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ursoself-satisfying · 6 years

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Whole Lotta Love

P A T M U R R A Y (Undrafted) x F!Reader, SMUT

Warnings: smut, lots of it, language, like all the sex guys all of it guys,,, SPOILER: UNSAFE SEX THEY DISCARD THE CONDOM WRAP IT BEFORE U TAP IT BOYS N GIRLS

A/N: this is my zenic,, its 10k words n I am v tired,,,, I hope you all enjoy sorry its late lol

an accompanying playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/criceloni/playlist/5sP9FcSsFcPjFodxN1E5RY?si=dNK4SdE2RoSRcqhN99dntg

The engine of your car sputtered weakly as you turned the key for the third time. You pursed your lips and grunted as you screwed your whole arm around, twisting the key in the ignition again. The hot sun beat against the grimy, untinted windows of the old van and your skin boiled under the magnification of the glass. Drops of sweat limply slipped down the side of your face, sizzling when they hit the leather between the seats. The day was nice, but the interior of the vehicle was sweltering and stunk of burgers and sex. You groaned loudly and threw your head back tiredly. With your eyes closed, you tiredly and hopelessly went to turn the car on one last time, dreading the spitting sound that you expected to greet you. You were indeed greeted by the same annoying noise, burned into your eardrums by now, but it faded after a moment, the harsh metallic sounds blending into a solid purr as the engine started, radio turning on to the classic rock station. Shooting up out of your seat in shock, both at the sound and the unexpected success, your hands slammed against your steering wheel and your mouth hung open. “Oh my God,” you muttered, “Oh my God! Thank you, God!” You shouted at the roof of the car and you let out a dry sob. The wet lines down your face could have been sweat or tears, or both at this point. Loud thrums echoed through the cabin of the vehicle as you drummed your hands against the soft roof excitedly, shaking your head in a grateful spasm of relief. “YES! Oh my God, yes, thank you.” The soft whispers left your lips in the form of a laugh and you gripped the steering wheel tightly, taking a deep breath and smiling widely. The next thing you did was roll down the windows and sigh as the clear, blue sky blessed you with fresh air, letting The Who play you out. The gas pedal was pushed down and you made your way from the curb where you’d been sitting for the last half an hour. The VW bus bounced, “My Generation” fading as you turned a corner and made your way to the game.

Your sputtering horseless carriage shuttered to a stop and felt like it would cave in and collapse once in park. With a shake, you turned off on a ‘don’t text and drive’ PSA, the engine and rolled up the dirty windows. Manually locking the door behind you, you exited the rusted green car and headed towards the greener field. You rolled your eyes as you passed a large bus undoubtedly belonging to the opposing team. You doubted it was necessary and would have guessed it was more of a petty power move if anything. A small group of people, not yet a crowd, was gathered by the fences of the baseball field watching the game. It had already begun and you’d missed the first few innings. You searched the crowd for a familiar figure until you spotted a red shirt and jogged over to it. “Brian!”

The man turned to see you waving your hand happily above your head. He turned once he recognized you and laughed heartily with open arms. “[Y/N]!”

Once you reached him, he wrapped his strong arms around you and lightly picked you up. You did your best to return the embrace but he held you too tightly. His cotton button up smelled strongly of a flower-scented detergent and a gas station, comforting and familial. Your laughs mixed and you remained leaned against him when he put you down. “Mr. Murray,” you started playfully, “How are you on this fine day?” The older man patted your back and chuckled.

“Well, I could be doing a hell of a lot better.” Brian looked out at the game, Barone at-bat, and took a deep sigh. You scanned his face with concern, catching the glaze of sadness in his eyes. You softly placed a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what happened exactly, but having an idea.

You turned your head back and look around you for Brian’s almost other half, but seeing the older Mazzello nowhere. You felt safe enough to ask, “He didn’t get it, did he? John-” He shook his head quickly, not turning towards you. You wanted to ask how Pat was taking it but you could figure it out based on your past experiences. You weren’t sure Brian would know at this point anyway. For a moment, you just watched the game. Barone wouldn’t slide and Ty was clearly upset. All you could hear were the curse words carried to you by the light wind picking up. You squeezed Brian’s arm gently and gave him a sympathetic smile, before gulping and beginning to say something. “So then where’s-”

Joe walked up beside Brian and handing him a bottle of water from his trip to concessions. The shorter man glanced over and stopped when he caught sight of you. “Oh, [Y/N]-”

“Hey, Joe,” you replied softly. The man beside stepped back to allow you to give a quick embrace to the new arrival. You stepped back and smiled, biting your lip. “I’m sorry,” you spoke quickly, “He deserved it. John’s-” A stifled laugh interrupted your sentence, but you continued, “Not that I would know, but he’s the best, I hear. He should have gotten it. That’s- That’s so stupid-”

“He’s got some offers, but there’s not much we can do now that it’s over.” Leaning against the fence, the dark-haired man took a swig from the bottle he held and smiled faintly back at you though he kept his attention on the game before him. “Now we just play.”

Though you’d missed the first five innings at least, Brian filled you in on how the game had gone on with as many bumps and hitches as you could possibly imagine. The D-Backs were down (though you honestly wouldn’t have expected otherwise) and hoped for a comeback. Ty interrupts Barone’s play to demand he dirty his uniform, a call is unfairly continued and Ty (again) interrupts and demands his complaint be noted, which had been happening just as you’d arrived.

You were there just in time to see Pat’s second at-bat. “C’mon, baby, you got this! Hit it out of the fuckin’ park!” You were screaming and hollering encouragements at your boyfriend. His father chuckled and gave you a side-eyed glance, a glint of understanding gleaming on his face, seeing again why you and his son got on so well. “He’s not gonna get a hit,” you said quietly to the man beside you, not taking your eyes off the boy at bat.

Brian nodded, smiling. “Never does.” Both of watched as the third pitch was thrown and Pat unsurprising did not get a home run. He let out a long and frustrated scream and hit the bat against his helmet instead before heading to the dugout. The bat Pat had used broke against the fence pole as he hit it repeatedly and cursed the ‘loaded fucking bases’.

Pat then ran to his position in the outfield as he was told but it was clear he hadn’t cooled down yet by his continued yells. If you knew Pat Murray, you knew what he sounded like when he said ‘fuck’. By now, his curses were carved into your ears and you could hear them in your dreams. He yelled and yelled as the game continued, with some concern shown by his teammates and some confusion by the competition. Vinnie had attempted to diffuse the situation by engaging in a friendly game of catch between bats but Murray firmly stuck the ball in the scoreboard. He very nearly took Zapata’s head off.

“Is he like this at home?” The elder Murray let a smile tweak his lips upwards for a moment, then looked away from the comment. You leaned over the fence n suppressed a laugh at what John had said.

As the game went on, you could tell things would only get worse until it all imploded, and you were right. Brian shared a tired, knowing look with you as you could both hear him yelling from the dugout. “YOU THROW LIKE A BITCH AND YOU BAT AT .250!”

Brian rocked back and look between you and his friend, shaking his head. “Patrick, relax!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, DAD!”

He nodded and leaned back against the fence. “That’s my boy.” Laughing, you bounced against his side. John shrugged his shoulders and gave an exaggerated frown of acceptance. The game lasted a while before another notable event occurred. This time, was an unsportsmanlike fight erupting after an unfair play and a sudden injury. It all happened so quickly it was hard to comprehend.

Garvey was slammed into the ground by an opposing player and when they hit the dirt a cloud of red dust rose around them. An audible thud echoed as the crowd went silent. Your mouth hung open and the world stood still for what felt like forever as the small catcher laid there unmoving. Then Ty erupted. He grabbed the assaulter from behind and held him down, Vinnie running to leap into a punch. That was the instigator. The rest of the team, with the exception of Fotch, raced to the scene. The riot on the field got worse and once John ran out, Joe bounced off his arms on the fence and rushed just as you had to stop his son. You could hear your boyfriend shouting and mentally cursed, knowing how this would turn out.

“Pat, fuck-” You went to lift yourself over the fence and attempt to run after your lover in an effort to keep him from hurting anyone, but his father pulled you back. He gave you a stern look and shook his head.

“I don’t need you getting in any more trouble right now.” Without anymore protest, you huffed and took your place again. Brian yelled after the boys and jogged out onto the field himself, though he was sure to look back and give you a strict but caring sign to stay back.

You had been right in your earlier assumptions, as Pat charged with a battle cry and pounced on the bobbing mass of bodies, all angrily entangled with one another. More and more athletes seemed to be absorbed into the huddle the longer it went on until it's magnitude reached the crowds of onlookers, who soon after went to join. As the fathers ripped their sons from the mess, Brian stopped a member of the other team from adding a bat to the fight, but by the time the teams had been surgically separated, enough damage had been done. Garvey was in bad, bad shape and the rest of the team was covered in scrapes and bruises, uniforms in shambles and carrying expressions that could kill.

Brian remained out on the field for a few minutes, post scuffle, and Joe went to his son at Garvey’s side. With no one left to stop you from making your way to the scene, you stepped for the first time onto the sacred ground and jogged over to the pit with a wave, “Patrick!” The man turned at his name being called and you stopped in your place when he looked at you. For a moment, you thought you saw a small smile grace his shaking lips as his eyes shone with recognition and he made his way to you. Closing the distance between the two of you, he took you into his sweaty arms and held you perfectly against him. You fit like a puzzle piece together as your own arms were slung around him. He held your head tightly to the crook of his neck and you could smell on him all the events of the day. As you inhaled the scents of dirt and a bit of blood caked onto sweat-soaked skin and leftover aftershave, maybe the hints of a citrus shampoo, you pulled handfuls of his team shirt into your balled fists. Together you swayed for a moment in the middle of the field and he muttered, “Fuck, God- Fuck, I’m so glad you’re here- So fuckin-” He stopped his profane murmurs as he bit back something directly in between happiness and anger. “I’m just so glad you’re here.”

You responded with pressed whispers against the skin of his neck ignoring the previous events and focusing on the moment you were in. “Hey,” you breathed, “I wouldn’t have missed the D-Backs’ last game for the world.”

He smiled, though you couldn’t see. His muffled response was kissed into your hair. You couldn’t quite understand what he’d said but it sounded like something along the lines of, ‘God, I fucking love you,’ which you completely reciprocated.

One hand of yours strayed from his back to his head and held the hair protruding from beneath hat. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said again, softer this time, emphasizing how much your being there for him meant. “But I can’t fucking wait to get you alone.” He finished his statement quietly, in a voice that sent shivers down your spine, hot and dark, every vertebra quaking. His own hands mapped the back of your neck, threading his calloused, bloody fingers through your locks, holding you with a fear of losing you.

“I’m just glad you’re o-”

The quiet conversation was interrupted. “Get a room, Murray!” A voice yelled from the group of red behind him. It was most likely Barone or Polacco, the only two in a good enough mood after the previous events to pay enough attention to you to make any kind of crude comment like usual.

Pat pulled away, lips spread thin and eyes low. His hands moved to grip your upper arms tightly and he slowly turned his head back to look at the clever commentators. “Shut the FUCK UP ABOUT MY GODDAMN GIRLFRIEND!” Your eyes widen and a sheepish grin spread widely between your cheeks. When he turned back to you, you lifted your hand to hold his face. His eyes were tied to yours, but your gaze soon drifted down to the lightly bleeding scratches on his neck. You frowned and your fingertips dropped to trace over the red lines. The man holding you still, softer now, hissed at the raw contact and his pleading eyes twitched.

His hand rose to wipe at your left cheek, stained from his wound and your place in the crook of his neck. He didn’t move it though after placing it there. “You- There was some blood- Fuck, that’s so gross, I’m so fuckin’ sorry-” His head shook lightly as he stared at you, lip twitching with slight distress.

You responded with a soft laugh, breathed through your nostrils. “It’s ok- It’s ok! I’m sorry you got hurt,” you said as you wiped some of the blood from around the new wound. Pat looked pained, but your presence overcame any discomfort he had. “What a game, huh?”

You chuckled and he hummed near your ear, a pleased puff of air pushed through his nostrils. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here- It’s a better game now. I know it’s not gonna actually get better, but-” Pat moved back and looked at you with gleaming eyes. You could never resist those eyes. He seemed so hopeful since he’d learned of your arrival and you weren’t going to even think about how vain it might have been. “But you’re here, you know.”

You moved your hands swiftly to the sides of his face and pulled him down for a kiss. Though it took him a moment, he quickly pulled you against him and his plush lips pushed against yours. His arms around your waist were the only things keeping you upright as the two of you collided so passionately you arched against him. He pulled slightly back to turn his head and slip through your parted lips. He tasted of vanilla ice cream and blue raspberry Gatorade. Tongues pushing needily against each other, for just a moment, the field around you was lost and all you had was the sensation of Pat Murray buzzing through your lips.

“Ey, Murray-!” A sing-songy voice interrupted again and immediately Pat painfully yanked your face from his. With a clenched jaw and white knuckles still on your figure, he wiped the shared saliva from his mouth and looked like he was refraining from erupted in a trembling angry fit. One hand swept down the side of your face with a dazed expression of admiration and he made eye contact with you, sending you his concern through soft, hazel eyes. You felt the sudden sadness of his body leaving yours, the physical contact high of your love crashed down and you were left hot and alone. The player ran back to the benches spewing foul curses at his ogling teammates as they threw around playful jabs at his PDA. He turned to wave you off and that made you smile. You stepped backward, slowly at first, then turned to jog back to your spot at the fence.

The crowds grew but the sound shrunk. Spectators came from around the neighborhood as word of the fight had spread. It was silent now, in the aftermath. It felt like a sort of mourning period, perhaps for the final chances of the D-Backs at winning today’s game. Reverence was the word to describe what was emanating from the home team. The dugout looked morbid and the only eyes that weren't cast down were furrowed in anger, confusion, and concern. Sirens cut through the still, religious air as an ambulance and a police car drove onto the game dirt.

Two EMTs came barrelling from their vehicle with a gurney and lifted Garvey into the back of the ambulance. The teams cheered him on before the vehicle doors closed and the ambulance left the field. The last image of Garvey was that of him in a neck cast with a thumbs up and the biggest smile.

Two cops then got out of their car that had parked itself on the dirt and went over to the D-Back dugout. Vinnie and Ty sat against the fence as the policemen approached them after speaking with the umpires. “Tyler Delmonica and Vincent Maltzan?”

You watched with the fathers as you had before and smacked Brian’s arm with fever as you saw the lawmen approach the team. “What the fuck- What’s- What the fuck are they doing?” With a slightly irritated side-eyed glance, Brian observed the same scene you did with concern. The elder Mazzello on the other side of him grunted and spoke, “Nothing good.”

The two from the fence had gone over to the cops and were now in handcuffs. The entirety of the red team had come swarming from the shaded dugout to defend their friends. Curses were thrown back and forth and the policeman threatened to arrest Dells as well. “Dude, what the fuck-” you muttered.

“Finish the game!” Ty urged as he and Vinnie were dragged away. The other policeman countered Ty’s plea, announcing for an end to the gathering, at which time both teams emerged from their holes and agreed upon something for the first time. ‘We’re almost done!’ they said, ‘We’re winning!’ The crowd, which had grown exponentially since the scuffle, jeered and booed at the officer. He then complied to the masses as Maz promised they would go on with no further complications. The Bulldogs player that had put poor Garv in the hospital was expulsed and that was the end of it.

The game went on, not without some drama, of course, but it went on. It was an incredible sight. Dells was on fire, throwing out after out after out. Zapata gets a hit, Fotch walks with a dead arm (breaking Dell’s front car window in the process), then it was Pat at-bat, again.

He hit the first one and your breathing stopped, then it was announced a foul. You held tightly to his father’s arm, praying for the impossible as you did every game. The second ball went in slow motion as it headed towards him. The world stood still for you. The sudden smack of wood against hot leather shook you from your trance. Patrick ran with a fury you’d never seen before, sliding into first base in a red dust cloud of victory.

You could barely recognize your own voice in the scream you let loose as you watched your significant other accomplish such a rare feat. “YES, PATTY, YES! FUCKING GET IT!” You were jumping up and down, shaking the fence, hitting Brian when your hands weren’t waving excitedly in the air. Brian laughed at your reaction and held you with an arm when you settled down.

Patrick screamed and jumped just as you were. “I GOT A HIT!” The crowd was still roaring, the D-Backs yelling for him.

“Way to go, Pat!” Brian hugged you and wiped tears from eyes you hadn’t noticed falling before. The older man shook you affectionately against his side.

“I GUESSED! I FUCKING GUESSED!” The ginger was kept his yelling as the blue team called for time. “I’M NOT OUT!” He clapped and laughed, calling after his team as they prepped during the other team's timeout. Maybe it was just you but the air smelled sweet now, beside your considered family in an epic and cherished moment. It may have been bittersweet but it was worth savoring every second of.

“GO PALACCO! KILL HIM! MURDER HIM!” Pat was still screaming as his teammate took to the batting mound. It went Palacco, then David, then Maz. Having two strikeouts lead to your star didn’t seem like a good sign, but Maz was a miracle man. A home run, last bat, and they- They won. The D-Backs won. Maz hit home and the entire game, everything leading up to it erupted in the field and the crowds. The culmination of an entire season, all the stress of the game, the fight, the disappointment of the draft, the love of the team and the camaraderie and support they all show through all this exploded.

Red shirts were glued in a huddle at center field. “For Garvey!” You heard someone yell. Vinnie and Ty came running back on, leaping and whooping. The crowd roared and the cheers rolled over the hills beyond the field. You shook with pride, sure you must have been glowing like the sun looking out upon the victory. Brian looked on the verge of tears, but you couldn’t quite tell through wet eyes of your own. Sound seemed to escape the reality you existed in and all that mattered was the team. Time slowed and your focus went to tunnel vision on a very specific first-time hitter.

Patrick ran over to you the second you set foot on the beaten dirt of the outfield, ambushing you with the tightest embrace you may have ever been in. It took a second but you thrust your arms around him as well as he lifted you from your waist. Holding onto him around his neck, he spun you in tight circles as you both laughed heartily, buried in one another’s soft scents. As he put you down, you started to speak but he cut you off immediately by pushing his face into yours. You did not mind one bit as you resumed your position from earlier, curving against him, your front flat against his chest, hands tugging at his sweaty hair as his limbs slipped down your back. Tracing the dimples at the bottom of your spine, pulling at the hem of your shirt and letting his thumb kiss your skin. His other hand gripped your ass, wanting you impossibly closer. Your open-mouthed kiss was outlined by a smile as you groaned every time he found a new place on your body to caress. Pat was lost in your taste, like lemon cookies and cherry slushies and little league baseball games.

“C’mon, man! Your fucking dad’s here!” Zapata groaned and Palacco smacked his arm with a laugh as the team, those distracted by the couple, made faces and sounds to tease. Barone made a thrusting motion and mouthed ‘Get it!’ as his own girlfriend stood neglected behind him.

The pair of you separated to see the what antics the boys had come up with this time around. Though you thought Pat’s good mood after the win couldn’t be bent, this came awfully close. His grimace was incomparable yet that was just another reason you loved him. Somehow it was still adorable. “He’s right, you know,” you patted your lover’s dusty chest and smiled, “I’ve been hanging out with Mr. Murray the whole game and he probably saw all that.” Pat glanced back at you before looking behind you and quickly, guiltily, pulling his hands from your ass.

‘Perfect timing,’ you thought, as you could guess exactly who it was. Brian was kind enough not to mention anything as he approached his son. The father gave you a pat on the back before embracing his son. The moment was tender as you looked on at the scene of the father/son bonding, albeit a bit awkwardly. Brian held Pat by the shoulders for a moment and they both had shining streaks down their cheeks. You didn’t hear anything that had been said but you smiled softly, overcome with love for the both of them. The graying man approached you next, rubbing your shoulder and giving you a quick hug. “You kids have fun,” he said as he walked back to Joe, “and be safe!” He winked.

“God, your dad-”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Love him, though,” you joined the number 15 player as you followed the others to the snack shack, walking arm in arm, holding as much contact as you could while still being able to walk.

Maz ended up beside you when you all sat at the picnic tables with rainbow sprinkles on vanilla ice cream in a casual post celebration gathering. This gave you the opportunity to congratulate him and at the same time express your sympathies after the draft. “I mean, it’s alright,” he’d said to you, “‘cus this is really what it’s all about right here, you know? I mean these guys-” He laughed gently as David and Palacco ‘lovingly’ assaulted Ty with several scoops of ice cream to the face, “Dad was right. They’re what it’s about. Winning is awesome, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t be here without them and- and it’s all just-” Without getting emotional, he could barely say anymore. “It’s not about me. It’s about family.” John sat back against the table and chuckled.

You patted his knee as you stood. “They wouldn’t be here without you either, Maz. Regardless of where you go from here, everything you’ve done has mattered to someone, to all of them, at least.” Your boyfriend approached you and you said one last thing to the star batter before moving out, “I mean, if you could hear the way Pat talked about you, you’d think you were his girlfriend.” He laughed at this and you grinned knowing he would appreciate it. “Be proud, no doubts, you’re loved, and all that shit.”

“Thanks, [YN],” John nodded happily at you and looked down for a moment at his melting cone dripping on the grass below him. Pat stood next to you now and whispered some suggestive suggestions in your ear. Shooting the younger Mazzello a sorry look he sent you off and waved you and your lover goodbye with a sly grin. “Go on, go have fun. I’ve had enough of the longing looks, get it out of your system.”

Pat laughed lightly and slipped an arm around your waist, furrowing a confused set of eyes at his friend’s comment, then at you. It made him wonder what type of conversation the two of you’d had. He led you towards the parking lot, flipping off the team he left behind as they wolf whistled, making a lot of correct assumptions of what the two of you intended to do in your early departure. You’d left your van parked around the side of the field in the nice shade of a small grove of trees. The keys clicked in the quieter, cooler, fresher air around you. Patrick leaned against the side of the vehicle, one arm up to support himself and the other placed on his hip, ankles crossed. He watched you a bit too intently as you unlocked the cabin of your old car.

“I can feel you looking at me,” you smiled, opening the passenger’s side door to manually reach around and slide open the spacious back of the bus, turning on the car battery in the process. Leaving the keys in the ignition, turning down The Damned, but leaving it loud enough to cover what sounds may come. He watched you do this every time. It came as no wonder to him why your cherished car was in such bad shape as you left the battery running to supply a soundtrack to your lovemaking. Eyes distractedly stalled on your midsection as he looked you up and down, Pat faltered as the car shuddered when the door opened and he was thrown off his balance. He caught himself, though, and shot you a slanted grin.

“You’re just-” He bit his lip, “-so fucking hot, and you’re all mine.” Settling into the cushy, creaking back part of the carriage, you grinned expectantly.

“Am I?” You cocked your head, “Maybe you should remind me again who exactly I belong to.” Dragging every word out, you purposefully teased the impatient man, unbuttoning the top of your shorts slowly.

Like a switch, something clicked in him. His entire demeanor shifted from his almost toddler-like temper to something much more mature. Sitting spread eagle on the plush blankets you kept in the back for such occasions, you waited. He stared at you darkly, a towering shadow that filled the van’s open portal to the rest of the world. He filled in the empty space, deciding what he wanted to do first, how he would defile you in so many ways and what he would start with.

The interior smelled liked fast food, rubbing alcohol, and sweaty sex. Seeing as the main things you did in this car were eat bad food, try to clean up the stains left behind from said bad food, and, of course, fuck, the medley of scents came as no surprise. Around you were an array of cushions, blankets, and pillows all extremely soft to the touch. Not an inch of the original upholstery could be seen under the collection of plush covers. This made for the ideal landing as Pat pounced on you like a starved jungle cat as you look so very appetizing against the grey of the fur throw you laid on.

With him on top of you, you grabbed his cap and threw it to the side, kicking the door closed with your foot. Already against your lips, Pat straddled you, one hand on your waist and the other your cheek. The tops of your thighs pressed against the backs of his laying sideways in the cramped space. Holding his face to yours, his stiff, sweat dried hair curling between your fingers, you moaned. He smelled hotly of dust and fire, like a childhood summer day. The intimacy of the flood of memories he reminded you of only increased the sensation for you, heightening your attraction to him in a familiar, safe emotion.

His lips moved against yours, both of you sharing the same rhythm like singing along to an old song you never really could forget the words to. Open mouths clashed, teeth hit teeth, tongues knotted with tongues. His eyelashes brushed against your cheek as his wet kisses traveled down your face hitting your chin, your neck, your collarbone. Simultaneously, his hand pushed up your top, the other lifting you to help you pull it off. You let your arms drift above your head as he peeled the first layer off your body. It was only fair you would start unbuttoning his jersey and pulling at it, signaling him to take it off.

Before you could rip his undershirt off, he attached his lips to your neck, sucking hard to leave behind a noticeable deep purple love mark high enough it couldn’t be covered. You could feel his teeth graze your skin in a proud smile as your hot and heavy breaths turned to desperate, squirming moans. You gasped, gripping the fabric over his chest. He was glowing knowing only he could leave you in such a state.

Dragging a hot trail of saliva down your body, Pat stopped at your chest. He pulled away and stared down at your breasts with a shake of his head. “So fucking gorgeous,” he whispered. With one knee on either side of you, he sat up and pulled his red top off. Then he swept back down, suctioned back to your skin. He started behind your ear and peppered bites around your jaw, hands pulling your body to arch, allowing him the opportunity to remove your bra. You threw your head back and shimmied off the upper undergarment.

Your hands skimmed Pat’s bare chest, traveling upwards to his shoulders and past. Palms pressed against the sides of his face, you wiped your thumbs at the smeared eye black on his cheeks. His gaze was tied to your exposed chest and his breathing was heavy and hungry. Lips hanging parted, he slowly looked up at you through hooded lashes.

You smiled at the man hovering above you. Neither of you moved as you established eye contact while Jimi Hendrix played in the background. The van was hot between your bodies and the setting sun shining through the front window. Sweat beaded your forehead and your boyfriend went to push your hair back from your face, damp from the growing heat. “You’re-”

“You’re beautiful,” you finished. He laughed and it was like a Baroque painting before you. In a golden haze, his hair looked soft and he was glowing in muted tones. The tapestry pinned to the ceiling gave a dusty rose background to compliment the halo you saw around him. You pushed his hair back and pulled yourself up to kiss him. He took this chance to explore your body, mapping every inch of your warm, welcoming skin.

His fingertips were calloused and grey, dirt caked in the ridges of his prints, proof of the aftermath of the game. Rough pads walked down the center of your torso, stopping at your breasts. He took one mound in his hand, pinching your nipple between his thumb and his palm, rolling it slowly. You bit your lip and tucked your fingers under the waistband of his baseball pants and briefs, pulling them back and snapping them against his hips. Your eyes hung on the happy trail leading up his stomach. You traced it with the tip of your nail and his dark gaze settled on your face.

From his perspective, you were hidden in the shadows below him, hot and vulnerable. Buds of your breasts perky and hard, the dips of your stomach like a flowing river to your hips where your shorts sat a little too low, you were buried under filters of lust. The retiring sunlight hit the dust particles between you, floating through the air in slow motion like a love scene in an early 2000s, warm-toned, rom-com, the kind you spent Friday nights watching under three different blankets on the couch. You were dreamy, always, but especially now, a hazy, golden goddess.

“I want you, Pat,” you interrupted his daze, stroking his face and pushing his loose hair behind his ear. “Now.”

He blinked at you and grinned. “Oh, let’s go.” You smiled wickedly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, you wrapped your arms around his back and slipped your hands on his ass. He engulfed you then gripped your shorts and panties, ripping them down all at once. A guttural groan left your throat and you wiggled out of your clothes. Pat had moved to one side of you, maintaining skin on skin contact whenever he could, and kicking off his shoes. Your body arched towards him as he retracted his touch. You shook your pants off your leg and laid baring it all for your lover in the cramped space of the vintage vehicle.

Pat was awestruck as you sat up, spread out for him, back to the driver’s seat. He paused with his pants stopped just high enough not to be truly explicit. You looked on with anticipation, one finger slinking its way between your legs. “Keep going,” you nodded at him. He complied with a lopsided grin and hot, hooded eyes. You rubbed two fingers against your clit and bit your bottom lip as he yanked his pants down, cup painfully sliding over his hard erection. He sat back and pulled off his bottoms, socks included, cock slapping against his stomach as he did so.

You snorted at him, unceremoniously slouched in the back of your small van. The sight was both pleasing and amusing, and far from being unfamiliar. Every time you’ve watched him undress in these four fabric covered walls, it felt the same. It had become something of a post-game ritual, defiling the backspace of your car while the oldies stationed tuned out the lewd sounds you made together.

‘She said, hey babe, take a walk on the wild side’, your lover crawled towards you as you spread your lower lips to welcome him, ‘I said, hey honey, take a walk on the wild side.’ Patrick took in the sight of your glistening sex and licked his lips. He sat back on a plush green throw blanket and pulled you onto his lap with a soft chuckle. He hummed contently at your lips against his ear, tightening his arms around your damp skin. You were straddling him, one arm slung over his shoulder and the other reaching for his member. The pre-cum leaking from his tip spread against your stomach as you pressed onto him, limber fingers wrapped precariously around his length. You pumped him slowly, hanging off his lobe by your teeth. This pulled a whimper from deep inside him, nuzzling against you. Thumb sliding over his head, you dragged the slickness down his shaft and sucked on his neck as he had yours. You were dripping for him and he could feel it. His knuckles went white, gripping your thighs with bruising strength. He nipped at your shoulder, leaving behind wet, fading love bites.

You were jostled as your boyfriend lifted you by your waist so he could easily access your tits, supporting you against the back of the driver’s seat. Pace quickening as your hand slid up and down his cock, his mouth latched onto your nipple, teeth brushing against it as he sucked hard. His thick fingers inside you scissored with fervor and you could feel every bend of his knuckles between your walls. Your free hand held his face against your chest and you moaned. Slowly, the cabin filled with the sweet scents of both yours and his arousal and sweat. You pulled yourself towards him and pulled gently on his hair as he replaced his lips with rolling fingers and paid his attention to your other bud.

“Fuck, Pat,” your breath hitched and you could feel him smile against your breast, “Pat, I want you-”

“I fucking need you, [Y/N],” his breathing was heavy as he detached from your chest, moving to look you in the eyes, “Soon.” It was a pleading look he gave you, far different from his on-field persona. With one last soft squeeze of his erection, you let go. He moaned at the release and you were up on your knees. He looked up at you from between your breasts as you flattened against him.

One of his hands slid between your thighs and your composure faltered, his cold fingers pressing past your nerve center and straight to your hole. He watched your face carefully, one hand on the small of your back, the other letting digit after digit push into your sex easily, slick secretion assisting in his effort to stretch you before his anticipated penetration. Blinking quickly, you twitch your hips at the knuckles deep in your pussy. Patrick grabbed your ass and began going in and out and in and out of your entrance with a quiet slap. To the rhythm of the Bowie song blowing out your damaged speakers, you hump his fingers and ride your rising pleasure ut before you can peak, you’re filled with emptiness.

“You fucking ready for me, babe?” Want was dripping from every syllable of his words as you looked down just in time to see him pull his slick fingers from his mouth, appreciating your taste every chance he could.

“Let’s drag this out, baby, today we got something to celebrate.” You caressed the side of his face and smiled softly. He couldn’t resist your whims and he knew exactly how to make this special.

He laid on his back and pulled you up by your ass, sliding your wetness along his torso. He lifted your waist and you compliantly moved your knees to either side of his head. “Then let me finish you off before we start on the good stuff, hm?” His smile was sexy as he adored you from between your legs, willing to put your sexuality before his need. His arms wrapped around your pillowy thighs, on hand holding your slit open and the other stroking your clit. A shiver ran through you as he lifted his head to break your first contact.

This was his chosen place of worship, kissing your core surrounded by the satin skin of your voluptuous legs. His religion was you on your knees and him on his back, the ecstatic expression you wore his deity. The fluid stained woven rugs and fur throws that shaped the interior of your chosen mode of transportation was the altar he so admired in the temple of you. Your skin was scripture and your acts together sacred, the hard rock you left on the hymns of your love. His metaphor was worn but as the last of the daylight threaded through the fallen waves of your hair, he couldn’t think of any words more true to describe this image of you.

He dove into you, starved of your taste. You were pulled down to his face, feeling his tongue probe the space between your lower lips, sucking at the labia and fully drinking up your nectar. You ground against his tongue, utilizing what he could to maximize your pleasure, the texture of his muscle overwhelming your senses. His nose pressed against your clit as his hands moved to go from grabbing your ass, supporting your waist, then giving his hands’ attention to your breasts. Your nipples were well loved as your pussy continued to be stimulated to the point of pushing you over.

Your whole body curved forwards, gripping his hair and supporting yourself with a fistful of the blanket. Uneven breaths drifted from your open mouth, heaving chest painted with small drops of sweat. Pat’s palm was flat against your back. Your hair flipped out of your line of sight as you threw your head back, lips forming a solid ‘o’. A wave of ecstasy rushed over you in your first orgasm of the evening, a musical moan, broken by sharp breaths. The lover beneath you lapped up every release of your spasming pussy until your curses died down to soft shudders. To avoid overstimulating you, Pat moved from your sensitive mound to drop hot kisses on your inner thighs.

The pulsing of your core subdued as you spent the next minute catching your breath. The van was filled with salty, hot air and Patrick held your midsection tightly as he sucked dark hickies on every inch of your shy skin he could reach. His face was coated in your juices, which was smeared across your legs, both sets of hands, and down your boyfriend’s chest. Letting his tongue glide over a fresh bruise just left in the crux of your crotch, his melted autumn eyes stared up at you with intense lust. He threw his head back when he was satisfied with his work and snorted, “You taste like a Goddamn fucking angel.”

His smile was goofy and gross, the juvenile delinquency of your act written all over his face. It made you feel like a teenager again, sneaking around with the angry boy your parents didn’t like. God, you loved him. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the situation. There you were, sitting on your boyfriend's face in the back of your musty van by the neighborhood baseball field and you weren’t even done yet.

You grinned down at him, “Shut up and fuck me, Murray.” The man smiled and sat up, catching you as you fell off him. You grabbed his face and pressed his lips to yours for a moment, tasting your own sticky, semi-sweet love on his lips before he pulled away to reach around you. Popping open the center console compartment with a click, he grabbed a condom and ripped it open with his teeth. “Care to-”

You took the contraceptive from him without letting him finish. He could understand the eagerness in your eyes and moved back expectantly. Holding up the plastic package, you frowned. “I thought we were celebrating?” You tilted your head innocently. Recognition flashed across his face and he raised his eyebrows. For the first time, the mood was broken, a Honda commercial really solidifying it for you.

“Are you- Are you serious? Are you sure?” The sweaty athlete’s eyes were wide at your implication.

You smiled slyly and nodded at him. “I’m on birth control and,” you shrugged, “I trust you not to have any weird, contagious rashes.” He laughed at you, happily, and you joined him.

“I can promise you I have no transmittable diseases, inspect me if you want.” His arms moved out to present himself to you.

You dragged a nail across the length of one of his arms and he cocked a half smile in your direction as he eyes your movements. “I’ve seen plenty.” You grinned and put your hands back on his cheeks, pushing against him in a kiss. Pat was quick to move, but you stopped him, hand flat against his chest. “You need a little prep, first, don’t you?” Slowly, he figured it out and sat back to give you more space to do your deed. Folding over yourself, thighs spread and arousal tickled by the thick woven rug beneath you, your face reached the waiting cock.

All the man could focus on was your long, batting lashes and your ass sticking out behind you. His tip was cold and wet from being untouched, but your spit dripped down it as you kissed the slit briefly. Patrick’s breath was shaky as you licked from the base up to the tip, making eye contact as you did so. His body weight was put on his locked arms behind him, leaning away from you, but he feared one more sex filled look from you would break him and he would collapse.

He nearly did when you first took him into your hot mouth. A groan vibrated through him and you felt it in your connection. Slowly at first, sparingly, you bobbed up and down on his length, soft lips sliding over every ridge and every vein. “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck-” You picked up speed with his encouraging curses. Head thrown back, your lover focused on not cumming right then and there, doing his best to save himself for what came next, but Goddamn it, [Y/N], he thought. He’d let you know him far too well if you could break him into so many pieces so quickly. Tongue scraping at the side of the sensitive skin, balls being treated with care in your hands, and the pace leaving him a sputtering mess- You name filled the compartment like a rolling sea fog, all your senses overcome with his apparent need for you. His scent, his sounds, his taste- hot and salty. Seeing his chest rising with labored breaths, you decided he was getting too close and hilted him in your throat as best you could for a moment, teeth grazing his base and your nose buried in his happy trail, before pulling off at a painstaking pace, detaching from him with a ‘pop’, a string of saliva falling from between you.

It took a quiet moment for him to get his bearings at the disappointing cutoff. The drops of sweat sliding down the sides of his face were tinted with red from the adobe colored dirt he’d spent so much time on. Sitting back up and leaning towards him, you went to wipe the moisture away and he held your hand to his face, kissing your palm with closed eyes. He saved his high and gave you a quick, and ironically chaste, kiss before pushing aside discarded clothing articles and repositioning the two of you so he was above you once again. He took you by your middle and moved you to the side, growing increasingly impatient, seemingly recovered from his edge. Holding firmly to your ribs as he laid you down before him, he then pulled away to admire you again.

Under a young night sky, you were the only star he saw. Glowing in a post-orgasmic haze against the shadows cast by street lamps, you were a constellation of an impossible creature. Contrasting the true space you both existed in, his view of you was divine. Every beautiful thing in the heavens and the earth, he saw in you.

“Pat?” You furrowed your eyes in concern at his momentary stillness.

He blinked the clouds from his eyes. “God, sorry, fuck-” Shaking his head, he smiled slightly, “I got so fucking lucky. I may not be able to get a hit but, uh-” He chuckled before completing his favorite line, “You sure are a catch.” He winked and you gently kicked him in the shoulder. Catching your ankle, he held your leg up and held it over his shoulder as he moved to position himself at your open hips. “C’mon, it’s my best line.”

You impatiently rolled your eyes. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?” You motioned to your waiting sex, ready and slick for him. “I’m waiting-”

“-And I’m ready!” Patrick held up his free hand defensively before grabbing your hip with bruising strength. His dripping, neglected tip sat waiting at your entrance. His tone turned serious, “Are you?”

His genuine asking was comforting and you nodded quickly. His position over you turned you on even more, if possible, loving that he could see you melt in his hand and drip between his fingers. With one hand holding your leg up and the other stroking his excited cock, preparing to enter you. The sparkling space between your welcoming thighs glistened in the little bit of moonlight making its way into the vehicle. He slid his thumb through the wetness and you groaned in need. He chuckled at your response and you squirmed against the soft fabrics you’d been set on.

It was the moment of final satisfaction that you’d been building to all afternoon in the back of your sex-soaked bus. Your eyes were trained on his focused downward gaze and you could feel him press into you. It was a pleasant stretch you looked forward to but it was different this time, void of the protection you’d so cautiously used. You felt unequivocally full, natural, and satisfying like you were made to fit together like this. Scary, but exciting, this new sensation left you unable to control your breathing. Sharp inhalations were a sign to him he was doing something good. Pushing into you was easy with how much arousal dripped your sex, all the fluids of the night mixing together for a pleasurable experience. In and out, he took his time deepening the contact, holding tight to your hips, a nice pain shooting through you when he squeezed the old yellowed bruises he’d left behind from past rendezvous. Your eyes focused on him when they were closed in ecstasy, hands swiping furiously at your clit or alternating between your breast. Pat was in awe at the bolts of hot pleasure that traveled up his body at the raw feeling of you around him, tight, wet, and warm. He thought sex couldn’t get any better, especially not with you, but he was wrong. He felt every dip and fold of your tunnels against the ridges of his own skin.

You were sleeved around him as he picked up speed. Grunts fell from his pouting lips every time his hips slapped against yours. The sound could be heard over the still playing radio in the front seat. It seemed the amount of teasing the two of you subjected each other to left little resilience to the sudden relief of penetration as your boyfriend’s rate jumped from calculated, appreciative thrusts to messy, needy, heavy ones in a matter of minutes. “You feel-” He groaned as he hilted in you again, balls deep to the pleasure of both of you, “So fucking amazing-” The words barely came out. You tried to formulate a response but the heat filling your abdomen stopped you. What came out instead was a gurgled moan of agreement. Smiling at the sights and the sounds you produced, Pat was absolutely enamored by you in this new sensation. Tits bouncing as you shook with his slamming thrusts, your eyes rolling back with guttural groans from deep inside you.

Drawing from that pit of white-hot pleasure, you neared your peak and a higher pitched plead cam as a warning to your partner, “Can’t- Fuck, Pat- Almost there-” He got the message and the two of you shook together, his whispers of ‘me too, me too’ barely heard through the whimpers. No longer could sounds be differentiated from one source or the other as your bodies melted together in a moment of bliss. For the first time, the vehicle noticeably shook in your passionate lovemaking. His hands slipped down your legs, attention drifted from your clit to your navel to your hair as he doubled over to float parallel above you. Sweat from his tiring body rained on you and you pulled him closer. His face was buried between your ear and shoulder, biting away curses as he humped through his high.

“Fuck, that’s it-” The sliding stopped as his back arched first, pressing so hard into your crux, you were sure your entire lower half would be purple by the next morning. His member pulsed inside you and you could feel it swell with anticipation before your own pussy milked him for all he was worth. Streams and streams of hot, white pleasure flowed into you and you swallowed a scream. The sound that managed to escape was otherworldly and Pat loved it. You’d never felt this before, his love directly inside you, hot sloshing, liquid driving you past your point of return. You thought maybe it hadn’t been the physical sensation but the idea of how intimate the action was that had really given you your final orgasm. Either way, you had simultaneously arched against him and he held you up by your back as you squeezed with every muscle. Nails dragging down his spine, no doubt leaving red territorial marks down his sides as you rode out the ocean of intensity that washed over you. It made you curl your toes and tense your appendages around your lover like a boa constrictor and their prey.

Love came gushing from your connection and pooled beneath the small of your back, sinking into the layers of covers that cushioned the two of you from the hard vehicle floor. You didn’t think about the mess you’d made or the unfortunate task of cleaning it up and instead focused on the weight on top of you. Still, inside you, Patrick’s cock twitched as he’d nearly collapsed over you. The rhythm of your breathing synced with his and your pussy pulsed sorely, your entire body sensitive and raw. A shiver ran through your bones as you felt the hot mouth of the body blanketing your’s suction onto your neck one last time, licking over its handy work with a weak laugh. Your fingers laced through his damp hair and you turned your cheek to kiss his.

Your eyes were watering, maybe from the tense situation or the exhaustion that suddenly overwhelmed you now that the wire strings of arousal no longer hold you up. Pat felt the same way as he slowly pulled out of you and you winced. On his side next to you, you felt him pull you closer, nestling into your equally wet and disgusting hair. The entire car smelled awful and hot, the windows were grey and fogged up, blankets beneath you covered in God knows what. Closing your legs and turning towards the warmth beside you, you nestled into him, the feeling of your post-coital calmness was immortalized in the music you’d left on. ‘Goodbye stranger, it’s been nice. Hope you find your paradise.’

Maybe the lyrics weren’t a perfect fit, but somehow the melody found it’s way beneath your hot skin and soothed you. You remained this way for, you weren’t sure how long. Time seemed lost to the two of you then. Engulfed in his arms, you felt safe. The scene was grimy and explicit, your nakedness blending together, the leftover ejaculate dripping from your slit without care, the stained and discarded undergarments left unnoticed and hanging off the steering wheel. It wasn’t clean or safe, but for the two of you, it was nice. What that said about your situation, you didn’t care. This was your heaven.

“Good morning, Orange County! And what a lovely morning it is! We’d like to start the day with a little Springsteen, huh?” A hard drum intro led into a twangy guitar and the sonorous voice of Bruce Springsteen, ‘In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream. At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines.’

“Is it weird,” you’d said, “knowing all the boys are well aware of what we do? Including your dad?” You laughed a bit, leaning against him, still bare, under a furry quilt. The carriage of the vehicle creaked at your movements, audible now that it wasn’t masked by the heavy breathing of your fucking. The bohemian tapestry behind you shrouded the rising sun from your sensitive eyes, half open in a dream-like state.

Patrick planted a quick kiss in your hair, “I like they know you’re mine.” He took a deep breath, “And my dad can fuck off.”

After a pause, you looked at him and erupted in laughter. “He’s pretty cool, you know, for having to deal with a kid like you.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

‘Wendy let me in I wanna be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions. Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims and strap your hands 'cross my engines.’

Brian glanced at the phone as he prepared his breakfast. He was sure his son was fine, he’d gone nights without calling before, but by morning he usually had a message waiting for him. He tried not to think about what may have distracted him in order to keep down his first meal of the day. The radio played in the background.

‘Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors and the boys try to look so hard. The amusement park rises bold and stark, kids are huddled on the beach in a mist. I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight in an everlasting kiss.’

The groundskeeper stared on worriedly at the shaking VW bus that had been parked behind the trees since before he’d gotten there in the small hours of the morning. “Fucking teenagers, disgusting,” he shook his head and turned away, earphones back in as he started up the lawnmower.

‘Oh honey, tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.’

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 6 years

Note

25! I love these :)

25: Who takes a selfie when the other one falls asleep on their shoulder? for @banicatthebisco and @blue-tomatoes http://blue-tomatoes.tumblr.com/ both asked for this one.

Penny

The credits roll. It was my turn to choose tonight so I finally managed to get Baz to watch Star Trek: Into Darkness. Thought he’d cultivated an appreciation for Chris Pine after seeing the first film. Perhaps not.

Baz is a film snob. He’s as you’d expect—all about foreign films, eclectic indies, documentaries. With two surprising weaknesses: The Lord of the Rings and certain rom-coms.

Space fiction films, not so much. I think the only reason he liked The Martian was because Matt Damon’s character was so sarcastic and Sean Bean made a Lord of the Rings reference in it.

Simon had to practically beg him to watch the original Star Wars so Baz could finally get the droid spell right for Simon’s wings. Simon simply detests “nothing to see here.”

“Up for another one, Penny?” Simon asks. I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight.

“Depends what you’re watching.”

Baz clicks the remote to start the next film.

Merlin and Morgana. They can’t be watching “Four Weddings and A Funeral” again. I know Baz has a bit of a thing for old Hugh Grant films. More than a bit of a thing. And of course, it’s rubbed off on Simon.

I can tolerate “Love, Actually.” I do like that one. Makes me laugh, all those idiot boys desperately trying to figure girls out. The only one who actually has a clue is the little kid who plays the drums.

“No. I’ll call it a night. Have fun watching Hugh bumble his way through another relationship.”

Baz

Bunce is trying to get me interested in sci-fi films. I’m honestly surprised she likes them so much. She’s such a stickler for facts and data I don’t know how she can tolerate watching them. I grudgingly acquiesce, because it’s only fair to let her choose a film every so often, and then I entertain myself by identifying the myriad plot holes and implausible scientific occurrences.

There are many.

I was hoping she’d shove off if I put this on. She is not a Hugh Grant fan.

It’s got plot holes and flaws, like any film. But I love it.

I don’t mind Bunce. As Simon predicted I like her quite a bit.

And I’m not usually in the habit of chasing her off but I’ve had a busy week with assignments and so has Simon. I’ve barely seen him at all. I’ve been looking forward to cuddling up on the sofa with him all week. And snogging. I’ve missed that this week too.

Snow manages to fall asleep twenty minutes into the movie. I’ve got my arm around him and he’s asleep on my shoulder so I suppose this counts as cuddling, even though he isn’t an active participant.

One of the many benefits to dating Simon is that I now get to watch him sleep whenever I want. He grumbles about it, if he catches me doing it, but he doesn’t really mind. I can’t see him now and I wish I could.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and put it in selfie mode.

He’s a nightmare, as usual. Hair sticking up, a few stray curls falling on his forehead. Mouth half open (Not drooling on me) (Yet.) Face bathed in the light of the television. That delectable line of moles trailing down his neck.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

I snap a photo. I should be mortified at the sappy smile on my face but I can’t help it. I can’t help looking like that when I’m with him. A part of me still can’t believe my luck.

I press a kiss into his bronze curls, inhaling the scent of him, to remind myself that this is real.

Baz

If Simon Snow needed further proof that I would do anything for him today should certainly confirm it.

I am going to a Liverpool game with him.

In Liverpool.

It’s proof that I am completely besotted with this boy. Thank Merlin they’re playing Cardiff City and not some team I actually care about.

Snow is decked out in all his Liverpool gear and avidly conversing with the fans across the aisle from us on the train.

I don’t quite understand how he became such a fervent fan. Proximity perhaps. Simon was at a boys’ home near Liverpool for a bit a few years before he came to Watford and he was at another one there the last summer he was in care.

It still enrages me that the Mage left him in care during the summers. It makes me regret not confronting him about it when I had the chance. Manipulative bastard.

He should never have done that. Shouldn’t have been allowed to do it by the Coven. There was no need to subject Simon to that.

The Mage should have taken Simon home with him.

If he even had a home. I can’t quite picture the Mage in a snug little cottage with flouncy drapes and an herb garden.

But he should have done something.

Anything would have been better than those homes. There were enough people fawning over The Mage while he was alive. He could have convinced someone to take Snow for the summer holidays. The Wellbelove’s did it every Christmas, even before Agatha and Snow were dating.

I should have brought him home with me. Before eighth year.

Simon

I’ve not been to a Liverpool match before. Been up since dawn ‘cause I’m so excited about it.

I can’t believe Baz bought us tickets. He loathes Liverpool.

Actually, I can believe it. He’s doing it for me.

Baz does that sort of thing all the time. It still surprises me. I mean, I know by now how kind he is, how he’s really soft when you get behind those walls he likes to keep up. So good surprised, I guess you’d say.

It’s the thought that goes into that gets me. I see something and say ‘oh, Baz might like that’ and maybe get it for him or maybe think about getting it for him and then manage to forget about it.

Baz isn’t like that. Baz plans elaborate outings like this for me. Weekend getaways. Unexpected dinners out. And he finds things he knows I’ll like. Gets them for me and saves them up to surprise me when I’m down or for no reason at all.

He’s such a romantic sap. I love that about him.

Something’s up with Baz right now though. I felt him tense up while I was talking to the people across the aisle. Probably thinking about something he shouldn’t be and making himself feel all guilty and responsible again.

My full attention goes to him and I bump his leg with mine.

“Hey.”

“Yes, Snow?”

Baz’s arms are crossed and his lips are in a thin line. “What’re you thinking about?”

“I am wondering how I am going to endure an entire day surrounded by Liverpool fans.”

“No, you’re not.” I bump his leg again. “What is it, Baz? You’re all closed off and grumpy. I’ve got a whole day to spend with you and if you’re cross about something just tell me.”

I slip my arm through his and rest my head on his shoulder.

It takes a minute but then he sighs and relaxes into me. That’s more like it. He shifts so he can take my hand and thread our fingers together.

“I’m all right, Snow.”

We sit in silence. I know he’ll tell me eventually. Baz likes to work things out in his head. Too much so, if you ask me.

But maybe not this time.

The miles go by out the window. Baz’s fingers loosen their hold on me and his head drops to rest on mine. I can tell he’s asleep by his breathing. It’s the most familiar thing about him, how he breathes when he sleeps.

I’m usually the one to nod off but I’m too riled up to sleep. It’s not often I catch Baz napping, at least not out in public.

I slide my phone out of my pocket, slowly, so as not to disturb Baz. I put it on selfie mode and snap a photo.

He looks beautiful, Baz does. I mean, he looks that way all the time, the bloody toff, but it’s different when he’s asleep. He’s softer, the planes of his face less defined, less angular somehow.

Makes me want to keep him safe, when he looks like this. Which is rubbish, he’s the one with all the power now. I couldn’t keep him safe from a snow devil unless I managed to kick it to pieces or punched it or something.

But I’d still try.

For Baz, I’d do anything.

Simon

Baz slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. I lean into him.

He knows I’m knackered.

It’ll still be hours before we get back to London.

“You should sleep on the train, Simon.”

I nod and that somehow turns into me dropping my head on his shoulder. I can feel the brush of his lips in my hair. “Thank you, love. It was the perfect day.”

Baz

Simon shuffles into the train carriage and flops down on the nearest seat. His head is resting on my shoulder before the doors even close.

It’s been a long day.

He’s been plotting this expedition for a few weeks, that I know. His laptop browser has been suspiciously empty every time I’ve used it. He’s changed the passcode to unlock his phone. And Bunce has had a particularly self-satisfied look the last few days.

I hadn’t expected his surprise for me would be a day in Stratford-upon-Avon.

The sites in and around London hold no appeal for me. Not that I don’t find the British Museum absorbing or that I don’t appreciate the wealth of history here.

Being in the company of people who are just rushing through to say they’ve “seen it” is what’s disagreeable.

I’ve managed to endure it for Simon. Braved the crowds, tramped through the sites, tolerated the inane conversations with strangers that he always manages to strike up. I’ve solidly tamped down my distaste for all things touristic and taken him to as many places as he cares to see. Despite my initial misgivings seeing the sites with Simon has been utterly enjoyable. It’s so new to him and he loves it all.

I just hadn’t assumed this place would be on his list.

Simon’s not a big reader. He’s doing more now, with uni. I think he likes it well enough but he’s certainly not passionate about it. Not like me.

He knows I love Shakespeare, knows how I dissect the language, the rhythm and beat of it, the words and phrases, the characters and story arcs. He’s listened to me bang on about it with Bunce often enough.

I can’t say I wasn’t cross when he woke me up this morning at some unholy hour so we could catch the early train. But my irritability faded when I saw our destination.

He planned today for me.

Every bit of it. Anne Hathaway’s house, Hall’s Croft, the Church of the Holy Trinity. Tickets to see Tamburlaine at the Swan Theatre.

“Why did you pick Tamburlaine?”

“Hmm? Sorry?” I think Simon was already dozing off.

“Why did you pick Tamburlaine?”

Simon sits up and runs a hand through his hair and blinks at me a few times before answering. His curls are in disarray and it’s glorious.

“Penny said you’d like that one. Said it’s not performed too often. I wasn’t sure you’d like it. I mean, we’ve come to see Shakespeare’s birthplace and such and we’re seeing a play by some other bloke.”

“That ‘some other bloke’ would be Christopher Marlowe, Snow. The great Elizabethan playwright. The one who influenced Shakespeare.”

Simon grins at me. “Still seemed odd to see a play by someone other than Shakespeare. I was hoping they’d have Romeo and Juliet. I’d like to see that.”

“Why would you want to see that one? You aren’t a fan of those doomed love stories.”

Simon leans in and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. He leaves his hand there, his thumb stroking my face. “Maybe I am. I managed to survive my own doomed love story. Maybe I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for those enemies to lovers plots.”

His eyes are wide and so blue and I’m going to kiss Simon Snow on a ruddy train.

Except he kisses me first. And then he drops his head on my shoulder again and leans into me.

“I’d like to see it sometime, Baz.” His fingers intertwine with mine. “I know you like it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re a romantic sap. And I want to see it because of those words.”

“What words?”

“The ones from the spell. The ones that only worked because you were in love with me. The ‘love’s light wings’ bit.”

I’d be blushing now if I’d fed enough.

“All right, then.”

“All right, what?”

“That I’ll take you to see it, Simon.”

“You will?”

“Yes, I will. When it’s staged again, I’ll take you.”

“It’s in London starting in November. I’ve already got tickets. Now I’ve gone and ruined your Christmas surprise, Baz.” Simon looks up at me with a huge grin.

“You are abysmal at keeping secrets, Simon.” But I lean in and kiss his forehead.

“Kept today under wraps, didn’t I?”

“That you did, love. And it was perfect.”

“See. I’m working on it. On being your not-so-terrible boyfriend.”

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of Simon using the word ‘boyfriend’ in regards to me.

The train rattles on and Simon’s contributions to the conversation slowly peter out. His head is heavy on my shoulder now, his grip on my hand loose.

I know when he’s asleep. The pattern of his breathing is as familiar to me as my heartbeat.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, careful not to jostle Simon. I open the camera and look at our faces on the screen before I snap the photo. Simon is fast asleep, his head on my shoulder, mouth slightly open, curls tumbling over his forehead. He’s stunning.

I’ve got a smile on my face that’s slowly becoming more familiar to me. It’s the one that’s been showing up in the pictures I take with Simon. It’s soft and tender and there’s not a hint of sneer in it.

I look happy.

Because I am.

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #follower asks #otp questions #snowbaz

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

Text

Safe with me (12)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. References to sex, and fleeting descriptions (I call it SFW, 16+). Drug usage. Character death.

PLEASE READ A/N: Take the warnings seriously please. You need a new assignment. Bucky finally figures things out. Drugs are really bad and they are not cool. Do not fucking do them.

This chapter was exhausting. Next chapter in two weeks.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small blue pill bottle, the contents rattling softly when he sets it on the table. His voice is polished and refined, the cadence and accent an unexpected sound, here in this dirty, broken corner of the Bronx.

“Time for one last mission.”

*****

Deep in the bowels of the Tower, there's a small room with four bare concrete walls and long strips of fluorescent lights stretching in a crooked line across the ceiling. A shabby metal table sits slightly askew, with four unbalanced chairs situated around the edges. The temperature is kept low, a chilly 55F, but even at that level most people still sweat. Everything about the room is designed to keep its visitors on their toes, off-balance and unsettled.

Along one side of the table, two super soldiers sit shoulder to shoulder.

"Interviews. What a colossal waste of time, we're not gonna find someone good enough. Don't understand why you can't do it," Bucky grumbles, flicking angrily through the short-listed agent profiles. Each candidate comes highly recommended, vouched for by top brass from Nick Fury to Phil Coulson to Melinda May.

Bucky is unimpressed.

Steve is tipping back in his chair, balancing on two legs as he scrolls through his phone. Part of Bucky, the part who's jaw still stings from the kiss of Steve's fist, wants to kick the legs out from under him and watch him topple over. The other more rational part, reminds him that this is his best friend and he honestly deserved that punch.

Doesn't matter. Bucky's feeling salty.

"Don't be stupid, you know I'm no good at this shit. She needs someone with experience, and someone a little less recognizable than Captain fucking America. Besides, if you hadn't fucked this up, we wouldn't even be here," Steve reminds him.

"If you hadn't fucked this up, we wouldn't even be here," Bucky mimics under his breath.

"Excuse you, asshole," Steve snaps, letting the chair drop with a bang. "You got something to say, let's hear it."

Bucky bites into his cheek so hard, the taste of blood floods his mouth. He chews on the words, reluctant to offer them.

"Sorry," he grinds out instead. Clearly not sorry at all.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?" Steve demands.

"No," Bucky responds shortly.

"Great. If you don't talk, you don't get to be pissed. Put your big boy pants on and figure out a better way to handle this, because if you just wanna act like a complete dick, we can head downstairs and go a few rounds."

Normally Bucky appreciates the frank honesty, especially when it's aimed at other people, but fuck if it doesn't suck when it's directed at him. Scrubbing both hands down his face, he throws a pleading glance at Steve.

"I slept with her," he admits in a quiet rush, praying Steve won't hear, but knowing super serum means super hearing.

"Yeah, Buck. I kinda assumed. And?"

"And – nothing. I slept with her. That wasn't supposed to happen. I jeopardized the entire operation because I couldn't control myself."

"Couldn't control yourself?" Steve scoffs at the words. "Really Buck. That seriously the line you're using?"

"Yeah, asshat, that's seriously what this is about."

"Okay, so let me just summarize. You've spent weeks with each other, she told you all about her past and you told her all about yours. The two of you constantly defend each other from other people, you seem to get off on her busting your balls, you showed her your super secret apartment that only two other human beings on the planet know about, and you light up like a lovesick idiot the moment she walks in a room. So then you sleep with her and the next morning you tell her you didn't mean to do it, and you let things get out of control?"

Bucky opens his mouth to refute it, but nothing comes.

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret letting things – "

"Bucky. Do you regret it?"

"Steve, I'm saying I regret letting everything – "

"Stop it, you're not answering the question. Sex was one small thing, in the grand scheme of your relationship. I'm asking – do you regret letting her in your life?"

Before he can respond, there's a sharp rap on the metal door, and Bucky slams his hands on the table with an angry growl. He doesn't know who he hates more right now, himself or Steve Rogers, but both are pissing him the fuck off.

Turning away from the triumphant smile on Steve's stupid face, he shouts at the door.

"Come in!"

*****

INTERVIEW 1

"Agent Diaz, can you walk through the infiltration strategy used in Mission 47A?"

"Yes sir. There were three behind, two in front, and I wanted – "

– "I want you Bucky." Jesus Christ, her words light him on fire, he didn't know how much he wanted them, how much he needed them, until they touched his ears –

Bucky chokes on his water when it slips down the wrong pipe, coughing up a spray that splatters Diaz's face. From the corner of his eye, he sees Steve pinching the bridge of his nose and he apologizes profusely.

Why the hell is he dredging this up in the middle of an interview?

*****

INTERVIEW 2

"Agent Avery, can you describe how you discovered the weapons cache during Mission 92F?"

"Yes Captain. The corridors were filled with sulphur, it smelled like – "

– she smells like vanilla, tastes like honey, and he drags his tongue across her skin with a low moan. Shaking hands push her legs apart and he's so god damn hard it hurts –

He clears his throat. Several times. Bucky Barnes' brain is a god damn motherfucking turncoat.

*****

INTERVIEW 3

"Agent Thomas, what was the purpose of maintaining the hostage situation for Mission 23B?"

"Well sir, I feel – "

– he feels a deep ache running along the seam of his arm. His scars always feel like ice, but her hot breath licks along the raised streaks of red, and for the first time in 70 god damn years, the ache begins to subside –

In his entire life, he's honestly never felt anything that compared to the feel of your mouth on him. But that's sort of beside the point right now.

*****

INTERVIEW 4

"Agent Korishnakova, explain your rationale for entering the hostile base during Mission 56J."

"We chose to break through the retaining walls, since ripping the – "

– he nearly rips the sheets when he grabs a fistful, fighting to stop himself from coming at the sight of her lips wrapped tight around him, the wicked gleam in her eye when she looks up from between his legs –

Bucky shifts in his chair, trying to subtly adjust the sudden rising situation. He's gonna look like a real creep if anyone notices what's going on.

*****

INTERVIEW 5

"Agent Ford, how did the firefight during Mission 33W escalate so quickly?"

"Well sir, we were tired of trying to sweat them out – "

– he tastes the sweat that's beading on the end of her nose. She fits so perfectly in his arms, when he ducks his head down and hides his face against her neck. Christ, he can't let her see how much this is affecting him –

Bucky wants to break his brain. Literally. It won't stop screaming, determined to punish him for the mind-blowing level of idiocy he exhibited this morning.

– he can feel her hands rubbing his back, god dammit she feels so fucking good, so warm and safe –

Barnes you stupid cocksucker, don't you go there, don't.

– You can let go Bucky, I've got you.

Would it be unprofessional to slam his head through the wall? Jesus H. Christ, Mary Mother of God. How did he let this happen?

He has no idea, but here he is, with Steve's words still rattling in his head.

Do you regret it?

"Stop. You're hired," Bucky interrupts, metal chair screeching when he jumps up, because he just can't do this right now. Slapping your file on the table, it lands with a bang. "Memorize all of this by tomorrow morning – it's an order, not a suggestion – and be ready to go by 0600. Captain Rogers will escort you over. I expect an update emailed to me by 0700 every morning."

Briefing complete, he stalks toward the door, throwing one final comment over this shoulder.

"You fuck this up in any way, and I'll tie you down and personally shatter your knees. Not a joke."

"Y-Yes sir," he hears Agent Ford stutter.

Bucky smiles grimly and slams the door behind him.

*****

Two days. Forty-eight hours. Two-thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes. Time moves like a snail through salt, slowly and painfully.

When he's around other people, Bucky is his normal, surly self. He grunts at questions and rolls his eyes at Sam. Sneers at Tony and threatens wordless violence at Steve. No one questions him.

Behind closed doors, he's a mess. He's taken to opening the tracking app and sullenly watching your little white dot move around his phone. If someone caught him right now, he'd have a hard time rationalizing this, because it's weird. He knows that, he really does.

He just doesn't care.

Do you regret it?

Shifting uncomfortably in a squeaky leather chair, he props his chin on his fist and stares morosely at the wall of screens in front of him.

After he identified the stalker's image, it's been cycling through every database across the globe. The photo has made the rounds within SHIELD, the FBI, the CIA, the NYPD. Every law enforcement official with a badge or a gun has seen his face, and it's more than a little unnerving that they still haven't located him.

He's not actually being helpful, he knows that. FRIDAY can scan a thousand faces at a time, she has this covered, but he needs to do something. Something other than sit and stew in his usual bucket of self-loathing, anyway.

Do you regret it?

So here he is, hiding in the control room. Every time Bucky asks a question, FRIDAY responds immediately, but the answers are short and mechanical and he feels flustered at the clipped note in her voice. Licking his lips nervously, he asks a tentative question.

"Hey FRIDAY? Exactly how pissed at me are you right now?"

"I'm not mad, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky was unaware that an AI could actually lie, but yeah. She is very definitely mad.

"Okay...but if you're not mad, why do you sound like Steve's very angry, very Irish Ma right now?"

Long pause.

Her voice comes again, softer but still firm.

"I'm not mad, Sergeant Barnes. I'm disappointed."

"Christ," Bucky huffs, dropping his head to the table. "That's worse."

He hears a sigh. Which is so strange, that the AI is sighing at him.

"Sir, I'd like you to listen for a minute. Mr. Stark programmed me to be perfectly functional. I'm able to decipher the things I observe and break them down to their fundamental parts. The most real-world application is solving mechanical queries or searching databases, as I'm doing now. But I also understand how to decipher language and, to some extent, emotion. Your most recent job – I've spent weeks watching the two of you interact. I'm disappointed Sergeant, because the two of you are very clearly in love, and you hurt her very badly when you rejected her feelings."

Bucky lifts his head incredulously at the assessment.

"Wait, what? What do you mean, we're clearly in love?"

FRIDAY remains silent.

"I care for her, yeah. I have feelings for her, sure. And I guess she liked me alright before I screwed all this up, but those aren't – we're not in love."

FRIDAY remains silent.

And so, Bucky takes a step back. He thinks about the night you spent together, the one that's been playing on repeat since the moment he slunk like a coward from your sleeping arms. It hurts to think, but hey, he was always one for self-flagellation. He pulls it up again, and remembers the look in your eyes when he kissed you, the feel of your body moving under his. He hears your voice whispering soft in his ear, as clear as though you were next to him, telling him you had him. That he could let go.

"I love her?"

FRIDAY is still silent, letting him work through his messy musings on his own.

And then he finally, finally, gets there.

"Holy shit. I love her. I love her." Bucky breathes, testing the words on his tongue. "How did I not realize this? Fuck me sideways, I have to fix this."

"Yes sir," FRIDAY agrees, and her voice is much warmer.

"I can fix this," he whispers to himself. He settles down to think. He needs to plan, he needs a strategy, he has to get this right.

He can fix this.

*****

"What's going on with you?" Jack asks curiously. "You're moping. Why?"

"Nothing," you declare defensively, looking up from your notebook, where little stick figures with angry faces are doodled in the margins. "I'm not moping, I'm fine."

Jack cocks a spectacularly skeptical eyebrow.

"Sure. Barnes have any updates on locating the guy?"

"I don't know," you answer, voice cold and clipped. "I suggest you ask him yourself."

Jack's bemused by the terse response. "You plan on telling me what happened with you two?"

"Nothing happened, alright? He's just a huge asshole and I couldn't deal with it anymore. Let him run off and find this guy and then go piss off someone else." Throwing your pen at the computer screen, you lean back in your chair. "Now, I'm bored and I need a new story. Give me something interesting or I'm quitting and going to work at The Post."

"Fine," Jack says mildly. "I have something if you're interested. Different than your recent assignments."

"Bitchin. Hit me."

"There's a new drug dealer working the Upper East Side, seems to have connections into the eastern European network. He's pushing a nasty version of Ecstasy, it's cut with something else, no one knows what, but it's been causing all kinds of strange hallucinations and general hysteria."

"Alright. I assume he's planning to show his face soon?"

"Yes. Rumor's saying he'll be at that club 'Red Devil' down in Hell's Kitchen tonight. Think you could get in? See if you can get him to talk?"

It's beyond annoying, that the first thing to pop in your head, is whether or not Bucky would approve. After spending weeks with the man, his constant paranoia and unadulterated loathing of crowded spaces are two traits that have stuck. You know straight away he'd put his foot down on this, would refuse to let you go. You can almost hear that deep, acerbic voice saying 'don't be stupid.'

The rational part of you agrees. The other part, who owns the heart he unceremoniously battered and bruised a few days earlier, doesn't care, because Bucky Barnes gave up the right to tell you what to do, so he can fuck right off.

"Sure, I'm intrigued," you say, motioning for the notes. "You know I enjoy nailing assholes like this to the wall."

Jack drops a thin sheaf of paper into your outstretched hands.

"Dial down the confidence please. Be civil, don't scare him off. At least try to be nice."

You want to be insulted at the insinuation, but there's no point in arguing. He's right. Your patience for douchebags is at an all-time low. The vision of Bucky's face swims before you again, his mouth curved into a disappointed frown.

The image makes you want to throat punch him.

"Fine," you say sweetly. "I'll be nice."

"Yeah, I'm sure you will be," Jack says cynically. He turns to walk away, throwing one last comment over his shoulder. "Text me through the night, let me know how it's going. And be very careful. Keep your eyes open. Don't trust anyone."

*****

STARKPHONE MESSAGING APP

BARNES: why the fucking hell did you agree to take her to a club?

FORD: I tried to tell her no sir.

BARNES: How hard did you try?

FORD: I told her no, she laughed, said 'that's cute' and told me to pick her up at 2100

BARNES: FFS I'll be there before you arrive.

Bucky rubs his forehead. Just because he can admit he loves you, doesn't make him any less irritated. A nightclub? Trying to cajole a drug dealer? Exactly why do you have such blatant disregard for his sanity?

Hand to heart, if you let him fix this, he's dragging you back to his apartment and keeping you in his bed for a solid week, because he needs a vacation.

*****

Dressed in black from head-to-toe, you give your reflection a critical once over. Sleeveless black top, black pants, black ankle boots. You really hope this is what the kids are wearing at clubs these days, because it's been literal years since you set foot in one.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a deep breath. Storm clouds have been gathering all day, and the night feels oddly oppressive, heavy pressure pushing down from above. Like the whole of Manhattan is holding its collective breath before the storm lets loose. Anxiety prickles along your skin, a jittery unease crawling up and down. It makes you itch.

God damn woman, calm your tits, you chastise sternly. This isn't a big deal. This isn't even the hardest story you've worked. Get it together.

Uncapping a tube of lipstick, you add your only concession to color, a pop of brilliant red. It soothes your nerves a little. Makes you feel powerful. Smart. A little badass.

Turning from the mirror, you snatch up a small black purse and start filling it with random items, wondering again why you agreed to do this. Right now, a bottle of wine, your sofa, and re-watching Stranger Things for the third time feels like a better decision. Maybe you should just cancel. Call the whole thing off and lay low.

But you know you won't. You're committed and how annoying is that.

Agent Ford was less than thrilled when you told him where he'd be spending the evening. You wonder if he has to report this little adventure back to SHIELD. Or rather, back to Bucky. Assuming he's still floating around in the background.

Floating around, being a self-sacrificing asshole.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. You don't care. Because it doesn't matter what Bucky Barnes thinks. At all.

Snapping the purse shut, you give your dresser a childish kick of frustration, before stomping out the door.

*****

Whether it's stealth mode or club mode, Bucky really doesn't care. Black is functional and he wears it because he likes it. Plus, he genuinely believes it makes him look scary and intimidating, and that always makes him happy.

Smoothing the collar of his black button-down, he wipes his palms reflexively down the front of his dark jeans. It's an involuntary movement, a nervous tick he's had since he was 12-years-old, and even though he's had this metal monstrosity for most of his life, the behavior is ingrained.

He takes several deep breaths, filling his lungs over and over, sweeping away the mental cobwebs. He's laser focused on the task ahead, a singular thought the guiding light to get him through the next few hours.

I can fix this.

All he wants is to make his peace with you. His stupid heart has dragged him kicking and screaming to the edge, and now that he's allowed himself to accept what he wants, his brain refuses to shut the hell up until he takes the plunge.

I can fix this.

He'll prostrate himself at your feet and beg forgiveness if he has to, because there's no way in hell he's going through one more day without you. Whatever it takes, whatever you ask of him, he'll give it. Grovel if he has to, he honestly doesn't care.

I can fix this.

Sheets of lightening explode across the night sky, unending flickers of light dancing on a repetitive loop through the dark clouds.

I can fix this.

He can fix this.

He has to.

*****

From the moment he set the wheels in motion, it's all been leading toward this night, in some form or fashion. Like the structured components of a play, the curtain falls tonight on Act 4. When the sun rises, Act 5 opens with new stage directions and a new cast of characters, complete with one bombshell reveal.

He's been watching so closely for so long, waiting behind the curtain for his entrance, and he marvels at how perfectly it's all come together. True, there were last minute adjustments. He planned for a host of different scenarios, but never in his wildest dreams, did he expect the Soldier to actually fall in love with her.

What an unexpected treat!

When the time comes to eliminate Bucky Barnes for good, he knows exactly how to do it, the perfect way to break him, to make the end infinitely sweeter.

He swirls his glass of vodka absently, listening to the soft clink as ice taps the glass. A brilliant flash of light illuminates the night sky and thunder immediately booms, echoes of low sound bouncing through the jungle of metal and concrete. His window rattles with the vibration, his reflection wavering in the clear glass.

Yes, he's certainly been waiting for this for a very long time.

Raising the glass, he smiles and takes another sip.

*****

Rain is pouring down outside, and the air in the club feels steamy, a mix of damp clothes and heavy breathing and spilled drinks.

Never in your life have you been a clubber. Music so loud you'll go deaf? Shoes coated in urine because no one seems capable of peeing in the toilet? Drunk slobbering jerks pawing all over you?

No thanks.

Yet here you are. Wondering how you always end up agreeing to things and then remembering with a jolt of annoyance that it's your own fault, because you're such a weak bitch for a byline.

Scoring a place at the dealer's table turns out to be laughably easy. Sending over a bottle of Dom Perignon, you watch the waiter set it in front of him and point to where you stand by the bar. Raising a glass in acknowledgement, you shoot him a sultry smile and turn away, praying it's enough to pique his interest.

Less than a minute later, there's a tap on your shoulder, and you turn to find a tall man in a tight purple sweater staring down at you. His sleeves are pushed back, revealing faded tattoos running up his forearms, and the lights reflect off his shaved head. He leans down to speak in your ear, and you hear a heavy, broken accent.

"You will please join us."

It's amazing how many doors a bit of flattery and a high credit card limit will open.

Without waiting for your answer, he places a possessive hand at your back and propels you forward, guiding you through a mass of dancing bodies toward a secluded booth in the back.

The man looks up when you arrive, detaching himself from the arms of the beautiful woman currently occupying his lap. Shoving her aside, he lays his arm over the back of the booth and smiles up at you. Sliding in next to him, the smells of expensive cologne and more expensive vodka burn your nose.

He leans over, and his refined accent sends shivers up your spine.

"Hello gorgeous. How about we get to know each other?"

*****

From across the bar, Bucky stands high up on a catwalk. He remains in the shadows, wraith-like in both appearance and mannerisms. Looking over the crowd, he keeps your corner booth in his periphery, while his eyes track steadily through the packed club.

Before he arrived, he called up a blueprint of the building and committed it to memory, making sure he knew every last detail. Finding the necessary points, he cycles through those details, planting the customary mental markers in place.

Total building occupancy 583, single door entrance located on the east side of the building. Two bouncers manning the door, neither armed with anything but well-practiced fists. Twenty-eight security cameras positioned through the club, with exactly none of those cameras pointed at the secluded VIP booth where you were sitting. Single door exit point on the west wall, illuminated by a neon green sign; bathrooms on the north wall, accessed through a heavy velvet curtain.

No windows. He sighs irritably. He despises places like this.

Ever watchful, he scans the crowd, picking people at random. Examining faces and movements, he grumbles in frustration at the number of people wearing cloth masks over the bottom half of their face. Some of the them are colorful, with funky geometric patterns and some have cartoon characters – Scooby Doo and SpongeBob are wildly popular. Some are modeled after real people, and he allows a small smile at the number of bright green Hulk faces.

The smile slides from his face when he sees one with his old Winter Soldier muzzle patterned across the front. His hand drifts to the knife at his side, fingers toying with the handle. What he wouldn't give to shred that mask into tiny pieces.

That might draw attention though.

"Ford, re-confirm your position," Bucky speaks calmly, letting his eyes fall back on you.

"Still north of the entrance, ten feet from the bathroom. Clear visual, slightly obstructed path." Ford's voice comes clearly through the tiny comms tucked in Bucky's ear.

Bucky feels his entire body twitch with rage, when he sees the dealer pulling you closer, ducking his head to speak against your ear. The urge to swing off this catwalk, stomp over to the booth, and shove this guy's fist up his own ass is overwhelming.

Patience, he counsels internally. Just get through this. Then you can go buy her a bucket of coffee and a basket of tacos and sit outside her door until she forgives you.

Coffee and tacos. And dramatically throwing himself at your feet. You had to forgive him then, right?

But to get there, he still has to get through tonight without murdering the sleazy bastard sitting at your side. That task seems more impossible with every passing second, and he takes a few deep breaths to stay calm.

He watches the way you keep your hand tight around your glass, fingers casually covering the top, not letting anyone else near it.

Smart, he thinks proudly. All his harping and paranoia apparently got through in some way.

He huffs out a slow breath. He can do this.

*****

This story and this club both suck so much.

There's a fine sheen of moisture coating your skin, and it turns to ice when you feel his fingers grazing the back of your neck. Keeping the revulsion from your expression is getting hard, because this dickbag is handsy as hell, and so far, completely uninterested in talking. Instead, he simply leers every time you try to engage him in conversation. His hand is massaging your thigh, moving a little further north with every passing minute, and you realize you can only play the coy card for so long before he gets suspicious or bored.

When one of his cronies leans over and catches his attention, you breathe a sigh of relief. Searching for another option for answers, you glance to the girl on your left, catching her surreptitiously slipping a small white pill under her tongue. Her eyes flit up to you, cocking an eyebrow in disdain.

"Can I help you?"

Pasting on a sugary sweet smile, you lean close and try to get her talking.

"What's with the masks everyone's wearing?"

She gives you a condescending look.

"Are you serious?"

There's a moment of brief panic. Is this something you're supposed to know? You know jack shit about club culture, you literally had a few hours to research this story, and her snotty comment throws you off.

"Sorry, I'm from out of town," you apologize.

Her lip curls and she rolls her eyes.

"For the rush, obviously. Take a pill," she holds up a small blue bottle, gives it a rattle. "Put Vicks on the cloth and pull it over your mouth. Inhaling while you're rolling sends you flying."

Jesus, the creativity used to get high is astounding. Why can't people take that ingenuity and apply it to something worthwhile? They could probably end world hunger and solve world peace, but no, they're all here getting shitty drugs off a shitty dealer, who is a shitty human being with shitty motives, and you're stuck investigating his shittiness.

Patience is running thin tonight.

There's a tap at your shoulder, and you glance back to see the waiter holding a tray of drinks. He hands you a glass of liquid, one of the house specials you ordered earlier in the evening, when you went up to the bar and opened a tab for the night. Smiling gratefully, you take a swig of the cold water, and turn your attention back to the dance floor.

*****

Bucky has taken to pacing along the catwalk.

The atmosphere in the club grates. The smells of forced air and rank sweat and spilled liquor assail the senses, and he grimaces.

He hates this so much.

"Ford, update," he barks in the comms, stopping to squint through the strange haze that seems to fill the room, unable to tear his eyes from you for more than a few minutes.

"Same position. All good."

All good.

Bucky goes back to pacing.

*****

Impossibly, the music gets louder, the bass so low and heavy, you feel it reverberating in your bones. Strobe lights are dancing through the room, pulses of white that make the club feel like a bizarre stop-motion film. With every flash, the crowds are shifted, stilted movements displaying new formations with each burst of light.

Something feels strange.

Lifting your water to your lips, you take a long drink, wondering why the hell you're feeling so parched. Gulping it down, there's a moment of respite, before your body starts to buzz.

Something feels off.

A wave of nausea smacks into you out of nowhere, twisting your stomach into a hard knot.

Looking at the glass again, you set it down slowly.

Turning slightly, you find him watching you closely, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Something wrong, gorgeous?"

"Did you – my drink," your lips are tingling, and your mouth feels full of cotton. He runs a finger down your arm, his blunt nail leaving a long scratch.

"It feels nice, doesn't it? Just enjoy it." The hand on your thigh moves higher, and he plays with the zipper of your pants. "Or we can go somewhere private, and I can show you how good it can make you feel."

You realize in that instant, how out of your depth you truly are. He must have gotten to your drink. How the hell did he get to your drink? From the moment the waiter set it in front of you, you've had your eyes on it. Shit, shit, shit.

It's too much. Getting the story isn't worth this. You're calling it.

"No," you say weakly, shoving his hand away. "No, stop. I feel – fuck, I feel like shit."

"Ah, she can't handle it," he laughs, leaning back in the booth with a challenging grin. "Little girl is a big disappointment. I guess he was right."

What?

You need to parse apart that comment and figure out what the hell he means, but it needs to wait, because right now your first priority is getting out of here.

"Move," you mumble, shoving at the girl next to you. Limp as a rag doll, she doesn't budge, looking up at you with glassy eyes.

So you scramble over her instead, stumbling to your feet, gripping the edge of the table to stop swaying. Stabbing bursts of white hot heat flash across your skin, and you drag a shaky arm across your forehead, feeling the slick sweat rubbing away your make-up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Behind you, he's still laughing.

The music grows even louder, working its way into your chest, until you feel your heartbeat pounding with the rhythm of the driving bass. Bright colors swirl all around you, the entire world flipped to vivid technicolor, an experience so intense you nearly retch when the nausea sweeps through you again.

Trying frantically to clear your head, you locate the neon red sign pointing to the bathroom. Stumbling forward, you ricochet off the bodies surrounding you, fighting your way through the tightly packed crowd.

God dammit, what's happening, are you even moving? Everything is sluggish and your legs feel like lead, so heavy you can barely walk.

Bucky, where are you? Please, please, please, I need you! The traitorous little voice pops up out of nowhere, but Bucky isn't here. He didn't want you, so you pushed him away, and now you're about to OD on what you can only assume is garbage Ecstasy at some trashy club in Midtown, and how did this happen?

From across the room, you see a tall man with panicked eyes shoving people aside as he fights through the crowd. Confusion muddles your brain when you see blond hair glinting in the flashing lights, because that doesn't make sense, Bucky doesn't have blond hair, what is he doing?

No, not Bucky, Ford. Agent Ford. Agent Ford is your bodyguard now, he's coming to get you, he'll save you. Disappointment wells up and you choke back a sob, because it's not right, he's not right. He's not Bucky.

But none of it matters.

Shaking knees give way, your body slumping to the floor, but in the last moment, you're caught by a firm arm curving protectively around your waist. You want to thank your savior, but all you can see are hazy features, your vision transforming the world into a blur of random shapes. Digging the heel of your palm into your eye, the image clears for a split second and you find yourself looking at a familiar face.

The waiter who's been serving your table all night.

There's an audible ping in your head when the puzzle piece clicks into place.

Light brown hair falls over his forehead, hazel eyes glowing feverishly. Reaching a shaking hand to his face, you tug down the black and red checked cloth covering his mouth, revealing an insane smile stretching his lips wide. He keens at your touch, his entire body shuddering when he feels your fingers on his skin. He leans closer, his voice gasping at your ear.

"It's okay, I'm here. You're all mine now."

Eyes roll back in your head as your body shuts down. The last coherent thought before your world goes black, is that you never told Bucky Barnes you loved him.

*****

Dread rises swiftly when Bucky sees you trying to claw your way out of the booth. When you hit your feet and immediately sway, he feels his stomach plummet. You weren't drinking, he knows you weren't.

If you're not drunk, then what –

Blind panic hits him like a wrecking ball.

"Ford! Get over there, now! He spiked her drink, god dammit, he spiked her fucking drink!" Bucky shouts into his comms.

Through the bursts of light, he sees Agent Ford shoving people as he fights his way toward you. There are too many people, too many people everywhere. Sweat rolls down Bucky's temples as he paces along the catwalk, trying to keep you in his line of sight. The mass of bodies is like a giant parasite, growing and shifting and spreading and suddenly you're swallowed up in the swarm, hidden from view.

"Motherfucker, god dammit," he swears viciously. "I lost visual! She was heading toward the bathroom, cut her off. Pull her out of this, get her out now, I don't care what she says!"

"I can see her," Ford's voice comes confidently through the comms. "There's someone with her, he's hol – "

Ford is cut off.

And Bucky can't see why, because the entire club has gone pitch black.

The music drops to a slow tempo, the thudding bass so low, it rattles the bottles of liquor lined along the bar. Suddenly the room comes alive. Whirling ropes of neon glowsticks swirl above the dancers, pinks and greens and yellows spinning through the air, like toxic dayglow snakes.

"Ford! Answer!" Bucky yells into the comms.

Silence.

Without another thought, Bucky sprints to the edge of the catwalk and with a graceful leap, jumps over the railing.

Sparks fly from metal fingers when he catches the edge of a tall steel beam riveted against the wall, the friction slowing his descent to the floor below. The music slams into him the instant his feet touch the ground, the unrelenting beat raising the hair on his neck. Palms held in front of him, he roughly scoops people out of the way as he elbows toward the bright red glow marking the bathrooms.

"Ford! Fucking answer me!" He shouts again, but the music is loud, so much louder down here, he can't even hear his own voice.

The musical snap of a whip slices through the air, and Bucky feels the breath punched out of him, the twirling lights and harsh sounds triggering long-buried memories. The smothering darkness, the crack of leather on skin, unearthly howls of pain, the sweaty scent of adrenaline and fear, all of it floods back as he feels unwelcome hands all over him, his body pushed and pulled against the crowd.

Motherfucker, he hasn't had a panic attack in forever, he doesn't have time, he can't afford one now.

Breathe, he screams internally. Calm down and breathe. You're no use to her if you're not in control!

Sucking in a massive breath, he lets the dizzying feel of oxygen replenish his mind, forcing him to calm down. To breathe. To reign in the panic.

He finds the control. Clips it back in place.

You can do this Barnes.

He keeps staggering forward, moving through the wall of people, until it suddenly breaks open. Bucky cries in relief as his hands grip the plush velvet curtain separating the bathrooms from the rest of the club, and cool air rushes at him when he jerks it aside and runs through.

The walls of the long hallway are splashed with nightmare inducing streaks of red and black, the lighting so dim, Bucky forces his eyes open wide to navigate.

"Answer me Ford, where are you?" He can finally hear his own voice again, the hoarse sound of his vocal cords momentarily shocking him.

Silence.

"Sonofabitch," he hisses furiously and then he pulls up short with the idea. What is he doing? He can find you. Easily. Trembling fingers dig for his phone, yanking it from his pocket and with a swipe of his finger, he opens the tracking app. He holds his breath, waiting for the little white dot to appear, and sure enough a little dot appears instantly – but it's no longer white. It blinks rapidly, a horrifyingly bloody red, and Bucky staggers, crashing into the wall.

There's a moment of silence that blankets him as he stares in stunned disbelief at his phone.

And in the next moment, he's screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

Silence.

Barrelling toward the end of the hall, he follows the path toward the little red dot, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained fury. When he reaches the black door, the one housing the little red dot, the one containing his worst nightmare, he throws all his weight against it, expecting to meet resistance. It gives way instantly and Bucky falls into a dark hallway.

And trips over a warm, heavy body.

Dropping to his knees, Bucky feels for a pulse on the neck of Agent Ford, who lies facedown on the floor, the left side of his blond hair matted with the sticky red blood streaming down his face.

Bucky feels his vision go white, when he sees the source of the red dot.

Your tracking bracelet is clipped around Ford's wrist.

The howl of pure rage spills from his throat, and Bucky's back on his feet, spinning circles like a caged animal. He reorients himself in an instant, remembering his mental markers, remembering the blueprints he memorized, and he turns left, sprinting down another long hallway toward an exit he knows will lead into a narrow back alley.

The metal door smacks against the brick wall with a clang when Bucky bursts through, jumping down half a flight of steps, eyes sweeping frantically over grimy brick walls towering around him in the dark alley.

Rain is still pouring down, plastering his clothes to his skin, dripping hair lashing his cheeks when he whips around. In that moment, the smell slams into him and he begins to gag.

There's a body leaning against the wall in front of him. A trickle of blood runs from the bullet hole drilled between his lifeless hazel eyes, his mouth fixed in small 'O' of surprise. The bitter tang of lemons is so overpowering as it bleeds from his body, Bucky's mouth puckers at the tart scent. The sizzling odor of burning meat reaches his nose next, the two scents surrounding him like some sick version of a summer barbecue, before he sees the reason.

The image is there, the one that haunts him asleep and awake. One he will recognize until the day the good Lord sees fit to drag him from this world. Dripping bloody red and charred black, branded on the stalker's neck, are eight tentacles curling below a skull, the skin blistered and bubbled.

Them.

Only a couple feet away, face up in a puddle of murky, garbage filled water, lies your phone. Bucky numbly reaches for the slim device, and it lights up at his touch, revealing a familiar picture as your wallpaper. You and him, a silly selfie he remembers you snapping the night of Stark's party. You're laughing, nose scrunched up as you angle the camera down. Bucky's leaning over your shoulder, grinning up at the phone.

Them.

Again.

Bucky Barnes has spent most of his life on battlefields. He knows the scents of coppery blood and fresh shit, gunpowder and rotting flesh, that sickeningly unique smell of adrenaline-laced sweat that covers the skin of every terrified soldier. He has an iron stomach, has had since his first week mucking through the trenches in 1943. Nothing phases him.

But tonight, he smells burning flesh mixed with lemons, he sees your laughing smile amid the horrors that have come home yet again, and in that dark, wet alleyway, he loses it. He crashes to his knees and he vomits, again and again and again, until the burning, acid taste of stomach bile is the only thing he can remember.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #safe with me #bucky fan fic #bucky barnes fan fic

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sailorsolar12 · 6 years

Text

Heir of Prophecy - Ch 2 - ThorinxOC

Hey everybody. Here is the second chapter. I hope that you all like what I put in here for you. Here is a quick recap of what the story is about:

Summary: While Jasmine, daughter of Apollo, is fighting one of Kronos' minions, it sends her through a rift in the dimensional gate to the land of Middle Earth. More specifically: The Shire. She lands in front of the home of Bilbo Baggins as Gandalf the Grey is entering the small home. Clad in her normal wear as well as her weapons, the company of Thorin Oakanshield is hesitant to accept her. As the meeting drags on, she discovers a prophecy that lies on the map that belongs to Thorin. It is hen that Jasmine realizes that she is a part of something bigger than any daughter of Apollo has ever faced. As she travels all over Middle Earth in the company of dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard, she faces her fears and learns to rely on the help of unexpected friends. Through this journey she has become the Heir of Prophecy.

Rating: T at first. M later on for violence, swearing, and slight romance

Unofficial pairings: KillixTauriel and ThorinxOC

Please read, comment, vote, follow, and favorite. Thank you. Enjoy.

Note: I don’t own either one of these series! I mean come on guys…..I would be a billionaire and not have to worry about my finances all the time if I did! And Also here is a quick key that I will be using from now on:

Previously on HOP

*Flashback/Dream/Vision*

Song Lyrics (When i use them which will be scarecly)

Delphi’s Speech

Prophecy

(english translation of any Greek I use)

Previously on HOP Ch 1

Jasmine held up her hand to stop Gandalf from talking. She slowly drew a small dagger that she often used as a throwing knife, and with deadly accuracy, she threw the knife that embedded itself it the front door of Bag-End just next to Thorin’s hand making him jump back. "I may be a woman, but I AM NOT helpless!! I have taken down an entire army of telkines on my own. I have faced my worst fears to receive Achilles's curse. I am one of THE BEST warriors of my whole camp. I have far more powers than any child of Apollo ever known to man." She stared into his eyes her hard expression matching his.

Thorin was silent for a few moments. The air between the two of them was so tense you could cut it with a butter knife. "You will translate the prophecy. I will think on if you will join us. I will need to write a contract for-"

She held up her hand. "I don’t need a contract. I don’t need any payment. Understood."

"Fine." He turned on his heel and went into the house.

Jasmine sighed heavily closing her eyes. People could be so dense. She didn't understand what he had against her, nor did she want to. It would have made her mind hurt more than it already did. The child of Apollo wasn't even back to the dining room when Thorin seemingly came out of nowhere and gripped her arm tightly. She glared at the dwarf, her anger rising. "What is it Thorin," she bit out. Jasmine was honestly 100% done with his haughty attitude and wanted to sock him in the face, but she felt as though the Fates had a part to play in what she was doing here. She couldn’t punch him just yet.

Chapter 2

His blue eyes bore into hers and said, "What is your motive, woman?"

"Thorin I am not sure what you mean, but I was sent here by deep, old, dark magic that my world has long forgotten. An old enemy from eons ago is beginning to rise again….both here in Middle Earth and in y world. I am not sure which evil brought me here, but the one here may have known about this damn prophecy. That was why I was attacked by a weird monster. Unfortunately, it also means that, if I follow you on this quest, I will not be there in my home world for when the final battle takes place. I know for a fact we will lose many demigods, but in the end, I know that my friend Percy will change and save the world. What I mean to say is that I know you don't trust me, and I know we just met a few moments ago, but I can't help but feel that what will happen will be partially my fault. That is why I said I don’t need payment because this world being safe from harm is enough for me. But it also means that any friendships that I make will end when I leave this world….if I am able to return home. I hope that you and the others will learn to trust me Thorin. I know for a fact that you will need my help in some way." She gave a slight smile. There was sadness in her eyes from the pain of knowing many of her comrades may die.

Never before had he seen a human with such compassion. He swallowed the sudden forming lump in his throat, unable to speak. He couldn't understand how such a young girl had seen so much death and destruction. She knew what it was like to lose the ones you love. He looked down not knowing how to respond to her. "You may come with us. But if you die, it will not be my fault."

She simply nodded and went back to the dining room so the meeting could begin. A small smile graced her lips. She was glad that Thorin was allowing her to go. If he hadn't she would have gone anyway. She had a purpose here.

--------------------------- ((PAGE BREAK)) ------------------------------

Jasmine leaned against the window sill as Thorin and the others discussed the game plan. She narrowed her eyes as Gandalf pulled out the map he had mentioned earlier. She stepped up next to him and paled seeing Greek. As she let her eyes skin over the writing, she staggered back hitting the sill again. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

"What does it say?" Thorin asked.

She swallowed and began reciting.

"With a stroke of Fate,

She will rise.

Gliding on wings

The sound of her voice sings.

Valar will see that

The Great Power

Will be relinquished

Love will form

In the most forbidden of ways

A stronghold in the East stands alone

As it waits for its King and Queen

Durin and Olympic blood shall mix

The scales of fire will die

As the Heir of Prophecy stands

A beacon of hope for All of Middle Earth.”

The entire company was silent as they stared at the young demigod. They couldn't believe that she was to be with Fili, Kili, or even Thorin. How was she? Thorin was the one most puzzled. Himself or is nephews would be with the demi-god. He looked at Gandalf. "How long have you known of this prophecy?"

The wizard was silent for a moment. He has walked Middle Earth for 2000 years and has always known of the prophecy, but he did not truly believe that the prophecy was set in stone until he read the map.

Jasmine looked at Gandalf wide eyed. She was frozen for a moment before shaking her head. The red head knew just by looking at the old wizard he had known about it for some time. It wasn’t being just being the Heir of Prophecy that shook her. It was also what it said about Durin and Olympic blood mixing. Jasmine knew from looking at Thorin, Fili, and Kili that they were royalty. However, because the prophecy mentioned a king and queen, Jasmine did not know if it meant Thorin or Fili. The green eyed 18 year old stormed to the room that Bilbo had let her use before sighing heavily. She sat there on her bed not knowing what to do. She was the Heir of Prophecy. She was supposed to marry either Thorin or Fili in the near future. She ran her fingers over her hair, exasperated. She had no idea what to do. The young demigod wanted guidance not excuses or justifications. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she flung back on her bed staring at the ceiling. She didn’t even care when her door opened and someone walked in. she didn’t even care when that person sat on the edge of the bed staring at her. She glanced at the person who had sat down on the edge of her bed. She had been expecting to Gandalf, but was surprised to see that Thorin had come in and sat down. She sat up and said softly, “What is it, Thorin?”

He looked at her and was silent for a moment. “I know I may not understand how you feel exactly, but I do know how it feels to feel as if you are the only one in the world. I wanted to tell you that I am willing to give you a share of the treasure that lies within the mountain. Although I will not be able to write an official document, do you know of any way in which we can make this official?”

Jasmine looked at him as if he was crazy. “There is a way, but I do not think that you will like it. It is the most common way for us demigods to make pacts or oaths.”

“How do we do it?”

“We must swear on the River Styx.”

Thorin was silent. “I see. If you don’t feel comfortable then we do not have to do it, but I wish to make the oath official and concrete if you will.”

Jasmine nodded and looked at her hands. She looked at the dwarf king and gave a soft smile. “Repeat after me: I, Thorin Oakanshield, swear on the River Styx that I will give everyone in my company a share of the treasure in the Lonely Mountain.”

“I, Thorin Oakanshield, swear on the River Styx that I will give everyone in my company a share of the treasure in the Lonely Mountain.”

There was a low rumble that shook the house slightly.

Jasmine smiled softly and looked up at the ceiling. “Ναι, Gramps. Θα σιγουρευτώ ότι η εταιρεία θα πετύχει, (Yes, Gramps. I will make sure this company succeeds),” she said in Greek.

Another rumble sounded that shook the house more.

Jasmine sighed. “Μην ανησυχείτε. Εντάξει, Gramps? (Don’t worry. Okay Gramps?)”

Silence was the only answer the demigod got. The temperamental god of the skies was always like this. She didn’t understand why he was, but at times it got really annoying.

Jasmine looked at Thorin and gave her signature smile that seemed to light up the room. “Now it is official. The Olympians have heard and I have as well. So if anyone questions this oath then I will give you a friendly - or not so friendly - reminder. It honestly depends what happens at the time when you are to give everyone a bit of the treasure.”

Thorin couldn’t help but nod. This girl was like sunshine, even when he had been extremely rude to her beforehand. He couldn’t understand why she was this way. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was the daughter of the sun god. He mentally shrugged it off, not wanting to dwell on the matter. He stood from her bed and said, “There is some food left for you, if you are hungry. We leave at dawn. I am not sure if you would like to use your flying horse or one of our ponies. It is your decision. Have a good rest tonight.” He turned and left her room without another word.

Jasmine stared after the dwarf and shook her head laughing softly. The people of Middle Earth sure were peculiar, but she liked them. She was glad that the Fates made her the one to come here. She stood and slowly shed her clothes as she locked the bedroom door. She changed into short shorts and a cami. She laid in bed and slept, hoping that she would just have a normal dream for once in her life. Unfortunately, the Fates wouldn’t have that.

*Dream Scene*

Jasmine felt as if her spirit was floating. She furrowed her brow and walked around what seemed to be a Yacht. Where was she? What was she doing here? She landed silently on the deck and slowly walked around. She held in a gasp when she realized where she was: On Kronos' ship. Why in the name of Hades was she here? She swallowed and jumped flying in the air hovering outside the captain's room. She paled when Luke- no Kronos now- looked right at her and smirked.

"You stupid girl you shouldn't be here," he said. Somehow his voice was right behind her in her ear.

Jasmine whipped around seeing him behind her. She swallowed and went wide eyed realizing that it was in fact Luke who had spoken. "Luke how are you able to-"

He placed a dagger at her throat. "If you utter one more word I will not hesitate to kill you now. I know your weakness Heir of Prophecy," he hissed.

Jasmine went completely still and dead silent. Where had the boy that was best friend to her gone? How could he follow someone like Kronos? Why would he betray her? She felt tears well up in her eyes and closed them to try and hold them in. Ultimately that failed. She felt her tears spill over. She felt Luke lower his dagger in confusion.

Luke suddenly smirked. “You stupid girl. Do you honestly believe that I will have pity on you?” he brought the dagger up to strike the part of her neck that was her weakness, but an arrow stopped him.

Jasmine turned and froze seeing Thorin. How the hell was he here? He wasn’t a demigod was he? Why was he able to follow her?

“Jasmine, you need to wake up before he kills you,” he stated as he knocked another arrow to shoot at Luke.

Luke simply smirked and used his free hand to grab Jasmine’s arm and turn her to face him. His lips collided with hers as he began to raise the dagger again, but a bright light enveloped both her and Thorin sending the pair back to the world of the living.

*End Dream Scene*

Jasmine bolted up panting heavily only to see Thorin, Fili, and Kili standing around her with Bilbo and Gandalf. She stared at Thorin. “How in the name of my dear uncle were you able to go into my mind?!”

Gandalf chose to speak up at that moment. “I know a spell that allowed him to. What I want to know is, why did that dream seem more like reality to me. Why?”

Jasmine looked down. “For demigods, when we dream it is real. I was on that boat, but I know that Luke was an illusion that Kronos created to allure me. I....I almost fell for it, if you had not come Thorin. But I want to know how you knew to come?"

Thorin was silent. “I am not sure how I knew, but Gandalf expressed that there was a dark presence around your room, and we decided to see what was wrong.”

Jasmine nodded and held her head in between her hands sighing heavily. “I don’t even know why the Fates made me go there? I am not going to be a part of that battle anymore.” She groaned softly and shook her head. She looked up. “I need some air. I’ll be outside until we leave to gather supplies. Now all five of you out so I can change.” She shooed them out and changed back into the same outfit from before, strapping her weapons to her body. She snuck out the window after locking the bedroom door and sat in the garden inhaling the fresh air. “Gods, this air is so much better to breathe than that shit in New York. No smog, no pollution, nothing at all. I love it,” she said softly as she laid down in the grass. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day. That was for sure. She sighed softly and happily as sleep called for her once again. This time her spirit didn’t wander which was a good thing.

-------------------------------((PAGE BREAK))----------------------------

Well that is the second chapter. I hoped that all of you liked this chapter. I hope that you like this story so far. I know it is not the exact way in which the movie or the book goes, but there will be MANY similarities as the story goes on. I will also look up the script for the movie online and make sure to put some of it into the story.

Thank you again. Please favorite, follow, and review. Thank you so much for reading and I do accept constructive criticism, but please no bashing.

Thank you again,

Sailor_Solar_12

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 6 years

Text

Before the Turnabout

SURPRISE it’s a bonus feature to Acing the Turnabout: me grabbing the opening of a fic I’ll never finish because it didn’t fit right with what I wanted the emotional core of this case in this AU to be, and tossing it out here almost entirely unedited.

At 3:39 in the morning, the phone rings. Franziska knows the exact time because when she opens her eyes she is staring at the red neon numbers of her beside clock and they are the only lights in the room. Any call at this time is liable to be bad news and though her phone will record the time that the call came in, she likes to have these things filed away in her head as well. It's her job.

When she puts hand to phone and turns it over, her stomach clenches. Miles. The two most likely scenarios are something happened with Trucy or Phoenix, and the latter is infinitely more likely. The club closes at 3. Did he not make it home? A bar fight turned deadly, hit by a car, a mugging gone worse, and she's going to get up at the podium and accidentally call him an idiot at his funeral. "Miles? What's wrong?"

"Phoenix got arrested."

She exhales in a relieved sigh that Miles must hear. See where jumping to conclusions gets her: needless worry at best, wrong verdicts at worst. Neither an Edgeworth nor a von Karma affords themselves foolish assumptions. "What for? Did the club finally get in trouble for illegal gambling?" Phoenix has explained to her, several times, why his poker games aren't illegal but Franziska has long imagined that one day he or the establishment will slip to the wrong side of legality.

"He's a suspect in a murder."

She remembers this call. It happened in the afternoon, when she was still a child, studying in her father's office while he and Raymond were out investigating. The phone rang and she grabbed it. Edgeworth Law Offices speaking. How may we help you? - Franziska? It's Miles. Phoenix was arrested on suspicion of murder. He signed with some rookie defense attorney from Grossberg's who's only tried one case before. They gained more than they lost that day when Phoenix's girlfriend turned out to be the evil murderous twin. If he hadn't met Mia Fey then how many fewer friends would all of them have? Where would any of them be?

"Again?" she asks, not meaning to sound as annoyed as she does. Once was unfortunate; twice was a grim achievement that surpassed Maya's two separate arrests for attempted murder and murder (verdicts: not guilty and not guilty), and Diego's one for attempted murder and assault (verdicts: not guilty and guilty, but Franziska couldn't really fault him for punching the actual would've-been murderer in the face).

Within their family they had five defense attorneys, each with over a decade of experience. Miles would without question put his, or Phoenix's, life in Mia's hands now, if he didn't have his own badge in his own right, and Phoenix may have lost his badge for longer than he ever had it but he is as sharp as he ever was. If Miles is working a case now - and she doesn't think he is - someone else can step in. "I currently have my own case but I may be able to wrap it up tomorrow and I will see if I can work the Chief Prosecutor to assign me to Phoenix's trial. You will be defending I presume."

The silence on the other end of the phone tells her that she has made a mistake with that presumption, but she has no idea how. Miles would do anything for Phoenix, she knows, which means that Phoenix --

"Miles? What has he done?"

"He called Gavin." Miles' voice is flat. Franziska wonders if he recently woke up or whether he has been sitting awake all night. Either way he sounds exhausted enough that the words almost don't even register and maybe the reason that he repeats himself is because he realizes this, but maybe he too is trying to process what he is saying. "He called Gavin - he called Gavin before he called me. He's having Gavin defend him."

Franziska sits up at the edge of her bed, fumbling for the lamp. "Why would he do that?" she asks.

"I don't know! He wouldn't tell me. He said Gavin has something to do with it, and that he has a strategy, and 'trust me, I have a plan that'll bring the truth to light and put an end to this' and he wouldn't explain any of it." Miles' words are running together at the edges; the pace of his voice has picked up to frantic in a way that Franziska has not heard in years and years.

"Miles, where are you?" She stands and goes to her closet. She doesn't imagine she will be home again before going into work and she searches through her clothes for a skirt and top that can straddle the line between "office appropriate" and "comfortable for 4 am."

"In the hall outside the apartment; Trucy is asleep, I don't want to wake her, I don't want her to hear..."

"You will have to tell her in the morning." She rips a shirt from a hanger and throws it over her shoulder at the bed. When Phoenix is free she is going to kill him for putting them through this. "Go back inside, go sit down, get some water. I will be over in 20 minutes."

"You don't have to--"

"Shut up, Miles. Yes, I do. No argument."

It takes her 25 minutes to reach Miles' apartment building and she realizes that she forgot to put on pantyhose when she steps out of her car and the cold early-morning air bites at her legs with a ferocity unexpected for April. Inside it isn't much warmer. When she reaches Miles' door on the third floor she twists the handle before using her spare key; the door opens. He must have forgotten to lock it when he went back inside. She steps inside, ready to scold him, and the mess startles her, as it always does; even though it has been seven years since Phoenix and Trucy moved in, Franziska has the memory of how neat Miles kept his room during their childhoods, and this same apartment clean and carefully-organized. Phoenix has never kept a desk or floor clear in his life.

The kitchen light is the only one on; behind her she shuts the door and locks it before she pads into the room. "Miles," she hisses. He sits bent over the kitchen table, his head in his arms, shifting only slightly to look at her from one eye. An empty water glass sits in front of him and she takes it to the sink to refill it and place it back in front of him before she sits down. "Miles. What did he say happened, from the beginning?"

He looks terrible. Likely hasn't slept all night, she thinks, but that doesn't account for the exhaustion that he wears almost every time she sees him. Does he wait up every night, working and waiting to be sure that Phoenix made it home safely? She is going to kill that man for what he puts her brother through.

"He called a bit after three," Miles says, in German, which means that he either thinks Trucy might have woken and be listening now or is extra cautious about such occurring at any point during their conversation. "From the detention center. The murder happened around one-thirty, at the poker table. Wine bottle to the head."

"Victim name?" Franziska asks, continuing in German.

Miles shakes his head. "Doesn't know or didn't want to give it. "Victim got violent, tried to attack the waitress; Phoenix went upstairs to call the police and when he came back the man was dead."

"And then he called Gavin." She doesn't have to work to pronounce the name with a sneer; it comes naturally, with long practice, no matter which Gavin brother she speaks of. She fortunately hasn't had reason to speak of the other one in years and has heard nothing of him other than terrible and terribly catchy songs on the radio.

Miles looks away from her, one arm pulled protectively across his chest. "And then he called Gavin and asked him to defend him."

And that is where the real mystery begins. The murder is a puzzle to be unraveled in investigation and court over a few days; the question of why Phoenix has done anything he has done is an old matter grown more pressing as the years have passed and Phoenix has closed himself off further and further. "He didn't tell you why he did that?"

"No. He only said he has a strategy. He didn't say what." Miles presses his hand to his face. "He doesn't explain anything to me anymore."

"I'll go down to the detention center in a few hours and make him explain himself." Franziska drums her fingers on the table. "I will get you your answers and I will tell him that he is slowly killing you."

She expects Miles to deny it, but he doesn't, and the haunted look in his eyes tells her more than either words or silence can. "And if I do not get all of the information from him, surely the parade of defense attorneys that we know will--"

The floor creaks. She stops. Trucy emerges from the darkened hallway that leads to the bedrooms. "Papa?" she asks around a yawn. "What're you--" Sudden alertness comes to her eyes even as she covers another yawn with her hand. "Aunt Fran? Why are you here? Where's Daddy?" She looks from the kitchen to the living room, craning her neck and squinting like she expects to see Phoenix sitting there on the couch in the dark. "Did... did something happen?"

"Your father's been arrested," Miles says, switching back to English and finally sitting up straight, "on suspicion of murder."

Trucy stands there, with her messy hair and a baggy Ivy University t-shirt that Franziska thinks she had seen Phoenix wear once long ago, blinking at them. Then her expression changes like she is unfreezing parts of her face at different rates, a laborious process of several seconds until she has forced a false smile upon her face. She is a stage performer, the daughter of lawyers, long having mastered wearing a smile through the worst of situations. Mia and Diego have a saying about such but Franziska wishes Trucy would stop. There is no one here to wear a mask for. "But you'll defend him, right, Papa? You'll defend him and it will be fine, right?"

Trucy has an uncanny knack for noticing a person's nervous tics. Miles has never been able to lie to her - not that Miles was good at lying before Trucy or even before Phoenix's magatama. "We'll do everything we can to help him," Franziska says. "I will not see your father punished for a crime he did not commit."

Not again, she thinks, and unbidden the image comes to mind of tripping Prosecutor Gavin down a flight of stairs. It's a good thought.

"But..." Trucy blinks rapidly, pressing her lips together, drawing one arm across her body to clutch the other. "You aren't..."

"I would," Miles says sharply, but then his voice quickly softens. "Of course I would, in a second, but he doesn't want me to." He spreads his arms in a gesture of helplessness but also invitation. Trucy hurries across the kitchen to him and hugs him, burying her face in his shoulder.

#bullshit defense au #bullshit defense fic #roddy fanfics

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diveronarpg · 6 years

Photo

Congratulations, SIDNEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of KATHERINE with an approved FC change to MELISA PAMUK. Admin Rosey: Just leave us alone at this point, Sidney, we don’t want you writing women that could kill us with a single look anymore. I’m so, incredibly thankful to finally have Katherine join our ranks and to witness, with my very own eyes, the beauty of the Du Pont sisters and how their dysfunctional relationship works. We have all been waiting for this moment and it is finally here. The dash is going to expode with beautiful writing that will destroy us all. I think what I am most excited for are the future plots because -- the promise that they show is how I knew this was the right fit. You’re really gonna be THAT bitch. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Sidney Age | 22 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I’m fairly active! I’m usually here when I’m not working or sleeping, and most likely mobile and available to plot. I get to replies within 1-3 days depending on muse and time management! On a numerical scale, I’d say I’m a 6-7/10. Timezone | EST Current/Past RP Accounts | Ayo we got Lady M & Lady justice at your service!

In Character

Character | Katherine / Katarina Du Pont (I’d love a faceclaim change to Melisa Pamuk!)

What drew you to this character?

From a distance, what draws people into Katarina is her looks. How angelic her porcelain skin glistens in the moonlight, how soft and delicate and wide her eyes are, how luscious and full her lips look to be. What pulls them in is all surface features, all red rose and petal pink, all shallow desire and hollow lust; but what any meleager worth their salt forgets upon approach of Katarina Du Pont is that while precious, a diamond has sharp edges. And just as rare and indestructible as the aforementioned gem, the eldest Du Pont girl bears a face that could launch a thousand ships and packs a mean punch. Years of being told she was nothing more than a totem, a body in a pretty dress, a thing to be used and presented as an accomplishment of her parents, taught her to be unwavering in her will and unyielding in her opinion. Forgive the pretty package you see before you, for its deceived you, truly, because she is as solid as stone. No matter what Verona, her parents, the Capulets, or the whole goddamn world throws at her. Try to break the spirit of Katarina Du Pont and you’ll find yourself suffering death by a thousand cuts and she the blade.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

EXPLOITATION — Katarina’s defiantly led a life of unbridled disobedience, taking the life that was handed, or rather, sculpted, for her and indulging in it for a time, but the second she’d climbed to the top of their supposedly treacherous mountain, she’d tossed it out the window. A fool’s game if there ever was one, one she’d mastered with so little ease, she saw no point in continuing on, so she took to the least foreseen future for a woman with the surname Du Pont. A profession turned passion by sheer force of will coupled with an obsession to do the unexpected pushed her into, as her mother would say, the life of a peasant. But little does Mama Du Pont know that while her eldest daughter may uphold the law by day, by night she is a bullet tucked away into the gun of one Cosimo Capulet. She is of one singular purpose, a purpose Katarina chose all by herself, and there’s nothing that can be said to persuade her to resign away the power that comes along with free will. But what I really want to dig into is the sinew of a fractured girl turned unbreakable by all accounts, and how the story of a broken girl could develop if her perfectly constructed glass house of protection was shattered. She boasts it unbreakable just as she, claims to be as strong as stone, no? But a million little pieces all scattered in a million different directions is a lot for one person, one woman, to handle. Though Katarina would assure you that one, there’s no possible way her shatterproof home would or could ever break, and two, she can and will handle anything thrown at her, what she knows to be true—deep down when no one is looking—is that she’s already shattered. There was no repair, no new build of the woman known as Katarina Du Pont, no reimagining of the woman who carved her own path with her bare hands to get to this place. She is who she has always been: battered, broken, underestimated, and yet willing to do anything to prove she is, by all accounts, worthy of the beauty she wields like a knife and the genius she flexes through petal-pink lips. And what I want to know is who’s going to exploit that weakness—that compulsion to be the smartest person in the room, that desire to nick and scrape her sharp edges on anything in sight—first, and how? My money’s on Odin.

ADVANCEMENT — Comparatively, Katarina has always been outshined by her younger sister, always looked at with some disdain and disapproval because she is not the cookie cutter daughter that was expected upon her entrance into this world. She always cried a little too loud, drew a little too much attention, wanted a little too much freedom from the world. Each time she was presented with a box in which to place herself, instead she ripped it apart because what Katarina hates almost as much as being told what to do is being told to be something she isn’t. Be quiet, behave yourself, mind your manners. But why? was always her first thought, and it was that question that always got her into trouble. No matter where she was or what she was doing, it was instinct to ask. Always investigating motives, searching for answers and sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, only to completely disobey or disregard the request. Where she was supposed to sit down and shut up, Katarina climbed atop a chair and screamed at the top of her lungs. Where she was told to uphold her surname and follow the path forged for someone of her standing, Katarina left it all behind and chose a path of justice. Albeit clouded by a dash of loyalty to the seedy underbelly that feeds Verona, but still, a path she’s carved all on her own and without her parent’s name attached. Within her world now, her name holds no weight, bears no scars nor does it quake anyone’s boots. That’s something she’ll have to initiate all on her own, through blood and sweat, but expecting Katarina Du Pont to do anything but claw her way to the top is severely underestimating a self-made woman. Hasn’t anyone ever told you what a terrible mistake that is? Lives are lost when women are undervalued and a woman like her is sure to prove you wrong with one hand and strangle you with the other. What I seek for her is blossoming potential, be it in the form of rising through the ranks within the police force. I imagine her to be a detective at this point, but to really shove her chastised way of life down her parents throat, she needs to succeed. The Capulets, however, fulfill a very different kind of need for Katarina, one that proves her worth in an entirely different way. It’s a safe space for her to be as savage as she wants, as ruthless as she can be, and what’s more is that she is praised for it which is something she’s never felt before in her entire life. Rewards for being who she is: a woman whose bones are made of chaos and flesh is forged from rage. I want to explore her drive and ambition when it comes to the mob and her profession. The two are bound to overlap eventually and I’m curious to see how well Katarina will stand up to any scrutiny in either workplace for underperforming, or if she really has what it takes to accomplish her goals, however backwards and filled with hostility they may be.

COMPETITION —All her life Katarina has been compared to others, measured by those around her against those she had no idea she was even competing with. With Brigette it was always implied; she was the perfect daughter, of course. Fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and blonde: the Du Pont recipe for perfection and everything Katarina is not. Her skin is a little darker, hair as black as night—just like her father’s—and there’s always a sarcastic comment lying in wait atop her tongue. As if she knows something you don’t, and chances are she does, and chances are she’ll be more than happy to put you in your place. She speaks her mind and doesn’t want until she’s addressed to pipe up whatever comes to mind first. All things she was scolded for from ages seven to seventeen, from the first moment she told her mother her choice of a dress for mass on Sunday was shitand refused to wear it until the day Katarina held a middle-aged man’s job in the palm of her hand. In one breath, she can make you feel like you’re the most special person in the room, and in the next she can make you question every choice you’ve ever made in your pathetic, little life. People—men, in particular—are what she knows; what makes them tick, what motivates them, what drives them to do what they do and say what they say. Any good investigator can read between the lines, pick up on physical cues, transform themselves into a human lie detector, and if Katarina is good at anything, it is adapting to her surroundings. Not only is she what most would call ‘street smart’, having spent many a night in the seediest parts of Verona with a gun strapped to her thigh, she’s Ivy League educated and was the CEO of a major banking institution by the time she was 23. She knows her way around a stronzo talking out of the side of his mouth just as well as she knows her way around international finance law. In one breath, Katarina Du Pont can garner the attention of Italy’s number one bachelor and fire off a perfect shot at 100ft range without so much as a look in the direction of her target. The one thing she can’t do is shy away from a challenge, and for so long, she’s been competing with the entire world. Her versus them, always on the opposite side of society and all its demands. What I wish for her is to meet someone who succeeds at getting under her skin. An adversary of sorts, most definitely, but what they won’t realize is how much Katarina relishes the battle. The opportunity to further her knowledge and experience, the excuse to greedily satisfy her hunger for rivalry and revelry is utterly irresistible to someone like her—someone who’s played this game all her life. I so desperately want someone to pitch a curveball at Katarina as she steps up to the plate, and I want to watch in awe as she knocks it out of the park simply because she refuses to be anything but the best.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes.

In Depth

In-Character Sample:

AUGUST 2014, 7:23 PM Verona Shooting Range One week after joining the Police force

“Okay, yeah, that’s perfect.” His breath is hot against her neck as he wraps his arms around hers—full-on Patrick Swayze in Ghost—attempting to teach Katarina how to properly aim the pistol within her palm, but it’s growing harder and harder for her to bite her tongue as he gives her bad advice.

“Make sure you lock your knees and keep your arms straight because it’s gonna kick, hard,” he says, closing what little distance remained between her back and his torso as he clasped calloused fingers around her own.

But he was wrong, so wrong.

If she locked her knees, she ran the risk of losing her balance once she pulled the trigger; what she truly needed was to firmly plant her feet shoulder-width apart and bend a bit to stand her ground. Never let the gun control you, a voice whispers in the back of her head, lathered in honey and poured from the lips of a lion—a Vernon. If she kept her arms parallel with the ground, the second the bullet left the chamber her arms would swing back with fierce precision toward her forehead.

What an idiot, she thinks as she peeks at him from out of the corner of her eye. His chin is brushing against her shoulder and as she lets her gaze rove over his chiseled, scruffy jaw, she remembers exactly why she is—was—playing along, but no matter how much she wants to feel that beard brush between her thighs, Katarina can’t possibly be expected to swallow her pride for the sake of an orgasm. Not when she could have both her dignity and a good time all by herself.

“Now, just aim,” and he angles her hands about eight inches shy of perfectly centered on the target. Katarina rolls her eyes in dissatisfaction, at how completely clueless he was considering the badge he wore on his hip with such ego. It’s a miracle he passed his gun qualification at all. “And fire,” she can feel him smile against her cheek, as if the loaded gun in her grip and the power that comes with it is supposed to turn her into butter in the palm of his hand, as if she’s supposed to be grateful he’s teaching her such barbaric things.

“Like this?” her voice is soft, perky and petulant, and playing right into his hand. She takes a deep breath and leans into his chest, staying in his ridiculous stance which guaranteed Katarina would surely miss. But that was her entire point, wasn’t it? On her exhale, she pulls the trigger and his hands fall to her waist. The shot misses, which she knew it would—which it seems he thought she would—and she sighs. It went too wide, not even making it within the black outlined criminal on the sheet across the room.

“Yeah,” he lies and it grates on her last nerve, “that was really grea—”

Fuck this.

“Or like this?” Katarina doesn’t wait for an answer, the question rhetorical and lathered in sarcasm, her tone no longer sweet and saccharine but coated in ash and soot as she spoke. Such is the way of a woman who’s patience has vanished in the presence of a condescending man. Righting her stance a bit and stepping out of her suitor’s grasp, she bends slightly at the knees and closes her eyes for a moment. Breathing staggered, she attempts to slow it, to inhale deeply through her nose and exhale through her mouth; to match the beating of her heart with the pull of the trigger.

One, two, three.

Katarina opens her eyes and fires; it hits dead center. Bullseye.

“We passed the same test, Nico, and though I’m sure you’d make a good fuck,” she sets the gun down and spins around on the heel of her boot to face him, a hand extended out to rest against his chest as she spoke, “I learned to shoot before you learned how to last longer than a minute thirty.” And with that, she pats the side of his face twice and tilts her head. “You are handsome though, aren’t you?” Striding past him, an impish grin begins to emerge along her rose colored lips. Even if he was stupid, he was still pretty. Turning her gaze over her shoulder, Katarina beckons him to follow after her with a finger.

“If you learn to keep your mouth shut, we can still have some fun.”

Extras:

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SMALL HEADCANONS:

— ASTROLOGY: Born April 29th, Katarina is a taurus; the bull, stubborn and uncompromising. She is drawn to extravagance and beautiful things, hedonism flowing through her veins as thick as ichor, and it shows in the way she dresses, carries herself, presents herself to the world. Katarina was put on this Earth to feel things, with her hands or her lips, through touch and taste. What she wasn’t made for was emotions, and she will forever be running from them; thinking with her head and never her heart. At least that’s what she tells herself in order to sleep at night.

Element: Earth; practical but values material things, works hard when determined, wholly unchangeable. Ruler: Venus; connected deeply to beauty and physicality, hard not to get swept up in her haze of desire. Color(s): Green, pink; you’ll find her drawn to these colors, scattered throughout her wardrobe and makeup especially.

— STRENGTHS: reliable, patient, practical, responsible, devoted, stable. — WEAKNESSES: stubborn, possessive, uncompromising, closed off. — ALIGNMENT: Chaotic neutral; values free will above all else, especially her own.

#accepted: katherine #accepted

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shinusual · 7 years

Text

Wooseok Fic - A Great Story

Heh...heh...hi...so this is unexpected. So in the past few weeks I was brutally attacked by this group called Pentagon and I just...I can’t even explain how much I love them alright it’s bad. So, I’m so sorry since I usually write svt fics and this is literally the first fic I’ve ever posted for a different group, but I hope you enjoy it!!! I’m Wooseok trash and this...just happened. THANKS FOR READING

“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Wooseok exclaims the second he hears your response.

“I’m serious!” you fire back. “How dumb are you that you wouldn’t agree?!”

Squeezing your hand he’s already holding, he shakes it vigorously as his arms fly up in disbelief. “You’re crazy!”

Laying beside him, you watch the frustration build on your boyfriend’s face. And you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy!”

As if questioning everything he ever knew about you, Wooseok turns his head on your shared pillow and stares deep into your soul. Even in argument like this, he makes your insides flutter. No, especially in an argument like this.

Jaw slightly hung, he’s ready to scream. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them back up. “You’re telling me…,” he starts to say calmly before exploding, “that you would rather have a VENUSAUR than a CHARMANDER?!?!”

Holding his hand even tighter, you cry back, “That’s EXACTLY WHAT I’M TELLING YOU!”

“A FREAKIN VENUSAUR?!” he shrieks, his empty hand slamming up against the bottom of Yuto’s top bunk. “WHAT THE HELL IS A VENUSAUR GONNA DO FOR YOU?!”

“I LIKE PLANTS!” you scream through your laughs. “A Venusaur would be sweet and loving and adorable!”

“(Y/N), IT’S A FUCKING POKEMON! NOT A HOUSE PET!” Wooseok argues, but you can see the small smile starting to creep out of his lips. It was always at this point in your unnecessarily stupid arguments did Wooseok start to lose his hard exterior. He’s having too much fun and there’s no way he can hide it for much longer. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO CHOOSE ONE ON SKILL AND NECESSITY!”

“NO, THIS ISN’T POKEMON LIKE IN THE GAME! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IF POKEMON WERE REAL!” you hollered even louder, gripping your hair so tightly, it may just all fall out. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO WITH A POWERFUL ASS CHARMANDER IN REAL LIFE?”

“UHHH, ANYTHING YOU WANT!” Wooseok aggressively answers. “My Charmander could warm up your dinner! He could be your night light! He can make bonfires on the beach to roast marshmallows—”

“YOU WOULD FREAKIN TAKE YOUR CHARMANDER TO THE BEACH!” you interject, not holding back how ridiculous that sounds.

“HELL YEAH I’M TAKING HIM TO THE BEACH!”

Shaking your head, you jab your finger into his chest, sitting up slightly to shout down at him. “You would do stupid shit like THAT, but I’M CRAZY FOR WANTING IT TO BE CUTE AND GOOD WITH PLANTS?!”

Seeing you above him, Wooseok can’t handle it anymore. A giant smile finally sprouts out of his face and you can see his gorgeous, shining teeth. Taking a second to just look at every part of your face, he bites his bottom lip before springing into action.

“WOAH!” you scream as he takes you by the shoulder and shoves you back onto the bed. In one swift motion, he’s somehow pinned you down so that he’s now staring down at you.

All too satisfied, Wooseok smirks. Your heart’s racing from both the rather steamed argument you were just having and the fact this disgustingly attractive boy is hovering above you like this. For a second, you just wait to see what happens next.

Slowly, Wooseok lowers his head so his lips are right by your ear. Holding your breath, you can feel his hair brushing against your face. Taking a second, he leaves a hot sigh on your skin before whispering, “If you don’t choose Charmander…, you’re gonna be really Venu-sorry.”

And with that, you completely lose it. Laughing way harder than any person ever should, you can’t even move your arms to wrap around Wooseok fast enough before he’s lying right on top of you, laughing his face off too.

Wooseok rolls over slightly so he’s not completely crushing you, but he can still engulf you in his body. Burying your face into his chest, he’s more smiling at your reaction than his own joke. Unable to contain his joy, he squeezes you and shakes you in his arms as you scream into his sweatshirt, “That was the worst thing you’ve ever said!”

Laughing into your hair, he tries to catch his breath. “I think I’ve been hanging out with Hongseok too much.”

Wiggling your way out of his grip, you pull back a little, just enough to see his adorable face while still being wrapped in his embrace. Everything is so close and so smooshed together in his bottom bunk. Your arms are now between you and his chest, so in that small space you reach up and cup his soft cheeks. Your faces are already so close together. “I hate you so much.”

Somehow that makes him smile even more. Accepting that as your sign of affection, he closes his eyes and easily kisses you on the forehead, lingering there for just a little longer than you expected. He had a way of doing that, making your heart pound even harder.

This is what you loved about your boyfriend. There was no one else on the face of the planet that you could be this idiotic with and they would end it by kissing you so sweetly. No one else could make you feel so safe and so warm while also so frustrated and entertained. So hot and so cute all at the same time. Wooseok didn’t make any sense. He was perfect, yet at the same time, a complete mess. But to him, so were you. And he loved you for that.

Once he pulled away, he readjusts so that you’re both at eye level. It’s always funny when he does that, cause the rest of your bodies never line up. But neither of you care. As long as you’re close, that’s all that matters.

Feeling your grip on his face loosen, Wooseok reaches up and takes one of your hands off his cheeks. Staring as your fingers so naturally lace together, he teases, “How did I get a girlfriend with absolutely no common sense?”

“Wooowww,” you dramatically reply, rolling your eyes. But that just makes him chuckle, which then just makes you smile. “You still wanna fight, boy? Cause I can go all night.”

Thinking it through, he sighs. “Ya know what, trust me, I could go all night, but we probably shouldn’t since Yuto’s gonna be home in a couple hours.”

Nodding along, you keep his tone and sigh too. “You’re right. We probably won’t be finished by then.”

Wooseok takes a second to just play with your hand in his before he meets your gaze. You’ve always known those eyes to be killer, but they almost always catch you off guard. Smiling this adorable, playful smile, he finally says, “Ya know, you attacked me so quickly with your lunacy that I didn’t get to ask you how your day was.”

Trying your absolute best not to punch him for referencing your “lunacy,” you smile and reply, “It was alright.” You can feel his thumb rub against the back of your hand as you talk. “Class was annoying but when is it not?”

“Something we can agree on,” he says with a nod.

You chuckle as you go on. “Yeah, I didn’t do much.”

But Wooseok isn’t satisfied with that answer. “That’s it?” he complains, raising an eyebrow at you. “Come on, I’ve been waiting to see you all day. Where’s the epic story? The pizazz? I need a plot here, (Y/N).”

With a groan, you let your head rest fully on the pillow as you stare into Wooseok’s annoying, sparkling eyes. This boy will never let you live. Still, he puts a smile to your face. You know he just loves hearing you talk. “Fine,” you say, immediately making Wooseok grin. “Ummm, I guess then from the beginning?”

He nods. “From the beginning.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “Okay, well this morning I woke up and got breakfast on my way to campus. I stopped by that place with the really smelly old man.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Wooseok asks, “The one with the beard or the one with the really awesome cat?”

“The awesome cat.”

With a nod, your boyfriend smiles, always glad when you both can reference your plethora of custom characters only you two know about in the city. “Go on.”

“So, I got a bagel from there and it was way better than it was last time. Maybe one of my top 5 bagels this week,” you tell him.

“Baby, how many bagels have you had this week?” Wooseok asks curiously.

Nervously looking away, you retract into yourself. “Like 7,” you weakly answer.

“(Y/N)! IT’S ONLY WEDNESDAY!” Wooseok laughs in his shrill voice.

Darting your eyes back at him, you take your clasped hands and hit his hip. “I’M TELLING THE STORY RIGHT NOW!”

With a giant smile, Wooseok calms down and nods in agreement. “Right, right. Sorry baby. Continue.”

Finding your relaxed position again, you proceed to tell the tale of the monotonous tasks that made up your Wednesday. Outlining every instance of mundane and boring, you can feel yourself drifting off at the sound of your own voice to the point where your eyes close. But as you’re talking, you can also feel Wooseok wrap his long legs around yours, holding you even tighter. You can feel his free hand brush the line where your hair meets your forehead, until it comes down and rubs your cheek. You can suddenly feel light tufts of air hitting your nose. He interjects every so often for clarification, to see if that guy with the alien voice sat next to you in lecture again or if the birds in the park tried to attack you like usual. It’s not until you stop hearing his questions do you realize you’re not even talking anymore, but that you’ve somehow managed to put yourself to sleep.

Finally catching yourself, your eyes shoot open and everything’s blurry. “Wooseok, what happened?” you sleepily utter, thoroughly confused by your surroundings.

But as your vision comes into focus, you finally see what’s in front of you. Staring at you with the softest, brightest eyes possible, Wooseok takes a second to just...take you in. As you started to fall asleep, he just couldn’t help but be mesmerized. Your voice was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. In those moments, he took in every feature that he loved and every detail that he thought about nonstop.

After a pause of realization, Wooseok cracks a tiny smile, a layer of blush forming over his cheeks. “You fell asleep, dummy.”

Still kind of groggy, you don’t have to be fully conscious to fight this boy. “And whose fault is that for making me tell such a boring story?”

But Wooseok just takes it. Smiling even bigger, you feel his arm slide beneath you and his giant hand push firmly against your back, so that the only space between you is finally gone. Well, almost gone.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Wooseok closes his eyes and plants one right on your lips. And unlike the last time you shut your eyes, sleep is nowhere to be found. You can feel a rush of sensation fly through your entire body as he kisses you. Wooseok takes a second to untangle your hands so he can focus on pulling you even closer to him. Running your fingers through his hair, you can’t help but feel everything for this boy smooshed against you. It’s magical. Like the best kind of dream that you can only experience when you’re awake.

After kissing you for just long enough to make your entire being melt, Wooseok takes a moment to linger just a little longer, like he always did, making your heart pound even faster.

Finally taking his lips off of yours, he pulls back, but keeps your foreheads together. Your eyes flutter open to find him gazing right at you. Usually, at this moment, you could expect your boyfriend to say something completely stupid. Something that would make both of you burst out laughing and just scream like maniacs.

But right then, Wooseok decides not to. He’s just so overwhelmed that his mind draws a blank. He can only remember the last thing you said. Keeping the sleepy atmosphere between the two of you, he lightly smiles and says, “I thought it was a great story.”

-- -- --

Sigh...I love pentagon XD Thanks again for reading!!! Agh, ive just been in so much feels for this boy i cant even fully explain so i just...ok then. Not my typical group but maybe more for them one day? I’m not sure but i love them...I’m deeply in love with jung wooseok ok bye

Masterlist of my usual stuff

#pentagon #pentagon fic #wooseok #wooseok fic #woosek fluff #what else do i even tag this?#fic #i just #im dead #hui #jinho #hongseok #yeoone #edawn #yanan #shinwon #yuto #kino #ow

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