#I sweeped through this game barely breaking a sweat until this fight | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maddiewritesstucky · 3 years

Text

Snare Me His Shadow

Pairing: Steve/Bucky

Rating: Explicit 18+

Words: 4.5k

Tags: Primal Play, Prey/Predator Kink, Fighting As Foreplay, Rough Sex, Biting, Choking, Dom/Sub Undertones, Come Swapping, Anal Sex, Overstimulation, Fucking Outdoors, Storm Sex, Poetry As An Aphrodisiac, R18 Hide And Seek

So a million years ago, @howdoyousleep3 passed on an ask from her inbox that read:

[I dont know if you’re familiar with primal play, but it’s so fucking hot. Yeah, I know, Steve is all muscle and ability, he’s strong he’s fast, he’s smart, he is not prey. Usually. But Bucky - the winter soldier - is a hunter. The best, in fact. He loves a good hunt]

...This one possessed me. Please heed the tags, this is an entirely consensual and agreed-upon game between Steve and Bucky, but it is very much a hunter/prey type situation 😈

It’s electric, like this.

Barefoot on the damp earth, navigating by muscle memory more than sight, because darkness settles that much denser beneath the tree canopy.

Steve could move faster, could take this barely-worn path through the woods behind the compound at a sprint. But fast is loud.

Fast is leaves cracking and branches splintering, and the muted thud of footfalls on the forest floor. It’s eyes fixed only ahead so you don’t stumble, and nothing but the sound of your own exhales in your ears.

‘Fast’ gets you caught.

The in-rolling storm crackles humid in the air, sparking against Steve’s skin as he weaves through the underbrush. He throws his every sense outwards, searching and sifting through those faint currents of movement around him, those quiet signs of life. But it’s all life out here; birds and insects and creatures who can’t bear the light, all just playing the same game he is, and every last one of them pricks at his awareness.

Every last one of them kicks at his pulse and drip-feeds new adrenaline into his bloodstream, because experience echoes a warning way down in his cells - the apex predator comes silent as a spider.

There’s so many eyes on him, the weight of being watched pressing down on him from all sides. He digs the heel of his hand into his arousal and pulls in a lungful of air on the cusp of rain; feels himself splintering between his warring desires to put up a worthy chase, and to drop down belly-up in the dirt.

It’s a choice that will be made for him, eventually.

He might be strength, and speed, and strategy. But out here, he is prey.

Out here, in these weeping woods that stretch endless into the night, Steve is achingly, exquisitely outmatched by the hunter who lies in wait; biding his time, unseen, and slipping ever closer.

Dressed in black from head to toe, or skin bared to the shivering pulses of the forest; empty handed, or palms laden with the urge to grab and pin and possess…

The Winter Soldier is out there, and Steve’s blood runs so much hotter for the knowledge that he won’t see or hear or feel him coming until it’s too late.

He winds his way amongst the weathered trunks, hugging the shadows and pawing at the lines of his own body; stroking his thighs and pulling at his nipples, raking fingernails over the bare skin of his stomach. It’s rough and absent and frantic all at once, a weak precursor to what he’s evading.

The dissonance of it is dizzying, hiding from the thing he wants most. He wants to cry out, to make for the clearing in the middle of the woods and sprawl shameless in the open until he’s found, but he knows the rules - run, hide, don’t make it easy.

Pursuit is the purpose, and capture is a pleasure that must be earned, no matter how raw his skin is screaming for touch. And it is screaming - he’s a copper wire stripped bare, and he shivers for every stinging snap of branch and damp drag of leaf against his body as he picks his way through the darkness.

Hard limits apply, he’d told Bucky, the rest is up to you.

He shudders for it now, those words and the way Bucky’s eyes had darkened for them; the way he’d leaned in to kiss his sugar-laced threat right onto Steve’s waiting lips - I will find you.

It’s only a matter of time. The forest is vast, and countless months have passed since they last played this game, but Bucky is a blade that never dulls.

Bucky is razor-sharp, in wit, beauty, and battle; made up of midnight and silent strides when he so chooses, and he will find Steve.

He might have had eyes on Steve this entire time; ten soundless steps behind, watching Steve’s slow descent into desperation with a smile on his face, and the mere possibility has Steve’s cock weeping through the thin fabric of his shorts.

His fingertips dip beneath his waistband and sweep through the wetness beading at his tip; stroke that sensitive spot just beneath the head. His palm slips to press at the heavy throb in his balls and it makes his breath catch too loud in the confines of his chest, has a moan slipping out past his gritted teeth.

He knows it’s foolish, knows he’s only making himself easier to track. But every step he takes is winding the hunt toward its inevitable climax, and intellect is giving way to instinct.

His consciousness is beginning that steady downward drip, sinking from logic and reason to settle and swim with the dense heat pooling at the base of his spine. Soon, he’ll be nothing more than the urge rippling under his skin, the tight-squeezed air in his lungs and the thrum of blood between his thighs, and every brush of his own hands is permission to slip a little further to it.

So he doesn’t stop.

His feet and his fingers keep moving; his body acting now on his mind’s behalf to draw towards the river's edge, where his desperate sounds will be swept away by the unending rush of water over rock, because this is about preservation now.

It’s about surviving the voracity of his own need until he is found, until Bucky catches him, and then…god, then...

The rest is up to you.

The beginning of rainfall winds its way down through the tree canopy, and it does nothing to quell the heat radiating off Steve. He’s burning so hot for this, so hungry for it; his need only growing sharper as the atmosphere curls in thick and charged with the promise of thunder.

It’s rumbling in the distance already, too faint for non-enhanced ears but creeping closer; a rolling bass beneath the surge of the fast flowing river up ahead. He can see the diluted black of open space through the trees now, can hear the clack of wet-tumbling stones, and it’s nothing short of delusion, the way it feels like he’s headed for sanctuary.

Logic knows it’s a weak veil of auditory cover at best, and an outright plea for ambush at worst.

Steve knows, down in his gut, exactly which one he’s hoping for, and he sprints for it with the last of his tactical thought seeping out through the soles of his feet.

He breaks through the tree line, hitching a gasp as he stumbles out into the full force of the downpour. It’s coming down heavy, sluicing at the fever-sweat clinging to his skin, and he tilts his face up towards it; lets his eyes drift shut and his shoulders drop as he bares his throat to the purple-black sky.

His pulse riots for the sheer abandon of the gesture, of shifting his posture to one of invitation in the midst of evasion. It only spurs him on, makes him want to find out just how shrill that siren in his cells will wail when he refuses to curl in on himself.

He forces his hands open at his sides, turns his palms outwards and walks further out onto the exposed riverbank. He stands ankle deep in the river with his heart in his throat, soaked to the bone and all but shaking with the desire to drop to his knees in submission.

And that’s when he hears it.

The slow-whistled high note, followed by a low; the signal that shivers from the top of Steve’s spine to the cradle of his hips.

Found you.

It’s a question as much as a warning, that signal; a chance for Steve to respond in their shared language of gesture whether he wants the chase, or the fight.

As if he hadn’t made up his mind the moment they agreed to play tonight.

As if he’s not done for either way.

He pulls in a shuddering breath, his skin prickling with the presence he can sense now off to his left. Survival instinct begs him to open his eyes, to scour his surroundings and prepare for what’s coming, but he only shuts them tighter.

He grins up at the pelting rain, curls his quivering right hand into a fist, and beats it against his drenched, heaving chest.

Take me down where I stand.

Thunder rumbles overhead and shakes the stones underfoot. Steve’s blood beats frantic in his ears, one heartbeat stumbling over the next, and he waits, waits for the blow he doesn’t want to see coming.

A foot to the back of his knees, an arm wrapped around his throat, a strike of unyielding metal between his shoulder blades...it’s never the same twice, and it’s always better than the time before, and he can’t stop the desperate whimper that falls from his parted, rain-slick lips.

“Bucky!” he pleads, hurling it into the current of the storm raging around him.

“Steve,” comes the answer from directly behind him; the word falling across his skin in the split second before teeth sink deep into the meat of his shoulder.

It’s nothing short of wanton, the way Steve cries out with it.

Five fingers curl a punishing grip around the column of his throat and a soaking wet body plasters against his back, and Steve doesn’t even try to hold his centre of gravity as he’s wrestled down to the riverbank.

It’s a messy takedown, raw force over skill; dripping all the same desperation that’s been twisting hot in Steve’s gut all night. Bucky pins him belly-down against the stones at the river’s edge, the full weight of his body draped over him, and Steve knows the tremor he can feel humming through Bucky’s muscles has nothing to do with the cold.

“The river,” Bucky growls; metal forearm jammed against the back of Steve's neck, “of course you came to the river.”

Steve squirms giddy beneath Bucky’s mass, beneath that deep-thrumming power crushing down on him.

The storm-swollen current reaches up the bank to wash shallow and frigid beneath Steve’s cheek, his chest; against his nipples and his thighs and his cock inside his drenched shorts. It’s cold enough to draw gooseflesh across the bared expanse of his skin, but fuck if that persistent rush doesn’t feel like getting tongued; like every single time Bucky’s ever slipped an ice cube in his mouth and sucked him off just to see him hit the ceiling.

“Buck...”

It’s the only word that makes sense anymore. Steve gets his elbows under himself and pushes his body up, but only so much as to feel the stifling weight of Bucky on top of him.

Bucky’s hand slips to the front of his throat and grips him tight up under the line of his jaw; tips his head back to get his lips and teeth pressed hard against Steve’s ear.

“Steven...did you even try?”

The rain and the river aren’t enough to sweep away the mockery in his tone. He’s shifting himself on top of Steve, putting scant inches of space between their bodies, and Steve knows this cue; grins bright and breathless for it.

He digs his hands in against the riverbed, plants his knees and shoves upwards. He heaves his weight forward and Bucky’s grip loosens just enough to let it happen, to let Steve crawl and clamber a few meager feet forwards.

Steve knows it’s a false freedom but he laughs half-hysterical for it anyway, and even more so when Bucky’s hands are catching him again, clamping bruising tight at his hips and grappling him onto the flat of his back.

He winces at the battering strike of rain against his face, but it’s just as soon blocked by the cover of Bucky caging him in; replaced by the tepid drips rolling off Bucky’s perpetually warm skin.

Steve’s body reacts the way it thinks it’s supposed to, going through the motions of trying to throw Bucky off - strength funneled into a forearm arm pressing here, a knee striking there. But it’s pointless; sabotaged by the underlying truth that the only place Steve really wants to be is stuck exactly where he finds himself - pinned pliant beneath his predator.

He lets himself look, then; lets his gaze slip down between them to drag over the length of Bucky’s body. He’s bared to the elements just the same as Steve - not a stitch on him save for running shorts that barely hit at mid-thigh. His hair is pulled back, and he’s soaked to the bone, and when lightning splits the darkness in two and catches on the angles of his face, that raw perilous beauty strikes a blow all of its own to the center of Steve’s chest.

“You win,” Steve rasps, dragging his voice up from the pit of his billowing lungs.

Bucky’s answering laugh is darker than the wet-ink midnight pressing in on them, and it shudders all the way to Steve’s bones when Bucky sinks down to purr ominous against the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

“Not yet, I haven’t.”

The ravenous clamp of teeth on his throat sends Steve’s body bowing, writhing for that merciless bite that doesn’t break the skin, but makes purpled ruin of what lies beneath. Fascia and blood vessels and Steve’s sanity, all broken down in the transcendent grind of Bucky’s jaw, the heat of his mouth; all over Steve’s neck and his chest and his belly, and it’s so feral, the way Steve wants it.

He wants the shred of busted stitching and the shock of rain against newly bared skin as his shorts are torn from his body.

He wants the red welts raked down his rib cage, the kiss-split lip and the deep set imprints of Bucky’s teeth all up the insides of his thighs.

Bucky’s touch is heavy and he means it to be; his shifting, squeezing grip claiming handfuls of Steve’s willing flesh wherever he can get it. And he can get it everywhere - every last inch of Steve’s body splayed out for him in tribute to his prowess, and Steve wants him to take it.

He wants Bucky to make sacrilege of it out here under the split-open skies, until it feels like heaven itself is sobbing for it.

“Fuck me,” ruin me, desecrate me, arch-backed and bleeding-lipped in the dirt, “Bucky, fuck me…”

Steve begs with all of himself, legs split and arms thrown above his head; dripping sweat and storm and half-crazed surrender. Like he actually has to plead for this, like Bucky’s not already stuffing searching fingers up between his cheeks to grope for the base-end of silicone that says Steve’s body is primed for the taking.

Bucky bites taunting denial into his skin, over and over. ‘No,’ even as he pulls the plug from Steve’s body and replaces it with his fingers. ‘No’ growled against Steve’s body every time he begs now, and please, and I’m ready, just to fray that tenuous thread of Steve’s resolve.

Steve’s delirious with it, crying out high and sharp for the stretch of cold metal inside him and the drip of remnant lube. He chants Bucky’s name and reaches out with clinging, clawing hands that only get batted away; that get caught at the wrists and pinned down, and Bucky’s laughing at him.

Bucky is toying with him, leaving him empty and climbing back up over his body to graze teeth over Steve’s cheekbones, to whisper sweet mockery against Steve’s lips before he kisses them bruising-hard.

“Tell me you want it,” Bucky coos, clamping his hand over Steve’s mouth and pushing the clothed head of his cock up against Steve’s hole.

Steve sobs against his palm. He forces the words out wet and incomprehensible onto Bucky’s skin; again and again as Bucky tuts and tells him to speak the fuck up.

Tears are streaming free from the corners of his eyes and his legs are hooking desperately around Bucky’s waist, and he knows that Bucky wants this just as bad. He can feel Bucky shaking and shuddering under the strain of holding back and holding out, trying to push Steve closer to his breaking point just because that’s what Steve wants; devotion at its most deranged.

“Don’t cry, baby,” Bucky laps at the tears tracking down Steve’s face, letting up his hand from Steve’s mouth only to settle it heavy on his throat.

He slips his other hand down between them to shove at his shorts, fighting the clinging fabric down far enough to get his cock free, and then they’re both groaning for the rub of naked skin on skin.

“Buck,” Steve chokes out a half-strangled cry as Bucky sinks his whole weight onto him, dragging his stomach over Steve’s weeping cock and rocking his own into the crease of Steve’s hip.

“Tell me you want it?” Bucky says again, a question this time instead of a taunt.

Steve’s rasp of yes, fuck, do it barely makes it past his lips before Bucky’s cock is pushing into him.

There’s no hesitance, no pretense of patience to it. Bucky doesn’t finesse it and Steve doesn’t want him to - he didn’t spend half the night skulking through the woods in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm just to get taken the way he would be in the sanctity of their bed.

Steve came out here to get fucked vicious, and Bucky knows better than to pull his punches.

He shoves brutal and punishing into the tight heat of Steve’s body, knocking the air from Steve’s lungs and the sense from his psyche.

He’s tucking words up against Steve’s ear, something lilting and familiar, and the roar of Steve’s own blood and the groaning sky above don’t drown out Bucky’s voice so much as darken it’s edges; slip a rumbling bass beneath it’s baritone. Steve loses himself in the well-worn rhythm long before the words catch up to sink hooks into his ribcage.

“O Hunter, snare me his shadow,” Bucky hums, “O Nightingale, catch me his strain…else moonstruck with music and madness...I track him in vain.”

Steve would weep, if he had it in him to do anything other than lay there flat on his back and take it.

Bucky grinds in blinding-deep and stays there, rocks there; drips poetry all over the side of Steve’s neck like he’s not fucking him fit to kill.

He squeezes Steve’s throat until his eyes roll back, swats at Steve’s cheek and pulls merciless on his hair. He stuffs fingers into Steve’s gaping mouth deep enough to gag on, and hinges Steve’s jaw open so he has no choice but to set loose every raw, wrecked sound Bucky knocks out of him.

It’s fucking flawless.

“Give me one,” Bucky growls.

Steve needs no clarification beyond the spearing of Bucky’s cock into his prostate, and he reaches down between their bodies to jerk himself frantic and heavy-handed.

It should be pitiful, how little it takes. But it’s been mounting for what feels like hours, and when Bucky wrenches himself abruptly from Steve’s body to slap a hand down square over Steve’s balls and his slick, aching asshole, that orgasm crests with near-painful force.

“Fuck!” Steve’s wracked with it, shuddering and flinching from it like it’s not the makings of his very own flesh and blood.

Bucky doesn’t even wait for it to be over before he’s dipping down to lap at it; rubbing his cheek and his chest and his belly through Steve’s release on his slow crawl back up to spit it into Steve’s mouth.

“Don’t you fuckin’ swallow it,” he warns, pressing his thumb to the seam of Steve’s lips, “I want it back.”

Steve’s body is sparking chaotic, crying too soon and too much just as loud as it’s screaming too good as Bucky grips him by his sodden hair and buries his cock back inside him; falling into rhythm like he never stopped thrusting in the first place.

He wants to moan, wants to cry out for that welcome knifepoint of forced pleasure building within him, but the desperate sounds creeping onto his tongue are every bit as caged as the come he can’t swallow.

Which is the whole point, Steve flushes submissive to realize - Bucky’s got him gagged without even touching him.

He twines his limbs up around Bucky’s body, groping and pulling at him like there’s still an insufferable distance left to close. The guttural moans Bucky’s spilling into the crook of his neck only render Steve’s own noises even more pathetic; huffing high and reedy the longer they remain trapped in his throat.

“Christ, listen to you...”

Bucky pushes up onto his elbows to stare down at Steve, to watch the play of desperation on his face.

He’s no less transparent himself in how affected he is, a lifetime of ceaseless want spelled out in his gaze; hunger and rapture and the kind of adoration Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever fully earn, not really.

But it’s all right there, in the way Bucky’s looking at him; the way he’s bearing the howling force of the storm against his back just to give Steve this, and Steve is sunk.

Steve is nothing more than the sweet ruin of his body and the near painful swell of his heart for the multitudes that Bucky contains. A death sentence if you ask the history books and still the better half of Steve’s soul, Bucky is the boundless shadow and blinding light of Steve’s entire existence; his every reason for being and doing and fucking trying, after all these years.

It would be terrifying, if Steve weren’t bone-deep certain that he’s the axis Bucky’s world spins on, too.

“You found me...”

The words are almost a sob hitching off Steve’s tongue, pitched fuck-drunk and slurred around his mouthful of himself.

He’s breaking the rules and he knows it; half hopes for the crack of an open palm against his cheek for it. But the look Bucky hits him with lands harder than any physical strike could hope to; taking Steve’s face firm between his hands and staring down at him like there’s never been a truth so vital, so dire.

“I will always find you, Steve.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The one thing their shared existence will always narrow down to. There’s nowhere either of them could go that the other wouldn’t tear the world apart to get to, and the scant inches of distance between them right now might as well be oceans for all Steve’s burning inside to cross them.

He cups his hands around Bucky’s neck and arches up, pulls him down; pleading with everything but words for Bucky’s mouth on his, and Bucky doesn’t make him wait. He meets Steve right there in the delirium with lips and tongue and moans that rival the swelling thunder; sucking the taste of Steve off his tongue and dripping a starved groan into his mouth in its place.

“I wanna make you come,” he says, like he hasn’t already dragged one out of him, “tell me you’re gonna come.”

“Fuck, I am, I’m gonna come...”

“Say it’s for me, Steve, tell me it’s mine.”

Steve nods so hard, he can feel a bruise bloom at the base of his skull where it grates against the riverstone. Of course it’s for Bucky, everything’s for Bucky; every breath in his lungs and every beat of his stricken, obsessed heart. The sensations within him are mounting too immense, too desperate to be named pleasure, but they’re careening all the same towards the one thing Bucky wants from him, and it will only ever be Bucky’s, this perfect agony of coming undone.

“It’s yours,” he sobs, voice weak and body shaking. "Just—fuckin’ take it from me, Buck.”

He gives up all conscious hold on himself; submits entirely to the relentless drag of Bucky’s dick against his insides and the wet rasp of rock against his back as Bucky drives deep into his surrendered body, chasing that climax for the both of them.

It burns so bright, when it hits Steve; wrenched from his core and rolling sharp through the splay of his trembling frame. He cries out with it, but the storm cries louder, Bucky cries louder; moving ceaselessly through the spasms of Steve’s orgasm and drowning in the give of Steve’s body beneath him.

“Fuck, Steve, I—”

“Do it,” Steve slurs, needing nothing more than the tell-tale shudder of Bucky’s body and the way he gasps Steve’s name like a warning. “In me, Buck. Do it.”

Bucky cusses sharp, pulsing his hips as he lets go inside Steve like he can bury that seed deep enough to stick. And fuck, Steve wants it to. It’s all raw nerve on the inside but Steve never wants this to end; possessed by the slick grind of Bucky’s twitching cock and the heaving half-moans of Bucky’s breath.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, reaching fingertips down to where their bodies are joined, where Bucky’s stuffed into him and leaking out of him. “Keep fucking me, just—just keep—”

Keep coming.

Be that monstrous entity in the woods who fucks me like it’s a haunting, ’til not even an exorcism would rid me of you.

He prods at the stretch of his swollen rim, drags his fingers through the warmth seeping out around Bucky’s cock. He wants it everywhere; brings those slick fingers up to smear over the pulse point on his neck, down the line of his throat, and Bucky heaves a moan dragged right from the marrow of his bones.

“I won’t stop,” he grits out through clattering teeth, rocking into Steve graceless and starving. “Not gonna stop, Steve.”

It sounds as much like threat as it does promise.

They’re both quaking with it, overstimulated and frigid cold and too achingly, crushingly lost in each other. For all the serum may have made them both to defy science and probability, to withstand war and stall the ravages of aging, it still couldn’t create a vessel vast enough to contain this - this raw, insatiable need for one another.

“Bucky…”

Steve looks up from the flat of his back; tips his head to offer up the stretch of his throat as he offers up a tremulous verse — a challenge — into the space between them.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep...”

Recognition sparks dark and joyous in Bucky’s gaze. He catches Steve’s hands in his and threads their fingers together, palm against palm in a too-tight grip.

“But I have promises to keep,” he grins, “and miles to go before I sleep…”

His lips are turning up wolfish; the roll of his hips turning to something liquid and long-haul, and the rain beats down just as violent as it ever did.

Steve lets his eyes slip closed, lets the final refrain slip from his tongue before he surrenders, smiling, to the slow closing of Bucky’s teeth around his windpipe.

“...And miles to go before I sleep.”

If you’re at all curious, the poems they quote are ‘In The Forest’ by Oscar Wilde, and ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost 😘

#steve/bucky #stucky #stucky fanfic #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes

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sockablock · 4 years

Text

(TW for panic attacks and discussions about trauma)

— — —

The thing is, Beau's friends are shit fighters.

To be clear—she's not saying that they're bad at fighting, gods know Veth's a force of nature with her crossbow and all of the spell-slingers can kill with a word—it's just that when it comes to fighting, actual fighting, that down-and-dirty fist-on-flesh shit, her friends suck. Most of 'em just run, or they’d sweet-talk a surrender, or go back to slinging spells.

Beau would never admit she misses the Soul, but at least those people knew how to block. At least Dairon would make her work for it, wouldn't tell her to please, gods, Beau, stop punching me, I give!

Fjord's better these days, but not good enough.

Which is why, on their third morning back in Nicodranas, when Beau opens the door to see Yasha looking restless, she knows exactly what's up.

"Should I get my staff?"

Yasha shrugs. She usually does.

"I'll grab it. Down in five."

Beau considers grabbing some toast too, but she remembers how antsy Yasha seemed and figures she should try to avoid puking in Marion’s yard.

Yasha is stretching when she gets there. The gate swings behind her with a gentle clunk, and she kicks her shoes off, curls her toes in the grass. The sun is barely broken above rooftops and towers, and the first chime of church bells ring out overhead.

Beau yawns a little, but it’s just for flavor. Mind games. She’s not actually sleepy.

“We do not have to—”

She quickly waves her hand. “It’ll wake me up. You know, get the blood pumping.”

Yasha smiles a little at that. It’s always such a small one, but it’s getting to be familiar.

“I got up early. I couldn’t sleep. Er...sorry.”

Beau doubles her effort to be dismissive. “Don’t apologize to me, Yasha. C’mon. You think I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to?”

This seems to be a winning argument. Yasha nods, like she can’t imagine Beau doing anything she doesn’t want.

Maybe it’s the crisp ocean breeze, maybe it’s the way they circle each other in the yard. Maybe it’s the fresh brush of gauze on her fists.

Beau wants to win.

She dives in, pulls low, uses her quick movement to catch Yasha off-guard and get in as closely as she can. Yasha’s tall, broad, strong as an ox, and even holding back, she could wind Beau with a punch. She presses even closer, limiting Yasha’s motions, sweeps out a leg and cuts up when Yasha moves. The two of them duck and weave and push, neither allowing the other an inch, fists flying, blows being blocked and sweat beginning to pour down their backs. Beau lands a hit that leaves Yasha grunting, then stumbles when a wild haymaker knocks her back. It’s clear that Yasha was never taught any form, just scraped it all together by surviving on the moors and her chaotic movement, high endurance, and reckless confidence just make her deadlier.

Beau tries to close in again, but a lucky kick forces her a pace too far. Her knuckles are bruising in that numb, seething way, and so she darts to the side, grabs her staff, vaults up and then arcs her foot to Yasha’s face—

The dance starts again, this time hardwood hitting forearms and on anyone else, Beau might even feel guilty about it. But Yasha barely seems to register the thwack, her teeth bared in a sideways grin, her eyes hard and excited and alive. Beau’s probably wearing the same expression. She hears herself laughing, and knows that she is. Up-swing, down-swing, slide left, throw a punch, block one, dart back, duck and then—

Yasha’s fist catches her right in the gut, sends Beau lurching flat into the dirt. She chokes her own breath, coughs up dust, barely gets an elbow up with Yasha leaning over her, blotting out the sun, raising Beau’s staff for a finishing strike—

Halts.

It’s like watching a tower fall. Yasha staggers back. She drops the staff. She lifts her hands and stares at her palms and Beau hears a mangled breath. Her knees give. She collapses on herself.

Beau scrambles up, aching limbs forgotten.

“Yasha?” she says. “Yasha? Are you—is—what’s wrong?”

Yasha sucks in more air, but that just seems to make things worse. Her shoulders tremble and her lungs sound ragged.

“Aw, shit,” says Beau, “I mean—fuck—uh—”

She half-runs, half-crawls, ‘til she’s at Yasha’s side. She wants to put her hand on Yasha’s arm, thinks better of it, panics a little more. She wishes she were Jester. She wishes she were Cad. They’d know what to do, they’d be better at this than her, anyone, hell, Marius would be better at this than her—

But it’s her, and everyone’s still in the house, so she shakes her head and stamps the fear down.

“Yasha, I...aw, fuck, I’m—I’m here, it’s okay, nothing’s wrong—” clearly something is wrong, idiot, “—I mean, um, you’re safe here, okay? It’ll be alright. I’m here, and I’ll stay if that’s what you want, okay? I won’t go anywhere, if you don’t want. Uh...can you shake your head if you want me to go? Is that...possible, can you—”

A frantic shake.

“Oh good, okay, thank fuck, then I’m here. I’m right here, Yash. I’m not going anywhere.” She tries to pitch her voice calm, takes deep, long breaths, and continues to murmur as reassuringly as she can until after...seconds? Minutes? Yasha’s trembling slows.

There’s a pause. Yasha inhales and lets it go. It’s shaky, but apparently good enough because finally, eventually, she turns and looks back at Beau.

“I’m...okay. I am okay.”

Beau sinks back into the grass. Then she lies down. “Oh, cool. I’m, uh, glad.”

“I’m so—”

She holds up a hand. “Nope. C’mon.” She pats the ground beside her.

“Er...what?”

She pats it again, emphatic. “Lie down. C’mon. I think we’ve earned a break.”

She stares up at the sky while Yasha shifts around, and eventually there’s a gentle thud as she lies down. Seagulls cry in the distance and clouds drift slowly past their heads.

Beau swears, but mentally. A private thing.

“So, uh...do we...want to talk about it, or...?”

Yasha is quiet for a moment. That’s not surprising. Then:

“It...reminded me of when I killed you.”

“What? Oh—”

“Almost killed you,” Yasha amended. “Both times.”

“Right,” says Beau. “That’s...right.”

She thinks about saying—almost. You only almost killed me, so really it’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. And you kill people all the time anyway, right?

She blinks. “Wait, you kill people all the time, Yasha. Is it always that bad? Shit, does it always...does it always make you feel like this? Only...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you...break like that...”

She regrets the words immediately. Stupid, Beau, that’s a stupid thing to say.

But Yasha answers the question earnestly. “It’s usually different,” she says to the sky. “It usually...doesn’t matter. Er...no, not that it doesn’t matter, it just...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Beau sighs. “No, I...sort of get it. Man, that might be fucked up. Of us.”

Yasha shrugs, which rustles the grass. “It’s how it has always been for me. That is just what life is like.”

“I’m sure Jester would disagree.”

“Jester is...nice. I am not. I...have hurt a lot of people. And not just people who were fighting me, or trying to hurt me, but people who were innocent, who did not need not to be hurt, people who care about me, and, and people who I...”

She trails off. Beau can’t see her face, but right now, selfishly, she is glad for it. She feels anger bubbling up in her stomach.

“You were being controlled,” she says fiercely. “You didn’t do it. Someone made you do it.”

“But...part of that...part of it was still me. Since...since you all freed me, I...I remember parts of it. I remember doing it. Those were my hands.”

Beau can practically hear Yasha’s fist tighten. She definitely feels it when Yasha hits the ground.

“If I was better, or if I was stronger, if I had broken free faster, none of that would have happened, I could have stopped him sooner—”

This time, Beau doesn’t hold back. They’re lying down, so it’s incredibly awkward, but the first thing she can think of is to grab Yasha’s hand.

She sits up, and waves it over Yasha’s face.

“But you didn’t,” she says, then falters, then wants to smack herself. “Fuck, no, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is...” Then she stops. “No, you know what? Fuck it. You didn’t break out faster. And that’s because it was a miracle you managed it in the first place. Yasha, you were being controlled by a devil. You were being controlled by the Chained Oblivion. The fact that you were even a person the first time we met—and you were a person, you were funny, you charged me money to, to, well, you charged me five gold, remember that?”

Yasha blinks. Her wrist is slack in Beau’s grip.

“I...do, yes, I remember that.”

“Right. The fact that you were a person then meant that they couldn’t keep their claws in you. Because you were strong. You were better. Better than everything they tried to make you. You kept breaking free.”

Yasha does not try to squirm away, only stays there.

“But...I needed help every time that I did escape. I never managed it on my own. First it was...it was Kord, and then you all—”

“Of course!” Beau throws her other arm into the air. “Who the fuck could do it on their own?! All that means is that when you had a chance, the second you had a chance, you were outta there. In your heart, you knew what was right. You knew it, and held onto it, even when I’m sure it would’ve been so easy to stay there, to stay in that hell and just go through the motions and lose yourself in...in grief, and loss and...and all that. But you didn’t. And now look at you.”

She cracks a goofy smile, all desperation to make what she’s trying to say heard.

“You’re an angel, Yasha. Remember?”

Yasha slowly sits up too. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, black turning white, with little blades of grass.

Beau is made painfully aware of the fact that she’s still holding Yasha’s hand. She lets go. Then she swears again, and hopes that Yasha doesn’t think it’s because of anything s—

“I am, aren’t I?”

Her gaze shoots up and Yasha's wearing a goofy smile too. Small, a bit nervous, but real and warm.

It’s getting to be familiar.

Beau snorts. She snorts so loud that it might dislodge something in her chest. She hits Yasha gently on the arm.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t, uh, don’t let it go to your head.”

She can see Yasha nodding in the corner of her eye.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Then, after a brief battle over whether or not to bring it up, “I don’t...I don’t...for the record, I’m not mad about you stabbing me. Or whatever.”

Yasha looks stricken, and Beau regrets it instantly. “Shit, should I not have reminded you of—”

“No,” Yasha sighs, and her face softens. “No. I am...glad that you are not mad at me.”

“Should we, like...go to a cleric about this?” Beau asks. “Is this going to be something that happens in, like...fights? Because if it does, it might put you in danger. Also, it’s...it probably sucks for you. Right?”

Fjord would probably have something to say about the way she’s handling this conversation. He’s not here now.

“I...don’t know,” Yasha says eventually. “It hasn’t happened before. It was only...just now. And...just with you. It...hurting you reminded me of being controlled. It...brought me back to all the times that my mind was not my own.”

“I’m sorry,” Beau says, because she’s not sure what else to say.

“No,” says Yasha. Beau looks up, surprised by the weight in her words. “If I am not allowed to be sorry to you, you cannot be sorry to me.”

“Ah,” says Beau. She feels a grin pulling. “In that case...I’m not sorry.”

Yasha nods, like this is sacred, and Beau can’t help but snort again.

“C’mon,” she says. “We can...work this shit out later. Or start to. With a cleric if you want, or not, if you don’t. But I just got my ass kicked, and I’m thirsty. What do you say to some drinks? I think there’s juice. Do you like juice?”

She stands up, and sticks out a hand.

Yasha takes it.

“Okay. I like juice.”

— — —

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imagineanythings · 3 years

Text

Exhausted (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky x Reader (friendship)

Word Count: 4.7k

You’re the type of person who always needs to push yourself to your limits, and Steve doesn’t always approve.

warnings: slight smut, nudity, death mention, hurt/comfort

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You had always been incredibly stubborn. It was a trait that came in handy in your work in espionage; you were hard to crack in interrogation and would do whatever it took to complete your mission. On the other hand, it was usually pretty detrimental to your health and wellbeing. You were more than willing to put your life on the line for the sake of a mission, and you were known for pushing yourself well past your limits in training sessions. You usually didn’t stop until you or your training partner were physically incapable of going on. You knew that the other avengers worried about you, particularly golden boy Steve and your best friend Wanda, but you usually just shook off their concerns. Bucky and Nat were always more than willing to go round after round with you in the ring or spot you as you lifted until your body gave out. They understood your need to push yourself and they were always there to help you do it safely. Having them made it easier to ignore the disapproving looks Steve always shot at you as you came wobbling out of the gym, trying to maintain your balance on exhausted legs. Those looks always gave you a deep pain in your stomach, like you had just been caught doing something wrong. Your gut twisted up into a knot as you ducked your head to avoid the gaze of America’s golden boy. You weren’t sure why, but you hated it so much when he looked at you like that.

Today was a tough day. Your mission a few days ago had gone south, which meant a lot of improvising and more casualties than there should have been. You were taking it particularly hard as you had taken point on the mission. Those deaths were completely your fault, and the guilt was weighing you down. You had barely slept. The night was plagued with visions of it all going wrong, some of true events and some of false, twisted worst case scenarios that your mind had created. After another nightmare and an abrupt wake up at 6 AM, you decided that you had gotten as much sleep as you were going to get that night. You got yourself up and out of bed and quickly found Bucky, who as luck would have it, was already in the gym, no doubt trying to exhaust himself to the point where his thoughts wouldn’t be so loud, which was coincidentally the same thing you were planning on doing. “Hey! Barnes!” You yelled as you entered the gym. He dropped the large weights he was curling and turned to look at you.

“Hey, Y/N! What’s up” He pulled you in for a hug once you got close enough, you sighed at the warmth and comfort despite his sweat.

“Oh you know, just trying to outrun the demons,” you joked as you tied your shoes, earning a small smile from him.

“I know how you feel” He said, still smiling, but you could hear the slight sadness in his voice.

“Come on Buck, how does some sparring sound?” You asked, climbing up into the ring. He smiled and wordlessly followed you.

Bucky was one of your favorite people to spar with. He was much bigger than you while still being almost as fast and agile, which forced you to get creative. He also wasn’t afraid of fighting dirty, which you loved. He’d pull your hair or sweep your legs out from underneath you or you’d climb on his back and cover his eyes, one time you even bit him when you found yourself running out of options. You’d never seen him look so shocked and deranged as he did after you sunk your teeth into his forearm, but you knew that both of you loved it. He had retaliated by actually pulling a knife on you, which was a first in your hand to hand training sessions. It wasn’t just physical, it was a mental game, sparring with Bucky, and you found it was one of the absolute best ways to keep your mind off of all of your horrible failures. You knew he felt similarly, you could see the way his shoulders relaxed and lost their tension when he stepped into the ring, the way his eyes lit up and the corners of his lips twitched upwards when you landed a particularly good hit. Sparring with Bucky was therapeutic and exactly what you needed right now. Being a supersoldier, his stamina was much better than yours, and he never went easy on you. He would let you work until you physically couldn’t anymore. Even when your punches began to lag and your form became sloppy, he continued to deliver precise hits, easily taking you down over and over and over again. You would always just shake it off and bounce back up, eager to try again. On one particularly tough takedown though, where he delivered clean hits to your side, stomach, and chest all in rapid succession before grabbing your wrist when you made a weak attempt to hit back and tossing you easily over his shoulder like a ragdoll, you remained down for much longer than usual. He could see that you were exhausted, both physically and mentally. Your chest heaved and your eyes had inadvertently filled with tears. You reached up quickly and wiped them away but it was too late, Bucky had already seen them, and he could hear the rasping of your slightly panicked, shallow breaths.

“Alright doll,” He said, offering you his hand, “I think that’s enough for one day,” You begrudgingly accepted and allowed him to pull you up to your feet, where you stood shakily, catching your breath for a moment. He put a gentle hand on your back as you hunched over, still trying to get the air to return to your lungs, and you both just stood there for a few moments before he spoke again. “You sure you’re ok, doll? I’m sorry if I went too hard there, I should have slowed down, I’m so so sorry” you could feel him panicking so you forced yourself to straighten up and you put a gentle hand on his flesh arm.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot worse if you really wanna take me out of commission, Barnes” you flashed him a smile and he let out a shaky breath and a nod. You managed to hold back a grimace until he had turned away for a moment.

“Good to know,” He said after the few moments you both took to collect yourselves, helping you out of the ring and handing you a water bottle, which you gratefully took. After a few more moments of recollecting yourself and getting your breath back you gave Bucky a quick hug and decided to head back to your room for a shower. “Thanks Buck, I really needed that,” you called over your shoulder on the way out.

“Anytime Doll! You know where to find me!” He called after you, bringing a small smile across your lips.

You moved shakily through the halls of the compound, adrenaline now totally worn off, the weakness and soreness of your muscles achingly loud. You had to brace yourself against the walls of the elevator in order to stay upright. Your head was swimming and you knew, once again, you had pushed it too far. Stepping out into the hall was even worse, you were dizzy and stars flitted across your vision. As you walked down the hall towards your room, you spotted Steve exiting his own room, which was directly across the hall from yours. You suppressed a groan as you knew within seconds that trademark disapproving golden boy stare would be upon you. He looked up after locking his door and saw you immediately, but instead of seeing that disappointed glare that you were expecting to adorn his face, his features softened. You must have really looked like shit.

“Y/N” He said softly, rushing to your side and allowing you to steady yourself against him.

“’m alright” you grumbled, trying to shove him off, but he just wrapped an arm around your waist to help keep you upright.

“You look like you’re about to pass out. Y/N have you eaten today?” Steve asked. Truthfully, you hadn’t eaten that day. You had made it a rule not to eat before training in the mornings if at all possible. A few heavy cardio sessions followed by a well placed hit to the stomach forcing your breakfast back up your throat had convinced you to hold off of food until after training. You shook your head and Steve let out a frustrated sigh. There it was. The disappointment that you knew would show up eventually. Your stomach felt like it was continually tying itself up in knots and you weren’t sure if it was from the exhaustion or Steve’s palpable frustration with you.

“Come on, let’s get you in your room” He said, voice gentle and absent, the frustration you had heard so clearly moments ago barely detectable. He slowly helped you into your room, where you crumpled down onto the edge of your bed with a sigh. He disappeared out of your room and you were relieved to be left alone for a moment before he returned, a bottle of gatorade, a bottle of water, and a bag of trailmix in hand. He handed you the gatorade first. “Come on, you need to replenish your electrolytes.” You sighed and begrudgingly sat up to drink a few sips of the gatorade before lying back down.

“I can take care of myself you know,” you said, your tone more harsh than you had expected it to sound.

“I know,” his voice sounded somehow both fond and a bit sad, “but it seemed like you might need some help right now,” You shook your head and sighed, fighting back tears that you hadn’t even known were coming. Your vision was still swimming with those stupid tiny white stars and the exhaustion had caught up to your body and you felt horrible because you cost some brave people their lives and you were so embarrassed because you were breaking down in front of none other than Steve Rogers, who always looks at you like a child who deserves a timeout with those goddamn piercing blue eyes and you just know he can’t stand you and it’s all just too much. The tears came in droves and you couldn’t stop them. You threw your arms across your face to hide it but you knew Steve wasn’t that oblivious. You just wanted to crawl away and cry and hide from everyone but before you could even try to move you felt two large hands pulling your arms away from your face and wiping at your tears.

“Hey,” he said quietly, searching your eyes for answers. His bright blue stare made you want to hide even more, but you forced yourself to shakily hold his gaze, tears still coming. “You can talk to me you know, what’s going on?” He asked, reaching out to wipe your tears again. You sighed and slowly sat up. You had to fight the urge to rest your head on his shoulder and let him hold you while you sobbed. Instead you just let him put a gentle hand on your shoulder. You searched for the words but when you came up empty you just shook your head.

“Sorry,” was all you could manage, which to your surprise pulled a small chuckle from Steve.

“I don’t know what you could possibly be apologizing for right now, doll.” Steve said and you sighed, once again searching for the words.

“I’m just...” you trailed off, looking at the ceiling as if it could give you the answers. Steve waited patiently while you organized your thoughts. “I’m just sorry that I’m always letting you down. I know you don’t agree with my choices most of the time and I know you think I’m some irresponsible child, and hell maybe I am, I mean just yesterday I literally....” you couldn’t say that out loud, not yet, you weren’t ready to work through all of it. You swallowed and continued “I’m always going to do what I have to do to keep going, and I shouldn’t care if you don’t like me for it because I’m going to do what I want regardless of what people think but at the same time it feels like a knife in my gut whenever you look at me like you can’t believe someone like me ended up on a team like this.” You were rambling but you stopped yourself before it could go any further. “I’m just going to try and shower.” You stood up on unstable legs and Steve could see your entire body shaking from exhaustion and panic. He stood quickly, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a hug. He could really feel you shaking now, pressed up so close against his body, like you were going to shatter at any moment. When you found your face pressed up against his shirt, breathing in his cologne and scent you lost it. You broke down and just let all the tears that you’d been holding in escape. If it weren’t for his arms wrapped tightly around you, you were sure your legs would have given out beneath you. You both stood like that for a few minutes, you sobbing into his chest as he stroked your hair and back and tried to make you feel safe. The shaking of your body went straight through his very being. Once your crying had slowed and he could feel your heart rate decreasing he tilted your chin upwards so he could look at you. Your eyes met his and he felt like you had his chest in a vice-grip, all tightness and pressure. His chest was completely and painfully empty, all that remained was an aggressive aching brought on by your red puffy eyes. He hated that he had a hand in making you feel like that.

“Hey,” he said quietly, fingers still gently resting on your chin. “I’ve never thought that of you.” He spoke slowly, voice barely above a whisper, his words deliberate and true. He hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not he should share more. “I...” he began, slowly gaining the confidence to say what he felt, “I only seem like I disapprove because I care about you... so much” Your breath caught in your throat. “It kills me to see you so beaten down and exhausted and all I want to do is help you but I never know how, I’m so sorry you thought anything else.” You examined his eyes to see he now seemed to be holding back tears as well. You placed a soft hand on his cheek and reached up on your toes to give him a small kiss on the side of his face next to your fingers. He blushed a bit, and spoke again, “you can always come to me, you know that right? I won’t work you as hard as Natasha, or put up nearly as much of a fight as Buck, but I’ll always be here when you need this,” he seemed sheepish at the admission. You just smiled.

“I can’t believe I thought you hated me this whole time,” he just shook his head in complete disbelief. That would be like hating the sun for burning so bright, it was ridiculous.

“I could never ever hate you y/n” His hand moved up to wipe at your tears once more. “Now will you please let me take care of you?” He asked, almost desperately. You rolled your eyes and simply nodded, even in your fragile state still not one to be “taken care of”, but who were you to argue with the Captain?

He sat you back down on your bed and told you to stay put and drink your gatorade. You did as you were told while he disappeared into the bathroom to turn on your shower. He came back into the room and forced you to eat some of the trail mix he had brought for you and then insisted on walking you to the bathroom, “You’re still shaking, I don’t want you falling and hurting yourself” he had said before wrapping a strong arm around your waist. You could have protested more but for some reason the words echoed into silence before they passed your lips.

Once in the bathroom you couldn’t help but give him shit “You gonna hold me up in the shower too?” You said with a smirk, leaning against your sink. He laughed but you could see his cheeks going pink.

“No- I um, well I can just,” he motioned towards the door, “not that I wouldn’t want to- I mean” he was getting more and more flustered by the second, you’d never seen the captain look so nervous and well... cute.

“If it wouldn’t be too weird, I could use the help” you conceded, and if you thought his face was red before, you had not been prepared for the crimson color that now covered his entire face and you were pretty sure his body too. “We can keep our underwear on if you want, it can be just...a friend thing, one friend helping another physically incapacitated friend” you said, and his breathing slowed a bit. He looked a bit sheepish and reached up to rub the back of his neck nervously, his voice barely audible when he finally spoke.

“And what if I didn’t want it to be just a friend thing?” He held eye contact with you, searching for some kind of response in the silence before you spoke. You were so stunned you couldn’t suppress a slight giggle, to which he immediately tensed up before you finally got some words out.

“Geez Rogers, at least take me to dinner first before you try to get me naked,” He looked absolutely mortified and began stammering and trying to get out some sort of apology.

“I’m so sorry y/n, I really didn’t mean to imply that I wanted to- well I mean I do, but not like this, and I absolutely would love to take you to dinner, I mean if that’s something you’re interested in, but I really just wanted to help and I screwed it up didn’t I?” He seemed like he could go on forever so you silenced him with a quick peck on the lips. It was chaste and fast, with not nearly as much feeling and closeness in it as either of you would have liked, but it served its purpose. He stood in stunned silence as you slowly took off your athletic shirt.

“Come on Rogers, dinner can wait, right now I need some help,” without waiting for an answer you steadied yourself on his arm with one hand as you tried to get out of your shorts without falling over. He was still looking at you like you had grown a second head, which made you back off a bit. You kept a hand on his arm for support but allowed for a bit more space between the two of you.

“Hey if you aren’t comfortable with this we don’t have to do it, I can just sit down in the shower or call Wanda or something it really isn’t a big deal.” He swallowed and shook his head, trying to snap himself out of whatever trance he had put himself in.

“No...no I just wasn’t expecting...” he paused, searching for the word, “that” He moved back in closer to you, he was close enough that his exhales ghosted your face. “As long as you’re sure you want this,” The words were tender but his face was set and serious. You nodded quickly in response.

“Oh Steve,” you took in his face, eyes tracing his features before finding his blue ones again, “This is all I want,” With a sudden moment of bravery, you weakly pulled yourself up and gently pressed your lips to his. He froze for a moment before reciprocating as if you were air and he desperately needed to catch his breath. He tasted surprisingly sweet, and the little groan he made when you reached up and ran your fingers through his hair tasted even sweeter. His hands began to roam but your body was still trembling and he had a sudden shock back to reality, in true captain-like focus, he was reminded of his mission. He pulled away slowly, your trembling increasing with the absence of his lips on yours. “Come on doll, let’s not forget why we’re here,” he said, barely above a whisper. He wanted you. He couldn’t deny that, but he wanted to make sure you were taken care of first. If he was going to do this, as he had wanted to for so long, he was going to do it right. He slowly helped pull your sports bra off and then knelt down to remove your panties. He couldn’t help but leave small kisses on your stomach and thighs as he slid the fabric down your legs.

You shuddered and pawed at his shoulders. He understood almost immediately and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. You tried to remove his belt but he quickly replaced your shaky fingers with his own, larger, more steady ones. He made quick work of his belt and pants and suddenly it was just the two of you standing there, painfully aware of how naked and exposed you were. As he looked at you he felt entirely breathless. You were more gorgeous than he had imagined, your skin so smooth and soft, your curves perfect, he wanted nothing more than to have you right there, but he held himself back. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, his girl needed his help, and he wasn’t going to let her down.

Steve reached a hand into the shower and felt the water to make sure it was hot enough. He gave a little satisfactory nod to himself before helping you into the shower and maneuvering you beneath the water. He made sure to keep at least one steady hand on you as you let the water wash over you. He could have stood there for hours, just watching your face relax and your head roll back as the water soothed your aching body. With your eyes closed and a blissful smile on your face you looked so peaceful, Steve almost didn’t want to interrupt the moment, but he could see you swaying a bit, still off balance and shaky from exhaustion. He quickly grabbed the shampoo and moved behind you, his muscular chest pressed up close against your back. Slowly he began to work the shampoo into your hair, your head rolled back even more and he could feel your muscles relax against his body. His fingers massaging your scalp and running through your hair drew a moan from you that was definitely not situationally appropriate, but you were too worn out at this point to care or even notice. Steve tried his hardest not to fixate on it, not to think about those sounds spilling from your lips. Now was not the time.

He shook himself out of it and rinsed the shampoo out before moving on to conditioner. Just like with the shampoo, he slowly and deliberately worked the conditioner through your hair, making sure to massage your scalp and coat your hair evenly. Once again he tried not to focus on the blissed out expression on your face, tried not to imagine any other context in which your head would fall back like that, lips slightly parted, sighs of pleasure sitting so beautifully upon them. After rinsing that out, he moved on to body wash. He took this time to savor every part of you, especially the ones he had never seen before. He ran his hands over your impossibly soft skin, and acquainted himself with every inch of it. He placed kisses on your shoulders before running his soapy hands over them, he paused with his hands on your waist, admiring how well they fit there, like they were exactly where they belonged. Your mind may have been too foggy with exhaustion to realize it at the time, but god dammit, Steve Rogers was worshipping every single piece of your body. You sighed as he ran his hands all the way up your stomach and your chest before placing a gentle kiss on your neck.

With your eyes closed and your weight resting on Steve’s chest behind you, you felt more at ease than you had in months. He planted another kiss on your neck, sucking gently and you let out a little moan followed by a breathy “Oh Steve.” That drew a groaning sound from somewhere deep in his throat and turned you around so he could kiss you again. He kept one stabilizing arm around your waist, keeping your body pressed up against his, while his other hand cradled your cheek like you were the most precious thing in the world to him, and in that moment he was almost certain that you were. The kiss was passionate and full of desire but still gentle and tender. Like you were the most beautiful, fragile thing in existence and Steve just needed to hold you close but he was afraid you could shatter at any second beneath his touch.

Without breaking the kiss, he reached back and turned off the water, feeling almost guilty when you began to shiver in his arms. He quickly reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel, which he used to gently dry you off before wrapping it around your body tightly. He grabbed another towel and wrapped that around his waist. Then, without warning, he scooped you up in his arms bridal style, which caused you to squeal in surprise. You clung to him tightly, with your arms around his neck, despite the fact that you knew Steve would never let you fall. He brought you into your room and laid you down gingerly on the bed. You whimpered at the loss of contact and he smiled.

“Just a second doll, I’ll be right back.” He came back into the room with both of your clothes. He put your sweaty workout gear in your hamper and put his boxers on after laying the rest of his clothes on your bed. “I can grab you something from your closet if you’d like, you’d have to tell me where to look but I’m sure I can-” he turned to see you already pulling his shirt on over your head. Once you had it on you laid back down and just breathed in his scent. He watched the way you curled up in his shirt, content smile on your lips as you surrounded yourself with him and he felt his lungs empty completely. He never thought he would see something like this in person, he had resigned it to nothing more than fantasy, and yet here you were. He slid into bed slowly, as if rushing would break the spell and destroy this beautiful illusion all around him. But as he laid down next to you, nothing fell apart. Instead, you simply curled up against his body, laying your head on his chest, tangling your legs with his. You let out a tiny contented sigh as Steve wrapped one arm around your back and waist to keep you close, and used the other to gently play with your hair. It took mere seconds for your breathing to even out and Steve could tell you were asleep. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and smiled as you snuggled in even closer to him, leaning into his touch. With his arms around you and the sweet smell of your shampoo and your body wash overtaking him, Steve could feel his own eyelids getting heavy. As he began to drift off to sleep he couldn’t help but think to himself, yeah I could get used to this.

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abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years

Text

Our Nightly Confidant 5

Four steps in my shoes

Four feels strongly.

In general, as a rule, but also in this specific situation, where sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and the pegasus boots chaff from constant overuse. From the slight burn of his arm muscles that nonetheless keep swinging the Four Sword.

Amazingly, the emotion at the forefront of his mind cannot be easily and neatly assigned to one facet of him. Annoyance isn't exclusive to any one side of him, quite the contrary. And the 'you can go die!' disdain is a taaaaad too specific as well.

White paws sweep at him and barely miss the top of his head. Would have hit Ezlo, if this had been his first adventure. The pang of nostalgia doesn't help his focus much.

Small bursts of magic and swings of his boomerang sting enough to keep his enemy on the backfoot. Behind him, a few roots twist enough for an opening beneath the trunk. If he can just...

The paw slams inches away from where he was standing a second earlier.

Urgh. It had to happen after they marched all day in search of civilization, didn't it?

Well, nothing to it, Four adjusts his sword and glares back at the slitted eyes trailed on him.

Which is when the loudest, most thunderous bark he ever heard rips the air in half and hammers in his eardrums. The white monster (cat) yowls in fright, fur straight up in horror, back arched, and it sprints right up a tree.

Wolfie is a familiar sight, and a welcome one at that.

But some instinctive part of him that is more Minish than Hylian can't help grip the Four Sword tighter. From this perspective, Wolfie has more in common with Wild's divine beasts than a regular animal. His claws look about as tall as Four himself. And at the moment, the wolf is displaying a mouth full of fangs that promise a painful death.

He doesn't blame the cat for scampering. He's seen what those fangs can do to a throat. Or a wrist. Or an ankle. Not, really, he thinks the cat shows great wisdom in getting the hell out of Wolfie's range.

But, because he is a Hero of Courage, he flips the sword in his hands, sheathes it and waves his arms.

“Twilight!”

The shift is instantaneous, and a little amazing to witness. The ears perk up, the posture straightens from its crouch, the teeth all disappear behind the black lips. It's a flip of Pacci's cane, a turn on a rupee, and there's the big beast their group loves.

“You okay there, Smithy?” Twilight asked, sniffing him for signs of injuries.

It's strange, hearing Twilight's voice coming through the sort of mental-bond-language of the Minish. Useful though. He's not certain he currently possesses the patience for some games of charades with a wolf.

“No injuries.” He puts a hand on the damp nose even as a burst of hot air washes over him. “Just a bit out of breath.”

“Right.”

It's not a doubtful tone, but there's some Time-patented exasperation in there.

“I would have been fine, you know?” says the part of Four that is a bit younger. “I dealt with lots of monsters even at this size.”

(Not Wolfie size though, that he thinks might be beyond him when shrunk.)

The flat look he receives makes him want to squirm.

He's too controlled for that.

“Yes, yes, I know.” He waves off the implied question. “I thought the innkeeper's cat was still inside.”

“He was. But after he mewled a bit, his owner let him out. And when I didn't see you... I had a feeling.”

Four wants to hit his head against a tree. Animals always were more aware of the scent of Minish magic. Many eyed him curiously when he walked through town. He should have known the cat would want to stalk after him. Probably thinking he knew where a village was hidden. He's going to have internal arguments about this all night.

“Cats are all bastards.”

To Four's amazement, Twilight's tail curls between his legs, his ears drooping. He rather looks more the guilty dog part than the majestic beast he insists he is.

“... But they're so cuddly.”

“When you're bigger than them, maybe,” Four deadpans. “Sneaky little shits.”

Twilight's whine is absolutely ridiculous and enough to make him snicker.

“Fine, fine. I'm not deaf, I hear what they say. Not as bad as cuccos, though.” Twilight's gaze wanders off to a faraway place. “Nothing is as bad as those psychotic birds.”

They lose a moment reliving their trauma over the feathered fiends.

Twilight shakes it off first. He lies down, his body like a hill of dark fur before Four, and hints at his back. Any protest Four might have had before dies in the face of his aching legs. He can fight off monsters at this size, but it's unreasonably more complicated. And he is not in the mood to stab spiders in the face tonight.

The fur is silky under his fingers, which is comforting but also a bit of a pain. Climbing means parting the coat of dark hairs and finding grip against skin. Sometimes, the body under him flinches or trembles, like Twilight is fighting off the urge to roll over. Four imagines it's quite similar to tickling. So he hurries up and makes his way up to the top of Twilight's head. Between the ears and roughly around the markings on his forehead.

Satisfied, Twilight stands, and the whole world blurs like he's still using his pegasus boots. A few more steps are needed before Four's body adjusts to the speed, and then he can relax. Twilight's safe.

And, he notes, not heading straight for the inn.

“We noticed the looks, you know,” Twilight says, because he's one of those busybodies that can't help mother cucco everyone around him till they are 'right as rain over a spring'.

“So?” he replies, even, practiced.

(Zelda had questions, at first, then orders that were swiftly obeyed, when in her sight. He hasn't told her that yet.)

“... How many of them do that?”

Do what? He wants to ask. The inn's owner had been quite polite, very careful in avoiding certain words around Four. Indeed so careful that Four could feel their syllables get more and more defined by the innkeeper's silence.

“Whisper?” he settles for. “A few. I'm weird, I know. Shorter than some kids, but can lift a hammer to forge. Own my business outside Castle Town, only shows up for groceries, talks to myself sometimes and stares at empty spots on shelves. I don't know, I suppose they expected me to apprentice beforehand, but there was a kingdom to save and what did that matter then?”

He punches the ground next to him before remembering too late it is Twilight's head.

The growl doesn't last. But the first few words he says are a bit more bitten out than the tone implies.

“There's a kid in my village. Younger than you. Couldn't lose the baby fat in his face for the longest time.” Twilight snorts, and his tail wags a bit. “And he's smart, really smart, a lot more mature than his older brother too.”

Four has a feeling that's partially due to the older brother's personality, but holds his tongue.

“People whispered behind his back. 'That boy is so creepy.'”

“Fey-touched,” Four says before he can hold back the red in him.

That one hurt. He's picked up habits from the Minish, he's aware. Little things like leaving keystones lying around for other kids or tiptoeing minish rings in the grass. But for those differences to matter so much, he hadn't expected until the first time the words had been floating around him.

“Ah,” Twilight says, followed by a whole lot of nothing.

Crickets around them sing. He can almost see some Minish putting a collar on the bugs to bring them home for a concert. Moving from behind stalks of grass, praying to the moon and the goddesses.

Then, Twilight says: “That takes me back.”

Four stumbles through the fur, his hands grasping on some new strands, but he can't tell if his unbalance is due a jolt in their steps or to the enormity of the idea. Twilight, the stereotypical rancher, seen as an outsider?

He tries, but all his brain conjures up is a much shorter version of Twilight dragging goats by the horns. That and dancing (badly) to the melody of a grass whistle.

Even from his spot atop Twilight's head, the eye roll is obvious despite being out of sight. “The only Hylian in a village of Humans?” he drawls. “Found as a toddler lost in the woods? Hardly able to speak for a while?”

Oh, Four thinks, that'd do it.

“They don't have the right to say that to you,” Twilight growls. “You're their hero.”

He could bask in the warmth. Lets himself lie down on Twilight and forget all about the events of tonight.

Curiosity wins, or well, violet does. “What did you do?”

“Nothing special? Just stayed the same and let them talk.”

Four's eyes bug out. “That's it? Nothing? How does that change anything?”

“When you're you, Four... When you're a good person regardless of rumors and whispers... Idiots don't stop talking, but the ones that are worth it stop listening.” A wolfish grin breaks out on Twilight's face. “Besides, you should have seen their black eyes after Rusl heard them say it to my face. After that... well, they could have called me the King of Evil and it wouldn't have mattered. Knowing you got someone in your corner's better than hollow praise from idiots.”

Four blushes.

He forgot for a bit, and he'll apologize to Zelda when he sees her, but it's true. Whenever he recalls that moment, the guard's words aren't ever the same. The phrasing lost all its power, outshone by the impassioned defense and the sheer anger wielded by his friend.

His back straightens. And he allows himself some childish pride in having the Princess of Hyrule in his corner. What do they have to beat that?

Twilight rumbles a laugh. “So... yeah, ignore them. Put them in their place if you want, the goddesses know you have the strength to do it, but that won't change their minds about anything. If you want some peace of mind, discard the idiots.”

Companionable silence falls between them. Four doesn't feel the need to speak after that bit of reassurance. They circle the woods, avoiding Hylians late on the road and monsters alike. Twilight's seemingly content just taking him on a ride, and Four's loath to admit he wants the moment to last a little longer.

They're not too far back from their starting point when he decides to ask: “About that kid?”

“Malo?”

“Yeah, him, how does he deal with it?”

Twilight does not answer right away. He first jumps over some large, gnarled roots and growls at a fox that seemed a bit too curious about the smell of Minish magic. Four's grateful for the time to calm his pounding heart.

“Well, Malo just stares at them until they get uncomfortable. Then he asks them what they're looking for. It never seems to affect him too much.” – discomfort hits at that, and Four can't tell why – “But, well, it also happened in front of me, you know? And I take after my Pa. So I might have knocked a couple of heads together in Casle Town. Followed by a strong talking to. Not that Malo appreciated that I ran off some of his customers.” A sigh. “That kid, I swear.”

Four grimaces. That type of 'customers'. Will think they bless his forge with their presence, praise him to all ends, then turn around and whisper. “I'm sure he's grateful inside.”

“Eh, I hope so, but it's his call in the end. Can't live his life for him.” Some muscles roll, and Four gets the impression of a shrug. “Speaking of, what do you want to do, Smithy?”

The question takes him by surprise, and it's silly that he didn't expect it.

He knows that Twilight would spend the night outside with him if he asks. They're no strangers to outdoor camping and the woods of his era are less dangerous than most. Wolfie would intimidate most if not all the creatures that live inside it.

But it would be illogical to sleep in the woods when they have more than enough rupees to pay for some rooms in a local inn.

Four is reasonable. It's one of his trademarks as a Hero. Mature for his age. Calm. Collected. It's how he's taken seriously as an adventurer. Why would he shatter an illusion that useful? Over some mild ostracization?

'Serve it cold,' says one quarter of him.

Another sides with Twilight. Their big brother made a good point. They couldn't be bothered by every single ungrateful person out there. They'd always exist, so let them stew in jealousy and paranoia and fear. He has the favor of the Princess, his best friend. What does he need anger for against a countryside shop owner?

But, the blue in him counters with an hammer-like argument: 'No, the best revenge is both.'

The others would be a little mad, he thinks. A little.

He's usually mature enough not to get in trouble. He's due for some insanity and explosions. Wild would back him up here. And it might be his voice in his head that pushes the words out of his mouth.

“So, not that I haven't listened to a word you said, but, hypothetically, if I needed help knocking heads together...”

“How many heads? Wars mentioned an interesting technique he learned from his sparring with some Sheikah general the other night. Though, if you'd rather, I can say, without boasting, that a lot of grown men weep at this form. It's embarrassing for everyone, I tell you.”

Four snorts, struck by mischief. “We're going to need to find a stump. I might have a plan.”

Yes, Four contemplates, the glint of wolf fangs under the moonlight is just as terrifying as he figured it would be. He can't wait.

***

Legend is silently debating with Sky over the right to punch the innkeeper in the face. It's a fierce debate communicated entirely through raised eyebrows, scrunched up nose, muted snarls and meaningful looks.

The others' patience is steadily fraying at the edges. It's especially noticeable with their youngest. There are fireworks going off on Wind's face. The knife cutting his slab of meat to pieces steadily stabs into it every time the innkeeper's mouth opens.

“And where are you fine young men traveling to?” he says with a customer pleaser smile.

'Fine young men'. Ah! There's a thing he didn't say about Four. The fucking nerves of this man.

“Far,” Time replies, his tone even, but his expression thoroughly unimpressed.

“Ah, yes, of course...” the innkeeper says agreeably. “You, huh, you'll be going with the, ahem, with the boy, I imagine?”

How dare he sound hopeful? And 'boy'?! This man's livelihood is owed to the smithy! And he doesn't even have the excuse of mind control!

A hint of shame tickles the back of his mind, when he had first heard the innkeeper talking. He had sounded nothing like the ones from his era, who sometimes refused him entry outright on the basis of old and false accusations.

This current attitude was, technically speaking, a strict improvement over that.

But does the man have to come alive and become so at ease serving them food whilst the Hero of this land take a walk outside? Alone, at night?

Legend grunts into his mug. The rancher left after the smithy, so that ought to solve the 'feelings' question. A bit of a stick-in-the-mud he might be, but Twilight's one of the few he would trust to help navigate difficult feelings. He's got the patience for it, unlike a lot of them who tackle everything the way they do a dungeon, with reckless abandon.

Yet, in the cozy warmth of the fire in the hearth, over the hesitant plucking of the minstrel's chords, a howl suddenly calls to the moon.

They, alone, do not tense.

The howl echoes a second time, much louder. Closer.

The innkeeper shoots them a desperate look, but Legend suddenly realizes that he is blind, and possibly deaf. He has no reason to stand up, much less draw his sword. And, would Farore look at that, his condition is contagious!

The hinges creak as they inch open.

If Legend were not so experienced, he might have been nervous. But he's better than that. He leans back in his seat, places a hand on Hyrule's shoulder, and sips his ale.

There in the doorway, cut in shadows with the moon as backdrop, riding on a large grey wolf, Four raises both arms high in the air.

“Fear my unnatural power,” he says with as ominous a voice he can produce.

Warriors snorts, cheeks reddened by alcohol, and he gives a thumbs-up to their smith, despite the owner's pale complexion.

The mugs left on the table begin to shake. Oh, this is gonna be good.

It starts with a pair of squirrels and a owl, neither obeying their instincts in favor of swooping inside the inn. Followed by a handful of moles, fireflies and stray dogs.

In a flash of white, the inn's cat bolts inside the inn, meowing, till it reaches its owner's legs and climbs onto him. It perches itself on his bald head, seconds before the first deer bounces inside the building.

Epona breaks the first table.

But the three raccoons lunging after his cat are what make the owner scream.

Legend guffaws in his ale.

#Linkeduniverse #Linked Universe #LU Twilight #LU Four #LU Wolfie

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nejitenforlife · 3 years

Text

Mutual Attraction

A NejiTen One-Shot AU

Rating: T

Words: 6,145

Summary: When Tenten is being harassed by someone at a bar, she is rescued by a very attractive - and very familiar looking - man.

I posted this a while ago to FFN and AO3, but I don’t think I’ve posted it on Tumblr, so here you go. Please enjoy.

There were specific reasons Tenten hated parties. Whether they be in bars, clubs, or in someone's house, they were always the same—excessively loud with an almost constant stench of sweat and cigarette smoke permeating the air.

But that wasn't the worst part.

Oh no.

The worst part was in the form of the man standing right in front of her, desperately trying to flirt his way into her pants.

Tenten fought the desire to roll her eyes, her hand gripping her glass of liquor a little tighter as the man—Deidara, he had said his name was—grinned at her, his arms gesturing animatedly as he spoke. He was telling her a joke, having to shout over the loud music, but she wasn't listening. She hated when men hit on her—not that it happened often, but still—as though they were God’s gift to women.

She realized he had stopped speaking, giving her an expectant look that suggested he was waiting for her reaction, and she let out a polite chuckle in response. She didn't want to be here, but she wasn't a bitch. She would be as polite as she could be until she could extract herself from the situation.

Then she would find Temari and strangle the life out of her blonde friend for dragging her to this damn bar.

Usually, Tenten didn't mind having a drink in a bar with a nice atmosphere, but not tonight. Her friends, Ino and Sai, had finally decided to tie the knot, and this was supposed to be their engagement party. Not the kind of place Tenten would have chosen for a party herself, and she hadn’t wanted to come, despite having been friends with the blonde since college, but Temari had made her.

Everyone was here. Tenten had caught glimpses of Naruto and Kiba playing a loud game of pool in the corner, Naruto's girlfriend, Hinata, sitting quietly as she watched them, a shy but happy smile on her lips. Sakura was sitting in a booth with her boyfriend, Sasuke, the woman talking enthusiastically while her counterpart remained stoically silent. Tenten still didn't understand what the pinkette saw in the moody raven-haired man, but he made her happy, so Tenten couldn't complain. Shikamaru and Shino were sharing another booth in the corner, the pair looking almost as uncomfortable as Tenten felt, and she decided to make her way over and hang out with them for a while, away from the loudness of the bar.

She had barely even arrived and had only gone up to the bar to get a drink, where she was rudely intercepted by this man who still had not stopped talking.

Did he ever shut up?

Unable to hold back the sigh, Tenten took a long sip of her whiskey and enjoyed the way the golden liquid warmed her throat on its way down to her stomach.

Maybe if she drank enough, she wouldn't feel so annoyed.

“You wanna dance?” The man—Deidara, she reminded herself again—tried to lean closer to her ear as he spoke, but Tenten stepped away from him, making him repeat the question a little louder.

She shook her head, wondering if her face was still impassive or if he could see her impatience creeping onto her features. “No, thank you. I want to go sit down.”

He looked around, his lips turning down in a frown as he noted the full tables. “I don't think there's any spare tables, but we could find a more secluded corner and talk, yeah.” He ended the sentence with a suggestive eyebrow raise, and Tenten had to fight the desire to roll her eyes again.

“Actually,” she started, taking another small step away from the overly friendly blond. “I'm here with friends and would like to sit with them.”

“Oh?” His eyes widened before what she imagined was supposed to be a flirtatious smile graced his lips. “I wouldn't mind meeting your friends. Where are they sitting?”

She had tried to be nice. Hell, she had spent the last ten minutes listening to his attempts of flirtation. But he was getting on her last nerves.

“Look, I'm sure you're a nice guy,” she said, trying to keep her voice even without letting her irritation seep through. “But I'm not interested.”

“Don't be shy, yeah,” he replied, unfazed at being turned down. “I'm sure you'll change your mind once we get to know each other.”

Tenten opened her mouth to say that no, she would not be changing her mind and could he please leave her before her patience snaps and she punches him in the face, when she felt an arm snake around her waist, causing her to squeak in surprise. A large hand pressed against her hip, pulling her close to a warm, hard body. She barely even had time to register what was happening before the person spoke.

“I am sorry for being late, my love,” the smooth voice rumbled from beside her. “Is this a friend of yours?”

Tenten knew what the stranger was doing immediately, and although she didn't appreciate that he had assumed she needed help, she was secretly grateful for it.

Moving her arm to rest along his back, she looked up with a wide grin, a grin which threatened to falter when she saw the face of the man who had deemed to rescue her.

To say he was handsome would be an understatement. He was breathtakingly beautiful—and yes, Tenten didn't mind calling a man beautiful. He had black hair that rested just above his shoulders, and although Tenten didn't usually like men with long hair, it seemed to work for him. No, she corrected herself. It definitely worked for him.

His pale, lavender eyes met her brown ones and Tenten had to stop herself from gasping. His eyes were mesmerizing, and although they seemed familiar, she couldn’t figure out why.

Deidara took a step back at the appearance of the newcomer, his hands out in a placating manner in front of his body. “I, uh, didn't realize you were taken. Sorry man, I didn't mean anything by it, yeah.”

“No harm done,” the newcomer replied. “But if I catch you talking to my girlfriend again, I will not be so polite.”

Tenten watched Deidara go, relieved to have finally gotten rid of him—though, she supposed the newcomer was responsible for that, not her.

Their arms were still around each other and Tenten suddenly felt very nervous. It wasn't that she wasn't used to guys—she had plenty of male friends—but he was a stranger. A beautiful stranger. She extracted her arm from around his waist and stepped back, feeling every movement of his arm as it fell away from her body.

Was it wrong that she felt bare without it?

No, that was stupid. She didn't even know the man and he had barely been holding her for a couple of minutes. Maybe she was just missing the feeling of physical contact. She may have a lot of male friends, but she hadn't dated anyone in a very long time.

“Thank you for that,” Tenten said, forcing her head up to look him in the eye with a smile. “He would have left eventually, but he was being stubborn.”

His lavender eyes were intense as they bore into hers, and Tenten could feel herself flushing at his attention. “You are welcome.” .

. Neji didn't know what possessed him to help the dark-haired beauty. He had only just arrived at the bar and was looking for his cousin when he spotted the woman, looking uncomfortable as a man with long blond hair tied back in a high ponytail chatted her up. Her fingers were tapping her glass impatiently and her eyes continued to sweep the room, as if looking for a way to escape the man's attentions.

It wasn't in Neji's nature to help others, not really. He had grown up in a wealthy family, spoiled from the day he was born by his parents, and from a young age, he tended to only do things that would benefit him. But as soon as his eyes had locked onto the woman, noting appreciatively the way her jeans hugged the curves of her ass, he was lost. His feet had made their way to her without his brain directing them and before he knew it, he was pulling her close to his body, relishing the feel of her softness pressed against him.

She was staring at him now, head tilted back slightly so her eyes—the colour of warm chocolate—could peer into his, a smile on her pretty pink lips. She was thanking him, he knew that, but he couldn't hear her words, too caught up as he was in staring at her features. Would she mind if he leaned down to kiss her? Probably, given the fact that she had just gotten rid of the last man that intruded into her space. Still, it didn't stop Neji from staring at her lips, imagining what they would feel like pressed against his own.

Absentmindedly, he realized that she looked vaguely familiar. But surely, he would remember a woman as attractive as this one. A frown tugged his lips downwards as he wondered where they may know each other.

He was staring.

Tenten wasn't sure whether she should say something or not. It wasn't like she disapproved of his staring—not like she had disapproved of Deidara’s attentions. But he hadn't replied to her and she was beginning to feel a little embarrassed. Especially when his lavender eyes kept flicking to her lips.

Did he want to kiss her? Tenten was tempted to ask him to do just that, but she didn't think it would be appropriate. He had helped her, yes, but that did not mean he was interested in her.

Besides, she reminded herself, he's a stranger!

Someone jostled her as they walked past, knocking her to the side. The man's arm sprung out like lightning, keeping her from toppling over, and breaking whatever moment they were having.

“Thank you,” she said again, stepping back from him.

“You are welcome,” he replied in that same, smooth tone. Tenten shivered despite the warmth of the bar, unable to turn away from his intense gaze.

“A-anyway, I should go. My friends are over there,” she pointed in the general direction of where Shikamaru and Shino were sitting while silently cursing herself for stuttering. She had never stuttered before in her life!

The man turned to the direction she was pointing, his gaze lingering before turning back to meet hers. “I have some friends that way as well. Shall I walk you to your destination?”

Tenten nodded her head dumbly. He placed a hand gently at the small of her back and followed her as she weaved her way through the crowd towards where her friends were sitting, all the while wondering if she could convince him to stay with her a little longer. Maybe get to know each other?

Unless he already had a girlfriend. Tenten stumbled as the thought crashed into her, barely registering as he held her elbow to steady her. She sent him a quick, strained smile before picking up her pace. Why hadn't she thought of that straight away? Of course he would have a girlfriend—how could he not?

Tenten suddenly felt silly for being attracted to him, especially after only just meeting him. She wasn’t the type of woman who could attract a man like this. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she had enough experience to know that once a man found out how into sports she was—and how much of a tomboy she was—they would be turned off. And this man—this beautiful stranger—looked very much like he hadn’t played a game of sports in his life.

Of course, she had had a few dalliances during her college years—Kiba being one of them—but that was purely out of a bored curiosity on both their parts. They had only ever gotten to second base and had quickly realized how weird—and gross—it was for them to be a couple when they only saw each other as friends.

So yeah, Tenten didn't have a lot of experience with men of this sort of... calibre.

“Are you all right?”

Tenten jumped at hearing his voice so close to her ear. He had leaned down to whisper instead of shouting above the din, and the combination of his breath against her skin and the rumble of his voice had her suppressing another shiver.

“Y-yeah, thanks,” she replied, turning her head towards him only to bite back a gasp at how close they were. His face was mere inches from her own and she could feel each exhale he made caress her cheeks and lips.

Speaking of lips… Tenten licked hers subconsciously and the man’s eyes immediately locked onto the wet appendage. The lavender darkened to an almost violet colour and Tenten stopped breathing altogether as she watched him in stunned fascination.

Another jostle—she really did hate crowded places—this time against her back, had her careening into the stranger in front of her. She was half relieved that her lips didn’t smack his while she fell into his arms, like in one of those silly Korean dramas Sakura made her sit through. But a part of her was also disappointed as well. Why couldn’t she be the heroine of a romance drama, where she is saved by a handsome stranger who falls quickly, deeply, and madly in love with her? Would that be too much to ask?

Of course, if this was a romantic drama, she would no doubt have to fend off a jealous ex-girlfriend and have water thrown at her face by his mother (or grandmother, maybe even both). That was something Tenten wasn’t keen on, and she was glad that real life wasn’t so dramatic.

For the second time in one evening, Tenten extracted herself from the kind stranger, throwing him a brief smile while mumbling a ‘thank you’ that she knew wouldn’t be heard over the noise of the bar. And then, she turned and walked away from him, almost powerwalking the rest of the way to the table.

By the time Tenten made it to Shikamaru’s table, Kiba, Naruto, and Hinata had joined them. Naruto was mumbling something about a ‘cheater’ while Kiba grinned and punched him in the shoulder, looking very chuffed with himself.

“Hi, guys!” Tenten beamed at her friends. Her heart, which had been pounding vigorously since she first laid eyes on the handsome stranger, was finally calming down. She slipped in beside Kiba and he immediately threw his arm around her shoulder, ruffling the hair she had spent all of five minutes brushing and putting into a bun. She sent him a mock glare and shoved her elbow into his ribs.

“We’ve been waiting forever,” he whined. “Where were you?”

Tenten rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started. Temari wanted to get here ‘fashionably late’ for some reason and when we finally arrived, I went to get a drink at the bar only to be stopped by an overly friendly guy who wouldn’t stop talking. It was almost impossible to get away from him.”

“Damn, I would love to have seen that!” Kiba laughed at what Tenten could only assume was an image of her trying to fend off a male admirer and she couldn’t help but feel irritated by it. Why would it be so funny?

“Neji! You’re here!” Hinata jumped out of her seat, rushing over to greet the person whose name sounded vaguely familiar to Tenten, though she couldn’t remember why. She turned in her seat to see who her friend was greeting, curious, and her mouth dropped at the sight before her.

The dark-haired beauty had stopped at the table he was heading to. Not only had she stopped, but she sat down and chatted with them as though they were old friends.

That was unexpected. But finally, her face came to his mind—a photo Hinata had sent to him when she first started college five years ago and met her new roommate. She had told him the roommate was very nice, though a little louder than she was used to, but they got along well. He recognized the face now. She was a little older, of course, and her hair longer, but it was definitely her.

What had Hinata said her name was?

“Neji!” His cousin moved around the booth to fling herself into his arms. It was uncharacteristic behaviour, but he supposed she had been living out in the world for a few years now, so it was only right that she would grow as a person and not be that shy, quiet little girl anymore. The realization hit him hard—she was a woman now. A woman who had a boyfriend, going by her last email to him before his flight back to Japan a week ago.

He smiled as he briefly returned her hug before setting her back down. He noticed the booth full of people watching him, though the blond didn’t seem jealous of their interaction. No doubt Hinata had told her boyfriend that her cousin would be coming tonight.

What did surprise Neji, though, was the flare of jealousy he felt as he watched his dark-haired beauty cuddled up against another man. Her eyes were wide with surprise—no doubt she hadn’t realized he was heading to the same table as she—and the man beside her prodded her shoulder with his free hand, leaning close to her ear to whisper something.

She blushed, a pretty pink that spread over her cheeks, and bit her bottom lip at whatever he had said to her before turning to jab her elbow into his side again.

They seemed very close, but he wasn’t certain whether they were together or just friends. Surely, if he were her boyfriend, she would have told the jerk at the bar and he would have left her alone a lot sooner. Maybe, despite her appearance, she liked the attention of other men on her?

But… no. That didn’t seem right either. She had genuinely looked frustrated when the blond at the bar was flirting with her.

Neji lightened, thinking that perhaps they weren’t a couple after all, though he still sent the guy a glare when he tucked Neji’s dark-haired beauty closer to his side.

“Come and sit down, Neji,” Hinata said, pulling on his hand. “I want to introduce you to my friends. Some of them, anyway. The others are somewhere here, but I’ll introduce you to them later.”

Neji followed her, a little too eagerly if he were to admit it to himself. Not because he cared to know these people. He had enough friends—one friend really, but it was plenty enough for him—but he was curious to learn about one person in particular. And he was more than delighted to find himself sitting directly across from her, her cheeks still flushing prettily as she tried to disentangle her friend’s arm from her shoulder.

Tenten couldn’t keep the blush from her face. Especially not after what Kiba had whispered to her. Now she was desperately trying to move away from him so that Neji—Hinata’s cousin, she finally realized, remembering some photos she had seen of him over the years—didn’t think they were a couple. Was that too late already? They looked pretty friendly together, but that was just because she had known the canine breeder since they were in high school.

She stole a glance at the lavender eyed man across from her as she took a sip of her whiskey while Hinata introduced him to everyone at the table, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was glaring very pointedly at Kiba, who seemed to think it was quite amusing, and he squeezed her shoulder in response to the newcomer’s stare.

“Stop it,” she hissed, turning to send him a glare of her own. She thrilled to think that Neji could be jealous of the attention Kiba was giving her, but she also hated the thought that he might believe they were dating.

Kiba grinned at her attempts to push him away, leaning closer to her ear again. “This is so much fun, Tenten,” he chuckled. “He barely knows you and he’s already this jealous. Should we see if we can make him hit me?”

“He won’t need to. I want to hit you already.” She stood abruptly, pulling him up by his collar as she went. “Go dance or something.”

The pout he sent her way usually had her caving in seconds, giving in to any of the crazy schemes that he cooked up in that brain of his, but she wouldn’t be swayed this time. She really liked this guy—despite having only just met him—and she didn’t want her idiot of a best friend ruining any slim chance she might have.

His pout turned into a grin, as if he could read her thoughts, and he sent her a wink, causing her blush to reignite as his words rushed back to her head. Damn, Tenten, he had whispered. He looks like he’s undressing you with his eyes. You gonna go home with him?

She most certainly would not be going home with him, but she couldn’t deny that Kiba’s words—and the idea that this extremely handsome man found her attractive enough to imagine her naked—had heat curling through her belly that had nothing to do with the whiskey.

Tenten was glad to see the back of her infuriating friend, and she sat back down with a sigh, forgetting to even try and look graceful. She inwardly winced, but then decided that it shouldn’t matter. If he wasn’t going to like her for who she was, then he wasn’t worth it.

Deciding it would be best to distract herself, she turned to face Shikamaru, who hadn’t said a word since she had taken a seat at the booth. “You aren’t with Temari tonight?”

Shikamaru replied with a roll of his eyes, but she could see the hurt in their depth when he looked at her. “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you. I’m in the doghouse.”

Oh. Tenten thought back to when they were getting ready for the evening. Temari had seemed a little more subdued than usual, but Tenten hadn’t thought anything of it. Now she felt like a cow. “What happened?”

“She said I forgot our anniversary.”

“What?” Tenten stared at him in shock. “You forgot your anniversary? Don’t you realize how special anniversaries are for women? Especially your first!”

“I know,” Shikamaru replied, practically growling as he glared at her. “And I didn’t forget. She’s the one who got the dates wrong.”

Tenten almost spat out the whiskey she was sipping, partly due to her friend’s words and partly because of a foot that had started to make its way up her leg, caressing it. She sent a wide-eyed glance at Neji, who remained impassive at the conversation going on around him as he stared back at her. She felt her face heating again and determined to concentrate on Shikamaru and his tale of forgotten anniversaries. That was much easier to deal with than a very handsome man playing footsies with her under the table.

“Why do you think she got the dates wrong?”

This time a sigh accompanied his eye roll, and Tenten could read his lips as he muttered a quiet ‘so troublesome’ under his breath. “One year ago today, we went on our first date, but I didn’t officially ask her out until a week later. So technically, our anniversary isn’t until next Saturday. But she is being too stubborn to even listen to me.”

That made sense. Tenten wasn’t sure what she would think in that situation. She could understand both sides of the story, and despite feeling sorry for Shikamaru, it was also amusing.

“If Temari is refusing to listen to you, why don’t you send her a message saying what you just told me. But leave out the ‘being too stubborn’ part. I’ll talk to her tomorrow as well and let her know about the misunderstanding just in case she refuses to read your message.” Tenten reached over to pat her friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Shikamaru. She’ll forgive you in no time. Just… make sure you make the anniversary day extra special for her, okay?” She glanced to the other side of Shikamaru. “When did Shino leave?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. When we were talking, maybe. Anyway,” he stood up from his seat, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head. “I’m going to go. I’ve already said congratulations to the happy couple, and it’s way past when I usually go to bed.”

“Drive safely. And don’t forget to message Temari.” Tenten called to his retreating back.

She had forgotten about the foot sliding up and down her leg during her conversation, but now, as she realized it was only the two of them left at the booth, it was the only thing on her mind. Despite her jeans and Neji’s shoes, Tenten still managed to shiver from the contact, and it took her far too long to build up the courage to meet his enchanting gaze.

“Hi,” she said, loud enough for him to hear but not so loud that she was yelling.

He smirked in response, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of her sudden shyness or the fact that they were finally alone together. “Hi,” he replied easily, his smooth voice warming her body far better than any glass of whiskey could.

Tenten hadn’t realized she had a weakness for voices until she met Neji. Or maybe it was just his voice she had a weakness for. “So, you went to a college overseas?” She knew it was an asinine question to ask, but she had to say something.

Neji stood slowly and Tenten felt a pang of hurt that he was leaving after she had asked him a question. But no, he wasn’t leaving at all. Instead, he made his way to her side of the booth and slid in beside her, his arm resting casually against the back of the bench behind her head.

He leaned in until he could speak without having to raise his voice. “It is a little frustrating having to talk over the noise. You do not mind this, do you?”

Mind it? Tenten was afraid she was about to swoon by being so close to him, while a part of her—a wild, reckless part that she hadn’t even known she possessed—wanted to crawl into his lap and sift her fingers through his hair. Would it be as soft to touch as it looked?

She managed to nod a response and watched as that smirk touched his lips again. And damn if she didn’t find that extremely hot.

“To answer your question,” he continued, settling back against the bench as though he owned it. “Yes. I went to college in Sydney, Australia.”

“Wow, that’s cool! Did Hinata ever think of going overseas to study?” Tenten couldn’t even imagine how expensive an overseas college life would be, but she was also jealous that he had already travelled so far despite being so young.

“Her father tried to pressure her into going, but she was too shy. She would not have handled another country very well.”

No, she wouldn’t have. Tenten remembered her first meeting with the woman. Hinata had barely spoken two sentences to her, and Tenten had to pry even those out of her. She had truly come a long way in five years.

“What about you?” he asked. She felt a lock of her hair being twined around a finger and blushed but didn’t comment on it. Unlike the man from earlier, Neji didn’t make her feel uncomfortable at all. “What was your major?”

Of course, he had to go and ask that. The one question she was embarrassed to answer. Not usually, of course, but for once, she had wished she had chosen a major that was a little more attractive. “I majored in Physical Education.” She couldn’t look at him as she said it, her eyes finding a pile of crumbs on the table and staring at that instead. “I like sports and I want to teach kids to enjoy it as well.”

“That is commendable,” he replied, shocking her. What shocked her more was when he tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head to look at him. “But why do you look like this is something to be ashamed of?”

“I-I’m not ashamed of it. I just,” she bit her lip, working it with her teeth until his finger pried it out of her mouth. His finger lingered on her lip, smoothing soft lines against it as if to erase the damage her teeth may have done before letting his hand drop. “Guys don’t seem to like the fact that I’m athletic. I think they’re intimidated or something.” She shrugged, eyes once again breaking contact with his. “I’m not one of those girls who just does Yoga or Pilates to maintain a healthy body. Ever since high school, I’ve competed in a variety of different sports, and I join a lot of marathons each year.”

He was silent for some time, long enough that Tenten began to regret saying so much. Her eyes found his again, unable to take the silence any longer, only to find him staring at her in serious contemplation.

“And men find this… unappealing?” he asked. She would have thought he was mocking her, except he had voiced the question with such seriousness, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes as though he couldn’t quite understand.

“Yes. They say they’re fine with it, up until they see me actually participating in some form of sports.” Tenten snorted, unable to help herself. “They especially don’t like it when I beat them at something. Apparently, it hurts their manly pride.”

“Ah.” He leaned back slightly, his eyebrows lifting as he took in her words. Part of her wondered if he was just like every other man she had known, but he was still twirling a lock of hair around his finger, and he seemed to have moved his arm so it was resting over her shoulders instead of the back of the bench. Surely, that was a good sign, right?

He was still staring at her as well, and Tenten was beginning to squirm under his scrutiny. “Anyway, that’s me. Tell me about yourself.”

Instead of replying to her question, he asked one of his own. “You are not dating that… Kiba, was it?”

Tenten couldn’t help laughing. They had tried a few years ago, but it had felt wrong to both of them, and they realized they were better off as friends. “God, no. Kiba is a good friend of mine. We’ve known each other for years, but that’s it.”

“Good.”

Tenten’s eyes widened in shock at his admission. Neji sent her a smile, looking uncertain for the first time that evening until she smiled at him in return.

He untangled his fingers from her hair and pressed his hand against her neck, drawing her closer to him. Tenten’s breath caught at his boldness, unused to men being so forward with her. Well, there had been that guy at the bar, but she hadn’t been interested in him at all. This man, however, made her feel weak at the knees and she didn’t mind one bit when his intense gaze never strayed from her face.

Was it possible to melt into a puddle by just a look?

Neji’s gaze flicked to her lips briefly before meeting her eyes again. “I find a strong woman very attractive,” he admitted, no trace of embarrassment on his features at the confession.

“You do?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but they were so close now that she knew he would hear her. Her heart pounded in her chest at his words, both elated and suspicious at the same time. How did she know he would stay true to them?

Fingers caressed a path along her cheek, and her entire vision was filled up by him. It was as though the loudness of the bar faded into the background and it was just the two of them alone, and Tenten decided she very much liked that idea.

Neji couldn’t get over how beautiful Tenten was, and for the first time, he regretted not visiting more often over the years. If he had—and if he had taken an interest in learning his cousin’s friends—he could have met Tenten a lot sooner. The knowledge that she had been here this whole time without his knowledge caused a blinding need within him. Not just a sexual need—though he couldn’t deny that was part of it—but a need to make up for all the time they had lost by being separated. Now that he was living here permanently again, he would make that happen. If she was willing, of course.

“Most definitely,” Neji replied, his voice dropping to a seductive purr as his eyes once again found her lips. He was dying to kiss her, but not until she was convinced that he was telling the truth. Would she mind if he told her that her physical prowess turned him on? “Besides,” he continued. “There is only one particular physical activity that I care to excel in.”

His smile widened a notch at seeing that pretty pink flush cover her cheeks as his words sunk in. He could see her mind working as she pictured just what sort of physical activity he was referring to. He couldn’t stop his own mind from wandering there, and he felt blood rush to his loins at the images that ran through his mind.

He couldn’t possibly have been referring to sex, could he? But even as Tenten tried to dissuade herself of the thought, she knew that had been exactly what he meant. “Do you?” The question was out of her mouth before she even had time to ponder it, and her face flushed anew as the desire to bury herself under the table consumed her.

“Do I?” he repeated, an eyebrow cocked as he tried to piece together her meaning. She knew exactly when he had, a slow smirk forming on his lips as his eyes turned violet once more. “I assure you, my chocolate-eyed beauty, that I am very adept at that form of activity.”

Tenten feared that he would be able to hear the pounding of her heart as he moved closer, until their faces were inches apart. Was he finally going to kiss her? Her eyes locked onto his lips and her tongue reached out to wet hers in preparation.

A low noise rumbled from the back of Neji’s throat. “You are teasing me, Tenten.”

“S-sorry, I’m not meaning to.” She darted her gaze away from his lips to rest on his shoulder.

“We just have one last item left to discuss,” he rumbled, and Tenten’s eyes flew back to his face, confused. What was left to talk about? He seemed tense, as though it was taking all his effort to stay completely still and not close the small gap between them. “Are you looking for a temporary companion, or a long-term one?”

“If you’re meaning whether I want a one-night stand,” she replied, finding the strength to maintain eye contact. “The answer is no. I don’t do one-night stands. But I also don’t have sex on the first date, either.”

Neji’s eyes sparkled at her words. “Then it’s a good thing this isn’t our first date. Or are you imagining that it is? Should I ask you to be my girlfriend now, so that there is no confusion when the anniversary comes around?”

Tenten laughed at his reference to Shikamaru and Temari’s dilemma. She didn’t think he had been paying attention, and her heart warmed at the thought that they could be together long enough to have an anniversary. Tenten’s eyes closed to half-mast and she could hear the sultry tone to her voice as she answered, “I don’t think it would hurt leaving it until tomorrow.”

“Good,” came Neji’s whispered reply a moment before he finally closed the gap and kissed her.

It looks like I might just be going home with him tonight, after all.

#Nejiten #Nejiten Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Why is Deidara always the bad guy in my stories?#I wanted to write a bit of sauciness without full on smut #Also Tenten isn't compromising her morals at the end of the story #She just found a loophole so she could enjoy the best of both worlds #Just in case you didn't get that

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connorandersons-blog · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Husbands, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vibrators, Dildos, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Vagina, Top Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Married Couple, Light Dom/sub, Subspace, Bathroom Sex, Vaginal Sex, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Minor Josh/North (Detroit: Become Human), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anniversary, Edgeplay

Summary: Markus and Connor have to attend a gathering held by New Jericho, but Markus makes the best of it for his husband as the day is very special for them.

For @hankcondumpsterfire

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Connor shifted, trying to get some kind of relief, but it only pushed the toy deeper into him. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He could get through this… convention? Meeting? Gala? He wasn't sure at this point, but he has to be there. It's not only his duty as a leader (though he swears up and down he's not), but also as the protection for the androids in attendance.

Right now he just wanted to be home, curled up with his husband, and spending the day together. The only consolation is that said husband also had to attend, given he was the actual leader. What the world didn't know about his wonderful husband, was that he's a dick and an absolute tease.

They spent their morning together like Connor wanted to, Markus taking his time and keeping Connor just on the edge. Then he gently pushed a toy in him after Markus filled him two times (which was rude, given Connor still hadn't come, but he wasn't actually complaining), and jumped off the bed stating they should get ready.

Connor had whined and begged but Markus had just smirked at him, leaving the toy off. So Connor was forced to get dressed, putting on a suit that had been custom made. Markus had been the one to pay for it, or rather Carl after Connor complained about not having enough pockets for all the weapons he carried when protecting Markus.

To the outside, it looked like any other suit, plain and simple. But Connor could hide at least twenty knives, a flick baton, and two guns without anyone seeing them. Markus had said it was sexy as hell, and Connor just thought it was practical. He didn't need all the weapons to take down a threat, but he liked to be prepared for anything and anyone that wanted to come after his family.

"Connor, are you alright?" Josh's gentle voice asked, a warm hand landing on his shoulder. His eyes opened and he let out a small gasp, hoping his surprise would be excuse enough.

Josh was always incredibly kind to Connor if a little weary the first week. Now Connor considered him a brother or at least an incredibly close friend. "I'm alright, just had a long day and I forgot this was happening."

Josh smiled sympathetically, giving his shoulder a small squeeze. "I'm sorry, but I'm sure if you asked Markus to dance he'd say yes. He'd say yes to anything you ask, really."

Connor snorted, shaking his head. Markus hadn't said yes when Connor was begging to come. "Perhaps. I shouldn't let myself get so distracted, though." He had a job to do and that job wasn't to daydream about that morning.

"Connor, you know you can take a break. We've got protection from more than just you, and if something was to happen I'm sure you'd be able to still help. I'm pretty sure you could fight while dancing with Markus at this point." Josh was far too kind, but Connor knew he was somewhat right.

He just wasn't sure dancing with the vibrator was going to end well. If he was human he'd be breaking out in a sweat, but as it was he looked perfectly presentable. "I know, thank you, Josh. I'll do a sweep and then maybe go talk to him."

It was funny, this almost reminded him of the first few gatherings he went to. He kept to the edge of the room, staring at Markus longingly as the man smiled and charmed everyone in the room. Josh had been the one to tell him to go talk to him, that Markus wouldn't bite and would love to get some time with Connor.

He had barely talked then to anyone, he had preferred to keep to himself. Now he loved his friends, had a beautiful husband and a vibrator up his cunt. Oh, how times change.

"Alright, I'll stop bugging you then. Don't want to clog up your attention." Josh chuckled, even going so far as to wink. Fuck, how could he tell?! He was so going to kick Markus's ass, but for now, his face flushed blue and he ducked his head.

"You never bother me." Is all he could think to say, and it was the truth. Josh had this calming effect and Connor loved to ramble to him when given the chance.

"It's alright, I don't think anyone else will notice. Just try not to cause another scandal alright? The last one almost gave Simon a heart attack." Josh was a bit too smug, but Connor couldn't help the grin.

The scandal wasn't all that bad, it did make some humans see they were very alive and did things humans did too. Like not wait until they got home. "Yeah, yeah. Why don't you go dance with North, she looks rather good in that suit."

Now it was Josh's turn to blush, and Connor rolled his eyes good-naturedly. It was an innocent crush, one Connor doubted would actually go anywhere, but it was cute to see. The two still argued like cats and dogs, but Connor had seen how soft they could be with each other when they weren't arguing.

"I… um, you know what? Maybe I will." Josh nodded, straightening up before marching over to North who was–Connor let out a long sigh–in a very heated conversation with a human male.

Connor watched him for only a second longer before pushing away from the wall. The toy wasn't nearly as big as Markus, but he could still feel Markus's come in him and it was driving him crazy.

His gait was stiff as he moved around the perimeter, checking the exits and scanning every face. It was all clear, and the others on security were doing an excellent job as always, so he let himself relax just the smallest bit.

It had been years since the revolution, but there was always the threat of humans trying to kill them. Tonight seemed like a good night, so he finally made his way towards Markus.

He was talking with an up-and-coming politician that actually seemed genuine and on their side. "-ourse, I see what you mean. The android population has been steadily growing, though not nearly at the rate humans do. Those that want to reproduce do so, though the majority has chosen to adopt the android children left without a family."

Connor slid to his side, wrapping his arm around his waist. Markus looked at him, smiling innocently, but the toy was turned up and Connor glared at him. "Good evening, sir." Connor nodded at the human.

"Ah, good evening Connor. I've been meaning to ask you some things about your work with the Detroit police at some point. I'm looking to see how we can improve training and the equipment you're supplied to deal with android criminals but also android victims." Lecato said, reaching out to shake his hand.

Connor nodded, taking the hand. "I'd be honored. I actually came to steal my husband for a dance if that's alright." He loved calling Markus that, knowing it was official. It took so long to get most of the rights they now had, and the two had been waiting for the day to come where they could finally tie the knot.

Lecato smiled warmly, eagerly nodding. "I should find my partner too, they are probably at the food knowing them." With that the man left, looking towards the food table for androids. Connor smiled after him, before turning and glaring at Markus.

"I'm dying." He said in complete seriousness. It was taking every bit of self-control not to just rut against him right then and there.

"You are not, you look rather good if I do say so myself. Now, you mentioned a dance?" Markus took his hand, pressing a kiss across his knuckles and then to the ring that was glowing blue. It was connected to Markus and it'd glow like an LED would with a few differences.

Connor sighed happily, seeing the ring on Markus's finger flashing a quick blue. Fuck, Markus was probably using that to see when he was getting close to coming, that mother fucker. "I did, but slowly, I'm not sure I can do anything too fast."

The toy slowed down and Connor sighed in relief, shivering slightly. He wanted to rub his thighs together or say fuck it and go to the bathroom to take care of himself. He didn't want to do that without Markus, though, he loves this even if it felt like agony.

Markus led him towards where others were dancing to the soft music, a few people moved away to give them some room. Markus gently rested his hands on Connor's hips while Connor clasped his behind Markus's neck.

They couldn't stop looking at each other as they moved with the music, and Markus was merciful enough to turn the toy off for now. It was already weird enough to dance while plugged, he didn't need it vibrating too.

"You're beautiful." Markus sighed, his hold tightening on Connor. He could see the love in his eyes and Connor knew he'd do anything for him. He had known that for a long time, but seeing him like this, surrounded by loving people but only had eyes for Connor just made his heart flutter.

"I love you more than you will ever know." It was so deep within him, deeper than even he thought, and nothing would dislodge it. He'd live his whole life in love with Markus and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Markus's smile was blinding, and he leaned to kiss him gently and sweetly. Then the toy was switched to high and the kiss drowned out his surprised moan. Connor trembled, grabbing onto Markus and hanging onto him desperately. "I love you too, baby," Markus murmured, still leading them into a very slow sway of a dance.

"Markus! Fuck, please." He begged quietly, trying to keep his voice down. It was thrilling to be so close with so many people around. If he was good no one would ever know what was happening.

Markus smirked, his hand sliding up and down Connor's back soothingly. "Shh, it's ok. How silent can you be?" Connor knew what he was asking and he could only nod.

He hid his face in the crook of Markus's neck, trying to calm his breathing. Each sway to the side brushed it against his g-spot, he gently licked at Markus's neck, sucking ever so slightly to keep his mouth busy.

They kept dancing even as the song ended and another began. Markus kept switching the settings, never letting Connor get used to what it was on before it changed. He tried not to clench around it, it would only make it worse, but he felt so riled up. He hadn't orgasmed all day, and now he was close to laying on the ground right there and begging Markus to fuck him.

He'd be so good too, all nice and pliant for him, he'd take everything. "Markus, I wanna. It's not enough, I want you." He whispered in his ear, his hips moving in slow circles that would hopefully look like just part of the dance.

Markus pulled back, giving a small singular nod, and started to lead him away. Connor clutched at his arm, leaning on him heavily as he tried to walk normally. He couldn't even keep track of his surroundings, he just followed Markus blindly.

He found himself in a large bathroom stall, still waiting patiently for Markus's next command.

Markus reached for him, gently unbuttoning Connor's shirt and helping him out of it. Then he helped him out of his pants, making sure the jacket was safe hung up on the door. Connor let Markus undress him, knowing he'd make sure his weapons were taken care of too.

Connor shivered once he was stripped bare, the only thing left was the toy in him. He'd long since stopped being embarrassed in front of Markus when nude and the floating space he was in only helped that. He was leaking enough that it was coming out around the toy and Markus cooed at him, tugging on the vibe before pushing it back in.

"There we go, look how beautiful you are." Markus pumped the toy in and out quickly and Connor felt his knees go weak. Markus caught him and lowered him onto the pristine toilet, pulling the toy completely out and setting it aside on a piece of toilet paper to keep it clean.

Connor whined, rocking his hips in desperation but there was nothing to really give pleasure. "Please?" He looked up at Markus, arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

Markus cooed again, switching their position so Markus was sitting on the toilet and Connor was in his lap. He didn't even remember when Markus had undone his own pants, shoving them down around his ankles.

Connor was open and slick, but Markus still gently circled his cunt before sliding two fingers in. The toy was great but there was something about it being Markus that made everything better. He opened him up, finding that Connor wasn't just wet with his own slick but Markus's come. Android come didn't dry like humans' did, and he was eternally grateful for that.

Connor kept hiding his face but only to keep his whimpers and mewls quiet. They were still in public and he didn't need someone passing by the bathroom and hearing them.

It still wasn't enough and he would have taken control if he had the energy or mindset to do so. He could only pull back and kiss Markus, trying to get across what he wanted.

Maybe if they hadn't been together for so long, if they were so happily married, Markus wouldn't know, but he did. He slid his fingers out and used the wetness to slick up his own dick.

Connor felt himself getting lifted before sliding down on something he wanted all day long. He gasped, head falling back as his mind turned white. He didn't come, not yet, but this was still pure bliss. "Yes!" He hissed out, hips bucking for more.

Markus started slow, holding himself back with practiced ease. A hand reached down to rub slow circles on his clit, his touch so light it caused him to shiver. His skin tingled, his insides felt like they were all bunched up.

His senses felt heightened, yet he could only focus on Markus and the pleasure that was building again. He didn't even hear the bathroom door open, he just felt the hand on his mouth and the stillness of Markus. He started bouncing, finding some semblance of strength to keep going even as Markus swatted at him with wide eyes.

He couldn't stop even if the person would wear the wet sounds of Markus's dick sliding in and out of his dripping cunt. The hand on his clit turned harsh, but not in the way Connor didn't like. Markus would never actually hurt him. He'd spank him and hit when Connor wanted, but Connor knew Markus would follow each with love.

There was a pause where Markus was sure the person would call them out, but then the door was opening and leaving them alone.

Connor giggled at the look on Markus's face and knew he was finally going to get it. Markus shoved his fingers in Connor's mouth, and he eagerly sucked and licked at them. Markus fucked up into him in time with Connor's bouncing, his hand never leaving his clit.

Markus pulled his fingers out and Connor missed it, but then something bigger was pressing against his lips and he opened his mouth with little thought. The vibrations made his eyes roll to the back of his head, and he sucked on the vibrator greedily. The vibrations on his tongue just amplified his pleasure, and he was so fucking close.

"Fuck, come on baby. You can come now, I won't stop you." Markus grunted, straining to stop himself from doing just that until Connor finally did.

Connor felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks as his world seemed to tilt on its axis. He hadn't known he was waiting for that, but now that he had it his orgasm came in huge tidal waves. It was so much stronger, so long-awaited that Connor couldn't stop his systems from shutting down everything that wasn't essential.

Markus finished in him, smiling fondly when he saw the empty look on Connor's face. No, it wasn't empty, it was filled with so much pleasure that his mind didn't know what to do.

Connor was limp against him, mind fuzzy as he waited for his systems to come back online. His ears were ringing but soon that ended and he could hear Markus panting and the soft whirling thump of his thirium pump. "Markus." He slurred out the only word that seemed to want to work.

"There we go, hey baby. You ok?" Markus asked, rubbing along Connor's thighs.

He nodded mutely, his breathing slowing down. "I fledjl hkahdh." He scrunched up his face in confusion but couldn't do much to care.

Markus obviously was trying to hold back a chuckle. "What was that?"

"I… I feakal, ugh! I f-feel hick. High." He wasn't too fond of having to think so hard on his words, but he knew nothing was technically wrong. It had happened before and it just took a little bit before he could speak normally again.

"There we go, good boy. Let's take some slow breaths ok?" Markus exaggerated his breathing and Connor copied, feeling his core temperature decrease slowly.

The swirling mess that was his mind slowly started to calm and this was his second favorite part. The absolute tranquility that came over him when he got like this. His mind was quiet, he was aware of his surroundings but he just felt… relaxed. Like he didn't need a thousand processes going at once or he'd get antsy. "Better." He still had that feeling of being high, but now he was in control again.

Markus beamed at him, hugging him tightly. "You were so good at waiting, I'm proud of you. I think we can get out of this a bit early if you want. Do you wanna go home?"

He did, he really did, but it wouldn't look good. They'd already been gone far longer than appropriate, people would start speculating at what they were doing. "We shouldn't."

"I didn't ask what we should do, I asked what you wanted to do."

"You know what I want, you always do." Markus could read him like a book even when he didn't want to be.

"Hm, but hearing it confirms it. You know how important words are, baby."

"Yes. And yes, I do."

Markus nodded and helped Connor off, cleaning him up. "Do you want this back in you or should I find one of your special pockets to keep it in." Markus held the toy, having cleaned it off.

Connor took it and slid it into a pocket of his coat, pulling his clothes on leisurely, glad that Markus had taken the time to fold it.

Connor looked only slightly rumbled, and Markus looked perfect as always, so they made their way out and back into the huge ballroom. Markus led them over to North who was still with Josh.

"North, Josh." Markus grinned, holding Connor's hand. "I'm taking Connor home. Can you handle the rest?"

Connor whipped his head around, glaring at Markus. "No, we are staying. You have a speech to make, Simon worked hard on that."

Markus pursed his lips and Connor knew he was going to do something. When the man clapped his hands together and drew everyone's attention Connor let out a long sigh. "Good evening! Thank you all for coming, please enjoy the food and drink. The silent auction will occur later tonight and I encourage you to partake, as it will include some of my own art as well as my father's–Carl Manfred."

The crowd politely clapped, all looking a little confused as to why such a speech could occur so early into the night. "With that, my husband and I will be heading home given it's the anniversary of our first date. Have a wonderful time."

Connor gaped at him and he could hear a few good-natured chuckles. North huffed and Josh shook his head. Connor knew Simon would have his look of disappointment, and that alone would give anyone pause.

Markus grinned and tugged Connor along, eyes shining with mirth. They really were ditching the party, huh. Someone wolf-whistled and the chuckles grew as Markus gave a thumbs up. He really owed Simon and Josh for all the press they'd have to do for this too.

Markus burst into giggles as they left the building, jogging over to his car. Connor couldn't help but laugh along with him, pushing Markus against the car's door and kissing him senseless. "That was stupid, but I love you." He grinned, fixing Markus's bowtie.

"It was incredibly smart, I'm a very good husband." Markus kissed him again, pushing away to get into the car.

"I never said you weren't a good husband, that was never in question." He was the best husband he could ever have, and he was sure he was the luckiest man alive for having him. "You still shouldn't bail on functions you're the host of."

Markus shrugged, setting the car for their home and letting the car drive itself. "I should because I have a wonderful husband who is the most beautiful man ever. I definitely should when said husband has been so good for me and I want to spoil him rotten for the rest of the night."

He really couldn't argue with that, so he just grinned, ducking his head. This day wasn't exactly what he imagined, but he wouldn't have changed a single thing.

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shinsousbedroom · 3 years

Text

Stars and their Distance

Daiya no Ace misawa FWB AU, 1/10 chapters

Miyuki Kazuya, a depressed, workaholic catcher in the NPB, and Sawamura Eijun, a frustrated influencer who just got dumped, are both looking for temporary distraction. The casual, no-strings-attached friends with benefits thing they stumble into is exactly that.

Well, it would be if either of them knew how to do casual.

[Read on AO3.]

Chapter 1: Spinning

Excerpt from “Ace of Hearts: a blog about when love comes outta left field!; Q&A: Bad Break-Up Blues”

“[…] Think of relationships like this. You’re a pitcher on the mound and there’s a line up of batters waiting to knock your ball outta the park. These are your dating prospects. When you’ve gotten hurt pitching before—tore a tendon, drilled the batter, balked, whatever it was—you might not wanna pitch again, right? But the only surefire way to lose the game is to not throw the ball at all.

“You might be thinking, ‘But Eijun, if the batter hits a home run off your pitch, aren’t you losing the game?’ Well, if you think the point of the game is to win, sure. But to me, the point of baseball isn’t victory. It’s playing the best game you can with the best players you can. The same can be said for love. Some batters will foul out early, and some runners will never make it all the way home. But when you make that connection, when that bat slams the ball out of the park and the whole field feels the electric rush of a phenomenal play that you helped make—isn’t that a beautiful moment to chase after? Isn’t that feeling worth the risk that comes with love?

“So no matter how unlikely a batter steps up to your plate—and there will be batters you didn’t anticipate—throw the pitch! I promise, every strikeout and home run just makes you a better pitcher and brings you a step closer to a beautiful game. […]”

***

“Did you have to move right after the end of the season?” Kuramochi wiped off the sweat from his face with the bottom of his blue shirt. The whole thing was already drenched dark, consistently doused with water the whole day through as Kuramochi drained bottles over his head to beat back the unseasonably hot September day. “Take a fucking break first, Miyuki.”

Kazuya spat out a handful of screws. The bitter, metallic aftertaste clung to his mouth. “Why delay?” he said, tossing the instruction manual for his shelf to the side in frustration. It skittered across the hardwood floor and into Chris’ calf.

Chris plucked the booklet up and thumbed through the pages of mildly helpful pictograms, eyeing them warily against Kazuya’s clear lack of progress. “Yeah, Miyuki. Why delay?”

Kazuya shot Chris a sour look and flopped back onto the ground with a groan, defeated. “Not like we’re busy during postseason this year.”

They sighed in unison, united in the bitterness of loss.

At least Chris’ team had been only one out from the Climax Series. The Swallows hadn’t come close, and even though it was expected from a rebuild year, the loss still rankled. Small mercies, though: Kazuya could rub in the fact that the Swallows hadn’t been last place in their league unlike the Mariners.

Suck it, Kuramochi. He’d take his victories where he could.

Kazuya stuck his hand into the air, spreading his fingers wide as the overhead lights filtered between them. “Anyway. Moving is work, and you all banned me from working for the next four months. So really, I’m being responsible here.” His hand flopped down next to him with a hard thunk.

Kuramochi trudged over, heavy steps echoing through the empty apartment, until his head popped into Kazuya’s vision, arms crossed and scowl fierce. “If you wanna try to fight this again, just give me a fucking reason to pin you into a headlock until you’re crying for mercy.”

Kazuya grabbed at his ankle, rolling onto his stomach for a second swipe as Kuramochi danced out of reach.

“You can’t pull a fast one on the cheet—AH!”

His ankles caught the edge of the shelf boards, knocking Kuramochi onto his ass. The wooden slats scraped across each other as they slid out of their neat stacks, thumping and scratching the floor until they were criss-crossed between Kazuya cackling into the floor on his stomach and Kuramochi, shocked and sprawled across the debris.

“Fucking build your furniture, Miyuki!” He cradled his foot in his hands, holding it up to inspect as he twisted it every which way. “We’re not doing the same thing as last time, when it took you a full year to finally put all your shit together.”

The weight of apathy slid back into Kazuya’s limbs, edging out the laughter that had given him a moment of relief. “What if I just didn’t?”

“Is that what you want?” Chris replied evenly.

He lolled his head towards Chris. Despite the heat, Chris had spent all day in a black turtleneck, never once hinting he was even mildly uncomfortable even at the peak of the day’s heat, lugging in heavy boxes from the sun-warmed streets. Now sitting on the floor among bubble wrap and crumpled paper, legs kicked out in front of him and waves of brown bangs framing his face, he still looked as wholly put together as ever.

Even when Kazuya knew beyond a doubt Chris was the epitome of keeping a stone face even when he was going through the worst of it, he still couldn’t help but be jealous.

Kazuya went back to staring at the unfamiliar gray tiles on his new ceiling. “It would be pretty funny to leave my apartment unfurnished to spite Kuramochi.”

“Finish the shelf.” Chris tossed the manual back.

“Kominato’s the one who left the task half-done,” Kazuya said, closing his eyes, overwhelmed in a sudden wash of fury and helplessness.

He opened his eyes to see Kuramochi and Chris hovering above him again. Both their brows were furrowed, Kuramochi’s fist clenched at his collar, Chris frowning mildly.

“I’m fine,” Kazuya said brusquely.

They glanced at each other, then back at Kazuya.

He sat up, forcing the other two to reel back to avoid knocking their heads together. “I’m 27, not 7,” he said, testily. “I don’t need to be put under a watch, I’m a grown ass adult.”

“We aren’t gonna—we can’t sit to the side and watch you nearly kill yourself from overwork again this off-season.”

“Don’t exaggerate—“

“You said you had it together last year, but you didn’t. So you’re getting strict rules this year,” Kuramochi tugged at his hair, a frustrated sneer on his face. “The Swallows and your agent both know not to let you pile on more than your bare minimum until preseason. And the rest of us are going to check on you regularly because we care about your health, even when you don’t. Got it?”

“It’s not overwork,” he said, falling into the same argument that had been chipping away at him for a year now.

“Then what is it?”

The only coping mechanism that works. The only way I can pretend to feel anything off the diamond. The only thing that makes me tired enough to sleep at night without baseball 24/7.

He settled on: “It’s just work. Making a living, some might say.”

“Hard to do that when you’re stuck in a hospital bed.”

“That won’t happen again. I was just stressed and tired and a bad day caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, it won’t again because we’re gonna help make sure the off-season doesn’t wreck you again after a long history of hiding your fucking problems until they explode.”

“At least you can’t take conditioning away from me.”

“Follow the plan your trainers set for you.” Chris’ voice cut into Kazuya’s stubbornness. “Please don’t joke about this with me.”

After a moment, Kazuya nodded his head, brusque.

Kuramochi rubbed the back of his neck, trying to break the awkward air that had sprung up between them. “Isn’t exercise supposed to help depressed people? Boost your serotonin up or some shit like that?”

“Just my luck it doesn’t,” Kazuya muttered. He cleared his throat. “Can we go back to harassing me about how bad I am at unpacking?”

“We wouldn’t harass you if you just did it.” Kuramochi stood back up and kicked at a box as he went back to sweeping the floors. “Unpack before the season starts up again. You have nearly five months. If you’re feeling feisty, try decorating your apartment, too.”

“My entire personality is baseball. I don’t care about interior design. Or anything else, for that matter.”

“You used to. Pick up your old hobbies. Bring out that telescope you had at back at Waseda. Read a memoir. All the shit you can’t do during the season, drag ‘em out into the open again.”

The wrong answer, he knew, was to reiterate that he didn’t care about any of that anymore. Seriously. “You two are busy-bodies.”

Chris handed him the power drill then returned to the pile of securely wrapped glass kitchenware. “It’s called friendship,” he said, bubble wrap crinkling.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Just try, Miyuki. Please.”

“Sure,” he said, flippantly, knowing the lie didn’t pass unnoticed from the sag in Kuramochi’s shoulders. He thumbed through the instructions, pushing aside the guilt welling into his throat. Kazuya needed this conversation to be over. “Chris-senpai, where’d you put the drill bits?”

***

“Hjnhbgfgvbhnjmknjbhgvfdbghnjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj” wasn’t the most eloquent start to Eijun’s next blog post. Of course, Eijun normally didn’t start his articles by rolling his face across the keyboard in frustration, but considering how little he’d written in the past week, this was as good a draft as any.

Eijun’s eyes flung open as the laptop shifted from under his face, tipping his head off to thunk into the table. He rubbed at his forehead, and blinked up to find Harucchi tapping delicately at the keyboard while the other hand balanced the device in the air. “Eijun-kun,” said Harucchi, peering from around the screen, “not your finest work.”

Eijun sat up and scowled, the lines of his face scrunching against the keyboard indents on his skin. “What would you know about it?”

“I’ve been editing your posts for years,” Harucchi said. He settled the laptop in front of Eijun, then settled into the chair across from him. “If you’d like me to stop now, I can happily use that time in other ways.”

The dishes rattled when Eijun slammed his palm onto the table. “You’re not allowed to ditch me like that!”

Harucchi raised his eyebrows. “Says the man who’s been avoiding me.”

A double blow of panic and then confusion struck him. He frowned and swiveled his head around. Snaking line at the counter, coffee scenting the air, a low hum of incomprehensible chatter: this was definitely the coffee shop he’d just discovered this morning and came to by himself and didn’t tell Harucchi about. “How’d you find me?”

“You should stop posting your location on Instagram if you don’t want to be found,” he offered with a gentle smile.

“You don’t live anywhere near here.”

“A teammate just moved to the neighborhood. It was pure luck I happened to be there while you happened to be here.” He ran his fingers against the edge of a plate by Eijun’s elbow, empty of all but crumbs. “It’s a cute shop. New haunt for you?” he asked, a touch too casual.

Eijun averted his eyes, lips pinching. He knew what Harucchi was really asking. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“I’m doing fine,” Eijun insisted. “Really.”

“I’m glad you stopped feeling obligated to go to the other cafe.” His voice was barely loud enough to reach Eijun, covered by the clatter and call of employees, and a particularly rowdy group of seven students packed at a four person table next to his little corner.

“The old place got too many baristas who sucked,” Eijun lied. As if Harucchi didn’t already know that he’d only just shoved his pride aside enough to accept he’d lost his favorite coffee shop to the break-up. “Had to find a new one.”

Harucchi pried open the plastic lid to his coffee, blowing at the steam rising from the cup. He drew in a long, slow slip of his drink. “Maybe a fresh start here means a fresh start with the blog. Talk about grinding new beans, or something…?” Eijun blanched, well aware that Harucchi’s innocent reputation was a front.

“If you think I am going to subject my loyal followers to love advice using bean grinding as the topic—”

“You’ll have to excuse me if you had an idea in mind already. I’d thought from the keysmashing that you hadn’t.” Eijun aimed a kick at his shin under the table. Without looking, Harucchi crossed his legs, as if he’d planned on it for that exact moment all along instead of the attempt to dodge Eijun’s ire that it really was. “Is there a reason you can’t find an appropriate topic for your next post?”

Eijun cheeks puffed out, determined for two whole seconds not to tell Harucchi the truth, before blurting out, “I promised Wakana we’d wait a few months before officially announcing we broke up.” And yep—there it was, that classic Kominato passively skeptical look that circled past nonjudgmental so thoroughly that it ended up aggressively intimidating. The one that meant Harucchi was seconds away from bulldozing through all the nonsense he was seeing ahead of him. Eijun lived in terror of it. “She wanted to give us a chance to recuperate in private first,” he muttered, defensive.

“Eijun-kun.”

“I know, I know! A smart idea for people like Wakana, but I don’t…like wallowing like this. I can’t keep sitting here thinking about how much she doesn’t want me, and it’s all I want to write about. But I can’t post any of it. It’s been nearly two months, and I haven’t moved on. I’ve just gotten madder.”

“You two didn’t consider posting a small announcement saying you were over but you needed time? Space?”

“I couldn’t ask her.” Eijun subsided, spinning his teacup in its saucer with a single finger hooked through its tiny handle. “I owe her, Harucchi. The only reason I started lifestyle and romance blogging was because Wakana got me into it. I made my start on her profiles with her followers. Talking about her now? Why we broke up? Even if I want to, it sounds like betraying her. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m trying to talk shit about her, when we’re both in the same influencer circles.”

Harucchi tilted his head, and when Eijun didn't continue on after several seconds, he prompted, “There’s more.”

So much for the dumb jock stereotype.

“If I write it, then I feel like I’m giving up on her. On us ever being something together, again.” He crossed his arms onto the table, elbows shoving the dishes and laptop uncomfortably close to the edge of the small table, and laid his head on his forearms. He closed his eyes, and said quietly into his chest, “I still love her, Harucchi.”

“I know, Eijun-kun.” A warm hand squeezed his elbow. Between their silence, the monstrous table of college students packed up and left, and suddenly the shop settled into a calm Eijun needed.

He poked his head up from the comfort of his arms to stare at Harucchi. He was steadily sipping his coffee, one hand resting on Eijun’s elbow. His pink hair had pulled out of the bun at his nape and fell into windswept wisps framing his face and neck. He’d long since stopped wearing Ryou-san’s hand-me-downs in favor of softer, luxe sweaters and slacks, the only true expense he indulged in despite his lucrative status as a rising star for the Swallows.

Altogether, he looked gentle, dangerously so. On the diamond or off, it was easy to be lulled into a sense of security right before he whacked an unpleasant truth out of the park.

Harucchi pulled his hand back and apologized with a glance. Eijun wasn’t sure why…until he started speaking. “You make a living off of posting about your life—and romance, in particular. You’ve never hidden your past relationship troubles from your followers, however difficult it was to express. It’s part of your brand at this point.”

Eijun’s mouth twisted as he sat up. “Wakana isn’t a branding tool.”

“No one is saying that,” Harucchi said patiently. “What I am saying: you underestimate how much of your own work goes into your success. Aotsuki was certainly helpful—but your personality and your words are why people stay. People trust you.

“You’re good at what you do, Eijun-kun. You’re honest and kind in your observations, to yourself, to your partners, to strangers, despite how difficult and personal love is. When the time comes, whatever you post about Aotsuki will be the same.” Harucchi shrugged. “Also, I’ll edit out anything that makes you sound insensitive.”

Eijun let out a heavy sigh, stretching his arms into the air and shaking off the melancholy. “Thanks for not letting me fall on my own sword.”

“What are friends for?”

For all that he felt better, though, Eijun was still stuck staring at a blinking cursor at the end of a line of drivel. “That still doesn’t solve my problem. I don’t have a clue what to post next. The schedule I followed is trash now without personal updates of me and Wakana. I haven’t been able to binge any of the manga or shows I wanted to review, either. All I got left is the advice column, but if I keep that up with nothing else, I might as well change the blog name to Dear Eijun instead of Ace of Hearts.”

Harucchi stared at him, calculating out something as he took in Sawamura’s restlessness. “You don’t have to keep writing about romance.”

“That’s what I started the blog for.”

“But that’s not why you started writing and recording back at Seidou. You’ve had success with your baseball analysis and tutorials on YouTube and Instagram. You could even say you’ve been neglecting them to chase after romance.”

Eijun groaned, loud and theatrical enough to make the meek businessman behind him jump in shock. “Maybe if I got as much engagement talking about how stupid the idea of celebrity athletes are when it’s a team sport—”

“See?” he cut in, tilting his cup toward Eijun. “You already have a topic to post about.”

“Baseball is my hobby, not my job,” he said mulishly, jaw jutting out. “My dad wrecked his love of music that way! I’m not gonna risk hating baseball after he spent my whole life yelling at me not to ‘monetize my interests’ while holding me in a headlock. That’s asking for the biggest lecture of my life!”

“You can always stop if it’s not the direction you want to go. You’re not getting married to the idea.”

“Don’t bring up marriage, I just got dumped!”

Harucchi pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Fine, don’t think of it as a marriage,” he said. From Harucchi, the sliver of impatience he let free was the equivalent of hauling Eijun by the collar and shaking him down. “Flirt with baseball. Go on a few dates. Get a benefit or two out of it. Does the metaphor suffice now?”

Eijun gasped. “Harucchi! You’re too innocent for that sort of talk!”

“My brother is Kominato Ryousuke, and my best friend writes a blog about romance and sex that I edit,” he said, even as his quiet voice went squeaky and his face mottled bright red from embarrassment.

“Maybe I should change my blog to save you the embarrassment.”

“I also admit I have a request of you,” Harucchi said sheepishly, pressing a hand to his cheek. “The Swallows want me to get more heavily involved in PR this offseason, and I could use your help figuring out what I’d actually like to do instead of going along with every idea they propose. I’ve seen what they make the other players do, and I’m not interested in doing the exact type of promo they’ve done the past few seasons.”

Eijun crossed his arms and leaned back, chin tilting up defensively. “If you’re trying to convince me by pretending you need help—”

Harucchi shook his head, bangs bouncing across his forehead. “I hope you’ll find value or inspiration in it, too, but I was going to ask, regardless.” He grimaced into his cup. “The players who carry most of the strain of Swallows marketing are…otherwise occupied this offseason. I was volunteered to step in; management’s been wanting me to raise my profile for a while. I can’t really say no, so I may as well make the most of it.”

“I don’t want a pity job.”

“Please, be reasonable.” Harucchi smiled the shy, dreamy, polished smile the Swallows had been trying to splash across their advertising since he joined the team. “It’s a pity favor.”

Eijun snorted, relaxing into his chair again. “Fine,” he said, pulling open a clean document on his laptop. “Let’s brainstorm.”

#daiya no ace #daiya no a #misawa #daiya no ace fanfic #lolo's fic writing tag

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kelyon · 3 years

Text

Golden Rings 12: A Wolf

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumple notices an unusual event

Read on AO3

Content Warning: Graham in this chapter and nothing good ever happens to Graham.

He is lying on their bed, spread-eagled and naked on the blue and gold coverlet. The gray-green of his skin looks rough and dull compared to the vibrant silk. His wife stands above him, clad in a gown of emerald velvet. She holds his dagger loosely at her side.

“Tell me the truth,” she orders. “Do you want to do this, Rumpelstiltskin?”

Magic surrounds him, connects him to the blade and to his wife. She is the mistress of the dagger. He gave himself over to her long ago. She owns him, body and mind, will and power. He must obey. It is impossible, unthinkable, to do anything else. At her command, he speaks the truth:

“I want to please you.” His breath comes hard and heavy. “But I am afraid. I do not want to be a slave to anyone.”

Belle sits on the bed beside him, sets the dagger aside. She cradles his face, leans over and kisses him. Their foreheads touch, they breathe together for a moment.

“Thank you for telling me you’re afraid,” she whispers. “And thank you for wanting to please me. We don’t have to play this game if you don’t want to.”

“But I do want to.” He reaches for her face, runs his black claws through her hair. It is easier to say these things when he is closer to her. She makes it so easy to be weak. “I want to belong to you, sweetheart. I know you won’t hurt me.”

She kisses him, long and deep and loving. He surrenders to the kiss, he lets her take him. Belle loves him, wants him, treasures him. For some far reason beyond his comprehension, he is precious to her. She will not let him come to harm.

In his long life, no one has ever protected him before.

“If I ask you to, Rumple, will you face your fear?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “There is nothing I would deny you, Belle. Nothing in the world and nothing of myself.”

Slowly nodding, she pulls back. She sits up above him. She picks up the dagger emblazoned with his name.

“I won’t hurt you, and I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Her voice is calm as she looks down at him--calm and cool, but still full of love. “But in this game I will keep you from doing what you want. Do you understand?”

He swallows. Belle will take care of him. Belle will push him to the edge and pull him back again, just as he has done to her a thousand times. Belle loves him and he loves her.

He trusts her.

“Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I understand.”

“And if you cannot bear it, if you wish to stop this game, I charge you now that you must say the word we have agreed upon.”

“I will,” he whispers.

“Tell me the word now, Rumple, so that it is fresh in your mind.”

He almost smiles. “The word is apple.”

Even the faintest allusion to Regina will be a bucket of cold water on both of them. The woman who hurt Belle in the past, who will hurt both of them in the future--the mere thought of her will be enough to sober them both and signal the end of anything playful.

“That’s very good, Rumple.” Belle punctuates her praise with a kiss on his forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you, not in your body and not in your heart. In this game, I will control you, but you must speak if I go too far.”

“I will,” he promises. And the magic will hold him to his words. “I trust you, Belle. I love you.”

“I love you.” She looks down on him, her beautiful hair curling down to brush against his naked chest. Her smile is so warm, so lovely.

Then she gets off the bed, and holds the dagger aloft. When she looks at him next, her smile is gone, her eyes are cold, her face impassive. This is Belle with power, Belle in control. In control of him.

His mouth goes dry and his pulse begins to race.

“Until I say otherwise,” she declares, “you are to lay flat on the bed. You will not move. You will not speak, except to answer a direct question or to say the word. You will stop the game if there is any danger to the castle, to myself, or to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he breathes. His cock is already growing hard, just from being near his wife, just from being at her mercy.

“And Rumpelstiltskin?” she adds.

He cannot speak, but nods to show his attention.

“Under no circumstances are you permitted to come until I say.”

He closes his eyes and bites down a groan. He doesn’t protest--he can only speak to end the game before it begins. And this is what Belle told him she was going to do: keep him from doing what he wanted. His body is hers, he has agreed to it again and again.

She will do as she likes with him. He will trust her, and he will enjoy the experience.

With one hand still holding the dagger, she begins to unlace the front of her bodice. The green velvet of her gown gives way to a white silk chemise--light underneath the darkness. She doesn’t remove the dress completely, but lets it cling to her body, half-open. It gives the most tempting, most alluring glimpses of her skin.

He doesn’t realize he had reached for her until he feels the magic pull him back to the bed. It pulls him by the wrists, as though he is wearing shackles. As though he is bound by the same golden cuffs he had used on Belle so long ago.

Perhaps she is thinking the same thing. The next time she touches him it is to twist his wedding ring around his finger. Their rings were once her cuffs. What was once her bondage is now their bond, their marriage, their love.

Half-dressed, she leans over him. He can smell her body--her sweat, her arousal. He wants to pull her close and bury his nose in her. He wants to smell and taste and touch--then hear her laugh and sigh in pleasure.

But he cannot.

Because it pleases her that he doesn’t.

Instead, she straddles him. She hitches up her skirts and petticoats and spreads them out over his body. Silk and lace and velvet tickle the bare skin of his chest. He can feel her legs, her heat, even traces of her slick desire--but he cannot see any of it.

She sets herself lightly against his cock. The position teases him, taunts him with how similar it is to what he really wants. Their bodies are close together, but not nearly close enough. They will not be close enough until he is fully sheathed inside her and she is screaming and moaning in delight.

Belle sets the dagger down on the bed beside him. If he could move his hand but one inch, he could grab the blade and all his power would be his own again.

But even if he could, he wouldn’t. He gave the dagger to Belle. He gave himself to her, and that is a vow he will never break.

She must see him looking at the dagger, for when he looks on her again, she grins. “That’s good that you didn’t reach for it,” she coos. “Maybe someday we’ll be able to do this without magic. What would you think of that?”

She has asked him a question, so he can speak. “I think I might like that.”

Her grin transforms into a loving smile. Bending over him, she runs her pale hands over his dark chest--first her fingers, then her palms, and then back with her fingernails raking against his bare skin. He throws his head back. A strangled moan fights to escape his closed lips.

She chuckles. “Oh please make noise, my darling. Be as loud as you like.”

He is glad of that permission when her clever fingers brush over his gold-speckled nipples. Faint circles swirl over his sensitive flesh, teasing, tempting. When she finally relents and pinches him, the pain is close enough to pleasure that he groans and arches up briefly before the magic pulls him back down.

“Oh!” Belle sighs as she rides him. “I thought you might like that! Now I can feel that you do.” She grinds down against him, her slick folds rubbing against his shaft. He is still not inside her and it is driving him mad.

But of course she knows that.

She takes her hands off his chest and brings them to her gown. She pulls the bodice open further, so her arms are just barely in her sleeves. Her white chemise is loosely knotted at the back, when she pulls at the knot, the silk billows out around her. Now her neckline is at her waist and her beautiful pink breasts are finally exposed.

He groans at the sight of her, his perfect wife. How has he not exploded already?

Because she told him not to.

“Let me tell you something, Rumple.” She leans over him again, to whisper to him. Her body presses against his. Her nipples are as hard and pointed as his own--he feels them against his skin, as hot as her breath in his ear. “I like it too.”

Then her lovely hands are on her own flawless body. She touches herself the same way she just touched him--sweeping, scratching, pinching. She thrusts her hips against his pelvis and he can do nothing to enhance either her pleasure or his own.

It is excruciating.

It is exhilarating.

It feels like she does this for years, for an eternity. His wife takes her pleasure and he’s lucky he even gets to watch. She moves around his body while he lies paralyzed on the bed. Using his cock and and his mouth and his balled fists like so many lifeless toys, she makes herself come again and again. He has never been so powerless. He has never been so hard.

She strips away the rest of her clothes and he can see everything. He can see his dark cock entering her and disappearing inside her body. She clenches around him, hot and wet and maddening. He has no control over this. He cannot take her as he wants to. He cannot move, cannot even jerk his hips to get in deeper as she rides him. She kisses him and praises him, allows him to worship her breasts with his mouth.

“You’re so good, Rumple.” Her eyes are glazed and sweat glistens over her skin. Every part of him smells like her pleasure. “Are you ready?”

He feels her muscles tighten as she uses him for one more orgasm. One more, but not one last. Belle knows that. She knows the beast she has in her bed. A beast who can be tamed, but cannot be denied for long. A beast with hungers and urges that she has long been eager to satisfy.

She will satisfy him again, his beautiful wife. Because it pleases her to do so. He is her beast, and she will unleash him. They will love each other in every way, in every moment, for as long as they are together.

“I’m ready.”

“In that case, Rumpelstiltskin, I will free you from the constraints of this game... Right... Now!”

****

Power arced across the sky and Rumpelstiltskin jolted upright out of sleep. His breath came out in pants. He was sweating, despite the chill that permeated the drafty house. Inside his pajama bottoms, his cock was painfully hard.

But he couldn’t bother with that now.

Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself out of bed and hobbled to the nearest window. He pulled back the curtains and scanned the sky frantically. What should he look for? Would there be anything to see? Clouds hung heavy over the houses of Storybrooke, and the only light in them was the reflection of the orange street lights. It was an eerie and unnatural sight, but it wasn’t what had woken him.

It wasn’t magic.

After twenty-eight years of the curse, he still recognized magic. He knew the feeling, the taste, the vibrations of it, better than he knew any other sensation. This was supposed to be a world without magic--a world where he was powerless. That was why Bae had wanted to come here in the first place

But he knew what he felt.

It was fading, even as he stood by the window. The surge had been a burst of magic, wild and formless, like the lightning of a summer storm. It was untrained and probably unintentional, the magic of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Someone who didn’t even know she had magic.

A slow smile spread across Rumpelstiltskin’s face. No, the Savior didn’t have magic. She was magic. In the old world, magic was a skill to be learned, a talent that could be either developed or ignored. But Emma Swan was the product of True Love. Magic was a part of her very nature, and had been from the moment of her conception. Even if she knew what she was dealing with, she wouldn’t be able to fight it or hide it. Magic was her destiny. Whether she knew it or not, she had brought it to Storybrooke.

He closed the curtains. Though it was still dark outside, dawn would be coming soon. And there was so much work to do.

He limped over to the washroom, to attend the needs of his human body. Mrs. Gold was asleep in the bed, lying on her stomach the way Belle liked to. She had one arm stretched out to the side, her pale skin all but glowing against the dark red sheets. She was reaching to the other side of the bed, to the space where he had been sleeping.

Quietly, Rumpelstiltskin approached his wife. Belle’s face, Belle’s hair, Belle’s sweet, gentle yearning. She was there, he knew it, inside Mrs. Gold. Belle was just sleeping, waiting to be rescued.

He pulled the quilt up over her shoulders, to protect her from the night air. Belle was always cold. Mrs. Gold had finally stopped going to bed naked, but her negligees barely covered her. There was a gift-giving holiday coming up soon, something like the winter solstice. Perhaps he could buy her something long and made of flannel. Mrs. Gold would hate such a garment, but perhaps she would wear it just to please him.

Of course, he shouldn’t encourage her to think she was pleasing him. That would only lead the poor woman to more disappointment.

Sighing, he left the bed and went to the washroom. The problem of Mrs. Gold wasn’t going to go away, but it wasn’t the issue that occupied his thoughts now. Magic was what he had to think of. There was magic in Storybrooke. What was he going to do about it?

With the flip of a switch, he brought light to the darkened room. Magic used to be as simple as that. He’d used it for his comfort and his necessities just as the people of this world used electricity. It was an odd reversal of the curse that in this world all but the poorest people had the same luxuries as the Dark One. And now magic was no more accessible to him than a bolt of lightning.

He stripped off his clothes and turned on the water in the shower. In the old world, he had spent weeks mastering the “Indoor Rain” spell. Longer still to tinker with it so he could summon water that was warm but not scalding. But every house in Storybrooke had this ability--as long as people paid their water bills. That was one similarity between the worlds: Whether something was magic or only seemed like magic, it all came with a price.

Gold’s bathtub had a seat built into the corner to accommodate his bad leg. It was also handy whenever he wanted to watch his wife soap herself under the warm spray. He had made Mrs. Gold get on her knees for him a hundred times in this tub. She would wash his feet, or suck his cock, or bend over his knee and take a punishment. Sometimes Gold would leave her alone on her knees in the shower while he dried off and dressed. He would spray her down with freezing water--sometimes while she was still clothed in those designer fashions she took such pride in wearing.

She was his thing, and he could break her if he wanted to.

Rumpelstiltskin hung his head and let the water run over him. He would never be clean of these memories, of what Gold had done to his wife, how he had abused the power he had over her. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He tried to remember his dream.

Every night since he had come back to himself, Rumpelstiltskin had dreamed of his old life. His dreams always took the form of memories, distinct from any natural dream. In the dreams he was always himself, and he always knew what was going on. He dreamed of his father, of the women who raised him. He dreamed of Millah, of Bae, of the deals he had made as the Dark One.

He dreamed of Belle. Belle as a girl making a deal she couldn’t possibly understand, wanting nothing more than to save her people from an army of ogres. Belle as a captive in his dungeon, wearing the cuffs and learning how to play the games he set up. Belle as he came to love her, came to realize that she was the most precious person in the world to him--and that he had no idea how to cope with that. Belle, loving him so much she allowed him not to love her. Belle, wretched and despondent after he had trapped her in her library. Belle taking her freedom.

Belle coming back.

Belle as his wife, as the mistress of the dagger. Finally, both of them together and equally able to love each other. Belle as his partner and his second self, of them talking and planning and spending every day side by side. Dream after dream of them loving each other, and expressing that love with their bodies.

His cock was hard in his hand. In the weeks since he had awoken from the curse, Rumpelstiltskin had masturbated less than a dozen times. Whenever he did, it was always like this--under a stream of running water, in the early hours of the morning, after dreaming about Belle.

He took care of himself quickly, mechanically. It didn’t feel right to take much pleasure in this act, not without his wife. This was just a base need, a release, a discharge of too much pent-up energy.

For the longest time, that was all fucking had been to him too. As the Dark One, he had taken a few lovers: People who had offered themselves to him as part of a deal. Students who wanted a hands-on demonstration of that type of magic. Jefferson had been so wonderstruck with new possibilities he was eager to try anything, with anyone. For so long, the most licentious depravities had been enjoyable--but as impersonal as fucking his own hand.

Belle had changed that. Belle had changed everything. With Belle, pleasure and love and intimacy had become entwined again. She had known him, as no other lover had ever known him. And she accepted him. She wanted him.

Rumpelstiltskin came with a strangled grunt. He stifled his noises so Mrs. Gold wouldn’t hear. For a moment, he breathed. He pretended that the heat of the water was Belle’s body all around him, caressing him, cherishing him.

Then he finished washing, and got dressed.

****

The early morning light was enough to see by as Rumpelstiltskin moved through the house. He had been able to dress without turning on a lamp and running the risk of waking Mrs. Gold. Leaning on his cane, he made his way down the stairs and into Gold’s study.

In addition to the safe in the shop, Gold also had a safe hidden behind one of the bookshelves in this room. Rumpelstiltskin spun the combination and the door swung open. Inside there were stacks of banded hundred dollar bills, an accordion file of documents--contracts, deeds, incriminating photographs of some of Storybrooke’s most upstanding citizens--and a steel box. The box was fireproof, waterproof, and required two separate keys to open.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t breathe until the box was opened, and he saw that the contents inside were intact.

The chipped cup, Baelfire’s shawl, and the dagger.

He touched the objects reverently. The shawl was wrapped around the cup, protecting it from potential damage. The dagger was separate from that tangle, as though it knew it didn’t belong. Carefully, Rumpelstiltskin lifted the cup and the shawl out of the box. With one hand on his cane, he cradled the precious things in the crook of his arm.

He used to carry Bae the same way.

After scanning the room for a moment, he decided to set the things up on a shelf by Gold’s desk. That way, he would be able to look at them and know that they were safe. Bae’s shawl and Belle’s cup were the best parts of his old life--the best parts of himself. It was better for them to be out in the open, where he could see them and remember.

The dagger, however, was only worth having when it was in Belle’s hand. At any other time, it was a liability. The only weapon that could hurt the Dark One, the only way to control him or take his life. Now that Emma Swan had brought her own sparks of magic into this world, Rumpelstiltskin would have to keep such an explosive item far away from any flames.

He shut the metal box and locked it with both keys. Wedging the box under his arm, he went to the back of the house. In the kitchen, he grabbed the canvas apron and threw it over his shoulder as he went into the garage.

The garage produced a garden spade and a pair of rubber boots. Very useful. Gold kept a pair of gloves in the glove box of his car. He would need those as well. Rumpelstiltskin had pulled out the keys and opened the car door before a pang of conscience made him stop.

Mrs. Gold.

If she woke up and found him gone, she would panic and think she had done something to displease him.

With a slight huff. Rumpelstiltskin shut the car door and went back inside the house. He wrote a quick note saying that he needed to take care of some business and he would be back before it was time to open the shop. Creasing the notepaper, he set it at Mrs. Gold’s place at the dining room table. She would see it as soon as she came down for breakfast. If he got back before she woke up, he could destroy the note and she would never know he had left.

That taken care of, Rumpelstiltskin drove into the woods. Gold owned most of the wild forest that surrounded Storybrooke. It took about twenty minutes to drive from the pink house to the rustic cabin where Gold liked to get away.

They had spent their honeymoon there, on some frigid February weekend that had never really happened. The tradition of this world was for grooms to carry their brides over the threshold of their home. But Gold had ordered his new wife to crawl to him on her hands and knees as a beginning of their wedded bliss.

Because the cabin was so isolated, Gold allowed himself to let loose when they were here. He would have Mrs. Gold walk naked and barefoot through the forest, and let herself get caught in brambles and mud puddles. Then he would punish her for being so careless, so dirty. Out here, both of them got to unleash their animal natures--Gold as a predator, his wife as prey. A victim.

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin parked the car and got out. He put on the apron, boots and gloves, and carried the shovel and the box in one hand. He couldn’t walk far into the trees, but he managed to find a clear spot. Balancing on his good leg, he stuck the shovel in the ground and heaved his weight onto it.

The shovel sank into the forest soil. They weren’t so far into winter that the ground had frozen yet.

He dug deeper than he needed to. It was exhausting work, but mindless. Almost like spinning. While his body was occupied, that gave his mind an opportunity to roam free. He could think, he could plan. When had dug enough, he tossed the box that held his dagger into the hole. It landed with an unceremonious thud. Then, Rumpelstiltskin hid the source of all his power under the dirt.

As he patted down the last of the soil and covered the spot with fallen leaves and sticks, a man came barreling through the forest. He ran as though the hounds of hell were after him. Abruptly, he stopped, and spun around to look at the trees and brush around him. He looked disoriented and on the verge of panic.

Gold knew this man as Sheriff Graham, the well-meaning head of local law enforcement. He was Gold’s tenant, a fact Mrs. Gold often used to her advantage.

There was also reason to suspect that the sheriff station’s close ties to the mayor’s office was not merely a working relationship. Graham was a handsome young man, after all, though at this moment he looked sweaty and feverish. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

Or like he had seen a ghost.

Deliberately making noise, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled out into the clearing. Graham jumped at the disturbance. He must have been entirely in his own world.

“Mr. Gold!” Graham panted. His brow was furrowed, his eyes bloodshot. He looked at Rumpelstiltskin like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Like his eyes told him one thing, but some other sense was telling him something completely different. “I thought you were a wolf.”

“Did I forget to shave?”

Rumpelstiltskin grinned as he put the pieces together. The sheriff’s station had hired a new deputy a few weeks ago. Graham was now spending several hours every day in the company of Emma Swan. It was possible that his current state had nothing to do with the surge of magic that had burst through town earlier.

But it wasn’t likely.

“You know, Sheriff, as far as I’m aware, there are no wolves in Storybrooke. Not the literal kind, anyway. Why are you looking for one?”

Graham shook his head. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

What a person in this world would think was madness was exactly what Rumpelstiltskin wanted to hear. “Try me.”

“I had a dream about a wolf.” Graham rubbed his forehead. It was less that he was answering Gold and more that he was trying to understand what was happening in his own mind. “A white wolf. It had one eye as red as blood, the other as black as night. And then, I swear, I saw the exact same wolf out here. But it ran off. Or maybe it was never here...”

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Rumpelstiltskin to wonder who Graham had been in the old world. But now he didn’t need to wonder at all. The traits Graham described were unique in a wolf, the sort of coloring that showed up only in one pack. The pack that had lived in the mountains near the Dark One’s castle.

He remembered the day--about thirty years before this curse--when he had heard the keening howl of a lonely wolf. It had been a white female, with one eye as red as blood, and the other as dark as night. The wolf’s sister had been mated and whelped a lively litter of pups. But because this wolf had no mate, she had no chance at a litter of her own, and her loneliness would only grow.

Rumpelstiltskin had sensed her desperation and knew that having a favor from even one wolf could be a valuable tool. So when it happened that a human woman running through his forest with her child had tripped over a root and smashed her head against a stone, Rumpelstiltskin whisked the boy away and offered it to the lonely wolf to raise as her own pup.

Graham was that boy, all grown up. The wolf he dreamed of was the only mother he had. The only mother he remembered. And it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Did you see anything strange out here, Mr. Gold?”

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” he answered. “Do wish I could be more helpful.” He made to walk away, but then turned back to the shaken Sheriff. “You know,” he said, “they say that dreams are memories. Memories of another life.”

Graham blinked slowly at Rumpelstiltskin. He could see the wheels turning behind the poor man’s teary eyes. What he said made so much sense, but it couldn’t be true. Could it? Could it possibly? “What do you believe?”

He gave the sheriff a grin he knew he wouldn’t understand. “I never rule out anything.” He nodded his good-bye. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

What would it take to fully give Sheriff Graham his memories back? Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know. But if anyone could do it, it would be Deputy Swan. And once that happened, well…

That would be very interesting.

****

But whatever hopes Rumpelstiltskin might have had were dashed the next morning when Mrs. Gold unfolded the newspaper and shrieked.

“Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hand and read an article in fraught silence.

“What is it?” He asked, doubtful that anything that troubled Mrs. Gold would merit his concern.

“Sheriff Graham…” She looked up from the paper and her eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s dead.”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward. “What?”

Mrs. Gold nodded and showed him the article. She began to read the text out loud: “First responders arrived at the sheriff’s station late Wednesday night, responding to a 911 call from known drunk driver, Emma Swan. Sheriff Graham Humbert was declared dead on the scene. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death as a cardiac event. Despite the association of alleged vandal Emma Swan, autopsy reports indicate no suspicion of foul play. A source close to Humbert theorizes that he may have had a heart condition that went tragically undiagnosed.”

She shook her head. “A heart attack?” she whispered. “But he wasn’t even thirty-five!”

Rumpelstiltskin did not let his hands shake as he picked up his cup of tea. Dead. The only other person to come close to having the curse broken was dead. “That does seem unusual.”

Not only unusual but unnatural. Supernatural. It was obvious what had happened: Graham worked closely with both Regina and Emma. Of course he would be caught in their crossfire. If the Savior’s magic had any effect in this world, it could well be that the Queen had a few tricks up her sleeve as well. So, Regina understood what had happened to Graham, and she had decided to eliminate him.

Poor man.

“God!” Mrs. Gold shivered. She sank back in her chair and let the paper fall into her lap.

“You’ve gone white,” he observed. “Are you alright?”

“He’s just dead,” she said softly. “Just like that. Twelve hours ago, he was fine, but then--” she snapped her fingers. “Gone forever. Poor man never got a chance to be free.”

He looked at her carefully. Odd that Mrs. Gold would care about the lives and deaths and freedoms of other people. That was much more Belle’s domain.

Had Belle ever met the wolf-boy in the old world?

“Did you know him well?” he asked gently. Even without Graham, there was still magic in this world. There were still memories that would sound crazy unless you knew what they meant.

“He was kind to me.” Mrs. Gold tilted her head, her gaze seemed far away. Was there something different about her voice? Or was he just hearing what he wanted to hear? “Poor man was trapped, Regina did that to him. But he did the best he could for me. I’ll never forget that.”

“What did he do?” Rumpelstiltskin whispered. He stared at his wife, only half-believing what he was hearing. It couldn’t be real. But perhaps it was. Emma’s magic could be doing miraculous things right now. Right before his eyes.

But then it ended. Like the popping of a soap bubble. Mrs. Gold blinked and snapped out of her reverie.

“I--” It took her a moment to focus, for the curse to reassert its control over her. “I don’t remember. Graham was just… a nice guy.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin made himself nod.

Mrs. Gold went back to the paper. “Weird that it’s just a little half-column in the back pages. I mean, the man is--was--the sheriff of the whole Goddamned town. You’d think a sudden death would be front-page news.”

“Mr. Glass is certainly using uncharacteristic restraint,” he agreed. “I wonder if the powers that be told the paper to bury the story.”

The breaking of Graham’s curse was a threat to the power Regina had over the reality of this town. His death had solved most of that problem for her, but not all of it. No good would come to Regina if people around Storybrooke began to poke around in the circumstances of the sheriff’s death--or his life, for that matter. Better for her if no one looked at this too closely. Better still if people gradually forgot that Sheriff Graham had ever existed at all. Doubtless, Regina would use all the power she had to make sure no one ever mentioned Graham again.

****

Since Gold had been the sheriff’s landlord, and the man had no other family, it fell to Rumpelstiltskin to clean out the apartment of any personal effects. There was precious little, and nothing worth selling in the shop. Mostly clothes--cheap but well-cared for--and the debris of a life of police work. The walkie-talkie radio set was better quality than anything the city issued out. That could be useful to someone.

Under Graham’s bed, there was a plastic crate full of items that could never be resold. There were harnesses and collars, leather cuffs and spreader bars, whips and floggers and bamboo canes. A half-empty spool of black-dyed rope. The number of toys and restraints would rival even Mrs. Gold’s collection. Everything was high-quality--much more expensive than the salary of a town sheriff could afford--and every item that wasn’t black was either blue, red, or royal purple.

Poking through the crate with the end of his cane, Rumpelstiltskin revealed a layer of dildos and plugs--some truly breathtaking in size. A black leather strap-on harness was clearly the method of delivery for the dildos. There were nipple clamps and cock rings and thin chains with hanging weights. Deeper still were collections of needles and electronic pain devices. He couldn’t identify the small metal objects that looked like miniature cages or conjoined rings. But then Gold’s knowledge helpfully supplied the phrase cock and ball torture.

Nothing about Sheriff Graham gave the slightest suggestion that he would use these implements on another person. But Rumpelstiltskin knew who would. Regina had never discriminated in victims. Perhaps it gave her more of a thrill to hurt a man than a woman. Especially the sheriff, who was supposed to have as much power and authority as the mayor. But no one was allowed to have more power than the Queen. She probably took great pleasure in reminding Graham just how powerless he was.

Rumpelstiltskin would put money down on a bet that Graham was never allowed to use a safe word when he was with Regina. For twenty-eight years, the man had been at the mercy of a woman who had no mercy. A woman whose lust and bloodlust were both insatiable. And the instant he had gotten even a taste of freedom, she had put him down like a dog.

He had half a mind to take the crate of paraphernalia and have it dumped on Regina’s front lawn. It would be so satisfying to declare open war against the Evil Queen, to expose her for what she was and bring out the whole truth for the entire town.

But if Rumpelstiltskin were capable of doing that, he would be the Savior, and not Emma Swan.

He was not the hero of this story. It was not his role to go up against Regina. He was not a white knight. Rumpelstiltskin was the shadow-power, the trickster-demon, the Dark One. The best he could do was to know who the real heroes were, and make sure they had the tools they needed to defeat the real villains.

With that in mind, he decided to pay a friendly visit to City Hall. Perhaps there would be a copy of the Storybrooke Town Charter that he could borrow. The office of sheriff was currently vacant, after all. It would be his duty as a citizen to make sure that vacancy was filled in a lawful manner, by the candidate who could do the most good.

#golden rings #poor graham #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ouat

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tigers-eyes-26 · 3 years

Text

My Theory of Huey, Louie, and Dewey’s Father

Disclaimer: In college I had an Oceania literature class. One of those books was Potiki by Patricia Grace. Really good book about indigenous peoples struggles. One of Potiki’s main character Toko has a mysterious conception. It made me think of the boy’s father being such an unexplained mystery. I am not Maori. IF you are Maori you can Correct anything in this fiction just add your comment. This is a work of fanfiction and is just for fun. Also, I can’t write accents, just know all the Maori people are talking in a Aotearoa accent, and Scrooge has Scottish Accent. Also Trigger Warning there is a rape scene, but it is not explicit. Also, thoughts of abortion, mentions of getting drugged.

“Who is our father?”

“Oh no one needed to be remembered.”

Aotearoa in the 2000s

Della wasn’t allowed in the men’s meeting house, where her brother and uncle were. The other women invited her to hang out with them, but she ended up hanging out with the kids of the community. They played tricks on her and let her play their games. Della stepped aside to “catch her breath” but she really wanted to see if she could hear was the men were talking about. She wasn’t going to go inside the house, but it was made of wood, so hopefully she could hear from the outside. She put her ear to the back of the meeting house.

“Oi!” Della jumped she looked for the voice that called. A child around ten years old smiled up at her. she had seen him around the community. “What you doing?”

Her eyes darted around, “nothing just… just admiring these….carvings.”

The child was unconvinced but continued with the topic. “If you really want to see a carving there is one in the sea caves over there.” the kid pointed off to the rocky cliffs that waves roughly crashed against.

Della saw the challenge. “Why is it in a cave?”

The kid shrugged. “No one will tell me.”

Now her curiosity was peaked. “Well let’s go look at it.”

Della gathered a wetsuit and some supplies from their boat. The kid pointed to a little arch that was just barely above the water. “Under there is a large cave with the Tekoteko in it.”

Della hummed she looked at the waves timing them. “This carving better be good.”

“Some say it is the most handsome Tekoteko in the entire world.” He made a circular motion with his arms and stood on his tip toes.

“Why would they put a ‘handsome’ carving in a cave?”

He shrugged.

“One last question before I jump in.” Della squirmed a little, “Do ya think there will be fish?”

the kid gave her a look like she was crazy. “it’s the ocean lady! Its where fish live!”

“I know but with the waves do…. Do you think they will touch me?”

The kid sighed. “I don’t think the fish can follow you into the cave.”

Della took a deep breath to stele her nerves. “Ok I have a mystery to solve.” Put in her respirator in and dove into the sea.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about the fish below you. She tried to focus on her goal. She got to the arch and dove under it. There really was a cave!

She got out her flashlight it was a really deep cave. she treaded onward. Why keep a carving this hidden?

She was expecting booby traps but there was none. Just a cave. how bor…. Wait was that a sound? Della stopped her inner monolog to listen carefully. There was a rushing of the ocean. She darted around to see if there was water coming into the cave. noth.. oh! There it was again.

“Hello?” she called.

“Eh” a voice answered

“Show yourself!” she prepped herself for a fight.

There was a cough. “Sorry… I don’t….like…light.” the voice was a young man’s but sounded unused.

Della wasn’t going to turn off her light, that a perfect excuse to ambush her in the dark. “Who are you!?”

“I…guard the…Tekoteko…”

A Guard? Down here? for long time? in the dark? Whoever he was he wasn’t human.

“Well sense you guard it, you’re going to tell me to turn around and ever come back.”

“no….come….look.”

“It’s going to put a curse on me isn’t it?”

“some say….curse…. some say blessing……”

Mmmmm was this reverse psychology? “Why was it put down in this cave?”

“It’s their….magic….used…by….outsider. He….wished….for….eternal life…..”

“He became the carving, didn’t he?”

There was a chuckle. “intuitive…..”

“And if I break him out of the carving I get caught in the statue as he lives free?”

“He….needs….only….to be…..remembered.”

ah they put him down here to be out of sight out of mind. “Ok so just give me his name and I can write it in my journal and he will be remembered.”

“His name….its written….on…the….Tekoteko.”

“Nope this is a trap.” She turned on her heel to leave. She took one step down into WATER! The tides! The water was rising. She had stayed in the cave too long. “Awwww Phooey!”

“continue….forward…higher… ground.”

Della sighed the voice was right she had been heading up a slope. Might as well keep going.

She came to an opening to an alcove. Ok just don’t look or touch the carving. She looked down at the ground it had some soft moss so that was good. She turned around to look at the ocean water.

“the….ocean….can’t…..reach…here.”

She realized the voice came from the back of the alcove probably from the carving itself. She just needed to wait until the tides lowered. She heard wood creaking. She turned around trying to only look at the feet eh? stump? “Stay back!” She held her flashlight in front of her.

“I….need…only…to be…..remembered.”

“ya a creepy talking walking wooden statue that trapped me in a cave, hard to forget.”

“you’ll….. forget.”

Della felt hands on her arms. She struggled but the grip tightened. “Let go of me! You big palooka!” she tried to keep the flashlight on the statue. She kicked at the wooden body, it didn’t seem to effect it. She banged her flashlight against his arms in hopes that she would splinter them. She pushed her feet against his body in hopes that she could slip out of his grip. The fingers started to grow long slender and slink down into her hand causing her to drop the flashlight.

“Look…..” his wooden arms slithered like a vine around her arms up to her face. She struggled more biting at the crawling wood. it got purchase of her head to hold it still.

“NO!” She grit her eyes closed. She could feel some splinters slithering into the corners of her eyes. “No!” Her eye lids were forcibly pried open. She saw the face of the Tekoteko. The eyes open on the carving. Underneath the wooden lids were shiny iridescent orbs. She had seen this on the other figures in village, but these eyes weren’t just shying with sunlight but with magic. Her mind started to fog. No! she couldn’t move her eyes. Her mind started to feel numb. She couldn’t open her mouth she figured the wood had wound itself around her beak.

“I need descendants.” This statement didn’t come from the statue it echoed around in her head. She felt her consciousness slipping.

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

Della gasped jolting up. What…. What happened? The flashlight was still on. She picked it up and did a sweep of the alcove. She jumped when she saw the still carving. She waited. It didn’t move. Its eyes were open but there were no shiny part anymore just empty holes. She looked down at herself did she absorb his soul? Was he living in her mind now? She needed to know what kind of magic that was.

She zipped up her wet suit tighter around her neck. She found her oxygen tanks they had been unstrapped on thrown to the side. They still worked thank goodness. She started down though the sea cave. The tide had subdued. How long had she been out? She managed to make it out of the sea cave and into the waves. Her body felt weak.

“Della!” she looked up at the cliff. Her brother dove into the ocean and her uncle was surrounded by the rest of the tribe. Donald wrapped a rope around her so the tribe could haul them out of the ocean.

Della was chanted over and washed. So, she could enter the village again. The chief’s wife and several other ladies with tattoos on their chins. Gathered Della into a women’s house. Gave her regular clothes back. Once she was dressed, she was invited to sit among the women.

“I am so sorry for what has happened to you.” Lamented the Chief’s wife.

“What exactly happened to me?”

The ladies looked at each other. “Did you not….see?”

Della felt uncomfortable. “I was in some sort of hypnotic state…...”

There was a breath let out. “That may be a blessing.”

Della only raised an eyebrow.

The lady continued, “Our statues that are carved are of relatives long gone. It is forbidden to carve people who are living. The purpose of the Tekoteko’s is for us to remember our ancestor’s stories. We keep our ancestors alive though us. The one that made that carving thought this meant he would be kept alive forever. A misinterpretation. No one is meant to carve unless they are set a part to do so. He was an outsider dealing with things he didn’t know.” The Chief lady rubbed her head irritated. “By carving that Tekoteko and having no descendants to keep his stories. He tied his soul to the Tekoteko….” Everyone now looked at Della. “Until he has descendants to release his soul from the wood.

Della started to sweat.

“We put that Tekoteko in that cave so that none of our girls would be…. harmed by him.”

Della felt like she would pass out. She took some deep breaths. “What should I do?”

“That is up to you.”

“What if I don’t have his…. descendants?”

“Our priest has some theories. But none of them are pleasant for your afterlife.”

Della frowned. “what if I… go through with it?”

“Our priest tells us his soul will move on. They will be the ones to continue his memory. They are his gate to being released from this world.”

“I need to think.” she jogged out of the house.

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

Donald’s hands were broken for sure. He didn’t care. He wanted to demolish the one that had done this to his sister. He had was laying on the grass, Tribes people were picking up the scraps of wood Donald had punched off the trees around him. Someone was going to get a new canoe from the tree he had downed. Della found him. She scooped up his body and hugged him. He started to huff and puff again.

“Dumbella!”

“WHAT!” she dropped his lame body back on the ground.

He hopped up at once, “You shouldn’t have gone in that dumb cave alone!” He squawked at her.

She stood with her hands clenched. “I’m 25-year-old adventurer! I don’t need an escort every where I go!”

“Well maybe you do!”

“What about you? 20 year old college student going off to South America with your band and getting drugged and beaten!”

They huff and puffed at each other, but the huffing and puffing turned into cries. They both cared about each other and just wanted to protect each other. They hugged again.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want to go home.” She looked around the grove of trees. “Where is Uncle Scrooge?” Donald looked around too. They heard a snuffling behind a tree.

They approached their uncle’s hiding spot. Della gave a knock to the side of the tree. Scrooge quickly rubbed his handkerchief over his eyes. He looked up at the twins. “What am I going to tell Hortense?” his voice still shaky.

Della looked at Donald for some assistance. He just blinked at her. She took a deep breath. “Whatever we tell them, we’ll tell them together.”

#della duck #donald duck #aotearoa #new zealand #maori #fanfic #fanfiction #scrooge mcduck #ducktales #duck family #hortense duck #quackmore duck #The Three Caballeros #mythical conception

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tarithenurse · 4 years

Text

If I succeed - 9

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Past events, pining, smut, secrets revealed, more questions, softness, distractions. None of this necessarily in that order. A/N: Writing’s going a bit slow due to illness, but a few chapters more are waiting for you. Also: I’m combing through the taglist to remove those who aren’t showing any interest. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

9 – Something good

... Geralt ...

If something as fleeting as luck exists then it has smiled at the little group: just before nightfall, they happen across a ravine with a cave at the very top and what at first glance appears to be a narrow, wet hideout opens into a large chamber with a couple of niches and a stream of fresh water running through the middle. Even Roach accepts being led in after her owner has made sure the premises are vacated.

Dinner is cold – the only heat and light is from a slow-burning torch jabbed into a crevice between two rocks – and silent as each is occupied by their own worries. In Geralt’s case, his mind has been filled with half plans which he cannot finish until he knows more about the enemy. He has told just one of what he saw before overcome with his injuries. Vampires. Hm. There are many subspecies of the monsters, some less intelligent than others, and too many are unbothered by the rays of the sun as well as most commonly known repellents though silver at the very least can wound them.

“Well, this’s been wonderfully cozy but I’m gonna turn in,” Jaskier breaks the silence, standing to stretch before hurrying towards the niche furthest away which he has claimed for himself, “g’night,” he adds over the shoulder.

“Sleep well.”

Of course Geralt cannot help but glance towards [Y/N] as she speaks. There is always a kindness to her voice that softens the features of anyone who listens, even now when she is deeply engrossed in the work at hand. Spread out on a cloth in the flickering torchlight are bundles of semi-dried herbs, a few pouches of powder, and several small vials. Working nimbly with a small blade, she separates leaves from stems before loosening the bark with the longer dagger by rolling and crushing the plants between a flat stone and the flat of the weapon – the torchlight glinting in the metal and her eyes.

“Lemme see that,” the Witcher extends a large hand in a silent command for her to bring him the knife.

There is a fire from within, gleaming dangerously as she looks over. Slowly, deliberately, she finishes the task rather than handing over the weapon right away, and when she finally does she merely holds it out. It is a silent challenge. A waiting game to see who might give in first and cover the distance for the exchange.

Neither gets up.

Then, with a flick of the wrist, [Y/N] tosses the dagger is a soft curve, hilt first and easy to catch. Was that annoyance? Whatever it was, Geralt decides to study the metal rather than comment upon her demeanour.

“This’s silvered.” He had expected as much after noticing the gleam reflecting off of it.

“Yes. It was my father’s,” she explains, hesitating a fraction before continuing as if to consider whether to reveal something at all, “look at the crossbar.”

Curiosity wins. Leaning forward, he turns the weapon over and over for the dancing light to illuminate it until: “Witcher’s seal.”

“Vesemir’s.” The sigh she lets free is one of exhaustion – years of keeping a secret, perhaps. “Vesemir found my parents in Beauclair...helped us get outta there without a trace. The dagger was to serve as a token of truth if they needed his help.” Again, she sighs but this time with a sadness that threatens to break Geralt’s heart. “All father ever used it for was teach me how to fight.”

Well...where to begin unravelling all of that? Practicality wins. Few possess the agility and strength of a Witcher, of course, but now it does makes sense why the maiden from a tiny village is able to hold her ground slightly better than others when the two of them spar. Has she held back? It would explain how she moved so swiftly when the wolf attacked.

“Show me.” When [Y/N] does not respond, he walks over and places the knife in her hands. “Show. Me. And don’t hold back.”

She takes her time to pack away the antidotes and other healing remedies, tugging them neatly into a side pocket on the rucksack. She even takes the time to tie back her hair and roll up the sleeves before turning to Geralt who has been standing patiently, his own dagger still in the belt but eyes upon every movement of hers to witness the dawning acceptance of something unspoken – a mind made up despite some unexplained concern.

Geralt is prepared when she moves. He is not prepared for the torch’s fire flaring out towards him with a ferocity that makes him jump aside. In a flash, [Y/N] is upon him in a whirlwind of attacks he barely has time to parry while recovering. Oh. Now this is an interesting development and not only does the man want to know more, he wants to test the limits. Push her. Get her blood boiling.

“You’re a mage.” A grin accompanies the flash of his own dagger as he no longer worries about holding back.

“No.”

True or not, she does increase the efforts to outmatch him, turning the sparring into a dizzying dance where they often are close enough to taste the breath of the other as chests heave and sweat begins to bead on brows and lips.

“I’m not...some...political pet,” the woman huffs icily as they lock themselves in a knot of limbs and steel.

He might have her body in a strong grip, but her cold blade is resting against Geralt’s throat, tip digging slightly into his jowl. Still, there is no fear in his heart because death is not in her fiery eyes. Cockily, he taps his own weapon against her ribs.

“Tied.”

The way her eyebrow arches is a sinful challenge. “Try again.”

What...? And there it is, the added pressure of a tiny knife against the uninvited swell of his cock. Conceding to his loss by sheathing his own weapon, the Witcher is acutely aware of the lingering gaze when [Y/N] reciprocates and he can feel the burn of it when she turns away to stove the little knife back in its place. Fuck. In two steps he is right behind her when she straightens up, her back against his chest and the ass fitting neatly into the dip and poke of his crotch.

If he had expected any objections – or hoped for them as the last effort to keep from succumbing to temptation – every remaining concern is dashed as she leans into his arms and allow the hands to roam. Soft curves contained under wrapped fabrics and tiny knots are palmed. Fingers dig into the flesh of hips and thighs. [Y/N]’s scent is intoxicating, dizzying as he breathes in deeply at the crook of her neck between the hundreds of kisses and teasing bites which each puncture the silence in the cave with a gasp from her lips.

Shivers run down the length of Geralt’s spine when she reaches back to tangle a hand in his hair, nails scraping softly against his scalp. It is immediately followed by another as yellowed eyes catch a glimpse of what her free hand does.

“Let me,” the rasp is barely audible yet the woman hears it.

Her irises are almost swallowed by lustful darkness, watching while she backs towards the last niche and Geralt works quickly to rid her of the tunic before slowing down to take time to savour every moment as, a tiny knot at a time, the last layer is unfastened and releases a bosom he has dreamed of for too long.

A second of breathlessness.

“Hmm.”

The familiarity of the soft skin against his calloused fingers, the sweet-and-salty taste as his tongue sweeps and circles the hardening nipples. It is bliss, soothing the aching corners of his soul without softening the bone-gnawing hunger.

A single word falls in a whisper from [Y/N]’s soft lips. “Please.”

Cooperating hurriedly, it becomes a race to reveal the shape of each other. Bulky muscles against smooth lines outlining curves and expanses. Somehow, in the middle of the almost fevered rush where hands begin to explore, Geralt manages to unfurl a bedroll, using the other as a pillow for the magnificent female as he lowers her onto her back with an extra layer of a pelt for comfort.

Looking at the beauty bared beneath him, the Witcher momentarily feels transported to the field under the sun when she was revealed to him for the first time. Oh, he has lain with pretty people before, all too often finding that their outer grace is unmatched by their minds and souls. Not [Y/N]. Everything about her was and is a reflection of her call as a healer in the village, kindhearted, clever, funny. Untainted. He had hesitated that day, afterwards promising himself not to ruin her by dragging the spirited maiden into his life of monsters and darkness...even if it was excruciating to part.

She’s here. Slender hands caressing his form, sometimes conjuring goosebumps by the drag of a nail along a sensitive line. Geralt gasps as fingers curl around the strained shaft, using it to drag him closer. Closer. Lips finally meet and he damn near melts at the sensation of her tongue sweeping across the seam of his mouth to gain access – which he gladly gives.

... Reader ...

You are out of breath, dizzy, when Geralt backs out of your reach with a strained moan and dark eyes that wordlessly relay why he pins your wrists to your sides. He is right there – body brushing against your thighs and strong arms weighing your hips to the furry layer beneath you...still he feels further away than ever.

“Geralt...” you plead, trying to keep quiet as to not wake up Jaskier, “please.”

“Always,” is the mumbled answer as he dives between your legs and licks a long stripe upwards to your clit.

You are aware of his chuckle even as you arch your back to breathe in sharply, it just does not matter because the man refuses to relent in his newfound quest to drive you mad with coiled-up lust growing stronger with each lick, each thrust and twist of his fingers when he finally lets go of your wrists. Scrabbling for purchase, his silver locks becomes an anchor and a rudder directing his mouth to where it is needed and you can barely contain a mewling scream as the tension inside snaps and drops you into earth-moving ecstasy.

“Hmmmm.” Was that a sigh or a groan? In your delirious state, you cannot tell which. “You’re...” Sloppy kisses trail up your sensitive abdomen to breasts that ache for his attention. “[Y/N],” he sighs against your lips as his cock nestles between you drenched folds, “I...you...no one else.”

Both his words and manhood sinks in slowly, agonizingly perfect in the stretch and depth as though made for you specifically. Always meant for you. The words must have slipped out because he stops to cup your cheek, golden eyes burning with an emotion you never have seen within him before. The kiss is different too, familiarity mingled with a new understanding.

A slow roll of your hips spurs Geralt on. Resting on an elbow to still cup your cheek, the other hand is freed to roam your body as his thrusts set a slow pacing. You can feel each vein and the fold and head of the cock drag along the ridges in your cunt. Almost frustratingly lazy as he pulls back to the very entrance each time. No. Not “almost”. Arching into him, pulling him deeper with the hook of your heels against his ass and knees pinching against his torso – all you want is him without any veils. Still, it is impossible to complain as long as he keeps looking into your soul the way he does. Geralt is teasing you, yes, causing your toes to curl with pent up need yet simultaneously providing you with the most intense experience in your life.

A calculative gleam shimmers in the blown pupils. “You’re...much stronger than I’ve been thinking...”

“Don’t hold back...take me.”

There is barely time to register how the Witcher flips you onto your knees, hands braced against the rock wall, before regaining entrance to your (due to the position) much tighter cunt with a groan bitten into your shoulder. His chest is heaving, sweat-slicked against your back as he holds you pinned in place for a second. A large hand finds a breast to toy with. Another hand grips your hip so tight it feels as though there is no flesh between his fingers and the bone, but you are glad for the restraint as the man draws back only to ram into you hard, knocking out your breath on a keening moan before he has a chance to cover your mouth.

“More?”

You nod frantically against the calloused palm, eager for the feel of a second release as the greedy urge already builds in the pit of your stomach. It grows bigger, warmer with each thrust until breathing is nearly impossible and...it is Geralt’s hand, strong and calloused that has slid along your jaw and found your throat to squeeze just enough around your windpipe for you to feel dizzy and heighten each sensation in a rush. Almost.

Maybe Witchers can read minds. This one certainly seems to as his other hand abandons its purchase, fingers reaching for the nub at the apex of the slick folds. Teasing. Circling. Tweaking. His breath is hot against your throat, fanning your ear as he tells you to come undone for him. Pleads you.

How can you deny that husky voice? It is impossible to stop the explosion that starts in your core, ricocheting with incredible force through your body which contorts until the storm recedes, leaving your blissed-out in your Witcher’s arms, gasping for breath now that air flows freely.

Hair sticks to faces, necks, only stubbornly brushed aside once Geralt has laid you down, tugging you close.

“My wild flower,” he mumbles against your cheek and you can feel the smile on his lips, “get some rest.”

There will be a lot to talk about, secrets to explain before anything can begin to make sense, but right now...rest sounds good.

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rcris123 · 4 years

Text

It is the Christmas’ Eve! and I happen to be @sadieadler ‘s Secret Santa this howdy season for @rdrsecretsanta!!! I hope you enjoy your gift I had a lot of fun writing this! It’s some John almost drowning whump and big brother Arthur.

They all knew why John didn’t swim; happened when he was 12 or 13: bucked off the horse and into a rapid; nearly drowned. Arthur may still be nibbling him for his inability, but that night he let John sleep next to him. Kid was shivering like he’d break apart any minute.

And just ‘bout the same happened now, some 15 years later.

Cougar, sprung from the bushes. They were just crossing the river. Searching for game. Krampus, John’s horse, bucked him off and ran across. He was just a moment too late shooting that cougar, John was swept by the current downstream.

“Arth-”

“Don’t yell, Marston! You’ll only drown quicker!”

Arthur jumps right out of the saddle. His knees buckle under him by the force of the rapid.

He swims to John, or at least attempts to, ‘cause the current is insanely strong, feeling as if it does whatever it wants with his body. Muscles are already sore, stinging from strain and cold. It was still winter, dammit.

He catches John’s hand at last, fights to pull him under his arm so that he can try and keep that fool’s head above water. He seems half conscious already.

Reaching the shore was a struggle, and the shores nearest to them were steep and rocky. But he can’t swim with Marston like this to the other side. At least there wasn’t a waterfall yet.

“UP!” He pulls John out of the water first, then himself, his feet still swept away.

“Hey...” John looks at him half lidded, voice thick, soupy. He starts coughing violently.

Arthur pushes himself up so he can offer the other some back support while he coughs up the water. Strong pats between the shoulder-blades follow suit. It becomes violent and he could hear the dryness of that throat as each breath came with a wheeze.

“C’mon, don’t drown just yet-” Pats are gentler. Marston heaves, letting his head fall backwards for air. “That’s it. Breathe deep...”

No reply, not for a long time, just ragged breathing trying to even itself out.

“I... owe you my life.”

“At least 3 times over...”

“C’mon...” John coughs one last time, and falls on his back with a thud. And it’s the first time he gets to see the cliff-face they gotta climb to get outta there. Boadicea somehow found her way just above them, her head propping down to look at them. She was nickering concerned.

“Comin’ right up, girl.”

Arthur pulls himself up; muscles pop as they’re pulled into motion. The groan is mandatory at that point. He extends John a hand; man takes it and stumbles onto his feet, only to then lean heaving on the cliff-face.

“Now you think we can climb that?”

A puff, lips purse in thought.

“We can try to make our way back to the crossing...” Arthur muses, looking for it; it had to be upwards from where they were.

The river sloped gently downwards, not enough to create a waterfall but enough that you couldn’t climb it back up through the water - he says that like they ain’t just got swept by it... A sigh. There didn’t seem to be any edge they could try and shimmy by or any ledge low enough that they could try and climb back up from.

A scratch of the beard. He whistles for Boadicea and she nickers pitifully as she’s unable to reach down to them. Another purse of lips, followed by another sigh.

John was wheezing there, wet and scared, as if this was it and he was to die here.

“It’s gonna be alright, John.” Arthur leaned in to pat the man’s shoulder. “Maybe I just need to get out of here and try fetchin’ a boat or something.”

John woke from his trance and grabbed the fabric of his shirt. He ain’t wanna be left alone... He gets that... It’ll probably be dark by the time he gets to return and then it’ll be cold and the man’ll end up freezing. That and who knows what other animal decides it’s a good idea to get a bite outta this fool.

He leans on the rock himself:

“Remember that time Person tried to teach you how to swim?”

“Yeah...”

“You screamed like a dying animal until Dutch got a hold of you, put you on count and took you out for a bit.”

“Can you believe he just rode out with me to preach about how we needed to stick together? I felt like shit.”

“And you returned with a bag full o’candy.”

“Dutch is good at parenting when he wants to!”

“Nah, you just always was a lil’ special, ain’t you, Marston?” Arthur chuckles only to be thrown of balance by a shove.

He keeps laughing, quietly. He’s always been his little brother...

A pat on the back:

“Gonna get us a boat.”

That inhale John took was sharp. “Get here quick, will ya!”

“Sure!”

It was quite the feat getting across the rapid as he was, muscles sore and chest heavy from having dragged John out. Boadicea nickered even before he called for her. Legs up and the girl giddies to a gallop and somewhere in the back of his head he’s sure he heard John shriek after him to come back faster. It was going to be night, cold’s gonna come and even now Arthur’s feeling the wind bite through his wet clothes.

He ain’t thought that, being in the Grizzlies, finding a boat was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But he’s gotta get back to John somehow.

He goes as far as Berryville and somehow he gets to find a local with a canoe, but at this point he ain’t even knowing if this was the right river anymore and if it wasn’t how is he going to get that goddamn boat from he to whereever he left John. Luckily he still has a good memory and he remembers that rock-face

Not really how exactly to get back to it, and in the fading light it only got harder.

He somehow harnessed the canoe to drag behind Boadicea and he tried his best to track his steps back.

There was howls in the distance. His poor girl wasn’t fast, anything faster than a steady lope and she stumbled or got dragged behind. And finding a path that ain’t been run over by weeds, stumps, bushes or sharp rocks was a whole ‘nother discussion. He was almost certain he’ll find John frozen or eaten when he finally reaches the clifface.

He hears that hoarse neigh of Krampus; that stallion was most probably the ugliest beast he ever laid eyes on, possibly one of the flightiest too, but that was reason enough to stick with its rider. The moon was high on the sky already, barely shining ‘cause it was barely a waxing crescent. And there sure as shit were wolves nearby. Boadicea was getting nervous.

“C’mon girl, not far now.”

She nickered back.

At last the waterfall.

“HEY! SOMEONE OUT THERE!?” John shouts, panic stained in his voice.

“It’s me!” he hollers back.

He dismounts and tries his best to untie the canoe as quickly as possible:

“How’re you holdin’ up?!”

“Freezing!”

“Least you ain’t dead yet!” Arthur pushes the boat into the rapid and tries his best to jump in and paddle across without getting swept too far away.

“You think you’re funny?”

He doesn’t reply to that, sweating himself to row. He more or less crashes in the other side, propping himself in the paddle as he turns around to row back. John stiffly gets in after a moment’s hesitation but before Arthur can get to make a snide remark on that.

Muscles pop with each movement, it aches, yet with a heave Arthur pushes the boat out into the water again, and it’s swept away with force. It rocks. John grips the edges of the boat as it threatens to topple over. Movement’s quick; Arthur leans to steady the boat, anchoring the paddle in the riverbed as best he can, forcing the boat to drag along. He can’t look at John, instead arms move from side to side, rowing forward with all he’s got. But there’s little strength left and the canoe’s a man heavier now. Movement’s agonizingly slow and they’re slowly but surely getting turned starboard.

The river narrows downstream.

To John’s panic, felt in the way the boat rattles under their weight, Arthur decides to let the boat turn. The current sweeps them down; he keeps rowing sideways. The water’s carrying them with speed and fury.

“Arthur-”

Canoe crashes into the shore, the tail swaying downstream still.

He jumps off and lends John a hand; it’s grabbed with both arms as the man stands up, struggling, shaking.

He barely steadies when finally on the other side, clinging to Arthur like a scared animal, wet and cold and barely out of death’s grip. He can’t help patting John’s back rigorously, which brings him back to reality.

“It’s gonna be a’right, John.”

“Y-Yeah...” man huffs out. “I- Thank you, Arthur...” They let go of one another as Arthur calls for the horses. “And... I’m sorry... For all this.”

“I got you...”

“Thank you... Brother.”

#rdrsecretsanta #arthur morgan #john marston #red dead redemption #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #drabble #whump #drowning tw #merry christmas

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mademoisellegush · 5 years

Text

Hypanthium

very NSFW Chargestep, spoilers, just pwp, 3239 words (the alternate title for this was Hamtaro After Dark; kindly beta’d by Katrine)

The small rituals they keep are nice, comforting. Even after everything's changed. Even after revelations, rebirths, reunions. Even after Ortega had found her out and learned (some of) the ugly, ugly secrets kept close to her heart. And truth be told, Solana missed sparring with him. Missed the easy banter, at least.

So here they are, in some nondescript room in her lair (her lair! like some wicked monster out of some B movie), in grey sweats and sportswear.

"I bet you can't last ten minutes." Solana finishes stretching, wincing at the bruising on her thighs from a fight with what's left of the Rangers. With Charge turned villain and Argent freed at last, Herald and Steel are the last major roadblocks on her path. No matter how she feels about it, they can't stand alone for long. "As if you could take me without that armor. You've gotten soft," he grunts, bending down to touch his toes. "You're not puppeteering some younger woman's body anymore." "But maybe you wish I were," she quips, raising up her arms in the ready position. "What's it gonna be, Ilio?" Ortega shrugs, draws back to the other side of the mat in a mirror image. They make quite a pair, both a sight to behold. A mid-thirties has-been, pudgy despite renewed muscles, opposite a forty year old local celebrity, tattered and worn by time. Both of them very, very dangerous, even if all they’re wearing is gym clothes. "Why don't we make a game of it?”

“What do you have in mind?” Solana asks, curious despite herself.

The look he gives her is hungry and teasing at once. Like they’re twenty, reckless and stupid, without the specter of the past hanging overhead.

Oh. Of course. Trust Ortega to find ways to turn any and all situation into an opportunity for flirting.

“Loser has to let me eat her out until she begs for mercy.”

That is surprisingly forward for a simple sparring session, makes her blink; but considering, well, the lines they've both crossed to get here... "Ah, bold! That may have worked on someone else, Charge,” she says, voice dropping low, posture changing like they’re back on opposite sides of the battlefield, “but not me. I know you. Tell you what, let's raise the stakes. You win, we do that. I win, I fuck you how I like." "I wouldn't say no to that, Sol," he looks amused. Probably thinking about being pinned to the wall again, neck craned to meet her halfway. If she has her say, he won’t be thinking for long.

“You misunderstand. I'm going to bend you over a desk, peg you, and fuck you until you cry.” “Ah, that’s- uh.” Ortega clears his throat. His ears turn red. “I wouldn’t say no to that either.”

They’re too old to be acting like teenagers; but all she can think about is finding out exactly how far down the flush goes.

Urgh.

She goes on the offensive.

He's expecting the first three punches aimed at his throat, parries them easily, but not the kick to the midsection, the sweep of her right leg. Then, the Krav Maga move she uses to get in close, to twist and bend his arm behind his back like she'll break it. He’s slow, she thinks. Maybe he does want to lose. Solana leans closer, brings chewed-up lips close to his ear, close enough to feel stubble scratch her cheek. "Or maybe I should have you fuck yourself in my lap, riding yourself into exhaustion. Wouldn't you like that? Having to beg for it?" Ortega makes a choked sound, but Solana doesn't let her guard down. Allows herself a smirk, at most. This isn’t the first time they’ve flirted while fighting, he should be able to take it.

She sees the other arm fold up, moving to elbow her in the gut as Ortega pivots, and moves out of the way in time. Just like at the Gala (and it feels like that happened just yesterday, standing over the Rangers with the heady rush of victory coursing through her veins) this requires all of her focus. He raises a leg to kick the thigh just above the knee, right where her bruising is at its worst, and Solana outright yells when his foot connects. Shit!

It ends with Solana on her back, Ortega approaching fast. At least she has the presence of mind to raise her legs up, crossing her ankles behind his neck, keeping him away from her chest. The triangle choke isn’t her favorite, too close, but- Ortega pushes her legs inward as if he wants to fold her in two.

Instinct.

Pushing his head down with one arm, scooting back with her shoulders so he can’t raise himself up, hooking the other arm under his knee- The motions precise, brutal. With a grunt, she twists, trapping his head and right arm between her thighs. Now he’s the one choking, his own limb cutting off airflow. She can’t resist gloating, falling back into the banter they had while he was still playing for misguided heroes. “Giving up already?” Ortega wheezes, trying to reply, but Solana tightens her hold. Her thighs burn, but that’s nothing. Both of them have done much worse, have had much worse done to them. “No talking, unless you forfeit.” He tries to wrench his head out, but she holds fast, keeps her legs stiff. “I’m waiting,” and she presses further down on his trachea. Time slows- And Ortega taps her belly twice. Solana removes her legs, heedless of how much worse the bruising feels. She knows she’s smiling, so much that her face feels tired. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Ortega mutters, cheek pressed into the hard cherry wood of her desk. Solana tries to stand on the tip of her toes, angle her hips upward. She likes looking at his back. Pushing him down with one hand between his shoulder blades and the other in his hair, feeling in control. It was pretty much the whole reason she suggested this, and the fact that it doesn’t look feasible frustrates to no end. Her thighs aren’t doing much better, either, even after spending a couple hours in homemade ice packs shorts once they got back to her place. “This might be easier if-” “No, no, I’ll figure this out,” Solana cuts him off, glaring at the desk like it personally insulted her. “And no, I refuse to stand on a stool, or a crate, or whatever. That’s… undignified.” Ortega stands back up, turns around to face her. Naked, clad only in scarred, tattooed skin and the harness at her waist, Solana should feel like exposed. She does. Some. But it isn’t as bad as it was before. She can stand to be naked now, for one. That had been like ripping off a bandaid, or a scab.

Painful. Shaking off memories, Solana straightens up. “Let’s try that again.” She hopes her shaky smile is as reassuring as she wants it to be. “Come on, let’s go to my room,” she offers, tugs him close by the hand. It’s always a rush, feeling the shape of the mods under the skin. Could free her of all this mess in a second, one stray, accidental thought. “You mean your small mattress in a corner covered with my weight in pillows?” Ortega sounds amused. He has reason to be. His hand is very warm in hers. Grounding, even if her skin tingles. “I have a bedframe now. And thicker blankets.” “Didn’t we break that last week?” “You do know I can buy things for myself, right?” “Guess that gives me free reign to break it again.” “Ah! You’ll be doing a great job, Ricky, if you don’t break your own hip,” and oh, he hates that name still. She keeps her eyes on the set of his shoulders as the words hit. Good, keep him worked up. If she enjoys his reaction as she nudges him out and right on through the next door, well, that’s for her to know.

With all the mess of the past few months, Solana hasn’t really had time to decorate. The whole two-room apartment is spartan, despite a few plants here and there?s - like the hardy little devil’s tongue that adorns her room. The mattress sinks a little when Ortega kneels at her side. She has to take a moment to avoid following through on the urge to cover the barcode on her chest, grits her teeth as she follows his gaze to her thigh. The bruising’s yellowed now, showing up under the raised skin of scars and the ochre designs on her flesh.

“Chen really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Solana grimaces, unable to keep the bitterness out.

“You know I’ve had worse. Shit, you did worse.”

“And you never pulled your punches, Sol.” Not reproachful, not with how low and wistful his voice’s gotten. He’s still staring at the ugly contusion, hands flexing against bare thighs.

“Of course not,” she smiles, reaching out with one nail to trace the outlines of the mods in his chest. He’s just as damaged as she is; a tool who broke free from the box.

They both are.

She rolls to her side to fish a bottle of lube from the pile of random books and clutter. It’s full enough, but can’t ever have too much. Just like he can’t be too ready.

Wordlessly she has him spread his legs, lean back on the mountain of pillows, warming up the little bottle in her palms. At least he’s much less anxious than earlier.

She works a finger in, carefully. He’s still as ready as he was back on that desk, but frankly it’s fun to have him start to unravel again in her hands.

“Look at you, so needy. This is where you belong, isn’t it?” she says, squeezing more lube out. “Maybe you should stay here, hang up the mask and retire.”

Before, she would have thought him happy to take the lead, to control the situation, but it turns out that the ex-Marshal, ex-hero, likes being told what to do, likes being on his knees, on his back, bound, pinned down. At the thought, she curls a second finger in, careful. “Are you going to be good for me, Ilio?” Ortega moans, hands grasping at the blanket beneath him. Her free hand reaches out to steady him, flat on his abdomen.

“That’s not an answer.” “Yes, yes, Sol, I will,” he says at last, voice twisting up on the last syllable. She smiles, and leans back to stroke some more lube onto the black silicone she’s sporting. “Now come here, I did say you would be doing all the work.”

There’s a bit of awkward shifting around, trying to balance with way too many pillows around them both, but they make do. Ortega obediently straddles her waist, up on his knees,before he lowers himself onto the fake silicone cock, slowly, hand flat to the scars and tattoos on her abdomen, so far from the incomprehension of the early days. She looks at his imperfections. Some scars, she put there. Some, she knows about from her time playing at normalcy with her puppet. Some, new. She traces them idly as he adjusts; basking in the sensation of Ortega's weight over her like a cat basking in the sun. Solana doesn't get much aside from a steady pressure, but it's a rush for her ego to see how Ortega’s breathing changes, how he shifts as he adjusts, rocking back on his hands and knees over her prone form. "That's it," Solana encourages, raising a hand still covered in lube to his stubbled cheek. "You're doing great, Ilio." "Enjoying the view?" His smile is a little strained. "Always." She slides her hand from his cheek to his neck, tugging him down for a kiss he accepts eagerly. Her other hand moves to his chest, teasing, up the trail of black hair and modded flesh that's been marked far too much for one lifetime. He straightens up, putting his weight on his knees. Solana runs a hand over his thigh, feeling muscles move with him. There's power, here. Power. Control. Need. None of the fear and barriers from before. Ortega rolls his hips tentatively, like he's afraid to break them. Like an old man, she thinks, snorting at the thought. "What's so funny?" "Nothing," she says, quickly. Better not discourage him, not when he's doing so well, working himself up like he's putting on a show. Wrong answer, it seems, because Ortega stops moving and leans closer, dropping chest to chest, forehead to forehead. He has to bend to do so, what with how much taller he is. "Sol. Solana. Tell me." Looking into his eyes is difficult - she never was good at doing that with real people, even with her rigorous training from the Farm - but she loves them. The speckles of gold in the brown, the warmth and single-minded focus. How he followed her into Hell and back, looking past the tattoos and scars and seeing her. Just her. Just little project CB-413 who spent too much time poking at the green moss growing under the concrete stairs back at the Farm, who stole a dead girl’s name and patched up a half-life from ruins. She's still fucked up, and so is he, and yet they can have something, now. Past masks. Past (some) secrets. "You're getting old, is all. Can't even fuck yourself, can you?" "Sure I can," he answers. "And I’m not old, i’m like- fine wine." "And you don't want a little help?" She asks, slides both hands up to his hips. "I'd be more than happy to oblige." The needy sigh as her lubed hand grasps his shaft is all the encouragement she needs.

They take their time, hand light as can be. After all, he’s supposed to be fucking himself on the strap-on, not have her do all the work. She swipes her thumb on the head of his cock, smears what’s left of the lube over it, the other limb resting on his thigh. Paying no attention to the scars, to the bruises, the cobwebs. Trying to stay in the now. The moment. Ortega bucks into her palm, and Solana slows to match the rhythm of his hips. “Watch out, old man,” she jokes, desperate for levity. “Thought you’d last longer than five minutes.” “Easy for you to say, you’re not playing fair-” “I’m just helping, aren’t I?” He reaches out to take her hand stroking his thigh. His fingers are just as worn as he is. “Do you want a show, or do you want me to suffer?” He drapes an arm over his face, throws himself back dramatically. “The things I do for you, I swear.” “Because you aren’t enjoying yourself? Should we stop?” “Well, see, I never said-” Solana snickers, and tugs him down for another kiss. He accepts it, answers with his own hunger, and she can’t help but return it. His growing beard brushes against her chin, prickly, before she pushes him back up. It’s a dizzying sight. This time, one of his hands joins hers on his cock. They do good work together, she knows, both in and out of their armors. No reason for sex to be any different. They settle into a quick rhythm, hands and hips in tandem, until he makes a strangled whine. She's heard him make similar sounds in the past couple of months, but it never stops feeling like a punch in the gut. The tingling rush of static against her skin, the smell of ozone and sweat and tangled bodies, almost too much. Her hand keeps its even pace, the dull pressure of his weight against her groin intolerable, and- “Oh- Sol-” She’s lightheaded. Her gaze drifts up from his stomach, watching how he struggles to breathe, tenses, the roll of his hips as he tries to fuck himself faster. His face is thrown upward, mouth agape and eyes half-open. If she could, she’d freeze time, keep the vulnerability of it all for her own. Ortega sinks down from his knees to her chest, crumbling after spilling himself. Like a puppet with cut strings. They'll both be in need of a wash in the morning, but lying there skin to skin is much more appealing than moving. Much like listening to his breathing. It’s so human.

He brings up her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her open palm, and up the burns and scars on her arm until he’s buried his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, tracing small circles wherever he can touch. “So,” she breaks the silence, unwilling to stop and consider how gentle this all is. Ortega shifts to his side, bending his head back to her neck, breathing over her collarbone and the more tender, raised spots on her skin. His hand wanders down to trace the pattern of healing scars. “Had fun?” “With you? Always.”

Solana lays one hand over his on her hip, allows herself to revel in the physicality of it, just for a heartbeat, before tugging Ortega close as she lies back on the pillows, his too-large hands unbuckling the harness from her hips. He tosses it aside, carelessly. She can’t find it in herself to care, too busy watching the man kneeling on the mattress before her. Ortega has always been silver-tongued, and though he’s shown her already precisely how talented he is, she’s not opposed to a repeat performance. She loses herself in the now, lets him move her around as he bends close. His mouth is warm, a mooring in the tumult of thought as his head creeps ever higher. Like he’s on a quest for ambrosia. “So I did win in the end, didn't I?” Ortega hums against her thigh after a moment that seems to stretch on forever. “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to talk with your mouth- ah- full?” “You're not complaining,” he pulls back, the dark hairs of his beard shining slick, “But I can always stop.” “Ilio, I swear, if you do-” He laughs, and lightly nips at her inner thigh with his teeth.

Her muscles burn, her skin irritated by growing stubble, but it's a sweet ache. She's alive, and breathing, and even though she keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way Ortega's fingers tread over bruised skin and his mouth between her thighs get Solana out of her head. It's still his calloused palm, his fingers and his tongue.

It's still her body.

It doesn’t take long before her knees tremble, tugging on Ortega’s hair like it’ll help. Maybe it does, anchor in the wave of Thinking and Feeling; maybe it doesn't. She comes down from her peak, all thought fleeing but the feeling of his tongue working against her. It's so very simple, letting go with a gentle touch. For a while, Solana runs her fingers through Ortega’s dark hair, plays with the shell of his ear, loose-limbed and sleepy. “I liked watching you.” “I like watching me too. We should do that more often.” She laughs, at that, a real full-belly laugh, chest shaking.

The grey clouds part. If only for a little bit.

#fallen hero #fallen hero spoilers #chargestep #ortega #sidestep #oc: solana birchwood #do not @ me this was the brainchild of several soltega convos and conversations on the discord #anyway im gonna try to get some good ol Gai Content out.... julia ortega my love if youre out there #also expect this on ao3 if you cant read this here

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beauvoyr · 5 years

Text

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 18 & 19

flowering | 18 & 19

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: M Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

XVIII flowering: gluing eggshells together

loud voices are never good omen. byron favours speaking in soft tones with underlying firmness that warns those unprepared never to challenge him. shouting marks an unworthy man and it is a level he strives not to stoop for as long as he lives.

in this house of statues, he knows nobody speaks to you. save for the outsiders, your lecturers, the manservants mute themselves in your presence should they encounter you. your commands are acknowledged by way of a bent waist, head lowered, mouth stitched shut. hearing voices carried from your room right into the hallway is a phenomenon that has byron picking up his speed twofold, careful enough to balance the tray of tea and tidbits as he marches into your room, nary a knock.

“twenty, and that’s final.”

unless your room had transformed into a haggling hypermarket overnight, it sounded like an unfair deal coming from quintus. truly a rare sight to see father and daughter gathered in the same space, byron takes a moment to pencil the details in his mind. you, besieged, behind your desk with your fingers woven through your hair, shutting your eyes, shutting out the world. quintus, machiavellian, a proud figure in the heart of your room, unsmiling, uncaring. it has byron stepping aside when quintus gathers himself after seizing victory in one of the many wars he fought for lucis, even if it’s a war he waged with his very own daughter.

locking the door behind him, byron deposits your teatime tray and strides to your desk. you’ve curled in on yourself, legs drawn to your chest, all balled up on your chair. a hatchling truly unprepared for the world beyond the fragile shield of your eggshell. the pathetic sight makes byron drop on his knees before you, gloved hands unraveling the knot of your legs to be placed on the floor once more. “milady, what’s wrong?”

“everything.”

he doesn’t need to see your face to hear the tears in your voice. “everything, milady?” he tries again, softer, resting his hands on your twitchy thighs. “what did your father want from you? twenty of what?”

“not twenty of what.” your head shakes, arms that are shielding your face gradually dropping to unveil a face full of forlorn, reddening eyes brimming with unshed tears. “twenty, byron, twenty.” you stop, sucking in a deep breath, trying to pull your legs to your chest once more—only, byron has his hands on you and he fights your desperation to curl in on yourself again. “—let me go, byron—“

“not until you tell me twenty of what, milady,” he breathes, tone going softer than before, barely lined in warning. “now, tell me: twenty of what.”

you could’ve kicked him, planted a foot in his face if you struggled hard enough. break his teeth, break his nose, break everything for all you care. but you don’t. all you do is to look at him, helpless, hair mussed up, broken, choking low in your throat, lost, tired of fighting your frustration. “twenty,” you cry out, voice cracking, and byron’s fingers dig into your thighs at your next words: “father’s marrying me off at twenty.”

IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE same routine in any council meeting. Councilmen and women alike, dressed in their regal uniforms, discussing Lucian politics in this chamber. Sunlight streams from high above the paneled walls, bringing light to the ebony carvings on crystal chandelier. Fire from two elaborate torches lent feeble warmth in this air-conditioned place, not that Ignis minds it. Even in his waistcoat, he barely feels the cold. Ballpoint skittering across feint-ruled paper in an elaborate script Noctis had long deciphered under his tutelage, Ignis pens in points from today’s discussion for his charge’s digestion.

Hands clenched, Quintus’ jaw barely rocks with each heavy blow of his word. “We cannot dismiss the fact that each day brings us closer to Niflheim’s machinations.”

Gentle-faced Estelle, Countess of Cimlain, is never known to raise her voice in the presence of the king. But her voice is clear as her stand on the matter. “We’ve discussed this time and time again, Andronicus: We will not reinstate the military. There is no need for them in this world, as Lucis is taking a peaceful stand against the war.”

—heated discussion, Ignis amends his initial monologue, pen skittering faster to keep up with the exchange of dialogue.

“My dear Cimlain, you say it’s peaceful only because you get to sleep soundly on your bed each night, blissfully unaware of the wars our Glaives wage against the Imperials,” Quintus remarks with barely a twitch of his wispy brows, knowing his words brought forth a round of shifty eyes hiding their guilt. “Believe me, if His Majesty permits my presence on the battlefield, I would have done the job myself.”

King Regis holds up an authoritative hand to silence any retorts from red-cheeked Estelle, regarding Quintus with the apathy of one whose ear had been plugged with this debate for many years. “Your place is not the battlefield, Andronicus,” he reminds him. “Your health takes precedence above all else. It’s best you spend your years waging your wars behind a desk instead.”

“Marshal Leonis commandeers the Crownsguard and Captain Drautos, the Kingsglaive.” Quintus nods the king’s way like a sleepy man nodding off at a boring meeting, entirely disregarding what he said. “Your Majesty, I’m not asking for much. I merely want to reestablish a small fraction of militia, starting with conscripting our young Insomnians to join the fray. The great Solheim was not built in a day, and I’m not expecting much from these men,” his hands wave about, eyes drifting from one face to another, taking in their expressions, “but give it time and it will surely flourish.”

Lukas clicks his tongue, earning an eyeful from Quintus. He is not known for his kindness, and it shows in his words. “We can all see that you are hungering for the power your family has lost, Andronicus.” His moustache bristles. “We do not condone Niflheim for their cruelty, yet it seems you are keen on letting Lucis tread the same path. You will be the downfall of our kingdom, mark my words.”

Ignis stops penning at that point, knowing the downwards spiral of the meeting has just begun.

“It truly isn’t a fruitful meeting without our friend Lukas resorting to ad hominem,” unsmiling Quintus says, ignoring the verbal lunge for his heart. “Because I care more about the result of our meeting, I choose to disregard the useless nonsense you spewed, and instead, focus on how to solve the problem we face.” Without much pomp, he turns away from the fuming man, facing a weary Regis. “Majesty—“

And he stops. Eyes screwing shut. A thumb on his temple. Pained.

A fresh wave of murmurs spreads through the chamber behind a hand to the lips. Ignis would’ve leapt to his feet if this occurrence was the first of its kind, but he’s lost count of it as the years trickled by. Headaches, dizzy spells, migraines, standard signs of a man overworking past his limits, past his age ordained. For all the cruelty Quintus inflicted upon you, he is but a mortal in the end. A helpless old man even in the face of the reaper himself. Capping his pen, Ignis quietly observes as Quintus’ forehead is slick with a sheen of sweat, soundlessly battling his agony. And, ever friendless, nobody moves to aid him through his personal war.

King Regis, the benevolent man he is, leans forward in urgency, settling a steadying hand on Quintus’ shoulder. “Dizzy again?” he asks to a soundless Quintus, who neither nods nor shakes his head at the question, eyes still shut. But King Regis knows. He holds up another hand to the rest of the Council, marking the end to the meeting.

As Ignis sweeps his belongings into his briefcase with the rest of the apathetic crowd thinning out, he hears faint murmurs from the king himself.

“What did the doctor say?”

AT THE END OF YOUR third rep of push-ups, the subtle burn in your upper arms whines for you to stop. Not the awful kind of burn, but the kind of burn where it feelssatisfying. Sweating enough to fill buckets for rainy days, the bridge of your nose slick in perspiration, shirt plastered to your back. Even the slightest twist has your muscles aching, crying for mercy. Gladio’s ruthless, that’s for sure, clocking in enough counts for you to pass out if you aren’t thoroughly prepared with your warm-ups. It hurts when he manhandles you just as easily, demonstrating his raw strength and power over you, a reminder that it took him years to get to where he is now: A Shield to Noctis.

But the ache lancing through is real. All sharp edges, knives cutting your nerves. This ache isn’t anything like your innards you eviscerated, this ache comes from an entirely different reason altogether. It reminds you that you’re very much alive, living and breathing with Gladio stretching you to your toes, big hands on your shoulders to put you in place, to put up with the pain you agreed. Your throat scratches with all the sounds you make, from tiny squeaks to big yelps, pushed past your limits with Gladio’s amber eyes promising you that this is just the beginning of what he started.

“C’mon, ass up,” he swatted your back one time, just because he caught you drooping unsteadily in your planking. The sheer difference in size between you and him meant that one: He swatted you and it hurt, and two: It had enough strength to collapse your elbows and introduce your face to the hardwood.

Of course, Gladio remedied it with a hastily barked apology, bear paws wrapping around your hips to hoist you up once more, and he might have left a handprint Byron pointed out before your shower. But you liked it. Liked how each session ends with your lungs wheezing and your knees bruising, liked how Gladio cards his hands through your damp hair like a proud brother, always encouraging your every move—liked how he praised you even if it’s for the pettiest of things.

Good job for holding out longer than ten minutes.

Good job for those five extra stretches.

Good job for not puking.

Good job, lil’ lady.

You distinctly remembered making a face at that. “Little lady?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re one,” he supplied helpfully, looking like it was the most natural nickname ever. At your persistent staring, Gladio stops practicing his broadsword swings and shrugs, lips twitching. “What’s a man gotta do to get your real name? Just T. Andronicus or that Quintus Guy’s Daughter or Quintus’ Whatever ain't gonna cut it down the years.”

“How about Kaliva?” you proposed, sounding hopeful. “That’s pretty close too.”

The look Gladio threw you was an answer enough, returning to his sword swings once more. “Yeah, no. No name, no change.”

Well, at least you tried. If anything, it’s a lukewarm reassurance to hear him inadvertently confirming he hadn’t snuck his nose into all six of your private envelopes signed in your name.

The heavy double doors creak open, effectively bringing you out of your musings on your behemoth of a trainer. Gladio had run out earlier, babbling something about picking up someone and instructed you to stay put as he threw on a jacket and left. In the middle of your cool down stretches, you couldn’t help but to crane your head over your shoulder to spy on your new visitor. Is it Nyx again? The cheeky Glaive liked to pop in and out of his rounds, smirking at how you panted through your regimen. On days he felt gracious, he’d share tips on how to maximize your core muscles, and on not-so helpful days, he’d cross his legs at the ankles, leaning against the wall and chuckling at your wilting planking.

Your jaw almost unhinged when Gladio steps in, bringing with him a man the size of a boulder. Distinctly aged, his salt-coloured hair and shaved jawline is reminiscent of an obelisk in a museum. All regal poise, spine straight. Age is something he wears handsomely, despite the hardened finish of his eyes. Your gaze trails over the soft leather and gilded trims on his robes, memorizing the regal way he holds himself. Despite the difference in his ensemble, this is a variation of a getup you’ve seen father wore before.

He is man you certainly shouldn’t mess with.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you fold your hands over your thighs, bowing deeply. Manners first. “Good evening, sir.”

“At ease, young Andronicus,” the man commands, and you know you’re right if he’s the one calling you that. He comes to a stop with Gladio hovering closely by, eyes raking you from head to toe. You must’ve appeared disheveled, sweaty, awful for a first impression, but he says nothing of it. “I’ve heard of you from my son. Received your papers, in fact.”

So this is what Gladio talked about, the trial by fire. Realising the severity of the situation, you allow yourself absolutely no chance of being mistaken as a diminutive doll all shy and reserved, for he is part of the Royal Council. And men in the Royal Council surely must be statues in serving the king. You should do well to reflect your part too. “I’m glad you did, Sir Clarus. Gladio did mention that I should be expecting a visit from you sometime in the future.”

A curious light shines from within his granite grey eyes, a hand thoughtfully placed on his chin. He seemed to have not heard you at all. “…I must say, I wasn’t expecting to meet the controversial child of the Andronicus like this. Your existence had been a rumour, all this while.”

For you, it brings only the tritest of smiles. “Are you surprised, sir?” you say, all too aware of how he quirks a brow at your impudence. “I know how my father had repeatedly discredited me, just because I’m female. He has no plans to allow me to lead the House, but be rest assured I will.”

“Bear in mind, there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance. Confidence will take you to places beyond your imagination, but arrogance will only serve to narrow your vision,” Clarus warns, making neither distinct disproval nor approval at your proclamation. “I mean no offense, of course. From a simple glance, I can see nothing of Quintus in you. But your words cut just as sharp as his.” He pauses, seeking your eyes in a resolute stare, a predator staring down a prey. “You aspire to best your father and become the next Andronicus serving His Highness Prince Noctis, yes?”

Hearing Noctis’ name from Clarus’ lips brings back that same nausea from before, nausea blooming in your heart. He’s testing you, you realize. “Yes sir. And I won’t stop until I will be the next in line to serve His Highness. That has been my dream from the start.”

At this, Gladio makes a face, eyebrows perched high on his forehead.

Clarus, presumably used to his son and some of the many odd faces he’s artfully mastered through the years, chooses to ignore it. Though his movements are minute, each action is calculated, never an absent gesture. Eyes travel from Gladio to you, from Gladio’s stanch silence, to your squared shoulders. He is summing you up, finding you a place in his mind. A temporary residence, where you can easily fall if you failed his trust.

“I expect to see you during the Prince’s Coronation Ceremony when he is finally the 114th King of Lucis,” he finally says, allowing himself the slightest quirk of lips. Then, his choice of word sharpens with the slant of his frown. “Whatever it is that you are trying to do, you best avoid your father’s eyes. You and I both know how shrewd he can be at times. Sometimes the best course of action in war is to retreat and reorganize your strategy.”

Of course he would know, wouldn’t he?

Clarus Amicitia must’ve sat at the table over a dozen of times stomaching father’s arguments and refuting them in councils. Father assaults him verbally, and Clarus deflects them as the steely Shield of King Regis. Judging from the way he speaks of father, he doesn’t seem to regard him highly, though he refrains from voicing out such thoughts in concrete. Fortunately though, Clarus seems like a sound man who doesn’t pass his judgment from father to you in the very same way. And you’re thankful for small mercies like this, thankful that he doesn’t reject you for your father’s mistakes.

“Thank you, sir,” you incline your head in a respectful bow, one he accepts with a nod of his own. “Your advice is well-heeded.”

Clarus doesn’t smile at you. He doesn’t need to smile when his words carried his sincerity. After all, a smile can be easily faked; one that father had taught you over and over and over again. He bids his farewell, turning away. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, young Andronicus. We will cross paths again, soon enough.” Gladio follows him to the door, but Clarus only lifts a hand to stop him. “No need to see me out, son. Who do you think owned this training room before you?”

To his credit, Gladio only crosses his arms as his father left with little flourish, seeing himself to the exit without waiting for a farewell. As the doors clicked shut, you can’t say you’re surprised when Gladio attacks your hair with his hand—one that left you batting his arm in desperation as he musses up your already scruffy hair, limp from sweat.

“Look at you, being all adult with my old man around,” he grunts, though there’s no malice in his teasing. “Good job for not pissing your pants talking to him.”

Clarus is intimidating, yes, but the random encounter isn’t all too bad. At least he genuinely offered you some advice instead of putting you down. You chalked it off to being lucky, since Gladio’s a nice man and his dad, however terrifying he may be, should be a reasonably nice man as well. “Your dad’s cool—but kinda scary,” you admit, bringing his barking laugh rounding your statement. “Just…don’t tell him that, okay? It’d totally ruin all the front I put up just now.”

“Depends on your next answer,” is all Gladio answers, amber eyes winking in mirth. “Think you can drop down and give me five reps of push-ups?”

Try as you might, you definitely did a poor job of hiding your grimace. Gladio definitely saw that, arms crossed over his chest with a huff, awaiting your reply. The short little break you took barely did anything for your muscles, but if Gladio wants it done, you suppose you could try—even if you fail halfway. With a sigh, you head to the training mat. “I guess…I can try. Just—don’t chew me out if I can’t finish it, please?”

Gladio only pats your back good-naturedly, following you as you drop down on the mat and shifting into position. “That’s more like it, at least you’re givin’ it a shot.”

You only barely resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Sometimes, I wish I don't.”

twenty and married, a fate worse than death. father trampled over your dreams once again, never caring if you had anything to say about it. a maid had shown up on your doorstep, one who refuses to meet your eyes as she mutedly dropped flimsy files on your desk, curtsying before she left. your treacherous fingers flipped through one of the dossiers, taking in the sight of a formal report with a passport photo stapled in the right hand corner. each file contained different pictures, different names, different information, yet they all bear the same trait: a man.

the knowledge sees your hand trembling, whether out of grief or rage, you aren’t certain.

this is father’s final slap to you: a choice you have to make, that is to select your own husband.

you make quick work of these dossiers, glancing through the eligible bachelors father had undoubtedly handpicked. they fall nothing short of a standard arranged marriage’s prerequisites: groomed handsomely, unparalleled intelligence, of acceptable height and weight and build, shortlisting their many talents and hobbies, detailing their age, current workplace, and their slew of achievements like trophies on a shelf. some wear their dark hair slicked back; others opted for a loosely trimmed touch, falling over their foreheads. some wore glasses, sharpening their overall appearance; others had eyes the sparkling colour of sea foams.

aether, flavian, icarus, scientia, xander.

proud men from distinguished families whom father saw fit to tame you.

you stomp out the urge to introduce these files to your fireplace, throwing them aside to be perused no longer. instead, you remove yourself from your desk, making your way to the television and switching it on. anything to get your mind off those things, off the thought of marriage, off the sight of men who’d hold you down and snatch the name of the andronicus for themselves. furiously flipping through the channels, past gossip talk shows, past cliché soap operas of poor girl meets young ceo and falls hopelessly in love, past music videos and blaring rock music, finally settling on crown broadcasting channel.

the newscaster, a peppy blonde in subdued makeup, prattles off three words per second as she’s already well underway a story. “—tigious day as prince noctis lucis caelum celebrates his sixteenth birthday in style at the caelum via. attending his birthday celebration is his majesty king regis—“

the scene transitions from the newsroom into a panning shot of a rooftop ceremony, all crisp glass and smooth silks hanging off the banisters, all bearing the royal crest of the lucis. it cuts into a voiceless shot of prince noctis interacting with guests, an aristocratic teenager clad in a bespoke suit of fine lines, receiving each and every hand with a smart shake or two. his bangs haven’t quite grown out yet, tapering in stunted spikes over his alabaster skin, and his deep blue eyes are too narrowed, too tensed to be enjoying this birthday celebration, but the imperfect image imprints itself in your mind all the same.

he isn’t ugly, no. he’s easily the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, even if you are only going by the unfairly monochromatic pictures in the newspaper. yet, there’s something about his profile that strikes a chord in your heart.

he looks tired. he looks like he’s been run haggard for his own birthday. he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. and he looks sad. but why is he sad, when he’s the prince and princes have everything they want in the world, and then some?

at sixteen, he looks like he’s suffering.

at sixteen, you are suffering.

sixteen and suffering. how awful. novels always made a big deal of being sixteen and how it marks the start of boyfriends and casual romances and a little fumbling in the sheets, but prince noctis doesn’t even look like he has the time to comb his hair. snatching the remote to switch off the TV with a click, you hold your face in your hands as you try to breathe. legs to your chest, toes curling into the cushion.

breathe in. breathe out.

here is the man you’ve been shaping your life after, but he doesn’t even know you exist.

how will he know, when you’ll be married at twenty?

NIGHT HAS LONG FALLEN OVER the city, shading skyscrapers in shadows. In your little chamber, you make yourself a thick mug of hot chocolate, sipping on the artificial sweetness to replenish your brain juice. After each training session, Gladio would always bring you back to your room, making sure you’re safely tucked inside your little box and messing up your after-shower hair. And, following his standard end-of-the-day statement, he’d always recite, “Same time tomorrow, lil’ lady,” before he retreats with a wave. It’s rather comforting to know he’s got your back if anything happens, though you don’t really know what to do with that knowledge for now.

Glossing over the documents in your Moogle Drive, you take another sip of your drink. A great many of the documents never made full sense to you, often containing jargons too complicated for you to understand lest you’re a scientist of Niflheim. Some seemed to be subject test reports on their monsters tubed in Fodina Caestino. Others aren’t any better, just full of codes and never a legible word. Unless you contracted external henchmen, say an underworldly character to decode this gibberish, you’re never going to get anywhere far. But the risks are high with these shady fellows, for their loyalty lies in those with deeper pockets.

It’s either that or those who have them on knifepoint all the time, you think to yourself, eyeing the scattered documents in your Drive.

With no new information coming from Byron, you’re still stuck trudging your way through these nightmarish creatures. Of course, he is never to be blamed for the shortage of information coming your way. This two-man show of yours suffered a great many shortcomings. Money is never an issue to you, thankfully, since father never trespassed into your bank accounts to see how you spent your allowances. While having enough money to silence a cop is undeniably handy, it isn’t the best currency to scout for the best talents in gathering information for something as dodgy as Niflheim.

Because, really, who wants to get involved with the Andronicus and Niflheim?

Even the hardiest of assassins would run ten kilometers northwards if they heard that.

The reputation surrounding the House of Andronicus is something much like a hardened stalagmite; built upon blood dripping over its foundation, culminating in a sharp peak in the end, sharp enough to rend flesh. These men weren’t written into history as paragons of Lucis. You know what they do: Exact justice all in the faith of keeping the kingdom safe, even if it sullied their hands. There are no grey areas in here: Everything is either white or black. White, for upholding the commandment and maintaining public safety; black, just to hide the bloodstains that inevitably come along with it. Kill whenever required, extort whenever needed, reconstruct the law whenever they saw fit. Your father is a man of sins from the very beginning, and there is no denying that you have left reddened footprints of your own too.

The sooner you unravel what the empire is building, the easier it’ll be for the prince in the long run.

And you know exactly what you have to do.

With a yawn, you chance a glance at your desktop clock. 10.26 p.m., already past the bedtime Gladio designated for your optimum rest. Sensing a well-rested night’s sleep already beyond salvation, you resign yourself to the usual standard of falling asleep on your worktable, dragging yourself to your cupboard, where your stacks of pillows await. You randomly select the one at the top, sinking in your chair once more, propping the pillow on your thighs. Hugging it like this as you sloughed your work is so comforting, especially with your nose pressed into the cotton and—

—oh.

You sit up abruptly, staring at your pillow.

It’s a different scent from the usual. Not worn cotton drained from sunshine, no. Something more of fancy soaps and chamberlain-laundered clothes, and a little bit of something else. You gingerly nosed your pillow again, marveling in the different smell. It’s something you’re familiar with, but it’s just different Familiar but different. How confusing. You smelled this before, not on your body, not on your bed, not on your clothes, but on someone. Someone whose clothes smelled exactly like this, coming into contact with your pillow. Someone lying on your comforters, someone sharing your sleep.

Noctis.

It’s his scent.

The nausea associated with his name comes back in full force; warmth washing over your cheeks, churning your tummy. He’d always smelled nice, you know that, but you never expected the scent from his clothes would transfer on your pillow. It’s a nice scent, clean with underlying notes of—you don’t know, himself, maybe? Whatever it is, and as creepy as it sounds like, the knowledge only serves to make you tighten your hold on the pillow, burying your face in it.

You’re okay to me, he said.

He saw you as an okay person, even when you stammered out your thoughts, tongue tripping, breath hitching in the night. How desperately you want to wield a whip. It's okay to him. How desperately you don’t want to be like your father. It's okay to him. How desperately you want to atone for your sins. It’s okay to him. How desperately you want and it’s still okay to him.

Teeth already littering bites on your lower lip, chin on the pillow, you hold it closer to your heart. Close, closer until each curve yields around your frame, holding you tight in return. If you think hard enough, you could recall how the flame danced from the tips of his fingers all the way to his palm. How scarlet melts into his skin and a clumsy smile on his lips, thoughtful enough to notice you’re cold all over. He listens, he stays, he encourages, he is everything you don’t deserve because you're a liar and a murderer and you’re sitting on a throne of bones with their skeletons shackling your ankles.

What if he leaves you when he knows how dirty you’ve become?

You should tell him what you are.

No. You shouldn’t tell him.

If he leaves now, he’ll destroy you. You’ve gone too far with wanting this time, farther than wanting mother and her musical memories. All the years you built around him, carefully constructing a castle around your prince, it’ll all crumble once he’s gone. All the months you spent with him, all for naught. No more trading texts in King’s Knight co-ops, no more sleepy afternoons slumbering together. He is the very foundation of your core, and you know that well enough not to let him leave. Because once he leaves, he’ll never come back for you.

Curling in on yourself, you hug the pillow tighter, inhaling deeply.

For now, it’s okay like this. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself all this while, haven’t you?

You’ll be okay as long as he’s with you, as long as he stays.

He can’t leave. He won’t leave. He will never ever get the chance to leave.

A solitary beep shakes your phone awake, the screen lit by a notification. Your shoulders twitch at the sound, casting a discreet glance at the King’s Knight message box adorning the front. On any other normal day it’d be a promotional message from the developers, trying to entice players with limited-time events and bundle sets. This time around, things had been different these past few months. A text that’s not from the developers only meant one thing.

Slowly shaking yourself out of your stupor, you log into the game with a frown.

TO: THE ARCHITECT FROM: NOCTGAR SUBJECT: [none] MESSAGE: quick favour: what’s your number?

You blink owlishly, slowly digesting his message. That’s odd. Your number? What does he need it for? Silently praying it isn’t for anything urgent, you press in your reply.

TO: NOCTGAR FROM: THE ARCHITECT SUBJECT: Sorry. MESSAGE: Of course, here is my number.

After double-checking the digits, you hit send.

Some paranoid part of your mind yells at you to stay up for his next message—what if it’s something urgent after all? If he got caught up in some unsavoury part of the town and needed rescuing? No—that’s silly, firstly the prince is more than capable to fend for himself, and secondly, Ignis would be on his speed dial for emergencies. Which begs the question once more: What’d he need your number for? You rock back and forth nervously in your chair, staring at the message with your heart racing and debating whether or not to send another message to Noctis—only to have your screen blurring out into a call. With your phone hooked up to your computer, you could very well see that it’s not an ordinary call with your phone to your ear; it’s a video call linked through Moogle Ring.

Before you manage to listen to some rational part of your head counseling you to reject the call, your itchy fingers scramble for the bright green button. Your desktop pixels out into a dimmer, blurrier image with an all-too familiar voice echoing, “Hey.”

Somewhere in the background, a little bit off to the right, a spot of yellow chirps. “Woah—hey! Hey hey hey!”

It takes a moment for the connection to stabilize and iron out all pixilation, but once it does, you’re treated to a lovely sight: Noctis and Prompto, two heads at two different ends, the prince to your left, and the blond to your right. They’re both hunched over a table, books spread haphazard, looking equally exhausted with faint dark accents under their eyes. You try to ignore how your heart lurches a little when Noctis meets your eyes, but you can’t deny a corner of your lips quirking upwards. It makes you hide your face in the pillow, breathing softly.

It smells like him here, right where you are.

Ah. You shouldn’t like it this much, but you do.

“Hey guys,” you finally work up the courage to summon a little wave, though you still hide part of your face behind the pillow. “Uh.” This is something new, something you haven’t done before. What should you say during video calls? They’re not physically here, but the prince is here, staring right at you. Best to get down to business, just so you don’t have to hide your face behind this pillow. “I—well—why’d you guys call? Did something happen?”

“Nah, figured you’d be busy,” Noctis waves you off, the pen in his hand drawing abstract patterns in the air, “’cause you’re always busy.”

“Yeah, when are you not busy anyway?” Prompto chuckles good-naturedly, leaning forward. His voice echoes through what seems to be a living room, though you’re not sure where they are. Noctis’ apartment, maybe? “We both kinda have to stay up for tonight to get rid of this pesky assignment due tomorrow,” he stops to heave a theatrical sigh, “so do you wanna stay up too? Y’know, just the three of us, the Midnight Trio?”

Noctis makes an amused noise in the back of his throat, throwing the blond a half-grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She doesn’t sleep—and you and me, buddy, we both aren’t gonna get any sleep tonight.” Prompto shrugs, snatching a canned drink off-camera, taking a swig out of it. “Makes sense, yeah?”

Hearing their typical banter between each other stirs a bit of laughter in you, and the sound has them turning to you with questioning eyes. Noctis still wears that half-grin as he studies you, though you don’t know if it’s still for Prompto, or. Well. For you. Thinking about it has your nausea bubbling like a pot on the stove, so you duck your head and try not to mind the warmth seizing your cheeks, your neck.

Surely you could stay up a little and keep them company as they battle their avalanche of assignments. Give them a bit of a pointer here and there, a silly banter to keep the mood light, easy, less sleepy. And you could certainly use the opportunity to look through the documents you put off earlier as they suffer through their paper, making good use of your time. Already knowing what’s your answer when you’ve started making excuses for yourself, you lick your dry lips and muster a nod at the expectant duo.

“Makes a whole load of sense to me,” you agree, making Prompto hoot and fist-pump the air. “Gimme a sec, okay? I’ll just go and make myself some coffee real quick.”

“Be sure to make a whole jug of ‘em,” Prompto’s voice follows you as you deposit the pillow on your chair, ushering yourself to your kitchenette. “’cuz we’re partying all night tonight, woohoo!”

You hear Noctis snorting Prompto’s way, the sound of a pen clattering on the table echoing loudly through your room. “Party tonight, funeral tomorrow if we don’t finish this up, yeah?”

“Talk about a mood killer, Noct, sheesh. Okay, okay, let’s focus on getting this stupid intro out of the way first. Where’d you stop?”

“At the index.”

“…dude, you didn’t even start yet?”

You know you’re laughing again because the sulk is dead obvious in Prompto’s voice, reaching for a canister of coffee Byron tucked somewhere in the cupboard overhead. Standing here like this, boiling some water and preparing coffee—a whole jug of it, as per Prompto’s helpful advice, you can’t help but to smile as you liberally doused the dark concoction in creamers and sugars.

Friends are beautiful: They make you forgo your sleep, just to keep them company.

XIX flowering: the heart of a king

YOU LOVE HIM.

He knows you do.

He flicks a gaze where you stand in a blue wave of sylleblossoms, your hand outstretched, balancing a dragonfly on your fingertips. Your expression is soft, glassy, your hair floating almost ethereally in the breeze. The mesmeric melancholy on your face draws him in, closer and closer until three stalks separate you and him. In this field, you are a free soul, bounding through crests of blossoms with the paper petals kissing your calves. Watching you wade through this sea of flowers, clutching a fistful of stalks with limpid heads of sylles, a smile on your face.

He reaches for you, fingers chasing after your shadows.

Only, the breeze whips around you, around him, scattering petals to the skies, thwarting him.

Between the snatches of blues, you cradle the blossoms to your breasts, eyes cut to sultry halves. There’s something hypnotic in the way the corners of your lips lift; you know he’s there, he knows you’re making a show out of it. Hands bring the sylleblossoms to veil your face, wispy blues hiding the pale pink of your lips. Eyes lidded low, coy. The sight is just enough to whisk warm flares in his belly and he is acutely aware of his intense need to cradle your cheek in his palm, thumbing your eyelids, just to taste the flower on your lips.

The first step he takes has him crushing a sylle under his foot. The earth is cool and moist beneath him, and the broken blossom dies between his toes. He doesn’t stop; he crushes a second one. Leaving behind a swathe of devastation, injuring the sylleblossoms with his every step, but he stops at nothing until he paves a road of death to you.

Here you stand before him, cradling the sylles when it should be him in your arms. He doesn’t want that.

His hand curls into your wrist tight enough to break your hold on the blossoms, scattering them in the little space between you and him. No, there shouldn’t be any space separating you two anymore. He doesn’t want that either. He wants you under him, so he tucks an arm around your midriff and pushes you to the ground, breaking your fall. He’s draped over you, falling in all the right nooks and crannies of your body as if you’re made for him, fitting him in all the ways he wants you to. On this bed of blossoms, hair fanning your face, you twist your head aside, teeth catching on your bottom lip.

Noctis. So good to me.

Hearing his name colours his vision in red.

All at once, your palm rests in his, with his tongue running over your little digits. These are the hands that feed him. These are the hands that love him. These are the hands that make him live. Each swipe of his tongue is reverent, worshipping your existence. He’s mesmerized with the way you tip your head back, the way you’re whimpering Noctis Noctis Noctis in fragments from your lips, the red in his eyes running over the reds on your cheeks. Your quiet little sounds are hungry with want, and he makes sure to return your show with his own as he licks a wet stripe from the heel of your palm to the tip of your index, nipping oh-so gently at the end.

Noctis, I want.

He knows you want. He wants too.

He sucks on your ring finger, getting a reaction more vocal than before, relishing in how hot you’ve become under him. Like a fevered flush leaving you delirious, all eager, all needy, all for him. You’re his. All his. And all that is his should be marked. His teeth circle the base of your finger and sink deep into your flesh, hard enough to leave imprints. You whine—Gods, a high-pitched noise that goes straight to the burning pit low in his belly, but you don’t resist because you love it, you love the pain, you love whatever it is he does to you. He releases you with a wet pop, licking his lips, leaning back just to admire the art he made.

A ring of teeth marks, just for you.

Noctis, I.

He loves you. You know he does.

Noctis knows, even when he disentangles himself from his sheets, that his throat is tight and he feels sick, but he too knows he’s just a man left on his knees, waiting for your hands to crown his hair.

MOST OF THE TIME, the prince is too busy to show up to practice sessions with Gladio. You kind of get that, since the final semester always hits the hardest. His little video call days ago proved how much him and Prompto were suffering, cramming as many words as they can in a single Word document before rolling the pencil to decide who’s proofreading the entire mumbo-jumbo. It’s a little bit sad too, you realized with a sip of your coffee at 3.48 a.m., that Noctis might be dying from caffeine overdose when he cracks open yet another can of energy drink to prep himself since he lost the roll.

As their senior—well, kind of senior, albeit clearly majoring differently from their course—you kindly shouldered the burden of proofreading instead. You’ve never heard Prompto bawling in relief and hailing you as their newfound savior, though it’s a little bit exaggerated and embarrassing to be regarded in such saintly light. Noctis only slurs a quiet thanks before he drops on his textbooks, sleep-heavy eyes just waiting to be laid to rest.

Quickly rectifying whatever jargon they misused, formatting the assignment for improved readability, and redoing their appalling citations from a scratch, it was only past five that you could resend the document for them to print and staple alongside other assortments. The call ended anticlimactically with a Prompto passing out on the couch and a sluggish Noctis yawning out another thanks, hand absently scratching his neck.

Poor boys. Suffering is part and parcel of university life, and nobody graduates without losing some part of their sanity. Or a huge chunk of hair, whichever comes first.

“Come on, milady, pull yourself together.”

Right now though, there are more pressing matters in hand. You squint at the whip, willing it to go away. “Uh. Trying.” It doesn’t budge an inch. “Trying.”

Byron is as unimpressed as ever. “Well then, try harder.” His gloved hands gesture at the entirety of the languid weapon all curled up on the hardwood, its segmented handle braided in leather, and the notched tail of blades resembling the jagged edges of a human spine. “Surely if the rest of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive could do it, you can’t afford to disappoint them.”

You could only frown at the whip. That’s easy for him to say since he’s not the one trying to work the prince’s magic. “Trying harder.” The accursed whip still doesn’t budge, stubborn bastard. “Yeah—still trying, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Unless you’re trying to scare the whip with your glaring, whatever it is you’re trying, it’s not working at all.” At this point, even Byron looks like he’d rather do it himself had Noctis blessed him with magic—much like how he grows exasperated every time you do something either too slow or too imperfect for his liking. “Come now milady, remember what Nyx told you? Electricity. Magic is like electricity. Even Gladio demonstrated how he kept that trunk of a sword—surely that electric magic had something to do with the disappearance, like shorting the metal into molecules or something.” His expression falls for a split second. “Well. What was it that he said again?”

He’s not doing a very good job at lecturing you if he can’t even remember what Gladio said in the first place, and you’re pretty sure that’s not how physics and chemistry work at the same time. You sigh, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to work out a grand strategy in your ticking head. “He said to visualize a room, like you’re trying to put something in it. And taking it out is like removing the stuff,” you condense the whole speech, finding that it makes lesser sense the more you think about it. “I dunno, Byron. His Highness said it’s kind of like a room too. A weapon room, I guess?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is armoury,” he supplies, murky eyes settling uncomfortably on you. It’s one of those expressions that says he’s disappointed in you, but he’s willing to see this out until the very bitter end. “Let’s try again from the top: Put your hand on the handle and reach out to the magic. Let it beckon you.”

Byron, coaching you on magic? When he knows nothing of it? Unbelievable. Yet his face is clean from laughter, not a twitch of an eyebrow whatsoever, and if you didn’t know any better, he could actually pass as some legit magic instructor from Harry Potter. On days Gladio can’t train you personally, he enlists Byron’s help in watching over you—codename for babysitting, really, though you don’t appreciate getting hawked like this. You’d rather have Gladio punishing you with ten push-ups for your ineptitude than getting served by Byron’s tongue.

Biting the inside of your mouth, you almost wrap your hand around the handle—until your phone beeps inside your pocket, and then you find yourself wrapping your hand around the device instead.

Byron only raises a slim eyebrow in disproval. He doesn’t say anything about your newfound addiction. He knows a vain effort when he sees one.

Ever since Noctis asked for your number, exchanging text messages on King’s Knight moved to an appropriate channel, one that actually sees you using your phone for proper communication. Texting is the only way for you to reach him, not to mention it’s the easiest method too. You trade texts with him on a daily basis now, reminding him to wake up earlier on Mondays and Wednesdays, keeping him company through lectures that are drier than Leiden landscapes, and snorting through late night video calls with caffeine-fuelled Prompto while they battle through three stacks of project papers.

This time, things aren’t any different as you give a cursory glance through the message.

busy?

Judging from the eyebrow permanently raised on Byron’s forehead, you toss him an apologetic smile, thumbs automatically keying in a reply.

Trying to make my whip disappear. Not working. Send help.

Another beep brings another message from the prince. It has Byron’s other eyebrow joining its friend up there, forming a bridge. You wince, hastily getting your job done, readying to banish your phone far far far away where you can’t reach it.

lol good luck

Meanie. Gonna head back to practice now, Byron’s grilling me with his eyes.

wait.

You take a moment to mouth Byron’s way, prince said wait, and the look he gives you aptly sums up whatever he thinks of Noctis in these three months. Still, he doesn’t stop you other than to mimic an unapologetically texting schoolgirl, sassing you by flipping his braid from his shoulder, one that has you rolling your eyes and turning back to Noctis’ message.

wait. you busy this weekend?

You look up from nosing your phone, resting your elbows on your knees, wearing the deepest frown that Niflheim surely couldn’t even pull from you. “Am I busy this weekend, Byron?”

“Please don’t tell me he’s asking you out,” he deadpans. You shrug, clearly having no idea what this is about, and he makes the most distressed sound ever in the back of his throat, the kind that sounds like it belongs on the wildlife channel. “Six help me. He’s going to ask you out.”

Is he? Somehow, that particular thought has you wetting your lips contemplatively, thinking of a reply witty enough to best Byron. Nothing comes. All you’re left with is Byron’s judgmental staring, complete with his arms squared across his chest, and the prince’s message on your phone. Neither of that solves your question, so you readily assume your weekend is free from disturbances, free enough for you to enjoy your time together with Noctis if he does ask you out.

Should be. Why?

specs’s birthday is coming up and i wanna get him something. come with me.

Ignis’ birthday is coming up?

You perk up, offering your phone to your babysitter, who’s already well underway dissecting every single sentence Noctis sent to you. “He said Ignis’ birthday is coming up. We need to get him something special.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s still asking you out,” says Byron, already lifting your phone and examining the messages in different angles of light as though it’d unveil some sort of secret subtext inked in lemon juice. “But yes, I must confess, I’m rather fond of my alter-ego. Go ahead and ask the prince if he’s throwing a birthday party for the man. I imagine he’d rather like the thought, since it doesn’t look like the Prince appreciates him much.”

Ignis is Byron’s alter-ego? What a disturbing notion. Still, you don’t get the chance to pursue the conversation with your phone handed back to you, so your steady thumbs press in Byron’s demands.

Sure. By the way, are you throwing a party for Ignis?

nah, but prom wants that party tho lol

Relaying the message to Byron has him wearing the ghastliest disproval on his face, eyes blown wide and mouth twisting in obvious displeasure. “What? No birthday party for the poor man?” he spits out, clearly baffled with what Noctis is planning. “Hand me that phone, milady, I must correct this problem right away. And no,” he cuts you off the moment you’re fighting to keep your phone from him and failing, “you won’t stop me from throwing a party for him.”

Unsure of what to expect from this dramatic turn of conversation, you hang by the sidelines as Byron presses your phone to his ear. His fingers tap a methodical melody on the hardwood, impatiently waiting for the prince to pick up. Once your butler gets into this mode, not a single soul succeeds in telling him otherwise—Gods know you tried and died. And you’re not about to sacrifice yourself again like some martyr because you’ve seen the things Byron is capable of.

The moment Noctis picks up—or so you assumed, Byron opens his mouth, only to shut it with a click.

You nervously wet your throat with a gulp. Oh boy.

Seconds later, Byron’s eyebrows are hiking his forehead with an air of utter disgust. “Don’t use that deep sexy tone on me, young man, it’s obviously not going to sweep me off my feet,” he starts, clicking his tongue in disdain. You somewhat wonder what qualifies as a ‘deep sexy tone’ coming from Noctis, though the question remains unanswered when Byron tuts. “No. I’m not sorry for disappointing you, I’m not her. Now, enough with this pointless prattle, I’ve come to make my demands.”

More chatter coming from Noctis has you pitching your ears for any stray sounds.

Verdict: None.

“I hear you’re not throwing Ignis a birthday party,” he says, examining his fingernails, running a thumb over them. “As a manservant who clearly understands what it feels like to be unappreciated,” he eyeballs you, to which you launch a well-timed kick on his knee, one he counters with a warning smack to your ankle, “I’d like to remind you that Ignis Scientia is a fine man who probably does it all for you while you sit around and stuff yourself silly. Therefore, he more than deserves a party for his birthday.”

Another hum of silence, and Byron narrows his eyes at your phone.

Your stomach roils at the sudden stress.

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no royal decree preventing me from having his number,” he sighs, long and weary. “If it bothers you so much – oh, this is getting silly, we only exchange recipes and cleaning tips. Dull manservant stuffs a prince like you shouldn’t be concerned with. Nobody likes a jealous boyfriend, Noctis, you best keep that in mind for your next relationship.”

This is a disaster.

You know you can’t do anything but to internally cheer the prince to weather it through.

“Mhmm. Mhmm. Yes, thank you for getting back on track,” Byron lazily drawls. To you, he nods Noctis’ way and mouths kids these days as you submit a mental email to the Astrals to ask what you’ve done to deserve this nightmare. Probably a whole bunch of things starting with murder, that’s for sure. “Ah, all right, 7th February? Lovely date for a lovely man like him. 3.00 p.m.? Your apartment? And where exactly is your – huh, all right, settle down please, don’t shout. Do text milady the address later on.”

At this point, you wonder if you can attune the entire floor to Noctis’ armoury just so it’d suck you away from this place.

Byron, fortunately, doesn’t seem to notice your dead-eyed resignation to your fate. “See? That wasn’t so bad, you and I manage to have a civil conversation after all—oh,” he stops, lowering your phone to examine your blackened screen, amused. “He hung up on me. The nerve.”

You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your throbbing temples while you’re at it. It could’ve gone much worse, so you’re thankful for small mercies. At least Byron didn’t go completely off-tangent like a grandma next door. “Uh…on the bright side, I guess we now know Ignis’ birthday’s on 7th,” you murmur dryly. “Now we can get to work planning a party for him. Good job, Byron.”

“We? Did I hear that right?” he echoes, dusting his hands on his thighs, getting up from the floor. You crane your head to scrutinise the odd curve settling in the corner of his lips, and he returns it with excessive flair to the sweep of his bow, rising partway to shoot you a salute. “No, not we, milady, only me. You, on the other hand, have a whip to attune. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to be done.”

And he’s off, strutting towards the exit in a sashay that belongs on a catwalk runway.

You can’t help but to slump against the wall, defeated. “That’s so unfair,” you whine, causing your butler to throw his head back with a laugh that echoes through the training hall, a hand on the doorknob. “How come you get to go shopping and I don’t?”

“Oh, milady,” he turns on his heels, wearing a smile both deceptive and insincere in nature, “you have a date to prepare this Saturday, am I right? I can’t simply commit the sin of letting you wear last season’s fashion statements. I’ll be sure to find something suitable for your little outing. Floral patterns are all the rage these days.”

You’re definitely not buying that snide smile of his. “That’s just some fancy excuse ‘cause you just wanna go shopping, don’t you?”

Byron’s only answer is another heavy laugh, full with mirth. “I’ll text Nyx to replace me in light of this unexpected circumstance.” With a little cheery wave, scarlet eyes glittering beneath his bangs, he heaves the doors shut. “Goodbye, milady!”

Wood meets wood with a bang, silence goes sssssss from the air-conditioning, and you’re all alone with this whip. So much for a butler, goodbye indeed.

PALE SUNLIGHT FILTERS THROUGH cotton curtain, mellow rays diffusing in his dim room. Phone tossed aside, on the edge of his bed. His sheets smell like dried sweat, the air stagnant. It’s probably past eleven and he should be up for a replacement class slotted during lunch break, but all he does is to cover his face with his hand, eyes scrunched shut. At the backs of his eyelids you stand, hugging sylleblossoms the same way you hug a pillow.

The longer he looks at the love slackening your habitual indifference, the more he wants to brush his knuckles over your lips. The smaller the smiles gracing your face, the more he wants to kiss you to make it widen. The harder you fight back with whines too wanton and heart too giddy, the more he wants to pin you in place how one pins a butterfly to a corkboard.

It’s sick.

He’s sick.

A million and one questions harried his thoughts; how did it start, when did this happen, what should he do, but all he does is to kick off the sheets tangling his ankles, palm digging in the depression of his eyeball.

His cock had been straining heavy and full against his abdomen and it’s an ache he can rid in seconds with a few rapid strokes—Gods, that’s how fucked up he’s gone, but the thought of delving his hands in his pants, to desecrate his image of you—it’s something he can’t do. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. Prince Noctis pining over a girl in his disgusting desperation, venting out his frustration only in his dreams. Tabloids would salivate over the scandalous headlines, plastering it in bold all across Insomnia.

He wants to claw it all out, everything, starting from his careless curiosity of The Ghost in the Citadel, all the way to the weak curl of your spine as you mouth thank youfor the scant few words he uttered under the stars. Restart fresh from a scratch, forgoing all the hellos and goodnights and fencing you from a distance, keeping this on a professional level Ignis would approve. He’ll ascend as the 114th King of Lucis, reforming his father’s council into one of his own, one with his best friends and comrades—Ignis, Prompto, and Gladio—installed in their rightful positions.

And you, whatever it is you want to do, he’ll set you free.

No longer bound to the Andronicus and their antediluvian rules, you’re free to roam the lands after throwing a dart to the globe. Quintus will never set his hands on you, he’ll make sure of that, he’ll promise. It’s the least he can do, out of the many things you did for him.

Still, why does the thought raise an urge to retch? Jealousy, that is an ugly emotion he hasn’t felt in the years following his dad’s retreat. A primal urge to keep you with him, never with anyone else. Nobody separates you and him, nobody takes you away from him, nobody leaves him alone anymore. He hates it, hates how weak he feels when he sets his thoughts straight—but what can he do when it’s what he wants? You gave him whatever he needed no matter how meagre you had; you acknowledge his strengths and never once ridiculed him, you embraced his weaknesses and offered your shoulder instead.

He wants it all.

Wants all the time you spent on him, wants all the laughs you gave him, wants all the smiles you left him, wants your eyes fixed on him forever.

He craves you, that’s what it is.

Tossing on his mattress with a groan, Noctis rubs a hand over his clothed cock in an attempt to will it away. He’s so fucking hard since he woke up, it’s starting to hurt real bad. A damp spot’s already on the front of his sweatpants and he’s sticky all over. He needs to rub one out, that’s the best remedy to cure any stubborn erection, coming like it’ll purge him of his sins on any other day. On his bed or on the shower walls, whichever’s the closest release he can get.

Or maybe on your lips as you smile your glassy-eyed smile, his hand around your neck, painting your tongue in streaks of white.

Fuck, his cock twitches at the thought of debauching you in your whole. He’s venturing into the dangerous territory where reality blurs behind his fantasies, burning down all the bridges he’s crossed just to get to your side. His toes curl in the sheets when a hand subconsciously grabs his cock, already rutting into the callused roughness of his palm. It hurts, still dry for him to ride it out like this, but he’s too far gone to even give a shit where he’s heading even if it’s headlong into destruction.

His cockhead’s beading at the slit, angry red and peeking from the hem of his elastic, and the waft of cool air brushing over his over-sensitized skin has him biting his lip to keep it down. Fuck, he hasn’t even locked the door in case Ignis walks in, but fuck, you like littering bites on your bottom lip, don’t you? He’s learnt how you seem to chew on your lip when you’re thinking—it only makes him want to yank your mouth to his just so he’d introduce you to his teeth.

The slight slick from his precum makes things easier but not necessarily less brutal with the wild pace he’s set, thumbing at the head and smearing it all over his cock for makeshift lube. He grunts into his pillow, bangs in his eyes, that familiar coil taut and ready to burst in his belly. He’s fucked up in the head from your smile, he’s fucked up in the head for your mouth, he’s fucked up for you. There’s no turning back from being friends when he’s already shoving his cock down your throat in his foggy mind, hand holding the back of your head and letting you choke around his mouthful of cock and cum.

Oh, fuck, his hand is a poor substitute for your throat convulsing weakly around his leaking length, but he’s got nothing else than the you living in his head, making sweet little sounds like you worship his cock the same way you worship his existence. Noctis bites into his pillow with a groan when he pulls out of your messy mouth, rubbing his saliva-slick cock on your hot and wet tongue, savouring the way you wait on your knees for him to come all over you. He grits his teeth when the indulgent thought is one that shamefully tips him over the edge, snapping the tight coil in his belly and spurting warmth over his torso.

He’s done it now.

Fuck.

No turning back.

Coming down from the euphoric high of release has him panting harshly through his mouth, gulping in oxygen fast enough to replace the vacancy in his lungs. Cum cooling on his sweaty skin, fatigue settling in his muscles. The unmistakable scent intermingling with his stale bedroom air. Vision blurring, head heavy. Once he salvages the lasts of his thoughts before his illusions took over, the aftermath of his actions has Noctis reeling backwards in three parts shame and one part anger. Shame on him for succumbing to primal reactions when he defiles you into a slave of his, angry with himself for thinking about you in that way. His fingers are sticky when he stretches them to the ceiling, examining them with hooded eyes.

He knows.

He knows he’s officially gone off the rails when he first saw you sleeping without a care in the world, vulnerable, pure, weak on your white sheets.

He’s just prolonging the inevitable, isn’t he?

Swallowing the pathetic sounds he nearly makes, Noctis swipes his dirty hand clean on the sheets and twists to his side, curling up. Ridding the evidence rids him none of his guilt. The heat of his skin abates, but the throb of his heart doesn’t. Class is starting soon and he needs to pack up all his textbooks to sit through Modern Managerial for two hours and a half on an empty stomach unless he whips up some oatmeal to replace Ignis’ hearty breakfasts but all he wants to do is to call in sick and pass it off for some over-exhaustion from burning himself through a whole damn month just to cover up the fact that he jerked off to some lewd thoughts of his friend.

Scratch that. You’re not his friend. He doesn’t deserve to call himself your friend.

What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

Swallowing his dry throat, Noctis tips his head on his flattened pillow and stares at the ceiling.

He needs to get his shit together, and fast.

Fast enough before he does something he can’t undo.

WEEKEND COMES WITHOUT MUCH FANFARE, putting Byron in a mood too good to be true. He hums, he bobs his head to some catchy pop tunes he Moogled on your computer, he even does a little backwards walk on the mopped marble. You find it cute that he’s jittery like he’s the one with a full weekend when you’re the one who stepped out of the shower smelling like crushed sugar, towelling your damp hair absently, ready to go out for the week.

As you plug in the hairdryer and blasted hot dry air, raking fingers through your locks to detangle knots, Byron sneaks into your room to stare at your reflection in the vanity. “You do realise this is a date, right?” he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. “As in, not the friendly sort of date. A date date.”

“I wouldn’t call it a date,” you retort mulishly, angling the hairdryer from the drying tips and steadily working it up the length of your hair. “We’re both going out to get Ignis his birthday present.” At Byron’s pensive staring, you find it appropriate to bolster your argument with more defense. “You’re really overthinking things, Byron. Stop that. It doesn’t matter anyway, not with the way things are.”

Given the time, Byron’s persistence rivals a cockroach; it’s no wonder the two won’t get along before Byron winds up cutting the critter into two. He all but rummages through your closet, withdrawing purchases from days earlier that are still packaged in paper bags. “But you’re alone with him. It’s a date.” He makes it a point to stare in your eyes, nodding solemnly. “Your very first date, mind you.”

Technically, it’s not your first date, is it? If you follow his judgment on the matter, this makes it your third date. With your hair sufficiently dried, you switch off the device and set it aside, dropping on the vanity’s velvet stool. “He might bring Prompto along,” you offer, carefully putting your thoughts together. “Because, y’know, the more the merrier. Prompto probably didn’t have the time to put together a present for Ignis too, since they were all chasing deadlines these past few days.”

Emotionally-challenged Byron casually cocks a brow. “Then it’s a threesome.”

You give Byron a look. “Am I going to get one of those birds and bees lecture from you again? I’m not sure I wanna relive that trauma right now.”

“Milady, you need to realise that you’re at that age where men will find you incredibly ravishing.” He sighs, introducing his palm to his forehead. You make a face at the word because who even uses ravishing at this day and age anyway? “I saw that, don’t make that face at me, young lady,” he warns, clicking his tongue. “I was once twenty, all right? I know what boys think when they see a pretty lady walking down the streets.”

“Then make me unpretty.” You shrug, sorting through your comb and clips stowed in the drawer, deciding between a bejewelled claw and a fuss-free ribbon. “That solves all issues, doesn’t it?”

Byron sighs for what seems to be the umpteenth time in ten minutes, resting his head against the cupboard like he gave up on life. Or on you. Both sounds tempting. “It’s hard to devalue a work of art like you, milady. Even if I wrap you in last season’s Dior, you are still Mona Lisa hanging in the Royal Lucis Museum.”

“And what’s wrong with last season’s Dior again?” you roll your eyes at his dramatization, combing sections through your hair and scrutinizing your reflection, wondering what’s the best way to go about looking casual but not too casual—somewhere in between? Like you’re trying to look presentable, but not trying too hard. “It’s not a date, trust me.”

“You’d be very surprised at how fast this entire thing is turning into a cliché,” he points out, shuffling through flimsy chiffons in Hermes and pairing it up with some stiff pleated skirt from LV. He recoils at his disastrous matchmaking, sets down the two items, and picks through a bagful of Comme des Garçons instead. “Girl says it’s not a date, boy thinks it’s a date, they both go out together, and somewhere along the way,” he wrinkles his nose, “girl falls for boy, they kiss by the sunset, and go home to make out. Awful cliché, don’t let your romance suffer through the same predictable path. I’d rate your movie 1.5 out of 10 if that’s the case.”

You try your very best to remember why he’s your butler again. Right, some sort of contracted family deal from ages back, probably dating all the way to Solheim. “Just—can we drop this topic? I’m just hanging out with him, we both like the same things, and I’m expected to serve under his council somewhere in the future. Don’t set us up.”

Byron examines a floral YSL piece printed in pastels, holding it up to the sunlight. “Milady, he looks at you like a constipated man finding an empty stall in the public washroom. You’re the love of his life, the one he needs, in case you don’t understand my analogy.”

You do—just that it’s probably not the best one he’s come up with. “Uh. Doesn’t sound like a compliment, but I totally appreciate the sentiment all the same. Very Byronesque, as expected.”

Byron finds it appropriate to ignore you. “Noctis does seem like an awkward young prince who has little to no experience in love, given his sheltered circumstances. He’s like you—except, he’s the prince. So it’s understandable why he latches on to you the moment you show signs of accepting him for who he is. You and him are two halves of a moon, completing one another.” He holds up a plain sundress scalloped in sheer lace, thin straps crisscrossing down the back, and nods at the satisfactory shift of your expression. Then he kneels to sift through Manolo, trying to pop some colour on his overall co-ord for the day. “He’s a classic textbook fool on falling in love—trust me, I’m a man, I know what I’m talking about.”

You open your mouth to retort—only, your mouth is dry.

His ruddy eyes dart from the strappy wedges to your brooding face in a split second, turning back to his task once more. The corners of his lips are upturned, smug. It’s an answer enough. “What about you, milady? What do you think of him?”

Your nails cut crimson crescents in your palm.

Ignis’ birthday is next week. It’ll mark a full four-month friendship with Noctis, toeing the start of a fifth month in the making.

Four months passed since he showed up demanding your name, eating through your cereal and playing through King’s Knight with a Revenant weapon. He introduced you to the personification of a chocobo who photographs loads of things as he worked through part-times in hopes of saving enough for a Lokton. His Shield, on the other hand, puts you through the wringer by adding punishing reps to your regimen, gruff voice calling you lil’ lady. And his Advisor is a piece of work amiable enough to carry a conversation, yet distant enough to remain an enigma skirting your life.

What was it like without the prince?

Listening through mother’s tracks on your computer, Debussy making itself a home in your heart. Talking to the walls, talking to the books, talking to Byron, talking to yourself in front of the mirror. Mother’s hands never left your neck, her glossy fingernails raking your skin in welts. Insomnia is your pretty glass globe and Niflheim wants to shake it in its hands, stirring snowstorms in its wake. It was cold. It was lonely. You were cold and lonely.

Then Noctis came along and you forgot what it felt like to sleep alone.

You know what it is. You always do.

“I like him.”

And Byron’s smile turns bitter. “I know.”

You like him, you know you do. How can you not like the person who defended your rights against father, who wanted you like you wanted him? You purse your lips, turning away. “But you know how we are—you know how I am. He doesn’t know anything about me, about us, about mother, about father. I can’t possibly tell him—“

“Milady, does he need to know?” he interjects, sitting on his haunches. At your wordless silence, eyes uncertain, Byron clears his throat and tries again. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m certain King Regis remains unaware of what exactly the Andronici do. We may be nobles, but we are tied deeply to the underworld. The police, the mobs, the gangs, the yakuza—they are all under the Andronicus’ thumb. If His Majesty knows what your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and the rest of your ancestors had done to keep Insomnia safe, I’m sure he’ll have a hard time trying to convict Quintus of anything without crippling everything.”

He words it as though he’s putting a finger on your lips just so you won’t tell anyone who ate the last cookie.

But Byron never minces his meaning.

Taking a deep breath, you mutter, “So…you’re saying I should continue keeping this whole thing a secret until my death.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement met with Byron’s approving nod. He brings the dress and the sandals together with him, dropping them in a hapless heap by your feet. Always reverent, always your dog, he kneels with his hands resting on your knees, tipping his chin to admire you like he always does.

“Ignorance is bliss, or so they say,” he chuckles low, warm breath fanning over your cheeks. Just like this, his fingers card through your hair, tucking stray locks behind your ear, thumbing your cheekbone. Sunlight brings out the blood in his pale irises, thick lashes curtained partway. “Milady, I do want to see you happy. I truly do. But these past few months have taught me that I can’t make you happy the way he does. If your happiness lies with Noctis, so be it, I’ll continue fighting to keep the smile you learnt from him.”

Happiness is subjective.

Happiness is when you hold a brand new video game in your hands, waiting to be played. Happiness is when King’s Knight gets patched with a new update, and you’d roll over in bed as you scuffled through the stages. Happiness is when Byron drops by with a new book, babbling about his latest reading recommendation and how you should read it too. Happiness is when mother sits at the piano, her elegant fingers pressing the ivory keys to produce a hymn only the Astrals could’ve bestowed, her eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering. Happiness is when King Regis’ letter finally came, freeing you from the shackles within.

And happiness is when you are here with him.

With Noctis.

Byron’s sincerity brings tears to your eyes, but they don’t fall down your cheeks—they never do anymore, ever since you eviscerated your innards to rid your feelings. Yet, his reverence tightens your throat, seizes your voice. You choke up.

He only runs his fingers over your wet eyelashes, grazing against your unshed tears. You draw his head to your chest, scrunching your eyes shut at the feel of his cheek resting on your collarbones. Hunching over like this, all balled up with Byron by your side again, you are aware of how insignificant you are without him. On your own, you would’ve slit your wrists in the tub, letting clear waters run red, letting the Andronicus end with you.

Byron gathers you in his arms, rubbing loose circles between your shoulder blades. His words are a soothing thrum against your neck, breathing in the lush scent of soap on your skin. “In the end, we are no better than your father. We are liars. We lie to keep those around us safe. That is what the Andronici do: We lie. We kill. And we lie again.”

You know. Aren’t you always lying? Aren’t you always killing people to get what you want? Human lives are the currency in your game, and you make it a point to have as much as you can before time runs out.

This is how it goes: You will amass a mountain of bodies by the time Noctis appoints you as his military strategist, and he will never know the things he does not need to know. Insomnia thrives under his reign, while you are every death sentence signed in blood. As he goes to bed each night, you will do a routine maintenance to sweep unnecessary dusts from stirring unneeded curiosity. For every dispute raised in the council, you will have already threaded your orders through the ranks, starting from the police, to the gangsters, to the yakuza, to the mob and the men. Those crossing your path will be carefully scissored out of the picture by way of Byron or their suddencooperation out of the plea of a beloved, whichever method most convenient at the moment of need. Decoys are magnificent, what more framing those complicit to the cause; suspect a foul play, and an execution is the remedy to all.

And this is how you will maintain your ecosystem, keeping a manicured garden free from weeds and pests.

Resting your cheek against Byron’s hair, idle fingers curling his ponytail between each digit, you clear your throat, fighting to keep your voice from cracking.

“You know, when I was young, I really liked reading all those fairytale books mother bought for me,” you confess, stewing in the indulgent thoughts of mother and her boozy smile, gifting you books to make up for the world father denied. Byron makes a quiet noise at your throat, and you give a small laugh at your foolishness fifteen years ago, holding him tight. “Thought I’d be one of those princesses when I grow up, wearing dresses and tiaras for my whole life. I was so wrong. Look at me now. What kind of fairytale princess am I?”

You don’t blame Byron for huffing under his breath, probably amused at your childishness.

Then his hand rubbing your back stills, lips burning words on your skin.

“Oh milady…you’re never a fairytale princess to begin with. You’ve always been the monster.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

Hi, are there people still reading this fic and waiting for updates?

LPC updates long overdue? DON’T WORRY I GOT YOUR BACK! WITH TWO CHAPTERS BACK TO BACK! TLDR of my current life can be read here if you’re wondering, but all woeful life shenanigans aside, woah plot. And keeping secrets are no good but we’re only starting! Slow burn! Friends to lovers! Angst! And the next chapter is a plot-filled interlude of fun dates, car rides, and a certain creepy old man!

With this, we’re finally coming to an end with the FLOWERING arc, thanks for sticking around this far! Everyone’s support and heart-warming words on Tumblr didn’t fail to keep the passion going for writing LPC, and I really appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm and consistent check-ups on the next update! Again, I’m truly sorry for the one-year break, but I hope everyone enjoyed both chapters!

We’ve made it through BLOOMING, and we also made it through FLOWERING. Now, let’s welcome the next instalment, DECAYING. And you all know what that means… ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

PREVIEW: [20] Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all that he needs, really. He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

[21] Byron’s eyes are the colour of rust-eaten iron flaking gold over the years, corroded by the light. There is a disturbing twist to his lips. Caressing your cheek, he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[22] “…is it okay if you stay for the night?” you ask, the curl of your fingers tightening as if it’s a manacle chaining him where he should be.

[23] Sure, Noctis could disentangle your limbs from his and keep this memory all to himself, but he’s done lying to himself, he’s done pretending this is going nowhere when he wants it to go somewhere—anywhere, as long as it’s with you.

[24] Home. A word he lost when mom left and dad ran. A word he found in you once more when he realises his home exists in a person, not a place. Byron throws his gaze to the slice of sky above, counting the days when he’ll see you again. Home.

[25] Noctis feels his jaw grow tight at the aloofness of the answer. No, Ignis doesn’t understand at all. Ignis won’t ever understand this. How could he understand when he hasn’t suffered through a crippling loneliness only Noctis had felt? Through gritted teeth, he grinds out, “You don’t get it. I don’t want her to go too.”

[26] Noctis knows that much when Regis furrows his brows, understanding dawning in his eyes. “So we finally meet,” says Regis, exhaling the words like a laborious process, “young daughter of the Andronicus.”

[27] “And you, Highness? Will you still rally under her banner even if you know she slit her mother’s throat at sixteen?”

[28] Tossing a look over his shoulder, his eyes are alight with mischief. “Well, what’re you waiting for? For me to bathe you too? Aren’t you too old for that?"

Lord have mercy on me, because each chapter’s close to 10k words. RIP in pieces myself for having to edit through almost 80k of words. There’s a mixture of drama and so much fluff it’s so fluffy I could die from the fluff. (The fluff is just there as a distraction to hide the fact that this is DECAYING we’re talking about and there’s bound to be angst everywhere.)

Hope you guys enjoyed the updates on LPC, My Friend, Mr Noctgar, and My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute! Looking forward to hear from everyone again; thoughts and comments are always lovely to hear!

#noctis x reader #noctis/reader #Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv fanfic #final fantasy xv #ffxv #lazy people #fanfic #whew this chapter is so long because everything's crammed into one chapter #hope yall enjoyed the double release

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