#this twisted knot they’ve tied themselves in

[kayte-overmoon]

An excerpt from my Geraskier ABO Pregnancy AU

I'm still working on this fic (it's a big one) but I wanted to give you all SOMETHING, so here's a little (3.5k-word) excerpt to tide you over!

Rating: Mature (no explicit sexual content, but it's fairly suggestive)

Tags: fluff, mild angst, platonic affection, idiots in love, pregnant Jaskier, mpreg, ABO/Omegaverse, canon era

Jaskier is soaking in an Igni-heated bath barely big enough for him to fit in. He doesn’t seem to mind, kicking his feet up over the far edge as he rests his head on the other end. 

“As much as I hate you spending all our money on inns,” he’s saying, eyes closed as Geralt cleans his swords. “I do appreciate a good soak in a man-made basin every now and then.”

“I know you do,” Geralt says, half a smile on his face for a moment before it drops. There’s something on his mind, something that’s been bugging him since the moment he decided to keep Jaskier. 

“Now, now, witcher,” Jaskier tsks. “What’s the frown for this time?”

Geralt sets aside his swords and looks at his companion. Jaskier has twisted his torso to see Geralt better, arms crossed on the side of the basin and chin propped up on them, watching Geralt with wide, amused blue eyes. Geralt no longer bristles at the bard’s nudity—a good thing, because he tends toward heat spells these days, and often the only way to cool down is to strip to the skin. They’ve had a good couple of weeks of work, so his cheeks are full and pinked with the heat from the bath. He could use a shave, but other than that, he looks good.

Geralt looks down at his own hands. “We should talk. About our arrangement.”

“I wasn’t aware we had an arrangement.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, watching the omega smile out of the corner of his eye. “I mean our situation.” He looks up and meets Jaskier’s eye again. “You can’t keep traveling like this, Jask. We need to get you somewhere safe. Comfortable.”

“But I am safe,” Jaskier pouts. “I feel safer with you than I do anywhere else.”

“That’s the problem, little lark,” Geralt says, the endearment spilling from his lips like water. Every time he calls him that, Jaskier’s shoulders relax like Geralt’s taken a great weight off them. He makes it a point to do it as frequently as possible now. “I told you before, the Path is no place for a child. And all that aside, you’re going to keep getting sicker if we don’t let you rest.”

Jaskier waves him off, sinking back into his bath. “You worry too much.”

“No, you don’t worry enough!”

The omega flinches at his tone, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. 

Geralt sighs, looking at him apologetically. “I just mean you should take care, Jaskier. If you’re this ill barely a third of the way into your pregnancy, what do you expect to happen later on?”

“I’m not that ill.”

Geralt scoffs. “You turned down a minced pie today, Jaskier.”

He purses his lips, caught. “Fine. You’re getting rid of me, then?”

Geralt should take it for the opening it is. He knows how dangerous traveling with him is for Jaskier. How much worse will it get when he has a child at his breast? Geralt’s new worst nightmare had quickly become returning from a hunt to find Jaskier taken, hurt, beaten, ripped apart and sold for parts. And besides all that, it was becoming dangerous for Geralt. He’s never been so attached to someone—perhaps Eskel or Vesemir, but they know the dangers of their line of work and can fend for themselves. It’s hard to focus on monster hunting when half his mind is preoccupied with the omega waiting for him back at the inn. 

A distracted witcher is a dead witcher.

“No,” Geralt says, not even surprising himself.

There’s no question. He physically can’t bring himself to let Jaskier go. He’s tried considering it a time or two in the months they’ve been together, and each time, his stomach ties itself in knots.

The omega relaxes in the tub. “Good. Because as much as I love you, Geralt, there are some things even you can do to break my heart.”

His tone is light, teasing, and he doesn’t seem to realize the impact the words have on Geralt.

He’s still reeling from those words (I love you echoing in his mind) when Jaskier finally pulls himself from the bath, dripping wet, pruned, and smelling of chamomile. Perhaps the sight, perhaps the smell, perhaps those words muddle his mind enough for Geralt to blurt out, “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier blinks up at him from the towel he’d been drying himself with, his hair tufted up on one side from where he’d rubbed it. “Kaer Morhen?”

“The homeplace of the witchers,” Geralt explains. “The wolf witchers, at least. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I—where we go every winter.”

“And you… want me to come with you?”

“Is that… is that alright? For me to ask?”

Jaskier chuckles and comes to where Geralt is sitting at the edge of the bed—there’s only one, since they’re on a strict budget, after all—and insinuates himself between Geralt’s knees. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of his nudity. Geralt decidedly is aware of it. “Dear witcher,” Jaskier says fondly. His hands land on either of Geralt’s shoulders and his scent, warm and happy, surrounds Geralt’s senses. “Never doubt how much your generosity means to me. It sounds lovely, but…”

“But?” Geralt gives into temptation, lets his hands settle in the dip of Jaskier’s hips, his wrists almost brushing the soft skin of his ever-growing belly. Some deep, base instinct makes him want to rub his scent glands over Jaskier’s bump, to claim him and the pup as Geralt’s. He digs his fingers into his bard’s hips to keep from doing that. He hasn’t been given permission. Jaskier has given no indication that he sees Geralt as anything more than a close friend, a platonic person who could protect him and his pup. The last thing Geralt wants is to breach his trust.

Jaskier purrs softly, not seeming to realize he’s doing it. He fiddles with Geralt’s hair. “I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.”

Geralt snorts. “Trust me, if I didn’t want you here, I would have dumped you before we even left Posada.”

The bard tips his head and smiles and gods above Geralt just wants to pull him into his lap and press his face against his neck where his scent is strongest. Still grinning, Jaskier asks, “Why do you put up with me, witcher? You don’t seem the type to form attachments.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet… here we are.”

Geralt observes him carefully in the candlelight. “Here we are.” He drags his thumb absently across Jaskier’s ribs, watching goosebumps rise in his wake. Jaskier takes a breath at that, pulling himself away from Geralt to continue drying and dressing himself. Geralt mourns the loss of his touch but lets him go.

“So.” Jaskier twists open a jar of sweet-smelling oil he’d been rubbing on his belly of late. I may adore this child with every fiber of my being, Geralt, but that does not mean I wish to have the marks of pregnancy on my youthful form for the rest of eternity. “Kaer Morhen?”

“Mmm.” Geralt picks up his swords again, going about cleaning and sharpening them absently while he watches Jaskier go about his routine. “Vesemir will be there. He’s a healer, of sorts. He could help with the delivery. Or we could bring someone if you like. A midwife of your choosing.”

Jaskier hums back at him, a mannerism he’s beginning to pick up from Geralt without even realizing it. “Vesemir?”

“My… father, I suppose.” At the omega’s inquisitive look, he goes on. “Witchers are born human and come—came, rather—to the keep when they were young. Many were orphans. Some… weren’t.” Jaskier clearly catches on but graciously deigns not to dig in. “Vesemir was one of the teachers before the sacking of Kaer Morhen, when mages destroyed all knowledge of making new witchers and killed all but a handful of us. Vesemir is the oldest living witcher. He took it upon himself to care for the keep and the last few witchers.”

“You speak fondly of him,” Jaskier says. “Are you close?”

Geralt grunts, not in agreement or disagreement. “I suppose. As close as witchers let themselves get. We have a lot in common. All the witchers left do. No one quite understands the life of a witcher more than another witcher.”

“How many of you are there left?”

“Of my school, the wolf witchers”—he thumbs his medallion—“there’s only me, Vesemir, and my brothers Eskel and Lambert. There are several others left from other schools, but we’re not nearly as close.”

“So, this winter,” Jaskier says. “Would it just be us and Vesemir? Or will your brothers be there?”

“Hard to tell,” Geralt shrugs. “We usually don’t know who’s going to show up until they arrive at the keep. The past couple years, Lambert has brought a guest.”

Dark eyebrows rise as Jaskier slips into a clean change of smallclothes. “A guest? Then it won’t be strange if I come?”

Geralt snorts. “No, it will be strange. Lambert’s guest is a witcher from one of the other schools.” He meets Jaskier’s eye. “None of us have ever brought home a human. Not since it’s just been the four of us.”

“Let alone a pregnant omega?” Jaskier snorts. He flicks a wrist, playing at being scandalized. “Imagine what they’ll say, Geralt! They’ll accuse you of stealing my virtue!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “As if you had any to begin with.”

Jaskier gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me, darling. I’ll have you know I was the picture of innocence before—well, before this.” The hand at his chest smooths over his stomach as he looks down fondly.

Geralt hums in response, languishing in the omega’s happy scent as he strokes his baby bump. “They’ll know it’s not mine anyway.”

“How so?”

“Witchers are sterile,” Geralt says. He expects the shocked, saddened look Jaskier shoots his way, and waves him off. “I’m not sensitive about it. It’s part of the Trials to become a witcher, and they don’t hide the information from us beforehand. We go in knowing we will either die in the trials or come out the other side an alpha with no ability to breed.”

“Oh.” Jaskier wilts a little, his scent—usually a mix of honey and lilies—dips toward something like sandalwood. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“It’s not your fault, Jask.”

“No, I mean.” He throws his chemise over his head and scrambles up onto the bed with Geralt, laying his head on the witcher’s shoulder with no regard for the sword in his hands. Again, that blind trust that makes Geralt wonder what he did to deserve it. “Here I am, running around and making poor life decisions while carrying a pup, and you can’t…”

“Jask.” Geralt nuzzles his hair absently to get his attention. The omega tips his head up to look at him with watery blue eyes. Geralt sets the sword aside—again—and resolves to finish it in the morning. “I told you, I don’t care. Especially not when I get to see how happy you are every day.”

Jaskier squints, mushing his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder, looking every bit like a contented house cat. “I am happy. I feel as if I should be worried or anxious or afraid, but I’m not. I have many regrets in my life, but this is not one of them. I’m glad I have the pup. I’m glad I have my freedom. I’m glad I have you. You’re a dear friend, you know that, Geralt?”

Geralt grunts.

“You are!” Jaskier shoves his arm gently, not even enough to dislodge himself from Geralt’s shoulder. “Not many people would be willing to put up with me, with or without the child. And here you are, not just tolerating me, but taking care of me. Why is that?”

Geralt shrugs with his free shoulder.

“Oh, don’t get silent on me now, Geralt! We’re having a heart-to-heart!”

“Exactly.”

“Ugh!” Jaskier flings himself back on the bed, kneeing Geralt in the thigh as he squirms to get comfortable. Geralt pinches his leg in retaliation, making him giggle. “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I’ll just assume you are susceptible to my charm and wit. You saw me in Posada and thought, ‘Yes. Now there’s a man I’d let rub chamomile on my lovely bo—‘”

“It was one time, Jask.”

“One very memorable time, on my part.” Jaskier grins, cheeky and lecherous. With a face like that, there’s no wonder he was knocked up before the age of twenty. 

Geralt makes himself end that line of thought the second it arrives. 

Instead of admiring his friend’s fuckability, he grunts. “It’s not too late for me to leave you along the road somewhere.”

“No!” Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind, his head knocking against his hip. Geralt twists to accommodate him, letting the bard rest his head in his lap. “I’ll surely shrivel up and die the moment you leave me. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

“I think you overestimate how much you need me. You’d make it just fine on your own.”

The omega tips his head to level an unimpressed look up at him. “When we met, I was getting booed out of taverns and stuffing bread in my pants so I’d have something to eat later.”

Geralt just hums.

Jaskier pokes him in the side. “I’m happy with you, Geralt. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

Geralt watches him for a moment, aware his face was probably too fond at the moment but too content with the omega’s closeness to care. “You pet your stomach when you’re tired, you know that?”

Jaskier looks down. Sure enough, his hand had strayed to the little bump and was smoothing over it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Winter isn’t for another two months still.”

“Very astute, love.”

Geralt snorts and tugs his hair until Jaskier yelps and bats his hands away. “I mean, I think we should find somewhere safe for you until it’s time to make the trip to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier frowns and turns to lay on his back, his head still in Geralt’s lap. The hand that had tugged his hair now smooths it back. “You want to split up?”

“Only for a couple weeks,” Geralt says. “The Path, as I’ve said, is no place for you right now. You’re only going to get more uncomfortable in the coming months, and you need to be somewhere you can rest and relax. It would… I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you or the pup because you’re with me.”

“What do you propose, then?”

“I can put you up somewhere. Somewhere with good weather and plenty of things for you to do. Somewhere you can relax and pick at that lute you’ve barely touched the past few weeks.”

Jaskier frowns. “Fingers were too swollen.”

“The swelling will go down if you rest.” Geralt leans over him to catch his eye. “And as much as I love having you close, knowing you and the pup are safe and healthy, I’d feel better knowing you were somewhere you can get warm baths and hot food whenever you want.”

“How do you propose we do that, hmm? It isn’t as if we have the money.”

Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s chest to hold him steady as he reaches over the edge of the bed for his sword. He unclasps the pin there, the one he’d pulled from Renfri’s body as a reminder all those years ago. He holds it out for Jaskier. 

The bard takes it and studies it. “I’ve seen this but didn’t want to ask.” His thumb runs carefully across the clasp. “I figured it was sentimental. It’s fine craftsmanship. I’m sure it would sell for a pretty penny, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“It is,” Geralt says. “I’m not sentimental. The person who gave it to me is long dead. It was more of a… reminder to myself, than anything else. I don’t…” He looks at Jaskier. The bard was now holding the hand Geralt had put on his chest, stroking his wrist softly as he watches Geralt with those wide, innocent eyes. “I don’t think I need it anymore.”

Jaskier’s heart rate spikes for a moment as he turns the pin over in his hand, pink flushing his cheeks. “If you’re sure,” he says. “I don’t want you giving up any more than you already have for me, Geralt. I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“I’m not doing this so you’ll pay me back.”

“Then why are you?”

The same question from earlier, just rephrased. Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt knows he did it on purpose. Geralt sighs and takes the pin back, just to give himself something to do. “Because you’re special, Jask.” The bard beams, and Geralt nudges him softly. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m going to sell this so you don’t freeze or go hungry while I’m gone. I’ll let you pick the town.”

“Oxenfurt,” he says without hesitation.

Geralt frowns. “Why Oxenfurt?”

“I’ve got friends there, at the university,” Jaskier explains. “I know at least one of them will put me up, especially if I pay for food and whatever other expenses I’ll have.”

“How do you know these friends?”

“Stand down, guard dog,” Jaskier chuckles. “We grew up together. Priscilla was from a neighboring family, and we were the same age, so we always sat together at parties. She is kind, and generous, and happily bonded to her alpha, Philippa.” He gives Geralt a significant look and Geralt stops bristling—which he didn’t even realize he was doing. “They’re good friends, Geralt. They’ll ensure I’m looked after while you’re gone.”

Geralt nods, smoothing a hand down Jaskier’s chest. His gaze strays to the little bump on the bard’s belly, where Jaskier is still stroking.

“You want to feel?” the omega offers. “Pup won’t be moving for a couple months, probably, but it’s a fascinating feeling.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier takes his hand and lifts his chemise, letting Geralt finally rest his palm over the little swell beneath his navel. His skin is hot and smooth, little divots where his skin has begun stretching to accommodate the life growing beneath the surface. It’s not big—Geralt’s hand covers the full expanse of it—but it feels significant. If he focuses, he can feel the vibrations of the pup’s heartbeat. His breath leaves him in a rush. 

“What?” Jaskier asks in quiet alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt says. He strokes his hand across Jaskier’s belly gently, soothing him in and taking in the feel. “I can feel their heartbeat.”

“Really?” Jaskier slips his hand under Geralt’s, brows drawing in with the effort of trying. 

Geralt chuckles softly at him. “You won’t be able to. Witcher senses.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier squeaks. The scent of tears alerts Geralt to his sudden burst of emotion.

“Jaskier?” He shifts around so the bard is no longer on his lap and leans over him, one hand still on his belly and the other on the bed. “Jaskier, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No, no.” Jaskier gives a shaky laugh and wipes his face with the hand not trapped under Geralt’s. “I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He flips his hand over to catch Geralt’s fingers in his. “That was the greatest gift you could give me. Guh.” He gives a mighty, nasty sniff that makes Geralt laugh. “Shut up. Don’t make fun of a poor, pregnant omega.”

“I would never.” Geralt raises their joined hands to his lips before he even realizes what he’s doing and presses a kiss to the omega’s knuckles. Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink and his scent takes a sultry spike that Geralt doesn’t let himself linger on. “So, we’re agreed? Tomorrow we leave for Oxenfurt, where you’ll stay with your friends if they’ll have you. I’ll return for you in two months when it’s time to make the trip up the Blue Mountains. We’ll spend the winter in Kaer Morhen until the pup arrives, then we stay as long as you need to recover.”

Jaskier blinks up at him. “We… you mean you intend to keep me around after the pup arrives?”

“Of course,” Geralt says, though he hadn’t put much thought to it before. All he knew was that there was no way he was willing to part with his omega. 

No, not his omega. Just Jaskier. Jaskier, who happened to be an omega. Jaskier, who was carrying another alpha’s pup. 

Jaskier can’t seem to find words—a rare occurrence for him—so he just pulls Geralt down into a crushing hug. Geralt keeps himself up, afraid to put too much weight on the bard. “Thank you,” Jaskier whispers, a fresh wave of tears spilling from his eyes and smearing all over both of them. “Thank you, thank you.”

#fanfic #the witcher #geraskier #sfw #for once #maybe a bit suggestive though #omegaverse #ABO #omega jaskier #mpreg #pregnant jaskier #alpha geralt #they're in love but they're not ready to admit it #kayte overmoon

[streakyglasses]

i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings

“I love you, Chris,” he starts, spurred on by her even nod and gentle smirk. Her heart starts to beat louder in her chest, like her body knows what’s coming, but she doesn’t let her hopes run away with her yet.

part two of darling, you're the one i want

read on ao3, ffn, or under the cut

Their first official date is nothing less than a mess. 

First, both have to push it back for their jobs taking them away for days at a time, then their first choice of restaurant is impossible to get a reservation at, and, when they think they’ve nailed something down, Chris wakes up the morning of with the flu courtesy of her nephew that keeps her out of commission for another week. 

“I’m not counting this,” she mutters in a stuffy voice, barely audible over the drone of her TV. It’s not until she’s asleep with her head in his lap and his hand carding through her hair that he gets what she means. 

When they finally find themselves sitting across from one another, it’s at a diner a few blocks from Street’s house, at almost 9pm. The small TV in the corner is replaying footage of a swat op, colored lines cutting through the tape every few seconds. Their waitress, despite the discerning lack of people in the place, takes fifteen minutes to get their drinks. When she sets them down, the clunk of the plastic on linoleum breaks through their thick silence. 

They’ve known one another for years. They’ve saved each other’s lives more than once. We’ve had sex, they each think. But neither can keep the pressure of perfection from hanging over the table, the rain heavy enough to shutter the butterflies in their stomachs. 

“How was your day?” Chris asks, for what feels like the thousandth time, as her glass sweats onto her hand. Street nods and taps his straw against the table to tear its paper wrapper. 

“Good,” he smiles tightly. “Beat 40-Squad during drills, so that’s always a nice thing to have to hold over them. How was yours?” 

She shrugs. Her eyes fall to his hands, where his nimble fingers are rolling the straw wrapper into a thin band.

“Okay, still a big adjustment. I feel good about it, though.” 

She takes a sip of her water to cover the way her stomach flips, unsure of what to say next. 

“I’m happy for you. Give me your hand.” 

“Why?” She questions. His grin grows and her eyes narrow with suspicion. 

“Just do it.” He goads, needing to cut the tension before it suffocates them both. Rolling her eyes, Chris looks around the dimly lit joint one more time. No witnesses in sight, she slides her right hand over the table to him. 

Street moves her hand so her pointer finger hovers over the band of straw wrapper. Carefully, he wraps the two ends around her finger and ties it off, the small knot on top like where a diamond would sit. His own hand is warm and familiar in hers when he holds her steady so he can rip the extra off without tearing the whole thing. Satisfied with his work, he gives Chris her hand back, and meets her eyes. 

It’s like the clouds over them open up, offering blue sky and warm sunshine that it’s impossible not to relax under. She lets out a light laugh, shaking her head but it’s clear how much she adores him. She puts her hand up to admire his work. 

“I like it.”

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

Somewhere between then and now, it becomes a habit. Straw wrappers for everything from smoothies at the pier to SWAT galas and dinners at Paul’s turn into rings. 

Street experiments with how to twist and fold the paper, eventually getting so good at it he can close the knots before sliding the ring onto her finger, and it fits perfectly every time. A rush runs through her whenever he takes her hand to put it on, regardless of where he does. 

Each new addition to the collection gets carried home safely in her jacket pocket. They end up strewn about in the cup holders of her truck or in her backpack, but mostly in her nightstand drawer, little white rings like stars to make wishes on. She doesn’t know if he’s noticed that she’s kept them all, an ever-growing promise that she can’t help but look forward to.

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

The restaurant is bustling as Street holds the door open for Chris, transporting them from the sweet smell of late spring air to mouthwatering burgers and thick-cut fries. He runs his hand down her leather jacket to rest on the small of her back as their eyes adjust from the bright sun to the low-yellow lighting and exposed brick walls. Recognizing them, the host offers a smile and has menus in hand before they even reach her. 

“Hey! Glad to have you guys back with us. Corner table alright?” 

With a quick look between them, Chris nods. 

“Perfect, thank you.” 

The three weave around the other tables and servers, eyes drifting from one plate of tantalizing food to the next, until they reach theirs. Menus set down, the host promises to return with water and leaves them with another easy smile. With so many bodies, Chris slides her jacket off to reveal the toned arms that Street fell in love with. She rolls her eyes at how he stares, but he makes no move to do the same with his own jacket, needing to feel the constant weight of the box in his pocket. His heart speeds up just thinking about it. 

“Here you are,” the host says as she sets down two glasses of water and cuts through his train of thought. “Your server will be over in a minute. Enjoy!” 

Street squeezes the lemon into his water, chuckling at how Chris wrinkles her nose, and draws his eyes over the menu. 

“You’re not doing your usual?” Chris teases, though she’s also perusing. “No broccolini?” 

He looks at her like it’s a ridiculous question. She laughs, brushing her foot up his leg under the table. Silence falls between them as they look over the menu, interrupted by a server a few minutes later, obviously stressed from the rush of people. 

“Hi, sorry! What can I get you two to drink?” 

“Iced tea with lemon, please,” Chris says, and is quickly echoed by Street. The server scratches it down. 

“And are we ready to order?” 

Sharing a look, they nod. 

“I’ll do the Whiskey Bacon burger please, medium rare, with broccolini and fries. Thank you.” 

Her eyebrows raise at Street as the server’s eyes swivel over. 

“The All-American please, medium rare, also broccolini and fries.” 

They hand the server their folded menus and he sticks his guest checks back in his pocket, scurrying away. Chris watches him go and then turns back to Street, their bodies settling into the space. 

“How was work?” 

“Calm, actually,” Street says on an exhale, his shoulders still knotted from their last op, which had him tackling a suspect. “Deacon’s helping Sanchez with a private security gig and Tan’s out of town with his mom, so Hicks has us holding down the fort at HQ. Still kicking ass, though.” 

She rolls her eyes but laughs softly at his comment. He’s about to ask how her day was when their server sets down their iced teas and two straws. After opening hers, she gives the wrapper to Street, twinkles in both of their eyes. His heart skips a beat as he undoes his own straw and straightens out the paper. He feels his blood start rushing and reminds himself there’s an entire dinner to get through first, one that he’s been looking forward to for two weeks, and hopes Chris doesn’t notice the slow breaths he takes. 

“I’m sure,” Chris continues. “Helena asked to do dinner at their place the next night you have free, by the way. Or breakfast, whatever works.” 

“So you’re saying I can have another breakfast burger?” Street teases, eyes moving from the paper that he’s expertly folding to Chris’s hands. She grimaces, saying, if that’s what he wants. 

“You and Tomas both with those.” 

He chuckles, and she relaxes into the deep set of his dimples and how the green in his eyes catches in the lighting. She’s content to watch him finish folding the ring, throwing around in her head which finger it’s for. When he’s done, he looks up and straight into her soft eyes, and a warm blush creeps up his neck. 

His gaze drops to her left ring finger and he wants nothing more than to take her hand, but he’s afraid he’ll give himself away so he takes her right instead. It’s exhilarating nonetheless, and the smile Chris gives him could save the world.

“I love you,” he says quietly. It gets lost in the noise to everyone but them. 

“I love you, too. Thanks for the ring.”

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

By the time they leave Paul’s, the air has chilled slightly and the periwinkle dusk has been replaced by stars. Chris wraps a hand around Street’s forearm as the door swings shut behind them. 

“You still want to go for a walk?” Street asks, butterflies in his stomach underlined with fear that she’ll say no. The ring in his pocket grows heavier by the second. Looking across the street, down the path that borders the shore, Chris takes a second to feel out her own body, and nods. 

“Lead the way.”

His hand is warm in hers as they fall in step with each other. The crosswalk changes and they find themselves on the other side of the street, the gentle crashing of the waves and their own footsteps is all they hear. It’s a silence neither ever thought they’d be used to living in, let alone with someone else, but Chris focuses on the constant brush of Street’s thumb over hers, and he keeps his on keeping his breathing steady. 

“Chris?” He asks, once they’re so far down the walk that there’s no other souls around and the restaurant is nothing more than a blip of light behind them. Nerves sit on his voice, and she stops walking but doesn’t drop his hand. 

“Yeah? You okay?” 

“Yeah,” he promises with a nod, his grip on her tightening as his other hand closes around the box in his pocket. He looks away from her and over the horizon, trying to memorize the shape of the world and how it was never this clear before her. Thinking about every moment they’ve spent together, good, bad, and otherwise brings tears rushing to his eyes. 

“Street?” Chris whispers, concern in her irises and her free hand cradling his cheek so he has to look back at her. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” 

Laughing in disbelief and gratitude, he shakes his head small to try to dry the tears, and looks down at their interconnected hands before finding her eyes. 

“Nothing, really. Well, something, but—”

Stopping himself, Street grounds himself in the rise and fall of his shoulders through a 4-count inhale and an 8-count exhale. He takes the ring out of his pocket, but keeps it tight in his fist so she doesn’t notice just yet. 

“I love you, Chris,” he starts, spurred on by her even nod and gentle smirk. Her heart starts to beat louder in her chest, like her body knows what’s coming, but she doesn’t let her hopes run away with her yet. 

“I’ve loved you since I don’t know when. Maybe it was the first day we met, maybe it was during one of the million times that you saved my ass or helped me when you had no reason to, but I know now, at this moment, I love you. I’m always going to love you. You keep me safe, you make me a better person.”

Tears start rolling down his cheeks faster, some wiped away by Chris’s thumb, and he makes no move to stop them. She feels tears start to gather in her eyes, too, her teeth finding her bottom lip to keep her from speaking too soon. The instinct to take a second of her own to look around hits her and she follows it without question. Waves churn beneath her, but the ground they’re standing on is solid in more ways than one. The metal on his jacket shines underneath the streetlamp, his cheeks red and his lips pink. Glancing down, she sees the almost-translucent ring of paper around her right pointer finger, and can’t stop the teary-laugh that escapes. He waits for her to find him again, clearing his throat.

“You—You’ve given me a life that I never thought was possible. A life that I never want to stop living. Will you please—”

He stops, dropping her hand so he can open the box with both of his, afraid he’s shaking so much that he’ll drop it. She takes a small step back to give him room as he starts to kneel. When he fumbles with the box again, she steadies him with a hand on his wrist, nodding before he’s even started talking again. 

“Will you please marry me?” 

Her heart pounds loud and high in her chest. It feels like she’s flying, and she’s not scared of crashing. Her tears blur her vision and the streaks of light make it hard to actually see the ring, but the moment goes so fast it doesn’t matter. Street’s pulling the ring from its velvet bed and sliding it onto her ring finger as she answers. 

“Yes!” She exclaims, nodding harder. The second he’s back on his feet, she pulls him to her, hands splayed over his face and jaw so their lips can meet in a salty, passionate kiss that feels as familiar to them as breathing. His arms wrap around her shoulders to hold her closer, and she nuzzles into his neck when they have to part for air. 

With Chris in his arms and his pocket notably lighter, Street feels his pulse start to return to its baseline, the anxiety and anticipation of the last few hours replaced by a golden warmth spreading through him that he wants to bottle up. 

“I love you,” Chris murmurs. It brings him out of his thoughts, and her lips are on his again not a second later. This kiss is slower, their bodies syncing up and drawing out every inch of connection between them. Her lips turn into a smile against his. A fire starts hot and wild in his core, sure the same light is blazing in Chris when he sees the look in her eyes. 

“You want to head home?” He asks. It feels more permanent saying it now, though, and he never wants to get tired of it. A blush comes over her at his tone, nothing but excitement and hunger and affection, and she nods, still catching her breath.  

“Yeah. Home,” she trails off, glancing back to take in the walkway and the moon one more time. 

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

After, Street’s pressing a trail of kisses up Chris’s shoulder and neck, eliciting a laugh that turns into a moan. Covering his hand that rests on her stomach with hers, she squeezes to make him stop, so he nuzzles into the nape of her neck instead. Her left arm is stretched out in front of her, the ring shining under the light of her bedside lamp, and Street’s lashes brush over her skin when he opens his eyes to look, too. 

“I want the box,” she whispers, feeling him shrug behind her. 

“Of course. Right now, or?” 

“No,” she stops him, tone light. “I just want to keep it in my nightstand drawer.” 

His eyes narrow and she turns her head over her shoulder to look at his face. Smiling, she drops his hand and reaches over to open the drawer, pulling him up to look at it. The collection of the straw-wrapper rings she has, the newest addition from tonight swept from the nightstand into the drawer, makes his heart swell. Some are yellowed or frayed with time, others are smushed, but it’s impossible to tell at first glance how many there even are. She feels a hot tear on her shoulder and turns over to face him completely, barely any space between their bodies. 

“I didn’t know you kept all of them,” he confesses. She shrugs, traces her eyes over his face until her nerves settle back into themselves. 

“I felt like they’d be important one day, I guess.” She says in a soft voice. “Whenever I’d look at them, I’d think of right now. Or something like it,” she adds quickly at his growing, cocky grin. 

“I’m going to wear the real one, obviously, but promise you won’t stop making me these, either?” 

Kissing her softly, he brushes a hand down her face. 

“I promise. You’ve got a lifetime of those. Maybe you can even make me one for the wedding.”

A bright laugh escapes her. Time seems to have slowed down around them, letting these beautiful moments hang on forever, and she moves even closer to him. Her breath is hot on his skin. 

“Maybe I will.” 

#jim street #chris alonso #stris #swat cbs #swat #cbs swat #s.w.a.t cbs #my writing #s.w.a.t #chris x street #street x chris #stris fanfic #swat fic #swat fanfic

[visceravalentine]

[id: a poem, split up into three screenshots. the poem is titled ‘12/26/22 hauntings’. the poem reads, ‘what makes a place like that go bad? / is it something in the floorboards, / something warped in the wood? / is it in the iron of the nails, / something twisted, something cursed? / does it trick and poke and jab / at the builders who know no better? / is it malicious, is it planned, / is it a man who says he will build a haunted house / and does his part to make it so? / is it a corner that flips askew, / a window that opens inward, / does the violence come first or the door that hides it? / is every house good until it isn’t? / is every person good until he’s not? / the attic that whispers of knots and ties, / the basement that drags you down down down / the dining table, the scrape of knife against plate, / the door that opens to swallow you up, / which came first, the fine china or the man in the living room, hungry / what makes a place like that go bump in the night? / do houses have bad dreams too? / do the floorboards shudder, the walls pound, / does a house get lonely with no one left living in it? / when it glows like that, warm and welcoming, / when the lights are on but no one’s home, / does it shudder in the darkness? / does it want a night light? / what makes a place like that go bad? / is it some point after they’ve scrubbed the walls? / is it some point after they’ve placed it for sale? / as it bounces from person to person, does it put on a good show? / does it remember, over and over? / does it mimic those old stains? / does it try again? / does it get jaded and sorry, when it happens over and over again / when the kitchen glows golden, when the locks act up / when they leave in a hurry, or don’t leave at all / what makes a place like that grow a spine? / grow ribs, grow lungs, grow an aching stomach? / who builds a house with front windows that watch? / what makes a place like that go hungry? / what makes it open for you like a mouth? / is it in the years empty, or the years full? / they never did move the fine china / they never did wash it all away / is a house only as hungry as the men who built it? / is a house only as desperate as its worst moments? / it really was such a pretty house / before it all went wrong / what makes a place like that learn to breathe? / why do its walls shudder, why does it shiver when you walk by? / what makes a house like that learn to breathe? / why do we settle in here, / like corners slotting into place? / what makes a house like that learn to breathe? / what makes a house like that warm on the back of your neck? / what makes a place like this twisted? / is it the floors the walls the bellies themselves, / or the people that walk right in? / what makes a place like that go bad?’ end text end id.]

#poetry #original poetry #poets on tumblr #haunted house #haunting #sonder pspsps #hauntings #poem #22

[whumpworld]

Upside Down Dove

Inspired by my discovery of the medical problems caused by being upside down for too long—though, some of the symptoms are exaggerated/assumed as there are few descriptions of what it actually feels like when it’s that bad—I present to you this monstrosity of a story. Based around OCs but I decided to just use Whumper/Whumpee for names. This is a looong piece, but I didn’t want to break it into parts. TW: Restraints, non-con touching, slightly suggestive touching, nausea, cutting, asphyxiation, sorry I’m bad at tagging, creepy whumper, suicidal ideation

“Don’t you think this is a little overkill?” Whumpee eyes the ceiling as they speak, following the trail of heavy-duty, metal pulleys that have recently been bolted into the support beams. One is in the center of the ceiling, one on the adjacent wall about four or five feet up, and a thick ring has been placed a few feet below that.

A sharp tug at their ankles pulls their gaze back to Whumper, who is calmly tightening another slip of rope there, and they suppress a hiss of pain. Whumpee is certain Whumper has chosen this rope on purpose—it’s the thickest, ugliest, coarsest rope they’ve ever seen. 

Everywhere that it touches their skin it burns and itches like thousands of fiberglass splinters and it’s masterfully restraining any comfortable movement. Strands and knots that cross over their chest and stomach feed around to their arms, which are folded and tied tightly at the small of their back. More loopings of the rope cut into their thighs, more just above their knees, and finally their ankles, which grind together brutally, bone to bone, as Whumper finishes the final knot. 

It was not a pleasant thing to awaken to, being tied and tied and tied, especially after the pitiful amount of sleep they were allowed last night. Or day. Or whenever it was.

“Hey, are you even listening to me? I said—ahh!—hey!” Whumper grabbed a section of rope around their arm, flipping them to lie face down on the floor, and it tears against their skin like fire. It’s far too tight, although they guess that’s the whole point. Still, it seems unnecessary; they both know Whumper is stronger and, as much as Whumpee wants to believe they do a good job of hiding it with their quips, they suspect Whumper is also aware of just how exhausted they are, far too easy to overpower.

“I said, isn’t this overkill? This seems like a lot of fucking ropes to just string me up. You can’t hang me by my hands like this, you moron.”

Whumper continues to ignore them as he begins fiddling with more knots along their back side and as hard as Whumpee tries, they can’t twist their head in a way that would let them see fully what Whumper is doing. They can only feel their captors hands running up and down his handiwork, perhaps checking to make sure Whumpee is secured tightly. 

In an attempt to fake boredom, they sigh dramatically and press their forehead to the cool, dirty floor. “Are you done y—” Whumpee involuntarily cut themselves off with a sharp exhale as their head is yanked back by the hair. They growl and Whumper leans down behind them when they try pulling free, pressing a knee into their back so their spine arches painfully the farther their head is lifted from the floor, neck craned and lungs stretched flat. Hot breath and lips brush their ear and despite choking down a flinch, goosebumps still rush over their skin.

“Are you that anxious to begin?” 

The heat of his voice lingers by their face and they closed their eyes, scrambling for words before settling on an exasperated, “Screw you, just get it over with already.” They can feel Whumper smile, his lips curling at the tip of their ear, and their face burns with the frustration of their position, at the putridly small amount of space between them, and they make short, disgusted noises as they continue trying to shake their head away from the man.

There’s no reply for a second and then Whumpee’s head is unceremoniously dropped, cheek smacking back to the floor as Whumper removes himself from atop them. Before they have a chance to roll themselves onto their side to see what’s going on, they are flipped to their back, hands crushed under their own body weight, and they realize what Whumper has been working on behind them.

A separate, double braided rope had been pulled down the length of the bindings, knotted at each major section, and now extended out from their ankles a good twenty feet. And as Whumper yanks the loose end, dragging them feet first under the pulley on the ceiling, they understand what’s to happen next. They can’t suppress a laugh—at first a bit hesitant and then an actual, genuine laugh, though whether due to finally snapping or just humored disbelief, they themselves are unsure. 

“Ohhhh, I see what’s going on. What, are we in elementary school? Want to see how long I can hang upside down? Hah, you could’ve just installed some monkey bars you know, then we could hang upside down together, see who could last the longest.” Whumpee can’t help their ramblings, amusement pitching their voice and a smile cracking the skin of their dry lips. 

Was this really it for today? They hadn’t noticed any weapons or other torture devices when they were brought into the room, only a chair against the far wall, and Whumper usually likes to brag about the things he plans to do, to let the fear build until the moment of splitting skin or burning flesh or whatever fresh hell he’s schemed. But, shit, even with the uncomfortable restraints, if this is all Whumper has planned, they would practically be getting a break.

Whumper chortles in return—no, really, he chortles, the fucking creep—as he stretches up his arms and pulls the end of the support rope through the ceiling pulley—stupidly tall bastard…or is the ceiling just low?—and Whumpee can’t help but feel a bit uneasy at their captor’s lack of frustration with their talking. 

Whumper normally did anything to shut them up, which was why they talked so much here, even though they weren’t a talkative person in their regular life. Whumpee knew it was their one way to retaliate, and Whumper hated it, so the calmness he presents now leaves an uneasy question at the back of their mind.

But then Whumper grunts as he heaves the rope, and Whumpee’s weight, over his shoulder and begins pulling it through the pulley towards the wall, and Whumpee laughs again at the other’s struggle. 

“Oh man, am I too heavy for you? It’s not like I’ve been starved and lost, like, half my body weight. Hah, maybe you should feed me less. Would that make this easier for you? We can always reschedule for next week, that should be enough time to lose more of this stubborn belly fat, that is, if you cut it down to only one meal every four days, yeah?” In reality, they don’t actually know how often they're fed—no clocks, and all—but they know it isn’t often, and it’s still a good joke.

Whumper pauses briefly, and Whumpee waits for some sort of retaliation to their rant, some sort of ragining outburst to prove Whumper is still his usual self and that there isn’t some hidden plan or torture coming as is indicated by his silent smugness. 

Instead, as if to prove his strength, he suddenly pulls much harder, effectively whipping Whumpee’s legs entirely into the air so that they were flat on their back, legs suspended beneath the pulley. They grunt as the ropes scrape the skin on their legs, biting into them as their weight begin to pull downward. Whumper continues towards the second pulley at the edge of the wall, and Whumpee’s butt starts to lift off the floor.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what you do for a living. Like, your real job, if you even have one, but clearly you’re not an engineer. There has to be a better way to do this.” Now only their shoulder blades and head are resting on the floor. Whumper slots the end through the second metal wheel and in an instant Whumpee is jerked straight off the floor and into the air, swaying and yelping in surprise at the feeling of dangling freely above the ground. 

They’re upside down. Lifting their head they can see the ropes carving indentions anywhere that there’s contact, and although they know it will leave marks, they’re mostly just glad that Whumper had added the support rope down their back and not just let their ankles take all of their weight. Still, they’d have some painfully itchy sores the next day. 

“Seems to have worked just fine,” Whumper says, satisfaction clear in his voice as he secures the extra rope to the u-hook in the wall, knotting it over and over. When he seems finally content it will hold, he strides over to Whumpee, watching them swing back and forth slightly, eyes like a cat’s watching the rhythmic pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“And how are you feeling, dove?” His lips and head cock to the side in levity. Whumpee cringes at the nickname and lets themselves run a mental assessment of their situation. The ropes continue to burn and bruise, but certainly they had taken worse—really, it’s Whumper’s own fault for raising their pain tolerance—and though they can feel a little extra blood running to their head, it really isn’t bad at all. It’s just like they remembered it feeling, from when they would hang upside down on a tree branch in the backyard of their childhood home…except this time, instead of their own knees hooked over the bark to hold themselves up, they are kept in place by a sadist with some rope and pulleys.

“I could do this all day,” they spit, wriggling in the restraints to test their ability to move, or to try and stop the swinging motion. It only ends up rocking them back and forth more.

“Oh, is that right? All day…” Whumper takes a step forward slowly, the heels of his shoes clicking on the floor. Many times now Whumper has loomed over them—they know it’s an act of possession, ownership, and intimidation their torturer never tires of—but for reasons they don’t want to ponder, this particular position makes Whumpee feel especially small and cornered as Whumper’s crotch comes level with their face once he’s standing only a foot away. 

They immediately whip their head to the side, trying to turn their shoulders and perhaps twist the rope so their body will begin turning away, but a hand grips their hip to stop the swinging and they come to a dizzying halt. 

Their breathing is picking up. Maybe Whumper does have something else planned. The way his nails are digging into their bony pelvis make them freeze in anticipation, their resolve faltering. But just as Whumpee feels they’re going to go mad from waiting, waiting for him to enact a new pain, or pull some power move, do something, anything, their hip is released and Whumper steps back saying, “Very well. All day it is.”

Whumper spins on his heel, and they breathe a sigh of relief, for a moment even letting their hopes climb, expecting Whumper to walk out the door, but they deflate as they see the other is only retrieving the chair by the wall. But, still…nothing more than hanging upside down? 

Whumper drags the chair five feet in front of Whumpee and sits down gracefully, ankle pulled up to rest on his knee, elbow on his thigh, and head tilted and resting in his palm, his gaze locked onto his prisoner.

So, the asshole wants to watch? Fine, Whumpee can handle being watched—uncomfortable, yes, but it really isn’t anything new. And the slight, pulsing ache from the bit of extra blood in their head? That’s easily manageable, they have had far worse migraines than this just from pulling all-nighters for school. 

What had their record been as a kid, again? They think it was six minutes upside down, and even then the feeling had been more of a rushing kind of high than anything painful.

“I’m afraid the show isn’t going to be very entertaining. You should’ve at least brought some snacks, or a book, or something to help stay awake. I, for one, am already getting bored. Maybe I’ll just take a nap. You can catch me up on anything I miss, yeah?” If they can't move, they can at least bug the shit out of the man staring at them. 

But Whumper only smiles that frustratingly calm smile and says, “I am confident ‘the show’ will not disappoint. Let’s just give it some time.”

Fine. This will be fine, Whumpee thinks, and with nothing else to do or focus on, they fix Whumper with a steady and confident glare.

- - - - - - -

It’s manageable for the first ten or so minutes. A few minutes past that, Whumpee classifies the feeling as officially uncomfortable, but with proper focus is still able to direct a glower at Whumper. After twenty minutes, their brow is furrowed less out of anger and more so due to the concentration it takes to desperately try to ignore the pounding in their temples. 

It isn’t until perhaps about thirty minutes have passed that they begin to seriously regret taunting Whumper. After an hour, things aren’t looking, or feeling, too well for Whumpee.

Their skin screams at the burning of the coarse ropes, their joints yearning to stretch as their limbs begin to prickle. Sweat rolls down their bare chest and neck, sliding up their forehead and soaking into their hair, which is quickly becoming damp. The pressure in their head is nearly indescribable and only getting worse. 

It feels as though someone is continually forcing more and more boiling water into the cool glass jar that is their skull, waiting for it to crack into a million pieces. And their eyes, they ache like never before, as if they’ve swollen two times too large to fit their sockets.

They had managed to keep their breathing under control and steady for what they guessed was the first three quarters of the hour, but now their lungs are becoming tired and before they realize it, their breath is coming in fast and heavy pants. With each expansion of their chest, the restraints seem to tighten and pull their ribs back, never allowing a proper lungful, and Whumpee is becoming less and less concerned with looking stoic in front of Whumper. 

They squirm and twist as much as possible—which, granted, isn't much—in hopes of sliding any section of rope loose, even if just a centimeter, if it might allow a deeper breath. But nothing works and they surely only succeed in looking like a worm on a hook.

Hours pass; they can’t breathe. 

No, maybe it’s only been minutes. 

They can’t breathe. 

It feels like hours.

Fuck, Whumpee just can’t tell. They need to focus on breathing, in and out, but their symptoms are only becoming exponentially worse.

Their stomach feels taught and empty but still racks them with waves of nausea that have them imagining what would happen if they threw up upside down. Surely the little stomach contents they have, but mostly bile, would be forced up their nose until they choked on it and died. 

As for their heart, well, Whumpee swears they can feel it flagging. When they first feel a palpitation, they lurch in shock at the sensation.

“Ngh!” They can feel it quivering, searing like an overheated computer inside their chest, each individual muscle fiber of it shaking upon constriction.

At some point, when they can’t stand the pressure in their head any longer, they cry out angrily and try using their abs to curl themselves upward, to pull their head above the level of their waist just for a moment of relief. 

But they forgot their body isn’t what it was before Whumper, and are only able to lift their head and shoulders half way to their navel before dropping back down, exhausted, choking on frustrated sobs, and now swinging back and forth again with the force of their upper torso falling back.

      During all of this, Whumper had remained completely motionless, intently devouring Whumpee with his eyes, and his fixated gaze feels like an extra twenty pounds added on their straining muscles. Whumpee wants so very badly to keep from giving Whumper the satisfaction of seeing their pained expression, their struggling, and panting, but they are realizing more and more that it’s something they can’t fight. 

Their breathing sounds horrible, short wheezing gasps, and they can’t help the slight panic that plasters over their face the longer they hang from the ceiling. They don’t want to beg Whumper to be let down, know the bastard is waiting for them to humiliate themselves with pleading, but they honestly don’t know if they would be able to speak anyway. 

They just know they can’t give in—won’t give in. They aren't going to give him that pleasure. They can stand it longer…right?

And what’s going on, anyway? Their body feels like it’s shutting down. The blood rushing furiously in their ears distorts their hearing so that their groans and pants echo through their head like the vibrating tolls of bells. 

They can’t think straight. It’s as if all of the blood in their head has pushed all their thoughts, their very soul, out their ears and eyes and nose. If they could see properly, they think maybe they would be able to see their mind puddling beneath their hanging body.

But they can’t see right. At some point their vision had started shifting to grayscale, all staticy and smeared, and they can feel the blood vessels of their eyes pulsing, the pressure horrifically intense. 

When they first noticed their sight was becoming fuzzy they had thought it was the telltale sign of blissful unconsciousness rounding the corner, but to their dismay they never passed out and their sight continued to worsen. Certainly that wasn’t normal, right? Being upside down wouldn’t cause…blindness? They don’t try to stop the strained groan that escapes their lips at the thought. 

How much time has passed?

They clamp their eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep them from popping under the pressure and rolling onto the floor, but it almost seems like that added to the weight behind them. When they blink them open again, they’ve completely lost all solid outlines of the objects in the room, including Whumper. Now, five feet in front of Whumpee is just a mass of shadows in the shape of a man.

The only indication of what Whumper is doing is the tapping sounds that echo around the room. It’s his foot, restlessly bouncing up and down on the floor, releasing an anxious and pent up energy that’s nearly tangible as it wafts over to them, and Whumpee knows it means the psychopath is becoming excited by the scene and is on the brink of losing his patience to not toy with them. Distantly, Whumpee’s already surprised by how long he’d sat so quietly when taking into account his history of impatience.

It isn’t long after that thought that Whumper gives in, but it still startles Whumpee when he moves, his voice causing them to jolt and gasp as they flick their eyes around, trying to follow the now pacing, man-shaped shadow.

“Isn’t this so much better…?” The voice hitting Whumpee’s ears is drenched in an enlivened and blood lusting tone. Whumper moves to walk around behind Whumpee and their panic mounts, their brain desperately sending signals to their already trembling and exhausted lungs to take in more air to combat the fear. 

“ ...You, and your lack of voice.”

“Gah!” Whumpee is jerked suddenly as Whumper grip the support rope and shakes, shaking their body violently back and forth. The movement empties their lungs of the little remaining air, and they gulp to draw it back in. 

“Not so much to say now, huh?” 

Just as quickly as the shaking started, Whumper stops it, ceasing Whumpee’s movement with another bruising hand to the hip. His grip loosens, then strokes over the hand shaped bruises forming there, skipping over strips of rope, swooping upwards to the curve of Whumpee’s pelvis until fingertips reach the joint of leg and hip. He keeps his hand there, tracing over what feels to Whumpee like far too thin a fabric under the stroking on their inner, upper thigh, until they’re wheezing and trying to squirm away, before he lets go.

Shoes click across the floor, again circling, keeping Whumpee within reach. Whumpee wonders if Whumper only wears shoes that click like that for a reason.

“It’s just so interesting how the human body can’t seem to function quite right when it’s upside down. I’ve only read about it, the effects of someone in this position for too long….Don’t you agree it’s always more fun to see things with your own eyes?” 

Whumper’s voice is coming from everywhere. Where are they? Whumpee scrunches their eyes shut again, their deteriorating vision doing nothing to help pinpoint the man’s location.

When a hand knots in their hair from behind and pulls back at an angle that makes Whumpee feel like their head will snap and fall off right then and there, they cry out, again losing the limited breath they had managed to regain. Fingers wind into their hair, pulling the their scalp painfully taught. Then Whumper’s voice is in their ear.

“It starts with all the blood rushing to your head. You felt that early on. Maybe not so bad at first, but it just keeps pooling, and pooling.” The breath worms into Whumpee’s ear, a viscous hissing, and they don’t have enough strength to pull away or to try and rip their head forward. 

“I bet your skull feels like it will crack any minute now, doesn’t it?” 

Yes. It does. The pressure is building every second, maybe more unbearable than any pain Whumper has ever inflicted before—their own body working against them and gravity tugging, begging them to return to the floor.

“Nngh…hnn.” Whumpee doesn’t know if they’re trying to form words or if the whimpers are just involuntary noises, but when their head is finally released, they let out a soft huff at the reprieve. But the relief is microscopic and short lived as Whumper comes around to the front of them. 

He crouches, places his fingers around the sides of Whumpee’s head, resting his thumbs on the peak of their cheekbones just below their eyes; Whumpee flinches but still doesn’t pull away.

“All that blood in your head, well, you’ll feel it in your eyes too. You feel it, don’t you, dove?” Whumper’s voice is a whisper as he slowly begins pressing his thumbs down on the bones just under Whumpee’s eyes. 

They gasp, only now trying to shake their head away from the added pressure as the fingers press harder and all of the blood they were holding back with their thin, thin eyelids, feels as though it will give way with one more ounce of force applied to their cheekbones. They sob a humiliatingly breathless cry when Whumper digs in his nails, commanding, “Open your eyes.”

Whumpee can feel wetness dripping from their pressed eyelids down over their brows, and think for sure that it must be blood finally leaking from their overfull skull. When a drop rolls over the small abrasion on their forehead from Whumper’s manhandling a day ago and it stings, they know it’s only salty tears, adding to the saturation of their hairline.

Shuddering, heaving for breath and choking on their own saliva which feels like it’s beginning to pool in their nose, they open their eyes. And there is only static and the shadowy outline that is Whumper, who immediately withdraws the pressing thumbs at the edge of their sockets when he sees Whumpee’s eyelids lift. 

Thumbs shift to stroking away tears, and Whumpee hears Whumper coo in admiration at their bloodshot eyes and the way their pupils flick back and forth, completely unfocused and dazed.

“Poor thing, you can’t see, can you? Too much pesky blood in that head of yours.”

Whumpee’s lip quivers despite their teeth digging in to trying and keep it still. They’re ready for this to be over. They need it to stop. The physical pain is one thing, but the constant taunting is starting to wear them thin, not just today, but the built up taunting and toying, over weeks and weeks. 

What is a game to Whumper is costing Whumpee their sanity. And why? Why them? Why is this asshole such a fucking asshole? Did they really have to lower themselves beneath this man—no, monster—just to live, just to breathe, and eat, and sleep? Is their life worth complete prostration to some maniac? They think not…but this is unbearable. 

If they could just be let down they could think. They need to be able to think.

They want so badly to yell, to scream out all their frustration and anger, but even that’s being taken from them. All they can do is snivel and sob, and they’re so tired of it. And more and more they’re beginning to think it will never stop, not if they don’t give in, at least a little. Just so they can get a break. That’s right, they wouldn’t be giving in to their captor’s wishes, they would be doing it for themselves, to maybe earn a moment's peace. They need it to stop, if just for a bit. They took as deep a breath as they could.

“Pl—huh—ple—hahhh—pl-ss—ghh.” Trying to speak only aggravates their lungs further and they’re barely able to get out a full syllable with the gasping. It’s pitiful, they can instantly feel their face burn—even though there’s too much blood there already—but Whumpee is just about ready to give Whumper anything he wants to make it stop. They know that’s exactly what Whumper is trying for—they can’t care right now though.

But Whumper is already standing, as if he couldn’t hear Whumpee’s pleas, his shadow moving up and away, and tears flood down Whumpee’s face. After everything, and going against every fiber of their being, they had finally given him the one little word he wanted, and he doesn’t even care. Walked away like it was nothing.

Please, no more. 

Whumper trails a hand along their bound arm, stopping at their twitching fingers.

“Awe, and if only you could see the lovely shade of blue your arms and fingers are turning. Your legs and toes too. It must sting. I imagine it feels like fire crawling through your empty veins.” 

Whumper is right, they did burn, all over, every inch of them, and it’s the kind of burning that’s so hot it’s like frostbite, a painful, bone-deep numbness that leaves the skin and muscles prickling numbly. 

The biting of the rope had been long forgotten to the various other pains trumping it, but Whumper’s tracing hand and teasing narration of the current state of their body drags the itch of the rope burn back to the surface. 

“All because your little heart just can’t push the blood back up. It must be so tired, your heart,” Whumper says, humming thoughtfully as he slides his hand back to Whumpee’s front to rest over their shivering chest. They can feel their heart beginning to falter, as if at Whumper’s command, too overwhelmed with the task of pumping the extra blood out of Whumpee’s upper body, even with the adrenaline continuing to flood their system. 

Whumper is right, their heart is tired. Maybe it will take pity on them and just stop beating. 

Whumpee waits. 

It keeps fluttering weakly and rapidly against their rib cage, like a trapped and dying bird. A frightened dove, perhaps.

Whumper brushes his middle and forefinger against their bulging jugular vein, making them twitch and jerk with the proximity of his hand to their neck, holding it there to feel it pulsing thickly before pulling away.

Something clicks and Whumpee just barely hears it over their ringing ears and huffing lungs. It’s not Whumper’s shoes on the floor, but his silhouette has moved out of sight. 

They know they should swivel their head, try and find the predator who has slunk back into the darkness, but their eyelids are starting to get heavy, their breathing shallower, weaker. The static dancing across their vision wavers, beginning to fade to a more solid blackness. 

Something cold presses at the shaking muscles between their shoulder blades and Whumpee distantly feels it dragging down before—

“Aagghckhhuhh!”

Was that them screaming? It’s not even really a scream as the air drains from them within seconds, and they’re left choking on nothing. 

The pain took a moment to register, but Whumpee knows it to be Whumper’s pocket knife, the one he liked made of smooth steel with a jagged edge. The sweet exhaustion that was so close to taking them is effectively staved off by the new gash down the center of the back. 

Their heart skips another beat with the stress and they can nearly feel the extra blood rush down to their head. The tip of the cool metal blade is pulled from their skin and continues its teasingly slow path around their side and over to their stomach, and Whumpee is uncontrollably shaking, gasping quietly as they wait for another laceration.

“Oh, dove,” Whumper says, almost sounding genuinely apologetic before a slight puff of laughter breaks his sentence. “I really am so sorry, I didn’t plan on doing anything more than letting you hang here, but, well, I can’t have you falling asleep yet.” He moves around Whumpee’s side again and sighs affectionately. “Let me enjoy this a bit longer, hmm? You’re just so perfect like this.”

Whumpee is silent save their staggered breathing. This time when a scorching trail of pain is carved next to the first, they only flinch and whimper.

“Sorry, sorry.” Another sardonic laugh. “I admit, that one was just for fun.”

They can’t see. Their body is breaking, blind, numb to the very core yet still sensing every little sting and ache, head throbbing, skin burning, and—

“The real problem is your lungs, isn’t it?” Whumper prompts, sliding the knife from where it had wandered to Whumpee’s heaving navel towards the end of their sternum. 

Whumpee knows he’s doing it on purpose, asking them questions, waiting for an answer he knows they can’t provide, asking them to speak when any other day he’d want them to be quiet, simply because he knows they can’t reply. Can’t retaliate in the only way that they’ve been able to.

In the far back of their mind, in the little piece of their oriented self that’s remaining, they know this should piss them off, make them want to hock the fattest, nastiest glob of spit right at Whumper’s face. But their spit is choking them instead and they’re finding it hard to focus on anything but the pain and disorienting pressure in their head.

“What kills nearly all of the people who die this way—upside down, I mean—is asphyxiation. Fascinating, isn’t it? And you can feel it can’t you, your lungs giving out under the weight of your abdominal organs, literally being crushed? Your diaphragm…” Whumper glides the knife along the division of abdomen and chest, not yet pushing deep enough to cut. “...It’s struggling so desperately to lift that weight upward enough to allow your lungs to expand. But it’s so tired, isn’t it?”

Yes…so tired. 

Whumpee’s stomach did feel tight and sunken, as though the organs there had indeed slipped downward—or, upward?—to compress their fragile lungs. Is that even possible? Or is Whumper just trying to scare them, make them panic to worsen things? Either way, their breathing is becoming shallower, every inhale a fight against their own body and a battle against the ropes constricting the rising of their chest.

“You can’t breathe, can you.” This isn’t a question and it echoes through Whumpee’s mind, somehow amplifying their need for air. 

He’s right, I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Whumper must’ve knelt in front of Whumpee’s face because they can hear him taking a deep and taunting breath into free and open lungs as he pulls the knife down to dance across their collarbones. Whumpee scrunches their face, unseeing eyes closed tight.

“Whumpee, you’re so tired, aren’t you?”

Yes, I’m so tired. It hurts. Please, make it stop. 

A moment of silence passes, the room filled by Whumper’s deep, steady breathing, before Whumpee remembers that he can’t actually read their mind and so they try pulling their shoulders in and tensing their stomach to speak. 

“Huhhh…d-down…pl-huh-leassse…” They manage a string of two whining words broken by gasps before they run out of air, and fresh tears roll down the sides of their face. 

Something wet rolls over their shoulder and Whumpee hears it drip on the floor. It takes them a second to realize it’s blood from the gashes on their back, the pain of which has almost completely faded. 

Whumper is quiet for a moment, a dreadfully long moment, as Whumpee shakes and cringes at the blade tracing their collarbones and up their neck, before he whispers something that barely reaches their ears.

“Hmm, what was it you said ealier? That you could ‘do this all day,’ I believe it was?” 

Whumpee can’t see his face but they can hear the smugness there. A beat of silence. Whumpee searches for anything other than satisfaction in his tone but finds none, no joking or teasing manner to indicate he’s only bluffing. He wouldn’t leave them here all day, would he? How long has it been anyway? 

Asphyxiation, that’s what Whumper said they’d die of. Would they die? They certainly feel like they’re dying, and after all, their body can only survive on such little oxygen for so long. Just the train of thought has Whumpee’s weary heart racing faster, their throat sinching tighter. I’m going to die, they thought, followed by sobbing an awful, wrenching, breathless cry. 

The bastard is finally going to get what he wants, Whumpee shut up for good. And maybe it’s for the best, maybe they should let it end now, let Whumper walk out the door and fall asleep to the stalling thump of their heart and thrumming blood in their head, never to wake up again. 

But when they hear Whumper take a deep, languid breath of air, then feel the cool stream of his exhale being blown across their lips, their mouth, of its own accord, parts slightly to try and suck it in and the betrayal of their biography—the inherent yearning for breath—is somehow humiliating. Let me die, dammit. 

Whumper’s laugh hits their face, hot and smothering. “Sweet dove, don’t you know the body will always want to live, even if that obdurate mind of yours doesn’t?”

This time, when Whumper’s hand touches their face, gently cupping the trembling and tear-wet skin, they don’t flinch. 

“But you don’t really want to die, right, dove? You want to stay with me longer, don’t you?” 

Whumpee doesn’t feel themselves nod so much as the rush of shame that follows it, but another side of them—a side that wasn’t fully there before Whumper enacted this scheme today—quickly burns the shame away before it can settle, and complacently agrees with their torturer. 

No, they don’t want to die. They’ll do anything to get down. And so this new part of them, immune to degradation and embarrassment, simply on the basis that it’s only goal is to survive, pushes Whumpee to lift their impossibly heavy chin, and give Whumper exactly what he wants, what he’d been digging for this entire time. Not the word please. Whumpee realizes now that Whumper knew “please” meant nothing, could be said hollowly just like the word “love.” 

No, what he wants is Whumpee begging for him. To be with him.

“W-w-huuh-umper….pl-huh-ease…huh…I…want...huhhh…huh…to…s-stay…with...huh…y-you….” They’re crying freely, gulping for spent air, shuddering head to toe from exhaustion, the sentence barely intelligible, but Whumper hushes them softly in contentment. 

“Shh, I know, dove. Thank you for finally being honest. You can sleep now, I’ll get you down.” His voice is silky, just like the thumb he’s stroking over their trembling chin and bottom lip. 

Whumpee knows they should hate the touch, hate being given permission to rest, but they accept gratefully, and let their mind slip down, down, and far away from the pounding in their skull and the aching of their entire physical being. 

~ ~ ~

For perhaps a moment too long, Whumper lets himself enjoy Whumpee’s unconscious pliability. Just tracing the bruises on their skin—ones he himself put there—stroking their cheek, studying the thin scar along their nose, the short one on the side of their stomach, and the thick one along their outer thigh—the only ones he didn’t do himself—and taking in the state Whumpee is so rarely in. Quiet. Calm. 

Well, not exactly calm, even in unconsciousness. They are still struggling to breathe in their sleep, shuddering to pull in air, and it’s a gurling, choking cough that snaps Whumper out of his trance and has him finally striding to the pulley on the wall to untie the numerous knots. 

When the rope is loose he wraps it three times about his hand and slowly lowers Whumpee to the ground; there’s the hissing of the rope through the wheel, then their head touching down, gently, followed by their shoulder blades, back, and rear, until they are flat on the floor. 

By the time Whumper has walked back over to them, their color is already slowly shifting from an awful blue in their extremities and a reddish-purple in their face, to a paler pink as they spasm lightly with the change of positioning, their body systems desperately trying to reset themselves.

Their breathing half corrects itself, still restricted by the ropes but lungs no longer burdened by the weight of their stomach, and Whumpee groans, coughs weakly, but takes a breath. Their face visibly relaxes some, the tension in their muscles dispersing with the relief of oxygen. Whumper kneels, pulling their head and shoulders up into his lap, and begins working at the ropes around their torso first with his pocket knife, the tip of which is still stained in their blood. 

With each snapping of a section of rope, Whumpee’s chest rises a little further, and soon their upper half is completely unrestrained, their arms hanging loose by their sides, shoulders slumped into Whumper’s thighs. The sound of their first full breath is ragged and sputtering, before falling into a semi-normal rhythm.

Their face melts and their brows unknitt as their fingers begin to twitch with the likely painful, prickling return of feeling. Whumper runs his fingers through their messy, dampened hair, and takes another moment to enjoy the view before sliding out from under them and finishing removing the bindings. 

A whimper makes Whumper’s head snap up in surprise, thinking they’re awakening, but their eyes remain closed and face lax as they whine quietly in their sleep. No, Whumpee will be out of it for a while after today. 

When he lifts Whumpee up into his arms, their head lolls to the side until he shifts so it tucks against his chest, and then he makes his way out the door and across the hall to Whumpee’s room. Instead of its usual barren state, there is a thick, memory foam mat in the corner, a thin pillow and blanket. Privileges Whumpee has never earned before. 

Whumper knows they won’t last long, he will likely have to take them back shortly after Whumpee wakes up, but tonight, they’ve earned them. Although their time together started as it usually did, with Whumpee running their mouth, fighting every step of the way, it ended with them quiet, compliant, agreeable, and begging, which is a difficult state to push them into. 

He laughs to himself as he lays the groaning Whumpee on the mat and places the pillow under their head and shoulders to elevate them slightly. Whumpee had remained conscious upside down far longer than expected—a little under five hours.

It still baffles Whumper how they’re able to withstand so much. Perhaps it’s due to their physical body, an athlete's lungs, a strong heart and healthy blood vessels, even despite their malnutrition and insomnia recently? Or is it just their stupidly stubborn will? No matter really, since neither a strong body nor mind can hold out eternally.

Whumpee isn’t the kind of person to break down from just one session, it will take many bouts of blended humiliation and pain to get them where Whumper wants them; they would never be so easy as to break and stay broken after this one time. Granted, he hadn’t totally expected something as simple as hanging them upside down to be what made such headway. He supposes the article he read really wasn’t kidding about the severity of the effects of being in the position too long.

He knows the malleability he witnessed tonight isn’t indefinite, that as soon as Whumpee is awake and thinking straight that they’d be back to their normal self. But it’s still a step in the right direction. He still managed to chip away a significant obstacle with them, which was getting them to admit that they would do anything to stay alive, even if that meant they had to be here, with Whumper. Now that’s something Whumper can work with, something he can begin to knead at and eventually mold as he pleases. 

For now, though, what he needs is to be patient, and to slowly, steadily, begin shaping the clay. His first mistake with this kid was his impatience, but after seeing the pay off, well, he could wait. He can learn to take things slowly if that’s what it took to make a sweet pet.

His hand finds its way back to their hair as he thinks, his fingers running through knots and tangles. Whumpee is dirty, grime from the floor scuffing their legs and shoulders, blood drying in an odd looking trail over their left shoulder, hair sticky from sweat and tears, a beautiful, bright red lattice of rope burn running all over their body. 

The marks at Whumpee’s wrists seem especially irritated, probably from the layers of half healed skin there that have peeled free upon Whumpee’s struggling today, and Whumper inspects them with a churning admiration, noting that it'd be the one thing he will miss about Whumpee, once they’re broken in—the excuse to leave them with injuries like these. Although, he supposes he can always simply make those excuses.

He doesn’t bother wiping them down, cleaning them, changing their undergarments, or dressing the laceration on their back, not wanting to disturb this precious moment. It will be fine until tomorrow. 

They are breathing regularly now, tossing their head slightly with their moaning, but look otherwise at peace. Almost as if they truly are comfortable here with Whumper as he tucks the blanket around them. 

“Such a good little dove you’re being…” He hums, sweeping their hair off their forehead and going to stand. Maybe tomorrow he’d give them a much needed bath. As he thinks this, his mind jumps to imagine how it will go, part of him hoping for a silent and uncaring Whumpee who will curl their knees to their chest in the tub and let Whumper wash them, another part of him hoping Whumpee will kick and fight and bite and blab their mouth so he can hold their head under. 

He leaves the room, countless scenarios flooding his mind.

Yes, a bath tomorrow sounds delightful.

#whump #whumper #whumpee #whumpworldoriginalwriting #upside down #upside down whump #creepy whumper #talkative whumpee

[fulcrum-art-fox]

The way this show frames these scenes is killing me. Like, they’re both viewed from behind Jinx, through Jinx, from Jinx, however you want to phrase it, and they’re both directly symbolic of the nasty three way knot arcane ties around Vi, Jinx and Caitlyn. They’re both of scenes where Jinx’s jealousy regarding Caitlyn causes her to try and hurt Vi (almost incidentally when she shoots at them on the bridge, because the scribbles across her vision literally blot Vi out, like she’s not even seeing her, and 100% deliberately in the tea party scene), thereby actually doing to herself what she’s afraid is happening anyway - like, she’s scared that Caitlyn will come between them, right, that Vi is replacing her with Caitlyn, scared that Vi will prioritise Caitlyn? But in shooting at Vi and Caitlyn on the bridge, she demonstrates to Vi that she is actively a danger to Caitlyn, and so Vi chooses to leave, to get Caitlyn off the bridge and away from her, because she knows now that chances are high that if Caitlyn stays here on the bridge, Jinx will kill her. So Vi walks away from Jinx, precisely the scenario Jinx was afraid of, but she literally causes it herself by shooting at them. Vi is willing to risk her own life to get through to her sister, but not Caitlyn’s. And Jinx seems to take that to mean Vi doesn’t love her at all. And at the tea party she wants Vi to choose her, to love her, accept her - but the way she’s going about it is outright horrifying. Torturing Vi with the implication that she has killed and beheaded her girlfriend and now intends to serve her head up on a platter as some kind of twisted test, offering Vi Powder back if she will kill Caitlyn, etc. Jinx setting the bar this high, (high isn’t even the right word, it’s a horrifying ultimatum), essentially at “if Vi won’t literally shoot her girlfriend in the head at point blank range she doesn’t love me” is setting herself up for failure. And it’s heartbreaking, because Vi loves her, and she wants to be loved, but for Vi to “prove” her love in the way that Jinx asks her to in this moment she would have to sacrifice her humanity. And you can see across the show how Jinx got here, to this place and these twisted thoughts, and it’s heartbreaking, for everyone involved, how it turns out, how it happens, and with Jinx seeing the situation with such a narrow gaze, tunnel vision, framed by violence and paranoia and pain

#I don’t even know if this makes any sense #caitlyn #yeah sorry this is a long one but once I started rambling I couldn’t stop #vi #jinx #arcane #this twisted knot they’ve tied themselves in #my god #feel so sorry for all of them #my posts

[grrumbles-galore]

Ok y’all so like, get this: stressed out tummies:

Character A has had a very stressful week, forcing them to work day in and day out with hardly any breaks or significant sleep. With this extra level of strain, A has found their stomach tied into a knot most mornings, feeling almost queasy from how tight it is, resulting in very light meals on top of everything else. They have to muscle their way through each shift, getting a few gentle rubs in when they can to try and ease the discomfort, but it never seems to work for long. By the end of the week, A is grouchy, bummed out, and flat out exhausted, clearly ready for some well deserved rest. The night that they finally get to settle down a bit, B comes over, more than willing to provide any needed comfort for poor A; they’ve watched them struggle a bit too much for too long. A lays down on the couch and curls up into a ball, eager for some good sleep, but also clearly uncomfortable. B gets concerned and walks over. 

“Hey man, you doing alright? I don’t like that grimace on your face.”

“Yeah”, A winces as they readjust their position to glance up at B, “I’m just tired.”

“Well people don’t usually scrunch up like that when they fall asleep, so I’d say something e-“

Suddenly, B’s questioning was cut off by a deep growl emitting from A’s abdomen, causing A to coil further, pressing a hand into their stomach.

“Geez man, no wonder you feel terrible; when was the last time you ate anything?”

A rubbed the back of their neck, “I mean I had a granola bar this morning.”

“Ok, and?” B motioned for A to go on, and A would have loved to, but they were having quite a hard time pulling an answer out of their pocket. They could only remember eating that granola bar this morning, and their stomach had felt so strange that they didn’t want to put anything else in there for the rest of the day.

“That’s it,” A mumbled, beginning to turn a tad red as they averted their eyes to the floor.

“Well that is about to abruptly change,” B replied, turning to their right and heading for the kitchen.

“Ah, B wait,” A began, head now leaning backwards to see B from the couch. “I still just don’t feel all that great, and I really don’t want to get sick, and I want to sleep more than anything right now. Maybe I could just eat tomorrow?”

“A, did you hear your stomach at all? That is the exact cry of a tummy that is sad, overworked, and empty.”

But before A could protest, their stomach gave a small rumble in agreement, leading A to rest their hand over the talkative organ.

“See?” B said with a grin, and turned around to go make dinner.

After about half an hour, B gently walks over to the couch and nudges A awake, telling them it’s time to eat. With a bit of help, A hauls themselves upwards and throws their feet over the edge of the couch, beginning to make their way towards the kitchen. Upon sitting down in front of a fresh pot of soup, the smell wafting up all around them, A suddenly finds a new feeling other than nausea begin to twist in their belly. As B lifts the ladle out of the pot and dumps a sizable portion of soup into A’s bowl, A’s stomach sounds a low rumble, clearly in anticipation, A clenching their hand over it in surprise.

B chuckled, “Alright, calm down, tell your stomach I can only go so fast.”

“Sorry,” A blushed.

“No, don’t be sorry,” B said as they gave a reassuring smile, “it just means you’re hungry.” B slid a bowl full of soup over to A and twirled a spoon in between their fingers before handing it over as well. A smiled back at B before refocusing on the meal in front of them which smelled absolutely divine. Forgetting that they were concerned about getting sick just a few minutes ago, A took their first mouthful of soup with zero hesitation and nearly melted where they sat. Their shoulders immediately sank and their head tilted back ever so slightly as they closed their eyes to savor the explosion of flavor on their tastebuds. The appreciative pause was not appreciated by someone though, as A’s stomach gave another quick grumble as to speed up the process. Thankfully B was too busy eating to have heard, but A had no issue answering its command, forcing themselves to count in between spoonfuls to make sure they weren’t going too fast.

As soon as both A and B were finished, A leaned back in their chair and laid a lazy hand on top of their tummy, feeling that new cozy warmth underneath their palm.

“Need me to carry you to bed, or do you think you can manage yourself?” B teased.

A gave a sleepy chuckle, “Nah, I think I can get it. Need to me to help clean up? I mean you made dinner for me, so-“

“No, you need to go to bed. You’re making me tired with how dark your eyes are. I’ve got this, you don’t need to worry about it,” B said with a warm grin and a wink. As much as A did want to help, they had no issue with the idea of crawling underneath their warm blankets with a full tummy and crashing for the night. So off A went, nearly dragging themselves to their room and slinking into bed, already halfway asleep. As they drifted off, small, content gurgles could be heard every now and then from underneath the covers, and A made small, content hums right along with it

#oops looks like this turned into something huge #hunger #stuffing #situation #stomach growl #first full fic fellas! #hey that was alliteration #fic #text

[britishassistant]

Supervillain AU! I formally request the special addition of Yuu’s first kidnapping please.

Thank you for the ask, dear anon!

“Yoo-hoo, Reporter-chan? Wakey-wakey, it’ll be bad for you if you don’t get up soon~”

Yuu shakes their head groggily, the sing-songy voice not helping the pounding in their temple.

“Did someone get the number of the truck that hit me?” They mumble, blinking to try and get their eyes to focus.

“Dammit Deuce, you gave them brain damage.” A familiar, much more annoyed sounding voice said. “Their head’s gonna be all screwy and useless now, dumbass.”

“It was just a lovetap though!” A third voice, also familiar, protested.

The floor finally stopped moving in front of their eyes and Yuu realized some very important things.

One, the floor they were staring at was not the floor of the library where they last remembered being.

Two: Their arms and legs seemed to be tied tight to the arms and legs of an iron garden chair.

Three: There are many odd-looking people standing near them, all in clothes that are too coordinated not to be a uniform but too outlandish to represent a government group of some kind.

Oh Great Seven, Yuu thinks with a rising sort of hysteria. It’s finally happened.

Clowns have come to take me away for not brushing my teeth enough like Mom said when I was little.

“...Are ya sure you didn’t break ‘em?”

“...”

“Deuce.”

Yuu wonders if they should feel offended at being talked around like this.

“Enough of this nonsense!” A hand seizes Yuu’s chin and pulls their head up to face the latest speaker. An imperious-looking young man stands and walks towards the reporter, clicking his fingers. “Three of Clovers.”

A tall man in glasses hands the imperious young man what Yuu recognizes as their wallet. The shorter man glances at the contents disdainfully. “You. First and last name and age, now.”

“Y-Yuu Radcliffe, 23 years.” The reporter stutters, their initial hysteria morphing into a sinking feeling in their gut. If not the clowns, then... “Can I ask who I have the pleasure of talking to?”

“No.” The redhead holding their wallet snaps. “Current occupation and birthday?”

“Field reporter at TWST local news.” They force themselves to relax the fists their hands have balled into. “March 18th.”

Remember what Uncle Divvy always says. Stay calm, act cooperative, do or say whatever you need to to avoid injury. Any supervillains on this level trying to curry favor with or blackmail the dumb bird will have to go through Uncle Divvy first to contact him, and he’ll take care of the rest.

All Yuu needs to do is keep themselves alive until then.

They still can’t help but dread what they know is coming next.

The supervillain seems to notice their distress, and smirks cruelly. He takes his time walking forward and leaning down until he’s on the reporter’s eye level, hands resting on the back of the chair and eyes flicking over their face, almost as if he’s savoring the moment before he makes their life that much more painful.

Yuu braces themselves as he opens his mouth–!

“What is the best type of tea?”

Huh?

“Wait, what? I don’t—” Yuu asks, backpedalling as the supervillain’s face grows stormy at their lack of response. “Uuh...green tea? I guess? I mean, it’s the one I like the most, but I’m more of a coffee or hot cocoa person, so I’m not the best one to ask...”

The person holding their chin sucks in through their teeth and the annoyed familiar voice outside their periphary snickers “Oooh, busted~”

The supervillain is beginning to go as red as his hair, and the reporter can hear his teeth grinding. His hands are now gripping the back of the chair so tight Yuu would almost swear they hear the metal by their ears creak.

“Ri–Royal.” The man with glasses says.

The supervillain inhales and exhales almost violently, until what’s visible of his face under that mask is looking less flushed.

“The correct answer,” He says, voice trembling with emotion. “Was all teas at their due times. To drink green tea instead of rosehip at breakfast, or lemon tea at 8pm...the nerve of your arrogance is astounding!”

Yuu...genuinely isn’t sure how they’re supposed to respond to that. Instead they just go with, “I’m sorry, I’ve never had rosehip or lemon tea. Do you like them?”

“Do I—?!” The supervillain’s mouth works soundlessly, gradually going red again. He pushes off the chair sharply. “I—the ro—i-it’s not a matter of liking!! These are the Rules!! And the Rules must be obeyed!! Three of Clovers!”

“Yes, Royal Flush?” The glasses man asks.

“The reporter is forbidden from having any montblanc after dinner, and will take two cups of lemon tea at 8pm tonight and two cups of rosehip tomorrow at breakfast.” Royal Flush flashes them a cruel smirk. “Consider it a light punishment for your impertinence.”

Yuu blinks. Tries to make sense of what they’ve just heard.

Blinks again.

“You know if you just wanted to ask me out to dinner, I’d have taken a nice invitation or a bouquet. You didn’t need to knock me out and tie me up like this, I’m not that picky. I do have Tinder.”

Glasses guy makes a choking noise and erupts into a coughing fit.

The hand that’s been holding Yuu’s chin migrates to their shoulder for support as its owner lets out an undignified snort and gasps out something that sounds vaguely like “why wasn’t I recording, that was Magicam gold!” as he giggles. He’s a redhead too, but much more orange than his boss.

There’s a sputter of hysterical laughter that has Yuu twisting their head to see the two guys and the cat from the hydroelectric plant, both with these odd-looking metal collars around their necks, but otherwise unharmed. The talking cat is trussed up in so many ropes that it looks more like a bobblehead, also wearing a weird collar.

The third redheaded one is bracing his hands on his knees, wheezing out a litany of “holy shit, holy shit” between chortles. The dark haired one is holding the cat a confused expression, cutting off his friend’s laughter when he turns to ask, “Ace, what’s tinder?”

The momentary silence lets an odd squeaking noise be heard.

One that gradually grows in volume until it’s an outright screech coming from the supervillain in front of them. He’s so red Yuu is honestly worried about his blood pressure, pointing a shaking finger at them.

“I—YOU—YOU—OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!!”

Yuu chokes a little at the feeling of cold metal materializing around their neck, dragging their head down with its weight. The supervillain continues screeching, refusing to even look at the reporter. “YOU—! DUNGEON! RIGHT NOW!! NO DESSERTS!! GO!!”

There’s an awkward moment as Royal Flush turns away from them, as if expecting them to get up and walk out of their own accord while his back is to them.

“...So, does that mean you want them to untie me or something, or...?” Yuu wiggles their firmly bound hands and feet for emphasis.

The supervillian makes a sound like a kettle whistling, before he barks out. “Two of Spades! Ace of Hearts! GET them OUT OF MY SIGHT until they’re WILLING to COOPERATE!!”

The dark haired young man quickly shuffles forward, grabs the back of the chair, and drags it and the poor reporter attached to it out of the room and into the corridor. The metal screeches as it moves from carpet to concrete.

“Wh—Two, no, untie them first.” The man with glasses says, despairing, appearing in the doorway. “You’ll mark up the floor otherwise.”

“Ah! Sorry, senpai!” Two looks between the cat in his arms and the knots on the chair, before shoving the cat into the arms of the redhead who answers to “Ace”. Neither of them look happy with this development.

“Fgnah! Quit squeezing, ya jerk!” The cat protests, wriggling as best it can.

“Oh? What’s that? I’m sorry, I just need to make sure that greatest, lamest supervillain in the city doesn’t escape to go setting random crap in the lair on fire again.” Ace says sweetly, grip tightening.

“Tha’s your fault, an’ you know it!” The cat wheezes out, thrashing harder.

Yuu winces. “Hey, quit hurting him. Whatever he did, he doesn’t deserve this.”

The dark haired minion barks out a laugh as he tugs the ropes away from their right wrist while his redheaded counterpart sneers at them.

“Oh really? Bet you’ll change your tune real quick once you learn it’s thanks to him you’re here in the first place.” Ace of Hearts mocks. “Dumb monster sang like a damn canary when Royal pressured him a tiiiny bit, saying it was all your fault his precious ingredient is now in the sewers.”

“Tha’s a lie!” The monster? cat blurts out too quickly for comfort. “It’s all these two morons, I swear!”

“Why you little—“

“I don’t care.” Yuu cuts in before Two of Spades can hit the animal. “I didn’t destroy that thing, but even if none of you said anything, your boss would’ve found out I was involved anyway from watching my report on it on the news. So I don’t care, just-just quit hurting him.”

There’s a tense moment as the two minions stare down at the reporter. They do their best to meet the gazes without flinching.

Then the Ace of Hearts tosses the cat into their lap as the Two of Spades sinks back down to keep working on their ankle. “Fine. Since you like it so much, you can take care of it. Just don’t expect me to cover for your ass—you still owe me for the power plant.”

“I’m sorry?” Yuu curls their free arm around the bundle of rope, fur, and yowling insults and pulls it closer to them. “Shouldn’t that be the other way round?”

“You locked me in a closet with him!” Ace hisses. “Do you know how hard it was to get out before the cops came with him freaking out and messing stuff up?!”

“Oi.” Two shoots him a dark look from where he’s finished untying the reporter’s left hand. “Like you weren’t whining about us being digested until you knocked a broom over!”

“Sh-shut up!”

“Well excuse me for trying to save your lives.” Yuu bites back, rubbing the rope marks on their wrists. “Next time I’ll just run and let the sludge monster eat your unconscious bodies.”

“It’d save us all the trouble of this shit if you did!” Ace spits, jabbing a finger at his collar. “At least then we wouldn’t be on Royal’s shit list!”

Yuu lets the piece of information they were just given marinate in their brain as they glare at him. Well, now what exactly was that supposed to mean?

“Ngh...this knot won’t come loose.” Two says from by the reporter’s left foot.

“How about now?” Replies an unfamiliar voice, as a disembodied hand pulls deftly at a loop in the rope.

“Ah!” Two of Spades brightens up as the rest of the rope falls away. “Thanks a lot—”

The disembodied hand punches him in the face.

Yuu cries out in alarm at the sight of the minion falling backwards into the Ace of Hearts, knocking him down like a bowling pin.

A pair of clawed hands are then scooping them up, extra cat and all, and the reporter finds themself looking at the unsettlingly wide smile and purple cat ears of one of the city’s top heroes, running at full speed while sharpened playing cards whizz past his face and Ace calls out behind them “Senpai! It’s him again!!”

There’s a percussive boom somewhere in the distance, and screams of how the flamingos are loose as the hero winks down at Yuu. “Seems you’re a popular one today, kitten! But let’s get you back to where you where before you were so rudely catnapped, yes?”

“Not so fast, hero!” The orange haired guy choruses from the entrance to the staircase, and—from behind them as well?

The reporter’s heart sinks as more and more versions of the minion keep popping up around them, to the point where the hero is forced to stand on the bannister of the balcony they’re on.

And based on the fact that the hero hasn’t used his invisibility? Intangibility? powers, it’s likely that he can’t use them while holding Yuu and the cat.

They’re surrounded.

“You really can’t keep your paws out of anything that’s mine, can you?” Royal Flush’s tone is clipped as he glares up at the hero.

“Hey R-kun, Three-kun!” The hero pouts, hugging Yuu closer to his chest. “I come a~ll this way to play, only to find you’ve got a nyew toy you’re already playing with without me! How mean! You guys really are cruel!!”

“We’re sorry about that.” Three of Clovers says, edging closer. “If you just hand the reporter over to Four, they’ll be put away and we can all “play” together, no distractions. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

The hero makes a deliberating noise, holding Yuu out and away from him over the drop, tilting his head this way and that.

His grin grows unsettlingly wider.

“Look, R-kun, Three-kun!” The hero calls out. “Nyo hands!”

Wait, what—

The hero’s body vanishes.

Yuu and the monster cat plummet screaming past the illogically winding staircases of the evil lair.

Yuu tries to angle their body so that the frantically crying cat will be shielded from the brunt of the fall—!

“NO!!”

There’s a sound like glass shattering, and a feeling of being enveloped in something soft, cold and buoyant. The two of them bounce a few times and land back on it more gently each time.

Yuu cracks open their eyes to see that they’re seated on a strange, red, jelly-like mass. The cat in their arms tentatively sniffs, and then lunges to take a bite out of their cushion before the reporter can stop him.

“Shtrawberry?” He says through a full mouth. “Tashtes good!”

The reporter grabs him before he can go for another bite, a little thrown by his speed now that collar isn’t weighing him down. But where did this thing come from–?

Yuu looks up.

Royal Flush is leaning dangerously far over the balcony countless flights of stairs above them, one arm outstretched down towards them.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Then clawed hands fasten around Yuu’s waist again with a cheery “Nyow wasn’t that fun?” and Royal Flush visibly tenses and begins screaming things after the escaping hero that are barely legible through his rage.

The hero deposits them both outside the TWST news station with their wallet and phone back in their pockets. He at least helps them untie the monster cat, who promptly declares he just let them protect him, and scarpers.

Of course the hero is gone too when Yuu turns back around, before they can ask him what the hell he was playing at, dropping them like that, was he insane?! If Royal Flush hadn’t interfered...

The reporter has to fight the urge to lose their lunch.

Their boss rushes out and envelopes them in a surprisingly powerful hug, the woman almost lifting the reporter off their feet as she babbles about whether or not Yuu needs a hospital after getting kidnapped by one of the seven major supervillains.

Yuuken is quick to join the embrace with a bear hug of his own. He pulls back, fingers prodding gently at Yuu’s bruised temple and declaring he’ll drive them to hospital to make sure they don’t have a concussion.

He graciously waits until they’re in the car to ask why Yuu smells so much of strawberries.

The reporter can only give a half answer, partly because they don’t want to worry him, and partly because they have another question of their own buzzing incessantly around their brain.

Why was Yuu kidnapped in the first place?

Royal Flush never even mentioned Crowley, despite all the chances he had to do so. Not even an oblique or confusing metaphor or code. Does that mean he’s ignorant of the connection between Yuu and the League?

But if that’s the case, it circles back around to the first question: why kidnap Yuu to begin with?

Somehow the reporter doubts it was to just ask their tea preferences or invite them to dinner.

Those minions referred to that monster as Royal Flush’s “precious ingredient”. Ingredient for what? Is there something that Royal Flush thinks they witnessed that’s integral to a scheme? Did they witness something and just not realize it’s significance?

Yuu’s reporter senses are screaming that there’s a deeper story to uncover here. Yuu’s common sense is screaming that investigating the dangerous plans of the supervillain they’ve just escaped from is a terrible idea.

Though he could have just...let them fall. But he didn’t. And won’t he just kidnap them again regardless?

...

This is a terrible idea.

But if Yuu’s common sense was stronger than their reporter senses, then they wouldn’t be in this city in the first place, would they?

#ask #twisted wonderland #twst #supervillain au #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #royal flush #ace trappola #twst ace #deuce spade #twst deuce #trey clover #twst trey #cater diamond #twst cater #chenya #twst chenya #riddle x yuu #twisted wonderland grim #twst grim #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu

[sweetsubharry]

Can you rec some omega harry fics pls?

Yes I can!! ^-^ So because this is a particular favourite of mine I counted 68 fics in this list so as a warning it’s a long list!! 

In case no one makes it to the bottom I’ll say it here too! Please stay safe and read the tags!!💕💕

'Cause Your Embrace Keeps Me Warmer by scribblewrite

Mates and soulmates are two completely different things. Mates are two people, an alpha and omega, who bond together while knotted together when the alpha bites a bond point on the omega’s body. It ties the two of them together forever or until one of them breaks the bond. It's normally the step after marriage. One could only hope to meet their soulmate.

You Could Be My Ever After by scribblewrite

His heat was gone, finally gone, and he'd been able to sleep for longer than thirty minute intervals. Not only that, but he was in his alpha's arms. He felt warm, and safe, and protected, and he honest to god didn't want to move. Harry and Louis spend the next couple days together after they've bonded with Louis taking care of Harry and the two of them getting to know each other better. Louis and Harry meet for the first time and, being soulmates, Louis's rut and Harry's heat are triggered.

Fill My Heart With Sweetness by loopdelouis

Harry's a late bloomer, but since his luck is shit, it's no surprise that he'd be the last to get a heat, but the first to get pregnant. In high school.

Let's Embrace The Point Of No Return by sweaterpawstyles

Louis was a whole new scale of beautiful, he was richer than Harry could've ever imagined, and he was the most powerful, dominant alpha that Harry had ever come in contact with. The only problem now is that Louis is also Harry's boss.

Louis believed Harry was an alpha, and had no idea about how he had lied about his status just to get an interview with Louis. He was in too deep now and he couldn't look back.

Or

Harry is an omega intern at an all alpha company. Louis is his boss. There's some complications.

Count The Wolves And We'll Sleep Tonight by scribblewrite

Louis's the Alpha of a powerful pack and Harry's his omega.

When Harry's taken by rogue alphas, Louis will do anything to bring him home safely.

turn the sky black into a sky blue by orphan_account

Harry forgets that noses exist. Louis is a badass motherfucker. They bang.

“I’ve been in love with you since I dropped my books in the hallway and you made fun of me when you picked up my John Green novel off the ground.”

Our Lips Are Made Of Candy by Waking_dreams

“Your knot, please, Louis,” he managed to whine. He needed it, that extra stretch and burn that made him Louis’.

“Fuck,” Louis moaned, and his thrusts became unsteady. “Can’t do it here, baby, Hazza, can’t—“

Or, Harry accidentally missed a few doses of his medicine that controls his heat and starts his heat in the middle of Biology. Oops

I Can't Hear You by kikikryslee

"I’m not supposed to be built this way!" Harry said. "I’m supposed to be shorter than you, and you’re supposed to be stronger than me and-“ “Harry!” Louis tried to interrupt. “And what if I’m not supposed to be an omega? What if my body screwed up somewhere or something? What if I’m not supposed to be your omega?” --- Or, the one where Harry is self-conscious about his body because it's not the 'typical omega body' and Louis shows him why he loves that.

You Know I'll Be by JustAnotherShadow503 

Louis Tomlinson, 27, is the personal photographer for well-known model Harry Styles, 21. Louis, an Alpha, has been in love with Harry for years, though the younger man has seemingly not presented yet.

Or, the one where Louis is in love with Harry, tries to be a martyr at his own expense, and is a hopeless romantic.

Or, the one where the author is shit at coming up with summaries and hopes you'll read the story anyways.

I'd Go Out of My Way To Make Sure That You're Okay by littlepinkbow 

This was for this prompt: "Harry's embarrassed about going into heat, but Louis decides it's up to him to teach Harry to be more open about what he wants."

As Small As Possible by Mickey_D

Harry is a rather shy omega who's quite convinced everyone (except his best friends) laughs at him behind his back and sometimes to his face.

Louis is a confident alpha who is taken with his best artist's friend.

Zero Means Nothing When I'm With You by StripedAndBowtied

Louis doesn't know what he's looking for until he finds it.

Harry just knows he may defy his gender norms, with his height and clumsiness, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want litters of pups running around while he does domestic things all day long.

In other words, boy meets boy and no one can stop pining.

Boys Fall Like Dominoes by orphan_account

Harry slips into an early heat while riding the tube. Naturally, that's when he meets Louis.

Looking In The Dark by orphan_account

Another self-indulgent a/b/o fic. This carries on from the same verse of Boys Fall Like Dominoes. As per always, you can find me on tumblr : domestic-harry

Enjoy! -Lis xx

Too Hot (Hot Damn) by louissass

“I’m what?”

“You’re in heat, baby,” He repeats, frowning when he catches the look on Harry’s face. “I thought you realised?”

Or, the one where Harry goes into heat in the middle of a concert but doesn't realise because of the heatwave.

i don't wanna be your friend, i wanna kiss your neck by crybaby

Harry has been in love with Louis Tomlinson for four years, five months, and thirteen days.

Harry had fallen in love with Louis Tomlinson like how he’d seen in movies, and how he’d read in all the books he’d stolen from Gemma, headfirst and shameless.

The only problem was, that in films and books, love was always either returned instantly, or else it took time for unrequited love to lose the first two letters, and since the first option was obviously not true, Harry decided he would wait for the second to become reality. And so Harry waited, three years, eight months, and four days, before his heart had been broken by a gentle rejection and a misplaced blowjob, before Louis and Gemma had packed up and gone to Manchester for university.

(Harry is a hopelessly romantic omega and Louis is his sister's best friend)

Drape Me In Your Warmth by fookinglousers

TMH era fic where Harry is an omega whose heat comes a little earlier than expected and really, who is Louis to deny him his knot?

pick my petals off (make my heart explode) by orphan_account

It’s when he’s frantically looking into the medicine cabinet for something to take that it hits him. He stares at the bottles of pills in horror, realizing what’s going on with him.

He’s completely forgotten about his suppressants. And he’s been spending so much time with Louis, too—of course the alpha’s constant proximity is going to trigger it.

He breaks into a sweat, now recognizing the hot feeling twisting inside him.

He’s going into heat.

(harry unexpectedly goes into heat in the middle of finals, and louis, being the good boyfriend that he is, helps harry through it.)

harry, you little shit by juliusschmidt

Harry’s an omega and he’s learning to like it. A lot.

All These Lights by MediaWhore

“People vote for alphas because they’re strong and they’re not only beautiful but also mesmerizing. They make you want to give them all of your attention, make you want to beg for some of theirs back. They’re shiny, oozing sex appeal and a commanding presence, and people always want more and more. Omegas are enticing too for sure, but it’s not the same. It makes people uncomfortable. It doesn’t make them want to root for you.”

the canon fic where Harry is an omega and dreams come with a price.

Pretend It's Okay by TheIfInLife

Harry and Louis are busy with life. Busy watching Zayn and Niall's twin boys, busy hanging out with friends, busy with life. And they forget Harry's suppressants.

taste on my tongue (just can't get enough of you) by messyjessy08

“Babe?” Louis asks, running a hand through Harry’s hair, soothingly. “What is it?”

Harry shakes his head, teeth digging into his bottom lip, sharply. “My—it’s—”

Louis’ eyebrows furrow in confusion, “What, Harry?”

He pulls a hand up to his chest, pressing hard against one of his pecs, “My fucking—her crying’s making them—Lou.”

Louis gasps, understanding. He reaches a hand up, pushing Harry’s aside, and thumbs gently across Harry’s nipple, somehow already dark and swollen, without having touched them once. “Harry,” He says in a low voice, chest rumbling at the sharp gasp Harry makes.

“Lou, they’re fucking—’m leaking.”

(Harry and Louis just had a baby and it's been a while since they've had sex.)

you took your toll on me (you got a hold on me) by messyjessy08

“Well give us a twirl. Let’s look at you from every angle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, gaze heavy. “Alright.” Pulling back the tail of his shirt, he spins slowly, pausing when his back’s facing Louis.

“Harry.” Louis attempts to gather his wits, speechless. “Baby.”

“Thought you might like that part as well,” Harry says, a smirk in his voice.

Thick strips of lace drape delicately over his skin, just under the bottom of his spine, connecting with thin elastic straps that move across his arse, leaving little sections of bare skin showing. The straps connect to form a diamond pattern, creating an opening right over where his hole would be. The skin surrounding it is already shiny with slick. Louis’ breath gets trapped in his lungs.

(Harry and Louis have the weekend to themselves, they make the most of it.)

This Thing Upon Me (howls like a beast) by SadaVeniren

Harry and Louis weren’t meant to be together. They’d met when they were put together through their university’s AO MatchUp, a program that set up alphas and omegas based on the schedules of their ruts and heats so they had someone to help them through it. It was pure luck that they were put together.

Lunch Break by purpleeyestelllies

Harry decides to bring his alpha lunch at work and surprise him with a visit from him and their baby daughter. Louis gets more than one surprise.

drunk on rose water by brainwaves

It’s the first time in a few years that Harry has a strong desire to risk everything for something he loves.

The last time, it was being a fashion model. This time, it’s Louis.

with his educated eyes (and his head between my thighs) by orphan_account 

"We're...we're not the same," Harry says softly, looking at his hands. "I don't care," Louis replies back, fire and fury in his eyes.

or where Harry is just a little boy in a world full of arseholes, Louis is in way over his head, and destiny is a bunch of shit.

Everything I Do (I Do It For You) by LSFOREVER

"It's gonna be perfect," Harry whispers, taking Louis' face in both of his hands, nosing close but not yet kissing him. "Always is. You always make everything perfect."

"Good. Whenever your heat finally kicks in, I'll make sure to treat you perfectly too... I'm gonna bond you so hard."

or, Harry's heat is coming up and they've planned to finally bond, so Louis decides to plan a very eventful and loving week leading to said bonding.

resolutions and lovers in the kitchen by orphan_account

Their dinner’s probably going cold, but this feels monumental. So instead of sitting them down on the table and talking about it face to face over chicken and pasta, Harry just puts his hands over Louis’ where they’re settled on his lower stomach, not letting the moment slip past them. He takes a deep breath, carefully arranging his thoughts. “She looks really lovely, Louis. Positively glowing. Her bump’s so big, and…” he trails off, breath hitching slightly when Louis lifts his hand higher, settling it right over Harry’s stomach, and that’s—

“And what, baby?” Louis asks, voice now dropped to a whisper, and Harry has to take a moment to collect his thoughts.

“She, um. She knows about you, of course, and she asked me when we’re—when we’re having a baby of our own.”

(harry teaches little kids and louis writes sports articles. they're trying for a baby.)

Make It Work by fanshae

Prompt: Arranged marriage AU. Harry is an omega who has reached the age where he must be married due to his family's income status. Only the aristocratic omegas are exempt. His parents try to hide him but eventually the government gets word and in punishment, gives the omega to a spoiled aristocrat son of a lord, Louis. Louis is more than thrilled to have his own omega and once Harry goes into heat, he explores the boy with fascination and unintentionally impregnates him. This leads to a boy used to living carefree and drinking the day away with other nobles to having to face fatherhood.

This is only vaguely similar to the prompt so I'm sorry to OP in advance v.v

Stars Will Align For Us by 2tiedships2

"The serial monogamist is single," Niall said by way of introduction when he sat down across from Harry in the canteen.

Harry sipped his chocolate milk. "What are you going on about?"

"Your alpha dream boat," Niall said. "That tiny little footie player? I heard from Hannah that he's broken it off with his boyfriend so he’s single and ready to flamingle. Now's the time to make your move."

Harry sipped his chocolate milk harder to keep himself from replying.

Or the one where Harry is an omega at a loss of how to get past his pining and gain the attention of Louis...especially considering the alpha is always in a relationship.

Watch the Sun Coming Up by SadaVeniren

As Louis approaches his thirtieth birthday his pack is desperate for him to find a mate.

Harry has always expected one day he may settle down with a nice alpha and they would continue to live in his small hometown.

Together they somehow will make this work.

Dancing Shadows by SadaVeniren 

The house was quiet by the time Louis walked up to it. He’d been away for a week and while it wasn’t the longest he’d ever been away from the pack, it was the longest he’d been away from Harry and the kids.

i'll be hurt from the heat (running from the heat) by itiswhatitisbutterfly

It's engrained into him, nothing else matters, protecting Harry at all costs is what pumps his heart and floods his veins. It’s just, he didn't count on the one thing Harry would need protecting from would be himself.

(Harry and Louis are in love, and they are probably soul mates. They just can’t be bond mates because despite the undeniable pull, it's them against the world.)

A Howl in the Night by emeraldharry

They've been trained to become Alpha protectors of their city, tasked to battle gruesome beasts and put their lives at risk on a daily basis.

Louis is a skilled warrior and dedicates his life for the protection of others, along with his four adopted brothers and comrades; Zayn, Liam, Niall, and Harry.

Troubles emerge when Harry proves to be a little less like the older Alphas, finding it hard to become who he's supposed to be and failing to reach other people's expectations towards him as a soldier.

Somewhere along the way, Louis and Harry realize that there's more than brotherly love between them, and that the world they live in requires a whole lot of suffering and sacrifices.

The biggest challenge yet arrives when the choice finally comes down between two things: their love for each other, or their responsibilities to the world.

[alpha/beta/omega dynamics with a twist]

© 2019

Pretty Please (With Sugar On Top) by angelichl

Harry is a sugar baby omega who cons rich alphas for a living. Louis is a rich alpha with too much self-control.

Peppermint and Lavender (and Coffee) by 2tiedships2

“He was there again,” Louis announced by way of greeting. “Lottie was right and she can never know.”

"What the fuck are you talking about?” Niall asked as he snapped his laptop closed.

“The omega, Niall. He was there today. Just sitting in the corner looking pretty. Or at least his back is. He hasn’t turned around when I’m available to see. I know he’s beautiful though.”

"Okay?” Niall questioned. “What does that have to do with Lottie?”

Louis let out a huff. "She told me I shouldn’t work at a coffee shop. She was right.”

Or the one where Louis might have met the love of his life in a coffee shop. But that’s not how it’s supposed to happen.

Shadows Come With The Pain That You're Running From (Love Was Something You've Never Heard Enough) by hlftanna

“Thanks, Ni, I guess I needed to hear that,” Harry sighed and wrapped his own arms around Niall and squeezed him tightly not caring if Liam would be mad. He missed Niall so much.

“Does it really come as a surprise to you that I’m right? Shaking my head, Haz. You should know me better,” the brunette teased. Harry giggled again.

“You know Hazza, you really are so different to all the other alphas out there. You’re soft, caring, cuddly and sweet and those damn dimples. So freaking pretty, it’s almost annoying. I would hate you if you weren’t my best friend. You’d really be a brilliant omega. Nature really did a number here,” Niall mumbled. It was his turn to smash his nose into Harry’s neck and Harry was extremely thankful for that because he wasn’t sure he had his facial expression in check at all.

Or a Band AU in which Harry isn't allowed to be who he really is and the North American Tour might bring some unexpected truths into the web of lies and also a bit of heat that has very little to do with the summer in the US.

Home (It's You) by sunniskies

When Louis left his high-powered life in the city to settle down in the suburbs, he had hoped to one day fall in love and start a family. He certainly didn’t expect to meet the omega of his dreams within five minutes of moving in.

He also didn’t expect the love of his life to hate him so much.

Or, Louis and Harry are neighbors who can't seem to get along...until they fall in love.

sometimes green and sometimes blue by itsmiz

Harry's an omega, and Louis is an Alpha. They're best friends growing up together on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., but they've always been a bit more than friends.

little bitty rattle (and all our dreams are comin' true) by itsmiz

Louis and Harry are young mates in love. This is the story of them expanding their family, and all the love, hormones, and events that come with that.

cradles and crayons by itsmiz

Harry and Louis continue to expand their family.

Just Jump by jaerie

Finally, after years of suffering alone, the insurance plan at Harry's new job covered omega heat services. As a grown omega adult, it finally felt like the right time to try it out. And, since taking an entire week of heat leave would really put him behind at work, using a service to shorten it seemed like a responsible decision. At least that’s how he rationalized it. He was nervous about his decision but it was too late. The doorbell rang.

“Hi!” The alpha said again and Harry took the hand he offered and shook it firmly. “I’m Louis from Omega Services. It’s nice to meet you.”

Want It Flowing Through My Streams by screwstyles

Wimbledon ABO AU: Harry has just qualified for his first Grand Slam, and he’s prepared to make the most of it – that is, until his heat unexpectedly hits him only a few days before his first match. And it’s just his luck that Louis Tomlinson, the resident bad boy of British tennis, is the only person around to help him.

hard to confess by hereforlou

One, they only did it without a condom once (and a half) and not during his heat. Never during his heat. Two, he never once forgot to take his birth control (he’s almost sure). Three, his plan is to be married for a year before he even starts trying for a baby, and not only is he very, very single, him and Louis aren’t even sleeping together anymore. Which brings him to reason number four why this can’t be happening: Louis. Louis doesn’t want a baby with Harry.

(Or, the one where Harry knows he messed up and Louis knows nothing.)

Just a touch of your love by thegirlontheblackhoodie

“What if something happened to you? What would I say to Niall?”

“Nothing, he would have to wait to see my corpse on the news like everyone else.” Deadpanned Harry. Louis’ gasp was all the answer he got. Ok, so that might have been a bit too much. With a calmer voice, he said, “It’s really fine. I’ve walked to the tube countless times, I can handle myself. Just go home and tell Niall to stop mothering me.”

Louis was finally walking by his side and gave him a sideways glance before talking. “He doesn’t know, does he? Of your, uh, condition.” Harry tensed and his breath became erratic, but he didn’t say a word. Louis continued. “His nose probably hasn’t picked it up, and you’re lucky Liam’s also a beta, but it took me a minute to confirm it. Your scent is gettin’ so…” He seemed to struggle to find a word. He didn’t finish the sentence, but the emotion in his voice made Harry’s tummy churn.

--

Or, Harry is a touch starved omega trying to get through it on his own. Louis happens to be the only alpha around to realize it and offers to help.

Face Your Fears by SadaVeniren

Harry is a single father, pretending to be a beta after his alpha mated him and left him. He’s getting by just fine raising the twins when Louis walks into his bakery. Too bad him and Louis will never be a thing.

I Just Want You to Stay by SadaVeniren

“Remember the vet job up in Edinburgh I interviewed for right before your rut?” Louis nodded. “She just called me back. I got the job. I start next year.” Harry let out a shriek as he said the word year and he clapped his hands in delight. “Isn’t that great! Full time vet job! New animals to meet! A new environment!” He settled his eyes back on Louis, who was still standing there in front of him with wide eyes. “Isn’t it great, Lou?”

That seemed to jolt Louis out of his thoughts and he nodded immediately, opening his arms up for Harry to dive into. “Holy shit, yes. Congratulations. Come here,” he wrapped his arms around Harry and cuddled him close, pressing his nose into Harry’s neck. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

aka Louis and Harry have been roommates for four years, comfortable in their routine and their relationship. But all of that is about to change.

kiss with a fist (is better than none) by orphan_account

Harry and Louis don't get on at all.

BUT they do, in fact, do an awful lot of getting off~

Harry startled visibly, shaking off his deer in the headlights look and huffing quietly. Louis took a final, lingering glance along his scant frame, except the puppy chub at his hips, and then kept washing his hands with a faint sneer. He expected words, biting and sarcastic, as usual. Instead, he was met with silence. Confused, Louis turned back to him as he dried his hands, ready with a scathing remark. It died on his tongue. Harry's eyes were locked, very deliberately, on his crotch. His crotch, which was still unzipped, and therefore dick on display. Oh fuck.

“My eyes are up here, Styles,” Louis growled, cheeks flushing despite himself as he reached to do up his fly.

“Leave it.” It rasped from Harry's throat, thick and shaky. Louis froze, fingers cupping himself.

“Excuse me?”

Sigh Softly by aalexandravictoriaa

It was an unconventional nest, to say the least. Quite inconvenient too, not that Louis would ever dare admit that. The fact that his omega was nesting could only mean that he was pregnant and Louis’ chest rumbled at the mere thought. Harry stirred from his perch, blinking his eyes open at the sound of his growling alpha. Louis shushed him immediately and tucked him back into the safety of his nest. Louis just so happened to make up the majority of said nest.

Do Not Falter (There's a Star Ahead) by LadyLondonderry

It's Christmas Eve, and every single one of Louis' family members are crowded inside his little flat. Really, what more could he ask for on his birthday?

The present he never knew he wanted - in the form of an omega from his past - might just make this his most memorable Christmas.

a body wishes to be held & held by turnyourankle

Harry wants to return the favour after Louis helps him out with his heat.”

the beast you made of me by orphan_account

The bell tinkled, and Harry froze as an overpowering scent, musky and thick, crisp and slightly sweet, yet utterly masculine, delightfully tickled his senses. Harry's eyes slowly slid up to see the source of this wonderful scent, and his breath was taken away at the sex god before him, all muscled and compact and utterly screaming of Alpha. Icy blue eyes stared him down, set off by sharp cheekbones, a stubbled jaw that looked yummy enough to nibble on, and caramel hair, which was lazily gelled, a few pieces falling over his forehead. His skin was tan, his hands strong and steady, his biceps still clearly visible even through his jacket. Every fiber of Harry's being stood at full alert.

The one where Harry's a vanilla-sweet Omega and Louis walks into his bakery one day.

How Much My Heart Depends by lululawrence

Louis is an alpha working as a fraud analyst who keeps having Bad Days. Harry is an omega working in Quality Support who shares a cubicle wall with Louis and only wants to help. Maybe this is the perfect chance for them to finally meet face to face.

A Tentative Peace by colourexplosion

“I dunno.” Harry’s not whining, he’s not. He pulls himself free, finally, turns away and busies himself again with the dishes. “I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Louis says, appearing in Harry’s periphery when he leans against the sink. “Biology, innit? You know I’m always here for you.”

It stings. Louis won’t sit and have a conversation with Harry, but sure, he’ll fuck him through a heat like it’s nothing. “It’s a little more than biology,” he mumbles, but Louis either doesn’t hear him (not likely) or flat out ignores him (very likely).

(Or, A/B/O featuring omega!harry and alpha!louis.)

Seeing Blind by zedi

Louis finally turns his head in Liam’s direction, knows his face is showing the longing he’s been aching with ever since it took root in his chest. “What the fuck do I do, Liam? He wouldn’t want me like that, but I want-” his voice cracks, and he turns his face back downwards. “What do you do when you’re not perfect for the person who’s perfect for you?”

OR the one where Harry’s an independent omega who likes to have his fun and Louis is the blind alpha that changes Harry’s priorities.

wanna taste your heart, don't interfere by orphan_account

Harry still remembers how unsure he felt when he first told Louis, how self-conscious he was. Louis had been nothing but understanding and kind, though, reassuring him that nothing’s going to change between them, that they’re still best friends regardless of sex. Harry had been mostly relieved at that, because he really doesn’t want to lose Louis as a friend over this, but another part of him had been a bit sad because… well, because nothing changed between them. Or rather, there is change, but it’s completely one-sided as far as Harry can tell.

This change being him not getting enough of the way Louis smells. He just can’t help it, is the thing, unable to stop himself from trying to subtly press his nose against the fabric of Louis’ shirt by his shoulders. He still smells like faint cologne and sweat, which is enough to make Harry start feeling slightly dizzy.

(harry presents as an omega, louis is his alpha best friend, and there are hidden feelings that just get harder to control.)

A Distant Hazy Light by green_feelings

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

London Calls Me a Stranger by Thatscoolbutwhataboutlarry

"Hello, my beautiful, conceited coquette."

"Hi, daddy."

Or the one where Harry is a tease, and Louis is his new neighbour.

Between the Shadow and the Soul by orphan_account

“It’s just easier to stay in Donny and train, Haz,” Louis says quietly. “Two transatlantic flights in less than a week right before a big match is a terrible idea. We should have known that before, but...”

Harry nods. It’s reasonable. It’s totally, completely reasonable and Harry can support that. Another five or six days of not being able to hold Louis’ hand and kiss him sweetly is killing Harry, but he can handle it. “Okay, so that’s, what, the 20th that you’ll be coming over here?”

Louis hesitates, and Harry has to bite back a frustrated growl. “I’ve got writing sessions and time in the studio scheduled as of yesterday, plus I’m supposed to get papped clubbing in London again and just… it’s shit but there’s no time to make the trip until early May, at the least.”

Or, Harry and Louis spend a month apart.

Wonderland by jacaranda_bloom

Louis has always loved lazy mornings in bed with his mate, but now that his Omega is carrying their pup, they’ve reached a whole new level of wonderment.

OR the one where Louis loves to worship his Omega’s body and Harry loves to let him.

All I Needed by FallingLikeThis

Harry is the omega captain of the Slytherin quidditch team with a team that won't listen to him. Louis is the alpha captain of the Gryffindor team who doesn't know how to offer help without seeming like a knothead, pushing his opinions on Harry. When he comes up with a rather questionable plan to try and get Harry to ask him for help, they may just both get what they need.

Come In and Change My Life by lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes)

He’d had the same neighbours since he’d moved into the building, a lovely, wealthy couple in their late sixties who had always invited him around for tea on Sundays. Martha had dropped off homemade biscuits the day he’d moved in, so Harry figured he may as well repeat the sentiment. He could hear someone getting closer to the door just as a flush ran through his body; oh fuck. His heat was close, too close to be knocking on a potentially unknown alpha’s door, but it was too late. The door swung open, and Harry’s mouth dropped. He’d never been overly interested in football, couldn’t find the fascination in watching men run around after a ball for hours aside from their uniforms, but he knew who this was. Louis Tomlinson, alpha, captain of Manchester United, star in a number of Harry’s heat addled fantasies, was his new next-door neighbour.

Or, Harry and Louis become friends when Harry looks after Louis' cat during away games, until one night at a party changes everything between them. It's just a shame Louis' going to be away for the FIFA World Cup for three months.

Put It Into Words by orphan_account

“It’s a good storm though, our families,” Louis says, flopping down on to the bed and cuddling close to Harry. He tucks his arm around Harry’s waist, kissing his temple. “The Cheshire house is perfect to raise the baby; your mum’s close, and my mum can stay in the guest bedroom when she visits.”

“And until then we have the long weekend to ourselves.”

Or, Harry and Louis go on a babymoon.

No Love Like Your Love by Rearviewdreamer 

When it comes to saving the world from itself and convincing rich CEOs of environmentally harmful companies to go green, there's nobody better than Harry Styles. That is, until Louis Tomlinson, his ex and former Alpha, is involved.

We Are Inevitable by mmargarita

“What’s the second flaw?”

“The second inevitable flaw in your plan is:” Louis stood straight and walked towards Harry, grabbing his chin. Harry’s breath hitched. “Us.” Louis smiled. “We’re inevitable, baby. We’re soulmates, and we both know it. You just need to come back to me.” . . . 30/07/2020: This work has been edited and corrected, and now has 7k words more.

Take Me As I Am by lovelarry10

“Suppressant? But… why would I need a suppressant? Alphas don’t take suppressants.”

“You’re right, they don’t.”

****

Secrets. Lies. Deception. Betrayal. Self-discovery.

Alpha. Omega. How far will they go to hide the truth?

to wrap me in paper by juliusschmidt

Louis hasn't been keeping track of his ruts, but, it turns out, Harry has.

If you’ve made it to the end then congrats! and please stay safe and read the tags!!💕💕

#Larry Stylinson #fanfiction #fanfic #fic rec #larry stylinson fanfiction #larry stylinson fic rec #larry #larry fanfiction #larry fic #larry fic rec #larry fanfic rec #bottom harry #top louis #omega harry #alpha louis #dom louis #sub harry #mine #Lottie fic rec #ask lots

[tales-unique]

MEMORIES OF THE WEST

Two days. Two long, hot days you’ve been tied to this damn tree. Your mother would be turning in her grave over how easily you’ve gotten yourself caught by the O’Driscolls, even when you knew that they were notorious for prowling the roads leading in and out of towns. Craning your head you look up through squinted eyes to look at the sky through scattered branches, calm and clear, painted a beautiful gradient of orange, red and pink as the sun begins to set. Almost three days now and you’ve had nothing to eat or drink, something that’s starting to take its toll on your body and mind. Your head pounds incessantly and your stomach growls weakly, making you twist in discomfort. The bite of the ropes around your wrists soon stops the movement though and you wince at the sharp, stinging pain left in their wake. At this point all you truly beg for is death, and maybe this time you’ll get what you ask for.

You glare at the returning party as they whoop and holler about their catch, turning their horses in circles in excitement while you stare wantonly at the deer they have. They catch you, of course, and one is quick to dismount and get right up in your face about it. “Got a problem, girl?” He’s a mean man that reeks of sweat and bad tobacco, the scent so sour you recoil as far away from him as your punished body, and the tight bindings, will allow you. “I’m starving!” You hiss, but it’s pitiful and he laughs. “Too bad. Ain't enough to go around.” “Liar! That’s a whole damn deer you got there! Please, I’m starving! I jus’ need a little!” Your hunger makes you desperate and he knows that. The grin he gives you is dirty and makes your skin crawl, twisting your body to try and get out of his reach. It’s futile, and soon dirt-smeared hands are roughly grabbing at your waist to pull you back in front of him. “Y’hear that boys?” He calls out to the others, laughing as they whistle while hitching the horses, “little thing is starving! Tell me girl, whatcha willing to do to get a meal, huh?” You turn your head away as he leans in close, fighting the urge to wretch. The feel of his hands sliding down to your backside, the heat of his breath tickling your ear and cheek, makes you want to vomit. “C’mon now,” he coos at you, “dont’cha want to eat? All I ask for is a kiss!” Despite his forceful coaxing and your limited range of movement you continue, by some miracle, to evade his crusted, cracked lips. Then, all hell breaks loose. All at once there’s the thundering of horses hooves on the dry dirt, bullets screaming through the humid air, warm splatter on your face. A hole right through your would-be rapists head, his wide eyes mirroring yours before he falls down at your feet, lifeless. You stand, rooted to the spot just as the tree firmly pressed against your back is as the others scramble to form some sort of meager defiance, but they’re no match. It doesn’t take long. Like fish in a barrel. The O’Driscolls barely had time to reach for their pistols before they, too, were gunned down. The horses, spooked, whine and stomp from where they’ve been hitched and you’re glad that they’re not hurt. One of the riders seems so too as he gets down from his own mount to inspect them. His figure is hazy from the dust but you can tell he’s tall and strong and attractive. You’re sure that he’s talking, too, but you can’t hear him. The ringing in your ears is too loud. Gunshots. Blood pumping. Adrenaline. You hazard another look down at your feet, the man's lifeless body draining out before you. His blood stains your shoes. You spit on his back. Good riddance. “Hey! Are you okay?” The voice, suddenly clear, startles you and you quickly flick wide eyes to another man approaching you. The second rider? He’s well dressed and attractive too, but you’re not about to swoon at his feet. “Get back!” You shriek, fear spiking. He stops, startled, while quickly holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy there, amiga, I won’t hurt you,” he states slowly. You don’t believe a word of it. Instead you try, in vain, to pull your hands free from the ropes so you can flee. He sees this and hurries over to you, cursing under his breath at the wounds you’re inflicting on yourself in your haste. You don’t care. You try to fight him; kick him, elbow him, even snapping your teeth at him in a bite that doesn’t quite reach. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. Pressure releases from around your wrists and you stumble sideways, suddenly free, the ropes cut by an intricately decorated and expensive-looking knife that somehow manages to miss your flesh. Now you’ve fallen onto the ground face to face with the dead man with a bullet hole through his head, the force of your struggling having caused your fall down. Ignoring the stinging, open burns to your wrists you quickly scramble to your feet. Hair stringy with stale sweat and fresh blood, clothes smeared and ruined, delirious with heat and adrenaline, you still try to run. Hands firmly planting themselves on your arms stop you before you’ve even started and you yell out, wanting to pull away but your body doesn’t respond properly. Short, jerky movements but nothing that actually helps. White hot panic floods your empty stomach as you realize you’re too weak and that the adrenaline isn’t enough anymore. You suck in a deep breath, eyes beginning to sting despite your best intentions. You will yourself not to cry in front of the quiet man before you, but again you fail. You whimper, trying desperately in vain to wriggle free. You babble pitifully, incoherently, with a quivering lip and glossy eyes; childish. But his dark eyes are kind, even after what he’s done, and he slowly lets you go, only to catch you when you stumble forward. “You’ve been out here too long,” he mutters, voice low and comforting, “heat, starvation, you’re weak. Come on.” He gently guides you to his horse, much to his partners annoyance. “Charles, what are you doing? We can’t take her with us!” He argues. “Can’t leave her, either,” Charles counters as he heaves you onto the saddle where you clutch at the saddle horn for dear life. The two men then lead the hitched horses, consolation prizes for the few minutes of trouble, as well as take the deer that had been caught. “Or do you want her death on your conscience, Javier?” Charles grunts as he tightens knots and secures ropes, eyeing his partner expectantly when he’s met with silence. The well dressed man, Javier, grumbles something you can’t hear and mounts his own horse, Charles following suit, coming to sit in the saddle behind you. “Didn’t think so,” he chuckles, low and smooth, and you lower your head to stare at the saddle horn gripped tight in your hands. You don’t say a word. Would it even matter if you did? It’s not like you’re in a state to challenge them, so you allow yourself to fall into unconsciousness lulled by the sway of the horse and the sounds of night insects rousing from their sleep. When you finally come to you take a look at your surroundings. Trees. Tents. Campfires. It’s larger and you feel your heartbeat quicken. You want to run but you can’t, you’re still on Charles' horse with the large man pressed in behind you, arms either side as he handles the reins. There are more people here, men and women alike, and you shrink back against Charles instinctively. “Where are we?” You ask hoarsely, throat scratchy and dry. “Home, for now at least,” Charles answers, pulling his horse over to a hitching post while Javier does the same. He barely disturbs you as he dismounts, helping ease you off the saddle and onto shaky legs. “Dutch won’t like this!” Javier grouses as he too dismounts his horse, allowing it to wander to a patch of grass to graze. Charles doesn’t answer, instead leading you towards three women sitting around a campfire. They’re having a hearty conversation when you’re put upon them, feeling awkward under their shocked gazes. They talk over each other quickly but the general consensus is who the hell are you and why are you here. “Ladies,” he lifts his hand to quiet them, the other gently squeezing your shoulder, “I hope you don’t mind taking care of our friend here? She’s had a rough couple of days.” You swallow, looking down at yourself. Bloodstained. Stinking. Traumatized. Rough doesn’t come close, you think. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Charles! Bring her here!” One of the women growls, ushering you to sit by the fire despite her anger. Probing hands go to touch your head, the side where your hair hangs limp with blood, but you pull away quickly. “Ain’t my blood,” you murmur and the women all share looks before the first, already stinking of whiskey, giggles with a snort. “I’d hate t’ see the other guy!” It’s an attempt to lighten the mood and you force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes and they notice. “I’ll go get you something to get clean with, a wipe down will do ‘till we can get you a real bath,” another offers in a soft voice, kind and smiling warmly. You watch her put the book in her hands aside as she gets up, eyes trailing after her. “That’s Mary-Beth,” the blonde introduces, “I’m Karen and that there’s Tilly,” she motions with a half empty bottle to the young woman opposite you. “Just what happened to you, anyways?” Tilly asks, leaning in from where she sits on a log, “Yeah, you look half-dead!” Karen adds, scowling when Tilly sends a glare her way. “I...” You cough, gladly accepting a bottle from Karen and tipping it back without so much as a thank you. Manners be damned, you were so thirsty! The alcohol burns down your throat and your eyes sting with tears but by God it was a welcome flood. Karen cheers while Tilly shakes her head, rolling her eyes. As you gasp for air Mary-Beth returns with a bucket of water and a rag, setting them down by your side. She’s also taken the liberty of bringing you some food. It’s nothing fancy, a small bowl of leftover stew and a crust of bread, but you gratefully accept and begin your ravenous feast. It’s definitely a sight for them to behold, but you are starving so they can excuse your table manners. In between shoveling spoonfuls of stew you listen to the argument you’ve caused, Charles and Javier’s voices are known to you while the others are new. They aren’t happy that you were brought to their camp, but Charles argues that you were in need and he wasn’t going to leave you traumatized and starving on the roadside. You smile to yourself, thankful that at least he cares. “Dutch is always so mad these days,” Tilly whispers as she moves to sit next to you. You spare her a glance before turning to look over your shoulder. Dutch, you assume, is the leader of this band of societal misfits. He points accusingly at Charles, then over to where you sit, and back again, while others interject to add their piece. “C’mon, I’ll help with your hair,” Tilly distracts you, turning your head away from the fray with warm hands. She fishes a rag from the bucket, ringing it out while giving you a small smile. Mary-Beth is assessing your wrists, no doubt thinking up a way to ease their soreness. “It’ll be cold, so don’t squeal now!” Tilly laughs and you bite your tongue when the water drips down the side of your face when she starts dabbing at your scalp. Mary-Beth giggles behind her hand at your scrunched up face and Karen starts to sing, merry with alcohol and new company, and by the time the bickering has ceased you’re looking as clean as you can be with just a rag and a bucket of water. Done with your hair and leaving you to wipe your face and neck, Tilly starts rummaging through her chest, sizing up old dresses so that you can change into fresh clothes. Mary-Beth takes the chance to wrap up your wrists with bandages after wiping them gently with a damp, soft handkerchief, apologizing when you wince or hiss. “There! This one should fit, and the colour looks good too,” she smiles, folding the dress up, as well as some other bits and pieces for you, including a pair of shoes not stained with blood. You hastily wipe your hands dry on your ruined dress and take the offered items. They feel freshly washed and soft despite the course material, nothing like the grubby dress you wear now. “You’re too kind,” you smile nervously, half expecting this to be a fever dream and you’ll wake up any minute tied to that damn tree with crows picking at you. It’s not a dream. Tilly tells you to bed with them for the night once you come back from changing, making room on their bedrolls so you can at least sleep comfortably. You’re surprised that Dutch and the others haven’t come over yet to force you out, but she assures you that it can wait until the morning since everyone needs sleep. In truth, you’re thankful for it — that way they’ll all have clear heads when they decide what to do with you. As you settle down you spot Charles walking to his own bedroll and offer a smile when he looks your way. He smiles back and bids you goodnight with a small tip of his head, and for once since your kidnap you actually feel comfortable enough to sleep among a band of strangers.

#RDR2 #Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 Imagine #RDR2 Imagines #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagine #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagines #Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan Imagine #Arthur Morgan Imagines

[stoplookingupforheaven]

Another Place

rewatched the channel aid gig about a month and a half ago with some friends, and this little oneshot grew out of it. for maximum effect i recommend playing another place (reorchestrated version).

warnings: this piece contains brief sexual content. there’s nothing too explicit but if that’s not your thing, this is a heads-up.

Another Place

I am bound to you

With a tie that we cannot break

With a night that we can’t replace

He does not know the person who’s laced their fingers through his. It’s dark in the hallway, flashing red and blue and green lights filtering through the doorway. Out here, the bass is a gentle pulse, and his companion is a mere silhouette, their identity completely unattainable. Foreign lips gently press against his own, and the feeling catches him off guard, sending him stumbling back against the wall. His hands twist through locks of hair, soft and smooth, and he thinks they might be red. Or brown.

He shuts his eyes, accepting that he’s already tied to this person for the night, and he might as well go with it. After all, he is here to forget. He is here to erase the horrors of daylight, to banish them far, far away, to a place where the lights are meant to help you see and the noise is not so loud as to drown out reality.

“You wanna get out of here?” Their voice is low, and he breathes a “Yes” without a second thought, taking their hand again. The pair escape the hallway, escape the building, escape one step further towards somewhere else.

-

I'm lost but found with you

In a bed that we'll never make

It's a feeling we always chase

Someone calls an Uber. The pair does their best to keep their hands to themselves in the back, but it’s impossible to be good, not with the drinks he’s had and the joint that’s been passed around and the contact high that’s a result of being in a packed space with hundreds of people and their e-cigarettes. After a while, they give up trying to stay apart and just try to stay quiet.

He’s never been to this part of the city, he thinks vaguely as they make their way through a door and up a flight of stairs. The voice in the back of his head tells him that he needs to at least try to figure it out so he can get home, but that’s a problem for later. Oddly enough, he does not feel lost - he feels only a sense of relief. This is the last stop of the night. The road has ended. Here, he can stay for a while, wherever “here” might be.

This settled feeling isn’t one he manages to find often - he’s constantly in pursuit of it, but it slips like water through a sieve, and he swears sometimes that he’ll spend the rest of his goddamn life in pursuit of just a sliver of what having a home feels like. And no, his flat doesn’t fucking count.

-

I could write a book about the things that you said to me on the pillow

And the way you think, and how you make me feel

You can feel my mind and move my body with the fiction, fantasies

Just call this what it is, we don't pretend it's real

He listens to the gentle clink of keys in the lock, the sound winding around his skull. The door closes behind them, and he gets pushed against the wall, just as frantic as in the cab. It’s a battle to stay upright, what with the swirling haze in his brain from whatever cocktail of substances he’s consumed and the little sparks exploding every time their lips meet.

“Bed,” he manages, and his partner steers him to it in response. Clothes are quickly discarded, the world collapsing down to wandering hands and quiet sighs and smooth skin, and there’s not much rational thought after that. They move with each other, exploring this version of tonight until pleasure spins his head around, enough to pull them both over the edge, far away from the weight of the world.

It’s a trip of its own, surreal, to know that he is affecting them like this, that he’s the reason they keep swearing under their breath and shivering at every touch. It is real like the club was - a distorted, artificial kind of reality, the kind that separates his mind from his body and wonder how he got here, and how he’s going to go. Because surely the events preceding and following this moment could not exist.

-

So lie to me tonight

And pretend 'til the morning light

And imagine that you are mine

Sometime in the haunting hours between late night and early morning, they lie together, legs tangled under the sheets, the buzz of the air conditioner going in the background, endorphins still racing through his body. He lays his head on their chest for a moment, relishing in the grounding feeling of a heartbeat under his ear. The steady rise and fall of their breathing reminds him that he is not alone, at least not for now.

The alcohol, the drugs, they’ve mostly made their way out of his system. Logic is beginning to make its way back into his brain, and with it, the aching reminder that he’ll have to leave in a matter of hours. But he chooses to ignore it for now. He builds a world where the person sleeping next to him will be there the next night, and the one after that. This world has orange juice, burnt omelettes on the stove, fleeting kisses and a promise to be home for movie night. He knows better than to utter the word “forever” - even in his mind, it’s too addictive, too enticing. But he allows himself something in between “forever” and “for now”. 

-

'Cause when the sun will rise

With the truth coming out your eyes

We'll be good in another life

But he can’t stop the passage of time.

He blinks, and the rosy light of day filters through the room. It’s too soft and beautiful for the pain he feels as his partner stirs next to him, a sigh escaping their lips. He wants it to be harsher, more glaring. He thinks that would fit better.

The only words spoken between them come as he’s got his hand on the doorknob, and it’s a simple, if hollow, “See you around.” A smile that says it all - last night was fun, but that’s all it was. He is not stupid - he can see it in their gaze. Polite, kind, but ready for him to leave. Ready to move on.

He nods once and exits, pushing the dull ache away. They are not to blame for the pain.

He opts to walk home in hopes that the exercise will clear his mind a bit. The sun is brighter now, and he feels the beginnings of a headache coming on. But the air is clear and he inhales deeply, savoring the way it feels in his lungs after last night’s cocktail of smoke and sweat and escape.

-

Feels like something's special but it never felt like love

Wonder what we could be living in another life

Catch us in the mirror and it looks a lot like love

Then you stop me talking as you kiss me from above

He wonders who their best friend is, whether they call home when things go south. He wants to know if they like their coffee iced or hot, if they double-knot their shoes, whether they sleep with the windows open in the summer. He doesn’t know why this person is sticking with him - he barely saw their face, has no idea who they might be. But he wonders all the same, if perhaps in another lifetime, they might have been something more.

Last night was something. He doesn’t have a word for it in any language he knows, but it was something. The ghost of a love that might have been, had just one or two things been different. He tries to hold the idea in his mind, wonders vaguely if he should go back and beg for a change, ask to get to know them.

It’s an exercise in futility, but he seriously considers it, going so far as to walk half a block in the other direction before coming to his senses.

Some boxes are best left unopened, after all.

-

So don't make promises to me that you're gonna break

We only ever wanted one thing from this

Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away

We only ever wanted one thing from this

Oh, in another place

In another time, what could we have been?

Oh, in another place

In another time, what could we have been?

In another time

And in another place

#rain writes #prose #bastille #doom days #doom days this got out of hand #another place #another place reorchestrated

[artificialqueens]

Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor, 7 (Branjie) (and background everyone) - Ortega

a/n: ayo folks! ur all getting a slightly earlier chapter from me this week because i happened to write it very quickly! i had so much fun writing this one, it’s a bit eventful so hang onto your hats!! hope u all love it, feel free to give it a little like or a reblog or send some love!! love u all xo

fic summary: Strictly Come Dancing enters its 18th series and its producers, after being goaded by a rival dance show on its inclusivity, commission it to be an all-female cast. Unlike Akeria who’s just here to bone her potential dance partner, dancer Vanessa is ready to act like a professional.

And then TV presenter Brooke Lynn walks into the rehearsal room.

***

18th October 2020

Vanessa sits on the floor opposite Crystal, both of their knees tucked in under their chins, both of them glugging from their water bottles. It’s Sunday and Vanessa’s wasted no time in choreographing, having roped Crystal in to help her after their pro dance rehearsal. Crystal is doing a Waltz this week, which Vanessa could only be of minimal help with, but her friend didn’t really mind all that much.

“Ten of us left,” Crystal comments in the silence, and Vanessa nods with her. The dance off last night consisted of Scarlet and Plastique again and, to the shock of no-one, Farrah and Aja. The judges elected to save Farrah and Aja, and so poor Scarlet’s Strictly journey came to an end. Vanessa feels sorry for her but secretly she’s happy Plastique’s been knocked down a peg or two and has bowed out early this year. She doesn’t dislike the girl, but she’s too confident for her taste. Nothing wrong with being humble every now and again.

“Hard to believe this is dance number four.”

Crystal hums quietly in response. She’s got a sort of look on her face that prompts Vanessa to narrow her eyes at her.

“What’s the drama, mama?”

Crystal lets out a sigh, stretches herself out so she’s lying on her stomach and props her head up with her elbows. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Depends what it is, boo, I’m not tryin’ to be in no courtroom.”

Crystal laughs in her own, airy-fairy way. Then she sighs. “I think I like Gigi as more than my dance partner.”

“Oh, Lord above,” Vanessa mutters without thinking, the amount of schoolgirl crushes flying around Elstree studios becoming suddenly overwhelming. Crystal gives her a funny look and Vanessa waves her away. “Sorry, Crys. Ignore me, I’m just bein’ cynical.”

Crystal winces as if she’s put her foot in it. “Right. Yeah, God, sorry, Vanj.”

Vanessa thinks for a moment back to what Crystal’s told her. She cracks a smile. “You got feelings for a model, that’s when you know you’re fucked.”

“There’s a moment you know…you’re fucked,” Crystal sings quietly. It makes Vanessa snort. Crystal pouts, lets out a whine. “It was all the Rhumba’s fault. Stupid sexy Rhumba.”

“Don’t blame it on the sunshine, don’t blame it on the moonlight, don’t blame it on the good times…” Vanessa deadpans, and Crystal is already giggling as they finish the joke together.

“…blame it on the Rhumba.”

“It was a hot Rhumba, though. Nobody could blame you,” she shrugs. Vanessa is still riding the high of briefly topping the leaderboard last night, even if she was toppled off by Jan and Jackie, Akeria and Asia, and Crystal and Gigi themselves. But still…fourth is the best they’ve ever done, and she’s proud of them both.

“You’ve got a bit of a hot one this week, you know,” Crystal cocks an eyebrow at her. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Vanessa shoves her on the shoulder and sends Crystal rolling over the dusty floor. “Behave.”

Crystal shrugs in spite of the brief attack from her friend. “All I’m saying is I’ve seen the way Brooke Lynn looks at you.”

Vanessa’s brain hotwires and she says about twenty sentences at once. “Shut up! No, she doesn’t. That’s not…that’s not a thing, Crystal, you…how does she look at me?”

Crystal blurts out a laugh and Vanessa supposes she has to join in. As their laughter dies down, Crystal thinks for a moment. “It’s like she’s the moon and you’re-”

“The sun? Jesus, Crystal, how predictable can you be?”

“Will you let me finish my damn sentence! Hostia…” Crystal exhales in irritation, and Vanessa has to stifle a laugh at her swearing. Her face softens and she gazes at Vanessa with intrigue. “She’s the moon and you’re the stars. She’s happy to coexist with you, she’s happy to just be beside you and admire you for as long as you’ll let her.”

Vanessa feels as if her insides are glowing. She smiles at Crystal. “So you think she likes me back?”

“A-ha! I knewit! Back! You said back!” Crystal screeches, and Vanessa only has the willpower to roll her eyes, because Brooke looks at her like that. Crystal calms down, and then shrugs. “Well if she doesn’t want you now, she will after this Salsa. Fuck knows how the BBC allowed that song, but they did.”

“Is it too sexy?” Vanessa frowns, suddenly doubtful.

“Yes,” Crystal says instantly and seriously. She pauses before she allows a smile to spread across her face. “It’s perfect.”

The next morning, Vanessa has carefully strategised to ensure she looks the best she can in her rehearsal gear. She’s got her black exercise leggings on- the ones with the high waist that make her bum look good- and she’s gone for a red oversized jumper that’ll inevitably need peeled off when they start warming up. Underneath she’s picked a strappy sports bra that somehow doesn’t completely flatten her chest, and there’s a strip of toned skin between where it stops and her leggings begin. She’s pulled her waves of hair into a messy ponytail and she’s done an ever-so-tiny amount of makeup too- mascara, eyeliner, the tiniest bit of concealer, a little bit of liquid highlighter to make things pop. She’s standing looking at herself in the mirror when Brooke arrives, and she chooses to ignore the way her eyebrows raise involuntarily when she sees her.  

“Hey, boo,” Vanessa greets her lightly, giving her a wave. “How you feelin’? Still ridin’ the high of Saturday night?”

“God, yeah. That was incredible, we smashed it!” Brooke gushes, throwing her gym bag to the floor. “Fourth is good. We just need to stay there.”

“Or move up,” Vanessa shrugs. Brooke points and nods at her in agreement as she throws her hair into a ponytail. She looks good herself- she’s in an oversized t-shirt which she’s tied at a knot at her stomach and a pair of loose-fitting black shorts. Fuck, why hadn’t she thought of shorts?

“What’ve we got this week?” Brooke asks, hair finally fixed. Vanessa feels like taking a deep breath before answering.

“We’re doin’…a Salsa,” she reveals. Brooke claps her hands together, excited. Vanessa smiles. “Do you know much about what a Salsa involves?”

“Uh, I know it’s a Latin one,” Brooke shrugs, leaning against the barre so she’s opposite Vanessa.

“Cuban.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Sure. Okay, well…the judges last week said they wanted to see some more chemistry,” Vanessa prefaces her explanation. “So a Salsa’s a bit of a hot one. We’ve done a couple’a fun dances, we did the angry Paso, and now we gotta sexy Salsa.”

“Okay,” Brooke nods, a little hint of a smile on her face. Vanessa had been waiting to see her reaction and it’s not what she’d expected- she thought Brooke would maybe get a little bit bashful about it, but Vanessa supposes the woman’s a professional. “I can do sexy, that’s fine.”

“I’m sure you can,” Vanessa finds herself saying before she can think, and as soon as the sentence is out of her mouth she turns away from Brooke, slaps a hand over her mouth and fiddles with her phone so that Brooke doesn’t see her blush. “Uh…you warmed up?”

“Yeah. Ready to get even more warmed up,” she replies, and when Vanessa turns around she sees that Brooke’s wiggling her eyebrows at her. It makes her laugh.

“Okay, sweet. I’m gonna show you what me an’ Crystal choreographed yesterday for it,” she says casually, despite the fact that her heart is beating out of her chest, so anxious is she to see Brooke’s reaction. Vanessa motions for Brooke to come close to her so she can see her phone and as soon as Brooke can see, Vanessa hits play.

The dance starts.

“Oh,” Brooke comments quietly. It’s only about ten seconds in and Vanessa’s already whining against Crystal who’s got her hands behind her head. “Oh, wow.”

The appreciative noise makes a proud smile spring to Vanessa’s lips. There’s a lot of very intricate arm movements to a salsa, and she explains this to Brooke as she and Crystal twist and twirl each other around the dancefloor, their arms moving and intertwining like clockwork. The song reaches the part where they both stop, press close together, and Crystal runs her hands up Vanessa’s thighs, her waist and her sides. The lyrics are loud through the speakers.

“And baby I know what you’re after…it’s all in the details, and every inch of me matters…”

“Oh wow,” Brooke comments again, her voice little above a whisper. It makes a little thrill of electricity shoot down Vanessa’s spine. “Oh shit!”

“Oh yeah, we’re gonna do a bit of a lift,” Vanessa explains a little late, as the video has just shown Crystal swinging Vanessa up and holding one of her legs tight so she can kick her other leg in the air while upside down.

“Christ,” Brooke laughs. The music is still blaring from the speakers. They’re both silent as the lyrics ring out, but there’s a certain atmosphere in the air and it’s making Vanessa anticipate the moment they start dancing.

“I know you love it when you go down under, I’ll be moving for you like no other, so much body for your lips to discover…”

Vanessa sneaks a look in the studio mirrors at Brooke’s expression. She’s got an impassive facade as she watches but Vanessa can see the pink blush on her cheeks, her face betraying her. She bites her lip in a smile as she looks back down at her phone. Vanessa’s hooked her leg over Crystal’s thigh as Crystal dips her and brings her up, her hands supportive on her back and Vanessa’s hair skimming the floor. They spin each other round again and then Vanessa stops, her leg positioned out. Crystal is down on one knee, runs a hand up her leg from her calf to her thigh. Brooke is silent as she watches.

“Me an’ Crys got the giggles so many times doin’ this,” Vanessa attempts to lighten the mood. Brooke gives a small laugh.

“I bet,” she murmurs. There’s something in her tone that makes Vanessa squeeze her thighs together.

“Mmm, go back, go back…I think you missed a spot…”

The dance finishes with Vanessa on one knee and her hands on Crystal’s popped thigh. She puts her phone back into her gym bag and fixes Brooke with a smile that she makes deliberately cheerful and light. “So! Thoughts?”

Brooke blinks about six times in quick succession. She runs a hand through the ends of her ponytail and looks to the floor. “God, um. Yeah. It’s definitely, uh…God. I’m flustered!”

Vanessa’s heart feels like singing. Her plan’s working and they’ve not even started dancing yet. “Good, it’s meant to make you flustered when you watch it! As long as you don’t get flustered dancin’ it.”

“That’s um…that is just a song about oral sex, right?”

Vanessa lets out a hoot of a laugh. “Oh, baby, it gets way worse.”

“Worse! How can it get worse?” Brooke laughs. Vanessa decides to wind her up a bit, starts swinging her hips as she sings the second verse that the BBC has insisted they can’t air before 9pm.

“You wanna hit it, wanna hear me hit a high note, I let you rub it, touch it, lick up on this, I know-”

“Aah!” Brooke cries comedically, planting her hands over her ears. Vanessa giggles, decides to stop teasing her.

Well. They’re about to start the routine, so she supposes she’s just going to start teasing her in other ways.

“We don’t really have a story to tell this week. We’re gonna be the story,” Vanessa explains, and Brooke nods, taking a deep breath at the same time.

“Right. Let’s get started.”

So Vanessa starts teaching Brooke. And it’s more fun than she’d ever imagined. She peels her jumper off too early just so she can feel Brooke’s hands on her bare skin a little more than usual. When they practise the part where Brooke runs her hands up Vanessa’s thigh she almost goes into cardiac arrest at the thought of doing it in costume, where both of them are going to be in tiny dresses and bare legs. But just because there’s lots of fun, sexy moments doesn’t mean the dance isn’t tricky, and a lot of their first rehearsal is spent getting the arm movements right.

“I think it’s going okay,” Brooke comments during their first break, after taking a long drink from her water bottle. “There’s this one bit though I think I need help with.”

“Okay, shoot,” Vanessa shrugs. Suddenly, she swears she can see a little glint in Brooke’s eye as she starts talking again.

“Uhh, the bit where you like…grind against me. What am I doing there again?”

Vanessa pauses for a moment before she speaks. She swears Brooke’s playing a game, but she doesn’t mind playing along. She shows her what she’s meant to be doing, says the counts at the same time. Brooke nods like she understands. “Let’s see you do it first?”

Brooke does it perfectly. Then, she speaks again. “Can we just run that section a couple more times?”

Vanessa narrows her eyes and quirks her a smile. Brooke laughs. “What? What is it?”

Some things are better left unsaid, so Vanessa bites the smile away. “Nothin’, nothin’. Okay, we can run it a couple times.”

They run it again three times and Vanessa makes sure to whine incredibly slowly and deliberately against Brooke each time. She certainly doesn’t mind, and from the looks of it neither does Brooke. Brooke then asks if they can run the bit where they’re pressed up against each other again, because apparently she’s forgotten what to do with her hands. Vanessa realises that she’s being well and truly played at her own game, but if she gets to have Brooke’s hands all over her again she’s not going to mind. She stands in position with her arms looped over Brooke’s shoulders and around her neck, and Brooke’s hands are on her thighs. They’re so close together that it’s almost painful.

“Okay so on the counts, you’re going-” Vanessa takes Brooke’s hands in her own and moves them confidently where they’re meant to be going. She instantly notices the way Brooke’s eyes fly open ever so slightly. “- thighs, ass, waist, ribs, like one, two, three, four. But obviously it’s gonna be a lot more fluid than that.”

Brooke looks like a deer in the headlights, so Vanessa smiles as she follows it up with, “An’ remember eye contact. Don’t be afraid to look at me, baby, ‘cuz your hands are already all over me.”

Brooke gives a sort of choked laugh. Vanessa counts her in. “Five, six, seven, eight-”

As Vanessa sways her hips she feels Brooke’s hands glide up her body, and it’s almost entirely too much. Brooke’s obediently taken direction about eye contact and her gaze is dark as she looks into Vanessa’s eyes. When she stops, neither of them move. Vanessa’s still got her arms looped around Brooke’s neck, and her face is so close. Brooke’s got both her hands positioned on either side of Vanessa’s back and her palms are touching the bare strip of skin Vanessa’s got on show. The skin-on-skin contact is almost burning.

They’ve still not looked away from each other, and Vanessa sees Brooke’s bottom lip drop over a little bit. She wets her own, bites it. Vanessa can feel her eyes fluttering closed-

“Morning!” there’s a loud, cheerful voice, and Vanessa almost leaps out of Brooke’s hold as the door to their studio is almost booted off its hinges by the film crew. “Just here for the first day rehearsal shots!”

Right. Of course. Because they’re filming a TV show.

Vanessa greets the crew politely and then looks at Brooke. She’s rubbing the back of her neck and looking to the floor, and when she looks up at Vanessa they share a guilty smile. Vanessa punctuates it with a wink before clapping her hands together and striding over to the film crew and asking them what they need from them both.

Because Vanessa hadn’t imagined it- they’d shared a moment, and they definitely, 100% had been about to kiss before the fucking film crew had strode in. The thought buoys the rehearsal process for the rest of the week, and the atmosphere between them, whatever it is, doesn’t dissipate. It takes Vanessa until Tuesday afternoon to realise that the “it” is sexual tension. The lingering looks between them during breaks have turned longer, the dance seems to flow way easier. Brooke’s paying attention to detail and getting things right every time, and it’s fast becoming their best dance, but the lift is still a bit of an issue. Every time they attempt it Brooke freaks out, doesn’t follow through because she’s scared of dropping Vanessa. Vanessa doesn’t mind, she doesn’t care, but she just wishes Brooke would at least attempt it.

And then it gets to Wednesday, the 21st of October.

The earth has turned on its axis 365 times since the event, and Vanessa wishes she didn’t remember the whole thing as clear as day but it’s hard not to when it’s exactly a year to the day since it all happened. She tortures herself that morning before Brooke arrives, looks up the articles written by tabloid newspapers, looks at the photos again even though they still embarrass her. Akeria and Monique send her supportive texts and Vanessa is appreciative of them but they don’t help. She blocks it all out of her mind and when Brooke arrives Vanessa is positive that they’re going to tackle that lift today. Brooke knows there’s something up, Vanessa can tell, but she doesn’t let on. She pushes and pushes her, makes Brooke practise it more than she knows she should, but when she’s rehearsing and dancing she’s not thinking about what happened a year ago so they do it again, twice, three times. Vanessa knows that Brooke’s also fallen silent, isn’t enjoying the repetitiveness.

“One more time. You need to get me higher off the ground so I can extend my leg,” she tells her. Brooke simply nods once.

It’s Vanessa’s fault when it happens. She starts counting Brooke in when she’s not ready, so Brooke is fumbling to support her and get her arm locked in place at her knee, but she doesn’t manage in time. She drops her, Vanessa’s head hits the floor, and Brooke recoils in shock.

“Fuck,” they both say at the same time, but for two very different reasons. Brooke then follows it up with two more while Vanessa rubs the back of her head. She didn’t fall that far but she did land on her head, so she can’t be too careful.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Brooke panics. Vanessa feels guilty, waves her away.

“No, I’m sorry. It was my fault, I was pushin’ you too hard.”

Brooke kneels down beside her, helps her up with gentle hands and strong arms. She puts one hand to her cheek and another to the back of her head, feeling for a lump. “Fuck, Vanessa…”

“Brooke, please, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry, you weren’t ready,” Vanessa sighs. She can feel a lump starting to form at the back of her throat. Why the hell is she so upset?

“I’m going to get you an ice pack. Stay there,” Brooke babbles, dashing out of the room. Vanessa’s head is sore but her heart is warmed by Brooke’s caring nature. She sits up. She’s not dizzy or sick which is a good sign but she shuffles over to lean against the mirror, puts her head in her hands and exhales in a bid to calm herself down. Brooke returns quickly carrying a bag of frozen chips wrapped in a blue paper towel. Vanessa can’t help but laugh.

“Jesus Christ, I know the NHS is underfunded these days, but is this what it’s come to?” she quips. Brooke smiles at her, glad to have got a laugh.

“It’s all the canteen had. Here, put it on the sore bit,” she says soothingly, sitting down close beside her and positioning the bag of chips against her skull. Vanessa thanks her, leans back against the mirrors and sighs. She can feel Brooke’s eyes on her.

“Anything you want to talk about?” she asks her quietly. When Vanessa turns to meet Brooke’s gaze she snaps her eyes away and down to her lap. She finds it endearing. Brooke’s voice is hesitant as she continues. “You don’t seem your happy self today.”

Her words are heartwarming, and God knows she needs them. She supposes it wouldn’t do any harm to talk everything through with someone other than a therapist, Akeria or Monique.  

“Uh, today’s a year since…everything happened last year. With, y’know. Kameron. And her dance partner,” Vanessa explains. Brooke screws her face up, winces.

“I’m sorry.”

Vanessa snorts a sardonic laugh. “You don’t need to be sorry, you didn’t fuckin’…do anything.”

Brooke sighs beside her. Vanessa knows that Brooke knows what happened. She will have seen the photographs the paps took of the pair of them in the street, pressed up against each other in a drunk kiss. She’ll have seen the papers with said photos splashed on the front cover. She’ll have seen the interview with the two of them where they both grovelled and sent their futile apologies to the viewers. For a moment, Vanessa is embarrassed. She voices this to Brooke.

“What do you have to be embarrassed about?” Brooke frowns at her. Vanessa shrugs helplessly.

“Just…I don’t know. I know you know what happened, everyone knows what happened. That’s the worst bit. That was the worst part about the whole thing. Everyone’s fuckin’…pity.”

Brooke cocks her head, thinks. “Yeah, but what would you rather have? Pity or the whole nation wanting your head on a stick?”

Vanessa laughs a little more genuinely this time. She sighs. “I know Kam didn’t do it to hurt me. These situations…I mean, fuckin’ look at our dance. You get close with people…I get that. Just…”

“She didn’t trip and fall on his mouth, Vanessa,” Brooke says sharply. Vanessa narrows her eyes at her, and Brooke shrinks back a little. “Sorry. That was out of turn. Just…in public too. Paps fucking everywhere. It wasn’t even like it was the one kiss and then she pushed him away, it was-”

“Yeah, I know what it was, thanks, Brooke,” Vanessa snaps at her. She instantly regrets it. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair of me to take my problems out on you.”

Brooke smiles sadly at her, reaches a hand out to lace in hers. Vanessa accepts gladly. Brooke mumbles as she speaks again. “I remember feeling so sorry for you at that time. Even though I didn’t know you then. To be cheated on is bad enough, but in the public eye like that…and with her partner too. I’m sorry it happened.”

“I feel more sorry for her,” Vanessa shrugs. “I mean she left the show…we tried to make it work but it just wasn’t there any more…and there’s no damage to his fuckin’ career. Because…of course there ain’t. You know apparently his new standup tour is actually about the whole damn fiasco?”

“Fuck, I hate men so much,” Brooke sighs. Her gaze turns steely again. “But you don’t have to feel sorry for Kameron, V. She still kissed him when she was with you and working with you on the show. That’s bad. That’s low.”

“It was so shit. She came home and she told me the next morning. I can still remember the whole conversation…” Vanessa says, her voice quiet. It’s not a lie. The memory sometimes jumps out and scares her just before she goes to sleep. The hurt, the betrayal. Trust cracking and breaking, a foot on a thin sheet of ice.

She feels Brooke tug gently on her hand, a soft c’mere with it. Vanessa doesn’t resist and before she knows it she’s discarded the bag of frozen chips and Brooke’s holding her against her chest, the pair of them curled up on the floor. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t hurt. Brooke is holding her, and it feels correct. She feels safe and protected, like her feelings will never be hurt again (she knows this isn’t true, but she goes with the feeling like a leaf floating on water).

“Just for the record, and I know you’ve probably heard this about a thousand times over the course of the last year,” Brooke mutters against her hair. “You deserve way more than that. I can’t imagine anyone being lucky enough to have you and then idiotic enough to cheat on you.”

Brooke’s right- Vanessa has heard it all before, but it means something different coming from Brooke. She feels her heart speed up as Brooke continues. “I would never do that to you.”

Vanessa feels as if her heart is a grenade and the pin’s just been pulled out. She must have stiffened in Brooke’s arms, because Brooke tenses up and relaxes her hug. “I mean, to anyone. I would never.”

Vanessa doesn’t follow it up because she can tell Brooke’s backtracking, but it’s already out- she would never do that to Vanessa, Brooke’s promising her her trust and they’re not even…anything at all. She doesn’t know why she finds that so comforting. Maybe because there’s an unspoken element of yet to it all.

“How’s the head?” Brooke asks swiftly. Vanessa cracks a smile, gives Brooke a wink.

“Ain’t had any complaints.”

Brooke grins back at her, softly pulls her up from their position on the floor. “Let’s try that lift again, then.”

They try it again. Then again, and again, until Brooke finally nails it and Vanessa can get her leg extended the whole way. The speedbump they hit in the rehearsal process has been steamrollered, and the rest of the days pass easily.

Until it gets to Saturday, the rehearsal before the performance later that evening, and Vanessa can’t really remember how she arrived at rehearsals or what they were doing before now- it’s odd. For some reason they’re also dressed in full costume even though they’re just rehearsing at their usual studios.

There must be a reason for it.

Vanessa can’t really concentrate though, as she and Brooke are rehearsing that part of the dance again, the one where Brooke’s got her hands all over her and their faces are close together and Brooke’s eye contact is dark and sultry. Brooke’s hands are on her thighs and Vanessa bucks her hips a little, all part of the dance, but then suddenly out of nowhere Brooke’s pulling her close and their lips meet, she’s kissing her and it’s deep and urgent and Vanessa’s moaning a little against her mouth and fuck, this feels so right. She pushes a hand into Brooke’s hair- it’s loose and down her back. She wonders why it’s like that in rehearsal (Brooke always wears it in a ponytail) but there must be a reason for it. Brooke’s hands are on her waist now, and Vanessa is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that her legs are still spread and Brooke’s are straight in between them. Brooke’s lips drop down to her neck.

“Fuck, wanted this since I met you,” she whispers against her skin, and Vanessa lets out a whine.

“Touch me.”

Brooke’s hands slide back down to her thighs, lips back against Vanessa’s as she keeps one hand steady against her leg and brings the other up to rub against the silk of her underwear, and fuck, it already feels so good and Brooke’s barely even touched her at all.

“Fuck, so good…”

“I bet you taste fucking amazing,” Brooke murmurs against her lips, and Vanessa lets out a gasp, brings her hand round to tug at Brooke’s ponytail-

Wait.

How come her hair’s in a ponytail?

But Vanessa doesn’t have time to question it because she can feel her orgasm building quickly with every little movement of Brooke’s fingers and she can hear herself telling her, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she starts to throb and when she opens her eyes-

She’s in her room. In her bed. She’s just woken up from a sex dream about her dance partner.

And she just came from it.

Vanessa is disorientated, confused, and wet. She feels on her bedside table for her phone. It’s Saturday morning.

“What the fuck?” she questions out loud. Then she gives a tired giggle. She rubs her eyes, still a little sleepy, and then scrolls to Whatsapp. Akeria and Monique are going to die when she tells them.

V: guys i just woke up from a sex dream about her

V: like i literally just orgasmed myself awake

She locks her phone after she’s sent the messages, sighing and shaking her head. Fuck her fucking brain. Vanessa lies in bed and stretches a little, a few minutes ticking by. She’s surprised that the girls haven’t immediately pounced on the message. She knows they’ll be awake- after all, they’ve got rehearsals to go to as well. Frowning, she unlocks her phone again to see if the message has sent.

It has sent.

But not to the girls.

The realisation dawns slowly and ice cold over Vanessa as she realises that, in her half-asleep state, she’s not sent the revelation to her group chat with the girls. She’s sent it to Brooke Lynn.

She shoots up in bed, at once entirely wide awake with horror and adrenaline. She could always un-send the messages and she contemplates doing so, but the two blue ticks beside each one and the “Online” under Brooke’s name glare back at her mockingly. So Vanessa’s heart sinks and she swallows her pride with a crimson face, typing frantically before Brooke can get there first.

V: oh my god. Oh my fucking god. PLEASE ignore that it wasn’t meant for you

She’s already cringing so much she thinks she might die, but Brooke’s reply makes it worse.

B: Well good morning to you too x

Vanessa wonders what she could even type to get herself out of the situation. At least she’s still leaving a kiss at the end of her texts.

V: i’m cringing so much i’m SO sorry x

B: Who’s the lucky girl x

Christ it just gets worse. But then as Vanessa’s head clears a little, she wonders if this is Brooke’s way of flirting with her. She plays it safe, decides not to risk things especially since she’s already embarrassed herself and it’s only eight in the morning.

V: god can we please pretend this never happened x

B: Whoever she was she clearly did a good job x

Vanessa’s heart thuds and she can feel the heat building between her legs again. She throws caution to the wind and decides to fuck the element of risk as she types her next message.

V: Yeah she did x

B: She the same person you’ve got a crush on? x

Vanessa’s heart is beating much the same as if she’s drunk three red bulls back to back (she knows because she’s done this before during a particularly stressful pro rehearsal day). She thinks about admitting, her body ruling her head, because the thought of some early morning dirty texts followed by sex in Brooke’s dressing room is entirely too tempting right now, but ultimately her head decides to make a sensible decision because being woken up via literal orgasm is probably the best she’s going to get today.

V: Might be x

V: A lady never tells x

B: You’re no fun. See ya at dress run x

Vanessa locks her phone and hops out of bed to take a freezing cold shower that she hopes will eliminate every iota of sexual thought out of her brain.

It works, until she gets to costume that night and sees Brooke in her outfit and her jaw almost hits the floor. She’s in red, a short dress with a plunging neck which stops midway at her chest and is strung together with glittering silver thread. It’s tight with a little skirt that flares out, and Vanessa knows it’ll look good during the dance. It’s also backless, and the sight of Brooke in it makes Vanessa instantly reach for her water bottle.

“Shit,” she says, and Brooke turns around in surprise. She can’t find any more words. “You look insane.”

Brooke smiles bashfully, motions to the hanger. “Thanks, baby. Yours is the same, it’s just black.”

Vanessa is suddenly gripped by nerves. She wonders if she’ll even be able to do this dance at all. But then Brooke’s smile grows on her face and she bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’m really looking forward to tonight. I think we’re going to do great.”

And if Brooke is so confident, who is Vanessa to let her down?

They’re up last tonight, so they get to watch most of the dances from the Divinatorium. Monet and Monique do a showstopping Jive to Dance Apocalyptic and Vanessa thinks the applause they get might rip the roof off of the studios. Willam and Phi Phi Charleston to a version of Fancy, but she struggles manfully and her scores plummet again. Vanessa can tell she’s disappointed but she doesn’t miss the hug she gets from Courtney once it’s over. Maybe that makes up for it, Vanessa doesn’t know.

Shea and Peppermint Viennese Waltz to If I Ain’t Got You, and it’s lovely even if Peppermint does mess up the footwork a little. Akeria and Asia Quickstep to Yeah (it shouldn’t work but it does), and Jan and Jackie are also doing a Salsa to Wrapped Up. Their performance is more fun and flirty than fiery and hot, and it worries Vanessa a little that she’s perhaps taken things too far. They also complete a lift, Jackie hoisting Jan in the air and holding her there at the end of their dance and making it look easy. They score 30 altogether, the same as Vanessa and Brooke last week. Vanessa’s stomach churns.

Eventually their time rolls around, and they’re standing in the darkness watching Gigi and Crystal Waltz to a version of Perfect with no pronoun changes through gaps in the curtains. Vanessa can feel her pulse surging through her like the bassline of a dance track, her nerves only building with every passing moment. Brooke’s standing behind her to watch, and when she wraps her arms around her waist in a hug from behind it does absolutely nothing to calm her down. Brooke’s swaying softly as she watches Crystal and Gigi together, the two girls holding each other steadily and their gaze tender as they look at each other. The sight makes Vanessa’s heart melt. She lets herself be swayed in Brooke’s arms, and Brooke drops her head to rest in the crook of Vanessa’s neck, her lips moving against her skin as she softly sings along to the song.

“I have met an angel in person, and she looks perfect…”

Vanessa feels like telling Brooke everything. How much she likes her, how calming a presence she’s been in Vanessa’s life even though she’s only been in it for six weeks. How beautiful she thinks she is. But Gigi and Crystal’s dance comes to an end. They’re holding each other tightly on the dancefloor as the audience claps. Vanessa wonders if maybe Brooke’s holding her just as tight. She feels Brooke’s arms drop to her sides as she straightens up, takes her hand.

“Fuck. It’s us. You ready?” she whispers to her. Vanessa looks into her eyes. She doesn’t think she’s ever been more or perhaps less ready to dance with a gorgeous woman she’s partnered with and finds entirely too attractive, but she cracks a smile anyway.

“So ready. Let’s crush it.”

#rpdr fanfiction #ortega #bet you look good on the dancefloor #strictly au #lesbian au #branjie #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #crystal methyd #gigi goode #monique heart #monet x change #willam belli #courtney act #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #background momo #background scyvie #background jankie #background witney #background crygi

[effie-grace]

More Good Omens Meta...

Let’s talk about the choice to make Gabriel American (or American-presenting, I suppose) and how that ties into the idea of Heaven and Aziraphale’s place in it. Because, yes, making Gabriel the smarmy douche in corporate who probably decided to give everyone free CrossFit memberships instead of raises this year resonates with me, as an American. But there are parallels to that specific breed of asshole outside of the US of A.

However, when you really look into it, it’s obvious that what distinguishes Heaven from Hell (or from Tadfield, for that matter), isn’t just its corporate nature. Angels, demons and parcel delivery drivers alike must all deal with corporate. No, Heaven’s driving philosophy is the Celestial Equivalent of American Exceptionalism, and has been since The Beginning. Heaven is special and has a special mission, and the very worst thing anyone can do is question the intrinsic Rightness of Heaven’s actions. Book!Heaven, while running along similar lines, was more of a parallel to the “First World” mentality of the end of Cold War and was both less insular and less personally invasive than Series!Heaven. No one’s really keeping tabs on Book!Aziraphale the way they do Series!Aziraphale.

But, to that end, herein lies one of the key differences between Book! and Series! Aziraphale. Without Heaven constantly looking over his shoulder, Book!Az is not the little ball of anxiety that his series counterpart is. He’s also pretty comfortable with the way things are.

Let’s look at his hobbies. He still appreciates music and art and sushi, but the book doesn’t focus on those interests as much as his interest in misprint bibles and books of prophecy, which he seems to find entertaining in the same way that some people enjoy “so bad it’s good” movies or recipe cards from the 1950s. Basically, he’s comfortable enough with Heaven to enjoy poking fun at it a little.  

When series!Aziraphale parrots the company line to Crowley, he’s usually either uncomfortable or defensive, because deep down, he knows that what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. Book!Az doesn’t have that problem. When he says that obviously Heaven will win the War, he’s just stating a fact. He doesn’t really question the idea that anything that Heaven does is inherently the right thing up until the Apocalypse is nigh, and even then his first motivation is to keep things the way they are. It’s not up until the lead up to the finale that he even starts to wonder if maybe The Way Things Are is part of the problem.

Then you have series!Aziraphale, who started questioning the status quo ages ago and refuses to admit to it because he’s terrified of what that means. The series really showcases the way Aziraphale loves the world on a personal level, seeking out artists and master chefs and playwrights, gavotting and spying and magicianing with giddy delight. But, he’s got the Archangels constantly looming over him, telling him that the things he likes are trivial and that he needs to stay on task. Deep inside, Aziraphale knows that’s wrong. Humans, culture, knowledge, art -- none of these things are trivial. Earth isn’t trivial. And at the same time, he “knows” that Heaven can’t be wrong, because Everyone knows that Heaven is always right. Aziraphale spends most of the series twisting himself up into knots trying to make what he knows is true fit into Heaven’s worldview of what is right.

Both Aziraphales need to break their conditioning to complete their character arcs. At the end of it all, they’ve both finally accepted that they need to think and act for themselves. But first, Book!Aziraphale needs to break through his complacency and Series!Aziraphale needs to trust his own judgement.

#good omens #good omens meta #aziraphale #book #series #that's just like my opinion man

[eremiss]

2. Sway

Set post-5.3, spoilers below the cut

The suggestion that the recently-recovered Archons attend the Moonfire Faire had been unexpected but not unwelcome. “To celebrate everyone being home again,” had been Tataru and Krile’s explanation, coupled with the sentiment that, after everything they’d gone through on the First, they’d more than earned some quality relaxation and time to themselves. 

It had raised a few eyebrows, certainly, but at the same time no one had protested, nor been able to come up with any objections. They were each fairly recovered from the whole out-of-body ordeal, and they had no pressing or urgent matters to attend to, as Eorzea was --tentatively, briefly-- at peace. Such opportunities were rare and always fleeting, so why not make the most of it while they still could? 

The sun is almost fully set on the Scions’ first day of vacation, and the beach is gradually filling with Faire-goers patient,or stubborn, enough to lay early claim to their spots for the fireworks display. The balmy air is thick with the sounds of revelry, music, the smell of seasonal fare and the din of lapping ocean waves.

Alisaie and Tataru convince Gwen to teach them the Flame Dance she’d learned during the scant bell she’d been off exploring on her own earlier in the day. What inspired her to learn the dance herself, Thancred isn’t sure. Perhaps it was just for fun, with a healthy dash of getting caught up in the revelry of the Moonfire Faire and the general carefree atmosphere of Costa del Sol. Or perhaps it has something to do with the gossip he’s heard about… something to do with ‘Bombardiers’ and a giant shark? He’ll have to get the real story later.

Gwen tugs at her pareo, making sure it’s securely tied about her hips, and asks if anyone else wants to join. No one takes her up on the offer, the lot of them perfectly content to lounge on sun-warmed towels and blankets and observe.

Thancred stretches out on his blanket and props his head on his fist as the trio start going through the motions, pondering how much he’ll learn just by watching. Maybe he’ll join them later, if the mood strikes in time.

Y’shtola mutters beside him, words dripping with mirth, “Hoping for a private lesson, perhaps?”

It’s obvious Gwen didn’t hear the little jibe, as she hasn’t tensed like a startled antelope and turned red as a rolanberry. He half wishes she had, as he’s morbidly curious what Alisaie might do as revenge for tampering with their fun.

Thancred makes a show of rolling his eyes as Gwen starts to demonstrate how one should move their arms. He drawls blithely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” she says, smirking down at her book. 

Urianger poorly stifles a chuckle on her other side. 

The sour look Thancred shoots them only makes Y’shtola’s smirk grow wider. He turns his head away with a scoff and pointedly ignores both of them in favor of watching the dance lesson. 

The Flame Dance is simple enough, mostly stepping from side to side and waving arms one way or another. Alisaie and Tataru master the motions fairly quickly, and it isn’t much longer before they stop following Gwen and start moving at their own pace. Soon the three of them grow bored of the same motions and start adding in little variations like kicks and twists, occasionally throwing in something particularly ridiculous just for a laugh. 

The longer they dance, the more Thancred’s attention lingers on Gwen. The Flame Dance is hardly complicated or showy, even with their additions, but there’s a certain ease to the way Gwen moves that keeps drawing his gaze back whenever it happens to wander. 

Her skin is glistening with sea spray and sweat in the setting sun, her smile spreading ear to ear and her eyes twinkling with delight. The occasional breeze off the ocean plays with her hair, and for a moment he catches the scent of the flowers tucked behind her ear. His eyes follow the flow of her arms and the sway of her hips, tracing the shape of her legs when she steps just so and her pareo falls open. 

Every step and twirl of her wrists, every twist, every laugh, every toss of her hair steals a little more of his attention until he's forgotten about the others entirely.

Thancred belatedly realizes he should be making some effort to not look so outwardly enamored, or at least try to stare a little less blatantly, but right then and there he can’t muster the will to try. Clearly his attention isn’t doing any harm— except to his pride about his poker face and his own preference to appear aloof and unflappable.

Besides, he’s a bit preoccupied by the fact that the longer Gwen dances, the more keenly he recalls they’ve refrained from touch all day, as is their habit in public. They’ve scarcely touched beyond little nudges of elbows and a quick squeeze of the hand. Normally it’s an inconvenience, or at worst an annoyance. But, normally, she isn’t dancing in naught but beachwear, a wrap of airy cloth and a brilliant smile.

Thoughts of a ‘private lesson’ had been passing fancies, just idle musings, when Y’shtola had made her remark. Now, though, the idea is considerably more appealing. 

The longer Gwen dances, the more Thancred is tempted. He could ease up beside her and join in the dancing. He could grasp her waist and dance with her, feel the heat of her skin under his hands as they moved with one another. He could press his smile to hers and pull her hair aside to taste the salt and sun on her skin. He could tug at the knots holding her top and pareo until they came undone…

The music comes to an end, and so do Gwen, Alisaie and Tataru’s dances, each of them flushed and satisfactorily winded. Thancred shakes his head, a little dazed, and ensures his shameless gawking had been his only display before pushing himself upright. 

The trio gradually wander back to the Scions’ little camp of blankets and umbrellas, still giggling and teasing one another about their antics. Alisaie declares her intent to seek out refreshments and turns to head for the heart of the Faire, Tataru trotting along after her.

Thancred entices Gwen to stay and sit with him by offering the last of his drink. She accepts and sinks down beside him with a grateful hum, giving his elbow an affectionate nudge as she tucks her legs to one side to keep her sandy feet off his blanket. As she sips his drink and tilts her head to listen to whatever Y’shtola and Alphinaud are discussing, Thancred takes a moment to study the sky. He judges there’s still time enough before the fireworks to steal a few minutes of privacy.

He catches Gwen’s eye and gives her a charming smile. “Care to go for a stroll?”

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

Sway - noun 1. a rhythmical movement from side to side. 2. rule; control

:D

This was so much easier than Crux, haha. And I like how it came out! Though it was surprisingly difficult to come up with ways to describe the way Gwen was dancing and the motions and all that. I don’t write about dancing or fighting often, so it was kind of a challenge!

I debated writing more, specifically getting to the NSFW part, but it just wasn’t happening. I’ll save it and see if I can use it for another prompt ;B

I actually have another Moonfire Faire-related idea from their ARR days. We’ll see if I have an excuse to write about that later, too!

#5.3 #5.3 spoilers #FFXIVWrite2020 #thancred x wol #wol x thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #My writing #beach episode #Moonfire Faire #The Moonfire Faire outfit is so cute this year! I love it!! #Especially the bracelets #Thancred was definitely staring aaaaall day lmao #Fun times #Dancing

[feely-touchy]

The young don't really believe in night that's made of nothing

Thinking it's just the cloak of some terror

Or the smoke left by the stars

As they keep warm through lullabies

Fearlessly sleeping

They believe in snow through its bristled cold

But not of snow angels

Pressed firm into the earth like hammers made of bodies

They knew what they've made

They know what they can touch

Except for darkness

Cupping hands over ears

Covering mouths

Eyes shutting tight

But the escape is what makes it nothing but faulty feigns of courage

But I had once touched something inescapable and endless

As it had touched me

Sinking up my ankles

Swelling downward like sickness

A prison like cement over a casket

The flooding mist washing into the streets my friends and I were walking

A midnight tide that ripped us from our evening

Crawling across the red dirt road

Desperate as souls escaping Perdition

Everywhere was gone in but a moment

And we were each lost like drunken children

For awhile I could hear them in the distance

Calling

Muffled by the thickets and the saplings

Somewhere where the sun couldn't see

No God let through those arching trees

Into the unnerving, unholy sanctuary

Where we had been abandoned

Us trespassers

As usual

Lost in our separate ways

Each our furthest from home

Where nothing was like what we'd ever seen or heard

Not that we'd seen much or ever listened

And before me was even a stranger scene

Far in the distance

Further than I could see

But I could feel it seeing me

As I approached it

Minute after minute

Further from my senses

Stumbling stupidly in a stupor

In the endless downhill forest

Until I was nearly upon the source of all the darkness

While the darkness watched me as my witness

Kneeling at the trunk of something old and unsacred

Twine wrapping around it clearly by the millions

A blackwood birch with a most suspicious feeling

Bone white branches shedding blood red leaves

A wine like glow from the gallows of its canopy

Wordlessly I knew that this was the place we were meant to meet

A sight only whispered of in legends

Where we carve our wants into our hands

Then cut them into the tree

Merely needing to wait for the end of all our problems

But I had made it their alone

In such solitude that my heart could be heard for miles

Barren of bird calls

No upturned stones

No moving brush

No rustling

No voice suddenly leaving me

When I pulled the loosest string

Tighter

Twisting the twine like a tornado

The cracking sound

A subtle scream

My ears were hot as they began to ring

Bark breaking

White-knuckled sounds

Pounding on my eardrums

The woods shaking rapturously

Differently

Maliciously

As if surrounded by jeering, heartless, mocking

Sharp as reprimands and pointed fingers

Cruel, pitiable, and callous

Gut-wrenching laughter

Billowing in shadows from knots and hollows

Hot in my lungs as blood

Thick as the thrashing sounds from afar

Harsh as the growling of the gnarls

Stuttering gulps

Snickering snarls

As the trails I had followed had somehow had me followed

Red dirt

Hours from where I left it

Now stuck again under my feet

Beneath the looming shade of the blackbirch tree

Haunting in its mangled melancholy

But I was rushed and I was young

My palms were red

My fingers stung

I tugged the spiraled string with all that I could muster

And it tugged back at me

Snaking around my wrist and up my sleeve

Arresting

Violent

Viciously

My eyes losing their luster

I struggled surreptitiously

Gnawing and clawing with my nails and teeth

But the splintered threads dug in even further

My gums made to burn and bleed

My nails pulled from their roots

I thought that surely this was it

I'd die a coward in a fit

Giving in to Death's longing kiss

Embracing the thorns and whips of soft surrender

But through the bundle tied around the blackbirch

Under the shade of the eclipsed earth

I could hear my friends humming a saintly dirge

From a time before when we were more than restless

Yet the blackbirch had already started sprouting through them

Tearing veins and skin

Bones, eyes, and muscles slowly ripping

The twine having already split them into sections

Glass and oil returning them to lanterns

Like when we walked the streets that night looking for some reasons

Singing feckless songs about our waning seasons

Their last one being my least favorite one to leave on

Of the boy selling cigarettes and the girl selling matches

Wailing, "chase the smoke and surely you'll find Heaven

If the sun won't rise

Then it's fires we'll be setting"

And I know they were lost within the blaze

A mocking smile on their face

They always joked they'd hate to keep the devil waiting

Saying folks like me should try to make a living

So I ran like Hell was never going to catch me

Far into the fields but I could still hear the burning forest cackling

And I wake each night the windows sound of scratching

Desperately afraid the red dirt is inside me

But one day I'll march back into the darkness

Ready

An axe in one hand

A bottle to keep me steady

And I will build a blackbirch bookshelf to keep their stories

So the kids that walk like us

Pissing their days away without aim

Will one day know bravery from glory

Saving themselves from my old follies

#poetry