#(Do I have the speed of cold molasses? Yes I do...) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

violetnotez · 4 years

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HC: Seeing Them Shirtless for the First Time | JJK

Should I be getting ready for work? Yes, yes I should be 💀

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Music Genre: Rock | JJK

Characters: Gojo, Itadori, Megumi

Warnings: cursing, suggestive content

Music Collection | Tip Jar | Requests!

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Shop Owner Note: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS ONE-Gojos in particularrrrrr

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The first time you saw Gojo shirtless was during your first time being intimate with him.

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Gojo was just-perfect. You honestly couldn’t describe him any other way...yeah, he could sometimes be a pain in your ass with his boyish antics, but that somehow adds to that special charm he possesses. Even now, with his hands pinning yours above your head, lips molding into yours in a lustful heat, he was smiling as if he was having the time of his life. Gojo moved down from your lips, finally allowing you a second to breathe, instantly finding a spot on your neck, sucking and licking the skin as if his life depended on it. The sensation was overriding your system, your throat desperately trying to release a groan from the overwhelming sensation, intense heat traveling through your core. You felt him find the spot you were most sensitive in, that held back groan finally being stolen from your swollen lips. Embarrassment burst into your stomach, your knuckles tightening as you shifted to to the side, desperately trying to hide your face from making such a lewd reaction.

You felt Gojo chuckle against your skin, the vibration sending a shock wave throughout your spine and limbs. “Ah, Cmon doll, don’t be so shy,” he cooed, a devilish smirk encasing his features, “I like it when you make those little sounds for me.........and only me, right?” It was a taunt, a trap, and he knew it-if Gojo Satoru was anything, he was always confident in his abilities. And his ability to completely be able to control you, to keep you by his side, was no exception. Any other day, when you were thinking clearly you would Probabaly retort back with a back handed quip that would make him chuckle. But right now, with your head buzzing with adrenaline and only the thought of the way his skin felt against yours, his kisses burning into your flesh and the pulsating heat in your core...you just wanted him.

“Only you,” you whispered, voice wavering with nerves and adrenaline as your digits found the edge of his shirt, craving for more of his skin against yours. Gojo chuckled again, the sound warm and rich like molasses. Yet, his hand since again were on top of yours, now halting you in your pursuit of undressing him. “You really wanna do this doll? I’m not against it, not at all, but you dont have to-“

“I want to,” you interjected, face flushed with desperation, eyes wide with lust, “I want to so badly Gojo...I want you.” Gojo’s chest tightened at the words, a feral need exploding in his chest-god, the times he dreamed of this day and it’s finally happening...you were just too adorable, your hair tosseled from the heated make out sessions, lips puffy and skin so warm, your eyes practically begging him to devour you. How could he deny you that luxury, especially since you wanted it so much? He leaned in to your lips, digits tracing your skin in designs only he could imagine. He pulled away, mere centimeters from your skin. “You sure little one?” He asked again, using the nickname he gave you that always made you roll your eyes with a smile. It did just the trick, making you giggle at the name as you looked to the side-“I’ve always been ready, ya know.”

“Oh really?” He teased, that delicious smirk gracing his features. He leaned away from you, sitting up in the bed. “Well, I’m not too sure about that....” His digits wrapped around the hem of his shirt near his neck, pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it to the corner of his room. Gojo shook his hair out slightly, making the tendrils look even more chaotic than before. You felt your chest tighten by the sight of Gojo shirtless....you had imagined many times before, but seeing the real thing was way different, and way better. Gojo was built as perfectly as his personality, each muscle taught and visible in his abdomen and arms, the veins in his hand even more noticeable in the lighting. You gulped, staring at the way his sweatpants accentuated the dips of his hips, following down to the waist band of his boxers peaking out from his sweats.

Gojo noticed every gesture you made, loving how you drank in his form as he hovered over you. “Why don’t you take a picture-itll last longer,” he said as he leaned into your ear, earning a playful eye roll form you. He chuckled at your reaction, leaning back into your body, hands trailing the side of your waist. “Well if you’re not gonna take a picture....I don’t think it’s very fair that I’m the only one shirtless here....” your felt his digits find the hem of your shirt, teasingly tracing your skin under from underneath..

“So how about we change that, hm?”

The first time you saw Itadori shirtless it was by pure chance- He just cant seem to remember to bring a spare tshirt into the bathroom when he showers.

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Yuuji cant seem to understand why your so flustered- he is so adorable and innocently oblivious its almost painful. Especially when he comes out of the bathroom from a shower, cotton candy pink hair still dripping with water droplets, slick adomen in full view, the “V” of his hip bones partially exposed from the band of his sweatpants. You just wanted to have a chill movie night with your boyfriend-but how can you think about choosing between a horror or a comedy when you have that in front of you? You gulp down a ball of saliva as Itadori casually talked about the different options of films, rummaging through his drawers for a clean shirt as if this was all a normal event-which it was not. Your eyes were glued onto him, drinking in every deifned dip and curve and trying to hold yourself back from thinking about...other ways this cozy date could end up....

But Yuuji knows you like the back of his hand....he knows when something is wrong with you, and you most deinfitely are not your self right now. He instantly begins to ask you questions, voice softly laced with worry. You reassure him your fine, really, but Itadori knows you way too well. He gently raises your chin with his pointer and middle finger, forcing you to look into his eyes. Your breathe gets hitched in your throat, brain suddenly and unbelievebaly clouded from being so so close to him, now knowing that the boyfriend you love so dearly looks like a damn god under his clothing making your heart ram against your chest. His voice was comforting and warm, eyes scanning your face for any sign of sadness or even maybe sickness.

“Whats on your mind?” he asks gently, trying to coax a response out of you so he can put his worries at ease....until he hears the words “your abs”, blurt out of your mouth at warp speed, your tone dazed and then immediately embarrassed, horror on your face for saying soemthing so honest. He blinks a few times, clearly not expecting that to come from you....but he would be lying if he didnt say he enjoyed it once it set in. A warm chuckle tumbles out of Itadori, that bright boyish grin plastered on his face. He really didnt mean to make you so flustered,..but he’s not complaining

The first time you saw Megumi shirtless was by force-he just hates being taken care of when he’s hurt.

Crimson red clumped against Megumi’s face, sticky and smeared glimpses of his pale skin glowing under the moonlight. His hair was matted down to his face from the slashes oozing out of his head, suit was slashed to bits, his ribs were killing him, and he had a limp on his left leg...but he was fine-honestly. Or that’s what he was trying to tell you...but you wouldn’t listen to a single second of the bull crap he was trying feed you. He was conflicted with emotions-on one hand, it almost annoyed him how utterly selfless you could be for him. It was 1am, the moon on its highest peak in the sky, and you were willing to play nurse for him....but on the other, it warmed him up inside that you did care so much. If he would allow himself to dwell on that emotion, he would admit-that it was .... nice....to have someone take care of him for once. He was used to bandaging each wound on his own, cleaning and disinfecting the soon to be battle scars, hissing to the walls at the pain it caused him. But with you there, you were soft, so gentle with him. Your touch was like a second adrenaline rush for him-you had yourself cradled in his lap, the skin of your thighs barely crazing his tattered uniform. Hands gently positioning his hair, pushing the wispy jet black strands away from the wounds.

“I can do this on my own,” he retorted quietly, his voice a few octaves lower from fatigue. “I bet you could..” you completely ignored him, continuing to busy yourself with closing a scrape on his skin with butterfly bandages. “-but why would I let you?” Megumi felt his breath hitch, taking a sharp breath in....any type of annoyance he felt with you being so god damn persistent instantly left his body, the only thing he can focus on was how much he loved your selfless nature-even if it could be annoying at times. But the instant he took in that deep breath, he felt a deep, guttural pain in his side, making him groan before he could stop it from spilling out of his mouth. That soft gaze you had turned to worry, your hands wrapping around his face, thumbs running smooth circles on his pale skin. “Your hurt....we’re going to need to-“

“N-no, I-“Megumi stuttered out, obviously flustered by the prospect of you seeing him so bare. “I-I’m fine. I can do this on my-“ his voice was stern and cold, yet the wavering tone made any attempt of sounding firm go invalid. You gave him a small smile, your fingers still running circles against his skin, making him look at you with nervous eyes. “Megumi, you are not fine,” you stated calmly, with eyes that simply said the opposite-you were genuinely worried for him. “please...you could have broken a rib, or done soemthing to cause a lot of damage...please, Megumi, I don’t want you to be in pain anymore.” You were asking him, pleading with him, and it broke Megumi in his core-he just couldn’t stand to see you look that scared for him of all people. Megumi sighed, eyes drifting down to the floor in hopes you couldn’t see his embarrassment as he gave in to you.

You helped Megumi shuffle out of his uniform, opting to cut it with some scissors halfway (as it was tattered to shreds already). Both of you were quite nervous...in your relationship, you had never down anything that would warrant for you to see each other’s body’s. So you being able to see him without a shirt felt like a huge step, even if it wasn’t such a big deal to an outsider. Once the fabric was finally off, you both sat in silence, your minds reeling. You knew Megumi was fit, but seeing exactly how much that work paid off brought heat flooding your body, your eyes focused on the way his breath contracted and relaxed his muscles, the moonlight catching the divots of his lower abdomen deliciously. Pale white Scars littered his skin from training, making his body even more mysterious to look at. Each scar was a story, some sort of battle, a lesson he had to learn...you wanted to learn about each and every one. Your hand felt drawn to them, digits slowly checking for signs of bruising, purposefully tracing those scars in order to burn them to memory. Fushigori was practically panicking, desperately trying to keep his heartrate lowered, the cool night air biting at his heated skin as your digits traced against his sides. You were only trying to detect the spots that could be damaged on his abdomen...but damn was it firing something inside him. He was feeling more comfortable like this, just relishing the feeling of your skin on his.

None of these characters or shows are my own, only the storylines and narratives I create are mine. Copying, stealing, plagiarizing, rewording, or using my storylines in other media, claiming to be your own, or reposting without my consent is not allowed.

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amerrierworld · 3 years

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Babysitter (pt 11)

Pt 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Summary: Loki and Hela come to break you out.

Characters: Hela x fem!reader, Avengers

Word Count: 2,780

Warnings: some light smut to start~ and then battle time! whoop whoop

Her cold lips pressed against the back of your neck, a firm presence in the swirling dark. You couldn’t see her, but you could feel her. Could feel her wandering hands snaking over your bare skin, making you squirm.

You could see your breath form in the cool air around you, and you were pulled back against her front, feeling her hook her legs over yours, her dark hair falling into your sight as she enveloped you. Hints of green pulsed in your peripheral vision.

“Hela,” you breathed, clinging onto one of her hands as the other traveled lower and lower. You stared up into the darkness, falling back even further into her hold, her body and soft cushions catching you. Her voice rumbled in your ear, but you couldn’t understand what she was saying.

Your eyes fluttered shut as familiar fingers searched and caressed your cunt, pushing between your folds and collecting your wetness on her fingertips. Your hips bucked weakly, as if you were caught in molasses, and you moaned softly.

One of your hands tried to reach back, felt the brush of her hair against your palm, but couldn’t find her head or her shoulders to hold onto. Your legs were still trapped, the fingers were still moving inside you, but your hands were grasping at nothingness and-

You sat up in your bed, shaking, eyes looking around and wondering if Hela could be in your room with you. But there was nothing, and no one out of the ordinary.

Sweat had gathered in every crevice of your body and you clambered out of bed to take a quick shower, trying to wash the feeling of Hela off your body, without succeeding. You didn't sleep the rest of the night.

The next day you were sitting by yourself, reading a book after lunch in a small reading room away from the main offices and training rooms where you knew the rest of the team would be.

Something crept up the back of your neck and a chill ran through your body. You tried to ignore it, but it persisted. And when you looked up from your book, Loki was standing by the doorway, looking quite unimpressed. You shrieked, your stomach dropping at the sight of you.

He raised his hand to shush you and eyed the doorway, hoping no one would come through there. You stared at him, and in a split decision, chucked your book at him.

It went straight through his form, only causing a faint green glimmer as it landed on the floor. You gaped at him and he raised an eyebrow, silently asking if you were done.

“Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Loki said after you had calmed down somewhat.

“What are you doing here?” you hissed, “weren’t you..”

“Dead? No, not quite. Almost.”

You sank back in your seat, your hand over your heart as you sighed, “what is it with you lot and always coming back from the dead?”

“It’s an occupational hazard with what we do,” he shrugged.

A pair of footsteps walked by the room, and Loki slunk back into the shadows, fading away for a moment. You didn't move until you were sure whoever it was had gone.

“Look, I don’t have much time,” Loki said once you were alone again, “but we’re here to break you out.”

“Who’s we?”

Loki rolled his eyes, “who do you think? Your murderous girlfriend who unfortunately happens to be my sister as well.”

Your heart nearly jumped out of your throat, “Hela? So she is here?”

“Of course she is.”

You sat quietly for a moment; so your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you. Hela had come back for you, and she was here.. somewhere.

“I- I can’t believe..”

“Well you better, now get your things and follow me. We can get out of here without fighting.”

“Wait- what? No, wait, wait,” you got up hurriedly as Loki began walking to the doorway. You couldn’t stop him- it was only a projection of him, but you weren’t ready to just walk out.

“Why would I just leave?” you asked, making Loki stop in his tracks. He looked you over and slowly approached you, his eyes flashing.

“Because you’re being held here against your will and she’s come to bail you out? Mind you- it was her idea to come barging in and killing anyone in sight, so this is a much better upgrade from that plan.”

“No- no I know. But.. when we get out, what then? What am I supposed to do? Loki... the world’s fallen apart.”

The Asgardian was quiet.

“Yeah, sure,” you continued, pacing from where you were standing, “I don’t like being kept here but- there’s not much else out there right now. Everything here at least feels a little... normal.”

“You can’t be serious. What about Hela then, huh? You think she’ll stay here with a team of heroes who tried to kill her? Just for you? Hela hates being imprisoned, Y/N. This would be a death sentence for all of us.”

“What about you then?” you retorted, “after you get me out, and Hela and I go about our merry way, what will you do? Tour the universe until some other evil plan comes up?

“This,” you gestured around the room, “is all I have right now.”

“No, no,” Loki mocked your gesture a bit more aggressively, “what you have is a prison, and only one person in the world who will stop at nothing to break you out of it.

“I’m not the most romantic, fine,” he admitted, “but I know that the two of you should never be apart, ever again. You should have seen her when I found her, Y/N- she was broken.”

A wave of tears threatened to spill at his words and you fell back in you chair once again. You buried your face in your hands and for a few minutes nothing else happened. Loki looked at you and felt his heart -or what was left of it- break to see you so defeated.

“I love her, Loki,” you whimpered, “I tried to deny it when Tony said so.. but he’s right. I love her, but I’m scared. This world isn’t meant for her. It would drive her mad.”

“Not with you around.”

You wiped the salty tears off your cheeks and looked up at Loki.

“Let’s get you out of here, and we can figure it out from there, okay? Perhaps we can come to an agreement with the rest of your team.”

You eventually nodded and stood up, ready to pack the few things you had when a loud crash and alarms sounded. There was a hurry of steps outside the room and when you looked, the whole team of remaining Avengers were preparing themselves, running down the hallways to the source of the noise.

“You filthy humans!” a cry came from the direction they were running towards. Your heart shattered; Hela.

Beside you, Loki’s apparition groaned in exasperation.

“I told her to wait, for crying out loud. Why would she be so reckless?”

“She takes after her family, obviously,” you said. “Can’t you get her out of here?”

“You’re a fool to think I can control her now.”

“Then get over here and help her!”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Loki huffed, “I’ll be there in a moment.”

His image shimmered away, and you hurried down the hallway, hoping to stall before anyone was killed.

One of the ground level metal walls had been torn open like it was nothing but paper. Large metal spears and knives were wedged in the edges and the opposite walls. The sun was glinting off of Hela’s horns and blinded you for a moment before you could really look at her.

She looked.. regal. Well, she mostly looked psychotic, with bared teeth and clenched hands, but it was her and she was real and oh boy was she angry.

Hela had Steve by the throat, holding him up so his feet barely brushed the ground. Tony and Nat had their weapons aimed but didn’t shoot. They were either waiting for her to drop Steve or didn't want to kill her. You hoped it was the latter.

“Wait!” you screamed, skidding to a halt at the scene. Dust swirled in the air from the debris. There were no bodies yet, and you prayed you could keep it that way.

The moment Hela caught sight of you, her face changed. Her eyebrows unfurled and her mouth dropped open a little bit- she looked at you with disbelief, as if she couldn’t comprehend you standing there, alive and well.

Steve took the opportunity as she was distracted and lifted his leg to kick her square in the stomach. She doubled over, dropping him, and he raised his arm to land a punch, but instead, Hela grabbed his offensive arm and whipped him away from her- effectively throwing him against the rest of the team, knocking them all down temporarily.

Before you could react and rush over to see if the group of Avengers were okay, Hela was by you in a flash.

Her hands trembled as they grasped yours, and she looked you up and down, checking for wounds, checking if you were there. Then she cupped your cheek, wiping away the tears you were crying.

“Hela-,” you croaked, because the touch of her was too much, too overwhelming, too good. She smiled, though barely, and kissed you hard on the mouth.

“Stand down, sister,” Thor’s voice boomed, and she turned to see the team back on their feet, aiming everything they had at her. She snarled, pulling you behind her, shielding you from them, as if they would ever hurt you.

“You’ve taken everything from me, brother,” she spat. “You won’t take this last ounce of happiness from me.”

Something flickered in Thor’s eyes and he had to retighten his grip on his hammer, which you realized wasn’t Mjolnir, but a makeshift copy that looked somewhat close to it.

“Y/N,” Tony said, gesturing you over to their side, “come here. Quick. We don’t want you in the way.”

Hela’s focus sharpened in on him, hidden in his armour. There was a surge of jealousy through her whole being, at the memory of him by your side, threatening to hurt you, sparring with you, taking you from her.

She pushed you back, hurled herself at Tony with lightning speed before anyone could shoot, breaking entirely through the next wall, and landing with a thud in the next room.

“No!” you screamed, shielding your face from the spray of debris as the wall broke down.

Hela tried to punch, but Tony’s right iron hand held it in place, arms shaking from the force. They stayed there, suspended in time for a moment. Hela lowered her face to Tony’s helmet as she growled and snapped, but he could see the tears streaming down her face, the wild fear and anger in her eyes.

“You won’t steal her from me,” she cried.

Then JARVIS finished downloading Hela’s body scan from the first day at your home way back, analyzing her form, and realizing her weaknesses. Her left side was much weaker than her right.

And so, he kicked, jabbed, and twisted her left leg and arm until she howled in pain and dropped to the side, giving Tony the chance to get up and put some distance between them again.

You felt helpless, not knowing how to stop it, not knowing what to do, not wanting to hurt anyone- you had no weapons on you. Hela staggered to her feet, the helmet having disappeared long ago, and she raised her hand to summon a new menacing sword, when someone hooked an arm around her neck and pressed a rusty dagger against her neck.

“Drop it, sister,” Loki hissed, the blade pressing finely against her skin. She hissed, but slowly let it slip from her hands as she realized defeat. You were panting, every inch of you throbbing with adrenaline and dread.

“Stand down, everyone,” Loki continued, and then with a pointed look at Thor, “please, brother.”

Thor was the first to lower his hammer, though his face was still angry and unforgiving. Then Tony, and everyone else followed suit.

Loki kicked the back of Hela’s knee to make her drop down, to which she cried out in anger.

“Sorry,” he added, the blade still pressed against her neck, “but you’ve really got to stop going on killing sprees.”

“You were taking too long,” she snapped, “I needed to take matters into my own hands. How was I supposed to know what was happening?”

“Alright, okay, anyone wanna explain what the hell is going on? Y/N? Thor? You wanna explain what your dysfunctional family is doing here?” Nat asked, exasperated.

The God of Thunder looked at you, your eyes begging and desperate. “They’re here for you, aren’t they?”

You nodded weakly, trembling.

“Well, best let her take her then,” Tony sighed. All of you turned your heads at him in disbelief. His iron armour was short-circuiting from the blows Hela had landed and he quickly stepped out of it. You were reminded once again of how malnourished he looked- and how dark the bags under his eyes were. But his tone remained chipper.

“You’ve seen what she can do,” he gestured at Hela, “and she isn’t gonna stop until she gets Y/N. And I don’t think Y/N wants to stay here either.”

He looked at you knowingly, and you felt like you could cry all over again.

Hela struggled against Loki’s grip for a moment, heartbroken as she saw your face scrunch up and your hands grasp your elbows in an attempt to shield yourself.

“Is that true?” Nat asked, staring at you with a gun still in hand.

You slowly nodded, making eye contact with Hela and not looking away. You heard Steve sigh and groan a bit from pain as he came up to your side.

“Y/N, she’s a vicious attacking machine, we can’t just let you two run off.”

“Why not?” you asked, your voice thick. “We won’t hurt anyone.”

“Look, we still don’t even know if she knows about Thanos, right?” Clint said, but Tony shook his head, sitting down on the armrest of a cushioned chair that was practically sliced in half from Hela throwing weapons.

“I doubt that,” he said, “if she had control over Thanos or any connection with him, I don’t think she would have come alone, let alone with him,” with a nod towards Loki.

He rolled his eyes, “you’re welcome for saving you, by the way.”

“Can you- could you all, please, just, can we please just talk about this?” you hiccuped through your words, sobs slowly growing in volume. “Loki- the- the knife, please- please let her go.”

Loki looked at you apologetically, “not if she lashes out again.”

“Hela,” you pleaded, “Hela, please. Don’t hurt anyone else? Everyone- everyone has already been hurt so much.”

Hela looked at you, now seeing the tears sliding down your dirtied cheeks, and her shoulders slumped, before nodding. Her hands that were gripping Loki’s arm around her neck let go, and dropped to her sides.

Loki removed the dagger and stepped away. Tension filled the room, expecting her to attack again.

“Y/N,” Thor said, and he tossed you a new pair of handcuffs. “Go on.”

You stared at him, “excuse me? You want me to chain her up- again? After everything-”

“This is more to keep all of us safe. She’d kill us if we came too close,” Thor said, pointedly raising an eyebrow at you. “It won’t be for long. Not until we figure out what to do next.”

You stumbled over rand dropped on your knees in front of Hela, gently holding her hands for a moment. She stared at you, deep green eyes watering.

“Just for now,” you promised. “Just like before, okay?”

You waited for long, agonizing moments until she nodded, and only then did you snap the cuffs in place. Almost immediately, Tony was on Loki and had his wrists in chains as well.

“Wh- excuse me?” he scoffed, staring at the cuffs, “how dare you?”

“Precautions, my friend,” he shrugged. “Come on, all of you, this mess is doing nothing for my respiratory system.”

He pushed Loki ahead of him and you followed with Hela’s hands clasping yours, rubbing your arms together, her trailing behind you like a lost puppy. You were thrilled to see her again, but wondered where the hell you were supposed to go from here.

A/N; I guess I kinda made Loki the unspoken hero didn’t I? :D

so the main reason why I haven’t been updating this series as much is because we’re at a point where multiple ideas branch off into totally different directions, and I keep changing my mind about where I want this to go, effectively stumping me when writing. but after much editing and changing of plot, this is what I’ve got, and I hope you like it :)

taglist: @midnight-lestrange @cheerfullyvenomous @germansarechill @gaylorrds @amii-nyc @waitingfortheendtocome @novakitten0901 @marvels-writings @jadewestwriter @thisisanexistentialcrisis @sapphiclyartistically

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adorethedistance · 3 years

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Party Hard - Owen Joyner x Reader

JATP masterlist

Warnings: drinking, partying, intoxication, non sexual stripping, swearing probably,

Words: 6343 (which, if you know me, is a FUCK ton)

Summary: Going from tipsy to full on drunk is a terrible idea, but especially when you’ve got a secret to hide that could mean the difference between preserving and ruining your relationship with your best friend.

A/N: A couple items before we get started: I think I’m back on my bullshit? I mean I wrote this fic and it’s three times the length of my normal fics. Also I wrote this headassery as a literal self insert me(ace) x someone and so there are a couple flaws here and there that make this something I’m not 100% proud of. Owen picks the reader up a few times and I’m aware this kind of thing can really effect someone’s experience with this fic so I do apologize for the lack of inclusivity in regards to body type/ableism. I’m falling really behind on school work because I just can’t find the motivation which either means y’all will be seeing a lot more of me soon or absolutely nothing at all. Not sure which yet.

“You’ve got it so bad.” Charlie rests his left arm on his best friend’s shoulder, tipping back the half-full angry orchard bottle he’d been nursing for the better half of an hour. Owen’s stare is immediately broken and he crosses his arms defensively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” Turning to meet his friend’s smug stare, Owen shoots Charlie a glare of annoyance before returning his attention to the girl on the dance floor. Surrounded by a gaggle of her closest friends, Y/n is dancing and singing her heart out to Fergalicious with Chelsea, Leila, Savannah, and Carolynn. The bunch of them share in sporadic laughs as they exchange ridiculous dance moves just to add to the fleeting moment’s laughter. An assortment of screeches and squawks blend together as they all prepare to sing the rap section of the song. Observing the level of excitement the girls have over the verse, Owen can’t help but laugh at the spectacle.

“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Charlie inquires between sips of his cold drink.

“What?”

“Y/n. Why have you not asked her out.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Yeah. Because you haven’t asked her out.” Owen rolls his eyes before turning 90 degrees to fully face the smug guitarist. He turns about-face to prove a point, but another symphony of squeals at the next song choice drags his attention back to his other best friend on the dance floor. “You’re so whipped.”

“Am not.”

“Are too! Look, if you don’t ask her out tonight, I will.”

“You’re not even into her,” Owen protests unceremoniously. Setting the molasses colored bottle on the counter next to Owen, Charlie steps back and copies his position of crossed arms and a relaxed stance.

“You’re right, I’m not. But you are, and if that’s what it takes to light the fire under your ass then I’ll do it.”

“She wouldn’t say yes.”

“Are you sure? I mean, the only way to know for sure is to ask.” And with that, Charlie is off, speeding toward Y/n at a pace that launches Owen into an impulsive chase. To prevent his friend from doing something stupid, Owen shoves him in the opposite direction from the group of girls on the dance floor. What he hadn’t anticipated was Charlie moving so far so fast. Owen has longer legs, he’s supposed to be the faster one, not Charlie. That’s why he hadn’t anticipated turning away from his musical friend to come face to face with a very flushed Y/n. Her lip-gloss coated lips are parted as she catches her breath from all the dancing. They look so soft and inviting that Owen can’t help but stare, and doesn’t realize the several looks of confusion among the girls around him.

“Everything okay, Owen?” Snapping out of his hyper focused stare, Owen blinks a few times, trying to generate a reason for coming over.

“You’ve been dancing for a while.”

“...Yeah?”

“Let me fix you a drink?” His statement comes out as more of a question but the breathless girl agrees nonetheless. Owen extends his hand to her which she gladly accepts but not without a quick word to her friends.

“I’ll be right back, I’m getting a drink.”

Her friends aren’t stupid, quite the opposite actually. And they see right through Owen’s facade of fixing her a drink because she’d been ‘dancing a while’. Please. As if they didn’t know a desperate attempt at flirting when they saw it.

The pounding music from the backyard begins to fade and muffle once the pair step into the Shada’s beautiful kitchen space. Owen leads her to the kitchen island where he has her take a seat on one of the barstools in front of the high countertop. Stepping around the fixture, Owen busies himself with whipping up a drink for Y/n at the makeshift bar on the island. He doesn’t even have to ask what it is she wants. Ice, pink whitney, club soda, and a splash of lime juice mixed together in a red solo cup Owen had considerately written her name on before going all mixologist-mode.

“Your usual.”

“Thank you, sir. You know, I’ve only had a handful of barbecue chips since I got here, and I’m already tipsy, so this actually might get me completely drunk.” Taking a sip, Y/n hums out of pleasure, “Why do you make my favorite drink better than I make my favorite drink?”

“So you have a reason to keep me around.” At the sound of Y/n’s laugh, Owen cracks a smile in time with his favorite sound in the world. The blonde haired man leans forward to rest his weight on his left forearm. He stares at her with adoration seeping from his gaze, before lifting his own cup to drink with her.

“What is that?” she asks, sitting up taller to try and see into Owen’s cup over the island.

“Jack Daniels.”

“I want some.”

“No,” Owen answers swiftly albeit softly. Y/n, however, is not feeling as conciliatory.

“No?”

“Have you ever tried whiskey before?”

“Well, no-”

“You’re drinking a fruit flavored cocktail that’s like 30% nonalcoholic. A sip of this would knock you off your little ass.” Y/n frowns at his words and employs a fake pout of anger to guilt her now laughing friend. Despite her smile, she whines,

“You suck.” Owen merely shrugs unapologetically before sipping and wincing at his drink of choice. “So… how did your date go- with Amy?” And there it is. The question that’s been at the forefront of Y/n’s mind for the last 24 hours.

Owen met this girl Amy at a more professional house party type of event and they hit it off right away. They spent the night invested in conversation, sharing in a cacophony of laughter. Y/n had no right to be upset, but she was. Amy was drop dead gorgeous in that Mini length red, velvet dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her figure was snatched to the gods, and she was about 5’3”; a seemingly irrelevant thing to notice, but Y/n knew that was the height Owen loved in a partner. At least, based on all his previous flings. And not to mention, her beautiful golden blonde hair that extended all the way down her toned back. Amy was perfect to all standards including that of any straight man with eyes and undoubtedly Owen’s. They spent the entire night together, Y/n long forgotten despite having been Owen’s plus one.

Y/n on the other hand didn’t exactly view herself as the drop-dead gorgeous supermodel type. Seeing how Owen took an interest in her at that event, it was no wonder Y/n was jealous. In fact, she had been so jealous that she allowed their flirting to ruin her entire evening.

She had been invited platonically as Owen’s guest, but Owen didn’t feel guilty about leaving her alone once he saw Charlie was by her side the whole night. Little did he know Charlie was only there for her because Owen wasn’t. It was pity company. Pity company that she was grateful to have as she cried into a few gin and tonics. Y/n avoided telling Charlie about her feelings for the adorable drummer, but with the way events transpired, he had figured out what it was that had upset her.

Charlie so badly wanted to give Owen the guilt trip of a lifetime. And he did once he and Owen were alone, heading home in Charlie’s orange hatchback car. He did so by telling Owen about how his best friend had spent the entire evening crying into gin and tonics. ‘Y/n doesn’t even like gin and tonic’ was all Owen could come up with.

When he inquired about why his best friend was crying, Charlie said he didn’t know, but it may have had something to do with the fact that the person who invited her spent the whole night ignoring her; he left it at that, leaving Owen to connect the dots, sort of. Owen had come to the realization that Y/n must have been crying over him, but why? Unable to comprehend a reason, he pushed the situation to the back of his mind. So far back that when Amy texted him that same night, he immediately responded and eventually set up a date for them to get dinner alone Friday evening.

The date was fine. Objectively there was nothing wrong with it. But every time Amy took a sip of the gin and tonic she had ordered, he couldn’t help being reminded of Y/n that night. It took Owen a solid thirty minutes to finally conclude that maybe Y/n was... jealous? Of what? Of Amy? Quickly reviewing a long list of qualities, identical to the one that Y/n had thoroughly checked through when she first saw the blonde, Owen realized she was indeed jealous of Amy. But why? What did Amy have that Y/n didn’t?

Oh.

His initial conclusion in the car with Charlie had to be right. Y/n was crying over him, and seemingly jealous of Amy, all because Amy had his attention. Why was that a problem?

Oh… no. No, Y/n does not have feelings for him. Y/n is... well, Y/n. His best friend, his partner in crime, his confidant, there’s no way she’s in love with him. There’s a different reason as to why she’d been crying into drinks she didn’t like. And that different reason is why her text replies have been short and cold when he had asked for date night conversation pointers. And that different reason is why her smile kept faltering on FaceTime when he was asking for fashion advice for his date.

Y/n is not in love with her best friend.

Owen had spent the past year pushing down his feelings for the girl that threatened to bubble over the top. If Y/n was truly into him, he would’ve acted on them. But she isn’t, so he didn’t. At least, that’s what Owen told himself…

“It was alright,” he offers lamely as a reply to her inquiry. Y/n simply nods and takes another swig of her drink to dull the ache in the center of her chest.

“Just alright?”

“Okay, it was better than alright. She was great.” There’s a hole burning in the center of her heart, and against her better judgment, she expands the deficit by asking for more information.

“What does that mean- that she was ‘great’?”

“You know…” Owen trails off in search of the right words, some words, any words, but nothing comes to him. To sell her nonchalant demeanor, the hopelessly devoted girl is staring down into her cup as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. She didn’t expect Owen’s eyes to be boring into hers when she looked back up, so she quickly musters a polite smile. Maybe the average onlooker couldn’t tell it was fake, but Owen knows something is off. He just knows. Because he knows her.

“How did those conversation pointers pan out?” She’s deflecting, he thinks.

“One of them worked.” I’m just feeding into it, he thinks.

“Only one of them?” He’s holding back something, she thinks.

“Well, yeah. We didn’t really do much talking if you get what I mean.” I don’t think I can handle this, she thinks.

“I see…” The pair stands together in a silence so tense they felt like strangers. It’s awful. Y/n and Owen hate every second of it, but what could they do? In a moment blinded by upset, Y/n reaches across the island to grab the newly opened bottle of grey goose and pours what must’ve been no less than three shots of liquid into her cup. No club soda or lemonade this time, she chugs down the rest of her drink in a flash; Owen stares at her in disbelief and shock.

Y/n hates being drunk, she likes being the designated driver, she’s never had straight up liquor in her life, and she’s a lightweight, that’s for damn sure. Owen knows all of these things and is even more surprised to see her reaching for an almost empty bottle of gin.

“Hey. Maybe you should take it easy, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a lightweight and you know it. Put the cup down.” When Y/n shakes her head no, something in Owen snaps and his desire to be gentle is long forgotten. “Y/n. Put the drink down.”

“Why do you care, Owen?” In taking time to respond, Owen sees the opportunity and goes for it, taking the cup from her loose grasp and splashing it down the drain of the vegetable sink. “What the fuck?!”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Come on.” It’s only a matter of time until Y/n becomes an incoherent human being that’s impossible to wrangle, so Owen is very aware he’s on the clock. Snagging two Arrowhead water bottles in one hand, he takes Y/n’s hand in the other and brings her into the Shada’s den. There are only a few other people in the room, one is a couple and the other a pair of pining idiots, to which Owen becomes slightly wary. Not that the dynamic would change much. He and Y/n are practically a couple according to everyone around them.

Chelsea and Charlie are sitting fairly close together for just friends, on the chocolate brown loveseat facing the couch that Owen has plopped his increasingly intoxicated friend onto; Leila is sitting in a single armchair that a very tipsy Taylor is hanging over the back of to hug her shoulders. Upon seeing Y/n’s pouting expression Chelsea seeks more information,

“You good, fam?”

“He threw it down the sink!” She’s fading faster than Owen had hoped.

“I did. I poured what would’ve been her fifth and sixth shots down the sink.”

“Jesus, Y/n, are you trying to kill yourself?”

“What are you, a cop?” Even tipsy she’s still sharp as a tack. If Owen wasn’t frustrated with her at the moment, he would’ve probably laughed. But he is, so he didn’t. Slipping back into caretaker mode, he hands her one of the water bottles he snagged from the cooler on the way out. In her typical stubborn and petulant fashion, Y/n weakly throws the unopened bottle onto the couch cushion next to her. All their friends laugh but Owen isn’t having it.

“Y/n.” And it only takes a firm call of her name for the slumped over lightweight to glare at him but oblige. She retrieves the bottle and sticks her arm out straight toward Owen’s still standing figure.

“I can’t open it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this fucked up,” Leila comments.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you fucked up period,” Chelsea adds on. Charlie laughs lightly before resuming whatever conversation the four of them had going pre-Owen and Y/n’s entrance.

Satisfied with the small sips she’s taking of her water, Owen relaxes and takes a seat next to her on the couch. The temporary break in her temper tantrum allows Owen to save his breath; he opens his own water bottle, taking a few drinks which ended up being half the bottle. He’s given her a good bit of room on the couch but it isn’t good enough for Y/n. It takes her a few failed attempts to screw on the cap of her water but once it’s properly sealed, she moves closer to her best friend. The water has acted like some magical temperament cure as Y/n’s previously permanent pout has disappeared.

Owen knows he and Y/n are close enough to where cuddling wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But the way she’s burrowed into his side, picking up his seemingly ‘heavy’ arm to place it around her own inebriated frame, laying her head high up on his chest, and unintentionally resting her hand on his lower abdomen, something feels off. Her hand isn’t dangerously low, but low enough that the side of her limp palm has met the waistband of his jeans. Owen can’t help but feel his skin tingle and burn under her touch. Why is he so affected by her touch all of a sudden?

Owen is pulled from his snowballing thoughts by the sound of Y/n’s muffled voice against his chest. He leans down as far as he can which places his head on top of hers gently.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry,” he whispers just loud enough for her to hear. A tiny drop of warmth on his shirt under her head triggers Owen’s memory: Y/n’s an emotional drunk. She doesn’t get drunk often but when she does, she goes all in and becomes somewhat manic as a result. That accounts for her previous anger. Now it’s sadness, so in about ten minutes, she’ll be easily excitable and bouncing off the walls.

Y/n had carpooled with Leila and Chelsea to the party, and though Owen was upset about her not picking him up like they’d briefly talked about at first, he’s suddenly thankful for the arrangement.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“Unhhh.” The lack of a coherent response is enough for Owen, and after finishing the rest of his water, he sits up on the couch.

“Where’s your house key? Hm?” The prospect of losing her key is absolutely devastating to Y/n as she begins to weep. Her imminent distress in response to Owen’s question has all their friends laughing once more; Leila speaks up,

“Check the left chest pocket of her jacket.”

Owen nods, noting the directions, and gently rolls his friend over on her back. Deciding against using her strength, Y/n flops over onto her other side which still allows Owen access to her pocket. His long fingers dwarf the button fastener on her jacket that she often struggles to open, and sure enough her sky blue house key is in her pocket just as Leila said.

“Thanks,” he acknowledges Leila before taking Y/n’s cold hands in his own larger ones to help her stand. It’s a bit of a struggle to stand and as a result, the fading girl leans a bit of her weight into Owen’s side. “You gonna say bye to our friends?”

Y/n nods a goodbye to each person in the room, moving from left to right naming Leila, Taylor, Chelsea, and then Charlie. Upon saying bye to Charlie the small girl starts to cry again, harder this time, much to everyone’s confusion.

“What’s wrong?”

“Charlie looked a-at me like he didn’t l-like me.” The entire room bursts out laughing, Owen included this time, but she’s still crying. “It’s no-not funny.”

“I know. You’re right, it’s not funny.” Owen’s exaggerated sympathy goes undetected by the very emotional Y/n as she presses her face into his grey long sleeve shirt. She reaches up to hug her arms around Owen’s neck for stability as she adds more tears to the tiny spot from before. “Can you walk?” He asks genuinely as more of her weight leans into him. The only response Owen gets is a few soft sobs, and in reaction to her messy state, lets out a subtle eye roll. He shakes his head before bending down to place one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulder blades, sweeping her off the ground before she can protest.

“Would you guys tell Jer thanks and that I had to take her home?” A symphony of affirmations and goodbyes usher him out of the house, and once outside Y/n’s crying diminuendos into short sniffles and the occasional sigh.

“Here, be careful,” Owen panics as his friend nearly bangs the front of her head against the roof of his car. Once he cautiously places all her limbs in the passenger side, Owen shuts the door and hurries over to the driver’s side as if Y/n could hurt herself in the next five seconds. He places the key in the ignition but before he even touches the gear shift, he turns and looks quizzically at his best friend. The sniffling and sighs coming from her puffy face have lulled her into an almost unconscious state; Owen puffs out a frustrated sigh as he reaches across the entire car to grab Y/n’s seatbelt for her.

Another thing about drunk Y/n is that her emotional state makes her more likely to give in to physical impulses. So after she registers Owen leaning across her lap for the seatbelt, she grabs his shoulder so he doesn’t move away. The action surprises Owen and he turns his face to look into her half-lidded eyes. He’s trying to make sense of the action but his trailing thoughts are interrupted when the girl in the passenger’s seat leans forward slightly to put her face against Owen’s neck.

“I like your smell.” Owen tries so hard not to laugh in fear of upsetting her again, but he can’t conceal the smile growing on his face. He then gently pulls away from her grasp in order to actually start driving,

“Okay. Thank you.”

The car ride is composed of mostly comfortable silence with the occasional inebriated comment or nonsensical sound from the girl in the passenger seat; Owen had been so captivated by Y/n’s uncharacteristically relaxed state, he’d been driving on autopilot and instead of turning left to get on the highway that runs south to where her apartment is, he’d gone north to go to his own place. No big deal, Owen didn’t plan on leaving her intoxicated and alone, and she’s stayed the night plenty of times before now. What’s one more night? It isn’t until he puts the car in park and helps her out of the vehicle that Y/n clocks her surroundings.

“I don’t live here.”

“You don’t, no, but I do,” Owen replies simply before he slides out of the car. Y/n stays in the car as if Owen told her not to move, and looks up at him confusedly when he opens her door. In her tipsy state, she is able to recognize what Owen is doing and smugly places her hand over the buckle of her seatbelt. With her tiny palm over the red button, she begins giggling maniacally.

“What are you doing?” Owen asks with a frustrated sigh although he can’t help the small smile overtaking his features at the sound of her growing laughter. He doesn’t get a response, just more giggling which lets him know he’s going to have to do things the hard way now that she’s in a lifted mood. “Kid, you have to get out of the car.”

“You can’t make me.”

Owen takes a step back from the open door to reevaluate. Y/n always tells him to work smarter, not harder. Another one of her many bouts of wisdom is that you can keep the attention of children and adults alike with a vastly dynamic change in volume. The question is will she notice Owen using this tactic on her in her drunken state?

“Hey, Y/n/n,” his speech drops to a low whisper. “I’m sad, can you hold my hand?” The change in volume works exactly as described; completely convinced by the sincerity of his whispering, Y/n gives him her right hand. “Can I have the other one?”

When she nods a small ‘yes’ and gives him both of her hands, Owen finds himself fighting the urge to laugh at how easy that was. He takes both of her cool hands in his larger left one to reach across her body and release her seatbelt with a swift CLICK.

Luckily Y/n didn’t tangle herself up in the seatbelt, but she had other ideas for causing trouble. Owen helped her out of the car but once she was standing on her own two feet, she began running away from him. With a slam of the car door and a string of breathy curses later, he chases after his best friend before she can hurt herself on literally anything in the parking garage. The sound of Y/n’s laughter carries through the vacant space, and despite all her best efforts, Owen quickly catches up to her. Her giddy intoxication allowed for the suspension of disbelief that she could outrun the much taller Owen Joyner, but she’s sorely mistaken when his strong arms wrap around her waist and lift her feet off the ground. Y/n’s bouts of laughter are contagious; Owen finds himself laughing alongside his best friend. Setting her feet back on the ground he asks,

“Are you going to run away again if I let go of you?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out through the tail end of her laughing fit. The candidness of her reply prompts Owen to throw his head back, shaking it as if in disagreement with the universe itself,

“I appreciate your honesty.” And with that, Y/n screeches in glee as her best friend maneuvers her body in his grip to lift her over his right shoulder.

“Owen!”

“You did this to yourself, kid.”

The silent elevator ride up to his flat is comfortable relative to the current position they’re in. Y/n’s no longer fighting being carried but instead entertains herself by tapping out an intricate beat on the surface of Owen’s back.

“Guess what song this is.”

The beat she’s playing is close to incoherent and Owen tries to stifle his full laugh in fear of making her cry again. He’s been successful so far, but now having Y/n over his shoulder, she can feel the movement of his abdomen that was unintelligible by sight alone.

“Your favorite song,” he guesses insincerely.

“No, my favorite song doesn’t sound like that. It was sicko mode.”

“That was not sicko mode.”

“Owen, how come you don’t wear a badge?”

“What?”

“Because you’re the song police?” Owen can’t help but snort out a laugh even though the comment was made at his expense. Still sharp as a tack.

Once the pair reach the front door of Owen’s ‘bachelorette pad’ as Y/n liked to call it, he sets her back on the ground albeit reluctantly as he recalls why he was carrying her in the first place. Thinking quickly on his feet, Owen forms a plan that’s more likely than not foolproof.

“Hey, Y/n/n?”

“Yeah?” Her voice is still right behind him thankfully.

“Can I have a hug?” After a few seconds of silence in the hall, Owen begins to doubt his plan until he feels the weight of his best friend leaning on his toned back. With her cheek pressed against the middle of his spine, Y/n brings her arms around his waist, clasping her hands tightly together. Her semi-public display of affection allows Owen some time to unlock his front door. Once he props the door open, Owen realizes that Y/n probably isn’t going to let go any time soon and opts to waddle through the threshold with her still attached to him. He’s able to turn around and lock them back in for the night which makes the girl begin to laugh.

“Was this your plan all along? To get me drunk so you could lock me in your apartment and hold me prisoner for the rest of my life?”

“And I would’ve gotten away with it, too...”

“If it weren’t for those meddling kids and their dog.”

True to his imagination that Y/n wasn’t letting go any time soon, Owen swivels her around his torso so that he could hold her to his side rather than support her with his back. He now has his right arm over both of her shoulders as she continues to hug her best friend. The way she leans her head onto his chest makes Owen’s heartbeat the tiniest bit faster. ‘She’s drunk, she doesn’t know what this does to you’ is the mantra blaring through Owen’s subconscious. Shaking any and all sort of romantic thoughts out of his head, he begins to lead her back to his bedroom.

Flicking the lights on proves to be a mistake once Y/n starts groaning miserably, and Owen decides the floor lamp is a better option than the overheads. Much to Owen’s surprise and relief, Y/n moves to sit on the edge of his bed on her own volition. She’s not upright for long as she collapses into the sheets of his unmade bed that contemplated neatening before leaving the house; hindsight is 20/20.

“Hmm. I like your smell,” Y/n parrots despite already bringing up the topic on the ride home.

“This is the same cologne I always use.”

“No. I like your natural smell.”

“What?”

“I was reading up about pheromones the other day. And there was this thing that said when couples like each others’ scent, it’s like a primal way of seeing if you’re immuno-compatible with someone so your offspring have the best chance for survival. It’s an evolutionary thing for the survival of our species. Ants have pheromones, too.”

Sometimes she has trouble remembering to feed herself, but leave it to Y/n to remember extensive information about pheromones whilst intoxicated. The concept is intriguing to Owen, so he proceeds to ask questions, ignoring the tug on his heart he felt after hearing her say the word ‘couples’.

“So, if I like your scent, we’re immuno-?”

“Compatible, yeah. But it’s mostly me because you can sniff out my period.”

“I can what?”

“I read that men can tell when a woman is at her most fertile because that’s when they like her smell the best. They did a study where a bunch of men were introduced to a few different scents, and without fail, the one they liked the most or would describe as ‘sexy’ or ‘attractive’ was the scent they took from the woman who was ovulating.”

Y/n continues talking about what she learned about pheromones as Owen picks up a bit of the mess around his room. She returns to the topic of ant pheromones as he digs through his surprisingly large closet for something for his friend to sleep in. His temporarily bubbly best friend also notes that he should ‘sniff her now because she’s ovulating and he would like that’ which makes him laugh into the drawers of his waist-height dresser. Returning to find her still slumped over on the bed, he pats her leg and beckons her to sit up. After Y/n’s upright again, Owen hands her his classic black ‘BEANS’ t-shirt and a pair of briefs that won’t properly fit her but will fit better than a pair of his actual pants.

“Can you put these on for me?”

“Yeah.” Owen’s conflicted with both wanting to respect Y/n’s privacy by leaving the room, and prioritizing her safety, and not leaving her unattended at any moment. He comes to a compromise which is staying by her side but turning a full 180 to face the wall of his bedroom. A couple of moments pass until Y/n begins whining frustratedly.

“Owen.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t ubns-” her words become incomprehensible as she begins to cry again and Owen turns around to find her struggling with the buttons on her shirt, her jacket long discarded on the bedroom floor. This shirt: her white, cap-sleeve crop top with a peter pan collar that she wore for anything mildly significant, this was her favorite. Owen remembers her fussing about how she ruined it only to find that she just forgot to steam it one day. So with a little heat and water, Owen had fixed the shirt like nothing ever happened, and he’d do it a million times over again if it meant he got to relive seeing the smile that graced her face for the first time again.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do the buttons.” She runs the back of her right hand against her tired eyes to wipe away her tears and Owen internally curses himself for the way the small action makes his heart flutter.

“Do you need help?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen to me, you are okay,” he sinks to kneel in front of Y/n as she sits tiredly on the edge of the bed. Owen doesn’t miss the slight tremble of his hands as he reaches up to unbutton her shirt, but he prays that she will. Through tiny sniffles and teary eyes, she watches his hands effortlessly work down the length of her shirt, each button modestly dancing between his fingertips. Once the short top is fully unbuttoned, Owen returns to his normal standing height and Y/n attempts to shrug the fabric off her body. She struggles lightly and knowing her frustration is imminent, Owen reaches down to gingerly push the sleeves off her shoulders. The light graze of his rough, calloused skin against her own skin sends electric-like shocks through the both of them; yet neither of them believed the other felt it too.

Owen hastily withdraws his hands and, without warning, Y/n quickly removes the bralette she was wearing. Owen’s eyes widen slightly at her lack of inhibition. He does his best to be a gentleman and swiftly redirects his gaze to the white ceiling fan that has all of a sudden become the most intriguing object in the universe. His lower peripheral vision indicates that she’s finally slipped the black tee over her head, but she begins sniffling more fiercely as she struggles with taking off her jeans. Owen sighs and drops to his knees once more in spite of himself, and aids his best friend in slipping the material over the length of her calves and off the tips of her toes. Hoping to speed up the process, he grabs the briefs he had brought her and unfolds them in preparation for helping her into them. His efforts are all for naught as Y/n forgoes the need for any more clothing and slides under the covers of his unmade bed. Owen then turns to leave the bedroom, opting to set up on the couch for the night before Y/n’s small voice is cutting through the comfortable silence.

“Where are you going?” He sighs,

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll get you some water and Advil for when you wake up tomorrow.” Y/n then nods acceptingly and allows her eyes to flutter closed as he leaves the room. Despite how tired she feels, Y/n won’t quite yet let herself sleep--not ‘til Owen is beside her. When he returns he sets the ibuprofen bottle on the nightstand before uncapping the Kirkland brand water bottle he had in the fridge. He coaxes her into sitting up just one more time so she can drink some of the water before falling asleep. She sits and rubs her tired eyes as she drinks and Owen has to physically force himself to look away from the adorable sight. He just wants to take care of her forever but things have always been strictly platonic between them.

The risk of making their friendship weird or awkward was just too great.

“Goodnight kid, I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Owen leaves without awaiting a response and lets out an annoyed sigh before setting himself up on the couch in his living room. He was so focused on getting Y/n to bed safely that he forgot to grab clothes for himself. Not a big deal. He simply strips down to just his underwear and climbs underneath the thick Pottery Barn throw blanket Y/n had gifted him as a housewarming gift. That and a fire extinguisher because ‘you don’t notice its absence until you need it’ she claimed. The memory makes Owen smile and he allows his eyes to close after a long day.

A long day that was about to get longer. Owen finds himself sinking further and further into sleep until he hears the padding of footsteps that are now in his living room. He’s too tired to open his eyes, and it’s not like he doesn’t already know who it is. What does surprise him, however, is the feeling of the familiar weight squeezing between the couch and his turned back.

“What are you doing?” He half mumbles into the night.

“You’re warm.”

“That was not the question, Y/n/n.” After not receiving a reply, Owen turns as best as he can to look at his friend who’s nestling her way into his sleeping arrangement for the night. “Kid-”

“I just wanna be with you.”

“Alright,” Owen sighs out of irritation, exhaustion, and a sliver of adoration before sitting up on the couch, “Come on.”

He stands up, fully expecting to have to drag her back to the bedroom, but finds relief in seeing her struggle her way off the couch. Slipping her tired hand into his unexpecting, larger one, Y/n allows her friend to lead her into the bedroom for the second time that night.

Owen considerately lifts the covers for her to climb back into before getting into the other side of the bed.

“Owen.”

“Hm?”

“Guess what.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too, kid.”

“No,” Y/n speaks in a casual tone as if she’s not divulging into her biggest emotional trepidation to date. “I love you, Owen.”

Owen can’t help the way his heart seemingly stops. The way the butterflies in his stomach are going wild. The way he wants to smile like he’s the biggest lovestruck idiot on planet Earth.

She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She won’t remember this tomorrow.

“I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

She won’t remember that tomorrow.

***

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13 @kaitlyn2907 @itz-jas@crybabyddl@kcd15 @kinda-really-lost @calamitykaty @n0wornever @dream-a-little-bigger-x @curlybrownhairedboys @amazinggracy @kaitieskidmore1 @asdfghjkl-fanfics @ghostlygreenbean @merceret @jemimah-b99 @ifilwtmfc @thesweetestsinner @imsydneywalker @lovesanimals @thebloodthirstyvampress @bumbleberry-pie @losers-club6 @tefilovesreading @dmcfarland1 @kexrtiz @talk-on-the-street @phantompogues @konciousdreamer@sunsetcurvej @warmnesss0ul @lilyjoyner @joynerxmercer @juliefromaustralia @vicesvsvirturesfanfic @mrstodorooki @morganayennefertyrell

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Steele Resolve

Over 300 billion years into the future.

"Get out," Dallas told Darkwing.

He eyed her suspiciously, then she shoved him—captain of this ship—out of his very own cabin. Punching the control button by the door, the panel slid shut in between them in a flash, shutting out both him and the glaring light from the corridor.

She stifled a laugh as the hypersteel barrier muffled his yapping—something about being a living god, among other things, rattling on as he audibly turned and wandered away, babbling all the way to the Avian's cockpit.

Dallas waited till he was far enough away, then listened at the door even longer. Ensuring she heard no signs of the cat, the psychotic robot, that disgusting engineer, or—most importantly—the girl.

The ship's star-drive churned, causing all surfaces to subtly vibrate while it steadily propelled the combat vessel through space. It meshed with the rushing of blood in her ears. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the cabin, generated only by arrays of glowing buttons, some of them steady, others blinking.

Half a minute felt long enough.

She slid into the swiveling chair that was bolted down onto the floor in front of a quantum entanglement communicator terminal.

The assassin tilted her head back and forth and her neck cracked both times.

With the routine of a spy, she slung out her trusty old ballistic revolver, flicked a concealed switch with her thumb, and slapped the archaic weapon against an open palm.

Then—again. And a third time.

A scrambler chip clicked out of the gun's grip.

She slipped it out and quickly inserted it into one of the terminal's slots. Tapped the power buttons and fired up the device.

The soft blue glow of the screen in front of her illuminated the entire dark chamber she sat alone in. A sigh of impatience escaped her as she awaited the loading bars of the chip's overrides to reach completion on-screen and guarantee her the use of a secure channel.

Meanwhile, a window popped up, listing all recent encrypted text messages she had received from her contacts over the course of the past time units. One of the message subjects read, "DIE BITCH", sent by a certain "Dragon." Many others reflected the bridges she had recently burned and flattered her with other colorful threats and creative insults. Fueled by professional pride, and mixed with a newfound sense of liberty, she smiled to herself and dismissed the entire window with a languid swipe.

Clickety-clackety-clickety-clackety—

Her fingers hacked away at the keyboard with an uncanny speed and precision. Hit the key to transmit with excessive force, a sound of polymers and metal snapping together that cut through the quiet, stale air of the captain's cabin.

Her heart began to race as she awaited response. The ensuing seconds dragged on like molasses, even if they were only few.

A screen, cropped out within the screen, flicked open and displayed a sea of static. The silhouette of her handler turned visible, emerging from within the visual noise, but never fully surfacing in full definition. Masked behind a helmet that emitted an ominous cross-shaped red glow, cast in shadows by a hood.

An agent of the Holy Lahasan Empire.

"Steele? You now also owe me some explanations," said her handler on the other end of the connection, that shadowy silhouette speaking to her from far across the galaxy, distorted by the distance and dampened by the mask.

Dallas leaned back into the chair, unknowingly sinking into it like the many times that the captain had done before, sinking into a spell of deeper contemplation.

She clicked her tongue and finally replied, "Things did not go quite as planned. There were some—complications."

"According to my intel, Agent Reeve was disintegrated in a blast caused by archaic explosives."

Dallas' mien darkened, turning into a frown. "All due respect, but Rourke was an asshole, and—"

"With all due respect, your personal opinions need to leave, exiting through the nearest airlock right now. Not only are you living on borrowed time for your treason against the Empress, but you have a jarring track record of valuable agents dropping dead around you."

"That sounds like your problem, not mine."

The handler's voice dropped in volume, slowed down to a grim crawl. "You remember the cortex bomb I had implanted in your spine, right?"

She scowled at the screen, unable to find any eye contact, instead focusing on the red glow of the cross.

"Come on, I'm too valuable to you. You wanted the best tracker in the universe, which is why you pulled me out of cryo-prison."

"And I am constantly re-evaluating that decision."

Dallas held her tongue. Her chin jutted out and she fidgeted in her seat until her fingers encountered the calming cool of the stainless-steel surface of the old lighter, hidden in her pocket.

"Moving on. Report your progress on retrieving subject K70001-34966."

Dallas decided to play it cool.

She had to play her cards right.

"What a mouthful. We are talking about some girl. Don't you wanna abbreviate that name a bit?"

"No."

Hesitating to answer, she patted her jacket down until she retrieved a palm-sized silvered case from another pocket. She pressed a button on it, and it clicked—also analog and mechanical—triggering its finely-engraved lid to swing open.

Removing a thin cigar from the other three inside it, she lit it up, puffed a few times, and then blew a mouthful of smoke towards the QEC's monitor. The agent awaited her response, but she regained some confidence just in the thought that constantly tested his patience to the point of annoying him.

He had to put up with her.

Threats aside, she was, in fact, the best woman for the job.

"I've gotten pretty damn close. I think it's a matter of weeks, or even days now."

"Be more precise," growled the handler.

"Look, I found out how she's getting around, alright? By stowing away on other people's ships. I'm closely on her trail now. We almost had her too! Sadly, for Rourke, he got killed in that explosion by some idiot that had nothing to do with the job. There was a shootout at this place on—"

"Most of that was in the report. Share more pertinent details, or get to the point," he ordered.

"It's just a matter of time till I can bring her in."

Now he remained silent, processing her meager report. It must have been better than nothing.

"You had best not disappoint. You know we—"

"Yes, yes. Borrowed time."

He said nothing.

Dallas' nostrils flared, blowing smoke out of them.

She squinted and smirked, then asked, "I offed Youssell for you like you requested, right? That wasn't exactly on the books, was it?"

This time, the agent failed to respond.

"Right, and now you're having me track down and retrieve some kid that you lost in the first place."

Though the hood, and helmet, and eerie mask with its cross-shaped glow fully concealed his face, she could practically hear him gritting his teeth as he replied, "Because of your meddling, Steele."

"Well, you have to agree that it's a bit—uh, how to put this—a bit outside of my usual expertise to find people and get them back alive. So, you'll have to kindly stick a thumb up your ass while you wait and give me some time to improvise and succeed. I mean, you do want the kid alive, right?"

More silence followed. Dallas blew more smoke at the monitor, wishing she could be blowing it into his face.

"So, my word—you're getting her alive—or you'll find me as a corpse floating through open space. That is a promise. But if you want this to work out, you'll have to trust me." Saying that, her smirk widened as she feigned every ounce of confidence she could put on display.

With an abrupt flash, the screen within the screen winked out of existence, and the static noise from the scrambled transmission went dead. The handler had ended the communication without giving Dallas any further notice.

"Oh, my. Lovely. Fuck you too, Prince Charming."

She basked in the cold blue glow of the terminal's screen and puffed some more from her slender cigar. She tried to focus on thoughts about how to proceed—of where to go from here. But instead of finding clear ideas and reaching decisive plans of action—something she was usually adept at—pesky memories kept welling up instead.

Thoughts also regularly circled back to the cortex bomb implanted in her spine, but the older memories eventually overshadowed them.

* * *

"I will not ask you again," said the inquisitor.

His hand crept towards a button on the wall outside the cell.

The girl trapped inside, identified on the monitor next to the white energy barrier as "Delinquent K70001-34966", drooled and writhed on the cold metal floor of that cell. She did not respond to the inquisitor's threat.

He pushed the button once more, causing the girl on the floor of the cell to convulse under waves upon waves of searing pain that washed over her, illuminated by bright yellow, crackling energy. Each surge of electrical discharges caused her to spasm until she threw up. Then she collapsed again, one cheek resting in the tiny pool of vomit. Covered in sweat, she lay there, curled up in a pathetic and helpless heap.

This was the umpteenth time that he had used the interrogation interface to torment the young woman trapped within.

The shock trooper standing guard by the inquisitor looked on in disbelief. Her gaze bounced back and forth in between the inquisitor standing outside the cell, coldly and callously operating this abominable torture device; and the helpless young woman who groaned pitifully as she twitched on the floor of her cell, not once having answered his questions, and not once having begged for mercy.

"I missed the memo on the M.O. of how you handle these things. But it's far from palatable," the guard said to the inquisitor.

The masked inquisitor turned to confront the assassin posing as a guard.

"Memo? Palatable? What the devil are you blathering on about?"

VLA-VLAM!

The barrel of the energy rifle in the hands of the false guard glowed.

She had shot the inquisitor twice in quick succession.

One to the chest to send him reeling, the other to the head to take him out.

To her chagrin, his masked helmet with the glowing red cross emblazoned on its front had absorbed some of the shock from the energy weapon, and he stumbled backwards, reeling—but still quite alive.

Damned energy weapons, Dallas Steele thought to herself, encased in the hijacked power armor of the guard. And this was why you can only count on ballistics, she thought next, even though time had slowed to a crawl.

He was too slow on the uptake though, too slow to raise his weapon and retaliate in time. She jacked up her weapon's cadence with a flick of her wrist, unloading a full salvo into his center mass.

VA-VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

The inquisitor collapsed into a lifeless body in the narrow corridor outside the holding cell, the metal of his armor clanked against the hard floor.

She approached him, poked him with the muzzle of her rifle, and confirmed on her helmet's HUD that his vital signs were bottoming out.

Next, she punched the cell barrier controls. The white force field between her and the girl flickered, then it dissipated entirely.

Hunching down over the young woman inside the cell and holding out an armored hand in offering to help her get back up on her feet, she simply commanded, "Get up."

K70001-34966 took her hand, trembling, feeble, and weakened. The false agent helped the young woman limp along through the narrow corridors, using the powered armor's strength enhancements to effortlessly brace the girl's entire weight as she stumbled alongside her.

A voice crackled, coming in over the false guard's armor-integrated headset, "Agent Heinlein, report in. We registered a weapons discharge in the holding area, and Inquisitor Valstrum is not responding. His vital signs are tanking. What the hell is going on back there?"

"Uh, it was some sort of, uhm, equipment malfunction," Not-Agent-Heinlein lied through her helm's intercom. "Investigating it right now."

"We registered seven discharges and you are moving from your post. What kind of—"

"Factory code zero-zero-zero," she quickly talked over the operator, cutting the communication off with a hard reset of her intercom, and shutting him out.

She dragged the girl along as she picked up the pace.

K70001-34966 was pretty out of it. Drooling, bare heels sliding with squeaks over sleek metal floors.

The dozen or more shocks must have rendered her groggy. No matter—she had nothing to do with the mission anyway. Dallas just had to take a moment to silence that pesky consciousness that was knocking on the mental door, begging to be let in from the prison inside the back of her head.

Once they had reached an emergency escape pod, Dallas shoved the girl inside, causing her to tumble forward and fall back down onto the floor, not unlike she had been in the holding cell. Leaving her no time to recover, the false guard shuttered the docking mechanism and ejected the pod. For a brief few seconds, she saw the girl looking back at her helmet-clad face, going wide-eyed with surprise. A jet of steam shot in between them, obscuring that glimpse.

The next moment, the angular pod jettisoned off at breakneck speed as its boosters activated and it shot off into space, hurtling towards a thriving terrestrial planet pockmarked with a brightly lit complex of clustered urban zones. And all around it, the Sea of Stars.

The intercom in the hallway crackled, whined, and then the operator shouted at her over it, "There will be a court martial—"

VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

Four shots had ripped through the corridor and caused the exposed intercom console to explode into a shower of sparks and fizzing.

The false guard ripped her helmet off in annoyance. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

This job was a bust. She would have to cover her tracks. She would have to kill every single person left on this ship.

As two scout troopers rounded the corner, Dalla popped out of cover to greet them with bursts of hyper-charged plasma shots, cleanly removing the head of one of them in the first burst, and ripping the other apart, cleaving his upper body from the rest of him.

One of them had reflexively shot back with a salvo of his own. The powered armor could only absorb so much impact and energy.

Her leg and ribs throbbed, she coughed and grinned and mostly gritted her teeth to ignore the waves of pain, surging from those uncomfortably hot spots, wondering for a moment if it was worse than what the girl had gone through.

Dallas limped away through the claustrophobic corridors. Her breathing had turned raspy. A maniacal laugh emerged from her throat, ending in a hacking cough.

She had never fucked up a job this badly. She was a killer, sure—but she had some rules. Some principles.

No kids.

That was her only condition.

Why did they have to be torturing a kid aboard of this damned transporter? She wanted to kill the guy who had fixed her up with this "milk run".

Her vision blurred. Next, she coughed, blood splattered on the panel by the door. She punched the controls, it slid shut in a flash. She limped away, towards the droning and deafening noises emitted by the engine core.

Tried to make sense of the engineering console and all its blinking lights and inane strings of letters and numbers that said rather little to a woman of her trade.

The outlines of the blast door glowed brightly as someone tried to force the doorway open, using a fusion cutter, from the other side. Trying desperately to get inside to stop their murderous stowaway from sabotaging their star-drive.

Dallas gave up in her failed effort at trying to override the engine's security protocols.

She aimed the plasma rifle at a set of power couplings, closed her eyes and turned her head away. Pulled the trigger.

VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VA-VLAM!

Sparks and metal pieces flew all over the place, causing her to flinch.

The weapon not only glowed, but steam also rose from its barrel now.

"Critical system failure," a monotonous computer voice announced over the ship's intercom speakers. It continued to repeat the warning, over and over again. The bright white lights went out, replaced by red lights rhythmically rotating and casting everything in an eerie state of emergency.

A revolving alarm sound began to bleat, piercing Dallas' already throbbing skull. The edges of her eyesight blurred, closing in quickly.

They got inside, but the next moments turned into a haze.

A rush of unfiltered instinct—killer instinct. A perfect storm of honed reflexes, augmentations, and pure skill. A ballet of carnage.

Three more bodies hit the floor, clanking, and clattering, and groaning. One of them even yelled for his mother before she snuffed him out with a sudden stomp from her armored boot.

She remembered leaving bloody handprints whenever she pushed herself off the walls of the corridor, methodically making her way back to the escape pods, locking each and every blast door behind her as she progressed, shutting out the sounds of pursuers, of troopers in powered armor chasing her through the transporter's winding hallways.

Just before she lost consciousness, she remembered seeing the ship shrink. Smaller and smaller, as the escape pod she had jettisoned herself with flew farther and farther away from the imperial transporter.

Only moments after the vessel transformed into bright explosions and space debris within the blink of an eye, her eyelids weighed a million tons and she blacked out.

The next thing she remembered, she was on some forsaken planet's surface with a breathable atmosphere, staring down the barrels of high-powered pulse rifles of MilSec soldiers, surrounded by Imperial attachés.

They already had her wrists wreathed in the purple glow of energy shackles, lifting her up and dragging her off, taking her into custody.

"Hello, boys," she said, groaning, then cackling until it was clipped off by her pained coughing.

Unbeknownst to her then, her future handler stood there, amid the attachés. The ominous red cross glowed from the front of his masked helmet as he watched the grunts do the heavy lifting, peeling her out of the damaged suit of armor and confirming that the emergency gel would prevent her from dying.

At this point in time, she did not know him yet, but he recognized her. Had seen her mugshot as a wanted criminal more than once.

Looking back, she knew. In that moment, he already formulated plans for her.

But first, she had to go into cryo. After that, installing the bomb in her spine would follow.

—Submitted by Wratts

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shih-coulda-had-it · 4 years

Text

the hours pass like molasses

Notes: courtesy of @thisauthorisscreaming, the tentative beginnings of a road trip fic, featuring a recurring fake relationship, Mom Shimura and Dad Torino Co-parenting their Summer Child, and for the sake of readers even though I didn’t put it in (yet), Toshinori doing his goddamn best to wingman his mentors into an actual relationship.

*Post Mr.Shimura’s death and Kotarou’s fostering. Road trip fics are kinda about running away from those problems, right? This particular road trip fics need more travelogue vibes, but I wanted to get the first premise down.

WC: 1,441

Yagi Toshinori’s first summer break was not, in fact, spent as a vacation. He begged to assist oshishou and Torino instead, as they ventured all the way to Fukuoka and the cities along the way to investigate cold cases and long-dead leads. Although Torino had scowled (he usually scowled, when Toshinori inserted himself into conversations), he said that Toshinori would be a useful cover.

Oshishou had been aghast. She first tried to tempt Toshinori out of the trip, then she warned him that it was not going to be fun. No beaches, no cool breezes, and oshishou couldn’t promise souvenirs.

“We’re building a profile of All for One, Toshinori-shonen,” said oshishou. “We’re not getting into any fights. This is a low-key work-trip.”

“That’s okay! I want to help, however I can!”

“Let the brat help, Shimura,” Torino intervened. They shared a look, one of those looks that Toshinori longed to understand or at least be a part of in the future, because to him, it seemed like Torino just tilted his head and oshishou folded like a house of cards.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I guess you need to learn how boring stake-outs on the ground can be…”

Toshinori’s guardians had long since signed off on the pro-hero mentorship forms; Isshin waved his hand at Toshinori’s cautious mention of a training trip, and that was that. On the weekend going into summer break, Toshinori packed a duffel bag. He crammed his U.A. gym uniform at the very sides, then waffled back and forth over whether it would be necessary.

He didn’t have an official All Might set of gear yet. The gym uniform was his sturdiest outfit if they did get into scuffles.

Guiltily, Toshinori left the uniform where it was.

When Sunday came, Toshinori picked up his duffel bag and backpack, and he trotted off to the pick-up location, wearing a baseball cap over his hair and a white t-shirt tucked into his jeans. He slowed his pace when he saw the antique, boxy yellow car parked at the entrance. Oshishou sat on the overly-long hood, dressed in civvies, and Torino was leaned against the driver’s door, looking at her. Was that a smile?

“Good morning!” he shouted, picking up the pace. Oshishou turned her head and grinned at the sight of him.

Whatever was pulling at Torino’s mouth, it disappeared in a flash, and Torino had pushed himself off the car and moved to pop open the trunk. Toshinori could see two separate duffel bags: one hot pink, and the other a worn black. His own was navy blue, and slimmer than the others, but there was no sign of their pro-hero gear.

“Sorahiko,” oshishou said in a low voice. She slid off the hood, just as Toshinori got an arm’s length away from the car. Then Torino held up a hand. Toshinori froze.

“Ground rules,” said Torino flatly. Without his domino mask and the opaque white lenses, the murderous intent in his expression was magnified by several degrees. “There is no eating in the car. You will not spill a drop of water in the car. You will not get sick in my car. Clear?”

“Um,” squeaked Toshinori. “Understood, Torino-sensei.”

“It’s okay, Toshinori-shonen, I’ve brought snacks.”

The fierce glare in Torino’s pale brown eyes intensified. Toshinori self-consciously hid half of his face behind his duffel and made a noncommittal sound. In any case, Toshinori was allowed to store his bag in the trunk and climb into the backseat of the two-door car. Experimentally, he tested his leg room by sitting sideways—

“Shoes off the upholstery!” Torino barked upon entering the driver’s seat.

“Take off your shoes and then relax,” oshishou corrected. The anguished look Torino directed at her didn’t budge her stance. “It’s five hours to Kyoto. Let him be.”

“It’s my goddamned car—”

“We could’ve rented,” she reminded him.

In a fit of teenage pique, Toshinori kicked off his shoes and sat sideways with his feet behind Torino. He crossed his arms and glared back, ignoring the pang as Torino glanced at the rearview mirror and snorted. The car rumbled to life and smoothly, Torino got them on the road.

They hadn’t lasted half a minute before oshishou flicked the radio on. Pop music filtered through the speakers, and that soothed Toshinori’s jangled nerves—he was on a road trip! With oshishou and Torino! Cool!—to the point of loosening the tension in his shoulders.

“Hey, Toshinori-shonen, review this.”

A manila folder got passed to Toshinori; he took it carefully, and opened it to see an itinerary and a short profile for… him? His cover story? Civilian, fourteen year old student on summer break, being escorted by family friends back to… various fill-in cities in the south.

“Yamamoto Toshiro,” he tested. He made a face. Weird.

“Toshi-shonen,” oshishou teased him, and Toshinori went pink. “Aw! It’s okay, Toshinori-shonen, I’ll keep to ‘Toshiro-kun.’ How’s that? Better?”

“What about just ‘Toshiro,’” Torino said dryly.

“We’re family friends, I think we have the obligation to treat him with familiarity.”

“T-Toshi-kun works.”

Oshishou startled out of her playful bickering with Torino, and Toshinori shrank into the backseat, regretting every word that slipped his tongue. Too familiar, it was certainly too familiar for what was a master-apprentice relationship.

“Toshi-kun,” she said, thoughtful. “Just for this trip, I think,” and Toshinori wanted to bang his head against what was no doubt a priceless window, “and just ‘Toshinori,’ otherwise.”

A beat of silence, processing with all the speed of a plodding turtle.

“Yes, please,” Toshinori said to his knees, his heart feeling like it had been tenderized and cradled close.

“I’ll stick with ‘brat,’ since that fits my character so well,” Torino threw in unexpectedly. The subsequent banter held between him and oshishou, interspersed with peaceful silences as Toshinori took in the countryside and mountains for the first time, characterized that five hour trip to Kyoto.

Upon reaching the motel on the outskirts of the city, Toshinori was dispatched to claim their reservation. Social anxiety set in as Toshinori nervously approached the counter; the receptionist was popping pink bubblegum.

“Minors can’t buy rooms,” the receptionist snapped.

“I’m—I’m checking in for—for the Yamamotos—”

That was Toshinori’s first fuck-up. He was the only Yamamoto in the group; oshishou had reserved the room under… Oh, what was her pseudonym… At the rising suspicion in the receptionist’s reptilian eyes, Toshinori panicked.

“Sorry! My, my okaa-san, she just adopted me from Tokyo, she reserved the room under Shimura Nanase.”

“Just adopted?”

Damningly, the door opened without Toshinori hearing it, because he was committing his second fuck-up of the day. He gazed right into the receptionist’s eyes and glibly babbled his head off.

“Y-yeah, my okaa-san and otou-san, they finally got the paperwork in, and, and it’s been so long, y’know? Otou-san brought out his fancy car, and drove himself and okaa-san all the way up to Tokyo, and now I’m finally gonna have a home. I still, um, have to file the application to change my name, but I wanna wait until otou-san marries okaa-san, they’re so busy, they wanted to have me at home safe before they even got married—”

“Alright, kid,” the receptionist said, overwhelmed. They directed their next words over Toshinori’s shoulder, and Toshinori felt his stomach drop at the words, “You two adopted a real chattermouth, huh?”

He slowly turned his head to see oshishou and Torino, staring at Toshinori.

Oshishou recovered first. “He’s got a way with words, our Toshi-kun,” she said brightly and came to the counter, ruffling Toshinori’s hair. It was meant to comfort, which was truly a small reassurance once Toshinori peeked again at Torino. The vibes coming off Torino meant that the pro-hero desperately wanted to kick Toshinori’s ass.

‘When’s the wedding?”

“Ahahaha,” said oshishou.

“Next July,” Torino answered, gruffly. He stepped to Toshinori’s other side, and for one insane moment, Toshinori was sandwiched between two of his heroes that he desperately wanted for his parents, oh no. His ears burned, as did his face, and he ducked his head, using the baseball cap visor to shield his eyes.

He tuned back into the conversation when the receptionist sarcastically asked if they truly needed three beds (as oshishou had requested over the phone), or if the two provided were sufficient. Toshinori connected the dots in his head, and his eyes widened at the implication.

“That’ll work out fine,” oshishou said. “Turns out, that, uh, time of month just ended,” she winked conspiratorially. “So we can share beds again!”

“Key. Please,” Torino ground out.

Toshinori prayed that the next few days would not result in his untimely death.

#bnha #nanahiko #yagi toshinori #all might #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shimura nana #shih.txt #d-december #who's panicking more? toss-up between all three #roadtrip!au

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kittykat-creations · 4 years

Text

The Prince and the Fae

For my creative writing class —–

The sun shone brightly over the fields below, bouncing back off the small window of the small carriage moving through the overgrown paths. The sky had momentarily been a brilliant show of reds and oranges, but that had been hours ago, and had quickly disappeared into the bright blue that now filled the view above.

The castle in the distance had slowly been growing and growing in size ever since yesterday evening. The princess wondered, vaguely, as she had been since the castle came into view, what the young prince would be like. Her parents hadn’t told her anything about him- or maybe they had, sometime during yesterday morning while they had been hurrying her out into the carriage. She couldn’t quite remember…

“Do you know his name?” She asked out the window, again, only to get the same silent response from the guard she had gotten every time before. She could remember word-for-word the last sentence he had spoke. “Time to get going, your majesty.” She only hoped her husband to-be would be more chatty. After all, this was her fate, she could at least find the bright side of it.

—–

The click-clack click-clack click-clack of the prince’s shoes echoed up and down the hallway as he paced, absentmindedly nibbling at his fingernails. She was supposed to arrive later today, and then they would be married, and he just wasn’t ready for that. He supposed he never would be, but he had been hoping he would at least have a couple years to grimly accept his fate before it was thrust upon him. His twenty-first birthday wasn’t even here yet. Couldn’t he rule for a few years alone before having to take a queen?

“Henry!” A voice shouted, and the prince flinched, almost instinctively, as the man strode over. “Stop that infernal pacing! Why aren’t you getting ready? The princess is supposed to be here soon, and you’re not even close to looking presentable!”

“Father, please, reconsider this,” Henry begged. “My birthday isn’t even here yet-!”

“Nonsense! She’s already on her way, and the wedding has been planned for the last month since we made the arrangement.” The king scowled, his eyes dropping to Henry’s fingernails. “Stop biting your nails; it’s a filthy habit. And go get ready! Now!”

Henry felt his heart drop as he shrunk away to his bedroom. This was final, it was happening in just three days. Oh how he wished there was some way out of this. He wished he could sleep for one hundred years, like the fairy tales, but that probably wasn’t possible, no matter how many poisoned apples he ate or sharp needles he touched.

Well, for at least a couple hours, he could do what he had been good at for years: denial and delay.

Luckily, since he was little, he had memorized the guard’s posts and schedules, and he was easily able to slip past them, wearing a basic hood and cape over his royalty clothes. The fabric was itchy, and the cape was getting a tad small for him, as he had gotten it when he was younger and not as well-fed, but it would do until he could get a new one in town.

But he was not going to town today. Instead, he went past the castle grounds and into the surrounding forest. He always missed the forest when he had to leave back home. As he walked slowly through the paths he had worn, leaves fell around him, brilliant shades of red and orange. It would be cold soon, and harder to stay out long among the trees.

He reached the end of his path, and felt his heart ache for a moment at the thought of having to go back already, but then all of a sudden the wind blew past, leaving with an armful of leaves and revealing a clear, worn path twisting through the trees. Henry looked around curiously, not remembering this path. Then again, he had always been a tad forgetful and absent-minded, and anything to avoid going home.

He stepped onto the path, and instantly he felt something tingly go through his body, but he wasn’t quite sure what it could be. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, so he slowly continued.

As he walked, the wind continued to sweep the leaves out from in front of him, as though the wind itself was leading him somewhere. Like this path was just for him, and no one else. At some point, as he was walking, the sun had set, and the full moon had risen. But he had only been walking for a few minutes, hadn’t he? And wasn’t the next full moon not for another three days? Yes, Henry remembered that, because he had always been warned to not go out during a full moon, in fear of the fae.

The path ended, and Henry looked up to see why it stopped. It was right at the edge of a mushroom ring- a faery circle- and in the center of the ring was a young man sitting atop an old stump. He was tall, and rather thin, and he couldn’t have been much older than the prince himself. The moonlight shone off his dark skin, making him almost have a sort of glow. His hair was down to his shoulders, and pulled into small, tight braids. When he opened his brown eyes, they were glowing faintly red, and his grin was sharp.

Henry felt his breath catch. The myths had been right about the fae being beautiful. He had never seen another man more attractive.

He hadn’t stepped into the faery circle yet. Something in the back of his head told him he shouldn’t, that the fae were dangerous, and he could still leave. Yet the pull of magic- that’s what he had felt when he started on the path, it was magic- was too strong to let him leave.

He stepped into the circle.

Suddenly they were surrounded by a pitch dark mist, which blocked out everything beyond the circle. All that existed beside Henry was the mushrooms, the man on the stump, and the full moon shining directly overhead.

Henry was frozen with nerves as the man stood up, still grinning. He was a good half foot taller than the prince, and it was easy to see how much thinner now that he was standing. He approached Henry, and he could see now that his ears were slightly pointed behind his braids.

“May I have your name?” He asked, in a low, slow voice that sent shivers through Henry’s spine. Even his voice was beautiful.

No, a voice in the back of his head told Henry. You never tell a fae your name.

“He-enry.”

The fae smiled, gently pulling the cloak aside with a finger, revealing the royal clothes underneath. Henry’s face lit up red at the touch.

“Prince Henry… I’m assuming?”

Henry swallowed nervously, nodding. “Y-Yes…”

“And what brings you here… your majesty?” The fae asked.

“…a path…”

The fae chuckled, and Henry felt his heart skip a beat again, as it had been, at the sight of those sharp teeth.

“Cute and funny… Your majesty, if I may… The path only shows itself to mortals if they’re desperate… You must be desperate, aren’t you?” Henry wasn’t sure how he felt about the man knowing that. “You want something… Well, I can help.”

“Yo-you’re not sup-pposed to- to make deals with f-fae…” Henry stuttered out, still half-focused on the man’s hand on his chest.

The man grinned. “And you’re not supposed to give them your name. Like I said, you’re desperate. You want to escape your fate; you don’t want to marry a princess. I can help you.”

“Ho-ow do you know that?”

“You don’t have to stay. In the castle, in this reality… I can help you escape your fate.”

It’ll be a trap.

As though walking through molasses, Henry took a step back, and then another one. “I- I can’t. I can’t. Fae are tricky. I can’t.”

“You’ll come back.” The man stepped back towards the stump, taking his seat. “You’re desperate. I’ll be here, Henry.”

Henry managed to break out through the magic of the faery circle, breathing heavily as he appeared back where he was before he had stepped onto the new path. The sun hadn’t moved. Leaves covered the ground, and when Henry shakily brushed them aside, there was no path.

He clutched his cloak around him and walked back home.

—–

“Announcing the arrival of Princess Ophelia.”

Henry rubbed at the circles under his eyes, fighting back a yawn as the princess stepped into the throne room. He fiddled with the silver necklace around his neck as he stepped forward to greet her. She was pretty, with long curly hair and skin that almost shone like his had. Yes, she was pretty, but not nearly as beautiful as-

Henry had to stop thinking about him, and the offer. Fae were dangerous. He knew that… and yet he hadn’t been able to get him out of his thoughts all evening and night. He had offered to let him escape from his fate… could he really be so bad as the legends said?

—–

Henry was breathing heavily as he hurried through the forest, cloak clutched around him again, and one hand holding out a small lantern. It was hardly needed, as the moonlight was bright enough to see far beyond the reach of the flame.

His heart was pounding as he reached the end of the path, where the one leading to the fae had appeared. How did he make it come back? The wedding was in the morning, and the wedding night meant- well- married behavior. He had to leave.

“Please,” he whispered quietly, hoping that would work. “Please, come back.”

The wind blew past, taking the leaves with it, and there was the path from before, this time glowing a soft white, as though it was reflecting the moonlight from above. This time, Henry didn’t hesitate, and he hurried along the magic path, his breathing speeding up.

Just as before, the path ended at the mushroom circle. Henry set the lantern down and stepped inside.

“I knew you would be back.” The man smiled, showing off those teeth, and stood up to approach Henry. “So, you want to leave?”

“What do you want?” Henry asked, throwing the fae a bit off guard. “You want something from me, right? And then you’ll take me away from here, away from my fate. What do you want?”

“Well well well,” the fae said softly, his grin returning. “Look who’s making a deal now. What do I want, Henry? …I want you.”

Henry didn’t expect that answer, and it made him freeze up a bit. What did that mean? “M-Me?” He gasped softly when the man held his chin and tilted it up. It felt tingly, and he wasn’t sure if it was the magic or the heat in his face. The fae leaned down and gently kissed just underneath his ear. It nearly made Henry melt.

“You… in the faery realm. With me.”

“…deal.”

The man instantly cupped Henry’s face and kissed him deeply. Henry nearly fell forward, only held up by the man’s body. He didn’t think he could enjoy anything this much.

#Original Work #gay #fae #creative writing #a lil inspire from cap u lol

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bubblebuckys · 5 years

Text

𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬: 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

chapter warnings: none, i think, but don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything i should add

word count: 1.6k

a/n: just letting you know, this is a written chapter, and it's unedited. taglist is opening. reblogs make me happy

series masterlist —— main masterlist

The line rings a couple more times, and you’re sure James isn’t going to answer, but just as you prepare to press the little red button before you can get sent to voicemail, the line connects and a gravelly voice rings in your ear.

“Sweetheart?”

Oh wow, his voice.

Your breath stalls. His voice. Oh, wow. James hadn’t been at all enthusiastic when you asked if he would ever send you a picture of himself. You let it go immediately because you knew how being unsure of your looks felt. It had taken a while to be comfortable taking a selfie, and then another while to post any. You also knew how it felt when people tried to convince you you were pretty. You knew you were pretty. But other people online, strangers especially, could be assholes.

But over the months, you had left subtle hints that James had nothing to worry about. You liked him because he was funny, smart, compassionate, and sweet.

His voice was just another plus.

“Y/N?” James asks, his voice now unsure compared to before when it had been a mixture of excitement and curiosity.

Your head shakes and you breathing resumes. “Hey! Hi.” Clearing your throat so you don’t sound too excited, because, yeah, that totally works, you continue. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t answer.”

His low chuckle sends a thrill down your spine. “Sorry. I was watching a movie and didn’t want anyone to hear us.”

“Oh,” you frown. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting time with your friends?”

“Nono!” There’s a clatter and a slight thumping on the other end. “We live together and they kinda dragged me into a movie night. Trust me, you’re saving me.”

“Well, what movie was it?” you laugh before another question comes to mind. “How many friends do you live with?”

There’s a pause.

“Like, ten.” Another godsent laugh rings through the speaker. “Usually.”

“Usually? Ten?”

James inhales sharply. “Uh, yeah. We live in a pretty big place together, and some have their own place but stay over sometimes.”

“Like a never-ending sleepover. Sounds fun.” You think. You’d only ever been to one sleepover in your life and it had ended for you when you began crying for your mom to pick you up early.

“Sometimes it is. But other times we bud heads a lot.” Despite the words, there’s a fondness in his voice that reveals the annoyance that may come with living with so many friends add to happy memories. “Like tonight, one wanted to watch Star Trek and Clint wanted to watch Mean Girls or something.”

“Mean Girls?” Your ear practically perk up. You could enjoy Star Trek, but—Mean Girls.

“You know it?”

And you would have laughed this question off had he said it sarcastically, because who doesn’t know it, but James’s voice pitches a note higher in surprise, and whatever he had been doing that made background noise ceases.

Just to be sure, you laugh. “Who doesn’t?”

James stays quiet.

“James—” a pause, and you whisper, “I don’t know your last name,” before continuing with a stronger voice. “James Just James, are you telling me you’ve never even heard of Mean Girls before tonight?”

“. . . James Just James has not,” he admits. He’s embarrassed, but amusement seeps into his words so he knows you’re partly teasing, thank god.

James once confirmed to you indirectly that he lives in New York and, now that you hear his voice, has a strong Brooklyn accent. So you’re assuming he at least spent his childhood in Brooklyn, and you refuse to believe anyone who’s spent so much time in the country hasn’t at least heard of the movie unless they’re living without technology, which is impossible because you’re on the phone with him and he tweets with an iPhone.

“So what movie did you guys settle on?” You take a sip from the drink James bought you, frowning a bit because you know James was right about the cramps and now you feel a little guilty. Then you laugh as you begin reaching for your laptop where you have your movies stored.

A sigh sounds from the line, and you get the feeling that James knows what you’re doing. “Star Trek won.” And then something that resembles a whimper leaves him. “You should be honored. I like those movies, but I chose to talk to you, and now I’m taking this abuse.”

You bite your lip. “Do you want to go back to your movie night with your friends?”

The question holds extra weight than it normally would. It’s an attempt to find where you stand with him and an out.

“I really don’t.” His voice was already deep the second you heard it, but it drops a few octaves. For what, you’re not sure, but it is definitely appreciated. Maybe he did it so he got his point across, but it doesn’t have his desired effect. He just said he wants to talk to you in a voice that has you feeling twenty degrees hotter.

Your brain buffers and you lose track of what you were doing, so you hum. “Cool.” What had you just been talking about?

Internet Explorer level speed and alertness.

It isn’t until you feel the cold liquid of your drink that had tipped over and was slowly leaking onto your thighs and bedsheets that you gain awareness.

“Shit.” Even then, you move through figurative molasses before shaking your head and rushing to pick the drink up and move over to assess the damage.

It’s only a small spot on your comforter, your pajama pants taking most of the spill, and most of what’s left of the drink is the strawberries and ice.

“What’s wrong?”

And because you’re still not completely back online yet, you say, “I wet the bed. And my pants.”

Internet. Explorer.

The extra twenty degrees are back, but for all the wrong reasons, and along with it are chills at the horror of what came from your mouth. You face twists at the odd blend of stimulus on your body.

James’s laughter reverberates throughout your cramped studio apartment, and you groan. “That’s not what I meant.” But you’re sure he doesn’t hear you over the sound of his own guffaws.

You like how he sounds laughing this joyfully, but damn the context.

“I—” he nearly chokes on his own words, and what started as a laughing fit has now turned into a mix of laughing and fighting to breathe. Finally, he coughs one last time and inhales deeply to obtain whatever air he lost. “I’m sorry. You what?” His voice is shaky on account of trying to repress any lingering giggles he still has within him.

You sigh and squish your cheeks to keep your own smile down. “I spilled the drink a bit.”

He laughs lightly for a couple more seconds at your admission. “How?”

“Uh.” And now you’re sweating. How do you say your voice makes me weak without sounding like a creep? “I was distracted.”

He lets loose the remaining laughs he had held back for your benefit. And now you can’t hide your own smile, and soon enough you chuckles join his.

As he’s catching his breath again, you make your way to you dresser to pull out another pair of bottoms. “Hey,” you call because you left your phone on speaker on your bed. “Would you like to watch Mean Girls so you’re not the only person in the world who doesn’t know about it anymore?”

“How?”

You jump back onto the bed, grabbing hold of your laptop in the middle of your rolling. “You have FaceTime right?”

“Uhh . . . I think I have it,” he mutters.

You’re first worries when you first met James was that he had actually been an old man. You want to roll your eyes. No, no. He wasn’t an old man, but he sounded as technologically inept as one.

“It should be an option on the call screen,” you help, clicking on the movie and pausing before it can begin. “I really can’t believe how you even knew about Twitter in the first place.”

“My friend said I made too many bad jokes and needed to find a way to share them without actually saying them. My other friend showed me a video on it the next day.” He sounds distracted as he looked for the aforementioned option. “Found it. But, would you be able to see my face?”

“Only if you want me to,” you assured quickly, setting your phone on the makeshift stand that you had placed on your windowsill. You aimed it at an angle that would allow James to watch the movie with you. “I won’t be looking at my phone, and you can flip your camera so only whatever’s in front of you is showing.”

A second later, there’s a vibrating beside you and you only peek at the screen for a second so you’re sure your finger is on the right place to answer the call.

“Hey,” you greet, again, to make sure the sound’s alright.

He laughs when you poke your head into the camera’s line of sight when the lack of response worries you. “Sorry, I was getting comfortable.”

“Okay, are you sure you want to watch this movie? Or did I pressure you to say yes?”

James hums his affirmation. “I want to watch it. Clint said it was a comedy.”

You smile, giddy at finally talking to him, instead of messaging, even if it was on the phone. First date, pops into your head without your say, but you brush it off. It wasn’t a date. Even though you always thought staying in to watch movies together would make for a cute date.

You press the spacebar at his okay and watch as the Paramount opening begins.

< two-and-a-half —— four >

taglist: @marvelshit99 @jhangelface0523 @willowtree42095 @moshymosh @a-book-pressed-rose

#Polyonymous #social media au #avengers social media au #bucky barnes social media au #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barness x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you

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screpdoodle · 3 years

Text

Duality - Chapter Eight (The Irony of the Situation is Palpable)

Dinner felt like it had been going on for hours, even though it had only been minutes since Kaos had sat down at the table. He poked and prodded at his food with the back of his fork, the metal slightly tarnished from use, sectioning them off from each other. Charred sheepsteak in one corner of the plate, over-boiled potatoes and soggy string beans in the other. Kaos sighed, leaning his head against the palm of his hand, his nose wrinkling at the smell wafting from his plate. Hot socks and wet starch. No matter how many times he had it, he’d never get used to the scent.

Kaos glanced up from his plate to the seat across from him. There sat the person he had dreaded seeing all night. His father. Kaos’ father had always been a cold man, but tonight he seemed positively glacial. Icy blue eyes seemed to stare straight through Kaos as his father ate wordlessly, the silence punctuated by the clinking of cutlery on porcelain. Kaos would have thought that he would have been chewed out the moment his father laid eyes on him, but the conversation had halted at “hello”. His father threw his long hair over his shoulder, which he had tied in a low ponytail. His usually clean-shaven face was dotted with stubble, though it was barely noticeable against his tanned skin.

“Your food’s going to get cold, Kaos.” His father finally spoke up. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

Kaos furrowed his brow, then looked down to his plate, sticking the end of his fork in the corner of his mouth. When he noticed his father’s gaze was still trained on him, he let out a reluctant grumble, reaching across the table to grab the gravy boat. His fingers barely brushed against the handle, even after he had stood up on his chair to try to get a little more leverage. Kaos strained to reach farther, feeling his father’s eyes boring into his skull, before he slowly pushed the gravy boat towards Kaos. Kaos snatched it up, sitting back down with a huff, before completely dousing his plate in lukewarm, watery gravy. Beside him, Dyskord snickered.

“It’s steak, Kaos, not soup.”

“Shut up.”

Resisting the urge to puke, Kaos scooped up one of the potatoes, the misshapen sphere only held together by its sandpapery skin. He looked to his father once more, scrunched his eyes closed, then took a bite. The gravy did nothing to mask the taste of starch and stale water that seemed to make his entire body seize up. This seemed to satisfy his father, though, as he had returned to his own meal without another word. Kaos stuck his tongue out, wiping the mush off to the best of his ability with his napkin, shuddering as the taste lingered. His mother definitely had a talent for cooking; the potatoes were somehow both undercooked and overcooked at the same time. Not even he could complete a feat like that. Kaos looked around the table, questioning how his siblings were managing to eat this swill with straight faces. Meyhem even seemed to be enjoying it, taking particular glee in chopping the rubbery sheepsteak into slices and hitting them against her plate before eating them. Kaos poked at his own steak, then felt his stomach churn as he swore he saw the charred lump move.

“So, children. Catch me up. What’s happened since I’ve been gone?”

Kaos nearly dropped his fork, feeling his heart stop. He looked up, glancing around the table to see who would speak up first. Was this a setup? Was this his way to catch Kaos red-handed? Make him out to be the villain? He watched as his father adjusted his ascot, then tucked it back into his shirt. He hadn’t bothered changing from his grimy, nature soiled adventuring gear - despite Mother insisting they had to dress up to welcome him back. At least he had taken off his hat for dinner.

“I mean, it’s been nearly a year, what don’t we have to say?” Dyskord fiddled with his collar.

“At least it wasn’t five, right Dad?” Meyhem giggled. “Mum told me that’s the longest you’ve been away!”

“It was only four and a half, Mey.”

“Four and a half, on and off.” Mother corrected. “Your father stopped by when he could, just not for very long.”

Kaos’ father chuckled dryly, dabbing the corners of his mouth off with his napkin. “Now now, let’s get back on topic. How about we narrow it down to today if that helps?”

Kaos couldn’t help but fixate on the patronising tone to his father’s voice, as if it was their fault he had been gone for so long. He didn’t speak up about it though, simply sinking into his chair as if trying to shrink even smaller as he chewed on the prongs of his fork, pretending to eat.

“I got a W on my sheepball practice this morning!” Meyhem piped up through a mouthful of string beans, bouncing up and down in her seat. She had stuck the fork in her hair, the handle sticking out of the mess of curls.

“A double U?” Kaos’ father raised an eyebrow, looking at Meyhem quizzically. “I didn’t know they started grading sheepball practices… The more you know I suppose.”

As Meyhem laughed to herself, Father locked eyes with Kaos, then skipped past him, addressing Dyskord instead.

“How about you, son? Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah, just more of the usual.” Dyskord rested his hands behind his head. He probably would have rested his feet on the table too if it weren’t for the side eye Mother was giving him. “Worked on the speed racer a bit, helped Kaos with his homework like a good big brother, et cetera.”

Kaos rolled his eyes. First day back and Dyskord was already sucking up to him. Typical. It was usually the other way around, Kaos would ‘help’ Dyskord by doing his homework for him back when he was in school; in exchange for favors of course. But after Kaos crashed the ‘Speed Racer 1.0’ into the kitchen, that arrangement they had created was quickly dissolved. Though Kaos would still sometimes help out of the goodness of his heart (or the need for Dyskord not to rat him out to Mother)

“Very good, very good. You’ll have to show me sometime.” Kaos’ father smiled, then he turned his focus to Kaos, his expression becoming slightly more forced. “What about you… Kaos?”

He said his name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. Kaos felt his blood run cold. He quickly glanced to his mother, who had started to open her mouth, but quickly interrupted her.

“It was fine.” He looked to the ground, crossing his arms.

“Just fine?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing of note-”

“No.”

“Don’t interrupt me, boy.”

Kaos sank further down, muttering under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Havok, dear, there’s something we need to-”

Before his mother could finish her sentence, Meyhem tuned into the conversation, looking to Kaos with a confused look on her face.

“What do you mean? Of course there was something of note, you blew up your school!” She blurted out.

The table fell silent. Kaos’ mother was the first to break the silence, exhaling slowly. Kaos shot Meyhem a glare that could cut through steel, though she just grinned back sheepishly. Kaos’ father’s gaze went from confused to frigid in a manner of seconds, looking down at Kaos like he was nothing but a roach.

“Well, I think I should get going,” Dyskord pushed his chair back, getting to his feet, “Wonderful meal, Mother, I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs-”

“Sit, Dyskord.”

“Yessir.” Dyskord sat down quickly, folding his hands in his lap.

Kaos’ father looked around the table at the others, then closed his eyes, processing the words.

“...when were you planning on telling me?” His voice was low, like the calm before the storm.

“I was going to tell you when you got home, sweetheart, but dinner got in the way, and I didn’t want to stress you with the-”

Kaos’ mother was cut off by Kaos’ father getting to his feet, pushing his chair back with a sharp squeak of the legs against the tile. He set his hands down on the table forcefully, causing it to shudder from the force. Kaos could feel beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, but he did his best to ignore them.

“Kaos. We have told you many times about correct behaviour, have we not?”

“Yes, but, it wasn’t only me! Dyskord helped-”

“Kaos. We are not talking about Dyskord. We are talking about you and your actions today. And those actions crossed the line.”

Kaos opened his mouth to interject once more, to try and contradict his father’s statements, but the words got lodged in his throat. The look of displeasure plastered across his father’s face, the cold, hard anger burning in his eyes, made Kaos chest tighten. Slowly, Kaos closed his mouth and slouched down in his chair, letting Father continue.

“I can take rule-breaking. The lying, the stealing, we’ve dealt with those before. But this- this is unacceptable! I have had enough of this deplorable behaviour from you, Kaos. You are turning nineteen this year, and these childish habits are out of the question!” With every word he spat, Kaos’ father’s voice rose. “What image do you paint of our family when you act like a child-”

“Maybe because you treat me like one!” It was Kaos’ turn to shout now. He stood up on his chair, slamming his hands down on the table like his father had; though even with all of his force behind it he could barely even cause the water in the glasses to ripple. “Maybe if you didn’t treat me like a baby, like a disgrace to the family name, I wouldn’t act this way! Ever thought of that, Father!? Hmm?! You said it yourself. I am turning FREAKING NINETEEN! I’M NOT THE FRAIL, SICKLY CHILD I WAS! AND I DON’T NEED YOU TO LOOK AFTER ME ANY MORE!”

“Kaos, I am done dealing with this kind of conduct from you!”

“Whatcha gonna do! Lock me in the dungeons? Throw away the key? Discard me like the piece of trash you treat me like?!”

“Up to your room. Now.”

“Oh, so no threatening me with a life sentence this time, eh Father?”

“NOW!”

Kaos didn’t budge. The seconds ticked past like molasses, before Kaos gave his father the one finger salute and hopped off the chair, making a break for it up to his room. His father’s enraged yelling echoed through the halls after him as Kaos bolted up the stairs, down the hallway and into his room. He made sure to slam the door closed, as loud as he could, behind him. Leaning against the door, he could still feel the shouting rattling through his skull, and the tears brimming in the corners of his vision.

Tick tick tick tick...

Kaos turned over onto his side, facing the wall. His fingers dug into the sides of his head as he scrunched his eyes closed, desperately attempting to fall asleep. So far, nothing had come of it. Kaos groaned, rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with dry, bloodshot eyes. The darkness swirled and twirled around his vision, making shapes on the ceiling. Despite it slipping late into the night, Kaos could still hear his parents down on the ground floor. Bickering. Arguing. Talking about him.

Tick, tick, tick, tick

Kaos dug his fingers in harder, scrunching his eyes shut.

Tick, tick, tick, tick

“Shut. Up.” Kaos grumbled through clenched teeth. How was he supposed to get any rest with that noise growing louder and louder by the second. He flipped onto his front, folding the sides of the pillow over his ears. Not that it would do much good.

Tick, tick, tick, tick

“Shut up!” Kaos growled, slightly louder than before, though his voice was muffled by the pillowcase he was biting on. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, feeling the mattress below with the tip of his nose. No matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t stop.

Tick tick tick tick tick

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

With a start, Kaos ripped the pillow out from under him and chucked it to the side with all of his might. It flew over the side of the bed and crashed against the far wall with a muffled thump, followed by the sound of clattering. With a groan, Kaos looked up from his bed and over to where the pillow had landed… on top of his desk. It had knocked over his writing utensil jar, spilling the quills and pencils onto the floor. Kaos exhaled slowly, exasperated and exhausted. He rolled onto his back, then sat up, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath, Kaos scrunched his eyes closed and pushed himself off the edge of the bed, landing with a quiet thump. He braced himself for the sharp tingling that flooded up his legs on impact, opening one eye, then the other as he shook his legs out to get rid of the feeling. Kaos walked over to his desk and scooped up the fallen utensils, dumping them back into their container, before snatching up his pillow and starting the walk of shame back to his bed.

“He’s more trouble than he’s worth, sweetheart.”

Kaos froze, hearing his father's muffled voice come through the closed door. He could see the light of the fireplace curling and flickering through the crack, taunting him, drawing him to the outside like a beckoning finger. Ignoring the growing urge to sleep, Kaos walked over to the door and cracked it open, squinting as he peered out from the safety of his room.

“I know, but he is getting better-”

“You call blowing up his school 'getting better’?”

Silence followed those words. Carefully, Kaos crept from his bedroom to the railing, watching his parents’ shadows silhouetted against the carpeted floor of the foyer. They faced away from each other, wrapped up in their own tasks as the crackle of the fire punctuated the quiet.

“...What should we do?” Mother spoke first, “He needs to be educated, but we already tried homeschooling… and he needs more interaction than just his siblings. That room is not a good environment for him.”

“He spends most of his time in there, I swear he’s plotting world domination.”

Kaos scrunched his nose up, kneeling down to get a better view. He pressed his face against the railings, letting his arm hang down between them. So what if he spent almost every waking, and sleeping, moment locked up in there? It was his life, he could do what he wanted with it. And it wasn’t like Father was there often enough to actually care. Judging by the silence falling once again, his mother wasn’t too pleased with the comment either.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I know how touchy you get with those subjects.”

Kaos silently gagged as he watched his father’s shadow embrace his mother’s, forming nothing but an amorphous blob of darkness and PDA. He heard his mother sigh, his father stepping back.

“It’s alright, dear. I’m just... worried. More and more is stuff happening with work and the Portal Masters, and now Kaos...”

“Don’t fret. We’ll sort everything out. I’m sure of it.”

Again, silence. With the ticking finally slipping away, his mind was now free to think. Free to pick up on things that would have usually been blocked. It always seemed like it was put there to distract him, to pull his mind away from the little tidbits of knowledge he overheard. In this case, it was the mention of the Portal Masters…

Over the years, Kaos had heard that title pop up, whether it be through books, passing conversation, or his mother. Tales of the big bad Portal Masters that would eat your eyes if you didn’t clean your room or go to bed on time, though over the years Kaos had stopped believing those little lies, and Mother had stopped telling them; simply commanding Kaos to “mind his own business” or “not to stick his nose in other people’s business” whenever he asked about them. Though, from bits and pieces of conversations he had ‘stuck his nose into’, Kaos had been able to glean that the Portal Masters were the worst of the worst; the ones causing all of the issues throughout the Skylands. Though they didn’t actually eat naughty children’s eyeballs (as far as he knew), they definitely weren’t to be taken lightly.

“I didn’t want to bring this up until the end of the year, but... now I see no other option.”

Kaos was yanked from his thoughts, looking back down through the railings at the sound of the conversation resuming.

“What is it?”

“While exploring a while back, I found a school that may be a bit more suited for our… genius child,” Kaos couldn’t help but cringe at the way his father said ‘genius’, spitting it out like a mushy, over-boiled potato. “And now that going back to the other school isn’t an option, it may be a good choice to look further into it.”

“What’s it called, dear?”

“Glimfeather Prep. Now, before you say anything, I know it’s out of the way, but I really do think this would be good for him. It would give him a taste of reality, and would help crack down on this… behavioral issue of his. We can’t coddle him forever; today only further proves that.”

As if locking him in the dungeon was ‘coddling’ him. Kaos felt more coddled by a pack of wild Chompies trying to pull his flesh off of his bones.

His mother sighed, turning away from his father. “I don’t know, Havok. Maybe we could try homeschooling again. He wouldn't get into trouble and I’m sure I could straighten him out properly this time-”

“Kaossandra, we both know that won’t work.” His father’s voice took on a stern tone, making Kaos tense up, as if expecting the words to punch him in the face. “If homeschooling didn’t work before, there’s no chance it would now.”

“...You’re right, Havok. We can look into it in the morning.” Mother finally caved, hanging her head with a long sigh.

Kaos could almost see his father’s shadow grinning as he put an arm around Mother, the battle already won before Kaos even had a chance to fight. He felt his heart sink, dragged down to the pit of his stomach by the icy hand of defeat. He stared blankly through the bars, his mind grinding to a stop. All of that work, that preparation, that planning… for nothing? Kaos yawned, curling into himself as a weight settled on his shoulders. He could feel his eyelids drooping, but he forced them open again at the sound of heavy footsteps coming towards the stairs. In a panic, Kaos scrambled to his feet, trying not to make a ruckus as he fled back to his room; his heavy heart pounding like a drum, threatening to burst. Internal bleeding would have been the moldy cherry on the fish head sundae, so he was thankful it didn’t. Dragging his pillow along the ground behind him, Kaos completed his walk of shame back to his bed, flopping down face first in his nest of blankets and loose sheets of paper. He had failed. Situational irony at his finest, he thought. Hugging his pillow like one would a plush, Kaos finally let his eyes fall closed, the darkness enveloping his mind as he slipped into the land of dreams.

<- previous chapter | next chapter ->

#skylanders forever #skylanders #bring back the skylands #skylands historia #duality #second leaf #writing #my writing #fan fiction #fan retelling #fan continuation #skylanders kaos

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behld · 4 years

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@ofvast. i’m going into the ground for you.

jon is in shock.

that, he thinks — distantly, like his thoughts are being left somewhere behind them on the road as daisy’s car speeds down the street, scattered red on the asphalt — is the only reasonable response. yes, it is reasonable that he is sitting numb and silent next to the unconscious body of his best friend. back from the dead. never dead in the first place — though perhaps he was, perhaps that’s what it takes to become an avatar of one of the powers, perhaps he’d jumped from that cathedral and died and is now, what, a ghost? a ghost would not have been so solid when jon’d wrapped him in a bonecrushing hug, nor when daisy’d burst into his flat and knocked him unconscious with all the brutal grace of a wild beast.

he risks a glance beside him and immediately regrets it. there’s blood on mike’s face. it almost covers up the scar. jon can’t tell if he’s breathing, and doesn’t think he could inch his hand across to check for a pulse nearly subtly enough to evade daisy’s detection — god, his hands are trembling badly enough he isn’t sure he could move them at all without banging into something and drawing her attention, just clings onto his bag on his lap like he’s a goddamn child and it’s the teddy bear foolishly held to keep nightmares at bay. this is all a nightmare, and he is not waking up. he’s learned how to distinguish dreams from life.

he thinks, briefly, that way that thoughts cannot be held to firmly when everything is spinning relentlessly around you — the sunlight coming through the trees outside of the window would be picturesque if not so horrible. they’re outside the city proper. no one would look here for them. he sees the sky through the foliage for just an instant and thinks mike would like to see that one last time, but he can’t.

jon does not know much, for all the eye’s helping hints, but he knows this: wherever daisy is taking them, it is unlikely either of them will live to tell the tale.

she drives a while and then she stops, brakes hit viciously and jon just barely keeping from tumbling forward. this is it, says daisy, and jon is too griefhollowed to see anything but death in the words. so what now? you kill us? god, he doesn’t want to die — doesn’t want mike to die, doesn’t want to see mike die. for all the catastrophe his life has become in recent months, finding mike was — was the one good thing to come out of the institute, he thinks.

you think he’s going to save you? daisy's voice has laughter in it. among the rage, among the monstrous vendetta she has against the both of them, there’s a sick joy that turns jon’s stomach.

what? no — no, don’t —

there is only so much a mind can numb itself with shock before the relentless flood of panic breaks through. for jon, the dam breaks when daisy lifts her pistol and fires it into mike’s chest.

the midpoint between terrorblurred and crystal-clear is where his perception sits for the next ten minutes or ten hours; not so much a middle-option as a both-at-once, somehow incomprehensible and moving slow as molasses, something within him cataloguing every awful detail. basira appears. basira and daisy talk about him over him, and jon can only interject scattered stuttered apologies and pleas — please don’t shoot me, i’m sorry, i didn’t kill anyone, please, please, please,

but all the while his gaze remains frozen on mike, mike on the ground, mike unbreathing, mike with his nice white shirt dyed slowly crimson. mike, dead and revenant and dead once more. jon never had been able to find an obituary, a funeral, a gravestone, any answers whatsoever; just that bank statement informing him of the regretful passing of mr. michael crew and the gifts left in his will, weeks of searching for explanation leading him only to vague stories of a figure leaping from a cathedral. jon doesn’t want their deaths, both, to be yet another mystery.

if this doesn’t work, you’re still dead, daisy says. jon, who has considered himself a dead man for the last ten minutes or ten hours or ten years — jon for whom time has ceased to exist but for the slow crawl of blood across mike’s shirt as jon watches — jon cannot process that he may live through this.

but daisy and basira are looking at him. watching him. panic has his heart beating out of his chest; he is half-shocked when he looks down at himself and does not find his own shirt just as bloodied. what about mike? the rest of his words get caught in his throat — can we get him to a hospital, is there any chance in hell he is still alive, why, why, why.

and daisy cannot even be bothered to remember the name of the man she’s killed. who, she asks, before she follows jon’s gaze to the body on the ground. surely he’s not breathing. even — even he couldn’t survive that, jon realizes with a stutterstep sob.

daisy doesn’t even check. she opens her trunk and tells jon to grab a spade. there is a molasses-slow trickle of warm blood down jon’s throat, where daisy had held his own dull knife and pushed through skin. she doesn’t check his pulse or his breath, and doesn’t give jon a chance to, either; thrusts a spade into his burnt-up hand and something in her eyes flashes vicious satisfaction when he cries out from the pain of it. daisy cruel and basira passive and ... daisy tells jon to start digging already and it isn’t as if he’s in a place to do anything else. she’s still holding the knife.

and then he has to shut part of his mind off, or he will not be able to do anything — won’t be able to stand or hold the shovel or breathe, will just have to lay down next to mike’s bloody body and die, too, and there’s something selfish in him that fights against death with every ounce of his being. one wrong move will have him digging his own grave.

if he doesn’t look directly at mike, he can pretend this isn’t happening. gasp his breathless sobs as the wood of the shovel’s handle digs into his just-burnt hand, as daisy tells him to hurry it up, as he refuses to think anything at all.

it’s a strategy that works for a moment. right up until daisy glances over, says that’s deep enough. moment’s pause. well? gestures with the knife towards mike’s body. towards the grave. back again.

he’s cold. frail. too-small. not breathing. i’m going into the ground for you, he seems to say — and it’s jon’s fault, he knows bonedeep and echoing, his fault daisy found mike and his fault mike is dead. i’m going into the ground for you. it can’t be real, but it is, terribly so. the pain is unbearable.

later, during the endless car ride back to the institute, silently sat beside the woman who had killed his best friend and nearly killed him alongside, jon will wish he had done something. brushed mike’s hair out of his face, laid his jacket to cover the wounds scattering his ribcage, whispered shaking apologies before laying him in the grave. anything.

in the moment, the fear outweighs everything else, and the dirt covers mike until there is nothing left but jon’s trembling breaths and a dirt road. as daisy drives away, it’s as if they were never there.

#ofvast #‘　&　　an expression of love: to see our monsters for what they are　　▬▬　　[　in .　]#‘　&　　are you are you are you: i saw the asking was its own answer　　▬▬　　[　v. three .　]#‘　&　　the story underneath the story: lightning here and gone　　▬▬　　[　v. childhood friends‚ & ofvast .　]#death /#panic attack /#ask to tag /#this is literally longer than some fics ive written dgfknjfdgfkn have fun

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bybibucky · 6 years

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Give Me All - Pt. 3

Bucky Barnes Modern AU

After a series of disappointing experiences with wannabe-doms, you give this last new one a chance and he not only makes you forget every other man you’ve been with but also your own name.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: smut (18+ please), BDSM, a slight touch of anal play (f receiving), breath play, daddy kink (discovery), overstimulation, subspace

A/N: there she goes with part 3. editing this I realised that I am unable to spell the word ‘your’ with the r at the end and I had like 20498324 ‘your’s highlighted, good thing I study English. have fun!

And you didn’t find out what was in the bag until a week later when he invited you to the club a second time. You’d grown addicted to him, you had to admit. He was so good to you, like no one in your past had ever been and you didn’t feel ashamed to say that you enjoyed it and longed to feel more. This no touching rule was really biting your ass.

You felt the need to text him, telling him how much he was torturing you, in hopes that he would be merciful. What a naïve little thing you were.

Begging via text message for days on end didn’t get you very far and you soon realised that he would be the only one to make a move. You should have known. After all, he was calling the shots.

Then, he called you. When you saw the name on the display you almost dropped your phone trying to answer the call but succeeded in the end.

“Kitten, what have I told you?” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at his sultry voice.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you whispered. A ‘sir’ almost slipped past your lips.

Bucky made a disapproving sound. “No, baby, that is not what I told you.” He was referring to the countless messages you had sent. He had left most of them on read but the few that he’d replied to all read the same thing: be patient.

“I’m trying to be patient,” you whined, “but you make it so hard. All I can think of is finally having your hands on me again.”

“I have work to do, you know that.”

“Please, I’m sorry,” you said, “just forget I said anything. Call me when you’re ready.” You were about to hang up when he spoke again.

“I could do Friday,” he offered and you heart jumped in your chest.

And Friday couldn't have come by any more slowly. To you, it felt like the minutes were dragging by like molasses, just like your cunt seemed to be dripping constantly now. When it did roll around, you could barely sleep, imagination going at full speed as you tried to think of what James had planned.

:::::

He had you standing in the middle of the room again, fully dressed except for shoes and socks, just like last time.

The only difference was that he casually lounged on an armchair in front of you, a couple of feet space between you.

“Strip.”

You obliged without hesitation, only bit your lip first because you knew he loved it, and started with your cardigan. There was no music playing but you were going to make this a show for him nonetheless. You wanted to be good for him, his good girl.

When the fabric hit the floor beneath your feet, you saw him follow it with his eyes before slowly moving them back up your body, drinking in every detail.

It was the merciless exposure that got your skin tingling as you felt his eyes studying your every move.

Hands on your hips as you swayed them a little, you ran them up your torso, taking your shirt with you until you could pull it off over your head and throw it to the side where it was immediately forgotten.

You could tell he loved the sight. The lace number you had put on just for him gave a nice surprise.

Yet, he remained still in his seat, a hand on either armrest, knees apart in silent invitation but he hadn't told you to go over so you couldn't.

Your hands moved back down to the button of your jeans. You had purposely neglected the bra, wanting to keep in on for a little more show.

Before you could drop your pants, you turned around. This gave you the opportunity to bend over as you worked the fabric off your legs and feet, giving him a nice view of your ass in the process.

When you turned around again, you could just see the tip of his tongue slip back in his mouth, he had been licking his lips. You felt mad with power although he was in charge.

In nothing but your lingerie set, bought specifically for this occasion, you weren't gonna lie, you looked at him, innocent expression a hard clash to your outfit.

His expression, however, remained stoic, words holding barely any emotion. “Come here,” he said, “let me have a look at you.”

You stepped over carefully, trying desperately not to trip over your discarded clothes. When you reached him, he held up a hand so you now stood right in front of.

“Spin.”

You spun and loved the feeling of his eyes ranking all over your body. He stopped you half way.

Then, there were both his hands on your ass, the difference in temperature of them fucking slightly with your mind.

“Mmh,” he hummed, “this all for me?”

“Only for you.”

He gave your ass a little swat as his other hand stroked up your back. Your breath hitched.

“I would love to be proud and say what a good girl you are for me,” he began, “but you've been naughty, haven't you? Begging even though I told you not to.”

You closed your eyes. Of course, this was going to happen. Not knowing what to reply, you remained quiet.

He slapped your ass again. This time, harder and you buckled forward a bit, caught by his metal hand on your hip. “Didn't I tell you to use your words?” Bucky was angry, you could tell. “When are you ever going to listen to me, hm?”

“I'm sorry,” you mumbled.

“What was that?” he prompted, “I can't hear you.”

“I'm sorry,” you said louder.

“I don't think you really are,” he said, playing with the hem of your panties, “but you will be soon.” His words weren't a threat per se and rather sounded like a promise. Though, a dangerous one, judging by the tone of his voice. “On the bed, now.” With the hand that still was on your butt, he nudged you forward.

“Lie down, hands up above your head.”

He didn't follow you as you obliged his orders but instead walked over to where he had placed his bag. When he came back, Bucky was holding the little paper bag you recognised as the one he had when you first met him.

“You wanna know what's in here, baby?”

You nodded as you knelt on the bed, biting your lip.

“Words.”

Mentally, you scolded yourself, knowing it was one of his rules to talk. “I'm sorry. Yes, please tell me.”

The corners of his mouth curled up. “There are a few things I think you're gonna enjoy,” he said, “but I'm gonna take them out one by one. We don't want this to be over so quickly. I have a lot of things planned.”

He didn't blindfold you this time. Though, he did bring ribbons that resembled a blindfold which he used to tie your hands together and up at one of the rings on the bed frame. Then, he started to slowly walk around the bed.

The cold metal of his hand caused a swift shock to run through your bones as you gasped. Bucky was toying with the little ankle bracelet you had braided a couple of years ago before his fingers ghosted up your leg. You spread your legs a little almost on instinct, giving him access to where you wanted him the most.

“Eager, are we?”

You knew it wasn't really a question he expected an answer to but you nodded anyway.

His fingers reached the edge of your panties. “We won't be needing those anymore,” he said and slowly, torturously slowly worked them down your legs. You desperately wanted more but you knew you couldn't have what he wasn't giving you and the only way to get near it was to be patient and follow his demands. So, you breathed in deeply and waited for what he was going to do next.

Bucky looked at you for a minute, drank in every detail of your body before he reached into the bag and pulled out a small bottle. You couldn't read the label but when he let some of the liquid in the container drip onto his hands, you guessed it was massage oil. He warmed it up by rubbing it between his hands while he effortlessly got onto the bed and knelt above you.

Giving you a slightly pointed look as a heads up, he ran his hands down from your waist, stopping just above your pubic mound. “Spread your legs for me.”

You obliged with a sigh, eager to have him touch you but he slid his palms down your inner thighs and avoided your cunt altogether.

Unable to stop it, your hips thrust up into nothing in an attempt to get him closer. You were dripping by now and your wetness mixed with the oil that coated your skin.

“Baby, stop squirming,” he tutted. “Be a good girl and keep still.”

Your movements haltered immediately, though your hips worked again just moments after.

Stopping completely, Bucky wiped his hands on the bed sheets and stood up. In one swift motion, he had you flipped over on your stomach and gave your ass a hard smack that echoed around the room for a split second.

“What did I tell you?” he growled into your ear as he leaned down above you.

You swallowed the moan threatening to escape your lips and instead whimpered, “keep still.”

“That's right. And you disobeyed me,” he said, “again.”

“I'm sorry.”

He flipped you over once more, the restrains he had expertly bound around your wrist allowing him to do so. With a pointed look, he said, “we'll see how sorry you are. Spread your legs.”

From the bag, he pulled out another item and your eyes widened at the sight. Nevertheless, you obliged, careful to do nothing else that would disappoint him.

“You know what this is?”

You nodded but before he could tell you to speak, you whispered, “a rabbit.”

“That's right,” he said, reaching down to cup your jaw as his thumb traced your bottom lip, “open up.” You opened up wide for him to slowly push it down your throat which, yeah, wasn't his cock but you still found the feeling of it stretching your jaw pleasant. Your eyes fluttered closed as you took it all in.

“Get it all wet for me, baby,” Bucky instructed as he pulled it out a bit and pushed it back in. He repeated the action a couple of times before he tapped your inner thighs.

You spread them without hesitation.

“That's a good girl,” he cooed and it weirdly made a bit of pride bloom in your chest. When you felt the tip of the toy tease your entrance, you couldn't help but whine.

“What do you want, baby girl?” he asked, voice already hoarse, “want me to push it into your tight cunt? Get you all filled up with the toy?”

“Please,” you begged, “please, daddy.”

Bucky froze. And so did you. Neither of you had expected the words to come out of your mouth.

“Shit, sorry,” you said, embarrassment taking over. You closed your eyes, not wanting to see the disgust on his face.

“Y/N, look at me,” he demanded and he suddenly wasn't the dom anymore. At least, not for a moment.

You shook your head, eyes screwed shut.

He grabbed your chin and made you face him. “Y/N, look at me,” he said, tone much softer, “I'm not angry. Please.”

Biting your lip, you hesitantly opened your eyes. Breathing was difficult all of a sudden.

With a hand gently smoothing over your hair, he said, “it's all good. You're good. Tell me your colour.”

You thought about it. Then, “yellow.”

“That's okay,” Bucky promised, “you're okay.”

You didn't really want to believe him but with the reassurance he was giving you, it seemed possible.

“Is that something you want?” he asked, “Calling me 'daddy'?”

You averted your gaze, not wanting to be faced with the consequences of your words. But you didn't speak up as Bucky talked to you softly.

“Please, I need to see your eyes.”

Although you felt insecurity seeping through your bones, you looked up at him and bravely whispered, “be my daddy, please.”

“Fuck,” he groaned as his pupils suddenly dilated to the point where is blue eyes resembled the night sky, “we’ll have to talk about this after but fuck yes, baby girl. Now be good for daddy and let me fill you up with the toy.”

He was back on his dominant demeanour in an instant and you whined high in your throat as he finally pushed it in with one swift motion. It touched your g-spot just enough to tease you deliciously and the part meant for your clit was placed on it snugly.

“That's it, baby,” he said, “I love seeing you like this. Colour?”

“Green.”

“Does it fill you up nicely?”

You contemplated your answer for a second before shaking your head.

“No?” Bucky tilted his head to the side.

“Not as good as daddy's cock.”

Bucky chuckled fondly. “That's nice to hear,” he said, “let me turn it on then. See if that helps.”

And it did. The moment you felt the vibrations on your clit and sweet spot, you were gone for. It was just too good to keep still to.

“Sorry, daddy,” you whimpered, knowing you weren't allowed to move.

Bucky reached out to rub his thumb over one of your nipples through the fabric of your bra. “It's okay. Do you need to come?”

You nodded violently, on the brink of an orgasm already but trying your hardest to hold it off. The rule that you weren't allowed to touch yourself had made you incredibly sensitive. “Please.”

“Please what, baby girl?”

You took in a shaky breath, fighting against the wave of pleasure threatening to spill over any second. “Please, daddy,” you begged again, “please let me come.”

“Hmm, I love seeing you like this. Come on, baby. Come for me.”

A scream fell past your lips as you finally felt the sweet release you had been craving for days.

His hands were constantly on you, rubbing soothing patterns over your skin as you came down from your orgasm. A reminder that he was there and you were good.

But after you were done moaning and thrashing around, he didn't turn off the toy as you had expected.

“Daddy?”

“Oh, you're not done yet. You've been naughty. Did you think this was a reward?” he asked, adding, “This is your punishment.”

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head.

“Now close your legs and make sure to keep the toy in,” Bucky instructed, “I've got to do some work.”

With that, he left you there, oiled up and breathless, with a torturing device between your legs you couldn't do anything about.

He walked up to his bag to pull out a laptop with which he sat back down on the armchair from the beginning.

As he started his work and all throughout, he ignored you moans and pleas, didn't even offer a glance to your suffering form on the bed.

:::::

“Daddy,” you practically screamed, voice broken and hoarse.

“I told you, you can come anytime. You don't need my permission.”

Little did you know that he was counting your orgasms and had to palm his aching cock through his jeans with each one. This was torture for him as well.

:::::

When most of his work was done, he decided that he would do the rest later and concentrate back on you.

Bucky closed the laptop and set it aside.

“Daddy,” you sighed as you noticed him stand next to the bed. “Please.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Please what?” he asked, an eyebrow raised, “what do you want, baby girl?”

Another loud moan left your mouth before you could talk. “Please, make it stop.”

“Okay,” he said nonchalantly, shrugging. Not wasting another second, he reached in between your legs and turned off the device.

Silence filled the room, only broken by a relieved sigh from you as your torture was over. Though, not for long.

“How many times have you come now?”

You had to close your eyes and concentrate really heavily to be able to answer. “Four.”

“That’s right.” He was reaching for the bag again. “I think you deserve a little pause.”

Chest heaving up and down, you trained your eyes on what he was holding in his hands. It was a little plug. Gorgeous metal and a nice blue crystal at the bottom.

“You'll look so pretty with this,” Bucky said, reaching in between your legs. It came back up practically soaked in your juices that he used to coat the toy with. “Spread your legs.”

He knelt between your thighs as one hand carefully circled your other hole. You had never felt anything like it before and you found you really liked it.

As he pushed in, you willed yourself to drink in the pleasure and relax around his finger that he now slowly worked in an out of you, opening you up for the plug.

When you started moaning again, he knew you were ready for another finger. The stretch slightly stung but you loved it.

“Daddy,” you moaned.

“Good?” he asked.

“So good,” you replied and the words got stuck in your throat as he replaced his fingers with the plug. His title slipped past your lips repeatedly as he pulled the toy out once, twice and pushed it back in.

“You're taking it so well, baby girl.” And he turned the rabbit back on. As you suddenly thrashed about in his arms, screaming in bliss all over again, he simply said, “give me one more and I'll stop.”

“Oh God,” you moaned, unable to take any more, “I don't know if I can.”

Bucky smoothed his hands over your thighs in encouragement. “You can. Just let go.”

And you did. Minutes later, you were writhing under his hands, screaming.

“That's it,” he said proudly, “such a good girl for me.”

“Daddy.”

“Yes, baby,” he cooed as he turned off the vibe and gently pulled it out of your dripping cunt. “You look so hot, all wet for me.” His hands went under your thighs, lifting them up a bit for him to gain better access. Humming in content, he began licking up what you had splattered across your thighs and pussy. “So sweet, baby girl.”

When he reached your core and the tip of his tongue briefly ran over your sensitive clit, you back arched off the bed, hips fighting to get away.

“It's okay,” Bucky assured, holding you in place, “I'm giving your clit a break.”

You closed your eyes and sighed as he leapt up your juices from your skin inch by inch. “Daddy.”

It was all you said but somehow, Bucky seemed to understand what you meant. A mutual feeling of understanding stretched out between the two of you.

“I'm so proud of you, giving me all those orgasms,” he began, “but we're not done yet, kitten.”

Slowly and careful not to hurt you, he moved up your body, kissing your skin along the way. Here and there, he stopped to take the time to suck a little bruise, biting playfully, and he had you absolutely at his mercy. When he reached your abdomen where the garter belt and bra still sat, he took care undoing the ribbons and clasps, replacing the fabric with soft kisses and licks. Your nipples he gave tight pinches with fingers and teeth when they were finally free.

All the while, you were breathing heavily and whining above him, the attention an entirely new sensation you couldn't get enough of.

He got to the space an inch or two above your collar bone and when he noticed how much you loved being caressed there, he focused solely on there, sucking a large bruise that had you gasping for him.

“Daddy?”

“What is it, baby girl?” His face appeared in your line of sight.

You didn't really want to say at first, fearing he was going to be disappointed, but you really ached to touch him. “Can you untie my hands?”

Concern washed over his face in a tidal wave. “Did I tie them too tight? Are they hurting?”

“I just wanna feel you,” you said, shaking your head.

He smiled softly and leaned over to loosen the knots. “You've been good so far, I think I can give you a little reward.” Whilst he worked to get them off, his chest and stomach were within your reach and you used this opportunity to press kisses onto his skin. You wanted him to show how much you appreciated him.

Bucky rubbed your wrists to get the blood flow going better and guided your hands down in between you both where his hard cock was straining his pants. With one hand palming him through the fabric, the other undid the button and zipper and worked the garment off his hips.

You reached inside his boxers and your breath got caught in your throat at the feeling him in your hand. You knew he was big, he had been in your mouth before but now you could really touch him.

He encouraged you with a hiss as you wrapped a hand around him.

Looking up at him, you found his eyes closed in pleasure and you licked your other hand to help get his cock wet.

“Ah, baby,” he groaned, “I need to be inside you. Right now.” Bucky carelessly pushed his pants off his legs and threw them from the bed before he hooked your legs around his waist. And without any kind of warning, filled you up in one motion, pulled out again, and slammed back in. He set a relentless pace from the beginning and it had you screaming his name.

“What am I?” he growled, sitting up and pulling your ass into the air with him.

You gasped. “Daddy!”

“That's right.” His hands were gripping your sides tightly. “Fuck, you feel so good around me. Such a good girl for daddy.”

Bucky reached down to wrap his metal hand around your throat. Moaning, your eyes rolled back into your head as you arched off the bed into his touch.

You were completely at a loss for words as you felt the air dragging into your lungs too slowly and it felt so good. It brought you higher and higher until you felt like you were floating. But before you could pass out from lack of oxygen, he let go again and gave you a minute to breathe before he used his fingers once more to constrict your airway.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream, you were so close.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky demanded, “Let go for me. Come for daddy.”

And you did. You came harder than you ever had before. Eyes screwed shut and all you could see was white stars dancing around. Ears ringing and chest heaving. The orgasm rippled over you mercilessly and you welcomed it.

Bucky let go of your throat and pulled out of you. He jerked himself off fast and tightly before he groaned and painted your stomach and chest with white ribbons of come, marking you. You closed your eyes in bliss and when you opened them again, you were cleaned up and covered by the silk sheets. Bucky was lying on his side facing you.

“There you are,” he said, “you were gone for a bit.”

You turned to face him. “Where was I?” Your ears felt like they were filled with cotton and your mouth was dry as you spoke quietly.

Bucky chuckled lightly. “I don't know. I tried to talk to you a couple of times. You answered only with little noises but that's how I knew you hadn't passed out on me.”

You nodded. “That was intense,” you said.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Good or bad?”

Giving him a pointed look, you replied, “good, obviously. Did you not fuck me into oblivion?”

He relaxed. “There she is!” He laughed and kissed your forehead. Then, his mood changed again. “How come you always pass out?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know,” you said, “I don’t think I actually lose consciousness, I just feel so much at once, you know euphoria from the orgasm, a bit of pain and overstimulation and stuff and I think it just gets a bit much and my brain shuts itself off. Then with you choking me, I don’t get enough oxygen but in a good way, if that makes sense?”

Bucky listened to you intently. “But you’re okay with that? Do I need to be more careful, slow down?”

You shook your head, grinning. “It’s the best feeling in the world. I can’t describe because I usually don’t remember anything after, I just know I feel incredible.”

Bucky nodded and pulled you closer. You kissed for a bit but Bucky didn't allow it to grow heated again. At one point, he started to lightly pamper your face and neck with kisses.

At your exposed neck, he stopped. “You looked so gorgeous with my hand around your throat,” he said, engrossed in thought, “maybe I should get you a collar.”

You inhaled sharply, loving the thought. “Please, daddy.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #dom!bucky #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine #avengers imagine #avengers fanfic #avengers x reader

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copias-thrall · 4 years

Text

50 Things You’ve Never Been Asked

Thanks for the tag @petite-strigoi !

What is the colour of your hairbrush? Pearlescent Purple

Name a food that you never eat. Sea Urchin

Are you typically too warm or too cold? Too cold!

What were you doing 45 minutes ago? Playing Two Dots

What is your favourite candy bar? Twix

Have you ever been to a professional sports game? Unfortunately

What is the last thing you said out loud? Fucking ow!

What is your favourite ice cream? Maple Butter Walnut

What was the last thing you had to drink? Black tea with molasses

Do you like your wallet? It’s a phone wallet, so meh

What was the last thing you ate? Home Fry Egg Hash Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? Nope. Gotta save that $$$ 😢

The last sporting event you watched? Hockey, but that was probably circa 2012

What is your favourite flavour of popcorn? Kettle Corn

Who is the last person you sent a message to? My best bitch, @copias-cape

Ever been camping? I love camping! I used to do it a few times a year, but now I just set the tent up on my deck sometimes bc my friends are lame.

Do you take vitamins? Iron, Vitamin D, Magnesium

Do you go to church every Sunday? No Do you have a tan? I try not to

Do you prefer Chinese food over pizza? Pizza 4eva

Do you drink your soda with a straw? If I was given one, yes. But I wouldn’t seek one out.

What colour socks do you usually wear? Black when I wear socks, but I’m usually in fun tights bc I gave up on pants.

Do you ever drive above the speed limit? I don’t have a car bc city living

What terrifies you? Ants. I hate ants. Kill them with fire. I will flip the fuck out.

Look to your left, what do you see? My comfort plushie, Smush

What chore do you hate most? Taking the trash downstairs

What do you think of when you hear Australian accent? Adventure

What’s your favourite soda? Root Beer

Do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive? Don’t eat the stuff

What is your favourite number? 6 is the first thing that popped into my head, so.

Who’s the last person you talked to? Out loud? My mom.

Favourite cut of beef? Short Rib

Last song you listened to? No Son of Mine - Phil Collins

Last book you read? Cover to cover? Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion by Jack Zipes

Favourite day of the week? Friday

Can you say the alphabet backwards? No

How do you like your coffee? No coffee. Only Tea.

Favourite pair of shoes? My OTT stilettos

The time you normally get up? For funsies? Like 1pm. I’m allergic to mornings. Why were they invented?

What do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? Sunset—if I’m seeing the sun rise then it’s morning and I’m awake.

How many blankets on your bed? Just a down comforter

Describe your kitchen plates. A hodgepodge of disparate dishware I’ve accumulated over the years from target, family friends, and roommates.

Describe your kitchen at the moment? Clean, but with my most-used cooking devices and spices within easy reach.

Do you have a favourite alcoholic drink? French 75 bc I’m a classy bitch

Do you play cards? Love cards! No one will play gin rummy with me anymore bc I win too much. Hearts, Progressive Rummy, Crazy 8s, Rummy 500, Spit, Slap, Mao, Asshole! No poker, though.

What colour is your car? No car

Can you change a tire? Intellectually I know the mechanics. My dad is a big proponent of me Knowing Stuff, so he’s shown me how a few times. His “baby girl going away to college” gift was a tool box. Every time he visits I get a new tool. Last time it was a vice.

Your favourite state? Um.

Favourite job you’ve had? I had a summer internship at a small press that only publishes Erotic SF&F. I spent every day reading bad smut from the slush pile and copy editing the next hardcore BDSM book that was coming out. The boss lady would sometimes tell me of her BDSM fails, and I got to go to sex convention so I could tote her wares while she did workshops. When I left she filled up a tote bag with smut books for me.

How did you get your biggest scar? Do burns count? I was wiping down my counter, and when I went to wedge my hand into a corner, the back of it made contact with the frying pan I had moved to the back burner (so I wouldn’t fucking burn myself); bc my hand was wedged and I couldn’t pull away, my skin, uh, stuck to the pan. I probably should have gone to the hospital but 🤷‍♀️

TAGGING: @copias-cape @moonlightbewitched @flyinyoursoup @your-zenith-fades-into-eternity

#tag game #just for fun

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draw-you-coward · 5 years

Note

Three holidays he loves and one he hates (only one because I only want nice things for Ikael!!)

sorry i kind of took a bit of liberty with this! ikael and i aren’t a big knowledge/fan of holidays but we do love little Special days!! i hope u like this !!

ao3

“You know, it occurs to me,”Thancred mentions one day when they have taken the rare opportunity to relaxfrom their monster-hunting, “that I missed your last nameday.”

Ryne glances up from her book. Heis not talking to her—indeed, even if he

had

somehow forgotten toawkwardly recognize what they had decided was her nameday (the day he rescuedher, since she does not know her own) his eyes are on Ikael, that familiar yet stillirregular look in them. It had once been unreadable to Ryne, but she has beenwith the both of them for a little while now, and she has learned that that ishow his hard eyes look like when they are soft but trying very hard not to showit.

It has helped a lot, seeing andcomparing how he acts around Ikael. Ryne has never been uncertain of Thancred’saffection for him.

Ikael opens his eyes and blinks afew times, interrupted from his sunbathing. He is only half laying in hislounge chair, having scooted down to dangle his legs and tail in the water. Rynehas been wrestling for the past bell or so with the urge to ask him if it is astereotype that mystel dislike water, or if he is simply an exception to therule, as he is with so many things.

“Uh,” he says eloquently.

“Well, five of them, by my count,”Thancred goes on, stretching his arms behind his head. “Although I suppose thatdoesn’t count. Ha.”

He grins. He is trying too hardto be casual, Ryne thinks—Ikael’s nonplussed reply has thrown him off guard. Itmeans that he hasn’t noticed that they are here most likely because of a throwawaycomment he made a few days ago, or that Thancred keeps sneaking glances at himto check how much he is enjoying himself, or that he hasn’t thrown away theirswimwear for this sole purpose. It also means that Thancred cannot meet himhalfway when it comes to figuring all of this out, which Ryne finds, despiteherself and her respect for her guardian’s unflappable cool and aloofness, anamusing thought to weigh.

She turns a page in her book, holdingit closer to her face and tipping her head so that she can watch themsurreptitiously. Thancred will probably notice, but she doubts he will call herout on it.

“Well, I missed five of yournamedays too,” Ikael points out. “Happy old man years, Thancred! Aren’t youglad you can’t age here?”

Ryne snorts a laugh into her book,the sound muffled by the pages. Thancred gets a look on his face like someonehas put itching powder in his smalls. Ikael cheerfully goes back to sunbathing,rolling his head back and closing his eyes. It seems that for him, this conversationhas concluded.

Thancred glances at Ryne,possibly for help. She holds her book up to block his face and pretends to bevery interested in the prince in her faerietale making a rope out of his hairto lure would-be lovers up his castle window.

“Never mind,” Thancred mutters,shoulders settling into an obstinate line. He is giving up, then. A pity—Rynewould have loved to see the look on Ikael’s face when he realized that Thancredhas suffered an entire day of sunburnt skin and nipped toes just for him.

~*~

Ryne sneezes again.

She has been trying very hard notto, after how much she had this morning. Sneezing five times in a row isannoying, sure. But more importantly, it is a very effective way to abruptlyend any important conversation the two adults around her are having, allwithout ever having to take part. Ryne cringes at the memory.

“Oh! You look constipated. Do youhave a tummy ache?” Ikael glances down at her in concern, already holding out ahandkerchief. He… has already given her one. Where has he gotten another from?

“No, no, I’m fine,” Ryneenunciates as best she can through her stuffy nose. She turns her head torefuse his handkerchief, but he starts waving it in front of her face anddoesn’t stop, so she takes it with begrudging gratitude.

Ten seconds later, she sneezesinto it. Oh, Wicked White…

“We should stop and rest for afew days if you are ill, kitten.” Ikael’s voice dips in concern as he stopswalking to hover around her. In her periphery, Ryne notices Thancred come to ahalt as well. Oh no.

“It’s just a little sniffle, Igael,”she mumbles as Ikael goes to hug her gently. He rubs her arms sympathetically, inlong, slow, soothing motions, and she slumps against him despite herself. “’mfine, I swear,” she adds, dropping her head against his chest.

She cannot be the reason for sucha long break so soon after the last one! She does not want to draw such attentionto herself—she has to pull her own weight now, she has decided—

“I second Ikael’s suggestion.”Thancred speaks up from her left side, and she jumps a little. She hadn’tnoticed him approach. “Illness and injury go hand in hand, and life on the roadwill do ill to ameliorate your health. We can go back to the village we left thismorning. Ikael?”

Ryne feels Ikael nod, and sighs,resigned but admittedly also relieved. Thancred is right; even just these fewbells of walking is taking its toll on her. Her constitution will be ruined by theend of the day.

“It is alright, kitten,” Ikaelmurmurs, squeezing her gently before smoothing down her hair with one hand. “Wewill run you a warm bath and I will make you soup. You will like it, I promise.”

“He is overconfident already,see? Always a good sign,” Thancred teases with a slanted grin. “Worry not,Ryne; this is no burden for us. Now come—we should make it back beforeevening.”

They make it back by midafternoon, in fact. Ryne mostly trots along quietly, telling herself thatputting one foot in front of the other isn’t that difficult, really, and thatthe faster she does it, the faster she will have to stop doing it. Then Ikaelscoops her up, swinging her with a whoop and surprising strength onto his back,and their pace speeds up exponentially. Ryne swears, in one hazy second lostamong many, that his back feels broader than it is. Thancred picks her up whenIkael gets tired, and although he does not go as fast, he carries her forlonger, his gait strong and steady. Ryne glances at Ikael at one point throughoutthis, as she is clutching onto Thancred’s coat collar, and only gets a sagelook and a nose-tap.

By the time the ambient noises ofcivilization and the even but dull tread of boots on stone reach her ears, Ryneis half-asleep. Her head feels so achy and heavy she fears she will never beable to lift it again, and her arms have long since gone limp around Thancred’sshoulders. His gunblade is in Ikael’s possession, its sharp edge safely tucked away,and the material of his coat is, in Ryne’s opinion, quite comfortable.

“What is it with you lot andsleeping on me, hm?” Thancred queries in a low tone. His voice blends in withthe others that Ryne isn’t paying attention to: Ikael and an unfamiliar adult.

“You’re very comfy, darling,”Ikael throws back before resuming his conversation with the innkeep. Ryne dragsher head across Thancred’s shoulders until it is facing the other way, where itis quieter.

She is dimly aware of being laiddown on a mattress after a few minutes, and of Thancred and Ikael’s presencesstepping away as they converse in quiet tones. Then one of them leaves, and Rynefeels someone lift a blanket over her and gently tuck her in.

“Ikael is making you food forwhen you wake,” she hears Thancred murmur close to her ear. “Apparently he hasan extra special recipe for colds—lucky you, eh?” He sounds as if he issmiling. “Rest now, Ryne. We will be here when you wake up.”

She feels him kiss her forehead, lingeringfor a second to check her temperature. His hair just barely brushes her face, ticklingher browbone, and she falls asleep to the scent of vanilla and gunpowder.

~*~

“Why… would we need cinnamon sticks?”Ryne is puzzled.

Thancred glances down at her, pausingin his motion to reshelve the jar of strongly-smelling brown… something he hadpulled out. “What?” he says.

“I just don’t think that youreally need cinnamon in cookies,” Ryne points out. “It’s sort of odd,isn’t it?”

“What, are you a cookie expertnow?” Thancred raises an eyebrow, and pushes the jar back on the shelf. “Totell you the truth, I don’t quite know what we need. But Ikael likes cinnamon.”

He says it as if the conclusionto be drawn should be obvious: Ikael likes cinnamon, ergo he will buy cinnamonwhether they need it or not. Ryne idly wonders if she will ever be able to getsomeone under her thumb like that.

“Alright,” she says anyways, becauseshe thinks it is a little endearing, if stupid. She is fairly certain no oneputs cinnamon in cookies. “What was that you were looking at?”

“Oh—brown sugar.” Thancred takesthe jar back down and unscrews the lid with one quick twist of his hand. Hetips it out for her to smell. “Unrefined sugar, with molasses. It is supposedto make them, ah, chewier.”

His last sentence falls awkwardlyout of his mouth, as if the finer points of cookie-baking should be unknown tohim, but for reasons he cannot fathom, they are not. “Did Ikael tell you that?”Ryne asks, eyes sparkling.

Thancred’s eyebrow arches higher.He screws the lid back on the jar, then carefully places it in their cartbeside the bundle of cinnamon sticks.

“I do not know what thattone is supposed to mean,” he says shrewdly. “But if you question everything Ipick, I might as well get it all and leave Ikael to sort out what we will andwill not use. He is paying, anyhow, so it doesn’t matter.” He waves his handvaguely.

He nudges the cart forwards,glancing around the bakery shelves at the various labelled jars and packagedingredients. Ryne trots after him, twirling a lock of hair around her finger asshe thinks out loud.

“What else do we need?” she asksthe air. “Flour, I think. Yes, for sure.”

“Flour it is,” Thancred says, andwheels the cart around.

Ikael looks a little startledwhen he sees everything they have bought, but otherwise takes it in stride, gamelysorting out the ingredients into “useful” (the flour, vanilla, brown sugar,chocolate, and, surprisingly, cinnamon) and “U-uh… for later, haha!” (theliteral flowers, because Ryne had wanted one, the licorice, coffee beans, thegift shop mug Thancred had gotten because he had heard something about baking acake in one, and the lard). Ikael himself had taken a trip to the dairy, and hisown gains are sitting happily on the long counter of the kitchen they have borrowed.Eulmore is nothing if not gratuitously stocked.

“Alright; I asked them verynicely, and they will only kick us out if we are here late,” Ikael tells themafter he waves them off to wash their hands. “Oh! They also wanted a few cookies!I am sure the school will not mind if we donate a fraction of their welcome giftto our lovely benefactors.”

“So long as you are the one who tellsthe children,” Thancred replies, wiping his hands. “So, master baker, where dowe start?”

Ikael claps his hands together, hislarge ears perking up. “The chocolate first for you, Thancred! Choppity-chop,little pieces! Use those new hunky muscles of yours—it hurts my hands to do. Ryne…”

He spins around and begins tosort through the paper shopping bags, sniffing rapidly in an almost comicallyfeline fashion. “Ah!” His tail whips against his legs as he finds what he issearching for and reaches into a bag, arching onto his tiptoes. “Wetingredients first, kitten—always remember! Have you ever cracked an egg before?No? Oh, it is easy! Do not worry. Here, let me show you…”

Ikael’s excitement at havingpeople to bake with is palpable, and it does not wane as the session goes on.He is a shockingly kind teacher—shocking to Ryne, since she had never had one ofher Eulmoran tutors smile at her instead of scold her when she made mistakes. Itmakes the whole process calmer, and she finds an anxiousness she hadn’t even knownwas knotted in her chest slowly unravel as time passes. The longer Ikael staysin his optimistic and genuinely cheerful mood, the more it affects her, andbefore too long she realizes that she is very much enjoying herself.

Thancred seems to be enjoyinghimself as well. The small, relaxed smile on his face is one she has rarelyever seen, and the way he looks at Ikael when he gets particularly excitedabout overexplaining something to Ryne and his voice becomes gets high andpitchy is definitely new. Ikael does not seem to notice this, too engrossed inthe finer points of sugar cane or cocoa powder or whatever it is he is wildlygesticulating about in the moment, and Ryne finds a small part of her wonderingwhether she has ever failed to notice the way Thancred looks at her as well.Actually, truly notice, without any of her preconceptions or wont tomisconstrue.

“And then I said that anythingbut vanilla would clash with the icing! Because it needed pink icing!” Ikaelexclaims, throwing his hand out. It collides with a cupboard. “Oh, sorry! Anyways,after that we gave them out to everyone and a little kid came and stole one—orwas it Thancred that stole one? Hm…”

He pauses, eyes unfocusing as hethinks very hard about how strong Thancred’s kleptomaniac tendencies had beentowards pink frosted cupcakes. Thancred himself seizes the opportunity to gentlytake him by the waist and maneuver him to the middle of the kitchen, out ofarm’s reach of any hard surfaces. Ikael lets himself be moved, only reachingout to absently pat Thancred on the cheek. “Oh yes! I think Thancred stole fourof them.”

“Three,” the man in question contends,but without any real drive to disagree. Ryne giggles softly, ducking her headas water from the sink sprays from the spoon she is washing at an unexpectedangle.

“Careful there; don’t splashyourself.” Thancred’s voice stays in its low murmur, perhaps out of serenity orperhaps to allow Ikael to talk over him. He takes the spoon from Ryne and handsher a bowl instead, indicating with a nudge of his chin for her to move over tomake room for him. She does so, smiling faintly as Ikael’s voice rises in pitchonce more—he is talking about something called a “miq’abob”—and pretends towrap her imaginary tail around Thancred’s legs the way she has seen Ikael do.It is her little secret, because it is invisible, and no one has to know.

“And then the next Best FriendsDay was sort of miserable because I didn’t have… you know, my best friend.”Ikael’s ears droop a little, and he scratches the back of his neck. “And, ah… Ido not really like going outside on Valentione’s Day if I cannot call it that.Too many… yeah. Too many.”

“You will be enthused to hear thatthere is no such tradition here,” Thancred comments. He shuts the tap off,lightly shaking the water off the dish he had been washing before setting it onthe counter. “But I think, my friend, were you to suggest there be a holidaydedicated to friendship set in your name… Well, you’d be surprised at how highpeople would jump to reach that goal.”

“O-oh, I don’t want to, um…”Ikael flushes lightly. He clears his throat after a moment, tugging at his tail,and Ryne sees the ghost of a smile flit across Thancred’s mouth before he duckshis head and it is gone.

“If we are to have any holiday, itshould be one where we can celebrate ourselves,” he says. “If not Best FriendsDay, then… Family Day, perhaps. What say you?”

“O-o-oh,” Ikael stutters, cheeksturning red. He ducks his head into his chest, embarrassed. Ryne glances back atThancred, only to find him watching her. He holds her stare for a long moment beforehis lips quirk into a half-smile and he breaks eye contact. He claps an armaround Ikael’s shoulders, ruffles his hair and ears, and then pushes him gentlytowards the dish rack.

“You need to do something,since we have done all the work,” he says. He waltzes out of the kitchen, pausingonly to snag a freshly-baked chocolate chunk cinnamon cookie with two fingers.

Ryne considers her options. Thenshe lifts herself to her tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss—a smoochie,Ikael had told her they are called—to his cheek.

“Happy Family Day, Ikael,” shesays. “I’m really glad we got to celebrate it with you.”

She trots out after Thancred. Heis right—they have done all the work. It is Ikael’s turn now.

~*~

er Thancred. Heis right—they have done all the work.

~*~

#ikael #ryne #thancred #writing #drabble #ty so much for sending this in! <333 #anon #ask #alternate title: Famiwy Time #shadowbringers spoilers

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attina-the-responsible · 4 years

Text

Waking Nightmare ~*~ [Coral]

In which Andrina goes to Attina in the hospital...[takes place: March 11]

@andrina-the-amazingsupergenius

[tw: miscarriage, child death, thoughts of death, all the things that go along]

ANDRINA: Andrina had missed the first two calls.

She hadn’t been looking at her phone. She’d been ensconced in her Andrina-things-- earbuds in her ears and Spotify playing while she watched a javascript tutorial put on mute, with subtitles, 1.5 speed because they were always just so slow. The tutorial wasn’t Important or even that Interesting except to her. It was the center of Andrina’s universe at the moment. It was King of Planet Andrina. And until she figured out what bug was in her code, she was glued here, strapped in, completely immobilized.

So she missed a call.

So she missed another call.

The third call she only caught because she desperately needed M&Ms, and so she looked toward the half-eaten bag on her desk, which was right by her phone, at precisely the time it began to buzz. Maybe this was fate or something, except that Andy didn’t believe in fate unless it came in the form of cruel lessons from crueler gods.

She actually ignored the third call too, because it was a number she didn’t know. Haha, talk about cruel lessons from crueler gods.

So it was the fourth call she didn’t dismiss, and only because she saw it was the same number that had called three times. She picked it up with a plan to mouth off at the spammer (No, I do NOT want to renew my insurance policy that I definitely don’t even have, you underpaid phone minion!) but the soft, sad voice of a nurse greeted her instead. Attina’s name passed through her like some kind of glitch. Her fingers twitched on her knees.

“She’s what?” Andy’s voice echoed in the dark of Planet Andrina, as all her glowing stars-- in the shapes and colours of M&Ms-- went out one by one.

She glitched again. “What?” But then the phone call ended. She was left with her whats. Her huhs. A memory of an unfinished text conversation. Andy revisited that thread now, as if she could convince herself she’d just forgotten to answer Attina, because lol, space-brained Andrina, always so inconsiderate and unreliable. But instead it was Tiny who never answered, which meant the phone conversation was real, and she was really in the hospital.

Andrina scrambled out of her seat, abandoning her laptop. She scoured for clean socks and did not find any. She scoured for shoes, cursing over and over at herself before she found her left boot shoved under her bed. Then Andrina was out the door-- a wild comet burning its path toward the hospital-- except that she had to turn the fuck around at the bottom of the Suites because she’d forgotten her fucking phone and she had to go up again, tears filling her eyes the longer she had to wait in the fucking elevator.

By the time she got to the hospital, Andrina was hyperaware of everything that had slowed her down, from the car in front of the Uber, to the cruel red light, the only stupid fucking traffic light in all of Swynlake, that wouldn’t switch to green-- but there was no bigger obstacle than Andrina herself.

Three missed calls. She’d missed three whole calls.

In the end, she had to wait anyway. Andy rushing didn’t actually matter, and it never did, and didn’t she know that? How many times had the Tritons been to the hospital? Why the hell were they always in the hospital? She chewed her nails until they bled while waiting for her family to get their shit together too.

When the nurse came to get her though, she was still alone. Andy’s whole heart seized in her chest and she wanted to swipe the nurse away, like she’d swiped the third call away. Sorry, no one’s home.

But she had to pick up.

Andy followed the nurse quietly. The beeping in the rooms echoed around her. Her boots clomped against the tile, making Andy wince. The nurse opened Attina’s door for her, and she stepped in as quietly as she could, in case her sister was sleeping.

She wasn’t. She was staring ahead, lost in the gowns and sheets.

Andrina went straight to her side, reaching out to clutch at Attina’s arm. “Tiny, oh my god,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m so sorry. Everyone’s-- everyone is on their way, okay?”

ATTINA: Time stopped.

Or, maybe, time had never started again. Attina had left the Underworld, but that molasses-time had clung to her, like it was just waiting to snap her back. She felt heavy. She felt light. Full and empty. Those contradictions had started in the Underworld and hadn’t stopped. She was hot and cold—her fingers freezing as they pressed against her biceps, clinging, as if she had given all their warmth to Amelia. Maybe they’d never be warm again.

Maybe it was just blood loss from surgery.

Maybe she’d always feel like this. She would live her whole life waiting for the moment she dived back down into the Underworld, with Panic and Amelia. Maybe, her whole life would be waiting. Maybe, her whole life would not be a life at all.

Maybe she was already a ghost.

These maybes floated haphazardly through her brain, bumping against each other gently. They all contradicted each other, but somehow existed together in harmony, like the discordant notes of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.

Her brain was full of the wailing of violin strings like babes—

She didn’t even notice when Andrina came into the room. Didn’t even feel her at first. Eventually, she blinked, slowly, as if she had just woken peacefully from a dream.

Yes, she was in the hospital. That was right.

The machine beep, beep, beeped, reminding her that she was alive. She was alive but Amelia was dead. It didn’t make any sense. When she finally turned to look at Andrina, she imagined all her facial features upside down. Her mouth on her forehead, her eyes on her chin. She tried to will it into existence, these things that did not make sense, because it would mean she was dreaming and she would wake up from this.

But Andrina’s face stayed pretty in its worry, her brow puckered just so, her skin pale.

“They don’t need to do that,” she said, her own voice calm and detached. She reached up a hand and placed it on her sister’s. “I’m alright. No need to worry.”

ANDRINA: Attina barely looked at her.

Well. She looked at Andrina, but didn’t look-look at her. Her sister wasn’t there. Her sister-- the creases by her eyes when she’d squint, the scrunch of her nose, the pull of her lips-- her open-mouthed laugh, her expressive eyebrows, her most tender smiles-- all these things were gone. They looked washed away, the way the ocean could wash away castles in the sand, or fill up even the deepest moats with water. Her eyes simply glassed over, like there was nothing there for Attina to see.

It was-- freaky. Andrina’s fear grabbed her, and she nearly impulse knock-knocked on Attina’s head in the world’s most inappropriate knee-jerk reaction to sister-zombification. Knock-knock, who’s there? She could parrot like a five-year-old. And maybe she would have if Attina had just broken a leg falling off a ladder in an attempt to get an antique lamp from a too-high shelf.

But if Andy knock-knocked her sister, she was pretty sure Attina would shatter in front of her.

Though maybe-- maybe she’d already shattered. And this wasn’t a game of jenga, or London Bridges, but a game of clean-up. Here, Andy, take all of Attina’s pieces and put them back together again, in the right order. And don’t fuck up.

Andrina was unqualified for this task. She was never part of clean-up duty. What did Andy know of fixing things? She only made messes.

And so her heart was weakly beating in her chest. She resisted the urge to check over her shoulder frantically. She swallowed inappropriate joke after inappropriate joke. Just hold her hand, Andrina, said her most responsible Andrina-voice, which was, actually, Attina’s voice. Andrina gripped her sister’s hand tighter.

God, what would happen if Attina was gone forever?

Focus, Andy.

“Tiny,” she uttered. And that’s what her voice was: teeny-tiny.”Tiny, what...of course they’re coming. Of course we...we should all be together right now, yeah? You don’t have to worry about...being strong or-- the big sister. I’ll be the big sister!” Andrina said it and it felt like volunteering for Russian Roulette. Still, she smiled. God, what the fuck, why was she smiling? This was so fucked up.

“I mean-- I mean, we’ll...all be your big sister. It’s okay. We’ll take care of you and get through this.”

ATTINA: Tiny, Andrina said.

Yes, tiny, Attina thought. Amelia had been so tiny. Small and cool to the touch. She had felt more like a baby doll than anything real. The kind of toy that Attina used to play with, wishing for a baby of her own. A real one.

Amelia didn’t feel real. None of this felt real.

Except for the frantic look in Andrina’s eyes. It activated Attina’s oldest instinct.

The oldest sister instinct, that is.

It was an easier instinct to activate than any other, because it was who Attina was. She was not a fiancée. She was not a mother. Those things had, perhaps, fit her for a little while, but to the universe, they were hats that she could take on and off. Being the oldest sister was branded into her skin. It would have to be cut from her very soul. Being a fiancée, being a mother—that had been playing pretend.

“You don’t need to take care of me,” Attina told her, her voice soft. “I’ll be alright. I don’t want anyone to worry.”

She meant it—she didn’t want anyone to worry. For the first time in her life, the idea of having all of her family crowd around her felt suffocating. This room was small and sterile and the place she’d held her daughter for the first and last time, all at once. She did not need their faces associated with such a memory. She felt as if the walls would close in on them all and crumble. She’d lose them all at once.

“They say I am healing at an exponential rate and I’ll be able to go home tomorrow if it continues.”

ANDRINA: What else was she supposed to say?

Andy didn’t know. She had been taking big-sister lessons all her life, of course. They were thrust on her the way that most things were thrust on Andy. And she hadn’t minded too much when she was younger and the pros of being a big sister were big, bright, and bold. Her five little sisters were her minions, with sparkling eyes, begging to be let in on Andy’s latest scheme. She always had a playmate when she needed one...a sister to bitch to if another sister was too annoying...someone to be her guinea pig when she got to cooking up her next greatest experiment. With all those different roles for her sisters to play, it wasn’t a burden to be the shoulder to cry on when the crying happened. Fair trade, y’know? She could be that big sister-- if it meant she got to be the cool big sister the rest of the time.

Along the way though, the problems got bigger than Andrina’s adventures. And now, Andrina didn’t fit her sisters anymore. Her sisters didn’t fit her.

They couldn’t drive her literal getaway car.

They couldn’t conduct the research she needed, all those illegal how-tos.

And Andrina could not find the words to help a sister who was raped or another sister who had lost a child. Like the rest of her life, Andrina had dropped out when the lessons had gotten too hard. So here she was: big sister shoes so big she was tripping over them.

And look, she wanted to help. She did. She hated herself for the stretch of silence, feeling every second like another barb. One sea anemone…two sea anemone...three sea anemone…

Andrina cleared her throat. “I...I mean. That’s good,” she said. This felt like the wrong thing to say. What did it matter that Tiny was healing when her baby never would? Andy wanted to take it back. “Shit. I mean. I just mean that I’m glad you’re physically okay. But also it’s okay to not be okay in other ways. And if there’s anything we can do, you should ask, okay?”

She scooted a little forward, covering Attina’s hand with her other hand so she clasped her with both. “Just. Tell us-- me-- what to do.”

ATTINA: Attina thought it was good too. She nodded a little. Being in the hospital was not good. Not good. Not good. Going home was good. Good. Good. The idea of another nurse’s hands on her made her skin crawl. She wanted Sebastian. Her bed. To fall asleep and wake up realizing this was all a terrible dream, Amelia’s little feet kick, kick, kicking at her bladder to wake her up; Panic there, kissing behind her ear.

There was a small, small part of her that believed this. Believed that this was all a very, very bad dream. Maybe even a Swynlake dream. Everyone thrust into their worst nightmare. Maybe to teach them some lesson—though, to Attina those alternate realities always just seemed unnecessarily cruel.

However, in her worst nightmares, her sisters were not there. Her sisters, in her worst nightmare, would be dead too.

Which meant this was real. It was real and Amelia was dead. Panic was dead. Attina, too, was dead.

“I would like to go home,” Attina said, her voice hollow. “My home. I need—I need to start packing things up. Should I sell the house? Panic didn’t want it anyway.” She turned from her sister, reaching for her phone, so that she could begin to make a to do list. “What should I do with his things, do you think?” She paused to look up at Andrina, blinking at her.

ANDRINA: This wasn’t what Andy meant. She wanted to take it back. Just kidding, don’t tell me what to do, if what you need me to do is tell you what to do. How was that fair? Andrina was not the responsible sister and she could not make big, adult decisions about houses and husbands and deceased...husbands-- was he deceased? What had even happened? Andrina didn’t know and she didn’t want to ask because she didn’t actually want to know. What she knew was that Attina was found practically dead in the woods.

What she knew was that it was probably Panic’s fault.

If Panic was dead, good. If he had just abandoned her-- he better stay away. If, insert-third-option-here (the world’s shittiest, most dark and twisted break up ever?) and Panic was around, she’d literally exorcise his creepy, disgusting ass back to the Underworld before he could say Attina’s name. That revenge felt better to think about than the rest. Sweet Neptune, she could not be the shoulder for Attina to cry over for Panic. For Amelia, yes. For Amelia, always. Even Andy’s heart squeezed, thinking of her niece dying.

But not for that monster.

Andy had to suck these feelings down, keep her questions to herself-- she would let someone better equipped ask them when Daddy and her sisters arrived. (Should she have called Panic? Maybe, but, fuck no, especially with Attina asking about selling the house.)

Andy took another breath. “I um. I don’t know, Tiny. I guess it’s something for the to-do list.” A beat, and Andy’s eyes skittered nervously to the door. Where the hell was her family? “Maybe you should sleep more, don’t you think? You need to rest. It will help you go home sooner, if you rest.”

ATTINA: Sleep.

Such a strange thought. The last time Attina had gone to sleep, it had been in Panic’s arms, however many days ago. The last time she had shut her eyes and lost conscious, she woke up in a hospital bed with her fiancé trapped in unimaginable, never ending torture and their daughter dead. Dead. Dead.

Maybe in the darkness she could forget.

In the moment, she knew this wasn’t a dream. Not even a Swynlake scenario. A mother knows these things. It would be the last mother-instinct that Attina would ever have, but it was as true and strong as any. Her daughter was dead. She would never know the color of her eyes. There would be no pictures. She would exist, only, in Attina’s memory. Her skin as beautiful and soft and cool as an ocean’s pearl.

If Attina closed her eyes, maybe she could preserve that picture, like soaking it in chemicals, to draw out the color and lines.

If she closed her eyes, it wouldn’t bring her daughter back, but maybe it would help.

“Alright,” Attina said, nodding mechanically. She lay back down into the pillow, looking over at Andrina. Her hand, which had not long ago, held her daughter, now reaching for her sister.

“Stay, please,” she murmured, her eyes already fluttering shut.

#bdrpandrina #coral #waking nightmare #a dumb name kinda but fitting #:((((((

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brieannakeogh · 6 years

Text

Dog Days of Summer- Ch 4

Dog Days of Summer- Chris Evans X plus sized reader. Dog days of summer are usually defined as the hottest of the year, some define it as lazy days. This year ‘hottest’ has nothing to do with the outside temp. You meet Chris and Dodger Evans while taking your own dog to the park.

Previous Chapter / Master List

Warnings: Cursing, and fluff

Chapter 4

You woke up the next morning to a text from Chris, telling you he’s going to be a little late for your date today. He actually used the word ‘date’ and you knew he didn’t mean it like a ‘date’ date, but it still made you excited and happy. The fact that yesterday he had implied that this would be a daily activity, at least for the next little chunk of time, was mind boggling.

The morning was lazily spent around the house, working on your Netflix queue. He said he would be at your place around 1:30 and you made sure that you had your grocery list ready. There were only 4 items on the list of essentials, the rest you needed to pick up were for meals for yourself, and you would decide that as you walk around.

Popcorn had already been walked and you were sitting on the couch ready to go when a knock came from your door. Looking out the peephole you see Chris standing on the other side.

“How exactly did you get into the building?” You ask when you’ve got the door open. Leaving him at the doorway to get your wallet and list.

“A nice little old lady let me in. She said she liked the blue spandex.”

“Stellar security we have here.” You deadpan. “Also another use you found for fame, sneaking into my building.”

“What can I say? Old ladies love me.” He flashes a cocky smirk your way as the two of you step into the elevator. “Yourself included.”

“Hardy har har. Just remember that you will always be older than me.” Giving him back your own cocky smirk. “Even if you are prettier.”

He snorts, sliding up to you again, getting too close in the small space. “I would have to completely disagree with that.”

You give him a steady look, studying him for any hint of a joke or insincerity, but you found none. “I think you need a new mirror there buddy.” You scoff.

“Sorry crazy lady, you’re the one that needs to look again.” He walks out of the elevator backwards with this hands held out to the side, a shrug in his shoulders.

You just shook your head and followed him outside and down the sidewalk. Chris had brought his car this time, stating he didn’t want to have to carry grocery bags for blocks, which you agreed was a smart idea. You really needed to get a car for yourself, but with you not working, public transportation and walking wasn’t a problem.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t anything too fancy just a mid-range car that looked fairly newish. Once you were seated and buckled, Chris took off. The two of you had a nice little sandwich at a place right beside the grocery, before grabbing a cart and going in. Chris wasn’t dressed for discretion at all, just sunglasses like normal, but insisted when he got the cart in his hands to ride it down the aisles on the back. Narrowly missing one of the displays. You would have reprimanded him if you could stop laughing at his antics for even a minute.

“So what did you need?” You asked him, putting one of the items from your list in the cart.

He shrugs. “Snacks?”

“Snacks? That’s all you need?” He nods. “Why did you come all the way out here with me if you didn’t actually need anything?”

“It seemed fun.” He grinned at you. “Plus, your directionally challenged self would be lost without me. Literally.”

Rolling your eyes, you threw a bag of chips in the cart along with Chris. “I can use google maps you know. I just don’t have a good internal compass. Although I do like the car action, I might have to start using you for that. Grocery bags on the bus, not as fun as it looks.”

“And here I thought I was just a pretty decoration.” He chuckles. “Guess you want me for more than my spectacular face.”

“Of course. I already told you I’m here for your dog.” You bump Chris in the shoulder making the cart go a little off course.

“Hey watch it now. That was almost a big mess on our hands.” He scolds playfully.

“I wasn’t the one riding the cart up and down the aisles like I’m twelve.” You scoff at him.

He just shrugs, getting back on the cart and riding it the rest of the way.

The two of you were loaded down with bags as you made your way from the car to the apartment. Both of you were too stubborn and determined to make only one trip. Chris was laden down with double the amount that you carried and you couldn’t help but stare at his biceps bulging on the elevator ride up.

“Take a picture it will last longer.”

You groan at his lameness. “Really? Am I supposed to dignify that cheesiness with a response?”

“I’m not the one who was caught staring.” He tells you, taking another bag from you so you can get the key in the lock.

“You make it impossible not to, so again, not my fault.” Opening the door, Popcorn comes running up, jumping on your leg and yipping happily.

“Wow, look who has energy today.” Chris comments, moving to the kitchen.

“Hey buddy, give me a sec ok?” You tell your dog before responding to Chris. “It’s the one time he’s not a lazy little shit. When I come home he goes crazy for about ten minutes then calms down and sleeps.” You go to the kitchen, the dog carefully avoiding your steps in a practiced routine. Heaving your bags on the counter, you start to go through them, your dog prancing impatiently for you to get done and give him attention. Chris helps out putting the cold and frozen things in the refrigerator. “Ok fine.” You tell Popcorn and sit on the couch. He immediately leaps into your lap, completely disregarding the steps, and is making happy whining noises and licking your face. You pet him and give him attention until he finally calms down and lays beside you. Looking up, you see Chris with his phone out, having filmed the whole thing. “This better not end up on Twitter.”

“Why not? Besides I needed video evidence that he does move that fast.” He stops the recording and puts the phone away.

Getting back up to finish putting away the groceries, “I don’t want to go viral is why.”

The smile on his face falls. “Then you shouldn’t hang out with me.”

“Chris that wasn’t what I meant. I don’t actually care, I knew what I was getting into.” You place the cereal in the cabinet while talking. “I would be more worried about your reputation. If you get seen with the same woman over and over again, they’ll think we’re dating.” You laugh putting away more items, actively not looking at him.

“That would be a shame.” He sighs out, settling his hands on his hips. “Especially since I hadn’t officially asked you out yet.”

The box of instant mac and cheese, that had been in your hand, clatters loudly to the countertop, as you freeze in place. You let out a nervous giggle after a moment, turning to face him. “Ya got me, shocked me silly, but don’t do it again. What if I had something breakable in my hand.” Your eyes not meeting his as you grab another item from the grocery bags.

He stops you with a hand on yours. “I’m not joking.” The seriousness of his voice makes you look up to his baby blues, catching his eye and drowning. You feel numb, like everything is running in slow motion and the air has turned thick like molasses, not being able to hear clearly what Chris is saying.

“What?” You ask dumbly.

“I said I wanted to date you. I know it’s a little soon, and I wasn’t going to bring it up right away, especially with you just gotten out of a serious relationship. I didn’t want to be rebound guy.” He takes your hand in his, rubbing your fingers soothingly. “Realized I was attracted to you yesterday, didn’t know how or when to bring it up. This seemed like a good opportunity.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to give me an answer now, figured we could still get use to each other. I know there is a lot to consider with my job and all, but I do want to get to know you better and hopefully we can be more than just friends.”

You blink at him slowly, taking it all in. Once, twice, the third time the world comes rushing back and all the ambient noise of the city seems way too loud. You try to swallow but nothing goes down as your mouth is too dry. Panic sets in as you try to think what to say. The options that run through it at high speed are, ‘Hell yes!’, ‘WTF are you crazy?!’, ‘I think I’m gonna die from shock.’, ‘Seriously are you crazy?’, ‘I’m totally not ready for this, this soon.’, ‘You can tell me if you’re crazy.’, but what ends up coming out is. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

He could see your brain working overtime as you try to wrap your head around what just happened. He didn’t think he had been very subtle about his intentions, his sister picking it up before even he did. It made him smile that the thing you landed on was that you wanted more time with him. No screaming, no outright rejection, just a calm question that showed him how you would think it over carefully. He did wish you would act a little more excited though, you had never been hard to read before. “I’d love to.” He answers. You just nod and pull away to finish up clearing the counter of bags.

Opening the fridge you let the cool air clear your head a bit, on the pretense you are looking for dinner options. You know you bought several days worth of meals, but right now you can’t think of any.

“You saw everything I bought.” You pull a bottle of water from the fridge and take a sip. “Anything of that you could eat?”

He looks around and see the package of seasoning mix that is still on the counter. “I could go for this? If you bought enough stuff.” Holding up the fajita mix packet.

“Yeah, chicken is what I got for it.”

“Sounds good.”

“It won’t take long to fix so we have a couple hours to kill.” Holding a hand out to the couch. “Wanna watch something?”

Chris looks at his watch. “It’s actually time for Dodger’s walk, I wasn’t expecting to stay out most of the night. Do you mind if I get him and bring him here? When I’m home I don’t like leaving him alone a lot.”

“Yeah, no that’s fine.”

“I’ll be back in a bit.” He tells you walking out the door.

“Ok, see ya later.” Calling out as he walks to the elevator. When you close your door, the squeal that comes out seems unnatural and Popcorn, who’s been lounging on the couch, pops his head up startled. You jump when the door behind you opens again, Chris standing on the other side. “Did..uh..did you forget something?” You pray he didn’t hear the high pitched noise.

“I did.” He smirks, leaning down and placing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Bye.” He waves as he closes the door behind him and leaving you standing in the living room with your own hand pressed over the spot.

Next Chapter

So this is the last chapter I have finished of this. Hopefully I’ll be able to write again soon. Next week will be I’m not her, so look forward to that getting more interesting.

Thanks everyone for your continued support of my writing!

@spidey-babe-parker, @stevieang, @albinotigerpython, @paintballkid711, @katykyll, @avengersrulez1536, @ultrafreespirit, @wantingtobekorra, @i-had-a-life-once, @ghostssss, @babybeluuga, @bodhi-black, @kanupps06, @hatterripper31, @grandloser, @reniescarlett, @kjidhzyx, @normanreedus5150, @ilovethings-somuch, @spiderman-2013, @bloodyvalentine93, @xx-raven, @passionghost, @prettybubblesintheair, @averyrogers83, @ria132love, @patzammit, @whom-the-fack, @pooslie, @3dsaunt, @kristiedwyer, @janeyboo, @theonelittleone, @aslandia726, @itsmysticalmystery, @stanclub, @geminimoonbeamx

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans x plus size reader #plus sized reader #Dog Days of Summer

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