#NO i didn’t floss it. for fuck’s sake. why do you think i’m back here after two years

[kevindayisafrog]

Here’s a painful one shot of Kevneil in a perfect court AU based on artwork by @knandersonart on Instagram

TW - blood, detailed injuries, abuse, anxiety/panic attacks

“Try stepping out of line now”, Riko growled as he slammed his foot down once more onto Kevin’s hand. The sound of bones cracking had quickly given way to the sound of them crunching, as solid bone turned to shards. “Riko”, Kevin slurred as he swallowed down another lump of bile, “Riko, please”. Riko only laughed harder at the plead and brought his foot down in one last stamp. Kevin let out a bellied cry as the last of his bones tore through the skin on his hand, blood rapidly spilling over onto the locker room floor. “You’ll never be better than me now, will you? Try beating me with no hand”, Riko spat onto Kevin’s cheek and gave his hand a quick kick before turning on his heels and leaving the room. Kevin squeezed his eyes shut and willed the room to stop swaying as he clutched what remained of his hand to his chest. His mind replayed Riko’s words with feverish images of Kevin’s future; he’d never play again and he’d let his mom down. All he wanted to do was play a stupid game that she made up and now she was gone and he couldn’t make her proud anymore. Kevin let out a roar of pain as he made to get to his feet but the room was spinning and he quickly came crashing down to his knees, his hands springing out to catch himself. “Kevin?”, a muffled voice echoed through the locker room making Kevin feel the sick crawl uncontrollably up his throat. “Kevin, what happened?”, the voice sat next to him and squeezed his shoulder with a fierce grip. Kevin turned to look up at the voice and let out a whimper as Neil looked down at him in concern. “N-“, Kevin made to speak but that was enough for the bile to threaten to escape so he clamped his mouth shut; barely turning away as he emptied his stomach onto the floor. “It’s alright, I’m here”, Neil kneeled beside Kevin and rubbed circles into his lower back, resting his forehead against his trembling shoulder. “It’s over”, Kevin whispered as he stared absently at the contents of his own stomach. Neil shot his head back and glared at Kevin’s profile, a frown deeply forming, “what do you mean ‘it’s over’? With us..or- shit, Kevin!”, Neil’s eyes drifted to Kevin’s hand and back up to his vacant eyes, “did he do this?” Kevin didn’t answer as he watched his future shatter into sharp shards that tore his chest open and squeezed his lungs shut. “Kevin, look at me”, Neil carefully placed his hands either side of Kevin’s face and carefully turned his head to look at him, “did Riko fucking do this? And I don’t want you to lie this time”. Neil’s voice was venomous, an odd comfort that brought Kevin back to his senses. “Yeah, he-he didn’t like that I’m better than him”, he let out a weak laugh before breaking down and dropping his head onto Neil’s shoulder, “it’s over. It’s all over”. Neil clutched onto Kevin with all his might and shook his head, “you know that’s not true. You know you’ll pull yourself back up to the top, you’re so strong”. Kevin shook his head as a sob racked through his body, “I can’t, Testuji is going to throw me aside and I’ll be forgotten. They’ll probably kill me because I’m not useful anymore”. Neil gritted his teeth and let out a barked laugh, “they can fucking try but I’ll rip them apart before they even look at you”. They sat in the silence broken only by Kevin’s sniffles and shaky breaths before Neil cleared his throat, “look at me”. Kevin shook his head so Neil grabbed his chin and pulled his head up to look him in the eye, “I’m getting Andrew because he’ll help us but don’t fucking move until I get back, do you hear me?”. Kevin nodded and slumped against the lockers, watching Neil’s back as he slipped out the room.

He didn’t have to wait long before Andrew burst in with his medicated smile and manic laugh, “aww, Kevvie, did no one tell you not to bite the hand that feeds you?” Kevin groaned and sat up straighter eyeing the first aid kit that Andrew was throwing from hand to hand, “you’re not seriously going to try fix it are you? In your state?” Andrew cackled and dropped heavily to his knees in front of Kevin, “Aaron’s studying to be a doctor at Palmetto state, so that practically makes me a doctor too. I’ll help you”. Kevin snorted and looked away, “shit doctor he’ll be if he’s studying in that shithole”, he winced as Andrew slapped the bone that was sticking out of his hand. “I wouldn’t talk so snobbishly, if I were you. Me and Neil think that your behavior has been out of hand recently and we are saddened to say that we are sending you to boarding school to meet my twin”, Andrew smiled and looked up at Kevin’s confused frown, “pssst, it’s a joke. We’re sending you to go see Daddy Wymack at Palmetto”. Kevin shot his hand away from Andrew and hugged it to his chest, “I can’t go there, I can’t leave, you fucking know this! If the master knows I’m gone he’ll kill us all, Andrew. What the fuck are you and Neil thinking? And plus what if Coach Wymack turns me away? I cant just turn up at his doorstop and be like he-“. Andrew stuffed a ball of bandages into Kevin’s mouth and pulled his hand away so he could finish cleaning and dressing it, “you’re rambling and I wasn’t really listening, so I didn’t see the point in you wasting good oxygen”. Kevin tried to spit the bandages out but they were shoved too far back for his tongue to reach, “I hate you”, he muffled. Neil ran back into the room with his old battered duffel bag bursting at the seams with what looked liked clothes, “for fuck’s sake, Andrew. This isn’t caring for someone, it’s like you’ve taken him hostage”. Andrew shrugged and pulled a bottle of whiskey out from where he was hiding it in his jacket, “this might hurt”. Kevin’s muffled scream of pain made Andrew laugh as he rubbed the alcohol across the wound, “scream if you want me to press harder”. He held one hand up to his ear as Kevin screamed harder at the pain before pressed his thumb onto the bone. “Right, you’ve had your giggles, now fucking stop before he passes out”, Neil snapped as he slapped Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew shrugged before letting go of Kevin’s hand and began dabbing antiseptic cream lightly across the skin, “this will need stitches and, believe it or not, I’m not a doctor so I can’t do it”. Kevin whimpered and glared at Neil who rummaged through the first aid kit and pulled out dental floss. “It’ll work for now, but when you drop him off at the airport make sure that he calls the Coach at Palmetto, they’ll get him to hospital”, Neil handed a needle and the floss to Andrew who raised an eyebrow and took it skeptically. “If he gets an infection it’s on you”, Andrew muttered as he threaded the floss through the needle. “Mom used it on the run, he’ll be fine”, Neil moved to sit beside Kevin and he grabbed his good hand, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles, “trust me”. Kevin looked down at the redhead beside him and nodded, “I trust you”, he muffled, trying not to gag on the bandages. Neil pulled the bandages out of his mouth and brushed their lips together, “you’ll be okay”.

Kevin let Andrew pull him up when his hand was done being wrapped, now smelling of a mixture of whiskey and mint, making his stomach churn uncomfortably. “Right let’s go”, Andrew picked Neil’s duffel bag off the floor and hauled it onto his shoulder as he left the locker room, rightfully assuming that they were following behind. They made their way to the steps leading out of the nest when Kevin realized that Neil wasn’t behind him. “Wait”, he reached his right hand out and tugged on the bag strap, pulling Andrew off the bottom step, “we need to wait for Neil”. Andrew stared up at him and cracked his manic smile, “oh, did lover boy not tell you? He’s not coming, I’m dropping you off at the airport and then you’re on your own”. Kevin glared down at Andrew before turning on his heels and running back to the locker room where Neil was cleaning up the blood from the floor. “Tell me Andrew is just being a dick”, Kevin stood over Neil and pulled the washcloth from his hand. “I’m not going, Kevin, you know I can’t”, Neil stood up slowly and turned to look up at his trembling boyfriend. “Bullshit, why can’t you go?”, Kevin held tightly onto the cloth to stop his panic from shaking his hands. Neil sighed and shook his head as if Kevin were being the unreasonable one and placed his bleach covered hands either side of Kevin’s face, “this is your only chance in getting out of here. If we all go with you, you might not succeed and you know what the master’ll do to you. I don’t want you getting hurt more than you already are”. Kevin scoffed and tried to pull his head away but Neil tightened his grip, “stop being a dick and come with me”, the fear was beginning to make his voice shake and he hated how whiny he sounded. He didn’t want to lose Neil, he was the only thing that kept him going, that kept him sane in this hell. He knew that leaving the nest and leaving everyone behind would create a crack in their relationship, a crack that could easily turn to a break. Kevin placed his shaking hand on top of Neil’s and let his hot tears fall, “please, don’t make me go alone. I don’t want to leave you”. Neil grit his teeth and dropped his head, making to drop his hands but Kevin held them in place, “stop being a child, Kevin, you can’t always get what you want”, he whispered, his own hurt lacing his words. Neil didn’t want to let Kevin go alone either, but he needed him to be safe and this was the only way; the only way to keep his Kevin from being hurt further. “Neil..we can go together, you’ve got hiding skills and we’ll just run. We’ll never come back and-“, Kevin broke off as Neil pulled him down into a tear filled kiss. “Shut up”, Neil muttered into the kiss that was more a kiss of goodbye than one of love. He pulled away first and dropped his hands, turning his back on Kevin, “you need to leave before it’s too late. I got Jean to distract Riko, but he’s bound to know that something is wrong”. Kevin stared at Neil’s back and let out a shaky sob, “please don’t make me go alone, I hate being alone”. Neil dropped his shoulders and turned back to face Kevin, “we’ll see each other soon, I promise, just wait”, he pressed one last goodbye kiss against Kevin’s lips before pushing him out of the locker room. Kevin hesitated for a moment before turning and running back to meet Andrew who was leaning against a wall, just the orange glow of his cigarette visible, “come on then, Romeo, let’s get you out of here”, Andrew flicked his cigarette onto the black carpet and made his way up the steps. Kevin stamped the cigarette out and looked over his shoulder once more to look for Neil before following Andrew out and into the cold night.

#aftg #aftg trilogy #kevin day #nora sakavic #tfc #all for the game #neil josten #aaron minyard #aftg textpost #kevaaron #kevneil #andrew minyard #kandreil

[peanut-in-the-goal]

could u write something like remus is out running errands or something and he gets recognized by an nhl fan who’s homophobic and shitty and he goes home and sirius comforts him and it’s cute and fluffy

I KIND OF WENT ON A RANT IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS IM SO SORRY

ALSO I LOST SPEAKING PRIVILEGES WITH @kielemarie because of this. IM SORRY MARIE PLEASE ANSWER MY ASKS

@candy--floss--kid you asked to be tagged when i finished so here ya go

@lumosinlove thank you for this fandom that is sweater weather

also here’s the last thing I wrote because I'm proud of it please I thrive on validation

---

Remus was walking down one of the aisles in the store, looking for a baking mix. He figured that he’d finally take up the challenge of teaching Sirius how to bake. 

He found a simple recipe. Yellow cupcake mix, how could he mess it up? Remus thought to himself. He placed it in the cart before he felt someone forcefully slam into his shoulder. 

He stumbled, his hand immediately going to his scar from Grayback. He looked up slowly, dreading who he might see. 

His eyes locked with the dark green ones in front of him. The tall man’s eyes matched the Slytherin Jersey he wore. Riddle was in bold letters on the back. Which was bad, but not the worst thing that could have happened.

He allowed himself to breathe, it’s not Fenrir, he let the relief of it wash over him. 

“Sorry,” Remus said. He knew it wasn’t his fault but didn’t want to start any drama or conflict when there was no need for it. Especially with a Snakes fan,

He tried to just walk away. He had everything he needed for just a lazy day at home, but the man stepped in front of him. 

Remus looked up confused. Leo has told him about Karen’s doing this sort of stuff. Something that Gen Z came up with or whatever, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely grasped the concept. Suddenly the man started laughing. A deep menacing, laugh that had no humor behind it. 

His eyes were hard as he stared at Remus. 

“It’s not right you know.” He said. His voice was deep and loud, everyone else in the aisle turning to look. “You’re just a bunch of sinners.”

Remus realized what he was referring to in a heartbeat. He was taken aback at first, he knew people felt this way but he had yet to have anyone come and say it to his face so plainly.

He took a step back moving the cart to go around the man, “Excuse me,” he gritted out. He started pushing the cart before a hand reached out and grabbed it.

Remus raked a hand through his hair, sighing he looked up at the man. The green-eyed man was smirking at him, holding onto the front of the cart. The letters stood out in the harsh lighting of the store, glimmering every time he moved.

ALWAYS, PURE, HOCKEY.

The words were printed underneath the symbol, the green snake. It made him sick, he felt bad for all the people who were drafted to that team, stuck without a chance of escaping on their own.

The queasiness in his stomach turned into anger. He used that.

“Was there something you wanted?” Remus asked, generally annoyed now. 

“I want you to know that it’s not fucking right.” The man stepped closer, Remus stayed where he was. 

“Noted, now if you don’t mind I think I’m going to go home to my boyfriend.”

One of the people next to him snorted and tried to hide their laughter at the affronted look on the green-eyed man's face. 

“How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?” The man sniped. 

“Easily, knowing that a homophobic git who can’t keep their nose in their own business isn’t looking back.”

More people laughed, Remus smirked. The man seemed to be getting angrier and angrier, which was just fine. 

“You’re broken.” The man pursed his lips.

“How original.”

Remus pushes the cart again, managing to make the man dislodge his fingers. He started towards the checkout, wanting to get out of there as soon as he could. 

It wasn’t his first time he heard these things. That was all he heard when he was in the media and the pictures had just come out. But Sirius had suffered through most of the face to face stuff, while Remus saw all of it online.

It didn’t make the impact of the words any easier.

It disgusted him that people still thought this way, that they didn’t like that he was able to find love with someone that wasn’t accepted. So what, oh no, they have the same genitals, obviously, it isn’t right. Fuck them for thinking that, honestly. 

It’s sad that they’re so limited to that type of mindset. Where only one thing is right and everything else is wrong in their eyes.

He huffed, walking down the aisle with his head held high. 

Stand your ground, don’t let him win. You got this.

The man followed him, yelling slurs from where he was trailing behind him. 

Don’t let him see, it’s okay. Just a little longer than you can go home to Sirius and everything will be alright.

He finally makes it to the front of the store, but of course, there’s a line. He stands waiting for self check out, it’s the shortest.

“It’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.” Remus didn’t even raise his head to look at the idiot.

Just ignore it, don’t give him the time of day. Keep your head up.

“How am I disgusting?”

“You’re limiting people to only live by your standards and your viewpoints on what’s normal rather than letting them be happy and live how they want. It’s gross really, that you’re so closed-minded about these things for fucks sake.“

“I’m saying what’s right!” The man spluttered.

“How is it right? How is any of that right?” Remus snapped his head up to look at him, his eyes were hard. “You’re telling me that I’m not allowed to live my life or be happy because it doesn’t see fit to you?” He shook his head in outrage.

The man opened his mouth to speak but Reus didn’t let him.

“Ever hear of John Locke. Our three natural rights that we’re all born with? One of them being the Pursuit of Happiness. I’m not hurting you am I? Me happening to like other men does not affect you, it affects me. It makes me happy and you’re really going to come out here and fucking tell me that I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

The man was at a loss for words, scrambling to grab onto anything to say but he couldn’t.

“It’s still not right.” He said gruffly.

“Yeah, you said that already.”

The man glared at him before huffing and walking away. Remus sighed in relief. 

He walked up to the check out that had just opened, swiping his items before getting a bag and rushing out of the store. 

Some people smiled at him in encouragement, but he was so drained and just wanted to be home at the moment.

He threw the bag in the passenger seat, climbing into the car to drive. He sat there for a minute.

In for four, hold for six, out for eight. Repeat. It’s okay.

He shuffled his playlist, smiling softly and humming along to the tune of Free Fallin by Tom Petty. He was definitely free falling when he fell in love with Sirius.

The drive home was short, luckily they lived close by.

He pulled up into the driveway and quickly scrambled out of the car. His chest felt tight and there was a lump forming in his throat. He jiggled the key in the lock, difficult because of how shaky his hands were.

Finally, he heard a soft click and stepped inside.

“Baby?” Remus called through the house, his voice cracked slightly. He could hear the dull noise of the TV in the other room, then some shuffling, before Sirius’ goofy grin popped around the corner. Slowly, it morphed to one of concern.

“Re?” Sirius took in his red face, and trembling lips, before pulling him into a hug. Remus sagged against him, letting Sirius support his weight and dropping his head against his shoulder.

“Vas tu bien, mon Loup?” Remus nodded his head slowly against Sirius’ neck because though he might not actually be okay, he felt safe in Sirius’ arms. He held on tighter when Sirius went to let go.

“Mon loup? What’s wrong?” Sirius asked. He pulled back just enough to be able to look at his face. 

Remus stuttered for a moment.”There uh…” Sirius rubbed his side soothingly. “There was this idiot at the store, h-he said it wasn’t right?” His voice came out as a question. He bit his lip hard against the tears welling up.

God, why did he feel like crying? It’s not like he hasn’t heard all of this before because he has. But having someone saying it to his face like that in the middle of a store where he’d never had problems before was like a punch in the gut. Was this how it was going to be from now on?

Was he going to get stopped on the streets or in the stores and restaurants just because he was gay? Because he chose love over being what everyone else wanted him to be?

As long as he got Sirius it would be worth it in the end. It had to be.

“Wasn’t right?” Sirius furrowed his brow. “Oh.” The realization dawned on his face.

“No, no, Remus, non.  He’s wrong, He—”

“I know.” Remus looked at him. “I know. Just… Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Are people always going to look at us like we’re different j-just because we love each other?”

Sirius made a sad almost whine like noise. “I’m sorry Re…”

Remus sighed, dropping his forehead to rest against Sirius’s shoulder again. “At least I have you.” His words were muffled but Sirius still understood.

He smiled softly at his boyfriend. “I could say the same thing. Come on.”

Sirius led Remus back to their living room, the TV playing some cooking show that started when Sirius’ had ended. Sirius sat on the couch, pulling Remus to lay down with him.

“Has it always been this bad for you?” Remus murmured, his eyes were already shut. He cuddled further into Sirius.

“I guess. I don’t know, I stopped listening to that stuff, they’re all wrong anyway.” He grabbed the blanket that was hanging over the couch and draped it over them both.

“I’m sorry, I love you.” Sirius pressed a kiss to the top of Remus’ hairs.

“I love you too,” but Remus was already softly snoring away.

---

Remus’s eyes fluttered open sometime later. He was curled on the couch with Sirius. It was dark outside, the stars shining through the leaves of the tree that stood outside their window.

He shifted to rub at his eyes, yawning.

“You’re cute.” 

Remus snorted. “I just woke up.”

“You’re still cute.” Sirius laughed softly, brushing some stray strands of hair from Remus’ face.

Remus yawned again. “What time is it?”

Sirius grabbed his attention phone from where it was laying next to him. “7:30, you’ve been asleep for a while.”

Remus huffed, sitting up all the way. 

“I was going to teach you how to bake a cake,” he pouted. 

“I know how to bake a cake!” Sirius exasperated, “I also stand by my statement of you’re cute.”

Remus huffed out a laugh.  He stood up, “I’m sure you do.”

“I do! Celeste taught me.”

“She taught you or she tried to teach you, there’s a difference.” Remus raised his eyebrow,

“Fine, she tried.” 

“Then I will conquer the impossible.” He said it boldly, standing up at the same time, making them both laugh. 

“I’m not impossible.” 

“Teaching you is,” Remus smirked, tugging Sirius’ hand to make him get off the couch.

He felt so much lighter now. Being around Sirius tended to have that effect on him. He made him forget what he was worried about, and made him feel safe and loved. The man from the store was still in the back of his mind nagging at him but at this moment that didn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two of them. And wasn’t that wonderful?

“I am not impossible to teach,” Sirius whined. Remus laughed, walking into the kitchen.

“Yes, you are baby,” Remus shook his head fondly, looking for the bag from the shop. He didn’t see it. “I think I left the stuff in the car, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it!” Sirius grabbed the keys before Remus could, a dopey grin on his face.

“Must everything be a competition?” There was no bite behind his words, watching Sirius fling the door open. The cold air from outside drifted into the heated house, Remus shivered.

The door shut and Sirius was back in front of him, bag in hand.

“Ready to show you that I can learn!”

“Did you lock the door?” Sirius hesitated for a moment. Remus had to bite back a laugh, “I’ll go lock it,” he pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cheek.

“Now we’re ready,” He pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cold nose this time.

He took out what he bought, vanilla extract, a boxes of cake mix, sugar, and sprinkles.

“Okay so…” He held one of the boxes, reading the recipe on the back. “Can you preheat the oven to 350 degrees, baby?” He asked. Sirius looked at him before walking over to the oven. “Or, do you want me to do it?” 

“I can do it.” Remus laughed.

“Sorry.” Sirius batted Remus’s hands away. “Okay, what’s next?”

“Uh, we have to make the batter. Can you get the eggs out please?”

“Mhm,” he got the eggs from the refrigerator, placing them gently on the island. 

“Alright wait, we need 3 eggs, ½ a cup of oil, a cup of water, and this.” He held up the mix for emphasis. 

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” he smiled at Sirius. He owed one heck of a lot to that idiot. His idiot.

“Easy,” Sirius dragged out his words and laughed.

“See you say that now, but something has to go wrong I swear.”

Sirius grumbled as he went to crack the eggs into the bowl for the electric mixer. Remus laughed again, going back to reading the instructions, making sure that they were doing it right.

“Oops.” Remus snapped his head up.

“Oops? What do you mean oops?” He leaned over to look at the bowl. Half an eggshell laid on its side in a bowl, on top of the already broken up egg.

“Told you something would go wrong,” Remus laughed, carefully picking it out to throw away.

They worked on making the batter, Remus telling Sirius what to do. Finally, everything was in the bowl and they just had to mix it.

“Okay, you can turn on the — hey wait!” 

Sirius pulled the little switch on the side of the mixer. All the way.

 “No! Sius don’t.” But it was too late, the powder from the cake mix flew everywhere. Finally Remus was able to hit the switch back, turning it off.

They looked around, but the mix had covered the counter tops and ground in a sheet of what looked like dust. 

A startled laugh came from him, Sirius following right after. Their shoulders shook with mirth.

“Well that was a bust.”

“And we still haven’t even started on the frosting yet.”

#gg writes #coops #wolfstar #homophobia #homophobic language #Fuck the snakes #hurt/comfort #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Sirius cannot bake a cake to save his life #I cannot write fluff to save myself #we're both doomed

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

Take Me, I’m Yours ♡

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: You’re the baby of the group, a twenty something year old fire goddess and the untouchable sister of Thor Odinson, your sworn protector and overbearing brother. It's the fourth of July which means it’s Cap’s birthday, your long time teammate, but when an unexpected guest arrives, things don’t go according to plan. 

A/N: oof I haven’t written in forever it seems, I’m sorry I’ve been so busy I hope you guys enjoy this ik I did writing it, this is set after Endgame but Tony and Natasha survived because I WANT THEM TO and I have never really written a Steve Rogers fic or at least in a long time cause I’m watching Avengers on Disney plus rn and it’s a lot be gentle and plz leave feedback it warms my heart and make my day I also crave validation

Warnings: slight angst, loads of fluff, cheesiness, sexual tension, tropes, violence, men being touchy, assault, language, smut, rushed writing, get ready 

Steve is golden. You’re coal black, despite innocent appearances, you’re dark with jagged edges, but your blood is radioactive, glowing with power, just like your brother Thor. But that is what you two share, you and Cap, you’re both broken. 

You’re the baby of the team, young, pink pouted lips, big, doe eyes that get you what you want, round face, flushed cheeks, ample curves, and honey suckle voice, velvet like your y/s/c skin, woven with power and fire. 

You’re strong, smelling of a forest fire in the depths of winter, burning embers and cedar. 

He sees this, all of it, like you admire his broad shoulders, hard muscle, all strength and statue, he’s Apollo, a Greek god made of heat, brick, and mortar. He’s let his chestnut hair grow out slightly, hanging over his face, enough to run his fingers all the way through, a rugged, barbaric beard you want to tug on into submission. 

The goddess and the god-like man.

But he can’t have you.

---

You separate Thor’s hair into three strands, tugging them into a braid as you both watch the meeting planning Captain’s birthday party. Thor winces at your harsh pulling, trying to make it tight. 

“For Odin’s sake, sister, be gentle,” he curses under his breath.

“You want it to last, don’t you? Stop being such a baby and let me work, remember I hold all the power here,” you continue, rolling your eyes with a hint of a smile. “God of thunder can’t handle getting his hair done, how ironic.”

“At least I have a soul.”

“I will light you on fire.”

“You two, stop bickering or I’ll put you on clean up duty,” Stark reprimands.

You roll your eyes, “Kiss my ass, Stark.”

You make the mistake of making eye contact with Steve from across the conference room, lips slightly parted subconsciously when his eyes, a darkened, stormy blue with lightning striking his irises, are drawn there, perfect pink mouth, resembling a rose petal in full bloom. He folds his arms over his chest and looks away while you duck your head down, embarrassed. 

He’s hot and cold when it comes to you, longing glances when he thinks you’re not looking, silent, lustful touches on your waist when he passes you, an occasional wink when no one is around, flirting with you, a conversation or two at the crack of dawn when it’s just you two on the balcony, painted with gold and auburn from the sunrise. But other times he avoids you, going out of his way to be anywhere you’re not, cold words and stares that shiver you down to nothing but your bones, leaving you bare and he won’t even take the time to look at you, your undoing by him. He’s quiet around you at times like he’s hiding something.

Thor looks at you with a face of disgust and you pull his hair.  

“I propose an idea when it comes to my party,” Cap raises his hand, looking at Tony.

“By all means, birthday boy, let us hear it,” Barton chimes in, Natasha casting him a look meant to kill.

“We don’t have it.”

“Proposition denied,” Tony says. “This is happening, and frankly, we could use the good press after the world nearly ending.”

“And celebrating that with a party is your idea of good press?” Bucky leans his weight against the doorway, Sam letting out a small chuckle.

“Hey guys we, as a human race, were all almost completely wiped out by the jolly purple giant but let’s forget about that by celebrating Captain America’s birthday that none of you are invited to,” Sam mocks. You giggle despite yourself, looking at the floor while tying off Thor’s braid, Natasha elbowing your ribcage playfully for encouraging them. 

“Maybe I just want to throw a party,” Tony scoffs. “Sue me.”

“Believe me, if we could, we would,” Clint looks up at him with raised eyebrows.

“I’d be so fucking loaded,” Bucky whispers to Sam.

Sam lets out a deep sigh, “Tell me about it.”

“Y/n... what do you think?” Tony asks, letting out a deep sigh, pinching the space between his brow with his fingers. 

“What do you mean?” you look up, admiring the french braid you did on your brother, smiling to yourself before looking back up at Stark. 

“About the party? What we’ve been talking about for the last half hour?” 

“Oh I wasn’t listening...” you chuckle, looking at Steve from the corner of your eye, his lips turned up. “I um... well I think we should have a small party with all of us and friends, just enough to draw attention from the right people. We can fire up the grill and light a campfire, roast some s’mores... light fireworks, of course,” you trail off with a laugh.

Steve cracks a smile. “I like her idea.”

“That... sounds perfect, actually,” Natasha looks at you then to Tony. 

Tony sighs, but he wears a large smile, adorning his face, “Meeting adjourned.”

---

You paired a baggy striped winter sweater with a pair of black jeans, tight and fitted to your curvy figure, definitely not going unnoticed by Steve, eyes outlining the curves of hips, thighs, dips, and soft round shapes on your body, plump and attractive. He watches you move to the music Tony blasts on his speakers, night just settling in on the sky and painting it black, sun peaking upon the horizon to say hello. 

Natasha hands you a bottle of beer, condensation coating your hand, sweat there too, but the cold night is seeping in and you shiver, “Thanks,” you smile graciously. 

“Have you... you know-” she demonstrates a crude sexual gesture and you scoff. “With you know yet?”

“I want to tell him I like him first,” you explain, taking a gulp of your liquor and feeling the cool bubble tingle your tongue and throat. “Not just fuck him and be done with it... I want more than that.”

“How romantic.”

“I’m serious, Nat. I really like him and he...” you look at her with begging eyes and she sees that you’re sincere. “He wants nothing to do with me.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” you look at the ground, chuckling dryly, nursing your beer. Your hands heat up, something that happens when you grow nervous, your powers light up, literally, a fight or flight reflex for survival. Except now anxiety from a crush. 

You shake your head, taking a larger sip, “He’s so hot and cold.”

“That can be true, but the ways he looks at you...” she hums. “That can only be described as hot,” she snaps her teeth jokingly and lets out a giggle, officially buzzed. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, getting in the party spirit once again. “He doesn’t-”

Your interrupted when an old friend appears in your view and he waves in your direction, Timothy, a S.H.I.E.L.D agent from your starting days here on Earth with your brothers. He trained you alongside Fury before S.H.I.E.L.D and HYDRA fell, and you turned to the Avengers when they offered you a position alongside Thor. He did, however, have a temper and you and many others were sure Timothy had a crush on you for a long time, your fears of losing your colleague becoming a reality when he asked you out and you had to reject him, because you’d already fallen for Steve. He didn’t take it well at the time and you haven’t spoken since. 

“Hey, Timothy,” you smile warmly, politely, moving to return his embrace, he squeezes you tightly, one hand holding a beer and the other wrapped around your waist. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, Tony invited all the old S.H.I.E.L.D members, not the HYDRA ones, of course, but I decided to pop in,” he flashes a grin. “And Fury’s over there cutting up a rug,” he points to where Fury is being taught by Peter Parker how to floss. 

You laugh and force a believable smile, “It’s good to see you.”

He looks you over not-so-subtly, something both you and Natasha catch, “It’s really good to see you, too. I’ve missed you.”

You smile, a little anxious all of a sudden, especially when you begin to smell the liquor on his own breath and how grabby his hands look to become, reaching out to touch your waist. You move his hand away, uneasy.

Natasha frowns and moves to take his hand off of you, “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink there, buddy. Why don’t you go sit down?”

“Maybe you need to sit down, I’m talking to y/n,” he rips his hand back. “Mind your own business, bitch.”

“Talk to me or touch y/n like that again and I’ll break your fucking hand,” she seethes through her teeth and sets down her drink.

Shit, shit, shit.

Steve sees the commotion over everyone else talking and chatting, paying no mind to the altercation between you, Natasha, and Timothy. He catches the look on your face, retreating into yourself as Nat rips him a new one, pointing a finger into his chest. He walks over, pushing his way through friends, all out here on Tony’s terrace, past the grill but people keep stopping to talk, anger brewing in his chest at seeing someone hurt you.

Timothy grabs you by the waist, “Hey, I know it’s been a long time, baby, but I wanna get back to what we had.”

“Let go of me,” you push at his chest. “And don’t call me baby. We didn’t have anything.”

“You rejected me all that time ago,” he says, voice growing louder. “Why?” Natasha rushes off to get Tony to kick him out, knowing she shouldn’t cause a scene even further by hurting him, she had to get Tony. 

“Because I don’t see you like that,” you push at him but he grabs both your wrists as you try to push him away. 

“You’re lying, tell me the real reason.”

“I’m. not. lying,” you say but you know what he wants to hear, your eyes burning with tears. You wish you could your power, light him up, but you can’t, your mind is too preoccupied with the answer to his question and you can’t concentrate. 

“Tell me the truth or I’ll tell him myself, say it,” he grows angrier, pulling you. “Say it!” and using your god like strength, you shove him to the ground at last and flames lick your hands. 

“Because I’m in love with Steve!” 

Just as the music goes quiet for Bucky’s toast to his friend, you catch everyone’s attention, head’s turned towards you and you want to crawl in a hole and get buried up again, to sink into the ground. Your face is hot with eyes on you and you can’t move. Tony and Natasha both look at you from the corner of your eye, unknowing of what to think. 

You’ve said it. Said the damn words out loud and you can’t take them back. You’re breath is heavy and weighs on your chest when you look up. 

Steve is in front of you, looking at you with wide eyes and a deep, questioning look and furrowed brow, chest heaving after he’s heard your confession, surprised. 

Fuck.

“You bitch,” he gets back up and moves to hit you but Steve grabs his hand, forcefully and painfully.

He moves over further and manages to pull Timothy off you completely, hand curled in his shirt with his feet off the ground when he pulls him inches away from his face, “Get the hell out of my party, stay away, and don’t touch her again. Are we clear?” his voice is a deep timbre, a low growl with a warning tone. 

He finally listens and grabs another drink on his way, shooting dirty looks to those who watch him leave and you’re left panting, out of breath with tears staining your cheeks, eyes glassy.

Fury trips him on the way out, “I knew you were trouble.”

You look up at Steve who’s in front of you now, “I-I... I’m sorry I ruined your party, Steve... I’m sorry,” you say when he moves to cup your face in his hands, soothing you with shushes and soft coos, wiping away your tears with his calloused thumbs. “I’m sorry-”

“Doll, you didn’t... he did, I’m sorry he was invited here if I had known...” he curses himself. “I’m so sorry.”

You meet his eyes. Oh, he’s so sweet, he’s so sweet it makes your heart ache.

But the question still remains, lingering over your heads: Now what?

---

You’re in the living room of the compound following the events of the disastrous birthday party, curled up on the couch by yourself as everyone’s gone to bed, snacking on remaining popcorn and watching Friends. Tony had sent everyone home after what happened, which people understood, apologizing to the few other friends that attended and offering goodie bags for coming, stuffed with hundreds of dollars of Stark merchandise for good measure. 

Thor had missed the party to visit Jane after they rekindled their romance since he’s back on Earth, but upon hearing the news of this guy touching his baby sister, he dealt with it in his own Thor way. 

Trashing the guy’s house. 

Then after, you and the team went inside, watched a movie, ate popcorn, and laughed at the crappy, Hallmark Christmas movie until your sides were sore.

But even now that everyone is asleep and in their respective rooms, you couldn’t sleep.

And so couldn’t Cap.

You look up at the sound of a door opening from the terrace, Steve walking inside after getting his nightly moment of fresh air and because he agreed to water Stark’s plants a long time ago, and because Tony is well, Tony, he assigned him that job for the entirety of his stay here, much to Steve’s dismay. 

But sometimes he didn’t mind it, going out there at night and seeing the stars because you’re so far up here, set aside from the rest of the world in this safe little pocket of a home and solace and the benefit of seeing you out there with a drink in hand, getting some time to yourself. You with a robe on, nightgown peaking beneath, hair in it’s natural, messy form, bare face or face mask on, and glowing smile. That made it worth it. 

Now it’s just the two of you after a night of you confessing your feelings for him, not directly to him per say, but he heard it nonetheless and he stood there, choking on his words because he had to get that leech of a man off of you, it wasn’t the time to discuss your feelings.

But unfortunately for the both of you at this moment, you can. 

“Hey,” you say, the word somehow weighing on your lungs when you breath it out, muting the television. 

“Hey,” he says back, smiling to put you at ease. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” you say, scooting over to give him room and patting the spot now open for him. 

He chuckles at your nervous energy and sits down beside you. He scratches the back of his neck, all that suave nature leaving him. Captain America is anxious.

“I feel... like we should talk about what happened and what you said earlier,” he looks at you, the same begging eyes you look at with Nat when you want her to see you were serious. You see it in his too. They’re wide and pouring out from all seams, want and need. 

“We should,” you nod, awaiting the rejection you’ve been preparing for all night. 

“I’m.. so sorry about that guy, I wanted to kill him for what he did to you and what he was trying to do,” he says, visibly getting angrier but you lay a hand on his, soothing him into a relaxed, calm state. 

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Guys like that come and go, but guys like you who help, stay forever.” 

He looks down at your intertwined fingers, softly comforting each other, smiles, and breathes a laugh, “I should have done more.”

You tilt your head, “You helped and he’s gone and that’s what matters, so thank you. Don’t take that blame.” 

He finally looks at you. “And when you said that thing... I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” he admits, turning so he sees you in the eyes as you turn to look away from him now, not willing to face him fully. “If I had, I would have...”

“Said no sooner?” you laugh but there’s no humor found in it.

“Can you let me finish?” he tilts his head and smiles, lopsided and pretty. 

You look at him as a signal to continue and he takes it, taking on a bit of your nervous energy in his stammering.

“I like you, y/n, I like you so much,” he says, open and out on display for you. You search his face for the lie, the catch in his words, how this’ll twist around to bite you in the ass and turn out to not be true, all some big elaborate lie or scheme. You don’t know what but what he’s saying can’t be true. 

Not you. Not him. 

“And for so long,” he laughs. “I’m such an idiot, I’ve just been so nervous,” he looks you in the eye, so raw and vulnerable. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You’re a flustered, flattered, blushing, blabbering mess.

“But... you... you avoid in me in the halls,” you say, stunned. “Y-you don’t look me in the eye and you don’t talk to me at times, sometimes for days, only when I initiate it, yet you’re always looking at me and around when I’m there a-and...” you blink hard and rapidly, coming to the realization.

“Oh.”

He gulps, embarrassed himself now, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how or if I had a chance with you, you’re brother’s one of my best friends and I-” He looks to you for forgiveness as he tries to muster up what he wants to say. 

You swallow that lump in your throat and duck to kiss the corner of his mouth, that pink curl of lip you love so much when he’s smirking at something you said or just because, and pull away, looking down at your clasped hands, all of you on fire. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice low when you look at him through your thick lashes, demure. “I understand.”

His lips part and heavy sighs leave his mouth, cheeks red with lust and heat, eyes full blown to match. 

He ducks down just as you did, looking in your eye and you nod slowly for confirmation, before he catches your lips in a feverish, desperate kiss, moving with your mouth as you slide closer to him with your hand pressed against his hard chest. 

He takes hold of your thighs and pulls into his broad lap, erection potent against your inner thigh already as you straddle him, soft, flustered movements until you find the best position. His eyes hold both complete adoration and magnetism for you, a groan slipping past his perfect pink mouth when you move against his sweet spot of your doing. Your lips press together again and you move in tandem, tongue sliding past and licking his inner lip, like licking a flame, an ember of fire and ash and coal. You taste like summer rain and full promises of more to come, like hope after a long, hard day that things will get better, while also tentative and unsure. 

His large hand slides up under your t-shirt while the other keeps you steady wrapped around your waist, he moves to pinch both nipples, tweaking the erect, pink bud between his fingers and digs his fingers into your side. Sinful mewls escape you as he tilts your head up for access to the expanses of your neck and down, peppering wet, sloppy, rushed kisses to anywhere he can find, a begging, starving man and you’re his only hope of salvation.

“Steve...” you let out, hand dipping down between his legs and he groans, deep and guttural before catching your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging, your fingers threaded in his hair and pulling, and the moans that fall from him make that tight coil in your gut curl within itself, exciting you.

His cock twitches when he solicits a series of whimpers from you, lifting and pulling your shirt off and over your head to suck your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking the sensitive peaks, and biting, switching between them. His fingers dance down your stomach and snaps the lining of your panties, sliding a single finger into your sex, the two equally heavenly sensations sending you to that fateful, blissful release you crave, and when a second, a third, joins you’re wrecked, moans falling out and you collapse into him as it subsides, lasting longer than any has before and he’s barely doing anything. 

So this is what it should feel like. 

“You were so good, baby,” he kisses your cheek, then your temple, then your neck, your lips, nose, forehead. “So good for me,” he tells you. “Do you want more, doll?” 

“Absolutely.”

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #bucky barnes imagine #tony stark imagine #marvel smut #marvel fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfiction #fanfiction #smut #natasha romanoff #avengers fanfiction #avengers smut #sam wilson #clint barton #feedback #captain america #captain america x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut

[eat0crow]

Jasonette first meeting please?

I’ve written a couple Jasonette first meetings already but I was scrolling through a prompt list and -You just snuck into my apartment and wait is that blood-stuck out to me. Hope you enjoy!

This fic was beta-read by the lovely @the17thtearoom

Is That Blood

Kwami knows that Marinette is a scatter-brained mess no matter what time of day it is. She would like to deny it, but really, no one would believe her. She blames Tikki, even if she was a disaster before the little fortune god came into her life. Nino has the proof, and has justly been sworn to silence.

There is never a need to relive the fourth grade. Never.

There’s a general swirl of chaos that follows Marinette wherever she goes: Paris, London, New York, now Gotham. It’s one of the reasons, maybe even the reason that despite desperately needing someone around to help out with the rent—Gotham charged way too much for a studio apartment, how the hell is it more expensive than Manhattan—she’s never looked for a roommate. Not after spending a month bunking with Alya, and driving the girl insane.

Alya hadn’t been the one to ask her to leave, she’d claimed Marinette was fine. Marinette had seen the way her eye twitched after the fourth time, in a week's span, she had come home tracking some dark, vaguely sticky substance behind her.

For the sake of their friendship, Marinette had moved out a little over a week later.

With this in mind, Marinette thinks she’s being overwhelmingly okay with the situation when her first question, upon stepping foot back into her apartment, happens to be, “Is that blood?”

Not, “how did you get in here”, or “who are you?” Is that blood? When did her life get this weird? Oh yeah, when she—a newly turned fourteen-year-old girl—was entrusted with guardianship over some of the most powerful deities in creation. That’s when.

It’s only after watching the man for an uncomfortable amount of time that Marinette notices the sickly crackling of unnatural magic clinging to the air around him. There’s a pool of dark magic sitting in her living room. It’s coating him, clinging to his very being and dripping, toxic, onto the pale beige carpeting.

God the carpeting, blood stains are a bitch to get out. At least he had the sense to push back the coffee table, and not sit on the couch that Marinette’s fairly sure, has been in this apartment since before she was born.

The stranger pauses his stitching mid-action, needle freezing halfway through the gash on his leg. Marinette is concerned.

“No, it’s cranberry juice,” he says sarcastically, even as he presses a towel, her pink bunny towel no less, against his leg. It’s clearly an attempt to hide the murder scene she just walked in on, but honestly, the towel is turning a disgusting shade of rusty brown.

Marinette takes one fortifying look around her living room, paying particular attention to the sticky wet spot her home invader is sitting in. He had better not have touched her one true love. If the coffee maker is broken she will break him.

“You should finish stitching that up before you bleed to death all over my carpet.”

“I’m not going to bleed out in the middle of your living room.”

Marinette grabs her emergency first aid kit, the one she keeps tucked safely in the umbrella stand. It’s a beast, and maybe Marinette had been a little obsessive when it came to putting it together, but she had spent a good portion of her life fighting. She liked to be prepared, even if being prepared meant carrying around a walking pharmacy.

Delicately, Marinette did her best to avoid mashing the blood further into the carpet. “I have a tourniquet in here just in case, but it doesn’t look like we need it. You did remember to disinfect the cut before you started stitching, right?”

She’s close enough now, knelt next to the man, to really make out his features. The pressure she forces down on the wound makes him wince, and Marinette blinks. Green eyes, there’s an aura to them that reminds Marinette distinctly of Tikki’s magic, a faint light just barely visible—Lazarus light. Well, that explained the corruption clinging to the air.

“I didn’t think you would be too thrilled with me poking around your bathroom,” he hisses out, sharp and very clearly in pain.

Marinette would usually let a lie like that go, but her patience is getting dangerously thin. “You could have spent another minute grabbing the peroxide from the medicine cabinet. It’s not like I can’t see your bloody footprints marking your trail. You grabbed my favorite towel, but not the one thing that prevents a staph infection. Who taught you first aid? Honestly! ”

A dark brow raises upward, clear interest taking over the strangers face. “You’re remarkably calm for someone who just found a random stranger dripping blood all over their apartment.”

“I’m more than a little pissed over that. You owe me a carpet cleaning.” Marinette grabs the travel-sized bottle of peroxide out of her kit, along with her sterilized needle, lighter, actual stitching thread—why the fuck is he using dental floss? Why?—and a roll of gauze. She’ll probably need more later, but for now, this is good. “You’re giving yourself way too much credit. This isn’t even close to the strangest thing I’ve seen this week. Now, this is going to sting like a bitch, but you broke into my apartment so, you deserve it.”

He lets out a long string of curses, biting down hard on his hand as Marinette pours the disinfectant over the wound. It’s a good three inches long and at least a centimeter deep. He needs a hospital but, seeing as his first choice was breaking and entering, Marinette’s probably as close to a professional as he’ll see.

“Fucking shit,” he grounds out around clenched teeth. Marinette has to take out the stitches he’s already done. They’re uneven and sloppy, probably because he’d been using the needle from her sewing kit. She slips her surgical scissors, the fresh pair she just held under her lighter, against the floss. His face loses all color as she carefully works the four rows he made out. “I know you’re pissed, but I don’t deserve this.”

Marinette casts him her most deadpan expression as she lights the curved stitching needle on fire. “Who's the dumbass who didn’t disinfect his—what? Stab wound? It looks like a stab wound, do you have any idea where that knife could have been? You’re lucky I’m nice enough not to let you get a blood infection.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Nice enough. You’re a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who broke in.” Marinette takes satisfaction in stabbing her needle into the skin and watching as his smirk turns into a grimace. “How did you get in here anyway? The front door was still locked.”

“I kicked in the back door,” he admits, with just the faintest hint of shame. “It was hanging on by a bolt and a decades worth of rust.”

“You’re lucky you’re already bleeding.”

“I was in a hurry, okay,” he says defensively. “My friend lives in the same apartment number one complex over. I apparently was off a bit with my directions. I promise, I don't usually break into random people’s homes.”

“Guess I’m just special then.” Marinette has to hide her smile by occupying herself with cleaning up. She’s angry at him, damn it!

“I’ll fix the door for you if you want? And I’ll pay for one of those rug doctors Walmart rents.” He carefully stretches out his leg. He’s a bit unsteady on his feet. A mix between pain and blood loss no doubt. Wordlessly she offers up a bottle of Tylenol.

She regrets handing it to him a nanosecond later when he takes a double dose and then, throws back a third for good measure.

“Oh, you’re going to be paying my cleaning bill all right, but the door can wait,” Marinette says, getting up, and heading over to her kitchen. There is no problem in the world food doesn’t make better. “You look like you could really use some breakfast, and I’ve had nowhere near my daily dose of caffeine. We can figure everything out after we’ve eaten.”

The man follows her over, leaning heavily against the wall to support his weight. It’s a sorry sight. He makes an aborted move to help her before deciding that nope, he really can’t stand for all that long. “Did I tell you how weird you are yet? I feel like I should have.”

“Would you rather I call the cops and kick you out?” Marinette asks, pushing the coffee maker to the very edge of the counter. He can reach it if he tries. Marinette fully plans to make him. With a bit more force than necessary, she slams down her jar of coffee mix. “Clearly you’re lucid enough to make some coffee while I fry up some eggs.”

There’s a spark of amusement in the stranger's eyes. His smirk is back, and he watches Marinette with something like glee. “Sure thing, firefly.”

“It’s Marinette,” she corrects, not bothering to turn away from the stove. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’d say it’s nice to meet you but...you did break into my house.”

“That’s fair,” the stranger agrees. Reaching for her phone instead of the stack of coffee filters. The bastard, doesn’t he realize how thin her sanity is stretching? “Jason Todd. You mind if I use your phone for a minute. Roy can stop by Home Depot, and get you a new door. So we won’t be reinstalling something that was already on its last legs.”

Marinette feels a headache coming on. “I’ll make enough for three then. Just have him pick up some kind of cleaner so the stain doesn’t set in.”

#maribat #jasonette #crow writes #prompt fills #jason todd #marinette dupain cheng

[ubemango]

pining w/ work buddy jk! I had watched many episodes of New Girl prior to writing this so I guess u could say it’s a pseudo-new girl!au teehee

The text from Doyoung sits unopened, and Jeongguk knows because you’re still clutching onto your phone like it’ll disintegrate into little pieces. You’re on your third mimosa. “Do I open–”

“That’s like the millionth time you’ve asked me and my answer is still I don’t fucking know.” 

“​Jeongguuuuk.​”

Now he knows you’re halfway to tipsy because you only drag through syllables when the drink’s melted those inhibitions away. Not that you have any because you showed up braless and in those awful fake Birkenstocks from Costco, lugging more champagne than orange juice but he figures you did that on purpose. “You’re interrupting the game,” he murmurs.

“What game? Jeongguk there’s nothing on the screen!”

“Yeah but you’re annoying me, I didn’t ask you to show up drunk.”

“I didn’t and you’re drinking too.” It’s true. He swears he doesn’t like to drink anything too sweet but somehow you perfect that orange juice ratio every time. Carefree as you are, you’re still weirdly meticulous about things. Jeongguk likes remembering those parts about you. “God. Should I open it? Maybe I shouldn’t. I–”

“Woah.” He shifts on the couch till he’s facing you, huddled deep into the corner of the couch like you’re trying to curl into nothing. “You’re so... jumpy.”

“I’m not!”

“Are you okay?”

You huff. “I’m okay.”

“Work okay?”

“I’m ​okay!” ​Jeongguk knows to wait now, because he sees your eyes glaze over. You stare off beyond his ear. “Jeongguk.”

“Yeah?”

You clear your throat. “Do you think I’m sexy?”

It’s a good thing he’s set down the glass because from the way his knees shake he might trigger an earthquake. “Huh.”

“Like. Am I–attractive? I mean.” Jeongguk watches you clench your fists. “Granted I don’t flaunt tits and ass like Kylie but that’s a different kind of pretty–not like I’m ​trying ​to be another kind of pretty because I know I’m like decent at least–”

“You’re beautiful,” Jeongguk interrupts. 

You gawp. He takes the second to realize his confession. “...Oh?”

Jeongguk closes his eyes. Doesn’t say anything for the sake of effect, but really he doesn’t know where he’s going with his. Because now you’re here and sorta drunk and still braless and it’s messing him up so bad he might just kick you out. He’s only doing this to shut you up, he’ll think to himself.  

“Yeah. You–you’re funny. And you like to drink with your pinky up and it’s not because you want to be posh but because you just do.”

"That’s--”

“Let me finish,” Jeongguk pleads. He doesn’t have the power to stop now, watching you deflate with his attention. It even seems like you like it. “You’re good at hugs. Like crazy good. Floss advocate but not in that annoying way, you just care about people like that. Sure you don’t have tits like Kylie but they’re–there?” (He thinks they’re incredibly nice but he’ll save that for another time.) “I don’t know. You’re sexy to me.”

“Yeah?” You drop your glass to the coffee table. “R-Really?”

“Sure.”

“Can I–” you point to the arm he has draped lazily over the back of the sofa– “squish there?”

“Sure,” he says again stupidly. And you don’t wait, already sliding over from your spot till you’re settled deeply into the crook of body he offers to you. You’re absurdly warm, and Jeongguk melts. “Are you really okay?”

“I don’t–know. Like I wanna say yes but I think it’s just that time. You know. When you’re sad for some reason and you don’t know why and it just means you’re not feeling your best and it’s–sorry.” You settle till your head sits heavy on his chest. Jeongguk wants to hold you tighter but he stays put. “I didn’t mean to air that all out.”

“S’okay, as long as you feel better.”

“I think you’re sexy too,” you continue.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I like looking at you. And talking to you.”

“Hm.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know how it got to this. He’s pretty good at helping you out with hook-up confusion because he’s come to you for the exact same thing before, but now your tits are so soft against his side and he’s even more confused. Work relationships are tenuous and complicated and he curses the day you showed up in the break room in those flowery high heels to introduce yourself. 

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because he’s resolute when he says, “I think I have an answer for you now.”

“Really?”

“Don’t text him back.” 

You freeze. Then you burrow deeper into him, and finally he gains the courage to wrap his arm around you. Like this is where he was meant to be.

“Okay,” you whisper.

#bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts #jungkook #ubemango fic #drabble

[knivestothroats]

Part 5

Based on content it could be part 4.5 because it’s more of Luke’s pov during his/Ace’s captivity, but for the sake of simplicity... 5.

Masterlist of previous parts

THE GOOD/BAD STUFF depending on who you ask: Mind control, captivity, knives, blood, denied medical help, stitching up own wounds. 

~

As much Luke hated being left alone, it was always worse when his captors came back.

Or maybe, his captor and his follow captive. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a food chain, and he was at the bottom. Sometimes it seemed like their roles depended on the day.

Often, he was left with Ace. He spent most of that time trying to figure out which they were that day; prisoner and warden, or two trapped captives.  

Ace would speak when spoken to, but they weren’t much for conversation. Luke found that if he asked for things – simple things – Ace would usually comply. Ice for bruises on his face, an extra portion of food here and there. The cot, however, was off limits.

Luke was trying to get a clear picture of how Ace operated. What things were standing orders, where he could find loopholes, the limits of Ace’s own thoughts and reason. How to convince Ace to do something. Maybe, one day, how to hold a conversation with them. He started to think of it as befriending the prison guard.

And then Miranda would come back, and he would be invisible again. Miranda certainly didn’t acknowledge him, and he couldn’t risk talking to Ace with her around.

One day, Miranda brought Ace another gift. Not a human, this time, but a switchblade. She tossed it carelessly to Ace, who caught it easily. Miranda stalked off again, leaving Ace with their toys.

“Here. Have fun. Don’t hurt yourself,” was all she said.

Ace opened the blade and turned it over in their hands. Luke thought he could see a hint of a smile on their face. They got off the bed and knelt down next to Luke on the floor.

“Give me your arm,” Ace said.

“No!” Luke protested, shying away. “Why?”

“So I can test the knife,” Ace said. “Switchblades are usually stabbing knives, but I want to see how it does on slicing.”

That was probably the longest sentence Luke had ever heard Ace speak.

“Can’t you test it some other way?” Luke asked.

“Mm. Miranda told me not to hurt myself.”

“But… I’m your toy, right?” Luke hated himself for saying it, but he saw an angle and he had to try it. “You – you have to take care of your toys if you… if you want them to last. If you want to keep them.”

He hoped, desperately, that Ace wanted to keep him.

Ace looked like they were thinking as hard as they were physically capable of. He expected smoke to start coming out of their ears.

“Why don’t… you… uh, try it on the mattress?” Luke suggested.

Ace got up and walked over to the cot. They pulled back the blanket, sighed, and then plunged the blade down into the center of the mattress.

“I already knew it was built for stabbing,” Ace said as they pulled the knife back out. They turned around and sat on the edge of the bed. They looked over the blade again. “Actually, you’re supposed to stab up when using a switchblade.”

“You, uh, use switchblades much?” Luke asked.

Ace shook their head, and then pressed their hand to their temple, as if they were getting a headache.

They looked sad.

Fuck, they actually looked sad.

“Is there, like, an apple or something in the kitchen?” Luke asked. “You could try slicing on that.”

Ace perked up immediately and left in search of fruit. Luke breathed out a heavy sigh and uncurled himself from his defensive position.

He felt like he had made progress. Perhaps discovered a trick he could pull out again later if he needed to.

What he had done, really, was make an impact.

--

Luke was sneaking food from the kitchen when he heard the door open.

Shit. He had hoped to have more time before Miranda and Ace got back. Convincing Ace not to test out a knife on him was one thing, but there’s no way he could work around a direct order from Miranda to punish him. He dashed back into the common area in a desperate attempt to simply not be caught in the kitchen.

No one was paying attention to him.

Ace had their hands clasped over one eye. Blood was streaming down from under their palms, through their fingers.

“I shouldn’t even keep you around if you’re going to make careless mistakes like that,” Miranda was yelling. “You are supposed to be a skilled fighter. You’re not supposed to slip up. You’re not supposed to get hurt.”

She didn’t say it out of concern. She said it in a way that meant, you aren’t supposed to lose.

“Move your hands,” Miranda ordered. “Let me look at it.”

Ace, grimacing, lowered their hands. Blood was smeared all over the side of their face, but gash was clearly defined, running from Ace’s forehead down onto their cheek. Luke’s stomach churned when he saw it.

“Open your eye,” Miranda commanded.

Ace did their best to comply, blinking rapidly as blood began to seep in.

“Hmm. Your eye itself is intact. You are lucky,” she said. “You’d be useless to me with a blind side like that.”

Today, Luke decided, we both captives.

“I can heal this,” Miranda said. “Do you want me to heal it?”

“Yes,” Ace said, voice thick with the tears they were trying to hold back. Luke wouldn’t be surprised if that had been an order from Miranda. Stop your incessant crying.

“Too bad,” Miranda snapped. “I want this to be a lesson. Wait here.”

Ace stood and waited, arms at their sides, until Miranda returned with an embroidery kit. She thrust it toward Ace, who took it obediently with bloodied hands.

“Go to the bathroom. Clean yourself up. And then sew it shut.”

Miranda turned and stormed out. Ace stood in place for a moment, looking with their one good eye at the kit in their red, trembling hands. A long needle and thick embroidery floss. They walked to the bathroom without a word.

Luke, ignored by all, returned to his familiar spot on the floor. He could see the open bathroom door down the hall, and he could hear shuddered gasps of pain as Ace did what they were told.

Luke pressed his back against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest.

Today, they were both captives.

[continues here]

#original #writings #ace #whump #whump blog #whump series #original characters #mind control #fantasy whump #magic whump #stitching wounds #knives #hurt/comfort #except more like comfort/hurt

[cricketrigby]

* ( kristine froseth ) ⁠— cricket rigby has lived in somewhere for 23 years, which is crazy considering they are only twenty three.  you can usually find her working at the somewhere roller rink . when i think of strawberry bubblegum, heart shaped sunglasses, & twirling the stem of a rose between your fingertips, i can’t help but think of them as well. ( pepper, twenty four, she/her, est )

ABOUT THE MUN.  sick of thinking! won’t be doing that again

hello all! my name is pepper and i have never been on time for anything ever in my life so it’s pretty fitting that i’m the last one to get my intro up dkjdkj love this for me,,, always on brand. anyways, i am Returning to the rpc kind of maybe after a month hiatus and i wanted something cute and chill to try and get back into the swing of things... i’m hoping this group will be that! but yeah please bear with me i am Definitely going to be a bit rusty,,,, and i am sorry in advance. but Anyways, enough about that and onto some fun facts about me. to start, i just turned twenty four two weeks ago and i am Still in shock about it so jot that down, i hate it here. i have like,,, the opposite of a green thumb, i have killed every plant i have ever had, rip peter the succulent you were a good egg. i regularly say i’m feeling ___ in this chillis tonight despite never being to chillis. i enjoy garbage movies, like the worse it is the better (tyler perry movies, the fast and the furious series, etc). i straight up don’t get like critically acclaimed movies i’m ngl,,, like really like Great movies go straight over my head rip but Anyways moving on to who we’re all here for, ms cricket rigby ! 

BIO.  we need sluttier music….. 

cricket juliet rigby was born to arthur godwin rigby and sonya marie rigby nee bankcult right here in good old somewhere florida. the story is that her parents were actually on their way out of town when cricket decided to ‘jump’ out of her mother’s belly and arrive to the party early. her parents always liked to tell the story like it was cute or funny or something but kit always saw it a bit differently. she had her chance to get out and she screwed it up. and now she’s literally never left this hell hole since. it’s like she got impatient and accidentally screwed herself over for it. and if that isn’t foreshadowing for the rest of her life she doesn’t know what is.

it was her mom’s idea to name her cricket. she said it was because of the way she used to kick with both legs in the womb. like she was jumping. her father found her name ridiculous and insisted on calling her juliet, but that was to be expected. her mother was always the fanciful one out of the pair of them. you see, ricki’s father was a pretty successful lawyer and her mother was a children’s book illustrator. to put it simply her father was the type of person to give kids floss on halloween and her mother was the type to slip you a cookie when the ‘adults’ weren’t looking. they were complete opposites, honestly to the point where sometimes cricket didn’t even understand how her parents got together. but somehow against all odds they did, and they stayed together to boot. loved each other too. her mother always made her father loosen up a bit and her father usually kept her mother grounded. they suited each other, and they adored each other in a way cricket never really saw any other parents doing. well, until they didn’t. 

if cricket didn’t understand how her parents got together she sure understood why they didn’t stay together. you’d have to be blind as a bat to not see that one coming.

her parents fought constantly as cricket got older. the kind of loud, explosive fights that woke a kid up in the middle of the night and made the neighbors look at you with sympathy. there was no abuse or anything serious like that, or even cheating. her parents simply stopped liking each other. and that was honestly even scarier. that her parents could simply wake up one day and not like each other anymore. 

they called it quits when cricket turned thirteen. her mother broke the news to her over a shared joint on the beach. and honestly, it wasn’t really the kind of news you wanted to process while high, but well, nobody ever asked cricket. nobody ever really asked cricket anything. 

but well, her mother asked cricket one thing. to break the news to her little sister. cause yeah, she had one of those. kimberly. a regular sensible name for a regular sensible girl. not that there’s anything wrong with being regular or sensible. it’s just that cricket and her mother were neither of those things. if cricket took after her mother, then kimberly took after their father. her baby sister wanted to be an accountant for god’s sake. what six year old wants to be an accountant? 

anyways, cricket played messenger. she broke the news to her sister and comforted her in the aftermath. she listened to her mother as she told fanciful, beautiful stories about how much more she wanted from her life. and one sunny thursday afternoon, the very thursday she got her first period, the very thursday that a girl really needs her mom, like really needs her mom, she came home and didn’t have one anymore. or a sister either apparently. all she had was a dad crumpled on the living room floor around a heart shaped sticky note of all things. 

who leaves their fucking family with a fucking sticky note?

apparently dad was the only one in the family who didn’t know he and mom were over. cricket would feel bad about it if she wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for herself. because apparently her mother packed up her and kimmy’s things, picked up kimberly from school and just left somewhere forever. leaving cricket behind. just like that. cricket didn’t understand it. just the night before her and her mother were laying back on her bed, laughing. and now she was tossed aside like a discarded toy. second best in a two person race. cricket had never quite dealt with abandonment until that moment, but her first taste of it hurt like a bitch. it hurt all over. 

but things only got worse. cause then came stella. stella was cricket’s godmother. her mother’s best friend. the woman who would slip cricket money so she could buy herself a red lipstick at the mac counter or pick herself up that tube top she’d been wanting so badly. the woman who came with cricket and her mother when she got her first bra. the woman who was supposed to be there for her in the aftermath of all this. but apparently stella took the job a bit too seriously. 

she fucked her father. and not long after that she married him. cricket fought them every step of the way, but they still did it. and well, she had to live with it. her mother and best friend was gone, and this impostor was taking her place. and her father was just letting it all happen. in fact he was happy to do it. that’s what he kept telling her anyways. to let him be happy. that he deserved to be happy. but didn’t she deserve to be happy too?

her mother sent letters sometimes, and kimmy would occasionally call the house. cricket never opened the letters, and she never really spoke much to kimmy. i mean, it wasn’t kimberly’s fault, and cricket knew that. after all, she was six. she never had a choice either. but cricket couldn’t help being jealous of the little shit. kimberly missed dad so much and she wanted to come home. but she was out of somewhere, and she was with mom. she had everything cricket ever wanted and she wasn’t even appreciating it. it was a hard pill to swallow. eventually cricket started cutting the calls short. 

cricket and her father never saw eye to eye. he kicked her out of the house when she was seventeen after an argument between cricket and stella got so bad that things got physical on both their parts. and instead of kicking out the woman who hit his daughter, arthur got rid of the daughter instead. cricket didn’t mind. she simply went to live with her boyfriend at the time (who much like all of cricket’s boyfriends in the past was handsome, cool, and most importantly old enough to have his own place). after that she never really turned back. just... moved from boyfriends place to boyfriends place to girlfriends place to boyfriends place. saw her dad on holidays or when she needed money or under duress. and stayed in somewhere. for now. 

PERSONALITY.  feeling like the prettiest girl in the crawl space right now

as you can probably tell from that mess of an bio, this is my first time playing cricket so i don’t really have her personality nailed down yet BUT

ECCENTRIC. cricket got her mother’s weird hippy gene for sure honestly. she might even be an artist lowkey because of it. definitely is the type to just say weird as hell shit without shame. your local manic pixie dream girl tbh 

PROMISCUOUS. she a hoe and that’s a fact. love that for her though! gets around and is pretty shameless about it honestly. just here for a good time. kind of charming naturally and just generally like?? flirtatious?? the type to flirt with a cop to get out of a ticket. also the type to cry to get out of a really bad dad. the type to go on a date just cause her fridge is empty and yk a girl’s gotta eat. the kind of girl who had a bunch of rumours about her in high school like that she slept with so and so under the bleachers at an assembly or that she once did something nearly impossible on a trampoline. 

CONTRADICTORY. cricket is a compassionate person but she can also hold a grudge for a long ass time. still doesn’t really talk to her mom or little sister. but if you need a ride across town cricket will just give it to you even if she barely knows you. if you’re hungry and come to the roller rink she will slip you some fries free of charge even if she’ll probably get in trouble for it. will fight her stepmom ON SIGHT and slam a bitch down during roller derby but like will get so excited over something simple like the moon being out sdkdskj this bitch makes no sense y’all. 

MYSTERIOUS. at least to other people i feel like. cricket doesn’t really talk about herself or serious things, and she will change the topic if someone is getting too close. she’s the type who doesn’t open up easy, and therefore the type that a lot of guys like... idealize and build up into this mysterious untouchable thing yk? but she’s just a dumb girl who doesn’t want to talk about her feelings underneath it all sdkjdkj she’s just stupid

HEADCANNONS. at least whatever is wrong with me is really really funny 

lost her virginity at fourteen around the anniversary of her mother leaving. unfortunately the type who seeks love and acceptance in all the wrong places. tends to self sabotage when things are too good, or literally just go for people who are bad for her. bi af tho hey~ has been in more relationships than she can count for sure. will duck behind a wall when she sees any of her exes at the grocery store.

does ROLLER DERBY! will fight a bitch in the ring! very good at it despite how cute and angelic she looks sdksdk can and WILL slam a bitch into a wall. it’s just a fun hobby for her, but she loved the camraderie of it honestly. her team is a ragtag group of misfits and i Love them 

like i said in the chat, will now put up posters around town with a cute little polaroid of herself and her number on those little tab things just for shits and giggles to see who calls. will completely prank anyone who does call for fun

idk why but i feel like the roller rink is called l8r sk8r or something cheesy like that,,, i feel it in my Soul. also imagine the type of place where cricket goes around on rollerblades serving food, so yeah, you can order food probably and some showy girl on rollerblades will serve it to you 

has been a muse before. like guys have written songs about her in high school. one guy painted a portrait of her and it went in a literal gallery. is always very flattered but very like,,, cool thanks bye! 

i totally forgot to include this but the rigby’s are rich y’all. like country club rich. her daddy’s got that big money and their house is Huge but you would never be able to tell by the way cricket acts, she’s a mess.

speaking of, her name is indeed cricket (rip) but you can call her kit, kitty, rick, ricki, jiminey,,, all of it is valid 

the vibe is madchen amick folks,,, that’s the whole vibe and honestly she’s probably cricket’s style inspo like twin peaks??? maybe her favourite show

a feel like she might also be a lifeguard as a side hustle, but she only ever fills in when no one else can you know. she’s the emergency call in, and when she’s there she spends most of her time sitting in her lifeguard chair in her little red swim suit and flirting with whoever comes by to see her like sdkjsd is she good at her job? no. does she bring traffic to the beach? probably! 

WANTED CONNECTIONS.  i’m saving my brain for special occasions. if i use it every day it’ll get dirty

i would love an ex for her honestly,,, an ex bf or gf where cricket sabotaged things just when they were getting good? an ex on good terms maybe! an ex will they won’t they thing where they almost got together but never did? an old childhood crush for either party! a childhood enemy is also sexy! an old neighbor! someone who’s sibling she used to date or something! someone new to town that she’s intrigued by! someone new to town she doesn’t get along with (maybe cause of a bad first impression or something?) a one night stand! a fwb! a ewb! a BEST FRIEND GOD PLEASE! m or f i am down either way. i would kill for a girl squad though. maybe an ex best friend who hates cricket cause she slept with their boyfriend in high school or something. a party friend! someone she does roller derby with. someone she always sees in the crowd during roller derby. idk someone who she regularly sees at the motel she has her hookups at, maybe cause they’re also hooking up or maybe cause they just come to the motel often for some reason or honestly maybe they’re a vacationer that would make sense. uh someone she saved from drowning one time! OH someone she pretended to be dating to make an ex jealous or avoid one or something at one point,,,and anything else tbh we can absolutely brain storm! like this and i will slide into your dms <3

#vthqintro #kristine's smile in the gif above... that's it that's the tag #c.r. | bio.

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

what kind of man?

Joe Toye x Reader

Summary: Assigned as a war correspondent to the European Theater, a string of fluff piece assignments makes apparent you’re a novelty to sell newspapers. You yearn for an interview with someone who will tell you the truth--something real--and you find honesty in a man with a missing leg and a battered copy of War and Peace.

You knew, when Ed McCormick—the human interest editor—slid an Atlantic ocean liner ticket across your (frankly, overflowing) desk along with the declaration of ‘congrats, kiddo, you’re a war reporter,’ there had to be a hitch. The New York Times doesn’t send female war correspondents across the Atlantic Ocean and catapulting into a war zone on a whim—because they think you’ve got gumption, or a certain spark, or felt like taking a chance. You aren’t exactly Martha Gellhorn or Marguerite Higgins—but then again, the Times doesn’t have a Gellhorn or a Higgins.

And now, you’re in an Army hospital in Paris, confronting once again what exactly that hitch is: you’re the novelty ‘girl writer.’ It’s all the rage.

“How long will he make us wait?” you ask, glaring down at your watch face as if you could bully the minute hand to stop moving. To stop showing this Dr. Carl fucking Wainwright, the latest in a long like of interviews for fluff pieces, has kept you and Fred, your photography, waiting for almost forty-five minutes.

“As long as they feel like,” he says, as he lights a cigarette. He uses it as a lecturer’s wand to indicate the ward, populated by wounded and recovering GIs, the smoke leaving a trail. “We’re pretty low on the priority list, kid.”

You lift your eyes to the ceiling, knowing Fred knew as well as you did that wasn’t the whole truth. In the month and a half you’ve been in Paris, the interview appointments you’ve had with doctors, colonels, pilots, naval captains have been consistently well away from the frontlines, the start time delayed or postponed, often cut short when they do begin, all the answers you gather as sweet and vapid as candy floss. No one wants to show the war as it always is, worrying what will happen if their honesty appears on the front page or that the pretty little war correspondent isn’t the one to write about it. “They know I’m not chump change.”

“Nah,” Fred replies. You cock an eyebrow at him as he sucks on his cigarette, wondering if he’s about to compliment you. You had been sure Fred didn’t know how to string one nice—or attempted nice—word after another. He puffs smoke out in a great cloud. “It’s because you’re a girl. They know you’re here to add bit of emotion and feminine touch to this disgusting fucking war.” His words hold no bite, only a crackling frankness, and they land all the harder across your cheek. “You slap your name onto some fluff pieces about the great noble sacrifice of our heroic, home-grown, American boys, and fuck, that’ll sell more papers than my pictures will.”

You bite your lower lip to keep from spitting out something you might regret; it’s not like you didn’t know it, in some dark recess of your conscious.

The girl writer, you think, snorting and crossing your arms over your chest. You squint out of the hospital ward’s window, the early autumn afternoon overcast, the gray clouds swallowing the gray steel of the Eiffel Tower.  You didn’t need Fred to tell you what you already knew. Yet,  sent something sharp and metallic cut into your chest, settling just below your throat. But, you try to bolster yourself, You still got an opportunity. Martha, Marguerite: they started somewhere, too. All it took was an opportunity seized tight in a clenched, white-knuckled fist.

“I just wish I could get a real chance to write something more than fluff,” you say more to the Eiffel Tower than Fred. “I bet I could sell more than an extra paper here or there. I need something I could really sink my teeth into—something real. What the war is like really.”

Smoke curls out of Fred’s mouth. He’s squinting at you, but he’s always squinting at something. It’s why he avoided the draft—his eyesight making him near blind, his refusal to wear glasses making him near stupid—but you’ve come to rely on its consistency. Good old squinting, surly Fred, who saw the world clearer through narrowed eyes than an optometrist could ever help with. He says, “You want some coffee to wash down what you’re sinking your teeth in to?”

“Coffee?” you repeat.

“Sure.” He shrugs toward the closed door of Dr. Wainwright’s office. “Doc’s kept us waiting long enough, I figure we can drink some of his coffee.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well, no, but thank you.”

Fred shrugs. “If he decides to stick his nose out, have someone kind find me.” He doesn’t stick around for an answer, one hand on his camera, hung around his neck, as he trots from the ward. He sends you a wink before he vanishes into the hall.

Sighing, wishing you didn’t have the brand of ‘the girl writer’ seared onto your forehead—what would it be like if you could waltz off to coffee without worrying how’d it look like, what your boss might think, what it might do to your reputation? Pretty damn relaxing, you think, drifting between two cots, the men in either asleep, and lean a hip against the window. Would Martha or Marguerite let themselves be walked over by this Doctor Wainwright? Or yesterday’s Lieutenant Aryes? Or last week’s Captain Sobel?

he Parisian cityscape offers no answers.

“Hey, lady,” a raspy voice calls. Another: “Lady?” Pause, and finally, short and swift and sharp: “Window girl!”

Breath catches in your throat.  Jerking away from the window, you find a soldier two cots away fixing you with a frown. His dark eyes are somehow more disapproving than the downward quirk of his mouth. A book is opened on his stomach. “You’re blocking my reading light,” he says after a beat, you blinking at him.

“Oh, uh,” you reply, intelligently, taking a mincing step away from window only to bump into a cot’s table laden with water and medicines. It takes a quick hand to steady the rattling glasses, and your breath catches as the cot’s occupant grumbles in his sleep—threatening to wake—only to turn onto his side and snore once. Loudly. You exhale. Thank fuck. What kind of person wakes an injured soldier?

“That was elegant,” the dark-eyed man observes dryly.

Moving away from the window and side table, you can’t help your eyes narrowing. “My deepest thanks for that compliment, solider; I’m sure it was entirely sincere.” You feel a whoosh and a plunge in your chest the moment the words are from your mouth because what the fuck? What kind of person says that to an injured soldier? You want to grab the words from the air and stuff them back into your mouth.

But the raspy solider, he, well, he grins?

The disapproval in his eyes has flicked off, a light of interest kindling, and those eyes are sweeping over you, considering. Goosebumps raze your skin, your cheeks flushing, with the prickling heat of his eyes on you and—“You some kind of reporter?”

Crossing your arms, you reply, “I’m not ‘some kind of reporter;’ I am a reporter. A war correspondent. For the New York Times.”

“Oh yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow as if asking if he should be impressed. The heat still burns in his eyes. He’s enjoying this, you realize. “What was all that about sinking your teeth into something real then? Doesn’t seem like you’re a war correspondent for the Times.”

“I am a real—” you being to protest hotly, but under your glare, his lips twitch precariously close to a smile and you bite off your words. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” Your tone is flat.

His smile grows. “Nah, not you in particular, more anything that makes being in a fucking hospital a little less boring.” You expect him to stutter to an awkward halt, to apologize for swearing in front of you—a lady—but he doesn’t. You can’t help mirroring his smile. “I mean, look, I’m reading for Christ’s sake! I never read.” He waves to the book still on his stomach, and you move a few steps closer to read the title and the English major, shut away in your heart since you graduated from Brown three years ago, sings.

“War and Peace?” you say. “That’s appropriate.”

He wrinkles his nose faintly. “I guess, but I’d rather fucking eat it then read another word. It’s horrible! Boring and unrealistic, I mean, seriously, are you telling me that this Andre fella isn’t going to kiss the living-fucking-daylights out of that Natasha broad before he goes off to war? Fucking war? Or that Pierre ain’t going to kiss her? Jesus.”

You consider pointing out, though apparently horrible, he is awfully invested in the romantic entanglements of the main characters. Instead, you settle on, “What would you change to make it more realistic?”

He shrugs, shifting in his bed. You’re not sure if it’s because you’ve drifted to stand over him, or if no one has asked his opinions on literature before, but you pull up a nearby chair to at least alieve one issue. He stares at you for another moment, jaw working, trying to decide something, before settling on: “Well, I can’t really say what’s unrealistic or not about the fucking Napoleonic war, but if you’re wanting a book about war and peace now, I’d tell you to write more—like, a fuck ton more—about soldiers being scared out of their goddamn minds. I am, uh, was a paratrooper until…” he nods toward his legs—well, no, not legs. You realize, blinking and hiding your surprise poorly, where one leg shoulder be, the sheets are deflated. Amputated, he’s destined to relay on one leg and a crutch for the rest of his life, all in service of his country.

Your stomach clenches painfully. You release a silent, steady breath, focusing doggedly as he gathers his thoughts and continues: “I had jumped out of a plane five times just for the right to call myself a paratrooper, right? But, on D-Day, when that plane was flying through a fucking Fourth of July fireworks show as the Germans were firing over us? I might as well have never jumped once. I stood there, waiting and waiting, for the red light and then the green light to turn on thinking, any second, a German anti-aircraft shell would send us up in a great fireball.” He pauses. To the battered novel, he says softly, “I’ve never been so scared.”

Balling your fingers into fists, hidden in the cloth folds of your lap, you restrain yourself from leaning forward to take his hand. He doesn’t need your sympathy, and you don’t have empathy—you could never understand the hell he’s seen. So instead, you ask: “What about the peace?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, his dark eyes dragging reluctantly away from you, as if fighting a magnetized pull, and to his book. Movements slow, as if forgetting the fingers beating a lazy rhythm onto the book’s cover belonged to him, his eyes grow distant. You watch him fall into his memory—allow in memories of terror, his comrades, the firefights, death—and you’ve seen eyes untethered from reality (hell, you’ve seen amputated legs before) but seeing this man, this soldier who talked about literary characters kissing and seasoned his speech with ‘fuck’ like a cooking spice, it meant more. Landed heavier in chest, packed a punch that left you winded around a clenching throat.

I don’t even know his name, you think.

“I think that’s my big problem with it,” he begins slowly, nodding again to the book. “‘War and Peace.” He snorts. Then repeats, low to taste the words in his mouth: “War and peace. Implying that the two can coexist. There isn’t peace, there hasn’t been since ’41 when we got dragged into this fucking war. War murders peace; when you aren’t getting shot out, you’re thinking you might get shot at, or dreaming about being shot at, or your buddy’s shot. You’re constantly wound tight, waiting in the time in between, because there’s no peace. It’s just a lapse in hell so Death can trick you again, and worse this time around.” He says ‘death’ with a capitalization, as if it’s a proper noun, a close friend, someone he’s dined with multiple evenings in a row. A grin spreads on his mouth. “Guess I gave you what you wanted, huh? How’d you trick me into doing that?”

“What?” you ask, blinking. You forgot the origin of the conversation

“You said you wanted to write about the real war.”

“Oh, I do, but…” your voice fades in thought.

“But?”

“But, I won’t use what you told me.”

His dark brows furrow, mouth turning into a downward slash. “What? Why? Do you want something more glorious or heroic, because, lady, I thought you said real—”

“I won’t use it because,” you say over him, holding a finger up to silence him. He presses his lips into an annoyed line, but he swallows his words. “Because of two reasons. One: I haven’t asked permission. May I quote you in a story?”

Jutting his chin out mulishly, he shrugs and you see in him the little, obstinate boy he used to be. You briefly wonder what hell he gave his mother (you briefly wonder why you suddenly feel a fervent hope to know about his childhood, his mother, his family, his life). “Sure, yeah, why not,” he says. “What’s the second reason, then?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” In his raspy voice, the word is almost a musical note. “Joe Toye. I’m with the Airborne, the 101st.”

You tilt you head, unable to keep from smiling at the simplicity of it—Joe Toye—and how his name came in the same breath with his division; a division that warmed his breath, squared his shoulders, and puffed his chest. He’s proud to be a—it takes a moment for your mind to come up with it—a Screamin’ Eagle, or maybe prouder to be associated with the men who also wore the Eagle. Still smiling, you offer your name, adding, “I’m with the New York Times.”

He doesn’t give the usual lines you’ve heard from men—‘pretty name for a pretty girl,’ ‘nice name, but can I call you mine?’—instead saying, “Good to meet you, uh, formally. And thanks for listening.”

A crooked grin twists your lips up. “Listening is literally my job.”

“Take the compliment, would you, woman?” he asks, laugh barking and brief, the noise scattering goosebumps onto your arms as it zips over your skin, only to burrow and live in your memories. When he quiets, when the blush on your face threatens to permanently stain, he props himself up further, dog-earring War and Peace and putting it aside. To his fingers, stitching and unstitching themselves on his lap, he says, “Nah, I mean it. It’s been awhile since anyone has taken the time to listen to me just, you know, say shit.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of interesting shit to say,” you say, mildly and trying your best not to let your voice quiver. You want to inject the swirling tide of emotions boiling in your chest into your words, to make him understand just how much you feel your words—instinctively feel his worth, his importance—but what kind of person does that? What kind of person acts all emotional at a guy she literally just met? A silly girl, your brain supplies, unhelpfully.

But you know you failed because Joe’s looking at you all strange—all quirked eyebrows, mouth parting into a surprised ‘o,’ and his eyes seeming to flicker—and you snap your mouth shut. The blush, you’re sure, will redden you as a badge to what a colossal, idiotic, overly-emotional girl you are and forever will be.

What would Marguerite or Martha do? you ask yourself.

“Miss?” a voice says then, interrupting your internal spiral. “Miss—uh, Miss…?”

“Y/n,” Joe says, a question pitching your name up. “I think he’s talking to you?”

You turn and, from the name patched onto his lab coat, find yourself blinking at the elusive Wainwright. He’s a thin man, wiry and wrinkled and tired, and he blinks expectantly at you from behind round glasses. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss, but I’m ready to interview now.”

“Oh, um,” you say, standing, and running nervous fingers over your hair and hoping the fluffing you put it through before you left the hotel—over two hours ago now—hasn’t completely deflated. “Wonderful, great, I’ll just…” But your words catch in your throat because you do something you shouldn’t have: you glance down at Joe and he’s—

He’s grinning at you just as he did when you sassed him, an eye-tooth dominated smirk, creasing his eyes as if every inch of his face wants to be involved. You empty your lungs in a long breath. Joe Toye. Joe Toye curses even though you’re a female, he looks at you with bright interest and tells you what’s real. He doesn’t shy from the fear and exhaustion that every other person you’ve spoken with tries to keep out of the newspapers—or protected and secreted away from the pretty little war correspondent.

“Actually,” you begin, knowing when Fred eventually returns, he’ll redefine hell for you, “I just needed to speak with you to see if interviewing this soldier here was okay.”

“Oh, uh,” Wainwright says. He adjusts his glasses, though they sat just fine on his nose, eyes darting between you and Joe. “If he’s agreed, then yes, of course.”

You nod, smiling your most charming. “Thank you, sir. Awfully kind of you.”

“Sure,” Wainwright replies, already drifting away to tend to other demands on his hospital ward.

Watching him go, you cling to the few seconds of an excuse before you have to look at Joe and judge his reaction.

Joe doesn’t wait for you to look at him. Voice quiet, he asks, “Why did you do that?”

“Because,” you say, tearing your eyes from Wainwright’s back and to Joe. Joe, who’s eyebrows are pinched and who’s eyes flickering again. “Because you have more interesting shit to say.”

A week later, an article appears in the Times, “A Screaming Eagle Talks: An Interview with an Elite American solider.” You receive a clipping of it along with a letter asking if you want his autograph. It’s the fifth letter you and Joe exchange. You send them to each other—at first across France, then across the Atlantic when he returns Stateside—but you stop counting at eighty-four letters (the war’s over and you get to hear, instead of read, all the interesting shit by then. Of course, Joe insists he’s only got something interesting to say if you’re writing it).

#band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #hbo war #joe toye #joe toye imagine #one shot for yall #happy belated joe day #my writing

[misstinfoilhat]

The Boy in the Belfry Pt. 5, a Bungo Stray Dogs fic.

«So, the preacher is back?» Chuuya mumbled thoughtfully while pouring their drinks, returning into the bedroom where he had propped up the pillows against the wall to help Dazai sit upright.

"Yup," Dazai stated emotionless, accepting the flask and small cup Chuuya had brought him. Quickly, he shot back the liquid from the cup, before throwing it to the side and concentrated his attention directly to the bottle instead.

Chuuya prompted his elbow to his knee, resting his head on a tightly gripped fist.

"Jeeze, you're so unrefined."

"Yup."

The ginger sighed heavily, feeling uneasy by the fact that his former partner wasn't poking back. But considering the circumstances... During the ten or so years since he had known Dazai, the preacher had been the one and only person he had ever seen Dazai actually fear.

And with good reason...

"He sent me a letter," Dazai stated suddenly.

Chuuya's train of thought was abrupted by Dazai's confession.

"A letter?"

Dazai pointed lazily to the jacket he had thrown on the floor. "Right pocket."

Chuuya grabbed the beige coat, but hesitated, as he held the trench coat in his hands.

"Was this Oda's?"

"Right pocket," Dazai said firmly. "Read it before I change my mind."

He didn't want to let it go, so he made a mental note to talk to him about it later. Reaching into the pocket, he picked out a rusty old key and a letter that was partially soaked. He gingerly opened the envelope, making sure that he didn't rip it.

The ink on the page inside had smeared out, but he could still make up most of it.

Dazai. Because of you, the wrath of God is coming. Be ready for your atonement, for I am back. You will be lead to eternal punishment, your righteous eternal life in the flames of the devil's embrace. You have already been denied as His child. Your undying suffering will see no end in this life. His doom has already come upon you. It is time to let God reflect you, so you can truly see yourself once more- the way he has always done. He knows your longings. He knows your anger. He knows that you fear Him.

I set the key of David on thy shoulders. When he opens no one will shut, when he shuts, no one will open.

You know what to do.

May God forgive you

Father

"I don't get it," Chuuya mumbled and looked to Dazai.

"I guess it's not for you to understand." 

"Then why the hell did you even call me if you don't want my help?"

Dazai looked away. He was tired, in pain and he felt dizzy.

"Because I didn't want to die on his doorstep," he shrugged, taking another sip of the sake.

For some reason, this angered Chuuya greatly. Was that all it was? Really?

"You know what, fuck you Dazai. I-"

"No, fuck you Chuuya! Fuck you!" Dazai raised his voice and turned back to the smaller man. 

"I-I... I don't have the answers, okay? I don't know why he is back, I don't know why he wanted me to come back to Shinja, and I don't know why I did! I don't know what happened when I got up there, and I don't know how I survived, and I don't know why I went back! The only fucking thing I know is that I needed you..." Dazai's voice broke. He cleared his throat. "I... I needed you in this. You're the only one I can talk to..." 

He lowered his head in shame. Pained, heavy breaths tore in his chest and he just wanted to hide under his blanket and never come back.

Chuuya stood in the middle of the room, unmoving. This was the first time Dazai had ever raised his voice at him. He couldn't remember him raising his voice to anyone. Not him, not Mori, Oda or Ango. Not even Akutagawa... and certainly not the preacher... He never raised his voice, ever. It was always so gentle. So untouched by anything.

And he felt so grateful to be on the receiving end of his first verbal assult from his former partner, not counting their usual bickering.

Chuuya lowered himself to Dazai's futon. Dazai wouldn't look at him.

"Listen, Dazai..." Chuuya lay an affectionate hand on Dazai's chin and guided his face back up to lock eyes. Dazai was crying. Actually crying.

Another first.

"Please look at me," Chuuya whispered, and finally, Dazai looked up.

Chuuya slapped his face, hard.

Dazai startled by the sudden action. Chuuya ruffled a hand in the unruly mess of dark brown hair.

A sharp pain struck Dazai as his friendemy accidentally leaned his weight on Dazai's broken leg.

He winched and retreated.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry Dazai!" Chuuya seemed frantic. It was out of character for the small man.

Dazai forced a laugh, mostly to reassure Chuuya that it was okay. Both the accidental butt-to-fracture action and the slap.

"Don't worry," Dazai sighed with a faint smile. "I just, I'm not myself right now... I'm too tired."

Chuuya smiled, and sat back beside Dazai, lifting his arm over the slightly younger (by two months and he would not let Dazai forget about it) man's head. Dazai leaned on his shoulder and made an effort to relax.

They kept drinking in silence, both deep in thought. It didn't take long until Dazai passed out from the unfortunate combination of painkillers and alcohol.

Chuuya was leaned back with the former mafioso dozed off with his head rested on his lap. He watched him sleeping, thinking that this would probably be the last time he would see him this relaxed until they found a way to once again get rid of that devil that usually haunted Dazai's sleep. 

Unless they couldn't... No, he didn't want to think about that.

It didn't take long before he fell asleep himself.

                                                           ...

Something itched.

His nose. Chuuya snorted and tried to swap at the fly disturbing his sleep.

Again.

Chuya startled and shook himself out of his haze, ready to crush that fly into oblivion only to be met by... a hand?

"Boop!"

Chuuya looked down. A childish grin was looking back up at him, once again raising his finger to press his nose like you would a button.

"Boop!"

"Dazai... what are you doing?"

"I'm booping your nose," Dazai answered, matter-of-factly.

Chuuya looked at the undoubtedly entertained man-child. The undoubtedly entertained former youngest-ever executive of the port fucking mafia, and the bottle of strong painkillers that was tilted on the side of the bed.

"Boop!"

His former superior.

"Boop!"

"I'm going to kill you!"

                                                            ...

Kunikida was a man who liked to stick to his routines. Some might call it OCD, but he himself didn't really see it that way. It was just what his ideals were. Having things in order.

Every day he would wake up at five o'clock. He would proceed to take twenty push-ups, twenty sit-ups and run for twenty minutes on the treadmill.

He would drink 1,5 dl of green tea at 170 degrees, and eat a bowl of oatmeal. 1 cup of old-fashioned rolled oats, 2 cups of milk, 1/8 teaspoon of salt, cooked for 7 minutes. This was supposed to happen between 6:00 and 6:30.

He would brush his teeth for two minutes and then floss for one hundred seconds.

If nothing (Dazai) interrupted his ritual, that would mean that he could walk across the parking lot from the dormitories and be at work by exactly 7 o'clock.

Today, that didn't happen. 

The long-haired man stopped in the parking lot and looked around. There was supposed to be two cars in the parking lot. There were three.

A large black landrover was parked in one of the usually vacant spots.

Kunikida took a deep breath. 'It's fine,’ he thought too himself. ‘It's probably just someone who doesn't want to pay for parking across the street.'

He kept walking.

'Which means that I, who actually live here, pays for this idiot's parking!'

Kunikida spun back with clenched fists and grinding teeth, ready to leave a very cross note to whoever that stupid idiot thought he... Then he noticed the crutches in the back seat.

Yes, Kunikida was a man who liked to stick to his routines. He liked his life to be planned out and predictable. That, however, didn't mean that it was difficult for him to add two and two together (he used to be a math teacher after all). 

He leaped up the stairs to the second-floor patio of their dorms and knocked heavily on Dazai's door until the lock clicked and the door slowly creaked open.

Within seconds, he wrote in his notebook that he had to make Dazai oil the henches of his door.

"Where have you been you bandage wasting-" Kunikida cut himself off at the sight of the small redhead. His white shirt was crumbled and untucked, and black pants had hastily been pulled up as his belt was not buckled.

The short and the tall man looked at each other before some kind of recognition smacked Kunikida across the head.

"You're that Port Mafia ginger-kid!"

Chuuya looked at the speckled man, from his current state of hardly-awake. "I have no idea who you are."

"Where is Dazai-san?" he asked loudly, clearly demonstrating his anger over this situation.

"Shhh," Chuuya hissed agonized and dragged the blonde inside. "He's still sleeping! I swear to God if you wake him- he's the most irritating person I've ever met when he's injur..."

"Chuuyaaa..." A frail voice was heard from the bedroom. "I don't feel well."

Thank God, he seems to be feeling better, Chuuya thought but still cringed at the sound.

Kunikida stomped past the short redhead and into Dazai's bedroom.

"Where the hell have you been, you-" He cut himself off.

Dazai was too pale. He didn't look good at all. He really needed to go back to the hospital. 

Kunikida sighed in defeat. He couldn't yell at Dazai right now. The sight of his partner was just too pitiful.

"Dazai-san," he stated in the softest voice he could muster.

"F-Fabio?"

Kunikida had to strain himself not to punch the kid. No punching. He's clearly delirious.

"Dazai, we should go back to the hospital," he smiled stiffly.

"I never really liked the Hanson brothers, you know," he mumbled, trailing off, but still adding, "No offense."

Someday, he was going to kill him. He really was.

"Yeah, he's been acting like this all morning." Chuuya leaned on the doorframe.

"I don't even give a shit why you're here anymore. Would you mind helping me get him to my car?" Kunikida asked.

"Absolutely."

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #Dazai Osamu #doppo kunikida #Nakahara Chuuya #protective kunikida #protective chuuya #hurt dazai

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Undercover Part 2 (Alex x Reader)

Summary: Alex has made it home and all too soon it’s time to return. On his final day of freedom, he runs into a familiar face that can make everything worthwhile again. (Originally requested by: @fandomsinthegalaxies)

AN: Anon requested a part 2 so I made one. It’s not my best but I figured you guys should have something whilst I’m on a mild hiatus. Undercover is my most popular post with over a hundred notes and I can’t thank you guys enough so I hope you like this addition!

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 It was his last day before going back. The rain was thrashing down; the beach was devoid of life. Alex was mostly unaffected by the weather, his fast pace unrelenting. He wanted to take a break from all the reminders of the war but it was so hard to avoid everything. He’d ended up on a boardwalk for Christ’s sake.

 His arms hugged his coat to him, the tails of it blustering in the wind. He didn’t have an umbrella or a hat or a scarf. The drops trickled down his neck but his body was too numb with the cold to even shiver. It was still better than moping about in his room, driving him to punch the four walls down to escape and run. Hence why he was now taking a very long and very wet walk.

 A hand appeared on his shoulder and pulled him aside to a café’s outside seating area. His yells of confrontation caught up in his throat as he came face to face with his captor.

 “Hello.”

 Y/N smiled up at him. It was a soft barely there smile but she wore it wonderfully well on her face streaked with raindrops. She still had the standard haircut of a soldier but it was parted differently, styled to somehow look a little more feminine. Her dress was hidden under a thick green pea coat.

 Again, Alex tried to fathom something suave and charming to ask her. But his brain was still frozen with the weather.

 “How are you?” Nice, he thought sarcastically, How are you, fellow survivor of the war?

 Y/N didn’t mind his lack of eloquence - same old Alex with the sea green eyes. “I’m better. Yourself?”

 “Yeah, same. Uh, what are you doing here?”

 Y/N gestured through the café they were next to, “Got here a day before my train. Figured I’d poke about for a bit before heading back.”

 “Oh, when do you go back?” A flicker of the Y/N from the trawler flashed across her face before she composed herself again. She coughed before replying.

 “Tomorrow.”

 “Same; you going back undercover?” Alex felt liked he should stop talking in general, the topic subtly making Y/N uncomfortable, but he had to know.

 “I’m already undercover,” Y/N pointed up. Alex saw that they were stood under a parasol hence why the rain had stopped.

 “Very funny,” He nodded with a weary smile, glad that she wasn’t visibly angry or upset about him bringing up the war. Surely they were both just trying to forget about it for a few moments before returning.

 “Let’s not talk about that anyway.” Alex nodded in agreement then felt the pregnant silence settle in as the rain eased off.

 “What do we talk about then?” He said thickly.

 Y/N pulled out of her pocket a translucent bag of pennies, “Fancy heading to the arcade with me?”

      After using the slot machines, the one-armed bandit and the mutoscope, the pair left the arcade with emptier pockets and raised spirits. They’d talked about everything and yet nothing, their time filled with endless nattering that meant fuck all about themselves but everything to the other. The rain had stopped temporarily so they took the opportunity to head to the pier which had a funfair. People were in desperate need of distraction and Alex and Y/N were no different.

 They each won a teddy bear for the other: Alex on the hook a duck and Y/N on darts. Declaring her love for “Bartholomew”, Y/N pocketed the little green bear - the same shade as her coat - that was no bigger than her fist. Alex sheilded his “Dorothy” in his pocket as Y/N paid for their candy floss, leaving them with two pennies left. They savoured the sweet pink fluff, laughing when the wind caught a trail of it and stuck it to their cheeks.

 Their gander came to a close at a well built of bricks covered in moss. A feeling of dread settled in Alex as he realised their time was coming to a close and all he could think of was what happened on the train to Woking. He didn’t feel Y/N press one of the last two pennies into his hand.

 “You’re supposed to make a wish,” Y/N took her lip between her teeth, mulling over what to spend her wish on before flicking her penny into the air and landing it with a hollow plink in the well. Alex struggled to find a single wish to spend his penny on.

 Then one was clear. He dropped the coin down the well for it to join the others, his face screwed up in concentration. He heard the telltale plink then another then a series. The rain had started again; it was dissolving the remnants of candyfloss still on the sticks.

 “Did you wish for rain?” Y/N said light-heartedly, tilting her head back into the splashes on her face.

 “No, I wished I could kiss you.”

 Thrown off by this, Y/N took a long time to respond, her head still leaning back. Finally, she looked down at him.

 “Well, now it won’t come true because you told someone what you’re wish was.”

 Alex nodded, his lips pressed tightly together as he turned to look down the well. That was clearly a no. He swallowed thickly, trying not to cry. The rain matched his mood. He’d completely messed up their last happy day before -

 “But it’s a good thing I don’t really believe in those things.”

  Alex was flummoxed as he wiped his face, so flummoxed he couldn’t form even the stupidest of questions. He just stayed staring into the well, trying to figure out what she meant.

 Seeing his tensed-up body, Y/N stepped next to him, her hand coming to rest on his, “I was teasing, Alex. I want to kiss you.” Suddenly the rain didn’t bother Alex so much. He looked up at her, disbelief written across his expression.

 This time, she moved first. She was leaning in closer and his hunched shoulders relaxed. He could feel her breath fanning across his face and was about to close the gap when she moved away with a giggle.

 “What?” He asked, hurt stabbing his gut.

 “I just remembered: good piss,” and she burst into paroxysms of snorts. The wheeze was still there but the laugh was more uproarious than it was at Dunkirk. It made Alex feel like he was melting inside, his legs jelly beneath him. As she calmed down, her cheeks rosy, the proximity began to shrink again.

 “You’ll be happy to know that I brushed my teeth several times between now and our last meeting,” She whispered.

 “Me too,” His face broke out in a smile with hers and his eyes closed as he felt their lips brush together. A spark shot between them and they collided with the most delicious impact. His lips were sticky and sweet against hers, as were his cheeks against her hands but she didn’t mind. Rain dribbled down their faces, soaking them as they clung to one another.

 Pulling away, Alex held Y/N close to his face. It barely felt real. Knowing that regardless of this being real or not he didn’t have long with Y/N, he kissed her again but harder and holding her closer. She was warm in the bitter weather, an oasis in a desert.

 “Maybe we should get out of the rain,” She smoothed her hair out of the way, “Fancy going undercover with me?”

 “Yes,” and Alex let her lead him back towards the café. He finally had a reason to carry on through the war, just like before. And she was his reason to carry on for the rest of his life.

#alex x reader #alex imagine #dunkirk imagine #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #imagine #wc: 1k+ #my writing #r: female

[artificialqueens]

Reminicenses (Trixya) Ch5-Scoobert

Trixya high school au: so this is set when they’re both adults but each chapter has a flashback to their high school days. It’s loosely based on a song ‘caught in the crowd’, by Kate Miller-Heidke, an Australian singer I really like and saw live the other day. I cried when I heard her sing this and yeah I know it’s a little bit sad but I thought of the awesome Trixya au it could be. The song’s about Kate reminiscing on how she should’ve helped this kid out when he was being bullied in school, so this is basically the extended version of that.

An: Ah so this is the last chapter, I really enjoyed writing this story, I think it ends on a sad but cute note, hopefully you like it, if anyone has any feedback, I would love to hear it :D

Xx Scoobert

Katya POV

I finished mopping the floor and changed into some comfy pyjamas. I grabbed the menu and ordered some noodles, mmmm noodles and some rice and prawn crackers mmmm prawn crackers 🍤🍜.  Once I picked out a fantastic movie to watch (it’s Contact, it’s a really great movie, you should totally watch it), I grabbed the cosiest blanket and some new cups of tea for each of us, hopefully it wouldn’t go as bad as it had last time.

Trixie shyly opened the door of my bathroom and walked out with a timid smile on her face. Damn, if anyone could look as good in track pants.

‘Hey Barbie, nice shower?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, good to freshen up thanks.’

‘Bet it would’ve been better with me in there with you,’ I smiled at her slyly while she let out a cackle, the timidness she’d previously donned gone. The doorbell rang and I went to go collect our dinner.

‘I hope you don’t mind I picked out an amazing movie for us to watch!’

‘Oh yeah, what is it huh?’

‘CONTACT!’ I exclaimed, leaping from my spot on the couch.

‘Hmmm okay, whatever you reckon.’

We both settled in, forks in hand and I played the movie. Once we’d finished our dinner, both of us glad at our food babies we’d developed, I attempted to scoot closer to her. Now that we’d both gotten over our previous sadness and cried ourselves silly, I could finally focus on Trixie and her hot body without feeling guilty.

But then again, maybe she wouldn’t want me. I hadn’t been the one to bully her, I would never do that of course, but some people say that onlookers are just as bad if not worse because they know what’s happening is wrong. I had been that person, too selfish, too scared, too… that was high school Katya and she was gone now. As Trixie said, people change and we’ve both moved on.

But as I scooted closer, I couldn’t help but wonder, maybe she still hated me, I suppose I would if I were her…

‘Come on Katya, I need a cuddle buddy after all that crying earlier’

And just like that all my worries were dispelled and being my usual self I moved so I was right next to her, wrapping my arm around her neck and letting her lean into me so her head was on my shoulder. I could feel her warmth underneath me and from one glance down, I could she was smiling, presumably not from the movie, although to be honest, I would be content either way. This is a fucking great movie, let’s not forget.

As the movie went on I could tell that her previous emotion was…probably not from the movie, in fact I was so involved in the movie that I hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep. I leant my head up softly, so as not to wake her and kissed her head gently. Her long luscious curls tangled up with my own. I looked down at her, at her soft smile as she slept, her slightly red but hopeful eyes and her, oh god, Katya, don’t look there, she’s asleep right on top of you for gosh sake. I gave her one more kiss, this time on the cheek, before sitting back and relaxing.

Flashback

Once I’d got home, I left my bike round the corner. I’d decided to go to my mom’s because her house was near Brian’s, although reflecting, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. I didn’t really want to face him after what happened. How could I? I’d completely betrayed him. We’d had such a nice chat at lunch and I just left him to be kicked by those bullies. And after he’d told me how tough he had it at home, god Katya. You should understand him, feel empathy, but instead you fucking watched him lie in his own blood.

Okay calm down Katya, as soon as you see him tomorrow morning apologise to him profusely and…and then what, become magical happy lil best friends for life who skip on rainbows together and eat fairy floss for every meal. I don’t think so. What does happen from this point? I can’t apologise to him and then just ignore him at school or worse let it happen again, but if I do want to become friends with him that could be me lying on the pavement lying in their own blood, tomorrow after school.

Nah they wouldn’t do that to me, those guys know me, we’re frien…okay maybe not friends, but I’d like to think I’m at least friends with Alaska. Then why do I kinda get the feeling that it could be me. Would she really disregard our friendship that quickly? Well I never did actually tell her that I’m bisexual. I just didn’t really feel the need I suppose. Or maybe it was something else, maybe I was scared that she’d react weirdly or look at me different. She probably would if she already reacts so badly to Brian.

I don’t see what’s so wrong about it, Brian isn’t fucking hurting anybody, I bet he’s never even flirted with anyone in his life, let alone anyone at school. Why do they hate him so much, are they scared of him or something? I dunno I just want it to be over, I don’t wanna deal with it anymore.

No, stop it!

What are you going to do when you see him tomorrow, you have to think about it and make a strategic move. You could make this kid’s life a little bit happier or you could destroy your own. Okay you know that’s not true, you’d probably make his life a whole lot better. Alaska absolutely brightened up my world when she talked to me. Granted everything we talked about was about her, at least I had someone to talk to. It was a nice feeling. Imagine how happy you could make this kid Katya, imagine how much happier you’d be not having to hang out with Alaska every day of your life.

But…

‘What the fuck are you doing here, can’t you go to your dad’s or something, bloody hell! Does this mean I have to feed you, ughhhh.’

‘Um, hi mom, sorry, I just wanted to come here, I’ll just grab some toast or something, don’t worry about me.’

‘Oooh just wanted to come here did you,’ she mocked. ‘Well go ahead then I suppose, be quiet about it though, I’m trying to watch my programs!’

‘Sure, thanks mom!’

I hurried over to the kitchen and grabbed the toast when it was probably only half done (or fully done I suppose for those losers that eat barely cooked toast). I rushed to the back of the house, where I had a little room with a mattress on the floor. I sat on the bed, and watched some YouTube on my phone, trying to distract myself while I ate. Trying to distract myself from what I really needed to think about.

Once I’d eaten I changed into some pyjamas and went to brush my teeth, walking quietly so as not to disrupt my mom’s programs. As I brushed my teeth, I couldn’t help but coming back to the same problem which raced around my head like it was grand theft auto or something.

You dick, just apologise, and be his friend! Then what? Auhghghghufifquajnvkclmw.

You know what, you are being absolutely ridiculous, just go to his house right now and talk to him, explain what’s happening and how much you want to be his friend. Explain why you can’t continue to be his friend because it’ll ruin your social standing and you don’t want to get bullied like he does? No…shit! What do I say??! Okay just go there and say whatever comes out and hope he listens.

I crept out quietly not bothering to let my mom know I was going out; not like she’d care anyways. I tried to remember where he lived and when I saw the bike parked around the side of the house, I knew it was his.

Okay, lets do this. Front door? Mmm don’t really want to say hi to this awful stepfather of his. Window? Eh I suppose so, I already slowly kill my lungs every afternoon, nothing to lose.

I sneaked around the house and saw a room which had a sparkle of pink, yup got it! I climbed carefully up the strategically placed vine hanging on the side of the house and onto the side roof. I peeked my head up carefully and looked around the dark bedroom.

Ohhhhh my god. It’s a déjà vu that I never, ever wanted to relive again. He was on the ground, a small pool of blood surrounding him. I bit my lip from the stress and could feel a little blood trickle into my own mouth.

His stepfather…it must have been him.

God, I can’t go in there, I just can’t.

Then he seemed to wake up and I probably should have left as soon as I saw movement, but I had to stay, had to see his face.

Bad idea, bad idea, such a bad idea. His face, it was the same one that had filled me with a thousand pounds of lead earlier this afternoon. The one that made me want to walk over to him and cuddle him in my arms and stroke his hair.

But god, I couldn’t go in there, I just couldn’t.

End flashback

I drew a deep sigh as I thought of what had happened that night so many years ago.

After all this time, I’d finally made amends, she’d gone through some rough shit, but it was over, her life had changed, it was all gone. Hopefully she could eventually tell me the whole truth of what’d gone down in her high school years. There would proba…definitely be way more tears to come.

If I could be a part of it, a part of her life, god would I be grateful, I’d never ever leave her again. Never let her be in pain, loneliness or any of the sucky emotions my ‘friends’ or her bloody stepfather put her through.

 I’d be there for her, for Trixie.

The end

#scoobert #reminisences #trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #angst #hurt #fluff #transgender character #tw abuse #rpdr fanfiction #submission #trans character #high school au #lesbian au

[peachychimu]

🔷 Irises

Summary: You and Yoongi hate each other but somehow you still have feelings for him. 

Pairing: Painter!Yoongi x reader

Genre:  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) u kno 

Words: 5k 

A/N: I really like ‘enemies to lovers’ fanfictions so I decided to write one. I hope you like it. I apologize for any errors.

"It looks more like a shit than a stone." Yoongi said critically, pointing at your incomplete painting, his slim finger circling around the grey thing as he was standing behind you. Flustered, you nodded but the blonde clicked his tongue, before grabbing your hand where you kept paintbrush, his hot breath ghosting over your skin when he whispered.

"Close your eyes and imagine that fucking stone. Sharp edges, texture, roughness... it's not that difficult. Even children can do it better. Give it some stick for God's sake because now you just fuck around. With that attitude you can leave the class.”  he hissed. Hopelessness devoured you completely and you could only hear rumble of your heartbeat, cheeks burning shamelessly. You didn't have enough courage to look up at your teacher, even if some internal voice was telling you to scream at the man. After all, you were just a newbie!

Impassive Yoongi continued his lecture on painting landscapes, telling characteristics of oil paint that you used during that lesson. He was standing in front of his students, boring expression scanning each of them. His pants were covered with paint, as well his loose blouse that was literally hanging on his arms. The man was incredibly sexy; with those dark eyes and plump, shining lips he was attracting many people. But under that handsomeness the blonde was just a big dickhead and that's all.

Yoongi showed few oil paintings: Dedham Vale, Landscape with Charon Crossing the Styx, The Giant Mountains... they all were very beautiful, detailed and just perfect, your own works will never be as great as them. With a pouty face you looked down at your painting, seeing meadow covered with thousand tiny flowers and that ill-fated stone painted in the middle of the canvas. You sighed; your dreams of becoming a painter just jumped out of the window.

The man demonstrated his own painting that he had been working on for couple of past day. It presented winter landscape - the pines were covered with heavy snow, branches almost breaking under the weight of a white fluff. There was also an frozen river, ice shining brightly, reflecting sunlight. In the far distance you could spot cottage, smoke coming out of the chimney. You couldn’t look away.

Suddenly he clapped his hands to get attention and silence the student.

"That's all for today. Remember to practice every day.” Yoongi said that caused you to stand up and leave his apartment as quickly as possible, not wanting to meet the blonde’s gaze.

"Oh c'mon Y/N! You are doing so well! You can't quit just because of him! Yoongi is a good teacher, believe me. He's a little bit austere... I would say. But after all, he's definitely not a dickhead but a kindhearted man that is just introverted..."

"What the fuck, Iryda? He's always so mean to me! I can't take it anymore!" you yelled, slightly resentful. You two were sitting in your common living room, your best friend wrapped around thick blankets looking like a burrito as she was trying to convince you that Yoongi wasn't bad at all.

The urge of going back and slapping the man was growing inside of you with every minute but you decided to stay at home and try to get over it.

The girl looked up at you, smiling softly. Her features were emphasized by a sunlight that was coming through the window.

"Hey, Y/N. You’ve always wanted to be a painter, right? You are doing such a great job, I can see improvements day by day. Yoongi is my friend, we work together and I know him well. You can't just leave him like that." she said and you snorted before glancing at your painting that was waiting for you in the corner. Unfinished.

"It has been your 7th class so far. You are getting better. And just because he's strict doesn't mean that he hates you. He sees your potential. That's all." your best friend stood up, hugging you from behind, her chin resting on your tensed shoulder as she whispered.

"And by the way, your stone doesn't look like a shit. Just add more shadow to receive a cohesive look and it's going to be great."

Iryda was painter too. Her hands could create work of art, straight from heaven, so beautiful and nostalgic. She was into portraits - walls of your apartment were covered with paintings of random people, their faces painted with such a remarkable precision. If you got closer, you could see millions strands of hair, wrinkles and the texture of the skin that looked so real. Those strangers were showing particular emotions - rage, sadness, happiness, desire ... you loved them and you had never complained about the number of paintings that was increasing every month.

Of course, you were jealous. Iryda and Yoongi were doing things that they loved while you had chosen safer way by going to university. You liked psychology but... art had been always your first love.

You didn't have a talent, but you were too desperate to just give up and accept the fact. After all, only hard work was the key to success.

So, you decided to work even harder to show Yoongi that you weren't lazy at all. Even if Iryda assured you that the man liked you, you still couldn't get over his hurtful words that had been rumbling in your head since the last lesson. There was a sting in your heart and bitterness that devoured your mind because you wanted to impress him and he was just being an arrogant asshole.

Wrrr

You painted whenever you had time. It was kind of hard to combine your hobby with studying, but you managed to spare few hours for painting every day, even if sometimes you were literally dying from tiredness, in front of your canvas. At the end of a week, you finished two works (one including that stone). You were really proud of yourself, seeing clear improvements. Of course, it wasn't as good as Yoongi's ones and you weren't next Van Gogh but both images were just simply okay.

Tomorrow was the next lesson of your art course. You were slightly excited, sitting in your room at 2 am and preparing a gift for Yoongi. A very special one.

No matter how many times you had called him a dick, asshole or the like you still liked him. Somehow. The blonde had that sparkle in his eyes and you just couldn't help but think about him more and more, even if you didn't want to, your brain always remanding you about unwanted consequences of falling for the man. You decided to give him one of your paintings, to show that you are more than just a silly girl.

You painted irises. Thousands blue flowers scattered on a field that were looking like a huge carpet, freshly cut grass being an intense deep green stain that contrasted with nostalgic blooms and sky which was light and soft. Thick clouds resembled candy floss and you added few butterflies to receive a nice, fresh, rural look. You didn't forget about details like golden dots on a flowers' petals which looked like a rich  loom or shadows and intensity of colors. The painting looked real and you couldn't wait to give it to Yoongi.

"Woah, it's so beautiful." you heard Iryda's voice behind you and you turned to girl, smiling proudly. She was wearing satin pajamas, her long hair cascading down the chest.

"Ahh, thanks. I tried very hard."

She came closer, with her lips open admiring your work, long fingers of the girl tracing lines of flowers in air.

"I love it. Will you hang it on the wall? It would look nice in the kitchen..."

"Sorry, but I'm giving it to Yoongi."

Iryda immediately turned to you, her facial expression showed surprise. She sat up, grabbing your hands.

"Oh my god, honey... I can't believe that you... finally understand that he isn't bad at all...I'm-"

"No, I still think that he's a jackass. I just wanna give him my painting to show that I can paint too. Maybe he will finally fuck off."

You didn't mean everything that you had said but you didn't want to chuck in the towel as well, so you decided to be stubborn bitch like always. His words hurt, but you wanted him to see you, pay attention to you and just be near you.

"Okay, just don't kill him." Iryda sighed, before she kissed your forehead and left the room.

You cocked your head to the painting and smiled softly at the thought of tomorrow's lesson. Tingles of excitements washed over you and you knew, that you won't get any sleep that night.

Drops of rain were bouncing off your black umbrella as you were heading to Yoongi's apartment, hurriedly trotting down the empty street. You kept tightly your paintings that were in a big folder which was even covered with your scarf, scared that the rain could damage it. Puffs were coming out of your mouth and your hair was a big mess but you didn't care. After several minutes, you found yourself in Yoongi's apartment, panting like a dog. You had expected other students but the place was completely empty, only soft music playing in the distance. Were you late?

Carefully, you placed the folder on the floor, before looking at your watch - 4:01 pm. You weren't late at all, so where were others? Where was Yoongi?

You sighed; maybe the lesson had been canceled before you came? Then, why had no one called you?

Ugh, selfish dickheads. you thought.

You sat down, deciding to wait few minutes. The room seemed to be intact - the floor was clear without any paint stains and fresh canvases were still waiting for students in the corner. There was no chemical smell that was usually filling the air, but cherry, intense scent that surprised you a little bit. Yoongi's workplace was tidy and neat too, his brushes and colors mixing pallets were clean, laying on his small table that also looked like a new one.

Without those paint stains, dirt and chemical smell the room didn't have this special aura that you loved. Everything was so... insipid and boring.

"What are you doing here, brat?" you suddenly heard raspy voice, coming from behind. The harsh tone made your back straighten and you turned to the man, already knowing that it was Yoongi.

He was wearing tight, black shirt that emphasized his muscles and pants in the same colour. His jaw was clenched and the man gave you stern look as he approached to you.

"Week ago, I said that today's class is canceled. Didn't you listen to me?" the blonde said and you just shrugged, trying to not look nervous (even if you were a total mess inside).

Yoongi inhaled harshly and the blonde seemed to be angry at you. He was about to explode.

"Aish you are so stupid! Go away!”

The man went to his workplace and sat down. He turned the music up before started mixing few colors with each other, humming as if he was alone.

Your cheeks became red and you had never been this mad in your whole life. How could he just ignore you while you were still there, sitting like an idiot? You wanted to punch him, scream at him, destroy all his paintings and bury him alive. This fucker was treating you like a shit!

The blood was pumping in your veins like a crazy and you didn't hear anything but your own heartbeat. You clenched your fists, knuckles turning white as you approached to the random vase and threw it straight at the wall, making Yoongi slightly jump.

"What the-"

"Can you do me a favor and stop being an asshole? I've been trying so hard to impress you since the first fucking class but you are always so mean to me. What did I do? Why do you hate me so much?!" you screamed, tears blurring your vision.

"And stop ignoring me, y-you, you.. wrr!"

Yoongi seemed totally unaffected by your words, his cold eyes locked with your puffy face.

You grabbed your folder, pulling out your painting and showing to Yoongi.

"I wanted to give you a gift... and show that I can do something more than just fuck around. You don't like it, do you? I don't care anymore. Here..." you placed it on the man's table with a crooked smile.

"You can shove it up your ass." you drawled out, before grabbing your things and leaving the place.

"Son of a gun."

"Oh my lord, ..." Iryda said as she heard about your 'little accident' that had happened at Yoongi's apartment. She gave you a cup of tea, still listening you with astonishment, occasionally putting her hands on top of yours, hoping that it will calm you. However, you were like an active volcano- still angry and ready to explode again.

"It was his favorite vase..." your friend mumbled but you just shrugged, sipping the hot drink.

"I don't fucking care."

Iryda leaned back in chair, looking at you with a fatigue in her eyes.

"So you won't attend next class?"

"Nope, I don't want to see that asshole again."

"Ehh, sometimes you're impossible."

She shook his head before starting washing dishes and you felt slightly guilty for making her upset. But after all... it was Yoongi's fault. You just made a little mess there, nothing more.

"I'm going to my parents for few days..."she said.

"I hope you will feel better when I come back.”

The next few days were boring, you missed Iryda and her presence, especially during that 'hard' time when you were at a loss. You were debating if you should apologize to Yoongi or maybe still hold grudges and not concede. The blonde probably hated you even more so you decided (after hours of thinking) that you will just try to forget about the whole thing and busy yourself with work.

You sat down on your bed, tired after cleaning your always messy room. There was so many new paintings but too little space to keep them in one corner so you decided to organize things that were unnecessarily taking up space. You hung them on your walls, mounting in nice frames that matched with the style of your room. Everything looked nice and aesthetically pleasing - you felt refreshed as well, heaviness finally had left your chest.

Pulling out the cigarette, you lit it, smoke filling your nostrils. You breathed out, eyes closed as your face was bathed in an intense orange glow of a sunset that was coming through the window. You could hear the distant sounds of your city and you hummed, delighted by the calm moment.

After several minutes, you got closer to one of your painting, being proud of your work. It presented narcissi (because you were pretty into flowers), the white field meeting with a purple sky on the horizon. Among blossoms there was a man that was picking them up, his bare arms shiny with sweat. He looked distressed and pensive, as if he was lost in that field. You were in love with the sky - such a nostalgic blur of pink, baby blue mixed with deep purple

The next painting showed two sisters. The one on the left side had dark, thick hair and alabaster skin. Her eyes were black like charcoal, staring intensely at you, there was a burning jealousy in them. The girl had strong facial features as if they were carved out of marble, her lips pursed into thin line. However, she was beautiful - hypnotizing and mystery you could say.

Her sister looked like nymph - violet eyes, platinum, shining hair that was braided and slightly flushed skin. She was smiling softly like a pure, innocent angel, the whole posture of a girl was bright and fresh. The blonde looked nostalgic yet romantic as she was in love, infatuated with stranger that was standing in front of her.

The girls were surrounded by raspberry bushes, deeply red fruits resembling blood stains.

You loved the contrast between two girls and mysterious atmosphere which was filling the space. There was something unnatural in that painting that caused you to not throw it and proudly hang it on your wall.

You almost came closer to the next piece of work but all of a sudden you heard doorbell, loud sound reverberated in your apartment. Unexpected guest? Maybe it was Iryda?

The stranger started knocking so you went to your door, opening it with a hint of hesitation. Surprisingly, you saw... Yoongi.

The blonde was nonchalantly standing on the doorstep, his eyes boringly looking at you. Yoongi was wearing white loose t-shirt, black and black, skinny jeans. His bright hair were messy but you found them cute.

"What do you want?" you said coldly, dragging cigarette. Yoongi snorted as if tone of your voice amused him.

"I need to talk to Iryda. Is she here? It's important." he said but you just shook your head, blowing smoke at Yoongi that caused him to frown.

"You are behaving like a bitch. What did I even do to you?"

"What did you just call me?!"

"Y/N I don't want to argue here, is Iryda here?”

“No, she will be back in few days.”

“May I come in?”

You bit your bottom lip, thinking; that was probably something important since Yoongi visited your apartment rarely, usually when you were out. You didn't want to see him but you didn't want Iryda to be mad as well. So, you decided to lean back and mumble quiet -

"Yeah.”

Yoongi sent you a boyish smirk before he entered your apartment, strong cologne filled your nostrils as the blonde crossed threshold.

You followed the man, watching him admiring new works that were hanging on walls. His plump lips were slightly open, eyes scanning every painting with a passion and delight.

"Iryda is so talented..." he whispered and you hummed in response, coming closer to Yoongi, even if your mind was screaming to go back to your safe zone.

"I know right? I love her style. It's so unique and gorgeous. You want to stare at her paintings all day and night and still be not over them. They are just so... beautiful."

Yoongi nodded, his arm brushing against yours, slight touch setting your skin on fire.

Every hair rose and the silence had never been that loud.

"I'm sorry. For words that I said and for things that I did." the words slipped out from your mouth uncontrollably and immediately your cheeks flamed in shame. Your body frizzed and you even thought that maybe you just imagine it but then Yoongi cocked his head, staring at you with a calm facial expression.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too. I was an asshole." he said.

You decided to stub out the cigarette, pressing the tip against the ashtray and watching the rising smoke.

"But you weren't an angel too. You broke my favorite vase."

You snorted and after you had gotten enough guts up, you turned to the boy, meeting with his warm smile that you had never seen before.

"I can buy you a new one. Or do whatever you want."

Okay, the last sentence was kind of risky.

The man laughed dryly.

"Really? Everything?"

"I mean... yeah I guess."

Yoongi brushed away messy strands of his light hair, thinking.

"Everything... hmm, okay. Kiss me and we're okay, sweetheart."

You opened your mouth, shocked by his choice, flames igniting inside of you.

"W-what? No, no! I didn't mean everything like kissing or the like!" you protested but the man shook his head, smiling widely.

"You said: everything. That includes kissing too."

Your heart started beating like a mad; you had always wanted to kiss the man. There was no return then and you didn't have a choice.

"Okay, but don't think that something other will happen uhm between us."

"We will see baby." he sent you a devilish smirk and you groaned, already annoyed by his behavior. However, you felt kind of hot and bothered even if you didn't want to admit it. Yoongi looked incredibly sexy and you tried your best to not stare at his bare collarbones.

After few minutes of silence, you slowly got closer to Yoongi, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. The man was looking at you with a burning desire in his dark eyes. You were about to faint, so close to the blonde that there was no space between you two, his chest touching yours. Growing tension in the room was palpable and the atmosphere became stifling and hot as if there was no air.

Your lips brushed against his moist ones, your movements timid. Yoongi's hand touched your waist, pulling your body to him even more, his tongue starting to explore your mouth.

Yoongi tasted like cherries mixed with some forest fruits, the flavor very sweet, resembling candies. It was almost exaggerated but you liked it anyway, still wanting more. Your fingers sank into his soft blonde lock as you deepened the kiss, Yoongi smirking in response.

The man bit your bottom lip and you whimpered at the slight pain. However, he quickly closed the wound with his wet tongue.

The kiss wasn't enough so you started moving your hips, brushing against his length that started erecting, interested.

"Oh, you little bastard." he laughed dryly at your movements, his mouth travelling down to your artery that was pulsing fast beneath his pink lips. The man started licking your skin then sucking it harshly to create blooming flowers that will cover your neck and show others that you were his. You moaned at the feeling, your nails scratching Yoongi's scalp.

"What about our promise, huh?" you said hoarsely and the man snorted, his hand cupping your breast.

"You don't seem to not enjoy it, am I right or am I right?"

"Ha, you are right."

Yoongi started fondling your ass, while his hand squeezed your other breast, making you moan. He stopped for a moment just to take off his t-shirt, revealing shining with sweat chest, his muscles not exaggerated, just right. You couldn't help but touch his stomach, feeling those carved abs under your fingertips.

"You like it, huh?"

The man pulled off his pants as well and you licked lips at the glorious sight in front of you. You could see outlines of his erect dick and gosh, he seemed to be so big and hard. It made you even more wet.

Your fingers pulled at the waistband of Yoongi's boxers, lashes fluttered coquettishly.

"Someone's already horny." the blonde whispered, nibbling your earlobe. His hand grabbed yours before placing it on the shaft; he was hot, pulsing beneath your palm. You breathed out loudly and the blonde smirked, his tongue licking your collarbone.

"You know what to do, baby doll." his words were like a sharp knife cutting through you and you let out a whimper, needing to rub thighs against each other to get some friction, juices dripping down your legs. He lifted your skirt, fingers playing with your black panties to tease you a little bit. You let out a shameful moan and he smirked. He pressed his thumb on your clitoris, making you tremble, knots tightening in your abdomen. After a while the man slipped your panties off, feeling your wetness coating his fingers that were dancing between your folds.

"C'mon, don't be shy. Play with daddy's cock."

you gulped at his words. The man looked so dominant then that you couldn't just say no.

You gave his dick a light squeeze- not sure if he liked it or not. However, Yoongi immediately groaned after your hesitant movement, his hand grasped your neck, tightening the grip.

"Tighter." he growled, his raspy voice sending tingles to your pussy that was still teased by his fingers.

You did as he told you, slowly starting massaging his dick through the fabric. You earned a low groan and the pre-cum that soaked boxers covered your fingers. It was sticky and warm; you started pumping the length even faster, the man growling like a wolf at time to time, his teeth sinking in your soft skin.

Yoongi pushed his two fingers in your entrance, warmth welcoming his digits as he started stretching you out, sometimes "accidentally" brushing against your spongy g-spot. He scissored them inside of you, giving you even more pleasure. His thumb was doing lazy circles on your clit, pressing it down at time to time and you felt your orgasm coming, familiar flames licking your abdomen, making you squirm.

Yoongi let out a deep groan as he reached his own peak, his hot cum dirtying your fingers but you didn't mind, proud of yourself that you made your art teacher climax. You could see trickles of sweat running down his temples and fatigue in his eyes as he lifted his face to kiss you passionately.

He muffled your moans as you came, wetness splashing out on his hand. Your pussy clenched around his digits, desperately wanting to keep them in and not lose the feeling of fluffiness. Waves of pleasure washed over you and you didn't feel anything but an ecstasy that like a whip lashed your body and left you breathless.

"Oh my lord..." you breathed out, brushing away messy strands of your hair. Yoongi cupped your cheeks before violently crashing his lips into yours and you grabbed his arm, scared of falling down on the floor. His hands were all over your body - gripping your breasts, squeezing your thighs, playing with your ass... He was so hungry and nothing was enough - he wanted more, more, more

"I want to fuck you so hard, Y/N. I can't wait anymore." the blonde whispered, staring intensely at you, like a lion watching his prey.

Instead of responding you gave him a quick peck before grabbing his hand and running to your bedroom.

As you turned to the man, he immediately yanked off your t-shirt, throwing the cloth on the floor. The blonde quickly unclasped your bra (with your little help), immediately kissing your bare skin. His tongue swirled around your hardening nipple and you let out a moan at the feeling.

"Yoongi..." you whimpered and the man smirked, kissing your abdomen. He crouched as he slowly took off your skirt, finally seeing you completely naked.

"Goddess." he murmured with his eyes closed. The man's fingers danced up and down your thighs as his lips were brushing against your hip.

You groaned, starting to get impatient.

"Don't be cheesy and fuck me already." you said, laying on the bed. Yoongi snorted; the man shook his head but didn't say anything. He kissed your knee, spreading your legs, the man breathing out at the sight of your wet pussy, your folds already swollen after your first orgasm that night. The blonde wanted to lick you, taste those leaked juices that seemed to be delicious. However, he decided to just fuck you properly and wait for the next opportunity of eating you out.

You pulled out a condom and give it to Yoongi that smirked suggestively at the shining wrapper.

"What? Don't you know "Wrap it before you tap it" ?" you said and Yoongi burst into laughter while putting on a condom.

"Yeah, I know. Safety first."

Yoongi leaned down, his hands sinking into soft mattress. His warm tip brushed against your sensitive entrance and you tried your best to not moan again.

"Ahh, babe you feel so fucking good around me." he whispered, pushing into you, his limbs shaking. At the beginning the stretch was kind of uncomfortable but you quickly got used to it. He was big and hard, you could feel him pulsing as he was about to explode again. Your tight walls were embracing Yoongi's length deliciously, his cock brushing against your delicate area.

The blonde bit your earlobe as he started pumping harder, letting out a low grunts with every powerful thrust. The sound of a skin against the skin mixed with your own moans filled the room, Yoongi's heavy breathing ghosting over your neck. You brought your hands to his back, running your fingers down either side of the man's back, feeling tensed muscles. You sank your nails in the soft skin of the blonde to give yourself some support as Yoongi thrusted almost violently, trying to reach his own peak desperately.

"Oh god..." he groaned, grabbing your leg and lifting it up so he could thrust even deeply. The blonde attached his lips to your neck, sucking harshly and he felt your hips jerked, searching for your high.

Yoongi's hand travelled down to flick your bud between his fingers and you cried out, hot tears running down your cheeks. It was too much, you couldn't feel anything but the painful pleasure. Your toes curled and your thighs were trembling as your orgasm was getting closer, setting you on fire.

"Yoongi!" you screamed, every muscle tensing up as you came. Yoongi followed you, climaxing right after you with a low grunt. The blonde's weight dropped onto you, but you were too tired to complain, slightly scratching his scalp. The silence filled the space and the last thing that you remembered was Yoongi's calm breathing which lulled you to sleep.

"Good Morning, beautiful." you heard a deep voice purring next to your ear that immediately woke you up. As you opened your puffy eyes, you saw Yoongi smiling brightly, his hand cupping your cheek lovingly. His hair was wet and the man was wearing one of your jumpers that looked very cute on him.

"I made a breakfast for you." he said and you propped yourself on elbows to see pancakes and croissants with raspberries placed on tray.

"Thank you." you gave him a quick peck, fingers interlacing with his. You still couldn't believe that actual Min Yoongi was sitting next to you, wearing your clothes and smiling like an angel. Maybe that was just a silly dream?

As you started eating breakfast, the blonde cleared his throat, before speaking. His cheeks slightly flushed.

“Your paintings are amazing, I love all of them. They are very beautiful and mystic. I thought that they belong to Iryda but then I saw your signature in corner. I was surprised, but now I'm just so fucking happy that you do what you love, even if I told you that it's not for you. I'm sorry." he said but you just shook your head.

"Nah, it's okay. I forgive you."

The blonde suddenly stood up, grabbing his folder. He pulled out your work, smiling softly. Your eyes widened, your jaw dropped.  

"I think you forgot something. I want it to be here, it's yours after all."

It was your painting of Irises.

#wow i rlly need jesus #time to go to church #anyway #i hope y'all like it #tell me what u think #bangtan boys fanfiction #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts series #bts one shot #bts yoongi #yoongi #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts #bts gifs #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenarios #yoongi reaction

[i-read-good-books]

Expomise Extra!

You all really seemed to want Victor to get his hands on Luke and murder him, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give you some craic.

Summary:

Luke turns around slowly, still protecting his front with his gym bag, “Please, please, I just want to skate -”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” the murderer sighs, and the lights flick on by themselves. Luke blinks, startled.

The murderer… looks like a fourteen year old little Luke clone.

Link to ao3: here

Extra under the cut:

Okay, so Luke considers himself a pretty chill guy. He doesn’t really get mad very often, he helps his friends out whenever he can, and he’s got a high tolerance for weird shit, a fact that has historically turned out for the worse as he’s forced to proofread his friend George’s Draco x Harry fanfiction because no one else will do it.

But there’s limits to his chillness, alright? Everyone has limits. And when Luke walks into his bedroom after a long afternoon at gymnastics, his joints aching, to find someone sitting on his bed in the darkness, he screams like some teenage girl in a horror movie, jumping three meters back and holding up his gym bag to protect himself.

“Oh my god!” he whimpers, quivering. The ‘someone’ in question isn’t that visible, indistinguishable in the dark room, only the faint edges of a person’s figure. “Please don’t kill me. I’m really young and I could have a future so like. Maybe kill some politician instead?”

Oh god, he’s home alone. His parents are away and his stupid brother will be out all night, so there’s literally no one to save him from this. He’s going to die murdered in his own bedroom.

Frantic, he turns back and moves to open the door, whining, only to find it locked. His eyes widen. Luke just came in a few seconds ago, what the fuck -?

“Luke Matthews,” his murderer says, a male voice. It’s unbelievably steady, given he’s probably a serial killer. Luke wonders if he’s got a super creepy monologue already planned. This is the worst night of his life. “We finally meet.”

Luke turns around slowly, still protecting his front with his gym bag, “Please, please, I just want to skate -”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” the murderer sighs, and the lights flick on by themselves. Luke blinks, startled.

The murderer… looks like a fourteen year old little Luke clone.

His voice trembles, “Are you my son? From the future?” He suddenly realizes, “Oh god, did we already kill the planet? Are you here to save us?”

Little Luke shoots him the most disdainful glare that Luke’s ever received from someone his age, crossing his arms over his chest and whipping his long hair back. It’s a bit unfair that he’s prettier than Luke, but well. Life is unfair. “You are clearly not very bright, I don’t see what Yuuri even sees in you.”

Wait.

Wait.

...Yuuri?

As in, japanese Yuuri Katsuki, the sweetest kid on Earth? Yuuri Katsuki, who once baked him cookies that were skate-shaped for his birthday? Yuuri Katsuki, who jumps over milestones in figure skating like they’re nothing? That Yuuri?

He frowns, too disorientated, “I’m lost.”

The Luke clone flicks his tongue in disapproval, “I’m Yuuri’s friend. I’m not giving you my name. Men like you can’t be trusted.”

Luke blinks. Men like me?

“Um,” he bites his lower lip, clutching his gym bag close. “Can I just ask why you’re in my room, Yuuri’s friend? I’m not really getting this.”

The teenager hesitates, his gaze falling to his feet. All of a sudden, he looks unsure, his cheeks slightly flushed, and coughs slightly. “You, er, you made Yuuri sad.” His voice sharpens. “And you didn’t even apologize for it!”

Luke’s slightly worried that Yuuri might be in the mafia.

He’s about to maybe call the police so as to get this overprotective child to his parents, when it hits him, realization slamming into him. This can’t be Phichit, Yuuri has always talked about him being glued to his phone and existing in a permanent state of joy and snarkiness. Can’t be Leo, either, Yuuri said the kid was sweeter than candy floss.

Ergo, this must be…

“You’re Yuri!” he declares triumphantly, oddly proud of himself. “Very angry but very sweet, blond and cute.”

Yuri stares at him with the most deadpan expression he’s ever seen, “Are you kidding me? I’m Yuri? Yuri Plisetsky? Luke, if Yuratcha knew that you made Yuuri upset your skin would be hanging on his wall.”

Luke gulps, “Good to know.”

But if it isn’t Yuri, then there’s only one more friend Yuuri talked about while they were training together.

“I love the bracelet, dude,” Luke comments, bumping their shoulders together. “Super cool. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I didn’t buy it,” Yuuri admits, looking at him from between his eyelashes. His cheeks must be red from the cold, poor thing. “My friend Victor made it for me.”

His voice goes a little breathless and light when he says it, pausing especifically on Victor’s name, and Luke smirks. “Good friend, huh?”

“He really is!” Yuuri gushes, his glide turning into a messy waddle on the ice as he swivels around to talk to him, vying for his attention. “Victor’s great, really. Did you know he was the one who got me into figure skating?”

“Well, he’s done a good job for all skating fans out there,” Luke tells him, smiling.

Yuuri squeaks, “I wouldn’t go that far… but Victor is really sweet. He’s always really considerate, and feels super bad whenever he messes up. I actually can’t wait to see him,” he confesses, fidgeting. “I hope he isn’t too busy practicing that he won’t want to come.”

His head snaps up to look at Luke, “N-not that I would blame him! I mean, I’m not as important as his career, obviously, he has to focus on that.”

Luke tries not to grin too broadly. Oh man, kids crushing is the cutest thing ever. “I don’t think that will be a problem, Yuuri, okay?” He ruffles his hair, trying to imagine what Victor is like.

“Holy shit,” Luke breathes, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, because there’s a kid listening. “You’re Victor.”

Victor gives him a look that says he would have a more intelligent conversation with a dead slug, rolling his eyes. “Smart.”

“But,” Luke flounders, confused. His gym bag drops to the floor, forgotten. “Yuuri always said you were so sweet.”

That makes Victor’s head snap up, the colour in his cheeks brightening. “... Yuuri said that?”

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s what this is about.

“Oh yeah,” Luke carries on, smirking. He can’t believe he actually felt threatened by this kid a few minutes ago, despite the fact that he actually broke into his house. He’s gonna have to take a look at his locks. “Yuuri just loves talking about you.”

Victor’s blush deepens, and he stares at his feet, the corners of his lips twisting upwards. “H-he does?” The boy bites his nails, pulling at his hair slightly. “It’s just - it’s really hard to see what he thinks, sometimes, he’s so nice to everyone.”

Obviously this kid has never seen Yuuri after Celestino screams at him for ten minutes, glowering and hissing at anyone who comes close, or ranting about why he just hates this one guy at school. Luke and the other people at the rink have become acquainted with Yuuri muttering under his breath and cursing his sister daily, which was, for some time, Luke’s only source of info on Mari.

Luke smiles, kind of liking this kid. He can see why Yuuri’s so gone on him, even if the little fluff is terribly oblivious. But really, how can someone just not realize a person this obvious has a crush on them? Some people just don’t get it.

“Well, I can safely tell you he talks about you the most,” he says, moving to sit on his bed and patting the space next to him with a smile. As if on autopilot, Victor shuffles until he sits down, swinging his legs. It’s a lie, of course, Yuuri talks about Phichit the most, but what Victor doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “And that you have nothing to worry about.”

“You think so?” Victor munches on his lower lip, eyes wide and worried. He puts a lock of hair behind his ear, letting out a stressed sigh. “He just - it’s really hard to be around him, sometimes. I don’t know if - if I’m being too obvious or I’m being too subtle, and he just sends me this letter talking about some guy -”

Ouch. That’s gotta hurt. Luke can kind of see why Victor would feel torn, although he wonders why he’s speaking to Luke, instead of the actual guy Yuuri is apparently crushing on. Kids these days are weird, he guesses.

He puts his arm around Victor, checking to see if the kid’s comfortable with that, and pushes him closer when he seems to lean in closer, mumbling. “It’ll all be fine, okay? I’m pretty sure that other guy isn’t as devoted as you to go stalk your crush’s random acquaintance at his ice rink.”

Victor stares at him, for a few seconds, as if he’s incredibly dense, and says, “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

Snorting, Luke ruffles his hair a little. He’s got a thing for ruffling kids’ hair, it’s the cutest thing in the world to see them trying to keep him from messing it up. Victor whines, hands moving up to fix it, and sighs a little, sounding tired. He bumps their shoulders together. “Just tell him how you feel, alright? I’m willing to bet that would end up being a good idea.”

Victor whimpers, burying his face in Luke’s shoulder, muttering, voice muffled, “No, that’s scary.” He looks up at him, blue eyes wide and frightened. “What if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore?”

Luke pats his head reassuringly, “C’mon, this is Yuuri we’re talking about. He might be pretty intense at times, but he’s a sucker for affection. Even if he doesn’t reciprocate,” which he totally fucking does, Luke adds internally, “nothing bad will happen.”

“I guess,” Victor says, not sounding too convinced.

“Okay,” Luke stands up, putting out his hand for Victor to grab it, “Let’s go get some hot chocolate and phone your parents.”

Victor eyes his hand suspiciously. “What if there’s only the hot chocolate?”

“No hot chocolate without responsibility, I’m afraid,” Luke admits.

The teenager sighs as if this the most tiring conversation he’s ever had, but grabs his hand, smiling slightly.

…

The next morning, Luke wakes up to 4 notifications that he’s been unfollowed on Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram and unfriended on Facebook by Phichit Chulanont. Apparently, he’s also been tagged in some dark reddit post in which a Russian kid is flipping him off. Minami Kenjirou, whoever that is, is on a rant on Twitter on how much he hates him.

“Huh,” Luke mutters, not quite understanding what he did wrong. They probably just got the wrong account looking for someone with the same name or something. He’s got other things to do. Heartbeat speeding up, he grabs for his phone and dials.

“Hello, Mari here?”

“Yeah,” Luke swallows hard. “This is Luke. You know, from the ice rink? I was wondering…”

fin

#expomise #expomise extra #victuuri #yoi #yuri on ice #jealous!victor #fanfiction

[imnovampire]

Not Everything That Hurts Is Bad

Welcome to my guilty pleasure. Full disclosure, this is a Freebatch and I portrayed Sophia in a bad light here, and to be perfectly honest I feel a bit not good about it. But then again it’s a guilty pleasure for a reason yeah? Allow me to apologize to all the lovely people mentioned in my purely fictional portrayal of them. ( Not that they will be reading it, just putting it out there.) Now to all my readers, if Freebatch, is not your thing leave now. Or stay and perhaps it will become your thing, and we can all be guilty together. And for the record what follows here is copious amounts of absolute deprvity.

“Not everything that hurts is bad.”

~2011~

“Martin! I came by your trailer. Where were you?” Bright eyed bubbly and sweet. He reminded Martin of candy floss. “I stepped out.” Martin answered, suddenly very fascinated by the ground. “Are you avoiding me?” Why was this man so fucking innocent? Martin had to shut this down now. “Yes. Yes I am.” Ben, let out a breathy chuckle and smiled to beat the sun. “Why? Do I smell?” Of all the questions in the world, why did Ben, have to ask that one? Why that question Martin though. Because that…was the perfect question. All last week Martin had been walking around the set half hard simply off Ben’s smell. He had even had to adjust himself a couple of times, no one thinking too much of it just Martin being Martin. “As a matter of fact you do.” Martin stepped into Bens space, seemingly angry. “You smell like cashmere, and earl gray and honey! For fuck sake what man smells like honey!” Ben was rooted to the ground and confused. “I’m sorry, it’s…it’s my shampoo…and…the rest…I don’t know. I didn’t know it was so offensive.” He stammered. Was the fool apologizing? “Offensive? You got it wrong. Its arousing.” Martin, practically hissed the words. “Oh. Oh. Well then.” With each inflection came clarity. Ben smiled a slow knowing smile. “You got it now?” Martin asked after watching the younger man go through a ranger of emotions. “I believe I do.” He seemed to stand a little taller. Martin was good at reading Ben, and he could see full understanding bloom in his eyes. “Maybe we could talk about this later in privet, back, in my trailer?” Martin saw his chance. Wait, chance? Wasn’t he suppose to be shutting this down? “Or…” Ben was clearly pressing his advantage. “My place in Llandiff? You still have a key?” “Yes.” All Martin could manage was a one word answer, his mind flooding with the most inappropriate, unseemly depravitly. “Good. I was hoping it would come in handy one day.” He winked. He fucking winked. And walked away.

Palace Road, of course he lived on Palace Road Martin thought as he did each time he’d come to Ben’s home. No other street would suite, Martin thought as he walked through Ben’s, front door and tossed the key in its place. Posh boy, probably bought it on the street name alone site unseen. He would have to ask. Martin made his way to the kitchen, draw by the low sounds of Amber Runs “5 am.” “Hello Ben.” “Hello Martin.” He smiled a little lopsided. “You caught me a tad off guard.” Ben, spoke as he walked from behind the kitchen island, hair still damp and brearly dressed in a loose fitting white linen shirt held closed by a single bottom, tight white boxer briefs, long legs and bare feet, absentmindedly twirling his wine glass. “I’m a bit indecent.” “I have a feeling that was the plan.” “Mmm. Perhaps. Drink?” “No thank you.” “Hungry?” “In a way.” Martin licked his lips. “Should we talk?” “Cause that’s why I’m here yeah? Chat you up? We’ve been past that for so long now.” They had moved steadily closer to each other as the spoke and where now inches apart. The look in Martins eyes was dangerous, like fire you know your not supposed to touch, yet still ache to get just a little closer almost craving the burn. Ben felt his heart skip. Martin backed him up against island and took the wine from his hand upending it, sat the glass on the island and kissed Ben with barely checked passion. Ben, slid his long arms around Martins waist and down to rock his bottom into him by way of answer, he parted his thighs settling Martin against his half hard cock. “Thats why I’m here.” Martin growled in Ben’s ear as he pressed his body to his. Ben felt dizzy, he could taste Martin and wine on his lip, the former more intoxicating then the latter. He dropped his head back to allow Martin to run his tongue and teeth along the sensitive flesh of his throat, bitting down just hard enough in the crook of his neck to make Ben, jerk and gasp. “Off.” Martin spoke against Ben’s skin tugging at his shirt. Quick fingers undid the button and cast the linen aside. Martin spun Ben around and pushed him face down to the marble countertop, he slipped a finger into the waistband of his boxers exposing one plush cheek and pressed into him as he ran his hand up over each bump of Ben, spine, up the back of his neck into his damp warm curls. Ben shivered at the two apposing sensations, Martins hard cock pressing the cold zipper of his trousers into his soft warm flesh, and the gentle slid of his warm hand up his back. He whimpered. “Jesus Martin.” He pushed back into him needing more. But the lovely contact was broken and Martin backed away. Ben turned. Martins eyes where black, his lips where wet and dear god his cock was hard. Ben made a small sound at the sight of him literally salivating. He undid Martins trouser and went to his knees, taking him whole with a purr in the back of his throat. Martins legs quivered, his stomach flittered, and he staggered a bit. “Fuuucckk Ben. Shhhit.” He tried not to push into his mouth, but it seemed as if Ben begged him to. Swallowing deeper and grasping his bottom. Martin dug in hands into Ben’s curls fully intending to pull him off when the younger man moaned and cast a wicked look up at Martin that nearly undid him. Plush lips dark eyes and his cock. Martin jerked back pulling Ben, away, and took a step back grabbing his cock and squeezing tight panting with his eyes closed. Ben chuckled and sat back on his heels. Martin stayed still trying to calm himself. “Our first shag will not be in the kitchen by the bins.” He opened his eyes slowly. Ben was standing now, boxers half down his hard cock pinned by the fabric against his flat belly. Martin needed to be naked. NOW! Press his body against this pale beauty, take him and take him again making him his. And that’s exactly what he did, until the sun brought the dawn, bringing Ben to his peek over and over never allowing him to tip the edge, watching his need spiral into near insanity before he gave him his release that thundered him to screaming tears. Ben was a sniveling mess by the time Martin was done. He’d never been more proud of his handy work. Or more in love. Fuck.

~2012~

“Come to Paradise with me.” “But you’ve already taken me there so many times.” Ben drolled suggestively into his mobile. “New Zealand, you twat.” Martin chuckled. “Cant. I’ve got Star Trek read.” “Fuck. Stay away from Simon.” Ben flat out laughed. “I miss you Martin.” “I miss you too Ben. When can see you?” “Soon.” “And Zachary.”

~2013~

“When are you back in London?” Martin asked juggling his bag and his mobile, fishing for his key. “Soon.” “I miss you Ben.” “I miss you too Martin.” “When can I see you?” Finally getting the door open and dropping his bag. Smiling at the sight that greeted him. “Soon.” Ben, purred and hung up his mobile. “Well Benedict Cumberbatch you little cock whore. Hello Gorgeous.” Martin stopped in the door way to admire the scene. A naked Ben, clearly fresh from the bath, lay full out on the sofa on his side, head resting on his arm. “Hello Mr. Freeman you old cock hound. Get over here.” “Try to stop me.”

~2014~

“I’m getting married.” Ben said as he shut the door behind him. Taking a deep breath and resting his head. “I’m happy for you?” “Yes Martin, your happy for me.” “Good to fucking know.” Anger bleeding in to hurt. “Don’t do this! We’ve talked about this. I want children.” “Right. Why did you come back here tonight? We need to start spending time apart.” “Maybe we do. But not tonight. Please Martin.” He’d made his way to where Martin was standing, and rested his hand over his heart. Martin sighed and closed his eyes. He could never resist Ben, his sweet posh boy resistance was well…futile. He took Ben’s and in his and kissed his fingertips. He opened his eyes. “I could never tell you no. If I could we wouldn’t be here in this cocked up mess today. Come on beautiful.” They cuddled together on the sofa, Ben curled up in some infinitesimally small ball pressed against Martins body, kissing occasionally and watching telly. Martin stroked Ben’s curls and tried not to think about the man he loved marrying someone else.

~2015~

“Ben, you know I can’t come.” “Please.” “It would tear me apart Ben. I’m sorry. I just can’t.” “Martin…” “Enjoy your day.” The line went dead.

~2016~

“How could you let this happen! This is just insane!” Sophia was in a rage. “You think I intended this to happen? To fall in love with him? I didn’t. But I’m here now and I’m not leaving.” “You and this horrible man, in back allies and what cheap hotels behind my back for what years?” “Behind your back? Nothing was ever done that you didn’t know about. I never lied to you about Martin! Never once. I’ve told you I adore him. What? Because I didn’t use the word love you thought it was something else? What did you think was happening when I would go away with him for a week? A week!” “Not this! Not this filth! Benedict, how could you?” “How could you lie to yourself? You had to know Sophia.” “So all this our marriage is a lie.” “Of corse it’s not. I do love you and our life together. But Martin, is something altogether different.” “End it. End it or I will ruin the both of you.” Ben was dumb struck. But love or impulse or foolishness spoke first. “No.” “Fine. You leave me little choice then Benedict.” The next day Sophia, was on the Sherlock set. Her first stop was Martin’s trailer.

“Hello Martin.” “Well this is a surprise. Hi Sophia. Ben’s not here I think he’s on set.” “He is. I’m here to see you.” “Really? What have I done to deserve such an honor?” “Apparently, fucked my husband.” Martin chuckled. “You know people would be shocked if they knew the woman you really are.” “Let’s skip the small talk shell we.” “Alright. So are you here to “confront the other woman?” Martin made sarcastic air quotes from his crossed leg position on sofa. “Is that how you see yourself Martin?” Sophie asked as she looked around the trailer as if she expected to find Benedict hiding in a corner. “The other woman?” “With this much cock? Hardly, it was a metaphor sweetheart.” Sophie glared at him. She had always hated Martin right from the start. He was a bad influence on Benedict and he knew it. Worse still, he liked it. “Everyone sees you as the sweet little Hobbit, but that’s not who you are, who you are is…” “A cock.” “Yes, but more then that. You’re a thief.” “Sophia, stop being melodramatic, this isn’t the theater, and I’m no thief.” “Benedict was happy with me until…” “Until what? Until I came along? You forget, I was here first.” “Are you saying this has been going on? This filth?” Martin narrowed his eyes and tiled his head to the side at her use of the slur. “Carful, your true colors are showing.” “Fuck you Martin!” “I’m sorry Sophia, I don’t do couples. Now get out of my trailer.” “You sicken me.” “Likewise.” “Before I go you should know, that I plan on exporting whatever this is you think you have with Benedict.” Martin was not the type of man to take a threat lightly. “And you think I would let that happen? After all these years no one has ever found us out. There’s a reason for that. I am that reason. You believe I’ll allow you to hurt him? No. Let me be clear. If Ben, gets the slightest bit of negative press, you will regret it.” “And what dose that mean? Is that a threat?” Martin just looked at her. His calm disdain was chilling. “Weren’t you leaving?”

~~~~~~

“Baby, number 2 on the way.” Ben said to Martin from across the breakfast table after a stolen night together watching his expression bloom into genuine happiness. “Congratulations mate!” Martin smiled at a sullen faced Ben. “What?” “You say you love me…” “No. No don’t do that Ben. I say I love you? Fuck Ben you can’t be serious.” “I just told you I’m having another child with my wife and you're over the moon.” “Yes Ben, yes I am. For you. Because I love you. You deserve everything. The fact that it all can’t be with me is irrelevant. As long as you're happy. I know what this is.” Martin motioned between the two of them. “And I know what it’s not. Don’t. Ever. Doubt. My love. When I’ve sacrificed so much to prove it.” Ben came around the table and kneeled in front of Martin, took his hand and rested his head on his knee. His voice telling the whole story of his heart. “I’m sorry Martin. I never should have said such things.” Martin stroked Ben’s curls. “Your damn right you shouldn’t. Now since your down there…” Ben smacked his leg. “You’re ruining the moment.” Ben couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a different moment now. ” Martin said playfully thrusting his hips a tad.