#Her soul sits in the axis of the spine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sketchguk · 4 years

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a world alone; myg

➳ pairing: vampire!yoongi, street racer!yoongi x reader

➳ genre: modern vampire AU, street racer AU, bad boy AU, fwb AU, smut, fluff, angst

➳ wc: 11.3k

➳ synopsis: the rest of the world will pay no mind to yoongi’s gentle soul. they’ll take one look at his etched skin, bruised knuckles, and gnarly scar and write him off as the bad guy regardless of the faded heart he wears on his sleeve. they think they know everything about your best friend, yet they’ll never know about his bloodlust and his need for speed.

➳ warnings: explicit language, mentions of drug and alcohol consumption, heavy petting, blood sucking, menstrual blood, oral (f receiving), handjobs, fingering, unprotected sex.

➳ a/n: this is dedicated to my delightful destinee, @yourdelights 🥺💖 i was heavily inspired by Lorde’s music, and I’m dying for her comeback!! yoongi’s character was also based on jess’ character from gilmore girls (shout-out to vic for reigniting my love for that show @minsprings !!)

Your parents always warn you about hanging out with the wrong crowd. They’re under the false impression that anyone who surfs the internet for “fun” and recreationally smokes weed in their parents’ basement — two crimes worthy of capital punishment — is inherently the offspring of Satan.

It’s quite melodramatic to say the least, but they don’t even know the half of it.

Sure, you understand the consequences of drinking fireballs until your throat is raw and getting plastered beyond recognition. You can also see why it’d be a bad idea to stick and poke needles into one another’s arms or to have unprotected sex. It’s inevitably a part of suburban culture when there’s nothing else to do in this deadbeat town besides pray to a God who doesn’t even care to listen.

But if they think their advice is going to stop you from being a quote unquote deadbeat, they’re gravely mistaken.

There’s no harm in a little bit of indulgence, right? Because if there’s one thing you can’t wrap your head around, it’s reasons to stay away from Min Yoongi.

They claim that the infamous bad boy is “nothing but trouble,” but to you, there’s absolutely nothing dangerous about his warm eyes and gentle hands. He may be a little wild and fluorescent in the dark, but under the moonlight, the way he wraps you around in his ink spattered arms makes you feel safer than no other. Although Yoongi is anything but perfect, you can easily acknowledge that.

Yoongi has his flaws. A million and one bad habits to kick. He has tired eyes, no doubt from his unhealthy lack of sleep. His caffeine addiction keeps him up at night, yet you can’t help but spur it every time you secretly drop by his place with an americano in hand. Not only is his hot breath laced with coffee beans, but on occasion, it’s unmistakably mingled with some potent nicotine. To be quite honest, the taste isn’t as bad as your parents describe it to be. You’ve been trying to wean him off of it though, and it’s been working for the most part.

Rather, in place of smoking a pack a week, Yoongi subconsciously bites his nails. Even though chewing off his cuticles isn’t a healthy substitute either, it’s certainly better than killing his lungs and filling it with smoke. You can also admit to biting your own nails out of fear or anxiety sometimes, but ever since you started to hang around the older boy, the habit has diminished significantly. Nowadays, your mouth is fixated on other things your mother wouldn’t be proud to hear about.

In the hazy, quiet of the night, when the rest of the world is fast asleep, you situate yourself on top of Yoongi’s lap, straddling him on either side of his thigh just like clockwork. The novel you were once reading is long forgotten from your dainty hands, too busy carding it through his dark locks and pulling at his roots. Your mouths are preoccupied with one another as he’s the one to bite your lip, and you’re the one to bite your tongue, holding back secrets he’s not ready to hear.

With parted lips and clashing teeth, Yoongi rolls his tongue around yours. In a fight for dominance, you’d gladly submit to him any day. A gasp falls between your teeth and a shiver runs down your spine as he trails his cold hands down your sides, rubbing circles into your exposed hip bones with his calloused thumbs, never daring to dip further south without your permission.

He peppers kisses down the column of your throat with his swollen lips, sucking bruises into the tender skin. Yoongi focuses his attention at the base of your neck, lapping at the pretty love bites adorning your clavicle. You brace yourself for what’s to come by squeezing at his broad shoulders. Growing restless, you begin to bounce on his lap, begging for him to use you at his disposal.

The faint glow of the overhead lamp illuminates his profile, his honey skin glistening in the low light. Your heavy lidded eyes wills itself to open up, meeting your sight with the man beneath you. While your eyes darken with lust, a clouded vision of Yoongi overcomes you ー his pupils shining with an otherworldly brilliance, a golden glare so intense that you fall prey to him every night.

Your sultry eyes are pleading for him to sink his teeth into your flesh, and who is Yoongi to deny you of all the finer things in life? He caresses your waist with a soft touch, gently squeezing at your sides as if he’s too afraid to let go, but Yoongi is vastly acute of all your reactions. So with the nod of your head and a whisper of affirmation, you confess that you want this ー him ー more than anything in the world.

Yoongi runs his tongue over the most sensitive parts of your neck, sucking on the prominent vein at the juncture of your shoulder. He slows down to massage his teeth into your skin, biting gently before piercing your jugular with his canine fangs. All the blood in your body rushes through your vessels, satiating Yoongi’s bloodlust thirst. You’re at a loss of breath, panting heavily as you overheat under the scope of his fiery glare and the electrifying graze of his extremities.

In any other lifetime, you would revolt at the sight of blood and its metallic taste, yet in this time and space, you would allow your best friend to do anything he pleases ー even if his greatest wish is to suck the life out of you. To Yoongi, your viscous blood is sickly sweet and beyond addicting. He doesn’t have a clue as to why he’d ever pick up another cigarette when you’re the only addiction he needs.

As the life drains out of you, one drop of blood at a time, you can feel yourself grow weaker in Yoongi’s arms. You fall limp, becoming a victim to his voracious fervor. But Yoongi understands your limits, being so in tune to your body, and he’s sure to stop before you descend into a comatose.

Your lungs are starting to cave inside of you as heavy sighs escape from your parted lips. Weakly tugging on the strands of Yoongi’s hair, you warn him of the dangerous territory he’s about to enter.

Yoongi suckles at your punctured skin, running his tongue over the point of contact before retracting his fangs and sealing the wound he had gouged with a kiss. He wipes his mouth clean of any residue with the back of his hand, whispering a thank you into the shell of your ear.

You nod your head and wrap your arms around Yoongi’s neck to catch your breath, barely even conscious of his soft coos and gentle caresses. Your head is spinning on an axis, but you allow yourself to fall deeper into Yoongi’s arms, fully knowing that he’s always going to be the one to catch you no matter what.

His sweet nothings reverberate around your skull ー a deep voice echoing like a polyphony, lulling you into your rapture. He brushes your hair back behind your head, and before you know it, your cheek is nuzzling into the cotton of the pillows as he lowers your body onto the firm mattress.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep for, but Yoongi’s delicate voice and quiet hushes bring you back to earth. You can feel his slightly chapped lips planting a kiss at the top of your temple and the soft tickle of his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Yoongi calls you by your name, fanning his breath over your plush cheeks until you stir back into reality. In your groggy state, your eyes unwillingly blink open, and although your vision is blurry, the sight of Yoongi and his precious smile is clear as day.

He helps you to sit up before passing you a glass of your favorite concoction. While you’re still stuck in a daze, your face instantly lights up at the sight of the tiny cocktail umbrella sitting at the rim of your cup.

“Small umbrellas bring big smiles,” he offers, “Drink up.”

It’s cheesy as hell, but you throw your head back to take a sip, making it all the more difficult for yourself when you can’t erase the larger than life smile from your lips. You’re instantly hit with the earthy taste of greens as there’s a mixture of kale, cucumber, and celery, but most importantly, Yoongi is sure to throw in a generous amount of spinach to replenish the iron that you’ve lost from his feasting. Even though most people would rather die than drink a blend of vegetables, you’re no stranger to Yoongi's Midas touch in the kitchen. He’s an expert when it comes to food, always going above and beyond without even trying. You can’t even fathom how a carnivore like him has gone as far as creating the perfect vegetarian steak as per your request – mentioned jokingly in passing, of course.

“You hungry?” He inquires.

You shake your head no, but he’s all ready to step back into the kitchen to prepare you a meal from the sparse ingredients in his low-humming fridge.

“Just want you beside me,” you pout, reaching for his hand, encouraging him to climb underneath the covers with you.

Yoongi gives into your wishes, interlacing his fingers with yours like it’s second nature. You lower your drink onto the stack of books designed to be a makeshift nightstand as he reaches for your paperback copy of Metamorphoses, lying precariously at the edge of the mattress. He settles beside you as you comfortably situate yourself across the bed, laying your head onto his lap and scrunching up into a fetal position.

Too wrapped up in your own world, you don’t seem to notice the presence of Yoongi’s ginger moggie until he’s curled up beside you, nudging at your bare arm, begging to be pet. You give into the scraggy feline, keeping busy, while Yoongi turns to your marked, dog ear page, finishing up Book IV with the story of Perseus and Andromeda.

Ideally, this is exactly how you want to spend the entirety of your Sundays. Although this is how your night always ends, it doesn’t always start off this way. Typically, you’re hanging around his apartment alone, pacing the age-old floorboards, biting your nails and waiting for Yoongi to arrive home safely from his lucrative hustle. You’d even chat it out with Yoongi’s kitten to keep your sanity intact, only to receive a hollow meow in return. Meanwhile, Yoongi spends his Sunday evenings doing all the things your parents warn you not to do. All in good faith, Yoongi earns some quick and dirty cash by participating in the underground street race scene. For you, it’s never been about the money, but more about his safety and wellbeing. And every week, with a few scratches in sight and give or take a couple of bruised knuckles, Yoongi returns home with a pocket full of cash like a double edged scheme. Regardless, you know for a fact that he does whatever he wants purely for his own happiness. It’s all for the cheap thrills, and if this is what he wants to do, who are you to stop him from doing so?

Yoongi rests his hand on top of yours to keep you safe when in reality, shouldn’t you be the one to do that to him? He’s reading the story out loud to you, and you’d probably never acknowledge this fact in the open, but in the repressed part of your subconscious, you’re more drawn to the deep lull of Yoongi’s voice than the enchanting story itself. The words go in through one ear, and out the other, but it’s not important because you’ve read this story at least a dozen times before. Instead, your attention is directed towards Yoongi and the subtle purse of his lips. Your eyes are fixated on the gentle slope of his rounded nose and the faint beauty mark that’s slightly off center.

It’s also hard to ignore the scar that cuts through the middle of his right eye. You don’t mean to stare, but it’s hard to believe that everyone perceives Yoongi as the tough guy because to you, he’s just… Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

He’s the same guy who would save a stray kitten from the side of the road, befriending it and accepting it into his run down home despite the nasty claw mark that’s embedded into his face. And although Yoongi doesn’t have much to offer financially, he’d still give it his all to take care of the scruffy kitten. Per your informally formal one-woman petition, you’ve requested that Yoongi deem the domestic long-haired cat as San, and ever since then, he’s been inseparable with the little critter. It’s quite endearing to watch this man and his little bundle of sunshine cuddle like it’s nobody’s business or slow dance around the apartment with a cat in his arms in spite of his two left feet.

However, it’s upsetting how the rest of the world will never see the delicate side of your best friend in the same way you see him. Even now, as you lie in bed with him, fiddling with his pretty hands, you can never not think about how they fit perfectly between the spaces of your fingers, comforting you like no other man in your life could. You can’t even look at them without imagining how elegant they are when they’re dancing across the rusty and slightly out of tune grand piano in the corner of the room.

Even if his arms are inked in tattoos, the rest of the world will pay no mind to his gentle soul. They’ll take one look at Yoongi’s etched skin and write him off as the bad guy regardless of the faded heart that he wears on his sleeve.

“Remind me again why you like this stuff?” Yoongi wonders, placing the paperback face down on the bed. Your lack of attention causes him to call your name repeatedly until he finally resorts to poking at your sides.

“HUH?” You yelp, breaking out of your reverie, not fully comprehending anything he’s said in the last five minutes or so.

“Ovid.”

You lift yourself in an upright position, rolling your eyes at his blissful ignorance and lack of taste for Greco-Roman literature. “This is a relic of antiquity, and Ovid pretty much lays the groundwork for Shakespeare, bro. Pay some respect to his name.”

Yoongi breaks out in a smile at your term of endearment but shakes his head in utter disagreement. “You know I’m not a fan of Shakespeare,” he almost gags at the sound of his name. “I’ll admit that the dude has a way with words, and I applaud him for keeping up with the meter, but it’s just not my style.” Yoongi’s nose scrunches up in distaste, his eyes squinting shut.

“We literally wouldn’t have some of the greatest works known to humankind if Ovid didn’t exist.” Your arms run wild, waving in the air as if your points will come across stronger because of how manic you are. Perhaps you’re being a little too dramatic, but in your defense, Ovid is an absolute legend. “I mean think about it, we have The Tempest, Pygmalionー”

“Rousseau’s Pygmalion or Shaw’s Pygmalion?”

“To each one’s own, but you have to know that I’d pick Rousseau any day,” you shrug.

“Yeah, Shaw didn’t have that philosophical flavor, you know,” he chuckles. “I guess you have a point. Let’s not forget A Midsummer Night’s Dream though, a classic.”

An ear to ear grin spreads across your lips at the mention of one of your favorite works. You know that Yoongi is bringing it up for your sake more than his because of his strong hatred towards the brilliance that is Shakespeare. And you know for a fact that he likes A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but he’d never outrightly dare to admit how much he enjoys your book recommendations ー especially if they involve Shakespeare.

“I’m glad you see the error of your ways,” you smile smugly. “Besides, back to the point, Dickens was inspired by Ovid, and Oliver Twist is still your favorite novel.”

Yoongi clicks his tongue, completely defeated by your argument. “Hey! That’s not fair now. It’s basically a social commentary about my life. C’mon, you’re gonna pull that card on me now?”

“Exactly, so you’re not giving him enough credit,” you plead with a pout. “We read this when we were in high school, but I think you’d really enjoy it if you gave it another shot.”

Yoongi bites his lips and picks up the book once again in hesitation, observing it from cover to cover. He plays with the myriad of pink post-it notes that protrude from the worn edges, flipping through the pages and thumbing through all of your annotations.

“Fine,” he grumbles, placing the book back onto his bed. “I’ll give it another try, and I’ll have a full, in-depth review ready for you by this weekend but... you have to come to my race on Sunday.”

“Are you serious?” You ponder over his proposition.

“Yep, that’s the deal.”

Although you’re still skeptical about Yoongi’s side hustle, you’d still support him no matter what (even if it’s in stubborn petulance). Shrugging your shoulders and saying “what the hell,” you give in to his proposal.

Yoongi flashes you his infamous gummy smile, and a warm, fuzzy feeling blooms in the center of your chest. Call it what you want ー elation, glee, fondness, tenderness, something entirely nuanced, or perhaps something above and beyond all of that. Regardless, it’s easy to shrug it off when the feeling comes and goes every so often.

And shrugging it off is what you do best.

Nevertheless, Yoongi’s willingness to appease you causes you to squeal and ramble on about how excited you are for his commentary. Your mouth is too busy running while Yoongi stumbles across his tiny studio, slipping on his shoes and shrugging on his army green utility jacket. He reaches for your outerwear and your white high tops while listening intently to your excitement about the activities you have planned for this Saturday. He hums in affirmation as he slides his hoodie over your raised arms and tugs the black material over your torso, getting you ready to sneak back into your parents’ home.

“Mmm,” he murmurs with a smile plastered on his lips, “Can’t wait, babe.” He tries to conceal his joy as he ducks his head down, sliding your Converse past your ankles and tying the shoelaces up for you.

With your grasp in his one hand and his car keys in the other, he ushers you out of his apartment and into his run-down 1986 Grandeur Azera. The neon green digital clock on his car radio taunts him, blinking every few seconds to count down the limited time he has left with you before kissing your cheek goodnight, or rather good morning, and sending you off to the sheltered life kept under wraps by your overprotective parents.

Yoongi tries not to think too much about the impermanence of the greatest things in his life as the slow burn of sunrise peeks over the horizon. Rather, he’s focused on how the car ride is filled with some of his favorite sounds ー the low hum of old school hip hop playing through his vintage radio and the ring of your laughter resounding over his stupid jokes.

The weekend rolls around quicker than you expect it to.

Days in the cul-de-sac are abnormally slow, especially when you’re in the midst of June. With each passing day, sunlight drags on a little longer because of the impending summer solstice. From the confinements of your window, it seems like all you ever do lately is watch the golden sun rise and set over the lake.

On occasions, your eyes are drawn to the far distance where there are freight trains that chug across the railroad at the crack of dawn. You can’t help but think about the places they’ll go and the things they’ll see in cities outside of your own.

In all honesty, you should probably do something more productive with your days. While everyone you know is complaining about work or studying for a degree they won’t ever use, you’re too busy studying the floor. And although daydreaming about the bright lights and city sounds is a way to kill the time, you’d much rather do it with Yoongi at your side.

Each second that you spend with him is more precious than the last. It’s hard to contain your excitement over the little things like movie nights at the drive in with him because it’s pretty much the highlight of your entire week, hence why you drop by his workplace extra early today – a whole hour before his shift ends.

Your presence is made known to the entire auto shop when the shout of your name is amplified throughout the garage. Of course, you catch Jimin and Taehyung dallying around before they even take notice of you standing in the doorway. They race over to engulf you in a hug, nearly knocking the wind out of you.

“Working hard or hardly working?” You giggle at the two boys.

Jimin lies through his teeth, as expected of him. “Working hard, of course.”

He grabs the mysterious, white paper box from your hands, curious as to what’s inside.

“Cupcakes? For me?” Taehyung asks with innocence in his eyes. He doesn’t even have to wait for your response because the two boys are already ravaging away at the sweet delectables.

Surely you had the boys in mind having stepped foot into the antique bakery shop earlier that day, hence the extras. But earnestly, out of the kindness of your heart, your primary goal is to surprise Yoongi with his favorite red velvet cupcakes. At the same time, you wouldn’t deny its leverage as a way to sway him and his opinions on the awe-inspiring Ovid.

“Don’t eat them all at once, okay?” You warn the boys before wandering off to find Yoongi.

You first expect him to be in his office, doing paperwork of some sort, so you make a beeline towards the backroom. However, there’s nothing in sight of his office beside his cold coffee perched at the edge of his desk. There are also scraps of yellow notepad paper with lyrics sprawled across the pages and a framed photo of the two of you. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, but it’s still not what you’re quite looking for.

You make your way out of Yoongi’s office and down the hall, continuing your search for him. You come to a halt when your ears perk up at the sound of a kick drum and a bass guitar laying down the beats to an iconic Nas song. The faint sound of music slowly crescendos as you lead yourself to the source.

It should be no surprise to you that Yoongi is hot rodding his car and making last minute improvements for tomorrow’s race. Yet again, you find him with his head between the hood, either replacing the worn out brake pads or the loose fan belt (in which he’s shown you how to do a dozen times before).

Yoongi’s reactions might be a little slow for being a vampire considering he hasn’t acknowledged your presence just yet. Sometimes he’s a little short of hearing, especially when his radio is a tad too loud.

The only reason he turns around from the car is because his right hand man has gone unusually silent. Yoongi doesn’t even know how long it's been since you dismissed Namjoon, telling him that you’ve got it covered. Nevertheless, he’s grateful because he can indulge in endless discourse about Metamorphoses, his new favorite anthology, rather than botany which Namjoon never shuts up about.

Being so lost in conversation about literature, and with the cupcakes long forgotten, the two of you hardly even notice the time that’s gone by.

“Boss, we’re gonna clock out,” Namjoon interrupts the two of you.

“Clock out? Oh shit, what time is it?” A quarter to six.

“We’re gonna be late,” you worry.

Yoongi digs his hand into the pocket of his navy coveralls, dishing out a set of keys. He hands them over to Namjoon before coming to his senses, thereby chucking it to Jimin who is arguably more responsible.

“Don’t fuck up,” Yoongi warns them, albeit without any menace in his tone.

Yoongi tugs off his coveralls before grabbing your hand and heading towards his car, listening to the boys wolf whistle from behind him. He shrugs it off, but the smug grin he bites back says otherwise.

He opens the passenger door for you, allowing you to settle in first. Then he does a half run, half walk around the hood. Putting the car in reverse, Yoongi rests his hand behind your seat and throws his head over his shoulder. He drapes his wrist over the steering wheel and zips off into the quiet roads where you can both talk nonsensically as if there’s something to say.

Saturday evenings always start this way.

With two souls as hollow as the bottles you drain and a brown, paper bag full of snacks from the dingy 7-Eleven down the block, you and Yoongi would recline your seats far enough to comfortably watch the movie on the big projection screen.

This must be your week because not only does Yoongi confess his new found love for Greco-Roman literature, but he’s also willing to brave through a romantic melodrama with you ー A Walk to Remember, no less.

Yoongi takes a lot of pride in never having to cry, but this time around, he doesn’t hide the stray tear that rolls down his face. The crying quickly subsides, but still, he gladly accepts the tissue you offer him with no denial in his eyes.

While the end credits roll and everyone has a chance to exit out of the car park, Yoongi would feed you the remaining gummy worms until the bag empties out. Meanwhile, you’d feed him the rest of the chocolate you’d rather not eat. The two of you would also take the time to digest the movie ー tonight’s topic of discussion revolving around the fact that Jamie and Landon deserved better.

But once the coast is clear, your mouth always finds its way to his. And somehow, the two of you always end up undressed ー or at least with your pants pulled down to your ankles. Usually, it’s the both of you, but sometimes it’s one or the other. This time around, it’s just you.

Yoongi always knows how to take care of you, but there’s something telling you that tonight isn’t necessarily your night ー the need for an orgasm being his first priority but a second one for you.

“I wanna make you happy,” he pleads. A double entendre you fail to notice.

But no matter how blissful his lips feel against your cunt, you’re still hyper aware of how bloodthirsty he is at this moment.

He doesn’t even try to hide his enthusiasm as he laps his tongue around your entrance, licking up the residue you’ve pooled from your time of the month. His hunger is insatiable, and it’s evident from the way he puckers his lips around your clit, sucking on the tiny bundle of nerves.

His tongue delves between your folds, playing with your juices, and it’s absolutely intoxicating. Yoongi’s overgrown bangs are parted when your hands find their way to his hair. His line of sight no longer obstructed by his dark, gelled locks. Your breath hitches in your throat when Yoongi looks up at you ー his irises gleaming with gold.

A glob of spit forces its way down your dry throat as you try to overcome this heady feeling. Typically, you’re a woman of many words, but Yoongi obliterates every thought in your head with just a single swipe of his tongue against your heat. A string of curses warble from your throat as he’s relentless in his endeavor, pushing his tongue in and out of your walls, massaging the tender flesh until it's raw.

Your jaw falls slack as your mouth parts open to release a sigh. “Ngh, pl- please, Yoongi,” you stutter out.

“Mmm?” He hums against your folds, sending shivers up your spine.

Your thighs quiver as you fight the need to clamp your legs around Yoongi’s head, but he’s quick to spread them, wedging his tongue further into your tight hole. It’s slick with your arousal, and the squelch of your juices is amplified further with the intensity of Yoongi’s ravage.

You can feel yourself getting closer to your impending high as your walls clench tighter, but you take it like the good girl everyone knows you are. You’re overcome with desperation as your hips cant upwards, rutting yourself against his mouth. Yoongi flicks his tongue over your clit to coax you to your climax, stimulating the nub until whimpers escape from your pretty lips.

It feels as if you’ve lost all of your senses as you reach the edge of your release, pleasure rippling throughout your body. You can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut, and you swear that you can see all of the stars in the night sky. Your chest heaves in an attempt to catch your breath, and your heart races as you descend from your high.

But as always, Yoongi is right there to catch you.

He licks his lips clean to collect every last drop of your sweet nectar. He presses a chaste kiss against your overly-sensitive clit before repositioning your underwear back into place. Then, he peppers kisses up your body and burrows his head into your neck, whispering sweet nothings against the column of your throat, revelling in the afterglow. Once your heavy breathing slows down and your heartbeat plateaus, Yoongi looks up at you with the pretty brown eyes you know and love. And although you’ve recovered from your high, your pussy no longer pulsating, the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest never dissipates.

Yoongi brushes his lips against yours before kissing you with fervor, saying all that needs to be said. Your mouths are having the unspoken conversation you’re too afraid to have when you’re both tongue-tied and trapped outside of your own mind. Whenever his lips meet yours, it feels as if the rest of the world is falling away at your feet. It’s comforting in a way that his words will never be.

But that’s okay because it’s precisely how you and Yoongi work.

He’ll hold you tight and kiss you goodnight, but you’ll just have to settle for that because the innermost part of your brain would rather wonder forever than know the disappointing truth about where you two stand.

You’re not quite sure why you haven’t been kicked out of the car park yet, but to be frank, you don’t really care and certainly neither does the security.

Yoongi is the first to break the comfortable silence. “You still coming to my race tomorrow?” His nose nudges against your cheek, and he lays a chaste kiss on your supple skin.

Your mouth presses together in a straight line as you contemplate your options. You’ve always been a little skeptical of his illegal pastimes granted that you’ve been raised to reprimand such activities all your life. But knowing Yoongi, you’d trust him with your heart and soul in his hands, and thus, you nod your head in agreement.

“Yeah, I’ll still come,” you shrug, humming in a low voice.

The two of you remain quiet in the backseat of his car, wrapped in the safety of one another’s arms, listening to the soothing melody that plays on the radio. Mindlessly, you trace the pretty ink on Yoongi’s forearms, running your finger over the ornamental designs.

“Is this new?” Your movements come to a halt upon spotting a piece of ink you’ve never noticed before.

Jamais seule written in a simple, fine line ink.

“Huh?” He asks, looking down at his wrist. “Oh yeah, Jeongguk did a custom for me earlier this week.”

In an attempt to hide your smile, you nestle your head into the crevice of his neck.

“What’re you smiling for?” A grin creeps onto his lips, but Yoongi doesn’t even need to ask because he knows better than anyone.

It’s just another reason to add to the list as to why there’s nobody in this world you’d rather be with than your best friend. At the thought of the tattoo, memories begin to flood your mind:

“Conjugate the verb parler in the imperfect tense.”

Yoongi refuses to answer the question. “Are you as hungry as I am?”

“Uhm, no? Yoongi, can you justー”

“My coffee’s getting cold. Do you want another cup?” Yet another excuse.

Your mouth opens up to refute, but he’s already on his feet, heading towards the coffee station at the corner of the cafe. Your hands cup around the mug that he’s left on the table, and you’re not surprised that the ceramic is relatively warm against your palms.

After spending the last hour studying for tomorrow’s French exam, you would have thought you’d make a breakthrough with Yoongi. But time and time again, he refuses to cooperate with you.

You don’t even know why he bothers returning to his seat when he doesn’t even care to study.

You let out a huff in another attempt to get him to learn. “Okay, let’s try this one more time. Can you conjugate the verb parler in the imperfect tense?”

“The coffee here is good, no?” Yoongi takes a sip from his mug once again, observing the hot liquid slosh around. The only thing he’s committed to is tiptoeing around his responsibilities (as well as his feelings, but that’s a whole other conversation).

“Look, I’m trying to help you study. If you don’t want me here, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay, then can you please focus and pay attention?” To no avail, Yoongi doesn’t respond.

“… Do you understand me?”

He doesn’t understand you. In fact, he’s on his phone, texting away and paying no mind to what you have to say.

“Bro, are you even listening to me?” You enunciate again with a scowl on your lips. Your jaw tightens as you pull out your own phone, angrily typing away at the keyboard.

You (1m ago): Yoongi, I want to help you study, so if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay, then can you focus and pay attention?? Please?? Do you understand me??

Yoongi (now): 🥺

Yoongi pouts and looks up from his device with sadness in his eyes. “I understand,” he mumbles under his breath. He finally puts his phone into the pocket of his hoodie and opens up his textbook, taking one step in the right direction.

You can’t say you didn’t try unlike all of your high school teachers. They’ve practically given up on the boy, seeing that he hasn’t shown up to class as he should. And when he does, he’s keeping it lowkey in the back of the classroom, sticking his nose in a new novel each week or scribbling away in his black, leatherbound journal. You’re not even sure how you got Yoongi to sit down with you knowing that he’s hard to get a hold of. But really, you’re just unaware that he’s afraid, always running away in the face of uncertainty.

Not even ten minutes go by before Yoongi is finding another excuse to fool around. It’s a whole new record, and you’re pretty proud of his accomplishment nevertheless.

“I’m sick of studying,” he groans with slumped shoulders.

“How can you be sick of studying? In the last hour, I’ve watched you make coffee and spin your textbook on your finger as if it’s a basketball.”

Yoongi’s lips press together in a straight line, but there’s no denying your observations.

“You’ve also tried to convince me that Tupac is the Mozart of our time. It’s not that I’m disagreeing with you, don’t get me wrong, but which part of this consummates studying?” You query with furrowed brows.

“Tell you what, let’s make a deal, okay?”

You shake your head at the thought of his proposal. “Oh, so you’re gonna bargain with me now?” Your voice is filled with exasperation.

“What do you think about ice cream?”

“What’s not to like about it?” Your arms cross over your chest as you lean back in your chair.

A wide, gummy smile spreads across Yoongi’s lips. “If we take an ice cream break, I swear that we’ll come back and study.”

A sigh falls from your lips because you’re not totally convinced, yet you ponder over the proposition. “I really doubt that you can keep your worー”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He mimics the motion by tracing his finger over his chest. “I’ll even drive,” he adds.

Your eyes squint, still uncertain.

“I’ll treat you,” he offers.

“Min Yoongi, you are one convincing dude,” you chuckle.

Closing your textbook and gathering all of your belongings, you chuck them in the backseat of Yoongi’s car and head off to the ice cream parlor.

You make it just in time before closing, being the last two customers in store that they have to kick out. While you pick a flavor as peculiar as butter pecan, Yoongi decides on a fruity flavor ー orange to be precise. The two of you enjoy your dessert, licking away at the sugary mess before it has the chance to melt onto the black, leather interior of his car.

“Can I ask you a serious question?” You pry, looking over at Yoongi.

“Shoot.”

“Why is it that you’re flunking when you’re smarter than 90% of the people at our school?”

“Ah,” he shakes his head in disbelief, “It takes more than intelligence to act intelligently.”

You scoff in rebuttal. “Seriously? You can quote Dostoevsky word for word, and I’m sure you can recite the entirety of Crime and Punishment in your sleep.”

You can see him shrug his shoulders out of the corners of your eyes. “I really don’t see the point when I’m not going to go to college.”

“Okay, so what’s your big dream, then?” You ask with worry laced in your tone.

“I don’t think you necessarily need to have a big dream.”

A drop of your ice cream melts onto your hand, and you’re quick to wipe it away. You’re shocked to hear what he has to say because everyone in this deadbeat town has a dream. It usually involves getting away from said deadbeat town. “Okay, enlighten me then?”

“You just need to be happy.” He’s stoic in his response.

“Are you happy?” You ask. It’s a loaded question.

He shrugs.

It’s quiet.

Moments go by.

Yoongi’s the first one to break the comfortable silence. “They’re flunking me because I’m truant. I work in the auto shop outside of town, so when I’m not in school, I’m picking up extra shifts there. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it’s enough to keep me alive, you know? It’s enough to cover the car too.”

Another drop of ice cream melts onto your wrist. You don’t fail to notice the fact that he hasn’t addressed your question. “But are you happy? Is this what you want?” You try again.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, pondering. “I’ve always thought about doing this, but... I want to drive out to L.A. and take my chance at music production or something.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Sorry, it sounds stupid, I know.”

A fond smile makes its way onto your face. “I think that’s so cool,” you reassure him.

He cocks his head to the side as he tries to hide the smile that mirrors yours, but you can see his hard exterior break down before your very eyes. Nobody has ever believed in him the way that you do.

His eyes sparkle in the moonlight as if the galaxy lays dormant in his lonely irises. “... But the thing is, I don’t know if I want to be out and about in this world alone.”

You’ve never seen Yoongi so vulnerable before, and you never thought you’d have the chance to see it. So you comfort him in the way that you know best.

“Jamais seule,” you offer in consolation.

Yoongi’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What?”

“Jamais seule,” you repeat once again, placing your hand on his shoulder. “It’s French for ‘never alone.’”

He chuckles at your explanation. “Are you trying to make this a teaching moment?”

You nod your head in response, a proud smile making its way onto your lips.

“Okay, then what about you, huh?” He inquires. “What’s your big goal then?”

“Me?”

He nods his head. Of course he’s talking to you, but you’re taken aback because nobody’s ever really taken interest in what it is that you want to do.

“Realistically, I guess I’d be a teacher? When I was younger, I was thinking about doing dance, but I think I should specialize in French or maybe even English? I want to learn other languages too, but I’m not totally sure if I can make a career out of it.” Your nose scrunches up at the uncertainty.

Yoongi orients his body towards yours, taking in your profile. “Fuck that. Learn all of the languages you want to learn, okay? But tell me what it is that you really want to do now, unrealistically speaking.”

You look over at him, and your heart swells up inside your chest. A warm, fuzzy feeling overtakes you as you brace yourself to share this part of your life because honestly, you’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone before in part because nobody has ever bothered to ask or even care in the way that Yoongi does.

“I want to be a flight attendant.” It almost feels as if a weight has been lifted off of your chest as you heave out a sigh. “I want to see other countries, experience different cultures, and meet new people. I just want to see what the world is like outside of this town, you know?”

“I know,” he mouths. His gummy smile resurfaces on his lips as he nods his head, listening to you speak so passionately about your dreams. “I think you’d make the best flight attendant in the whole world.”

In the entire cosmos, there’s a short list of things that you genuinely love. One being the delicacy of antique books, worn and torn with age, brimming with the faded passages of time, two being chips and guac, the magic elixir to instant happiness, and three being Min Yoongi.

It should be no surprise to you that you’d do anything in the world for your best friend, but hanging around the dirt drag to watch tonight’s race is the last thing you would ever expect.

As you approach the spectator crowd, the smell of burnt rubber and seared tarmac infiltrates your senses. There’s a cloud of smoke rings floating around you while the people huff and puff on their Newports and Marlboros. Some of them even offer you a lighter, but you politely decline.

It’s pretty obvious that you don’t fit into this scene. You’ve never even shown your face in this part of town before, but everyone else seems to know one another relatively well, hanging out on the hood of their cars and getting drunk off bottles of Smirnoff.

“Hey, princess, take a shot with us why don’t ya?” Someone whistles.

You turn your head to the side, only to find a group of girls eyeing you from head to toe. “No thanks, I’m good,” you offer with a timid voice, shrinking away at their electrifying gaze.

Yoongi pulls you closer to his side, wrapping his arm around your waist and squeezing his fingers into your hip bones. His eyes glimmer with gold as he shoots daggers at the group of girls.

“Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, okay? Stick with Hobi,” he whispers to you through gritted teeth.

It’s not long before you come across Hoseok, socializing with a group of people who appear to be crossfaded. Yoongi pats him on the back, drawing his attention away from the dead end conversation.

“Hey!” Hoseok shouts with enthusiasm. He wedges himself between you and Yoongi, resting his arms around both of your shoulders. He turns your attention away from the group of people he was once conversing with, walking in the opposite direction. But once you step far away enough, out of reach from the crowd, Hoseok sighs in relief.

“Thank God for saving me, I literally don’t know how much longer I can talk to them for,” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes in spite of the happy-go-lucky personality you’re so familiar with.

The blare of an air horn cuts through the bustling night, indicating that the race is soon to start. Yoongi cups his hand around Hoseok’s ear to tell him something in secret, and in response, he nods his head in affirmation.

Yoongi turns to you and flashes his sweet smile. “When I win, I’ll treat you to whatever you want, okay? Ice cream? Pizza? Tom kha gai from that Thai place you like? Name it and it’s yours.” Yoongi walks backward to take one last glance at you before tugging his headset over his ears and running off to the direction of his car.

You smile to yourself as the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest begins to bloom once again.

You shout “good luck” to him as he steps away, but you know for a fact that he can’t hear you. He doesn’t need the luck anyways.

Hoseok taps on your shoulder, gathering your attention to lead you to the frontlines where you have a good view of the action. He fiddles with the device in front of him, tuning his CB radio, twisting the dial back and forth to find the right frequency.

“Agust D, this is J-Hope, OVER.” Hoseok shouts into his intercom with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Dude, we’re not gonna do this,” Yoongi complains through the static of the speakers. You can’t help but giggle at his response. It’s very characteristic of Yoongi, and you can already imagine the creases forming at the corner of his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes look over towards the two approaching cars, one of them being the black and yellow Grandeur Azera you know so well. Yoongi and his opponent toe their tires to the starting line, making sure it’s a fair game.

The host speaks through his megaphone, but it’s hard to hear over the screaming crowd. His words are muffled, and it’s nearly indecipherable, but he’s most likely explaining the rules and safety to everyone, or at least you hope he is.

Yoongi, being the cocky bitch he is, revs his engine over the voice of the announcer. Through his rolled down windows, you can see him tap his fingers over his mouth to let out a dramatic yawn. He even checks the time on his watch just to show off.

You shake your head at his overwhelming pride, and just in time, he looks over at you to send a wink. Despite the roll of your eyes, you can’t hide the heat that rushes to the apples of your cheeks.

The countdown begins as the announcer yells through his megaphone. The crowd amplifies his voice as they count alongside him. The two cars rev their engines, and it’s deafening to your sensitive ears.

An overwhelming sense of nervousness rushes through your veins, but you squeeze onto Hobi’s arm to anchor yourself. The thought of Yoongi getting into a fatal accident crosses your conscience, but you quickly wipe the image away from your mind. You trust Yoongi, and there’s nobody in the world who does it better than him.

In the blink of an eye, you nearly miss the cars zipping off into the dead of the night, too lost in your thoughts.

Looking over Hoseok’s shoulder, you can see the red and green dots floating across the monitor, the green symbol representing Yoongi’s GPS signal as he zips around the circumference of town. All the red symbols show the police hotspots within a 10 mile radius.

“Yoongi, right turn in 3 blocks,” Hoseok says into the intercom. According to the police scanner, the cops are too close for comfort.

“Yep, gotcha.” Yoongi’s voice sounds faded through the speakers.

In hopes of clearing the static, Hoseok fiddles with the dials. “What the fuck? I’m losing you.”

Panic rises to your chest as you watch the green dot speed across town, driving in close proximity to the law enforcement. Even worse, you’re losing communication with him. It’s nothing but static.

Hoseok slaps the radio in rage, but of course, nothing happens. “What the hell’s going on?” He even rips out the batteries and puts it back into the device to no avail. He looks over at you as if you have the answers, but you’re rendered useless when your mind draws a blank.

Hoseok pulls your hand away from your mouth, not even realizing that you’ve been chewing on your nails all this time.

“Well shit, now what?”

“Hope and pray?” He shrugs.

At the sound of his words, your heart drops to your stomach.

Your hands begin to tremble as you monitor the screen. He’s cutting close to the finish line, but you have no eyes on his opponent. Meanwhile, the cops are spreading across the map, probably searching for the source of the disturbance.

Yoongi has yet to be caught, but he’s smart enough to maneuver through the backroads he knows better than anyone ー the ones he’s practically grown up on.

The green dot races across the screen, coming closer and closer to your marked location. The boisterous rev of an engine can be heard within earshot, so your attention shifts to the far end of the dirt path. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you cross your fingers, praying and hoping that Yoongi is the one who’s returning to you.

The lack of street lights makes it difficult to see down the cloudy road, but you never seem to give up, leaning over the makeshift barrier and tiptoeing above the crowd.

The sound of the engine elevates as the frontliner approaches. Your attention focuses on the two tiny, bright lights emerging from the distance. However, your vision is blurred as the two lights diverge into four. Another car follows behind it, charging full speed towards the finish line. Your hands squeeze around Hoseok’s wrist as the two of you anxiously wait to see the winner. The headlights illuminate at a greater lux as it speeds down the path. You begin to squint, trying to adjust your eyes to the light to make out the license plate number or at least something that’s telling of who the lead driver is.

But fear not, because a sigh of relief escapes from your lungs as the yellow detailings on the infamous Grandeur Azera is within sight. Yoongi crosses the finish line with full speed, and the crowd erupts in a roar.

He decelerates before coming to a full stop. There’s a haze of dust that trails behind his car, and a silhouette of a figure emerges from the smoke. It’s none other than Yoongi who trudges out of the car, and it’s unmistakable from his golden glare which shines through the exhaust.

You let go of Hoseok’s wrist in favor of racing towards Yoongi to wrap him up in the safety of your arms. He immediately reciprocates and melts into your embrace. He squeezes you tightly around your torso, and you fall further into his arms. Your nose presses against his shoulder, burrowing your head against the crook of his neck.

You chuckle through the stray tear that rolls down your cheek and onto the green denim of his jacket. “You idiot, you love scaring the life out of me, huh?”

Yoongi pulls away from you to cup your cheeks, angling your face so that he can gaze into your eyes. His irises slowly revert back to the shade of brown you’ve come to love. He wipes away the tears streaming down your cheeks and tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear.

“Iー” He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but he decides against it. Instead, his lips come crashing down onto yours, kissing you as if it’s his last breath.

“Care to explain what that was all about?” You slam the door shut behind you.

Yoongi refuses to answer.

The air doesn’t feel clear between the two of you, and it hasn’t ever since the kiss. It feels off. Tense, even. As a matter of fact, it’s been unusually quiet since the car ride home.

Your head has been spinning round and round because Yoongi never acts like this. Whatever it is that goes on between the two of you doesn’t go beyond the confinements of these four, egg white walls (with the exception of his car, of course).

But bottom line: It’s an unspoken rule that whatever happens between you stays between you.

Yoongi is sullen in his contemplation. He kicks off his boots, trudging into his apartment with heavy feet as if he’s a teenager ridden with angst. You would think that he’s retired from the days when he keeps to himself and feeds the world with the “I’m misunderstood” bullshit as some lame excuse. But yet again, he’s crawling back into the shell of the man he once was.

He chooses to ignore the obvious problem as he shrugs off his jacket and switches out one t-shirt for another. You hate the idea of him going to bed upset, but no matter how much you try to get him to talk, you’re left with utter silence.

Being tired and frustrated of his lack of communication, you decide to stand up from the edge of the mattress, plodding through the creaky floorboards to stand before Yoongi. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, but his glassy eyes avert yours, looking anywhere but at you. All you can see is the faint beauty mark on the side of his nose, but never in your life did you think that you’d frown at the sight of it.

You opt for getting his attention by wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head against his bare chest, listening to the violent storm that pulses beneath the shell of your ear.

His arms hang by his side. You squeeze him a little tighter, and he huffs out a sigh, falling prey to your touch. Your cheek is pressed tighter against his chest as he envelops you in a hug. His fingers trail up and down your spine in an effort to comfort you, but really, it’s more appeasing to him than to you knowing that you’re within arms reach.

“They tapped into my radio.” His voice cuts through the quiet air.

You swallow down the knot in your throat as you listen to his every word.

“God, they said some fucked up shit to me.” His hands clench tighter against the cotton of your t-shirt, and you can hear his heart pound harder against his chest.

A painful sigh escapes from your lips as you listen to the tremble of his voice. “Whatever they say isn’t true, you know?” You offer in consolation, “They don’t know you like I do.”

“It wasn’t even about me, ughー They were talking about you, and... fuck, Iー” Yoongi fights against the tears that are threatening to spill, the frustration evident in his tone.

Your heart shatters at the sound of his broken voice. “Yoongi, people are gonna talk, and nothing they say will ever matter, so just let ‘em talk.”

Your words ring through his ear as he harshly swallows a glob of spit down his throat. He thinks to himself in silence, wondering whether or not his words will ever matter to you.

“Can I tell you something?” He pulls away from you to take a better look at your expressions.

“Yeah, of course, anything,” you knit your eyebrows together and nod your head in solace.

Yoongi walks backwards until the back of his knees knock against the edge of his bed, allowing you to climb onto his lap, mounting his thighs with one leg on either side. He licks his lips to ease his nerves, anxiety bubbling up to the surface. His hands get clammy as he rests them on the curve of your waist.

But all of that dissipates once he fixates his attention on your eyes.

It feels as if you two are in your own little world together while everyone else dances around in the ruins of their dreams.

His eyes soften and a shy smile spans across his lips. “I love you.”

You’re taken aback by his confession, almost as if you didn’t hear him correctly granted his low murmurs. Your mouth hangs open, jaw slack. Your eyes blink, stunned by what you may or may not have heard.

It takes four and half seconds for you to register that ー holy shit ー did he just say what you think he just said?

“What’d you say?” Your brows knit together and your forehead creases asking for the much needed confirmation.

“You really want me to say it again?” He’s bashful as he hides his rosy cheeks in the crevice of your neck, his hot breath tickling your skin.

“Say it again,” you encourage. Your face starts to ache with the beaming smile painted across your lips.

Yoongi’s mouth curls into a smile to mimic yours as he peppers kisses against the column of your throat. He repeats his words once again, each syllable caught between a featherlight kiss.

“Iー” His lips ghost against your jaw.

“Loveー” Onto your chin.

“You.”

His soft eyes flash open to gawk at your lips, waiting for permission to kiss you where he so desperately wants to. He blinks, looking up to peer into the depths of your soul through the gateway of your irises. You can see the whirl of emotions in his eyes, a mixture between elation and tenderness and everything in between.

But above all, you can see the love.

A shy look is exchanged before you flutter your eyes close and lean forward to hesitantly brush your lips against his, testing the waters. But once he melts into your touch, you dive into the deep end, firmly committing to your desires.

It takes another half second for you to register that ー holy fucking shit ー you’re actually kissing the love of your life.

Although you are no stranger to Yoongi’s lips, something about this feels different. Yet again, you’re drunk off serotonin and intoxicated by his fiery touch. The world around you disappears alongside your worries and your troubles. All of your feelings, your emotions, your secrets, and all of your wishes are laid bare before you.

But what’s different about this kiss is that for the first time in your life, you know for a fact that this is what love is supposed to be.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you finally confess with your whole chest. Tears begin to form in your eyes and a smile that’s larger than life spreads across your lips, bringing pains and aches to your cheeks. But nevertheless, it’s all worth it because Yoongi loves you and you love him.

It doesn’t even register in your head that your back is now flat against the mattress, nor do you register the embarrassing amount of slick that has pooled at your entrance. At least not until Yoongi presses his fingers against the slim cotton of your underwear, teasing your folds with the glide of his calloused fingers.

“You’re wet already?”

You mewl upon his comment. “Can’t help it.”

Yoongi tugs off your shorts with your underwear in tow. His mouth reconnects with yours in longing, and his lips taste exactly like blackberries, bay leaves, and blissful midnights blanketed underneath the stars.

Your breath hitches in your throat and you shudder under his touch as he grazes over your clit. His finger dips between your folds, collecting your arousal before rubbing soothing circles over your sensitive nub. Your heavy eyelids fall close, and Yoongi watches your face contort in pleasure, your eyebrows creasing together.

Growing restless of his teasing, you lurch forward to palm the tent in his pants. You will yourself to open your eyes just the slightest bit.

“Hard already?” You tease with raised brows.

“Can’t help it,” he echoes.

You pull on the fabric of his jeans, begging him to remove the material from his legs. He obliges while you strip your top off.

At the sight of your bare breasts, Yoongi’s lips find its way to your pert nipples, hallowing his cheeks and sucking on the tender flesh until the blood rushes to the surface of your skin. His hand trails its way down your body, dipping two fingers into your tight hole, pumping in and out to massage your walls.

A thick glob of saliva forms in the back of your throat, and you sputter it into the palm of your hands. Reaching down for Yoongi’s shaft, you jerk him off exactly how he likes it. Your thumb traces over the tip of his cock, swiping over the slit as he leaks beads of precum.

Yoongi sighs as you work faster, milking him for all of his worth. He grips his hand around your wrist to slow down your movements, wanting to change it up. Instead, he trails kisses up your body until he’s hovering over your lips.

“Don’t wanna come like this,” he says with a heavy sigh.

His hand replaces yours as he pumps his length and lines it up at your entrance.

You brace yourself by squeezing your hands around his shoulders, clinging on to him for dear life. He pushes his member one inch at a time until your fingernails dig into his supple skin, dragging him down to meet your lips.

A gasp falls from your throat as the angle changes, and he pushes deeper inside of you.

“Oh, fuck,” you quiver.

Yoongi lays a kiss upon your cheek before meeting your eyes once again. “You okay?”

“Better than okay,” you nod.

A blinding smile makes its way to Yoongi’s lips and you can’t help but reciprocate. He pushes his length further until he’s balls deep, his pelvis pressed up against yours.

You throw your head back against the mattress, exposing the blank canvas of your neck. For a second, his eyes are gilded with gold, but it quickly regresses. His tongue runs over his bottom lip before languidly licking a stripe up the side of your neck. He suckles on your skin until it discolors, leaving behind a love bite that’s none other than a mark of his love.

As you finally adjust to the thick stretch of Yoongi’s cock, you start to fidget, rutting your hips against his.

“Yoongi, please move,” you cry out, wrapping your legs around the small of his waist. And you swear you could physically cry in this very moment.

At your request, his hips begin to thrust, fucking himself into your wanting pussy. With the drag of his dick, you can feel every inch of him move inside of you. Your walls contract and mold against his shaft, his balls slapping against the curve of your ass. The filthy sounds fill the tiny space of his studio apartment, as does the squelches of your arousal.

Yoongi bites his lip as he relishes this very moment. The way you look beneath him, taking his cock like a good girl, fucked out and in total bliss as a dribble of spit cascades down your lips. He tucks his hand underneath your chin to wipe away at the saliva, only to fall back down into a plank position.

Your chest heaves and your head lolls to the side. You can hardly see through your eyelids which are falling shut, but somehow, you resist, seeing the pretty ink that’s engraved into Yoongi’s skin. The most prominent one ー and also the newest addition to his sleeve ー being at eye level. Leaning over the slightest bit, you press your lips against the simple, fine line ink.

A fire within Yoongi is ignited upon your action. His hips begin to stutter, reaching close to the end of his release. He sticks his fingers in his mouth, sucking on the digits until they’re nice and wet. His hand trails a path down your body, only to find its way to your clit. It’s hot and slick down there, especially with the newly added pressure.

A series of moans tumble from your lips as he relentlessly rubs harsh circles onto your nub.

“Oh my god, Yoongi ー Yeah, just like that,” you whimper when the tip of his cock pushes against your cervix. Your eyes are starting to water at the immense amount of pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach.

“Like what?” He smirks, “Like that?”

His thrusts are harder as he quickens the pace. Your body drifts further up the mattress with the force of his hips and your arms wrap around his upper torso to keep yourself anchored. Your fingernails scratch the surface of his skin, leaving behind a trail of red marks down his back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Yoongi, Iー” A strangled noise escapes from your parted lips.

“Yes, baby? You can come for me.” The soft coo against your ear contrasts against the harsh slap of his hips, sending you further into your release.

“Yoongi… I- I love you,” you manage to sputter out, albeit weakly from the current, fucked out state that you’re in.

At the sound of your confession once again, Yoongi grunts harshly, his breath fanning across your face. His cock grinds harder against your cervix as he chases your high.

The knot in the pit of your stomach unfurls with a harsh thrust, and you dissolve into pleasure. Your walls clench around his dick which continues to pound into you. Your body heats up and your heart races a hundred beats per second as waves of bliss come crashing through you.

Yoongi molds his lips against yours, kissing you with ardor. As you tremble beneath him, your vision starts to blur and your eyelids fall shut, yet with a few more pumps, Yoongi is releasing himself inside of you, painting your inner walls white with his cum. He collapses on top of you, chest heaving.

Your pussy is bare and battered, but you wouldn’t have it any other way with sticky thighs and Yoongi’s pulsating cock inside of you.

The two of you lie down together in the safety of one another’s arms in an attempt to catch your breath. Your fingers run through his raven locks as he rests his head against your chest, listening to the come down of your beating heart.

In the dead of the night, the air in this tiny space is quiet and still while every other deadbeat in this town runs rampant in the world, yet you wouldn’t have it any other way as long as you are never alone.

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mellifluoushood · 4 years

Text

manic - C.H.

A/N: I highly recommend listening to ‘clementine’ and ‘Graveyard’ by Halsey whilst reading this! It’s a fic based on my experience of eating an edible and then being driven home and how perfect the weather made me feel. It’s a super soft, fluffy piece that will hit you right where it hurts, so I’mma go cry. There’s no real plot except for a drive that ends in kisses. Thank you again to my lovely, lovely, love girl @ammwritings for the moodboard! She’s been making them for every fic I write and I adore her and I love my girl, Anne. xxxxxx Genre: angst / fluff / smut Type: blurb / imagine / series Warning: mentions of weed, mentions of exes, best friends to lovers! Word Count: 2.5k Taglist: @gigglyirwin @loveroflrh @ammwritings @calumscalm @dukehoods @toofadedtofight @babylon-corgis @spicycal @vipclifford @haikucal @talkfastromance4 @thesubtweeter

Her skin glowed in the light of the sun. She could feel the way her cheeks began to tingle and heat under the aggressive rays, but she basked in it. After weeks of quarantine, she welcomed the possibility of sun-kissed skin. Her arm hanging out of the window didn’t feel the heat of the sun quite as much, being caressed by the wind whipping by the window. She ate up the small beats, like a drum, of the breeze against her limbs. It was a sensation she would hate every other day of the week, but sitting in the passenger seat, watching as the hills came and went, glowing a bright green of grass and budding trees, she loved it.

“I'd like to tell you that my sky's not blue, it's violent rain,” she sighs out, eyes lazily casting to the stereo of the car, watching as the letters floated across the screen, “And in my world, the people on the street don't know my name.” She finishes, moving her glance back out the window. She watched as trees whisked away as the car drove down the street, the sun peeking through breaks in the branches and newly grown leaves. She loved the way the sun gently met the chlorophyll, the colour bursting into a new shade of sunlight and scenery. Her eyes floated over each and every silhouette and shape of the trees, the hills, and the bursts of grass with dandelions and sweet violets.

Her eyes flutter shut, completely consumed by the feeling of the world swirling around her, filling her chest after feeling like the world had completely stopped around her. She basked in the feeling of knowing the world was still moving, the earth was still spinning on its axis, and that nature was growing and growing, not at all bothered by what was consuming the human population. The lingering anxiety in her shoulders was swept away along with the wind beating at her cheeks.

Her head drifted to the edge of the open window, resting against the surface. Her mind felt light, filled with no thoughts, no worries, no feelings. It simply sat against the door of the car, welcoming the harsh movements of the windows against her face, the sun beating through her eyelids, alighting her dark mind with rays of yellow and white. A feeling eased its way into her stomach and chest, a feeling of air and lightness. Her features shifted at this moment. Her eyebrows rested and her lips halted, nothing moved. She soaked up each and every molecule of sunlight offered to her, inhaling each breath of fresh oxygen her lungs could manage.

She had very rarely felt this easiness in her chest. The easiness didn’t come from how pure the air was, or how bright the sun shone, but how everything felt at peace. No task rushed to be finished, no thought demanded to be heard, no voice telling her what to do. It was simply silent. The only thing that occurred in her head was the lyrics of ‘clementine’ floating through the air, past her head, and out the window, joining and mixing with the breeze and sun. She felt elevated, renewed like her soul just had a moment to itself. As stoned as she was, the only proper way to describe the feeling pumping through her veins, was ‘euphoria’. It felt like the sunshine was running through her veins, replacing the dark red of her blood. It felt like the breeze was the only thing in her chest. It felt like there was no cloud in her sky.

“I don't need anyone,” she sighs, “I don't need anyone, I just need everyone and then some,” her voice fades with the instrumental of the song. Her eyes blink over, her head turning to look at the driver.

“I figured I wouldn’t disturb you,” Calum muses, his arm resting on the door of the car, window open. His left-hand holds his head up, fingers threading through his hair from time to time.

“Hmmm, thank you,” she sighs, a small smile drifting over her lips. Her legs are crossed in her seat, knees raised slightly as if she was curling up in a ball to savour the feeling running through her limbs.

“You looked like you were consumed by complete and utter bliss,” he chuckles, his other hand resting on the top of the steering wheel. His arm is completely lax, tattoos illuminated by the heavy cast of sunlight through the windshield. He looks at her again, watching the way her hair tangled with each breath of wind.

“I was indeed.” Calum’s hand on the steering wheel moves from its spot briefly, spinning the dial on the volume, turning the next song up even higher than ‘clementine’ had been. She smiles at him, her eyes glassy and stained with red, a hazy look across her features, but the smile reaches her eyes and Calum can’t help but return the grin.

Her head turns back to the window, almost trying to recreate the feeling that overcame her earlier, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to. It was too special of a feeling, too one of a kind. She felt at peace with knowing she may never feel that again, and if she did, it wouldn’t be for a while. But, she still found herself pressing her head against the car door again, welcoming the same sensations that brushed her skin earlier.

Calum looked over now and then, fondly, and somewhat chuckling at her. She was stoned, that much was clear, after taking a whole cookie while he only took half. He knew it enhanced her senses and the lightness that so desperately wished to occupy her mind. Her painting sat in the backseat of his car. He loved it. It was one of the freest, colour orientated paintings she had ever created. He knew she loved to do abstract and colour exploration paintings, but this felt like something else. He could see the influence of the album they had been listening to while painting, ‘Manic’. The pinks bled into different shades, the blues delicately weaving like they were clouds in the skies. But, in the middle, where both of the colours should meet and blend, she left harsh. She let small influences of purple tickle the edge of the soft pinks in the middle, but ultimately, the two colours clashed. And Calum thought it was brilliant.

He remembers watching her paint. He remembers the way she slouched over her painting, her hair tied up in a ponytail, her fringe dusting her eyelashes. When she looked up at him to respond to his comment, her eyes met his and they lit with her high, but a sense of happiness he rarely saw from her. His chest warmed at the sight. She had been wearing one of Calum’s old t-shirts in case she got paint on herself. It went past her knees, tickling her skins. She looked so small, swallowed by the clothing, covering so much of her body as she sat, cross-legged on the floor of his living room. He watched as her eyebrows furrowed in concentration and the way her wrist flicked with each stroke of her brush. He noticed the different techniques she used, which suited the painting and which ones she went over. He watched more than he would’ve liked to admit, barely able to focus on the Bob Ross video he insisted on following. He found himself memorising a different piece of art - her.

She was a piece of art to him. On the outside, she was all about organisation. He saw the way she obsessively filed every single handout from college. He noticed the way the three bookcases in her room were alphabetised. He watched the way she unloaded her dishwasher and where every single thing in her kitchen had a place. But underneath all of that, when she was comfortable, she was free. She painted what she wanted, she wrote what she felt, she listened to what she wanted. Her inside never matched her outside and that intrigued Calum to no end. It was a hurricane, a manic mess of colours and songs and books, different moods and habits, different reactions to similar situations. But, it was a beautiful hurricane. A beautiful, manic mess.

His brown eyes always flickered towards her, watching as she mouthed the words to the same album they had been listening to before. ‘You should be sad’ came on after her favourite. He watched her chest inhale and the sad exhale prickling at her lips that followed. His hand reached to press ‘skip’, but her hand reached out for his, gently wrapping her fingers around his wrist. She didn’t look at him, but he understood her message. Instead, he swallowed and removed his hand from the screen. Before she could put her hand back in her lap, he grabbed her hand and entangled his fingers with her’s. She didn’t say anything, but she held his hand a little tighter, the corners of her lips quirking up. The warmth of her hand holding his sent a small shiver down his spine, his heart clambering against his chest particularly hard. He let his lips mirror the same smile as her’s. Her hand was significantly smaller than his, her fingers fitting perfectly in the spaces between his. The tips of her fingers weren’t callused like Calum’s were, but her palms were. The rough skin on the balls of her fingers contrasted the rest of her smooth skin, but it was a part of her.

“You aren’t half the man that you think that you are,” she whispers, eyes cast along the landscape in front of them, Calum’s glance sweeping the scenery in front of them. She moves her head, mouthing the rest of the lyrics of the chorus. And that’s when she shakes her head, keeping her hand in Calum’s and reaching forward to change the song. She skipped back to ‘Graveyard’ to Calum’s surprise. He didn’t comment, he let her hold his hand.

“Don’t wanna think about him anymore,” she mumbles, looking over at Calum.

“Good, you don’t have to.” He looks over at her, her eyes searching his for something, she wasn’t sure what exactly, but she’ll know when she hears it.

She looks at him. She looks at the way he’s wearing the shirt she had originally borrowed from him to paint in. She had stripped it off and left it in the living room and changed into her jumper before they left his house. When she returned from getting her handbag in the kitchen, he was already wearing the shirt, looking down at his phone as if the sight hadn’t made her heart swell in several different languages. His jawline was prominent, cleanly shaven, which she loved. He knew that, and made sure he shaved before picking her up for a quick rendezvous to his for painting. His time in isolation had been spent walking Duke and sunbathing, the tan hugging his skin perfectly, his cheeks rosy from too much time in the sun and too little sunscreen. Her lips quirk into a smile when he looks down at her, meeting her gaze.

She turns away again, slowly, with the windows still down, and the sun still beating, her hand in his, he takes a risk.

“I love you,” he said, admitting the feeling bubbling in his chest for the past months of being around her. Feeling her warmth, her energy. Being a part of her life. He had fallen in love with the beautiful, manic mess that was his best friend.

Her eyes looked towards him, knowing he meant something much different than usual. And she knew, at that moment, when her eyes were searching Calum’s, this is what she was looking for. And her hand gripped his harder, her smile growing as wide as the Cheshire cat.

“I love you, too.”

Calum can’t help but immediately pull the car over to the shoulder of the road, the wheels almost skidding along the pavement, haphazardly putting the vehicle in park and leaning over the console. Her hands find the sides of his face, pulling his lips to hers. It’s passionate. Calum’s brows furrow as he tangles his fingers in her hair, pulling her as close as to him as he can manage. His stomach erupts in butterflies, fanning the flames that ignited in his bones. Adrenaline shoots up his neck like it’s heroin, coating every nerve in excitement and bliss. Her skin heats up with excitement, underneath the sun beating down through the glass of the car. Her lips against his are soft, gentle, supple as they press into each crack and crevice of his. They taste like her, he’s never known what she tastes like until now, but it just makes sense.

The feeling she had felt earlier in the car rose throughout her body, pumping in her veins instead of her blood. Her fingers caress his cheeks, their lips pulling and parting, meeting over and over until they’re satisfied. When they pull apart, Calum rests his forehead on her’s, eyes opening. The crinkles beside his eyes dig into his skin, looking into her eyes, his smile widening with every millisecond she looks at him,

“I am in love with you, Cal,” she whispers, using her thumb to trace the feeling of the creases near his eyes as he smiles down at her. His skin glows underneath the sunshine, his teeth glistening in the light,

“I’m in love with you, too,” he replies, leaning down to kiss her once more.

#isabella writes #CH #calum hood #calum hood blurb #calum hood fic #calum hood fluff #calum hood imagine #calum hood smut #5sos #5sos blurb #5sos fic #5sos fluff #5sos imagine #5sos smut #imagined

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

Whirlwind Part IV - Khamseen

DAY14

The energy shrouding the air of Godspeed’s is much different from what it was for Induction Rave a couple weeks ago. The place is still one of high spirit but the loud euphoria that permeated each of its nook and cranny in celebratory cheers, is now replaced with liquor-prompted laughters and light conversation melting into a mellow background noise. The music seems to have taken the same cue, its lowered volume simply adding to the mesh of sounds of the bar and no longer pulsing baselines into the heart of its patrons. Even the number of clean tables surpasses that of sticky ones for once; a rather improbable phenomenon for such an establishment.

Sitting in a corner booth as he nurses a bourbon in his hands and a scowl on his face, Harry is the embodiment of sulkiness. Feeling drained despite having the rare day off, his shoulders are stuck in a permanent hunch. They bear the pressures of being in the most competitive Navy pilot program in the world only to be met with disillusion once partnered up with someone who traded trust for contempt wherever he was concerned. Not to forget, he is still grieving the loss of his best friend. The sharp memories of the accident have yet to depart his mind whenever he closes his eyes or sits in a cockpit alongside a certain daredevil lady. A lady who haunts his nights by dragging him out of whatever peaceful place he’s escaped to, her crestfallen face appearing just as Morpheus’ arms reach out to him. And Aella always wins his attention no matter the weariness in his bones or how appealing a good night sleep might be.

Entranced in a meticulous reenactment of their last mission, involving pistachios as makeshift aircrafts, Dazzler and Tigger are seating across their subdued friend. They brushed off Harry’s taciturn disposition as they’ve come to be familiar with it, and instead proceed to do as usually ever since the accident: offer friendly companionship whether he decides to actively partake or silently tag along. He’ll start sharing again when he’s ready, they figure. No use in prying and pocking; any person who’s ever been around Harry would know. A closed book he may not be, but rather, he remains selective as to who can leaf through his essence and more importantly, what they may uncover as well as when they get to do so.

"Need a refill?" Dazzler asks Harry as he comes to a standing position hovering over the table, two beer-less pints in hand. The person of interest looks down at the drink cajoled in his hold, a couple sips away from dryness. A nod and a soft ‘please’ is all he offers his friend before returning his focus on the glass in his hands.

As Dazzler approaches the bar effectively out of earshot, Tigger turns to the laconic man seating as his table. For once, his instinct tells him to candidly check on his mate, the absence of Dazzler’s overjoyed nature perhaps giving the moment a tone better suited for confidence. "Got a lot on your mind Styles?" He asks as softly as his voice will let him.

Harry’s eyes lift from their aimless target on a crack of the table to finally land on Tigger’s inquisitive face. They remain unwavering for a second too long as if gauging whether now was the time to exteriorize some of his sorrows. Wasn’t the headache throbbing hard enough already? Didn’t he reach his last thread when Aella and him both shot their last chance at a peaceful partnership? Be that as it may, there is so little space left in Harry’s brain for pondering purposes, he’s just desperate to get some sort of leeway.

"You could say that, yeah" he says to his bourbon with a humorless chuckle.

"Anything involving a certain someone?" Tigger tentatively inquires whilst inconspicuously fiddling with the nutshells scattered across the table. They both know the identity behind the certain someone, and the mere mention is apparently enough for Harry to warrant another mouthful of inebriant. The gesture effectively empties what was left of the liquor, but it’s all the troubled pilot needs to open the floodgates of his censored mind.

"She’s driving me nuts, Tigger. We can barely stand to be in the same room, how are we supposed to fly together?" The piercing green eyes always had this magnetic pool to them. In friendly conversation, they were meant to make the narrator feel like the center of the universe. But right now, under the bar’s dim lights, their glow is shaded by an unhinged quality as if this time their owner was looking at the sun because his world had fallen off its axis and needed fixing.

"Maybe…I don’t know…have you guys tried talking about it?" Tigger doesn’t have much faith in the anticipated answer, but he’s a firm believer that communication can resolve anything. Proper communication, that is.

"Right." Harry looks at his poised friend unimpressed. "All the ‘talks’ we’ve had end in the same way. We scream at each other till we’re blue in the face and we say stuff that leaves us worse off than how we were." His mind takes him back to their last squabble 3 days ago, the way they had completely blown off at each other’s scowling face with crude words escaping their mouth. Like a reflex, he reaches for his drink in a vain attempt to erase the taste of malice still lingering on his lips, only to be met with a teasing drop idling around the rim.

"That doesn’t sound like talking Harry." Tigger retorts with a pointed look. His friend his better than that. Better than the excuse no doubt about to come is way if Dazzler wasn’t making a reappearance with two foamy pints and a bourbon.

"Oi, what’s the chitchat about?" He asks with a beaming smile at the idea that his tortured soul of a friend is finally coming out of limbo, or - at least - back to his talking self. The grin is enough to reprieve Harry from his tiresome thoughts for a second as he looks up to Dazzler and thanks him for the amber liquid placed in front of him. He’s always thought that Dean earned his callsign because of that particular smile: all around contagious, and well, nothing short of dazzling…

He is quickly brought back to the matter at hand by Tigger though. "Just talking about Harry and Aella’s inability to hold a civil conversation together and their propensity to rip each other’s head off." He says, not beating around the bush whilst watching with a raised brow as the seemingly defeated man across from him promptly indulges in his replenished drink.

"Right Styles, what’s got you so riled up about our lovely Aella anyway?" Dazzler bluntly asks once he’s comfortably back in his seat. The term of endearment is not lost on Harry’s ears, however, and the reminder furrows his brow some more.

"Fuck, I forgot you lot were friends with her." He sighs. How is he supposed to vent to his friends about another friend of theirs without coming off has an asshole? He’s positive that ship has already sailed though, without much to be done about it. "Look I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but you guys don’t have to work with her." He tries to soften the blow with a subtle deflection but in his defense, he says it all genuinely so.

Harry doesn’t really know Aella. Doesn’t know what kind of friend she is, how caring she might be with those she cares for, or how witty her words become when prodded by the right person. He does know, however, that any compatibility they may have ends at the gate of any Navy base. He knows she’s more daring than she ought to be when she’s high above the clouds and high on adrenaline. And he knows she can be downright contentious, not to say bitchy when she doesn’t get her way. So no, Harry doesn’t consider Aella to be a particularly good pilot, at least not in a tandem set up. She’s too quick to set his nerves on fire like she does everything else, to make him think otherwise.

"Damn straight I don’t work with her! Coz Tigger’s stuck with my annoying ass until the day it’s too flabby to sit in a Tomcat. But I still don’t get it, man. From what I’ve seen, she seems pretty fucking brilliant to me." Dazzler once again shows his luminous colors as he senses the conversation is about to get much somber.

"Completely reckless you mean. Half the time she’s suggesting moves that’ll send us crashing faster than I can say emergency ejection." Harry has abandoned any cushioning tactic at this point. His resentment has taken control of his speech and his body tightens in accordance: jaw so defined, the contracting motion could be spotted from across the bar, his shoulders stiffen underneath a slightly oversized shirt and his knuckles turn a few shades whiter at the pressure exerted around his already half-empty glass.

The look his two comrades share across the table in silent conversation does nothing to alleviate his frustration. Instead, it makes him feel like a kid about to be given a talk by his parents. And the way Tigger hesitantly speaks up next, voice as easeful as he can muster, makes Harry think he’s not so far off the truth.

"Harry, do you think you might still be processing what happened with Fox?"

The mention of his deceased best friend sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, an indescribable coldness seizing his body that no alcohol could shake off. On the defensive, his guard soars up and the same chilling tone is now clouding his words.

"And what’s your point exactly?"

Dazzler is quick to elaborate on his friend’s suggestion as tactfully as one Dean Marshall is capable of. Subtlety was never his strong suit. "Come on, mate. It’s kinda common knowledge that Fox was a bit of a stuntman himself. But that’s what made him such a great pilot, Harry."

"It’s what got him killed." The retort comes harsh, triggered by an array of emotions still festering in every far enough corner of his being, because he can’t quite fathom how to face them yet. It’s an out-of-body experience in a way, a disconnection between body and mind, that makes him a mere bystander of his knee-jerk reactions. Surely the words are not his. Surely some kind of demon is hijacking the headquarters of his mind and turning him into a sourpuss who can’t reign in his spreading misery. Pretty ironic for someone who used to spread kindness every time he was given the chance.

"Now, you know that’s not the whole truth." Dazzler tries to reason, admittedly slightly shocked by his friend’s outburst. The things grief can do to one’s temper…

"Whatever. She’s still impulsive and she doesn’t know how to fly with a partner." Harry’s quick to dismiss the subject of Fox, he’d rather have a slumber party with his new nemesis before reminiscing the circumstances of his friend’s premature death.

"That’s probably because she’s used to flying solo." Tigger rightfully points out. "See, you’d know that if you two talked like decent human beings."

"Well, she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it." Somewhere, a muted part his brain is considering Tigger’s statement, but it’s not enough to sweeten his bitter thoughts. It’s not pride getting in the way; Harry’s not a prideful person, or at least not in the ways that would blind him from admitting any wrongdoings. His mind is just too fuzzy to reason from both exhaustion and the booze he’s been continuously sipping on this evening. The mockery seems to be the last straw for Dazzler, however, and for once the wrinkles on the usually chirpy lad’s forehead are not caused by laughter.

"Jesus Harry! I love you mate, you know that. But stop acting like a prick, it doesn’t suit you." Green eyes immediately widen at the admonition, and before he can even think of defending himself, he’s being told off some more. "And before you say anything, no I’m not on her side. I just want to help you. Both of you. And believe me, she’s been given the same speech a handful of times, but I’ll be damned if one of you listened for once."

"Daz, you’re getting carried away." Tigger says, once again acting as his partner’s counterbalancing act. He also doesn’t want to end the night with a fall-out. Losing another friend is the last thing Harry needs.

"Damn right I am." Dazzler quips back, his index finger pressing on the table. "I’m tired of your childish antics. Fuck! Since when am I the most grown up of the bunch?" He asks in disbelief, not able to resist throwing humor in an otherwise tense conversation. "I’m your friend Harry, and sometimes friends are here to kick your butt when you’re acting like one." He gets up from his seat before opening his arms wide in a taunting gesture. "So watch me Styles. This is me kicking your goddamn butt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re out of pistachios." And just like that, he’s off on his new quest for a fresh bowl of snacks. They all know it was more so a way of withdrawing from the conversation before it got too heated. And perhaps to prevent Harry from having a chance at a comeback, but he wouldn’t admit that anyway…

"He’s right you know." Tigger softly breaks the silence that had filled the space. "You two need to sort your shit out because we’ve still got 3 weeks left and I know for a fact you’re not a quitter. Besides, TopGun is not the kind of program you can just give up on. You can still make it, Harry."

He can’t quite figure out if his hopefulness has reached the moping man on his left, especially when all he gets in a response is one more bourbon sent down the drain, followed by a "fuck, need anothe’."

DAY 15

Leonie Forbs was born to teach a group of overzealous navy pilots about the riveting matter of astrophysics; or so is Aella convinced. She is poised, calmer than the sea before the storm, yet when a bunch of bullheaded students does storm in her class, her collected and no-taking-shit nature still prevails. Quite the paradox for such a frail looking woman, but she’s made it clear since their first session that her place at TopGun was not to be questioned and that she could not only handle herself but also the 16 adrenaline-driven aerialists sitting in front of her. Aella admires that a lot; she can only dream of receiving the same kind of respect around base these days.

Even more baffling to her, is how Leonie still inspires kindness and confidence within her students. Mastering the rules of the universe in no cakewalk, but with every explanation and encouraging word she provides, Dr Forbs has managed to make it that little bit easier on them. Come to think of it, she somewhat reminds Aella of Berks and his fatherly yet firm lead. The way they both seem hellbent on making her feel welcomed without giving her any free pass either, is enough of a sliver of hope to outweigh all the anguish Rex’s clique has been giving her since she joined the program.

She doesn’t know if it can counterbalance her own partner’s though.

"Last point we need to discuss before your test today comes from the Pentagon itself," Leonie declares as she leans back against her desk, arms casually crossed around her middle. "Intelligence services have discerned a flaw in the Russians’ new MIG 22 flight tanks system. Their negative G push overs are out, so they operate zero to one G only." She scans the room, watching as they all process the new information.

"What happens if they don’t?" One of the students Mason Homes - or Ace, as commonly called around base - bluntly asks.

A pregnant pause ensues before Aella promptly answers her fellow comrade in a bored tone. "They risk flaming out."

"That is correct." Leonie interjects with a quick glance toward her star pupil, before turning her face back to Ace. "Even below one G, the internal fuel tanks are placed too far off ahead the plane’s center of gravity to keep it stable." The explanation immediately falls out of her lips, concise and simple to comprehend, before her attention extends to the whole class. "Now that this precious intel has been handed to us, we need to exploit it. So what’s your take on it?"

Harry is the first one to speak up as everybody seems to mull over the enigma formulated by their professor. His voice is poised, the answer definite and confident. "Concentrate on low altitude, push boosters to +3.5Gs and negative Gs alternatively."

"Very good." Dr Forbs praises in a smile, uncrossing her arms for her hands to hold onto the desk behind her. "Much like their predecessor, MIG 22 have excellent fast-climbing interceptors, so keeping it low will put their tanks at high pressure. Their endurance is very limited, so you would also be right to keep them on their toes and make them really work for it. Chances are they won’t be able to pace up or they’ll run out of fuel."

"What about using after-burning turbojets in inverted thrusts?" Aella challenges. While she doesn’t deny Harry’s tactic would prove adequate, she thought of a different way around the puzzle. Once again, the conventional route didn’t cut it in her opinion. It was too predictable, something she makes sure to always stay clear of.

"I guess it could work on paper, but your range and scope would be infinitesimal." Leonie responds truthfully after giving the proposition a thought. In the past couple weeks she has come to understand and appreciate Aella’s unorthodox thinking. She knows it comes from a knowledgeable place as opposed to one of attention-seeking. Aella doesn’t defy the MOs of traditional naval aviation to drop jaws or get a round of applause. She’s simply driven by her own curiosity and in all straightforwardness, it’s just the way her brain operates. Conjures up the unexpected first like some kind of survival instinct, but in her book, predictability is the first step towards failure. And in her profession, failure usually means death.

"Not if you push the compression to 50%, then their scope is smaller than yours, and that’s enough to put you on their six." Once again, Aella made the laws of science her greatest ally. The plan may be venturesome but her calculations make it also airtight.

"Very avant-garde of you, Lieutenant Lonethorne, I shouldn’t be surprised." The professor admits with a knowing smile and glowing eyes. "If well-executed then yes, the maneuver would prove successful. However, Lieutenant Styles’ approach is just as valid and much less risky." She adds for good measure. Even though she values Aella’s mind dexterity, her purpose is not to bring this groundbreaking side out of her students. Harry’s answer is the one she had expected all things considered.

"But more time-consuming." Aella retorts to drive her point home. She doesn’t think outside the box for the hell of it. There’s always a reason, a worthy advantage that her partner always seems to overpass because of the riskiness of it all.

"I won’t deny that. Both tactics are absolutely potent in their own way; what matters is the situation in which they come to play. And that’s your job to determine." Dr Forbs reminds her fervent student that being a navy pilot can be a long list of pros and cons at times. What maneuver will result in what outcome and for what gamble. Knowing all the possibilities at any given moment is a great skill to have, one that Aella seems to have down to a T. But the real excellence of a pilot shows in the way they can make the right choice out of those possibilities.

"Alright, I’m gonna pass these exam sheets around. Once you’ve been handed yours, you have two hours to complete them. Please don’t forget to provide explanations to your calculations, this is not a math test." Leonie explains with a pointed look before sharing an encouraging smile. "Good luck to you all."

The next two hours are then filled with the sound of pencils scratching paper and frustrated sighs that only increase in volume as the clock ticks closer to the impending time allotment. As there is only two remaining questions waiting to be completed on his exam paper, Harry breathes deeply and takes a look around the room. Most of his fellow classmates are immersed in deep reflection, various level of frowns hardening their face depending on their advancement on the test. His green eyes then settle upon his co-pilot. She’s scribbling furiously on her paper as though her fingers are straining to put her racing thoughts to ink. Whirlwind on paper, is what he thinks.

His musings are further strayed away from applied physics as Harry recalls his conversation with Dazzler and Tigger the night prior. He certainly did a lot of thinking since then, but his mind is still fuzzy when it comes to Aella. He’s been juggling with the thought of giving her a chance, talking things out as Tigger suggested, but for some reason the idea has him terrified. Certainly a repeat of history would crush him for good, but at the same time he knows he’ll never be the pilot he longs to be again if he keeps being the person he is with Aella. They decidedly need to find a way to be at their best together, because this bringing-out-the-worst-of-the-other business is not doing them any favor.

Harry is about to refocus on the problem at hand when Aella suddenly stands up, all 6 papers of her exam gathered in her hands in a neat pile. She cooly makes her way to Dr Forbs as quietly as she can, as to not disturbed her class, before handing her work to the teacher. Their exchange remains silent but Harry doesn’t miss Leonie’s small head gesture and yet another smile she addresses his partner. It’s not the first time he’s noticed one of his superiors showing that kind of recognition for her work. Time is running against him though, so he shoves the note in a far corner of his mind and goes back to the task at hand. Partner differences is a can of worms that will have to wait to be opened.

The ocean has almost entirely enveloped the setting sun as Harry wanders along San Diego’s Crystal pier. Few people decided to roam the promenade, probably too busy on this brisk and not to mention, week night. Harry is just glad the urge to come here wasn’t sprung on him on a Saturday evening. The experience would have included much more elbowing and people dodging than tolerated for reflective purposes. But as his feet tread the wooden structure, gaze glowing over the breath-taking view, his mind feels clearer than it has been in weeks.

He’s let it go too far. The angst, the animosity, this bottomless gap edged between Aella and him, as well as between his truthful self and the bad-tempered doppelgänger that seems to have replaced him. He’s become almost desensitized to it, too riddled with grief to really care, but the way Dazzler put him in his place the night before served as a good wake-up call. This petulant and dismissive person isn’t him, or as his friend no-so-gently worded it, he is better than that.

He can’t ignore the pit forming in his stomach though. Can’t blindly hand over his trust, forget about his doubts, and relinquish the reins to the woman that put said doubts in his mind in the first place. And that leaves him one only option really: talk to her about it. But while Harry’s never been one to shy from divulging his feelings, usually the person at the receiving end of his disclosures is already part of his trusted cycle.

Just as a runner passes him on the side, he lets out a long sigh at the prospect of such a heavy conversation. How is one meant to deliver the most vulnerable parcels of their character on a silver platter to the person they are the most scared of? Harry can’t help to see it as yet another test the universe is kindly throwing his way. The only thing stopping him for cowering away is the fact that she might have to shared equally vulnerable parts of her in the process. Perhaps it’s the only way they may align to finally be a working team: weaknesses and susceptibilities all out in the open.

The end of the pier is slowly coming to view, a couple of benches providing the perfect front row seat to the Pacific’s show. The sun has now completely gone MIA, faint lanterns scattered along the path dispersing small beacons of light that pale in comparison to their predecessor, but it’s enough for Harry to notice a silhouette standing ahead. Based on their movements, they seem to be caught up in a yoga or stretching session, one foot placed upon the wood railing as their upper body folds over the extended limb. Harry distractingly takes note of their suppleness but as he finally reaches the end of the dock and the mysterious athlete stands back up, he quickly realizes the soul he’s sharing the pier with tonight, is not so mysterious.

The uniform has been traded for a light hoodie, combat boots for a pair of neon trainers and long legs usually hidden under protective layers are now bare to any curious eyes as the only piece of cloth ‘covering' them up is a pair of light running shorts. Harry comes to a sudden halt as he realizes the very reason of his torments and spontaneous walk is now standing a few feet away from him. He finds himself at a bit of a crossroad: he can either stay and get on with what feels more and more like the only option he has, or turn around and delay the inevitable for one extra night. The choice is stripped from him anyway when Aella turns around as though guided by a sixth sense and her eyes cross his in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" She can’t help but ask.

Harry is at lost as to what to say, he didn’t expect to confront her so soon after deciding confrontation was their only saving grace. All he can do, is look at her questioning eyes that for once, are void of any hurt or resentment. He’d like to keep it that way if possible, no matter how unlikely it might be.

"Just walkin’, enjoyin’ the sights I guess," it almost comes out as a question.

"Oh. Well, I was just gonna go so…bye" She has trouble meeting his eyes as she nervously readjust her running attire and prepares for a quick escape.

"Wait!" She’s interrupted by Harry’s voice and her whole attention is brought to his tall figure awkwardly standing in front of her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. She raises a brow when he takes too much time elaborating on his request for her presence. "I just…thought we could…talk, you know? Like, we kinda need it, don’t we?" His stance is not the only thing manifesting awkwardly it seems.

"Um, right now?" Aella suspiciously inquires, her eyes swiftly bouncing to the sea on her right and back to Harry.

"’S good time as any, innit?" Is all Harry says in response.

Aella seems to gauge him for a second as if becoming aware of the meaning of this upcoming conversation. She knows it might be a tipping point in their partnership; if they want to make it work, that is. And the moment took her by surprise sure, but will there ever be a right time? There usually isn’t, after all. "Right then" she agrees with a quick tilt of her head towards the benches as an invitation to sit. For a minute or so they remain silent while they try to figure out a way to start the conversation.

"I’m not the sexist prick you think I am." Harry eventually says, looking at his hand on his lap.

"Right." She answers not convinced. He certainly didn’t go out of his way to make her think otherwise.

"I’m not, I swear." He briefly looks at her before settling back on the lathes paving the pier. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to think so, but I don’t have anything against you as a woman."

"Ah my bad. You just think I’m a worthless co-pilot then." Aella spits out as she stands up, ready to run back to the safe space of her home. This was a terrible idea…

"You remind me of him." The words immediately bring her to a halt, half because she’s intrigued by their meaning, and half because of Harry’s searing pain obviously laced through their utterance. She turns around and looks at his hunched body, elbows now resting on his knees, glossy eyes still fixed on the ground. "You remind me of them both."

Aella swallows the lump in her throat before hesitantly asking "and who would they be?"

At that, Harry looks up and painfully answers,"my dad and Fox."

Taking her time with the new information Aella takes a deep breath, drawing strength from the two blue immensities surrounding her. Slowly, she goes back to her seat next to Harry, though she leaves a decent space between the two of them. "How come?" She encourages.

"Fox was my partner before you came into the picture. But he was also my best friend." He starts explaining without losing an inch of his composure much to his surprise.

"I know about Jonathan." Aella softly answers and Harry momentarily looks sideways at her from his bent position.

"You know of him, but you don’t know what kind of person he was." He argues with a shake of his head, short curls fluttering on top. "Fox was passionate. He was the strongest force to be reckoned with and he was fearless. And he was my best friend, but one day he took it too far and we got into an accident." Pause. "I survived, he didn’t." It surely is a condensed version of the whole story but that’s all she needs to know at the moment.

Aella is slightly taken aback by the confession. She knows lieutenant Evans lost his life as a pilot, but she didn’t think Harry had been part of the equation, picking himself up as he watched his best friend stay down. She can’t really fathom the trauma that comes with such an incident, having flown in tandem for a very short period of time and with someone she isn’t particularly sympathetic with. Until tonight maybe.

"Harry, I’m sorry about what happened…but I’m not him." She tries to reason.

"I know, I know." He is quick to acknowledge, taking his face in his hands before brushing them through is hair. "But the way you fly, or want me to fly is just…" He struggles to find the right words. "Look, I let him take all the risks when we were partners and he died for it. I’m not about to let that happen again. To you, me or anyone that sits in the same airplane I do," is what he settles for.

Aella doesn’t know what to say. Her brain is the one running now, faster than she ever has, as it pieces together the puzzle that is Harry Styles. She doesn’t necessarily approve of his conduct but she understands it better now. Understands the moody attitude and the resentment at her expend. Most of all, she is relieved that his supposed hatred for her has nothing to do with her gender nor her person and everything to do with his troubled past. It makes it somehow easier to stomach though she’s not about to mold herself up to his safety-appreciative standards.

"What about your dad?" She asks instead, redirecting the subject at hand. Once again, the inquiry has Harry looking back at her. Except this time, he unfolds his torso to let it lean against the backrest of the bench, crossing his arms instead. Aella tries to overlook the way his biceps seem to pop out underneath the sun kissed flesh. She’s positively compelled away when he lets out a long sigh and dives back into the night’s confidences.

"I actually don’t know much about my dad," he starts with a humorless chuckle. "He was a Navy pilot too, gone most of the time, but he was a hero at home. He died a hero too. Left for a mission one day and never came back. I was 12." He pauses, needing a break and when he turns back to assess the weight of his words on her face, he’s only met with compassion and her undivided attention. "And all I’ve ever from anyone the wiser, is that he went into an ambush, knowingly, because he thought he could save a comrade. See the pattern?" He asks bitterly before he can help himself, but Aella knows it’s not really aimed at her.

"I get it Harry. You’ve been through some trauma, and I’m just a breathing reminder of it. But I know what I’m doing." She says its conviction as her eyes cling onto his emerald versions. "I would never suggest something that would put you in danger; not matter how much I want to kill you most of the time." That earns them both a chuckle, and the weight on Aella’s heart is alleviated some, upon the realization that this is it, this is their turning point. The moment that can break or make their duo, seal their fate and pave their path. And by the sound of it, the future looks promising finally. "I know it looks like I’m crossing the line at times, but I spent the last 10 years of my life up to my neck in books. I never got to do the fun stuff during Navy School. The parties, the raves, the bonding… I was just the girl deluding herself into thinking she could make it, stealing a perfect spot from a more adequate man to take. And since it was just me, I studied all I could, and then when I run out of books to read I studied some more anyway." It’s now her turn to gaze at the ground while Harry listens carefully. "My choices up there, they’re not a way for me to prove myself. They’re just the possibilities I got from all the things I’ve missed out on since I enlisted because of who I am. And that’s fine. I’ve always been fine with that. But now, I have a partner and I can’t do my job properly if he doesn’t accept the possibilities he doesn’t see yet."

They both look at each other then, letting the words resonated into the night, in tune with the sounds of the crashing waves. The cards have changed, weakest ones at last laid out on the table whilst they still hold onto their kings and aces. But their fate is yet to be determined. Letting go of their blatantly mutual distaste might bring them one step closer to being a unit but they’re still ways from flying as one.

Rome wasn’t built in a day though, and Aella still has half a run to complete. She figures it’s best not to push whatever progress they made that night, so she calmly stands up, about to resume her training when Harry softly calls out to her.

"See you tomorrow partner." It’s faint and simple, but Aella understand every ounce of its meaning.

It’s a peace offering, an olive branch shyly extended from the tip of his fingers; a vow to try and figure this all thing out not as co-pilots but as equals. And that’s all the promises Aella needs to mutter back a ‘goodnight Harry’ and run back to her place in record-breaking time with a smile etched upon her face.

Tomorrows have finally regained their wonder.

#harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles series #enemies to lovers #pilot!harry #Whirlwind #part4 #ofc #Khamseen #creative writing #harry writing #TopGun!Harry

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bi-cookie · 5 years

Text

“Strawberries & Cigarettes“

— 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : Liam x Julia Sherwood

— 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : NSFW / cursing / +18 / Liam with a beard and desk breaking.

— 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 2.5k

— 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐲 : The crown prince deals with the aftermath of the royal scandal that erupted the court while dealing with a broken heart of his own.

— 𝐀/𝐍 : This fic takes place after two months of book 1 finale. Thank you so much @furiouscloddonutpeanut for literally being with me every step of the way 💓. And @pixelchoicest my nugget hoe sister 💕.

It’s been two months since the scandal erupted both of their lives. Not long ago she was America’s sweetheart that captured the heart of the Cordonian prince. Now she’s the shameless foreigner who brought dishonor to the royal family. a slut, a whore, a gold digger these are the few names the press choose for her at least these are the nice ones .

Liam resided to his study locking himself up continuing on his duties as usual. His heart broke with each passing day every minute, second without her was a complete and utter torture.

Sure physically he was alive and kicking but emotionally he was gone from this world, for how can he ever be whole again without his Queen.

Meanwhile Julia was back in New York busting tables and saving up tips hustling her way through life mending a broken heart of her own.

[ Sunday morning - 6:30 am - Julia’s place ]

‘Buzzz buzzz’

the sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand woke Julia up from her slumber, she picked up the phone without looking, struggling to open her eyes she answered

“H-ello.“ she yawned

“Sherwood” a husky voice called out from the other end of the line

“DARKE? Wha- what are you doing calling me on a Sunday this early ? is everything alright , oh god did something happen to Liam is he—“

Clutching her hand to her beating heart she got out of bed awaiting his answer

“Woaah calm down Sherwood , Liam is alright— for the most part“

Drake trailed off

“He’s—oh god he’s a huge mess without you. he keeps locking himself up in his study refusing to eat or to talk to anyone, I’m not sure he’s producing oxygen at this point. I don’t know what to do Sherwood none of us do”

The line went silent for a moment.

But then . . .

“I’ll be on a the first flight to Cordonia.”

[ Sunday Afternoon - 4:45 pm - The crown Prince’s Study ]

A light knock echoed through his majesty’s study but the crown prince couldn’t be bother to answer.

a gush of wind crept into the room as a familiar figure stepped inside.

without looking up from the stack of documents he was signing off Liam dismissed the figure with a wave of his hand as if to say I’m busy at the moment.

“Liam . .“

His entire body froze unable to move at that moment. Dear god that voice he knew that voice too well, it’s .... it’s the voice of his angle, his saving grace , his Queen Liam looked up hands shaking, eyes tearing up meeting hers. The pen he was holding was now laying on the cold marble floor.

Closing the door shut behind her she ran into his arms hugging him so tightly like her life depended on it. Liam held her so close fearing that she might disappear at any given moment, fearing that she’s merely but a dream a very beautiful one.

After what felt like forever they let go of eachother eyes locked on one another, Julia reached for his stubble covered cheek cupping it in her hands brushing her thumb against the facial hair.

“oh my, what has the world done to you my love ?“

“J-Julia .. “ he stuttered her name through muffled sobs and heart skipped a beat at hearing his voice for the first time in two months. He couldn’t contain his emotions any longer. He finally broke after holding it all in for so long.

The hurt , the pain , the agony all came crashing down. his wounds won’t heal just like hers didn’t she knew that much.

“Shhh , it’s gonna be alright I’m here now”

Rubbing his back to comfort him, Liam buried his head in her shoulder seeking shelter from the cruel world that broke him.

After a few long moments he broke the embrace

“Wait - what are you doing here ? Someone could see you. they’ll talk about you again and -“ she cut him right off putting one finger on his lips

“Let them talk Liam it’s not like there’s not much to be said the damage has been done. Besides I don’t care about anyone or what they say I care about you When Drake called this morning I-“

“Wait, Drake called you ?”

“Yes, he said you’ve been locking yourself up in your study since I left, he also said that you haven’t been yourself for quite sometime now. What’s going on ?talk to me Liam ?”

“ I - I don’t know Julia I’m a mess without you , I can’t even go a second without you crossing my mind , you consume me my thoughts , my heart , my soul all of me.”

He pulled away from her walking towards the window looking out the Royal garden

“But I understand that you must go, I’ve caused you enough pain that’ll last a lifetime and I can begin to describe how truly sorry I am for what happened if I had known I would’ve-“ his hands formed into fists punching the wall in a fit of rage.

Taking a step forward she wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him close, gently hugging him. Despite his pain, his heart fluttered at the feeling of her body pressed against his. Her touch made the room warmer somehow. In her embrace the world stopped still on its axis. There was no time, no wind, no rain. Liam’s mind was at peace. This was the love he’d waited for, yearned for and prayed for.

“You don’t need to apology for anything , it’s not your fault . Besides if I get the chance to do it all again I would change nothing because all that pain has led me to you”.

“My Julia I truly don’t deserve you.”

“It is I who don’t deserve you Liam , you are a kind hearted soul that’s too damn good for this world “

She turned him around to face her reaching for his hand spraying small kisses on his bruised knuckle

“I . . Will . . Forever . . Be . . Yours . . Liam.”

Their eyes lock in one electrifying moment, and any trace of self control that he had was thrown out the window.

His want for her becoming unbearable as he reached over to cup her face brushing a stray of her raven hair aside taking the sight of her for the first time since she stepped into the room. Then suddenly his soft lips pressed against hers with a hum of desire, longing, and pain.

One of her hands running through his messy blonde hair, the soft strands surrounding her small fingers. The other hand slowly trails up his chest, her fingers splayed across the white material.

Smiling into the kiss her thumbs moved to trace against his cheekbones

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, my love.”

Liam effortlessly picks Julia up pressing her against the wall of his study. He trails passionate kisses along her jaw, his mouth dropping over her throat and down her collarbone to the valley between her breasts.

“Tell me, My Queen, what do you want.”

“You.”

He would never know how one simple word could hold some much love and devotion, but it did, and it always would.

He leaned off of her slightly, looping his arm around her back, then slowly sliding down to her thighs.

Lifting her up and walking to his oak desk.

He gently sat her down, then with a smirk swept all his paper off the desk. Papers of importance, but not as important as her.

Liam quickly ripped-off the piece of garment that kept him from his queen tossing it on the ground.

He then started sprinkling feather-like kisses on her abdomen causing her back to arched, his tongue was sucking on her sensitive skin setting her ablaze with each touch. as his right hand gripping her thigh, pushing her skirt up until it sits bunched around her hips.

Hands sliding up and down her thigh, he kisses down her stomach until his teeth grab the edge of the lace material of her panties tugging the garment down slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Heart beating so fast it could power a whole city shivers ran up and down her spine with each touch. As he pulls her underwear all the way off, tossing them aside.

And without a warning he shoved his fingers inside of her, three at once pumping and stretching her. Another loud moan spills out of her and fills the room. Julia’s breathing grows harsh and unsteady as he fucks her with his fingers, her walls already beginning to contract around him and the ache inside of her builds up all the way to her belly. He thumbs at her clit and pulls his fingers free from her making her whine at the loss.

Liam’s fingers are wet against her thigh as he grips her closer to him with a mischievous smirk on his face he kneels down kissing her pelvis his stubble scratching her smooth skin.

“Your stubble tickles.”

she smiles at him not so innocently.

He bit at the sensitive skin of her thigh even harder looking up meeting her fiery gaze.

“Tell me, Does it turn my Queen on ?”

“Oh God, Yes.”

“Then let’s put it to good use shall we ?”

Their eyes locked. as he inched towards her center, his beard prickling her thighs when his mouth finally made contact.

The rough stubble combined with his smooth tongue twirling and sucking at her core made her go insane with pleasure, good god the wonders he could do with that mouth of his.

The electrifying sensation that was coursing through her was too much, she bursted out into a million pieces right there arching her back on the wooden desk yelling his name for the entire kingdom to hear and not giving a damn about it.

“You taste even sweeter than I remember, my Queen”

he licked off her juices sucking his fingers tasting her once more.

As she came down form her high Julia sat up pulling Liam closer kissing him hard, tugging at his clothes

“I believe your too dressed for the occasion, Your Majesty”

“Hmm. and what do you suggest we do about that, My love ?”

He smirked biting her lower lip.

She quickly disposed of his clothes tearing them up to shreds before throwing them somewhere on the messy floor.

She splayed her hands up and down on his chiseled chest Casing every muscles in his body to contract at her touch.

“Tell me ... “ she whispered as her splayed hands traveled all the way down to his pelvis , until she reached her desired destination. She grabbed at his throbbing bulge feeling his hardness already forming in her hands as she applied pressure to it even more.

“What does his royal highness wishes me to do ?”

At this point Liam couldn’t even form thoughts let alone speak. His right hand gripped her thigh in order to keep her wetness close to his hardness yearning for the contact as his left arm held her in the place he wanted.

Julia didn’t need him to say anything she already knew what he wanted and she was more than happy to oblige.

Almost immediately she started to massage his scalp with one hand as her other one tugged his boxers down, his hard length springing free from it’s confines. she began stroking him, slowly, taking her time. While keeping her eyes fixated on his face, watching each and every reaction. She loved the fact that she has complete control over him. He's at her mercy. She wanted to Taste him, savor him, love him and so she did with each stroke he was a trembling mess in her hands.

His head fell back and he moaned loudly, as she took him all in her mouth. She bobbled her head up and down his cock Feeling it stiffen With every move between her cheeks.

Liam couldn’t hold it in anymore, he has to feel her. Consequences be damned.

He pulled her up sitting her back on the desk pushing her legs wide open as his tip rubbed against her dripping entrance teasing her. He took the opportunity to pin her arms up and in one smooth push he entered her.

The tight, wet feel of her causes him to groan loud turning her on even more. He lifted her leg over his shoulder and fucked into her, hard.

They both groaned. Julia grabbed his shoulders to steady herself, taking in the feeling of every single inch of him inside her.

She lifted her pelvis with each thrust intent on meeting his own and taking her own pleasure. His cock plunged deeper, messaging the sweet, sensitive spot inside of her.

“Dear god, Liam.” She called, her mouth opening as she felt him hit all the right places.

“Yes, my love ...” He grabbed her butt, helping her up and down.

He was high on her and he could never get enough.

With each thrust a thrill was sent up and down her spine as her stomach grew taut with the impending orgasm. Liam’s own breath is as labored as hers, he watched her flush as her breasts bounced lightly from the force of him. He dragged a hand across her stomach and cupped her breast, pinching her nipple until she moaned and whimpered.

His name never leaving her lips.

He tilted his head back and let out a loud groan as he felt her tighten around him. His hand on her hip was bruisingly tight and she knew damn well she’ll have plenty of bruises to remember him by but she didn’t mind it one bit.

He rammed into her until there was nothing left.

She came undone right then and there in his arms, Her body trembling with pleasure.

It only took Liam a few moments to follow right after her. He muffled a scream of her name as he crashed and bit on her shoulder.

Their ragged breaths and pleasure cries filled up the room as they held each other for a couple of minutes, catching their heartbeats and slowly coming down from their highs.

Liam gently picked Julia up and got her scattered clothes off the floor. dressing her slowly zipping up her skirt back on. As he was getting dressed she turned around letting out a sigh

“What now Liam ?“ she asked with a worried look on her face.

“I don’t know, but we hope for the future. At this very moment you are mine and I am yours and there’s nothing that can keep us apart. Know that I love you with every waking bone in my body, I won’t make the same mistake and let you go again. I will fight for you this time, you are not an obligation Julia, you are my forever.”

He walked up to her slowly and pulling her closer to him wrapping his arms around her. His embrace was warm, and his big, strong arms seemed very protective when wrapped around her frail body. The world around her seemed to melt away as she squeezed him back, not wanting the moment to end.

#choices #pixelberry #choices stories you play #play choices #the royal romance #trr #king liam #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #cookie writes #trr fic #liam x mc #liam rys #n*fw #smut

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blossommarvelmuses · 4 years

Note

cloth : bandaging a wound

War eats boys. Some boys are lucky and are spit out men, others are devoured and never to be seen again. Some of those men are even luckier to find love in war, the one thing it seems that war cannot touch -- love remains. Bucky is a paradox, he is both lucky and unlucky. Bucky loves, but it is not returned. The man he loves could never return his love. His love is lucky though, he loves a spitfire. A woman who is complimented by war, a goddess of rage and conquering. Bucky’s love is a god of righteous fury and adoration. They fit together like perfect puzzles pieces, like they’ve known each other their entire life... like war was created by the universe just to bring these souls together. Bucky is dammed to live in their war, be dragged by war’s mouth all because he’s stubborn. He could have gone home, in fact he was encouraged to go home after being rescued from experimentation. But he didn’t, he would rather continue to torture himself in ways worse then war. What the man he loves fall in love with someone else.

The other man’s voice is irritated. He doesn’t like being late and Bucky is apparently taking too long bandaging up a wound. “If you would stop movin’ I could finish this up.” He hisses in Steve’s ear. The other claims that he doesn’t need to be patched up, that he’ll heal. “Do ya wanna get blood on your uniform? I don’t think Peggy would like you dripping on the dance floor.” Bucky wants to press his finger into the bullet hole wound, make Steve feel just a little bit of what he feels. The anguish -- the constant sting of it. He doesn’t, Steve doesn’t deserve to be on the brunt end of his jealousy. So instead, he finally manages to get the bullet casing out of his skin. Is Bucky taking his time on purpose? That could be a reasonably conclusion... but he also does care about the well being of his friend. While he’s sure that any sort of infection will be killed by Steve’s new enhanced body, he still would rather be safe than sorry. Which Steve seems to not care for in this current moment. “I won’t make you late, stop moving!” Bucky can’t help but snap, he doesn’t mean to. He’s been more on edge, war isn’t a game and neither is love. Stress and despair feels like it’s eating him from in inside out.. he can hardly stomach a meal anymore.

She liked him before he was injected. Steve tells him this fact late at night, his voice is far away and dreamy. Bucky just chuckles, but he wants to shake his best friend’s shoulders tell him he like him before he was little too. She sees the value in him. She’s strong.. she’s doesn’t take shit. She doesn’t hold him back. Steve talks all night long about Peggy Carter, gushing over this woman. Bucky hears it all, he hates it all. Peggy the text book definition of perfect for Steve Rogers. The thing Bucky used to think himself to be... the boy who followed blindly behind that scrawny kid from Brooklyn. Steve does the same with Peggy and Bucky wonders if that is what he’s looked like all these years. A lovesick fool. Expect Steve isn’t a fool because at least Peggy looks at Steve the same way he looks at her. It’s like they hung the stars together one by one. Everyone used to joke back in Brooklyn, that one day Bucky would leave little Steve Rogers behind. It’s almost poetic how wrong they are. Steve’s gone and grown up, found himself the perfect woman while Bucky’s still stuck digging his heels in the dirt refusing to grow up. The stars above their makeshift camp mock him for being human -- for feeling.

Bucky dips the a cloth in water, ringing out the excess slowly. Steve seems to have settled after he snapped. Bucky doesn’t apologize, he doesn’t want to talk anymore. He’s afraid words will spill from his mouth and they won’t stop. He’ll beg Steve to stay, cry into his shoulder that this is too much for him, press kisses to places he’s not allowed and get pushed away. So he doesn’t speak, he carefully cleans off the wound, watching as bloody water cascades down Steve’s now perfect back. He can’t himself as he reaches out with his free hand, tracing along the other’s spine. He misses the freckles, he’ll forgive be angry at the serum for taking those away. Bucky misses sitting up all night and counting them until he couldn’t keep his own eyes open. He misses how dark they’d get during the summers. He doesn’t tell Steve he misses them, it won’t bring them back. He’s sure Steve hated them anyways. The male pushes away from where he was pressed up against the now bigger man’s back as he grabs a medical salve to help aid healing despite not Steve not needing it -- it just makes Bucky feel better. He is careful as he rubs the cream into the wound. He can feel the restless energy start to seep back into the room, he’s taking too long. He can’t prevent this any longer. So settles in front of the other, pushing is arm up and making Steve rest his large hand on his own slender shoulder. He begins slowly wrapping the gauze under his armpit and up and around his shoulder. “Stop being so nervous.” Bucky grumbles despite himself, eyes lingering selfishly across the other’s broad chest. “The two of you could go to a goddamn library and she’d still be swooning over you.” Some of the tension seems to leave the other’s body and feels that rising need to ask him to stay. So instead he clears his throat and focuses back in on the work at hand. “Just gotta remember all those dance moves I taught you back in Brooklyn.” Is it a bit selfish to remind Steve of that time in hopes that maybe Steve will think about Bucky while he’s on a date with Peggy? Yes, he knows it is but he doesn’t care.

The moment Bucky tapes the gauze down, Steve is standing up and nearly rushing out the door to get ready. Bit sits alone now, looking down at his hand that are stained in Steve’s blood. This isn’t the first time they’ve been bloodied by his best friend, but... he feels soon it will end. Soon Steve will be calling on his girl to patch up his wounds, and in such close proximity things will turn intimate. --- And now Bucky is angry. He stands from where he’s sitting and before he even realizes he’s kicking over his own cot, all of his things tumbling onto the floor which ends up causing a bit of a domino effect. He knocks over a few other things in his rage, but doesn’t notice until he’s done throwing things into the tent walls. It isn’t satisfying, it doesn’t help... nothing helps. So instead Bucky settles down onto his knees, they ache and burn from long days walking across Europe. As he begins to crawl on the floor and clean up all of his and Steve’s now scattered personal items he stumbles upon Steve’s compass. In all his hurry he must have forgotten it. He opens the item, maybe it’ll help him get his barrings -- remember that the world still turns on its axis and that the world doesn’t revolve around Steve Rogers like Bucky likes to think it does.

Staring back at him are two familiar faces. His own and one he much rather be seeing in person right now. Sarah. He feels the hot prickling of tears behind his eyes, blurring the photo. “You didn’t tell me loving him was gonna be this hard, mama.” He whispers softly to the photo. “This woulda been a whole lot easier if you hadn’t raised him into such a goddamn hero.” He feels a bit crazy talking to a photo settled in the head of a compass but it surprisingly helps. He pulls his knees up to his chest, chin resting on familiarly scrapped knees. “--Wish you were here to talk me through this.” Eventually his heavy heart settles, doesn’t lift -- it never lifts but it settles. He breathes out a shuttered sigh and stares at the photo until he doesn’t even recognize himself in the photo anymore. He rises slowly from his place on the floor to set the compass back in with Steve’s things and he quietly joins the rest of the Commandos and while Steve’s off impressing a girl, Bucky will drink until he passes out in the dirt and someone carries him to his cot. He isn’t sure who it is, but the scent of medical salve is familiar to his drunken senses. Bucky sifts back off like he always does, thinking things would be better if Steve was the one carrying him off.

#kat-writes #meme: bucky #otp: so you were never a saint and i loved in shades of wrong (bucky and steve)

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buttsonthebeach · 5 years

Note

What would have happened if Ashara died at Clermont? Since I love angst.

Welllllllllllllllllll…. you asked for it…..

@dadrunkwriting

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 6/21/19)

WARNING: character death. One brief graphic image of violence. Heavily inspired by Game of Thrones because that’s the conversation we were having that led to this prompt. Dear god I would never actually write this universe.

Pairing: Solavellan, post-Trespasser. Set during Reckoning.

Rating: Mature for violence, war, death.

**************************************************

Dorian was sick to his stomach as he approached the lines of the invading Elvhen army where they were arrayed on the edge of the Planascene Forest, having crossed the Waking Sea fresh off their conquest of Orlais. He was sicker to his stomach than he had been since that day he discovered what his father intended - the blood ritual, the life spent screaming on the inside. He’d thought himself impervious to this kind of soul-deep dread since then. Not that he had not felt fear in all the years since - the Maker knew he had - but it was not this fear. The kind of fear that only arose when your whole world tilted on its axis, when you realized you had been very, very wrong about something you had considered a fundamental part of the universe. Like a father’s love. The goodness within all people. The inherent justice of the world.

Like when you knew that you were walking towards a shimmering gold pavilion surrounded by arcane warriors, many of them ancient Elvhen, the first practitioners of the art - like when your magic could sense a terrifying well of power within the tent, deeper than the sky at night, when you knew who that power belonged to - like when you knew the woman sitting in the center of that tent, preparing to demand the surrender or death of every dignitary that surrounded him, was the woman you’d considered your sister for more than twenty years.

Like when you knew what that woman had lost - what had brought her to this moment.

“Shit,” Varric said beside him, the viscount’s circlet heavy on his wrinkled forehead. “Shit, shit, shit.”

On Dorian’s other side, he heard Claudia murmuring a quiet prayer to Andraste. He was confident that Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven, was doing the same. The other magisters behind him were putting up barriers, as if that would matter. As if they had not all heard what she had done to Orlais. As if they had not heard what she had commanded the Dread Wolf to do in her behalf. As if any of them stood a chance, if she wanted them dead.

But she can’t, Dorian said to himself, his own form of prayer. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. I know her. She won’t do this. She won’t force our hands. Not even after what she has lost. She is good, she is just, she is kind. Even grief can’t change that.

But he was a politician, and he knew that you didn’t cross the sea with an army at your back, just to turn around and go peacefully home, and so the sickness in his stomach did not subside.

They entered the pavilion and there she was, on a raised dais. Ellana Lavellan, High Commander of the Elvhen Republic of Enasan, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, the Dread Wolf’s Wife, whatever else it was that people were calling her now. The sickness did stop once Dorian looked at her - really looked at her - because he could see from the look in her eyes that this was already over. They had already lost.

Ellana’s eyes had always been piercing - those pale grey circles set in the midst of that dark red-brown skin - but they did not even look like her eyes anymore. They were hard as stone, filled with an anger that made a chill run down Dorian’s spine, with a grief that made his throat close up. She’d always held herself proudly, had always kept her chin high, but now she sat on that throne like a queen, because she knew that she had already won. Because she had nothing left to lose now.

She was wearing armor, of course. A fantastic piece that covered her from chin down in silverite, except for her left arm, which was wrapped in black cloth, likely the dress that she wore beneath the armor, all of it covered in intricate filigree, prominently featuring the three trees of her country. Elvhenan, the Dales, Enasan.

You have the Dales back. You have all of Orlais. Let that be enough.

A herald was introducing her, but Dorian paid no mind. The titles did not matter. He looked Ellana straight in the eye, willing her to see him to acknowledge him not as another magister who had answered her summons but as a friend who had fallen into the same awful, black mourning that she had when the news from Clermont came.

All of them dead. Every last elf in that Maker-forsaken border town, the victims of political unrest in the Orlesian Empire, victims of a deliberate plot to villify their people, and the whole country of Enasan.

Including the mage who’d been with them.

Even just thinking of it made his heart clench, made him remember the moment he’d first heard the news all over again. Not her, not her, anyone but her.

I loved her too, he wanted to shout. I loved her as if she was my own flesh and blood, as if she wasn’t just my niece in my heart. But this? This?

“If there is anyone who would address our High Commander, now is the time,” the herald said.

Dorian stepped forward. He could not let anyone else speak. They would not know what to say.

“Ellana,” he said, and her eyes snapped to him, and now that he was even closer he could see how deep the fury and the grief went, how dark the circles around them were, how little she had been sleeping.

“Your grace,” the herald countered, correcting him.

I hate it when they call me that , she’d said once to him, at Skyhold, so many years ago.

“Ellana,” he began again. “Everyone who has come here today has come to mourn what you have lost. To protest the injustices that Orlais visited upon your country. The plot that they wove against Enasan was the lowest form of treachery and what it cost - what it took from you - it is an unimaginable price. But must every other person in Thedas - even those who condemned de Pelletier and Villiers and their conspirators from the beginning - is it really justice to ask that we pay the price, too?”

Ellana’s expression did not change while he spoke. When she spoke, her voice was cool and calm.

“That is why I do not ask it of you, Magister Pavus. I have invited all of you here today to accept your unconditional surrender. Agree to those terms, and not a single drop of blood will be shed.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd behind him. They would not hold for long.

“You are asking that every country and city-state in northern Thedas submit to your rule,” he said, stalling.

“Yes.”

“Is that truly justice?”

Ellana laughed at that, an icy, broken sound. “No. It is not. But there is no justice left in this world, Magister Pavus. There are only those who have power, and those who don’t. We have seen over and over again what happens to those who don’t have power. For centuries, my people have been the ones without it. That ends here, now, today. I will make sure of it.”

The murmurs were louder.

“We are prepared to make larger concessions than have ever been made in the history of Thedas,” Dorian said, feeling sicker now, ever sicker. “The Tevene delegation has secured the Archon’s promise to -”

Ellana waved her hand. “I am not interested in promises. I trust no one but myself to see to the safety of my people. No one.”

Dorian felt those words where she wanted him to feel them. How many times had she congratulated him on his fight for elven rights in Tevinter? How many times had she asked for his advice when faced with a political challenge at home?

You are not enough anymore, she said.

“And what will be the consequence, if we do not bend the knee?” Sebastian Vael, the first voice to break out of the clamor.

Ellana smiled another smile that was all ice. “You’ll burn.”

That was when Solas stepped up behind her, visible now in his golden armor, the wolf pelt draped over it, his eyes as hollow and angry and tired and sad as his wife’s, radiating all of that power. The power to unmake a world. To burn them all, if she gave the command.

“This isn’t what Ashara would have wanted.”

Claudia, stepping up beside him, Dorian’s heart leaping up into his throat. The woman who was his own daughter in all but name. So much reconstructed family here - almost-sisters and almost-daughters and it was all so fragile. She needed to get back. To stay back. The power simmering off of Solas, the anger and desperation and loss in Ellana’s eyes -

“This isn’t what she would have wanted, and you know it. Ashara would never have -”

“She is not here to offer her opinion anymore, is she?” Ellana, rising, her black skirts swirling, her armor glittering, Solas stepping closer to her, eyes narrowing, the crackle of his power -

“You cannot do this to her memory -” Claudia tried to go on, ignoring the other diplomats, ignoring Dorian’s hand on her arm. How she’d cried when the news arrived, how she was nearly crying now, thinking of the friend she had lost. The look in her eyes when she’d come back from telling Lucius what had happened. What he had lost forever.

“When they have sent your only daughter’s head to you in a box you can tell me what I can and cannot do.”

Solas raised his staff and slammed it into the dais, and a crack of magical energy went out, stinging fingers of electricity. A warning that shocked everyone into silence more than Ellana’s words. Ellana was trembling. He’d never seen her look so weak, so old, so lost. Solas put his hand on her shoulder. She regained herself. Smoothed her skirts and returned to her regal posture.

“You have heard our terms. Honor them, or don’t. Either way, we will see to it that our people are no longer the ones crushed beneath others’ heels. Either way, we win.”

Solas’s power was still crackling through the air when she sat back on her throne, back straight. A stranger in his best friend’s skin.

“You are dismissed,” her herald said.

They all turned to go. Dorian looked back, expecting the image to have changed, expecting to see the woman he knew sitting there. But she was still gone, gone, gone. There was only a madwoman in her place.

#beach writes #da drunk writing circle #horrible au #reckoning au #listen #this is the first and last thing based off this idea

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roccocowitch · 5 years

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“Our kind of love, it was once in a lifetime.” - Fude ❤️🌙

Finn belongs to @drdevorakwrites <3

The heat from the fire licks at her skin, almost too hot as she sits before the fireplace with her knees tucked to her chest. The scratch of Finn’s charcoal against parchment lulls her into a sort of trance, rhythmic and soothing, and she gazes into the flames as her mind wanders.

Her thoughts flit between the investigation, the little town of Lunaris, and its inhabitants. When they stumble upon Finn, the thoughts stop, intensify, and a small smile steals across her face as she feels the rush of adoration sweep across her skin, burning as hot as the flames before her.

She loves him. Really, truly, with the entire force of her, she loves Finnegan, and even this silent admittance steals the breath from her lungs.

And it is not a simple love, one that many find in the sun-tired warmth of summer nights, or in the quiet stillness of morning snowfall, no, this is a love that roars and leaves a permanent scar on the heart.

Their love is bright, blinding, all-consuming. It is unable to be tamed and Jude knows the inevitable; it will engulf her, burn through to her very core. In that fire, she and Finn are one entity, one soul, and it makes her heart jump with both elation and terror.

She stands on the precipice now, so close to stepping into their love’s red maw, ready to be devoured, but she hesitates because she’s been here before. The hole in her heart she’d tried to seal closed bursts open again and seizes her, sending ice down her spine and she aches.

For as much as she loves Finn, there is one obstacle she has yet to overcome, and she hates herself for it, hates herself for letting these feelings dare to try and stifle what has grown between them. The Fates cruel trick that after the loss of her old love she would be sent Finn never goes unnoticed. The echoes of pain from having her love ripped from her still burn in her chest and she takes a staggered breath to steady herself.

She looks into the flames, leans in, searching for something to reach across and slap her back into her senses.

Instead, it is the gentle press of cool lips on the exposed skin of her shoulder that brings her back to her body.

“Come back to me, Jude,” he murmurs, his voice low and calm. She looks at Finn over her shoulder, sheepish, knowing her thoughts ran louder than most for him, but her lips curl up in response to the soft smile he gifts her with. Setting aside his drawing, he opens his arms to her, and she gladly goes into the tight fold of his embrace.

The scent of peppermint and whiskey lingers on his skin and she breathes it in greedily, burying her nose into the crook of his neck. He kisses her temple and hums, and they sit entwined for a long moment, basking in the comfort of each other.

Again, her mind drifts, but this time focuses on something Finn once told her when she’d asked about his past with Levi, how he was able to be so good after being surrounded by such evil.

I made a choice, Jude. I was given the choice of becoming someone better, someone who would help the world, not harm it.

Something clicks inside her, and her world shifts on its axis.

This is a choice. It’s a choice to leave the pain and hurt behind and leap into the burning unknown.

Lifting her head, she gently cups the sharp line of Finn’s jaw in her hands. She searches golden eyes for a moment before kissing him, soft and sweet. They break apart, foreheads touching, and Finn chuckles. “What are you doing?”

“Making a choice,” she breathes, her voice barely more than a whisper. Blood roars in her ears as she pulls back and looks at Finn, his fingers lightly touching over her pulse, feeling it race. “I love you.” Her voice cracks as she says it; Finn’s eyes widen, but a grin overtakes his features and he holds her tighter to him. He knows the power of her words and what it takes for her to admit them, and she can feel his response waiting on the tip of his tongue, but he lets her speak.

“Our kind of love, it’s once in a lifetime.” She takes his hand and places it over her heart. “And I’m not going to let it burn out.”

#whoops i gave myself feelings #lana del rey prompts #jude x finn #finnegan kazimir #jude #shit i write #drdevorak-writes

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peraltasames · 5 years

Text

mountains and valleys (and all that will come in between) - chapter one

Jake, Amy, and four distinct yet painfully similar times the universe pulled them apart and pushed them back together.

read on ao3

part one: undercover

When Jake leaves Amy standing outside the precinct, her mouth slightly agape and the air sucked out of her lungs, she doesn’t know when she’s going to see him again.

In a much darker realm of possibility that she doesn’t dare to explore for too long, she doesn’t know if she’s going to see him again.

She recalls in vivid horror the time that her old precinct, back when she was a beat cop, received word that one of their detectives was tortured and killed on an undercover operation scarily similar to the one Jake is embarking on. She hopes and prays that the detective the NYPD lost that day five years ago didn’t leave some unlucky man or woman with a confession of love and longing that they would never get the chance to act on.

She stands in place, her feet incapable of movement, for an indefinite amount of time. She isn’t sure if it’s five minutes or an hour that pass by - or, if she’s lucky, the entirety of the three to five months that the FBI estimates Jake’s mission to take - but eventually the wind picks up and a shiver runs up her spine. She feels her phone buzz in her pocket and wonders how long it’s been doing that, how long she’s been completely unaware her surroundings.

Teddy Wells

Hi, Amy. Are you still coming over? It’s unlike you to be late.

Teddy Wells

(2) Missed Calls

There are a million things she wants to do right now: run after Jake (though he’s long gone), scream, throw something breakable, drink an entire bottle of vodka, flee the country. Spending time with Teddy is low on the list. She isn’t obligated to - they haven’t been dating for that long and it’s perfectly okay for her to choose a night in without giving him a full explanation - but blowing off her boyfriend would mean that something has changed.

She can’t admit that she feels as though her entire world has been shifted on its axis. Not to herself. Definitely not to the man she is dating. And not to Jake, either, because he never gave her the damn chance to.

He disappeared like a wildfire that was suddenly extinguished, and she’s left to deal with the rubble.

According to the alarm clock next to her bed, which she must arch her body over Teddy’s sleeping form to read properly, it’s nearly three in the morning.

Precisely five hours after the time that Teddy insists they go to bed following their evening crossword, and she’s gotten - in total - about one hour of sleep.

It’s not Amy’s fault. She knows she has to be up in three hours for work and it’s going to be a busy day working as a secondary on Rosa’s homicide case. She knows she’s barely slept all week and her body is hating her for it.

She blames a part of her brain that she knows from AP bio but is too damn tired to recall for the images that appear every time she closes her eyes.

Jake, laughing in the passenger seat of her squad car about the imaginary backstory he’s invented for one of his undercover personas.

Jake, biting his lip and absentmindedly running his hand through messy hair as he stares pensively at a case file, the gears in his mind turning wildly.

Jake, standing in front of her eight days ago and saying “I kinda wish something could happen between us...romantic-stylez”.

The ethical complications of thinking such thoughts about another man while in bed next to her sleeping boyfriend clog her mind, making it even harder to rest.

She trudges to the kitchen, surrendering to her losing battle with sleep. Her socked feet tip-toe on the hardwood floor to avoid any creaking sounds that may wake Teddy.

It isn’t until she raises a glass of water to her lips that she notices her hands are shaking. Her entire body is shaking, actually, which is one of the first indicators of an oncoming panic attack. She tries to breathe slowly, close her eyes and count to ten, like she’s been instructed to. It works some of the time.

“C’mon, Amy,” she mumbles to herself, shutting her eyes even tighter as she feels tears threaten to escape. “Get it together.”

I know you’re with Teddy, and I know it’s going really well.

She shakes her head, slamming her glass down on the counter a bit too loudly. “Stop thinking about it,” she says aloud, willing Jake’s voice in her head to just disappear.

I don't know what's gonna happen on this assignment, and if something bad goes down, I think I'd be pissed at myself if I didn't say this.

Her fingernails dig into her palms as she tries to ground herself to reality. She’s worried that these thoughts and emotions are going to eat her alive.

“Fuck,” she blurts out, her hand coming to cover her mouth the moment she blurts out the word. The Santiagos conditioned their children not to curse at a young age through loss of before-bed reading time, and it’s stuck with her through to adulthood. She rarely swears, and only does so in situations that demand such a word to be spoken. But, damn, if this doesn’t fit the bill, what does?

I kinda wish something could happen, between us, romantic styles.

In the darkness of her kitchen, with not a soul there to hear her, she whispers:

“So do I.”

It takes another five days for Amy to confide in someone. She’s not thinking about Jake - one of the rare moments of the past two weeks that her thoughts manage to travel elsewhere - as she sits on Teddy’s living room sofa, reading one of her favourite crime novels while he flips through the channels.

“Do you want to watch this one?”

She’s too engrossed in her novel, which is steadily climbing towards the big climax she’s read a dozen times but never tires of, to look up from its pages.

“Whatever you want, I’m not really watching,” she mumbles, hastily turning the page.

Teddy murmurs words of agreement and selects whatever title he was pondering, and it takes about twenty seconds for Amy to recognize the dialogue.

“You throw quite a party. I didn’t realize they celebrated Christmas in Japan.”

Before she looks up at the screen, she’s briefly transported to several distinct memories of the past few years: Jake’s couch four months ago, a half-eaten pizza and two cans of orange soda in front of them, watching this very movie; a year before that, viewing it (along with the sequel) at Charles’ place during Jake’s surprise birthday party; her first year at the Nine-Nine, sitting in the break room with a shitty laptop on the table playing the film while Captain McGintley took his afternoon nap, despite Amy’s better judgement.

“Everything okay?”

Amy glances down at the book, which she unknowingly dropped in her lap as her eyes fixed on Bruce Willis shooting a gun on Teddy’s television. She realizes with a sharp pain in her chest that this is the first time in years that she’s watched this movie without Jake present.

“Do you not like Die Hard? We can watch something else-“

“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “I mean, no, I don’t like Die Hard, but...that’s not what’s bothering me.”

Teddy furrows his eyebrows and turns off the television, twisting his body to face her and, perhaps, to figure out what she’s thinking.

“There’s a reason I’ve been kind of weird the past couple of weeks.”

He prompts her to continue with a slow nod. It certainly has not gone unnoticed the way she’s flinched away from so many of his touches, declined his advances in the bedroom every evening, stared into space for most of their dinners together.

“You know how Peralta got fired?”

Teddy nods again, somewhat more apprehensively. Jake’s been a source of tension for them before, from their first date after Tactical Village Day when Teddy questioned if they had some sort of romantic history and Amy rambled incessantly about how he’s her coworker and she would never date him rather than giving a simple and far less suspicious “no.”

“You can’t tell anyone this, but he had to get fired so he could go on an undercover mission with the FBI. And before he left, he, um...” She swallows the lump in her throat, which now feels incredibly dry. “He told me he had feelings for me.”

Teddy’s eyes widen, and he discards the blanket previously draped over his lap.

“Well, you told him it’s never gonna happen, right?” he asks quickly, anger building in his voice.

“I didn’t really get the chance, he kinda just dropped the bomb and walked away and we can’t have any contact-“

“Do you have feelings for him?”

The right answer to that question isn’t immediately evident to Amy - a “no” would be a blatant lie, but “yes” would immediately terminate a relationship that she isn’t sure she’s ready to see the end of. Teddy is the perfect man on paper, the kind of man that her father would probably approve of upon their first introduction. He’s a good cop, just like Jake, but his approach to detective work is methodical and precise and completely unlike the frantic (brilliant) energy of Jake solving a case nobody else, even Amy herself, could solve. She feels comfortable with him, she feels safe, but she’s wondered from time to time if it’s a little too safe. It’s only logical - there’s no way he can break her heart if he never really has it in the first place.

Regardless of her intentions, she gathers from Teddy’s disappointed glare that the right answer is probably not complete silence.

“I think I-I’m confused.”

Teddy pauses, his ears reddening like he’s gearing up for an argument, but instead lets out a heavy sigh and nods his head. “Okay. I guess you should probably-“

“Go home and take some time to think,” Amy finishes.

“I was going to say we should talk about this, but…if that’s what you need.”

Amy looks at him apologetically and presses a quick peck to his cheek before standing to gather her things.

“I’ll call you on the weekend,” she calls out to him before shutting his front door behind her, scurrying downstairs and to the nearest bodega to buy a pack of cigarettes.

The next three months bring longer days and warmer weather to New York. Summer means the precinct is at a more acceptable temperature for Amy’s eternally-cold skin, it means the majority of her colleagues are cashing in their time off and she has more casework to keep herself busy, and this year it means long nights hiding at work to avoid her boyfriend who is still, somehow, her boyfriend despite her weeks of confusion and claiming she felt they were “out of sync.”

Really, the confusion is far from resolved. It definitely won’t be until Jake is back and she can at least speak to him about everything, but it’s become increasingly unclear when that will be as the three-month park passes and they still have little to no information on the status of his case.

It’s a particularly hot June afternoon, shortly before the end of her shift and the beginning of the weekend. She’s heading to New Jersey tomorrow morning (it’s no coincidence that she’s visiting her parents so much more frequently these past few months - Jersey is a Teddy-free zone, and therefore a hard-to-answer-question-free zone) and wrapping up the last of a string of open-and-shut B&Es.

Her head jolts up from her desk when she hears the sound of the captain exiting his office, the familiar clacking of his shoes on the tile floor a sound that she’s taught herself to respond to with alertness.

“Jeffords, Santiago, Boyle and Diaz, can I see you all for a moment?”

She’s up at her feet in an instant, the first to enter the captain’s office as the others follow behind her. Rosa’s the last to walk in, and Holt closes the door immediately behind her.

“What’s going on, sir?” Terry asks, crossing his arms.

“A friend of mine at the FBI has given me some insight into Peralta’s case that I felt I should share with all of you,” Holt explains, moving to stand behind his desk.

She can’t gage from his expression whether the news is that he’s coming home or that he’s dead or something else entirely, but her knees go weak nonetheless and she grabs onto the back of a chair as subtilely as possible.

“What is it?” Charles asks quickly with wide eyes. “Is Jake okay?”

“He’s alive,” Holt says quickly, and Amy’s world stops spinning long enough that she’s able to nod in understanding and stand a little straighter. “The case is going well, and there is a chance that they’re getting close to being able to set up a sting. Unfortunately, the closer that Peralta gets to the Ianucci family, the more their enemies become his. He hasn’t sustained any major injuries, but the danger of the case has grown exponentially…”

Amy watches Holt’s lips move for another minute or two, but the rest of the words fade out into a dull humming sound in her ears. She wants to collapse to the floor or run to the bathroom and throw up, but her feet are glued to the floor.

“Santiago, are you alright?”

It’s not the first time the voice of her commanding officer is the only thing to snap her out of a heavy trance. She looks up at Holt and realizes that he’s done his spiel and his eyes, along with everyone else in the room’s, are fixed on her.

“I’m fine, sir,” she says, supporting her statement with a contender for the most obviously fake smile in history. “I’m sorry, will you excuse me? I think I’m getting a-a call-“

With a small nod of approval from Captain Holt, she’s pushing past Rosa towards the exit and running to the roof. She needs air. She needs nicotine. She needs, and this one is by far the most pressing, to see Jake Peralta healthy and alive.

A dark corner at Shaw’s and several bottles of beer, Amy quickly realizes, is the best and only available antidote for the day she’s had. No Teddy, no smalltalk with coworkers, nothing but the numbing effect of the alcohol on her tired brain.

She hasn’t spent much time here over the past few months. It turns out there are a lot of places that feel just a little bit wrong without Jake around. Some are unavoidable - work, for instance, and the little deli across the street that they both love. Others, she avoids at all cost - the bar, his neighbourhood, that one apartment building on Barton Street where they conducted a stakeout many months ago on the worst (yet somehow, best) date of her life.

“What’s up with you?”

She looks up from anxiously picking at the wrapper of her bottle at her fellow detective and - sometimes, Amy thinks - friend.

“Oh, hey Rosa,” Amy says quickly, already raising her guard. “Um, nothing’s up with me. What’s up with you?”

She sighs as Rosa gives her the look that she knows by now to mean that she is not having any of her bullshit and subsequently slides into the seat across from her.

“Fine,” Amy mumbles after a few moments of Rosa’s hard stare. She’s a little drunk and feeling a lot of emotions, so she settles on the one that’s the easiest to express right now - anger. “I’m mad at him.”

Rosa narrows her eyes. “Teddy?”

Amy shakes her head incredulously. She supposes it’s the natural assumption, him being her boyfriend and all, but she’s never mad at Teddy. He doesn’t do anything wrong. Even if he did, she doubts he could ever make her feel as mad as she does right now.

“Peralta,” Amy clarifies, not helping the look of confusion on Rosa’s face. “He’s…the worst. I’m pissed at him.”

“For what? He’s been gone for months.”

Amy laughs, taking a long swig of her beer until its contents are completely drained. She imagines she looks like a crazy person as she slams the bottle on the table and continues laughing.

“That’s the problem, Diaz. He left for months, right after he-” She hiccups from the recent chugging of her beverage. “He told me he likes me. Like, likes me likes me. For realz, romantic-stylez, likes me. Jake Peralta.”

Rosa eyebrows raise a little bit, but there is no gasp of shock that follows Amy’s confession. After a moment, she simply nods.

“Hold up,” Amy mumbles, her hands gripping the table as she begins to feel slightly dizzy. “Did you know? Did he tell you?”

“No, Jake and I don’t talk about that crap,” Rosa asserts quickly. “But…I suspected it for a while. I think everyone kinda did.”

Amy lets out a sigh of exasperation, suddenly feeling like the worst detective on Earth. Has he really liked her for a while? Potentially before she embarked on her current relationship, satisfactory yet completely dull in comparison to the excitement of bickering with Jake while on a case?

“He just left and now he could get hurt or-or die and he didn’t even give me the chance to respond,” she whines, burying her face in her hands as her hair falls like a curtain around her head. “What a complete ass.”

“So you like him back, huh?”

Amy hurriedly brushes the hair out of her face to look the other woman in the eye.

“I never said that,” she snaps, once again reverting to the defensive. “I-he’s Jake, I wouldn’t-I mean, maybe, but I’m still with Teddy and I’m just confused, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I just don’t want him to die. That doesn’t mean I like him.”

“Okay.”

“It would be nice to get the chance to figure it out, though. With him here.”

“I know.”

“And…I don’t want to lose him.”

Rosa’s eyes soften a little this time, though her tone remains steady: “You won’t.”

Amy holds her coworker’s - no, they’re definitely friends - gaze, nodding slowly. Rosa’s right about pretty much everything. She hopes this is no exception.

“I need another drink.”

“I don’t think so, Santiago,” Rosa stands and blocks her path back to the bar. “C’mon, I’ll take you home. I haven’t had anything to drink yet.”

A few minutes later, in the passenger seat of Rosa’s car, Amy opens her eyes for the first time since they left the Shaw’s parking lot and turns her head to face Rosa as she focuses on driving.

“Do you think me and Jake - uh, romantic-stylez - would be bad idea?”

Rosa pauses and glances over briefly. “I don’t think you’re gonna remember this tomorrow.”

Amy just curls in on herself and gives into her drunken desire to zone out and stare out the window at the passing city lights.

“But no,” Rosa mutters faintly just before Amy passes out. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

Amy doesn’t get much warning that he’s coming back. There’s been whispers among their detective squad, but no real confirmation that this would be unlike the many other times they were close to a sting but couldn’t quite pull it off.

She has the weekend off, and Sunday evening she gets a text from Rosa:

Jake’s back. They got most of the Ianuccis yesterday - busted at a family wedding. He’ll be at work tomorrow.

She’s beyond grateful for the heads up, because she has at least twelve hours to compose herself before she’s face-to-face with him for the first time in six months..

On one hand, she’s entirely unprepared to see him. On the other, she’s tempted to drive to his apartment right now and kiss him harder than she’s ever kissed anyone.

The more rational part of Amy, the part that is still in a relationship with a reasonable man for a woman approaching her thirties to be dating, wins this one.

She barely sleeps the night before he returns, her mind drafting a dozen options for what she may say to him when they reunite. Some are more dramatic or cliche than others, many would morally require her to break up with Teddy first. All of them end with some acknowledgement of her feelings, but none end up leaving her mouth when the time comes.

They’re in the evidence lockup, alone in a room together for the first time in so long - it felt like an eternity for her, at least - and she just can’t say it. Not like this, not now, not yet.

“I’m still with Teddy. Romantic-stylez.”

The hurt, slightly surprised look on Jake’s face - which she has been subconsciously re-memorizing since the moment he stepped off the elevator - makes her regret the choice instantly, but the real sweeping blow to her heart comes when he takes back his confession a moment later.

Later that day - somewhere between the clinking of glasses, Jake respectfully informing her that he does indeed still have feelings for her but understands that she’s still with Teddy, and a quiet walk alone to the subway after she decides she needs some air - Amy back to square one in terms of the confusion as to where her heart lies.

She arrives at Teddy’s at their agreed upon time and lets herself in, taking her boots off and placing them in the orderly line of his shoes on the rack by the door.

“In the kitchen, Amy!”

The sight before her in his large, well-lit kitchen with marble countertops is nothing new. She can estimate immediately that he’s about halfway through his Pilsner-brewing process, which he’s recently become quite obsessed with. Simply through frequent observation, she’s pretty sure she could make Pilsners in her sleep at this point.

“How was work today?” Teddy asks without looking up from the stove. “I heard Peralta’s back from his big, fancy FBI operation.”

The ignores the condescending tone and obvious jealousy, taking a seat at one of the stools and dropping her purse.

“It was fine.”

“Did you finally tell him nothing’s gonna happen between you two?”

Amy nods slowly, staring at her hands in her lap, and then realizes he still isn’t facing her. “Yeah. I told him.”

Teddy adjusts the burner on the stove and turns to her with a wide smile that fades the moment they make eye contact.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, brows furrowed. “Did he give you a hard time? If he’s being a jerk-“

“No.” God, she wishes he was a jerk. It would be so, so much easier if he was an entitled asshole. “No, he was perfectly respectful. I’m not upset, just-”

“Confused?”

Teddy repeats her choice of words from months ago - a word that is still haunting her - and she wants so badly to lie and shake her head and pretend that everything is fine and there’s nothing to be worried about. She can’t do that in good conscience, but she figures she can keep dating Teddy and see where that relationship takes her as long as she’s at least relatively honest with him.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “So, what flavour is this batch?”

She can see it in his eyes that Teddy isn’t happy with her answer, but at least she knows that she told him (part of) the truth as she sits back and listens to him talk about yeast and fermentation for the next forty minutes.

What she doesn’t admit to him, nor to herself quite yet, is that their relationship has been a ticking time bomb from the moment Jake flagged her down outside the precinct six months ago. Whether she likes it or not, it’s only a matter of time before it explodes and destroys everything in its reach.

Destruction isn’t always the worst thing, though. Not when it’s making room for something new and, if she’s lucky, something beautiful.

#otp: you're not allowed to fall in love with me #b99 fic #peraltiago #let me know what y'all think!!#part 2 should be up pretty soon #and will contain much more actual jake/amy and not just amy thinking about him bc they'll be dating lmao #title from another greatest showman song bc of course it is!#myfics

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ashtheshortstack · 5 years

Text

Garlic in the Cauldron - Ch 6

Garlic in the Cauldron

Adrien Agreste learned from a young age that witches were the enemies to vampires. He was taught to kill on sight, drink them dry, and never look back… however, meeting a witch named Marinette threw his entire world off balance.

Ch 6 - Under Your Love Spell

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Lying on the blanket, Adrien stared up at the clear night sky above their heads. Marinette was curled into his side, her head on his collarbone. His arm was wound around her waist, pulling her closer.

It was surprising to him that they fell into this physically so quickly. Cuddling with Marinette felt so natural. It was… nice yet weird. He enjoyed her being in his personal bubble, but he’d also never been in love. He had to admit he was addicted to her affection. It made his stomach warm and chest swell with glee. She meant so much to him. The fact that someone cared that much about him was mind-boggling to him.

He knew his mother cared and loved for him. But she’d been gone eight years, and it was hard to recall every moment with her like he’d wished. Having Marinette, however, seemed to make up for the lack of loving touch he’d missed for so long.

He heard Marinette sniffle. “Are you okay? Cold?”

“No, when’s the last time you washed this hoodie? You wear it every time you come here.”

Adrien scoffed. “Excuse me. I clean it often.”

“With a washboard?”

“We do use some human technology, you know.”

“Doubtful.”

“Rude.”

Marinette giggled. Adrien felt his cheeks flush when she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. Jesus, he was going to die. She was going to take one hundred years off his lifespan if she kept doing this to him. These surprise attacks were too much. Marinette tangled her fingers with his, beaming at him as she did so.

“I’m sure you’ll forgive me,” she cooed.

“Debatable.”

She batted her eyes, feigning an innocent look. “Do I have to prove it?” she asked with a pout.

Adrien squinted at her. “Maybe.”

Marinette bent down, peppering kisses along his cheeks and jaw. Adrien could already feel the primal need bubbling inside him from just those sweet, innocent pecks. What was wrong with him?

Being a vampire really sucked sometimes.

Her mouth took his, her lips slanting against him. His hands left hers to travel down her waist. He wound his arms around her, hugging her tightly. With her fingers freed, they buried in his blonde locks. The sweet scratches on his scalp made his head spin. His grip tightened on her as her lips began to move harsher along his. The kiss grew heated, passionate. Nothing like any of their previous kisses. His heart pounded in his chest so loudly. He idly wondered if Marinette could hear it and feel it as well.

Adrien tried to keep up. But her mouth kept moving and moving. She kept switching angles, tilting her head different ways. He definitely knew what the term “sloppy make-out” meant after this. He could feel the wetness shared between their lips.

However, when his fang caught her lip bottom lip, his entire world tilted on its axis. The tangy taste of her blood hit his tongue, and the magic sent tingles of his spine. If sparkles had a taste, that would be it. Sitting up, he pushed her away and covered his mouth. He scooted away, breathing heavily into his palm as he tried to gather his wits. Between the make-out and actually tasting witch’s blood, his head was in an entirely different plane of existence.

Was this what a panic attack felt like? He couldn’t breathe. The world spun around him. So much dread felt heavy in his chest.

“Adrien? Adrien! Calm down, you’re okay.”

He opened his mouth behind his hand, but no words came out. The air locked in his lungs. There was blood still on her lip as it oozed down her chin. How deep had he cut her? That was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do! He knew it. He knew kissing her was a bad idea.

When she crawled closer, he scooted away. “No! No, no, no!” he cried.

“Adrien! I’m okay! Please,” she begged.

The crack in her voice made him whimper in response. He finally moved his hands from face, rubbing them nervously on his jeans. “I-I’m so sorry. I knew this would happen.”

“It’s just a little cut… I’m okay.”

Adrien quickly shook his head. “I-It’s not that. I just—I never wanted to taste you.”

Marinette tilted her head. “My blood?”

Nodding, he grimaced. “I don’t know a vampire that doesn’t over juiced from witch blood. I swear, it’s worse than expresso. Being that overzealous has always frightened me. Especially because it has just made my father more aggressive. I couldn’t imagine being like that.”

Adrien wanted to lean away from her touch when she crawled to sit next to him, but he didn’t want to see the disappointed look in her eyes again. “Our blood sustains you longer, right?”

He gave her an inquisitive glance. “Yeah. It does.”

“When it the last time you drank blood?”

Looking away with shame, he grimaced. So, maybe he hadn’t been drinking as much blood as he should have been. He was doing everything he could to avoid his father. That included going to the kitchen. And any time he knew his father wasn’t home, he flew to the coven to see Marinette.

When he didn’t answer her, her attitude seemed to shift. Becoming more serious. Marinette eyed him. Suspicion was clear in that stare. “Adrien, when is the last time you’ve eaten and drank blood?”

“…Three days, maybe?”

She gaped at him. “Adrien!”

“I didn’t mean to! I-I’ve just wanted to see you. And I’ve been avoiding my father since the whole… incident.”

Marinette moved in front of him, planting her hands on his shoulders. “What are you thinking? You’re putting yourself in so much danger.”

He hung his head with remorse. She was right. He was putting himself in danger, as well as her. If he frenzied, he could lose his mind and attack her. The last thing he’d ever want to do was make her afraid of him again.

“I know…” he muttered guiltily. He couldn’t even look at her as he started down at his lap. He really should have been ashamed of himself. Marinette had insisted on him taking care of himself, and he'd failed her.

“Take some of mine.”

Adrien’s head shot up. “What?”

“My blood. From my lip. You can have it. It’s clearly not doing me any good on the outside of my body,” she joked with a shrug.

“Marinette, I can’t—”

“It’ll be okay, Adrien. I promise.”

In his heart, Adrien knew she was right. He needed to get some blood or else it could be dangerous. With a reluctant sigh, he nodded. “Okay. Fine,” he agreed.

Marinette leaned in, pressing her lips back to his. Adrien returned the kiss, melding his lips to hers before letting his tongue travel in to play. He lapped the blood from her mouth and teeth, before catching her bottom lip between his lips. Adrien sucked on the wound, tasting the rusty flavored liquid. The tingles returned down his body. He clutched her shoulders, keeping her steady as he took the blood from her chin. After cleaning her entirely, he flicked his tongue across the wound before pulling away.

Blinking, her eyes were wide when he pulled away. “Woah. Your eyes.”

He ruffled his hair nervously. “O-Oh, yeah. They turn red when I...”

“Drink blood?”

“Yeah…”

Marinette gazed at him with her mouth slightly ajar. “Your vampire tropes are crazy.”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh at the comment. “We do have a lot of interesting qualities.”

“I agree,” she said with a giggled. When the closed her mouth for a moment, she seemed confused, brows furrowing together as her tongue ran across her bottom lip. “Did you… Did you heal me?”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah.”

“You have magic healing spit? Are you joking?”

The vampire shook his head with a shrug. “We can only heal wounds caused by vampires. We can heal bite wounds or scratches caused by our claws. Stuff like that.”

“Jeez, you’re weird.”

“I’m offended, Marinette, really.”

“It’s just crazy. You have so many powers. I didn’t realize vampires could do so much,” she explained as she scooted to sit next to him.

Adrien bumped her lightly. “You’re saying this to me when you can literally cast any spells you want. I know every magical being has a catch, but you seem to be the most powerful of all creatures, you know?” He hummed staring off into the forest as he asked. “I don’t think you’ve told me what happens to witches? What’s your catch?”

Marinette chewed her lip lightly, seeming hesitant to reveal such information to him. Adrien bent at his shoulders, trying to see the look on her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do you not want to tell me?”

She hummed, fiddling with her thumbs. “I just don’t want you to feel pressured or anything.”

“Huh?”

Marinette swallowed, smiling hesitantly at him. “Well, we turn into hags if we haven’t found our soulmates by thirty years old. We begin rapidly aging and only live to be about one hundred. But we have to live the next seventy years looking old as dirt.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting. But it wasn’t that. Licking his tongue across his teeth, Adrien lost himself thinking about it. “Huh.”

“You see to like that word right now.”

“Sorry. That’s just a lot to take in.”

“I mean, knowing you’re allergic to the most random ass things is also a lot to take in, but I think I handled it pretty well,” Marinette retorted, puffing up her chest and crossing her arms. She stuck her tongue out for good measure as well.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if—if a vampire can’t be your soulmate.”

Marinette smiled, shaking her head. “If you have a soul,” she pressed her hand to his chest, “then you can be my soulmate.”

Adrien felt his cheeks heat furiously. Shakenly, he placed his hand over hers. She made him so nervous, and he wasn’t sure why. Did shaking hands, sweaty palms, and overthinking really come with love? Apparently so. Seeing her so kind to him made his heart ache. He hadn’t known such affection since his mother was killed. And having it now, from a witch of all people, was a huge adrenaline rush.

“Y-You really think I’m your soulmate?”

She hummed, coyly looking up at him through her lashes. “I think you could be.”

“Oh. W-Wow.”

Marinette smiled. “You seem stunned.”

“A little.”

They fell into a small silence as Marinette seemed to search him. Adrien wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation. A soulmate? Him? Did she really want that? He couldn’t remember a time he was so flattered. So much warmth pooled inside him. He took her hand from his chest, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you.”

Pulling him in, she pressed a kiss to his lips in response.

______________________________________________________________

“Have I told you it’s my birthday soon?” Adrien asked, grinning at her.

She gaped, seeming affronted from his confession. “No! Why would you keep that from me?”

Shrugging, he brushed off her comment. “Well, we’ve never really celebrated my birthday. Is it really a big deal?”

“Yes! Of course, it is! I need to give you a gift.”

“A gift? Oh, Marinette… I can’t ask you to go through that kind of trouble for me,” he insisted, waving a hand in surrender.

She gasped, clasping her hands together. “I know exactly what to give you!”

Marinette stood abruptly, hopping to her feet. She held out her hand, and he hesitantly took it. What was she planning? He was pretty unsure of her when she got in those determined moods. Sometimes Marinette’s plots overwhelmed him when she got a little too excited. But he stuck it out and let her drag him along for the ride.

When she helped him to stand, she chewed her lip. “Sooo,” she dragged the sound. “We’re going to have to go to my house to get your gift.”

“W-What?”

His heart pounded as he panicked. Her house!? If her parents found him… he was dead. They wouldn’t hesitate to blast him first and ask questions later. They would just assume he was attacking Marinette in her room, not that he was an invited guest of their daughter. Oh, this was awful.

“It’s okay.”

“N-No, it’s not, Marinette! If we get caught we’re doomed. I can’t step foot in your coven again.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Look, we’ll just sneak in for a few minutes, I’ll give you the present, and then we leave. It’s not a big deal.”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re really trying to sneak me into your bedroom?”

Marinette giggled. “It was only a matter of time, right?”

Adrien looked to Tikki pleadingly. “You can’t possibly think this is a good idea.”

The familiar nodded. “It’s a horrible idea.”

“And you’re not going to stop her from convincing me to do this!?” he asked, stunned at the familiar’s impartial attitude.

“I can’t stop her when she’s convinced of something,” Tikki murmured, glaring at her owner while crossing her tiny arms.

Adrien was shell-shocked with what he was witnessing. He stared, slack jawed and buggy eyed at the two. There must have been more here than he knew about. He’d have to ask later. He couldn’t believe Marinette was actually suggesting sneaking him into her home.

As much as he loved and adored Marinette, the tiny voices in his head couldn’t help but feel like it could be a trap. Was someone waiting there to take him away? Question him about vampires? Kill him?

“Adrien?”

He was shaken from his thoughts at the sound of her voice. “Y-Yes!?”

Her reassuring smile was almost blinding. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Gulping, he nodded. “O-Okay.”

_____________________________________________________________

They arrived at Marinette’s balcony faster than he’d realized. He hopped off the back of her broom before helping her down. It was the most gentlemanly gesture he could muster in his nervousness. Surely, someone would sense him here. Witches weren’t stupid…

She opened the door, crawling down the ladder and Adrien followed suit. He was surprised to see so much pink in her room. There were dresses on mannequins, a sewing machine sitting proudly on the desk, and many little trinkets scattered about. He smiled. Seeing this side of her was a nice change. Just seeing Marinette as a person rather than a witch. Rather than someone he cared for. Seeing her in her element was a nice change.

He walked to a large pink dress. It was beautiful. He ran his fingertips along the fabric, careful to not hit the material with his nails. It was so soft and silky. Almost comforting… he kind of wanted a blanket made out of it, so he could wrap himself in it.

Adrien started towards her sewing machine to examine it as Marinette rummaged through her drawers. She stopped him half-way, however. Marinette beamed as she held up a charm bracelet.

He gawked. She seemed so proud of it. It must have meant a lot to her. “F-For me?”

She nodded. “Yes! This is my lucky charm… it’ll keep you safe. I made it when I was a kid to protect me.”

“From vampires?” he guessed with a shy smile.

Marinette glanced away, tugging at one of her pigtails. "Well, seems like you may need protection from your father anyway."

She wasn't wrong, he mused. Smiling at her. he clasped the charm to his chest. "Thank you… I'll keep it always."

Her eyes were bright as she returned this smile. "Good."

There was a beat of silence. Adrien could hear his heartbeat quicken as he gazed at her flushed face. She was beautiful. The way her bluebell eyes twinkled… the freckles dusting her nose…

There was a magnetic pull between them, inching him closer to her with a small step. The light patter of his feet moving towards her was almost deafening in the quiet. When they were nose to nose, her breathes caressed his lips.

Adrien cupped her jaw, and Marinette leaned contently into his touch. His thumb rubbed gently below her eye in a loving touch. When her lashes fluttered, eyes closing, he decided that was all the permission he needed. The vampire captured her lips.

The kiss was warm. So much warmer than the ones previously. Her lips were slanted with his, lighting a hot fire inside his gut. Some stories described kissing like fireworks, and Adrien finally understood what they meant. Colors exploded inside his mind, imagining the blue of her eyes and the sweet pink of her skin.

Desire bubbled inside him… festering and ready to explode. He'd never wanted someone before, but Marinette seemed to hypnotize him with every movement of her lips on his.

She surged forward, pushing him back so his knees caught on her chaise. Adrien fell back, a little surprised, but not enough to be distracted from her.

Marinette broke from his lips only a moment. Her half lidded gaze sending a heat to his groin he'd never felt before. He wasn't a prude… but this witch sure knew how to make him feel like he had been. All of the new feelings she drew out of him must have been part of a magic spell she'd put him under.

She surprised him by crawling in his lap, straddling his hips on either side. Adrien's senses were suddenly on overload as she pressed against the growing bulge in his trousers.

Catching his mouth again, Marinette deepened this new kiss. Her tongue flicked across his fangs, almost making him lose his mind right then and there. Adrien's body tingled, heartbeat pulsing throughout his veins as she spurred on. It was almost too much for him.

When her hips rolled against him, Adrien let out a predatory growl into her mouth. It encouraged her to do it again. And again. And again. Until Adrien had fully lost himself in her touch.

He wanted her. He wanted her so bad. Every bit of his instincts told him to claim her right then. To rip off her clothes and shove himself inside her.

But he couldn't.

This was treading dangerous waters. It was a bad idea for them to be like this. If he had sex with her… if he claimed her… The scent of her would be stronger on him. His father would know in a heartbeat.

"M-Marinette," he panted, pushing her back slightly.

"Yes..?" she breathed.

Oh, that sultry tone would be the death of him. But this was too risky. He wanted to be intimate with her more than anything. But not when her safety was on the line.

"W-We can't do this. It's not safe."

She shrugged. "I can't get pregnant if that's what you're worried about."

"No!" he squeaked, feeling his cheeks heat at the statement. "My father would know. I can't risk putting you in danger."

Her face fell, but she nodded in understanding. "Yes… I should've thought this through. I'm sorry."

Adrien brushed his fingers along her cheek. "Never apologize for kissing me stupid. I couldn't think for most of that," he chuckled.

That earned him a light giggle. Then she held out her fist. Laughing, he grinned and bumped his knuckle to hers.

"Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

Nodding, he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist. "Of course."

The two cuddled in her bed until she was asleep in his arms. No matter how desperately he didn't want to leave, he knew he had to. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Adrien gave Marinette a quiet goodbye.

When he and Plagg arrived back to the mansion, Adrien immediately went for a cool shower. He'd never been so worked up in his almost nineteen years. He scrubbed his skin of Marinette's scent, no matter how much he didn't want to. Her safety came first.

Always.

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desire-to-write-fanfic · 6 years

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Love’s To Blame (Prologue)

Summary: Billy Hargrove is bad news. he’s the kind of guy that leaves behind a string of broken hearts and you are not about to be one of those girls, despite all of his advances. You have a past, and you’re determined to make sure you don’t have a future. Unfortunately, “no” isn’t a word in Billy’s vocabulary.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

Word Count: 556

Warnings: Death, minimal langauge

A/N: This is just the backstory to this, so i won’t make it Part One of the series. The timeline of this won’t exactly match up with the show, only because i’m going to have Billy come to Hawkins a couple years earlier, other than that, the storyline will be the same. Hopefully, it’s gonna be a pretty angsty story, but I’m excited for it. It’ll be my first multi-fic story, so fingers crossed I’ll finish it. As long as you’re polite, all feedback is welcome. I currently don’t have a tag list, but I’d be more than willing to start one. Sorry for the long note, enjoy!

You jolted awake at the sound of someone trying to beat down your front door, the noise carrying up to your bedroom. Sitting straight up, you twisted to look at your alarm, squinting in the dark. Three in the morning.

Fear crept up your spine.

Nothing good ever came from someone at your door that early.

You heaved out of bed, muscles stiff and overworked from your run the night before. Opening your door, you poked your head out, your mother sharing a look with you as she came out of her bedroom, a lamp in hand. What that lamp was going to do exactly, you had no clue. What was she going to do to an intruder with it? Knock them out? Regardless, if someone was breaking in, they probably wouldn’t be knocking on the door.

“Stay here,” she mouthed, quietly tiptoeing down the steps. You ignored her and paused on the stairway as she stretched to look through the peephole. “What the hell?”

Swinging it open, you could see red and blue flashing lights and Hopper stood at your door. Rolling your eyes, you turned to go back to bed. Someone was probably just vandalizing things again. Then Hopper spoke.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” he asked, barely glancing at your mother, nervously wringing his hands.

“That’s me,” your mother answered, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem?”

He shifted, obviously struggling with his next words. After a few agonizing moments, he found the courage to speak, delivering the most devastating news imaginable.

“It’s about your son, there’s been an accident. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but he didn’t make it.” His face were somber, eyes downcast.

Your mother let out a piercing, soul-crushing wail, and started to drop. Hopper leapt forward, his arm holding her upright.

But there was no one there for you.

You crumbled to the floor, clutching your chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were suffocating under the pressure.

He didn’t make it.

He was dead. Your older brother-your best friend- was gone.

“I’m sorry,” You could hear the voice of another officer as he crouched over you, his arm wrapping around you as you heaved with silent sobs, tears soaking into his sleeve.

Adam was gone. In a matter of hours, he’d been ripped from your life forever. You’d just seen him at dinner, and you’d been talking about going to a concert before he left for college. He’d been teasing you about some guy at school.

Everything had been perfect. The way it was supposed to be.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your whole life had been tilted on its axis. You felt lost and afraid. You couldn’t tell which way was up or down.

He’d only had 3 more months in town. He was supposed to leave, go to college, become a lawyer.

He. Wasn’t. Supposed. To. Die.

None of this was supposed to happen.

Your perfect life wasn’t supposed to explode like this.

But it had.

Over night, you went from having it all to having nothing.

Your mother shut down, closed herself off from everybody.

You had to change from carefree and happy into a complete and utter cynic, working two jobs and being lucky to make it into school once a week.

And you knew exactly who was to blame for everything.

Billy Hargrove.

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x reader #billy Hargrove imagine #stranger things #stranger things fic #My writing

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sennokami · 5 years

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*hanahaki disease 3.

Part 3. This has also been posted on ao3 in its entirety under the name “Hanahaki” by selwyn.

...

You ask me what wounded me. I can only say that I came back from a great and terrible war, and that I lost.

Madara wasn’t, contrary to common opinion, invincible. He could get tired. He could be careless.

Sometimes, accidents just happened.

Peace wasn’t declared yet. The battlefield was ebbing to a stop, some massive clash between the Fire and Lightning daimyo that had reeled in five clans. His clan retreated further up the mountains and Madara had been covering the back, giving the younger and the more wounded time to escape, but something happened – a hit, maybe. A slip? He couldn’t recall; all his memories felt muggy and undefined.

He stumbled through the rocks, swiping his sleeve across his wet forehead. The head wound he’d received was bleeding heavily, blood dripping into his eyes, his mouth, and he was exhausted. He’d lost his scabbard somewhere, so he held his naked wakizashi, sweating and losing his grip on the leather hilt.

Madara pushed his damp hair out of his face, breathing hard, and he had to find his clan. He had to protect them, even if the world kept wobbling on its axis like a poorly-spun top. He slapped his hand down on some jagged snags, smearing blood all over them, and wheezed as he turned the bend.

Hashirama was already making a hand seal by the time Madara realized he was looking at someone. He raised his sword briefly, prepared to fight even as his muscles whimpered at the possibility, but Hashirama didn’t finish the seal. Madara could feel his chakra build, stop, and slowly dissipate as he lowered his hands.

“Madara…” Hashirama whispered. “You’re hurt.”

“We’re still in a battle,” Madara reminded him, speaking around a tongue that felt like beef liver. He blinked. “C’mon. I have to leave. Let’s get this over with.”

“You’re barely upright,” Hashirama told him. He didn’t do anything and his brows were drawn together, his mouth pinched close, and Madara didn’t understand it, didn’t understand him. They were still enemies. If Madara saw Hashirama this weak, he would have gone for it.

“Hashirama, either fight or get out of my way,” he warned.

“My clan is already leaving,” Hashirama said. He continued to stand there, hand raised unthreateningly. “And so is yours. We’re not really fighting anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard –“

“Madara,” Hashirama spoke again, and there was a new firmness to his voice. “If we fight now, you will lose.” They were the same age – only sixteen – but he spoke with the authority of grown man. It fit him. Hashirama was going through so many growth spurts that he nearly looked a man, and Madara unthinkingly lowered his blade. His cheeks felt hot.

When nothing else happened, Hashirama approached him. Madara let him come, doing nothing to encourage or dissuade his cautious advancing. When Hashirama was close enough that Madara could see the grooves on his breastplate, he cocked his head a little.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to heal you.” A soft, green glow bloomed across his palm.

And later he would blame it on the exhaustion, on the foreign weight of his sword, but Madara just sighed and let him do as he pleased. A gentle touch… how long had it been since he’d known it? He was hungry for it in a greedy, stupid way, and he trembled when he felt Hashirama kneel down next to him with his warm, healing touch.

The green chakra seeped into his skin and knitted together his flesh. Madara’ mouth was dry. This was the closest they had ever been after what happened – he could smell Hashirama’s sweat, hear his slow breathing. Would he hear his heart too, if he dipped his head down to his chest?

Want bit through him like a gnawing creature. Crazy, insane want, panting inside him like a maddened thing; Madara trembled more, biting his tongue until he tasted blood.

Hashirama probably mistook his reaction for wariness, because he said nothing. And in this space, Madara wanted to cup his cheeks and drink from his mouth. He wanted to drink until he was overfilled, until he was drowning, and he wanted it with a fierce, craving need. But he withheld, clamped tight, and it was pain itself. He was a feral thing, crouched low, caught in the light, and every part of him ached like desire’s bruise.

I missed you, he wanted to say, on his knees with Hashirama’s breath in his ear. I thought about you every day. Tell me you missed me too.

⋯

Agony did not change over time. His desires did not change either, though Madara wished they had.

Hashirama’s shoulders were broad now, filled out by slab of hot muscle. His skin sipped the sun and light splashed from him like water. He grew into all his dazzling potential, a man with the endless forest tethered to his soul, and Madara’s insanity clawed deeper into him. He wanted to taste the beat of his pulse. He wanted to learn his body in greedy detail. He wanted to wake up with their legs tangled together and go to sleep with his hair in his face. He wanted a thousand things he could not have, and he knew better than to say them out loud.

The intimacy of brotherhood was not enough. Madara wanted to touch Hashirama in way brothers didn’t know.

Before, only Tobirama had been his competition. That hadn’t been fine, but it had been survivable, because Madara didn’t want his position.

Uzumaki Mito, however… he wanted what she had.

He wanted it so badly that when he saw her for the first time ever, rage boiled inside him. He could have leapt at her, could have torn into her swan neck and put his hands into her inked chest until he cracked all her rib free. Who she was didn’t matter to him – she was simply the wrong woman in the wrong place. But that was enough. For that, he hated her. He hated her and her clan, hated the red beauty of her hair and the steel in her spine. Maybe in a different world, he could have been her friend. But in this one, she was his rival in something he would never win.

That ate him alive. Her nature was her triumph. Whether it was because she was a woman or because she wasn’t him (and how that filled him with despair), she’d won this war with a nod and a smile.

The wedding came and he wanted to skip it. He would have, if it weren’t for Hashirama’s soft request. Sit by me, he’d said. You’re family.

For love, he endured. For love, he sat on Hashirama’s right side with Tobirama. A brother. A friend. The suitor who never was. He said nothing, did nothing, and stared while jealousy gnawed on his flesh. Jealousy was her sitting across hi. Jealousy was her white kimono and her downcast eyes, the way she secretly held Hashirama’s hand under the sleeves. Jealousy was sake and it was blood from his bitten tongue.

Afterwards, he found Hashirama.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much.” He was drunk, too drunk, and he leaned against Hashirama. He tasted rosebuds.

When Hashirama didn’t push him away, Madara’s heart surged with insane, divine hope. Maybe, he thought, in between hot breaths and clenched teeth, maybe, maybe –!

“You’re drunk,” Hashirama laughed into his hair. His breath also smelled like alcohol. “How are you going to go home?”

With you, Madara wanted to say. Come with me. Leave that woman. It would have been easy to tilt his head up and kiss Hashirama. In this place, no one would see. With one touch, he could pull out his secret and breathe it into Hashirama’s mouth.

In a perfect world, he would have and Hashirama would have kissed him back and he would love him as something other than a friend. But this was not the perfect world.

In this flawed existence, some men loved and other men did not.

Madara didn’t kiss Hashirama. He left the wedding and he left the groom with his bride, and he went home to scream and destroy everything he owned before he slept alone.

#hashimada #hashirama #madara #drabble #naruto

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vwoodes · 5 years

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@jcllyfisn warning in advance i wrote this with my head switched off, but the inspiration had me. probably completely ooc but //clenches fist// i love htem.

It starts like this.

It starts slowly, seeping through cracks she didn’t know were there, sneaking up on her and settling in her bones before she can do so much as guard against it.

It starts on quiet nights and early mornings, in messy breakfasts and walks on the beach, happens with little nudges and snarky comments, drinks shared over laughter and tears, with fights and with embraces and without even a little warning at all.

It starts here.

Val is zoned out, sitting, staring at nothing as she usually does; as she has been, for the past hour. Somewhere in the back of her head, she registers the ache seeping into her bones along with the cold, her muscles stiff and angry. She doesn’t move. She sits, and she stares, and she ignores the world for a moment, lets her mind go blank and deliberately doesn’t think of anything. Doesn’t think of the way her hands ached with bruises. Doesn’t think of how her split lip had scabbed, weird and pinched and going to heal wrong. Doesn’t think of the look in that girl’s eyes as Val had pounded her father — murderous, drug-running, but still a father — into the ground. She doesn’t think of any of that, and instead she fills her head with nothing and everything, gaze fixed on the horizon where dusk stains the sky with crimson, and sits. Her ears are filled with a constant buzzing, the back of her eyes tattooed with static-y and off-coloured shapes that make no sense. But the ocean is calm, the beach is empty, and only the soft crash of breaking waves in the distance disturbs her vigil.

She doesn’t know how much time has passed, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, but eventually she blinks and night has fallen. The red has leached out of the sky, replaced with violet, and indigo, and a million tiny pinpricks of light. There’s someone standing in front of her, a darker shape in the dark of the evening, and the light of the moon allows her to pick out details like the line of a nose, or the pattern of a coat. None of that matters though, because Val would know that shape by heart, no matter how it changes.

They don’t talk, but Olivier takes a seat next to her, close enough that Val can feel the way her raincoat creases as she moves, can feel the heat of another human being, hear her breathing in and out in time with the waves, slow and steady. Val lets her eyes slip closed. She leans, just that tiny bit it takes until she’s resting her head on Olivier’s shoulder, and basks in the warmth that radiates between them, spreading throughout her body. Her back aches, and her fingers cramp when she moves them, and she’s pretty sure that if she tries to stand up her legs will be numb — but it’s nice.

It’s quiet.

That’s the beginning, but looking back, it’s not until later that things change. Like a ball rolling down a hill, it starts slow and builds momentum, and Val is left chasing after it and wishing she had realised sooner.

It’s a fleeting touch on the back of her neck as she teases Quartz, tiny grin bared for all to see as Val gives the kid a heartfelt noogie (Quartz hisses and spits and struggles in her arms, but Val knows she could easily break free if she wanted to — and isn’t it something, that this wounded, broken, wonderful child has come to trust them even this much? The inevitable bites and scratches will be worn like a badge of honour, smug because, ha! In your face Thatch, Quartz likes her). It lingers both too long and not long enough, and Val leans into the touch, as she always does, but doesn’t give up on her quest to embarrass the kid. Olivier passes by, her hand trailing along the nape of Val’s neck and over her shoulder, and the shiver along her spine has nothing to do with Marco’s tired glare and everything to do with the glance Olivier left with — one alight with hidden mirth and something like affection. Arms slackening around her prize, Quartz breaks free in an instant, hair fluffy and sticking out in every direction, cheeks adorably flushed as she bites out curses Val would be proud of if she weren’t distracted. She tracks Olivier’s progress across the deck and resists the urge to follow after her, resists the gravity that has her facing the door Olivier vanished into, like Mercury orbiting the sun.

But the pull is there, and it never quite disappears.

It’s the way her hair catches the light of late afternoon, one day by the deck. There’s a party in full swing around them, a welcome or a birthday or something, but Val is rooted to the spot, hand half raised in greeting. People laugh and chatter and push by her, there’s music starting up, and someone’s said something that makes Whitebeard roar with laughter — and Val stands there and remembers. She remembers that sunset from months ago, and thinks Olivier’s hair is the same shade of violet. Exactly the same, Val thinks. Lit from behind with the light of the sun, warm and cool meeting and melting together seamlessly, she can almost see it soak up the scarlet sky until it’s dyed a boundless indigo and dusted with stars. It should be nothing, just a passing fancy, but it leaves her struck still.

And then Olivier turns, and sees her, and smiles, and Val’s chest catches fire.

It’s a tiny thing, that smile, tiny and sweet and real.

The fire in her chest has burnt it’s way up to her cheeks by the time Val manages to move, but she doesn’t continue on, she spins on her heel and leaves, manages to make it to a hallway below deck with only minor stumbling, and she swallows and counts that as a win.

Time passes, as it always does, and it becomes normal, feeling a wildfire burning inside her when she’s around Olivier. Sometimes she will smile, or tell a joke, or get that light of mischief in her eyes that means she’s about to prank some unfortunate soul, and the blaze will flutter and spark like a gust of wind fanned through it; Other times, times when they haven’t seen each other in weeks, months, times when events catch up to them, when she says something wrong, or forgets — then it feels like going hungry and losing appetite at the same time, fire sputtering to embers and glowing coal; but it never goes out.

Val learns to adjust to the inferno beneath her skin.

Even with that, it takes more. Val’s on an island, alone for the first time in what feels like forever, but has really only been a couple of weeks. There’s a good lead on a bounty, plenty of money in her wallet, a great bar just down the road, and she even has a place to stay. By all rights, she should be thoroughly enjoying her stay here, but. She’s not.

There’s something trailing at her footsteps, a need to call out, but nobody to call to. A reminder, in lilac baubles and strange seafood. A glimpse in a window, half expecting there to be two reflections instead of the one.

She’s. . . not restless, that’s the wrong word for the emotion curled in the hollow space between ribs, around her shoulders, pressing her down. She’s not restless, but it’s similar. She’s. . .

Lonely.

Val pauses in the street, let’s the bounty she’d been trailing round a corner without her. Loneliness is an emotion she hadn’t allowed herself in years, not even when separated from Johnny and Yosaku, and to feel it now sends a dull thorn into her mind. It’s a crack in her mental blocks, and now that she recognises the one, others come tumbling after: she’d been sad, to leave the ship. She’d been happy, to be wished well on her travels. She was eager to leave the island and return h-

She stops that thought there, turns around and heads for the bar.

When she does return to the ship, a month later than she’d promised last she wrote, it’s with sheepish apologies for the worry and many souvenirs. The gifts are received with mixed reactions, but that’s fine, she hadn’t really been paying attention when she bought them this time. She’d been distracted by feelings, of all things, and it had taken an unfortunate amount of time to wrap her head around the fact that that was okay now, that she was allowed to feel. And what a revelation that had been, face down in the sand with a nest of empty bottles around her, leagues away from the people who caused it. No one has ever accused Val of being the smartest crayon in the shed, but she tries not to cringe as she thinks of it. She really is dense, sometimes.

She’d missed them, the Whitebeards. And most of all, Olivier.

Thoughts of returning had buoyed her borrowed sails, and this time she didn’t let ending up on the wrong ship steer her off course. She wasn’t part of the family, she wasn’t even friends with most of them, but they made her feel welcome in a way precious few had before, and it struck her that she’d never told them how much that meant. She wanted to, now, wanted it with a passion she rarely felt and even rarer acted on. Olivier isn’t there, but she’s probably away on business and Val doesn’t let it bother her. She opens her mouth to say something, her small gathering by the rails comparing presents and ribbing each other in a happy mess of bodies, and then she spots her. Olivier is next to her father, gesturing at something before heading their way, and Val thinks, I should wait for her, and, her coat looks a bit singed, and, Stephan got bigger again.

And then their eyes meet.

It starts like this: a flash of purple, a fleeting touch, a secret smile.

It burns in the back of her throat, and makes her heart beat raw and aching, and steals the breath from her lungs to make room for- for other things.

Val meets Olivier’s eyes across the deck, and it’s like stepping off a ledge, her stomach swooping in ways that probably aren’t healthy.

Something grows in her chest, sinks deep into her veins and hooks into her skin, strips the words from her tongue and shifts everything inside her just a bit to the left, just enough to tilt the world on its axis. Or maybe she’s the one tilting (though it feels more like falling), and regardless she reels from it. Head spinning, the world settles around her in a new and unfamiliar way when she finally finds her feet.

“Oh,” Val says. Breathes the word out, because there’s no room left in her for anything but realisation, and the importance of air and oxygen leave her mind in the wake of it. And then she says it again, because, “Oh.”

She’s in love.

#✖️ Writings #✖️ Valvier [The world between my hands]#( i feel like i should tag this ooc because of olivier )#( anyway let it be known that i don't know what a word is )#( happy valentines mik! )#long post

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harringtonhargrovethings · 6 years

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Love’s To Blame (Prologue)

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

Word Count: 556

Warnings: Death, minimal langauge

Fear crept up your spine.

Nothing good ever came from someone at your door that early.

“Stay here,” she mouthed, quietly tiptoeing down the steps. You ignored her and paused on the stairway as she stretched to look through the peephole. “What the hell?”

“Ms. Y/L/N?” he asked, barely glancing at your mother, nervously wringing his hands.

“That’s me,” your mother answered, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem?”

He shifted, obviously struggling with his next words. After a few agonizing moments, he found the courage to speak, delivering the most devastating news imaginable.

“It’s about your son, there’s been an accident. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but he didn’t make it.” His face were somber, eyes downcast.

Your mother let out a piercing, soul-crushing wail, and started to drop. Hopper leapt forward, his arm holding her upright.

But there was no one there for you.

You crumbled to the floor, clutching your chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were suffocating under the pressure.

He didn't make it.

He was dead. Your older brother-your best friend- was gone.

“I’m sorry,” You could hear the voice of another officer as he crouched over you, his arm wrapping around you as you heaved with silent sobs, tears soaking into his sleeve.

Adam was gone. In a matter of hours, he’d been ripped from your life forever. You’d just seen him at dinner, and you'd been talking about going to a concert before he left for college. He’d been teasing you about some guy at school.

Everything had been perfect. The way it was supposed to be.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your whole life had been tilted on its axis. You felt lost and afraid. You couldn’t tell which way was up or down.

He’d only had 3 more months in town. He was supposed to leave, go to college, become a lawyer.

He. Wasn’t. Supposed. To. Die.

None of this was supposed to happen.

Your perfect life wasn’t supposed to explode like this.

But it had.

Over night, you went from having it all to having nothing.

Your mother shut down, closed herself off from everybody.

You had to change from carefree and happy into a complete and utter cynic, working two jobs and being lucky to make it into school once a week.

And you knew exactly who was to blame for everything.

Billy Hargrove.

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things #stranger things fic #mywriting

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amaanogawa · 7 years

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will you stay with me my love, for another day?

Kurodai Weekend 2017 Day 1 | August 25: Spirits ( Shinigami AU | Yokai and Exorcist AU ) “Are you a Shinigami?” The man raises his brows, clearly surprised. “What makes you think that?” “You appeared out of thin air, you’re dressed in all black, you have a notebook with my name in it that tells you I’m sick, and you said that it was my time.” “…alright, I guess I was a bit obvious, but in my defense you’re not supposed to be able to see me. And the black is a personal choice, really.” Word Count: 3323

Also available on AO3

“Excuse me, it’s time to take your blood.”

Daichi glances towards the door as it rolls open, a nurse in pale blue scrubs and a white lab coat stepping into the room. He smiles at her and extends the arm without his IV. Green-yellow bruises pool in this crook of his elbow, still healing from when they last drew blood. It’s an accessory that he has been wearing for years now, just like his hospital gown and the needle in his other arm.

“Sure,” he says with a smile. “Be my guest.”

The nurse busies herself with the usual vitals assessment. Measuring his temperature, sticking the heartrate monitor on his index finger, taking his blood pressure. Daichi barely even notices the prick of pain as the needle is inserted in his arm anymore, instead he’s staring out the window at a flock of blackbirds taking flight in the distance. Daichi has always liked birds. Something about their freedom to go wherever they wish to go, soaring high in the air by their own ability, is enviable to him. He is a bird with clipped wings, stuck in this cage of pale green walls and the smell of antiseptic. It’s a quick process, and the nurse is already cleaning up her supplies by the time Daichi snaps out of his thoughts.

“How are you feeling today?” The nurse asks, flipping through the chart at the foot of his bed. “I understand you had some difficulty breathing yesterday.”

“Yes, it’s better today.”

“Chest pain?”

“Around a 3 for now.”

“Good to hear. Well, I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.”

“Thank you.”

The door clicks shut behind the nurse steps out, and Daichi returns to staring absently out the window. The days pass by, just like this. He feels as though his time has stopped, even as the rest of the world continues turning on its axis.

Suddenly, it’s as if the space between his bed and the window starts shimmering, streaks of movement pooling into a single point, a whirlpool of nothingness, and a pale hand is appearing from out of nowhere. Then an arm, and an entire body follows. A tall man steps out of the shimmering air, with piercing golden eyes and a head of messy black hair. He’s clothed in all black- black hoodie, black jeans, and thick black boots.

“There we go,” he huffs, brushing himself off. The man pulls a black leather-bound notebook out of his pocket. “So, what do we have here…Sawamura Daichi, 22 years old, congenital heart disease.”

Glancing up at Daichi, he raises his brows in acknowledgement. “And a pretty face, no less. That’s a shame, for it to be time so soon.” “Uh, thank you?” Daichi answers, less taken aback than he feels that most people would be after seeing a man appear out of thin air in the middle of their hospital room.

The man freezes, golden eyes blinking owlishly in bewilderment. Daichi frowns, wondering what on earth the man could possibly be bewildered about. It’s not like Daichi was the one who waltzed out of a magic portal into his private space.

“Are- are you talking to me?”

“Well, yes.”

“You can see me.”

“Yes?”

Stunned, the stranger clothed in black stares back at Daichi for a few moments before reaching up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Okay, well this is awkward. I apologize for, uh-”

“Magically appearing in my room and calling me good looking?” Daichi laughs before tilting his head in thought. “Are you a Shinigami?”

The man raises his brows, clearly surprised. “What makes you think that?”

“You appeared out of thin air, you’re dressed in all black, you have a notebook with my name in it that tells you I’m sick, and you said that it was my time.”

“…alright, I guess I was a bit obvious, but in my defense you’re not supposed to be able to see me. And the black is a personal choice, really.”

“When?” Daichi asks, a cough bubbling out of his throat. He holds up a finger as his body starts shaking with deep, wheezing coughs. The man looks concerned, but only takes half a step forward before freezing in place. The coughing fit subsides after a few minutes, and Daichi takes a few deep breaths before continuing. “When am I going to die? Are you taking me now?”

“No, uh,” the man’s eyes shift between Daichi’s face and anywhere else. Daichi thinks the shade of shimmering gold is oddly hypnotizing. “Listen, I’ve never encountered anything like this before. I don’t know what the protocol is. You’re just…you’re being awfully calm about all of this. Most humans would be more, I don’t know, scared? Aren’t you scared?”

Daichi’s response is a wry smile, because he isn’t scared. He has not been scared of dying for many years now. It’s simply an inevitability, a mysterious mark on his imaginary calendar. “I’ve known I was going to die since I was 7. The doctors gave me 5 more years. I’ve lived triple that. The surprising thing isn’t that it’s my time, it’s that it has taken this long for it to finally come.”

The stranger stares at Daichi, scrutinizing, before huffing a sigh. His eyes are sad, filled with too much emotion for a literal god of death.

“Three days.” He says softly, mouth curling into a frown. “In three days, you’re going to go into heart failure.”

“Oh,” Daichi whispers. His heart beats weakly in his chest. He closes his eyes, leans back against his pillow and takes three shuddery breaths. “Oh.”

Day One.

“Are you going to stay in that corner the whole time?”

Kuroo chews on his lip worriedly, arms crossed tightly across his chest, before taking a few nervous steps towards Daichi’s bed.

“I’m freaked out, okay? Interacting with our humans has never been an option. This has never happened before.”

He looks like a terrified cat, Daichi thinks bemusedly, the way his shoulders are raised, tense, as if ready to bolt at any moment. Daichi reaches towards him, laughing just a little at the way he shrinks back warily. Honestly, just like a cat.

“I never thought a Shinigami would be scared of a human.” Daichi smiles, raising his brows. He opens his hands, waiting. “I won’t bite.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Kuroo grumbles, eyeing Daichi’s hand. “I’m afraid of the consequences that might arise because of you.”

Despite looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here, Kuroo steps forward, lifts his hand hesitantly, and places it in the center of Daichi’s palm. He cannot feel Kuroo’s hand, and yet a cold chill runs up Daichi’s spine and goosebumps rise on his skin. It’s the strangest feeling of uncanniness, clearly seeing something there and not feeling anything at all. Kuroo has a look of awe on his face as he wraps his fingers around Daichi’s.

“You’re warm,” Kuroo says, soft, his mouth curving into a sad smile.

—

“What happens? After.” Daichi is staring out the window again, at the great blue expanse of sky, the birds flying freely among the clouds. Kuroo looks up from where he is perched on the single chair beside Daichi’s bed.

“Well,” he says, pensive. “God judges your mortal life and if your soul is pure, then you get reincarnated. That is, if you so choose.”

“You have a choice?”

“Sure, some people don’t want to live again. So they just return to God’s grace.”

“And if your soul is not pure?”

“Then God returns it to nothingness.” Kuroo rests his chin on his palm, staring at Daichi thoughtfully. “Are you worried?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had much of a chance to be a good person or a bad person. Just a sick person.”

Kuroo hums, drawing his knees up to his chest. They are an odd pair, a human and the Shinigami that will reap his soul, and yet Daichi feels strangely comfortable with Kuroo. He’s easy to talk to, and Daichi has very little people that he can really have a conversation with. The only person that is a constant in his life aside from the hospital staff is his mother, but Daichi tries to keep things simple in front of her- act like everything is just fine and that he isn’t sick or dying. But he is, and Kuroo doesn’t break down in tears when that fact is acknowledged. He’s a Shinigami, after all. He can’t afford to cry for every human soul he reaps.

“How did you become a Shinigami, then? Is that also a choice?”

The look on Kuroo’s face means that Daichi has asked something he shouldn’t have. But before Daichi can open his mouth to take it back, Kuroo is already speaking.

“I took my own life when I was a human.” Kuroo says, eyes glazing over. “That’s how you become a Shinigami.”

“Why?” Daichi asks, and perhaps it’s insensitive to ask such a question, but a burning nausea is rising at the back of his throat. For him, who has clung so desperately onto life for his entire hopeless existence, suicide is a concept that he cannot understand.

“I don’t even remember anymore. It was a long time ago.”

“So being a Shinigami, it’s a punishment?”

“No, it is an opportunity- to rediscover the beauty of life. Supposedly once we understand, we too can be reincarnated.” Kuroo sighs, slouching so as to bury his face in his arms. “Suicide is not a sin. It is a tragedy.”

Daichi reaches out to take Kuroo’s hand, and then it is silent.

Day Two.

Kuroo is surprisingly perky in the morning. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet by Daichi’s bedside as soon as he wakes.

“Let’s go somewhere.” He says with a grin, offering his hand to Daichi.

“Uh,” It’s not to say that Daichi doesn’t trust Kuroo. He does, despite the obviously morbid nature of their relationship, but that trust is diminished a great deal when Daichi is still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “How, exactly? I can’t walk more than a few hundred meters without having to sit down.”

“Silly, silly human.” Kuroo smirks, wagging a finger. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

With a roll of his eyes, Daichi takes Kuroo’s hand, and suddenly it’s like he was dunked into ice cold water. The pain in his chest, all of his weariness is lifted from his person and he’s standing beside Kuroo despite his body slumping back against his pillow in a deep sleep.

“What is this?” His body is glowing, the same sort of shimmery ethereal-like property of the portal Kuroo had appeared out of.

“I pulled your soul out of your body. Now we can go anywhere we’d like.” Kuroo reaches out to touch the air in front of them and the same magical whirlpool opens up before his fingertips. “After you.”

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.” The satisfied grin on Kuroo’s face makes Daichi suspicious. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

And because Daichi may possibly be out of his mind, he sucks in a deep breath and steps through the shimmering portal. One second he is in the dreary hospital room in which he has spent a majority of his time, and the next he is standing in front of a roaring crowd, the sound of sneakers squeaking on a court, and the deafening impact of a ball off the palm of a hand.

“This is-” Daichi pauses to swallow, and though he doesn’t have a physical body at the moment, he swears something is lodged in his throat. “This is Chuo university.“

“Yep.” Kuroo is still grinning as he stands next to Daichi, hands shoved in his pockets. “I figured from that big poster you have that you like their volleyball team.”

There’s not a single wasted movement as the players call out for the ball. The setter is fast as lightning and deadly accurate as he sets up the perfect quick attack to the wing spiker, who leaps into the air and draws his arm back like a whip, slamming the ball past three blockers to the other side of the net. Daichi might have forgotten to breathe.

“It was my dream to attend Chuo ever since I saw one of their matches on TV as a child,” he says, barely a whisper. “I mean, it was hopeless from the beginning because-”

He doesn’t want to say it. He has never said it out loud, even after the doctors delivered the news, because both he and his mother had just quietly never mentioned Chuo or volleyball ever again. Kuroo takes Daichi’s hand in his, and now that he is a spirit too he can finally feel Kuroo’s touch but it is ice cold against the skin of his palm.

“This is amazing.” Is all Daichi says, clutching Kuroo’s hand like a lifeline. He is afraid for this to end, and whether he will admit it or not, he is afraid for tomorrow, even if he has had more than a decade of preparation. “Thank you, Kuroo.”

“You’re welcome.” Kuroo’s smile is kind as he gives Daichi’s hand a fond squeeze.

“Are you sure you’re allowed to do this?”

“I mean, I was never told that I couldn’t do it, so…”

“Because there’s never been a human who could see you before?”

“Yep. You’re one of a kind.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the humans whose souls you’re about to take.”

“Only the ones with killer thighs like yours.” Kuroo says, fluttering his lashes.

Daichi laughs, giving Kuroo’s leg a light kick. “Thanks. My secret is never working out and lying in a bed all day.”

It feels good, to go somewhere with a handsome guy and laugh and joke like this. As simple as it is, for Daichi, it is a first. He feels normal, almost, if he could forget everything but the sight before him and Kuroo steady at his side. For the rest of the match, Daichi excitedly explains the game to Kuroo, who is a fast learner and seems to get genuinely interested as time passes. When Chuo wins the match 2-0, Daichi doesn’t remember the last time he smiled so wide.

He is reluctant to leave, but as they step back into Daichi’s hospital room, his mother is there by his bedside peeling an apple. Kuroo lets go of Daichi’s hand and he is plunged back into his body, with it the weight of the living, the warmth, but also the pain and the weariness. He blinks his eyes open, letting out a small groan, and his mother smiles down at him.

“Good morning, it’s rare for you to sleep in so late.”

“I had an amazing dream.” Daichi says, smiling sleepily. “I was at one of Chuo’s volleyball matches. It was everything I thought it would be.”

Beside him, Kuroo is comically re-enacting a block, jumping up with his arms raised high. Then he crouches languidly into a low receive, doing a backwards somersault before propping himself up and imitating a cheering crowd. Daichi stifles a chuckle.

His mother looks sad, as she always does when he speaks of things like this. Happy things that healthy people can do, not just in their dreams.

“That’s nice, Daichi.” She tries, before her lips tremble and a tear falls from her eyes. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Don’t cry, mom. It was a very happy dream.” He holds her hand as she cries. Tomorrow, he is going to hurt her. But after tomorrow, she can finally start to heal and move on. Daichi knows she is going to be okay. He doesn’t know anyone as strong as his own mother. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

“Why are you talking like that?” She looks frenzied, looking up at him with big eyes. “You’re my son, and I will be taking care of you for a long time to come. Do you hear me?”

“Yea.” Daichi smiles, pulls her into a firm hug. She is shaking in his arms, trembling like a leaf. “But I wanted to say thank you anyway. I love you, mom.”

Kuroo curls his fingers into a tight fist looks away.

Day Three.

Even if Kuroo hadn’t appeared in his life foretelling his fate today, Daichi thinks he would have known that it was his time. There is no other way to interpret his wheezing breaths, the drowning dizziness, and the way exhaustion is blurring the edges of his vision. Kuroo is beside him, grief lining his features.

“T-this is it, right?” Daichi asks, feeling very distant.

“Yes.” Kuroo replies. “In a few minutes your blood pressure will bottom out, your organs will fail and you’ll be unconscious.”

“Okay.” Daichi swallows, clutches at Kuroo’s hand with shaking fingers. “You’ll stay?”

“I’m with you.” Kuroo smiles sadly. “Until the end.”

Outside, Daichi can hear the nurses speaking to his mother. There is nothing left to be done. It is his time. She’s wailing, and it’s the most terrible sound Daichi has ever heard in his life. Tears run down the sides of his face because despite thinking that he was prepared for this, it’s still incredibly, mortifyingly frustrating.

“I’m afraid.” He chokes out, gritting his teeth. “I thought I wouldn’t be, but I am.”

“It’d be weird if you weren’t.” Kuroo says, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “But you’re going to be reincarnated. I know you are, because you are good. And in your next life I swear to you, you will have a healthy heart and you can play all the volleyball you desire.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ll punch God in the face if need be.”

Daichi laughs weakly. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“Again, they never told me I couldn’t say it.”

“Will you be there?”

At this, Kuroo’s face crumples, and he is silent for a while before he speaks again.

“I hope so, Daichi.”

He knows that it’s time, because the room is spinning and everything is fading fast. Kuroo sighs, gives Daichi’s hand one last squeeze before touching his index finger to Daichi’s forehead and it’s the same sensation as the day before, of being plunged into ice cold water. But this time he knows he will not be returning to the warmth of the living.

Kuroo is still holding his hand, firm, and Daichi hopes that someday they can meet again when they are both human, because he wants to know what Kuroo’s hand would feel like against his, skin on skin, alive and breathing and together.

“Take care of me, okay Kuroo?”

His spirit is disintegrating, breaking apart into a million small speckles of light. They share one last smile before Daichi is gone, his spirit reduced to a single burning orb, glowing brighter than any other that Kuroo has seen.

“I will.” Kuroo whispers, cradling the orb in his hands. “I will.”

It’s a sunny spring day as Daichi and his team arrive at the Karasuno Sougou Sports Park. Today they are meeting their fated rivals, the Nekoma volleyball team, for a destined reunion. Karasuno is embodied by a murder of crows, ready to take flight once again and reclaim their spot at nationals.

Daichi has always liked birds. They can soar above the clouds, take control of their own fates. Just as he can, just as his team will.

They form two lines, one clad in black, and one clad in bright red.

He and Nekoma’s captain stand facing each other.

“Greet your opponents! Let’s have a good game!”

The boy standing before him has piercing golden eyes and a head of messy black hair. Their eyes meet as they extend their hands simultaneously, enveloping each other and clutching on tightly.

Skin against skin.

Warm.

#kurodai #daikuro #kurodaiweekend #haikyuuwriters #writing

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outlawqueenbey · 7 years

Text

You Said You Loved Him Too Part 2

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11702125/61/Life-and-Times-of-Outlaw-Queen

She knew the second it happened. Can pinpoint it down the most finite moment she felt something eternally shift inside her, ice through veins, scalding hot about her heart. A fraction in time there was no breath to be inhaled, only a sharp stab, a blinding pain that engulfed her whole, and just as quickly as it had happened, a cold cool balm soothed every last inch, melting the wound away. Invisible to the eye now, that’s all that it would be. A stitched together golden thread on a dark as night heart, that still beneath it all pulsed a dull ruby red, proof that not everything is black and white, that while Evil may come first in her name, she did the right thing, did a good thing, a selfless thing.

It was hazy as she came back too, blinking at the flickering of orange candle light on the cold stone walls, everything tilted on it’s axis as she righted herself from the dusty floor, coughing irritated at the puff of dirt, and the dull throbbing at the back of her skull. Clearly when it happened, she lost consciousness, not completely unrealistic given what she gave up. Her spine cracked and popped, crunched joints being gratefully set straight upon sitting up, a faint metallic taste coated her tongue. A little warning next time might be nice.

And then she waited. For what seemed like an eternity. Has been waiting in the recessed depths of the vault, behind hidden doors and masked mirrors, the constant twitching in her fingers becoming the only movement inside the stone walls. She promised. Gave her word that if it worked she would bring him here. In a surreal moment of vulnerability she had looked into her own eyes, in the body of another, ones that were so desperate in their need, and let her long standing guard slip, to the only person who truly understood how much effort it took to keep it up. The moment her softer half left, she panicked. Sat, jaw agape on the wooden chest for hours, hand over her thunderous erratic heart, in shock of what she had just done, how exposed and raw she’d let herself stoop down to.

And more times that she will ever admit, she scrambled to her feet, raced up the stone stairs, defiantly ready to take back what was hers, and yet, every time she pushed open the cold hard oak wood doors and saw what lay beyond just to the right, the name emblazoned on the dark silver granite, her feet stopped moving forward, and the Queen retreated back into her hiding.

So she waits. For how long she isn’t actually certain. Just stares through the black spiralling mirror into the vacant room just beyond. Everything feels empty. The walls no longer have a fleeting of warmth or strange previous comfort to them. It feels like a jail cell. Perhaps a more luxurious one, what with the fur blankets that adorn a soft mattress, and a fire however cold roaring in the corner, it’s a prison nonetheless. One she has put herself into. One she has grown to utterly hate.

Maybe that’s why she did it. Offered up a part of her soul in a feeble heart driven attempt that maybe, just maybe, he would walk down those steps one more time. But as the minutes tick by and the earlier prickling in her heart subsides, only loneliness seems to reclaim its space one again. A flare of rage surges through her. What is supposed to happen if it worked? What did she even expect? That he would chose her over her other half? Possibly he would run into her arms instead? Kiss her till her knees went weak and they would vanish together and live what? Happily ever after? She wants to kick herself for even believing in the notion, a fool’s trap. She isn’t a fool. Fools do things like this, crazy reaches for hope that isn’t there. All for what? For love? Love that surely won’t be returned. How could it? She is who she is, and he won’t chose her. No one chooses her. Ever.

Her fingers tear at the tiny threads on the hem of her dress, slowly and deliberately pulling the garment at her wrist apart, parting the dark plum silk and black lace till her skin reveals itself. He liked this dress. Had told her many nights ago, as he gently disposed her of it, halting her ravenous appetite to rip it apart just so she could feel him sooner. His hands had closed upon her own, a light vibrating chuckle in the crook of her neck as he whispered his request that he be the one to take it off her. Her skin shivers at the memory. How delicate he undid the laces on her back, dragged the zipper down torturously slow, his lips following the path of newly exposed skin. He said the color brought out her eyes, made them sparkle with flecks of gold, a sentiment she had scoffed at, though her blush was hidden behind a curtain of curls. He’d even laid it gently across her white chaise as she lay back on the bed, squirming impatiently for his attentions, giving her that heart stumbling dimpled smile over words he wished to see her wear it again sometime, it’s one of his favourites.

She stares down at the gap between material, suddenly annoyed she had minutely destroyed it. And in the second her palm glows lavender, another odd revelation she’d come to notice the first nights outside Regina’s body, a sight that silently made her smile, for maybe it didn’t matter they were two separate people, Good vs Evil, there was still love buried deep down in her heart, an echo pulls her attention from the tattered threads.

It’s slow, a steady scratch of granite on stone above her, a flame igniting in her hand, defence at the ready for she is in no mood to be toyed with right now, and she counts, glares at the mirror whilst doing so, one, two, she rises to her feet, three, four, the pit of anger boiling in her stomach, five, six, sev- Oh God. Ice cold water soaks her, extinguishing the fire as her eyes see him. It’s him. He is here. Slowly treading into the other room, a hand running over the back of his neck, and her fingers itch to touch him, to thread through his hair, pull him in and if he’d allow it, never let go. Her breath fogs the mirror as her nose grazes the glass, the entirety of her body pressed against the hidden door, and she watches. Stands frozen in hiding as he sighs heavily, walks further into the room, distancing them in his steps as he scours the stone room.

His hands glide over the open storybook on the chest, on a page she knows is there, she was cementing it to memory a few hours prior, a painting of them, in a life that never happened, a path of purity had she not been so afraid that night. A life they had talked about at length, the what if’s, the self-bitterness at her own self destruction towards happiness, a loathing he’d kissed away, soothed in his words that it wasn’t meant to be, they were meant to meet when fate deemed it right. Her hands press against the door silently, removing the barrier between them, a flicker of fear spiking in her heart, insecurity that stews beneath the surface as she shuffles forward, a half step, his back still turned to her. Her heart thunders in her chest, and certainly he must hear it, he’s always been attuned to the rhythm it beats, and if on cue, as she begs it to slow, he shifts, stands a fraction taller, tilts his head slightly to the side, and she can see the hint of a smile hidden beneath the stubble.

It stands still, time, air, her ability to do anything but stare timidly as he turns to face her fully, book still in hand, and his eyes find her own, unfairly beautiful, sky blue, bright as the summer spring rivers, alive and sparkling. He moves, trepidation in each step at first, letting the book rest on the wooden cabinet where her potions lay, and she can’t do anything but stand there, rooted to the spot, praying to the Gods, this isn’t just a trick of the mind, she’s been down here long enough with her own thoughts to go crazy, maybe she is crazy, it seems ridiculous he would come here, to her, she must be losing her mind. Hot tears line the backs of her eyes, a hard lump stuck in her throat as her rigid stance falters, slinks inside her unprotected heart. A traitorous tear falls before she can blink it away, warm and tickling as it slides down her cheek.

It certainly smells like pine, a woody spice she inhales from memory, ever so real as it fills her lungs, if only she could drown in a scent, be lulled to eternal sleep by it, perhaps in death there isn’t such solitude and heartache. Her next breath shakes, catches in her throat as a warm palm settles against her cheek, gently wiping away the wet droplet, and if she leans into it or he holds her up, she doesn’t really know, it has to be her, he isn’t real.

He isn’t her-

“Hi.”

The sound of his voice, stiffens her spine, and she turns away from his palm, biting back the urge to succumb to this mirage, but her hands move, trembling in their path as they blindly move up, tentatively finding the lining of the thick canvas lapels of his coat, smoothing inside to the soft cotton shirt, his lungs expand in steady breath, and he could be real, this could all be real, it has to be real, it’s his heart, pumping solidly underneath her palm. She caves, chokes back an unrefined sob and falls into his arms that wait openly, cradling her into his warmth. There isn’t many times she can recall crying, hard like this, unable to breathe or keep her legs from shaking weakly. But he is there, holding her tight, nuzzling into her fallen hair, a hand between her shoulder blades, the other at the base of her neck, thumbing and rolling the tense disbelieving muscles.

“You came.”

He sighs, hugs her tighter, presses the softest of kisses into her temple. “You doubted I would?” She nods, barely, but he only pulls her in further, scratching his fingers through her hair, he loved, no loves, her hair, had told her a thousand and one times, and it feels surreal. Like some sort of dream she hopes she won’t wake up from, and finally her body seems to register, her arms wrapping around his neck, nose burying into the crook of his neck, forehead resting against the pulse that is thrives just beneath. “I didn’t know if you would want to.” She admits quietly into his tunic, muffling the incessant shake in her voice. It’s at that he steps back, dreadfully so in her own mind, and tips her chin up.

“Hey. Open your eyes.”

She hesitates, swallows thickly.

“Let me see you.”

Her fingers grip the small lining of hair at his nape, and slowly, ever so slowly, she does as he asked, relinquishes the constant need to control, and gives in, for him, only ever for him. His smile is enough to have her heart splitting into a hundred butterflies, fluttering about her chest, as she finally looks him in the eye, melting in the spot, her wish to be in heels not barefeet debilitating so she can be closer to his height, can look him truly in the eyes, instead of inches below.

“There you are.”

It feels suddenly far to vulnerable, to exposed, how she is simply letting him hold her, brush back a fallen curl behind her ears, nothing but silence and the drumming of her heart echoing off the walls. She can’t be defenceless, unguarded like this. It’s not who she is. The Evil Queen, that is her persona, her brand, and the Queen doesn’t stand lovestruck in the embrace of her previously deceased lover, soulmate, whatever they want to call him. Shaking her head she retracts, pushing gently against his torso, giving a few inches of space between them, needed space so that she can rearrange her jumbled mind, focus on the fact that regardless if he is here, he is not staying. He will leave. And she will be alone. Again. There is no room for weakness. Not now.

Robin frowns, goes to reach for her as she steps back further, huffing out a breath as she straightens her dress, shakes out her hair and stiffens her spine.

“So, you’re back.”

Her tone far too hard for his liking.

“Regina’s little trick worked.” Her arms cross over her chest, a barrier between them, he’s never been one to enjoy those, especially with her. It is her. In a different way. And while there are many, many questions he still needs to ask, things that need to be answered, there wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind nor his heart, when Regina had told him just how he was able to be breathing again, that he needed to come here, to her. Most may not be able to understand it, why he would kiss one and then walk to the other, the sinister half, the darker evil twin, they don’t need to. The only ones that need to make sense of it are himself, their children (a conversation clearly for later), Regina who smiled and let his hand slip from her own after he promised to return, and the Queen. The one piece in the puzzle that probably more than any of them needs to understand. He loves her. Loves them both. In their own ways. But regardless his heart didn’t split like she had. It hadn’t separated into a lighter and darker half, both tethered to their respectives soulmates, his heart is whole, and he loves each of them. Raised eyebrows be damned.

“Thank you.”

She scowls, picking at a piece of silk at her wrist, a torn gape in the fabric he glares at. He likes this dress. Had noticed it the moment he had turned. It brings out her eyes. He adores her eyes. The window to her soul, even if, like now, she tries to hide them from his gaze. “I didn’t do anything.”

He chuckles, closing the distance slowly, thankful she doesn’t step away again. “Well, I do believe that the reason I am standing here is in a large part because of you.”

“Perhaps you have been lied to.”

“I doubt that.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“I know you better.”

The Queen sinks at his words, berating herself for the small smile that parts against her naked lips. “Yes well, you’ve said your thanks. You may leave.”

“You truly think I wish to do so?”

“Regina is waiting for you.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Then you should go.”

“Why?”

Well she certainly didn’t (absolutely did) miss his incessant stubbornness and questions. Her mind battles itself, because he should go, he is supposed to go, to live happily ever after with the one person that could give it to him. But he is still here, head tipped to the side, dimples on full display as he smiles at her, that irritatingly melting smile, and she can do nothing but roll her eyes, grumbling out a stiff because Robin, as she turns away, ready to seal herself off in the hidden room once more. She gets halfway before his hand lightly grips her bicep, stalling her in the motion, and before she can understand what he is doing, his lips are pressed against hers, soft and gentle, and she shouldn’t kiss him back, he isn’t really hers, but her heart wins, that little spark of red underneath the cavern of black spirals out of control, and she does, holds him to her lips, revels in the taste of mint on his mouth.

His breath is warm against her skin as their lips part with a pop, and she sinks into him, allowing his forehead to rest on her own. “Never think, for one second, that I do not love you as well.” His confession grips her hard, “Nothing can change that.”

“How can it not? I am who I am.”

“You’re right. And I love you still.”

“You shouldn’t.”

His lips finds her again, chaste and far too quick, “I’ll decide who I will and will not share my heart with, Your Majesty.” He smiles as her title rolls off his tongue, his hands lacing behind her back. “I fell in love with both of you, I love both of you.”

She shakes her head, sighing into his arms, letting him hold her up for as long as he wishes. Which apparently isn’t long enough, before he is guiding her into the candle light stone room, settling them both on the wooden chest, his hands never letting her own go.

“You gave a part of yourself up for me. Not knowing if it would work. Why?”

She should say something that won’t make her sound so damn weak. But his lips are against her temple, his body snug into her own, warm and safe, and before she can stop them, it tumbles out, quiet into the silent walls.

“Because I love you too.” His smile is felt, more than it is seen, the weight he rests on her deepens as her eyes focus down on their hands, laced and locked together, his thumb running along her fingers.

“Thank You.”

They fall into silence, he not needing to say much more, and she having no real words to say back anyway. It is what it is, and for the few moments she is allowed to bleed him in, she will. Has all intentions to soak in every second of this before it’s taken away. At some point they shift to sit on the floor, her leg draped over his own, hand resting against his skin underneath the cotton shirt, his arm slung about her shoulders as the rest against the wood trunk. She watches the candles, as the wick slowly melts away from the flame, dying into a low burning deep orange ember, bouncing dimly along the stone brick.

It feels warm again.

Footsteps click before she registers them, and when her eyes move up, she see’s herself, the lighter heroic version standing there, hands clasped together in front of a black blazer, white teeth biting hesitantly down on a pale lower lip. She looks tired, and scared if the Queen is being honest. Probably a mirror image of herself in all honesty. And she waits for the shuffle of Robin’s body beside her, the vacancy he will leave behind as he surely will go to Regina, to the one he is meant to love, and yet, his chin brushes against her forehead, stubble scratches along her temple as she sits up straight, ready to let it all go.

“My love.” His hand extends out though he doesn’t move from their spot, “My other love.” He amends with a chuckle, squeezing the Queen’s hand still within one of his own. They stare at one another, carefully, and rather shy, waiting for something they aren’t really sure of, and Regina steps forward, heels clicking against the floor muted. The Queen watches as their fingertips find one another, slowly move to enclose, and she is sitting face to face with her other half. Without any sharp remarks, snide comments, or threats, they simply look at each other, distanced fractionally by Robin’s body, Regina’s eyes barely moving when he kisses her forehead in greeting.

As if in sync, they both settle into the respective shoulders of Robin’s arms, nuzzling into his warmth, a faint flicker of a smile crossing both their lips, a lining of tears welling up in Regina’s eyes, as her hand moves to find his heart, only to touch a palm already resting there. The Queen pulls back, wanting to take what she can, but it’s odd, this situation, feeling what the other feels, knowing what the other knows, and slowly, she feels her hand being encircled and placed back on his heart, on half of it at least.

Her eyes locked down onto the slender fingers that hold her hand, before a breathless, watery “Thank You.” escapes Regina who shifts further into her lover, and the Queen nods, smiles before burying herself into her soulmate.

And maybe it is strange, odd, and misunderstanding to everyone else, but it feels right, feels for the first time in a long time, that maybe, come tomorrow, she won’t be alone anymore, maybe there is hope for her after all.

#outlaw queen #evil outlaw queen #outlaw queen fan fic #regina mills #evil queen regina #robin hood #once upon a time #drabbles #you said you loved him too

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