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javier-pena · 4 years ago

Text

denial

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Rating: Explicit (and I mean EXPLICIT/18+/strictly no minors thanks)

Summary: This is the longer version of that drabble I wrote a few weeks ago. There is no plot, and I have no excuse for this apart from that I really like vampires.

Notes: I can’t start every fic with “Dani made me do it” but yeah, Dani made me do it. She just knows what to say to me to get me to write stuff like this. Thank you for reading this in advance and for your advice and for screaming at me at one in the morning, this one’s for you, Ms @javierpcna!

***

“Stand up.”

A shudder runs through you when you hear his calm voice; and yet, there is something there, an undercurrent you pick up on almost subconsciously. The nerves in your body begin to tingle as you turn your head to look at him, your mouth suddenly dry. You’re both sitting on the couch watching a movie, his arm is draped around your shoulders casually, his gaze on the TV. It doesn’t appear like he’s interested in you as his eyes follow the action on the screen with tiny flickers of movement. Did he even say it or did you just imagine it?

But then he turns to you, raises his other hand to catch your chin between his thumb and index finger in a firm grip, and repeats, "I said, stand up."

You don't know what has gotten into him; maybe he thinks the movie is boring – you certainly think so –, maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t been this close to each other in over a week – both too busy with your jobs – or maybe it’s because you put on the perfume you know he likes, but he has never talked to you like this. He knows you would do anything he asked you to, couldn't refuse him when his brown eyes cloud over with a darkness that makes them appear black. You couldn’t refuse him when those eyes pin you down more than a firm grip on your wrists or hip ever could. It makes him look like a predator ready to pounce, ready to sink his teeth into his victim's throat to draw blood.

He is looking at you like that now and his unrelenting gaze makes you squirm against the couch. You can feel the evidence of what he does to you between your legs as something down there clenches around thin air and your own gaze is drawn to his left hand casually resting against his thigh.

You're instantly wet.

Without hesitation you jump up to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to make the next move. It isn’t your place to take the lead. As you look down at him lounging on the couch, knees falling open in an inviting motion, his right arm propped up as if still slung around your shoulders, you feel a tense calm, like a taut rope shortly before it snaps. The longer he makes you wait, the tenser you become until you feel you’re the one ready to pounce, ready to jump him. It’s all part of the game, all part of his seduction technique, to make you want him even more. Still, you don’t make a move because it’s what he wants. He wants to see you crack, cave in, so he can exploit that, turn the tide in his favor, use you. And you’re not prepared to let that happen without putting up at least the semblance of a fight.

So you wait patiently, even though your whole body is straining, itching for him. You know what’s about to happen, that there is nothing you can do to prevent it, but you’ve come to accept your fate and this knowledge fills you with tranquility.

And then he moves – finally! – and it takes you every ounce of your willpower not to mirror his movement because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He leans back until he's almost lying down, his back pressing into the soft cushions of the couch. He watches you, doesn't even blink, as if what he’s seeing isn’t affecting him at all, and then he runs his thumb across his bottom lip. “Take off your shirt,” he finally says in a low tone of voice that makes it impossible to resist him.

You comply, lifting the thin, blue fabric over your head to reveal you’re not wearing anything underneath. Thankfully, the air in the room is quite cold so you can blame your hardened nipples on that and not on your heightened state of arousal. The TV behind you fills the otherwise quiet, dark room with flashing lights and the sounds of explosions. He doesn't seem to hear them, doesn’t seem bothered by the alternating flashes of bright white and almost complete darkness. You have his full attention, and it makes you squirm, your heartbeat picking up speed, your blood rushing in your ears.

Again, he makes you wait, lets his gaze wander over you from the top of your head to the waistband of your jeans, as if he has all the time in the world. You notice how his eyes linger on your breasts for a moment, one of his hands closing around nothing as he imagines squeezing them. And you want him to – you’re so wound up everything irritates you, the noises, the lights, his eyes; an itch is crawling over your skin, one you’re desperate to have scratched. You want his hands on you, doing to you what he’s clearly imagining right now, but you know that being impatient will only make things worse. Max likes to take his time with you and if you act up, he knows how to punish you. You swallow hard in anticipation.

“Now your pants,” he finally orders, raising his eyebrows in what you can only interpret as a challenge.

You let your hand wander down your exposed belly, your touch relieving some of the pressure that’s been building inside of you, the muscles of your throat moving as you try to swallow. You know he notices how they strain, it’s in his nature. His eyes flicker up to your face before following your trembling fingers, watching as you struggle to open the button on your jeans. Your fingers refuse to cooperate when he’s looking at you like that, like you’re a delicious meal he can’t wait to devour.

And then he moves too. He’s almost mirroring your motions – but his hand doesn't stop at his waistband. Instead, it moves lower, lower and lower, and then he’s palming himself through the fabric of his expensive dress pants.

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he lowers his to glare at you. He’s never done this before, always relying on the feeling of your body under his. This? This is different. You feel watched, studied, completely exposed, as he uses the sight in front of him – uses you – to chase his own pleasure. And you like it. You're almost ashamed to admit how much you like it.

As you push down your jeans, you let your thumb brush over your clit to relieve some of the pressure building between your legs. It’s dangerous and you shouldn’t do it, you know that, but you can’t help yourself. Your whole body seems to be shaking with the tension and you crave release, even if it’s just for a second. And for that short second, you think you’re getting away with it, you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. He sits up straight with a snarl.

"Don't ever do that again." It's a low growl, almost animalistic. "You don't get to touch yourself."

You still your hand, but it’s unfair; you know that, he knows that. Yet, you don't protest. Being whiny or needy won’t get you anywhere. Instead, you set your mind on trying it again. You step out of your trousers and kick them to the side. He relaxes again, as much as he’s ever going to, his hand resting between his legs, pressing down lightly. You want to feel some of the relief he must be feeling right now, so you let your hands run up your thighs slowly, relishing how his breath hitches. You can feel the heat between your legs as you press your index finger against your clothed clit. A quiet moan tries to tear itself from your chest at the touch and you do your best to keep it down, fight it even, but you fail. You lose that battle.

The next thing you know is that his hand has your wrist in a vise-like grip. "I'm not gonna fuck you tonight," he tells you quietly and this time you can’t help yourself – you groan in frustration. He just tightens his grip on you, his black eyes gleaming dangerously. "Kneel," he growls, forcing you down until your knees hit the carpet. It sends a jolt of pleasure through you, from the base of your spine to the top of your head. Shivering, you watch him free his hard cock, thick and heavy, the tip glistening. You wet your lips in anticipation.

But then he shatters your dreams with three words. "You're gonna watch." His voice is a menacing hiss, nothing more. "You'll take what I give you. And you're gonna be grateful."

You nod your head to show him you’ve understood, hoping that if you behave yourself now, you might at least get to touch him. He seems unimpressed by your submissive display, just watches you with mild interest as he runs his hand lightly over his cock, from base to tip, collecting some of the pre-cum, before repeating the motion. The air is thick with anticipation – you crave his release as much as you crave your own, his slow movements only making you strain, yearn for more. You wish you could hear him lose himself, deep moans and filthy, whispered praises for you, but he’s completely quiet, watching with interest what he is doing to you. It’s almost like he’s not that interested in his own pleasure but rather in your reactions, your desperation, in the power he holds over you. You squirm again, chasing a tiny bit of friction between your legs.

“Am I boring you?” he asks. He’s trying to keep his voice level, but there’s a ragged quality to it that makes you look at him.

Oh.

He’s not as composed as he would like you to believe he is. His brows are furrowed, and his chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, aroused pants. It makes you shudder involuntarily, because with these obvious signs of the effect you have on him comes something else, something dark and demanding and sinister, something he can’t force down. And you don’t want him to force it down; you want him to take what’s rightfully his, want to give him everything he craves, want him to use you until you’ve forgotten everything about your own pleasure, until you’re both just chasing his. You want to see him come undone with the softest of touches, with the whispers of the dirtiest things you can think of.

“No,” you say, and tentatively put a hand on his thigh just above the knee. Your eyes are wide with innocence, a silent plea written all over your face. “Just let me touch you.”

“No,” he repeats your own answer back at you, the hand on his cock stilling for a moment. Then he lets go of himself and holds his hand up in front of you. “But you can have a taste.”

You let your tongue run from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger before sucking two fingers into your mouth. He lets you, helps you by pushing into you even deeper. The taste of him on his skin, on his strong hand, his thick fingers, is almost too much, too overwhelming. He picks up on that quickly and begins to pull out only to shove back inside your mouth with brutal force. Repeating this motion a few times, he watches as you swallow around him, determined to show him what he’s missing. You suck on his fingers, force him to press down onto your tongue until you gag, until his eyes are impossibly dark with lust. Your eyes flutter shut as you moan and he curls his fingers at that, stilling his movements, giving you a short break to taste him, to cherish what he’s giving you. When you open your eyes again, you see a red glimmer in his, which makes you suck and swallow even harder.

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, a thread of spit still connecting you to him, you moan at the loss. This time, you don’t have the desired effect on him. Instead, his hand, his fingers that were just in your mouth, grab his cock again and he runs it up and down his length with obscenely wet sounds accompanying his movements. You keen, both hands on his knees now, watching the spectacle in front of you while you can feel yourself clench around nothing over and over again in time with his motions, like you’re missing something inside of you, a vital part, a piece of a puzzle that belongs there. You can feel him like a ghost inside of you, stretching you, and you’re jealous, jealous of his hand wrapped around himself, getting to experience the feeling you so desperately crave. The air is heavy with a scent entirely unfamiliar to you, an intoxicating fragrance that makes your head swim, that makes you feel brave and bold and ready to defy the rules.

You grab his wrist in an attempt to still his hand, to replace it with your own or your mouth or your warm, wet folds – you don’t care, you just need to feel him somewhere, but he growls deep and dark and dangerous and lunges forward, his other hand wrapping tightly around your throat, the ring he’s wearing on his middle finger digging into your skin. You gasp, a new jolt of arousal making your entire body convulse and vibrate and ache for him as he tightens his grip, as he holds you in the palm of his hand. You know he can feel your racing pulse beneath his fingers as he stares at you silently, his slightly parted lips revealing the edges of his teeth, making them look like fangs. It’s a battle of wills, a battle that can only have one victor, and you back down too soon when you let go of his wrist. You can see it in the mocking glint in his eyes, in the way the corners of his mouth move upwards in a contemptuous grin.

“Giving up so easily, doll?” he asks. “Would have figured you were more of a fighter.”

“Well,” you say, swallowing around his tight grip, “give me something to fight against.”

He hardens his grasp to a point your breathing becomes labored, your chest rising and falling in an attempt to suck in enough air to keep going. His ring feels cold against your skin even though his hand is warm, and that difference in temperature helps you stay grounded. You push your chin forward in defiance, showing him you can take it, and he accepts the challenge. The hand he has wrapped around himself begins to move again, slowly but deliberately. You know he’s not some kind of inhuman, supernatural being who can hold out forever. He’s human, just like you. But what he says next makes you question this knowledge.

“Tell me.” His voice is so low and raspy and yet fills the entire room to a point it makes your skin crawl. “Tell me what you would do to me if I’d let you.”

You swallow again and your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you trust your voice enough to speak. Still, what you say comes out pathetically high, your pitch raw with lust. “I would make you feel so good,” you manage before your voice gives in and you have to swallow again. His grip doesn’t weaken. “I would let you come wherever you wanted to. I –”

He interrupts you harshly. “You’re about to let me do that anyway,” he points out, still mocking you.

“I –,” you try again, desperate to come up with something that will make him crumble, will make his façade come down in a mighty explosion. “God … I … I would touch you … I – I would wrap my hand firmly around your … your cock,” your eyes flicker down for a second, “I would stroke you and squeeze you and … my hands are much softer than yours. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you –”

“No,” he interrupts you again, crudely. “I like it rough.”

You try to nod, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he tilts back your head until you are forced to look at him, at his dark eyes blown wide with desire, and he lets you see the desperation in them, if just for a very brief moment, a split second, for the amount of time it takes a helpless little hummingbird to beat its wings once. And you are just like that bird – fragile and delicate, ready to be crushed by this man.

“I would let you fuck my mouth,” you say. “I want you to make me choke, push me, make me- I want you to come down my throat, make me swallow every last drop of it.” Oh, you have him now. The movement of his hand is becoming frantic, desperate. A wet sound fills the room, increasing in urgency with each pass of his hand. “I want you to make me beg for it,” you continue. “I know you want to take whatever you need. And I would let you. I’d let you do anything you want to me, Max.” A small tremble in his hand makes his grip on you falter briefly. You take this opportunity to lower your voice. “You have no idea how much I need you right now. Don’t you want to find out, Max? Don’t you – don’t you want to flip me over, push into me, fuck me into the … into the carpet, use me until you fill me up, with no regard for me? I want you to do that, Max, I want you to stretch me open and make me scream and –”

His grip tightens so suddenly it cuts off all airflow. His ring cuts into your skin and you’re sure it will leave a mark. You feel your own arousal against your leg at that thought.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Just shut up.”

“Oh, Max,” you moan. Where his voice is rough, yours is soft. “Do you want that, baby? You can have it. I’m right here.”

You begin to shift, but his hand leaves your throat, his fingers now resting against the nape of your neck, and he pulls until you are on display for him and he can see how your pulse races, a steady throb under your fragile skin. Before you have time to adjust to this new angle he’s coming with a low rumble in his chest, his grip on you tightening to hold you completely still. You feel his release hot against the tender skin of your neck and chest, you can smell him, and you make a sound that rings entirely unfamiliar in your own ears as he marks you like this.

Before you can make any move to clean yourself up, he pulls you up towards him, your neck straining with the effort, and then his tongue is on you and he’s hungrily licking you clean, sharply biting down on your skin once or twice when you squirm. You’re so desperate for this man that you’re prepared to let him do anything as long as it means he’s finally going to touch you. His tongue and teeth only drive you towards the edge even more, but it’s not enough, and you realize too late that you’re rolling your hips in desperation. He pulls back, his lips swollen and glistening, and then he shoves a hand between your legs so suddenly, your hips jerk and a frantic scream tears its way out of your throat. Two of his fingers move upwards, pushing the fabric of your panties into you. Your hands find his thighs again, and you squeeze with all your might.

“You’re dripping,” he observes with a cool smirk. “My fingers are wet, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“Please, Max,” you moan, rolling your hips again.

His free hand grips your side to still you. Then he removes his fingers, and you sob at the loss, tears shooting into your eyes. “Looks like you need to take care of that yourself, doll,” he says with a raised eyebrow, a smirk making his eyes sparkle. “I want to see how the movie ends.”

tagging (a few people who showed interest, mostly by liking the announcement post): @acdeaky @ah-soka, @darksber, @doin-stuff, @kashyyyyk, @leannawithacapitala, @light-yaers, @millenniumsfalcon, @minervadobbs, @pedropascaldice, @odetokeons, @phoenixhalliwell @piscespussybabe

#bloodsucking bastards #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #max phillips #pedro pascal #fanfic #yes i am asleep like the coward that i am #i had completely forgotten about the ring until i started editing this fic lmao #if someone has an answer to the question why vampires are so hot please let me know

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raelly-writing · 4 years ago

Text

Little Secrets - Thancred/WoL

Post-5.5. Silly little bit of fluff I’ve had lying around in my WIP folder since before 5.3. :)

---

The Rising Stones lay still and quiet as Thancred made his way through its hallways. Not that it was unexpected at this hour - either it was far too late in the night or too early in the morning for many souls aside for the town guards to be awake.

At least the others out in the field had been faring well when he’d checked in with them, despite their less than pleasant task of intercepting any further attempts to bring captives to the towers. Sure, he could have checked in via linkpearl, but after the chaos out in Pagl’than, it’d seemed prudent to get a feeling for the situation elsewhere.

Well, he could convene with Riol and Alphinaud in the morning, Thancred thought as he took the steps up the stairs to the sleeping quarters in twos. Despite his long travel and the late - or early - hour, he felt rather energetic.

Or perhaps it was the thought of slinking into Viana’s room and just catching a few precious hours of sleep with her after several days apart that put a slight spring in his step. Between his time away in Garlemald, and leaving again to see how the situation at the other towers were, he looked forward to the comforting warmth of her body curled up next to his as he slept. In the dark, still corridor, his quiet huff of laughter at himself seemed far louder than it was. It would have been a hard thing to believe once that he’d be eager to slip into his lover’s bed, just for the simple pleasure of sleeping by their side.

Nevermind that there were no fears of entanglement driving him from leaving said bed early, that he was content and secure in this bond between them that kept him by her side - that he could allow himself to have this simple happiness in his life, despite those moments where he felt it was something he had not yet earned, and those familiar, dark voices whispered to him that she would one day realise that he was not fit for her.

With a shake of his head, he fished out the spare key she had given him from his inner coat pocket and quietly unlocked her door. Her chamber lay silent as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him, bathed in the low light of the lantern left burning on her desk.

Too silent, in fact.

A small frown creased his brow as he quietly stepped deeper into the room and looked around the ornate Far Eastern wood screen that customarily partitioned off her bed from the rest of the room.

The piles of pillows and blankets were untouched, the covers still neatly tucked in. No one had slept in that bed tonight.

Thancred felt a small but potent pang of disappointment. Most likely she had been called off somewhere on an urgent matter, as was wont to happen.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it - guess he was sleeping in his own bed tonight. Tataru and Alphinaud would tell him in the morning where she’d gone, he was sure. Sighing, he reached out to turn off the lantern, when he caught sight of her gunblade lying on her desk with its maintenance kit beside it. Thancred stopped at once, a curious frown back on his features. Looking around he found her katana sitting on its customary stand and her axe hanging off a pair of hooks on the wall by her wardrobe.

��What the-?” he murmured to himself. She wouldn’t have left without any of her weapons.

Just then, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by a dull thud as someone on the other side pushed their weight against the door. A pause. Then the sound of it once more unlocking.

“Seven Hells, I swear that I locked-” Viana froze the moment she saw him, her eyes going almost comically wide in surprise.

Thancred’s eyebrows rose as he took in her appearance, the surprise he felt not mitigating the heat that instantly crawled up the back of his neck. A dark leather corset hugged her body, with familiar looking bits of gold jewelry twinkling in the low light like little stars against the dark blue cloth of her dress.

A moment of silence stretched out between them.

Clearing his throat, he smiled and gestured towards her. “Were I to check the hallway, would I find Urianger knocked out and robbed off his usual adornments?”

Viana’s shoulders, bared by the cut of the dress, sagged when she exhaled. “Funny,” she replied dryly while she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, turning the lock. Tall boots covered her legs, though even in the dim light of the room he could see the tantalising glimpse of bare skin at her thigh.

He tried not to let his eyes linger, but it was hard not to let his gaze wander and soak in her unusual appearance, used as he was to her in full armour or just lighter shirts and trousers. This was… extravagant, by comparison. “People have on occasion accused me of such feats,” he quipped.

Pausing, she gave him a shy, uncertain look while still lingering by the door. He was not meant to have seen her like this, he realised. Only once, long ago, had he seen her carry herself in such an apprehensive manner - at the banquet that had been held after the Grand Melee in Ishgard. But there were no crowds of gossiping nobles present now to watch her every move.

Thancred gave her a reassuring smile as he took a couple of slow steps forward. “So, do you mind me asking what this is about?” He had an inkling but...

Viana tensed up, and he nearly told her that she did not have to if so was her wish, but then she sighed and procured from behind her the folded together metal rings that appeared to have been suspended from one of the chains around her waist. “I suppose you’d find out sooner or later,” she said quietly as she took a few steps to close the distance between them.

With a touch of aether, the slender rings flared to life and hovered above her palm - a familiar sight, though hers lacked the intricate decorations of Urianger’s. The bracelets on her arm tinkled when she moved her arm over the astrolabe, her face set in a look of concentration.

Briefly, the room was illuminated by a surge of aether, and then a soothing sensation washed over Thancred, like a gentle whisper of the softest silk over his bare skin that swept away the weariness in his limbs. Rejuvenating magic, tinted with the warm, familiar feeling of her aether.

“I made the mistake of voicing some curiosity about astrology to Urianger while we were dealing with Eden.” The corner of her mouth curled with a crooked smile. “And I fear he took it as a personal challenge to teach me.”

“Ah, a grave mistake indeed,” Thancred chuckled. “Give him an ilm and he’ll take a yalm.”

Shrugging, she eyed the slowly spinning astrolabe with a small, thoughtful smile. “It’s been… interesting to learn though.” Her gaze flickered back to him. “I’ll probably never take this out in the field. I’m barely good enough to heal a minor cut, but I do genuinely appreciate the effort and time he’s put toward this. He’s a good teacher. Very patient with me.”

Thancred’s expression softened. He knew her lack of an education was a sore spot for her, and that she often felt like her non-existent grasp of magical theory made her less of use than the rest of them - that, as per her own jest, her sole contribution to any given problem was to take a beating and punch the issue until it either went away or one of them solved it. Gratitude towards Urianger for taking her under his wing tugged at his heart, along with a content pride in her efforts to learn. Even if Thancred himself thought that she hardly had anything to prove to them, in that regard. She was more than just a weapon. Reaching out, he took her free hand in his and brushed a quick kiss to the back of her fingers, below the rings that adorned them.

“I take it you were out studying the stars then,” he asked, recalling how Urianger would sometimes venture out into the fields of Il Mheg even when the blanket of Eternal Light had made it impossible to see the night sky.

Viana nodded and slipped her hand from his to caress his jaw. The scratch of his stubble made her smile widen a little, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Mm, his balcony has a good view of most of them. Otherwise we go up to one of the towers.”

With another wave of her hand, the astrolabe folded back up and she took a careful hold of it before walking past him to the same low cabinet upon which her katana stand stood. The soft light from the lantern caught on the gold chain hanging down between her shoulder blades. Focusing on it, he saw that another star pendant was dangling at its end, and that another, heftier chain was attached to the band around her upper arm. There was an itch in his fingers to slowly undo each clasp and tie, to loosen the corset hugging her body and unwrap her like a fine namesday gift.

“He’s been teaching me about the various constellations and how to draw on them,” she told him over her shoulder, unaware of how his eyes were following the chains looping around her waist, and the small blue gems hanging from them that sparkled like they were distant stars twinkling in the night sky. “Not sure how successful I’ve been at it though.”

She turned around and his gaze instantly snapped back up to her face. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Viana shrugged sheepishly. “Perhaps. If nothing else I might be able to apply some of the theory to my gunbreaker barriers.” Her smile turned crooked, as humour sparked in her eyes. “And, I might not stand around and look like I just got clubbed over the head by Titan whenever a discussion turns theoretical in nature about aether balancing and all that stuff.”

“Ah, my dear, you’re hardly the only one who gets turned around by their theoretical debates.”

A soft peal of laughter made her shoulders shake as she walked back to him. “Well, I suppose I have Estinien as company in that regard, for now.” The knowing look she gave him made it clear that she knew he was obfuscating his own knowledge on the field, but instead of calling him out on it she merely leaned down and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured.

Smiling, Thancred slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I’m glad to be back.”

Viana leaned against him and brushed back his hair from his eyes. “Planning on staying for more than a day, this time?”

Immediately he felt the long journey catch up with him, and with a tired chuckle he nodded. “Unless the gods decide to suddenly turn the world upside down tomorrow, then yes, I am.”

Her smile brightened a little at once. “Good.” She leaned down and he eagerly met her in a slow kiss.

Thancred made a pleased noise at the back of his throat, his heart skipping a beat in joy at being back with her. The kiss was short and sweet, familiar and welcoming in tone.

Almost too short, he felt, when she straightened back up. Peering up at her, he felt curiosity tug at him once more as he thumbed what felt like a star shaped pendant. “Haven’t seen you in something like this before,” he murmured with a smile. “Well, aside from that dress at ser Aymeric’s banquet.”

A blush immediately crept up on her cheeks as she glanced away. “Ah, yes, I... asked Tataru for some more aether conductive gear,” she replied while tapping her fingers against his shoulders in a nervous manner. “Apparently she’d gotten her hands on some new patterns in Ishgard that she wanted to try out. Decided to kill two cloudkin with one rock, as it were.” The tilt of her smile turned a little self deprecating as she shrugged, “Can’t help but feel like her efforts were wasted on me.”

Raising a hand, he touched her chin to urge her to look back at him. Thancred held her gaze and let the levity drop from his voice when he responded, “You look stunning, darling.”

Viana’s eyes widened a fraction before her expression settled back into a bashful look. “Not exactly my usual style,” she murmured, her tone uncertain. “It seems a bit… frivolous, compared to my normal clothes.”

“Nothing wrong with a little frivolity, if that’s what you are in the mood for,” Thancred mused.

She pursed her lips with a thoughtful look, before leaning down and pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “Well, thoughts for a later time I suppose. Mind helping me out of this?”

“Mm, that would be my pleasure,” he replied with a grin and gave her waist a squeeze.

#Thancred #Thancred Waters #ffxiv #thancred x wol #really just wanted to finish up something for myself today #My writing

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cosmicbash · 4 years ago

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Would you maybe write something about a scenario where Em and Colson are hate fucking and Em never spends the night, but on a particular occasion, Colson is super sad/stressed and (while trying desperately to hide it) starts crying from the idea of Em leaving, so he stays and is really sweet? (Also, sorry if I went this twice–my computer's being really weird and I can't tell if it did it already!)

This isn't perfect but!! Everybody is on an angst kick and I wanted to join in so I'm using this ask 😤😤

They aren't dating.

Marshall's cock is drilling in and out of Colson's ass but that doesn't mean they're together.

It wasn't supposed to escalate to this. He's not supposed to be manhandling a stupidly long leg up in the air or swatting away the other man's helpful hands while he switches their position for the 3rd time. Hips never stopping their rapid punching forward to draw out more and more curses.

Paul wanted them to mend their beef. Come to a mutual ground of disdain at the minimum. Not bash heads together so many times over their short meeting they end up in bed together instead. Teeth and fists completely changing their plan of attack.

"F-fuck! Right there-" Marshall's definitely not supposed to be watching this annoying twink throw his long neck back and whine. Colorful arms stretching up above him to uselessly grapple onto the pillow behind his own head. "Please!"

This wasn't supposed to be the 10th or 12th time they did this.

"Shut up-" his voice is scratchy when it should be calm. "The whole floor is gonna hear you-" Paul thinks they're here mending bridges and discussing a feature.

"Then fuck me right-" Colson's voice is just as rough sounding. Marshall hates that he knows the difference between the twink's usual tone and this ruined one. How it will only get this way after he's forced his cock down the brat's throat one too many times in their foreplay. "L-learn- ah- where to stick it without directions dude!"

"Shut up." He's bruising Colson's thighs now. The dark red indents from his fingers are going to turn purple by the morning. Not that he's ever seen them do it in person at least, but the blonde never fails to send a picture over text every morning after. "Maybe if you tightened your pussy up we'd both have more fun."

Colson's chest is arching from his harder thrusts now. Voice climbing a little higher almost mockingly with each moan as he slams to the hilt.

Marshall wants to kiss him. Smother that annoyingly pretty mouth with his lips but it's not possible. Not in this position where the other man's unnecessarily large stature puts him so out of reach.

That's a good thing though, because they really don't need to be kissing. A few heated pecks here and there to get the blood pumping is one thing, making out while he fucks the blonde speechless almost feels too intimate to consider.

Theres no space for that in these brief hook ups from hotel room to hotel room, not when they still hate eachother too much for any of the burning heat they have between them to simmer down into a comfortable warmth.

"Stupid whore." His lips are pulling back in almost a snarl this time when he forces Colson over onto his stomach instead. Cock slipping free and almost losing the condom he's got slipped over it from just how quickly he pulls out. Like Colson's hole is challenging his accusation of looseness. "Fuck-" he just wants to smother the brats face down into the pillows. He tells himself his anger isn't from not being able to reach.

An impatient yank and the condoms tearing. Leaving Marshall all but ready to go put his clothes back on and storm out. There's a nasty swirl of emotions going on inside his stomach that he really doesn't want to risk bursting while they find and put on a replacement.

"W-what're you waiting for?" Colson's back is arching, and that pale mop he calls hair is lifting up to look back. So needy he can't even pause for one minute.

"Fucking condom broke- just, shit, just give me a minute-" Marshall doesn't even know where to look, not with all the blood pooling in his cock and his focus begging to be set on his rivals waiting body.

Colson put the thing on him, he can remember that much, one of those prissy little manicured nails probably scratching the elastic as he did it. He's sure he must have one in his wallet but that's across the room in his sweats, by the bathroom door. Where Colson's impatience about even waiting to let him finish his piss and get undressed had left him falling back into the door.

If he has to walk all the way over there to get it he might as well just go home.

"Forget it. I'm done." They shouldn't be fucking like this anyway. It's a major mistake.

"What?" Colson's fingers curling around his wrist is a new sensation. The wide look to his half hidden eyes punching something deep within Marshall's stomach. "We haven't even come yet-" there's a hint of hysteria in the blonde's tone and smile. "If it's because of what I said then- t-then I'll bite the fucking pillow or something alright? Don't be so dramatic dude-"

"I don't have another condom-" It's a weak excuse, they both know Colson evidently has some somewhere in the room of his own. But Marshall needs to take this brief chance to get out now before he loses it. The longer Colson stares at him the more nauseous that feeling bubbling up has him.

"...Forget it then-" the blonde's finally looking away, almost convincing Marshall that he's also second guessing this sex. But those long delicate fingers are still clutching onto his wrist and there's a palpable silence cutting through the air so thick he feels like he might choke before Colson's baby blues are meeting his head on once again. The shimmer of anxiety impossible to hide between long bangs. "Just do it raw. I-I'm clean and I- you- fuck," there's shame mixing in the look now, the grip the blonde has doubling down when Marshall reflexively tries to pull back. "Don't…."

Go. Don't go. Colson isn't saying it but Marshall can hear the word clear as day between them.

It's about the sex. He isn't satisifed yet. If Colson had cum already the bastard wouldn't be hesitating to kick him out. That's what Marshall's mind screams to reassure himself but there's still a hollow place in his stomach where he feels gutted by the look.

"...f-Fine." He tries to justify staying by remembering how annoying and painful blueballs can be. "But don't fucking text me tomorrow whining how my jizz is still leaking out of your ass."

His free hand settling back down on Colson's hip finally snaps whatever weird fog has blanketed the room. A forced sounding snicker muffling itself against the pillows while Colson's legs readjust to raise his ass. "If you can even get back inside without nutting old man-"

This kind of banter is more comfortable.

"Keep talking, I'm gonna fuck you until you're crying for me to finally finish."

"You wish." Colson's voice is still muffled but the slight challenging swing of his hips says more than enough.

Marshall's fingers instantly find their previous spot, each digit mirroring the small red dots on the opposite side of the younger rapper's skin.

The lubes still nearby on the bed luckily, allowing him to be quick as he reslicks his achingly hard cock and squirts an extra dollop directly on his partner's hole for good measure. As much as he loves hurting the punk doing so in this way would only cause them both more trouble.

"F-fuck-" Of course Colson's as tight as a vice when he finally tries to push inside. The tight ring of muscle rejecting his entry just as vehemently as he's sure the boy's heart would. They can't do anything pain free, like the world is punishing them for continuing their facade. "Relax-"

"Thought you said I was too loose?" Marshall can practically hear that smug little smirk Colson's sporting.

Defiantly his hips jerk forward a bit harder, until the blonde actually does cry out and his legs spread the tiniest bit wider. The tight clench Colson has evidently been giving his hole relaxing instantly to let him breach. A string of curses and clawing hands keeping Marshall from fully basking in the incomparable tight heat slowly engulfing his cock.

Even with a pillow clutched close against his face Colson is loud. Each noise climbing alongside his pace as he starts properly fucking his rival yet again. Until they're almost back up at full throttle and Colson's mesmerizing back is arching, a large hand jerking up to plant itself flat against the headboard. "Fuck, fuck, please, just like that Marsh, god- baby d-don't stop-"

The slip of a nickname doesn't escape Marshall's notice, he's just too focused on chasing down his own pleasure to properly care. Once they're done he'll mention it. Or maybe even just wait until tomorrow to text the brat a reminder, but for right now he keeps pumping his hips. Heart warming uncontrollably at the mere joke of being someone Colson can call baby.

Reflexively his palm claps down hard on the other man's ass, too sharply and sudden to do anything but sting. "Ah, f-fuck!" He's taking his anger at his own feelings out on Colson and it's not fair but he can't help himself.

The red imprint of his hand glares back in his vision long after a kinky smack should have faded and just the sight of it sticking around gets Marshall's pace growing a little erratic. He wants to tear the blonde apart, shred every bit of his being to pieces and then sew it all back together to see the taint his touch has created visualized as hundreds of scars. He wants to sully the blinding beauty he sees everytime they meet and everytime he glimpses back at the bed before he leaves. Just ruin Colson completely so that there's no other choice but him in the whole world for the blonde to turn to.

But he's not falling in love.

That would mean he's stupid enough to fall for someone who could never settle for him. That he's actively continuing to come back and push the bar with every hookup just to see when enough is enough and he'll finally be left on the otherside of the hotel room door. Or the one waking up alone in bed the morning after.

Marshall wouldn't.

"S-shit wait- I-" Colson's hips are stuttering back to meet his, the hand he's still got hugging the pillow abandoning it in favor of stuffing down between his legs. It's obvious the blonde's close. Marshall can feel it in the tight grip around his cock and hear it in that shaky voice. It's not until he doubles down to fuck the younger rapper hard enough to knock his slender body inch by inch further up the bed that Marshall realizes he's trying to hold out. "N-not yet, ah, fuck, s-slow down-"

"No-" he's close himself, chest heaving and balls tightening as it is. There's no way he's letting Colson try to change the pace now. "Save, fuck, save that edging shit for after I leave-" he's lashing out for control again but can't stop himself.

This time instead of pinching pale skin Marshall slides his fingers up into sweaty blonde hair. Yanking back until he's got the man's back arched perfectly and his mouth can seal in a bite to one pointy shoulderblade. Fingers snaking around to hold Colson up there by his throat. "Fucking take it like a good whore and come Kelly."

In this position he feels unbelievably deeper and there's nothing to block out the blonde's gasps and cries.

Nails scratch quickly along his thigh but Marshall ignores them to keep rolling his hips. The need to make Colson finish first fueling his free hand to climb up to knock away the punks own. Quickly jerking up and down over the soaked cock the other man was trying so hard to squeeze and restrict.

"N-no, no, fuck, Marshall-" a hand's curling around the back of his head to pull him close despite Colson's protests. Every atom in the other males body seeming to reach out and beg and plead for him to come closer, to fuck him harder until they split through the magnetic field and combine into one. Marshall wants to kiss him again. Hates how he can't even see the brats mouth over his shoulder from his current position. His fingers fly faster and hips roll up firmer in retaliation. "F-fuck-"

There's a wet sob breaking the moans in the air, piercing straight through his chest like a bullet while Colson's hips stutter back and hot release paints across his fingers. Sending him right over the edge himself. Body forcing them both forward so he can hump and grind his pelvis against Colson's ass down to the bone while he pumps and fills the twink up with his own release. The hands around his neck and cock turning into strong arms around the blonde's chest and waist like a hug.

It's the closest thing to a cuddle Marshall will allow himself. That he can't actually prevent his orgasming body from resisting.

There's so much comfort and begging from his body to stay like that, for Colson to never leave him in those moments that the rapper can't help but tear up a little himself.

But just as quickly as its come sensibility returns and with it the guilt and shame. Scaring his arms free and his body away from Colson's usually still trembling form.

"Wait-" fingers are grabbing his wrist again, weaker this time.

Marshall's still buried to the hilt, even though his chest has unstuck itself from Colson's museum print of a back tatt. Sorry is dancing on the tip of his tongue. Like it always does. Always too graceful to ever trip up and spit out though before he finally leaves.

"A-again." Colson's face is still buried in the pillow, eyes and nose planted firmly down while his chins pulled up.

"What?" A second round isn't completely crazy for them, sometimes when the anger is hot enough its even necessary but not tonight. Marshall shouldn't even be humoring the request, not with how fragile his emotions feel, but Colson's hand refuses to let go.

"Fuck me. Please. Just-" Now with his head clearing the rapper can finally notice how Colson's shoulders are turning inwards, how the tone of his voice carries a shake. "Do whatever. I-I dont care. Just don't- fuck, d-don't-"

Go.

Leave. He has to leave.

"Colson?" The name feels strange in Marshall's mouth from all the "kelly"'s "brats" and other derogatory words he usually uses in it's place.

Wet baby blues peering back all but pin him in place whether he wants to leave or not. Their message clear.

"Please." A single word and it's as effective as a sledgehammer around his heart.

"I-" Can't. Shouldn't. "I'm not hard anymore."

On a normal night that kind of obvious embarrassed blurt of an answer would get the kid smiling, one of those rare soft warm looks where his crows feet and gums showed, that scorched Marshall's skin from how brightly it radiated affection. Each chuckle or snort following just another stone slamming hard against his heart.

Tonight Colson doesn't smile. Instead of crinkling at the corner to flash the only hint at Colson's slow aging those lashes drop just low enough to bubble up the small collection of tears already present. His pretty but thin lips quivering up and down to fight back a frown.

A year ago this exact look was the center of so many fantasies. He had wanted nothing more than to see the blonde crumble and break apart in front of him like a pathetic mess.

Right now instead of satisfaction all Marshall's body feels is hollow. Like his heart has finally abandoned his chest and surrendered itself to the hopefully quick acting acids of his stomach. The rapper doesn't think he can possibly feel worse but then Colson's arching his body away from him. Slipping his soft cock free of that lingering tight heat and stealing away any trace of faux comfort he feels with every centimeter of separating skin.

"I'll take care of it-" Colson's voice is hoarse, like hes fighting down the threat of a sob while his body twists onto its side. The sluggish lift of a hand back towards his cock piercing through him like a killing blow.

"No." Now his throat feels tight too. Shame and guilt pouring down his spine at the thought of Colson pushing through his obvious pain and turmoil to jerk his cock back to life just so he stays a few moments longer.

"Please-" Baby blue eyes are shining at Marshall again. The fast slip of a tear down one flushed cheek only making his fingers dig harder into younger male's wrist. "Marshall-"

He can't do this.

"No-"

"Yes!" Colson's scream pierces the silence so suddenly he thinks his wars might be ringing. But the pure desperation painted in angry eyes keeps Marshall's own from flinching all the way closed. "I'll fucking find you viagra or- or suck your dick until my jaws sore-" now Colson's own fingers are cutting back, prying at the preventative grip he's got on the blonde's hand like a caged animal might. "I don't care what- just- you- you aren't- you can't-"

It hurts, and with the way Colson's legs are twitching beneath him Marshall knows a kick or knee to his gut might come next. None of it compares to how badly his throat tears when he speaks though. "I'm not fucking you!" Somehow he manages to put every ounce of finality in his voice that he intends. Freezing Colson's grappling and rambling in an instant.

The ensuing silence feels deafening.

Colson's still staring at him. Pain and anger warring across his face in small twitches and ticks. Marshall's mouth just repeats itself. Quieter this time. The heave if his lungs breaking up his words in tight exhales. "I'm not….I….I'm not going to fuck you."

There's a million more words tangling on his tongue. The order jumbling and backing them up like a traffic jam until he feels like he can't even breathe anymore.

I want to stay. I'm sorry. Dont do this to yourself. Please. Don't cry. Colson-

"I'm sorry." Colson cracks first. Expression screwing up and the floodgates behind his eyes opening as he sobs. "I'm so fucking sorry Marshall-"

This time he doesn't resist that ache to kiss the blonde.

It's messy and Colson's mouth tastes like snot and tears already but Marshall presses closer anywhere. Cradling the younger rapper's skull with his free hand so tightly he knows he has to be pulling out hair. The wrist he'd snatched pinned between their bodies in a way that makes his own ache. But he ignores all of that and kisses Colson harder. Smacking their lips and teeth against one another in hopes the words trapped in his throat might pour their way out and into Colson's. Down the blonde's own throat to reach his heart.

He kisses Colson until he can't physically do it any longer. The sharp sting of oxygen deprivation jolting through his brain and colored spots dancing behind his closed eyes before their lips finally part.

Marshall wants to press so close he sinks down into Colson's bones. Join in with his marrow and spend the rest of his life repairing every broken piece of the beautiful man's soul from the inside out.

That's not possible though so he settles for pulling Colson close. Enveloping him in his arms the same way he wishes he had a dozen times over. Stabilizing him through every shuddering sob and heartbreaking tremble.

He's not falling in love.

"I got you."

He'd already crash landed there long ago.

#emgk #asks #i love asks #im so fucking stuck with writers block #hopefully posting this helps

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jeonggukkiepabo · 5 years ago

Text

MOONCHILD 🌙 6

SUMMARY: Soulmates are a common thing. Everyone has one. Some people think soulmates are the greatest gift fate could give, others are envious about happy couples that were lucky enough to receive a wonderful partner. One of them was Min Yoongi. Your time to meet your significant other hasn’t come yet, stumbling into the tattoo parlor with a simple idea in mind, not knowing that you will be bound to step by more often. When you leave for the first time, you’ll go home with your masterpiece of a tattoo.

When you leave for the second time, you’ll go home with not only one, but two soulmates.

The man that was supposed to be your only soulmate, the one that never wanted to tell you that he woke up with the exact same koi karp tattoo just sits and watches - until he can’t take the pain anymore.

GENRE: Soulmate!Au

PAIRINGS: Y/N x Taehyung / Y/N x Jungkook / Taehyung x Jungkook / Taehyung x Jimin / Jungkook x Jimin / Hoseok x Seokjin / Y/N x Yoongi

WORD COUNT: 8k

WARNINGS: mentions of anxiety, fluff, kissies, deep talk with yoongi, mentions of heartbreak

Somehow, it was easier to warm up to Namjoon and Jimin than you thought in the beginning. It’s a weird feeling, growing comfortable around basically strangers, but it feels like you’ve known them since forever. Thinking about it now, you’d totally agree to what Jungkook and Taehyung said before: a bond isn’t something random and that it’s impossible to ignore it. To you, it feels just right, without any further explanations needed. You even stopped wondering why you always feel so at ease when one of your mates is around, why any fears seem meaningless when you’re with them.

Because you couldn’t be happier about the bond you shared with your four… now boyfriends. Your soulmates. The loves of your life. Of course, everything is still new for you and the group’s dynamics are still confusing to you, but as Jimin once said: you’ve got time. Things are getting easier every day and everything is falling into place slowly, allowing you to feel lighter every day.

Soon enough, your spare days are consisting of either hanging around at the tattoo parlour or drawing in the bakery to at least spend some time with Jimin and Hoseok. You’ve grown closer to the latter, lucky to have a neutral person to talk to, someone unbiased when it comes to your lovelife.

He’s incredibly funny and you’d never complain about his teasing jokes, because you’re not the only victim; he’s unstoppable and your four boyfriends are his favorite target for his bickering. And Hoseok himself could only describe you with one word: endearing. He loves seeing you smile, loves to be the reason for your adorable reactions. The red haired man knows that he adores people way too much for his own sake, but you’re definitely one of a kind. He almost feels a soft lightning of jealousy whenever he notices how differently you brighten up once one of your soulmates comes into sight, but he’s quick to remind himself that he has an adorable soulmate on his own.

Hoseok even created a special cupcake flavor for you - a cotton candy cupcake with bubblegum frosting, pink and blue, melting on your tastebuds.

“Hobi those are amazing!” You smile as you lick the frosting off your cupcake, sprinkles sticking to your nose as you do so. Hoseok grins, shrugging his shoulders as he places another one in front of you. “I know right? The bubblegum frosting kills it! This one is the last, though. I don’t want to feed you cupcakes all day long. They aren’t going to be special to you any longer if you keep eating several of them every day.”You pout, looking over to your boyfriend to save you. Surely someone will make Hobi cave right? No one can resist you; you always end up having what you want.

“But I like your cupcakes, Hobi! Jimin, tell him that cupcakes are good for me. Some people might need vitamins, but I need cupcakes to live!” Jimin laughs, eyes disappearing as he holds up his hands in defence. Goodness, can you get any cuter? He can’t believe that their soulmate can be such a child sometimes. You’re worse than Jungkook and Taehyung and the three of you can become a dangerous trio.

“I can’t help it, peaches.” He walks over to you, bending down slightly to match your height. Then, he licks one fat stripe across your nose.

“Jimin!” You screech at the disgustingly wet feeling, but your boyfriend just giggles, licking his lips slowly.

“You had frosting on your nose, I couldn’t help it. Even though I have to say that I’m not a fan of the bubblegum.” He wiggles his eyebrows and you giggle quietly despite the sticky feeling not leaving your face.

“Yah! No sex in my bakery, Jimin go and do some dishes, mop the floor or do whatever you usually do at work!” Jin chimes in, gently slapping the back of Jimin’s head. You can’t help but laugh out loud as you notice Jimin’s dejected expression. He glares at you slightly, whilst you wiggle your eyebrow just like he did before. You get his “wait until we’re alone” message clearly and think that you might have to run away before his shift is done otherwise you might be in for a complicated time later.

“Karma, Minie. Thanks, Oppa! How are you doing, Jinnie? I haven’t seen you around in a while.” You smile sweetly, trying to distract him from your boyfriend before he gives him more work. The eldest sighs dramatically, showing you all the boxes he just carried inside the bakery.

“I spent the weekend in my hometown to see my family, but also went to this kind of coffee expo, that’s where I got all that new stuff, coffee beans with rose aroma, different oils to infuse the coffee and pastry and even some of those little sprinkles Hoseok loves using - but those glow in the dark!”

You scrunch your nose worriedly. “Are those healthy?”

“Yah! Who cares about health if you can have cupcakes that glow in the dark? Sometimes you’re the worldwide funny girl, Y/N.”

Jin laughs and shakes his head as he continues to carry the boxes into the storage room, mumbling how exciting those sprinkles are and that they were worth every cent. A big smile is plastered on your face and you’re sure it won’t fade anytime soon as you feel a warm sensation spreading through your entire body. This is one of your new safe places. You don’t know a lot about Seokjin and Hoseok, but they are possibly the nicest men you ever met (excluding your soulmates) and you often find yourself speaking with the two men, spending some quality time with them in the café. It feels like you’re a little family and you can’t help but giggle at the image that is now stuck in your mind; Jin being the loving grandma whilst Hoseok is the chaotic father that doesn’t even know his children’s friends' names.

“Hobi, please don’t put them on my cupcakes. I think Yoongi would love them though, they match his personality and that way you can test if they’re harmful or not.” You wink at the couple as you start collecting your belongings and shoving them into your backpack before returning your cup and plate to Jimin.

“Thanks, Minnie. I’ll see you tonight, right?” You press a kiss onto his lips before turning around to Hoseok.

“Hobi, help your man, you don’t have those strong arms for nothing! Thanks for the cupcake, I hope there’ll be more tomorrow!” Hobi laughs, shaking his head as he hands you a small bag of pastries for the boys in the parlour. You smile quickly before leaving. Jimin sighs behind, already missing your comforting presence.

“You have a lovely soulmate Jimin-ah.” Jimin perks up at the mention of you and he giggles quietly. Hoseok smiles at him, happy to see his friend so joyful, breathing happiness. Jimin has been glowing recently, and Hoseok knows who is responsible; and to be honest, he can’t really blame him.

“She’s the best”.

The days at the parlour are the most thrilling ones because Jungkook couldn’t stop suggesting to tattoo you, even if he’d only get to tattoo small little designs in hidden places. In the beginning, you were strictly against it, but his round doe-eyes combined with the adorable pout made it almost impossible to say no. And boy he knows it. He knows how to use his charms to make you cave in. So one day, you indeed gave in.

“Fine,” you sighed, “but make me a small dinosaur, I want something cute on my ankle.”

Firstly, he’s overjoyed that you said yes but then he replays the sentence in his mind and the thought is not so attractive anymore. Jungkook sighs, stomping his boot-cled foot on the floor.

“A small dinosaur? Why not something more.. dangerous?”

He can’t help but imagine you covered in his arts, only the prettiest pieces for you, and he can’t explain how much the thought arouses him. It has-scratch that-you have an effect on him that he can’t really comprehend. But… Come on, a small dinosaur? He expected better from you.

“I’m not dangerous, honey. I can still ask Yoongi to tattoo me one, though. If you’re not up for a challenge…” Smirking, you wait until he reacts, knowing that Jungkook would never say no to a challenge.

But what’s making him silently snap is not really the challenge but the thought of someone else accessing your skin. No. He’s not going to allow that; it’s either him or Tae, but no one else.

Behind you, Yoongi’s head pops out of the room he’s currently tattooing in.

“I’d say no as well, I hate those minimalist tattoos,” he replies before closing the door again, leaving you more than confused.

Once you look back to Jungkook, he already prepared some small designs despite his complaints. There is no way he is letting someone else tattoo your perfect skin, so he prepared a little t-rex, a stegosaurus and a cute little triceratops.

“The last one, the last one!” You clap your hands, excited for the new addition on your body. Jungkook grumbles, moving towards the desk to prepare a stencil.

“Get a girlfriend they said, it’ll be fun they said. Tae would never want a dinosaur tattoo from me.”

You frown, eyebrow raised as you look over to your boyfriend.

“Are you saying you regret being my mate? Because last night when you had your dick between my boo-”

“I didn’t say anything, calm down.” Jungkook rolls his eyes as he comes back to you again, pulling you into his own little tattoo corner. Sometimes you’re more dramatic than Jimin and he doesn’t know if he thinks it’s endearing or just slightly annoying. Usually, he goes for the first one.

Small tattoos were soon enough a weekly thing for you, sometimes Taehyung chimed in with an idea but it were mostly some scribbles from Jungkook’s sketchbook that caught your eye and were inked into your skin a few hours later. If the first dinosaur hadn’t really thrilled Jungkook, he began to adore these little additions to your skin somehow all fitting together. The two boys were getting protective of you and what you were getting on your skin, debating where and what to tattoo to make sure the whole would look pretty on you.

One day, Jungkook is just getting started to tattoo a little moon onto your wrist, next to the sun that he gave you last week when Yoongi comes into the parlour, cupcake and coffee in his hands. His eyes meet yours and for a second you see so many different feelings swirling in his orbs that you feel slightly uncomfortable, even with your boyfriend next to you.

“Y/N, again? Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t have pulled you into the parlour. Don’t you have a workplace to be or another one of your several boyfriends to annoy? Jungkook, you need to charge her for all that material at some point, I’m not shitting money.” The shop owner scoffs as he places his breakfast onto the front desk. You smile, ignoring his snarky remarks, because by now you know that all he does is bark but not bite. Yet, the gloomy feeling you have is not leaving your skin and you shiver for a second. Jungkook’s eyes snap to yours, worry written all over his features. You soothe him down as you feel his questions through the bond. Does he think he hurt you even though he still has not started the tattoo?

“Oh, you got a cupcake from Hobi-oppa? Wait, is that the special one he makes for his friend? Poor soul, his friend didn’t pick it up again?” Jungkook giggles, having to pause the tattoo gun for a second to look at his Hyung’s reaction. He knows who the friend is and your confusion is just peak comedy.

If only you knew what you had started.

Yoongi shoots him a warning glare before mumbling a “I’m the friend, you idiot”. It takes you a few seconds to understand what he just said and you realize why Jungkook is a giggling mess by now.

Hoseok’s friend is Yoongi.

Yoongi and Hoseok know each other and Yoongi picks up cupcakes on a regular basis even though he told you he wasn’t one for sweets.

“You’re friends with Hobi? I’m sorry I didn’t know it was you otherwise I wouldn't have been that rude.” You smile sheepishly even though the blonde man seems to be ignoring you. “That’s so unexpected though, you’re grumpy and he’s a sunshine. I wouldn’t have guessed it, you must make an interesting pair. When worlds collide, huh” you chuckle as you watch Jungkook finishing the last line. “Thanks, bub!” You press a quick kiss onto his lips before he wraps your wrist, then you’re done. He knows that Yoongi is about to say more; the older is unable to finish a conversation without making sure that he has the last word, especially when it comes to Hoseok. Jungkook is not one to get involved where he shouldn’t, but sometimes he has questions that are burning his tongue even if she succeeds in keeping everything for himself.

What you don’t hear is the painful sound coming from Yoongi as he watches you and Jungkook’s bond playing games with him again. He’s been trying to deny that the bond hurt him when he sees you with someone else, but sometimes, it stings a little bit too much for him to ignore it. Your tattoo was still there, even after you accepted your other mates, so who was he kidding? He wasn’t even enough for you, he couldn’t replace any of those young men - not that he wanted to. You were annoying, too gigglish and beaut- always there, you were always there. Whether it’s the bakery or their parlour, your scent, your laugh and your voice are everywhere. It follows Yoongi and he hates every second of it. Sometimes he feels like Edward when he met Bella for the first time. Not that Yoongi watched Twilight. No. He has… just heard of it.

You are everywhere and he hates it. He truly wishes he had not dragged you into his shop because now you’re not leaving even though he’s doing everything to avoid you.

But why does he even want you to be bothered? It's not like you mean anything to him, he has no reasons to expect a reaction from you right? Especially since you found other soulmates, far better than him apparently. You even spend more time with Seokjin and Hoseok than with him anyway.

“Yeah, I’ve known him for quite some time now. Free coffee and cupcakes from time to time are a nice thing to enjoy.”

Quite some time, sure, Yoongi thinks. What about your teenage years that you were inseparable? The crush you’ve had on him for ages? The one drunk kiss you shared the night before you turned 18? That drunk kiss could’ve activated the soulmate bond, but you chickened out and ran away like a baby, it’s your loss, bastard. Seokjin used his chance and what happened after that was obvious.

Yoongi turns his back to you to take a deep breath, his oversized shirt slowly moving down his shoulder and exposing his neck before he can do anything against it. He realizes his mistake a little bit too late even though he’s quick to turn around again, looking for any sign in each Jungkook’s and your face - obviously both of you realized something. He sees the confusion melting into a frown on your face and he cannot meet your eyes. This is happening, isn’t it?

“Why do we have the same tattoo, Yoongi?”

The fact that he doesn’t even bother to answer is making you angry. Why the fuck does he has the same tattoo? You’re 100% sure of what you just saw, you look at this tattoo every morning before getting dressed. You know the lines by heart and it is not possible for you to mistake it by any means.

So why the fuck does he have your tattoo copied on his skin? Reasons and possibilities are flying through your racing and furious mind. You already imagine the worst. Maybe one of the boys even helped him? He cannot reach this place by himself. It means that someone else did it for him. Did one of your very own soulmates betray you like that? “I drew it myfuckingself and now you’re running around with a cheap copy of it? Who did it, Jungkook!” You’re on your feet, getting closer to the young man at a dangerously slow pace. Jungkook blinks at the sudden call of his name “Tell me. Did you or Taehyung help him?” He tilts his head obviously confused by what you are saying and it only angers you more. Is he playing dumb now? You know a tattoo when you see one and even though it’s not your job, you’re well aware that the place of the tattoo is not one someone can reach alone. Someone had to help.

Jungkook is getting mad too as he starts pulling the puzzle together but he sighs, shaking his head. You are his priority, he has to get you to calm down first. You are a team, not against each other. “Neither Tae nor I knew about this, I’m as shocked as you are, love. We wouldn’t have done that, I promise you. A tattoo is far too personal for us to do something this low. Now though,” Jungkook glares at Yoongi, hands slowly balling into fists, obviously understanding what’s going on. Yoongi just smirks at him, happy to piss the younger off. “Don’t act up, Jungkook.”

At least Yoongi has the upper hand for now and if he can take a little advantage out of it, then he will. The angry face of Jungkook is too good to pass the opportunity. Though, Yoongi does not dare meet your eyes; he fears what he’s going to see if he does.

“Act up? Why? What’s going on?” But both of them ignore you and this is only rilling you up.

“You have some guts Yoongi, you still didn’t answer me!” You almost growl, looking at the white haired man whose lips are still holding that sassy smirk. He’s still not looking at you and the fact that he is ignoring you is pissing you off greatly. Who does he think he is?

“You knew about that and didn’t think it would be important to tell her?” Jungkook gets no answer so he goes on “you know what could’ve happened and yet, you didn’t tell her? She could’ve been in so much pain, you could have hurt her, don’t you fucking care at least a little? You rejected your mate without even telling her about it you fucking son of a bitch!” With one big jump, Jungkook was right in front of Yoongi, hitting him right into the stomach.

But then, you realize it. The tattoo appeared on his skin because it became the link between you and him. Your bond reached him through the tattoo.

Yoongi is your fucking soulmate and he obviously rejected you as he never talked to you about and seemed to be actively avoiding you. The thought alone causes you to shiver. You failed as a mate before even being given the chance to prove yourself.

You laugh darkly as your fears finally become reality. Four perfect mates who loved you and accepted you for who you were? This was only a story you find in books, not in reality.

No, in reality you have five mates and one would rather be risking both of your lives (thus risking all of the others as well) than to try to speak to you about it. Your voice is caught in your throat when you realize that you’ve also put your four other mates in danger because of this. If you’d come to lose the bond with them, it could damage their bonds with each other and most probably could hurt them physically and mentally as well. The tears are hard to swallow, but you have to for now. You want to vomit when you remember what you’ve been told about mates rejecting their other halves. It’s unfair how your bond is manifesting only now when it never did even though it reached for Yoongi’s. Because it hurts so much you wish you had felt the pain before, just for it not to hurt as much as it does right now.

You’re not really sure where the pain comes from but you’re lightheaded when you look at both men again. You see Yoongi on the floor and Jungkook’s rage is flagrant on his features. You never saw him that angry. You’re almost concerned for a few seconds but you laugh bitterly in your head.

Are you that pathetic that one of your mates had to punch someone for you?

Even though Jungkook’s move is well deserved - and makes you feel somewhat better, because he seems to feel the anger you’re feeling as well - this isn’t his fight. You’re not one to enjoy fights.

That’s not what you wanted.

Why have you been tied to all of them? It feels unfair. You’re only destroying what they have and not adding anything positive. Just looking at what is happening now, you only brought chaos.

Yoongi might not want you as a soulmate, that’s his own choice. It hurts, sure, but this has nothing to do with Taehyung or Jungkook because the tattoo happened before you were a thing. And now you’ve involved both of them, hurting both in the process and almost putting them in danger because of your bonds. You can’t let that continue, you have to find a way to stop everything.

Once you get a hold on Jungkook and are face to face with Yoongi’s cocky smirk, you can’t help the urge to just smack him across the cheek, tears spilling from your eyes before you leave into the locker room, knowing that Taehyung was just about to finish his break.

This is what Yoongi wanted, so this is what he gets.

You have to leave, you have to find another place to be because you can’t breathe correctly. You feel Jungkook reaching through the bond but you’re trying your everything to refuse him access. How do you cut a bond without hurting someone? Is that even possible?

You laugh over your thoughts as you notice that you are trying to reach for comfort. What are you doing? Are you trying to leave or are you trying to seek for one of your soulmates? What are you trying to do? Feel validated by one of the four men you adore? What if it only made them realize what you are? You’re just a nuisance after all. You keep on ruining what they all have. Do you really deserve to be selfish once again and seek for one of them to comfort you?

At least you know better than running to Jimin right now, because he would’ve told Namjoon, Namjoon would’ve called Taehyung and Taehyung would… You don’t even know what Taehyung would do, you don't even know what you are doing, you just don’t want to hurt or worry any of them, yet your mind is turning cloudy as you open the door and fall directly into Taehyung’s arms, bond reaching for his instantly.

You feel pathetic. Running into your soulmates arms as soon as something is going wrong. You’re just going to worry Taehyung, which is going to worry Jimin, who is going to worry Namjoon and- And you can’t think anymore.

Your mind is racing but you can’t focus anymore. The only good thing about finding Taehyung is that it’s better if he hears about what happened from you, rather than to understand everything by someone else. Besides, it feels a little bit soothing to have him close to you. You feel like you belong somewhere despite… Despite what Yoongi decided for you and for your bond.

“Angel, what’s wrong? I can feel a lot through the bond, but it’s… Quite negative, what is happening?” Taehyung whispers as he strokes your hair carefully, embracing you in a warm hug that soothes your hazy mind a bit, but everything still feels suffocating. You just hope that your feelings aren’t fully communicated through the bond because you’re probably setting everyone in panic if so. You can’t contain your words but your labored breathing makes it difficult to actually explain what is happening right now to your confused soulmate.

“Yoongi… he has my koi carp tattoo… He didn’t even tell me, god, Tae. Why me? He hates me, he so obviously h-hates me and now he’s mated to me as well? H-He doesn’t even want me and bad things happen to people that don’t accept the bond and it means that you g-guys are in d-danger because of m-me. God I r-ruin everything, I’m a-awful…”

“Wha- shh, angel, slow down. You’re okay, you’re safe with me, alright? Don’t say those things about yourself, you're perfect sweetheart. You’re not ruining anything” Taehyung has to breathe a few times not to curse loudly and yell some pieces of his mind to his Hyung.

He respects Yoongi a lot, he has always been his mentor. But there are things that he does not tolerate and making his soulmate cry and panic that much is one of them.

God, he has felt the urgency in his bond; you were trying to desperately find an issue. Had he not had his hands full of ink when the bond started to weigh his whole soul down, he would have flown to the lobby. He feels regretful for not throwing everything away in order to come to you.

You and Jungkook are both way more precious to him than some disposable things. He knew something was wrong and he had tried to brush it off, thinking that you both were together and thus, nothing could happen to you. He should have followed his bond at the exact moment he felt something.

Fucking shit, Yoongi is your soulmate? And he said nothing? What if something had happened to you because of his rejection of the bond?

Taehyung is gritting his teeth; he has to calm down otherwise he’ll never soothe you down either. Yoongi is an asshole. Okay, he didn’t think that he would ever do something that low but he has to focus on you and soothing the ache in the bond.

He tries to mentally erase the moment you started saying you were an awful soulmate because it is not helping him. He just wants to leave the room and find Yoongi.

But Taehyung is an adult, he knows that acting rash won’t help.

He’ll get angry at Yoongi later.

“Jungkook is probably talking to him right now, even though I’m… Definitely not the biggest fan of his actions, Yoongi... I don’t really know if he does, but I think that Yoongi might deserve it right now. However, that’s Yoongi’s problem right now. You don’t have to endure it, nor to wait for him. It’s not because he is your soulmate that you have to think of him first, alright? Do you want me to take you home? Away from Yoongi? I don’t have any more clients, I should be doing some sketches but I can do those at yours if you want to. Think of yourself first for once, will you? If you feel like you have things to tell him, then we can stay, but I don’t want you to feel any kind of pressure for an idiot that didn’t even think of you in his decisions.”

Tae kisses your forehead, but you shake your head no.

“I have to talk to him about it. I want to know why he hates me so fucking much. Also, I want to return the right of having a soulmate, some people are overwhelmed with just one, now I have 4 and a half!” Taehyung smiles, proud of you. “That’s my baby.” His thumb runs on your cheeks, erasing the tears that escaped.

“Whatever Yoongi chooses is not your responsibility, alright? It doesn’t change that we have a bond, the five of us and you are with us whatever happens, okay? You are an amazing soulmate, Angel. Don’t doubt it. The one who fucked up is Yoongi. Not you. Yeah?”

You nod quietly against his palm and he kisses the crown of your head. You don’t feel quite ready to speak with Yoongi but you guess that you deserve to know the truth and the full story. He does owe you that, at least.

It does surprise you that Jungkook and Yoongi weren’t fighting anymore once you came back into the lobby. Instead, they are seated on the couch and talking quietly, even though it’s more like a whisper-yelling from Jungkook’s side. You don’t really know how to feel, you’re confused and hurt obviously, but you’re going to have to be the bigger person and actually wait for him to explain if he wants to. Taehyung is reaching to you through the bond and you feel slightly more confident. You’ve been overwhelmed with so many feelings that you had begun to think about things that were so far from being the truth. Your mind just kept on escalating until you’d felt like nothing. You’ll have to thank Taehyung for grounding you.

“Yoongi..?” You shyly ask as you make your way towards them - somehow afraid of the platinum blonde man. Biting your lip, you try to calm your anxiety down for at least the talk, but how could you without knowing how this day would end?

You could either end up being heartbroken or happier than ever with a new mate, and with the way he always treated you, you don’t really feel like you have another happy ending incoming. It feels more like the start of the end.

And besides, you thought about him only but Taehyung told you to think of yourself first: would you even accept him if he actually comes to tell you that he wants to pursue something with you?

Would you let in someone who is not afraid to put everyone’s safety in danger just for selfish reasons? You’re trying to push the thoughts far from you for now.

Live the moment and see what can happen: whatever happens, you’ll be able to say that you tried your best until the end.

“Y/N,” Yoongi sighs and looks over to Taehyung, worry written over both their faces. You were just about to speak when Jungkook chimes in.

“C’mon Tae, let them talk. I’ll explain everything to you.”

The youngest stands up and presses a soft kiss onto your cheek before taking his boyfriends hand and walks back into the locker room. He sends you one last wink, silently cheering for you and you smile quietly. What do you have to fear when whatever happens, you’ll always have your soulmates cheering for you?

Yoongi swipes his hair out of his face, exposing his stern eyebrows before looking at you. God, he feels like an asshole. He knows that, technically, he has been one, but he never thought it would come to the point that he would knowingly hurt his soulmate. He always hides behind the fact that he’s in love with Hoseok, but that didn’t give him the right to hurt you. He should have at least told you…

“Sit down, please.” His voice is rough, almost exhausted but also sounds… painful? Distressed?

Slowly, you take place next to him, trying not to touch his leg, trying not to touch him at all. You’re still confused if you want to have anything to do with him to be honest with yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You choke out, barely whispering as you lower your gaze, avoiding his cat-like eyes that are probably full on judging you right now.

Yoongi tilts his head to the side, watching you confused.

“Why? You couldn’t have known that this would happen, I couldn’t know - otherwise I wouldn’t be doing that job. I mean, I’m the one that should be apologizing in the first place. I should have handled everything differently, and the only thing that I can do now is to explain, but… Yeah, the thing is, I don’t believe in soulmates.” He quiets down for a short amount of time, creating a break between his words to gauge your reaction, but you don’t seem to be that surprised.

For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him. He knows he has done enough damages but he wishes for a reaction rather than your expressionless face. “I don’t think that fate should be the one to select your forever and always, do you get what I mean? Of course, I’m pissed about the fact that I got mated to you, but it’s not you that makes me hate being mated. You have done nothing wrong and I’ve been taking my frustrations out on you, and I know it’s wrong but... It’s just… I’m in love with some fucking stupid red haired baker that loves to add too many star-sprinkles on top of cupcakes and…” It clicks too easily in your mind as those words leave his mouth. It doesn’t excuse him, but you finally understand why everything has been this way.

“You’re… You’re in love with Hobi...” You didn’t expect it yourself, but a big grin takes place on your face as you clap your hands excitedly. Just the fact that you finally understand what is going on is making you- not really happy but - something along the lines. Once more, Yoongi is confused, it’s not the reaction he thought he would get. Not at all.

“Yes, but… Shouldn’t you be mad or jealous or something? I mean, not that I expect you to be, I’ve been nothing but an ass to you, but, that’s how I felt once you got mated to Taehyung and Jungkook, even though it’s my own fault… If I hadn’t changed your appointment…”

He catches how your glance suddenly changes at this information. You don’t seem to be mad, nor surprised, but you’re acknowledging what he says, as if you had already considered this idea. “Anyways, I mean… Aren’t you mad that I don’t want to be your mate?”

You shrug your shoulders, not sure what to answer. It’s quite a dumb question. Of course you are. Of course you are hurt. It feels like you’re not good enough for him. But… You try to understand his side, and you're not sure how you would feel if you had been in love with someone for like, forever, and you suddenly have to accept and love someone else. It seems like something that you would have had a hard time carrying yourself, so who are you to judge him, or to be mad at him?

“It’s rude, I guess. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m the most wanted human on earth for sure. It kind of feels like I suck so much that my own soulmate doesn’t feel like they can care or love me. So, the question is kind of easy to answer, I’d rather say that it stings, but who am I to be mad at you? I see your point of view and I’ve already got four mates that are caring and loving - three more mates than I thought I’d have. I never thought that I would have more than one soulmate. I’m always surrounded with love when I’m with them, so I'd say that knowing that there’s another man running around with my tattoo - a tattoo that means so much to me - is just overwhelming, knowing that you don’t want me as a soulmate hurts, but I’ll get over it if that’s what you choose, we’ll just have to be careful with our health because I’m not putting my mates’ safety in danger for you own comfort. Maybe we are soulmates to understand things and not to live them together. It does happen sometimes. I do agree with you, fate shouldn’t be the one to decide - but in our case, fate is just suggesting who to choose, don’t you think so? You decided against choosing me and we are still alive. Besides, I don’t…,” You seem to hesitate for a second, “I don’t feel a bond between us and you probably don’t feel that either.”

You feel a bit bitter to lie like that. You didn’t feel it until today. Until you realized who he was to you. But you guess that you shouldn't try to make him change his decision.

“But I do.” Yoongi whispers, finally looking up from the hole in his jeans.

He tries to read you, but you’re not easily opening up anymore. He feels like it’s his fault, but he still sees that glimmer of hope inside of your eyes, and trustfully, it kills him, because he just wants to give in right now. Yoongi wants to be held, to be loved, anything.

He just wants to feel. If he doesn’t accept you, would he ever get another chance again? Would there be another human soul accepting his own broken one?

“I fucking do feel bonded to you, Y/N. That’s the problem. I don’t want to smile whenever I feel you around. I don’t want to feel happy when I see your smile. And I don’t want to suffer just because I see you kissing Taehyung or Jungkook - even if you smile at them instead of me, it hurts. I want to be loved, I want to love. But the only person that exists for me is Hoseok. I’ve loved him since I was 16, but fucking fate destroyed - I mean, not destroyed, wrong choice of words but - my chance of being mated to him disappeared for me that day. The man I’m in love with is mated to someone else, and now even I’m mated to someone else. How do you think it feels like to be rejected by the only person you’ve been interested in? And then there’s your soulmate, you’re supposed to love her, to be everything she’s waiting for, to care and be there for her and a month later she’s suddenly mated to four other men. What does the fabulous fate want me to do? Get into a polyamorous relationship with four men and one woman? Being not the third but the sixth wheel? I don’t think so.”

You nod, slowly understanding his issues because that’s how you felt just a few weeks ago. From your dreams of a soulmate that would be your one and unique love, to your new reality composed of four men, who are absolutely amazing, do not kid yourself but, it’s so different from anything you thought would happen. It took you some time to accept what was happening, to accept four men who you’re supposed to be a lost part of their soul.

You don’t really like the idea of being broken without your soulmates, but it feels just right when you’re with them. In a way, you understand why people came to say that. Because it’s so powerful that it’s hard to define it differently.

Just like how Yoongi said that fate destroyed his chances with Hobi.

You understand. Because it’s overwhelming, it’s new. It feels like no one can help you out. However, you have your soulmates. It’s been the five of you to get through it and to start your relationship. Yoongi on his side, he has no one to talk to.

So, honestly? You understand him, as weird as it sounds. Even you, at some point, think that it isn’t right, that you shouldn’t be so understanding: you should be mad. You even thought about rejecting him if he wanted to pursue anything with you after all of that but now all your anger seems to have faded away.

Yoongi was expecting it from you too. But no. You aren’t. You’re just glad that he finally decided to talk and to stop running away from you. You don’t want to prevent him from doing anything, you just want to be here for him, at least. He is not alone, and he will always be able to count on you. Maybe you’re meant to be soulmates in a… friendzone kind of way.

“I know, Yoongi. I get it, don’t worry. I mean, I probably should be mad, but I understand. I don’t want to force you into anything, you are your own person with your own belief and choices. I’m not your soulmate to berate you, or to be annoying or whatever. You’re just, not alone in this, you know? I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything with me or to get involved with me- but don’t you think you deserve love? Because... I think you do. Maybe love is what you need to get rid over the thought of Hobi being out of your reach? You need love to start a life where you only care about what the future holds, someone that helps to pull you out of that dark place. Crying and being upset over his bond with Jin won’t make your life easier. It would actually be the other way around. Maybe you need to let go, Yoongi. And once again, I’m not asking you to accept us. I mean, we don’t even know if you’re meant to be with the four other men in my life, and I know that Jungkook and Taehyung might not be your types, I thought so too when I realized that Jimin and Namjoon were a part of this too, but I gave them a chance, and I think that one chance might change everything. You already know all of them and I think that it is safe to believe that your two coworkers are your closest friends by now. You trust them, you take care of them even though you might not want to accept that. The bond doesn’t feel like we are forced to love each other, okay? It just happened and I don’t regret it. But it’s your decision, Yoongi. And I won’t take it away from you, just know that if you ever decide to accept me, accept us, then-”

And then, he kisses you.

Yoongi kisses differently from what you would have expected. He wasn’t soft, shy or holding back anything. His kisses are hungry, frustrated and maybe a little bit aggressive.

This time, the bond didn’t feel like fireworks or butterflies in your stomach, it was more like an explosion full of bad energy that rushed over into your body.

Yoongi grabs your face, pulling you even closer and as you put your hands on his cheeks, you feel them. Tears are spilling out of his eyes, the feeling of being complete finally settling into your bodies. It is amazing how a simple action holds so many consequences and feelings. It feels like you did something amazing, while you just kissed.

Once Yoongi breaks the kiss, he pulls you onto his lap, hugging you tightly whilst his body still slightly shakes from being overwhelmed.

“It’s alright, Yoongi. We’re here, we’re together. You have all of us on your side,” you coo, trying to calm him down as you run your finger through his messy hair.

He’s not alone, he has never been but if he never realized it and you’re going to change that. He’s going to be loved and cherished as much as he lets you.

You’ll give him anything, you know it sounds desperate, but you feel so much for him. Goodness, he changed everything upside down in one kiss and one talk.

You kind of hate it, but at the same time, it feels right. Maybe Yoongi is in it to prove to you that fate doesn’t do it all. You have to fight for your mates too. You can’t be given everything, love and trust is something that you gain.

You’re starting to feel exhausted because of the ride you just did. You went from anger to pain, to despair, to anger again, to shyness, to compassion and finally you’re here, hugging your missing soulmate.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Yoongi whispers, eyes still spilling tears onto your shirt. “I treated you like shit, yet here you are, ready to soothe my pain.”

“Don’t, Yoongi. That was the past. Now we’re here. The healing begins.” You smile soothingly as his arms wrap tightly around you. He keeps on letting apologies fall from his lips and you don’t think that he listens to you when you tell him to stop. He doesn’t need to apologize, you understand him. However, if he feels like he has to, you’ll let him. You’ll give him all the reassurances he needs to walk further with you.

Seconds later, Jungkook and Taehyung run back into the lobby, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. “What happened, Y/N? I just got a love boner and that wasn’t because Tae and I were basically-”

“Oh, fuck it, Jungkook,” Tae groans. Then, his eyes fall on you and Yoongi, still embraced in a tight hug.

“Fuck, you did it, love.” His smile was generous, heartwarming and you just know he isn’t mad about the fact that you decided to love one more person.

Quite the contrary, Taehyung is a perceptive man. He doesn’t really want to tell anyone, but he had known it. He knew it would end up like that, and he can’t wait for the time when you and all your soulmates will be able to be together and walk toward a better future. On the other side, Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows, disbelief visible in his eyes.

“Yoongi, the fuck? You just said that you would never want her, minutes later you’re having her on your lap? Wow.” You feel the jealousy that washes over Jungkook, the boy doesn’t like sharing you, you are his baby, his best friend and his mate. He was fine that you were being mated to his soulmates, but Yoongi doesn’t belong to him.

He doesn’t know if he would want him to be his as well, or if he’s just jealous that you give love to someone else, especially someone that just made you cry. Taehyung told him how he found you and Jungkook was not happy. Either way, he doesn’t like it too much.

“Jungkook,” you sigh as you press a chaste kiss on top of Yoongi’s hair before sitting down next to him, patting the free spot. “Can you guys sit down? We should probably talk.”

After all of you talked and came down from the emotional roller coaster, the atmosphere was much calmer.

“I’m not kissing any of you, just to make that clear.” Yoongi looks at the two men, scrunching his nose in disgust.

“I wouldn’t want to kiss you anyway.” Jungkook mumbles, earning a kick against his shin from you. “Stop it, Jungkook. You’re gay as fuck and Yoongi is good looking, of course you want to kiss him. I would,” Taehyung shrugs as he grins at the eldest.

“I’m not gay, I’m bi. There’s a difference, because I like boobies too.” Jungkook pouts, looking at you to help him, but you just laugh, shaking your head.

“You don’t have to kiss everyone, Jungkook, nor do you have to, Yoongi. It’s fine. Even though I’ve got to tell you that Taehyung is an amazing kisser. But maybe, one day it’ll happen. I didn’t kiss Jimin and Namjoon on the same day I kissed Taehyung and Jungkook either. But we have each other, and that’s what prevails.”

Yoongi hasn’t felt that complete in a long time, yet here he is: happy. And strangely enough, he can’t wait to see what the future will bring.

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novelconcepts · 5 years ago

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fic: (how lovely i feel) not to have to pretend

Jamie has never met anyone quite like Dani Clayton--a matter that goes without saying on nearly every level. She’s never met someone quite so selfless, quite so brave, quite so prone to acting on behalf of others without even seeming to realize she’s doing it. More than that, she’s never known anyone else to be quite so self-possessed as Dani Clayton. No one but Dani has quite the same capacity for keeping a firm grasp on how they look to the outside world.

Jamie finds it remarkable even before they become a they at all--watching Dani stride around the manor grounds with her head held high, her shoulders thrown back, her fists clutched tight at her sides as though she is at all times in full control of her physicality. It is most remarkable because it simply isn’t true; almost before she knows the woman’s name, Jamie becomes familiar with the demons she’s holding at bay, the short breath and sharp sob she tries so hard to keep shelved. Dani to the naked eye is a woman clean and pressed and presented. Dani beneath the surface is roiling.

And still, even once Jamie knows there is something else lurking behind blue eyes and pretty smile, it can be hard to forget. Dani is so good at fabricating a version of herself for the world, a version fit for consumption, that she almost doesn’t seem to realize she’s doing it. Her clothes, though meager in number, are always clean and well-matched; her hair, be it tied up or tied back or teased high, is perfect. Dani is every inch the person Wingrave hired her to be: a young woman in control of her own body, a young teacher poised to guide her charges into the light of self-restraint.

And, if she should shudder at shadows--

If she should flinch from mirrors--

If she should, from time to time, catch herself staring at Jamie as though uncertain how they both got here--

Things happen. Things outside of Dani’s agency happen, and they seem to keep happening--death, and darkness, and decisions made by everyone around her--and still, Dani doesn’t bow. Dani’s head is up, Dani’s clothes are clean, Dani’s eyes are clear.

Even after the lake. Even after things go the most wrong anything ever has. Dani’s head is up. Dani’s clothes are clean. Dani’s eyes are...

Jamie sort of expects it all to change, after that. Expects Dani to change, after that. To lower her guard, or to build a wall to the sky, or something to show on a tangible level what she is carrying on her back. But Dani is still, despite it all--though her gaze is distant and her smile is brittle and she forgets from time to time what she’s doing or where she is--Dani. No one is the wiser. No one has the first idea she might not be in total control.

No one except for Jamie. Dani lets Jamie see it all. Dani gives her the darkness, the shuddering terror, the long nights kept awake and the long days made giddy from lack of sleep. Dani gives her laughter, and blank stares, and everything in between. It is, Jamie recognizes, the greatest gift one person could give another: to offer up on the altar of trust the self, the whole self, for good and for ill. Jamie gets to see it all, though no one else has a clue.

Jamie doesn’t take it for granted.

***

This art of Dani, this secret language of reading between the lines, comes in handy on bad days, it’s true. There are times Jamie thinks it is fortunate she is so equipped with comprehension, so well-honed to Dani’s every mood. Early on, especially, it comes in handy more often than she could possibly have predicted.

Still. It isn’t always a matter of doom, with Dani. More often than not, this self-possessed air has nothing whatsoever to do with her beast in the jungle, her rising panic, her terror of looking too far ahead.

More often than not, her self-control reveals itself in a completely different sense.

It begins at the house, on a lovely day that starts with Jamie waking alone, Dani on her skin and all around her in every sense except now. It begins with Jamie pulling her clothes on in a rush, feeling slow and muddled and a little bit drunk with the memory of Dani’s hands trailing like phantoms along her body.

“You’re going?” Dani, in the doorway, a pink jumper and cascading hair and nervous little smile. Jamie, one boot in hand, her jeans still unzipped, feels herself grin too broadly to restrain.

“Thought you’d already gotten to business.”

Dani shakes her head. “I found Flora outside again. She says she’s all right, so I left her with Owen and Hannah in the kitchen. Wanted to make sure--”

She trails off, looking embarrassed. Jamie tips her head and waits.

“Wanted to make sure you didn’t wake up alone,” Dani says at last in a rush, her eyes wide and blue and so happy, Jamie can’t imagine her any other way. “I was afraid if I took too long, you’d--well, you’d leave, and I wouldn’t get a chance to--”

“Wouldn’t go far,” Jamie promises. It’s not a thing she’s ever been able to offer a woman before, not wearing yesterday’s clothes and feeling the gentle ache of last night’s pleasures winding through every muscle. She’s never in her life been able to look a woman in the eye the next morning and say as much, but she says it now. “I...I’d like to stay.”

It’s sunlight, the way Dani smiles, stepping all the way into the room. Her hand lingers on the doorknob, her fingers tapping an idle melody as she looks Jamie over as if searching for some kind of permission. When Jamie lets her boot drop to the floor, it seems to be all Dani is looking for.

They should go downstairs, some distant part of Jamie’s responsible nature grumbles--but the rest of her can’t be bothered. Not with the eager stride of Dani crossing the room, the click of the door coming to rest in its latch as thrilling as the day’s first kiss.

“They’re gonna know,” Jamie says, plucking at the front of her shirt. “That I--that we--”

“Yes,” Dani agrees. She’s standing within reach, rocking on her heels. Jamie, seated on the mattress, feels as though they are on opposite sides of glass, as though Dani in her clean clothes and nervous smile is today while Jamie in her rumpled t-shirt and mussed hair is last night. Dani could still walk away from last night, walk off into today, if she so chooses, and Jamie would be here. Stranded in the memory of Dani’s touch, ghost-light on her skin.

“Do...you wanna...” She extends one hand slowly, as though approaching a skittish animal, and Dani grabs for it like a lifeline. The space between shatters, Dani coming to her with all the graceless glee of taking a breath after too much time underwater.

She expects slow, gradual, even fearful--expects the shine of last night’s fire to have faded to something that might yet burn them both--but Dani’s knees are dimpling the mattress, Dani’s weight firm and steady in Jamie’s lap. Dani’s hands are on her face, as though she might have forgotten overnight what Jamie feels like and can’t stand a minute more without learning each arc and line all over again. Her thumbs sweep across cheekbone, along bridge of nose and arch of brow, her lips barely a breath away.

It’s tempting to close the gap, but Jamie forces herself to wait. Forces herself to mirror Dani’s hands, cradling, testing, exploring with the pads of her fingers in gentle motions. There’s something about this--about posing at the door of something grand, about standing here with toes just over the edge of the entryway, waiting to be invited in--that forms its own kind of gravity. Last night had been waiting for Dani to come to her, in every sense of the word. This moment, this morning, is a suspension.

Control, she thinks for the very first time. Control over time in this one perfect, near-impossible way. Control over space, as they hold just apart from one another, as Dani’s knees dig into the bedspread and Jamie’s thighs flex beneath her. Control in the most self-imposed sense of the word, lips an inch apart.

Dani kisses the corner of her mouth once, lightly. It is, Jamie thinks, a challenge--and one Jamie accepts without pause. The curve of Dani’s cheek is soft against her lips, a temptation all its own. Dani sighs, one hand sliding up the back of Jamie’s neck to rest at the base of her skull.

Another kiss, then, Jamie thinks with shivering anticipation. Just a small brush against the tip of Dani’s nose. Dani, in kind, presses one to her forehead, cradling the back of Jamie’s head, her lips lingering for a full beat. Jamie closes her eyes.

There is seduction in slow and easy, she thinks, and all the more so because it is not intentional. Dani is not trying to be anything at all except a woman who wants Jamie in this moment--a woman who holds to the back of her head, fingers trailing through messy curls, mouth drawing a slow path across forehead and temple, down one cheek and up the other. Each kiss is deliberate, gentle, Dani’s lips parting and sliding as though she could quite happily spend the entire morning doing nothing else.

“Is this...are you...” Dani seems unwilling to stop long enough to let her own thoughts unravel. Her nails scratch softly down Jamie’s neck, one hand coming to lay at the base of Jamie’s throat. “Do you want...”

Jamie is nodding, not much caring where that sentence might end. Want to stay here forever? Want to let Dani burn an entire day exploring her at this leisurely pace, her lips tracing the shell of Jamie’s ear, her breath dragging shivers down Jamie’s spine? Want to keep her hands right here on Dani’s waist, pushing pink cloth aside to rest on the soft skin beneath?

“We should be quick,” Dani breathes, though her kisses do not increase in velocity or pressure. Her hands are trailing down the backs of Jamie’s shoulders, palms sliding over shirt, fingers dragging back up again. Jamie is dimly aware of her own hands flexing, pushing Dani back, pulling Dani forward. Dani, smiling, does not fight her.

“This feels,” Jamie says, her voice still raw from lack of use, “like the opposite of quick.”

It feels, instead, like a promise. As Dani pushes beneath her jaw, easing her head back, laying an open kiss to the top of her throat, she wonders if this isn’t some sacred space they’ve built. A perfect, singular spot where nothing can touch them, no one can intercede, time itself is forced to stand still.

Dani, still kissing her way down even as she’s easing Jamie’s shirt up, hums against her skin. “Want me to speed up?”

“No,” Jamie says before she can stop herself, before she can even begin to interrogate the notion that Dani with this kind of control over herself--this kind of control over both of them--might be the thing she’s been needing for a long time. She feels Dani smile against her, feels the tip of Dani’s tongue flick lightly against her rushing pulse.

“Want me to...” She rises up, brushing her nose against Jamie’s, letting her lips linger in the softest kiss Jamie’s ever been gifted. Jamie is nodding, wild with the memory of how Dani had kissed her last night compared with how carefully Dani is kissing her now. On purpose, she realizes. On purpose, Dani is doing this. Testing every bound available to her. Testing Jamie’s resolve, and her desire, and her control.

Abruptly, Jamie closes a hand around the back of Dani’s head, urging her close, and all the seduction in the world can’t compare with how Dani breathes her in. With how Dani presses her down into the mattress, sitting tall astride her with hands buried in Jamie’s hair. Jamie lets them both fall backward, lets Dani sink into her with a soft moan, and thinks it is good to know Dani has this in her--the desire for slow and easy and calculated--just as it is good to know how quickly that dam can break open. How Dani can swing in a moment from teasing to throwing her whole self into a kiss like this, her hands sweeping down Jamie’s body, searching for the place where her zipper gapes open.

Dani, kissing like Jamie’s the only sustenance a world can offer, slides a hand down her jeans and presses her own hips behind the action. The shift from slow to sudden is immaculate, dizzying, and Jamie feels herself building almost before she can stop herself. She has never in her life been this awake, this present in her own body, as Dani rolls her fingers in tight circles, her quick-study smile hot against Jamie’s lips.

Control, gathered and broken in moments, and Jamie is making desperately muted sounds, turning her face against Dani’s shoulder in an effort to quiet herself, even as Dani is fighting tight denim, letting her fingers quicken their pace, letting her own body chase Jamie’s--

A knock sounds once, a quick rap of knuckles followed by a rather amused, “The children are beginning to worry, and I’m running out of excuses for you both.”

Jamie flinches from the sound, even as her body tries recklessly to follow the melody of Dani’s fingers. Dani freezes, her mouth gone rigid against Jamie’s skin.

“Miss Clayton,” Hannah says in that same too-entertained voice. “Flora in particular is being very persistent.”

“Out in just a sec,” Dani calls back, her voice stunningly level. Jamie raises her eyebrows, opening her mouth to add something, and Dani gives her a smile, gives her a series of hard strokes with confident fingers. Jamie chokes, jerks under her, the unexpected combination of that gesture with Dani’s grin pushing her over the edge.

“I suppose Jamie will be needing a plate,” Hannah goes on, oblivious. Jamie’s hand is over her own mouth, clapped into place just in time for her lips to part around a silent groan. Dani, hand sliding free as though it had never been busy at all, laughs.

“No getting anything past you.”

“Well, it’s hard to deny the reality of the truck out front,” Hannah says wryly. Dani is out of bed, wiping her hand discreetly on the bedspread, straightening her clothes and brushing back her hair in a flurry of distinct motions.

Jamie, shirtless and panting into her own hand as she comes back to earth, gapes at her. Dani reaches down, catches her by the wrist.

“Come on,” she says, cheerful as anything. “Breakfast.”

***

It’s an art form, Dani’s ability to keep together regardless of the situation. A truly mesmerizing art form which Jamie, try as she might, cannot for her life replicate.

“How,” she asks one day, Bly Manor two years behind them. “How are you doing that?”

“Doing what?” Dani asks innocently.

Innocently--as though she hadn’t just been pressed against the table, her skirt a mess, her blouse gaping open. As though Jamie hadn’t been holding her there, hands firm on Dani’s thighs, pressing her open. As though it hadn’t been a brief eternity of Dani rocking into her fingers, both arms wrapped tight around Jamie’s shoulders, her voice a low echo against Jamie’s ear as she’d begged Jamie to move faster, to give her more, to bring her to the edge before lunch break could end.

And now, not a minute after Jamie had curled deep and felt her shudder, not a minute after she’d bitten down on Jamie’s shoulder to keep quiet, Dani is buttoned, pressed into place, utterly presentable in every way.

“That,” Jamie says, gesticulating wildly to cover the whole of Dani in a single motion. “How does your hair do that?”

“It’s just hair,” Dani says mildly, smoothing it carefully down with her palms. It stays in place as though never been mussed at all, as if Jamie hadn’t just grabbed a handful and used it to yank Dani into a kiss.

Jamie’s hair, on the other hand, feels like it’s sticking up in twelve places. Her clothes, which hadn’t even been unbuttoned, unzipped, removed in the least, feel in dire need of an ironing. Her mouth feels swollen, her skin flushed, and Dani is still sticky on her fingers.

“You look,” she says dumbly, “like you didn’t just--I mean, you did come, yeah? I didn’t hallucinate that?”

“Hell of a nice hallucination, if so,” Dani says with a laugh, and kisses her one more time--a long, glorious kiss, one of those stop-time kisses Dani seems to come to so naturally. When she steps back, Jamie fumbles for the table, blinking away stars. “Shame there wasn’t enough time to return the favor.”

“I look like you ravaged me six ways to Sunday,” Jamie points out in a faint voice. Dani looks pleased.

“Six ways, huh? Sounds like fun. We should discuss that later.”

Jamie opens her mouth, but Dani is already ducking out of the back room, striding to flip the sign back to open and greet the customers who have gathered on the sidewalk to wait.

“You look ill, dear,” one of the old women tells Jamie, who has staggered to the counter with considerable effort. “Flushed. Not running a fever, I hope.”

“Warm day,” Jamie says, fully aware that it is late November. Dani tips her a grin, a thumbs up, her entire demeanor perfectly arranged. Jamie shakes her head. “Warm. In the back, I mean. Humid. For. Plants.”

The woman gives her a puzzled frown. “Best take care of this one,” she calls to Dani. “She needs someone to look after her, I can tell.”

“Hey--”

“I always do,” Dani assures her, never breaking her smile.

***

Honestly, it’s almost eerie. Dani’s capacity for control seems to have no bounds, no push too far to reel back from. Jamie has actually started to try, curious if there’s a way to turn Dani from neat-and-orderly to flustered in public settings. It becomes something of a personal challenge.

She finds herself pressing up against Dani in the shop after-hours, letting her hands roam around Dani’s ribs, up her breasts, down the front of her blouse. Dani gamely lets her head fall back onto Jamie’s shoulder as deft fingers work open her buttons, allowing herself to rock back as Jamie’s hands knead at the front of her bra, as Jamie’s fingers pinch and stroke.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, if you think we’re ever going to finish inventory.”

“Danger can be good,” Jamie points out, pushing aside Dani’s collar and sucking sharply. The skin is glistening, reddening, her tongue stroking away the tease of her bite, and Dani tips her head to allow better access.

“It’s like you don’t even want to go home.”

“You keep counting,” Jamie suggests. “I’ll keep doing this. Everybody wins.”

“And if someone--” Dani groans as Jamie slides her fingers beneath the cup of her bra. “If someone calls?”

“Well,” Jamie says politely, pressing herself harder against Dani, pinning her to the table. “They’ll just have to wait, won’t they?”

It’s a fine plan, she thinks with self-congratulatory pleasure. A fine plan, letting her free hand wander down to pull at Dani’s belt, feeling Dani slowly unwind the day’s tension into her hands as she leans back, breathes deeply, gasps.

A fine plan, and if the phone should--

It rings, right on cue, and Jamie waits for Dani to push her away. Is certain that this--Dani rolling her hips into Jamie’s waiting fingers, Dani abandoning inventory altogether for Jamie’s considerably more interesting plan--will take precedence over any self-imposed need to look presentable Dani might have.

“Let it go,” she suggests, even as Dani’s hand is drifting. “Let it go and let me--”

“Keep going,” Dani says in a low voice, and then the phone is to her ear, and she is saying, “Good evening, Leafling, Dani Clayton speaking” as though nothing is happening. As though she isn’t leaning her head on Jamie’s shoulder, Jamie kissing her neck as quietly as possible. As though Jamie’s hand is not working magic between her legs, Jamie grinding herself against her back in that way she knows makes Dani’s breath quicken.

Dani’s voice is never anything less than polite as she walks some faceless stranger through the finer elements of a birthday arrangement, though her hips are matching Jamie’s increasing rhythm, her skin flushed pink beneath Jamie’s lips. She turns her head, watching Jamie with dark eyes, tongue pulling her own lip between her teeth as she says, “Yes, yes, that sounds--that sounds beautiful. Would you--”

Jamie grins, pulling her hand free. Dani makes a thin noise of disapproval, easily passed off as a cough over the phone--and then, a startled sound as Jamie grasps her hips and presses her over the table, leaning across her back.

“You could still hang up,” she points out in a bare whisper against Dani’s unoccupied ear, even as she’s pulling Dani’s jeans down. Easing Dani’s legs apart. Pushing her harder down against the table, kissing the back of her neck, slipping a hand between her spread legs from behind.

“Yes,” Dani says, perfectly calmly into the phone, “yes, we do--we do two-for-one deals through the weekend, would you like--”

Jamie laughs. She’s fighting a losing battle, it’s clear; though Dani’s skin hums beneath her hands, Dani slick across her fingers as she tugs down underwear and returns to her efforts, Dani never shows a sign of it in her voice. If she is rocking harder against Jamie’s hand, if she’s gripping the table with white-knuckled desperation right until the end of the call, it does nothing to diminish the easy charm of her additional, “All right! Sounds wonderful, we’ll get that squared away for you by Monday. Have a lovely evening. Yeah. Yes. Bye now.”

She slams the receiver down, bows her head, cries out as Jamie gives a particularly hard thrust in celebration. Jamie is laughing into the back of her shoulder, her wrist aching as she slides free and shakes her head.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I am a professional,” Dani gasps. “And you were doing a really, really good job.”

***

Dani doesn’t give up control in public, not for anything. It isn’t even intentional, Jamie has come to realize. The product of her upbringing, probably; the expectation of too many years, too many people telling her to stand up straight, keep her clothes neat and her smile orderly. Dani is presentation and poise, even in her darkest moments.

Except for this.

Except for being here.

Dani at home is truly at home. In pajamas, in wrinkled t-shirts, her hair a mess, her face devoid of makeup, she is perfectly at ease. Perfectly imperfect. At home, with Jamie, she allows herself to fall apart in every way a woman can.

She laughs more at the apartment, and with greater reckless zeal. Rarely does Jamie hear this breathless tint to her laughter outside; rarely does Jamie see her collapse into herself with giggles, cackling so hard, she nearly knocks herself off the couch.

She cries harder at the apartment, and with no interest in doing so prettily. Rarely does Jamie see her face blotchy and miserable outside; rarely does Jamie hear her gasp and choke and whine as sobs wrack her body.

She dances at home. Dani isn’t much of a dancer, it turns out, but there’s something magnificent about watching her move to the radio as she cleans the kitchen, as she smoke a cigarette and puts dishes away to the tune of Top 40 hits.

She sings, too. Never in public, never where she thinks she can be judged, but at home, Dani is always singing. Her voice is pretty and unrestrained, no training at all as she scrambles for notes Jamie would put her own eye out trying to reach. There is something simple and marvelous about days when Jamie comes home late, a pizza in hand, to hear Dani belting in the shower.

She is at her best when she is free, Jamie thinks. When the control is set aside because she no longer needs it, no matter how good she is at keeping a hand on the wheel.

She is at her best at home, with Jamie, here. With candles lit and dinner ordered in, with Jamie in her finest clothes for the express purpose of offering cheap wine in discount glasses.

“It’s just a day, Jamie,” Dani says, but she’s grinning. Just a day for most people, maybe, but this marks three years of time in America. Three years with Dani’s beast silent and Dani’s love loud. A day, sure, but it means the world when you put it that way.

“It’s silly,” Dani says, though she’s wearing a dress that makes Jamie wonder how she even got into it without help, and her lips are painted as though she isn’t fully aware Jamie will be ruining them as soon as dinner is over.

“It’s nice,” Jamie counters. Dani raises her wine to her lips, nodding.

“It is. Thank you.”

“For what?” Italian food ordered in from the best local place is not, exactly, high-class. Jamie with a dishtowel over one arm, playing at fancy as she tops off Dani’s glass, is not exactly high-class, either.

Jamie in general is not exactly high-class--and she has not for even a second thought that mattered. Not to Dani. Not ever.

“Thank you for...all of it.” Dani gestures to encompass Jamie, the apartment, the world. “For not getting sick of it.”

“Never,” Jamie promises, and pretends she doesn't see the tears in Dani’s eyes as she bends her head to kiss her.

It’s true that Dani thinks she could get tired of it all, that Dani thinks she could at any point be ready to walk away. It will get worse with time, but for now, it’s easy to convince her to step back from the weight of that line of thinking. Easy to take her hands, bring them to Jamie’s lips, walk with her backwards away from the fear of not being good enough. Of not being whole enough. Of letting the polish slip so much that Jamie might one day flinch from what’s waiting beneath.

Jamie doesn’t know how to make it clear how little she cares for the polish and the poise, how little she needs the artifice Dani is so good at putting on for everyone else. Dani, who has made a life out of professional, responsible, put-together. Dani, who needs people to see the woman who does not step back from shadows, who is stronger than she knows.

And still, the best moments are these: Dani with her dress pooling at her feet, stepping out with an almost shy giddiness as she moves into Jamie’s arms. Dani, her cheeks flushed, the pink trailing down her neck, splashed across her chest as she leans back onto the bed. Dani, her makeup smudged, her lipstick stained into Jamie’s skin, her hair utterly unkempt as Jamie slides her hands in and pulls her close.

Dani on her back on the rumpled sheets, her breath coming in quick jabs as Jamie moves between bent knees. Dani, soaked through and crying out, her hips twisting as Jamie coaxes her along, each roll and swipe of her tongue a promise that this is what she’s been looking for. Dani in control is exquisite in a certain way--Dani bent over the table at work, Dani keeping composure even as Jamie buries herself deep, makes the world hot and heady and surprising. But Dani like this--Dani as no one else is allowed to see her, Dani shifting beneath her and pushing hard against her mouth with her hands winding in the sheets--is something else entirely.

She wants to feel Dani lose control, wants to feel Dani surrender to this allowance she gives herself only when alone with Jamie. Three years now, and it’s still such a special occasion, Dani letting herself unbind all those ties holding her steady.

“You don’t have to be anyone with me,” Jamie has whispered on more than one occasion. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“Not,” Dani has said every time, a distance in her eyes Jamie wishes she could banish. “Not with you. Never with you.”

For everyone else goes unsaid. For everyone else, I have to. Jamie understands. Jamie can’t imagine what she’s been through, what she still goes through on days when the demons have sharpened their claws and come to call.

She pulls at Dani now, easing her up on her knees, guiding her back down onto Jamie’s lap. Hands at Dani’s hips, she urges her to rock, to slide a hand around Jamie’s neck and press her forehead into slick skin and give herself up to Jamie’s hand between them. It’s satisfying, how Dani sighs and arches, how Dani hisses when Jamie sucks a fresh mark into her neck. It’s satisfying, Dani’s hair plastered with sweat, her mouth a red smear as she kisses Jamie hard, her hips bucking as she rides plunging fingers.

Undone, thinks Jamie with an unbidden sense of pride. It’s the one thing Dani refuses to be most of the time, the one thing Dani seems to fear anyone thinking of her as. Undone. Untethered. Incapable of holding firm.

Here, in this bed, Jamie’s name on her lips, Jamie’s mouth on her skin, Jamie coaxing her toward a break, is the only time she allows it. The only time her discipline slips. Here, pushing Jamie down, holding her with a hand firm against her sternum, gazing down at her with lidded eyes as she bucks, writhes, comes with a long cry, is the only time she truly lets go.

It’s an art, the way Dani holds herself in front of others. An art, making sure no one can ever see what lurks behind her smile--be it demon or defense against a cruel world. It is, as art is meant to be, gorgeous to behold, fascinating in its clarity.

But this: Dani allowing herself to slide up the bed, to lower herself down over Jamie’s mouth, gripping the headboard with one hand and Jamie’s hair with the other, is something else entirely. Dani, allowing herself the slow climb, the roll of hips as her knees press into the pillow, as Jamie spreads her with tongue and hot want, is truly herself in these moments. Not haunted. Not poised. She is only taut muscle, trembling limb, breathy exuberance. She is only Jamie’s, the only way Jamie would ever ask her to be.

Three years down, who knows how many more to come, and there will be shadows. There will be things they cannot carry into the dark, and days neither feels strong enough to walk the road ahead. There will be times Dani’s control will feel like the only thing keeping her hand in Jamie’s, the only thing keeping her from abandoning this life they’ve built for the ease of terror. And there will be times like these--times in bedrooms and hotel rooms, times with Dani nodding off against her as a movie plays, times where Dani leans back and lets Jamie look beneath the bed for monsters. Times where she will walk with eyes closed into whatever garden Jamie leads her.

And on those days, she will look exactly as she does the morning after: Jamie’s shirt buttoned badly over bare skin, a mark peeking out from beneath the collar, her eyes tired and her hair wrecked. She will stumble out of the bedroom in search of coffee, find herself distracted by Jamie on the couch with slow kisses that feel like a challenge. There will be no rap at the door, no intrusion on the space built so carefully between them, and Jamie will feel as though there is nothing so close to equilibrium as Dani folded with her in the quiet of their living room, her fingers in Jamie’s hair, her lips tracing Jamie’s cheeks.

There is no version of Dani Clayton Jamie does not adore. No version of her--brave, frightened, miserable, thrilled--Jamie cannot love. She learned it early, and she learned it well: there is nothing Dani can be she isn’t uniquely designed to crave.

Still. This version, the one who sits astride her on the couch with hands cupping the back of her head, tilting Jamie backward until she meets laughing eyes. This version, bare-legged and moving in with slow deliberation as she bends and teases Jamie’s lips apart with soft curl of tongue. This version, sleepy and happy and warm as she molds her body to fit every curve of Jamie’s.

This one, this version of Dani shared with no one else, is a triumph. The truest art. Worthy only of Jamie’s unending gratitude.

She kisses, and allows herself to be kissed, and thinks there is no place Dani is better suited than right here.

#fanfiction #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #damie #control one-shots #here: an olive branch to make up for the last one #really I always intended this to be finished today #just turned out I needed a quick ficlet to warm up

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thornedrose44 · 5 years ago

Text

Our Love Is Not Fickle

TW: Facial Scar

Read on: AO3

“Honestly, the worst thing you can do is stare.” Lena snapped, turning her head away from the superhero shifting uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Lena.” Kara breathed, her voice cracking in that way Lena loathed.

It was a crack of sympathy, of heartbreak, of… of… pity.

Lena was so fucking tired of being pitied.

“Don’t.” Lena ordered coldly, despising how weak the command sounded when issued from a hospital bed. “I don’t… I don’t want to hear fucking platitudes. I don’t want to hear that everything will get better. I don’t want to hear that it could have been worse. I don’t… I don’t…”

She wanted to keep going but the words caught in her throat as she lost the embittered war to the choked sobs she had been fighting so desperately to hold back.

Kara was by her side faster than humanly possible, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the raven-haired woman gently into her arms, holding her close and pressing tender kisses to the top of her head.

“I know it's pathetic and ungrateful…” Lena hiccuped, clutching at Kara like she was the only safe harbour in sight after a month-long storm.

“No, Lena… no…” Kara refuted, shaking her head firmly as she stroked Lena’s back trying to soothe her like her mother did when she was a child still afraid of monsters under the bed. “It’s not, you’re not, I promise.”

“I know I should just be grateful-”

“You get to feel however you want. No one gets to tell you otherwise, okay?” Kara insisted.

“I just…” Lena sobbed, as she buried her face into Kara’s shoulder, never wanting to see the light of day ever again.

“Take your time, zhao.” Kara murmured, “Take your time.”

It was as if Lena had been waiting for permission, because as soon as she was given it, her sobs increased in fervour.

She cried and cried and cried until she had nothing left to give.

At some point Kara had carefully arranged them both so they were lying down on the hospital bed; Kara on her back with Lena held close to her chest whilst she combed Lena’s hair with her fingers, intermittently scratching her scalp to steadily ease away the coiled tension within the raven-haired woman.

Once Lena was drained of tears, she was merely left feeling numb and disconnected. She slowly shifted out of Kara’s embrace and into the empty space at her side, quickly burying the right side of her face into the pillow. Kara let her go without a fight, not wanting Lena to feel restrained or stifled, though it was clear from the downturn to the corner of her mouth that she was displeased with the sudden lack of physical contact between them.

Silence settled over them as Lena took a sweet minute to admire Kara’s features, golden and sublime.

“I would understand, you know…” Lena muttered, painfully neutral.

Kara tilted her head to the side, the little crinkle between her eyebrows appearing that Lena normally could never resist reaching out to lightly touch, “Understand, what?”

“If…” Lena cleared her throat and hardened her heart, “if this changed things for you.”

Kara’s entire face went blank, void of everything except for the clench of her jaw, “I don’t understand… at least I really hope I don’t understand.”

Lena took a deep breath, ready to break her own heart, “I know you’re not with me purely for my looks, I know that-”

“Do you?” Kara exclaimed with a deep frown that looked so out of place occupying the place where a beaming grin should’ve been, “Because it doesn’t sound like you do for you to even be suggesting that I-”

“Let’s be real here, Kara… we both know how out of my league you are.” Lena declared sharply.

“You can’t be serious.” Kara said disbelievingly with a distraught shake of her head, “Lena, you can’t genuinely think that I would abandon you because of this?”

“No, you’re too noble.” Lena agreed, “I know that. That’s why I’m giving you an out. I won’t tell anyone,” Lena promised, “just go. We both know you want to.”

“No!” Kara yelled so vehemently that Lena jolted back in surprise, pulling the right side of her face away from the pillow. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” Kara’s right hand grabbed Lena’s hip ensuring they were connected, bound together beyond the glittering engagement rings on either of their fingers, “Where I always want to be. By your side.”

“For now…” Lena amended.

“Forever, Lena.” Kara corrected, her blue eyes watery with pain as she reached out with trembling fingers to the right hand-side of Lena’s face marred by a deep burn covered in see-through bandages, which extended from her jaw to her forehead. “This doesn’t change anything.” Kara whispered earnestly, as her fingertips caressed Lena’s scarred cheek.

“It changes everything!” Lena seethed, jerking away from Kara’s achingly soft touch, as her eyes burned with tears of self-loathing. “I have survived this long because of two things: my wealth and my looks. We both know it's true. The money bought me protection and my good looks bought me the benefit of the doubt. Because… I’m too pretty to be a monster, right?” Lena snarled, “Well, not anymore!”

“That’s enough.”

“Why?” Lena scoffed, “It’s true, we both know it. I wonder which publications will use the word ‘grotesque’ and which will use ‘horrifying’.” Lena chuckled dark and cruelly as she suggested flippantly, “Maybe we should start a betting pool.”

“Lena, no one is going to say that.” Kara defended, “You’re a hero, you saved so many lives-”

“Of course they’re going to say it.” Lena rejected, “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But they’ll say it. Everyone will. The kind ones will look away, the cruel will jeer and the malicious will take photos for profit whilst children will cry at the sight of a Luthor that finally looks just like the monster they always wanted me to be.”

“No, they won’t-”

“Yes, they will!”

“Lena-”

“You don’t even look at me the same!” Lena bellowed, her eyes going wide with regret the second she registered how her Kara looked like Lena had physically hit her with those words.

“Okay,” Kara exhaled slowly to keep her voice from shaking, “I think it’s my turn now.”

“Just leave already.” Lena shook her head in defeat and made to roll away from the blonde but was stopped by the gentle hand placed on her hip.

“No.” Kara refused, her tone hard as she struggled to keep herself in control, “You’ve had your chance to talk, now it's my turn. We are in a relationship and when I asked you to marry me, we made promises to each other.” Piercing blue eyes stared deep into green ones. “What were they?”

“Kara…” Lena groaned, rolling her eyes.

Kara didn’t budge, repeating her question belligerently, “What were they?”

Lena’s eyes dropped away, breathing deeply as she accepted that Kara was like a dog with a bone, she wouldn’t stop asking the question until she got the answer she wanted.

“No lies. No secrets. We always listen.” Lena murmured weakly, closing her eyes as she was flooded with the images of them both on their knees with rings in their hands and a commitment to give each other everything they needed for a happy ending.

“And?” Kara pushed, utterly unrelenting.

Lena pursed her lips, “The others aren’t really relevant right now…”

“I don’t care.” Kara demurred, repeating, “And?”

Lena’s lips twitched upwards for the first time since she looked in a mirror that day, “The last potsticker is always yours…”

“And?” Kara prodded.

“You’ll always kiss me first thing in the morning and last thing at night.” Lena whispered, the tears finally falling as she remembered making the request on the happiest day of her life.

“And?” Kara encouraged as she wiped the tears away with the light swipe of her thumb.

“I have to eat three full meals a day.” Lena laughed, thinking of all the times Kara had brought her lunch or dragged her away from work before six to ensure Lena never broke that promise.

“And?” Kara brightened considerably at the genuine sound of joy from the raven haired women.

Lena’s expression turned tender, “We always say ‘I love you’ whenever we have to leave each other.”

“Yeah.” Kara bent forward to place a kiss on Lena’s forehead in reward for perfect recitation, “Now it’s your turn to listen, okay?”

“Okay.” Lena merely nodded in acceptance as Kara shifted her hand from Lena’s hip to interlace their fingers.

“First,” Kara started, her voice firm and clear, “your wealth and good looks is not why you survived or what earned you the benefit of the doubt. It was your intellect and your kind heart, it was those two things working in tandem that made it possible for you to beat Lex time and time again.”

Lena's eyes flickered away, unconvinced. That was fine, though, because Kara was warming to the subject as she always did when it came to extolling her future wife’s achievements.

“That very first time, when you wore a wire to get evidence against him, what purpose did your wealth and looks serve?” Kara questioned, not requiring an answer before continuing, “It was your continued will to do good and be good that made it impossible for people not to trust you. It had absolutely nothing to do with your appearance and I find the assertion that it did, a very poor attempt to undermine all the tireless good work you have carried out over the years. And as an aside,” Kara paused, raising a challenging eyebrow at the raven haired woman, “you and I both know you could beat Lex without your fortune and both of your hands tied behind your back any day of the week.”

Lena merely shrugged but there was a more significant uptick to the corner of her lips now.

“Secondly, not a single newspaper, media outlet or blog would even consider writing a single disparaging comment about you or your scar after today. If they did, I’m pretty sure every single citizen in National City would hit the streets to protest and run them out of business before the end of the day. Thirdly,” Kara squeezed their joined hands as she lifted her chin defiantly, drawing on her Supergirl attitude as she asserted, “anyone - and I mean anyone - that makes you feel uncomfortable will have to answer to me.”

Lena looked up quickly at that, green eyes wide with shock, “Kara, you can’t-”

“I can and I will.” Kara declared, “Finally and by far the most important: I love you.”

Lena’s breath caught in her throat at those words, even now after over a year together, loving each other, it still surprised Lena to hear those three words from the woman she loved. It probably always would.

“I love you, all of you. My love is not dependent on your looks or attractiveness. I fell in love with you for a thousand and one different reasons and I swear to you Lena not a single one of them has been lost because of this.” Kara assured, stroking the side of Lena’s face, this time Lena didn’t flinch away, she leaned in to it. “Yes, I love your physical appearance but clearly not for the reasons you think. I love how your green eyes twinkle when you have a new idea. I love how you purse your lips a second before you laugh. I love how your eyes crinkle when you smile. I love how you arch an eyebrow just before you tease me. I love how you bite your lip when you think I’ve done something adorable. I love how you blink three times when you sneeze. I love how your nose scrunches when you’re confused.” Kara quirked her to the side thoughtfully, “Tell me Lena which one of those have been lost.”

Lena swallowed thickly as she answered honestly, “None.”

Kara kissed her then, sweet and ever so tender, pulling back to breathe out the contents of her heart, “Nothing has changed for me, Lena. Nothing. And it never will. Our love is not fickle. It is steady and strong. It has been built, brick by brick, by thousands of moments, actions and intimacies. It can’t be destroyed by any singular attack because it has no weak-spot and I promise you, zhao, it will withstand even the harshest of storms.”

#supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor

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n3rdybird · 5 years ago

Text

The Serpent Chapter 2

Whew, writing more than one-shots is definitely more difficult. Hope everyone still enjoys this chapter! Thank you for all the kind words, comments, and reblogs!

The Serpent Chapter 2

Vikings

OFCxIvar

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Blood/Battle/Curse Words/Light Torture

Tag List:

@tilltheendwilliwrite

@nukyster-blog

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@youbloodymadgenius

@pieces-by-me

@kingniazx

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Dinner was a tense, if civil affair. Between bites of meat, Ivar volunteered stories about the raids he’d been on. He took great pleasure in retelling stories of men he had killed, particularly the man who killed his father. Aelle was tortured and killed at the hands of Ivar and his brothers. While her clan wasn’t as bloodthirsty as the Northmen, Elda could appreciate a good story. After all, stories of her people kept them alive. With Aldrich coming into power, people were beginning to venture into the wood again.

In return, she spoke of her village, Falkwind. It was located deep in the woods, amongst trees and craggy hills. Very difficult to find, bordering on impossible, unless you lived there. Even other clans who were friendly with hers, had trouble finding it. Most of the time scouts would have to meet visitors to lead them in. She spoke vaguely of its location, focusing on the general direction in which they would travel.

It wasn’t far, usually a day's ride from her camp. But with the additional company, it would take longer. Especially if her suspicions were correct about Ivar. Even though she didn’t want to ruin the mood, she nodded to his legs. He had not moved from his spot in the furs since waking an hour ago and she could not hold her curiosity much longer.

“I’ve never seen leg armor like that,” she observed.

Ivar stiffened at the question, his ice cold exterior creeping back. Elda noticed his demeanor changing, and let out a sigh.

“If you do not wish to speak of it, I understand. But I need to know if you can ride a horse. We must return to my village as soon as we are able.”

Ivar gritted his teeth. It was one thing to speak of his condition with his people, they have known since his birth. And he worked hard to prove himself over the years; that he was more than a cripple. His men knew that a comment about his legs would end with an axe flying towards their heads. But to explain to someone for the first time, it always dredged up feelings of inadequacy.

Elda saw the emotions flit across his face. Ivar was as easy to read as the sun across the sky. And now, a storm clouded his features, causing his blue eyes to darken and his brow to furrow.

“Ivar the Boneless, that is my name. My legs are not strong.” He tapped the warped metal around his thigh.

“The metal braces my legs, so I can stand with a crutch. But they are useless now.” He began unbuckling the various straps, gritting his teeth when he could not reach the ones at the bottom. Elda brushed his hands away and completed the task. As the metal fell away, she could feel how thin his legs were under his trousers.

“I cannot ride alone,” he admitted.

Elda nodded.

“Well, I only have Paega, but he can carry us both.”

Preparations for travel were quick. Elda carried very little aside from provisions but allowed Ivar time to ready himself for the trip. With his legs out of the rigid armor, he was able to move about, like the serpent that graced his back. His strong arms and upper body made sense to Elda now. He had to be strong to pull himself along the ground.

A flutter of wings and a shriek of a bird drew her attention from watching Ivar as he pulled his armor on. Elda held out her arm and a sparrow hawk landed, talons biting into her skin. She stroked the bird’s feather, scratching under its beak. She looked back to see if Ivar was watching or not.

“Hello dear boy, did Father send you?” she whispered. The bird screeched in reply, and Elda laughed. Her father had learned of the battle between the Northmen and Alrdrich’s soldiers and was quite irritated that she had ventured out unaccompanied.

“Tell father I will be home in a day or so, longer if enemies are marching,” she instructed, pausing to look back at Ivar who was watching the scene with interest.

“And I will not be alone.”

She fished a piece of dried meat out of her pouch and fed it to the hawk. It snapped at the meat but mindful of her fingers. With a last stroke, Elda launched the bird into the air and continued her packing.

“Were you talking to that bird?” Ivar questioned.

“Yes,” Elda said simply, challenging him to say something else. Ivar scrutinized the strange woman before turning away and dropping the subject.

“Are we ready to leave?”

With Paega kneeling, Ivar was able to pull himself onto the horse’s back. Elda situated herself behind him, clicking her teeth so the horse would stand. It was clear Ivar wasn’t as comfortable on the horse, listing dangerously to the side. He would have panicked, if Elda didn’t didn’t wrap her forearm around his waist.

She braced his legs with her own, and scooted forward. Ivar's thighs were pinned securely between hers. He stiffened at her touch, nearly jerking the reins she placed in his hands. When sitting on the horse, Ivar was taller than Elda, her face tucked behind his shoulder blades.

“Lean back. You don’t have to do much with the reins. Paega knows how to get home.” Elda instructed, her breath brushing against his neck. Ivar relaxed a bit, settling against her body. It was difficult to relax fully, feeling unsteady on the back of the horse and with Elda against his backside. He wasn’t used to being so close to a woman. Most tended to give him a wide berth. Even the Shield Maidens were wary of his temper. But this woman had no sense of personal space or self-preservation it seemed.

She clicked her tongue again and lightly squeezed Paega’s sides and he started out into a gentle walk.

“See, it is not so bad.”

Ivar snorted at her encouragement.

“I’m not a child,” he bit out.

“You should be more mindful of your tone. I could always tie you up,” Elda teased.

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The journey was quiet, Ivar focused on staying on the horse, and Elda kept her eyes and ears on the surrounding woods. As promised, Paega needed little direction, picking his way through the forest nimbly. Ivar did not have much hands on experience with horses, relying on his chariot. But he could tell Elda’s horse was sure footed and trained well. With the strange woman behind him, he began to feel more confident on top of the beast. As if he had been riding his entire life.

When the sun began its descent, Elda spoke for the first time in hours.

“We should rest a bit. Paega is beginning to tire,” she explained. With a click of her tongue and some murmured praises, the horse stopped. Elda tightened her grip on Ivar as Paega knelt down so the northman could get off. She made sure to nudge Ivar’s legs with her own so they did not get trapped under the horse’s body. Once near the ground, she stood up and Ivar crawled to the ground. Once he was a sufficient distance away, Paega stood and wandered off to the side to nibble at some greens.

Elda rifled through her pack, pulling out some dried meat and berries.

“I won’t be cooking tonight. No need to draw any unnecessary attention,” she said, tossing the provisions to her companion.

Ivar stared at the food displeased. Used to the hot meals that his station in the Great Heathen Army afforded him, this would be an insult. In normal circumstances he would order her to cook him a meal. But, as he kept having to remind himself, this was not normal circumstances and he would hold his tongue when necessary. If his brothers could see him, they would be crowing at his behavior. Ivar the Boneless taking orders from a girl. He huffed at the thought and tore into the smoked meat.

“Would it be normal for soldiers to get this far into the forest?” he questioned around a particularly tough piece of jerky.

“It has happened on occasion, but I do not wish to push our luck. The forest was eerily quiet today,” she said glancing around.

Elda’s head snapped to the left, raising her hand to silence Ivar. She moved into a crouching position and searched the surrounding wood for movement. He went to speak when he heard a branch snapping in the vicinity.

She stared at Paega, who without prompting, tucked his legs underneath him and laid down.

Two men, scouts by the look of them, were scouring the woods. Not very good ones, by the noise they were creating. Ivar crawled next to her to see what she was looking at.

“Only two, simple enough,” Ivar said in a low voice. He was itching for retribution against the English soldiers. Elda nodded and handed him the knife.

“Take the one on the right, I’ll distract him.”

Elda crept along the forest, flexing her grip on the bow. She circled the two men, until she positioned herself behind the duo. The twang of the bowstring virtually silent over the sound of the blundering scouts. The arrow embedded in the throat of one of the men, his scream nothing but gargles as blood filled his throat. His partner turned at the noise. Ivar had moved nearby, and jammed the knife behind his prey's knee. Using the man's panic, the Northman grabbed the scout’s tunic and pulled him down. With ease, Ivar slit the man's throat, bringing his scream of pain to a close.

Elda stood up from behind the tree and shared a smile with the equally pleased Ivar. Elda started towards him when a hand gripped her hair and yanked her backwards. She landed hard, her breath escaping from her chest with a cough. How had she not noticed him?

She looked up and her eyes narrowed. Instead of the sigil of Lord Aldrich, the man's garb was like her people's; rough spun fabric and leathers. There were no colors denoting the clan and his face was unfamiliar to her.

“Who are you?’ Elda rasped as she tried to regain her breath. The man looked her over, noting her appearance.

“Away from your nest little falcon; is it close by?” he sneered, pulling back his leg.

Elda scrambled to the side as he aimed a kick to her ribs. Getting to her feet, she held her bow up in a defensive position and tried to spot Ivar. Hopefully, he was doing something clever, like returning to Paega. She swung her bow at the man’s head, who dodged it with ease. He smiled and stepped back relaxing his defensive position. Elda went to swing again when an arm crossed over her neck. Hot breath laughed in her ear as she tried to fight out of his grip.

“She’s a feisty one,” the man holding her jeered. His armor scraped through her leathers. Elda tried to move away from the biting metal, but he only tightened his grip. The not-clan member eyed the struggling Elda.

“Don’t kill her. That’s a daughter of Falkwind. She can lead us there,” he said, pleased with his quarry.

“Never,” Elda spat.

“And your companion?” Two more soldiers appeared, with an unconscious Ivar between them. The two men looked worse for wear, each sporting various cuts and abrasions. Ivar did not go down without a fight. A dark stain was blooming on his injured shoulder. He must have pulled his stitches.

“Should we kill him? Would that loosen your tongue?”

Elda bristled. Nothing would get her to reveal her clan’s location, but she did not wish Ivar to die. Not when she had so many unanswered questions.

“Do that, and it would be your greatest mistake.”

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Ivar groaned as he awoke, his shoulder throbbing. He tried to reach it, but his arms refused to cooperate. He was bound to a tree, rope pulling his arms to the side. He blinked heavily, trying to clear his vision. A sharp slap pulled his attention forward.

He was in a clearing, the two men who attacked him were sitting to the side. One older, with greying black hair, the other younger, maybe about his age. They were watching in delight as Elda fell forward after getting hit. The man dressed like Elda pushed his wild blond hair out of his face, uncaring that the blood on his knuckles smeared into the light locks. The blonde flexed his hand and nodded for the fourth, this one with close cropped flaxen hair and a scar across his cheek, to sit her back up.

“Keep her steady William, I’m not finished with her quite yet,” the torturer ordered. William nodded and propped Elda back up on her knees. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look up.

“Her face is pretty, try not to ruin it,” he said, running his fingers along her lips.

She snapped her teeth at the offending hand and he jerked his hand away.

“Damn wild bitch nearly took my fingers off,” William grunted. He noticed blood welling up and cursed under his breath. The two sitting to the side laughed at his misfortune.

“Come on William-boy, she’s just a girl. Don’t tell me you can’t handle her,” the older one laughed.

“I’d like to see you try Dunstan,” he responded, delivering another slap before dropping her face first in the dirt. Elda rolled onto her back, laughing wildly and spitting blood at the retreating soldier.

The younger soldier looked at her with confusion.

“Why is she laughing like that?”

“Because she’s mad, Tomas,” Dunstan said with disgust as Elda continued to laugh; even when the blonde not-soldier kicked her side.

No, Elda wasn’t mad. Ivar knew exactly what she was feeling. He himself had found himself laughing at impossible odds, staring down enemies with no fear.

“She’s not mad. She’s not afraid of you,” Ivar spoke, causing the attention to turn from Elda to himself.

“What’d you say cripple?” William growled out, still nursing his bleeding finger. Ivar smiled, his teeth showing in a predatory grin.

“Why would she be afraid of you? You know who she is; what she is, right?” Ivar whispered the last bit to the young Tomas.

“She’s just a girl,” Tomas spluttered out.

“Have you seen a man, much less a girl, laugh while facing beatings and torture? How she doesn’t scream or cry or beg?”

Ivar turned his eyes to the blonde, who had stopped beating Elda to listen to Ivar.

“You didn’t tell them? Or you didn’t know?”

“Tell us what? Who is she Conn?” Tomas asked the standing man.

“She is no one,” Conn dismissed. “Just another Falkwind bitch.”

“But you’ve heard the stories, the people of the forest,” Ivar prodded, glancing about the trees.

“They say they can speak to the forest and the spirits within,” he continued conspiratorially, remembering the rumours Elda had shared with him. A well-timed rustle in the woods had not only Tomas, but William and Dunstan whipping their heads around trying to find the source.

Conn walked over to Ivar and knelt next to the Northman.

“Quiet your tongue, or else I’ll cut it out,” he threatened, pulling out a dagger.

Elda smiled to herself, pleased with Ivar’s distraction. He may think he’s telling tales, but there was truth to the stories. With the camp's attention on the Northman, she closed her eyes and sensed the forest around her. Her mind’s eye bounced around, trying to lock onto something to aid her. The pain in her jaw was distracting, but she pushed past it until she found what she was looking for.

The familiar sparrow hawk was in a tree nearby, on the look out for her and her guest. Elda nudged the hawk’s mind, before giving the command out loud. The enemy soldiers felt a shiver go down their spines and Ivar grinned, his face split in a feral smile at her words.

“I’m here. Come. Kill them all.”

#vikingsfanfic #ivar x ofc #vikings ofc #vikings fanfiction #ivar x oc #ivar fanfic #ivar the boneless

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kelyon · 4 years ago

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Nephila Chapter 5: Everglades

The fic where the Stiltskin men are all giant spiders (and some people are into that.)

In which Emma Swan is Florida Woman

Trigger warning: Killian Jones

Read on AO3

“Parks department is gonna shoot us with their tranquilizer guns if they catch us out here, Swan.”

Emma rolled her eyes at Killian and kept steering her fishing boat through the swamp. This section of the glades was tricky to navigate. She couldn’t let his whining distract her.

They were in a flat-bottomed aluminum jon boat, ten feet long. It didn’t have a built-in engine. Normally Emma used a paddle to get her where she needed to go on the water. Since her plans today were taking her further out than normal, she had “borrowed” a portable Evinrude motor from her friend Penny. It would be fine though; Penny’s boat just got impounded, so she wasn’t gonna miss the motor.

“I never said you had to come, Jones.” She shielded her eyes from the bright Florida sun. Her glasses were dirty and scratched. The reflection on the water doubled the light and made it impossible to see. She shoulda brought a visor.

“No, you just said you were going to do something dangerous and stupid.” Killian lounged against the side of the boat and used both hands to swat at bugs. “You know I can’t resist a challenge.”

“Of course not. That’s why you keep hanging around me, even though I don’t wanna bang you.”

“You mean you don’t want to bang me yet!” He gave her the grin that had worked on every other girl in the tri-county area. “I remain hopeful.”

“You remain delusional.”

Every once in a while, Emma thought about sleeping with Killian just so he would get over it and stop bothering her. He was decent company when he wasn’t horny. He was the only person in their group who would go on crazy adventures with her, and he never minded letting her crash at his place. They’d gotten each other in and out of trouble at least a hundred times since she’d moved to Florida during her freshman year of high school.

That was part of the problem with Killian. She’d known him too long. When they’d met, he’d been zitty and awkward, tagging along after his older brother Liam. Killian hadn’t gotten hot until senior year when he started growing a beard. All that shaggy dark hair brought out his bright blue eyes and covered up his acne. He wasn’t bad looking. And he was almost smart. Growing up on a houseboat made him act like he knew everything about every kind of boat, so he was never afraid to act like a drunk pirate. A lot of girls were into that.

For herself, Emma had heard his voice crack too many times to ever think about him as a sexual option. And yet, ever since graduation, she had found herself at the top of his “to-do list.” It was putting a real strain on their friendship.

“Oh, come on, luv! You know I’ll do anything for you. But if I’m gonna get a hand bit off by a crocodile, I’d feel better about it if I knew there was gonna be some kind of reward for my trouble.”

“Sex isn’t a reward, dumbass.” Hand on the tiller of the motor, Emma steered them around a patch of sawgrass and into a free-flowing slough where the water could carry them. “And besides, there aren’t any crocodiles in Florida. It’s all gators. I only lived here five years and even I know that!”

“Ha!” Killian pointed a triumphant finger at her. “Well, I’ve lived on these waters all my life! And I know that the American Crocodile is the only crocodile that co-exists with alligators. It’s an endangered species and it only lives here in the Everglades!”

She narrowed her eyes. “You just heard that on the Internet.”

Killian shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Emma shook her head. Whether or not Killian should believe something he read on the Internet was an argument they had at least once a week. Going over it again wasn’t worth it.

“Point is,” she said. “We’re going to the part of the glades where there aren’t any gators or crocodiles.”

Killian made a face. “There’s no such place.”

“There sure is!”

He still didn’t believe her. “How do you know gators aren’t there?”

“Cuz there’s too much other stuff. There’s a billion more birds and bugs and lizards in this part of the swamp than there is anywhere else.”

“In the whole Everglades?”

“Yeah. I read an article about it. On the Internet.”

If Killian wanted to give her crap about her news source, he was going to have one hell of an argument. But he had just enough brains not to, so Emma got to explain.

“The article had all these science people talking about the ‘explosion of biodiversity’ in this one tiny section of the Glades. It’s probably been going on for a while, but they just noticed it a couple months ago. All the animals and things that you find one of in any other part of the Glades, you’ll find ten of ‘em in this part we’re going to now.”

“With all the animals there, why aren’t there any gators snapping them up?”

“That’s what the scientists wanted to know. They said it makes sense that there’s more little things crawling around when there aren’t any big things to eat ‘em. But it doesn’t make sense that all the gators, the ‘apex predators,’ just disappeared. They think something is killing the gators but letting everything else go. They’re real worried about it too. So I figure there might be some kinda reward for finding out what’s going on.”

“A reward?” Killian sat up so fast the boat rocked. “You didn’t say anything about a reward!”

“I just did,” Emma smirked. “But we gotta keep it secret. I don’t want anybody trying to edge in on our find.”

“Wait, what are you trying to find?”

“Didn’t you hear a word I said? I’m going to find whatever’s eating the gators!”

Killian’s jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? You think there’s something big enough to eat gators and the first thing you wanna do is go after it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Emma turned back to the tiller. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and unlocked the screen. The article she’d read had a dinky little drawing of a map where all the strange activity was going on. Emma had compared it to the real map on Google and taken a screenshot of where she wanted to go. They should be close.

Killian was still freaking out. At least he was smart enough not to move so much that it would tip the boat over. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Swan?”

“I told you I was gonna do something stupid and dangerous.”

“You know it’s probably just snakes, right? Them pythons people get as pets, then they get too big and people let ‘em loose in the swamp and they eat everything. My buddy Kaa had to do that once.”

“If it was just a bunch of snakes, the science people wouldn’t be so weirded out about it. It’s something they can’t explain.”

“For all you know it could be a giant fucking monster! Did you bring a gun or something? You know McLeach is good to hook us up.”

Emma shook her head. “This is just a fact-finding mission. I don’t need a gun, I’ve got this.” She held up a digital camera in a plastic zipper bag. “I told Hat Man the whole story and he let me use this to take pictures.”

Killian ran his hand over his face. “Of course he did. Hat Man is the only other person in all of Florida who’s as crazy as you!”

Emma threw up her hands. “There are lots of people who do dumber stuff than me or Hat Man ever tried!”

“Yeah, but none of them ever did something that’s gonna get me killed! I swear, Swan--”

“Would the two of you please shut up?” Some guy’s voice rang out over the water. “You’re bothering the monster!”

Emma cut the motor and stood up. The jon boat wobbled but steadied itself after a second. Pushing up her glasses, she scanned around the water. She couldn’t spot any other boats around all the sawgrass patches.

“Who the hell are you?” she shouted. “And how the fuck do you know about the monster?”

The voice chuckled. “Lady, I know more about monsters than you know about your own parents.”

Emma clenched her jaw and muttered. “You don’t know shit about my parents, jackass.”

Sitting on the bench seat closest to the front of the boat, Killian put his head in his hands. “Let’s get out of here, Swan. Whoever this asshole is, the gator-eater can go eat him.”

“The gator-eater can eat this guy, just so long as I get a picture.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “Where are you? Can you see anything?”

“I’ve got so many eyes, I can see everything.” The voice wasn’t shouting anymore. It sounded close. Emma hadn’t heard a motor running. Was this guy in a canoe? This far out away from the shore?

Her head spun as she looked around, but she didn’t see anything besides sawgrass and dead tree limbs and a million birds and bugs. There was an extra glare on the water around here, some kinda gold light coming off the patches of land.

“Where are you?” she asked again.

“Over here.”

A head popped out of the nearest patch of sawgrass. This patch had the most of the weird light, so much gold it barely looked green at all. Squinting, she tried to see who she was looking at.

At first, Emma thought it was just a normal guy with a tan. Then she thought the guy had some killer tattoos, maybe jail tats. There were dark brown circles all over his face. Then, the circles blinked at her. Then the guy smiled--and his mouth was green. No, that was not a human mouth. He had fangs. He had pincers.

“Oh, Jesus,” Emma whispered.

She couldn’t move. This was the thing she was looking for, but she couldn’t move. The camera was right by her feet. Her phone was in her back pocket. The boat tiller was less than a foot away from her hand. But she couldn’t move.

From up on his mound of sawgrass, the guy--the thing, the monster--was still smiling. He waved at her.

Somehow, she could wave back.

Sitting down, Killian hadn’t seen what Emma was looking at. “Do you see him?” he asked as he stood up. “I wanna get a good look at our competit--holy shit!”

Everything happened at once. Emma could only think of things in freeze-frame. She saw one second of Killian panicking. One second of him falling over backwards into the water. One second of him toppling the whole boat on his way down. One second of Hat Man’s camera in its ziploc bag flying into the air.

One second of the water coming closer as she fell.

The water wasn’t deep--just deep enough that she didn’t hit her head on the ground. Her glasses almost flew up off her face, but she grabbed them just in time. Spitting and sputtering, Emma managed to get to her feet in the soft mud. This time of year was the dry season, so when she stood up, the water only came up to her chest. But that didn’t mean much for the phone in her pants pocket. By the time she thought to raise it up over her head, it was already soaked.

“Shit,” she swore. “You owe me a new phone, monster-guy!”

At least Hat Man’s camera was in a waterproof bag. But from where she was, six inches above the water’s surface, there was no way she was going to find it.

“Shit!” Emma swore again. “And if I don’t get that fucking camera back, you are gonna be in huge trouble!”

Laughter rang out over the swamp. It wasn’t Killian. It had to be the guy. That monster jackass was laughing at her!

“This isn’t fucking funny!” she shouted.

The thing kept laughing. “Yes it is. I mean, come on, lady. You gotta admit this is classic comedy.”

She could not believe this. She’d gone out on the water to find a monster, found out it was a smart-ass jerk, and then lost any way to prove it to anybody! That wasn’t funny, it was…

Okay, it was pretty funny. But she still had every right to be mad about it!

“Killian, can you believe this sh--” Emma stopped when she realized she had no idea where Killian was. She couldn’t see him or the boat. He hadn’t said anything since he had seen the monster. There were a million sounds coming from a million animals, but none of them sounded like a grown man swimming.

Or drowning.

“Shit!” The third time Emma said that word, it was with bone-deep dread. Her mouth went dry and for a second she panicked. God, Killian could not be dead. She would get in so much trouble!

“Hey, asshole!” she shouted as she began to wade towards the gold-covered island. “You with the eyes and the sense of humor!”

“Call me Neal!” the monster shouted back. He sounded like he was trying to be friendly.

Emma’s mouth dropped open, but then she closed it before a bug could fly in. Where did a monster get off having a name like Neal? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Killian.

“Okay, Neal. Sure. Listen, Neal, I need your help. I know I talked a lot of shit to you, but this is serious. Can you see my friend?”

“You mean the wannabe bad boy? Yeah, he’s getting eaten by crocodiles.”

“WHAT?” Emma shrieked.

“Nope. That was a joke. Bad taste, I guess. Actually, he looks fine. He was able to get the boat flipped over and he is motoring off to the horizon.”

“WHAT?” Now Emma was in a full-on bellow. Over the sound of blood pounding in her ears, she could hear the faint whine of an Evinrude outboard motor. “That son of a bitch stole my boat!”

Now that she knew Killian wasn’t dead, she was fully prepared to kill him. She staggered to the island that was covered in a haze of gold--it looked like a bunch of fancy spider webs, but that was the least of her concerns.

“Are you around here?” she yelled. “Neal?”

The same head and arms emerged from the grassy water. Up close, the face looked even weirder. There was a circle of brown eyes, all different sizes and all dark as buttons. She couldn’t tell if there was a nose or not. And the mouth was way too wide and way too fangy, especially when it looked like it was smiling. There were… things on either side of his smile, bright, shiny green things, a part of his mouth, she guessed.

Weirdest of all, over the monster’s human-looking chest and arms, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. It was green, with yellow flowers.

“My father always told me to help a human in need. What can I do for you?”

Right now, Emma was too angry to be confused. “Can you swim?”

Neal raised himself up a little higher out of the sawgrass and Emma saw what the rest of him looked like.

It was one of those half-man, half-horse things she’d seen in movies. Centaurs, that’s what they were called. Only it wasn’t a horse that Neal was half of. Too many legs for that. He was light brown and gray, so he blended in with all the mud and sticks. His legs looked kinda stubby, and they all came out of one place in front of… Emma didn’t have any other word for it but spider-butt.

Sweet Jesus’ birthday. The gator-eater was a goddamned spider-man!

Neal didn’t talk for a second. Emma figured he was letting her get used to him. But that was gonna take a while and Killian the rat bastard was getting further away by the second. Emma put her hands on her hips and looked this thing in its two biggest eyes.

“Did you hear what I said? Can you swim?”

“I’ve got so many legs, I can swim anywhere. You want me to catch up with your boat and teach that guy a lesson?”

“Hell no. I want you to take me to my boat so I can give that son of a bitch a black eye myself.”

Neal snorted--or maybe it was a snort. He sounded like he thought it was funny. “I can do that.” He smiled and lowered his spider-legs so his whole body was near the ground. “You wanna climb aboard?”

Emma wasn’t afraid to ride on the back of a spider-thing through the Everglades. She’d been riding jet-skis since she was ten. This couldn’t be that different. It’d probably be easier, since Neal would be able to do all the steering himself.

He was already mostly in the water, so she just kind of fell on top of him, with her legs on either side of his… Was it a waist? The lower part of his human half.

Short, prickly hairs grew all over the spider half. They came out when she moved her legs against them. Emma was glad she had decided to wear full pants today instead of shorts.

“Okay.” She grabbed the Hawaiian shirt with both hands and tugged. “Giddy-up.”

Neal tensed up and for a minute he didn’t say anything. Then he turned his head to talk to her. “What’s your name?”

“Emma,” she said. Oh crap, was he mad?

“Okay, Emma, listen up. I’m going to help you get your boat, because I am a helpful kind of individual. But if you ever treat me like an animal again, you will be swimming home. Understand?”

“Oh.” Emma let go of his shirt. “Crap, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “No big deal. I’m sure you’re not used to people like me. Now, let’s go retrieve some stolen property!”

Neal had four legs on either side, but he only used the front three to swim. His back legs dragged through the water to balance him out like a dead man’s float. The other legs pushed past the water, all working together. It almost looked like a bird flapping its wings against the wind. Was that what a butterfly stroke looked like? Or was this just a spider stroke?

All that mattered was that Neal was fast. And he knew this area better than Killian did. They caught up to him when he was trying to push his way through an area too shallow for the jon boat.

“Hey!” Emma shouted. “Are you fucking running my boat aground?”

She was too far away to see the expression on Killian’s face. All Emma saw was him looking at the tiller, looking up at her shouting at him from the back of a swimming spider, then looking at the motor again, frantically pulling at the line to get it started.

“Stop doing that, you’re gonna flood it!” Emma shouted again. Killian stopped, and she leaned forward to talk to Neal. “You can take it easy if you want. He’s not going anywhere.”

Chuckling, Neal reduced his speed. The strokes through the water were slower now, but they felt more powerful.

Now that she knew she’d be getting her boat back, Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She leaned back on her hands against the spider-butt and rested in the sun.

Neal must have noticed. “You enjoying the ride?”

Emma nodded, but then realized that he couldn’t see her. “I figured I been on these glades every way you could be except over ‘em in a helicopter. Never thought I’d get to see ‘em on the back of a spider.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah.”

They were getting closer to Killian. His freaking out kept getting louder, probably because he could see Neal in better detail. Or maybe because he knew Emma was going to beat seven kinds of crap out of him for stealing her boat and running away without her.

“He is such a dingus,” she muttered.

Neal chuckled again. “Listen,” he said. “If you ever wanna… find me again, I’ll try not to scare you next time.”

“Now that I know you, I don’t think you could scare me,” Emma said proudly. “But I might not be able to get out here again for a while. I’ll have to do a little hustle to get another phone. Plus, I gotta tell Hat Man I lost his camera. He might want me to pay for that too, so my weekends are probably gonna be booked.”

“Oh.” Was she crazy or did he sound disappointed?

They were within spitting distance of Killian now. It was a weird thing, but Emma almost didn’t want to stop swimming with Neal.

“Here’s your boyfriend,” he said as he swam up to the boat.

Killian’s terror had gotten to the stage where he was huddled in the furthest corner of the boat, white faced and wide eyed. Over and over he whispered, “What the fuck?”

Crawling off Neal’s back, Emma scrambled into her boat. Yep, Killian the pirate had run a ten-foot fishing boat into the only section of the Everglades that jutted up over the water. It was a miracle there wasn’t any damage to the hull that would make them take on water.

Neal was already swimming away, but Emma called out. “Don’t leave yet!”

He spun around. Was she crazy or had his eyes lit up?

“Can you do me another favor? Can you pull us away from this sandbar?”

Nodding, Neal grabbed the boat with his human hands. His hands and arms were the same weird color as his spider parts, kind of a muddy brown. The Hawaiian shirt covered his shoulders, but his chest was bare. Emma could see the muscles in his forearms. He looked… strong.

He swam out to a slough with the boat in tow. Killian looked like he was going to throw up.

“Thanks,” Emma said when Neal let go. She wanted to say more, but she didn’t know what.

“No problem,” he answered.

Treading water, all of Neal’s legs pumped like he was riding eight different unicycles. He bobbed up and down like a jellyfish. Emma got the feeling that he wanted to say more too.

“Jesus Christ,” Killian moaned. “Swan, can we please go home?”

“Now you be nice to Emma, okay dingus?” Neal swam around to that side of the boat. With his human hand, he reached up and ruffled Killian’s hair. “I bet if she wasn’t such a nice person, she’d push you out of the boat and leave you here with me.”

“Jesus Christ!” Killian squealed. He crawled backwards away from Neal like a panicked rat.

Emma tried not to laugh at her friend. She needed to get him home before he started crying. She started the engine and began to motor away.

“Thanks again, Neal,” she waved. “I’ll see you around!”

He waved back. “I hope so.”

****

Even when they got back to shore, Killian was still spooked. Emma had to talk him through every step of docking, even though they’d both done it a million times. At least they were able to sneak the Evinrude back into Penny's garage without getting caught. That was about the only thing that had gone right all day.

When they got back to the houseboat he lived in with his brother Liam, she plopped him down at his kitchen table. She put a cold beer in his hands and started to fry up some hot dogs for lunch.

He just stared at the bottle. “What was that, Swan?” he asked. “What the fuck was that thing?”

Standing in front of the two-burner stove, Emma shrugged. “He says his name is Neal.”

“‘He’?” Killian repeated. His head fell into his hands. “‘He says.’ He talks? Swan, this is insane!”

“Sure is.” Secretly, Emma was glad Killian was freaking out. It meant she didn’t have to. She could be the reasonable one in the face of all this fucked up shit.

They ate lunch in silence. Emma hated the taste of beer, but there was a hard lemonade in the fridge and she helped herself. Once they were done eating, Emma threw away the bottles and the paper plates. Killian and Liam never asked her to clean up for them, but she knew that if she didn’t, the garbage would stay on the table for the better part of a month.

“I gotta go see Hat Man,” she announced. “Better tell him now what happened to his camera.”

“I’m coming with you,” Killian said with more life than he had put into anything for the past hour. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Emma nodded, and they started walking.

****

Geoffrey “Hat Man” Jefferson was the closest thing to an adult that either Emma or Killian trusted. He told them once that his family used to be rich, that a hundred years ago finding feathers for hats in the Everglades was a big business. His great-grandparents bought a lot of land and built a big fancy house on the water. Hat Man still owned the land, and he still wore fancy hats. But the big house had gotten flooded so many times no one could live there anymore. Now he lived in a trailer and spent most of his time getting high on magic mushrooms.

He was a pretty chill guy. Emma didn’t think he would get mad about the camera, but that just made her feel worse about losing it. Hat Man had done her a favor and she had fucked it up.

Story of her life.

When they got to the trailer, Emma and Killian found Hat Man and the usual group in the front yard by the road. It looked like they had taken the dining room table from the big house and set it up outside. All their friends were sitting in the dining room chairs, drinking from China teacups and saucers. Margot and Tilly were holding hands and singing to themselves. McLeach was drinking tea with his pinky up and his rifle slung over the back of his chair.

The table was set with all kinds of pretty platters and bowls--though the menu seemed to be made up of whatever could be snuck out of a gas station convenience store. A red-headed kid named Oliver held out a crystal serving dish of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos to Dodger, who was using a pair of silver tongs to place them, one by one, on his plate. The lace tablecloth fluttered in the breeze and got tangled in the tall grass.

If these were Emma and Killian’s friends, maybe they weren’t actually good judges of what was or was not crazy.

Hat Man noticed them, and raised his teacup in greeting. “Salutations!” he called. “Far-flung comrades, come back to join us in the fold!”

Everyone at the table looked at them. Without anyone saying anything, they all moved around and adjusted their chairs so Emma and Killian could both have seats. Killian found refuge between McLeach and a girl named Vixie--though Vixie seemed a lot more interested in Todd. Todd was a new guy to the group, and had never lived away from his momma before getting dumped here.

Emma sat down next to Hat Man, who handed her a three-level cookie tray loaded with Ding Dongs.

“How mellifluous to see you on this fair day, Mademoiselle Swan! To what honor do I owe the occasion?”

Today Hat Man was wearing black tuxedo pants and a silk purple vest with no shirt underneath. The brim of his battered top hat shadowed his eyes, so Emma couldn’t see exactly how blasted out he was. It appeared to be a lot.

“Actually…” Nervously, Emma fiddled with her glasses until Hat Man, very gently, pulled them off her face and placed them into a glass pitcher of blue slurpee.

“You see better when you don’t have stuff in front of your eyes,” he explained.

“That’s true,” Tilly nodded from across the table. Unlike everyone else at the table, Tilly had drugs that she should be taking, but wasn’t.

Emma actually saw much worse without her glasses, but that wasn’t anything worth caring about now. Even without them on, she still kept touching her face.

“Hat Man, do you remember the digital camera you let me borrow?”

“I recall it with the utmost vividity!” he said. His mouth was full of a burrito that appeared to still be frozen.

“Well, I’m super sorry but, it’s gone.”

He patted at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Desiccation and decay is the way of all flesh, Emmy-wemmy. And all the goods we horde will crumble into dust or be swallowed by the somnambulatory sea.” He took off his hat and solemnly placed it over his heart. “Adieu, O photographic device of mine! May your memory be a blessing unto the next generation.”

The only other person paying attention was Tilly. She had tears in her eyes as she nodded along with what Hat Man was saying.

“So you’re not mad?” Emma said.

“Very mad, but not at all angry.” Jefferson took a burnt Pizza Roll off a silver platter, threw it into the air and caught it in his mouth. “What happened to it, anyway?”

“I…” she didn’t know how to start. “I wanna say you’re not gonna believe this, but I think you’re the only person who will.”

In hushed tones, she told him the whole story. The news article, the missing alligators, the island of gold thread--Neal. Hat Man listened politely, nodded and asked questions, but in the end he shook his head and said that the whole thing was poppycock.

“What?” Emma said. “But I saw the whole thing! And Killian was there, you can ask him!”

“Don’t be farcical,” Hat Man took a sip of… well, it was in a teacup, but it probably wasn’t tea. “How on earth could such a creature get here from Australia?”

Emma frowned. “I didn’t say anything about Australia.”

“Indubitably,” he said. Emma had no idea what he meant by that. “But Australia is the only place where I’ve ever witnessed such a creature before.”

#nephila #swanfire #Belle and Rumple will be back soon #ouat

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adulttrio-imagines · 5 years ago

Note

Hey, you did a couple of headcanons of the adult trio amd how much they would care/react to their s/o leaving them. Could you please do a scenario where Hisoka see’s her for the first time post breakup? Like he wasn’t actively looking for her, but now that she’s here, might as well have some fun, right? Bonus points if she’s also a hunter. I love you and your writing this blog is a blessing. Keep up the great work!

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be here of all places, love.”

Fate is a funny thing. You remember thinking briefly. For just a moment, you could have sworn feeling time spinning to a stop as you became distinctly aware of the salt from the sea, the lightness of the breeze, the itch of the rough wood scratching against your bare thighs. Circumstances far beyond your control often came back in circles, perhaps to remind you of your own failings. As if you were nothing more than a balloon, floating blissfully in the sky, before the sudden uptake in pressure crushes you and send you tumbling to the ground.

It is impossible to hide the horror that creeps up your skin and burrows deep into your temples when you hear the low tone of his voice drag itself across your ear. Frozen in your seat, you could only struggle to calm your breaths as he crept up from behind like a thief in the night, casually leaning against the back of the bench as the overwhelming scent of his sickening sweet perfume flooded your senses, allowing panic to creep in.

He grabs a fistful for your hair in his clawed hands, absentmindedly running his fingers through them, slowly inhaling the fresh scent of your shampoo before tossing it away. “It’s been far too long, don’t you say?”

You visibly stiffen, and you can tell he’s smiling, even without looking. You hadn’t expected to see him here, of all places. A quiet little beach town, secluded from major cities and surrounded by thick lush forest and mangroves. Cold sweat brews at the crown of your head, and you twist your hands into the fabric of your clothes to hide the shaking. You had hid your channels, you were so sure you did. Weeks of planning in an effort to erase your existence didn’t come easy, but you thought you succeeded, and had finally won, running away to hide here, undisturbed, away from the hunters, the mafia, and most importantly, from him.

“I can’t say it’s nice to see you again.” Somehow, you find your voice. It’s hoarse from shock, but stronger than how you actually feel. Staring out into the ocean envelops you with a sense of confidence you haven’t had in a long time. You don’t bother turning to face him, even when he leans in close enough that his nose brushes against your ear and his breath is hot down your neck. His nen hasn’t changed a bit, and it swirls around you like poisoned tendrils, crooning veiled threats in your ear. He’s itching for a fight, impatiently shifting from foot to foot as he leans into your ear.

“That makes one of us.” You feel his eyes eating you up, as his nen strokes the curves of your ankles and slowly make their way up to your knees. Even dressed in simple, loose fitting clothes does he leer strangle the breath out of your lungs, and you’re briefly thrown back in time, a cloud of poison squeezing you like rotten fruit as you struggle against his violent choke, squashing out every last bit of fight you had in you.

Your eyes are watering, why is everything getting so dark? It’s hard to breathe, you can’t-

“You’re disgusting.” You motion to move away but he grabs you by the arm, and pulls you back down.

“That’s a terrible thing to say, darling. After how you left me, you can’t expect me to just let you go just like that-“

“Don’t you dare touch me.” The fragile sense of control you have desperately tried to maintain snaps in two. And your own nen explodes in such force that surprises even you, the air itself shimmering from the heat, and a sick sense of pleasure croons within you when shock briefly flashed across his face.

“So, so touchy.” He tuts, regaining composure immediately and withdraws his hand, but remains where he stood, “you still make it very difficult for me to love you.”

You scoff.

“Why is what I do, never enough to satisfy you?”

He smiles, play cards disappearing into thin air. “You’re just impossible for me to love.”

You finally turn to face him, and he looks the same, as if time has stopped flowing for him (it has for a long time). You decide he’s a little less boyish, the broadness of his shoulders better filling out his chest, the blue hair he sports reminds you of the rippling waves at sea and you hate that he now represents another thing you’ve grown to love. But the cruel mocking in his eyes and the way his lips curl haven’t changed since the day you met him.

“If you truly wanted me, you would have found me years ago. Now,” your own nen flares dangerously, slick and potent with rage, and you feel disgust rise in you as sick pleasure twists the handsome features of his face, “What do you want from me?”

He eyes you with an unreadable gaze, and turns to the ocean, letting loose an uncharacteristic sigh, as if you’re overreacting, as if every word, every hit, every warped action he did that corrupted your very sense of self meant nothing (it doesn’t to him).

“I just want to talk.” He finally says, pulling out a worn deck of cards, lazily shuffling through them in easy repetitive motions. You smother the urge to knock them out of his hands.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I am. I’m just here to talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” There’s nothing left to say.

He peers curiously at you, yellow eyes glinting under the earning morning sun as he places the cards down on his lap.

“Do you hate me?”

“Yes.” And of course you do, you do, you do. You hate him so much that it breaks you in two and burns everything around you to ash.

His draws a queen of hearts from the deck, absentmindedly twirling it between fingers. “Why do you lie to yourself?”

“It’s the truth. If you can’t accept that it’s not my problem.” To your amazement, your feet don’t shake when you stand up.

“If I can do this,” you remember thinking when you ran away, “I can do anything.”

He doesn’t stop you this time, you follow his gaze and look at the sky. It’s so blue, so vast, so bright, looking at it makes the aching hurt in your chest bloom with such vigor that your vision blurs.

“I really did l-.”

“Stop.” You hold his gaze, a strange coolness wets your cheeks. You’ve decided you didn’t want to hear this. You didn’t want to know this, didn’t want to process this, for hearing his words, hearing him say what you desperately wanted to hear all those years ago would unravel every single thread you’ve sewn to mend the fractured pieces of your sanity back together. Piece by wretched piece, you strung them all back together, even when the needles pierced your skin and your blood stains everything a deep red. At the end of it all, there was no meaning in forcing yourself to hold on to the broken fragments of your relationship

He reaches out to hold your hands, but you hastily bring them behind your back. You don’t need his comfort. You didn’t it then, you don’t need them now.

Instead, you force yourself to look him in the eye. They hold the same exact shade of gold that you love. You loved him, you loved him so much that every gentle touch, every soft smile, every shared joke, every time his lips brush against yours brings back unsaid memories of haunting violence laced with bitter words and stinging slaps that remind you of haunting nights where painful shrieks pool at the base of your throat and you would faint from the exhaustion of it all, burning yourself alive in an attempt to keep up with him.

Until you eventually arose from the ashes, struggling for breath, and flew far, far away to where he could never hurt you again.

And even now, even when you finally face him as an equal (it’s a lie, he sold his humanity a long time ago), you cannot find it in yourself to spill those hurtful words you wanted to all those years ago.

And for years, it was only silence.

He could have found you if he wanted, but he didn’t. Like everything else, you just weren’t worth his time.

You look at the sky again, the salt from the sea mingling with the sweetness of chopped coconuts as the laughter of children fills you with so much warmth that you actually smile when you look at him.

He hasn’t changed at all. From his elaborate clothes, to the painted highlights of his cheeks, while time stood still for him, it continued to flow for you, building you walls and your strength, so that you could now see him for what he always was.

“I’m a different person now, and I won’t play your games anymore.”

Bonus:

You can see the brief flash of confusion in his eyes as opens his mouth to challenge your words, but as if on cue, a high voice sounds.

“Mama! Mama!” Down from the beach, a chubby toddler with wavy tresses bounces up to the both of you, wide smile from ear to ear, proudly showing off a collection of shells in their bucket. Their cheeks are full and pink from the sun, the freckles climbing their shoulder a beautiful shade of brown as they stumbled clumsily on stubby feet. They stop short upon realizing your company, quickly scrambling to hide behind you as they peek up at the strange man.

You scoop them into your arms before Hisoka could react, protectively shielding them from him. His eyes flit between the both of you, and you see them narrow when they land on your child, who can only curiously return his gaze with bright amber eyes.

“Mama?” You feel your child’s hands curl hesitantly around your shirt, confused by the tension stretched taut between the both of you. Before you could answer, Hisoka cuts you off.

“Is this what you want?” He asks, getting to his feet.

“Yes, it is.” You didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath until he turns away, a shadow of a smile dancing on his lips.

“How cruel.”

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hisoka #my writings #uhm #i tried the usual route but just wasnt feeling it so #hope this is alright #spoiler:#daddy hisoka?#more likely than you think ;)

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440mxs-wife · 5 years ago

Text

A Game of Cards

Imagine: A late-night card game plus beer and tequila turns interesting. Then there's the aftermath the next day.

One night, you were up late playing cards with Sam and Dean. Played a little poker, some blackjack. If the pile of chips you had in front of you represented any real money, you would've taken the boys for about $400.00. Around midnight, Sam decided he'd had enough and went to bed. "Goodnight, you two," he called.

You began to absently shuffle the cards. You didn't want to go to bed quite yet, but you didn't want to stay up alone. "So, whatcha wanna do?" Dean asked.

"I dunno. I'm not tired, but don't feel like you have to stay up on my account," you answered.

Dean cast a sideways glance your way. "How about a game of....Truth or Dare Go-Fish?" he asked as he waggled his eyebrows.

"I've never heard of that version before," you laughed. "How do you play?"

"Well, standard Go-Fish rules, you know, make matches with what's in your hand. If you draw from the pile and get a match, you decide 'Truth or Dare'. If you get a match from drawing from your opponent, it's your opponent who decides 'Truth or Dare'," Dean finished.

"Hmm. Sounds interesting....and dangerous...." you mused.

"Could be, depending on how you look at it. Are you in?" Dean challenged. "Yes...." you said.

First couple of games were pretty tame. Lots of silly truth questions, but they helped you and Dean to find out even more about each other.

By the fourth game, you had broken out the beer and tequila and you two started getting a little silly. "Do you have any....4's?" you asked. "Here you go," Dean said as he handed over the card.

"Okay, Dean. Truth or Dare?" you asked. Dean paused. "Dare," he said with a gleam in his eye.

You leaned back in your chair, your arm slung over the back. "Well, now. I think things just got interesting," you said. "What do you suggest?" you asked.

"I dare you....to kiss me," he said with a satisfying smirk on his face.

You slowly rose from your chair and walked over to him. You knelt in front of him and stared straight into his flashing green eyes. You put your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until your lips were almost touching. "You ready?" you asked breathlessly. Dean nodded slowly. At the last second, you pulled back a little, stood up and kissed his forehead. You started walking to your room and with a backwards glance said, "Goodnight, Dean."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," Dean called out as he caught your hand.

"What?" you said innocently. "You dared me to kiss you, and I did. You never said where the kiss had to be," you teased as he reluctantly released your hand. "Goodnight, Dean. Sweet dreams," you said with a wink. Dean put his head in his hands and let out an exasperated and frustrated groan.

Back in your room, it was all you could do to calm your hammering heart. You took several deep breaths, trying to get back under control. He dared you to kiss him! Whoa, girl, you said to yourself. Had to be the beer and tequila. Yeah, that's it. No way he would've asked you to do that if he'd been sober. Stupid little card game. Never mind the fact that you wanted to see what it would feel like to have his lips on yours....Could he have wanted you to kiss him as much as you wanted him to kiss you? He did seem a little frustrated that you just kissed him on the forehead....You yawned. Sleep now, more thinking tomorrow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam joined Dean at the breakfast table, where he was munching on some peanut butter toast. "So, how late did you two stay up last night?" Sam asked.

"Not too late, maybe another couple of hours after you crashed," Dean answered.

"What'd you do?" asked Sam.

"Oh, played a new card game," he said. "We played Truth or Dare Go-Fish," and he explained the rules. "It got a little more interesting when we got out the beer and tequila..." Dean said.

"Really...." Sam grinned. "Do tell."

"Well, for starters, I dared her to kiss me," Dean explained. "And she did....on my forehead."

"Wow. Hot," Sam teased.

"Shut up, Sam," he retorted.

"Whatever made you give her that kind of a dare?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged, "I don't know, seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, we were drinking. I can't be held responsible for what happens while I'm drinking."

Dean looked up just in time to see you enter the room. "Good morning," he said, cringing.

"Good morning, Dean," you mumbled, heading to the kitchen for some coffee.

"Way to go, bro," Sam mumbled.

Crap, Dean said to himself. He followed you to the kitchen and placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Yes, Dean?" you answered.

"About last night..." he started.

You held up your hand to stop him. "No need to explain, it was just a silly game. No harm, no foul," you explained. "If you'll excuse me, I need to shower before I do anything today," you said as you turned to leave.

Dean caught your hand and tried to draw you closer, but you resisted. "Please, Dean, let's not complicate things. You saw a chance, and you took it. Besides, we were drinking and shouldn't be held responsible for what happens." You pulled your hand free and headed to the shower.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Once in the shower, you let the water wash away the hot tears of frustration. Well, scratch that off the list. Now you knew for sure that he didn't mean anything by daring you to kiss him. Dean just wanted to see whether you would follow through or not.

You stepped out of the shower and wrapped one towel around your head and one around your body. After you dried off, you pulled on your favorite pair of faded blue jeans, a black T-shirt and your red flannel shirt. You ran some gel through your hair, grabbed a pair of work boots and you were good to go.

In the library, you fired up your laptop and started searching for a case. You had to get your mind off of what happened last night and this morning. If you were ever going to stay alive as a hunter, you had to concentrate.

"Find anything interesting?" Sam asked as he set down a glass of iced tea for you.

"Nothing yet," you answered, eyes still on your laptop.

"So, about Dean..." Sam started.

You held up your hand. "Sam, please don't. I've made my peace with it and moved on. News flash: Dean doesn't feel 'that way' about me. Don't know what would ever make me think otherwise," you muttered as you rose from your chair. "I'm headed to town to pick up a few things for lunch, maybe some sandwiches. Do you need anything?" you asked.

"Nah, but I'll go with you if you want," offered Sam.

You shook your head. "I think the drive will do me some good, clear out the cobwebs," you said, hoping you were convincing enough for him.

Sam was skeptical. "Okay, see you later," he called out as you headed for the garage.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You drove down the highway in your '68 Ruby Red Dodge Charger, blasting out some Aerosmith tunes. This is what I needed, you thought. Something to clear my head while I make sense of what's happened in the past 24 hours with Dean. Guess I'll have to accept the fact that he doesn't feel the same. At least I got out before my heart got too broken. We still have a job to do, saving people and hunting things. I can do this, just focus on the job and not on Dean. Yeah. Right, you thought as your vision started to get blurry with unshed tears.

Up ahead, you saw a truck barreling down the road in your lane. You slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve, but it was too late to avoid the impact. Your head slammed into the steering wheel and you could feel the car spinning around. You tried to keep your eyes open, but it was getting more difficult with each passing moment. Soon, the darkness won out and you fell unconscious.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean came into the library and asked Sam if he'd seen you lately. Sam asked Dean why he was looking for you. "I need to talk to her about something, and I haven't seen her since she left the table to take her shower. Not that I'm her favorite person right now," he muttered.

"Since when are you concerned with--wait a minute," Sam started. "You like her, don't you??" he asked.

Dean thought for a minute before answering, but found that all he could do is nod his head.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Finally," he remarked mostly to himself. "She said she was going to town for a few things and would bring back some sandwiches for lunch," Sam paused and checked his watch. "I would've thought she'd be back by now, though."

Dean was getting ready to call you, while Sam went back to plunking away on his laptop. Suddenly they heard a whoosh of wings and Castiel appeared and asked where you were.

"All I know is that she took a drive into town for some stuff, said she needed to clear her head. Wait, why?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

"I just had a vision that she's been in a terrible accident. A truck was coming towards her in the same lane and hit her car nearly head on," Cas replied.

Dean grabbed his keys and bolted up the stairs to the garage, with Sam close behind. "Cas, you gotta go to her, man," he pleaded. "Stay with her, heal her as best as you can. I-I can't lose her, man. Not before I've had a chance to tell her how I feel about her," his voice broke. Cas put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gave him a reassuring nod, then he was gone. "We'll meet her at the hospital, Sammy," Dean said as he jumped into the Impala.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean broke the speed limit the entire way to the hospital. Sam had seen him concerned about losing someone due to injury, having witnessed it firsthand when he was the injured one. This was different. You were different and Dean was scared of losing you. "Dean, she's going to be okay. She's strong, she's a fighter. She'll make it through this," Sam tried to assure him.

"This is my fault. If I had just told her....But, no, I had to do what I've always done--put up my walls and deny everything. Make it impossible for anyone as wonderful as her to get anywhere close to me. Now it could be too late, Sammy," said Dean.

"Listen, Dean. Cas is with her, he'll meet us at the hospital and we'll go from there. Let's just take it one step at a time, okay? She's tough, she's not going to give up," Sam replied. Dean pressed down harder on the accelerator in response.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam, Cas and Dean waited for what seemed like hours in those crappy chairs, drinking rotten coffee and leafing through outdated magazines. They wished that the doctor would come out and tell them something about how you were doing. Anything was better than nothing.

Dean wanted you to wake up, so he could tell you that he takes it all back about that night. It wasn't just the beer and tequila talking. He dared you to kiss him because he wanted to kiss you to find out what it felt like, but was too scared to admit it.

About three hours after they arrived at the hospital, the doctor came out to update them on your condition. The doctor said they could go back to your room and see you, but they were warned that you were still unconscious and likely could be for the next day or so.

Nothing could've prepared them for what they saw when they walked into your room. You went from being their tough little hunter capable of just about anything, to looking so frail and helpless. Your head was bandaged and there were cuts all over your arm, probably from the shattered window glass in the accident. It seemed like you had tubes were coming out of everywhere imaginable. Seeing you hurt like this only tore at Dean's heart even more.

Dean grabbed a chair and dragged it over to your bedside. He took your hand in his and held it to his cheek as a single tear slid down. "I'm so sorry, honey," he whispered, looking up to the ceiling.

"Sweetheart....if you can hear me....I have a confession to make, about that night we played Truth or Dare Go-Fish. It wasn't just the beer and tequila doing the talking. I'm so sorry, baby. I never meant to hurt you by saying that. I dared you to kiss me because....I wanted to kiss you to find out what it felt like. That, and....I'm in love with you."

He pressed his lips to your forehead, all the while keeping hold of your hand. Dean leaned on the edge of the bed with his left arm and rested his head on it. He traced circles on the back of your hand with his thumb as he closed his eyes and drifted off for some much-needed sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Beep....Beep....Beep....was the only thing you could hear, so you tried to open your eyes to figure out where the hell you were. When you first attempted to open your eyes, you were met with a blinding white light for your troubles. You tried again, more slowly this time, and you became vaguely aware of someone holding your hand. You looked down and saw Dean, fast asleep. You gently squeezed his hand and whispered, "Dean? Dean, please wake up," you croaked.

"Hey, sweetheart, you're awake! Sammy, wake up! She's awake!" Dean said as he launched a pillow at Sam.

"Whoa, what the hell, Dean?" Sam woke up but almost fell out of his chair in the process. He looked over and saw that you were awake. "Hey! Good to see you!" he exclaimed, scooting his chair closer to the bed.

At that moment, the doctor came in to check on your progress. "Ah, so nice to see you awake. My name is Dr. Carson. You gave us all quite a scare for a while. These two haven't really left your room for much of anything since you got in here," he remarked.

"Yeah, doc, they're pretty stubborn, but I wouldn't have them any other way," you replied, smiling, still holding Dean's hand.

"Well, you should be able to get discharged in a couple of days or so. With that concussion, we can't take any chances," he warned.

"I understand. Thank you, Dr. Carson," you said as he left the room.

"Well, I'm going to see what the cafeteria has to offer," Sam declared, stretching in his chair. He pressed his lips to your forehead before leaving and closing the door behind him.

"Dean, you should know that I heard the things you said while I was out. It wasn't your fault, the accident, I mean. Cas told me it was a demon possessing the truck driver. As to the other stuff you said...." you trailed off.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Dean prompted.

"I am in love with you, too," you answered shyly. In one swift move, he stood and cupped your face in his hands, pulling you closer to him for one long, passionate kiss. "That's just for starters. Wait till I get you home," he whispered in your ear. You shivered at the mere suggestion of more and couldn't wait to get out of here.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the content. Some of this chapter contains partial excerpts from my first Wattpad offering, Small Town Hunter. If you want to see more, check out my page at wattpad.com/user/SPNHawkeye.

#deanxreader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #spn fluff #spn imagine #spn fanfiction #supernatural

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fanfictionaries · 5 years ago

Text

A Sin Confessed - What’s Old is New Again Challenge

Prompt: “I do everything for a reason. Most of the time the reason is money.” – Ava Gardner

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Original Female Character

Summary: Brenna Wright was not a good person and the blue-eyed stranger that brought old memories to the surface of her mind? Well he was just a job.

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: Swearing, smut, dark, NSFW/18+ only

Author’s Note: Thank you to @darkficsyouneveraskedfor for this lovely challenge and the opportunity for me to explore a darker side of my writing! Also thank you to @justareader for checking over my French (I’m a little rusty)!

I loved writing this and honestly think Brenna might have to be a reoccurring character/this fic might need a part two...Enjoy!

***

Brenna Wright was not a good person. Anyone who thought otherwise was either unfortunately ignorant or foolishly optimistic.

Things that would stop others in their tracks, were as simple as picking out furniture or ordering food at a restaurant for her. It was never a question of whether she should or should not – only the dilemma of who, what and how much. Sure, she had her limits. Every woman did. The only difference being, the limits of most were trivial aspects of pride, egoism, and disillusioned self-respect. Hers were simple – no children and no animals. Therefore, everything else was up for grabs. Theft. Arson. Intimidation. Kidnapping. Torture. Murder. And her personal specialty – bounty. For the right price of course. She wasn’t an idiot. And she sure as hell wasn’t cheap.

Good guys. Bad guys. She’d worked for them all. From those of renowned self-importance all the way down to the lowest of nobodies. She couldn’t care less. As long as she got paid, she did her job. No questions asked.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,” said the owner of the small corner store. He was an older gentleman, greasy around the edges with a wandering eye that made even her skin crawl. But the store was convenient. It was small, indistinct, and located in the middle of the city. Which meant the area around it was large and busy enough to make someone traveling to it invisible. People often frequented the location when they found themselves in need of discretion. Sure, there were plenty of other shops in the city that fit the same bill, but only this one sold the more…unsavory items. Eventually, the people she was looking for always showed up here.

“I’ve been working,” Brenna replied, hugging the oversized coat around her body and taking a moment to scratch at her arms and the side of her face – imitating the mannerisms of the part she was playing.

Letting out a short, boisterous laugh, the shopkeeper eyed her up and down from her unkept curls to her dirty clothes, and seemingly drugged out appearance, “I’ve got a few ways in mind on how you can make a little extra cash.”

“Il faut tourner sept fois sa langue dans sa bouche avant de parler,” she seethed under her breath, turning from his leering gaze and heading down an aisle. If the man was smart – he’d watch his mouth. But then again, she was only the woman he’d watched dissolve into addiction and mental illness for the past four years. And he was useful. If she killed him, it was unlikely the next owner would be as conveniently idiotic with a streak for the illegal.

Pretending to fiddle with a packet of gum, her eyes darted to the front door. The familiar chime sounded through the air and Brenna kept her eyes low as she covertly checked out the stranger who’d just entered. He was tall and large, his size taking up an impressive amount of space in the tiny shop. His figure, while solid and imposing, held a contrasting lightness to it. The juxtaposition of his heavy density but delicate way in which he stepped intrigued her. Stumbling through the aisles, she made sure to draw enough attention to catch his eye. Reveling when the stranger’s gaze darted to her for the slightest of seconds, she turned to the cooler and began to mumble nonsense under her breath as she used the reflection of the glass to continue watching.

“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, standing taller and squaring his shoulders in a pathetic attempt to make himself seem intimidating. The stranger didn’t seem fazed in the least, stepping up to the counter.

“I need papers,” said the stranger, his voice a soothing gravelly tone.

“Papers?” The shopkeeper feigned an incredulous, dumb expression, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Brenna rolled her eyes; it was the same every time. Why the man bothered, she had no idea. He always dropped the act after the second inquiry.

“Listen – let’s not waste our time. I know you provide papers, so just take this—” the stranger spoke low and firmly, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a heavy manila folder before slamming it onto the counter “—and do your fucking job.”

Brenna’s eyebrows rose against her will; that was definitely a response she had never heard before. You’d think from the ease in which the stranger handled the situation, he’d been here before – but he hadn’t. She knew that. Even when she wasn’t here, she kept tabs on all her spots. A flash of metallic silver caught her eye. A sliver of metal peeking through the gap between his gloved hand and clothed arm.

Bingo.

Reaching into the cooler and grabbing a forty of malt liquor, she stumbled to the front, pushing herself between the stranger and the tense shopkeeper.

“Listen—” she slurred “—Chessa. I don’t have enough for this today, but I swear, I’ll have the money tomorrow.”

“I’m dealing with a customer here woman, besides you know the rules – no handouts. I’m not running a charity for fucking junkies.”

“Oh, come on, Chessa. You know I’m good for it!” she pleaded, knocking into the stranger and leaning heavily over the counter. “I’m good for the money Chessa. I’m good for it.”

The harsh smack of the back of shopkeeper’s hand to the side of her face made her head snap to the side and her ears ring. The throbbing pain and blood that pooled in her mouth was expected but not the worst she’d ever felt – he hit like a fucking bitch.

“Fuck you!” she exclaimed, reeling back and smashing the glass bottle of liquor onto the laminate flooring before storming out of the shop with the sound of the shopkeeper slinging a disgusting string of abuse following behind.

Walking down the street and turning into an alleyway, she worked her jaw back and forth, spitting the blood that had pooled in her mouth onto the filthy cement.

“Salaud. Un jour, je vais le tuer,” she grumbled to herself, leaning against the damp brick alley wall and waiting. The stranger was definitely her target. That much was true. The opportunity to lean in and confirm that the flash of silver she’d spied was in fact, a full metal arm, almost made getting back handed like a bitch worth it. Almost.

A few minutes later, the stranger, clad in a grubby red Henley and tattered ballcap, walked right past her. People were so predictable. Waiting a beat, she turned out of the alley and began to follow the man at a leisurely pace, mentally noting the small details about him that might be helpful later. Things like how he favored his right side, but still walked with his weight drawn to the left; most likely due to the metal arm. A metal arm – she’d seen it all now. When her employer had briefed her on the job, she’d made a mental note of the unusual characteristic. The way they had described him, extremely dangerous and not to be underestimated, she assumed they wanted her to take him out. But to her surprise, they insisted that he be taken in alive. What made this guy so special? Eyeing the backpack strapped securely around his center and the multipurpose boots laced tightly, she could tell he was ready to run at any moment. The way in which he handled the shopkeeper said he was a man of action – he had no time to fuck around. But there was a reservation to the way in which he did it that made it known he wasn’t desperate either. That was something different from the people she was usually hired to find. Still – he had shown up exactly where she expected him to be. Twice now. He was just as predictable as all the rest. If she was right, he’d turn left any second now.

Just as she predicted, the man took a left turn on the following street. Smirking to herself, she lowered her head and keeping a casual pace, turned the corner as well. However, her confidence was shaken when she found no sight of the stranger upon rounding the corner. Where could he possibly have gone? Speeding up, Brenna scanned the area around her, looking for any signs of the stranger with the metal arm. What was it her employer had said? Do not underestimate him? It was her confusion that kept her from spotting the movement to her left until it was too late. A hand reaching out from the gap between two buildings grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and pulled her into the small space. The section between the two buildings could hardly be called an alleyway – more like an architectural blip as the width was only large enough for herself and an inch of space from where the stranger stood, looking down at her dangerously.

The first thing she noticed was the striking color of his eyes. Impossibly blue. Clear and blue with the slightest mix of green around the iris. It was like looking into a beautiful, crystal clear pond. The thought held reminiscent of another time. Another life. Strong arms, a rich umber color, same as hers, holding her close. A soft breeze. The light chirp of Citril finches high above.

“Why are you following me?” he asked, speaking low and sternly.

Lost in the mixed emotions of his eyes and the memories they produced; she did not answer right away. Instead she stared at him dumbfounded as if she hadn’t done this almost her entire life.

“I’m not going to ask again—” the stranger leaned forward, the hot puff of his breath hitting her face “—why are you following me? Who do you work for?”

Thinking fast on her feet, Brenna found herself taking an approach she never had before. But then, this target was different from any other she’d encountered. He was smart. Smart enough to figure out she was following him in less than ten minutes. Perhaps he knew in the corner shop when she’d bumped into him. Maybe even from the moment he’d walked in. If that were true, then he knew she used disguises, deception, and lies to do her job. She needed a new approach. She needed to intertwine honesty with the lies.

“Hydra. I work for Hydra.”

His grip tightened on the collar of her jacket, a second hand coming up to wrap around her neck. Brenna suppressed the instinctual reaction to fight back. She was working an angle here and based on the strength and the mechanical whirring of the arm that currently held her life in its hand, she knew when she was at a disadvantage.

“Let me guess, they hired you to find me. Take me back?”

She nodded, feeling the grip tighten and her air supply cut off little by little. Every fiber of her being begged for her to fight for her life – to twist and squirm in his grip. Yet, she stayed still; the whole time, never looking away from the intensity of his stare. The secret to a good lie was always in the eyes.

“Well I’m not goin’ back. So, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck right now,” the blue-eyed stranger said, looming over her as black spots began to overtake her vision.

“You—” she struggled with the words, her body screaming for the sweet relief of oxygen “—you got out. You got away. How?” Her body, no longer able to remain slack, convulsed, hands flying up claw at the unmoving forearm. Legs kicking out underneath her, she dangled from her neck alone. His hand did not loosen, but the expression on his face softened ever so slightly. A micro-expression of confusion.

“Why do you care?” he asked her, still holding tight to her airway. Either he was unaware of just how close she was to passing out, or he didn’t care. Brenna used every last ounce of her strength to stay conscious. The focus of her eyes went blurry, her head swam, but her answer to his question was surely the answer to her survival as well.

“I want out too.”

When she awoke, the first thing Brenna became aware of was a dry heat and the sound of running water. Opening her eyes, she took in the sight of a small bedroom. It was dirty; wallpaper peeled from the walls in thick, grey strips revealing the rotting plaster behind it. Floorboards covered in dirt and dust, warped and twisted, giving the floor an unusual texture. Across the room sat an old space heater, plugged into a questionable outlet that threatened electrical fire at any moment. It was aimed directly at her body, which was unmistakably absent of the clothes she’d been wearing earlier. Instead, only her panties and undershirt remained. Attempting to roll from the bed, she found herself hindered by an unforgiving pull at her wrists. Looking above her head, she saw her wrists expertly bound to the old, iron headboard. The knot was unyielding as she pulled firmly at it, testing its strength. Her heart rate sped, but she willed herself to stay calm, present, collected. Nothing felt amiss as she took a moment to assess her body. No aches or pains in any place but her neck and face. The water she had heard upon waking up, was now very clearly the sound of a shower running. Eyes scanning the room, she spotted her clothes sitting on an old chair. This wasn’t the worst scenario she had ever found herself in. Montreal would still be the worst. This was nothing. She just needed a plan.

Unfortunately, Brenna was given no time to come up with one. From the other room, the sounds of a squeaky faucet turning and someone shuffling around could be heard. When the stranger appeared from behind the bathroom door, he was dressed once again in the same dark wash jeans, but this time with a fresh, loose fitting t-shirt. His feet were bare, a bold choice in her opinion, but then again, the person in charge of finding him was right there, tied to his bed. His hair hung, wet and tousled, dripping water onto his shoulders and sliding down onto the expanse of his metal arm. In short sleeves, Brenna was able to see the full extent of the appendage. It was more magnificent than she could have imagined. It moved, shifted, twitched like a one of flesh and blood. Yet there is was – an amalgamation of metal, gears, and wires. Shifting her gaze from the mechanical anomaly, she took in the rest of him. He really was quite handsome. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, a nice symmetrical face, a built physique, a little pretty, a little rugged. If she wasn’t worried he would kill her any moment, she’d find the fact that she was tried up in his bed to be exciting. It wasn’t often that she received a job that was so easy on the eyes. And Brenna was never one to pass up opportunistic situations.

“You’re awake,” said the stranger, walking over to the small chair and moving her clothes out of the way before sitting down. The wood groaned under his weight, but he trusted it as he sat down fully. He’d sat in it before – which meant he’d most likely been in this location for longer than a few days.

“And alive,” Brenna responded, staring hard at the man across from her. “Why?”

The blue-eyed stranger took a moment to contemplate the answer, staring through her as he clenched his jaw, “You said you wanted out. I figured if that were even remotely true, I should try to help.”

“That’s quite a bit of generosity for someone who’s running for their life. Savior complex?”

“Heavy conscience. I have a several lifetimes to atone for.” He spoke the words with a burdensome resolution.

“I think you and I both know that there’s no atonement for the things we’ve been forced to do,” she half lied. It was true there was no saving her soul, but no one had forced her to do anything against her will in almost twenty years. The way in which the blue-eyed stranger assessed her, gave her hope that her plan was working. She was building a rapport. However, the part of her that craved danger found itself unable to hold back a flirtatious comment, “But you know what they say – A sin confessed is half forgiven. Care to confess and repent, Blue Eyes? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He laughed unamusedly, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest, “I think I’ll pass.”

The crossing of his arms only seemed to fuel the inappropriate attraction she was feeling. His arms and shoulders were so ridiculously large, and it had been so long since she’d had someone…large. Flexing her fingers, Brenna could feel the blood draining from her hands, leaving a tingling feeling behind. Pulling on the restraints she slid herself into a sitting position, “Tell me, Blue Eyes, do you always tie up the women you help?”

“I had to make sure you wouldn’t run away before I decided to trust you. I also needed a shower. Didn’t know when you’d wake up.”

“And my clothes?” Brenna asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“After you passed out, I figured it was best to search you for weapons,” he answered, continuing to stare at her, a bored expression plastered across his face.

“Well you were certainly thorough. Did you have your fill while I was unconscious?”

“That implies that I cared enough to look.”

Brenna smiled, slow and sly as she narrowed her eyes at him, “Pity.”

She couldn’t say for certain, but she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch at her comment.

“Well, are you going to untie me, or do I have the pleasure of staying on your bed, half-naked, for the forceable future?”

The blue-eyed stranger stood, stalking towards her as he pulled a knife from his pocket. Brenna’s flinched at the flick of the blade, an instinctual reaction that she could tell made the man pause for a fraction of a second.

“Well, you didn’t have any weapons on your person. Not even a knife. If Hydra had sent you to capture me and you had been serious about doing it, I doubt you’d come empty handed,” he mused, reaching your side and leaning over her grabbing for her wrists.

“Just like that then? You didn’t find anything on me, so you trust me?” A decent amount of skepticism would be expected in a situation like this. A woman looking to get out from under the thumb of Hydra and their dastardly ways. A woman genuinely putting her trust in this stranger.

“You tell me something—” he stared down at her, knife paused against the rope at her wrists “—They must have told you about me when they assigned you to find me. Why in the world would you trust me to save you?” Brenna couldn’t help it, once again she was lost in the strange familiarity of the blue-green depths of his eyes. Like floating in the crisp waters of a memory.

“I didn’t,” she answered truthfully, fully intending to make up something contrived and pathetic. However, her mouth was speaking before her mind could catch up, iterating the thoughts that flowed through her head. “Not at first. And then I looked in your eyes and knew that I could.”

And she did. If she genuinely was looking to put her trust in someone, it might just be the man in front of her. But she wasn’t looking to trust anyone.

The blue-eyed stranger assessed her for a few more seconds, before pushing his blade through the thick rope as if it was paper thin. At the sweet release of her arms, Brenna brought them to her chest, rubbing at the tender skin as blood began to flow back into the appendages. Upon seeing that he had not stepped away from her, Brenna looked up at the blue-eyed stranger a breath away from her. He looked at her; he was searching for something – but for what she did not know. The truth? Her secret? Her story? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He’d never get it.

“Trying to find something, Blue Eyes?” she asked playfully.

He pulled back, as if he had just become aware of his staring in that moment. Shaking his head and stepping back, he gave her space to swing her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Shower’s free if you want one – can’t promise there’ll be a lot of hot water,” he said, turning from her and heading towards the doorway that lead out of the bedroom.

“It’s a shame I didn’t wake up sooner. We could have conserved the hot water by sharing.” Her comment fell on deaf ears as he continued out of the room. Laughing to herself, Brenna stood and entered the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind her as she turned the water on and stripped from the rest of her clothes. Taking a moment to stare in the mirror above the sink, she assessed the damage to her face and neck. Red and yellow bruising was already making an appearance on her skin across her left cheek bone and in a ring around her neck. Delicately, she traced the handprint that graced the golden-brown skin of her throat. In a few days they would fade, but till then she was marked with the evidence of being bested by her target. Her normally springy, dark brown curls hung limp and frizzy above her shoulders – partly from her own doing to appear the part of ‘down on her luck’, but also from, what she could only assume, the less than careful way she was transported to the apartment she currently resided.

Stepping into the lukewarm water, she reveled in the feel of it running down her body. Eyeing the contents of the shower, she was not surprised to see a lack of conditioner. Picking up the bar of soap, she began to work it over her body, wiping away the grime and dirt. She scrubbed at her nail beds, thoroughly before set the bar down and sighing at the two-in-one shampoo. Her hair would not thank her for it, but she reasoned it was better than the gritty feeling on the surface of her scalp. So, she squeezed a small amount onto the palm of her hand and made special care to keep the product near her scalp only. Standing under the heavy stream, she contemplated what her next move was.

Clearly, she had gained his trust or at the very least did not come off as a threat to him. She could laugh at the thought. Just as much as people were predictable, they were equally narrow-minded and uncreative. Why did everyone always assume that the small were weak or that you needed something as primitive as a knife or a gun to incapacitate a man? Rolling her head from side to side, she knew that this whole thing could end in a matter of seconds if she wanted it to. She could easily have the man immobilized at her feet and be collecting her money. But where was the fun in that? It was so rare that she found herself in a titillating scenario as the one she was in now. No, it would be so much more satisfying to see how far she could push the ‘kindred broken spirits, looking for a new life and purpose’ thing.

Turning off the water that had long run cold, she pulled the curtain back and stepped out onto the ratted, thread-bare mat. Looking to the open doorway, she found the blue-eyed stranger standing, towel and her folder clothes in his arms. He stood solid and stoic; his face inscrutable as his eyes scanned the line of her body. Like a heavy-handed caress, he followed her hills and valleys from the curve of her full thighs to the peaks of her modest breasts. Sexual tension hung in the space between them like the steam that floated throughout the humid air around her. Stepping lightly across the bathroom floor, she took the towel and clothes from his arms.

“Thank you,” she spoke softly, watching with rapt interest as the man before her appeared to battle with something internally. Presented to him like a feast for the starving, she wondered why he did not partake in tasting the delicacy before him. Was it the heavy conscience he claimed the possess? Or was it something far more trivial – such as the simple issue of consent. People really ought to just take what they want. Rising onto her toes, the towel and clothes dropped to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought her full lips to brush against the warmth of his own mouth. Fingers of flesh and metal gripped her naked body as they consumed each other – lips, tongue, and teeth. Pressing her wet form into the hard plane of this body, the blue-eyed stranger groped the ample flesh of her ass tightly as they stumbled in the direction of the bed. Turning him, Brenna used the full force of her strength to push him onto the mattress below her. He fell, willingly, allowing her to climb onto his lap, taking his own wrists in her hands and pinning them above him. Her wet curls hung heavy around her face, dripping the blue-eyed stranger below her, but he didn’t seem to care as he broke from her grasp and reached up to cup the back of her head. He pulled her down, capturing her bottom lips between his teeth.

The control she had was short lived. Distracted by the heat of his kiss, she allowed the blue-eyed stranger to gain the upper hand. Flipping them over so that she lay on her stomach, face pushed into the firm springs of the mattress, he reached around her and massaged the tender flesh of a breast. Arching her back, Brenna pressed her ass firmly into the front of his jeans, rewarded by the rigid length of his cock. Growling low in his throat, he bit down on the junction of her neck and shoulder causing her to cry out. He continued to nip and suck at the sensitive flesh of her shoulder as he braced himself above her, right hand traveling from her breast to the juncture between her legs. Finding the flesh there warm, wet, and ready, he wasted no time in plunging his fingers into her depths. Brenna moaned, low and needy as he stroked her in long, forceful pulls.

Pulling from her completely, Brenna felt empty and wanting. Moving to turn, a hand to the center of her back kept in place as the sounds of shuffling fabric filled her ears. The next thing she knew, she was being filled by the white-hot length of him. Thick and long and raw, he bottomed out in her before pulling out slowly and reentering with similar force. Wrapping his metal arm around her middle and his flesh arm across her chest, he laid his body flush against her as he fucked her. The intimate way in which he took his time, languidly and passionately bringing her towards her crest, contrasted so unbearably well with the rough and filthy fact that he’d rather have her this way – unable to see her face as he entered her and still wearing all his clothes.

It wasn’t long before she could feel the familiar pressure building within her. Nails digging into the flesh of his forearm, Brenna found what little power she could in the movement of her hips. Grinding back against him, they battled for dominance over the pace and angle as they both chased their own release. Never before had she fought for control in bed. Like most things in her life, it was an area she governed – domineering and calling the shots in her own pleasure. However, now, as the blue-eyed stranger plowed into her at a pace he dictated, she found herself panting and whining like a desperate woman asking for permission. What was it about this man that made every facet of her being fade away – replaced only by someone reckless and willing to potentially lose?

A few more thrusts and her orgasm overtook her, leaching the ecstasy from her very bones. The blue-eyed stranger followed quickly, pulling out and spilling on the small of her back. Brenna took a moment to catch her breath as he collapsed beside her. In a surprising act of intimacy, the blue-eyed stranger pulled her into his side, wrapping an arm protectively around her. Looking at the relaxed expression on his face, Brenna couldn’t help but feel as though she should feel guilty. It was unfortunate his peaceful state was about to end. Parting her lips, she reached discretely into her mouth and grasp her front left canine between her thumb and pointer finger. She pulled it with little effort, twisting as she went until she felt the familiar pop. Taking the tooth from her mouth, she revealed the sharp, needle end where the root should be. There was no hesitation in her movements as plunged the metal into the side of his neck, knowing instantly that the tranquilizer was already seeping into his system.

The blue-eyed stranger’s eyes flew open, scrambling away from her as he brought a hand up to the point of entry. A shocked and confused expression washed across his face, and then one of sick realization. Brenna slid from the bed, standing and walking towards her discarded clothes in the bathroom. The stranger tried to follow her, falling pathetically to the floor as his legs gave way underneath him. She dressed quickly, reaching into the pocket of her coat and pulling out an old, burner phone – something he had apparently deemed nonthreatening. She snapped a picture of him, lying there helplessly, staring at her with betrayal in his blue-green eyes.

Texting the proof of a job well done to her employer, along with the words “It’s done. Come and get him.”—incase the picture wasn’t clear enough, she discarded of the phone out the window, no longer in need of it.

“They should be here soon. Try to keep it together until then – wouldn’t want you choking on your own tongue, now would I?” she remarked, heading towards the door.

“Why?” The words stopped her. She supposed he deserved an answer.

Turning around, she sauntered over to him and crouched down on the balls of her feet. She took his handsome face in her hand, squeezing his jaw between her fingers as she stared into the depths of his for the last time. Why indeed. She could have plunged that needle into his neck at any moment. So why had she decided to do it this way?

Tonguing the empty space within her upper row of teeth, she took a moment to ponder the answer before speaking, “I do everything for a reason. Most of the time the reason is money. But you, Blue Eyes? You were more personal. I did you…for me.”

Marvel Taglist:

@caffiend-queen

@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

@grincheveryday

#roosoldhollywood #challenge #dark #black!OFC #fan fic #smut #bucky x ofc #bucky x black!ofc #bucky barnes

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toomanyfamdom · 6 years ago

Text

Many Shades of Green

I have to say some thank yous before I post this.

Thank you to @jane-fucking-seymour , @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts , @millie1536 and @bessie-bass-on-the-bass for being inspirations to me. Without them I wouldn’t have thought of starting to write. They never got mad if I sent them random messages and goodness knows what time for them and have kindly corrected me when necessary. So thank you.

But the person I owe the most to is @the-quiet-winds . I’ve talked most closely with them and they are an incredible writer and the first person to encourage me to basically get myself together and write something for goodness sake. They’ve been incredibly kind, never minding the annoying messages I send them and giving me her permission to write my own interpretations of her stories some co-written with @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts . So for this, I thank you.

This is my first publicized work and I’m open to constructive criticism. This is based on the personal head cannon I mentioned about Anne Boleyn so I decided I would just write about it instead. Please be patient with me. This may seem a little unrealistic but bear with please.

Also, does anyone want a tag list?

Tw: none that I can think of

Word count: 1318

***

All was calm in the queens household.

Which was weird, especially because the ladies-in-waiting were over for the evening for their monthly get together.

It wasn’t the only time the ladies were in the house, they only lived two doors down the road but it was the only scheduled, constant gathering.

They were all gathered in the living room, watching a movie, eating - or in some cases throwing - popcorn when one of the phones began to ring. Catherine, being the closest got to it first.

“Hello?” she answered, face brightening as the other person spoke, “Sasha! Give me one second, I’ll put you on speaker.” Sasha was their manager so if she phoned the house, it was something for everyone.

“Hello?” Sasha’s voice came through the speaker.

“Hiya love, you have all of us here,” Jane told the woman.

“Great, makes my life easier,” they all laughed, “I have some very exciting news for you all.”

“Don’t leave us hanging babes, tell us,” Anna laughed.

“You’ve been invited for a European tour.”

Silence. Then all hell broke loose.

“Are we really going on tour?”

“It would be so nice to go back home.”

“That I agree with, Bess.”

“I’d love to back to France.”

“Same but with Spain.”

“I’d love to go where you grew up Catherine.”

“How cool, we get to travel and still perform. Awesome!”

“Agreed, Kat.”

“That’s a lot of new rigs to learn.”

“You’ll be fine Joey.”

“Where are we going, Sasha?” Jane was the only person with something sensible to say.

“You’ll be starting in Portugal and working your way through Spain, France, Italy, Germany, the Netherlands and ending in Sweden.”

“That’s so many places,” Kat was in awe.

“So many different languages,” Cathy noted.

“We’ll have to see about getting interpreters,” Sasha added.

“Well you have Anna, Catherine, Anne, Maggie and I who can speak German, Spanish and French respectively,” Cathy said, “And Bessie-”

“I can speak Italian,” the bassist confirmed.

“Right,” she nodded, “so it’s just Portuguese, Dutch and Swedish we’ll need help with.”

“I’ll look into interpreters but no promises,” Sasha’s voice was uncertain.

“I’ll learn them.”

Every head turned to the queen who had just spoken.

“Are you sure, Anne? That’s a lot of work,” Maria questioned her friend.

“Well I’m already learning other languages and from what I’ve heard Portugese and Spanish are kind of similar and German, Dutch and Swedish come from the same family of languages so I wouldn’t mind. If it gives us some piece of mind,” Anne scratched her neck and giggle slightly, “I’ve been looking for some new languages to learn anyway so this just made my search so much easier.”

Only if you’re sure sister,“ Maggie looked concerned.

"I’m sure,” the woman in question affirmed, pulling her sister into her arms, “I promise if it gets too much, I’ll stop. Is that okay with everyone?”

Various affirmations were made and Sasha said, “Thank you Anne, that’s one less thing to worry about. Just letting you know, your opening date is in six months. Bye.”

“Thank you Sasha, bye,” Catherine hung up the phone, “well then, let’s get back to our movie, shall we?

***

Four months later and the ladies-in-waiting were over again. Maria, Joan, Jane and Catherine were all in the kitchen making the dinner together, Anna, Kat and Bessie were playing an intense game of Mario Kart and Anne, Maggie and Cathy were in Anne’s room.

"This is incredible,” said Cathy from where she was sitting on the floor by Anne’s desk with the queens many notebooks sat surrounding her, all in different colours and languages ranging from English to German to Swedish, “How many languages did you say?”

“Nine,” Anne said, looking up from where she was lying upside down off the edge of her bed reading some Greek poetry, dangerously close to kicking Maggie in the face from where she was drawing in a random sketch book she found, “and I’m working on a tenth, although it’s a little harder, see that dark blue one behind you? I’m not fluent, that would be impossible in four months but I’ll be able to help in most situations.”

“That’s amazing,” Cathy smiled at her, “now, come help me put these away.”

Anne closed her book and set it gently on the floor putting her hands down and kicking herself off the bed and over onto her feet. She took the books from a laughing Cathy and went round the other side of the divider she had put in her room and came back around to the girls, flopping at Cathy and Maggie’s feet, back to her original position.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself one of these days,” Maggie didn’t even look up from her drawing.

“I know,” Anne winked at Cathy to have the pair laugh at her despairingly.

“You’ll have to teach me some of those languages when we get time,” Cathy said, “Its so nice to see this other side of you and I’m so happy you feel comfortable enough to show me this side.”

Anne sat up, “You two are my nearest and dearest, how could I not be comfortable around you?”

The trio smilled at each other and all of their phones buzzed.

“Did you two get this as well?” asked Maggie.

“From Sasha,” Cathy had already read the message and was looking at it with wide eyes.

“Is it bad or?” Anne’s phone was out of reach.

“The tour’s been cancelled,” Maggie told her.

Anne bolted up straight. “What?! What do you mean?” she asked increadiusly.

“Exactly what she said.”

“What on…” Anne trailed off then jumped off the bed and running downstairs, “Familly meeting in the kitchen!”

Anna jumped when she heard Anne’s shout. The German looked over at her two companions.

“If Anne’s calling a family meeting,” started Kat.

“Something is definitely wrong,” Bessie finished.

“Better not keep the hurricane waiting,” the three went to the kitchen, meeting Maggie and Cathy in the hall and were met with a pacing Anne Boleyn.

“Perfect, we’re all here now,” Anne said, “Have a seat.” She gestured towards the table.

“Anne, what’s wrong?” Jane asked as softly as she could.

“Nothing’s wrong per say, just changes, I don’t like sudden changes so yeah,” Anne muttered to her self. She stopped took a deep breath then said, “Check your phones.”

They all did - except for Maggie and Cathy who tried to calm Anne down a bit. “I have a message from Sasha,” said Kit a bit confused, “why is she messaging me?”

“I have one too,” said Maria

“I think we all do,” Jane said in a grim voice, reading the message.

“Is it bad?” Joan looked over to her former mistress, scared to read it.

Anne took a deep breath, “The tour’s been cancelled.”

“What?!” Katherine almost jumped out of her seat, “But why? All the prep was going so well and we were getting venues just fine.”

“Says here that our sponsor backed out,” Anna said, “If that’s true, there’s no way the tour could be funded babes.”

“You did all that learning for nothing,” Catherine realised the root of Anne’s distress.

Anne visibly deflated, leaning against the counter top, head in her hand. “Its not even that. Well, it is that a little but,” she sighed, “You may not know or remember this from our past lives but I thoroughly enjoy learning. Languages especially, they’re challenging. But I also love learning with a reason. I probably would’ve learnt the languages anyways but the tour gave me a reason. It gave me constancy. And that’s been torn from underneath my feet.”

Suddenly there was a Kitty sized person embracing Anne. “I think its really cool how much you’ve managed to learn Annie. Nine foreign languages? That’s incredible!”

“Well, now I have an excuse to keep learning yeah? Look on the bright side!” Anne returned her cousin’s hug, “Thanks sister.”

#im actually so nervous about this #hope you like it #six the musical fanfic #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #anna of cleves #jane seymour #katherine howard #catherine parr #maggie on the guitar #joan on the keys #bessie on the bass #maria on the drums

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years ago

Text

Best. Proposal. Ever.

Summary: Every year, Bucky makes his new year’s resolutions. And every year, he fails. Maybe this time, with a little help from his favourite girl, things will turn out different.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Some well deserved murder and discussions of Bucky’s sexy man parts.

A/N: After writing Best. Date. Ever. I needed a sequel to explore this crazy relationship a little more. Both stories are connected, but you can read them in either order. Thanks a million to my fabulous boo @interestedbystanderwrites who decided to host a challenge and give me the idea for the next part of their story. This is all about “New Year’s Resolutions” so here we go!

If you want on/ off the tag list, send me an ask!

MASTERLIST

*****

JANUARY 1

The wall feels blessedly cool against your forehead. Resisting the urge to bang your head repeatedly, you try an angry whispered pep talk.

“Come on. Come on. Go. This is not a big deal, it’s not. Get in there. Now. Now. Now.”

The kitchen is so close the scent of fresh coffee makes your mouth water. You could be in there, sipping that delicious black gold, but no. Instead, you’re standing in the hallway, shuffling awkwardly and berating yourself.

See, here’s the problem.

Last night at midnight, there were fireworks and party horns screaming as the New Year arrived. Slightly tipsy on champagne and caught up in the crazy whirl, you melted into Bucky’s snuggly hug. When he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, the feel was pure electricity. Without thinking, you turned into him, pressing your lips to his.

It was tradition. A kiss at midnight. Everyone does it.

Except you lingered.

Breaking the kiss, you didn’t step away. It was far too easy to let yourself drown in those cool blue eyes. He held your stare and you saw the excitement brewing in his face. Then he took a breath, and you knew if he spoke, your walls would crumble.

Because since day one, Bucky’s made it abundantly clear he wants more.

So, like always, you panicked. Stepped back. Made another excuse and rushed off before he could speak.

On the surface, it makes no sense. Bucky Barnes is it, the full package. Full of dry humor and sweet smiles, his no filter approach to life leaves you breathless at time. And of course, there’s the obvious.

He is delightfully, scandalously sexy.

But you know starting something with him won’t work. Relationships are always hard, but when you tack on the business of avenging? They’re damn near impossible. Keeping your distance is best. Bucky always looks disappointed, but he respects the decision. Although it doesn’t stop him from flirting outrageously every time you’re together. You know he’s holding out hope that you’ll change your mind.

Cut to this morning.

You know he’s sitting alone in the kitchen. A barrier of sinfully sexy man sits between you and the coffee and you’re feeling exceedingly stupid about last night’s reaction to an innocent kiss.

“Go. Just sack the fuck up and go.”

Shoving yourself into the kitchen, you find Bucky hunched over a piece of paper. Deep in concentration, his tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth while he writes and the sheer adorableness makes your brain go fuzzy. Wide swaths of skin are on full display, as he’s decided to visually massacre you today by wearing nothing but a ragged pair of sweatpants.

Fuck.

“Morning,” he says, his voice quiet with a handful of gravel.

“Morning,” you murmur and head straight for the coffee, where the first sip sends caffeine surging through your veins. Sighing blissfully, you glance up to find him watching you, a small smile on his lips. “What are you doing?”

“New year’s resolutions,” he says. “Make them every year, but never seem to finish them.” He gives you considered look. “Keep thinking maybe I just need the right…motivation.”

“Maybe I can help,” you offer. “Tell me your list and I’ll keep you on track.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure, I can whip you into shape.”

Bucky makes a little humming sound. “That sounds like a good time.”

Embarrassment skitters down your spine at the innuendo. “Well, you – um, show me what you’ve got.”

With a flourish, he brandishes the list. Written in careful block letters, you find three items and a random assortment of doodles.

Dance more

Find my karaoke song

Stop holding grudges

Whatever you expected, it wasn’t this. You’d assume Bucky Barnes’ new year’s resolutions included things like increase number of fiery explosions per mission and learn three new ways to sever a femoral artery, but these are surprisingly normal.

“These are great, Bucky. Are you only doing three though? I thought you only made lists in multiples of four.”

He gives you a cheeky wink. “I like that you know that. But no. I’m living on the edge this year.”

“Ah. I like your drawings.”

“Right? Everyone thinks Steve’s the artist, but I hold my own,” he points to the line of knives and grenades and cats he’s drawn down the page. “Figure if I get tired of murder and revenge, this could be another career path.”

The decisiveness in his voice makes you bite back a smile.

“Well, I swear I’ll harass you whenever required,” you say and Bucky’s nose scrunches when he grins.

Gathering up your coffee, and thanking god you made it out without looking like an idiot, you turn to walk away when he suddenly barks out a request.

“Wait! We should shake on it. Make it official.”

Sometimes he gets weirdly formal about things, so you capitulate with a firm shake. Right before you pull away, you feel him curl his finger and teasingly tickle your palm.

A long shiver runs from your head to your toes. Tugging your hand nervously away, you fold it behind your back. He smiles, little crinkles lining his eyes.

It’s distracting.

“Um. Okay. Bye then.”

And you turn and hurry from the kitchen.

Bucky scratches his nose with the pen cap and watches you leave. He starts to fold up his list, when an idea pops in his head. One he’s been thinking about for ages. Since the very first day he met you.

Best day ever, actually.

Smoothing out the list, he adds one more thing. Then he folds it carefully and slips it into his pocket.

*****

RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is our job,” Bucky says with relish. He adjusts his duffel bag, dragging you through the crowded alley.

Tripping along behind him, you hold tight to his sleeve. “Remind me why you volunteered for this mission?”

“I said I wanted to dance more,” he answers nonchalantly. “New Year’s resolution and all. Seemed like a good opportunity.”

“But it’s a strip club. I thought you meant like, you wanted to tap dance or something. You know you’ll be dancing on a stage. In front of people. In tiny underwear. Like - very tiny underwear.”

“What?” Bucky gasps and stops so abruptly you slam into him. He spins around to face you. “Are you saying people will see my special naughty place?”

“You’re an asshole,” you grumble and he laughs.

“Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be encouraging my resolutions. You promised to support me.”

“Yeah, well…”

You did agree. You just didn’t know fulfilling the resolution would involve wiggling his man bits for all the world to see.

Not that it matters. Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t.

There’s a burly bouncer guarding the back entrance to the club and he lifts an eyebrow when you both arrive. Bucky turns it on, rubbing his neck and giving the man a shaky smile.

“Hello sir. Is it okay if she comes with me? It’s my first time on stage and I’m just feeling so nervous, you know? Like, ugh! Are people gonna like my dance and will I be able to swing around the pole right and what if my junk falls out of my underwear too soon? God, it’s like, so stressful!”

The man rolls his eyes, waves you through, and goes back to Tinder swiping.

“Nailed it,” Bucky whispers smugly. “Hashtag espionage.”

Backstage, the world smells like baby powder and perfume. The club specifically hires dancers who look like celebrities, and seeing a parade of scantily clad men and women you think you recognise is strange.

Bucky looks around with interest. You suddenly want to staple his eyes shut.

“Quit staring,” you mutter. “We’re supposed to be undercover.”

“I’m not staring, it’s reconnaissance. Why? Does it bother you?” He nudges you. “Don’t worry, you know I only prefer you. Gimmie that green light and I’ll prove it.”

Hefting the duffel bag on the make-up table labelled DANCER 3: WINTER SOLDIER, he empties the contents.

“Bucky, you know we – ”

“Aha!” Fishing his outfit for the night from the pile, he dangles it in front of you. “Sexy right? You gonna be okay with everyone seeing me in tiny underwear?”

That’s – okay. That’s a red g-string. He’s going to wear a red g-string and get all sweaty and oily and dance in front of everyone.

This is bullshit.

“I’m – that’s just. Yeah. Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Why the hell did your voice scale up? He tilts his head and there’s that smartass little grin.

“No reason. Just hoping you might wanna keep my ass all to yourself.”

“Well, I’d hate to deprive the world from the glory that is your ass.”

“I do have a great ass,” Bucky agrees solemnly. “You know there’s even a Twitter account for it?”

“I know,” you say drily. “You started that Twitter account.”

“Well, someone needed to. Alright, I gotta change now.”

And he starts stripping.

He kicks off his boots and tugs his shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry. His fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jeans and he slides it down slowly, your eyes following with fascination. When he starts to pull the jeans open, you lick your lips.

Bucky clears his throat.

Wide eyes fly up to meet his and you find a ridiculously smug expression.

“Sorry,” you sputter and he shrugs.

“S’okay. I like when you look at me. You’re gonna oil me up for this too, right?”

He tosses you a bottle of baby oil and you immediately fumble it. It slips and slides and you drop it, step on it, and kick it under the make-up table.

Bucky looks at you in surprise.

Panicked, you make a beeline for the door, calling behind you.

“I gotta go. You’re good. Have – fun. Or whatever. Bye.”

Thirty minutes later, you’ve finished a sweep of the place and settled into position. Waiting for Bucky’s show to begin, the internal debate rages fiercely.

It doesn’t matter, right? Bucky Barnes isn’t yours. There’s no friend’s with benefits thing and you don’t want a relationship. You don’t. You’ve made that perfectly clear.

So, here’s the million dollar question then: if you don’t care, why the hell does the idea of an oily, naked, dancing Bucky make you want to blind everyone else in this club?

You have a problem.

“Fucking focus,” you snap to yourself. Fixing your eyes on the evening’s targets, the four Hydra assholes in the booth opposite the stage, you shove aside the mental images of oily, naked, dancing Bucky and concentrate.

Sort of.

Until –

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new dancer. Here for his stage debut, put your hands together for our sexy Winter Soldier!”

The lights dim.

Smoke billows across the stage and a tall shadow appears in the door leading backstage. Broad shouldered, shoulder length hair, even the arrogant outline of his body exudes sex.

Full scale theatrics. Of course.

He steps forward and the spotlight embraces him. Music blares through the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

Dressed all in black, from his leather jacket and leather pants, to the combat boots and mask hiding his face, he murder struts across the stage and grabs the pole. With his left hand, he lifts himself easily, curving his body gracefully as he swings a slow circle.

“Oh my god,” you grit out.

“Oh my god,” you hear two women beside you groan happily.

Bucky dances like he owns the stage, punctuating each heavy bass beat with a thrust of his hips. As he moves, he drags down the zipper of his leather jacket, teasing it from his shoulders until is slides off and he launches it into the crowd.

Under the low light, his bare chest shimmers with oil.

“Jesus that arm is realistic,” a guy behind you shouts.

Bending at the waist, he runs his hands slowly up his legs and then reaches behind and slaps his ass. Popping the button on his way too tight leather pants, he starts to shimmy them down his hips. How he manages to get out of them so easily is a question for the ages, but there they go, flying into the audience.

Cocking his hip, he poses. Dark hair frames the black mask and his thick thighs are accentuated by his black combat boots, and of course, there it is, in all its itty-bitty glory.

The red g-string.

What. The. Fuck.

“What the fuck,” you whine under your breath.

And then it gets worse.

He falls to his hands and knees and crawls across the stage. It feels like you swallowed sawdust so you start chugging a bottle of water. When he reaches the end, he sits up on his knees and drags his hands through his hair. His hips mimic the heavy bass beat, rolling in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

“This is fucking bullshit,” you hiss. Fingering the rough handle of the gun strapped beneath your coat, you glare at the beautiful woman by the stage who’s now enthusiastically shoving dollar bills in the waistband of Bucky’s underwear.

Later, you’ll thank god and Steve Rogers’ precise ops planning timeline, for saving you from accidentally shooting her in the foot on purpose.

Because here’s what happens next.

Like a record scratch, the music ends and that’s the cue. Lightning fast, Bucky flips backward, and you’re not sure how he does it without his dick flopping out of his tiny underwear, but mid-roll, he snakes two knives from his boots and lets them fly.

Wickedly sharp blades hit the necks of the two men on the edge of the booth. The other two men leap up, drawing their guns, but they’re so focused on Bucky, they never see you coming. Two well aimed bullets hit their mark and both drop.

There’s plenty of screaming in the club, although half the crowd appears entertained, thinking maybe it’s all part of the Winter Soldier show. But then the lights go up and here come Sam and Steve, bringing it to a close.

Handcuffs, several arrests, a little more baby oil, and a few mission reports later, the place is clearing out.

Bucky stands by the stage, still dressed in his tiny underwear and combat boots, a patient smile on his face. The same woman who was shoving money down his pants earlier is batting her eyelashes and trailing her finger down his arm.

It makes you see red, and no, that’s not a euphemism for the scrap of cloth covering his goods. In that moment, the clouds clear and you realise something.

Maybe it’s a good idea, maybe it’s not – but you’re done ignoring this feeling.

Stalking toward them, Bucky shoots you a look, begging to be extracted from the conversation. Stepping between them, you face the woman, removing her hand from his bicep and giving her a brittle smile.

“Hi. Time to back off, Karen.”

“My name’s not Karen,” she sneers.

“Whatever.” Pulling the money from Bucky’s underwear, you turn around and shove the fistful of bills in her face. “He’s good, thanks.”

She looks like she’s going to say something, but you make a waving motion with your hands. “Shoo. Go away.”

Turning back to face him, you find a dark little smirk.

“Jealous, honey cakes?” he asks saucily.

“Insanely,” you admit and shock lights up his face. Locking your fingers behind his neck, you pull his face toward you. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot. Can I change my mind? I want to try this you and me thing. If you’re still interested, I mean.”

“Holy shit, I’m so fucking interested,” he says eagerly.

“Also, I know you wanted to dance more this year, but how about no more dancing unless it’s just for me. Is that okay?”

Bucky answers with a deep kiss and you feel him grinning.

“Fuck yes it’s okay,” he sucks your lip when he pulls back. “See, I knew you loved my ass. You can run the Twitter account now, if you want.”

RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE

*****

RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG

Deep in thought, Bucky slouches in the cracked leather booth. Absently peeling the label from a bottle of beer, he flips through a fat notebook stuffed with song titles.

Once in a blue moon, the world decides to play nice and you find yourself mission free for a night. It seems like the perfect opportunity to work down his list, so with a little cajoling and a few well-placed kisses, here you are.

“I don’t know about this,” he says doubtfully.

“I do. Come on, you’ll be great.”

“Well I know that,” he says, taking a swing of beer. “I’m always awesome. So are you, by the way. I’m just not sure any of these songs can really showcase my awesomeness.”

“The ongoing tragedy of your life,” you reply in amusement.

He snorts in agreement as he flips through the binder, page after page, shunning every song he finds, until he stops. Shuffles back a few pages and a sly smile emerges.

“Nevermind. I have it. Best idea ever,” he decides. Slamming the book shut, he picks up the stubby little pencil, scribbling the title on a piece of paper. When you try to get a peek, he shields it from view and tuts at you.

Bemused, you steel yourself for the inevitable occurrence that comes with taking Bucky Barnes anywhere.

That is to say: shit might get weird.

Folding the paper into a complex paper airplane, he aims it at the kid manning the karaoke machine. It zips through the air and lands right on top of the pile of song requests. The kid looks unfolds the paper and looks around, searching for the requester.

Bucky waves maniacally and points to himself. The kid gives him a strange look. Looks at the paper in confusion. Looks back up to Bucky, who nods again and gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up. The kid shrugs and punches the song into the machine.

Now officially decision free, he snakes an arm over your shoulders and nuzzles his face against your neck. Tugging your legs toward him, he walks feather light fingers up your thigh, slipping under your skirt.

“Hey, listen,” he breathes against your skin and goosebumps bloom in the path of cool metal. “Think I’m gonna need some physical encouragement. My ego’s very fragile.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not. But how’s about you lemme feel your panties anyway?”

“Bucky stop,” you whisper sternly, pushing his hand down, “saying panties. It’s creepy. Now get your head in the game.”

“Okay,” he whispers, choking back a laugh. He squeezes your knee instead. “But just tell me one thing though, and be honest – are they lace? I fucking love lace.”

“Yes, I know. You texted me seven times while I was shopping. Try not to suck ass up there and maybe later you’ll find out.”

He makes a growling noise and bites your ear.

“Fuck me, you’re so god damn sexy.”

Whiling away the time until his song, he spends the next fifteen minutes trying to persuade you to join him in the bathroom for ‘just one quick peek at your underpanties, I swear that’s all.’ His fingers are stroking the inside of your thigh and you’re this close to giving in, when a voice booms through the bar.

“James Barnes! You’re up.”

“Woo yeah, here we go,” Bucky sings out. Planting a huge kiss on your lips, he rolls from the booth and heads up front.

Foregoing the stairs, because he’s exceptionally dramatic, he leaps onto the stage and finger-guns the crowd as he strolls to the centre. Plucking the microphone from the stand, he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, bounces on his toes and shakes his arms, loosening up. His voice drops several octaves when he lifts the mic and speaks.

“This one,” he drawls, raising a finger and aiming at you, “is for that absolutely gorgeous creature right there.”

Then he blows you a kiss and looks over to the sound guy working the music.

“Hit it Jeeves,” he orders.

There’s a momentary pause and the down beat hits. And there, on the stage of a small divey karaoke bar on the outskirts of Manhattan, you see something you never expected.

Bucky Barnes, belting out Beyonce without a hint of self-consciousness.

Such a funny thing for me to try to explain

How I’m feeling and my pride is the one to blame

‘Cause I know I don’t understand

Just how your love can do what no one else can

The blue screen displaying the lyrics is wholly unnecessary. He clearly knows the song by heart, his rendition is flawless and his Beyonce imitation so perfectly on point, you wonder when the hell he had time to memorise it all.

Watching him in that moment, a flash of understanding fills your head, and you know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know.

You are in love with this man.

Crazy in love.

Wildly and completely, with every piece of your heart.

If you ain’t there, ain’t nobody else to impress

It’s the way that you know what I thought I knew

It’s the beat my heart skips when I’m with you

But I still don’t understand

Just how your love can do what no one else can

Basking in the fresh knowledge, you laugh when Bucky suddenly jumps from the stage. Without missing a beat, he remains effortlessly in tune. Eyes locked on you, he dances his way through the crowded tables, a slow progression toward you.

And when he arrives, you fall even further.

Hand on his heart, Bucky serenades you, big and sweaty and beautiful. When he motions you up, you climb easily from the booth and find yourself face to face in the unexpected spotlight.

‘Cause your love’s got the best of me,

And baby, you’re making a fool of me,

You got me sprung and I don’t care who sees

‘Cause, baby, you got me, you got me so crazy –

“Nah, fuck it.”

He ends the song there, dropping the mic where it hits the floor with a screech. Curling a wide palm behind your neck, another around your waist, he dips you back over his arm and captures your lips in a searing kiss. Throwing every drop of passion into the kiss, you jump and he catches you, pulling your legs tight around his hips. His mouth slants across yours and he keeps kissing you, longer and harder, until you’re both gasping for air.

You feel lightheaded and tingly. And then Bucky bumps his nose against yours and whispers three new words in your ear.

“I love you, honey sugar. I really do, I’m so fucking crazy for you. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Raking your fingers through his messy mop of hair, you kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips. Every inch of skin you can find.

“I really love you too,” you say breathlessly. “This is our song now, right?”

“You’re damn straight it is.”

RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG

*****

RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES

Perched on the roof, you press your eye to the scope on your rife. Through the cross-hairs, you see people milling below, dressed in cocktail attire. Bucky has his rifle propped up as well and he grunts when he spies one of your targets for the evening.

“Look at that fucking dickbag hitting on that waitress. She looks upset.” He looks over at you and offers his pleading puppy eyes. “I’m gonna shoot him, ‘kay?”

“Bucky, no.”

“Bucky, yes.”

His finger caresses the trigger longingly, until you reach over and push his rifle up. He lets out frustrated little squawk.

“You can’t kill him yet, you’ll blow our position.”

“I didn’t say kill him. I said shoot. Just a little maiming. He deserves it. Please?”

“Later,” you promise and he sighs. Laying his gun on the edge of the wall, he folds his arms and chews his thumbnail in silence.

Well, as silent as Bucky Barnes can ever be.

“I’m still mad about earlier,” he announces.

“I’m still shocked,” you reply.

Turning to you, he eyes you suspiciously.

“Are you mocking me?”

“I would never do that.”

“That sounds fake, but okay. Do you even know why I’m mad?”

Shrugging, you stay focused on the crowd. “Something Sam did, right?”

“It wasn’t just something,” Bucky hisses. “This is serious and I need you to pay attention. Do you remember that time I opened all my blueberry Pop Tarts so they could get stale before I ate them?”

“I do,” you say without looking over. “We had ants for a week.”

He waves his hand dismissively.

“Listen, I’m not looking for a history lesson.”

“Also, that was weird. Who eats stale Pop Tarts?”

“I’m also not interested in unwarranted criticism of my culinary skills. The point is, I thought we all agreed that any and all future stale Pop Tarts were to be consumed by me and me alone.”

“We did agree,” you say.

“Then why the hell were all five packages I opened gone? They were nearly perfect - almost chewy, just a little crunchy, and now I have to start over. My whole fucking week is ruined.”

Finally looking away from the scope, you fix him with an exasperated stare.

“I know baby, but maybe you should just get over it.”

Betrayal sparks from his eyes at your words. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“Maybe I should just get over it? How can you say that? Whose side are you on? I’m emotionally compromised here.”

“You’re also a drama queen,” you answer, going back to your scope and Bucky digs a metal finger into your ribs.

“That’s not the point. I’m never getting over this. Sam’s an asshole, he’s been eyeing my Pop Tarts for weeks.”

“Kinky,” you murmur under your breath.

He throws his hands up in frustration. “How can you still be joking? I’m righteously indignant and you’re ruining it.”

Through the cross-hairs, the asshole bothering the waitress and his fuckwit companion suddenly appear in a dark window. Bucky sees your posture tense and professional that he is, flips seamlessly from petulant Pop Tart lover back to lethal assassin. Lifting his rifle, he goes silent, waiting for your signal.

“Third floor, second window to the south,” you say quietly. “I’ll take right, you take left.”

Through a stroke of luck, the window into the room is open. Shoulder to shoulder with him, you fire simultaneous silent shots, and in the dark room, both men collapse.

Piece of cake.

Easing the rifles down, you lean together against the wall to disassemble the weapons. Snapping the magazine free, you look at Bucky with a soft smile.

“You know, this is a good opportunity to tick the box on your last New Year’s resolution. The one about not holding grudges. Maybe you should take it, cut Sam some slack.”

He glances over and a strange look comes into his eye. Before you can react, he plucks the gun from your hands and pushes you back, swinging a leg over to straddle you. Pinning your hands above your head, he leans down and leaves a wet kiss on your neck.

“Why are you always right? It’s annoying.”

“Well, I learned from the best,” you reach up and lick his face.

Huffing a laugh, he rubs his damp cheek on you and presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re too good for me. I’m not sure if you know this, but sometimes I get a little murdery.”

“That is absolutely new news,” you deadpan and he growls and digs his fingers into your sides, tickling you until you’re quietly begging him to stop before someone hears. He complies and that strange look is back, before it gives way to an affectionate smile.

“Honey darlin, you know what? You make me want to be a better person.”

You place a kiss on the tip of his nose and he beams.

RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES

*****

DECEMBER 31

Another year has come and gone, but this New Year’s Eve is different.

While the party rages down below, up on the roof the night is quiet. Wrapped in a sea of quilts, you and Bucky lay tangled together on a lounge chair, staring up at the stars.

“So, New Year’s Eve again,” you nudge him. “Looks like you made it through your list this year. Success like that deserves an extra special sexy reward.”

Bucky’s face is buried against your neck and you feel the vibration when he laughs.

“As much as I’d love to cash that in, I don’t deserve it. Not yet.” Keeping the quilt around you, he shuffles himself down your body, until he can rest his chin on your chest. “I didn’t finish the list.”

“Yes, you did,” you remind him, smoothing back his hair. “Dancing, karaoke, no more grudges. We crossed them all off.”

There’s a slow smile spreading over his face. The kind that makes you equal parts nervous and sort of sappy.

“Are you sure that’s all that was on my list?”

He reaches into the pocket of his suit pants and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully, he hands it over. Written below the third resolution, is a fourth line of text, surrounded by cat doodles. There, in Bucky’s careful print, is one resolution you don’t remember.

Dance more

Find my karaoke song

Stop holding grudges

Sack the fuck up

The words make no sense and you look up in confusion. And for the first time in your life, you see a blush of red staining his cheeks.

Bucky Barnes is nervous.

He clears his throat.

“Here’s the thing. Every resolution I did, you were with me. And every time, they meant something. Special. About us. But I still got this last resolution, and I knew it’d be the hardest one, but I gotta do it before midnight, because I’ve been thinking about it the whole damn year.”

“Okay, can I help you? Does it mean sack up and do something specific?”

“It does. Means something very specific and I do need your help. But before I tell you what, I need you to do me a few favours. Can you reach into my left coat pocket?”

Slightly bewildered, you dig into his coat where your fingers close around a scrap of silk. Pulling it free, you find his red g-string. Stitched on the front in black cursive letters, are your initials.

“That night I did my dance, when you almost kicked that lady’s ass and said you wanted to give us a shot? I’ve never been so fucking excited in my life. Told you then I’d only ever dance for you and now I got your initials on my goods, so everyone’ll know. I’m all yours.”

Your heart skips a beat.

It’s the sweetest, weirdest thing he’s ever done. You want to say thanks, but the words are stuck in your throat, blocked by a sudden batch of tears, so you simply nod.

The corner of his lips quirk up.

“Okay, now reach into my left pants pocket.”

He wiggles his hips suggestively and this time, you find a Polaroid picture. The image is a little blurry, but there’s Bucky dipping you backward, your arms around his neck while he kisses you. The memory surfaces easily, of karaoke and Beyonce and declarations of love. On the edge of the photo is a little black button and he squeezes it.

The sound of Bucky singing ‘Crazy in Love’ starts playing and the tears in your throat spill now from your eyes.

“Had a few people recording it that night. Got Stark to embed a little speaker in the photo. That night was the first time I said I loved you. Not sure if you knew that. I’d been sweating about it for weeks.”

Taking a shaky breath, you give him a watery smile. “I knew. It was the first time for me too.”

He nods and light as a feather, strokes his thumb down your cheek, wiping away the tears.

“Next. Try my right coat pocket.”

The strange feel of crinkly foil meets your fingers and you discover an open pack of Pop Tarts.

“They’re the frosted cherry ones, ‘cause I know you like those best. Sometimes, when I’m pissed off at the world, I remember what you told me that day on the roof. And I think to myself – if I can forgive someone for eating my Pop Tarts, a capital offence by the way, then I can forgive anything. You really do make me wanna be the best version of myself.”

There’s no conceivable reason why Pop Tarts should be a trigger, but the tears flow faster, punctuated with the occasional hiccup. Bucky chuckles, kissing them away and waiting.

“When I started this year, I had three resolutions in mind and because of you, I did them all. And I made them count. You’re the best god damn thing in my life honey. I hope you know that.” He kisses your palm and lays your hand against his cheek.

Bucky has never been shy about telling you these things. He says them frequently, with clarity and conviction. After everything he’s been through, you know it stems from a deep-rooted fear that the things he loves could disappear in the blink of an eye. It’s why he goes full throttle on everything he does – every mission he takes, every date he plans, every toe-curling kiss he gives.

“But after I wrote those resolutions, something was still missing. The one thing I wanted to do more than anything else. That’s why I added that last one.”

“Bucky – ”

“Not just yet,” he whispers. “Last one. Can you check my right pants pocket?”

Smooth satin lining brushes your trembling fingers, until they connect. It feels velvety soft and before you can think, you pull it free.

There it is.

Sitting in the palm of your hand, is a blue velvet jewellery box. Heart thumping wildly, you stare at the box and mutely look up at Bucky. He watches your reaction, his expression raw and vulnerable. Picking the box from your numb fingers, he cracks it open and you see the ring nestled inside. Looking back to him, you see his throat bobbing as he swallows twice, before he can speak.

“I knew it back in January, that’s why this was my last resolution. Sack the fuck up – and ask her,” he takes a deep breath, his eyes burning into yours. “I love you, honey. I swear I’ll never, ever stop loving you. So, how about it? You wanna be my forever?”

If the only thing you get to see the rest of your life, is that beautiful smile on his face, it’s enough. The answer comes easy, so simple, because it’s Bucky.

“Yes. Good god, yes, of course! Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

Tipping his head back, he shouts his excitement to the heavens. Taking out the ring, he chucks the empty box over his shoulder and slips it on your finger.

Two kisses follow, one above the diamond, and one below.

He sags with relief, rubbing his neck ruefully. “Jesus I was nervous, no clue how to ask, nothing seemed good enough – ”

“Stop,” you interrupt him, covering his mouth. He narrows his eyes and licks your hand.

“You fucking weirdo,” you giggle and wipe your slobbery palm on his face. “This was perfect, Bucky. You are perfect. And this? Best. Proposal. Ever.”

Above you, midnight arrives with an explosion of colour, fireworks streaking in red and green and gold and blue, but you barely notice.

In the frosty air of a brand new year, the love of your life and the warmth of his kiss are the only things you need.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #interestedbystanderholidaychallenge #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @Do-what-the-knight-tells-you!

Note: Title comes from Broken by Lovelytheband

Warnings: Character death (none of the heroes)

Tags: mail order bride Derek, Sheriff Stiles, dead Stilinski parents, dead Papa Hale, dead Hale cousins, werewolves are known, Peter is Peter, Mentioned Argents

Read on AO3

*****

I Could Be Lonely With You (maybe that makes me a fool)

Someone was playing piano. Badly.

Stiles sighed, buttoning his shirt. He’d have to talk to Erica about the people she let in her establishment. Too many drunkards thought they were Philharmonic-worthy and then someone else would yell at them, and then there would be a brawl, and as Sheriff of this stinking town, Stiles would have to break it up.

Great. Just what he wanted on a Thursday morning.

Well. No sense putting it off. The longer he took to get his butt downstairs, the more guns would be drawn by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs.

He grabbed his hat and gun on his way out, making sure they were both firmly in place and that his silver star was highly visible.

Perfect timing, he thought as he reached the base of the sweeping staircase that Erica claimed was the envy of the other three saloons in Beacon Territory but was probably only average, and he heard violence erupt.

“What’s going on?” he demanded as he stepped into the fray. Already, there were two men at each other’s throats, guns poking into the opposite’s belly like poorly shaped dicks. The rest of the saloon was waiting for something, hands hovering over their holsters. Stiles pushed the men apart.

“I said,” he drawled, hooking a thumb in his belt, “what’s going on?”

“He was banging a racket out,” complained one of the men. Stiles recognized him as the never-up-to-any-good nephew of the preacher, sent out West to get an education in manners by the preacher’s sister, Jackson Whittemore. The other man, Stiles didn’t recognize with his brown hair and bright blue eyes. He also had a down-right dirty smirk aimed at the preacher’s nephew.

“And you thought that was good enough reason to stick your piece in his gut?” Stiles asked.

Shamefaced, Jackson shook his head. “It’s just, it’s so early. Ain’t he got sense enough not to play that bullshit?”

“Sonny, you wouldn’t know music if it came up to you and kissed you,” the stranger said in a smooth, smarmy voice. Stiles pegged him as a dude, a city slicker come out West for the adventure and danger touted as the general fair of the western side of the country. Well, if trouble was what he wanted to stir, Trouble was where he’d go.

Stiles shoved a hand into Jackson’s chest to stop him from following the stranger’s words with his fists or worse, his gun. Erica had just had the floorboards cleaned from the last incident and Stiles had no desire to have another murder in his town.

“Listen here, partner,” Stiles emphasized his drawl, “we don’t take kindly to folks just waltzing in here like they own the town and damaging our eardrums in that manner.”

“Oh, don’t I own this town?” The stranger grinned. Stiles did not like the look of that smile, no sir. “Pray tell, Sheriff,” the stranger said like an insult, “who does own this fine town?”

“Well, I reckon that would be the Hale family,” Stiles said. “The largest railroading family this side of Colorado.”

“The Hales, right,” the stranger said. “Well, you’re in luck, Sheriff.” He stepped back from them and bowed with a little flourish. “Peter Hale at your service.”

Eloquently, Stiles said, “Fuck.”

“Peter!” someone else yelled. All eyes snapped onto the staircase where a young man, a stranger like Peter Hale, stood. He was glowering at Hale, nostrils flared, eyes looking distinctly blue.

“Oh no,” Stiles said, drawing his weapon. He pointed it at Hale’s chest. “We do not have any supernaturals in this town.”

“Why not, Sheriff?” Hale rolled his head, cracking his neck pointedly before opening his mouth to reveal a set of canines the likes of which Stiles hadn’t seen in years. He shot Hale.

“What, no wolfsbane?” the stranger from the stairs asked, rather blandly considering his friend had just been shot.

Hale writhed a bit on the ground before standing up. Immediately, every gun in the place was trained on him. It was credit to their curiosity that they all held their fire.

“Really?” Hale dusted off his shirt and plucked at the material where it was sticky with his blood. “Come on. I liked this shirt.”

“You have others. Go back to the room.”

“You’re not allowed to boss me around,” Hale complained.

“According to Mom’s orders?” the other man said. “Yes, I am.”

When Hale didn’t move, he pointed up the stairs. “Go. Go!”

As soon as Hale disappeared up the stairs, the stranger stepped forward, hand extended. “Derek Hale, son of Talia Hale.”

“And werewolf,” Stiles said, not shaking the proffered hand.

“And werewolf,” Derek repeated. “Look, my mom thinks that there’s been a lot of trouble this way.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “We have a whole town called Trouble. It’s about forty or fifty miles south of here.”

“Yeah. My sisters were sent there. That’s where the prison is, right?”

“Yep.” Stiles studied D. Hale, taking in his well-kept clothes, the silver chain attached to a pocket watch, chain threaded through the second button-hole from the bottom of his vest. Very dapper. Definitely better looking than his smarmy relative.

Stiles tamped down hard on that train of thought. He did not need to have a fascination with what amounted to the enemy. The Hales owned all the land right now and they had built the railroads which in turn had created the towns.

Derek and Peter out here along with Derek’s sisters could only mean one thing: the Hales felt like their control was slipping.

“You do know why we’re here, don’t you?” Derek smiled, amused about something. Supernaturals, man. Stiles had successfully kept them out of the town after he’d routed a wendigo nest about five years ago. All Stiles knew about werewolves was they had difference colored eyes. They had their human ones, yes, but they also had their true eyes. And Derek’s were blue.

Stiles had seen werewolves with yellow and red eyes. He’d never seen blue though.

“What does it mean that your eyes are blue?”

“It’s a distinct trait of Hale werewolves,” Derek explained. “All of us have blue eyes except my mom who has the red of alpha. It just means that we can transform into full wolves if we choose to.”

“Oh.” Stiles thought back to a black wolf he’d seen circling the town about a month ago. He had stationed patrols and set non-killing traps. The wolf had stopped coming around a few days after that. “Was that you?”

“Me?” Derek asked, but he refused to make eye contact, which made Stiles certain it was.

“You were a wolf here. You scoped out this town. Why?”

“My mother wanted us to see what each town was like without alerting the residents to our presence. I mean, you met my uncle. He wasn’t playing that piano long before someone wanted to kill him. He kind of has that effect on a lot of people. You shot him,” he reminded Stiles.

“Yeah.” Stiles touched his gun. “Regrettably.”

“About the wolfsbane or about shooting him?”

“Both? Yeah. Let’s go with both. Anyway. Why were you sent to observe us?”

“There’s a rival werewolf pack in the area. There’s going to be a challenge for the territory, and we don’t want the people living here to be caught in the middle if it turns into a battle.”

“How,” Stiles raked his eyes up and down Derek’s form again, making it apparent that he was finding him lacking in some indefinable way, “noble. And what’s to stop that other pack from attacking us?”

Surprisingly, Derek went red. “Um,” he coughed. “We, well, as werewolves who can fully shift, we, um, we don’t need outhouses. So, what my sisters, my uncle, and I have been doing is marking our territory.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ve been pissing all over my town?” He raised one eyebrow.

“Not all over it.” Derek’s face turned even redder. “Just around it.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I would get you being insulted if I had actually peed on your bed or something. Instead, I peed about a mile from town. Now the other pack knows that this town is protected by a Hale.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered. Louder, he said, “So, you’re here. What do you need from me? As you can see, I’m the sheriff of this town.”

“Well, my mother wanted me to meet with you to see if you’d had any incidents lately.”

“And the purpose of bringing your uncle with you?”

Derek shrugged. “While werewolves are difficult to kill, it is not impossible. Therefore, we usually travel in pairs of two or more if we have to travel at all.”

“So, now that you’ve met with me, what else do you need?”

“Well…” Derek scratched at the back of his head. “Actually, it would be nice to show the other pack that we have the support of the humans in this area.”

“Well, unless your uncle happens to be in charge of human-werewolf relations.”

Derek laughed. “Yeah. He wasn’t my first choice either. My mom was busy though, so she sent Peter with me.”

“Shame. You could have almost convinced us non-supernaturals to join you.” Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need coffee. It’s too early for this shit.”

He stalked away from Derek, leaving him standing in the middle of the saloon

~ * ~

Two mugs of Erica’s finest swill later and Stiles felt more like himself. He found the Hales sitting on the balcony of their room. Derek was winding his watch while Peter stretched out, a hat pulled over his face. Neither of them reacted to Stiles shoving the window up enough for him to crawl clumsily through. Werewolves must be as flexible as cats to fit through such small entrances. Stiles made a note to himself to never leave his window open, lest he wake up to Peter Hale standing over him.

Less concerning would be waking up to Derek, despite the fact that he’d pissed all over Stiles’ goddamn town.

“Ah, what’s that?” Peter asked from beneath his hat. He sniffed loudly. “Oh, that’s right. A conquest for your bed, dear nephew.”

Derek turned red faster than Stiles could draw his foot back and slam it into Peter’s knee.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you using that?” he intoned as he ground his heel into the busted tendons, smirking at the howl Peter let out.

Derek laughed. “How’d you do that?” he asked when Stiles finally let Peter drag his wounded body and pride into the room.

“A little bit of aconite oil and a sturdy heel.” Stiles sat down in Peter’s spot. “So, about this meeting with the other pack, I’m in. As long as you leave the rest of my town out of it. I swore an oath to protect this town and I mean it.”

“I appreciate your dedication,” Derek told him. “It’s an admirable trait.”

“For what? A sheriff?” Stiles shook his head. “No, that’s just part of the job. I mean, who can you trust if you can’t trust the people hired to protect you?”

Derek eyed him oddly. “I’ve know quite a few corrupt lawmen. My mother has disposed of most of them.”

“And she can’t do the same to a pack of werewolves?”

“Not when they have the support of the largest hunting family in the whole country behind them.”

“Oh, shit, the Argents?” Stiles knew of them: they were the largest suppliers of firepower to any militia group that had enough gold—except for werewolves. They had a strict policy of shooting werewolves first and then interrogating them while they lay dying from the poisoned bullets. “They’ve aligned with a werewolf pack? I thought they never did that?”

Derek’s face shuttered, obviously trying to hide something. “Apparently,” he said bitterly, “they will if it means eradicating my family. They already attacked us earlier. My father was killed.”

“So why’d you pick Beacon Hills out of all the townships in Beacon Territory to represent the human side of the Hales?”

Derek sighed, patting at his vest until he found what he was looking for. Which was apparently a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully, and Stiles felt his heart skip a beat when he realized what it probably was.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

Derek shrugged. “My older sister passed it on. She thought you might—”

“It wasn’t me,” Stiles said. “I mean, my friend, Erica Reyes—she owns this saloon—she was the one who wrote that. I wasn’t looking for anyone.”

“Oh,” Derek said, refolding the paper with the same care. Stiles sighed, not in relief, but from the way Derek slumped, he must have thought so.

“That’s not how I meant it,” he tried to explain. “Erica. She. Well, she thought I was lonely, just because I’m nearly 29 and haven’t been married yet. So, she drafted an advert and sent it back east. ‘Handsome sheriff seeking love.’ I hoped no one would respond, not because I’m not ready to find someone to settle down with, but because I thought the choice had been taken from me.”

“Have you had anyone respond?”

“If they have, Erica has kept them away from me. We have a few new faces every now and again, but most folks just pass through, heading for the gold mines along the rivers.”

“And what if I’m here as a prospective love for you?”

“No offense, but I find that hard to believe. You don’t know me at all. And all I know about you is that you’re a werewolf who can apparently turn into a full wolf and likes to piss around his territory.”

“Well, I do know that you enjoy your job as sheriff, and even though your job brings you into violence, you don’t like to resort to it yourself. Although, you did kind of like shooting my uncle.”

Stiles shrugged. “He’s an asshole.”

“Yes, he is. Anyway. I know you care about this town. But, I also know that you are lonely. I can smell it on you. And if your nose was a good as mine, you’d smell it on me too.”

“So, what, you want us to be lonely together?”

Derek gently knocked his shoulder against Stiles’. “I just want to know you better.” Quieter, eyes downcast to his lap where his hands were twisted together, Derek mumbled, “I liked how your advert made you sound.”

“Can I read it?” Stiles asked. “I never saw what Erica sent out because she only told me long after the fact.”

Derek obligingly dug out the paper and passed it over. Stiles unfolded it, using the same careful movement as Derek earlier. He was greeted with a detailed likeness of himself. Erica must have had her husband draw it. Boyd was a secret artist with a few high profile sales on the east coast.

Beneath that was an almost poetic description of Stiles, and to her credit, Erica had described him perfectly, using words like “stubborn” and “bullheadedness” and also “sweet” “charming when I’m not talking your ear off.” Apparently, he could cook “decent enough not to kill my guest” and he was “shy when it came to the bedroom.”

“Goddamn it, Erica, just because I was the only man who never bowed to your feminine wiles, doesn’t make me ‘shy in the bedroom.’”

Derek coughed suddenly, and Stiles turned to him. “Well,” Derek finally said when he had his breathing under control, “that makes one of us.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Derek’s face was so red that Stiles knew if he touched him, he’d feel the heat burning through his skin. “I’m not,” here he coughed again, looking pained, “I haven’t. I mean, I’m not.”

Stiles put his hand on Derek’s, curling his fingers loosely enough that Derek could pull back if he wanted to. “It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. He knew what Derek was trying to say, and he didn’t care. “I wouldn’t just want you because of that,” he promised.

“Is this sap-fest over yet?” Peter called from inside the room. “We need to get to our meeting with Deucalion and his usurping hunters before they make a move we can’t stop.”

“One more thing,” Stiles called back. Before he could rethink it, he lunged forward and smashed his and Derek’s mouths together.

There was teeth and blood, and Derek’s nose got in the way of Stiles’ eye. It was altogether uncomfortable and a little bit the best thing Stiles had ever done. When he pulled back, Derek’s eyes fluttered open, his pupils expanded, irises iridescent with greens, blues, and browns that held Stiles’ attention.

“Let’s go, boys.” Peter broke the moment by grabbing Derek by the back of his neck and dragging him into the room. “We’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” And then the Hales were gone.

Stiles took a moment to compose himself, and wipe away the blood from his split lip, before he hauled himself back through the window and headed to his room.

~ * ~

Derek was holding the reins to a painted horse while Peter was already in the saddle of a mustang. Somehow, Stiles hadn’t expected Derek’s reserved or practical taste in horses. He would have expected a Hale to have expensive tastes. Peter was very much living up to that assumption, prancing about on his fancy horse.

“Should I get my horse?” Stiles asked, looking between the Hales. Derek had opted to don the brimmed hat from earlier while Peter was bareheaded.

Sunburn was not friendly, but if werewolves really did heal fast, as Peter had from the gunshot, and the destruction of his knee, then he’d be fine and Stiles refused to waste any more of his time on him.

“No need,” Boyd said, leading Stiles’ horse Roscoe from the barn. “I took the liberty of getting him ready.”

Roscoe whinnied, bumping his head into Stiles’ shoulder. Well, at least one of them was looking forward to the ride to Trouble.

“Thank you, Boyd.” Stiles swung himself up onto the American Saddlebred’s back. Roscoe had been a gift from Stiles’ mother, his parents in turn being a gift from her father, and Stiles took care of the horse though his mother was long gone.

Derek clicked his tongue and his horse moved up next to Stiles and Roscoe. “I know we said that we needed to show that we have the support of the humans in this area, but you don’t have to come if you think there will be too much danger.”

“I’m already here,” Stiles said. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. Besides, when was the last time you went to Trouble? Do you even know the way?”

“I do,” Derek confirmed. “But, it has been a while.” He smiled shyly at Stiles. “It sure would be nice to have a guide, Sheriff.”

“How charming,” Peter remarked, tone flat and bland but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “My nephew, the mail-order bride and his groom, the Sheriff of a dusty, backwater town. I’ll be certain to update your mother of the goings on, Derek. I’m sure she’ll be happy that her son is finally ready to marry.”

“Just because Derek doesn’t roll over for you doesn’t mean you can threaten him. Did you forget that you’re still in my town, backwater and all? I’ll shoot you again.”

Derek made a show of inhaling deeply. “And he’s got the wolfsbane bullets this time.”

Peter kept his mouth shut the rest of the ride that day.

~ * ~

They stopped to make camp when they were still about twenty miles from Trouble.

Derek set about gathering dry kindling and sticks while Peter laid out his bedroll and thumped down onto it, relaxing while Stiles took the horses down to a nearby creek for a drink.

When he returned, Derek had a fire going, a small pot suspended over it.

“Sorry, I only brought beans,” he apologized when he realized that Stiles was watching him. “Usually, when we travel, we just catch game and make do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to rustle up a rabbit or two,” Stiles said. He cut a quick glance to where Peter was watching them. “Or someone else could pull his weight around here,” he said loudly in his direction. Peter raised a hand, a single finger lifted.

“Yeah, Peter’s never been very good at showing his prowess around humans. He prefers to lull them into a false sense of security and then spring out as a werewolf.”

“Bad news for your uncle then,” Stiles said. “I already know he’s a werewolf and I’m not impressed. Go hunt for us, Peter.”

Surprisingly, Peter stood up. “You’re just trying to get me out of camp so you can practice kissing my nephew,” he accused, but it sounded good-natured. Stiles shrugged, not denying it. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Peter told Derek and then strode off into the gathering dusk.

“Did you really want to kiss me again?” Derek asked, not looking up from his beans. In answer, Stiles leaned against him, resting his head on his shoulder while he stared into the fire.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “On one hand, I’d love to. But on the other, I think it’d be better to wait until after the meeting with the usurping werewolves. I really just want to get to know you better. I don’t even know how old you are or what your favorite food is.”

“I’ll be thirty come winter and I really like blackberries off the bush.”

“What a coincidence, I love blackberry pie.” Stiles smiled. “Do you just have the two sisters?”

Derek nodded sharply. “I had cousins though. They were killed by hunters years ago. The Argents have been spreading the rumor that blue eyes on a werewolf means that they’ve killed someone.”

“You said it was because you can change into a full wolf.” Stiles stepped back so that Derek could turn to face him. “How do the Argents not know that?”

“It’s not something we go around telling people. Or at least, we didn’t used to. Now we do it to keep other humans from trying to kill us because they think we’re a danger to them.”

“You’re not though, are you?” Stiles didn’t wait for Derek’s answer before he leaned in to slot their mouths together.

It went much better this time with no blood or poked eyes.

Derek kissed like he was unsteady on his feet, like Stiles had knocked him a good one. Honestly, Stiles felt the same way.

They moved away from the fire and to the bedrolls that hadn’t been unrolled and dropped onto them, still locked at the mouth.

Derek patted at Stiles’ back, a small whimper breaking free when Stiles pulled back to gasp a breath in.

“Well, you certainly got far.” Peter interrupted them by dropping a couple of rabbits on them. Stiles and Derek pulled apart, and Derek shot his uncle a hate-filled look before taking the rabbits to the fire and skinning them quickly using his claws. He stuck them on a spit made out of a whittled piece of firewood and began cooking them.

“Why’d you stop?” Peter grinned at Stiles. “It wasn’t on my behalf, was it?” He headed off to the creek to wash his hands.

“I’m sorry for my uncle. He likes to be unnecessary.”

“Hey, I can put up with him,” Stiles said. “It’s you I’m trying to kiss, not him.”

To prove his point, he kissed Derek again. Just a quick peck on the lips. After all, Derek was busy right now and did not need the distraction.

Instead, Stiles unrolled his and Derek’s bedrolls and checked on the horses.

Then, he settled onto the ground and watched as the rabbits sizzled and popped as Derek turned them.

~ * ~

The rest of the twenty miles passed easily, and when they arrived in Trouble, identical to Beacon Hills aside from the giant prison built sometime in the past five years with timbers brought down from Oregon.

In front of the gate, the warden stood, thumbs hooked in his vest pockets.

The Hales and Stiles dismounted. The warden nodded at them.

“Sheriff Stilinski, how nice to see you.” He spit a wad of juice from the corner of his mouth. Stiles bit back his grimace at the display. It wasn’t his place to tell the warden that it was disgusting and shameful to do that in proper company.

“Warden Enos, it looks like you were expecting me.”

“Indeed I was.” Enos spit again. “Thanks to these lovely ladies.” He jerked his thumb out of his pocket to jab it in the direction of where two women, both dark haired like Derek, were being led by another man Stiles did not recognize. From the way Derek and Peter both bristled, he would guess this was the challenging alpha.

The taller of the two women was dressed in an outfit similar to Derek’s, with a dark vest over a white shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. The shorter had chaps over her pants and a brown vest and no hat. The strange alpha was dressed in a three piece suit, and as dapper as Derek looked in his vest, he had nothing on this newcomer. Well, he may have been well-dressed, but Stiles wasn’t falling for it.

“Derek,” the taller woman called, “he’s part of Deucalion’s pack.”

Enos’ eyes turned red and he swiped his claws at Derek. Peter retaliated quickly, shoving Enos back.

“Now, now, boys, let’s not be hasty.” Deucalion pointed a gun at the women. The taller woman snapped her head side to side, teeth bared, eyes red.

Next to her, the shorter woman’s eyes were blue, like Derek’s.

“Now, there’s no reason to resort to violence,” Stiles said. He kept his gun pointed at Deucalion. “What’s this I hear about you trying to take Hale land?”

“I’m only trying to get back what is mine.”

“And how is this land yours?”

“Not the land,” Deucalion said. “Not even the gold or the railroad on top of it. I want the people.”

“And how are the people yours?”

Deucalion smiled, cold, emotionless. “Can you not feel the way your body is mine? The way your blood sings to be turned into your true potential?”

“If you mean let myself be turned by you, then no. I don’t want anything to do with that. In fact, if you’re going to be biting people without their consent, then I’m going to have to put you down like the rabid dog you are pretending to be.”

“Try me.” Deucalion rolled his shoulders and then leapt at Stiles, moving faster than Stiles could keep his weapon trained on him.

He was going to die, Stiles was certain. He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to watch his flesh be torn asunder.

The pain never came, and Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek standing between him and Deucalion.

Derek gurgled, choking on something, but he stood firm. Deucalion wasn’t coming through him.

“What’s this?” Deucalion asked, voice sinisterly low. Something squelched and Derek whimpered. “Fallen in love with a human?” Deucalion tsked. “Now that’s just not proper.”

“And who are you to decide what’s proper or not?” Peter asked. “Remove your filthy hand from my nephew’s chest.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles peeked around Derek. Deucalion’s hand was deep in Derek’s chest. As Stiles watched, he twisted it, and Derek made that gurgling noise again. He was going to kill him. Stiles put his gun against Deucalion’s head and pulled the trigger.

Derek screamed as his chest tore open when Deucalion’s hand pulled free.

Peter helped Stiles hold Derek up. Together, they got him to the saloon. The two women, Derek’s sisters, easily dispatched Enos and brought up the rear.

Inside was chaos. A tall blond was dispensing drinks by chucking full bottles at people.

“The tyrants are dead,” he chanted, juggling glasses and rags with ease. “Thank fuck for the strangers and the sheriff.” He slid a full glass of beer to Stiles. “What can I do for our saviors?”

“You can start by fetching the doctor of this town,” Stiles ordered. He knocked the beer off the bar so that he and Peter could lay Derek there.

“Deaton!” The bartender yelled. A short man in a bowler hat and vest combo stepped up to the bar. “Help the sheriff.”

“Certainly.” Deaton thumped a bag down on to the bar next to Derek’s head. He pulled out a stethoscope, listening to Derek’s heart. “He’s strong enough that all he needs is some time to heal.”

“I could have told you that,” Peter snapped. “What I want you to tell me is if Deucalion left anything in him. He was killed with a wolfsbane bullet. Could residue have gotten inside my nephew?”

Deaton shook his head. “The shot was instantaneous, correct? Head or heart?” Stiles nodded. “Then he should be fine. If he doesn’t start healing properly inside of half an hour, we’ll try the ashes method. For now, what he needs is rest. Isaac, are the rooms upstairs decent?”

The blond shrugs. “Decent enough,” he replied, tossing a key at Deaton. “Tell him thanks when he’s conscious.”

“Will do. Thanks, Isaac.”

The taller sister shouldered Peter aside and scooped up Derek. “Lead the way, Doc.” She and Deaton disappeared up the sweeping staircase, an exact replica of the staircase in Erica’s saloon.

“I’d better stay down here and make sure the rest of Deucalion’s pack doesn’t ambush us.”

Peter and the shorter sister exchanged glances. “We’d better stay down here then,” Peter said. “We can hear anyone coming, and we can fight them off.”

“Besides,” the sister added, “you’ve already proven you can take care of Derek.”

“What do you mean? He got hurt because of me.”

“Derek will, misguided though it might be at times, defend anyone and everyone. He didn’t get hurt because of you; he got hurt because he stepped into the path of an alpha werewolf intent on killing a human.”

“And you trust me to stop whatever threat makes it past you too?”

“Absolutely,” the sister said. “I’m Cora Hale.” She stuck her hand out. Stiles shook it heartily.

“Sheriff Stilinski—Stiles.”

“Well, Stiles,” Cora said, “take good care of my brother. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Stiles tipped his hat to her and headed up the stairs.

He hoped it didn’t come to that—to have to meet her again as they crossed the river into the afterlife. If a fight did break out, Stiles did not want to have to kill someone else. Deucalion was going to kill Derek, so that was kill or be killed. Stiles could get behind that kind of sanctioned murder.

Less so if he was shooting someone in cold blood.

“Hey,” the other sister said when Stiles entered the room, the door having been left open for him. “So, Derek’s already starting to heal.” Deaton nodded his agreement. “You take the first watch.”

“That’s all well and good,” Stiles said, his hat in hand, “but do you really trust someone Derek just met to watch over him?”

“You just shot an alpha werewolf in the face because he was killing my brother. Of course I’m going to trust you. I’m Laura, by the way.”

Stiles shook her hand. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Stiles,” Laura said, a mischievous smile cracking her face. “Nice to meet you. Take care of my brother.”

“I will.”

“Good. See you in about two hours. Don’t do anything Peter wouldn’t do.”

“What does your annoying uncle have to do with anything?”

“Well, let’s just say that if you like my brother and you were Peter, the fact that he’s unconscious wouldn’t be a deterrent.”

Stiles looked to the bed where Derek lying still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with a slow, steady beat. Then he looked back to Laura. “Something is very wrong with your uncle,” he told her.

“Don’t I know it,” she laughed. “Anyway. I’m going to get some grub. Deucalion, before his timely passing, wasn’t a great host. I haven’t had anything more substantial than a mouse in two days.”

“That I believe.”

As soon as Laura left, Stiles settled in at the desk.

“If my services aren’t needed anymore, I’d like to settle my tab.” Deaton hefted his bag, sticking a bowler hat on his bald head.

Stiles dismissed him with a nod. And then he just sat in Derek’s room, trying not to feel like he was doing something wrong when he watched him sleep.

As soon as Laura came to relieve him, he jammed his hat back on his head, headed downstairs, and saddled up.

“I’m going back to Beacon Hills,” he said to Cora when she stopped him. “My town needs me. If it gets out that I helped bring down Deucalion, either my town will be overrun with wannabe alpha werewolves or people seeking revenge or people who’ll want me to solve their werewolf problems.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Cora promised. “My mom won’t let it. Deucalion was an outlier, bolstered by the Argents and their firepower.”

“As long as the Argents exists, then there will be no peace. I can’t stay here any longer. What if my town is under attack right now?”

“It’s not,” Cora said, “but if it makes you feel better, we’ll send Derek there once he’s healed.”

“Sure. You do that.”

Stiles clicked his tongue and Roscoe started walking.

The idea of Derek in his town was…not as displeasing as Stiles might have expected. As long as Peter wasn’t part of the deal. The poor town wouldn’t be able to withstand his personality, much less his piano playing.

Derek on the other hand…

Derek could spend every minute annoying Stiles and he wouldn’t feel the need to shoot him like he had Peter.

Oh god, he was in love, wasn’t he?

Roscoe didn’t answer aside from a whinny. Stiles agreed and upped their pace. They had a long journey ahead of them.

~ * ~

It wasn’t surprising to find Beacon Hills still standing, but Stiles wished that his town could have missed him just a little more since he’d been gone for about half a week.

After putting Roscoe up in his stall, brushing, and feeding him, he walked into the saloon and was greeted by Boyd tossing Jackson out on his ear.

“And stay out,” the gentle giant said, dusting off his hands, standing there unconcernedly while Jackson picked himself up and dusted off before limping off to crawl back into his uncle’s guest room. “Welcome back, Sheriff.”

“Boyd.” Stiles nodded at him. “Wanna explain what’s going on?”

“Jackson was caught cheating at cards. Again,” Boyd said. “Erica told him he was on his last leg and that she wouldn’t protect him anymore.”

“About damn time,” Stiles muttered. “Got any grub left?”

“For you,” Erica called from behind the bar, “always. Just let me get my fine dishes out.”

“Nah, the bar is good enough,” Stiles joked back. “Thanks,” he said genuinely when Erica set a plate of warmed beans and eggs in front of him.

“So, tell me, Sheriff,” Erica pretended to wipe the bar clean, “what was it like traveling with the Hales?”

“It was great aside from the fact that I haven’t been riding enough so I’m saddle-sore. Also, I think I met my husband thanks to you.”

“Your husband?” Erica repeated. “Because of me? How?”

“Do you remember that advert you took out about, what, six months ago?”

“Vaguely.” Erica blushed. “I try not to think about it, honestly.”

“Well, thank you. Apparently, the Hales saw it and now I’m going to marry—”

“Not Peter Hale,” Erica gasped. “Please not that asshole.”

Stiles smiled. “No, not Peter. Derek.”

“Oh thank god.” Erica sagged, looking relieved. Then she perked up again. “Am I invited to the wedding?”

“Of course,” Stiles said. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Because I put out that advert without your approval. I know you were mad at me.”

“You’re one of my best friends,” Stiles told her, “and more than that, you’re my family. You and Boyd. You’re both invited to the wedding. Whenever it is.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” Boyd intoned. “Does Derek know you’re getting married?”

“Possibly.” Stiles scratched at his chin. He’d have to shave tomorrow if he wanted to remain presentable. “I mean, I would guess so. His sister seemed to think that Derek and I were compatible.”

“Well, if you are, good for you,” Erica said. “And if you aren’t, please don’t kill me when you remember the advert.”

Stiles laughed, handing her back the empty plate. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m absolutely tuckered. I’m going to grab some sleep. Wake me up if anything happens, or Jackson tries to get back inside.”

Erica and Boyd mock-saluted him and he dragged his tired body up the stairs and to his room.

He didn’t remember toeing off his boots and face planting onto his bed. He also didn’t remember if he dreamed.

~ * ~

Stiles woke up when his window creaked open. He was aware in an instant, pointing his gun at the startled face of Derek Hale.

“Goddamn it, Hale, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I still have the wolfsbane bullets loaded.”

“Oh.” Derek slunk into the room, standing with his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you again.”

He shuffled closer to the bed as if he was afraid that Stiles still had the gun trained on him. He didn’t. Had dropped it when he realized it was Derek who was sneaking into his room.

And then, quicker than Stiles could see, Derek dropped something on the bed and was out the window. By the time Stiles was up and following him, he was already gone.

Shaking his head, Stiles returned to the bed, sitting down and making sure his gun wasn’t cocked. Then he noticed what Derek had all but thrown at him.

It was a package wrapped in thick cloth, cut from Derek’s vest, and tied with a piece of twine. When he undid the string and opened it, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a locket and a shiny rock that reminded Stiles of Derek’s eyes, aventurine and beautiful. Underneath it all was a note written in surprisingly spindly and frankly cute handwriting.

Stiles unfolded it, reading it quickly.

It was a proposal. From Derek.

Stiles looked up to the window. Still empty.

He turned the paper over and grabbed a pencil from the desk. He wrote a single word and then folded the note back into the cloth minus the other items. Then he tied it tightly and threw it out the window. It landed in the dusty street. Derek was still nowhere to be seen.

Stiles sighed and hauled himself back inside. Before he’d even sat down again, he heard a soft voice ask, “Do you really mean it?”

Stiles looked up to see Derek standing just inside the window, the cloth shredded, the note clutched in one hand.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I mean it.” He looped the locket around his neck, and Derek, smiling broadly, closed the clasp for him.

“Thank you,” he said, “for saving me, and for saying yes.”

“Yes, well, thank you for asking.”

This time, when they kissed, there was no Peter to interrupt them, and Stiles quite enjoyed exchanging spit with Derek, because, werewolf or not, almost thirty years old come winter, that boy looked debauched by a thorough kiss.

He knew he’d enjoy being married to Derek. Every minute of it. And when Derek sighed as Stiles pulled back to look at him again, he knew Derek would enjoy it too.

Stiles sent a mental thank you to Erica for her hand in bringing them together.

She deserved it.

And Derek deserved another kiss. Eagerly, Stiles dove in.

~ The End ~

#Do-what-the-knight-tells-you #stereksanta19 #*fic19 #*gifts19

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chaosbrewing · 6 years ago

Text

vitamin d

The sun had risen some time ago, but bright purples and pinks still remained in the gorgeous Swiss sky, setting it ablaze with a myriad of colors. It was as if someone had dipped a fan or aquarelle brush in a series of pastels and haphazardly darted it across a pale blue canvas back. The day thus far was particularly clear, with a few puffy clouds dotting the otherwise empty horizon. Dappled light fell upon the snow-covered alps that formed the backdrop to the picturesque scene presented by Mother Nature to all who chanced to see it.

The Frankenstein family home stood in stark contrast to this image of gaiety and peace. Although the outside was trim and quite appealing to the eye, the inner halls of the manor were quiet and dark—spare a few servants moving from place to place. For the most part, however, it was silent. Every room was plunged in darkness; human life seemed to be entirely gone from the place, beyond the few scurrying about to do their daily duties. One of the few people walking through the halls, dressed in the uniform of one who has dedicated their life to the service of a family, was walking room to room and throwing open the heavy brocade curtains. As the fabric parted, the gilded ceilings of each room glinted and gleamed with reflected light. This did little to combat the encroaching darkness of the rest of the unhappy house, which seemed to actively repel all that which sought to bring joy to the dwelling.

There was one force that could not be stopped, however. The very mention of it brought delight and warm smiles to the faces of all the household servants—and even the master of the house. Like a warm summer’s breeze, it swept through the home and brought color and livelihood back into every corner, nook, and cranny. It was impossible to feel bad; at the very least, one’s spirits were lifted greatly by the force, and from there it was not a far journey to sheer bliss. Whenever it appeared, it was welcomed wholeheartedly. The servants had a particular affection for it, as very little seemed to hold sway over their master’s mood beyond the miraculous force.

Upon the front door came a familiar tap-tap-tap; the maid who was dusting the front parlor immediately snapped to attention. Her duster fell to the floor as she hastened to confirm her suspicions. A quick glance out the window and the acknowledgement of a carriage drawing away prompted her to quickly rescue the fallen cleaning tool and rush off to locate the butler.

“It’s Master Clerval!” she cried out, bursting through the doors into the servants’ quarters. “Master Clerval has arrived.”

The butler, who had been enjoying a cup of tea at the table, rose to his feet and strode off towards the front door. He was followed eagerly by the young maid, who was nursing quite the attraction to young Master Clerval and was sore for any attention from the man.

“Master Clerval! Thank you for coming,” the butler hummed, opening the door.

Henry beamed, running a hand through his thick auburn hair and further messing up the already-tangled curls. His warm brown eyes cast a fond glance upon the inside of the grand foyer, idly taking note of the fact that naught had changed since his last visit. The young man was clad in a smartly-cut suit of a pale tan silk, with a crisp white linen shirt and a finely tailored vest in a shade two tones darker than the tailcoat. His collar was high and wrapped with a baby blue cravat, again cut from fine silk.

“‘Tis no trouble at all!” he replied merrily. “In all circumstances, I seek to do the best for my dearest friend. In which room has he sequestered himself now?”

“His study, sir,” the butler sighed, stepping aside and holding the door so Henry could enter the home. “He shut himself up again after your last visit. I had hoped it would be a passing fit, but…”

“With Victor, it never is,” Henry sighed softly, shaking his head. “He is quite intelligent, but he really is not wise.”

The maid was standing behind a column, occasionally peeking out and gazing at the handsome young man standing in the doorway. It was after several such attempts that Henry caught notice of her. She squeaked and jumped about a foot in the air; her starched white petticoats were visible for the briefest of moments as her black skirt came up. Immediately she began to retreat, cheeks bright red and hands clenched against the white ruffles of her apron.

“Now, now, don’t be afraid,” Henry chuckled. Quite smoothly, he stepped forward and managed to grab her hand, which he then raised to his lips.

The maid practically fainted as he brushed his lips across her skin. She turned redder still, mortified that she had been caught but pleasantly surprised that her youthful fantasies had been indulged.

Henry laughed softly, the sound carefree and light, before turning back to the butler. A sad little smile played upon his lips, teasing the corners of his mouth slightly upward but not masking the sorrow in his eyes.

“I shall see to Victor now,” he hummed, offering the man a nod before quickly heading towards the stairs.

The butler nodded back before approaching the maid and admonishing her with a stiff hand.

“Your fantasies are hardly of importance when it comes to the master’s health,” he said sternly. “That being said, Master Clerval would never feel that way for you. He has a...particular kinship with our master.”

“Kinship, sir?” the maid frowned.

She paused.

“...ah.”

“Not a word outside of the house,” the butler ordered her. She nodded meekly in response. The two quickly headed back to the servants’ quarters.

Henry had begun to ascend the stairs to the higher floors of the manor. His well-shod feet were light upon each stair tread, barely prompting a creak from any of them; many years of visiting had schooled him in regards to which steps produced louder sounds than the others. His ascension was smooth and quiet, perfectly suited for the temperament of the house.

The second floor was equally dark as the first floor, if not moreso. The curtains here had not yet been opened; the amount of activity on this floor was even less than that on the main floor. This was no deterrent to Henry, however; he glanced around and sighed before continuing through the house. Mahogany paneling rose halfway up the walls, lining the hall as if it were a tunnel. The floors were covered with wool rugs, each one woven with the utmost craftsmanship; oriental silk rugs were used only where very little foot traffic was received, as they wore at a much quicker pace than the woolen rugs.

At the end of the hall was a small oak door. Henry quickly approached this door and opened it to reveal a spiral staircase. It was this staircase that he began to climb, breath hitching slightly with each step. He was not out of breath; rather, he was slightly winded, but he was in excellent physical condition and thus paid no mind to it. His pale, freckled cheeks were tinged with the slight blush of exertion.

By the time he had arrived at the top of the staircase, he was quite flushed. There was a short, dark hallway leading to another door; this was his intended destination, as evidenced by the slowing of his steps upon approach. Pale knuckles rapped against polished wood. The honeyed voice spoke again.

“Victor? Victor, are you there?”

Behind the door was a personal study belonging to the master of the house, Victor Frankenstein. It housed, among other things, a desk, scientific apparatuses, bookshelves, and dozens of miscellaneous papers scattered with no system of organization whatsoever. To order it all would require the creation of some sort of massive catalogue to keep track of each item’s location amidst the controlled chaos. It was rare that guests were allowed in; Victor preferred to keep to himself, and to keep his projects and experiments to himself. For that reason, the room was filled with dust and general debris from the lack of a proper cleaning for god knows how long. Although several windows were built into the walls, all of the shades were drawn and there was only a bit of dwindling light from a sad stub of a candle sitting on the desk.

Victor groaned. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced; the black locks had become greasy, as he had not bathed for some time. A few gray and black strands dropped in front of his eyes, temporarily obscuring his vision. The young man stretched against the back of his chair—upon which his tailcoat had been discarded—, wincing as his spine cracked multiple times, and blinked a few times in a half-hearted attempt to wake himself up. Indeed, not only had it been some time since he had bathed, but it had been ages since he had slept properly—falling asleep and drooling all over his papers did not count as proper sleep.

“Victor? Victor, answer me!” came the voice again. It was only this second time that Victor realized it was from beyond the door, meaning that he was still alone in his study.

“Go away,” he muttered sourly, picking up his quill from where it had fallen on the floor. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, a crisp white against the strangely bright aquamarine hue of his irises, and scratched at his neck behind his jabot before attempting to refocus on the papers before him. This task proved challenging, however, because Henry had begun to pound on the door.

“Victor, if you do not open this door, I will have to force my entry!” Clerval cried. His throat felt fuzzy from all the shouting, but he deemed it important enough to remain straining his voice—after all, Victor was his dearest friend.

Frankenstein had not expected this. He had assumed that, being spurned, Henry would turn away and leave him in peace. However, it was clear that his friend had other actions in mind, and if he wanted to avoid having to replace the door to his study he needed to haul himself to his feet and unlock the door.

Sighing, Victor pushed himself up by leaning on the desk. He turned to take a step and was caught off-guard by the fuzzy feeling that filled his lower limbs; having been seated for so long, his legs had fallen asleep. He took one shuffle of a step forward and promptly fell onto the floor with a rather loud thump.

“Victor! Are you alright?!?” Henry cried, hearing the sound and automatically fearing the worst. He quickly began to fiddle with the lock, trying his hardest to get the door opened without damaging it.

“Schieße,” Victor spat. “I am fine, Henry! Do not—”

The door flew open.

“Victor!” Henry cried, rushing to his friend’s side. The latter could do naught but lie back against the wool rug in mild agony and internally sigh.

“What are you doing on the floor? Did you fall?! I heard you’ve been locked up in here for some time. Do you ever listen to me?”

Clerval’s chastising comments went unnoticed by Victor, who was busy staring into the other man’s dreamy brown eyes. A soft sigh of longing escaped Frankenstein’s lips.

“When was the last time you bathed?” Henry continued. “God, Victor, must I constantly be around to mind you? Let’s get you into the bath.”

Victor suddenly found himself in the arms of his friend. He immediately attempted to free himself, squirming in Clerval’s grip. Secretly, really, he didn’t want to move; his ear was against Henry’s chest, and he could just barely make out the beating of the other man’s heart. It was warm and cozy, too, a comfort he had been lacking for some time.

“I’m not letting go, Victor,” Henry said sternly. He shook his head disapprovingly, auburn curls flying every which way, and continued to carry Frankenstein down the hall and to the spiral staircase.

Victor watched Henry’s face with a sense of fond amusement, letting his limbs dangle limply over his friend’s arms. It took him several seconds to realize which room they had entered.

“Henry, I thought you weren’t serious!” he cried, voice squeaking in alarm.

“You require bathing, Victor, and it seems the only way that will be accomplished is if I myself aid in the completion of that task,” Clerval muttered, setting Victor on a chair and beginning to undo the man’s jabot.

Despite Victor’s protests, it was clear that Henry would not budge from his position on the matter. Some time later found Victor in the bathtub, face red from embarrassment. Henry was casually ogling him.

“Please look away,” Victor muttered.

“Nope,” Henry replied cheerfully.

Victor sighed deeply, trailing his fingers along the edge of the porcelain bathtub. The clawed feet rested evenly on the floor, an easy place to rest his gaze.

Anywhere away from Henry.

“Cheer up, Victor,” the man in question said softly. “Let’s get you outside and into the sun.”

Eventually, Clerval managed to get his friend into a fresh set of clothing. The old garments were quickly collected by a maid to be put straight into the wash, as they were in sore need of a cleanse. He took Victor’s hand in his own and led the way outside.

“It’s so...bright,” Victor mumbled, shielding his eyes as he glanced up at the sun.

Henry rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Victor, that’s called the sun,” he said patiently. “It gives us light. Or, at least, it gives light to those of us who don’t hole ourselves away in dark, dingy rooms.”

He set off in a specific direction, dragging Frankenstein along with him. Victor’s feet trailed through the grass with no small lack of enthusiasm.

“Where are we…”

The young scientist never finished his question. Henry was gesturing, beaming, to a blanket and basket set beneath an ancient-looking tree. A small brook lay between them and the idyllic scene; this his galant friend did splash through with quite a deal of gaiety.

“Join me, Victor,” he smiled, sitting down upon the blanket.

Victor did not need to be told twice. He hurried to cross the stream and seat himself next to Henry, where he picked up a book and began to read in the comfort of the quiet countryside. After some time, he became aware that he was leaning against Henry. He shifted to look up at his friend, who was wearing a content smile.

The kisses came easily. The simplest of thoughts produced a slight shift in body position; lips pressed against lips, soft and gentle as a lamb’s wool. Long, slender fingers tangled themselves around black locks, caressing and stroking Victor’s hair. The young man stretched and leaned into it approvingly, letting out a happy little sigh.

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” came the simple response.

“But for the love of god, don’t make me pull you out of that study again.”

#i never did post this #alyssa’s writing #clervalstein #clervenstein #whatever you people call it #victor frankenstein #henry clerval #sorry that this is so shitty

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