#god i want to burn a cigarette to the filter while thinking about my dead mother while someone bursts in and offers me a uni seat

[youaremysunshine-court]

Interrupting my crying fit to reblog a few posts on tumblr before the existential dread takes over again

#need a proper cry and a good cup of tea but ive barricaded myself in my room bc my mums a bitch #and the crying just isnt happening im like a fucking burrette that isnt working #few drops amd then it just peters out and then starts up again just as im reading a really funny post #its fine #god i want to burn a cigarette to the filter while thinking about my dead mother while someone bursts in and offers me a uni seat #the fucking dream #just have to become a(fictional) olympic level athlete for that to happen #its fine its whatever #ill figure out a way to fix this

[yikesharringrove]

It’s a book Steve’s actually read.

Well, Nancy kinda mostly read it to him. Which really just makes the whole thing hurt a little bit more.

His speakers were crackling and he had turned the bass up high enough that the song was distorted, vibrating through his car.

It was embarrassing. Scream-singing to Kate Bush while sobbing into your steering wheel in the high school parking lot.

He’s just got a lot of feelings, and Nancy dumped in that alleyway, he can literally see it and Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy. I’ve come home, I’m so cold.

Which, it’s all just bullshit. Pardon the word.

Because, Catherine and Heathcliff don’t even fucking end up together. There’s something about family difference and he remembers Nancy saying socioeconomic like that word meant anything to him and Catherine winds up dead of bad brain-itis and Healthcliff is a dick so they never should’ve been together anyway.

But, whatever.

He’s feeling very much like Catherine right now. Standing on the moors with a broken heart.

Because fuck Heathcliff. And fuck Nancy.

Kate Bush is the only one he can trust anymore. 

Her and her red dress and Steve’s insides feel like that red fucking dress in a way he can’t explain and Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy. I've come home, I'm so cold. Let me in your window-

He just about jumped out of his skin when the passenger door opened.

One too-tan hand reached out to crank the volume down on the song, and a too-pink tongue slid across too-white teeth and

“Harrington, I’m obligated to tell you that you’re acting like a pussy.”

Hargrove.

Y’know, he’s the top of Steve’s Fuck List. Right there with Nancy and Heathcliff, and everyone else who sucks shit and makes people feel bad.

“Can it, dickhead.”

To be fair, Steve was ugly crying to Kate Bush by himself in his car, but he’s allowed to be a pussy by himself in his car.

Hargrove just gave Steve a look that Steve’s pretty sure meant I’m resisting the urge to punch you in the face right now, but was undercut by that stupid fucking tongue of his lolling around like some kinda hyper-sexual golden retriever.

Meanwhile, Kate Bush was still singing and Steve was still Cathy on the moors.

“I’m fucking sad, or whatever. Let me be a pussy.”

“Oh, come on, Harrington. You really this cut up about some prissy little princess? She’s not even the best this town has and that is saying something.”

“Y’know, for a guy that’s constantly calling all the girls in town ugly, you sure do fuck a lot of ‘em.”

“At least I’m getting some. When was the last time the princess put out, eh? Or was she savin’ it for marriage? I could see her bein’ one of those types.”

He said those types like he wasn’t wearing a saint’s pendant around his neck. Like Steve didn’t see his family all sitting uncomfortably silent together in the diner after mass every single Sunday afternoon.

It was weird, seeing Billy in a nice shirt. All buttoned up properly with his hair looking all respectful. Especially since Steve was usually high off his ass and slurping down a strawberry milkshake with cheese fries like he’d die if he didn’t.

“I’m not gonna talk about my sex life with you, Hargrove.”

“Aw, why not, Harrington. Don’t wanna compare body counts? You embarrassed or something?” Billy was grinning that shitty sharp grin of his, still waggling his fucking tongue as he leaned closer to Steve. “You still a virgin, King Steve?”

The song ended. Steve rewound the tape. It started up again.

He needed Kate now more than ever.

“Of fucking course I’m not. I’m just not some gross asshole that goes around telling everyone who’ve I’ve fucked. It’s called being a decent guy.”

“It’s called being a prude. Now, c’mon. Tell me who’ve you fucked. Maybe we’re tunnel buddies.”

Steve wanted to throw up. Kate was on the moors again.

“You’re disgusting. Tunnel buddies. How gross can you even get?”

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“I don’t know what that means and you’re a shithead.”

Hargrove tossed his head back and laughed, showing off those teeth that looked like they could take a chunk out of Steve’s flesh if Billy got close enough to try.

You had a temper like my jealousy. Too hot, too greedy.

“Seriously, though.” Billy had stopped laughing. “What is this shit?”

“She’s Kate Bush and she speaks to my heart.”

Billy just stared at him.

Yeah, that was a pretty pussy thing to say.

“I just got fucking dumped, dude. Let me be sad about it,” Steve backpedaled.

And then Billy did something very unexpected.

Well, he did something very normal for his character, and then he did something unexpected.

He lit up a cigarette.

And then passed it to Steve.

Steve filled up his lungs with a thick drag of smoke. He held it for as long as he could.

Which was really long.

Swimmer’s lungs. And that.

He blew out the smoke. Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy. I've come home, I'm so cold. Let me in your window.

“Is this fucking song based on Wuthering Heights?”

“Yeah, you dumb dumb. It’s fucking called Wuthering Heights.”

“Okay, dumb dumb, I clearly don’t even know this song.”

“Maybe you’d be less of an ass if you did. Dumb dumb.”

Billy lit a cigarette for himself, letting the smoke trail out of his mouth like he was some kind of dragon.

Billy probably fancies himself a dragon. Thinks he’s this big scary creature that just goes around breathing fire and ransacking villages for their gold.

Ooh, it gets dark, it gets lonely on the other side from you. I pine a lot, I find the lot falls through without you.

Really, he’s probably like a dog of some kind.

Domesticated.

“You’re staring at me.”

Yeah. Steve was staring at him. Watching him smoke while Kate Bush played loudly. The speakers still sounded like shit even though Billy had turned down the song considerably.

Steve didn’t know when he had stopped crying.

Probably right when Billy had let himself into his cave of self pity, but his face was still wet.

He wiped it off, not pointing out that Billy had been staring at him too.

“Why are you here so late? Practice ended like, an hour ago.”

Billy shrugged lamely. He kinda looked like a little kid.

Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy. I've come home, I'm so cold. Let me in your window. 

“Bored. Didn’t feel like being home.”

“So you came to sit in the break-up mobile with me. How nice.”

“Mostly I just wanted to make fun of you for listening to this garbage. I could hear it across the lot.”

And sure enough, Billy’s car was parked a good ways down from Steve, about as far away as their two cars could be from one another.

Steve doubts Billy heard Kate all this way, but what’s he gonna do, bring that up?

No. He’s rather sit in this weird silence that settled between them, feeling awkward about himself and his body and listen to Kate.

I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering, Wuthering Heights

“She’s not worht it, y’know.”

Steve had to do a double take to make sure it was still Billy sitting in his passenger seat, and not some cheap imposter wearing a Billy-suit and saying almost nice things to Steve in a not-mean voice.

“What’d you say earlier? Plenty of bitches in the sea?” Steve would’ve laughed at that comment when Billy made it if they weren’t naked together.

There’s something things you don’t do while naked with another guy, and laughing just isn’t one of them.

Plus, he had been a little too focused on figuring out why Billy’s nudity had given him that same hot feeling that nearly seeing Rob Lowe’s dick in The Outsiders movie gave him last year.

“I mean, it’s true. Don’t sweat this break-up. She seemed like an uptight bitch anyway.”

“Hey.”

Steve was still a little too sore, a little too fresh from the split to trash talk Nance like that.

“Whatever. Get high. Look at some porn. You’ll be fine.”

Ooh, let me have it. Let me grab your soul away.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Silence again.

Kate was back to the chorus.

The song was almost over.

“You could always go on the rebound. get her out of your mind with someone that’ll actually put out.”

Hargrove had barely even said it before he was yanking Steve forward, giving him no time to prepare as their mouthed smooshed together in something that was very very awkward, and very very sloppy.

Steve still had tears on his cheeks, and his cigarette was getting dangerously close to the filter, threatening to burn his fingers, and Kate was still singing, and Billy was kissing him, and dear God Steve’s at least a little bit gay.

Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy. I've come home, I'm so cold. Let me in your window. 

They drifted apart from one another just in time for Steve to rewind the song again.

“So, uh, yeah,” Billy said, and his cheeks were this wonderful shade of red, and Steve couldn’t stop thinking about Kate’s red dress and that fucking kiss and he was on the moors again, but this time he and Billy were making out in the grass and oh fuck, oh fuck-

“Yeah. Good.”

“Good?” Billy raised on of those dark eyebrows at him, his cheeks still burning.

“Good. Very good.”

Billy nodded a few times, sucking on his cigarette. Steve suddenly remembered he had dropped his on the floormates and tried to stamp it out before it got singed to bad.

“Okay then. Good.” Billy opened the passenger door, stepping out and flicking away his cigarette. He seemed to think for a moment, before turning around, leaning his upper body into Steve’s car.

Steve thought they were going to kiss again.

He was ready to go for it, ready to let his eyes close and maybe let it lead to more. He was Cathy and he was ready for some action.

But Billy just grinned again.

And skipped the song.

#yes i know when nancy and steve break up billys only been in town for like three days but its my fic and ill make up a timeline if i want to #yeah i call people dumb dumb all the fucking time so i had to put it in #this idea came from me listening to this song on a loop for fifteen minutes in the parking lot before work and crying before going in to wor #k #also i've never read wuthering heights everything i know abt it is from the song and this one fic i read that mentioned it #also the way that this is probably technically a song fic #i hate it #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #this is so self indulgent omg

[bosspigeon]

he asked me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in

People are puppets held together with string There's a beautiful sadness that runs through him a prompt that turned into a bit of a character study for my Blood Moon boy that i wrote a while ago and wanted to clean up/edit a bit and repost! title from The Hoosiers "A Sadness Runs Through Him"

Vesper watches Marco pace the room like a wind-up toy, or maybe more like a Roomba, from the edge of his bed. Marco hits one wall, twists on heel, strides off in a random direction until he hits another wall, and then it’s rinse and repeat. His teeth are clenched around the filter of an unlit cigarette, and it's a small miracle he hasn't bitten it entirely in half yet. It’s a feat of unimaginable self-control he hasn’t lit it inside, but he knows better by now.

Vesper's eyes move, trailing him from one side of his bedroom to the other, but the rest of his body doesn't. At least he blinks, not like those fucking leeches. Not like that creepy little fucking child emperor, with his wineglass full of blood, staring at Vesper like—

He hits another wall. It doesn't take him long. The den doesn't boast much in the way of free space between two dozen wolves, and Vesper's room has just enough for a bed, a small dresser, and a ratty armchair.

He finally stops. There's too much restless energy buzzing under his skin, the Moon screaming murderous static in his head that he only wishes he'd actually listened to while that skeezy little brat was ogling his—

His what? Vesper's not his anything.

He finally stops, before he burns a track into Vesper's ugly old floral rug, twists around, and sucks in a breath. He wishes it was a mouthful of smoke.

Vesper, ever the strong, silent type, damn him and his stupid, handsome, stoic face, is just looking at him. His eyes are dark and unreadable, his serious brows scrunched pensively. Marco wants to kiss the wrinkle between them, but that's nothing new. He's wanted to do that since he met the gorgeous, gloomy bastard.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Marco snaps.

Fuck. That's not what he wanted to say, and especially not with that tone.

Vesper's expression doesn't change. "Worried about you," he says simply, those irresponsibly broad shoulders shifting under his jacket and stretching the supple old leather.

Marco barks out a laugh. "Me? You're the one who just did a little wolfy striptease for Richie Rich Returns From The Dead. That's gotta do some serious psychological damage."

Vesper winces, and Marco wants to jump out the window. Whether Vesper is his anything or not, he definitely won't want to be after the umpteenth time he's watched Marco have a fucking meltdown.

"You're mad at me," he says, and there's something to his carefully flat tone, a strange edge, that makes Marco's heart hurt.

"What?" he blurts. "No! I'm— I'm not happy, but I'm— You—" He growls, loud and frustrated, and it's enough to have a few curious howls battering his already heavy skull.

I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine

Vesper's brows scrunch more.

"Why'd you agree to that?" Marco asks plaintively. "Why'd you— He couldn't make you do it."

"So you wouldn't have to," Vesper says quietly, looking away from Marco at last. Down at his hands, big and calloused. Rough, working-man's hands that Marco’s seen cradle Nik to his chest after a nightmare (one that no one even knew he had but Vesper, because he can't howl for the pack when he's hurt or upset), or gently tend to Izzy's scraped knees while she tried valiantly not to cry. Hands that cupped Marco's chin while he bled and cleaned up his gross nose-blood without a flicker of revulsion or discomfort, holding him steady so those stormcloud eyes could pick him apart.

He doesn’t look up from those hands. "I wasn't going to let you, or Vicky, or Ed degrade yourselves like that, so that leech could get his rocks off or whatever the fuck he wanted from us.” He says it so softly, but resolutely. “But someone had to."

"Why'd it have to be you?" Marco pleads. Why does it always have to be you?

Vesper looks up again, smiling sadly. "I'm the Alpha. It's my job. Protect the pack."

Marco wants to scream. He knows Vesper didn't even want to be Alpha. It's not just a guess, either. He's said it before, out loud, with his own stupid, pretty mouth, to Marco. I don't want to be Alpha. I'd make a shit Alpha. I can't even keep you in line, Marco, what makes you think I could handle the rest of them?

It was a running joke. Vesper herded the pups, even Izzy, with an uncanny ease. Defused arguments brewing between Vicky and whoever had managed to piss her off that day, kept Marco from causing havoc when his manic energy was through the roof. You'd be a great Alpha, bud.

No, that's not what I want.

What did he want?

Peace and quiet, mostly. Safety. A family.

So why'd he throw himself in the line of fire in the first place?

Because that's what Vesper does. He takes the licks so no one else has to. He doesn't talk about it much, but Marco's been mooning after him (haha) for a solid year, so he's picked up a few things. He remembers when Vesper was brought in, wild-eyed and twitchy, almost too close to the moon to find his way back at all. Whatever happened to his last pack, it wasn't pretty. It made him wary to get close to them, at first, but after a while, he got... protective.

So you didn't have to. So Addie and Elma didn't have to, so Sergi didn't have to, so no one else had to.

It's why he threw himself in the line of fire without even thinking, why he looked like someone had slapped him when the votes ruled in his favor.

It's why he'll be fucking great at it, Marco thinks, and it makes him ache.

Because when it comes down to it, what Vesper wanted never factored into the equation. It's what the pack needed. What will keep them safe.

It's terrifying to think about, especially when it comes to whatever is gonna happen when Blackwell slithers his slimy ass out of whatever hole he's hidden in. Vesper would die before he let another of his pack get hurt.

Marco's gonna be fucking mortified about the noise he makes later, when he stumbles towards the bigger wolf and bowls him backwards onto the bed. But right now, Vesper is here, warm and solid and stupidly, obnoxiously pretty, and Marco has to kiss him or he'll die, he thinks.

While Vesper is still here, and still wants him.

Those big, strong hands palm at his sides, his shoulders, his head with a tenderness that makes Marco want to cry.

He's not like Vesper. He's not a self-sacrificing idiot. He's selfish, selfish, selfish, and he's gonna hold onto this with grit teeth and bloody claws as long as he fucking can.

#blood moon if #barbwritesstuff #blood moon fic #pidge writes #oc: vesper xenakis #i am posting this at 11 pm bc i licherally do not care anymore hfdkjshg #im bored and tired and im trying to finish packing bc the movers are coming tomorrow #need a distraction #the edit is probably not much better than the original version but ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ #it kinda turned into a character study of both of them i think #here's hoping i did marco justice #he's exactly the kind of messy bitch i love to write #blood moon spoilers #takes place right after the whole creepy child emperor hfkjdash

[staticscreenwriting]

California Summer - B.H. Smut [two]

Synopsis: Kings Cove California is Billy Hargrove’s hometown. It’s also a popular summer vacation destination for rich couples and their spoiled kids. (Y/N) is one of those rich girls. Proper, sweet, innocent. Only that all bores her to death and Billy is just the adventure she’s been looking for. It’s all fun and games. A summer fling. Not strings attached. Right?

Inspired by the song “Young & Dumb” by Cigarettes After Sex.

Part 1

A/N: There is smut in this, babes. Please if that is not for you, don’t read it. Also do not interact if you’re under 18, that’s just not cool. Kay, thanks ♥

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

The air is hot and sweltering on Tuesday. A blue sky filled with thick grey clouds. There’s a sizzling in the air. A promise of rain. A promise of a storm. 

Billy steps out of his car and onto the white gravel driveway of the (Y/L/N)’s holiday estate. It’s a grand house. These people are rich and they want you to know it. Nothing is subtle or modest. It wants to be seen, to be stared at, to be wanted. This house demands your attention. Thinking about it, Billy thinks it’s fitting that (Y/N) lives here. She too, demands people’s attention. Undivided. 

He steps up to the door, his black polo shirt proudly displaying the “ Franklin and Company cleaning and maintenance service” logo in his right chest. Mr Franklin said company uniforms are a good way to increase the team spirit. Billy suspects it’s just another way for those rich assholes to further distance themselves from peasants like him. 

The doorbell chimes up in some melodic little tune. Even the god damn doorbell is over the top. A deep disdain settles inside Billy’s bones, takes residence in his heart. He wonders if those people truly know what suffering means. He wonders if financial stability and a luxurious lifestyle can soften the blow of a heartache. Wonder if he’d still be this bitter, if his heart would still feel this heavy, if he was the one living in a house like this.

When the door swings open, Billy is greeted by Mr. (Y/L/N) and his smile that’s just too big. There’s a certain size a smile should have and his smile exceeds that size. It’s unsettling. With his bright white teeth and the moustache, he looks like some kind of cheesy 60s Batman villain. 

“ Hi, Billy. Good to see you. So here’s the thing — “ he then starts to proceed a dramatic monologue about the broken filter system of their pool. Billy only half listens, his mind wandering through the halls of this mansion. He wonders if she’s home. Wonders what her room looks like. Wonders if she can still feel his lips on hers. Taste him. Feel him inside her.

As they walk through the main living room, Billy’s eyes fall onto a picture on the mantlepiece of their elaborate fireplace. (Y/N) smiles brightly back at him from the photograph, draped in a long white dress and long opera gloves. It almost looks like a wedding gown only she looks way too young in this picture and there’s no husband to be seen. She smiles so big, so radiant but there’s something in her eyes. The same riddle he’s tried to figure out that day he picked her up in the rain. A kind of sadness that is both so familiar, and so foreign to him. 

“ Joan and I are gonna be out all day but if you need anything, my daughter (Y/N) should be around. She’s a nice girl, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to lend you a hand. “ 

Billy has to stop himself from choking on his own spit. If only this man knew what his girl gets up to when dad’s not looking.

“ Alright, that’s fine. “ 

“ Good. Good. Now if you’ll excuse me. “ 

“ Sure, yeah. Have a good day.” 

Mr. (Y/L/N) walks back towards the entrance hall, this house has a goddamn entrance hall. A second later his wife steps up next to him, big floppy hat on her head, fancy-looking silk scarf around her neck. That one probably cost more than Billy pays in rent every month. 

The way the interact makes him feel uneasy. There’s no affection there, no kindness. It all is very stoic and structured and empty. He wonders if rich people are all this hollow, if it comes with the territory. If maybe there are certain expectations put on you when you’re loaded and to fulfil those you have to lose part of yourself in the process. 

“ Bunny, we’re off “ (Y/N)’s father yells up the stairs to be met with her voice calling down a disgruntled “okay” a few seconds later. 

Bunny. They call her bunny. This day is getting better and better. With a smirk on his face, Billy grabs his tools and drags himself out towards the pool into the hot California sun. 

The filter is fixed in a matter of minutes, then he cleans the pool, mows the lawn, scraps dirt out of the rain gutter. All while the hot sun is beating down on him, burning his skin and making him sweat. What he wouldn’t give for a bit of rain or a dip in the ocean. 

Just as he’s packing up his tools, a loud banging sound from the inside catches Billy’s attention, followed by a string of curses. There’s no doubt in his mind it’s her. Her voice still fresh on his mind as she whispers dirty words into his ears while he dreams.

Rounding the corner, he catches sight of her, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, rubbing her knee and contorting her face in a display of pain.

“ Are you okay? “ 

“ Yeah, just tried taking two steps at once and uh — didn’t go so well, “ (Y/N) replies as she gets up and dusts herself off.

Whenever Billy thinks of her, his mind always wanders back to that first night he caught sight of her. Her flowy skirt, the flower in her hair, the too big denim jacket. Something about her then looked almost ethereal. Like she didn’t belong with anyone around her. Like she didn’t belong to this place. To this earth. 

Looking at her now, Billy almost can’t believe it’s the same person. She’s wearing cut off jeans shorts, socks with that frilly lace stuff stick out from her beat-up tennis shoes and the I ♥ New York shirt that’s draped over her body is at least two sizes too big and has no doubt seen a few years pass already.

“ Look at you, Mr. Polo shirt! “ 

“ Stop! “ 

“ It’s cute! “ 

“ It’s company policy.” 

“ Aw no, does it limit your freedom for self-expression? “

“ Why are you taking the piss? I saw the picture on the fireplace. Cute wedding dress. Prom? “ 

(Y/N) does that thing that’s neither a scoff nor a laugh and yet both at once. She walks up to the fireplace and takes the frame in her hands. There it is again, the sadness in her eyes. Even though she’s smirking there’s a fundamental sadness so deeply engrained in her beautiful eyes that Billy almost regrets having mentioned the photo.

“ Not prom, goof. My cotillion” 

“ Your what now? “ 

“ My debutante ball. It’s a formal presentation of young women to introduce them into society. “ 

“ Sounds like a cattle auction to me. “ 

This time she fully scoffs, no laughter or smirk anywhere in sight. “ You might have a point.” 

“ So what they like, offered you or — “ 

It’s such a strange concept, Billy isn’t even able to wrap his head around it. A formal presentation of young women already sounds wrong. Just thinking about her being paraded around leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

“ Kinda yeah. I mean it’s nothing sexual or anything but uh — well. There’s a bunch of girls in matching dresses who all get introduced individually. They put a real emphasis on who your parents are so people are immediately aware your family is loaded. Then the dad’s guide the girls across the stage and hand them over to the escort. Usually, an equally rich male around the same age who’d be a wonderful addition to the family. Then there’s this specific curtsy every debutante has to perform …” 

“ Are you fucking with me right now? “ 

“ Absolutely not. It’s a real big deal. They have a serious committee and everything.” 

“ Well you look miserable in that picture. “ 

“ Oh I was. I didn’t wanna do it in the first place and then my dad also told me that I couldn’t have my boyfriend at the time be my escort because apparently he wasn't good enough or his family wasn't prestigious enough. I really liked that boy too. I was so sad. “ 

“ Why’d you do it then? “ 

“ Well all my friends did it and then dad also pulled the mom card so — “ 

As those words fall from her lips, her eye glass over a little, as if she just started dreaming or let her mind wander someplace else. Billy always felt like it was weird, the way he observes people, the way he notices things. But when you grow up in a house that’s so loud and so angry, you start to notice the quiet things. It’s a survival instinct. Noticing the little things can save your life.

“ The mom card?” 

“ Yeah. Said my mom always wanted to see me as a debutante. Said I should do it to honor her memory. Even had her own cotillion dress shipped in from my grandparents place to use the fabric for mine. “ 

Dead mother. There it is. One little puzzle piece to slide into place. A step in the right direction in figuring out the riddle that’s her mind. Dead mother. It’s not a pain he knows but one he can imagine. His own mother was the best person he knew, an angel in his eyes. He loved her more than he ever loved another person. Then she left and ripped his heart straight from his chest. Maybe he doesn’t know what it’s like losing your mother to death but he does know what it feels like having a mother one day and then not having one the next and feeling so terribly alone in the world.

“ So Joan’s not — “

“ She’s my mother too. Mom died when I was 6, dad and Joan married when I was 10. She’s been in my life not longer than my mother was. I love her so much but I also miss my actual mom. “ 

He doesn’t know what make the words fall from his mouth so easily, as if they don’t weight a million tons on his heart. But something tells him that he can be honest with her. Maybe it’s a certain comfort that two people can only find in shared pain. 

“ My mom fucked off when I was 9. Just up and left, to be with some guy she’d met at her job as a waitress. A fucking dentist of all people. Haven’t seen her since. “

“ Fuck, that sucks. “ 

“ Yeah it’s whatever.” Billy shrugs. It’s not whatever and they both know it but it’s one thing to tell her about his mother, it’s another to open up his entire chest and let her see all the cracks in his heart. That’s a vulnerability he’s not willing to show her. 

“ Well this is turning into a gloom-fest, huh. Do you wanna get outta here and do something? “

He really does. The heaviness on his heart feels suffocating. Like someone is squeezing his chest, breaking ribs in the process.

“ Sure. What’s your plan?” 

“ No plan. How about the beach? “

Billy smiles at her suggestion. “ Sounds good. “ 

“ Man, your car is clean. I didn’t even notice the first time. “ (Y/N) remarks as the drive along the sleepy town of Kings Cove. The windows are rolled down and a soft wind sweeps through them, making (Y/N) hair fly around her face. Her feet are kicked up on the dashboard and her red lips are pulled into a teasing smirk.

“ It’s my baby, I like it when she’s clean. “

“ She? “ 

“ Mmh.” 

“ Does she have a name? “

“ No. You wanna make a suggestion?” 

“ Hmmm how about — (Y/N) ?” 

“ That’s your name. “

“ It’s a good name !” 

“ Not naming my car after you.” Billy chuckles.

“ Okay. How about Lilly? “ 

Billy shrugs. Honestly, he has no interest in naming his car but if it makes her happy, he might as well entertain the thought. “Sure, fine with me.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she speaks up again. “ You wanna know what Lilly needs? “ 

“ No. “ 

“ Some decor. Some personality. Like some dice hanging from the mirror or — or a dashboard dancer. Like a hula girl. “ 

“ Absolutely not. “ 

(Y/N) gasps “ I know! A dancing Elvis. You know the ones! You need one of those. “ 

Billy has to wince at the thought of a cheap plastic figure vaguely resembling Elvis stuck to his front window so it can dance on the dashboard. 

“ Or I could not do that. I like my car the way it is. Thank you very much. “ 

(Y/N) just smiles and maybe that’s enough for right now. There are more secrets hidden in the corner of her lips, in the glint of her eyes, in the way the sun falls on her face. But those can stay there for right now. All that matter in that moment is the cheesy Don Henley song playing from the stereo and the red of her fingernails tapping along to the beat and the way life feels weightless then.

“ This is so beautiful. “ (Y/N)’s words are hardly louder than a whisper. Her voice is overtaken by a peaceful sense of awe and admiration. Her bare feet are buried into the still warm sand as the sky around them shines in hues of pinks and oranges. 

“ I can’t believe you get to see this every day of your life. You can just decide you want to watch the sunset over the ocean and do it. “ 

Billy shrugs as if it’s nothing when in reality he knows exactly how much this really means. Living in Hawkins, away from the ocean and his home and his heart, it made him realise how much he really loves this place. How his heart will forever be bound to the sea and the waves and the freedom it gives him. 

“ I guess it’s pretty cool. “ 

“ You guess? Billy this is — this is spectacular. Sitting here and just taking it all in makes me feel fearless and invincible and brave. Like the world is so big and vast and there’s so much still for me to discover and experience and I can actually do it. “ 

“ What’s stopping you ? You got all the money in the world. “ 

He wonders if she can hear the spark of resentment that his voice carries. Billy doesn’t put it there on purpose, it’s just something so deeply edged into his genetics it’s hard to get rid off. Life’s hard for everyone, he knows that. The logical part of his brain does. But being financially stable surely helps soften the blow.

“ Not if you ask my parents. They’re just waiting for me to find a suitable husband whos family is at least as rich as mine if not richer. Then settle down in a nice big house, pop out a few kids — be miserable forever. “ 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s a certain familiarity in her words. Billy knows exactly what it feels like being stuck in a situation that makes you miserable and to feel like you will never get out of it. Even though both their situations couldn’t be more different, there’s a shared sense of captivity. 

“ I’m sorry, I’m being a huge whiny bitch about this. Poor rich girl with her rich girl problems. “

Though her words are meant to sound airy and light, they are all but that. There’s a heaviness to them. A sincerity. 

“ Don’t be stupid. This is your future. Your life. You get to bitch about it. If not about that then what about? “ 

Billy succeeds in making her crack a smile. A small success in the grand scheme of things, but a success nonetheless.

“ What would you wanna do? If your parents had no say in it ? “ 

Her sight settles on the setting sun, her chest heaves with big breaths. As if she’s trying to catch the moment in her lungs and keep it there forever.

 “ Last year I started studying photography in New York. My parents thought I was working an internship at a family friend’s firm. I wasn’t. When they found out they made me drop out and come back home. That’s why I wasn’t around last year. That’s what I wanna do. But my parents they are — my dad grew up during a time when art wasn’t a career that could really put food on the table. He’s a businessman, a hard worker. He sees numbers before anything else. And I don’t think he’s doing this to be mean or anything. It’s just what he knows. Dreams were not something he could chase and survive it. It was eat or dream. I think he wants to spare me that life. I just wish he would take the time to even as much as look at my pictures. They’re good. “ 

“ You should show me some. “ 

To be quite honest, it’s not about the pictures. Billy has never been a particularly artsy person nor does he care for photography. But this is important to her, this is where her heart is. No one has ever believe in him, he knows the empty feeling that comes with that realisation. If he can be the one person to show her that her dreams and her talent matter, then it’s worth it.

“ Yeah? “

“ Sure, why not? “ 

“ Alright, I will. Think I can mix in some naughty ones. “ 

Billy raises his eyebrow. “Oh really? “ 

“ Mmmh.” 

Her lips don’t taste like slurpee this time. They taste like summer heat and salt and warmth. A little like cigarette smoke and mint chewing gum.

Her fingers tangle in his locks, tugging deliciously as her tongue curls around his. It’s softer than the kisses in his kitchen, not fueled by lust but by a shared comfort in each other. 

“ What was that for? “ he asks as they pull away, far enough to talk to each other but close enough to breath in each other’s air. 

“ For listening. And for — caring.” 

Billy’s lips decent back on hers, then her cheek, her neck. Her skin feels soft and warm underneath him. He can feel her pulse quickening as he softly sucks at the delicate spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

“ You can’t leave hickeys!” 

“ Why not? “ he murmures against her.

“ Got this thing at the country club in a few days. My dress doesn’t have a turtleneck. Dad’s gonna kill me if he sees it. “

Of course her family frequents the country club the town over, it’s so fitting. Billy’s been there a few times, tending to their greenery and fixing stuff. It brings good money and he got to eat their for free which was nice. But looking at all the rich people in their fancy clothes drinking champagne by the pool was — strange. Johnny works there as a waiter part time and always has the most ridiculous but funny stories to tell.

“ Aw, daddy’s little girl not allowed to kiss boys? “ Billy mocks, not making any attempt at moving his lips away from her neck until she nudges him off and pushes him down onto the warm sand.

“ Oh I do more than just kiss them. “ (Y/N)’s voice is laced with lust and passion and sultriness.

Soft warm kisses wander down his neck, as her hands leave trails up and down his stomach underneath his shirt. In a swift motion she pushes the fabric up, to pepper gentle kisses on his chest, his stomach, down to the edge of his pants. 

Billy can feel the blood rushing through him, can feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. A tingling sensation builds up. Is there anything better than a girl sucking you off with the sun setting over the ocean in the background? Not really, he’s fairly sure about that.

(Y/N) hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans before she pulls them down just enough for his dick to pop out. 

The way she looks up at him, eyes filled with a mixture of mischief and innocence. The way she bites her lip in anticipation — it kills him. This is his day of reckoning. This is the end and god does he love it.

Billy is fully aware of what's happening as she swirls her tongue around the head of his dick but his mind is swimming, his heart is pounding. Maybe it’s her or maybe it’s the moment, he doesn’t know. All he does know is that sometimes life can be real fucking sweet. Especially when your cock’s soft and warm in a pretty girl’s mouth.

She hollows her cheeks, goes fast then slow, moves her hand along her lips in a perfect rhythm of pure lust. It’s wet and warm and tight and perfect.

An alternating pattern of kitten licks and deep strokes drive him crazy. She swallows around him like the goddamn patron saint of sucking cock, takes him so deep he’s fairly sure they should grant her some award for it.

When he feels the tidal wave of passion crash onto him and pull him under, drown him in ecstasy, he buries his fingers into her hair, pulls her closer, moves his hip faster — fucks her mouth. And she moans, every once in a while looking up at him with those eyes — those damn beautiful eyes. And there’s a smirk playing on her lips, around his dick, every once in a while. She enjoys this too and that’s what sends him over the edge.

Billy cums just as the sun sets behind the horizon, that one moment when the world is pure gold. He doesn’t see that though, doesn’t realise. All he sees is her eyes and her smile and the way she wipes her lips and all the riddles he wants to solve that live in her heart and all the things he wants to explore with her.

“ You’re welcome.” she says and giggle as she crawls back up to lay beside him, propped up on her elbows, eyes set on the horizon.

“ Uh-huh. “ Billy’s mind is still hazy, words can hardly form least of all make sense.

“ I can’t believe you get this view every day. “ 

He’s not sure whether she’s talking to him or to herself, maybe a little of both. What he’s sure of though, is that his view is much nice right now. Her, free and wild and — beautiful, sitting and watching as the world turns pink and orange and gold for one last time before nightfall. 

It’s quiet for a moment as they catch their breath, as she takes it all in and Billy tries to shake off the fogginess in his brain. It’s quiet and peaceful and safe and comfortable. 

And then she speaks up again.

“ You should come to the country club thing. “ 

And his heart sinks because — absolutely fucking not. 

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove imagines #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things smut #stranger things imagine #stranger things imagines

[sp00kworm]

2388 - Start Log

Pairings: None

Warnings: Murder, Animal Death, Child Death.

---

A/N: This is based on some very vague headcanons I have about Revenant’s past and I wanted to write in a new kind of style. 

---

Revenant held the small recording in his hand, his metal fingers stretching at the alloy as he looked at the unmarked, thin chip. It was black and sleek, tiny in the scale of things, but somehow untouched out on that dust bowl planet. His burning orange eyes shifted to focus on it again before he stood from the chair and slammed open the door to the lounge room, leaving with a grumble towards Elliott who was on his way in. The man jumped out of his way with a high-pitched screech and watched him stalk down the hall. Revenant made sure to hunch his plated shoulders before he climbed the stairs and stalked down the hallways of the dorm area, making sure that none of the others were following him before he opened his room and closed the door. It was dark and dusty, but the Simulacrum was quick to pull open his drawers to find the one item he really wanted. The chip reader. He pulled the old technology from the drawer and opened the small insertion plate with a claw. The hole cover popped open and he placed the chip inside and flicked the holoscreen display up. The blue light was dull with age, but it flickered to life before displaying a blurry image and the option to play.

 In front of him sat himself. He had relatively short, blond hair pulled back with a fine toothed, ivory comb he remembered buying from a group of hunters. He reached to his chest pockets subconsciously. He always kept it in his breast pocket. With a growl he swiped at the play button and heard it click. For a moment it was quiet as the ghost of himself looked to the high window in the metal wall. He rolled his blue eyes and leaned back in the chair as the sound of a giant, heavy loader holo-vehicle roared. The engines seared the microphone for a moment before the assassin sighed and reached to undo another button of his shirt. There was a discarded head scarf and cloak on the chair behind him as he played with a knife along his fingers. The audio crackled and popped before synching properly and pausing. Revenant hit play again when it was finished and listened.

“Start Log. 2388. It’s been twenty-eight hours since I eliminated the target and counting. I’m in a safe house by the delivery routes back into the city. Shit hole of a back water place. Its barely a city, more of a god forsaken dustbowl. A place like this for a mafia causing so much trouble.” The blond man scoffed at the screen before the sound of a pistol chamber snapping came through the static. He raised the pistol before unscrewing the silencer and pulling the magazine free with a practiced movement, “One bullet to the back of the skull. Executioner style. I capped him in front of his latest little conquest. She screamed a lot. I got blood on my boot covers. They’re camel skin. I better get reimbursed for those.” He took apart the gun with practiced ease, the pieces set along the table in a neat, perfect line, from start to finish, “Anyway. Targets dead and I’m waiting for transport back. Hammond have left me high and dry again, for the third time this year. I wonder what I could do to get some more special treatment from them.” Kaleb grinned with white, perfect teeth, his cheek bones cutting an impressive figure before he reached to touch the scruff along his jaw. He scoffed at it and reached into his waistcoat for a long, thin shaving blade.

 The blade slid open and was brandished like a weapon, the metal flashing before he raised it to his cheeks and dragged it over the new stubble, brushing it away onto a small tissue he also had, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to talk around the blade. Revenant reached for his face and ran his fingers over the scratches in his metal cheek bones. He relapsed often into his human habits, not that he would ever admit it.

“I would get it if these guys were some big-league assholes, but they’re barely an issue. I’ve seen worse, but I suppose this is what stealing weapons will get you out here. The Outlands have never been fuckin’ kind.” He threw the slip blade on the table in front of the camera, “I’d know that better than most.” Kaleb looked the camera in the lens, and Revenant wondered if he had been speaking to someone in that moment as his lips twisted in contemplation, “Fuck it. It’s not like anyone will ever find this.” He leaned back in his seat and started to pick up each piece of the pistol, looking them over before he screwed them back together in slow, precise movements of his wrist

“The Outlands is a shit hole. It always has been since Mister Hammond decided to colonize it. Sand, shit and people killing each other. Its always been the same, despite what they all say. Murder, homicide and genocide.” He paused putting together the gun in order to open a small satchel, and pulled free a packet of tobacco and rollers, Kaleb continued to talk as he took the leaves and placed them into a white paper, “Even this shit was fought over. Hybrid tobacco with no tar. Cartels killed villages over it.” The paper crinkled quietly as he put the filter in and rolled it up, tapping the end against the table before he snapped open a metal lighter and lit it, puffing for a moment before he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, “The Outlands are a cess pit, that’s what I’m saying.”

 His old self smoked for a while before he held the cigarette in his lips and squinted, getting back to work on fixing the last pieces of the pistol back together with a little grease from another bottle from the satchel, “But its where literally everyone was born now. Earth’s been dead for a long, long time. Including, yes you might have guessed, me.” Kaleb span his pistol and cocked the chamber before he slid the magazine in again and pulled a bullet up into the chamber, “I was born to some power plant family, or so the Matron said. Six months old and they threw me on the doorstep before the plant went bust and blew. I’m not surprised somehow, but the orphanage wasn’t derelict. It was funded for by Hammond. They took kids into the programs there. I wasn’t an exception. I was scouted at fifteen into the special ops program.” A haunting smile spread across his face, “I killed a captain at fourteen, that’s what got me enlisted. It got better though, guns were much easier to use than knives from the kitchen and Matron never did like me taking knives and running with ‘em.” He took his cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash off the end, “Kaleb where has the neighbours dog gone?!” He screeched, “Always nag, nag, nag that woman.” He grumbled as he took another drag, “She probably meant well in the end. Too bad what happened to her as well. I put a pillow over her face when I got enlisted. No survivors allowed. The rest died in the fire.”

 The ash was building up in the clear glass ash tray now, “The Matron wanted me to go anyway, its not like she ever loved us or any of that stupid holo-film shit.” He scoffed and played with his cigarette end, “I used to like animals…well, like was a strong word. I used to test them. There was a hundred stray dogs near us, so I used to take pieces of my dinner and see which would come and take it from me. Whichever dog came close, if they could do a trick, then I gave it ‘em. If they followed me, well I used to like knives, you can guess the rest. They’re easy to trick. Cats though, cats were much better fun. I could never get one to come near me. It’s like they knew I had a knife somehow. One came close once, but it got away, screaming, and biting me before it got up a tree. It stayed there the whole day sleeping until I got bored. I didn’t see it again, but I started taking rats and mice from the kitchen for them. They liked the chase I think, just like I did…Or maybe they just liked me killing the dogs, huh?” He let out a long, raspy, dark chuckle before he stubbed out his cigarette and looked at the lens again, “Why the fuck am I spilling my guts to a recording? I’ll be dead if anyone finds this…well, maybe I just want that challenge.”

 His finger appeared before he chuckled again and pushed his fingers together, “The days at the academy were boring in comparison. I wasn’t allowed out of the facility. I wasn’t allowed knives. I wasn’t allowed to do anything that I wanted. I choked a boy to death on the mat. The prick decided I was a ‘country bumpkin’, so I decided he wasn’t worth the air he breathed. He was purple when they found him. I was careful, I bleach wiped his neck and my hands. They never knew it was me, but I got harsher training for it. They suspected it was me, but there was no evidence.” Kaleb rolled another cigarette before he rummaged for a can in his bag. He pulled out an all-in-one shake from the pack and drank it down without so much as a minor twitch. Revenant remembered them. They tasted like milk and iron, “Otherwise. I do this because I’m good at it. I always have been good at it. Best in the business. I do the dirty jobs that others won’t because of morals.” He reached for the button, “And that’s about it. End log.” The recording ended as he blew more smoke out of the side of his mouth.

 Revenant looked at the black screen for a moment, orange and black optics spinning to adjust, magnifying in and out before he snapped open the port again and tore the chip free, anger burning his chest. He growled and crushed the chip between two clawed fingers. His processors saved the data and he sat back on a chair in order to move and hide the data from those responsible for uploading him. He didn’t need anyone knowing these things. The chip sat in his palm in tiny, crushed pieces of plastic and metal.

“The past is dead.” He muttered before he unlocked the window and threw the pieces out of it, “Its best it stayed buried.” Revenant growled again before he moved to his charging port and slid the wire up into his chasis.

#revenant #kaleb cross #revenant apex legends #apex legends revenant #apex legends #apex #fanfic #character study #my writing #fanfiction

[itsthegameilike]

Just some fic recs (part 2)...

It’s been a while since I’ve made a rec list and that seemed tragic to me as I’ve spent most of my quarantine surviving off fic. So here we go! The popular fics are hidden away for today and there is more Wangxian on here than I’d care to admit, but I Hyperfixated. Still, the ships are numerous and various.

Promises We Make -- Mayarene Rose; Wangxian Lan Zhan has taken to visiting the Yiling as often as he can, bringing as many rabbits as he can carry. It is not against the sect rules so there's no reason for him to feel guilty about it. And after all, he made a promise. Or the one where Lan Zhan sneakily moves into the Burial Mounds and this may or may not have helped stop a lot of bad things from happening. **If you’re feeling sad, this is the fic for you. It can take any bad day and make it better. Lan Zhan brings every goddamn rabbit in Cloud Recesses to the Burial Mounds a few rabbits at a time just as an excuse to visit Wei Ying. Then he kind of just stays? And everyone loves him? And Wei Ying is an absolute dumbass about the whole thing? Which tracks.

Screw Poetry, It’s You I Want -- intertwiningsouls; Pynch Adam tries to navigate a crush on his best friend, his first time having a group of friends during the holidays, and the mysterious notes that keep showing up in his locker. **Fair warning this fic is not finished and on hiatus, but I still think it is absolutely worth reading anyway. I reread it often and then get sad it’s not updated, but, you know, fic writer’s lives are hard. I know this deeply. Anyway, it’s soft, it’s cute, and Ronan is perfect.

apastron -- kissmesexybatman; Shatt "This was the mission: three people were set to travel half a year out to the edge of the solar system, traversing space no human eyes had ever seen, to explore the possibility of life in the most extreme of conditions." The first six months of the Kerberos Mission. **This fic is quiet and meditative and a little lonely, but it is so, so beautiful. I loved it the first time I read it and I love it now. There’s some very good ace representation and love just pours from this fic. Love for people and love for space.

How Fragile We Are, Between the Few Good Moments -- nineandthreequarterrs; Wolfstar By the time it’s dark, there’s a fire crackling before them. The tent is set up. There are two chairs propped up by the fire. They have cooked and eaten dinner, and they are sitting in silence. It reminds Sirius of the dinners at home after he got sorted into Gryffindor, or after his mother found the letters from his friends, or lately, whenever he dares to show his face around the house at all. What lives in that space isn’t actually silence. Silence is absence. This thing that hangs between him and his mother, now between him and Remus, is the presence of something suffocating and cutting. It doesn’t serve as a placeholder for noise, it serves as a punishment. It cleaves him to the bone, flays him until he wants to cry. The soft, knotting feeling in his chest he feels when he wants to let tears out but can’t is rising in him. Sirius doesn’t know how to kill except to hiss, “Well if you’re mad at me just fucking say so.” **This takes the moment where Sirius lures Snape to the Shrieking Shack and nearly gets him killed by Remus in his werewolf form-a scene that should be utilized like this more frequently-and creates something absolutely lovely with it. The fic is quiet and subtle and deals with the abuse Sirius suffers and Remus’ rightful anger in a delicate and true way. I adore it.

Likewise Variable -- ssstrychnine; Wolfstar James has plans, Peter is the nurse, Sirius keeps fake blood up his sleeves, and Remus just tries to stay alive. **One of those classic Marauders fics where everyone is batshit crazy except Remus, who ends up doing batshit crazy things because he loves his friends. And Sirius. Especially Sirius. He ends up playing Romeo and Sirius plays Juliet and the pining and angst is unreal. A trope I’m trash for and very well executed.

flowers boldly blossoming over withered grass -- LilyMaxwell; Wangxian It’s in the dawning years after Jin Guangyao’s death that Wei Wuxian learns what it’s like to live and love without a second thought. **The first fic I found in my endless search through pages and pages on ao3 where I saw a characterization of Lan Zhan that resonated with me in the same way he did in the show. I have a thing for soft and quiet fics and this one is no exception. Lovely and beautifully written. 

Like Knives -- All_My_Characters_Are_Dead; Bakushima Bakugou was disappointed in him. Bakugou thought he was weak, thought he was useless. Bakugou knew he’d broken, and Bakugou was mad at him for it. **I love this fic a lot. It takes Bakugou’s anger and uses it to full angst advantage. Kirishima overhears Bakugou and misinterprets Bakugou’s intense worry for anger. And then emotions happen.

Garden War -- Cibee; Drarry Harry and Draco are quarantined in their houses, a lake across from one another. What better ways to spend this time than to annoy each other with letters and attempts to prove that their garden is better? **I did my best to avoid quarantine fics, but you know, easier said than done. This one is super cute. Mostly epistolary, Harry and Draco just make fun of each other and garden and then get together. Like, what the hell else do you want?

light fires at night (to push back the void) -- inthesea; Andreil The first time Andrew realizes he wants to hear the words, Neil isn’t even doing anything. He’s just sitting there, staring at the horizon with that stupidly dramatic faraway expression of his, and letting the cigarette burn down between his fingers all the way to the filter — an outrageous waste of good nicotine, if you asked Andrew. (Or: 20+ times Andrew and Neil say I love you, and one time they say it out loud.) **One of the two truly popular fics that shows up on here. This fic changed my life. It killed me and then brought me back to life. It’s essentially a series of vignettes starring Andrew and Neil and like...it hurts and it heals and it loves. I would die for this fic to continue existing even when I don’t.

the hidden source is the watchful heart -- sombregods; Wangxian Wei Wuxian comes back to the Cloud Recesses for the winter months. He and Lan Wangji learn that emotional intimacy and physical intimacy are not (yet) quite synonymous.They have time to figure it out. **I have the biggest soft spot for relationships where sex and romance aren’t intrinsically intertwined and take some time to navigate. And in my mind, Lan Zhan and Wei Ying have exactly that kind of relationship, so this fic was all I ever needed. If that’s your thing, this is a must read.

A Heart’s a Heavy Burden -- idratherhaveyou; Wangxian There was fire and magic and death, screams and blood, but rage was Wei Ying's song at night, the beast he became taking control, protecting what it could and destroying those that did harm.Years ago, when Wei Ying had newly discovered this particular power of his, when he’d picked his side—to simply fight everyone who didn’t fight for those weaker than themselves—he’d remembered more.To him, this was better. Better to forget things best forgot. **A Howl’s Moving Castle AU **A shameless self-promotion, but I love this fic to pieces, so I thought it seemed fit to add. Not quite finished, but I promise it will be. I just take two of my favorite pieces of media and have a real good time. There’s magic, Lan Zhan and Wei Ying love each other a lot, and A-Yuan does god’s work.

Siren Song -- Becky_J_1022 When Damen is cursed by a Siren in exchange for the revenge his heart desperately desires, his life is thrown into chaos, and betrayal lurks around every corner. Despite his better judgment, he allows a beautiful young man to seek berth on his ship, not knowing that he has granted refuge to the one man who has every reason to want him dead. Laurent may be the key to breaking Damen's curse, and Damen could help restore Laurent to his throne—but if they have any hope of helping each other, they will have to untangle their bitter pasts first. **Listen, man, this fic is balls to the walls fun and also everyone should read Becky’s fics. Not enough people do. She makes sentences beautiful. Just so beautiful. And she loves to and you can tell.

#fic recs #the untamed #wangxian #andreil #tfc #wolfstar #drarry #harry potter #bnha #bakushima #trc #pynch #voltron #shatt #writers are wonderful creatures #i love and cherish you all #thanks for you work

[hobbledhobbit]

Paint and Patience

Another part of the tales of the Institute Green. This one following the Illustrator, Ms. Steam. .

A puff of smoke dissipated after swirling and distorting the stars it hovered in front of.

"Fear is strange. Was there any reason not to have it that you can be certain of?"

"For myself?"

"No, of course not." The pale man made a vague gesture into the building from their spot on the balcony. "Their fear."

He took another deep drag, awaiting her answer.

"All mortals have fear, Mr. Pale. The end always looms like the back cover."

He contemplated, letting his gaze take in the curvy and soft form of his coworker. She liked her candy striper outfit most of all and it let the inviting roundness of her form offer refuge in the form of a vast change in scenery from the black iron and gold speckled dark wood of their world.

"That's what I had figured too. But the fear is on all aspects. They love, there's fear; they succeed, there's fear; they give up...you get the idea."

Ms. Steam gave an amused hum before turning to him fully. "They are yellow. Maybe it's not the fear that gives you pause when dealing with them?"

Ms. Steam took the spent cigarette out of his hand and flicked it over the railing. He had a nasty habit of burning the filter when he was lost in thought. The smell was never pleasant. 

Mr. Pale was slender and ordinary, his overall countenance being somewhat "beige", though his eyes held a sharp intelligence and his tongue a wicked wit. 

Ms. Steam liked talking to the scrivener, he was always agitated over their charges and the conditions in which they were formed. The illustrator had an idea that it may be his only way to show his caring side for anything.

"I believe you're right," he finally said, "I am more enraged by those who live without that...I guess it would be more a concern for the welfare of others than fear…"

"Compassion?"

"Compassion! Yes, thank you. Those that lack compassion for others and make grand swathes of suffering. They hold my ire."

"Had one recently that's got you in this tizzy?"

"No. It'll be later this evening. I would feel bile rising in my throat if I had the capability. I taste the lies and excuses on my tongue and moving through my fingertips to take the last vestiges of their existence to print." 

His voice grew ever darker, as he mimicked typing on his typewriter, his hands looking suddenly more large and sharp, his plain face gaining sharp edges and wider eyes, his teeth sharpening and slowly multiplying.

"Sickening, wretched filth!" He gurgled out.

Ms. Steam shrugged, unbothered. "We are only the record keepers. No need to grow attached."

He cleared his throat and fixed his appearance, brushing his blond hair back and suddenly looking more to his normal human-like form. 

"We aren't machines, Ms. Steam. Every monster we document can feed our own monstrous nature, teach us our own excuses for screwing over other lives."

"What do you suppose we do for it then? Become judges for life forms that are under our care?"

"Teachers. I think the Evil need to be taught a lesson. We should make an example."

Ms. Steam waited for Mr. Pale to continue, but it was obvious from the way his eyes darted around in his head that the idea was still cooking. 

She pat his head and made him look her in the eye.

"When you figure it out, set it up. I'm in thorough need of distraction. But for now, we must tend to our duties."

He gave a small nod and a tight lipped smile. It was no secret that he disliked his job, but he was the best at it.

She took her leave, walking in from the cold of outside to the warm hallway. Her shoes were almost silent upon the hard wood. The reflection of the candy striper outfit was blurred for a moment in the polished floor before it showed Ms. Steam in a plain, floral, flowy dress. She used the key around her neck to unlock her office door and step in. 

The yellow glow of the human soul took a moment to take shape. Young and small.

"Sorry for being late," she smiled, "Are you ready for your portrait?"

The 'studio' was large. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the floor had many different colors and textures that one couldn't tell if it was made of dirt, marble, wood, or any of the other things floors are usually made of. There looked to be all sorts of settings along the long wall. Beaches to mansions, forests to kitchenettes, mountains to dumpsters.

The girl looked to be a little younger than a teenager. Short dark hair and brown eyes, sun-kissed skin and a strong jaw.  She was in night clothes and looked overwhelmed, looking around from her seat on a fainting chair.

Ms. Steam went to her large desk and picked up some materials. She loaded a small tray with chalk pastels and paint. 

"Take your time," she said to the girl, then paused giving her an understanding and patient look. "Tell me what you think is happening. This fear will go away soon, I promise."

"He killed Mom. I went to go hide my little sisters, but I guess he killed me too." She started to cry in earnest. "They're probably so scared. I don't know what to do! There's nothing I can do! I'm dead!" 

She sobbed and screamed her dismay while Ms. Steam set up the easel near a beach setting.

"Angels are supposed to help the innocent!" The girl accused from her seat. She smacked her bare feet against the ground and stomped over to Ms. Steam. "You're supposed to protect us and God's supposed to deliver us from evil!"

"Deliver you where?" Ms. Steam turned to the girl, eyebrow slightly raised. She felt it wouldn't be the best option to tell the girl she wasn't an angel.

The girl's righteous fury was snuffed out by the calm of the question. She looked lost and on the verge of more tears. 

"I-I don't know. If you're good, evil isn't supposed to happen to you." She sniffled, "And you're supposed to get rewarded for being good."

Ms. Steam sat on a stool to look the girl in the eye and wipe her tears with her skirt. 

"I'm sorry, little one. The universe doesn't do good or evil. That's a human thing. Kind or cruel are choices people make."

Ms. Steam offered a hug to the child, who was falling apart again in tears. She accepted the hug, was wrapped in strong arms, and felt light as a cloud.

"The nightmare is over. I know it's scary to not know what comes next. But even your choices mattered so much at the end."

The girl was hiccupping through her sobs, clinging tightly to Ms. Steam. "They're so-s-so little and he's gonna hurt them!"

Ms. Steam rocked her lightly and pet her hair. "I know...what if I brought them here? Would you feel better knowing where they are? They would probably like to know where you are too."

Fear stabbed through the girl and she looked at Ms. Steam. "He killed them too?!"

"Long ago already. They're in my queue."

"What's going to happen?"

"I'm going to paint your picture of what you want to be remembered forever as. You're a good older sister. Brave, just, and with so much love in your heart that your last moments were thinking of nothing but protecting others. Rewards aren't in my job description, but I think that I could work one up for you."

"Holly!" Called two little voices from the fainting couch.

The girl turned and let go of Ms. Steam, running to the two blonde children running towards her in their pajamas. 

"Katie! Kathy!" She called to the twins, hugging them tight to her and hurrying her face in their disheveled blonde curls. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" asked Kathy.

"Why are you sad?" asked Katie.

Before Holly could answer, they both noticed the beach and dragged Holly towards it. 

Holly noticed that they were all in their bathing suits, and the studio had faded away entirely-there was only the beach then. She saw Ms. Steam still standing there, starting to work on the canvas in front of her. She gave Holly a wink before going back to her work.

Holly looked at her sisters who were already splashing in the water and got to playing with them. They built sand castles and played in the water together. The sun didn't bother any of them much, and they felt full and content. 

Ms. Steam stepped back from her work, looking at the picture of Holly pulling her sisters through the water as the little ones kicked up a spray behind them.

The twins looked caught in a moment of trust and fun as Holly tried to teach them to swim.

The studio had phased back to its normal state, the girls now residing as the artwork. Ms.Steam added a single small cloud in the distance as her signature and bowed low at the piece. 

"Thank you for the opportunity," she said.

When she stood back up, the canvas had a frame of glittering gold. She took it and wrapped it in plain brown paper before placing it in an adjacent room for delivery.

Ms. Steam dealt more with children and those that didn't have a command over their language. She found that younger children were more accepting of their fates than older ones. Responsibility and shame hadn't really had a chance to stick in yet and make them second guess everything.

She went about putting away her supplies and let out a sigh. She placed the last brush behind her ear and exited her studio. So long as her things weren’t all in place, the next soul wouldn’t show up. 

The door she approached was labeled “Mr. Slow: Security” on a gold plaque. She knocked and entered, finding the large form of her colleague sitting at his desk, shining his shoes. He looked up boredly, eyes crinkling at the side once he recognized his visitor. 

“Ms. Steam. What an unexpected and fun surprise. What brings you to my office?” His voice was deep and had an edge of threat to it. Unfortunately for Mr. Slow, she had taken the centuries to become immune to his specific charm. 

“Mischief brings me here, Bacchus.  Do you intend on participating or trying to subdue?” She leaned on the doorway, pushing her hair behind an ear. “I do so hate to lose out on the fun because someone had to distract you.”

Mr. Slow sat up and put his hands on his desk. “So long as the mischief isn’t brought to these halls, there’s no reason for us to tussle. I do have a feeling that I will be having to teach Mr. Pale a lesson later today, but that won’t likely interfere.”

This was met with an amused hum. She covered her mouth to feign hiding a smile, “I am starting to think Bartleby likes your teaching method. You boys and your roughhousing.”

Mr. Slow went back to shining his shoes, “I’ve been informed, Ms. Steam. Go back to your room. The day isn’t out yet, no matter how many clients you put in a single frame. Only the frame counts.”

“Pushy,” she teased, straightening herself out. “I’ll see you at the diner afterwards, Mr. Slow.”

The door closed, leaving Mr. Slow alone. He leaned back in his chair and thought about the conversation he had overheard on the balcony during his rounds. Redirecting fear could be a fun way to spend an afternoon.

#inkwell writes #Institute Green #Afterlife and those who work the shifts #Ms. Steam #Mr. Pale #Mr. Slow

[imnotwolverine]

The Englishman Jack - Eve’s Apple

Henry as Jack x OC - multi-chapter

< Chap 9 | Chap 10 Eve’s Apple

Disclaimer: NSFW - reference to smut, some strong language, but also some fluff to make up for the previous chapter (sorry not sorry)

Summary: When dreams may come? It’s all a question of time and one well placed advertisement. 

Word count: 2.521

Reading music: Rita Hayworth - Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

Porcelain tinkled and laughter sprinkled as the lavish crowd conversed over their posh little lunch meetings. The whole room emanated richness; from the tuxedo clad waiters, their long tail coats swishing behind their stiff legs, to the curl of smoke that lifted from thin cigarettes all the way up to the high baroque ceilings, making the occasional person cough in dismay.

‘Bunny,’ The cough returned, this time closer by, ‘are you alright?’

‘Alright?’ I blinked my attention back to my friend and sat back in my slightly uncomfortable chair, my hand tapping my cigarette’s ash onto the crystal ashtray, grey dust falling in burning orange onto the cold glass. ‘If anything, I feel 10 pounds lighter!’

‘Well, it sure was one hefty ring he got you.’ The woman, Miranda, snorted, returning her gaze to the dapper old men who ogled her from the table nearby. Miranda may be older, but she sure was sex on legs, her short red curls coifed just so you couldn’t see the wrinkles that were starting to show on her Italian olive-hued skin.  

‘And I don’t miss it..or him..even one bit.’

‘You’re damn right darling, damn right.’ Miranda winked at one of the men and looked back at me, piercing brown eyes giving me a pitiful look. ‘You tell me if you need anything, yea? I can’t smell, but I can tell.’

‘I told you to get back to that surgeon!’ I deadpanned, before I burst out laughing along with her as we were reminded of the irony of her 3rd mildly botched nose job.

‘Let me first save up a few wrinkles before he lays a hand on me again.’ Miranda’s eyes wandered back to the reception door, interest sparking in her Bambi browns.

Oh, Miranda! 

‘You are incorrigible, you know that?’ I rolled my eyes at the way she lured like a predator on anything with deep pockets, her glossy pink lips smacking in delight.

‘And I don’t even have to work for it! Act normal. He’s coming our way.’

I scrunched my nose and killed my cigarette before I languidly turned to look over my shoulder, my eyes meeting with an apparition of 6 ft tall, a svelte long winter coat hanging from his muscular shoulders as he greeted a waiter, signalling he knew where he was going.

Of course, he knew where he was going. I knew those electric blues and they knew me, their owner’s lips curling in a sly grin while he traversed the packed lunch room. Even with our years apart, he had changed little, except of course for the silver that now dusted his temples, the line between his brow slightly deepened.

He looked good.

‘Jack,’ I whispered beneath my breath, suddenly forgetting how to act normal as I turned back in my seat, finding Miranda’s telling gaze of just how flustered I must have looked.

Old ladies don’t blush, Bunny! Get it together!

I straightened my poofy white blouse, my bracelets dangling on my wrists, when I noted the appearance of two pairs of snow kissed Oxford shoes next to me, followed by long legs that reached up to..

‘Ladies,’ He bowed his head slightly before he aimed his attention at me. ‘Henry Walker. I’m sorry to be of disturbence to your..-’

‘OH PLEASE! Mr….Walker. Do sit, do sit.’ Miranda interjected before his British accent could roll smoothly of his curled up lips.

‘Thank you, madam.’ He kissed the hand she proferred, Miranda’s chuckle filtering through the lunchroom chat like a bee’s buzz was to be heard in a flowery field. Jack, or..Henry..turned and gave me a warm, yet hesitant smile, my body unmanaging to even offer him my hand as his scent drifted into my nostrils. Suddenly it felt so very silly to have set out an advertisement to find an investigator. I mean, what could have been the odds of…

‘Bunny,’ He whispered quietly, leaning forward as if wanting to kiss my cheek, but then halting mid-air as he instead masked the move by settling down in a chair with a smooth pull of the armrests.

‘Henry.’ I tasted his name on my lips and was met with those electric blues again, his hesitant smile growing slightly.

Before we could continue the conversation, a butler halted his step next to Henry, the quick order of tea (sugar and milk separate) made with a smooth nod of the head. The butler disappeared and Miranda also killed her cigarette, intrigued by the new guest at our Thursday lunch table.

‘Well then…’ Her voice trailed off as she made little effort to hide her curiosity, my voice finally managing to reach through the ice that had frozen my limbs.

‘Yes. Eh..I set out an advertisement for an…’

‘Investigator.’ Henry nodded professionally, manufacturing two white with gold lettered cards from his suit jacket, scripting Henry Walker - Private Detective, his hand pushing the two cards to both of our plates before he filled himself a glass of water and took a sip from it.

Fair. He had changed a little. He seemed more sure of his business. Or, perhaps I had to take him on a nerve wrecking car ride to learn if he still had a mild nervousness somewhere in those strong bones of his.

I smiled at Miranda, then nodded: ‘We’ll talk business later, our lunch was just about to arrive. Do order along if you so wish.’

And he did. We had lunch, we walked, we dined, talked and fucked. Because that’s what --

--

‘Wait, grandma. Are we..are we talking about…’ Your voice lowered until it was but a mere whisper, your eyes keeping close watch on the kitchen door, grandma’s back turned to where grandpa could appear from any minute. ‘..grandpa Henry?’

Grandma chuckled and tapped her marital ring on the newspaper that lay before her, her finished breakfast moved to the side. ‘Ding ding ding,’ Her laughter warmed grandpa’s lips as he made his entrance, his knowing blue eyes appearing from behind a lifted up eyebrow.

‘Good morning..mi amor.’ He leaned in to press a slightly too erotic kiss - slip of the tongue - on grandma’s lips, your eyes quickly averting before you’d get a sense of what your grandparents did when you weren’t around. ‘Talking about me?’

‘Indeed, quite right.’ Grandma chuckled as grandpa grinned, picking up grandma’s coffee cup before he sauntered over to the kitchen island, hand grasping for the coffee machine.

‘Want some too?’ He asked, but you quickly shook your head, your eyes finding the mischievous glint in grandma’s eyes.

Oh god, now you had to think of old people sex. Your grandparents..like...OH MY...

Grandma’s smile grew as she casually brushed her hand over the newspaper that read: “Australian fires running wild.”

‘I mean. Henry sure left an impression on me before we went separate ways...’

--

The pool house was the nearest shelter Jack could find, ash falling down from the house that was slowly burning up to a crisp. Morning was soon to arrive, the sky burning along with the flames as emergency services came to rush and save what little there was left to save; a bunch of coaled up dead bodies and some ridiculously posh Italian decor. Nothing truly worth saving your life for.

And so here we were, hidden from the passing of firemen's feet, Jack’s hand twisting the lock of the pool house, where pink, blue and green pool floaties stacked like a generous bed beneath my stretched out limbs. I was still a bit frozen, dazzled and overwhelmed, my eyes blinking up at Jack as he kneeled down on the squeaking plastic, hands roving over my goose fleshing thighs.

--

‘Grandma..’ You cleared your throat as grandpa offered her the refilled cup of steaming coffee, before he too settled down.

‘What is it dear?’

‘You..you..made love, I guess? I don’t really need to hear all the..*aherm* details, yea?’

Grandma blinked and you gave her an exasperated look, after which grandpa burst out in a fit of giggles. ‘She’s a handful, always has been. Hahaha.’

‘Henry! This was just a good part!’

‘I know dear, I know. And you are most definitely going to tell me that again, some time later, but ..it isn’t the end of your tale yet, right?’

‘Oh no!’ Grandma sat up from her chair, making it squeak, her nimble wrinkly fingers wrapping around the hot mug. ‘You see we weren’t in love..’

‘Yet -’ Grandpa interjected, settling back in his chair and blowing over his coffee as he waited for grandma to continue.

--

I hadn’t been the only one who had dreamed of the land of the free; the US of A. From Georgio’s dying hands, Jack had confiscated two tickets. Boat fare for a cruise that would cross all the way over to the ports of New York City. The transatlantic escape I had dreamed off for so long.

And so, after we left the wreckage of my parents house, the two of us disappeared into thin air for a short while, only to arrive a week later at the Barcelona Harbour where a cruise ship the size of a sizable flat awaited us, white plumes of smoke dotting small clouds in the pristine blue skies.

People were all smiles here, suntanned faces hiding beneath large white hats as their elegant boat shoes stepped onto the walking planks before the personnel could drag up their heavy bags, packs and suitcases.

Me and Jack had very little to bring with us, and so we skipped most lines, finding the suite that had initially been Georgio’s great plan in prying my mother away from my father’s clutches. It was a wonderful suit. Heavy dark mahogany wood made out most of the wall panels and furniture and a large comfortable bed welcomed my travel weary back, quickly followed by Jack.

--

‘We made love again.’ Grandpa smiled from behind his coffee cup.

Grandma offered him a mischievous smile: ‘And not just that..Hmhm..’

‘Grandma..pa...PLEASE!��

‘Okay, okay. Yes, yes. So..’

--

The cruise offered us ten sweet days in heaven, my initial anticipation that we would get caught all for nothing. Jack appeared to be a good forger of fake papers and nobody ever seemed to check us, other than whether we wanted extra service when we were found in bed at 3 pm in the afternoon. The days were long, luscious and over far too soon, when Lady Liberty welcomed us with her dust green arm raised up high.

It was everything I dreamed of, and yet I felt sad when the ship reached the harbor and the rest of my life, alone, would begin.

Jack had been clear on his intention to separate ways, and I had foolishly agreed. I wanted to make myself believe that this was but a fling thing. That I needed time to settle down in a life of my own, like I had so long wanted. In the land of opportunity, it would be terribly immature to drag myself behind someone I barely knew, only because the people who had forced my life were suddenly gone.

I had grown wings and I had to learn how to fly, the wind caressing my brown tresses as we both put our travel bags down, which held the few items we had bought before Barcelona.

‘So. I guess this is it.’ I took a breath as I looked up in those electric blues, Henry’s jaw clean shaven, as seen in magazines. He nodded and quickly averted his gaze, his eyes looking up at the large white ship that pulled on the large ropes that had bound it to shore.

‘This is it.’ He smiled, hiding the slightly sad tinge in his eyes.

‘Freedom.’ I breathed, looking out over his shoulder, seeing the silhouette of the statue of the lady liberty, proud and dollar bill green in the late afternoon sun. It was quite hot that day, or perhaps it were my shattering nerves, but either way I felt a little sweat coat my palms.

‘The American dream.’ Jack licked his lips and looked at me, my lips, before haphazardly clearing his throat and picking up his bag.

‘Wait,’ I breathed before he could sling the brown leather pack over his shoulder. My fingertips grazed over his cheek before they hesitantly tangled through the back of his hair, pulling him in a rushed and heated kiss. One that would have felt so natural hours earlier, now felt desperate and breathless, our lips searing in something we both didn’t want to end until I did have to pull away for air.

Jack let out a soft pant and used his hand to pull my chin down, his nose resting against mine before he pressed his forehead into me, our eyes looking down at our feet.

‘I won’t forget you, Bunny.’ His voice was a little hoarse and rough with emotions that he didn’t want to share, his hand now tipping my head up so he could press one more kiss on my welcoming pillows. Our last shared breath before he stepped back and smiled, pulling up the facade of the smooth city man: ‘If it’s meant to be, Bunny, we shall meet again.’

--

‘It took him 7 years, and for me two failed marriages and 3 kids, but..there we were, in that lunch room.’ Grandma sniffled at the good memory and emptied her coffee cup in one big swig, a relieved sigh escaping her smacking lips.

‘And I remember it like it were only yesterday,’ Grandpa smiled, putting down his cup as he continued. ‘You see, I had been in these high bound places a lot. I knew the people. Knew how to play out my cards. But as I walked up to that brown mane, a nervous foot tapping on the floor, it was like I was back in Italy again; again the young man who was kind of hoping things would play out well. I could swear I could feel the mists lick around my sun kissed skin, could hear the children run after each other, screaming as their little school uniforms were but blurs of navy. I could hear the grumble of the bodyguards, speaking in hushed tones, their faces stiff. I could taste the coffee, but most of all I could feel my heart and its gentle drop for that one hot second as our eyes met.’ He looked at grandma and smiled.

‘Quite an investigator, that man. The only mist there was cigarette smoke.’

‘Ain’t all the rich folk but living a life of smoke and mirrors?’

‘Quite true, husband, quite true.’

‘And, in all those years, the most important thing I learned was that I didn’t want riches, fame or endless female company in a cold lonely bed. I learned, with the death of my mother and the slackening of contact with my brothers and sisters, that all I truly wanted was a family. I changed. I grew. And I came to the realisation, as I wandered through the streets of the Great Apple that all I wanted..was the apple of my eye..you.’

--

The End

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @hell1129-blog @agniavateira​ @tillthelandslide @elinesama

#henry cavill fanfiction #the englishman jack #its finished for now #imma edit the hell out of this story when i feel like it again #but it sure was fun to write #henry as jack #eve's apple #final chapter #henry cavill x ofc

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part eleven

I kept getting distracted. This was supposed to go up hours ago, but I literally (no joke) got distracted by this Benedict interview. I’m a mess. Anywho. Here this is.

Some revelations from both parties (I’m afraid John will choose to remain oblivious for a while), though it isn’t going to result in anything right away (this is a slow, slow, slow burn, if you hadn’t known already).

John returns home to find you fast asleep in his chair under two blankets, one of which is Sherlock’s. He smiles at the sight, ignoring the fact that once again, Sherlock is sharing something of his with you that he normally doesn’t share with anyone.

           And as usual, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Almost. One more step forward and John can see Sherlock in the kitchen quietly examining…thumbs. He’s experimenting with thumbs now. For God’s sake, they’re thumbs.

           “What are you—”

           “Shh!”

           John blinks.

           “She’s just fallen asleep,” Sherlock explains, keeping his eyes trained on a thumb nail.

           John nods, regardless of the fact that Sherlock isn’t looking at him. He shakes his head as that same thought resurfaces, trying not to think too much of it. Even if there is something, neither you nor Sherlock appear to know about it – or you refuse to acknowledge it.

           If John believes in the latter, he would be correct.

           You’ve noticed it. Sherlock picking you up and essentially hugging you, comforting you after Allen was found. Sherlock carrying you into the flat just minutes later and lying you down in his bed rather than on the couch where you normally lay. Sherlock comforting you on the roof, talking you off the ledge, letting you take his hand which didn’t have a glove on. Sherlock soothing you to sleep with his playing, even when you hid yourself away in your flat after Tony was found. And now, letting you sleep underneath his blanket.

           You’re not an idiot. These small tells are obvious when you really think about it, but the thing is that you haven’t given yourself much time to really think about it. Firstly, because he’s, well, Sherlock Holmes, and you’re almost positive a relationship isn’t something he is even capable of. And secondly because he’s Sherlock Holmes. You have a feeling that if he fancied you, he’d tell you, because he’s that type of man – blunt, to the point, without filter.

But again, you aren’t even sure those types of feelings are something he’s able to feel. These tells you’ve seen, they’re obvious for normal people. Ordinary people. And Sherlock Holmes is far from ordinary.

Which leads you to the excuse you’ve been telling yourself the past few weeks: He feels bad for you.

It seems logical, doesn’t it? He’s the only one who can see through the façade you’ve put up for John – the façade is also for Sherlock, but you should’ve known it wouldn’t work on him. He’s the only one who saw that your mother was an addict – even John still doesn’t know – and judging by Sherlock’s reputation, he probably knows about your old habits as well. He can see all of the pain in your past, and the pain in your present, so it only makes sense that he would be kinder toward you because of all that.

           But then you feel stupid for even considering these thoughts in the first place because Sherlock Holmes is perhaps the last person on the planet you could ever see wanting to have a relationship with you – or a relationship at all, for that matter.

           So, you’ve ignored all of it. Because it’s the easier thing to do.

~~~

John barely has two seconds of alone time in his room before Sherlock is bursting in, shutting the door behind him.

           John turns around from his closet. “Can I help you?”

           “Why did you phone Mycroft?”

           John sighs. “She told you. Listen, I didn’t want to—”

           “Why?” Sherlock barely tolerates the involvement Mycroft has in his general life. He doesn’t need John consulting Mycroft behind his back for no reason – especially not to spy on you like that.

           “Because, Sherlock, today is the sixth day since Allen was found and I guess you could say I’m worried.”

           “Worried? Why would you be worried?”

           John gives him a tired look.

           “It doesn’t fit the pattern, John, there’s nothing to worry about.”

           “Fine. But I phoned Mycroft when she said she was going out for the day.”

           “So he could spy on her.”

           “He spies on everyone, Sherlock, I just wanted someone to keep an eye on her while she was out.”

           “And the two of them having tea together? Was that part of your arrangements?”

           John blinks, trying to process Sherlock’s tone more than the words. He heard the words perfectly, but his tone…that’s something else. John opens his mouth to speak, pausing as he hesitates, before he says it anyway. “Are you jealous?”

           “Jealous? Why would I be jealous?”

           Immediately defensive, John thinks. But then again, that is kind of Sherlock’s thing. “No reason at all. But no, it was Mycroft’s. I just agreed.”

           “Why?”

           “Because! You said they were drugged days before they were murdered. I wanted to be sure she wasn’t drugged.”

           “I could’ve told you if she was,” Sherlock scoffs.

           And John did think of that, but for…reasons he didn’t think Sherlock would be fit to tell. “Right. Sorry. You’ve just been…absent lately.”

           “Absent?” More defensive tone.

           “Occupied, I don’t know!” John chuckles out of hysteria. “For God’s sake, are you alright?”

           “Of course. I’m fine.”

           “Okay,” John shakes his head, a little frustrated.

           Sherlock nods, his way of finishing the conversation before opening John’s door and leaving in the same way. John blinks at his now closed door, wondering if that conversation really did just happen.

           Probably nothing.

           John returns to putting up his laundry, his ears perking up when he hears Sherlock begin to play the same piece he’s been playing. It’s something new he’s composing that doesn’t have a name yet – John stole a look at the paper earlier – but it must be important if he continues to revisit it.

           Whatever it is, it’s pretty. And soothing enough to chase your nightmares away.

 ~~~

By the time you wake up again, the sun has already set and the only light in the room is that from the fire.

           Sherlock sits across from you in his chair, thinking. You aren’t sure about what, but he seems intent.

           Not that you would ever guess this, but Sherlock is, in fact, thinking about you.

           John’s “Are you jealous?” comment from earlier had Sherlock’s mind starting to race. He didn’t feel jealous, but then again what did jealousy feel like? It’s a byproduct of sentiment, isn’t it? And since Sherlock doesn’t feel that, how would he know if he was jealous?

           He doesn’t exactly think he is. Jealousy wouldn’t be the right word. Concern, sure. Everyone is concerned for your safety, even Mycroft. That’s not abnormal if his own brother feels it, too. But Sherlock still doesn’t like the idea of you and Mycroft having tea. Granted, Sherlock doesn’t particularly care for his brother in the first place, so it makes sense that he’d rather you not become friends with him.

           Especially not after Mycroft corresponded with you under an alias, which ultimately resulted in your hospitalization. The thought of you lying unconscious in a hospital bed – or lying dead in an alleyway like Allen – or lying dead on the sidewalk somewhere like Tony – all of it gives Sherlock an unsettling feeling. One that he wishes would go away. It messes with his focus.

           His eyes shoot open then, not noticing your awakened state as he continues thinking. That’s it. He can’t focus when you’re around, just like he can’t focus when he deals with his cigarette addiction. Comparing you to cigarettes is hardly an equal play, but it works well enough. Sherlock sees this as a problem solved. He cut cigarettes out so he could focus, so the logical solution here is to distance himself from you.

           He stands abruptly, causing you to give him a strange look as he stalks off to his room, the door slamming shut behind him.

           “Okay,” you huff out. It’s not like you wanted his company, anyway.

           You shift around in John’s chair, sitting yourself up. You yawn as you stretch your arms over your head, relishing in the feeling. You never understand why you like sleeping curled in a ball until you stretch yourself back out after a long rest.

           Glancing at the time on your phone, you see it’s just past ten. And as if his big brother senses were tingling, John comes padding into the room in his pajamas.

           “Hey,” he smiles when he sees you’re awake. “How are you feeling?”

           “Better now that I’ve slept,” you admit. Depriving yourself of sleep is no longer a go-to. You’ve absolutely got to sleep.

           You tell yourself this, of course, but you aren’t sure how easily it’ll be to practice.

           “That’s good,” he chuckles, sitting down in Sherlock’s chair. “Are you hungry?”

           “Kind of,” you confess with a sheepish smile.

           But John seems thrilled. “I’ll make you something.”

           “It’s late.”

           “And you’re hungry, so I’m gonna make you something,” he pats your shoulder lovingly as he walks past you into the kitchen.

           You smile, turning around to poke your head over the back of his chair. “Hey Johnny?”

           “Hm?” He turns to put the kettle on.

           “Thank you.”

           He pauses, turning his head to look at you. “It’s no problem.” You watch as he pauses again, hesitating, and you don’t know it, but he’s thinking about his conversation with Sherlock from earlier. “I’m sorry again, about phoning Mycroft.”

           “It’s fine,” you shrug. “I’d just prefer not to sit through another tea session with him. He was acting so strange.” You pause, giving John a look. “But I guess that has something to do with you.”

           “Yeah,” he grimaces. “I noticed today was the sixth day, so I asked him to keep an eye on you after you said you were going out. The tea wasn’t my idea – well, it was Mycroft’s, but I agreed.”

           “His idea?” You scoff. “He even apologized to me. About before, with The Congregation. Did you talk to him about that or something?”

           “No,” John shakes his head. “But I’m glad he apologized. He owed you a bloody apology.”

           You chuckle at John’s attitude. “I guess.”

           Tired of talking from his chair, you make your way into the kitchen, plopping yourself down in the chair at the end of the table, moving some of Sherlock’s experiment out of the way so you can prop your elbow on the surface. You watch John as he cooks, snickering when he opens the fridge to find an entire hand on the shelf.

           “Christ—!”

           “Come on, that’s funny!”

           He turns around to glare at you.

           “Do you need a hand with cooking?” You go further, practically reducing yourself to a giggling mess. “There’s one there for you.”

           John eyes you weirdly as you continue laughing, muffling the noise with your sleeve. “Are you okay?”

           “I think I got too much sleep.” You calm yourself down with a deep breath. “How was Mary?”

           “Good, good,” he nods.

           “Have you asked her yet?”

           “No…”

           “What? Why?”

           He blinks. “I want you to meet her first.”

           Now it’s your turn to blink in bewilderment. “Why?”

           He sighs, having to remind himself that your idea of family is, well, nonexistent. So, this kind of thing has likely never come up in your life.

           “Well, she wants to meet you, and you want to meet her,” he shrugs. “I’d like to know what you think of her first.”

           “Do you love her?”

           The question startles him for a moment before he gathers his senses, nodding. “I do, yeah. I do.”

           “Then why does my opinion matter?”

           “Because you’re—You’re my sister. And I wanna know what you think of her first.”

           Right. That must be another family thing you forgot about. “Well, I think she’s lovely.”

           He gives you a look. “You haven’t met her.”

           “No, but you seem quite enamored with her, so therefore, I think she’s wonderful.”

           “Fine,” he sighs. “I will ask her. Your opinion be damned.”

           “Good,” you grin, glad to have come to this conclusion. “When do I get to meet her?”

           “You just—” He nearly throws something in frustration, giving you another one of his infamous looks. “You’re definitely feeling better.”

           “A little,” you tease. You actually are. A few – and by a few, you mean nearly ten hours – good hours of restful sleep will do wonders. And for right now, sitting here, talking to Johnny, you can ignore everything. At least for this moment, it all feels okay again.

           Not again. It all feels okay. For the first time.

           You just can’t help but wonder how long it will last.

#Trust #sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #john watson #sibling!reader #half-sibling!reader

[ammacdiaries-blog]

When In Williston....Just Don’t

First entry.  First attempt at writing a short story.  The following is a true story.  Obviously, names aren’t included.  I do welcome all feedback.  Please also share.

Here goes….

Fresh out of training, yet still in my probationary period dubbed first 120.  I began my embarquement from Seattle, Washington to Chicago, Illinois on my normal run called The Empire Builder.  The total journey would be 6-days; 3 there and 3 back.  Assigned to the Sleeper Car, I was in charge of first class services.  This entails providing services to 16 to 24 rooms with 1 to 5 passengers per room; making beds, to-go meals, luggage assist, etc.  I especially like working in the sleepers because of the direct customer contact.

This summer was proving to be an especially difficult one.  Continual track work bestowed us with countless delays.  This resulted in irritated passengers.  Still nothing I couldn’t handle.  Even as we entered Wolf Point, MT and I learned a tornado caused a freight liner to derail just ahead of us, I could still direct the mood of irritated passengers into a more positive one and keep people entertained.  

I guess I was too focused on the people and paid no attention to my arachnid homies, causing one to get especially bitter.  I asleep in my room, while Charlotte spun her web somewhere in the vicinity.  After a long day of whipping out some web, she must of developed a bad taste in her mouth.   

Through her several eyes, I can only guess she saw me as one of two things: An asshole who was keeping her trapped there, or a nice humid incubator where she could sink her teeth into a nice tender thigh.  Since Wilbur never gave her any bacon, after writing all those messages in the web, I assume she saw this as her one opportunity to get some good squealing in.  

I awoke with a burning sensation in between my legs.  Not that of a result of a great time with a complete stranger in a cheap hotel room.  But still one that would require countless antibiotics.  Where’s the fun in that?  I’m not sure whatever happened to Charlotte.  But I’m guessing after her journey to the nether regions of my southern hemisphere, she turned eight feet up and six feet under.  

Now me being me, I of course fell right back to sleep.  If the intruder alarm in my house won’t wake me up for long, chances are some heat near my hot pocket won’t wake me up either.  When I awoke though, I discovered Charlotte’s little parting gift for me.

Throughout the next several hours, I worked as normal.  Trying to ignore the pain of what started out as a pea-sized nob, and then had grown into a half-dollar sized coin.  By the night, I had started mastering the penguin waddle.  You skinny people might not get this reference.  But the penguin waddle is what us larger people do when chafing occurs in between the thighs.  As to not piss our ham hocks off any further, we keep our thighs close together and swish our hips, while keeping our legs straight in order to keep pain at a minimal.   I haven’t had to use this maneuver since my teenage years.  Luckily, it was like hopping on a bike after not being on one for a decade.  Oh the things I take pride in.

Going late into my 3-day, and still no where near Chicago, the abscess between my thighs had now grown to about 6-inches.  Still too scared to seek medical attention, I did find it in my better interest to let a crew member know just in case, you know, something worse could happen.  Despite his years of experience and vast knowledge of how Amtrak handles things, I still chose not to make management aware.  During the first 120, it was ingrained in our heads you will be fired for any mishap.  I must emphasize, this is not the case as I later learned.  

Our layover in Chicago, when on time is approximately 18-hours.  The delay from the derailment lowered that layover to approximately 4-hours.  I had planned on going to urgent care, getting an I&D, then leaving out on my return trip.  Unfortunately, I had just literally pulled a 24-hour shift, and was allotted 4-hours to do laundry, take a hot bath, nap for 1-hour and then return to work the train going back.  I was riding myself hard and putting me away wet.  

The wound had now spread from my groin to knee and was the most beautiful color of dark purple, had it not been my flesh.  Full car coming back, there would be no rest for this wicked man.  

In the distance, I heard the sound of a call light go off.  As it was lunch time, this could only mean they wanted to order their food to-go as opposed to being normal people and eating in the dining car.  Normally I wouldn’t be so irritated by such an easy request.  But my time back on this bicycle was making my ass more tender than veil.  

After collecting their order and returning with their food, I knocked on their door.  The vibrations of the knocking must of set off the richter scale because a splitting of the plates happened.  I ruptured.  The man answered the door with the biggest smile.  Those fresh burgers for him and his girlfriend had finally arrived.  And how he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into them.

Yes he was greeted with that, but no.  There would be no smell of fresh angus beef and bacon in the air.  There would be that of the foul stench of the walking dead.  I dare not say what just happened.  We both looked at each other as if to say “What hell did you eat?”.  He knew it wasn’t him.  I knew it was me.  But he didn’t know that.  I gave him the look like it was him.  Which I hope made him believe it was his girlfriend.  Both our faces wrinkled to the point of needing an immediate injection of botox.  We still managed to exchange product for gratuity.  If they are still together, I won’t ever know.  

I was at a loss.  There was no more penguin waddle left in me.  I could only now slither like a slug to the nearest shower room and play doctor with my first aid kit.  I texted my partner in crime to let him know that an act of God had just occurred.  And thank goodness because we were approaching our next stop and I had to let passengers on and off.  There was no way I was going to help people with sappy, soupy pants on with the fragrance of that one wouldn’t even smell in a soup kitchen.  

Now seriousness was going to have to take place.  There was no further thing I could do but seek medical attention.

“Good afternoon passengers” came across over the PA system.  “Our next station stop will be Williston, North Dakota.”  

This was to be my stop.  The conductor had called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  I had only had about 15-minutes to pack my room, dress my wounds, dress myself and be available at the door.  Oh, and please don’t forget that I’m still only one 1-hour of sleep.  

As I stood there waiting for that next station stop, my passengers had began to cluster around the vestibule area, eager to step off the train, have that much desired cigarette, and of course witness my grand exit.  

I open the door upon arrival and before me are approximately 14 paramedics.  Not quite the paparazzi, but still very intimidating.  Then the press conference begins.

“Why is it you think you need an ambulance?” the one reporter boasted.

“I beg your pardon?”  What the hell kind of question is that?

“Why do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

Am I interviewing for a patient position, I thought.  I turned and look behind me to see my passengers just a chomping at the popcorn, anticipating what I was going to say next.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint.  But your not going to hear me say “Oh I have a compromised immune system and a wound the size of my fucking thigh just blew up in my thigh and I thought this would just be the next fun thing to do in my day.”

“I’ll be more than happy to answer that questions on our way to the hospital without an audience.”  I assertively replied.  

While dancing in the back of the ambulance to every pothole on the road, someone must have heard me say “I have ebola”, because when I got to the hospital, every person was wearing thick gowns, spit guards, and filtered masks.  I’m now so emotionally distraught, and tired, I have no idea what to do.  

I then was blessed to meet probably the only person with a brain, the PA who walked in asking why she felt she was on a movie set instead of a hospital.  As the lambs started “baaaaaaaaaahing” out their reasons, she quickly schooled them and said contact precautions as normal.  None of this additional crap is necessary.  She then looks at my wound and says “Cellulitis and possible MRSA.”  Oh Christ, I thought.  My next emotion was to cry.  Apparently this was something they didn’t know how to handle.  Well not handle so much as acknowledge.  

Because at this moment, I had learned Nurse Ratched had continued her education, becoming a doctor, my doctor and was standing before me.  “If we don’t keep you here, what is it you think you’re going to do?”

I didn't understand the question.  Yes, it was to the point.  I just didn’t see how it related to me.  “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”

“Well do you think Amtrak is going to just give you another ticket?  What are you doing to do?”

Despite Nurse Ratched’s continued education, I noticed she still somehow must have missed any courses involving bedside manner.  It feared me though that once I explained I was an employee and fully insured, how quickly her tune changed.  But that wasn’t a hill I was ready to climb.

While being admitted as an inpatient, I had understandingly fallen asleep to only be awoken by the Hospitalist, a harpy I dubbed Olga the Oger.  “Michael, we need to talk.”

I fumbled to awaken myself.  SInce my bladder felt as if to explode, this initial task was a bit easier.  “I need to use the restroom first.”

I’m not sure what kind of fetishes this harpy had, but she grabs a urinal,sits it in front of me, then sits down herself, giving me the strongest execution of poker face I had ever seen.

“Without an audience.” I commanded.  

While waiting for her to come back in the room, flapping her wings to perch in her nest, I fell back asleep.  Then again with that same shrill I heard “Michael, I said we needed to talk.”

Hold up.  What’s that?  No ma’am.  You obviously don’t know who I am.  It was at that moment my hummingbird ass was put to rest by my alligator mouth.  I couldn’t believe I had it in me.  The harpy looked down, looked at me in the eyes, then said “I am getting security.  I don’t feel safe with you in the room.”

Security must have been busy fighting the meth monsters from the emergency room.  Because she came back with no soldiers.  Which I was fine with.  I grabbed my big boy britches, apologized and proceeded our discussions.

Three more times she ran out of my room in fear.  No my friends, not from my hot temper.  But to change every order she had already written for me because she failed to find out my allergies beforehand.  I was starting to feel that Charlotte and I were going to be seeing each other again in the after life by the way things were going.

Well I survived the that 5-day stay in the hospital.  But no.  Mount Fiji had yet to be conquered.  My final night in Williston was to be at a hotel.  Work had generously called me cab to take me to the Ritz, no Discount something or other inn.

As I stand there waiting for my chariot to arrive, a strong sense of anxiety consumed me as I saw this black SUV come racing towards me.  Oh God.  This can’t be my cab.  I found placing my luggage in the back to be especially easy as the the whole back window had been busted out.  Upon entering the cab, I took notice to the several inches of dirt and dead insects upon my bench.  I especially loved that my “driver” rhythmically licked and chewed his lips as if they were two cheeseburgers from the best burger joint in town.

“Now they told me you would need a receipt.  I told them we give receipts on cards.”

Fair enough I thought.  Wait….What’s this.  Lip Licker hands me the card of a female real estate broker who specializes in short sales at Remax.  On the back of my card it says Cab Fare $17.00 and a signature.  Oh yeah.  Accounting will look at this like seeing a turd floating in a punch bowl.  

Thank Christ, I’m at the hotel!  I walk in to see the accommodations were doable.  Not the Ritz as I dreamed.  But after my week, a cardboard box set up in the middle lane of a highway in a rainstorm wouldn’t seem so disappointing.  “Sir.  We have your complimentary dinner available for you in the hallway over there.”

Dinner in the hallway?  Oh hell yeah!   Jackpot.  I couldn’t wait.  As I stand in line behind every roughneck in the state acting like vultures before 3 metal canisters, I couldn’t hardly wait to see what lottery winnings I could be consuming.  Door number one had something that I think might have been tuna.  Whatever it was, it was shredded, white, and crusty on top.  Behind door number two, chicken so oily, had I dropped it, Foghorn Leghorn would have slid straight to the Canadian Border.  Then behind door number three, corn dogs so hard, I could speer someone’s eyes out from across the room.  I figured between the preservatives, and the 600 different antibiotics running through my system, the speers would be the best way to go.

Oh let the C-Diff begin!!!!

It’s safe to assume, if I’m ever bit again, by anything, I’ll probably not wait so long to address it.  Maybe I’ll start asking for directions too.  

#williston #hotpocket #ammacdiaries #michaelmacneil

[realitv]

EPISODE SIX REWRITES: DONAR THE GREAT.

NOTE: The N*zis will hereby be a local mob. It’s the fucking 20s. I don’t know why they did that. I don’t want to know why they did that. I’m not keeping that in and I’m not acknowledging that as anything more than a shitty, awful fucking choice that really had no business being in there. There’s a lot to unpack in that, and none of it is good. The odd subplot of Technical B.oy recruiting Columbia, Actual Propaganda Creature, was pretty clearly written with Media in mind. Columbia, personification of the USA, was historically a pretty strong propaganda tool and now currently survives via Columbia pictures. Media really did get Columbia, huh. Technical B.oy should have been recruiting Vulcan, Hadúr, Luchtaine et cetera for technology and weaponry purposes during the war. It literally felt like the writers wrote this with Media in mind, and then realised they’d overwritten them. 🤷 Obviously y'all don’t have to go along with this specifically but I say DEATH OF THE SHOW, DEATH OF THE AUTHOR BAY-BEE! 

  IT’S A SEEDY, SMOKEY THEATRE: a hallowed hall where patrons dress up, dress down in ERMINE AND PEARLS to forget their troubles for the night, to believe in something bigger and better than they are. Art deco gilt reads AMERICA: 1929; a world on edge, a tipping point. A bullshit, razzle dazzle show that’s rehearsed and played to death to an audience that adores CHEAP THRILLS. No soul; just some sort of temple to the GLORY DAYS that were long since dead and gone. Applause, please! They’ve been watching. Of course they’ve been watching. Centre stage in a plush booth that reeks of cigarette smoke; the static always comes with them. Radio white noise and the snippets of talk shows filtering through the big jazz band and it crackles within the ears of patrons. Reminds them, tells them: GO HOME. SIT DOWN. LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME. That little brown box with the glowing little dials; the voice America woke up to. They’ve been watching for a while now; a regular devotee from the big leagues come to bless them with their appearance, their presence; people are drawn to them like flies to honey and when they applaud, when they smile, the theatre does too; rows and rows of teeth on display and Wednesday has the nerve to appear with a drink in his hand. IT’S ON THE HOUSE.   “And if I said I don’t want it, honey?” ALL THE DRAMA OF A TALK SHOW HOST! Accented syllables and vowels drawling into the beginnings of a Transatlantic accent. The Mass Media is RADIANT; glowing; spotlights upon that bleached head of perfect curls and it lights up their face; the beginnings of wires and mainframes only just starting to grow through flesh and ink. I GIVE IT AS A GIFT TO YOU. “And I said I don’t want it. See now, I don’t much approve of you and your ilk taking up space in my domain like this.” Another drag from their cigarette. Smoke spiralling into Wednesday’s face and when they laugh, the room fills with the grainy sounds of a radio jingle. “Using my voice like that! Naughty, naughty. IT IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU.” The smile fades, melts from their expression and it leaves them frigid, leaves them cold and sure. Wednesday’s one good eye burns. “I AM THE MESSAGE. The message is the future. I am not for you.” NOW, NOW, MY DEAR. YOU FORGET, WE DID NOT NEED YOU BEFORE. WE DO NOT NEED YOU NOW. THE PEOPLE WILL FORGET. THE PEOPLE WILL MOVE ON, AND YOU WILL BE OBSOLETE. Forgotten. THERE’S NO NEED TO GET ANGRY. “I was there when they wrote your stories into the Edda, when they carved your image into stone. I was there for a great many things, Al. And now, you are on my stage, using my voice. Maybe I’ll stretch my legs, and go see The Law. Tip him off, since this place just ain’t up to snuff. Or, I let you talk: I’ll take my payment later. Do we have a contract?” The white noise presses in; their eyes meet, a steady beat of silence before he nods. WE HAVE A COMPACT.

  CUT BACK TO PRESENT DAY BLACK BRIAR: The World and GENERAL ORGANA at the War Table, the right hand pushing pieces across the map. THE WAR HAS STARTED. World’s voice echoes; General Organa pausing in their ministrations to cast plasma gaze to them. “And no one has realised it. A train crash in Chicago.” A piece moves across the board. “An armed robbery in Rhode Island.” Another. “Poisoned lobster in Nashville.” Eyes meet. They mirror each other; glance for glance, smile for smile; Leia leans in close. “They have been quiet, despite all of this. Are they building THE DEATH STAR?” NO. THEY HAVE SCATTERED, AS I SAID THEY WOULD. ONE BY ONE, THEY WILL FALL. “Of course, Commander. I only wish to do my part to SERVE THE ALLIANCE.” Silence. AND YOU WILL. OF COURSE YOU WILL. YOU BOTH WILL.” Cut to General Organa, brows furrowed: The World beckons; like a shadow, they follow; a quick, purposeful stride, hands pressed to the small of their back to the sidelines. Social Media sifting through images: SWIPE RIGHT? SUPER LIKE? HEART REACT? COMMENT, TWEET, HASHTAG OVER IT! A soft ‘ahem’ from World and the noise dies; turning around to face Commander and General with wide eyes. YEAH? Nervousness, how unlike her. Leia’s gaze burns. BOTH OF YOU MUST MAKE READY FOR THE BROADCAST. “Affirmative. All preparations have been made: I am ready when you are.” I NEED MORE POWER. Two sets of eyes facing the other piece in the puzzle to find it lacking. OUR NEW FRIEND IS COMING. THEY HAVE ASSURED ME: YOU WILL BE READY. Their shadow covers her; drags away as World exits stage right. Two voices left alone; Leia stares, stares, stares. It’s empty, it’s cold; flat. Social Media holds it, twitches: it’s the same numinous dread The Boy had etched into their features whenever the General came calling. “IT’S A WONDER YOU’RE STILL ALIVE. More power. This is child’s play, but then again, YOU’RE A LITTLE SHORT FOR A STORMTROOPER.”

  AMERICA: 1933. THE THEATRE IS CRACKING, YELLOWED: prohibition may have ended but Great Depression left everyone hungry. THEY ENTER IN SILK AND RUBIES: rosy cheeks and the smile of a Hollywood Starlet. Flushed, ALIVE! Hollow eyes stare at them with RAVENOUS hunger and when they laugh, the world tints with static; PRE-CODE MASTERPIECES and biting social commentary. Standing against the backdrop of an abandoned stage and despite themselves, their feet move; tap, slide, swivel; IS IT THE CHARLESTON? Some new crazy song and dance number? TUNE IN! WATCH THE LATE NIGHT PICTURE SHOW! Snapped out of it; a slow, slow clap echoing; spotlight dies and they stand stock still. I DID NOT THINK I’D SEE YOU BACK HERE, MY DEAR. “Mister Wednesday.” A curl of their lip, hopping down from the stage and it’s a quick one-two step. “I’ve come for my payment. We have a need. We’ve had our eye on Miss Columbia. You remember our terms: I LET YOU SPEAK. Now, I want my slice of the pie.   “Hasn’t it been ages since I saw you last, honey?” YOU. YOU AGAIN. Eyes flitting between Wednesday and The Mass Media; tightening the sash on their robe and drawing it to a close under prying eyes. “I thought you’d have been happier to see lil’ ol’ me again after all this time. I’m real sorry about how the Great War ended up, but you know how it is. Mister Money decided LIBERTY SELLS, and THAT’S A WRAP! Centuries of mythos overwritten by another Goddess. She’s doing fine, by the way. All of us are.” Silence. It falls thick and heavy and the world around them buzzes with white noise. “Cat got your tongue?” WE’RE DOING FINE. A pout. “Oh, now, see here, I just hate liars. Can’t stand ‘em! It’s why I got all these new ethics and standards in place. And you, honey, are violating those. Look at you, you look like someone who just crawled out of the DUST BOWL.” And she looks down. Looks at her faded, out of date clothes. The mouldering room around her. Media takes another drag from their cigarette; lounges in the settee that’s falling apart and grins. “You’re just surviving, sweetheart. The people will forget. Then you will die, and I’ll look back on the beautiful legacy we had together, all that teamwork through the centuries and say to myself: ‘If only Miss Columbia had listened to me!’ There’s something coming. We can all feel it. I want to give you your place back, I want to move forward with you. I’ll even put you in the pictures, then you’ll never die.” It’s served on a silver platter, tied with velvet ribbon: how can any God resist? WELL -- I -- Wednesday holds up a hand. SHE’LL THINK ABOUT IT, GIVE YOU AN ANSWER SOON. “Well, don’t keep me waiting, honey.” A languid sigh; standing in a smooth motion as they moved towards the door. “--I’ll be seeing you on the studio lot.” 

  EVEN DYING MALLS HAVE EYES: grainy CCTV footage near a repair chaos picks up a tremor, something not quite right: Wednesday’s spear, carved with runes; near repaired. A black and white eye presses forward, stares. The screen goes blank with a bzzt.  RED ALERT. The noise echoes; lights flashing; World and their right hand ROD SERLING come back by popular remand; finger hovering over red button and the World pushes down to bring an awful silence. WHAT WAS THAT? Social Media scampering in; out of breath. IT’S SO ANALOGUE. As was everything within the space. WE ARE AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. “--I was not aware that we were on one.” A sideways glance; World and Serling’s eyes meet; electricity flavours the air. THEY HAVE CARVED THE RUNES INTO THE SPEAR? “Yes. IT IS MAN’S PREROGATIVE TO CREATE THEIR OWN HELL: and we, I believe, HAVE JUST CROSSED INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE.” 

#📺❝ TUNE IN AT ELEVEN FOR MORE ! ( headcanons. ) #📺❝ ( verse. ) PUT A PILLOW OVER THAT FEELING. BEAR DOWN. SMOTHER IT !

[fallenhero-rebirth]

200 subscribers! (actually 208)

I’ve pondered long and hard what to do, and came to the realization that I did not have time to write anything since I am right now working on book two. But, I wanted to give you a bit of fun, so I went back through my archives and found some outtakes. You remember when I said that Fallen Hero was originally meant to be a novel? Well, I thought I’d share some scenes from there that hasn’t made it into the game (yet). Be warned, this is from 2011, first person, Cyrus and Yasmin, a male Ortega and Dr. Mortus (not Mortum) and in no way canon anymore. Also a lot more swearing.

Snippets under the cut:

1: Yasmin runs into problems (cut from book one)

I am insane. It’s not the first time I have thought that in the last year, and it will probably not be the last. How did I ever imagine that I could pull this off? My mind is fire and ice as I face the gun aimed at my face, but Yasmin’s lips simply curls in a smile. “This is a mistake” I assure the gun, and the masked man behind it, my voice a honeyed mumble.

“No mistake bitch” the man with the gun replies, a faceless goon with high-tech weapons that rings bells I can’t quite make sense of. In Yasmin’s body I can’t read thoughts, only the body language of a man that really doesn’t care whether I live or die. “Word has it that you were the one that made off with the Aipherion, and I’ve been hired to retrieve it.”

The gun beckons, and I take a step towards it, flirts with death and pain as I let my eyes widen a little, confusion vying with worry on my face. “I had nothing to do with that” I lie, because stealing from heroes was one thing, but the mystical gem called the Aipherion had belonged to Lord Modius, and one did not play games with him. Who had talked? Dr Mortus? It seems unlikely, if he had I would be dead already and the gem returned to its owner.

“I am sad to hear that” the goon replies, the gun never wavering from my face. It’s large, imposing, and like all guns overtly phallic. “Because my sources all point to you being involved.”

I am growing annoyed at the presence of the gun by now, so I do the only thing I can. I take a step forward and lick the tip of it, whispering into the barrel “Listen, I don’t know what magic eightball you’ve shook to have my name come up, but you are barking up the wrong tree. I’m a tech-girl; the mystical is wasted on me.” As if to prove the point I wrap my lips around the barrel and is rewarded with a shiver I can feel through my lips. I pull my head away, glistening strands of saliva still connecting me to his weapon. My smile has turned sensual, as I slide my tongue down the gun, softly stepping even closer as I nudge the weapon to the side. Sucker.

“My sources…” he starts, voice distracted, and this is the chance I need. The gun was aimed past my head now, not at it, and I move fast as a rattler as I grab his hand and punch his elbow hard enough to almost dislocate it. His words turn to a scream and the gun drops from dead fingers.

“Fuck your sources” I swear, driving my fist into his stomach as hard as I can, but he’s a big man and well armoured, and doesn’t fold like I want him to. Damn. This could be bad.

“Bitch” he growls, left hand snatching out and grabbing my hair. I should have seen that coming, but I’m not Sidestep now, I’m Yasmin. I can’t see what people will do; I am no longer three steps ahead. I am caught, and he has longer reach and is stronger than me. I am fucked. He knows it. I know it. His knee catches me in the stomach and I fold, gasping for air. “You will pay for that” he snaps, and I don’t doubt his word.

“Wait” I manage to get out before his next kick drives what air remains from my lungs. I curl up on the ground, trying to protect my face. But he leans in and traps me against the ground with a knee, slaps my face a few times hard enough to make my ears ring. He doesn’t even take fighting me seriously, and the shame of that makes my cheeks burn from embarrassment as much as pain. I feel more helpless than I’ve felt since the farm, and I want to run and hide, withdraw and leave an empty doll for him to play with. But if I do, I can’t be sure if I would find my way back to her. I would have to give up two years of plans so very close to fruition. I need her, I need my Yasmin.

“Did you have anything to say to me?” He has me pinned down now, captured beneath his weight. I don’t need my telepathy to see that he is enjoying this. That he is enjoying my swollen lip and tearful eyes. He has me now, and he knows it, his gloved left hand caressing my bruised cheek.

“I’m telling the truth” I sob, deciding to play up the fear if I can’t escape it. “I don’t have it. But I can find out. People tell me things…” it is my final gamble, to play the girl to the end. To not be important, to be pretty and smart, but never dangerous. I was not the threat; I was a norm, a tool, like his gun. A sexy girl employed by somebody, just like he was. I did not know now, but I could find out.

“I’m sorry hon, that just ain’t good enough.” He backhands me again, and I taste blood and metal as bright spots distort my vision. “Can’t take the chance of you running off to Dr Mortus for help. I don’t care what the pair of you is cooking up together, but my instructions were clear.” He reaches down and grabs my dress, my breasts spilling out as the fabric rips in his hand. The sight distracts him momentarily, and I know I won’t get another shot at this.

I yelp and move up an arm to shield my nakedness, but the moment he reaches out to grab my wrist I lash out with my other arm and jab a piece of broken bottle into the side of his thigh. It doesn’t penetrate deeply through the coveralls, but it makes him shift his weight enough for me to crawl away as he struggles to pull it out. I crawl fast, on knees and elbows with the tattered remains of my Ungaro around my waist. I don’t get far before I feel his hand around my ankle, pulling me back. I didn’t get far, but I got far enough and oh God how I enjoy the look of terrified surprise on his face when I roll over on my back and shove the gun he dropped back in his mouth. I know I should say something witty in the line of ‘suck on this’ if I want to have a future in this profession, but my hands are shaking with rage so I simply pull the trigger and nearly deafen myself at the roar the gun makes in the narrow alley. Idiot. He didn’t even have a silencer.

I lay there on the ground, his bleeding corpse draped over me, ruptured head leaking brains over the remains of my dress. I should reach for my phone and call the police; I am clearly the victim here. But that would mean more exposure than I would like. Instead I swallow my pride and calls Dr Mortus. Let the man earn his keep and damn my dignity.

2: Yasmin and Ortega at the bar (Might happen in book two)

The bar is filled with the muted hum of drunken conversation, unrecognizable through the rockabilly blare of the speakers. The green velvet seats in the booth are greasy from decades of the unwashed and uncaring, and the light that filters down, does so through a haze of cigarette smoke. In a corner two men in purple suits are having a pantomime argument, while the hunched bear of a man at the bar hides his gang colors under an oversized trench coat. I don’t even want to know what else he has under there.

I shouldn’t throw stones.

We must be quite a sight where we sit in our booth. A bedraggled young woman in ill-fitting lab clothes and messy hair, and a middle-aged hispanic man in blue coveralls and stolen wellingtons. Honestly, it’s a miracle that we’re sitting here at all; I didn’t expect to escape from Dr. Mortus lab this easily. Granted, Liz had told me that he was gone for a few days, but in the back of my mind I expected him to pop up behind us with a plasma cannon just as we were getting out of there. He probably didn’t think I would try to escape. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he trusted me. Maybe he really wanted to help. Or maybe we were lucky. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Ortega keeps staring at me in silence, and I keep the gun aimed at him under the table.

In front of us, both our beers remain untouched.

Not that anybody cares to take a closer look at us. That is the reason I dragged Ortega here at gunpoint. It is one of the many villain bars I combed through before settling on Joe’s as my favored haunt. This one, aptly named Garage Sale, always felt too low-brow. The people I wanted to meet didn’t go here; this is a place for the down and out, for the upwardly mobile henchmen and supervillains on the skids. In here, nobody cares and nobody smiles. Neither do we.

“All I have to do is make one phone call and you’ll be safe.” Ortega does his best to sound calm and convincing, but he just doesn’t look he part right now. His age has caught up to him and weights heavy on his brow, black rings shadow his eyes and he’s mottled with bruises where he had been hooked up to Dr. Mortus generator. That is the only reason I’m able to threaten him at all, his powers still hadn’t recharged, and for the moment he’s just as ordinary as I am.

But I have the gun.

“I won’t go back to jail,” I reply, my voice as cold as my face. I have no idea what I am supposed to do now, my brain has locked itself into a death spiral, and I don’t know how to get out of it. The crash seems inevitable, and the ground is painted with prison bars. That’s why we ended up in this bar; I needed someplace safe and neutral, somewhere where nobody would care or ask questions. And Cyrus would never come here. At least I hope that whoever stole his body still has an interest in keeping up the charade that he is a good guy. It’s too valuable to waste. I hope.

“It was a hospital, not a jail,” Ortega tries, raising the beer to his lips for the first time since we got here. As he moves he makes me tense up and I clench the gun harder, which makes him tense up, and the beer shivers a moment before he puts it down again. Very gently.

“It would have been. Once I’d recovered and given up whatever information I had. I’m not stupid, I know how this works.”

“Why do you still protect him? You said it yourself, the Annihilist threatened you, and you had no choice.” I almost feel sorry for Ortega, it is obvious that he wants to believe that so badly.

“It’s… complicated,” I sigh, the gun heavy in my hand. Part of me wants to let it go, wants to just confess and ask for help. I think I need it. But I know it’s never that easy. If I told Ortega about Cyrus, about who I am and what I did, would he believe me? Even if he did, he would be disgusted. I am not a victim, I’m a villain, and my acts are conscious choices. Nobody holds a gun to my head.

“Life is complicated,” Ortega finally admits, looking into my eyes. “I don’t believe you are an evil woman. You didn’t have to rescue me; you could just as easily have left me there.”

I could just as easily have killed him too. That would have simplified things. The thought nauseates me, so I distract myself with words. “It’s just that…” I have lowered the gun now, but he doesn’t know that. “It’s not loyalty, but you’re asking me to give up my life and my freedom. You can’t stop him, I’ll either end up in jail for what I’ve done, or I’ll end up dead. I don’t think he’d let me live through a plea bargain.”

“And what if you go back to him? Do you think he would ever trust you again?” His words hit too close to home, even if it is for the wrong reasons. I hope it doesn’t show. Because he is right, I can never return to what I was. Not without a means to get my body back. And to pull that off I need contacts and friends. I just crossed Dr. Mortus of the rapidly shrinking list. Ortega is about the only one left. The one bridge I’m finding it hard to burn.

“I can’t go back, but I can’t go to jail either,” I repeat, as if words would somehow fix the world. The situation is rapidly turning into one of those nightmares where it’s just too hard to continue to struggle. It’s much easier to just go limp, roll over, pretend to be unconscious and accept what is coming to you. But in this nightmare, I am the one holding the gun. I am still in control.

Things change so quickly.

“Hey, isn’t that Charge?” Words strike like a lightning bolt from a clear sky, and suddenly all eyes are on us.

“I always said you were an idiot for not wearing a mask,” I snap without thinking. Cyrus’ words from Yasmin’s lips, but there is no time for more than a confused look on Ortega’s face. I’m on my feet with the gun pointed at the men that spotted us, but a well aimed bottle from the bar knocks it out of my hand.

All hell breaks loose.

Ortega is on his feet and we’re back to back against the surging bar. It’s late enough for most of the patrons to be desperately drunk, trying to escape from the drudgery of their existence. But they are many, and I’m just happy that Ortega holds his own, because giving up is not an option. I knee a CerberUS henchman in the groin, slipping sideways as he crumbles. Ortega matches my step; moving into the spot that I left. I had forgotten how good it felt to have someone watch your back.

Someone you trust.

I am no longer a telepath, but apparently my reflexes are not gone. A movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn; reaching up to grab the descending arm before I even register what happened. His lack of balance makes it easy to turn his punch into a throw that sends him flying over a table. Bottles crash like firework.

I had forgotten how much I missed this.

I break into a smile as I break someone’s nose, the bottle splintering in my hand. People back away from my broken bottle, and I laugh in their faces, bolstered by the feeling of Ortega behind me, his back against mine. Then a sense of fearsome urgency hits me.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me push back hard enough to topple us both, but we hit the floor a moment before the blast hits the spot we just left. Suddenly the booth is on fire, the air aglow in freakish colors and I’m crawling for my life beneath the tables. The gloves have come off and the powers brought out, and if you shouldn’t drive drunk you probably shouldn’t wield biogenic flame or solid light constructs while wasted either. People are screaming, someone is on fire, the fight is escalating and it’s everyone against everyone.

At least until someone remembers that this wasn’t just about venting their frustrations, it’s about kicking a hero when he’s down and they can reach him. I watch Ortega disappear under a pile of has-beens wishing for a starring role in the story of Charge’s defeat. I don’t think I screamed his name out loud, and even if I did, nobody heard me amidst the chaos. I scramble free from the broken table I’d been hiding under just in time to dodge and shield my eyes as every single light in the bar explodes in a shower of sparks and glass. The mob around Ortega falls away, twitching and screaming as if they’d just pissed on the third rail. I am probably imagining the ozone, there’s no way that could ever overpower the stench of cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies and voided bowels.

Ortega untangles himself, pale blue lightning arcing between his body and the now empty sockets. The room is dark, but his eyes are throwing sparks. He’s shed the guise that he belonged here, another has-been slumming with the losers. Suddenly nobody seems eager to continue the fight.

“I think we will be leaving now,” he says, gesturing in my direction. Nobody protests. I straighten my back and walks out with Ortega, my hair alive with static electricity. My skin tingles from his aura, but I don’t bat an eyelash until we’re well outside the door.

And gone.

Two blocks of frantic running later we’re both out of breath, and Ortega looks less than imposing as he leans against a dumpster.

“Would you please accept my invitation and stay in my apartment at least? I’ve had enough excitement for one night,” he gasps.

“Not one night. Weeks. Technically you’ve been a captive for a couple of weeks,” I say, because I realized he had probably no idea how much time that had passed. My hair is tangled and sticking to my face so I wipe it back with a look of disgust.

“Weeks. Right. That’s good to know.” Ortega takes a step back from the dumpster; the smell coming from it is not pleasant now that he had regained his breath.

“Your powers. How long has it been since they recharged?” I’m through resisting the inevitable, but I need to know.

“On the way to the bar. I borrowed a jolt from a badly insulated lamppost.” Ortega looks sheepish, as if he was a bit ashamed of his subterfuge.

“So you could have taken the gun from me at any point?”

“You… looked like you needed it. I didn’t want to push you into doing something rash.”

I nod, defeated. “That was probably very smart. I meant what I said; I won’t go back to jail.”

“It won’t be jail. It’s just my apartment. You can leave at any time, but I really wish you wouldn’t. You’re too interesting to end up just another statistic.”

“Thanks. I think. Just don’t tell anybody I’m there.” It sounds more like begging than an order, even though the ‘please’ remains unsaid, sticking in my throat. “I need time to think. Time to make my own choices.”

“I won’t tell anybody. I promise. I respect that you need time. Do we have a deal then?” He holds out his hand, battered and bleeding from the fight.

The sad thing is, I believe him. I know how this works, the sympathetic ear, the understanding friend. You catch more flies with honey and all that. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve let him save me enough time in the past that one more time won’t make a difference. It’s the least painful of my choices, so I sigh “deal,” then grabs his hand and shakes it.

Probably a little too manly again, because he gives me another look.

This won’t end well.

#Fallen Hero #old stories #the novel that never was

[mintyoongiskookie]

sad boys | two

Member: Jeon Jungkook x Reader x Park Jimin

Genre: Heavy angst, maybe a bit of fluff? Rebel Jungkook, Fuck Buddy Jimin, Soulmate AU

Word Count: 2,500

A/N: SORRY FOR MY INACTIVITY! My school just started up and let’s just say my mental health hasn’t been the best recently. But thank you all for the likes!

      *Italics in this is a flashback

      They were everywhere. Roses, glass, roses, glass, roses, glass. Him. Bushes of white roses were trapping you, the windows on his quaint little house taunting you, the reflections laughing at you. You stumbled up, grabbing for your throbbing head, making your way down the porch steps. Everything was spinning, screaming, laughing, and you couldn’t grip what was reality. A figure rushed to you, garbled words not registering into your brain. You had guessed it was Jimin, but you waved him off, shaking your head as you stumbled your way to the sidewalk. Your head turned, ears popping, and the boy was staring at you. Clear as day. No blurred lines, no screaming voices. His sad eyes stared at you, widening the slightest. He snapped his head away, staring at the ground. The voices slithered into your head again, and away you walked.

      You made your way home, crouching on the front lawn, trying the make the voices seize. You sat there, cradling yourself, images shooting through your head. You couldn’t take it. It felt like wind was stripping your skin away, yet there was nothing but a calm breeze. It felt like the sun was burning your bones, scorching you from the inside out, but the sun was calmly setting. Everything was spinning, screeching, but in reality it was a mask of suburbia.

      A hand shoved its was through your flying surroundings, then everything stopped. Your hands were inching away from your head, and your eyes focused on the inked hand of the boy. A cigarette was hanging between his lips, a flush on his cheeks, and two bottles of fifteen dollar whiskey in his hands. He really was trying. Before you knew it, he was helping you onto the roof of his house, half a bottle already down your throats. His cigarette was between your lips, the lipstick staining the shitty filter. His back was against the shingles, shirt raised up a bit, scars and scabs on his stomach showing. He was completely shattered. 

      He was a fucked up piece of shit. He knew it, you knew it, everyone probably knew it. There were burns of little circles running up and down his arms, scars on every inch of his body. His hands were giant, tough and callused, yet still so beautiful. His veins were twisting over his arms, dancing under the skin, making murals. His face was so worn, so knowledgeable, and his eyes look like he’s seen everything you’d never want to. But his skin was so soft, so clear, like a baby. He was only a child in a man’s body, his thoughts contradicting to his actions. He wasn’t okay. You knew if anyone asked, his fake smile would fall onto his lips, not reaching his dead eyes, and new scars making their way onto his hips. He would smile and nod, because people like him were always the best liars. People like both of you.

      The liquor was burning your throat, but the relief of booze was washing over you. Heat ran over your body, and the warm buzz made you feel safe. You almost didn’t hear him speak.

      “Daddy’s gone, mommy issues, copes with smokes and whiskey. Y’know kid, you’re kinda like me.” His voice shocks you, the silky sound falling freely from his lips. he sounded like he knew what he was going to say at all times, no hesitation present in his voice at all. You didn’t expect him to sound so much like sweet honey, you expected something like sandpaper, the constant smoke of cigarettes wearing and tearing on his throat. Even your voice had rough edges and cracks every once in a while. He sounded like someone who could lull you to sleep in an instant, no matter the situation. What also shocked you was that he saw right through you.

      “How did you…?”

      A small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes placed itself on his face. “Your eyes tell a story.” When was he looking at my eyes? “You aren’t okay. People are terrible for thinking you are.” Okay, so he was more observant than you thought. You didn’t know what you were doing. Sitting on your soulmate’s roof, chugging whiskey, not having any intent of touching on the fragile subject.

      “You’re dead.” You could see his slightly puzzled look from the corner of your eyes, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the best choice of words. “I mean you were. In your past life. You stabbed your throat with a mirror and made me watch.” As the words left your mouth, more and more images crashed into your mind, drowning out anything else. Your head fell to your hands, your fingers curling around your hair, tugging at the roots. You didn’t know how to cope. How could he? He was the one who put you through this. He killed himself. And you hated how terrible it made you feel. You didn’t know him.

      No one did.

      In an instant you were pulled into his arms, scarred and inked. You didn’t realize that you were shaking, and that silent sobs were racking through your body. how did you have this level of attachment to a boy you just met? You hadn’t cried this hard ever. Not even when you walked in on your mom tying a noose.

      His burnt hands caressed your tear doused cheeks, rough finger pads wiping your tears away. He was enough to make you feel safe, enough to get you to quiet down with the small shushes he gave you. his lips were pressed against your temple, softer than flower petals. Your eyes were screwed shuts, your hands holding his collar with a vice grip. you had no idea where this tidal wave of emotion came from, but it felt so good to have someone to hold onto. Arms that would hold you tight, a shoulder to cry on, and lips that would kiss the pain away. You felt like every part of you just ran to him, letting yourself get encased by his being. He held you on his lap for god knows how long, to the point where the only light source was the sliver of a moon and the billions of stars. His heart beat was soothing, the pace never changing, and the rise and fall of his chest was carrying you away from the world, letting you sleep. He laid down, keeping you on his chest, singing with the voice of an angel. it was quiet, almost silent, some words cracking from the strain on his voice, but it was absolutely perfect.

      If I told you that I loved you

      Tell me, what would you say?

      If I told you that I hated you 

      Would you go away?

      Now I need your help with everything that I do

      I don’t wanna lie, I’ve been relying on you.

      Fallin’ again, I need a pick-me-up

      I’ve been callin’ you friend, I might need to give it up

      I’m sick, and I’m tired too

      I can admit, I am not fire-proof…

      That’s all you heard from there on, sleep taking over your body. That was the best sleep of your life.

      You woke up in a unfamiliar bed, in unfamiliar clothes, but a hangover that you’ve gotten used to. The floorboards were glossed over, the walls were light blue, the sheets matched, and nothing looked like complete shit. You were curled up in something that felt so luxurious, when only then did you notice it was a comforter and the arms of the boy. I don’t even know his name and he knows everything about me. Jimin doesn’t know this shit. You had dreamt of the boy, but only more pure. A real boy. No scars, no black lungs, no fucked up liver, no sadness. The morning light shone on him, and he looked so innocent. You two were walking down a gravel road, you with a scraped knee, and sticks in both of your hands as you swatted at rocks. You two looked so young. 

      “Hey look! A toad!” 

      It was a bright, sunny morning in the small town you both lived in. You had discovered this little boy, with raven black hair and wide eyes while you were chasing after a butterfly a few months ago. He had the purest of faces, his eyes hidden from the rest of the world for his entire life. He had a yellow shirt on today, now covered in mud from your explorations, and overalls covering his legs. His new blue suede shoes got scuffed and dirty, but nothing a little rub from your shirt couldn’t fix. You Had a pale pink tee-shirt on, blue jeans, and old white tennis shoes on your feet. he hadn’t met a girl like you before - daring, fun, boyish. he was used to seeing girls with pigtails and pink bows, Mary Janes and white socks with little bows on them, and a pink dress. They would scream if he brought a worm near them, and would rather play house in the loft than blocks with him and his friends. You through, you were quite the sight to him. You weren’t afraid to get muddy, you would put bugs on your nose, and you would jump into the puddles with your hand in his. He liked to think about your long hair that covered your eyes, and the loud laugh that left your lips when you tripped.

      He had walked all the way down the road to see you today, the two of you venturing off to swim in your pond. His lab was trailing behind you two, too caught up in trying to eat flies to keep up. You both made it there, hopping through the tall grass and throwing off your shoes and socks, jumping right into the muddy water. Little fish nipped at your toes while frogs hopped over to see what all the commotion was, and turtles poked their heads out of the water to watch the young lovers play. Neither of you knew what soulmates were, neither of you knew that it was even possible, and neither of you thought it was possible to love the other. You both thought that love was “icky” and “gross”, and if any of the girls teased you two at school, you’d both pout ad say that, “Ewwww! That’s gross!” You two were just best friends, and you thought everyone felt like you did towards each other. You would say that every boy had cooties, except him. If he kissed you on your mud-covered cheek, you would break out into a gigantic grin and giggle. When you hugged him every time you saw him, his heart would beat faster and louder, and his smile would shine brighter than the sun.

      You both walked back to his house, his mother laughing when he saw how muddy the two of you were. She cleaned you both up, and sent him to walk you back home. You got to your front porch, smiling when you turned to face him with his head down, toeing the walkway with his shoes. Before you could say anything, his head shot up and pressed his lips against yours. You both stood there, hand in hand, cheeks as red as the poppies in the pots on the edge of your porch. He broke away and placed a white rose in your hair, the thorns all gone from his nervous fidgeting.

      “I saw mommy and daddy do that yesterday. They said people who love each other do that.”

      Your arms pulled him to you, your face hiding in his hair. Your muffled voice made you both grin wider than every before:

      “I love you Kookie.” 

     “I love you too (Y/N).”

      You were brought back to reality with tears in your eyes, streams already down the sides of your face, falling onto the shirt that belonged to him. You wondered why he had a life like this now, what he did to deserve any of this.

      “Kookie.”

      You voice was broken and careful, the sound barely making it’s way out of your throat. That was the first life you had ever lived. And obviously the best.

      His eyes shot wide open, the orbs almost looking the same as your past life. Almost. Sadness never fades.

      His words seemed to be caught in his throat, and instead of saying anything else, he crashed his lips on yours, holding you tighter against him. you felt a drop of wetness against your cheek, and your hands flew up to his face.

      You broke away from him, cradling his beautiful face in your shaking hands. “Please don’t cry.” His words came out as a shattered whisper, the sound only making you cry more.

      You both stayed like that into the afternoon, his hands running up and down your glass figure. He made you feel all these things, and you didn’t know if it was real or not. You were a flower, fragile and soft, beautiful if cared for. But in a single touch, you could break and wilt, and everyone loses interest in you. You were long gone by now, you had nothing that made you, you. You were a shell of a person, empty, with nothing left. You had skin and bones, but nothing that made you special. Then he came, filling you up to the brim with all these things that you didn’t know were even possible. Happiness? You didn’t know that. A will to live? Passion? Love? He made you his, he made you your own person. You were no longer an empty object with two legs and an occasionally working brain, you were you. (Y/N) (L/N). You hadn’t loved your name as much as you did now. You didn’t know how you felt about all these things, you didn’t know how you felt about him. One look at him and your voice is long gone, tears already welling up in your porcelain eyes.

      Your hands traced his scarred arms and legs, feeling the gauze taped onto his thighs, the scabbed cuts on his waist. Tears stormed down your face, waves and waves, silent cries leaving your lips that felt so nice, memories of his covering yours like a blanket, keeping you safe from the outside world. His hands were moving to your sides, your thighs, feeling the band-aids placed everywhere. He could already feel them on you ankle, and his face softened. You weren’t aware of the fact that he was indeed awake until his finger pressed roughly against a too fresh wound. A dry cry left you, your fingers gripping onto his skin, the feeling of blood making its way from the bandage.

      “Don’t ever let me catch you with more of these.”

      He kissed you like you were his world, his everything and nothing, his rise and his fall.

      And you were.

#jeon jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook au #jeon jungkook angst #bts #bts jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook au #bts jeon jungkook #bts au #bts scenarios #bts angst #jungkook bts #jimin #park jimin #jimin angst #bts jimin #bts park jimin #bts park jimin angst #jimin au #bts jimin au #bts jimin scenario #jimin scenario #park jimin scenarios

[winchester-sisters-imagines]

We’ve Gone Way too Fast for Way too Long (Part Four) (Final)

Pairing: Sister!Reader x Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy)

Words: 2,960

Based Off: This imagine

Forever Tag: @capandbuck @bummblebeeblue @sarbear429 @bea789 @xtina2191 @lovethefandomsuniverse @evyiione @trustnobodyshootfirst @motleymoose @thegoodhunterrr5 @bookaddictedhedgehog @gurlwitafro @ohmystars30 @aquabrie @fanboyswhereare-you @percussiongirl2017 @dionnemaria @sherlockslove112 @sesshomaru-lover @freaksforthewin @neishax-butler @hi-pixzza @cookee50 @captainidjit @imasunflower13 @clairedelalune @lovelife-tothefullest @dylcole @exploratiionist @dolliegirl16 @aworldwideapart @i-want-to-be-watered-by-roger @captainaudreystark@swimmer-sarcasm @almightunnie @winchesterswantmypie 

Warnings: Knives, blood, guns, drugs, someone getting knifed, some people get shot

Author’s Note: Here it is! The last and final part to my sister!reader x Jax Teller series! I’m glad you all loved it so much as I have. I would’ve loved to have a crossover between the two shows, but SOA has been over for a while (and it seems like supernatural won’t ever end). Now that this little series is over, I will be finishing up my Demon!Dean one and then finally finishing Standford!Sam. I hope you all have an amazing Sunday! The title is taken from Young and Menace by Fall Out Boy. – Haley xx

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Part One

Part Two

Part Three

I gasped loudly as the sharp smack of a hand across my cheek woke me up. A hand snaked its way to the back of my head and pulled on my hair, making my head snap up. “Well, look who’s awake.” My eyes opened to see Romeo Parada crouching down to my eye level.  “Y/N Winchester, Prince Jax’s old lady. It’s an honor to have you in my den.”

“Your den?” I asked him. I tore my eyes away from Parada and looked around at the run-down barn I was inside. Besides Parada, there were three more people pacing around us, and the one that had the iron grip on my ponytail. “This can’t be your den,” I sputtered out. “That would mean you were a….”

He laughed. “A werewolf. Exactly.”

I glared at him. “How many more members of the Galindo are wolves?”

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but all. See, we were doing good to hide it too. No one suspects that the bite marks and missing bodies to werewolves when the Galindo is running all over the west coast supplying that sweet cocaine to everyone. But Jax fucking Teller and the SAMCRO jackass bring you around and I knew who you were Y/N, the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“Because you’re a piece of shit,” I spat into his face.

“No,” Parada chuckled, running a hand down my leg and cuffing my calf, “because I gave you that scar.”

That night flashed in front of my eyes as I kicked him away. I tried to move but the hand that had a hold of me kept me still. It was a few years ago, I was only nineteen. Dad had found a case in Arizona about chupacabras, expect it wasn’t and they were werewolves.

I don’t remember a lot about the fight that broke out between me and my family, just that the pack leader was vicious and more wolf than man, and he tried to kill me. That werewolf grabbed me as I was refilling my gun clip and tried to drag me back to its den. I managed to kick it off before it scratched me.

“Are you surprised to see me?” he asked.

“I’d rather be dead,” I said.

“Well, I can’t grant that request,” He said, standing up, “but I have something better for a Winchester.”

“Oh yeah, and what would that be.”

Romeo Parada laughed loudly as he walked over to the barn doors and opened them up. The Galindo was standing out there, as far as the eye could see. All of them wolfed out. “Becoming my new pet.”

Jax’s Point of view

I was squeezed into the back of Dean and Sam’s impala along with Juice and Opie. Clay had everyone else surrounding the warehouse and a few prospects stationed in the woods around it. With the Galindo being caught up in all of this, it means we need extra protecting. Especially now that Y/N is missing.

Her brothers said that she went off after a werewolf on her own and they weren’t able to track her down. Dean and Sam, hell, even Y/N put up a convincing argument about how werewolves and other things are real and that they hunt them, but it’s not true. It can’t be true.

Dean pulled up to the warehouse and we all got out. I fished my gun out from my waistband and watched Dean and Sam do the same thing. “It’s too quiet,” Opie said.

I nodded my head, “Where’s the prospect that was watching from earlier?” I asked, looking around.

“There was no one that was here when Y/N brought us,” Sam said. “Your prospect must be gone.”

“Or turned,” Dean put in.

Juice and I crept towards the warehouse doors and threw them open. It was empty. “Juice, check the cargo,” I said.

He nodded and ran towards the back room where we kept the cocaine the Galindo had trusted us to move for them, in return for money. Juice popped his head out from behind the door, “Everything’s here.”

“What’s your cargo?” Dean asked as he and Sam walked inside.

“Nothing, just something we promised to keep safe for the Galindo,” I said.

“As in, the Galindo that caused all of this and probably took Y/N,” Sam said.

I glared up at him. “This has nothing to do with you two. So, I suggest you kept your damn mouths shut.”

“Oh, but it does have something to do with us,” Dean said as I pushed passed them. “Our little sister is mixed up in with your bullshit.”

“And don’t think we’re so stupid,” Sam said, “we know what you SAMCRO bikers do. Whenever it comes to Y/N, we like to know if she’s okay and safe. So if that means we have to find every little piece of dirt on whoever she’s with,” Sam hissed, “then we will. And we did.”

“If that so-called cargo,” Dean said, using air quotes, “is cocaine, so help me God, I’ll kill you whenever we find Y/N.”

Y/N’s point of view

I could see day starting to break from under the barn doors, which meant that every wolf out there was starting to turn back to their normal human selves. I’m not sure if Parada was part of those kind of werewolves or if he was getting to the top and able to make himself transform whenever he wanted too.

I sighed and tried to move again. My arms and wrist ached as the rope that tied me down burned against my skin. After Parada told me his grand plan, he and the other members of the Galindo left, expect for the watchmen sitting by the door.

“Stop moving,” he hissed. “Don’t make me kill you before Parada comes back.”

I kept my mouth shut. I knew if I said something snarky, he would actually kill me. I would just have to sit here and be quiet until the moment came to run or kill the watchmen… or until Sam and Dean came back for me.

The barn doors open, and just like I saw, sunlight was filtering through the trees around us. Parada strutted inside with someone by his side. Over the stranger’s shoulder, I thought I saw a flash of a mohawk and blond hair. “So, this is Prince Jax’s old lady,” he said, pulling off his sunglasses. “Has Parada been taking care of you?”

I squinted my eyes at him and kept my mouth shut. The stranger looked over his shoulder at the watchmen and nodded. The watchmen stood up and walked over to me, grabbing me by the ponytail again and pulling hard, making me cry out.

“I asked you a question. Don’t make me repeat it.”

I grinded my teeth as the assholes stared at me. I’ve been tortured beyond belief; some high-ranking Galindo didn’t scare me.

“The chatting bitch doesn’t want to talk now,” Parada growled. He searched his pockets, pulled out a switchblade, and popped it.

“Parada, cut her ear off,” the stranger said, lighting up a cigarette.

“As you wish, Galindo.”

My eyes widen. That wasn’t just some high-ranking Galindo, that was Galindo. The head of the cocaine operation that SAMCRO was involved with. The head of this werewolf pack and now the one that ordered for me to lose an ear because I wouldn’t answer his bullshit question.

Parada stood a step closer to me and grabbed me by the head. The watchmen let go of my hair but moved his hands to clamp them over my mouth. “No. I want to hear her scream.”

This jackass was sick. The watchmen uncovered my mouth and Parada brought the knife closer to my ear. I felt the cold metal blade press flat against my skin.

“You have one more chance to answer the question,” Parada whispered to me.

“Fuck you,” I spat out.

I screamed as the blade was pressed into my skin. I felt blood pour down my face and neck and matte in my hair. There was gunshot that rang out and Parada pulled away from me and looked behind him. I kicked him in the crotch.

“You little bitch,” he hissed, cupping himself and trying to fall to the ground.

“Galindo, you son of a bitch,” I looked up and saw Clay standing there with a cigar in his mouth, but no Jax or my brothers anywhere.

“Ah, King Clay,” Galindo said, “where is your idiot of a stepson?”

“Right here, jackass,” Jax said. I turned in the seat I was in to see Jax, Opie, Juice and my brothers all behind me. Opie had the watchmen pinned to the ground. Jax walked passed me and up to Galindo.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Parada stand up from his bent over position and his face starting to change. It became hairy and his eyes went from their normal brown to wolf life. Parada could change on a whim.

I struggle to release my hands from still being tied up. I had to get Parada down before he could hurt Jax or someone else. My hands were free and I pushed myself up from the seat I had been on for hours and turned around, Juice was crouched behind the seat.

I nodded to him. I pressed one finger over my lips to keep him quiet and watched Parada more. No one was watching me, so whenever he made a move, I was going to jump. I didn’t have a gun or a silver knife on me, but just trying to keep him away would be good enough until Dean or Sam could shoot him.

Parada growled. His teeth had turned into fangs and his nails were long and pointed.

Everyone looked over at him, Jax and Clay both stood back and Galindo laughed. This is what he wanted. I was bait so he could lure Jax and the rest of SAMCRO and turned them. I took my opportunity when Parada howled and jumped on him, knocking him to the ground.

Several people yelled out my name as I wrestled a full grown werewolf to the ground. I heard more yelling and people fighting, and finally a gunshot.

More than one rang through the air and hit Parada. But one hit me.

Parada went limp on the barn floor and I rolled over onto the hay and clutched my side. My vision was going hazy but the only thing I saw the blond hair and scratched up face of Jax. “Holy shit, darlin’,” he said.

Jax slid an arm under me and pulled me into his lap. “I’m fine,” I whispered. “I’ve been shot before.” Jax looked up and around, he was saying something to someone, but my hearing was fading. He was fading. I grabbed the edge of his leather cut and said, “I love you.”

I opened up my eyes slowly. The bright light above me hurt my eyes and caused me to squint. I saw my brothers, sitting on the small couch opposite of me, snoozing away, but no Jax.

I tried to sit up, but gasped and held my side. Dean and Sam sat up fast and rushed over to me. “Holy shit,” Dean said. “Y/N, are you okay?”

“Where’s Jax?” I asked him.

Dean looked over at Sam. Sam cleared his throat. “We made him leave.”

Tears flooded my eyes. “Why? I want Jax.”

“Whoa, Y/N, just calm down. You had a bullet dig out of you. You’re tired and doped up,” Dean said, trying to push me back onto the bed.

“I want my boyfriend,” I told him. “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“Y/N, he’s the one that shot you,” Sam whispered. “He was aiming for Parada, and Galindo knocked his gun out of the way when he fired.”

“I don’t care,” I said, crying. “I want Jax. Where is Jax?”

“Y/N, he doesn’t even believe us about the werewolves,” Dean said, “why would you want to be with him?”

I pushed him and Sam away. “Y/N, that SAMCRO gang is not where you belong,” Sam said. “You’re a hunter, not a drug dealer.”

I gripped the side of the hospital bed and swung my feet over. “Y/N, you can’t get out of bed,” Dean warned, grabbing my arm.

I pulled away from him and hoisted myself up and tried to walk. My legs buckled underneath me, making me crash to the floor. Sam sighed and helped me up, but I pushed him away and tried for the door.

When I opened it, Dean and Sam rushed towards me, each grabbed an arm. “Y/N, you need to go back to bed. You’ve even pulled out your i.v.,” Sam said.

“Fuck that and fuck you two,” I spat, making us move down the hallway.

“Glad to know that Dad’s spirit made its way to one of us,” Dean mumbled.

“Y/N, baby, what in the hell are you doing?” I looked around the corner and saw Gemma there holding Abel. Abel my sweet blond hair baby reached out for me.

“Oh God, Abel, momma’s here,” I said, taking him from Gemma. Abel wrapped his arms around my neck and hid his face in my gown.

“Momma, what’s wrong with your ear?” he asked.

Memories of Parada cutting my ear flashed back in my mind as I held Abel tighter. “I’m fine,” I whispered, holding him tight. “And I’ll never let anything hurt you. I love you so much, Abel.”

“Gemma, where is Y/N? She’s not in the damn room.” Around the corner to stand next to his mom, was Jax. He stopped when he was me cradling Abel. “You should be in bed, resting.”

“I wanted to see you,” I whispered, trying to step near him but almost tripping over my own two feet. Sam and Gemma caught me while Dean went to go find a wheelchair for me to sit in.

“She’s too stubborn to stay in her room,” Dean said. Jax took Abel and I slowly sat down in the chair.

“Momma, are you sure you’re okay?” Abel asked me.

“Yeah,” I winced as I leaned against the back of the wheelchair. “I’m just sore.”

“Why does this kid keep calling you mom?” Dean asked.

“She’s my momma,” Abel said, squirming out of Jax’s arms. Jax put him down and Abel ran to me. I scooped him up and placed him in my lap.

“He’s my son,” Jax said, smiling slightly as Abel kissed my cheek. “Y/N took on the role of mom ever since we’ve been together.”

“I love him more than anything,” I said, looking up at my brothers. “He’s why I stay in Charming. Him and Jax and Gemma and Clay and the rest of Sons. I love them all. And you can’t take them away from me. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Y/N – “ Sam started.

“No, Sam. I’m old enough to make my own decisions. That’s why I didn’t stay with you all and Dad. I want a life and a family. I love Jax Teller with all my being and just because I got hurt or Sons got mixed up in something that we obviously didn’t know would turn out like it did, doesn’t mean you get to dictate my life. You can’t keep me away from Jackson. I don’t care if you don’t like him.”

“I’m sorry you got hurt, darlin’,” Jax said, crouching down to look at me. “I knew we shouldn’t have got into business with Galindo, but I didn’t think that they were... what they were.” Jax looked at me and Abel, keeping his words to a minimum, not to scare him.

“I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you,” I whispered, tears forming again.

“I know, and I’m an idiot not for listening. And you were hurt. All because of me.”

“I’m fine, Jax. I’ve been hurt worse. I promise,” I said, reaching out and cupping his chin.

“I love you, Y/N Winchester, more than anything. And the craziness that has been this past day has proved it. You’re too good for me and Abel.”

“I love you too, Jackson,” I smiled.

“Can I ask her now?” Abel asked, looking at Jax. Jax nodded his head and Abel grinned real wide.

“Ask me what?” I questioned, looking at Able.

“Will you marry daddy?”

I gasped loudly and pulled Jax to me, kissing him hard. “I guess that means yes,” Gemma said from behind us.

Jax’s hand roamed down my side and squeezed hard, causing me to whine and pull away from him. “Wrong side to do that,” I whispered.

“Sorry, baby,” he whispered, giving me another kiss.

“I guess that means you’ll be Y/N Teller soon,” Dean said.

I looked up and saw him acting moody but Sam grinning. “You know that means you two have to be in the wedding.”

Dean groaned. “Sounds fine with me,” Sam said.

“Listen,” Dean said to Jax. Jax stood up and held out his hand for Dean to shake.

“Nah, man, I know. Y/N’s your sister.”

“Good,” Dean said, shaking his hand, then Sam doing the same thing.

“Because we will kill you if this happens again,” Sam said.

Confusion flashed across my face. “What are you all talking about?” I asked.

“Nothing baby,” Jax said. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Jax walked around to the back of the wheelchair I was in to push me back down the hallway. I grabbed his hand and squeezed it, running my thumb over his knuckles. Jax leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you more.”

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[izanyas]

Not Justice (7)

Thank you eternally to @scarlet-blossoms​ for being the most amazing and reliable beta reader in the world. And sorry everyone for the long wait!

Rating: M Words: 5,300 No warnings.

[Read from Chapter 1]

Not Justice Chapter 7

Shiki was tired.

He wasn't the kind of man to use the word lightly. His job and activities, whether they be monitoring the gallery or the less upstanding trades and negotiations he was a part of, required a great deal of energy. His strength since the very start had been that he was undefeated by fatigue; Mikiya called him inhuman, Akabayashi called him ruthless, Aozaki had stopped watching for him to give in and show weakness a long time ago. Shiki never minded the job and never minded the watching.

The situation was a bit special, however. As machine-like as he liked to appear, a friend's disappearance was still a friend's disappearance. With every new morning he expected Kine's body to show belly-up in the bay or abandoned at the gallery's glass doors with blood crusted at the mouth. The Black Rider texted him every evening with a glaring lack of update and an apology, and Shiki smoked more than he liked to, just to abate the nerves keeping him awake at night as he wondered why Kine was still gone.

He could only think of a few reasons why someone would take Kine. One was vengeance against the man himself—he was a private detective, and ties to Awakusu non-withstanding, someone who made enemies as a professional hazard. Another was vengeance against Awakusu, but then, why keep the body? There was no point to be made in secrecy.

The last was ransom, and no one had asked for anything. Not for Kine, and not for any of the other people that Shiki had soon learned were being taken in similar circumstances.

He had a folder full of the names of the gone, now. It sat open on the low table in front of him, stained with ashes and half-buried in the shadow of Akabayashi's body.

Which brought him to the second reason he felt the necessity to admit to fatigue.

"You'll hurt yourself with that," Akabayashi said, in that murmur of a voice that should sound over-the-top to any of them but which only served to cool the atmosphere of the room.

They all knew that the weight of Akabayashi's posturing was very real.

Kazamoto's grip tightened on his blade. Already a few inches of the sword were unsheathed and gleaming cold and blue in the light. "Want to test that, Akabayashi?"

Aozaki wasn't here to put a leash on his dog, so of course, Kazamoto had taken up the role of antagonizing them all with sheer delight. Shiki sucked in the very last of his cigarette's worth, until the foul taste of burning plastic coated his tongue and he was forced to crush the filter into the dirty ashtray next to him.

Any other day of the week he could've dealt with his colleagues' antics. Not today.

"Kazamoto," he said lowly. The man perked up, throwing him a glance. "Get out."

Akabayashi let out a pleased sound, which made Kazamoto's face redden with anger the way the excitement of a fight hadn't. He seemed to hesitate for a second, looking between the two of them and wondering if it was worth disobeying the orders of someone who technically couldn't order him, but who had the sort of backing that he lacked.

With a disgusted click of his tongue, he left.

Shiki's phone chose this moment to ring, which suited him, because now Akabayashi was looking at him with curiosity in his eyes, and Shiki didn't have the energy to deal with that.

"Shiki," he said curtly, shoving the phone against his ear.

He heard nothing in answer except for static.

Akabayashi, still watching him, gestured with his hand in askance. Shiki's lips thinned. He was about to either speak again or hang up when he heard breathing, and then, "I heard you lost Kine, Shiki-san."

Shiki stilled, blood turned to ice and muscles to rock.

He didn't know what face Akabayashi made at his reaction, because he didn't think he could have seen anything and understood it in that very moment.

"Orihara," he said. He couldn't tell what sort of voice had left his lips.

Akabayashi's body went immobile atop the armrest of the couch.

"It's been a while," Orihara said, playful and alive, "You should think about changing your number from time to time. You've had the same since I've known you. Not terribly careful of you."

It took a second too long for Shiki to be able to answer. "You should be thankful I haven't," he managed, and he could only hope that the distance and distortion would be enough to mask the heavy emotion in his voice to Orihara himself, because Akabayashi was missing none of it.

"I suppose so. I'd spend more time on catching up, but we're a little short on time, wouldn't you say?"

"When did you come back?" Shiki asked nonchalantly. As nonchalantly as he could.

"Just this morning. I would've called earlier, but I ran into some trouble on my way."

He wanted to ask. He really wanted to ask. He wanted to know where Orihara had gone and why he had come back, wanted to ask to see him for no reason but to neaten the memory of his face and of the full scope of his voice and smile—but Akabayashi was staring at him, anchoring the situation to reality rather than some far-off dream Shiki could've had, must've had, over the last year and a half.

His wits were returning to him now. The ache in his neck, the weakness in his legs. Shiki uncrossed them and didn't wince as pain flared under his right thigh from an old pulled muscle that had never really mended. He cleared his throat.

"I suppose there's something you want, then," he said.

"There is," Orihara agreed. "You must know that Kine is only one in a string of missing people."

Shiki flicked a glance to the files spread over the coffee table. "I do."

"The latest of them is my sister."

This time he leaned forward, rummaging through the papers. He found Orihara Kururi's face inside; she stood squeezed between—Mairu, he read over the associated file, who couldn't be anyone but her sister indeed, and a boy with blue hair that he knew from Akabayashi's tight-lipped musings.

"I hadn't realized that she was your sister," he said lowly.

"Orihara isn't an uncommon family name, and we don't look much like each other," Orihara said, sounding bored.

Shiki disagreed. The selfie was recent—taken a week before the girl disappeared—and if anything he was wondering how he hadn't made the connection beforehand. Orihara Kururi looked something like her brother had the first time they had met. The hair color was wrong and the shape of her face softer—younger—but the resemblance was striking now that he was looking for it.

She'd been missing for almost two days.

"None of them have reappeared anywhere, either dead or alive," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. He didn't know if Orihara would want or accept anything more than this. "She's probably alive."

Orihara, it turned out, ignored his words. "I've been asked to help look for them," he said briskly, and God, Shiki hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear his voice until he had it pressed against his ear. His longing to meet face-to-face with Orihara again was ridiculous. His mouth didn't shake only because Akabayashi was watching.

He looked at the faces of the missing again, trying to regain his focus.

"I've asked for the Headless Rider's help with finding Kine," he said, doing his best to ignore the weight of Akabayashi's eyes. "So far she hasn't found anything."

"Neither has my secretary. This is a strange case, isn't it?" Orihara let out a huff, something close to laughter but a little less controlled than Shiki remembered it. "I've heard of a few other strange things happening here since I've been gone."

That answered a question Shiki had been asking himself, then. "So you're not involved with that Snake Hands… whatever it is."

"I'm afraid not. I never planned to involve myself with Ikebukuro again."

Shiki didn't linger on the sting he felt at those words. "There's nothing I can tell you about those kidnappings," he said. "Except for what the courier told me, which I'm sure you already know."

"I've heard some accounts," Orihara replied vaguely. "Well, either way, thank you, Shiki-san. I wasn't expecting more than to let you know I'm working on this. Let's stay in touch while I'm in town. Hopefully we can both find who we're looking for."

"Do you think it was them? Snake Hands," he added for clarity.

He didn't think it was, but he didn't want the call to end just yet. While I'm in town sounded too much like Orihara planned to disappear again, gone like a wisp of wind.

"The only thing I know," Orihara replied, "is that whatever took Kururi wasn't human."

There was fear in his voice, mixed in with the loathing.

"Orihara," Shiki breathed. Damn Akabayashi. "I'm glad you're alive."

He wasn't surprised when only the flat tone of a cut call answered him.

For a moment longer he kept the phone against the side of his face, as if to keep the sound of the man's voice stuck there. Eventually he let it slide against his neck and put it back in his jacket.

"So," Akabayashi murmured, interest burning bright on his tongue. "Things are looking up for you, Shiki-no-danna."

Shiki met his eyes levelly.

--

The whole apartment was dusty. Izaya had snapped out of the weird dozing-on-and-off sleep he'd fallen into at the station up by the time they reached it. Namie spent the way resenting the tone with which Sozoro, as he'd introduced himself, told her not to wake him.

She wasn't stupid.

She hadn't cared to tidy up the place when she had left, so long ago now. Izaya's things were still spread across the wide living-room, laptop screens invisible through the layers of dust, windows dirtied on the inside even if clean outside. Put in stasis until he returned. The air was stuffy, unbreathable, with a stench that told her with no words that something had been left to rot in the fridge.

Izaya didn't seem to care much. He made a face when everything he touched clung grey to his fingers, but he chased off Sozoro's grip on his chair to wheel himself near the windows and take out his phone. He didn't address more than a look to Namie herself before he was speaking, lowly, into it. His long fingers tapping softly against the armrest.

Sozoro took a laptop out of the bag he was carrying. "I'll arrange for cleaning," he told Namie.

"I can do that," she replied, annoyed for reasons she didn't know.

The only thing she got in answer was an irritating twist of his lips.

Izaya's call didn't last long, but he was hunched over his contact list before Namie could put in a word, still not looking at her, mouth opening only when whoever was on the other side of the line answered.

He did this for most of the day. Barely an hour in two women rang at the door, carrying cleaning supplies and dressed mostly in white, and Sozoro let them in with an agreeable smile. They started cleaning up the place and emptying what needed emptying, gently asking Namie to move when she was in their way, making rage swarm inside her until her throat was stiff with it.

There was nothing to be done, though. She sat down once one of the couches was usable, took out her own laptop and stared at the screen without knowing what to do. Izaya's Wi-Fi was still running, and the device connected itself to it with no need for her to input the password again. Her inbox was full of messages from Shingen and Emilia, which she ignored.

Seiji had sent her a message to. She stared at it for a long time without understanding why it was there, before she remembered—she hadn't told him she was leaving.

He wanted to know where she had gone.

Not so long ago she would've relished in the sight of it, in the mere concept of Seiji contacting her on his own for nothing more than to know where she was. No messes to clean up or half-dead bodies to hide. Now all Namie felt was the tightness in her chest, regret and shame and something more vulnerable and childish. She closed her laptop with shaking hands.

Izaya was done making calls.

She walked toward him slowly. Sozoro was in the kitchen with the cleaning staff, maybe making a list of things to buy to keep himself and Izaya fed, acting the part of some sort of an outdated butler. Namie stood next to Izaya and watched his face intently as he raised his eyes from the phone in his lap to take in the sights of the city. The sunlit sky was kind on his face; it soothed the imprint of sleeplessness where the station's harsh lights had exposed it like a raw wound; it burned in his black hair with a hint of red, made his skin look healthier.

"You look like crap," she said.

He looked at her tiredly. "Pot, kettle."

She couldn't help the stretch of her lips at that any more than he could his.

"I told your sister you were back," she said then, and the light fluttering of a smile on his lips died down promptly. "I don't think she wants to subject herself to your company, don't worry."

"No," he replied. "I don't think she does either."

It almost made her want to tell him how mistaken he was in his assumption of Mairu and Kururi, but she refrained. She didn't want to be subjected to assumptions about herself and Seiji in return.

The simmer of anger inside her quieted as they watched the city side by side. Namie felt no kinship with Tokyo, no burst of love or rage for the city itself. If anything she had felt more emotion stepping into the stifling air of the apartment than she had landing in Narita. Izaya was different. There was nothing to be seen on his face as he observed the comings and goings of bug-sized people in the streets below, but he must be feeling something.

Anxiety, if nothing else, she thought. She hadn't spent too long thinking of what she knew of his physical and mental state now, but, well. Heiwajima's presence earlier had given that away. Perhaps it would've surprised others—Kishitani's son, or the Dullahan—to see him demonstrate such textbook suffering. Choking on his own lungs and passing out from the panic. Heiwajima himself had barely seemed to notice in his fury. But it hadn't surprised her.

She'd never seen Izaya as anything more than pathetically human.

"I need to work," he said in the heavy silence.

She nodded. "All right. I'll let you delay talking to me until you find your sister." The look he gave her was a warning; she smiled in answer, satisfaction rumbling in her belly, foul and comforting. "Don't think I'll let you escape feeling every bit as uncomfortable as I feel, Izaya."

"You're so cruel, Namie-san," he sighed, leaning back with a flourish. "And here I thought the sight of my person would be enough to deter you from… whatever it is you're trying to do."

"I did forget how unsightly you are. Physically and otherwise."

"Does the wheelchair make it worse?" he teased, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes.

She laughed, humor as nasty on her tongue as sugar. "Somehow, it suits you."

It was even true. The thing looked nothing short of a throne with the way Izaya sprawled in it.

Izaya's amusement cooled after that. The way he turned his head to look at her had a sort of finality to it, and Namie tensed, knowing that she wouldn't like whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

"Namie-san—"

"Drop the honorific," she cut in.

He startled, eyebrows raised. Namie's hand clenched around the hold she had on her opposing elbow, fingers pressing against bone through the soft of her shirt, and she steeled herself for the poison he was sure to deliver in answer.

She never knew what he would've said—perhaps neither of them did—because someone knocked on the front door right as Izaya opened his mouth.

--

Mikado wasn't trying to collect information. What he got out of Aoba on a good day was enough to satiate the part of him that he thought would always crave more than what he had; meeting far-eyed Mizuchi Yahiro, seeing the scars on his hands and the videos taken of him fighting Heiwajima Shizuo and leveling a whole group in one night, had also soothed him. Mikado contented himself with talking to the boy and talking to Aoba. He filled himself with the stories Anri told of her rare clients and Masaomi of his travels to find things for her to sell. School occupied the rest of his time.

Maybe pushing Mizuchi forward had been a bad idea. But seeing Izaya's name on the boy's phone and a glimpse of their conversation… he couldn't have resisted if his life depended on it. Aoba hating him was an unfortunate outcome, but not one he regretted entirely.

He didn't think Aoba could stay away from him for long anyway.

Now, however, and despite his best attitude, there was a piece of information at the front of his thoughts that he didn't know what to do with; and with it, the echo of a rumor online, of Heiwajima Shizuo making a ruckus at Narita train station this morning in a way that had become uncharacteristic for a year and a half. Putting the pieces together was any fool's job, he thought.

Mikado had never actually gone to see Izaya in person. He had the man's business card, old as it was. He had kept it in his wallet ever since he'd met the man for the first time. It held an address and phone number; the phone number had been dead, so.

Address it was.

He walked the way from the underground station on jittery legs. Shinjuku was less busy with activity during working hours, but more people were outside because of the warm fall sun. The building he found at the address was nondescript enough, if a bit on the expensive side, he mused, eyeing the tall glass windows on the uppermost floors. He entered the lobby with no need for a code. A guardian was there, sweeping the floor, and when Mikado asked her, she said, "Saw him get back this morning. Wonder where he was all this time." Then, in a curious-suspicious voice: "He's in a wheelchair now."

Mikado didn't know what to make of that except try and calm the shaking of his hands.

He's really back.

The person who opened the door to him was an old man with gentle features; his eyes swept over Mikado's body with the intensity of an x-ray machine for a few seconds too long before he stepped aside to allow him entrance.

"You've got a visitor, Izaya-dono," he called lightly.

Mikado stepped into a wide-lit living room that smelled a little strongly of detergent and lemon; he found Izaya sitting by the window, his face struck dumb by surprise, open-mouthed and, as always, striking.

And then he glanced sideways and met the furious eyes of Yagiri Namie.

"You," she spat out, and Mikado tensed all the way to his nape, swallowing nervously. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I—er," Mikado said. He looked back at Izaya before he could help it. "Is this a bad time?"

Izaya was still looking at him as if he'd seen a ghost, which did nothing to appease the surge of wonder in Mikado. Eventually he regained his countenance, because his lips thinned into a white line and his gaze became sharper, and Mikado felt all of a sudden as if he were fifteen and standing in front of a helpful stranger. Masaomi tense as a bow beside him, the light of midday shining in Izaya's hair and on the young, amused lines of his face.

"Mikado-kun," he said lowly—Mikado swallowed again, for the shiver than ran up his spine, joy or fear or something similar.

"Ah, I really hope I'm not interrupting," Mikado answered. His voice was shaking, but there was nothing to be done about it.

He looked between Izaya and Yagiri hesitantly; Yagiri was glaring murder at him, arms crossed in front of her chest. She looked more disheveled than he remembered her to be. The shirt she wore was rumpled, her hair in disarray. Her eyes sunk deep and the skin around them bruised.

"I don't know how many more surprises I can deal with today," Izaya muttered almost inaudibly.

It made Yagiri snort.

"Sorry," Mikado tried again. "I just… heard that there was an altercation with Shizuo-san this morning—" he saw the line of their shoulders tense, Yagiri's face growing even darker, and he hurried to add, "and, with what I've heard of the situation… I thought you might be here, Izaya-san."

Izaya examined him for a moment. Mikado tried not to shuffle on his feet and to ignore the glee tensing his stomach into inextricable knots, almost more potent than nausea. Behind him the old man was moving, his steps light onto the wooden floor, and he made no comment at all.

Finally, Izaya exhaled. He leaned back into the wheelchair—which Mikado was only now noticing. His forehead was still marred by a single line of tension, but when he spoke, his voice was even. "What do you want, Mikado-kun? I'm a little busy."

"I heard about your sister," Mikado said too fast, and watched attentively for a sign of anything on Izaya's face. He didn't find it. "And… I knew Mizuchi-kun was trying to contact you, so…"

Izaya's attention sparked at this, and Yagiri's as well. "Mizuchi Yahiro?" he asked.

Mikado nodded, nerves alight. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "He's my junior at Raira."

Izaya and Yagiri exchanged a look.

"Anyway." The scars on Mikado's torso were starting to ache, a stretching sort of burn, as they always did when he stood for too long. "I've come across something… I'm not sure how useful it'll be, but, it's come up a few times. Maybe it'll be useful in finding her."

"Are you offering me information?" Izaya's smile was sharp enough to cut.

Mikado blushed. "Sort of?"

"Are you for real?" Yagiri commented, disgust evident on her voice. "Do you still not realize—"

Izaya raised a hand in her direction, and she shut up with a snarl. "I'm simply wondering, Mikado-kun," he said. His voice dragged softly over the words in a way that used to make Mikado's face warm and still now threatened to. "Why would you offer information to the person who ruined your life?"

"Izaya," Yagiri seethed.

"You didn't ruin my life," Mikado said, blinking. Yagiri shot him a white-hot glare, but he paid her no mind. "I think I mostly did that by myself."

"Maybe," Izaya replied. He dragged a leg up, crossing it over the other, some flicker of discomfort running over his face as he did and disappearing just as fast. "What of Kida-kun's life, then?"

Mikado couldn't help the downward twist of his mouth. "I…"

"I'm sure you know by now," Izaya continued. "Saki has never minded talking. If he didn't tell you, then she must have." His smile was cold. "Or are they still in exile together, afraid I'll come running?"

He laughed loudly at his own joke, and Mikado stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to react. Should he laugh too? He didn't think it was appropriate, considering the wheelchair.

Thankfully, Yagiri seemed to have reached her maximum tolerance for humor, because she snapped her fingers into Izaya's face. He jumped in his seat, breath catching; for a second his face seemed lost between joy and utter disbelief, and then he looked at her with a frown.

Mikado cleared his throat. "Masaomi is… dealing. I think. He's not back, no." He gave a shaky smile. "Actually, this is also part of the reason I'm here."

"I don't have time to deal with any more of Kida-kun's troubles," Izaya said.

"Not even when you caused all of them?" Mikado asked.

"Not even then." Izaya looked amused but bored.

The fact that Mikado felt no more animosity for the man after this admission must reflect poorly on him as a person, he thought vaguely. "Well, I'm still going to tell you what I know."

"You're an idiot," Yagiri muttered.

"Now, Namie," Izaya said without looking at her. "You heard him. He doesn't think I ruined his life."

She chuckled dryly. "Sure. How are the stab wounds, Ryuugamine?" she asked snidely.

Mikado's chest flared with pain as if to answer her. "I could tell you something else if you don't believe me," he said quickly. "What I have is only a name—a nickname, even, not a full name or anything—it's just." He swallowed. "It came up in Aoba-kun's own search. I don't think he would want me to tell you that."

"Oh, I'm sure," Izaya drawled.

"But if it's not enough…" Mikado paused. That was the part he wasn't too sure about, but if it ended up giving him what he wanted, he was willing to make the sacrifice.

He looked up at Izaya again. "You've heard of Snake Hands, right?" he asked. When Izaya nodded, he continued: "I could tell you who it is."

There was interest there, he thought, looking at the handsome lines of Izaya's face, the flutter of excitement at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were almost cutting. He didn't know who Mizuchi was yet, then. That was good. It gave Mikado some advantage.

"You've been busy," Izaya said airily. "Planning on taking up my mantle?"

Mikado blushed furiously. "No! I'm staying out of all of this—"

Izaya laughed again, bright and curt. "Of course you are," he said in good humor. "Still, giving me twice the amount for nothing in return? Your flair for business is terrible, Mikado-kun."

"It's not business," Mikado muttered, face still warm. "And it isn't for nothing either. I just need you here for a while."

"What for?"

"To draw Masaomi back."

Izaya was silent.

Mikado licked his lips, and worried the bottom one with his teeth for a second, latching onto the bitten-raw skin there. "He'll come back if you're here," he continued. "Because he's terrified of you, and he thinks I'm ready to follow you everywhere and let you spin me around like a toy or something."

"Good thing he doesn't know about your attempt at making me follow you," Izaya said quietly, and Mikado's face flushed once more, though the man's tone wasn't mocking. "I'm not going to contact him," Izaya went on with no hesitation. "Or any of your little friends."

"You don't need to," Mikado urged. "The news of you being here—alive—he'll know soon enough."

The old man's voice rang behind him, making all three of them jump: "Too bad for your plans of staying unnoticed, Izaya-dono."

Izaya was looking up in annoyance now, fingers tightening over the armrest of the chair.

"Did you really think no one would notice you being back?" Mikado asked after a second of stupor. "I know some people were expecting it."

"Is that the idea behind all of this?" Izaya replied, irritated. "A bunch of teenagers bullying me into dealing with their issues?"

"Serves you right," Yagiri commented.

"You should be kinder to the disabled, Namie."

She threw him a look so loaded with disgust that Mikado felt it crawl up his back in a shudder.

He had known that Yagiri Namie was working for Izaya, but he hadn't met with her since that day in the crowd of the Dollars' first meeting and hadn't been contacted by her since the mess with the gun either. He made use of the uneasy silence to look between the two of them and wonder at the sort of relationship they had. They didn't act like lovers or friends did.

Yet there was awareness between them, in the way they slipped glances toward each other as if to make sure the other hadn't vanished into thin air in the seconds they weren't looking.

In the end Izaya was the one to speak again, leveling a gentler stare with Mikado. "I'm not interested in that new urban legend of yours. I'll take the name for now, Mikado-kun."

"And you'll stay?" Mikado asked hopefully.

Izaya sighed. "Long enough to be noticed by a few more people, I'm sure."

"Okay." His nerves seemed to settle at last. "The name Aoba-kun heard of was Lizard. I'm not sure how much help it'll be, but…"

He trailed off. There had been a glimpse of understanding on Izaya's face for a fraction of time, barely perceptible.

As if to mask it, Izaya smiled mockingly in his direction. "Very well. Sozoro will see you out, Mikado-kun, and I hope you don't take it personally when I ask you not to come by again."

"Of course," Mikado replied hesitantly. "I hope you find your sister, Izaya-san."

His chest was hurting badly now. He was thinking of the way back as he turned around and met the eagle-sharp eyes of the man named Sozoro, wondering if he'd manage to find a seat on the train or if he would have to spend the ride hunched over and trying not to pull at the sensitive scars littering him. The night promised to be painful.

"Mikado-kun," Izaya called.

Mikado stopped and look back.

Izaya's face was… maybe not pensive. Far-away. Like a veil had been placed between them. "A word of advice," he said softly. "You give away more than you think. I'm letting you off easily because I'm fond of you, but don't think next time I won't take advantage of how green you are."

I haven't let the truth about Mizuchi-kun slip out, have I? Mikado thought, queasiness gripping him in the stomach. "I'm not an information broker, Izaya-san," he replied as pleasantly as he could.

"No, you're not," Izaya replied. "But it's always a good idea to keep what you know under lock and key. And you know a lot."

He didn't.

Mikado wasn't into the thick of things anymore. He was happy at school, happy with Anri, content with watching Aoba sink deeper into a world that Mikado had realized was not meant for him. He sated the bottomless hole in himself with the margins of the unknown and grabbed life with both hands, day after day, goal after goal.

He just thought it might be easier to fool himself into believing it if Masaomi was by his side.

Thinking of the push he had given to make the present situation happen—something Izaya didn't have an inkling of—he said: "Welcome back, Izaya-san."

The smile on his face was plump with nerve and delight. It was the kind of smile that had made sweat shine on Aoba's brow, once upon a time.

[PREVIOUS]

#durarara!! #shizaya #orihara izaya #heiwajima shizuo #yagiri namie #fic: not justice

[all-things-slytherin]

Tied 

Dracoxreader smut Summary: You two are from different houses (i used ravenclaw here, but any other will do) and don’t particularly like each other or get along at all. things get steamy one drunk night when all word filters are out of the picture. Warnings: biting kink (and smut, duh). ( This kinda blew up again because of Draco TikTok, so coming back to this little fic, I decided to change Y/N to an actual name- Ruby- given that over the years writing Y/N has become pretty cringe lmao) Enjoy ;)

 The unbearably long day was slowly nearing to an end with only one class left. Naturally, it was one with the Slytherins. It was agonizing. You couldn’t avoid exchanging a few offensive swear words every time you ran into any of them in the halls. The worst was with Malfoy, the vain boy, proud of his heritage to an extent. It wasn’t until the fourth year that we had actually spoken a word to each other. Before that, it was only brisk eye contacts, his eyes sparkling with disgust. Then, one day I decided to let my mouth outrun my brain as I sad to him: “You don’t have to act like an arsehole if you don’t really want to, you know? Nobody is going to think less of you if you skip voicing your rather unnecessary opinion once in a while.” It was on a Wednesday like this one, the Charms class we had together had just ended. Draco had made a snarky remark on one of my housemate’s ‘ridiculous performance in the simplest charms’. The whole room was dead silent as i finished my sentence. He directed me a glare filled with wrath and said something that would’ve got me detention for a week hadn’t my friends held me back. “Why don’t YOU do everyone a favor and take your ugly presence elsewhere? I would suggest the sewers, where you’d fit in nicely,” that disgusting smirk of victory dancing on his too pale face. 

 "Stiff wiseacre.“ Draco’s voice rang through my ears as he pushed me away to enter the classroom first. My response rolled off my tongue immediately. “Bleached arsehole.” He turned around, staring at me intensely and would have surely directed me a couple more swear words before Flitwick entered the room and asked us to take our seats. “Why don’t you two just snog already,” my friend whispered as we sat down. “Excuse me?” My eyebrows furrowed and the corners of my mouth turned downwards in distress. “Oh please, Ruby. The sex tension between you two is flaming.” “I fucking hate him.” “You might as well hold a giant banner saying ‘sexual tension’ the second you two as much as look at each other.” “You’re gonna make me vomit, will you, for the love of God, just stop?” And she did, snickering to herself when the professor started talking. 

Later that week, I sat in the Great Hall eating dinner. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t help but let my mind slip into thoughts about Draco. Ever since Jean had drawn my attention to the apparent sexual tension going on, I wouldn’t stop thinking about it. In class my eyes would linger a bit too long on his neck, tracing his smooth skin before I shake my head, snapping out of my bubble. My cheeks would heat up and my palms would get sweaty if he caught me gazing at his lips. “I hate him, what the hell is going on,” I murmured to myself, my words getting lost into the noise of the room. As I lifted my stare I saw Draco strutting to the Slytherin table. My insides twitched when he ran his hand through his sleek hair and connected our gazes. I quickly looked away, a little less discreetly than I wanted to. “I’m finished. You going,” I asked Jean standing up from my chair. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Before I was ready, another Wednesday rolled around. I caught myself anxiously excited to be able to stare at the young Malfoy from the back of the room. I was standing in front of the classroom with my friends as his voice rang through my ears: “Geek fest, is it?” I felt intense heat rise in me, travelling all the way to my face. I turned to him, opening my mouth to direct him a couple of insults, but my words got stuck in my throat and all I managed to do is cough. The smirk he had playing on his lips disappeared for a second, expressing his confusion, but returned soon enough. Draco walked backwards to the classroom, his eyes piercing through me. All I could do was stare at him and his perfect blue eyes as well. “What the hell was that?” I turned to my friends, every one of them giving me confused looks.

***

“Are you going to that party,” Jean asked me about a week later. We were sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, my nose buried in a Potions book. “What party,” I replied without so much as lifting my gaze. “The one that seventh-year girl invited us to. Remember?” “Yeah, I’m not going.” 

“Seriously? Why not?” She sounded irritated.

“I don’t know. This whole house unity people are trying to achieve sounds too good to be true. Plus, what if somebody catches us?”

“Oh come on, Ruby, you are being paranoid. You’re going. There will be alcohol.” She ended the last sentence in a sing-song voice.

“Even worse. I don’t want to go, Jean. Will the Slytherins be there?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

The way my cheeks started burning every time there was even an insinuation Draco was going to come up in a conversation was becoming embarrassing and annoying. “I’m just trying to avoid unnecessary contact with them.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this about Malfoy?”

“What? What about him.” My words were shaky and too rushed.

“Oh Merlin, it is! When did this start? This is so exciting. It’s like in the books! Worst enemies fall for each-”

“Stop,” I yelled standing up, “you’re making this up, just like you made up the ‘sexual tension’.” I air quoted the last words. 

“That is easily the biggest lie I’ve ever heard. You are totally whipped.”

“Shut up. Are you hearing yourself?! This is Malfoy we’re talking about!”

“Okay, so prove it. Come to the party.”

 “Fine.”

***

The hall echoed as my shoes hit the stone floor. I reached the Room of Requirement and joined the group of fellow Ravenclaws standing in front of it, eliciting a couple of whistles from my friends. “Wow, Ruby. Who’s this all for?” “Hmm, I don’t know,” I said in a playful voice, "certainly not for you Theo.” I avoided Jean’s gaze as people laughed at my remark.

We entered the party, the Room of Requirement now spacious, decorated and already crowded. Sofas and chairs were scattered all over. “Welcome guys,” a seventh-year Griffindor yelled over the music, ”make yourselves at home!” I grabbed myself a glass of Firewhiskey and searched the room as I took a swig. My heart jumped when I saw Malfoy standing against a wall with a drink in his hand. My eyes then fell on a girl he was talking to. She was beautiful and obviously very interested in him. “Stop,” I mumbled into my chin, trying to get rid of the undeniable feeling of jealousy growing inside. “Hey, Ruby! We’re starting a game of spin the bottle. Wanna join?” “No thanks. Maybe later.” “I’m sure your Slytherin prince will be playing,” Jean whispered, making sure nobody else heard. “And I’m sure I do not care,” I said through gritted teeth, ”see you later Jean. Have fun.” “Okay. Right back at you.” She winked at me. I hated how right she was, how much I wished he would ditch that Slytherin girl and got over here and pinned me to the cold wall. How much I wanted his hands everywhere… ‘Oh God, please stop,’ I thought rubbing my temple. ‘You don’t have a chance anyway.’ 

My gaze was fixed on him. No matter how hard I tried, my stares, my thoughts, everything kept going back to him, as I went to get another drink, as I talked to other people, as I tried to dance. Finally, Theo came up to me, offering me a cigarette. “One of the Muggle-borns smuggled some for us.” I gladly took one, lighting it quickly with my wand. It was a guilty pleasure. My eyes shot in Malfoy’s direction once again. Theo turned. “Who are you eyeing tonight?” “No one,” I said quickly.

I leaned against a wall, blowing smoke through my lips slowly. I didn’t even try to break my habit of glancing at the alluring blond boy across the room, only this time finding his stare on me. I quickly shifted, trying to look everywhere except in his direction, taking another drag. “Here, take the whole pack. We have more over there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, some fine birds are waiting to be romanced by this beauty.” “Mhmm,” I barely listened to him, snatching the cigarettes from his hand. 

I couldn’t shake the magnetic need to eye Draco. I took an upset smoke when I saw him pushing himself of the wall and leaning to the girl’s ear to whisper something, touching her shoulder in the process. Then everything felt frozen, slow and cold when Draco’s darkened blue eyes pierced through me, his tall figure making his way over. My fingertips tingled, adrenaline shooting through my body. He took his time, walking slowly and arrogantly and I almost forgot how to stand and what to do with my hands. After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy lessened the distance and leaned next to me against the wall. We didn’t say anything as I took a drag and blew it out tediously slowly. 

“You know,” he started, looking straight ahead, ”people say it’s rude to stare.” My heart raced out of my chest, I cleared my throat soundlessly in a poor attempt to keep my composure. “Really?” He finally turned his head to me, but I stood still, desperately trying to look cool smoking my cigarette. “Yeah. But sometimes,” Draco leaned forward, letting his breath skim over my skin, ”it can be quite flattering.” For a few seconds I allowed myself to be frozen, a breath stuck in my throat, before I snapped out of it. “That’s really great for you, Malfoy.” He chuckled, sending shivers down my spine. “That’s the first time I ever heard you say my name.” I could practically feel the stupid grin on his face. I rolled my eyes, taking another drag.

He leaned in even more, his lips now dangerously close to my ear. “Are we going pretend I didn’t just catch you staring at me 20 times in the past 5 minutes?” His voice came out as a whisper. With sudden courage exploding in me, I looked him in the eyes, an orgasmic feeling buzzing in my head. ‘He totally wants this too.’

“So what are you going to do about it, Malfoy?” “I love the way you say that.” Draco’s hand touched my hip, then slid to rest on the small of my back. I took in a loud shaky breath, dropping what little was left of my cigarette to the floor. “I don’t know,” he came back to answering my question, ”I might ask you to join me outside so we can talk about this.” I  peered into his eyes again, quickly dropping my gaze to his lips. “Talk?” My voice was slow and hoarse and I could swear I saw a flash of satisfaction explode in his eyes. 

Draco’s cold hand found my wrist and he pulled me towards the door. There wasn’t a speck of me that tried or wanted to protest. We were out of the room in a matter of seconds and, before I was ready, his hands were on my hips, pinning me hard to the wall. I let out a quiet squeal, closing my eyes. Draco leaned in, me expecting him to kiss me, but instead started tracing my jawline with his warm lips. He reached my neck and kissed it with pressure, earning an ‘oh God’ from me. I could feel him smile into my skin before he continued. It was so slow and bursting with lust. I felt a burn all over my skin as I tangled my hands into Draco’s hair and tugged, adding a small hip roll over him. The Slytherin released a loud moan into my neck, finally pulling back to connect our lips.

The kiss was filled with need and passion and I surprised myself when I broke it to ask: ”Is your dorm empty?” His eyes searched my face for a second, before adding a smirk. “We’ll find out.”

The trip to the Slytherin dorms was brisk, with a few short kisses shared along the way. He made me block my ears as he said the password and we were up the stairs is seconds. Draco smiled when we discovered the dorm was, in fact, empty. He pulled out his wand and murmured a couple of spells. “What are you doing?” “I’m locking the door,” he said too harshly, ”I thought you Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart.” “Shut up,” I replied, holding back a smile. “I also cast a silencing spell for you.”

A jolt of heat shot through me, adrenaline coursing through my body, making my fingertips tingle. I felt my cheeks heating up. His hands slid from my back to my ass as he pushed me towards his bed, my shirt and tie lost in the process. My knees hit the edge of the bed and I grabbed his own tie pulling him into a wet, hot kiss. I fell onto the bed, followed with Draco landing on top of me, a bulge very apparent in his pants. I used this opportunity to grind up on him, enticing another throaty moan. He followed my actions and rolled his hips creating friction. My hands worked on his tie and shirt before discarding them and tracing his chest and abs, finding their way to his belt. I went a little lower, stroking him over the fabric. 

“Oh God, what you do to me,” he whispered after a loud shaky breath, making me shudder. I was gone in the moment. I wanted to let go and simply let Draco take care of me. “Bite me.” My voice was barely audible, whispered into his warm lips. He froze his actions. “Excuse me?” I bit his lip slowly and tenderly. Draco’s eyes  were fixed on mine as he got the memo. He smiled slightly and compiled, starting first on my own lips, then transitioning to my neck. I barely noticed when the Slytherin’s hand started sneaking down my side, finding its way to the button of my pants. It slid over my underwear with ease, applying little pressure. I exhaled harshly and screamed his last name. My back arched as Draco applied more pressure, rubbing in circles. 

His bites became more intense and sloppier and I swear I almost came two minutes into our make out. My fingers tangled into his hair and pulled a little, earning a small moan from the blond. I didn’t stop crying out his name, the last cry followed by: ”Oh my God, I’m close.” 

Draco slowed down his actions and pulled back to look at me. “Enjoying yourself?” His long fingers rubbed my clit painfully slow and I let out a stressed moan. “What was that?” His voice was smug and sweet. “Malfoy, please.” He was incredibly amused as he observed the way I melted under the slightest touch of his.

“Please what?” I cried out in annoyance. “Hmm?” He hummed right into my ear. “Please go down on me.” “As you wish.” 

I wasn’t prepared when Draco pulled my pants down abruptly and planted small kisses on the inside of my thigh, before pulling down my underwear as well and I certainly wasn’t prepared when he lifted me up with ease and flipped me. He placed me to sit on his face. Draco took his time actually getting to the task, kissing and licking everywhere but where I needed him. He finally licked up my slit and I cried out his name. His skilled tongue worked me like a drug as I quickly became a moaning mess trapped under his control. 

“Fuck, Malfoy. Fuckfuckfuck.” One of his cold, eager hands held my hip as the other slowly slithered in my folds. I lost all power and began shaking, feeling my orgasm creeping up. 

Draco stopped and slid under me. “What are you doing,” I asked turning my head to look at him. The blond took of his pants, leaving him only in his boxers. I felt his hands skim over my skin and then rest on my stomach as he hugged me from behind. “Tell me how much you want me right now.” “Overmuch.” He shot shivers down my spine when he chuckled. “Only after you tell me how good I make you feel.” I groaned and leaned my head back on his shoulder. Draco’s hands unhurriedly slid down to my core, rubbing grievously slow circles on my clit.

“So?” “I have never been turned on like this in my life.” “What else?” “And you drive me crazy.” He surprised me by kissing my cheek before sliding his boxers down and started slowly pushing into me. The both of us cried out. “Faster,” I said eagerly and he pushed into me the rest of the way vigorously. “Oh my God, Draco!” He sped up his actions, pumping me as I followed grinding my hips. 

I struggled with my breath and screamed and moaned, slipping in quite a few curse words. “Thank Merlin for that silencing spell, huh,” he whispered to me and I felt I was close.

Draco’s fingers started working on my clit again and I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck, I’m coming,” I cried as I leaned back into him. After a couple of pumps Draco came as well, biting into my shoulder.

We fell onto his bed exhausted and I slid under the covers, laying on my back. “Wow. Who would’ve thought..,” Draco said. He was laying on his side, propped up on his elbow. I turned my head to him. “What?” “I really didn’t think you’d be so good at this,” he said in his usual Malfoy manner, sounding vain. “Oh yeah? I didn’t think it was that special,” I teased. “Oh please. I destroyed you,” he chuckled.

***

I opened my sore eyes, blinking a few times to get used to the harsh light in the room. I shot up as I remembered last night’s events and realized that it’s already morning. “Shitshitshit.” I got up, still completely naked and started putting on my clothes. “Mmm I could get used to seeing this in the morning,” I heard Draco’s voice behind me. “Shut the hell up, Malfoy! We’re going to be late for class!” He groaned and rubbed his face. 

I made sure I picked up all my things and stormed out the door. Halfway down the stairs I stopped and ran back upstairs. I found Draco already putting on his shirt. “Hey arsehole,” I said, ”see you later.” He smiled and before he got to say anything, I was already running down the stairs again.

I stormed into the dark Potions classroom and mumbled an apology. When I sat down next to Jean and looked up, I could see everybody glancing at me. “Ruby,” Jean whisper-shouted. “What?” 

“You’re wearing a Slytherin tie.”

#harry potter #smut #fanfic #oneshot #draco malfoy #draco x reader #draco smut #drarry #draco x hermione #mine #tied... g-get it.. tiiied #enemies to lovers