photos were confiscated in a safe at the entrance.

After all, descendants of royal families and serious diplomats and bankers also had fun here. If you did not arrive with the right company or your name was not on the list, you could go to another place. Because baby, this is not a place for you.

The music echoed outside and reached her like a distant throb as she walked toward the queue. She doubles her pace because she knows she's a little late, she's been studying for too long. Her high heels clatter on the cobbled street, and her dark hair waves behind her shoulders from the movements of her haste. She hears a familiar voice, slows down with a smile and walks to the front of the line, where her dear friend Polina cheerfully waves to her.

It wasn't hard not to notice the girl. Polina was a little taller than average, her messy bob was pink, and her charisma oozed cheerfully around her like a sweet scented love potion. Her smile was easily contagious to others, she could also be very serious when it came to business, and if she was in a cranky mood the maker would beware of those vampire teeth.

But tonight was about relaxing and having fun.

"Over here! Little miss Always-late-Nina has finally arrived." she stretched out her long arms, hand in hand to help her friend crossing the cordon, shiny colorful thin bangles jingled on her wrists.

"You are not very funny." she rolled her eyes as answer. "I told you I would get here sooner or later. And it really doesn't matter since you put our names on that list."

"You look hot. I'm glad you bought the dress" her pink haired friend made a motion with her arm that spun Nina around.

"Me too"

After receiving the characteristic laurel wreath-patterned gold seal on their wrists, they walked in. With each step, the music became louder, first just a thump, then the beat and finally the rhythm reached them. The sound of the music almost collapsed on them. The whole room shakes with the power of the bass. The reflectors flash in shades of blue, purple, pink and white. Moving landscapes are projected onto the walls, creating the illusion that sinful souls are partying in the dense depths of a grove, a rainforest, the sand dunes and remote tropical beaches.

The crowd writhes, dances, bodies jump to the rhythm, bartenders in elegant clothes pour expensive drinks. The musicians rule the mood of the crowd like gods. The entertainment venue could be divided into three parts, the dance floor, the bar with its counter and the platform where the musicians and DJs were. The plan was simple to get a few drinks and become one with the dancing crowd. Maybe making out with a handsome male.

Nina ordered two drinks. It happened without words, there was no point in trying to shout over the noise. The girl signaled with her hand in a peculiar way, then swiped her card through the payment terminal. There was no possibility of cash here. The bartender mixed the drinks with spectacular movements, using all of his four arms. He could have been a separate spectacle, he was so precise that not a drop of drink was spilled, but thanks to his speed, they barely had to wait a few minutes when he handed them to the girls. Laughing, they lifted it up and drank it. Alcohol warms them like a liquid fire, their stomachs almost seem to be on fire too. On their tongues, they feel the sweet taste of cherries and the drink's special secret twist, the golden spice. It was a milder, refined version of the usual spice, legal in small quantities when mixed into a drink, but it was rather called by it’s name. So if someone wanted a special drink, they had to show the code name with their hand.

Nina asked for two Jupiter’s twist.

"I love this place! One day I'll open one like this too. Cool music, good drinks, secret hand signals. And only special people will come in, full of interesting and sexy people." Polina shouted into Nina's ear.

"If you're just having fun and not studying for the exams, I doubt that you'll have a chance to open a place like this without a good job."

"Hey, this isn't fun! I'd rather call it brainstorming! They don't teach that in marketing school! Where else would I get special ideas and useful tips, if not directly on the ‘field’? This is an internship, exactly as you will soon have to go." Polina is satisfied with the presentation of her own point of view, and after more sips she adds, "look, it's the same. I even pay for the drink in addition to the entrance fee.”

After the drinks, they went straight to the dance floor. They blend into the dancing crowd with ease. Everyone is beautifully dressed, moving in their own way to the beat of the music. There are even people dressed in costumes among them. Polina completely surrenders to the rhythm. Her every move is attention-grabbing. Nina takes two short drinks from a tray and they chug them. She moves her hips with ease and confidence, her arms snake around seductively. She throws her hair back and enjoys the way her dress hugs her body, the light reflecting off the silver dress as if it were a live disco ball. The dress is made up of small hexagon-shaped mirror panels, the mini skirt continues in an x shape, covering her two breasts, and forms a strap behind the neck. Her back is completely uncovered, her tattoo is visible. On her side and belly the intersections of the dress form triangular holes leaving her skin uncovered in those places. A transparent tulle-like material falls from under the skirt. Small hexagon-shaped crystals also sparkle on the edge of the bottom of the dress. It barely covers the strappy shoes she decided to wear tonight.

Her cocktail dress is definitely pretty, but not as flashy as the looks of the nobles here. Still, she feels very pretty and watches amusedly as the light from the dress's mirrored panels spills onto the wall and onto the dancers. She jumps and dances with Polina. The heat begins to bloom between their ribs. They dance until their feet hurt. They are surrounded by tangled limbs and perfumed necks. Glitters and jewels shine everywhere from the colorful canvases on which they are sewn. Even though Nina's skin is forming a thin layer of sweat and the air is getting more stifling, she doesn't stop. She feels free and careless. The problem is that it only lasts for a short time. She feels the anger that has been building up for years inside of her. No matter how much she dances, runs or gets every good grade, the anger doesn't want to leave her chest. It weighs down her heart from the inside like a millstone.

How much she craves a cigarette! Her surroundings were getting annoying. Too many, too narrow and too groping. While dancing, she thinks about how nice it would be to push the dancers away from her to have some space. Or how nice it would be to break the nose of the male who touches her unsolicited in more intimate areas. She didn't even notice that she clenched her fists and closed her eyes. She lets out a deep breath and pushes those thoughts away.

As she looked up, her jade eyes widened and fixed on another pair of eyes. This pair of eyes is dark and foreboding. They watch her from the darker corners of the club. The owner of the special colored irises is a zabrak species. In black from head to toe, if the lights weren't flashing he would almost completely blend into his dark surroundings. Around him, everyone moves as if he were just a ghost that came back to haunt and which no one can see, even Nina herself did not fall out of rhythm, just only her eyes froze on him. But she keeps eye contact, still. Neither of them blink, neither of them wants to break the spell that has taken over them. Nina was completely mesmerized by the pair of eyes. The outside of the iris was crimson red, and the inside, approaching the pupil, was as golden yellow as sunlight. Despite the low light, they almost glowed. He had the so-called "eyeshine" just like the big phantera cat breeds, about which Nina saw an educational film on the holonet, when she was a little girl.

His gaze is mercilessly fierce on her. He devours inches of her skin from a distance. Like an untamed wild animal that is hungry and wants to satisfy it’s need. Nina just shuddered instead of shaking. She had the bad kind of butterflies in her chest, all of them wanted to burst out of her. She liked this intensity, different from the usual bored or foggy looks and it affected her with a sense of novelty. She was the first to break eye contact, this overheated and attractive staring contest. She lost on purpose to raise their little game to a higher level. She surrendered herself to the beat of the music and elegantly suggested it with her every move.

"Come and play with me if you dare. Come and catch me if you can." Although she only started dating a few years ago, she believed there are two ways to manipulate a man: either to let him pursue you or let him pursue you in a way that makes him feel he's the pursuit.

However, she had to be disappointed, she glanced back stealthily and there was no sign of the male. As if he really was just a ghost, or maybe a projection of her own sinful imagination from the depths of her brain. An imaginary creation that embodied the anger and darkness that lived inside her. Add a little booze and maybe the effects of her medication and she has to decide if she has a vision of a desirable male or a trip to the mental hospital.

She stopped dancing and looked around but did not see the male anywhere. Polina jolted her out of her thoughts.

" You okay?" she gaped at Nina "Shall we relax at the bar for a while?"

Nina just nodded. Polina did not delay, she led her by the hand to a calmer place. The music was a few beats quieter and the air wasn't as dense here. Nina ordered a glass of water and drank it in big gulps. If she's really imagined him, she'd better stay a little more sober and not get off the ground. After all, she came to have fun and the destination was not the hospital.

"I'm so glad we came. I love this band! And did you see that togruta I danced with? He's so handsome, I'm about to cry. He was at least a head taller, and those strong arms... I'd love to climb that tree if you know what I mean…Besides, I heard Queen Padme is here too. She came with several look-alikes, but I think I spotted her, dancing not far from us. That's so cool! We don't have an ordinary queen, do we."

Nina didn't answer, just took a few more sips. Polina suddenly looked at her with concern, motherly and a hint of pity.

" Are you okay? You took your meds today, right? Maker! If you die here, I swear I'll pay a Jedi to raise you up and I'll kill you Nina Cerasus myself with my bare hands and teeth!"

Nina hated that look. Of course, she never said it out loud, but when Polina looked at her like that, or anyone from her circle of friends, she would have preferred to send them to hell. And that certain tone! Like she's just a silly little kid who needs to be reminded of her vitamins. Fuck it! She was no longer a minor or a child, she knows her limits and can take care of herself. This is her life, her illness and her mistakes!

"I'm fine, don't worry! The crowd was just a bit big. Let's go back, everything's fine now."

Polina looked at her in disbelief. Nina smiled despite her annoyance.

"Come on, that certain tree is waiting for you to climb. And I remember you mentioned the queen too..."

This time they didn't dance in the middle, but they actually saw Padmé dancing. Nina also found suitors to dance with. She danced with a human in a flashy navy suit and a blue twi'lek.

The strange pair of eyes reappeared just when she had already forgotten about him. Nina danced with her hips against the Twi'lek, letting him wrap his arms around her waist and they moved together. The male was quite a good dancer. The other held her by the waist, and buried his face in her neck. What a heaven to be! Still, Nina's gaze was caught by something more diabolical.

The zabrak moved through the crowd and approached her in a circle rather than straight towards her. Like when a predator surrounds it’s prey. The male's face was unreadable, but the girl still felt the curiosity and desire in him. So even though she danced with her partner, her performance was for only the zabrak. She moved her hips defiantly, tossed her hair, smiled and enjoyed the music. The girl kept eye contact the whole time, but she didn't forget about her dance partner either. She doesn't want to miss out on her handsome dance partners because of a wandering phantom. During the chorus of the song, they spun her around. Because of this movement Nina moved a little away from them, a little closer to the corner between the side walls, closer to him, the owner of the particular pair of eyes.

Nina felt exactly how close he was to her.

"So here you are. You got me." she thought with a smile.

The composition of the air has changed. It was dense but not suffocating, tingling and dark but still exciting. “I wonder what he will do now?”

Black gloved hands caressed her upper arms from behind. The movement was more subtle than she expected. And surprisingly uncertain. A strong chest stretched against her back, she could feel the strength in his body. Underneath his clothes, he can be all muscle, this thought made her wet in more intimate places. Nina slowed down her movements so that they could find their own pace together. But the male barely moves behind her. The hands slide down slowly to her waist and squeeze her tightly. She feels that on the top of her head, a nose digs into her hair and inhales her scent deeply. Encouraged, Nina slowly circles her hips around the male's groin, reaches back with her hands and touches the male's neck. His skin was warm and soft, despite looking quite rough from a distance. It reminds her of the darkness of the velvety night.

Nina closes her eyes, this is completely different, dancing with him. She hasn't seen her partner's face up close yet, but somehow this whole thing feels so intimate. Her movements are rewarded, the male behind her, lets out a rumbling sound, a growl, which Nina has never heard before, but she already knew that it was the sexiest sound a male could make. His presence was intoxicating. He was a mystery, which was interesting. She found him interesting which was the highest praise from her. Nina closed her eyes, enjoying the two of them swaying to the music, even if they weren't following the beat. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth after letting out a moan as she felt her secret partner press himself even closer to her back. The sound of her moans was probably drowned out by the loud music, but the zabrak still heard it. Nina knew because the gloved hands slid from her waist to her hips.

"How responsive" she thought.

However, she could not control her curiosity any longer so she turned and looked up. Her dance partner was exotically beautiful. Yes, that's what Nina thought of him first. The red-crimson glowing eyes, his tall frame, his broad shoulders and the red and black tattoos peeking out from under his black hood. She raised her fingers to touch the patterns, but instead the zabrak just leaned closer avoiding her touch, making her gasp. There was no kiss, not even their foreheads or bodies touched. But Nina felt his heat emanating from him, and the way they shared almost a breath, was far more intimate and sexy than a real kiss. She simply couldn't take her eyes off him. Her heartbeat quickened when she noticed how he was looking down to her lips. Before they could go any further, there was a bang, at the top beat of the music, Nina flinched a little but looked up with a smile. Gold glittering confetti ribbons rained down on the dancers from the ceiling. Everyone cheered and raised their hands towards the confetti ribbons. Nina did the same, laughing and holding out her arms, but when she looked for the mysterious male's reaction, he was nowhere to be found. The smile fell from her face in disappointment. She looked around, in the crowd, but did not find him.

She tried to make her way through the crowd. She had a strange feeling, perhaps she could have defined it as darkness, near the male, which now disappeared, along with him. Nina was never afraid of the dark, so it didn't bother her. She was more bothered by uncertainty. Did she just imagine it all? The dance, the chemistry, everything? She had already danced out the effects of the drink, so she knew she wasn't drunk or at least not that drunk.. Cheerful and a little buzzed, but definitely not drunk. She found Polina at the bar, who helpfully shook some confetti out of Nina's hair.

"What's with that look? You look as if you saw a ghost. Did someone hurt you? Because if so, then I shall use my fangs..."

"It's okay, I'm fine. Maybe I'm just a little tired. Will you be angry if I go home now?"

“I'll come too, it's getting late." Polina offered.

"It's not necessary, stay and continue your 'search', I'll be fine. I'll see you at home."

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely." nodded Nina.

As soon as she stepped out into the streets, she was hit by the fresh night air, which was just cool enough to provide relief after the hot days and stuffy clubs. She didn't have a coat because she knew she would just lose it. Her feet hurt, so she took off and carried her shoes in her hands, her bare feet were quiet on the cobbled road. She sighed in relief as she felt the pain in her feet slowly disappear and the cold paved road cool her down.

A family got out of a car. Presumably they came from a trip or vacation. Nina toyed with the idea of where they could have gone and how lucky the little girl was to be carried in the arms by her father while she was sleeping, and together with her mother they entered the warmth of the family home.

Her stomach clenched and he swallowed back the urge to vomit.

A different kind of pain took its place. One she didn't want to think about. The second storm in her life. At that time she felt that she was being beaten up by the storms. She had no idea that even all these years later, these wounds would still be painful in her soul. She shook her head, not wanting to think about her father. Anger bubbled up inside her, just at the thought of that man. No, he doesn't deserve to even think about it!

She prefers to go to the nearby cafe that is just about to close, she curiously pressed her nose to the shop window.

"Are you taking anything or just cooling your face?" asked the young man who was at the end of his shift.

A few minutes later, Nina was munching on the cookie, which was dry and filled with vanilla cream, but now that would do. She got home in time, got out of her dress, cursing a little because the zipper pinched the tulle material, she left it on the floor as soon as she freed it and took a nice shower. She had almost used up all the hot water, but Polina would prefer a cold shower anyway.

She put on a comfortable t-shirt and fresh underwear. The T-shirt had the logo of the university and she opened the window of her room, through which she could go out onto the roof. Nina didn't go out, just sat on the windowsill, pulled up one knee and hung the other down outside, leaned her back against the window frame and looked up at the sky. Unfortunately, the sky was cloudy. But the faint outlines of the three moons were drawn across the haze of the evening sky. Just like the dry cookies, this one will do just fine for tonight.

"If this were a movie now, there would definitely be some dramatically melancholic music underlining the present." she thought to herself. But Nina wasn't in a melancholic mood, she was just angry and tired and tired of being angry and angry of being tired. She doesn't plan to go out today, but she saw her father on her way home from the library. He spoke his comlink and seemed happy. He must have been on the phone with his new family. Nina didn't go near him, she didn't even want him to notice her. However, she already knowed that she won't be able to study or rest after this. The usual coping mechanism remains, which means partying with Polina and dancing away all this tension, drinking drinks and maybe have a good fuck with a handsome stranger. She immediately remembered her mysterious partner and a tingle ran down her spine as she replayed the images of the evening over and over in her mind. Polina still didn't see him, but she promised to look into the list of names who were partying there today. She took her datapad and looked up the side effects of her usual medications and lit a cigarette. Of course, none of them recommended taking it with a drink, but based on what was described, enough time had passed for her body to process the ingredients of the medicine, so it could not cause hallucinations, at least not so lifelike.

Nina sighed, pale purple smoke left her mouth.

"Was he real or was it all in my head?"

She didn't even notice that a dark figure was watching her from the shadows from the domed roof of the observatory.

next chapter

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