#I’m not about petulant tension for the sake of tension

[narutos-sloppy-pussy]

Hey guys, can I be honest? I don’t much care for the lesbians from Willow (2022)

[someonestolemyshoes]

Come to Me

This is my submission for @levihan-drabbles Trope Tuesday - I jumped firmly on the bandwagon and went with prompt #4: Injured/hurt Levi & caring Hange. Juuuust eeked inside the max word count, but I’ll take it! 

Warnings: This fic does contain some depictions of injury, nothing too graphic, but be aware if this is something that bothers you! 

**

“Who was it this time?”

Hange expected no answer. As such, they were unsurprised at receiving nothing but a grunt and a hiss as they pressed an alcohol-soaked swab to the apple of Levi’s cheek, where the flesh, feverishly red and swollen now, had split like a burst seam.

Only rarely did Levi disclose the particulars of his adventures, and never when prompted. Hange knew better than to press. It wasn’t their role to ask questions, but the silence quickly grew oppressive when left unattended, and Hange would much rather listen to the sound of their own voice than the stifling quiet.

“Do they at least look worse off than you do?” They asked, tilting Levi’s bruised jaw to angle him better beneath the hanging bulb. Levi gave another noncommittal grunt, this one accompanied by a shrug of his shoulder and a grimace that tugged at his bust lip. The forming scab cracked open, and a thin trail of blood dripped towards his chin.

He was quiet, tonight. Moreso than usual. It wasn't in Levi’s nature to divulge too much of anything, but he could be vocal, in his own way. Hange’s poking and prodding was most often met with a grumbled ‘mind your damn business’ or ‘keep your nose out of my shit’ and occasionally, when Hange was in a particularly obnoxious mood, ‘quit jamming your finger into my ribcage’.

There was none of that now. Levi remained perplexingly silent while Hange disinfected the open wounds on his face and knuckles, cleaning smeared blood and palpating the joints, checking the swollen flesh for signs of damage they couldn't hope to fix in their parents' tool shed.

This had been their routine for a little while, a semi-regular occurrence since the first night Hange had found him crumpled over a bench in the park, sucking wet breaths through his teeth and trying in vain to stem the blood flow from a yawning gash on his arm. He had colourfully refused Hange’s offer of calling him an ambulance, and had vehemently denied that he needed to see a doctor, but he had eventually resigned himself to at least allowing Hange to help however they could with the first aid kit in their kitchen and what little medical knowledge they had absorbed from their mothers medical journals.

He had been a relative stranger to Hange, then. They’d seen him around sometimes, in school corridors between classes, or in the lunch hall, or around the back of the science block, where Hange had caught glimpses of him sparking up or stubbing out a cigarette, but besides these sporadic sightings, Hange's knowledge of Levi came only from whispered rumours.

The rumours, more than anything, made Hange worry that this was not a solitary incident.

“Just come to me,” Hange had said, as they'd finished wrapping the bandage around his wounds. “If you need help again. I kinda like my evening walks, and I think it’d ruin my night if I found you dead next time.”

In truth, Hange hadn’t expected him to take their offer seriously at all. Shocked as they were to see him turn up bloody and bruised at their window, they had stayed true to their word. Levi had tolerated their needling questions with surprising resilience, but eventually acquiesced to give some vague answers when Hange had suggested that he might be involved in something highly illegal.

“You’re in a gang,” they’d said.

“Like hell.”

“Selling drugs?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“I got it—human trafficking."  

“For fucks sake, four-eyes! I’m not—no, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Hange had accused him of every offense under the sun, but as it had turned out, there was nothing so terrible, nor so immoral or unlawful, about Levi’s affairs.  

“I just get in fights, sometimes. I live in a rough neighbourhood. Tensions are high, people snap easy.”

“Do you? Snap easily, I mean.” Levi had given her a noncommittal shrug.

“Depends,” he had said. “Whether something’s worth snapping over.”

Hange had never asked what held that kind of wealth, for Levi. He had a deceptively calm aura about him whenever Hange saw him in passing; a little grumpy perhaps, with his thin eyes and drawn brows and pouted lips, but he never exuded the crackling energy of a bomb ready to explode.

Now, though, he seemed stormy. There was an intermittent twitch in his jaw where the muscle bunched and flexed. Despite Hange's close proximity, sitting with their knees tucked between his splayed legs, his gaze remained resolutely fixed somewhere over their shoulder. His freshly bandaged fists rested clenched atop his thighs. There was a pallor to his skin, the sickly hue of it exacerbated by the fluorescent glow from above them; the angle of the light deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked, if possible, more sullen than Hange had ever seen him.

Perhaps more tenderly than intended, Hange smoothed their thumb over the last steristrip on Levi's cheek. Something in the softness of the action must have caught his attention, for he drew his gaze towards Hange's face for the first time since turning up tonight. Hange tilted their head at him.

"Are you okay?"

Levi scoffed. "Do I look okay?"

No, Hange thought. You never do. "You've looked better."

"I'm fine."

Hange fought the urge to roll their eyes.

"Like pulling teeth," they mumbled. Levi shot them a look, something petulant and withering. Hange poked their tongue out at him, and winced when he aimed a kick at their ankle.

"Stop being difficult," Levi said. Hange looked at him incredulously, chest swelling and cheeks puffing with indignation. Levi was watching them calmly now, his brow quirked, and Hange felt the futility of arguing with him before they even began. Instead, they blew out a long, calming breath, and began packing the first aid supplies back into the kit.

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the crinkle of plastic as Hange, perhaps with more force than necessary, jammed spare wipes, swabs and bandages into place.

For once, Levi broke it.

"Oi, Hange."

Hange, not looking up from repacking their first aid kit, huffed loudly, and tried their best to ignore him. In the end, though, curiosity won out. "Mm?"

"If—" Levi began, then cut himself off with a harsh huff, and ticked his tongue against his teeth. "If anyone bothers you. Come to me, okay?"

Hange looked up at him, surprised. Levi wasn't looking at them, head turned away and eyes cast down towards the floor.

They weren't friends, exactly. Outside of their strange arrangement, they never really spoke to one another. Hange had, once or twice, caught Levi watching them with a curious expression on his face, but he never spoke to them in public. Hange was mostly at ease with the whole thing. There was an itch of intrigue they longed to scratch, but Levi's responsiveness to questioning had already made itself well known. Excluding their meeting in the park, they had never shared a single word with one another beyond the confines of the tool shed. Why, then, would Levi expect Hange to approach him anywhere else?

"Why would anyone bother me?" It was an earnest question, but Levi met their questioning gaze with a scowl. He opened his mouth with the kind of frustrated ferocity that preceded an argument, then closed it again, and huffed through his nose.

"I heard some things," he said. Hange said nothing, only blinked openly at him, and Levi was pressed to fill the silence. "Someone saying shit. About you."

Hange's brows lifted towards their hairline. "Oh?"

Levi scuffed the toe of his boot over the floor, face twisted in a sneer. Hange found it difficult to tell where his disgust was aimed; at whatever conversation he had overheard, or at himself for bringing it up.

Hange shuffled forward in their chair, one of their knees bumping against the inside of Levi's thigh. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, then up to Hange's face. Hange nudged his leg harder.

"C'mon, you can't say that and not tell me."  

When Levi showed no signs of budging, Hange sat up straighter and folded their arms over their chest. "At least tell me who."

Levi rolled his tongue between his cheeks, deliberating. His gaze flitted over Hange's face as though he was hoping he might find something reflected in it. Whether he found what he wanted Hange didn't know, but after a long moment, he slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms to match Hange, and said, with no absence of venom, "Zeke."

Ah. That at least explained some of Levi's seething. He and Zeke had a history. Hange was unclear on the details, and much of the story was based on rumours passed down in hushed whispers, morphing with each new retelling, but what was clear enough was that the two disliked one another. On Levi's part, it was all clenched fists and frosty glances, while Zeke carried himself with a mix of smug satisfaction and barely restrained resentment.

Still, Hange found it hard to believe that Zeke would have anything too terrible to say about them. Their communication had been inconsequential at best—he had an air of self importance that Hange found a little grating, and an overconfidence in his own opinions, but the handful of instances in which they'd spoken to one another hadn't been unpleasant. Hange told Levi so, and watched with interest as a hint of colour rose in his cheeks and his frown deepened.

"He's a creep," Levi said. Hange's brows arched even higher.

"What, did he threaten me?"

Levi said nothing.

"Is he gonna beat me up?" Still nothing. "Did he call me ugly? Say I smell bad?"

"You do smell bad."

"Did he perv on me?"

Levi's response was both fascinating and telling. He tensed visibly, spine snapping straight, fingers curling tight into his palms—even his thigh, still resting against Hange's knee, clenched hard. Hange's grin widened.

"Jackpot," they said. Levi curled his lip

"Well, I'm honoured by your chivalry, Levi. But you didn't have to pick a fight with him just because he thinks I'm hot. It's kinda flattering, you know?"

"He doesn't even mean it," Levi said harshly.  "He's just saying it because I—" but Levi cut himself off again, sharply, and pressed his lips into a thin line. The forming scab tugged, threatening to tear anew.

"Because you what?"

But Levi had had enough. He stood quickly, barely avoiding the low hanging bulb, his chair scraping back with a clatter. The new angle of the light cast his nose and brow into deep shadow, and illuminated his cheeks with a bright glow—despite the washed out look the light gave his skin, Hange could see twin strips of pink on either cheek.

"Thanks," he said. Hange blinked owlishly up at him, their mouth open. They wanted to press him, demand he finish saying what he'd started—and perhaps they would have, perhaps this time, curiosity would win out, and Hange would succeed in wrestling an answer from him for once, but he didn't give them the chance.

He ducked around the bulb and moved to brush past Hange's chair and out the door. Beside them, he stuttered in step and paused; Hange thought—hoped—that perhaps he might be debating telling them the full story. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, opened, and snorted quietly to himself.

Then he raised a bandaged hand, and ruffled it into the messy hair atop Hange's head.

"Thanks," he said.

And before Hange could speak, could move, could do much of anything but stare ahead in shock, Levi had gone.

**

If, come the following morning, Hange was at all surprised to see the cuts and bruises colouring Zeke's face—a rather delightful collage of red and purple, black, and blue—they hid it very well.

Levi's self-satisfied smirk was far less subtle.

[calaofnoldor]

Sixth Time’s the Charm [3]

(not my gif)

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 3,695

Series Summary: All the times Dean has tried to get Sam to admit his feelings for you.

Chapter Summary: Dean suggests the two of you pose as a couple for a case. Sam objects wholeheartedly. (aka Sam and Y/N go to therapy.)

Warnings: jealous!sam, jealous!reader, language, idiots in love, mutual pining, fake marriage, kind of a case!fic, slow burn, fluff, basically all the tropes

A/N: hi loves, sorry this took so long! had some trouble with this one and i’m still not completely happy with it but hopefully you guys enjoy anyway. and i’m sorry the chapters keep getting longer, haha this whole series was only supposed to be a one-shot. oops.

written for @spnfluffbingo and @girl-next-door-writes make me feel bingo!

Square Filled: Fake Marriage for @spnfluffbingo and Mutual Pining for @girl-next-door-writes​

← BACK UP | MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

The third time was honestly quite fun for Dean. It started with a rare night of relaxation. The three of you were hanging out around a table in the bunker library, steadily working your way through a six-pack Sam had brought back from a supply run earlier. Dean had his legs crossed and feet propped up casually before him, while you and Sam were scrolling leisurely through the internet on your respective laptops.

“I think I just found us a case,” Sam had started with furrowed brows, as he sat up to get a closer look at his screen. “So get this, two married couples in Wisconsin were found dead after visiting the same couples therapist.”

“Does it say how?” you asked, fidgeting with the label on your beer bottle.

“Yeah, they all fell from windows in upper stories.”

Your brows flew up and you huffed in disbelief, “You’re right, seems like a rather unlikely coincidence, probably something up our alley.”

At this point, Dean was ready to burst with glee. God himself could not have presented a better opportunity. If things worked out, he could finally put an end to Sam’s petulant spasms and eradicate the sexual tension that hung so potently (and disturbingly) throughout the air whenever you and Sam were in the same room.

“Well, I guess we know what we gotta do…” Dean tried to fight the grin on his lips as he turned to you, “Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

With a perfectly straight face, he managed to ask, “Will you marry me?”

The mouthful of beer that Sam was about to swallow erupted forth in a cascade of tiny droplets, spritzing through the air as he began to cough and choke on what little alcohol had somehow made it down the wrong pipe.

You immediately looked over to see if he was alright, not expecting to find the usually adroit and graceful man a sputtering, red-faced mess, “Geez, Sam. Are you okay?” Rising from your seat to move towards him, you stopped when he held out a large palm and waved it at you as a form of both reassurance and interception.

“Yea- yeah, I’m fine,” Sam wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment to recompose himself before sending you an awkward little smile of gratitude.

Dean cleared his throat, “So whaddya say, Y/N/N?”

“Huh?”

“About my proposal, before Sammy so rudely interrupted.” Sam was glaring holes through his brother now, but Dean paid him no attention.

“Oh, right,” you chose your next words carefully, “Umm, you mean you wanna go undercover?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, tilting his head to the side as he raised his eyebrows in a suggestive smirk, “If the shoe fits…”

“Well aren’t you romantic?” you quipped sarcastically.

“Oh sweetheart, just you wait and see,” Dean sent you a wink that you were sure had dropped many a panty in his time yet held little to no effect over you because… well because you were busy being a little too enraptured by his baby brother. That didn’t seem to stop Dean though, “Trust me, as your loving husband-” It was Sam’s turn to clear his throat, but again Dean ignored him, “I'm gonna romance the shit outta you.”

You scoffed at him in amusement, “Right, you mean when we go to couples therapy?”

“Baby girl, you’d be surprised-”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer, throwing both hands up in objection, “Can we just back up for a minute? Why does anyone have to get married?”

Dean shot him an incredulous look, “Come on, Sam, we've worked enough of these cases to know this is always the easiest and fastest way.”

Through stiff jaws Sam released a harsh, conceding sigh, “OK... then... why does it have to be you and Y/N?”

“Cause we’re best friends; it'll be more believable,” Dean answered easily with a grin.

A disbelieving stare crossed Sam’s indignant features before he looked down to suppress his emotions with a sardonic nod and pursed lips. It was one thing for Dean to suggest playing your husband but to claim that you're his best friend instead of Sam's... That was too far.

“Plus, you've always been better at playing FBI,” his brother continued with that irritating smile.

Sam gave himself a moment before stating adamantly, “I don't think it should be you.”

“What, why? You don't think we can get the job done?” Dean’s tone was accusing, and you knew he was trying to provoke Sam, but ever since the notion that two out of the three of you needed to play a married couple had been introduced, you found yourself at an inevitable impasse.

“No, I-“ Sam could barely get any words out before Dean circled back to you instead.

“Y/N?” The look Dean sent you forced you to face your inner dilemma head on. On the one hand, you wanted nothing more than an excuse to get close to Sam, to hold his hand and gaze at him adoringly without worrying about anyone seeing, and so much more… but on the other hand, you feared that a glimpse of the ‘real deal’, however contrived, might just push you over the decisive edge. What if you couldn’t go back to your platonic guise after? What if you broke your own heart?

“What? Um, yeah, I think it could work,” you rubbed the back of your neck nervously, keeping your eyes on Dean’s to avoid meeting Sam’s.

Your response elicited a smug expression on the older Winchester’s face however, as he returned to questioning his brother, “So what is it, Sam? You don't think I can pretend to be in love with Y/N? Cause trust me, that'll be easy.” There was that wink again, prompting a roll of your eyes.

“No, I just-“ You were worried Sam’s jaw might fall off if he clenched it any tighter. Why did he seem to care so much anyway? Was he jealous? The thought popped into your head almost as quickly as you dismissed it.

“Then what, Sam?” Dean plucked at that final straw and an explosion of the type that had seemed to become increasingly common from the ordinarily calm and gentle giant followed.

“IT SHOULD BE ME, OK?” Sam roared in frustration, his expansive chest was heaving and his hazel irises had darkened immeasurably. “It should be me,” he repeated more quietly.

Dean smirked; this was exactly what he wanted, exactly what he expected. “Well geez, Sammy. If you wanted to get with Y/N so bad, you could’ve just said so.”

“Wha- that’s not- I don't,” Sam looked extremely distressed and you couldn’t blame him. Whatever Dean was playing at had led him to essentially force Sam to reject you out right, and being the compassionate soul that he was, you knew Sam never wanted to hurt you that way, even if it was indirectly. “I just- I think it would work better this way. You're not exactly the marriage or therapy type and you're just not-“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You wanna shack up with Y/N and who could blame you? There’s no need to throw a hissy fit, baby brother. She’s all yours.” Dean chuckled at the sight of your averted eyes and Sam’s burning cheeks, thinking his work was just about done, “Alright, I’m gonna go get Baby ready. You kids have fun.”

When the echo of a closing door filled the room, Sam turned back to you, “Y/N, look I-“

“Don’t worry about it, Sam, I know what you meant,” you brushed him off hastily, “And you’re right, Dean would probably have a hard time keeping up the act. He’d end up flirting with the therapist or something.” Laughing always did help you conceal the pain in your chest.

As it turned out, it was a flirtatious therapist you should have been more concerned about. The woman had eyes for Sam only as soon as the two of you walked into her office and sat down on the tiny loveseat before her.

“Welcome, I’m Dr. Ryan, but you can call me Marlena,” she paused to perform a not-so-subtle scan along the length of Sam’s body before smiling at him seductively, “Why don’t we start by introducing yourselves?”

You kept your expression neutral though there was an urge to glare at her. After all, didn’t she think Sam was a married man? Perhaps this was part of the scam that got the couples before you killed, your rational side countered.

“Uh, OK…” Sam appeared rather uncomfortable beside you, pressing his lips into a tight semblance of a smile, “Umm, I'm Sam and this is my wife Y-Y/N.”

The damn Winchester was always so adorably flustered every time someone hit on him, something you never failed to find incredibly endearing, especially considering he was a 6'4” hunk of a man who could surely get inside the pants of any woman he wanted. You assumed, being that good looking, he’d be used to the attention by now, but the fact that he still reacted this way was a true testament to his humility.

“And how did you two meet?”

“Through work,” Sam answered shortly. A resounding pang had shot through his chest when he introduced you as his wife and he was still trying to recoup. If only this wasn't all make-believe, if only he could sit close to you and hold your hand in his whenever he wanted and not just for the sake of a ridiculous pretence. The Mr. and Mrs. titles and matching rings weren't even necessary. He just wanted to make you his as much as he was already yours.

Fuck, Dean was right; Sam was in deep. Just the thought of Dean acting as your husband had his heart racing and every muscle in his body tense with envy. There was no way he could have handled seeing his brother all over you, even if it was pretend. And if the fact that he had to make Dean go get the rings for your current ruse, because he had a strong suspicion the act of buying you a ring yet knowing it wasn’t real might just annihilate the final pieces of his fragile heart, wasn’t telling enough... Sam was finally beginning to realize that he could no longer deny his feelings for you.

“Tell me about that. What is it you two do?”

Although the questions were directed at both of you, Marlena’s gaze remained resolutely transfixed upon Sam, but the man was much too busy thinking about you to notice.

“Uh, well it was about 3 years ago. We’re firefighters and Y/N had been sent from another division to help out with a particularly bad… fire. But she somehow got there before we did, and when I arrived on the scene, I saw her walk out of the burning building in a blaze of smoke and dust. She was carrying a little boy, who she had just saved, covered in ash and soot, a-and there was scrape above her left brow that had left a trail of darkened blood down the side of her face,” Sam smiled to himself at the memory, “But I couldn’t move. It was just all so surreal because it was the last thing I expected to find, and I thought she was the most beautiful soul I had ever set my eyes on. I knew right then that I would gladly devote the rest of my life to getting to know her better, to becoming worthy of her, but when she came up to us, I could barely speak in full sentences and I made a fool of myself by stumbling over my own feet. My brother, who’s uh- also a firefighter, later told me he thought I was having a stroke.” Sam chuckled softly. His eyes were downcast, and he seemed to be a little lost in his own world.

By contrast, you were staring at him in shock. You remembered the day quite clearly, although in reality it was a wendigo that you were forced to kill by starting a fire since your flare gun wouldn’t work, but Sam got the rest of the details spot on. The lilt of his voice as he spoke had made it all sound so real, for a moment, you nearly tricked yourself. Who knew he had such incredible acting chops on top of all those other skills?

“Well, that sounds like a beautiful start. I’m assuming you work together now?” Taking note of the new edge in her voice, you gave her a nod and Dr. Ryan continued, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a pen, “It must be terribly hard to maintain a work-life balance and keep the romance alive. I’m sure there are issues from work that you’ll often bring home, conflicts that can never be resolved considering the lack of alone time? Maybe something you found annoying about the other that seemed bearable in the beginning but has now festered to become an unmendable chasm between the two of you?”

Your eyes narrowed of their own accord. Between the obvious flirting to the now obvious attempt to instigate discord between you and Sam, you were starting to think Marlena was undoubtedly the monster (that or she was an awful couples therapist). Her motive remained unclear though, so you played along.

“Uh, well Sam can be a bit… overprotective, at times, when we’re working, and sometimes it can get in the way of the job.”

“Ok but that’s only because Y/N can be ludicrously stubborn, at times, and she has a habit of running headfirst into danger." Sam was surprisingly quick to retort.

"It's literally our job to run into danger, Sam.” Your body was now twisted to face his, “And if I recall correctly, my ‘ludicrous stubbornness’ has led to the saving of multiple lives, yours included."

Sam lowered his head and scoffed lightly before he too turned to face you completely, golden eyes boring into yours with an intensity you were not prepared for, "I know it has but sometimes you act like other people's lives are worth more than yours and that's not true. Besides, it's my job to care about you, to protect you… I-I mean as your husband."

For a second, things got a little too real there, but you took a deep breath to remind yourself this was all just an act, "And I appreciate that Sam, but sometimes it can be a bit overbearing-"

"Well if I'm overbearing it's only because I'm terrified every time we go out there,” Sam began to enunciate every word stiffly, speaking almost entirely through gritted teeth, “Because I can't bear the thought of losing you, because I can't fathom living a life without you!"

And once again, you were left staring at him with your mouth agape. He sure was laying it on thick, or perhaps he just wanted to win the fight, because you had no idea how to argue against that.

“Alright, I think that’s enough on that topic. Maybe we should try something else,” Dr. Ryan interjected, “Oh look at that, time’s almost up! I always end my sessions with a fun little exercise. I want you to look each other in the eyes and take turns coming up with one positive word to describe the other, something you love about your partner, but it must be genuine.”

Quirking your brow, you struggled to restrain the smile on your face as you turned back to Sam. Well this’ll be easy.

“Intelligent,” you stated matter-of-factly, figuring you’d start with something relatively un-incriminating.

“Strong,” Sam came back at you immediately. There was a fierceness in his eyes, almost as if he was daring you to bring it on.

“Kind,” came your simple response.

“Discerning.” His voice seemed lower for some reason.

“Capable,” you kept your eyes locked on Sam’s as you lifted your chin.

“Tough.” There was an undeniable fondness that accompanied the word when it left his lips.

“Sassy,” you replied, unable to stop the smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Tenacious,” Sam narrowed his eyes at you.

“Selfless.” Why did you sound so out of breath?

“Complex.” He was smiling at you now.  

“Protective,” you finally admitted despite your earlier complaints.

“Beguiling,” Why were you both whispering?

“Tall.” Was that lust you could hear in your own voice?

“Badass,” Was that lust you could hear in his voice?

“Gorgeous… or handsome if you prefer.” When did your faces get so close?

“So fucking beautif-”

“Woah! OK, I think we’re done here.” Shit, you had almost forgotten about the therapist. “That was… excessive. I don’t think I’ll be needing to see you again,” she declared as she stood up rather suddenly, prompting you and Sam to do the same though you were both still a little caught up in your game.

“Wow, you really are tall,” Marlena breathed out as she smoothed a hand down her pencil skirt. The provocative tone of her voice had you back down to earth in no time. "And those years of firefighting have definitely paid off, what with all those big muscles.”

Sam gave an awkward half laugh as he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you tight against his side. You weren’t sure what compelled you to but as if on instinct, you raised your outer hand and placed it lightly on Sam’s stomach, feeling his abs contracting even through the soft flannel beneath your fingers as you replied, “Yeah, that’s just another one of the many things I love about Sam.”

The laugh that escaped Sam this time was much more sincere, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Ryan.” He kept his hand on your waist as he led the two of you out the door, trying his damnedest to ignore the enticing sensation your touch had evoked throughout his body, as well as the subsequent questions of what your little hand might feel like on other parts of him if a simple graze of his abdomen could produce such a dramatic effect.

“Did it seem like she was rushing us to you?” you questioned Sam pensively when you were back at the motel half an hour later.

“Yeah, like the more we spoke, the more she lost interest in us,” he agreed.

Your next words tumbled out without permission and you could only cringe at the bitter inflection of your voice, “Well, she didn’t seem to lose any interest in you.”

Sam felt himself smile at your adorableness; he couldn’t help it when your bottom lip jutted out like that. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought you were jealous.

“Are you two outta your damn minds?” Dean looked from his brother’s face to yours. “Did you even check the time? She only gave you about half of what we paid for!”

“What, really?” you and Sam responded in chorus.

“Yeah, but luckily I’m a genius and I got everything we needed within the first few minutes.” Grinning in that cocky way of his, Dean explained, “Your EMF sensors were off the charts as soon as you walked into her office, and I found ectoplasm in the bathroom.”

“She’s a ghost?” Sam did that adorable scrunchy thing with his face and you had to physically stop yourself from staring.

“Possessed by one, yeah. And I checked the records. She spent at least an hour overtime with both of the dead couples.”

“So, what, are we not good enough to be her next victims?” you wondered.

“Maybe she saw through the act?” Sam suggested.

Dean was fumbling through a stack of papers until he found something, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s it. Here, check this out.”

Sam started to read out loud, “’Grave of local girl found desecrated by joggers passing through the cemetery early Sunday morning…’”

“Turns out the kid got pushed out a window accidentally when her parents were fighting... Splat.” Dean elaborated, ever so tactfully.

You were starting to piece it together though, “So now she’s seeking out dysfunctional couples to kill them the way she died… for what, revenge? Or to stop them from accidentally murdering their own kids?”

“That’s my best guess,” Dean confirmed.

“Huh… nice work on research, buddy. I’m impressed,” the playful grin you sent Dean’s way was not lost on Sam.

“Yeah, well your husband’s not the only one who can look stuff up around here. Besides, someone had to do the work while you two were off playing Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“Sam and I have never tried to kill each other,” you argued.

Dean snorted while grabbing his jacket, “And that’s about the only way your relationship differs.”

When he saw your brows pull together in confusion, Sam quickly cut in to change the subject, “So uh- what’s the plan?”

His brother was nearly out the door when he responded, “Nice and easy. I’ll go burn the bones while you guys go back and distract her with your little love fest, capiche?”

The ghost was surprisingly open this time around, admitting freely to her past crimes and even explaining her methods. Apparently, flirting with the husbands was a routine and easy test to spot any cracks in the relationships, one that she claimed Sam had passed with flying colors. But you knew better than to assume his achievement had anything to do with you. After all, you’d seen the man hold fast against the fervent advances of a high-end stripper before, while he was drunk. This was nothing.

“But why kill them?” Sam questioned, with the kind of genuine curiosity that only he could exhibit towards a murderous monster.

“Because it’s better to die than stay in a loveless marriage… But of course you two wouldn’t underst-“ Dean must have completed his task because the therapist was interrupted by a shapeless black plume bursting through her mouth.

‘Oh Shit,’ you thought relentingly as you watched the spirit eject itself and disappear into a fiery cloud of dark fumes, a forlorn expression upon your face, ‘I’m in love with Sam Winchester.’

→ CARRY ON

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[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 2

Here we gooooo :) Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey, @remedialpotions, @not-steve42, @jamezbot, @gryffindorhealer, and the majority of the HG server for their help <3

If you’ve just arriving, here is Chapter 1. :)

_____________________

D A Y  +  T W O 

He’s driving her mad. Absolutely fucking mad.

Ginny grips the hose in an attempt to water the rose bush outside their window, but her eyes are unfocused, unseeing.

This entire thing was such a terrible idea.

She should’ve insisted on another Auror as backup on her first solo mission. Someone less attractive. Someone she hadn’t shagged up one side of the Burrow and down the next.

But the request was difficult to grant in the first place. It took Ginny a full year of documentation to prove this was a necessary use of resources. Attica (and Unspeakables in general) don’t tend to be well-liked by the older Aurors, which made Harry the best fit. The only fit. Everyone— from Kingsley to Attica to even Hermione— agreed. And even aside from the sheer convenience of it all, Ginny’s years of experience with the Thought Chamber and Harry’s ability to sniff out trouble like a niffler after gold made them a brilliant combination to tackle… this.

It’s just a pity, then, that she still finds him so bloody attractive. Even though he’s become a bit of a brooding, sarcastic mess.

Ginny blinks down at the bright pink petals, their leathery flesh beaded with water droplets. Maybe the problem’s that she hasn’t spent much time around him since then. He still comes around for Sunday roast, of course, when his work schedule permits. In spite of what Mum went through, she’d never allow Harry to feel unwelcome. It’s his house as much as theirs— and yes, Ginny still lives at home. It’s the least she can do to maintain a degree of normalcy, even though everything irrevocably changed when It happened.

Ginny’s hands begin to shake around the hose; her brain starts to spiral. The Burrow is less welcoming now. Their hugs are more forced. Their family more distant. And although everyone functions on a basic human level, Ginny knows in her gut that the remaining Weasley siblings — Harry most certainly included — are still going through the motions to cope.

And maybe it’s because she really hadn’t had a libido in nearly five years, but fuck, it hasn’t taken much to come rushing back. Her thighs press together as her head fills with another series of intrusive thoughts instead. But she can’t suppress the memory of Harry emerging from the shower this morning, his top-half dripping, his bottom-half toweled. Not that it matters much, not when she knows every fucking inch of—

“I think that bush is good now!”

Ginny jumps, a string of swears springing to her lips. “I— fuck.” She turns to the unexpected voice. “Sorry! Let me—”

But Oliver from last night merely leans over to turn off the hose. “You’ll quickly learn that sort of language isn’t great for Arcadia, Jen,” he intones, finger wagging.

Years of training allow Ginny to blush in chagrin. To shove aside the telling-off she’d have provided a long, long time ago. “Sorry.” She winces. “It’s just a habit, leftover from—”

“—London, right,” he finishes, his eyes never leaving hers. “Anyway. Listen. Sharon and I would be honored if you joined us for dinner tonight.”

“Did I hear something about dinner?” Harry strolls out of the house, the door shutting behind him with a satisfying thump. “Goodie! As my wife knows, dinner is my favorite word.” He rests his chin on her head, sliding his thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans. Ginny’s heart clenches in familiarity even as her face remains placid. They agreed to all of these terms beforehand… to feign public affection. To seem utterly smitten. It’s just funny how they’ve both relied on old habits.

Ginny reckons that makes sense, though. After all, it worked for them once.

She turns towards Harry with a pout. “But Pookie Pie, I thought your favorite word was snuggles! We certainly did enough of that last night.”

Harry’s chuckle rings out with false bravado as he tucks her hair behind her ears. “We did something, all right. Not sure if snuggling is the right word for it. What do you think, Oliver?” Harry whips around to face him. “What’s your favorite word for… marital relations?” His eyebrows waggle suggestively above his glasses; Ginny stomps on his foot to keep herself from laughing.

Oliver, however, does not find them delightful. “I think this is for you. From Mike.” He points to a box that he apparently rested on the ground while Ginny was drowning the roses.

Harry bends over to pick it up. This does nothing to distract her.

“Couldn’t Mike erm…” Ginny shakes her head to clear it. “Sorry. Couldn’t he bring it over himself? He lives just—”

“Out of town on business, I’m afraid.” Oliver’s voice turns cold as he peers at Ginny again. “He won’t be back for weeks. Months, maybe.”

Ginny makes a noise of concern and rests a fist on her hip. “Huh! That’s funny. What out-of-town business could a primary school teacher possibly have?”

Oliver’s eyes narrow, but his grin remains. “Teacher business, I guess.”

“When can we speak to someone about the trampoline?” Harry blurts, slicing the tension. “I’m missing my exercise, Ollie. It’s how I stay fit. You won’t like me when I’m not exercising!”

With that, Oliver’s grin finally fades. “Well, you can ask Mr. Gogolak, but I don’t think anything will come of it. He’s available tonight from 5 o’clock to 6:13, on the dot. He lives just up there, on the corner. Anyway, I’ll be off.” He gives a parting wave and turns to walk up the drive, but Harry isn’t done.

“Not sure how we’ll manage to make that and dinner, though,” he calls. “Don’t we have to be indoors by six?”

But it seems Oliver is absolutely intent on being elsewhere, because he opts to walk backwards and yell from the street. “Of course not!” he shouts. “Six is only the move-in deadline.” Then he barks out a cruel laugh, throwing his hands in the air. “Any idiot knows that dinner starts at 7!” With that, he sends them a final glare before lumbering away, his brown loafers crunching on the pavement.

Harry and Ginny snort in unison; if Oliver hears them, he doesn’t engage.

“See you later!” Ginny confirms, ensuring it’s loud enough for him to hear. Then she drops her voice to a stage-whisper and cups her hand into a regal wave. “Hope Sharon removes that stick from your arse before dinner tonight, you miserable sack of shit. Suck my dick!”

Harry laughs. “As much as I appreciate the support, Muffin Cakes, that’s one insult that just doesn’t work when you say it.”

And Ginny doesn’t know what comes over her next… she really, really doesn’t.

Because in the blink of an eye, she’s pushed Harry against the front door with a petulant pout. The pulsing between her legs returns with humiliating swiftness; it’s a blessing, really, that Harry’s dreadful at flirting and picking up on cues. They’re in public, but this is the furthest thing from acting.

Nonetheless, Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs as her arms drape around his neck. She watches, rapt, as his eyes darken. Apart from that one slip-up last night, he’s excelled at his job… and as she leans into his hard chest, she realizes how she really feels: she's jealous. Dreadfully jealous.

How dare he be better at this? What in hell gave him the right to soak her knickers with a single look? She’s had years of professional training and a lifetime of practice, but it comes naturally to him— this pretending shit.

And for fuck’s sake… he’s a lot better at it.

“But it’s been ages since you’ve been in my knickers, Baby Bear,” she croons, batting her eyelashes. “How would you know?”

She intends it playfully. A gentle way to put him in his place. But to her surprise, something stinging and sober crosses Harry’s face.

The moment’s over… absolutely over.

In a flash, he pushes her away and gestures at the door. After you. She nods, still turned on but now confused. The whole thing reminds her of ancient history, where she waited for him after each quidditch practice and thought, wished, prayed that he’d touch her… all while hoping to God he wouldn’t.

It takes until they’re inside for her to figure out why he’s upset.

He locks the door behind them with a wave of his wand— and when he whips around, his face is twisted into such a brooding scowl that it pins her on the spot. Shit.

“It goes without saying,” Harry mutters, voice dangerously low, “that there are some things a bloke just doesn’t forget.” He lets out a deep breath, his eyelashes fluttering. “Ok?”

Oh.

Ginny’s cheeks flush as it all comes rushing back. She’s honestly forgotten how… attached he was to that ability. How much he prided himself on being able to please her. How he worshipped her body with such respectful, hushed reverence that it still features in her fantasies.

It seems there’s a limit to his acting skills, after all. A line that he just won’t cross. She should be chuffed that she got what she wanted. Instead, her stomach throbs with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, biting her lip. “I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it.” He waves his hand over his shoulder and trudges upstairs, leaving her in hollow silence.

Right.

_________________________________

Mr. Gogolak crosses his left leg over his right and swirls his brandy tumbler. Between the ruddy patches on his cheeks and the way his words slip over each other, it’s not his first of the evening. Harry’s reminded of Slughorn. In the worst possible way.

“Anyway.” Gogolak waves at the massive tabbed binder to his left. “As the rules clearly stipulate, a trampoline would lead to other things. Unsavory things.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip.

Harry’s eyes flit around the room, trying to take it all in. The decor is… nice, he supposes, if you want every guest to be aware — beyond a shadow of a doubt— that You’ve Been Abroad, thanks. Multi-colored felt flower vases dot the floating shelves above Gogolak’s head, each a pop of color in a room that’s otherwise painfully beige. Scrolls hand-painted with renditions of Buddha and Lokta hang on the far wall. And above them… Harry cocks his head, puzzled, and tries to place where he’s seen that particular mask before.

“Of course,” Ginny agrees with a fervent nod. “We understand the need for decorum and cooperation, don’t we, Hen?”

“Where‘s that mask from?” Harry blurts, nudging his chin up.

Ginny rubs her temples in frustration, but if anything, Gogolak seems flattered.

“Oh! That.” His face flushes with pride as he takes another drink. “That’s a wrathful Mahakala mask. From Tibet! I bought it cheap off a street orphan during my last trip. Can’t say he had much need for it, what with being starving and living in the street.” His laugh booms over the sitting room.

Harry tries to focus. He’s there for Ginny. He’s there for Ginny. He’s only backup. But ah, bugger, after the other shit today it’s too much, and—

“Ha!” Harry returns his humorless laugh. “Isn’t poverty hilarious, Jen?”

There’s an anxious pause.

Ginny ends it with a fake giggle of her own. “As you can see, Mr. Gogolak, my husband is growing a bit testy without his exercise!” She nudges Harry in the ribs— hard enough to make her point, but not hard enough to hurt. “So if we could only have the trampoline, then—”

“‘Fraid not,” Gogolak slurs, peering down at his brandy again. “See, there’s a reason Arcadia has been named Best Village for so long: People simply love to live here!”

“Oh?” Ginny returns her teacup to the table. “Everyone loves to live here?” She rests her elbows on her knees, her voice dropping to a discreet whisper. “What about the people who’ve gone missing, then?”

At first, Gogolak is unperturbed. Then his smile deepens, his eyes traveling from Ginny’s face down to her chest. For fuck’s sake. This arsehole can’t be serious! Harry’s gut swirls with something visceral and protective. He wraps his arm around her shoulders as his hand inches for the wand in his back pocket. Ginny catches his hand on the way and interlaces their fingers with an almost imperceptible, “Shh.”

“Well, well, well,” Gogolak drawls, leaning back to full-on leer at her. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? Should’ve known. You’re a ginger, after all.”

Wrong answer.

“Not sure what the color of her hair has to do with her question,” Harry says stiffly. It’s the politest thing he can manage. Ginny squeezes his thigh.

Gogolak faces Harry instead, his face a mask of delighted malice. “Your wife is very beautiful, Mr. Petri,” he drawls. “You must forgive an old man for noticing.”

“Pee-tri,” Harry grouses.

Is it possible to accidentally Avada Kedavra someone with your eyes? Surely he’d be forgiven for that, yeah? He counts five deep breaths, his face burning, as he waits for Ginny to take the lead.

He’s still a bit taken aback at how quickly things changed. He thought he was irritated with her earlier, but now he realizes that frustrated is a better word. They haven’t been together in ages, but she has to know what she still does to him. It wasn’t like she’d grown less beautiful. And while he’s not proud of how things ended, he’s spent the last five years taking pride in knowing her. In being her first, as primitive and knuckle-dragging as that sounds. Because no matter how bad things were, he was always able to make her…

Yeah.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Had he deluded himself into thinking it was as good for her as it was for him?

Ginny clears her throat again. “But what of the people?” she prompts. “The missing people? Like Eric Highland, who lived in our house until last August, when—”

“Oh, him!” Gogolak booms out another uncomfortable laugh and drains the rest of his tumbler. “Well, don’t tell anyone I told you this, but—” He makes a slitting motion across his throat and pours himself another drink. “Committed suicide. Quite a mess.”

Then Gogolak stills, his eyes widening; for the first time this evening, he looks vaguely embarrassed. “Oh, but not in your home, of course!” He waves his hand dismissively. “We’d never, you know, let someone move in after that. Would affect property values, you see.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his ears as Ginny clenches his hand, for once. He wonders if he’s ever given less of a shit about property values.

Another span of uncomfortable silence stretches between them… but this one grows more furious and heated with every second. The version of her he knew before would have Bat Bogeyed this wanker before she took a breath. But everything’s different now.

“That’s… not the preferred term,” Ginny finally manages, her voice strained. Harry grips her hand more tightly; that odd rush of pride returns. He knew she’d say something. There’s not a single version of her that would let that go.

Gogolak’s brow furrows. “What do you—”

“—Took his life,” Ginny interjects, her voice ringing with the righteousness Harry only dimly recognizes from the woman he knew before. “Or died by suicide. Or had terminal depression.”

He holds her hand even tighter as she draws a deep breath, shifting in her seat. Get him, Gin. Get the bastard. Whatever you need, I’m there.

“Committed is a word that… implies a crime,” Ginny finishes. But her words sound careful now. “It just adds to the stigma that people with mental illness are problematic. Words mean things. So.”

Gogolak presses his lips into a thin line. “Forget I brought it up.”

“I will,” Ginny says coolly.

Ginny hadn’t thought much could be worse than the meeting with Mr. Gogolak. Unfortunately, dinner with Sharon and Oliver is proving her wrong.

“This is free-range chicken, of course,” Oliver drawls, gesturing towards their plates. “Got them at the organic market. Anything for health!”

They’d already been treated to iceberg lettuce salads and glasses of generic Merlot. Perhaps she should have anticipated chicken breast and rice as the thrilling main course.

Harry cuts his chicken breast with a sigh. “That’s a pity, Oliver. We all know that caged chickens are tastier!”

Ginny muffles a snort with a cough and reaches for her glass of wine.

Sharon pauses, fork mid-way to her mouth, to peer at Harry, bleary-eyed and confused. Oh, for fuck’s sake; what was it about suburbia that removed one’s ability to recognize a joke?

Oliver changes the subject before Ginny gets the chance. “Where did you two meet, anyway?” he grunts. “And how long have you been married?”

Ginny smiles, preparing the canned response they practiced for months. They met in uni through mutual friends. They both work in computers, and last year, they finally realized it was time to leave the big city.

Harry shatters all of that with three words.

“Magic camp, actually!” he announces, throwing an arm around Ginny’s shoulders.

Fuck. She analyzes her chicken with newfound intensity and tries to imagine something sad.

“Huh,” Oliver says flatly. “Wouldn’t have taken either of you for magicians.”

Sharon has the grace to act embarrassed. “Now now, love,” she chides, reaching for the breadbasket, “I’m sure people have loads of hobbies that aren’t always obvious to everyone!”

“Exactly!” Harry grins and reaches for a piece of baguette. “Besides, it’s mostly Jenny who’s mad for it. Card tricks, pulling bunnies from hats, sawing women in half. Even—” he pauses for a dramatic gasp— “magic wands! You name it, she loves it.”

“Well!” Sharon raises her eyebrows; it’s clear she’s feigning being impressed. “If I’m ever in need of disappearing something, I’ll know who to call!”

Aha! The perfect opening!

“Speaking of disappearing,” Ginny starts, as casually as possible, “we checked with Saint Julian’s Primary. It’s not true Mike left on business.”

Sharon’s smile freezes and melts with such speed that Ginny feels a pang of sympathy. Poor Sharon. She’s really just doing her best to be a pleasant hostess. It’s Oliver who has the clear ulterior motive.

The man in question takes another sip of wine, unfazed. “And why did you have interest in contacting a primary school in the first place? Bit weird for a grown adult, that.”

Harry releases another fake chuckle. “Oh, Oliver, you’re such a prankster!” He bites off some bread. “Surely you’re not turning the tables on my wife and accusing her of being the weird one. After all, all she did was ask about the whereabouts of a lovely member of our community. Right?”

He gives Oliver such an exaggerated wink that even Ginny almost believes him. “And besides…” Harry’s hand wraps around her shoulder again. “Do you reckon we should tell them?” he murmurs, voice laden with his expectation.

Ginny rolls her eyes, fully intent on a thin-lipped, silent warning about making shit up… but Harry’s earnest expression stops her. His green eyes blink behind his glasses, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. Before she knows what’s happening, one of his warm hands cups her chin while the other comes to rest on her stomach.

Oh. She sucks in a breath, her heart pounding— because for a moment, she forgets where she is. She forgets they’re faking. She forgets they split up and chose separate paths, that they weren’t looking through a portal of what could have been, should have been, before their lives turned to shit.

“Not yet, of course,” Harry murmurs, appearing for all the world like he’s drinking her in as his fingers tap at her stomach. “But soon. We hope.”

And with that, he abruptly clears his throat and turns back to the Skinners. “Anyway, that’s why we called Saint Julian’s,” Harry adds, nonchalantly as you please. “Always good to be prepared, eh?”

“Oh, how exciting!” Sharon cries, clasping her hands together. “And yes, I agree— preparedness is key.”

“Knew you’d be happy for us,” Harry says with another wink. “Quite an exciting time, I’m sure you understand.”

It’s then that Ginny finds her voice. “So. Erm,” she starts, trying to focus. “They hadn’t heard from him. Mike. The school, I mean.” She takes another sip of wine to get her bearings back. “Any idea where he could’ve gone? You understand why we’re a bit worried, especially if we’re planning to—”

“No,” Oliver snaps, nostrils flaring. Sharon’s fork clatters to her plate; if swearing were allowed in this house, Ginny’s confident she would’ve let one slip. “I don’t understand, and you’ll find that snooping isn’t a past-time I appreciate,” Oliver finishes, drawing himself up taller to puff out his chest.

Ginny lets out an incredulous chuckle. “But Oliver… this is a matter of safety. We’re worried about our neighbor.”

“Yeah, Ollie-O!” Harry clucks his tongue, relaxing further into his chair. “Perhaps Arcadia isn’t as perfect as we were led to believe.”

Oliver just fixes them both with a stern glare. “Nope,” he says flatly. The p pops. “You’re wrong. Per usual.”

For six seconds, the four of them sit in painful, frigid silence. Ginny feels Harry’s hand reach behind him… inching closer to his wand...

“Jenny!” Sharon finally chirps, her voice a falsetto. Oh, thank fuck. “I need to walk the dog. Would you join me?”

___________________________

Captain Bone’s toenails tick on the pavement as Sharon holds his lead. Ginny peers at him with unexpected affection as he prances beneath the street lights. Dogs are too high-maintenance for her to even consider, but something about this one is undeniably appealing. As if he hears her, Captain Bone turns to Ginny with a slobbery grin.

Sharon laughs. “He likes you. He’s a sucker for a pretty girl.”

Ginny scratches beneath the thick leather collar with Captain Bone emblazoned on a bronze plate. He throws his head back for more access. Poor Captain Bone. The whole collar looked horribly uncomfortable. “I like him too,” Ginny agrees as he flounces away. “I’m afraid work keeps me too busy for a dog, though.”

Sharon waves this away. “Nah. I’ve seen the way Henry stares at you.” She flashes a knowing smile as they continue strolling, side-by-side. “I reckon if you really wanted a dog, he’d oblige.”

Captain Bone halts, mid-step, and picks up his leg. Sharon removes a waste bag from her pocket.

“You’re probably right,” Ginny mutters. She’s not sure why that feels like admitting to a scandal.

Sharon sighs. “The way he looks at you. The way he touches you. Like he’s holding the whole world in his hands.” Her voice grows wistful, distant; Ginny has a feeling she’s not actually talking about Harry at all.

“Well, we are newlyweds.” Ginny mashes her kitten heel — a clothing acquisition specific to this assignment — into the pavement. “I’m erm. Sure that’ll change.”

But Sharon just stares at Captain Bone as he does his business. “Maybe,” she says softly. “But I don’t reckon Oliver ever looked at me quite like that.”

Ginny blinks at Sharon beneath the streetlight, the fluorescent throwing her features into sharp relief. Wrinkles fold the corners of her eyes. Bits of gray sprout at her scalp beneath the warm chestnut color. Her smile may have been natural once, but now it’s forced. Uneasy. Ginny grimaces. This poor woman… imagine thinking you couldn’t do better than a wanker like Oliver.

“Shit!” Sharon swears, ripping Ginny from her reverie— and soon, she sees why. Captain Bone charges down the street, his lead scraping the ground like a limp noodle. “I wasn’t holding him tightly enough,” she whispers, horrified. “I’ll have to—”

“No,” Ginny says, taking off her heels and thrusting them into Sharon’s arms. “Let me!” And with that, she’s off, bare feet slapping the pavement.

“Don’t blame you for trying to get away,” Ginny mutters, rounding a corner. “The place is bloody creepy. But next time, Captain Bone, could you do this in broad daylight? Nighttime ‘round here is—”

Wait.

Ginny stops, dead in her tracks. A weird sensation creeps over her, crawling against her skin. All the street noise vanishes. Crickets stop chirping; wind stops whistling. She looks around, panic rising in her throat, but nothing looks amiss. She can’t shake it, though… their eerie, numb ringing that fills her head, and—

Like a thunderclap, it all comes back. The faint wind returns. Bugs resume their buzzing. The electric lamppost makes a dull crackling just above her.

Weird. Very fucking weird.

Luckily, Ginny specializes in weird; in the aftermath of whatever the hell that was, she’s more confused than frightened. She takes a few more shaky steps, making every observation she can (temperature, cloud pattern, weather conditions, insect movement)... and that’s when she spies something glinting to her left. Something golden and stuffed in a storm drain.

No. Ginny’s heart pounds as she rushes over, sinking to her knees. It can’t be…

But the closer she gets, the clearer it is: Mike’s chain necklace… the medallion of Saint Julian. Right beside Captain Bone’s pretentious leather collar. For the first time, fear floods her stomach. She surreptitiously reaches for the wand tucked into her waistband. “Accio necklace.” It soars through the gate and into her hand just as Sharon’s footsteps round the corner.

Ginny shoves the necklace into her bra— and it’s only then she realizes that there must’ve been something strange and slimy hanging from it, because whatever the fuck that was is now pressed to her right nipple.

Blech. It takes every bit of her willpower not to shudder and gag. She manages to school her features into innocent concern as Sharon finally catches up.

“Well,” pants Sharon, hands on her thighs, “did you find him?”

“No,” Ginny laments, genuinely upset. She gestures towards the storm drain. “But for some reason, his collar’s down there.”

Even beneath the streetlamps, Sharon’s face turns white.

______________________________

Harry’s back muscles contract in agony as he hunches over the laptop. This whole assignment is a painful reminder that he’s not as young as he used to be. How many hours did he spend snoozing on the lawn at Hogwarts without so much as an ache? But a single bloody night on these shit couches, and he’s popping Paracetamol like sweets. He shifts in place; must be time for another dose.

“Hear anything?” Ginny emerges from the walk-in closet in a towel turban and fluffy white dressing gown, two evidence bags in her hands.

Harry glares at the laptop screen and tries very hard not to remember that one of those bags contains a lacy black bra— one he definitely hasn’t seen before. For the past hour, he’s been in an envious haze of wondering if she bought it for the mission or bought it to wear for someone else.

Either way, it consoles him that deep down, she’s still Ginny; she took this necklace and shoved it into her bra without letting on that something vile and gross was pressed to her ti—

He shakes his head to clear it, but that hurts his neck. For once, though, he embraces the pain. Anything to shift his focus.

“From the props department? No.” Harry sighs and retrieves the medicine bottle from his luggage. “I swear, I have no idea who they got to make the moving boxes and pick the couches, but I’m fairly sure Victoire could do better.”

Ginny scoffs at this. “Well, of course Vic could do better. She’s the most perfect, adorable human alive,” she says fondly, tossing the evidence bags in the transporter box.

It’s plain cardboard, easily disguised as a standard moving box. But with three taps of her wand, the bags evaporate, presumably materializing in a Ministry lab somewhere. Not that Harry cares about the specifics. This is a key example of the sort of detail that’s less and less intriguing the longer he holds this job.

“But I was actually asking if you’d heard anything about Mike and — hey, what are you doing?”

“Paracetamol,” Harry mutters, popping open the bottle. “I’m getting old, Ginny,” he warns, rising to his feet with an exaggerated grimace. “Dunno why you thought it would be a good idea to go on a mission with an old man.”

She rolls her eyes and walks into the bathroom. “You don’t need to be so bloody noble. Please join me on the bed. We could make it longer, even, if you—”

He clears his throat to cut her off. That would be a terrible idea on all counts. Silence on the other side of the door tells him that Ginny either realizes this or chooses not to press the issue. Good...

“Erm. There’s no hits on Mike,” Harry calls into the bathroom. “I reckon he’s dead, Ginny. Credit cards and car haven’t been touched.”

The tap turned on behind the door. “Can’t say I’m shocked,” Ginny admits, voice muffled, “but— holy hell, who taught you how to squeeze toothpaste?”

Harry smirks and returns to the computer. “Myself, probably.”

Ginny lets out another irritated groan. “And the toilet seat’s up!” She strides out of the bathroom. “Strike two!”

Harry hears the distinctive sound of clothing hitting the floor beside her bed but wills himself not to turn around, not to turn around, not to—

“Well.” Ginny sucks her teeth as the bedding rustles. “I suppose I should take all of that as a good sign, really. You clearly don’t have girls in and out of your flat.”

Oh?

Harry’s heart thunders in his ears, his stomach flipping in hope. She takes that as a good sign? Really? He glimpses over his shoulder before remembering he’s not supposed to look.

And just as quickly, he regrets it.

Because Ginny’s sprawled back against the bed, her face so white that she nearly blends into the linens, but his eyes aren’t too focused on her face. They’re drawn down, down, down… down to her creamy chest, dotted with chocolate freckles. Down to her breasts, which he definitely still knows every inch of, even as they rest beneath a black lace vest he hasn’t seen before. Down to the shorts that hug her hips and graze the tips of her thighs… the same thighs he spread open and dipped his head between as she tugged on his hair, her cries breathy and panting in the garden’s evening mist.

Ah, fuck. That one does it. Harry adjusts his basketball shorts as discreetly as possible, but another glimpse at her face tells him he didn’t need to worry.

“I can’t believe I said that,” she whispers, eyes filled with horror.

Harry clears his throat. He honestly forgot she said anything. Now he just feels guilty for eyeing her up while she spiraled.

“I’m so… fuck. This is so unprofessional.” She sinks her head into her hands. “Please, Harry, forget that I said anything. I’m so sorry. That was—”

“It’s forgotten,” he rumbles, his voice deeper than he realized. “Legitimately. I’ve already forgotten it.”

She shoots him a weak smile through the slits of her hands. “I know you haven’t. But thanks for saying it.”

Harry offers his best expression of bafflement as he picks up a pillow from the end of her bed. “Haven’t a clue what you mean, Unspeakable GW. See you at 0-700 hours.” He stops halfway out the door and gives her a military salute. “Unless, of course, you decide to start a bit later,” he adds seriously, “in which case I’ll see you… erm. 0-whenever-the-hell-you-wake-up-hours.”

Ginny giggles, settling against the pillows again.

“Thanks,” she says after a moment, peering at her cuticles. “For… everything. And especially for forgetting—” She makes a vague hand gesture as her cheeks flush the most fascinating shade of pink.

Harry stills, one hand on the doorknob.

He wants to make her feel better… but really, it’s more than that. He wants to tell her that his heart still jumps into his throat when he hears about an Unspeakable being injured on the job. He wants to admit that he avoids Sundays at the Burrow not because he stopped caring, but because he cares too much. He wants to confess, in a rush of passion, that she wasn’t just his first: she’s his only. That he reckons she’ll always be his only. That exchanging work for Them was the stupidest thing he ever agreed to, regardless of the circumstances.

Oh, and of course, that he still fucking loves her. Harry rubs his forehead, frustration gnawing at his stomach. Why in hell did he admit that to himself? You never admit that to yourself. What an idiot.

Still, they have a mission… a moronic, suburban mission filled with every literal and metaphorical breed of Karen imaginable. But as worthless as Harry considers this whole assignment, her neck is on the line if they come up empty-handed. And she values her assignment— and her neck, he reckons— quite a bit.

So he makes the choice to both reassure her. And to be foolishly honest.

“Erm… for what it’s worth?” Harry croaks, staring down the dark corridor to avoid meeting her eyes. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted in my bedroom, anyway.”

Before she can reply, he closes the door and walks away. His cheeks burn as he pads downstairs, but Harry knows it’s best to leave it, really. To save them both the awkwardness.

Even if it means sleeping on this shit couch forever.

[yeojaa]

finders keep hers, iii.

read parts one and two!  the long awaited conclusion!  i’m sorry it turned into a friggin’ novel.  i hope it does the first two parts justice, though.  these kids are...  idiots.  i love them and you (and also the best beta reader @hobi-gif​)!  💖

pairing.  jjk x named f!reader.  rating.  explicit, ofc.  tags.  this is...  really soft at certain parts.  and then really raunchy at others.  oops?  but fr - mainly fluff with some smut at the end.  you might need a filling.  wc.  5.4k.

You’re buzzed into the building without a moment’s hesitation, the kind concierge with the gummy smile and greying temples beaming at you as you enter.  “Nice to see you, Miss Lee.”

“You too, Mr. Choi.”  A grin of your own is offered, gym bag hiked higher over your shoulder as you pause to chat.  You’re in no rush.  “Is he home?”

“I don’t believe so.”  The sudden look of disapproval that colours the older gentleman’s features is almost comical, reminiscent of a disparaging parent.  It’s the same expression you’re greeted with nearly every time you visit.  “He left in a town car yesterday afternoon and I don’t think he’s been back since.  That boy’s going to get himself in trouble one day.”  As if Jungkook didn’t already - as if it didn’t follow him around, glued to the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes.

“Tell me about it.”

“You know…”  There’s that twinkle in Mr. Choi’s eyes again - the one that tells you he’s about to repeat the same words he always does when he catches you alone.  “A nice girl like you could get him to settle down.”

Your response is what it always is - a scoff and a laugh rolled into one.  It careens off your tongue, ringing in the spacious lobby.  “I don’t think anyone will ever get him to settle down.”

How true that is, you’re not sure.  For your sake, you try not to think about it too much. 

The old man is undeterred though, shrugging his narrow shoulders beneath the neat uniform he wears.  It’s a little loose in the chest but immaculate otherwise, tie knotted in a classic Windsor and collar ironed perfectly.  He levels you with that shrewd stare of his but says nothing further, simply engaging you in an unspoken staring contest. 

Sometimes, you wonder how much he sees.  How much he knows .

You break before he does, tearing your gaze away and blinking rapidly.  He laughs, full bellied and deep from the chest.  “Get on upstairs, Miss Lee.”  You aren’t offended by the dismissal.  “It’s always nice chatting with you.”

You remind yourself to bring him chocolates the next time you’re by.  The ones with hazelnuts, because those are his favourite. A fact you only know because you’ve helped your best friend pick up a box for him every Christmas, writing the card and having him sign it right before it gets left behind the desk.

Actually, you helped Jungkook with a lot of things.  Always had.  It was simply the nature of your friendship - passed down by your parents and forged stronger by childhood playdates, your fair share of teenage squabbling, and college hangovers so bad they’d created an unbreakable bond.  

Whenever he would need you, you’d be there - whether that meant picking him up at 4 AM from the airport because he wanted “some shitty fast food and to see you” or helping him pick gifts for Mother’s Day.  There was no task too small, no moment too inconsequential. 

Unconditional love, they called it. 

It’s why you have no problem swanning into his apartment with the extra key you’ve had since he moved in, kicking off your trainers and tucking them neatly alongside the rows of black leather and expensive sneakers.  

You do so much for him that you take where you can, indulging in all of the luxuries you’ve never been afforded.  Unparalleled view, stupidly expensive toiletries, a damn jacuzzi tub . 

You pull your sweater over your head - truthfully, one of Jungkook’s from college that you’d never felt inclined to give back - and toss it over the back of a barstool on your way into the guest suite.  Your bag follows shortly after, deposited at the foot of the bed that exists as a rotating welcome mat to your and Jungkook’s circle of friends.  

The rest of your clothes - sports bra, shorts, thong, socks - are stripped, folded, and tucked into the laundry bag you keep handy.  You know you could leave them here and Jungkook’s housekeeper would take care of it, but you’ve never been too comfortable with that.  Different upbringings.

The spray is like sweet relief the moment you step beneath the rainforest shower.  It’s the perfect temperature and pressure, melting the sweat and tension from your bones.  

But it isn't why you’re here, so you make quick work in the glass enclosure, scrubbing your body bare and lathering and conditioning your hair into a squeaky clean mess.  Any other time, you’d just spend a good half hour standing beneath the head but you’re feeling particularly indulgent today.  

Call it a spa day, courtesy of one Jeon Jungkook. 

You don’t bother to dry off, water splashing across the floor as you step from the shower and sink into the spacious tub that overlooks the heart of Seoul.  Diptyque bath oil encapsulates the room in a bubble of sweet almond, similarly branded candle burning on the ledge.  The jets release a steady stream against your tired back and legs, massaging your limbs into jelly. 

You can’t help the sigh of utter relaxation that rolls off your tongue, sinking into water in the same instance your shoulders do.    

This is what dreams are made of.  Anyone who says differently is an idiot and a liar. 

“When are you going to tell her?”

You’re not expecting the voice and it breaks the silence like a thousand pound weight, shattering the calm and nearly startling you enough for you to knock your head on the edge of the tub.  

There’s no reason for you to be surprised.  Not really.  This isn’t your home, after all.  You aren’t entitled to any sort of privacy.  

It doesn’t matter, though.  The discomfort in your chest is unfolding regardless, lodging rocks in your throat.  

Because it’s a female voice.  Lilting, soft, draped in familiarity.  Not someone brand new.  

Your heart stutters at the realisation.  The rush of blood against your eardrums is so loud you momentarily wonder whether they can hear it all the way in the living room.  They must be able to - it’s practically deafening.  You can’t even hear the rest of their conversation.

Their conversation .

Which seems to have ended, leaving only silence.

You suddenly remember your shoes, your sweater.  Traces of you littered throughout the apartment that isn’t yours.  God, you’re an idiot.  He was going to kill you - or she was.  You’re not sure which is worse.

You’re reaching for the fluffy white towel on the rack when you’re scared near half to death yet again.  This time, by your best friend who cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, broad form resting casually against the frame.  He looks surprisingly unbothered, curls pushed back from his forehead by a pair of sunglasses and arms folded over his chest.

“Jesus!”  The shriek comes four octaves higher than it normally would, pitching into the open so loudly you wince.  “You scared me!”

You can’t help the way you peek past his shoulder for a sign of the girl he’d brought home.

“Enjoying yourself?”  There’s something amused dancing in the darks of his eyes, his mouth curving around the same emotion as he steps into the bathroom.  You’d be bothered if he were anyone else, unnecessarily long legs carrying him to you in three strides.  

“I didn’t know you were home.”  You can’t quite meet his stare, still far too distracted by the mystery woman.  Had he left her on the couch?  Maybe his bedroom as he snuck you out?  What excuse could he come up with?

“Didn’t know you were home either.”  

He’s made himself comfortable right on the ledge of the tub, marked fingers dragging lazily through the still-scalding water.  He doesn’t seem terribly in a rush.  That puts you on edge.

Was he going to hide you in here? 

“I wanted to relax after my run.”  You don’t owe him an explanation - not really - but you offer it anyway.  You figure you need to, when you might’ve ruined his Sunday morning romp session.  You can’t bring yourself to address it, though.  The words just won’t come, sitting on the tip of your tongue like thorns.  It hurts to swallow. 

Jungkook doesn’t further the conversation - a first for him.  He’s normally a chatterbox.

The silence stretches on.  Suffocating.

You force yourself to speak, staring down at your hands that are slowly pruning beneath the water.  “Should I… go?”  The way it comes is feeble, soft, uncertain.  You hate it.

By the look of surprise on his face, he does, too.  He cackles suddenly, like a goddamn witch.  “Why?”

Heat floods across your cheeks.  You wish you could blame it on the bath or the steam that still collects on the mirrors.  It pulls high over your ears, colouring them tomato red and embarrassed.  Surely, he knows why.  

When he repeats himself, it’s harder, without any of the laughter from before.  

Rather than answer, you wave a hand through the air, fingers wiggling.  The universal sign for you know .  It should be enough - you hope it’s enough.  Your ego won’t let you verbalise it.  

“Suddenly mute, baby?”

It isn’t quite mocking - teasing, maybe - but it stokes the fire that burns in the pit of your stomach and licks uncomfortably at the organ in your chest.  You don’t even look at him as you nearly spit the words, petulant and far more bothered than you should be.  “You’ve got a girl here.”  

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, swathed in velvet and coloured blue.  The effort you make to not shoot him a glare is herculean.  

He’s still snickering when he speaks.  “You mean my sister?”

“Your sister?”  It’s more surprise at yourself that has you whipping to look at him, bewilderment tossing all other emotion out the window.  Because his sister was practically your sister.  How had you not recognised her voice?  You feel silly all at once, the embarrassment from earlier fading into reticence. 

“Yeah.  I spent the night babysitting the twins.”

You sometimes forget how much Jungkook loves children - especially his sisters’.  It’s hard to reconcile the family man he effortlessly transforms into when he spends most of his waking hours playing the perfect part of unaffected bachelor. 

“How are they?”  You ask because you care - you adore Minseo and Minhyuk - but also so you can move the conversation along.  The last thing you want to do is dwell on your mistake.

“They’re good.  Getting big.”  He’s got that smile on his face - the one that’s softer than any other, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes.  Reserved especially for the people he cares about most.  Your favourite sight.  “You can come with me next time.  Minnie asked about you, anyway.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest.

Being liked by peers?  Great.  Being respected by your superiors?  Rewarding.  But being loved by children?  It was in a league all its own - better than ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure.”  You can’t keep the grin away.

That is, until he speaks again, circling the conversation back.  “So, were you jealous?”  His ability to piss you off is uncanny.  It’s like it’s written into his genetic code, each molecule of his body tasked with ruining your day. 

“No.”  It’s meant to be a scoff.  It’s not very believable.

“You sure, princess?”  The fingers on your chin are wholly unnecessary - he’s got you caught in his stare, locked in place with nowhere to go.

“Yes, Bunny .”  You know how much he hates the nickname, only tolerating it because it’s you.  You can’t deny the pleasure that comes at the sight of his jaw tensing, muscle jumping in agitation.  Just as he’s your weakness, you’re his, too.  “Now let me finish—”

He cuts you off, sharp and unrelenting:  “Get out.”

“Excuse me?”  

“You heard me.  Get out of the tub or I’m pulling you out myself.”  Risen to his full height, he’s an imposing figure.  Even worse, there’s something you can’t read in his expression - something that has your nerves firing wildly.  Your heart rattles around in your chest, uncertain.  

He leaves you without another word.

You scramble out of the bath as quickly as your confused limbs allow you, knotting the towel beneath your arms.  You’re not quite sure what to do next, caught between pulling your clean clothes out of your workout bag and demanding an answer from your sphinx of a best friend.

What the hell was his problem? 

Your impatience wins out as you’re tugging a brush through your hair, fumbling uncharacteristically through knots until you’re too frustrated to continue.  You’re ready to tear into him when you storm out of the guestroom;  you’ve got a barrage of insults on your tongue, proverbial gun cocked and ready to unload.  

They melt away when you spy him on the couch, neatly wrapped bouquet laid across the coffee table.

“Come here.”  It’s not a request so much as a demand - commanding and soft all at once.  A small part of you wants to fire off a rebuttal;  that part dies when he repeats himself, louder this time. 

The seat you take beside him is begrudging, a good foot of space held between your bodies.  You fiddle with the hem of your towel, turning a loose thread over and over your index finger. 

“What?”  It’s snippy, discontent - kerosene on the fire that burns beneath Jungkook’s skin.

“Watch it,”  he retorts, though there’s no acid to his words.  Frankly, he sounds more frustrated than angry, more exasperated than pissed off.

That makes one of you.

Only he can bring out this side of you - brusque and biting.  “ You watch it, Bunny.”

Fingers find the bridge of his nose, a gesture you don’t see very often.  Guilt blooms behind your ribcage as he rubs at the tension between his eyes.  For someone who has it all, he looks like he’s a moment away from losing it. 

“You’re a brat, you know that?”  

“Takes one to know one,”  you retort, not unkindly.  

“You’re making this really hard,”  he snaps in the same instant he all but throws the overwhelming bunch of flowers at you.  

You nearly drop them you’re so surprised.

“What are these for?”

“You.”

“Me?”  

“Did I stutter?”

If you weren’t so busy studying the arrangement of florals, you’d have some witty comeback.  As it stands, you’re preoccupied by the pretty bunch of peonies and tulips.  You wonder what he’s done wrong - why he’s found it necessary to soften the blow with your favourite flowers. 

Your thoughts drift back to his sister’s words:  when are you going to tell her?

All at once, you want nothing more than to leave.  You don’t want whatever heartbreak is about to come.  You’re not ready for it.  

“Listen—”

He cuts you off, again.  “I love you.”

You’re not sure how your face looks.  You imagine you could look up flabbergasted in the dictionary and you’d find a photo of your expression right now.  “What?”

Jungkook won’t quite look at you, intently focused on an indiscernible point against the far wall.  When he speaks the words again, they’re full of uncertainty - but not in the way you expect.  The confession is as believable as any you’ve ever heard - he really does sound like he loves you - but somehow, it’s draped in dread and held aloft by hummingbird wings.  “I love you.”  

He’s nervous, you realise in amazement. 

“Come again?”  

He meets your stare then, brow knitting with unease.  He doesn’t say it again, though.

“Are you messing around with me?”  You don’t mean it how it comes - a little accusatory.

“I’m not an asshole.”  Except both of you know he certainly can be.  You don’t call him on it, though, opting instead to peer curiously at him, hands fisted around the bouquet in your lap.  “I talked to my sister.  She…”  He shrugs once, an almost helpless roll of his shoulders.  “She told me I was an idiot.”

You’re not surprised by that.  Lina had always been the one to give it to him straight.

“She said I would lose you if I didn’t get my shit together.”  There’s a bit of childish petulance that works its way into each syllable - he hates being told what to do.  “Said I needed to tell you or I’d regret it.  Which is stupid, because we’ve been best friends forever and she’s younger than me so what does she know—”  He must realise he’s rambling, something he never does.  “But—”

“But?”  Quiet, hopeful, coaxing. 

There’s a warmth in your chest - illuminating and golden and so bright it hurts to think about.  It grows with each moment that passes, spurred on by the look in his eyes and how they find yours.  

Hesitation pulls the silence a beat too long.  The light wanes.  You wonder if the moment has passed.  

And then he continues, a little more earnestly.  “Was she right?  Am I going to lose you?”

You’re not entirely sure what he’s asking.  You don’t think he even knows what he’s asking.  You try to answer anyway, as honest as you can without pinning your heart directly on your sleeve.  “You’ll never lose me.”

“You know what I mean.”  

Did you?  “You’ll never lose me.”  You’re the one repeating yourself this time, just that bit harder.  

“Then say it.”  Again, not a request.  A prayer, perhaps.  Ardent and needy - a world away from the Jeon Jungkook you know.

You don’t hesitate.  “I love you.”

He doesn’t either - upon you so quickly you don’t have time to blink or think.  

How he kisses you now feels different.  More .  It’s like being consumed entirely - changed from the inside out in ways you never thought possible.  Where he touches, sparks fly, filling you like stars in the night sky.  Lava rolls over every inch, dragging heat and want and need from the soles of your feet to the tip of your nose.  You’re gasping rather than breathing, clawing against the front of his shirt and twining your fingers into the strands that curl over his nape. 

“You never told me you could kiss like that.”  It’s lacking coherence, made by a partial inhale and wild, wondrous eyes.

His response is a laugh and another kiss, forceful and adoring and utterly devastating.  “Shut up,”  he mouths against your lips, tongue licking over your teeth and gums like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you.  Hands follow in the same amorous motions, tugging and pulling and aching for you closer;  the tips of his fingers sear white hot heat over your hips, the small of your waist, the delicate bones of your ribcage.

“I’m serious...”  You really are - far more than you should be.  You’d been missing out on this ?  It’s incomprehensible.

The sound he makes is more of a growl, playful and resounding in the cavern of his chest.  It rattles your own, sending your heart on a downward spiral into the pit of your stomach.  His nose traces the column of your throat, soft lips guiding him further until he’s mouthing hotly over the bare skin of your shoulder.  Tongue teases, delves ever so gently into the dip of your collarbone, and swipes back up, laving over the maroon that peeks around the edge of his teeth.  You can’t help but keen, holding him so closely you wonder if you’re suffocating him.

“So am I.”  Each syllable is punctuated by another nip, another nibble.  It seems like his goal is to bloom roses across your skin - a wreath to welcome him home, made by his own touch.

You don’t mind.  

“Say it again,”  he demands, hopeful and unashamed from his place against your neck.  

The admission comes easily, as if it’s always lived on the tip of your tongue.  “I love you.”  

“Again.”  You’re not ready for the way he stares at you - like he’s never done before.  Like he’s seeing you for the first time and he’s awestruck.  “Say it again.”

“I love you.”  Hands find the familiar contours of his face, thumbs brushing over the hollows of his eyes, over the beauty mark that sits front and centre beneath his lip.  Each graze follows a repetition of the confession, as if you might burn the three simple words beneath his skin - write it into his DNA like he’s written into yours.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you, Bunny .”

He holds you close - so tightly it feels almost as if he’ll crush you - and captures your mouth again.  It’s more gentle but just as lovesick.  A thousand unspoken words spill from his tongue to yours, swallowed whole with greed you don’t bother to hide.

“I need you.”  It’s whiny, framed by a pout that could end wars and paired with doe eyes so wide and innocent you almost want to roll your own.  

“You have me.”

“Do I?”  There’s a very deliberate roll of his hips, denim of his jeans rough against the exposed softness of your inner thighs, hands manoeuvring over the partially covered swell of your hips.  The press of his fingers is purposeful, digging tension into every inch.  As if he might transfer some of the unadulterated need that thrums through his veins, turning his heart to jelly and brain to mush.

“Since when do you ask?”  You have a point.

“You’re right,”  his grin is almost lazy, drawing over his mouth in a measured crawl.  “Good girls just do what they’re told, right?”  His grips tightens almost imperceptibly, holding you to him almost effortlessly.  You’ve been in this position a hundred times before but it’s never been this easy - like breathing.

The gasp you offer is all mock affront, hand laid palm-down across your chest.  You don’t miss the way his gaze follows it before ticking lower, unabashed in its admiration.  “Are you saying I’m not?”

“Don’t know, baby.”  The war on your neck has resumed, teeth traded seamlessly for the softer promise of his tongue, the dry brush of his lips.  It’s almost sinful, garnering sighs of affection and need from somewhere low in your throat.  “Want to be a good girl for me?”

You’re not quite used to this version of him - playful and needy and not nearly as demanding as usual.  A part of you wants to draw out the side of him you know is there, hidden just beneath the surface;  the other wants to bask in this, all feather soft and cotton candy sweet.

“Always,”  you return, with a coquettish smile and fluttering lashes. 

“Always,”  he murmurs, tasting it for the first time.  He sounds almost giddy when he repeats it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure.  You think it’ll come again, laughter rolling off your tongue as you stare into the eyes of the boy you love.  Instead, he speaks in a voice full of gravel and grit, all traces of your sunshine boy suddenly swallowed whole by the darks of his pupils.  “Fuck - I can’t wait to have you.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?”  You don’t need to push him.  You like to do it anyway.  It feels right .

“You’re the worst.”  What Jungkook means is you’re the best and I love you and I’m going to fuck you six ways into next week .  What he means is this is the scariest thing he’s ever done but it’s all right because he has you.  What he means is thank you - and how he shows it is through worship.  

On the way to the bedroom, he crowds every inch of you, holding you so closely you wonder if he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.  He’s firm and unrelenting, balancing you against his chest as he smothers every available inch of your shoulders in sweet, sloppy kisses.  He revels in the way you cling to him like you’ve never needed anything else. 

In his bed, he lays you out and strips you bare.  He offers devotion with every pass of his fingers, every trail of his tongue.  He wants you so badly it’s hard to focus on giving you everything you deserve, but he tries anyway.  He sucks love into your neck and over your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers until you’re panting and he’s aching for the same treatment.  

On his knees, he prays at the altar of your body, taking his time to map the constellations on your skin, the memories written into each scar and dot.  His tongue follows the raised flesh that sits across your hip - an unfortunate mishap from a schoolyard dare.  You whine and he nearly cries, soothing over the sensitive spot with hands and lips and tenderness.  He lays kisses on each freckle, each irregular mark.  From your navel to your knee and everywhere in between, he caresses and comforts, turning those blemishes into stars.  

He also teases - subtly, quietly, with wandering hands and focused breaths.  You don’t realise it until it’s too late, your insides molten, your pulse a thunderclap in your ears.  

“Jungkook.”  It sounds more like begging than anything.  Exactly what he wants.

“What’s up, princess?”  Spoken so casually, as if he isn’t between your legs, long fingers tracing through the slick that coats your thighs.  He gazes up from behind too long strands, all wide-eyed and terribly sweet - until he pops a digit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the taste of you.  “Something wrong?”

“Stop teasing.”  You hear yourself whine but it doesn’t quite sound like you, higher pitched and needier than you’ve ever been.  

“I thought you were going to be good for me,”  he returns with a tut and a push of that same finger deep into your cunt.  He flexes it experimentally, beaming up at you when you clench around the intrusion that’s too much and not even close to being enough all at once.  “You’re so wet, baby.  I just slide right in.”  

As if to drive his point home, he drives another finger in, scissoring them languidly to stretch you open.  It’s such a pretty sight, messy and inviting.  He can’t resist a taste, dragging the flat of his tongue over and around the fingers that continue to fuck into you at a faster pace.   

“ Jungkook! ”  You’re shrieking, bucking against the onslaught of sensations.  A shapely arm immediately cages you against the bed, palm splayed across your hips.  

“Stay still.”  It’s a growl, teeth bared against the sensitive pearl between your legs.  Words are punctuated with the softest pressure - a silent threat that goes no further.  You wonder what he’ll do if he has to repeat himself.  “Good girls listen, remember?”

You’re fumbling across his shoulders, nails digging crescents everywhere you can reach.  You need him so badly it hurts .  “Please.”  

“Please what?”  That patented, stupid smirk cradles his mouth, tongue peeking out as he stares at you expectantly.  “If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.”  He watches the way your eyes roll back into your head when he slots another finger in with the others and curls them against that particular spot that has you seeing stars.  The bastard has the audacity to coo at you.  “What’s wrong, baby?  Can’t speak?”

You’re near wailing, gasping and whining around words that sound like his name.  Angry red lines sprout across his shoulders, his arms - demands carved into flesh. 

He makes a sound, wistful and resigned.  You think - try to think, beyond the pleasure that’s building steadily in the pit of your stomach - that he’s finally going to give you what you need.  You’re almost crying for it, moisture crowding your lashes and threatening to spill over.

Then he withdraws, all at once.

You could scream.  In fact, you do, red in the face and chest heaving.  “I hate you!”  

“No.”  He’s upon you in an instant, insistent and terribly smug.  There’s a playground in his smile, childish laughter spilling into the spaces between you.  “You actually love me.”  He noses at your neck, the heat of his palm searing against your side as he sighs almost dreamily.  “Say it again.”

You answer him with something more than love - frustration and annoyance and so much devotion you can’t keep it out no matter how hard you try.  “No.”

It’s a challenge more than anything.  He knows it;  you know it.

He accepts it readily, just as you expect him to.  

“Say it.”  Enamel presses steady, heavy, into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear.  He mouths over the skin that blows out red and inviting beneath his ministrations, the firm press of his fingers gripping you without hesitation.  You can feel the entire weight of him against you, length nestled comfortably against your core.  He repeats himself as he rocks against you, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock through your folds with an agonising slowness that has you clenching around nothing.  “Come on, baby.”

You’re keening, adjusting your hips and grinding against him.  You still won’t say it, hoping to find a rhythm in the quiet that’s punctuated by your laboured breaths and his occasional laughter.

“Just say it and I’ll give you what you want.  I’ll give you everything.  Promise, sweetheart.”  

Framed against the late morning sun, hair spilling across his forehead in curls of india ink, he’s so handsome your heart leaps into your throat.  “I love you.”  It’s a wet confession, carried by a wave of emotion you don’t expect.

“I love you,”  he echoes, sinking into you so gradually you feel like you’re caught in slow motion, all of your focus balanced on the tip of a needle.  

It’s never been like this before.  Each inch is a delicious stretch, filling you and claiming you.  The drag is incredible, your walls fluttering around the intrusion and aching for more.  You bite back a sob, digging into the wide expanse of his back with your nails as your mouth seeks purchase anywhere it can - over his jaw, up his neck, across his shoulders.  He soothes you as he presses deeper, reassurances whispered against your temple.  

“I’ve got you, baby.  Let me make you feel good.”  When he bottoms out, you demand more - somehow, somehow - locking your ankles against the small of his waist. He doesn’t miss the way you clench, so tight around him it almost hurts , when he says those three words once again.  “I love you.”

His lips find yours and he brushes them over and over - a salve for the burn he ignites beneath your skin.  It doesn’t matter that he’s both the calm and the chaos.  Jungkook’s always been everything to you.

The rhythm he sets is unhurried and perfect.  Each snap of his hips has his cock dragging against your walls, filling and stretching you so well;  everywhere his skin brushes yours, you’re alive.  There are a million nerve endings going haywire beneath your skin, flashing bright as holiday lights.  

That’s what it’s like - Christmas morning .  Picture perfect and filled with wonder.

He’s completely smitten when he draws back just enough to see the entirety of you - your fucked-out expression, the rose-wreath he’s wrought around your neck, the sweat that beads between your tits and tempts him to duck his head.  “I love you.”  It’s almost hypnotising - watching you take him, pussy dripping and needy around his cock. 

“I love you,”  you parrot back - or try to.  It’s not very coherent, driven to a point of nonsense when his hips begin to stutter and he makes up for the loss of rhythm by slipping his fingers over your clit in circle eights.  

You’re at your breaking point.  He knows - can read you like the back of his hand - and holds you there, back bowing to kiss you breathless, pressure unrelenting against the bundle of nerves.  

“That’s it, princess.  Right there.”   

The coil snaps at the third pass and there are hot tears streaming down your cheeks, his name spilling off your tongue in tandem with the erratic thudding of your heart.  White spots your vision, entire body electrified as you crash headlong into an abyss of bliss.  You hear him join you with a hoarse whine, a mix of your cum slipping out of you as he rides out his own high with shallow thrusts, mouth open and panting against your shoulder.  

The comedown is hazy, dusted in exhaustion and a thin sheen of sweat.  When he slips from you, he doesn’t go far, tugging you comfortably against his side like you’re not both a little gross.  It’s not the first time you’ve fucked but it feels different.  

“I love you, baby.”  

“I love you, Bunny.”

You realise - it feels exactly like that.  Making love.

[kienava]

Randivor has me by the throat and won’t let go. Romance-heavy smut under the cut. 

_______

Everything Else

_______

Eivor couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a sound she often heard coming from herself outside of mead-soaked feasts or on the heels of a successful raid. Even then, in halls filled with drunken friends and by riverbeds lined with fallen enemies, there was always an air of performance, a twinge of bold, fanged cruelty that came from victory.

Not tonight, though. Not with Randvi.

Their bedchamber was not a raised stage or a proving ground. There was no performance to be put on here.

Randvi’s touch was sharp, precise as a whetted blade splitting flesh. Where no blood spilled, a more delicate sensation lingered on Eivor’s scars. With muscles spent and nerves singed by a rush not unlike the storm of battle, Eivor could only gaze up at the ceiling. And laugh.

“What is it, my love?”

Eivor would never tire of this. Odin’s halls of glory were nothing to the glow of Randvi’s skin.

“Look up,” Eivor said. She pointed lazily. “There’s a face in the wood.”

Randvi settled the hand that had been tracing a tattoo on Eivor’s bare hip. Her palm burned against it as an ember.

“A face?” Randvi said, skeptical.

“Look,” Eivor repeated.

Careful to keep her head where it was on Eivor’s chest, Randvi glanced up. “Where?”

“Right above us. See the eyes and the mouth?”

“Is it meant to be frowning?”

“Hm. It does look displeased. I’m afraid I cannot empathize.”

Randvi pushed herself up on one elbow, taking her warmth with her. She stared down at Eivor, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. It was a familiar expression, one she could not resist making whenever Eivor arbitrated a ridiculous quarrel with a perfectly straight face. “Have you not noticed this face before?”

The dregs of a laugh caught in Eivor’s chest, rumbling deep and pleasant. “Sleeping in my own bed used to be more a privilege than an expectation.”

“Hm...” Randvi’s fingers trailed up to Eivor’s ribs. “Maybe you’re just spending more time on your back nowadays.”

Eivor’s breaking grin was interrupted swiftly. Randvi kissed her, long and full, the heat of her skin enough to melt tension that was already hours since dissolved.

“I am hardly opposed,” Eivor muttered.

Randvi’s hands betrayed no hurry - Ravensthorpe was well-stocked, thanks to recent river raids, and the Ostara Festival was coming to a close. Everyone was happy and drunk, off dancing until the sun came up and telling stories.

“Have you not had your fill for one night?” Eivor teased.

“We have many nights to make up for, darling.” Randvi’s mouth landed on the scarred line of Eivor’s throat. It was as a feather, tickling and tantalizing. “And I would expect Ravensthorpe's prized drengr to have more stamina.”

“Sweetness and salt, all at once,” Eivor prodded, head lolling back on a rumpled pillow. “You are a difficult woman to argue with.”

“Good.”

The woman with the wildling soul was pleased to reclaim her own freedoms. Time for exploration was something she treasured, she was already well-versed in traveling south.

Her gaze burned from between Eivor’s legs, twin blue flames as if the sky itself were alight. Eivor could let it consume her, she thought, and die breathless and content.

Randvi could hold her own in any fight, but she needed no blade to take a warrior apart.

When a shiver struck and made Eivor’s legs quake, Randvi did not miss it. “Who would have guessed the great Eivor Wolf-Kissed would fall to such a lightness?”

It was unusual, compared to how it had been with others. Strength was Eivor’s native language, something to strive for and admire. She’d always met opponents and lovers with the same shows of force.

But never Randvi. Hers was not an arena where power was proven with dominance.

Where drengrs roared and raised their fists, Randvi’s voice and hands were soft. Battles chewed steel and shattered bone, but this was a quiet and sure balm to the most harrowing of wounds unseen.

How amusing that Eivor knew she had wanted this for so long, yet she never minded when Randvi took her time.

Between gasps, Eivor asked, “Tell me - Randvi - when did you know?”

Randvi shifted as water, fingers flowing to where her mouth had barely left. “I know many things. You'll have to be more specific.” Her lips pressed together, shining into a smirk.

Eivor managed to think her question into form. “When did you know you wanted this?”

As the moon commanding a ruthlessly gentle tide, Randvi’s assured smile waned into softness. “I’ve always known, Eivor. Since the first moment I saw you. So hardened, so fierce. I wished to know what was underneath it all.”

“Oh? And so you - ah.” Bold to try and taunt from such a compromised and vulnerable position, but Eivor did not relent. “So you always wished to be as a dagger... to my sheath?”

Randvi paused - a warning. She sat upright, but her fingers remained still.

The way she regarded Eivor, as a wolf might a sheep - it sent sparks up the taut column of the sheep’s spine.

“A wise woman can make use of any tool, I think,” Randvi said finally. She knew she’d won the point even before her fingers dipped and curled, a flourish as graceful as a spinning silver sword.

Eivor’s back arched, and she was as a sheath, seeking. She conceded, “And wise you are.”

Fortunately, Randvi loved hearing such things, especially from Eivor, and it was a sure way to bring out a sly grin that thinly shielded a deceptively fragile part of her heart. If there was one thing Randvi deserved, it was praise. She’d gone unappreciated for too long - even a moment was a sin - and yet she never shied from her post at the heart of their town. It would never have become more than a pile of bricks and stray ships without her guidance.

“The oldest trees must envy you,” Eivor went on.

“Must they?”

Eivor would not have the chance to say more if Randvi was allowed to continue, the waves building. So Eivor sat up to see her face-to-face, pulling her into a narrow straddle and kissing her, first on the forehead.

“For all their years, you are sager,” Eivor said.

She took Randvi’s hand to her lips and kissed her palm.

“For all their strength, you hold firmer. And for all their roots,” one last lingering kiss over her heart, beating wild, sealed by the same steady, guided palm, “yours run deeper.”

Randvi said nothing for a moment, her expression one of pure, quiet awe. Then, she shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on Eivor’s. “Your poet’s soul is a dangerous thing.”

Eivor took her by the waist, revering the way she could look up at this woman who put the staunchest, most resilient trees to shame. “Even so, when the possessor is in truth the one possessed?”

“Especially then, you minx.” Randvi bumped their noses together, a novel gesture that Eivor was suddenly very fond of.

“I am afraid I cannot offer an apology.”

Randvi was the one to initiate their next kiss, though it was as fleeting as a bird over a river. “It is a beautiful thing, my love. I would accept no apology for it.” Her voice grew stern as she continued. “But nor do I possess the possessor in question.”

Eivor needed only gesture to their position. “Ah, but you do have me, do you not?”

“Cheeky,” Randvi chastised. She poked the side of Eivor’s face for good measure, and her touch trailed down to the jaw. “If that is the frame, then you are mine only insofar as you are your own.”

“Then I am yours - and my own, and the Raven’s - entirely.”

Randvi hummed, considering this, playfully cryptic.

“Do you find these terms of alliance agreeable?” Eivor joked.

“Ah, is this how you made us so many friends?”

“Well, these Saxons are less stubborn with their bellies full of mead and their mouths full of--”

With a kiss, Randvi cut her off and confirmed their jest of a treaty.

“I have made but one pledge in this way,” Eivor said for the sake of clarity. “And it is to the woman I call my wife.”

Randvi would have embraced her again and sent them both toppling onto the bed furs, but Eivor held her rooted in place.

Eivor’s hand snuck between them, finding its purchase as Randvi settled and relaxed against honed callouses. She had no qualms with the roughness - quite the opposite, actually. They built a pace together, painstaking, but with all of agony’s antonyms. Randvi’s breaths came faster, shallower, as she clung to the unwound remnants of Eivor’s dark braids and a shaky imitation of control.

“I must ask you,” Randvi exhaled all at once.

“Anything,” Eivor interrupted.

“Tell me when you knew.”

“That is not a question.”

Randvi nipped at Eivor's neck - not wolf-kissed, this time, but something close. “Petulant.”

“When did I know, or when did the gods know?” Eivor asked. Rarely did she have such a perfect set of conditions to toy with the greatest strategist the snows had ever produced.

“Either. Both,” Randvi managed.

“I cannot speak for the gods.”

Randvi grasped at the smooth muscle of Eivor’s back, blunt nails scraping across the flat planes of her shoulder blades. Her breath came hot against Eivor’s ear, along with her next words: “When did you know you loved me?”

The drengr’s iron resolve to taunt and pester shattered, armor falling away to reveal the poet’s vulnerable heart.

“I must be honest, you were the faster study between us, Randvi,” Eivor began. “I could not name the thing that pulled me to you, even when it was like a vine around my marrow, so ingrained that I could not walk without feeling its tug.”

“More,” Randvi said. “Tell me more.”

“Everywhere I went, I heard the flowers sing of your beauty. The trees whispered about your wisdom. Great dark clouds and lightning proclaimed your unwavering strength and loyalty to all those you care for.”

Randvi said no words, but she was not quiet.

“And these were pieces, pieces - only fractured shards of a reflection.”

“Eivor...”

“I did not realize they were my own heart-thoughts the world had given voice...”

A barely stifled moan.

“Until the wind itself called me back to you.”

With that, a broken groan slipped from Randvi’s throat and her rigid fingers dug in, bruising, driven by the sheer desperation for release. Her purgatory lasted, fueled by a merciless hand, until - “Eivor!” - less a name than a surrender to catharsis.

Eivor was braced for the collapse, easily keeping Randvi from falling limp into their bed. Somewhere in Eivor’s mind, there was a witty crack brewing about stamina and poetry and how’s that for wisdom, but the peaceful flow of Randvi’s breathing as it steadied and deepened was too lovely to cut short.

Eventually, Randvi righted herself, every inch of her covered in a fresh, fine dew.

“And you thought I was fierce,” Eivor said. She started to brush a piece of sweat-stuck hair from Randvi’s forehead, but the distance between them vanished quickly.

Randvi was not capable of sloppiness in anything she did, but this - crashing their mouths together while still working to catch her own inhales - was the closest she ever came. “I stand by it,” Randvi sighed as she rested her forehead against Eivor’s.

“I’ve thought of another question for you,” said Eivor.

“Hm?”

“Are you trying to wake the whole town?”

Randvi’s laugh was a delicate wisp, but not lacking bite. “And just how many times have you cried my name tonight?”

“You assume I can count that high?”

“If either of us wakes the town tonight, it will be you, my love.” Her thumb stroked the sharp corner of Eivor’s jaw before another promising kiss. “And that is as much a threat as it is a vow.”

“So be it,” Eivor said, lying back, arms splayed freely by her head. “Let them know for whom their jarlskona bends the knee.”

***

[cross-posted on AO3]

[hansoulo]

toccare

Pairing: The Mandalorian/f!Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: cursing, mando’s kind of an ass but he’s old and his back hurts so we’ll cut him some slack, Touching, Tension, Drama, Spicy Stuff (not anything too spicy tho)

Rating: T for the aforementioned spiciness

Word Count: 2.5k

Gift Credit: gif by @/doortotomorrow​​

A/N: here it is!!! my mando massage fic. if enough people yell at me i’ll entertain the idea of a part 2. for science. also this probably isn’t even his bed but whatever!!! canon has no consequence in this household!!

“Mando,” you called out to him, “Are you alright?”

A grunt, barely audible from beneath his helmet. You pushed away from the console, standing in the cockpit and turning towards where he sat in the pilot seat. Mando didn’t turn his head away from the front viewport but he stiffened slightly at your proximity, his shoulders tense and his hands tight around the ship controls. He was always so… wound up. Some might call it vigilance, but you preferred telling him he had a stick up his ass. Right now, he had a whole forest.

You reached to rest your hand on the pauldron of his beskar, fingertips only barely grazing steel before a firm grip was locked around your arm. Soft leather pressed against the underside of your wrist, his hold unrelenting and silent. He still hadn’t looked back at you. Stubborn. Quiet and stubborn.

You pulled away - although you knew you were only able to because he let go. Heaving a dramatic sigh, you shook your head and flopped back down into the chair. So the walking tin can didn’t want to talk. Fine. Maker knows he barely spoke anyways. Still, he could at least tell you what was wrong. Not that- not that you cared. About him. No. It’s just that when he was in a bad way, like he’d been for the past few days - he didn’t exactly lend himself to good company. It just made for an unpleasant time, is all. You didn’t care.

——-

Another groan, deep and heavy as the Mandalorian stood up from the pilot’s seat. His movements were slow and strangely stiff, a far cry from his usual posture. You imagined a rusty droid, unoiled and worn from years of use, and the image prompted a laugh to bubble up in your throat before you silenced it with a hand over your mouth. Apparently it wasn’t quick enough, though, because a gravelly “what?” accompanied the slight cock of his helmet.

“Nothing, nothing,” you shook your head, the smile slow to fade from your lips. “It’s just- are you sure you’re not hurt or anything?” Shifting around in your chair to rest your feet on the center console, you narrowed your eyes with a teasing smirk. “Or are you just getting old?”

You knew he really was in a bad way when he didn’t bother to answer, only sighing as he - finally - managed to reach his full height. “I’m going to take a look at the engine,” the Mandalorian said gruffly, stepping towards the main hangar. You hummed in acknowledgement, examining the beds of your nails with an air probably too casual for someone who was sharing oxygen with a known killer. You could hold your own, though. He knew that. Maker, that was half the reason why you were here. The other half had to do with a very small, very strange baby who was now napping in its pod behind you. “Get your feet off my ship.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to look back as your hand came up to form a less than lady-like gesture. So much for class and decorum.

——–

You were going to kill him. You were going to rip the beskar off his stupidly toned chest and use it to beat him into the damn ground. He was being such a… such an… an ass!

The Mandalorian had always been terse, you were used to that, but this was something else. He’d nearly driven you to tears the other day and barely apologized, only stalking off to his quarters like a petulant child with nothing other than a “m’sorry.”  Yeah, sorry your ass. If he was sorry he would tell you what was going on. It wasn’t the bounties, which were plenty and easily found.  It wasn’t the child. It wasn’t you- at least you hoped it wasn’t. So what was it?

It took Mando snipping at you one night for no particular reason, his tone patronizing and clipped, for you to finally confront him. Jamming an angry finger into the metal of his chest plate, you raised your head to meet the slit of his visor. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Mando?”

Your voice was harsh but whispered, not wanting to wake the child sleeping in the cockpit. He moved to push your hand away but you shoved it back, fingers splaying against leather and beskar as your gaze stiffened. “No, stop it. What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

“It’s nothing.” He ducked his head down, the chin of his helmet meeting his chest. Scoffing, you stepped back and shifted your weight to one leg, your eyes on him unrelenting. For someone whose job description included lying, he wasn’t very good at it. At least, not with you.

“Obviously it’s something,” you said a little softer. He let you touch him this time, your hands coming up to the dips of his shoulder that lay uncovered by armor. Another groan escaped him, barely audible but slightly pained when you pressed the stiff muscles. You furrowed your brows at the sound. “Are you hurt?”

The Mandalorian shook his head at this, but you remained unconvinced. Realizing something, you resisted the urge to laugh as you pushed your hands down against his shoulders again. It wasn’t very hard and you doubt he could feel much through the thick fabric of his shirt, but it was enough for a deep gasp to be clear through the modulator. He wasn’t injured. He was sore.

You dug your thumbs into the cords of muscle, your tone lighter than it had been in weeks. “You really are getting old, aren’t you?”

“I’m-” he hissed when you flattened your palms, “fine.”

“Mando…”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hands reaching to pull you away. Fingertips ghosted across your arms, hesitant. You sighed, shaking your head as if to rid the air of perceived ill intentions. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you haven’t exactly been pleasant to work with lately.”

You imagined a smile beneath the helmet when he huffed at your words, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I know. M’sorry.” Ah, there it was again. This time, though, you could tell he meant it. You let your hands fall to your side.

“Y’know…” Oh, this was a bad idea. You were definitely overstepping. Completely off your rocker. “I could help you.”

“What?” Were you dreaming, or did his voice really just drop an octave?

“I could um-” you swallowed, steeling yourself for the rejection you were almost certain of. “I could help. You. If you wanted me to. I mean I wouldn’t- kriff I don’t know! I don’t know why I-”

“Stop talking.”

You swallowed again, lips parted in shock and your voice wavering slightly. “Okay.”

“Help me how?” He stepped closer in the darkness of the hall, his feet coming near enough that you widened your own to compensate.

“You’ve got to have like, a thousand knots in your back, Mando. I’ve seen your bed.” You laughed to cover the rising flush in your cheeks. “Not much of a bed, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Funny. He was funny. It was a joke, right? Even after so long, you could barely tell. Hazards of the helmet, you supposed. It made things, at least for you, very, very awkward.

“Look, just-” you screwed your eyes shut, fingers rubbing circles into your temples. “If not for your sake then for mine and the kid’s, alright? If that’s all that’s making you act like an ass, then it’s something that I- that we can fix.”

Armor shook slightly with another deep breath, his sigh bone-deep and echoing slightly through the ship. “Fine.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

———

He was just… standing there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. Maybe he was. “You’ll have to take off all your armor, you goof.”

“I know.” The words were tight, stretched over with something you couldn’t place.

“Hey, it’s fine,” you assured him, your voice kinder. “Relax, tin can. I’ve seen a lot worse.” You winked when he reached to undo his pauldron. “Need some help?”

Sighing, the Mandalorian sat on the edge of his bed, although calling it that was a bit generous. It was a pad probably six inches thick laid on a slab of metal. No wonder he was in such a foul mood lately. Your own cot, shoved in a too-small storage closet with an old cape (his old cape, actually) as a blanket, seemed much more appealing. Maybe he was just a masochist or something. Maybe this was some sort of weird Mandalorian penance. Or maybe he just didn’t have anywhere else to sleep.

A cough you drew your mind out of your thoughts and back on the man behind you, his armor now a careful pile on the floor. Shedding anything else was apparently a bridge too far, but it was still the most exposed you’d ever seen him. “It’d probably be easier if you um… laid down. On your stomach.” The Mandalorian nodded slowly, pushing himself up on the bed and letting his head fall. Stifling a laugh at his movements, you stepped closer. Oh. Oh no.

“Mando?” He grunted in acknowledgement, his arms straightening besides him. “I- I won’t really be able to reach standing. Is it okay if I-” you winced at your words, hoping he wouldn’t be able to notice the way your face burned. “Sit? On the bed?”

The Mandalorian sat up slightly, his elbows knocking against metal. “You mean on me?”

You nodded, tongue heavy and dry on the roof of your mouth. “It’s fine, really. If you don’t want me to I can just-”

“You can. If you want to.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Okay. That was good, right? He trusted you. You trusted him. You could give your co-worker/associate/bounty hunter-you-flirted-with-when-you-got-drunk a back rub without it being weird, right? Right.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You climbed onto the bed, careful not to ram your head into anything. This was the nearest you’ve been since- since never, actually. You can’t remember, in all your years of hunts and missions and times aboard the Crest, ever being this close to him. Every rise of his chest, every jostle of his hips and micro-movement that had never been afforded to you before was on display now, inches away and undeniably human. His shirt had ridden up slightly when you moved to straddle his legs and you could see skin, tan and strong and battle-wearied. Not a tin can, after all.

You’d rested your hands on the Mandalorian’s shoulders for balance, not realizing it until his own curled into themselves, gripping the hems of his shirtsleeves until his knuckles stretched pale. Frowning, you coaxed his palms open until they rested at his sides. There. Much better.

The metal against your knees was cold, uncomfortably so, but he was warm underneath you, solid and impossibly still. You moved to the juncture of his neck, the skin there drawn tight with the weight of armor and expectations, and strings of hurried apologies followed every knead of your hands. He called your name, the sound rumbling through his chest, and you bit your lip.

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing.”

You grew quiet. Exactly why you listened to the Mandalorian so easily you didn’t want to think about. You blamed the water. He was probably slowly poisoning you until you went mad for his own amusement.

Everything was dampened in recycled air and hazy blue light, pulsing something that had always been present but now was coming to a head and growing a face that you refused to look in the eye. Now was not the time. There would never be a time. You would sooner step out of the limits of space itself until you were stretched thin, enveloped and spun dizzy in the quiet horror of a supernova, than admit there could ever be a time.

Catching a swollen cord of muscle along his back, you pushed down with the heel of your palm and something big shot out to grip at the side of your thigh, its touch unrelenting and so sudden that a gasp was caught in the back of your throat. It was his hand. It was just his hand. So why the fuck could it cover half your leg and then some? Why the fuck was he pressing enough to probably leave bruises?

His hand retracted as quickly as it came, accompanied only with a low noise you could’ve sworn was a whimper. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were disappointed, only returning your attention to the task at hand. Maybe you should treat this as a mission. Keep yourself sane and from doing something irredeemably stupid. Great, yeah. Mission to get the knots out of Mando’s back so he would stop being a prick. An awesome game plan, really. Infallible.

Squeezing slightly at the flesh between his shoulder blades, you let your fingernails scrape against the bare skin of his neck until the fabric of his collar gaped. The smallest hint of curls peeked through the underside of the helmet. Brown. Huh. You thought they’d be darker.

Every drag of your knuckles brought a sound, whether it was a huff of air or a downright moan, but you tried not to think about it. You just blocked everything out, warbling your senses until you felt submerged in imagined water and not-imagined skin and words better left unsaid. You mapped every curve of stiff muscle, down the deep slope of his back and over fabric that wasn’t thick enough to conceal the ridges, the landscapes and jagged reminders of enemy encounters. You found yourself liking them, though. The scars.

You’d pushed the shirt up eventually, whispering “is this okay?”  before the Mandalorian nodded quickly, dark cloth gathering around his shoulders and bunching up where it lay against his neck. His skin was hot now, burning and lighting fuses on every frayed nerve on the tips of your fingers until you swore you’d grown numb, drunk on contact and the twilight fog of shared lifetimes. It really had been lifetimes. Since you’d met him. Since you’d touched someone like him. Like this.

You were too caught up in it, lost in your own thoughts and so focused on trying not to cross a line or hurt him that you didn’t notice he’d turned onto his back, his hands coming up rest at the swell of your hips.

He pushed up onto his elbows until your forehead fell against the helmet, the beskar against your skin like ice on a desert morning. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands coming to brace themselves on his covered chest. Everything was slow, like syrup was poured into your head and down your throat until it settled into something biting at the base of your spine, a crawling smoke of ungloved fingers and parted lips. He lifted the hem of your shirt and the edge of his helmet dipped to the curve of your neck. The words were shaky through his modulator, hoarse and dulcet. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, reaching to grip at his biceps. “Yeah that’s okay.”

——-——-

part two

[goatsandgangsters]

Okay real talk — can you tell me, in detail, why everyone hates Willie Thompson? I also hate Willie Thompson, but cannot explain why!!

anon I want you to know I laughed OUT LOUD when I got this. oh what a fun question.

[also disclaimer that I haven’t rewatched season 4 in its entirety in some time]

Willie is just so WHINY and petulant in a way that’s so tedious. His problems seem like small potatoes in comparison to everything else that’s going on in the show. like I’m sorry that you’re getting bullied in college, but you don’t need to go accidentally murder someone and blame your roommate about it. I didn’t sign up for the 1920s gangster show so that I could watch a horny undergrad who’s main personality trait is complaining.

My sense is that Willie was intended—narratively—to fill the Jimmy void. He’s not that much younger than the young gangster crowd, he grew up around Nucky and Eli and their politicking and has been impacted by it, and now he’s heading off to college and grappling with the impact of his family hanging over his head. He might even have been intended as a “what Jimmy could have been,” given that undergrad is where things Officially Went Off The Rails in Jimmy’s life (train sounds PTSD moment pun not actually intended).

But it just… doesn’t land. I don’t care! He’s whiny! He’s annoying! He’s a nudge! And there are far more interesting characters who have far more interesting things going on in their lives. He’s a late entry into the show (I mean, he seemed perfectly alright when he had two lines and was a different actor in season 3) but he doesn’t really bring much to the story other than existing for the sake of highlighting that Things Are Fucked Up In The Thompson Family. He’s there to drive conflict between Eli and Nucky, between Eli and the feds, and between Nucky and his own cloud of guilt. But I doooon’t caaaaare about him as a person!

I get that there were gaps that needed to be filled, not only the Jimmy void, but with Margaret’s story moving to New York (and Kelly being unavailable for the first half of the season due to recently having a baby IRL), so heightening the Eli tension allows for that ever-present conflict and contrast between “Nucky the gangster” and “Nucky the man.” He needs a “home” plotline as a counterpoint to the “gangster” plotline, and the usual vehicles for that were not around.

If I’m remembering correctly, hatred of Willie Thompson isn’t just a fandom opinion either. I’m pretty sure reviewers hated him too. I suspect the general overall reaction of everybody to Willie’s tedious storyline in season 4 is the reason why his role in season 5 was downgraded to “the buttmonkey who gets kidnapped and roughed up.” BUT ALSO, then in season 5, he’s still annoyingly sanctimonious and self-righteous! Hurr burr you’re all criminals, hoodle doodle you should go to jail, LIKE THIS LAWYER MOTHERFUCKER DIDN’T SHIT-SOMEONE-TO-DEATH IN UNDERGRAD AND GET HIS UNCLE TO BUY HIM OUT OF IT, okay. I get that the Mr. Big Important Lawyer Man Against The Big Bad Criminals is supposed to be a result of his disdain for his family, but you did very much shit someone to death and frame someone else for it, buddy. Get off your high horse, lawyer man, and quit lying to yourself about how and why you got where you got.

There’s a text post going around right now about “how can you hate a character for being annoying when you stan murderers” with the explanation that we come to fiction to be entertained. And if you’re not entertaining, that’s a worse crime as a character than any in-universe wrongdoings. That’s Willie Thompson. The shit-death is the least of his crimes.

[fanfoolishness]

All right, yelling about The Reckoning, starting now!

Kuiil!!! We will always love you!

Still so bummed Gina Carano was just so.. fricking... why

Well screw her, I’m gonna enjoy Cara Dune’s character in my own way with my liberal non-science-denying pro-trans pro-Judaism ass and there’s nothing she can do about it

Grogu! It looks like he’s sleeping on the chair in the cockpit behind Din. Din! Do you not own a fucking blanket for this little creature? No one on Sorgan wanted to give you one for helping save the town? No one wanted to send you off with all the cutest Sorgan-made baby toys and homespun blankets and cute little krill-dyed blue clothes??? Or did they want to and you conveniently refused them because you didn’t want such things of friendship and softness in your little metal home?

I like watching the way Din’s hands move over the console in the Crest...

Greef Karga’s such a dramatic bitch, I love it, “if you’re getting this you’re still alive. You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too.” Ooooooooh

Greef Karga is seriously peeved about the Client still being there, he is PEEVED

If Din succeeds in killing the Client, Greef says “You keep the Child”

JUST THINK ABOUT THAT FOR A MINUTE, LET’S UNPACK THIS

Din doesn’t know about the Jedi. He doesn’t have a quest in relation to Grogu. All he knows is he had to keep the kid safe. And here’s Greef saying “keep.” Keep him. Something he didn’t want to think too deeply about, but here it is, keep, and what would that mean for him? What would that mean for him and the child?

His child?

*rubs little fiendish fingers together and cackles*

Din is... intrigued. And also extremely decisive. Sorgan time! I always forget we get a second little snippet of it when picking up Cara.

I hope we get another Cara who can throw punches like this, though.

Don’t think I didn’t miss that pretty villager who told Cara “thank you.” We all always agreed Cara is gay right?

“I’m the snare” ooooh tell me more, Mr. Mandalorian

Grogu burbling, sooo cute

Grogu absolutely heard Din say the kid would never be safe as long as the Imps were looking for him. Grogu heard him and understood him and tried to fly the damn ship away, YOUR SON IS SCARED! Or at least saying “for the Force’s sake, dad, beef up your side a little bit more here”

When did Din get the floating box that Grogu is in? When the fuck did this appear from?

IG-11 is just trying to give people tea! And awwww when Din calls Grogu the baby. <3

Kuiil is such a good droid dad!!!

Kuiil dropping truth bombs right and left about the nature of droids

Happy little blurrgs :)

Grogu is so worried about his dad omg

HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE THAT DIN WAS LITERALLY CARTING GROGU AROUND IN A BOX

Din, you’re never hungry :(

It’s interesting we also just had an episode about a motley crew working together and fighting amongst themselves, but here, the tension just dissolves. It’s all about the kid. It’s a nice subversion of what we expect with motley allies.

It appears that introductions are in order! / Din: I can have friends too! I swear

New pram — definitely better than a milk crate or whatever

Greef, you can just talk anytime. Love that Carl Weathers voice.

How come so many planets in Star Wars have animals but no plants? Do the animals photosynthesize??? How does this work

Man this is an awkward dinner date at the bonfire

Din: “Greef it makes me very uncomfortable when you joke about people harming my child :) :) :)”

Oh man I forgot Din got all clawed up by the night bird things and was all smashed into the ground, poor Mando

It would actually be cool if Cara had some field medic experience now that I think of it

“He’s trying to eat me!” Will always be great

Din: SO GODDAMN PROUD OF GROGU for healing Greef and also

Stormtroopers are such pricks

My helmet? ON YOUR WALL??????

Werner Herzog, you’re being a little creepy. Also seriously though what even is your story???

How did the Empire get people to drink the Kool-Aid? Like they just won’t admit they want power? nooooo we wanted to bring you all peace! Y u mad tho?

I WOULD LIKE TO SEE THE BABY

It is asleep

WE ALL WILL BE QUIET (i love it so much)

“You said four” I SAID WHAT I SAID

Moff Gideon is such a petulant bastard

FOUR????

Din you killed Kuiil by raising him on the comm link :( :( :(

KUIIL DESERVED BETTER ;____;

Now it’s sad strings Mando time :(

When will Grogu heal Mando? Please tell me it’s coming ;_;

[nyctolovian]

Summary: Martin is an incubus and Jon is the drunken human who just accidentally summoned him.

Written for @aspecarchivesweek Day 4 prompt: AU

Warning: nudity, terrible humor and shenanigans

Martin felt a prickle at the back of his neck and hummed. A call. How unusual.

He lifted his head and looked skyward, or as skyward one was allowed to look up from the depths of the underworld. It was unusual, being called in this day and age. Humans, as a society, had long moved on from their initial obsession with witchcraft and demonic rituals so summoning for underworld beings had been and far between.

Usually, the minor demons would be clamouring over one another, in a flurry for a chance to feed upon human soul. However, as the ceiling of the underworld was burned open with a summoning circle and light from the human realm streamed in, the imps and lesser fiends around him cowered. In fact, they actively avoided eye contact with Martin. Intrigued, Martin licked the air and let the scent of blood settle on his senses. When he recognised the taste it left on his tongue, he blinked in surprise.

The call… was for Martin. Specifically.

From the corner of his eye, some of the other demons shifted out of his way politely. Slowly, Martin rose from his spot, stretching his arms and grunting softly as his joints popped at the movement. 

“Long time, eh?”

“Sure is. I just hope it’s not another horny teenager,” Martin muttered and glanced at Tim who grinned slyly at him. He was violating several social rules, which usually signalled an invitation to confrontation, but Martin knew Tim well enough to recognise the lack of hostility. Besides, it was absurd to compete for this particular summoning. Every demon was curiously watching with bated breath. Interrupting this would ruin the fun. After all, the art of summoning specific demons was thought to have long been lost. 

Especially something as specific as summoning a demon by name. 

Martin couldn’t help the shiver of anticipation as he spread his wings. What could be waiting for him beyond the circle? With a deep breath, he launched himself upwards. As he approached the summoning circle, he felt the familiar light tingle of cool air against his skin. As his hands curled around the edges of the circle, it burned into his fingers. 

Martin heaved himself up into the human realm and found the summoner, staring up at him with wide dark eyes. This was not an unusual reaction. Martin could be a terrifying sight indeed to a human, with his large ram horns and razor-sharp teeth. But humans were terribly confused creatures who often mistook their rapidly racing hearts for carnal thrill so it had always worked in Martin's favour. 

Smoke poured out of the summoning circle and he stepped out into the dark bedroom. “Why, good evening,” he greeted with a smile.

The human was quite the frazzled mess with his unshaved face, and black but greying locks tied up in a high fuzzy bun. He was wearing a purple cotton skirt that fell to his ankles, and the baggiest possible shirt with the words "Trust me, I Majored in Not Giving a Fuck" printed on the front. Clutched in his hands was a thick tattered volume of which he made full use by shielding his eyes with it.

He smelled of alcohol and a dark red coloured his brown cheeks deliciously. Martin's suspicions were confirmed when he stepped another stepped forward and kicked an empty can of beer, sending it rolling across the room and hitting a stack of newspapers on the floor with a dull klunk.

Questionable choices aside, he looked rather adorable and Martin might say this looked to be one of his finer catches. If only said summoner didn’t immediately scrunch his handsome face in disgust and mortification. 

“Oh, fuck!” the summoner said. “Wha— I thought…?” He narrowed his eyes at the pages of the book in his hands and let out the most exasperated groan Martin had ever heard. Then, he hurled the book at the wall. "Agh god! This is what I bloody get for sleep deprivation, I suppose. A fucking incubus!"

If Tim were in Martin's situation, he might have slid in a quip like, "Oh, if it pleases you, and I know it will, I can be a fucking incubus." Or a line that sounds much smoother than anything Martin could come up with. But Martin was not Tim so he just flinched awkwardly as the summoner's glare shot upwards and practically bore holes into him. 

“Alright, back into the circle,” the human said. “Back! Back!” He walked towards Martin and waved his arms dismissively, wobbling every step in his intoxicated state.

“Are y– Are you seriously shooing me?” he huffed at the audacity. “Like some cat?”

“Do I need to invite you out? Or perhaps I should rescind my invitation as if you’re a vampire. Begone, demon!” he said, flailing his arms ridiculously.

Martin looked incredulously at the small man. “But you summoned me! You can’t just shoo me away!”

“Look, I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake.”

“A mistake?!” Martin shouted. How could he be summoned by name (by name!!) in a mistake! It was unheard of and he was frankly quite offended. He gesticulated wildly, searching for the words to express how utter bullshit this was. But rage rendered him speechless and he could only sputter broken noises. 

“I read the wrong page and did the wrong ritual. I never meant to get… this.” He motioned to all of Martin, as though somehow greatly offended by the demon’s emergence he brought about himself. “What do I have to do to send you back?”

“I have to finish my contract, human! I can’t be sent back any old how.”

He frowned, hilariously befuddled. “Which is?”

“Take a guess,” the incubus deadpanned.

“Ah. That’d be… hm… difficult,” he said. “Ah! I think Sasha next door has been rather pent up lately. If you went out and knocked on the first door to your right, a nice young lady—that’s Sasha���will open the door and you could render your lovely services to her.”

“What? No, you can’t–”

The summoner clearly did not hear him because he nodded to himself sagely, humming in self-approval. He made his way over to the living room, swaying from side to side. "Oh. Wait." He halted just outside the main door. “No, that doesn’t sound like a good idea after all.”

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it isn't–”

“It’s better if I came with you to explain things. I don’t think she’d be keen on receiving a random stranger, and especially not someone who’s in this state of…” The summoner pulled a face of disgust. “Of undress.”

“Wh– I’m an incubus for hell’s sake! What other state of dress could I possibly be in? I'm not usually summoned to be taken on a stroll outside!”

"It's just a short walk. I wouldn't constitute that as a stroll," he mumbled. “I’m sure Sasha can appreciate this look better than I ever could. That’s a thing most other people appreciate, right? Must be,” he decided, opening the door.

Immediately, Martin slammed it shut. “Wait! No! That’s not the point! You can’t just cart me off to another human!”

Folding his arms like a petulant child in a supermarket, the human demanded, “Why the hell not?!”

“Because you made the contract! It’s your blood on the sacrificial circle, not this… this Sasha person.”

“Well,” he said, pout upon his lips, “that’s inconvenient.” He sat on the floor and tucked the skirt of his dress inwards.

Then, came the first breathing moment Martin had had since he first emerged from the summoning circle. 

Head lolling against the wooden door, the summoner slumped into himself and exhaled loudly. “What now?” 

“Well, um,” Martin said, “I usually begin things by finding out what my summoner’s name is.”

The human blinked sleepily, as though not registering for a moment (and perhaps he really didn’t), before saying, “You’re not going to… steal my name or something, right?”

“What? No!” Martin exclaimed.

“Sorry. I was just–”

“You summoned me yourself! You should know damn well I’m not a fae!”

“God, I’m sorry! It’s not every day I summon something."

Martin sighed heavily. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm sorry too. For yelling."

They settled back down into quietness. “It’s Jon. My, uh, my name. And you’re… A long name I can’t remember.” He grunted as he pushed himself up to get the book.

“Actually, just call me Martin. Don’t… Don’t use my full demonic name.”

Jon slid back down lazily. “Alright then, Martin. Is there any way we can, um, complete the contract without doing any of the–” He gestured vaguely– “stuff.”

"There's nothing else, really," Martin said with a wince of sympathy. "I am a sex demon after all so I trade in sex favours."

Deflating like a balloon, Jon let out a puff of frustration. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered. "Just my luck to summon a sex demon. Of all the wrong demons."

"Oh, so it's the sex demon part and not specifically the incubus part?"

"Yes. Don't, um, don't get me wrong I'm not a prude or anything. I'm just, well, terribly asexual," Jon said, fidgeting with the hem of his collar. "Do you… Is that something you're familiar with?"

"Oh, yeah. Humans like that have existed for ages," Martin replied and Jon visibly relaxed. "I've never been summoned by one before though."

Pulling the collar over his mouth, Jon chuckled drunkenly, his nose crinkling delightfully as he did so. "That's fair."

Martin couldn’t help the little upward curl of his own lips. Jon had a nice laugh, one that soothed and gently brushed away the tension in your chest. Martin found his chest warming at it and he sort of wished he could hear the pleasant sound again. 

The laugh faded with a soft exhale. "Is there really no other way I can… end the contract?" 

Martin gave Jon a pitying look. "Look, I'm… How about kissing? Kissing can be sexual and—"

"Kissing's worse."

Martin blinked. "Really?"

"I'm kiss-averse. Lips on lips is just… All that wet breathy movement. It just…" Jon pulled a face of revolt and exaggerated shudder to demonstrate his point. "You know? I mean, of course you don't. It's just stupid."

"No no no. It's not stupid at all," Martin assured him as he sat down on the floor so Jon didn't have to crane his neck to look at him. "Reasonable, in fact."

"Thank you!" Jon said. "Kissing has zero appeal. What is there to like about it other than the fact that it's supposed to be a show of affection? At least with sex it's not so bad. To me, at least."

"Not so bad how? Um, if, well, if I may ask…"

"I… It's…" Jon was sliding further and further onto the floor until his entire back was against the floor and his head was propped up by the door behind him. He exhaled through the corners of his mouth. "I'm… sort of neutral, I suppose? It's complicated. And quite a lot. I-I… I wouldn't want to go on for too long. I mean, I'd just bore you and—"

"I'd say I'm a pretty good listener. You'd be surprised how much pillow talk I do with the humans who summon me." Martin laughed sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head.

It was clear the moment Jon's restraint snapped because something in his eyes changed. Immediately, Jon was launched into an alcohol-driven spiel. "It's a fluctuating thing, you see? Most of the time, I forget sex is even a thing so when I'm suddenly reminded of its existence, I'm incredibly caught of guard. It's dumb but I feel offended even. That's why this—" he gestured to all of Martin— "is frankly rather off-putting. No offense."

Martin shifted awkwardly.

"But sometimes, you know, it feels… okay? As in I-I want it sometimes. Not often. Maybe once every three months, it sounds like a fascinating idea. But then there's no one in mind to do it with and I don't feel comfortable just… picking someone. And—" He frowned, his brow wrinkling cutely. "God, this is embarrassing to talk about. I didn't even talk about this in as much detail with Georgie. She's my, uh, my ex. It just never seemed like the right time to talk about it and then suddenly we've drifted apart and…” Jon sighed loudly. “I just never could talk to her about things. Even if they bothered me." A look of devastation crossed his features as his arms slackened. "God, this is probably why we broke up," he breathed.

"I'm sorry," Martin said consolingly. 

Sliding further onto the floor till he was completely lying on it, Jon held a hand up. "No. No, it's been a long time since then. I'm no longer hung up about it. I just… well, this thing… my relationship with sex as a… thing. It just creeps up on me once in a while. It complicates things. So you can see why this is an odd situation I've accidentally gotten us into?" He turned his body so he lay on his side. 

"Yeah."

His eyes were pleading as he pulled his legs up to lie in a foetal position. "I'm really sorry I got us into this mess.”

“Don’t worry,” Martin said. “We’ll figure a way out of this together.”

Hesitantly, Jon nodded. 

Martin wracked his brain for any possible solution. He sat there for a good minute before his brain gave out. “No good, I can’t think of any right now.”

Silence.

"Jon?"

The slowness and depth of his breathing made Martin frown in suspicion. He approached Jon tentatively and peered at his face. Sure enough, lying there with his eyes lightly lidded and arms crossed over his chest, the human was sleeping. 

“What?!” Martin exclaimed, nudging him with his foot. “Did you seriously pass out in 5 seconds?!”

Thankfully, Jon was not entirely in dreamland yet because he furrowed his brow, refusing to open his eyes, and grumbled, “Wha…?”

In utter dismay, Martin yelled, “Jon, you can’t sleep on the floor like this!”

“You’re not the boss of me,” he slurred out in drunken drowsiness, turning his face towards the floor.

A groan of exasperation left Martin. “You’ll catch a bloody cold!” he scolded. “Your head will be aching and you’ll have a crick in your neck at the very least.” He squatted down and began shaking the human violently. 

This time, Jon’s eyes flew open in shock and he immediately squeezed it shut. “Ack! For fuck’s sake! Why is the first thing I see when I open my eyes your big smelly dick?!” 

"Wh- It's not smelly!"

Jon rolled out of Martin’s grasp. “I’m up. I’m up.” Sitting up, he began to rub his eyes.

Martin rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t have to come to this if you didn’t decide to fall asleep on the floor like a caveman. I thought you humans will have a better appreciation of the comforts of a bed.”

“I’m tired, alright? God, you'll be stuck here for a while, won't you?” Jon said.

Martin hummed.

“Let's get you something to wear. I can’t have you going around butt naked in my house.” He stood up and gestured for Martin to come with him. And because he was wobbling dangerously as he walked, Martin followed him to make sure he didn’t trip and die on the way to his bedroom. 

After flinging his wardrobe doors open dramatically, Jon scanned its contents with folded contemplative arms. He grabbed a pair of boxers and tossed them into Martin’s arms. “Try it on. These are the biggest I’ve got so if you can’t fit into these, I’ll murder you.”

Brushing the strange threat off as a drunkard’s words, Martin stepped into the boxers. They were a tad bit of a squeeze but he supposed they could be considered a fit. When he looked up, Jon threw a dress over him with the hanger still on, checking the fit with narrowed eyes, before sighing and shoving it back into his wardrobe. 

They went through several iterations of this before Jon ran out of clothes. Not that this was unexpected, if you asked Martin. Jon was quite scrawny, standing at about 160cm and completely dwarfed by Martin’s broad-shouldered figure of 192cm. It was already a miracle that Jon had any underwear at all that fit him and Martin expressed as much to Jon.

“Aren’t I dressed enough?” he added. 

However, that only earned himself a scathing glare from Jon. “If you think being in a pair of boxers is called ‘dressed enough’ then you’re terribly wrong,” he replied. 

Martin decided not to comment that this was the most dressed he has ever been, even more than that time he wore lacy lingerie during a summon. 

“Aha!” Jon cried, slapping Martin’s shoulder. “I have just the thing!” He squeezed between Martin and his bed and fetched a plastic chair from the corner of his room. 

Clumsily, he clambered onto the chair and if Martin had a heart, it would leap to his throat at the way Jon rocked. Then, he stood on the chair to reach the top shelf of the wardrobe and Martin's hands shot out to steady the incredibly drunk and wobbly human. 

And good thing that Martin did because Jon suddenly lurched leftwards. Martin let out a frightful squeak as he caught Jon. "Careful!"

In his arms, Jon was stiff with shock. He pursed his lips nervously. 

He really did have a nice face, round and sharp in all the right places. Short but thick lashes that flickered as he blinked. Uneven lips with the left corner curling upwards slightly, as though just to keep things interesting. Thick, strong eyebrows that accentuated his eyes—dark eyes that were so soulfully deep, one could drown in it, and Martin was struggling to breathe a bit actually.

"I… Uh, thanks?" Jon mumbled as his gaze fell. Upon seeing what he had pulled out on the way down however, his face lit up. "There!" he exclaimed, lifting the thing in his hand triumphantly. "A bathrobe!"

Martin sighed in frustration, slowly let the scrawny man down and accepted the proffered bathrobe. Jon was about to step onto the chair again but Martin pulled him off and set him onto the bed behind them, where he could not endanger his own life. “Alright, alright. No more climbing up things tonight. What do you need?” Martin said. 

Huffing, Jon flopped backwards onto the bed. “I need to close it.” 

“I’ll do it,” he said. He raised his hands and easily shut the upper shelf of the wardrobe. With that settled, he put the bathrobe on, tying it neatly, and turned to Jon. “Alright, what–” He stopped when he saw Jon fast asleep in the most bizarre position, upper body on the bed while his entire lower body dangled off, his skirt fanned out as the human slept with his legs stretched onto the floor. 

Martin grimaced openly. This was going to be one long summoning. This Jon person was really quite the hassle. Sure, Martin has met his fair share of human disasters—adulterers, gamblers, sex deviants. But he has never met this particular brand of mess before. 

Still, he couldn’t bear to leave Jon in this state. Let it be said that Martin the Incubus was an excellent bed partner. He leaned down and picked Jon up to lay him properly on his bed. While Martin tried to tuck Jon into bed, sleepy arms wound around his neck. It was quite cute actually, so Martin let him. 

When he was done, Martin tried to push Jon off, but the stubborn human only clung tighter. He tried to pry Jon’s arms apart. To his horror, that made Jon let out a whine before he threw his leg over Martin’s back and tugged with more force than Martin thought he was capable of in his sleep.

“Oomph!” Martin steadied himself before he fell and crushed the poor human under his weight. “You really are a bloody handful!” 

They wrestled for a while longer before Martin let out a groan of sufferance, jostled himself a space on the bed and lay down, all while making sure he didn’t accidentally hurt Jon with his ram horns. As though satisfied, Jon’s stick-thin limbs wound round Martin’s body and he pressed his face against his chest. Jon was all elbows and knees, and all that shifting in his slumber did not help. But, left with not much of a choice, Martin resigned himself to Teddy Bear Duty. 

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Six

Ao3,   Masterpost,   C.1   C.2   C.3   C.4   C.5

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality. platonic dukeceit, creativitwins, and dlampr.

Yet again there are no italics. its new years eve sue me. oh also happy 2021 nobody question my priorities thanks <3

Warnings: so much softness, implications of self-isolation, swearing, Lots of Feelings, sympathetic everybody, descriptions of the sides having non-human features.

Word Count: 3,962

Something Remus came to realize was that he, a bit paradoxically, was not used to people being in his space.

It was weird. Not weird in the way that people usually felt when he was the one interrupting- he wasn’t scared by it, or disgusted, or even really annoyed. It was just… surprising, to have somebody else hanging around him, unprompted by anything. 

Remus wasn’t known for having boundaries- or respecting them, for that matter- but he’d at least been attempting to restrain himself just a bit after being accepted by the others. Out of courtesy, if nothing else. 

And apparently he didn’t need to. Not after what happened with Patton, anyway. Now that Patton had deemed the two of them ‘close’- something he was absolutely happy to agree with, for the record- Remus’ world had flipped sort of around. Back to no boundaries, only he wasn’t the one crossing those lines, and nobody was running screaming. Least of all Patton!

Remus ran the thoughts over in his head, feeling like that day was shaping up to be a great example of the change:

He and Patton were sitting side-by-side in the living room, content, with the rest of the sides spread around in different seats and configurations just the same. The unlikely pair were at the fringe of the circle, close enough to be part of things but far enough to zone in and out at will (as both were prone to do). It was nice, amiable.

 But minutes before- forty of them at most- Remus had been up in his own room, happily dissecting some gooish creations and only vaguely aware that there was a meeting that day. His attendance to group meetings varied from week to week- sometimes he was bored and could use an argument, and other times he was having fun on his own and knew that it wouldn’t be all that important if he ditched. He joined more often than he used to, sometimes he was even asked for, but he was optional still. A favored option, suggestions taken now, sure- but still not mandatory. 

He was going to stay upstairs for that one, but Patton had come to get him. Had dragged him down in that sweet, puppy-dog way of convincing that worked so well and, knowing him, was totally unintentional. And even if Remus didn’t care about arguing his way through content production right then, Patton had promised that it was important for him to be there.

That was the word he’d used for Remus. Important.

How the hell could Remus say no to that?

At least the meeting was going by without a hitch, for once. He assumed it was- Remus was honestly paying very little attention- but the lack of anger or tension was practically palpable. These things were usually so spiteful that even Remus, renowned lover of chaos, could almost taste his headache when everybody started shouting and hissing and fighting. It just got sad.

But not that time, apparently.

As Logan went on his third ramble of the evening, smiling widely at a surprising lack of interruption, Remus turned to Patton. He whispered:

“Okay, when are they gonna snap? Did they all finally get lobotomized?”

Patton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean where’s all the screaming and crying? Specs and Prince Priss haven’t had a single one of their horny yelling matches, what gives?”

Patton smiled in a way that said he was trying very hard not to laugh, rolling his eyes.

  “These meetings have calmed down a bit, I guess,” he shrugged.

Remus glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. While that certainly seemed like the truth, he couldn’t buy it. 

“Yeah, I give it until one of them vaguely insults the others,  and then everybody’s gonna shut down for the next week. That kinda tension doesn’t just go.”

Patton didn’t say anything. Half-gazing at the carpet, he didn’t look like he’d even heard. He was smiling, but it was one of those jumbled up expressions, the type that tried to span a hundred different feelings. He had so many expressions like that, that seemed bottomless and swirling and so intricate on a humanoid face that, in reality, wasn’t built to display something like that. It was uncanny- not like an eerie doll, but like something with unearthly beauty. This face, though, had tones of upset.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around everybody,” Patton said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. While Remus wasn’t exactly known for keeping to himself, he couldn't be called sociable either. He dropped in to say something, usually random, and then he was gone as soon as he’d visited. Even before the first Patton incident, fuck, it had been weeks since he’d actually stuck around through something.

Since The Acceptance, now that Remus thought of it, he’d been spending more time alone than ever. Not all of  his time- he remembered being surprised at Logan talking to him, willingly, like friends, and after that had even come Virgil and Roman. He saw people, talked to them, yeah. The time spent was friendlier, more welcoming, but it was so much less. 

Well, it was obvious why: they visited him, but- like he’d mentioned, he’d been trying to give them some space.

“Sure, it's been awhile,” Remus admitted, “But I never expected shit to change so much around here, still.”

The haze on Patton’s face thickened like fog on the moors, a soft and sympathetic mist over his eyes that Remus knew was aimed at him (even if it was pointed more to a sort of middle distance). 

“I don’t think I did, either,” Patton’s mouth barely moved, his voice less of a whisper and moreso a fragile breath. “I was hoping for it, but… I’m still trying to get used to stuff being allowed to change, you know?” He picked at a loose thread along the seam of the couch. “I haven’t done this stuff in a while, either.” 

Remus’ head shot up, and he almost forgot that they weren’t the only two in the room. Somehow, he stopped himself from shouting:

“You- it has?”

A tiny smile. Something built up behind Patton’s eyes; a wave, dark and lonely and filling his bright blues with cloudy gray. “I just needed some alone time, after everything changed so much so fast. I still feel, I dunno, weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me- but…” he swallowed, his head lifting. “I’m really happy for them,” he was staring- so very loving- first at Logan, then Roman, then Virgil and Janus. It was a wonder none of them felt his gaze on them, Remus thought, because he was sure if anyone looked at him that way, he’d burn up like a fae upon iron. “They deserve it so much. I know that not everything is perfect still, but, I’m just so proud of us anyways. I- I think maybe-”

He cut himself off, blinking rapidly. Remus gave the room a quick once over to make sure nobody was looking their way- and nobody was: Virgil was very resolutely trying to get everyone to stay on topic despite Janus and Logan’s continued tangenting, and Roman was scribing furiously on several different pieces of paper- before he inched close enough to curve his arm around Patton. Touching like that had steadily become familiar to both of them, and it didn’t take long for Patton to fall untense against his side. He leaned into him, muttering: “I mean, they’re all doing a lot better than me, that’s for sure. I- I don’t even know what I’m for anymore. Maybe that’s why I’ve been… ditching, really.”

Remus squeezed his shoulder. There were so many things he could’ve said and done, but all of them loud and fervent and definitely not subtle enough to go unnoticed by everyone. So, for the sake of Patton’s privacy, he settled on this:

“That makes two of us, Morey.”

 The meeting that was planned to take two or three hours took the entire day, just as always. Hours and hours were spent in a room filled with excited conversation, of which the subject oscillated wildly between relevant topics and complete nonsense- which Remus and Patton did, eventually, tune back into (and contribute to as well, mainly in the nonsense department). Eventually, even Virgil gave up on trying to keep anything in order. 

But the meeting ended on a good note anyway. Lots of good notes, actually, if the stacks upon stacks of paper they’d scribbled up were any indication. Mess, the sides had come to believe, was usually a measure of their productivity: if crumpled pages were strayed across the room, if forgotten pens and pencils balanced on every surface from coffee table to TV stand, and if- in the process of snacking- they’d accumulated enough dishes to fill the sink for days on end? Shit. Got. Done.

Remus stared over the chaos with unfocused eyes. He felt distantly proud of the stormish state the living room was in. Draped over the back of the sectional, he gnawed idly on a wood pencil, stripping its yellow into beige. The paint fell off in bitter chunks, and the taste made him think of grabbing some non-acrylic dinner before closing the night off. Maybe he’d steal some of whatever saccharine sweet Patton usually made in the late evenings, and then spend the rest of the night with him, anyway. Remus debated what would be the most fun (or if he was tired enough to sleep yet), partially aware as he did so that he’d chewed and swallowed the metal-eraser end of his pencil.

“Ugh,” a drawn out groan broke his thoughts, petulant and whiny. “Do you have any intention of helping us clean up this, the common area?” 

Roman was kneeling beside Janus on the carpet, the pair surrounded by papers and binders and trashbags, the former of which they were sorting into either of the latter two, depending on how useful each page was. Roman had stopped working, however, to stare up at Remus indignantly. Remus glared right back.

“I’ve never had an intention in my life,” he answered.

Janus shrugged, smiling in that I-told-you-so way at Roman. But Roman, ever the nuisance, wasn’t letting it go. 

“Come on! It’s not like you’re even doing anything!”

“I’m doing something,” Remus’ words were wide and wobbly as he stripped another line of paint off the pencil, breaking some splinters off into his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” another chunk of wood, down the hatch. “I’m flaying all these leftover pencils until they’re lead-sticks.”

Roman hopped up from the floor and dropped himself onto the couch, shoving himself into the way so jarringly that it reminded Remus of himself. 

“Well, now you’re going to help us clean.” 

Janus rolled his eyes, not even glancing up. “Roman, just leave it alone, we-”

“We are all parts of this whole now, including him! Remus-” Roman rounded on him again, “If you’re going to come down here and help us make all this mess, with all of your numerous contributions that we have to write down, you’ll help clean it like anybody else. Do you think that I like any of- of-” he gestured, flamboyantly, at the room, “This? Ugh, please, I’m a prince! But, fair is fair, and fair means everybody.” 

And that was the point of the conversation in which Remus would cackle, push Roman backwards off the couch, and proclaim how much it’d go against his very being to clean a mess instead of cause it. He’d tell Roman how funny it was that he thought he could boss him around, because it always had been- that full-of-it Older Brother kind of attitude that had never worked. The Prince had never once managed to get him to do anything, and each attempt only got funnier than the last. 

He didn’t say any of that, though. 

Roman was bitching at him, not to go away this time, but to stay. Stay and help the group, because he was a part of said group. So he was asked to help them, the group that he was a part of, because he was part of it. That group. 

“Okay,” he blurted, “Okay, I’ll- alright.”

Roman blinked at him, a look of disbelief spreading across his face. “You- oh!” he smiled, utterly baffled. “That was- very easy?”

Janus, too, was looking up at Remus with bewilderment, his task of paper-sorting all but forgotten. Remus couldn’t blame either of them, but he still huffed, trying very hard not to be embarrassed by that whole… moment.

He shook it off, rolling off the couch and standing up, jittery. 

“Whatever, just- tell me what to pick up, okay?” 

They seemed not to hear him, the gawking continuing on until he started working unprompted, and longer than that still. Each time he (begrudgingly) shoved something into a trashbag, it earned him another Exchange of Glances from the pair. 

They got over it eventually, though, because there was a fuck-load more to clean than there was room to stare. So they cleaned.

Remus thought it would get old after a minute, and he’d finally gather up the guts to bail on them, but it just… never happened. It felt unnatural to be getting rid of a mess- like an animal having its fur brushed the wrong way, continuously- but by some point the sensation was distant. The rest of him was still busy processing, experiencing, maybe possibly overthinking this kind of recognition he’d never gotten before. It was handed to him now like it was something normal. The three of them worked together, and it was normal. 

Acceptance, as it turned out, wasn’t synonymous with ‘soulless assimilation’. In fact, it was pretty fucking great, getting to watch his brother and best friend find documents from the floor with his ideas on them, then tucking them into a binder marked important, instead of a trashcan marked to burn. It was… surreal. 

But the tidying was over in just an hour and a half- oh wow, never in a million years would Remus have thought an hour and a half of cleaning would be too little for him. He made a note to absolutely destroy something big and important later, to balance the universe out again. 

Roman sank through the floor as soon as they were done, complaining loudly about how very exhausted he was. Remus teased him on his way out, but it was just for the habit- he was way too mushy to think of anything properly mean at the moment. 

Janus watched him go, silent. He sat beside Remus on the couch, and despite his obvious tiredness, he waited a good few minutes before saying anything. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Remus shivered. Janus pulled him up into a hug (one that maybe dragged on for a little too long, but who was counting?), and it spelled out all the pride and care that he’d never been good at verbalizing. With that, he gave Remus a short nod, and then was gone as well. 

Which made everyone else upstairs, probably in their rooms and halfway asleep. Then there was Remus, antsy in the living room, itchy with feelings. 

Everyone but Patton, of course, who could still be heard humming in the kitchen; who never went up until he knew everyone else was in their rooms, true to the protective parent persona. Remus suddenly didn’t think he wanted anything else but to see Patton after what had happened, to talk to him, to… 

He walked to the kitchen.

“Pat.”

Patton looked over his shoulder at Remus, up to his elbow in sudsy sink water. A smile fell naturally across his face.

“Hi,” his voice was low, delicate. “You about to head up?”

Remus watched his friend work, trailing into the room slowly.  He grinned, “Are you kidding? I could stay up all night, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Patton asked him.

Remus thought on it for a moment. He shrugged, iunno, leaned against the counter by the sink. Patton turned away again.

It was so quiet. No wind. No footsteps. Not a muffled voice upstairs, even- just the sound of water and ceramic hitting ceramic. Everything was still.

Remus hated it. Silence was fragile, and he crawled with the need to break it. He felt it get tense as it stretched out, and he just wanted to tear the air apart with sound. It felt like nothing mattered anymore, when peace was so easily able to drown it all out. Cold and alone. He hated it.

Sometimes, Remus imagined that if the silence went too long, he’d never be able to make a noise again. There were few things that made him so unhappy, but the quiet… 

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked.

Remus jolted. Patton was staring, concern gathering in his eyes the longer he did. Remus took a deep breath- he remembered something, something small and unimportant that Janus had told him once. 

When one is so intensely happy, they can fall to agonizing upset even quicker than if they’d been mildly perturbed in the first place, because of the ferocity of the feelings. Something like that. 

“A lot more than I’m willing to throw on your shoulders, Pops.”

Patton pouted. Actually. Fucken. Pouted. The worst part was, his puppy-face was actually working.

“Ugh,” Remus rolled his eyes, “Just- could I- I dunno, have a hug, or some shit?”

If Patton was surprised, he hid it well. God knew, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Remus would ask for. He almost never asked to get attention- taking it was much easier, and much more entertaining. Besides, if he’d ever asked before that point… well, he already knew what answer he would’ve gotten. 

Patton’s smile only widened, until it was positively melting. “Of course you can,” he shut the sink off. “Of course.”

He reached haphazardly for a hand towel, to dry his arms. Remus, riding the high of that enthusiastic permission, absolutely could not wait that long. He latched his arms around Patton’s middle before the side had even finished talking, burying his face between his shoulder blades and hugging tight. 

Patton went still, like he didn’t know what to do. After it became clear that Remus had no intention to move, Patton laughed, dreamy and soft, and shook his hands as dry as he could. He patted Remus’ forearm; bead-bracelets clattered under the Duke’s sleeves. 

“Hey,” Patton said.

“Mmh?”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he laced his fingers with Remus’, squeezed them, “But I’d like it better if I could hug you back, ya know?”

Remus let go, reluctantly. In the true fashion of intrusive thoughts, there was a second he was so convinced Patton would run, now that he was freed. Make an escape from him, an escape from his claws.

He didn’t. He spun right around and pulled Remus against his chest- one arm linked around his torso, the other winding into his tangled hair. Anyone, at a glance, could see that Patton was huge- but up close the difference was dizzying: his wide chest, encircling arms that seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and padding, and that height, all made him so… comforting. Big and strong, a body that disguised power in soft edges and fat. If he squeezed just a little too tight, in fact, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Patton could make splinters out of his bones. Which Remus definitely, definitely wouldn’t mind, but the knowledge that Patton not only could do that but also wouldn’t ever do that- that was what really did him in. 

And he’d hugged Patton before- months ago, and somehow Patton had seemed so small then, when everything had started- but being hugged? Properly, too, not underwater while one of them was drowning- it was a world of difference. No panic, no breakdowns, just a real, solid hug.

He could just ask for this and then have it. He could smell sugar cookies and candle wax, and feel somebody- a willing body- pressing in. It was weird. He thought that someday, he might get used to it. He wanted a chance to get used to it. 

“Do you wanna talk now?” Patton prompted, forcibly reminding Remus that he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional distress. 

“I don’t know.”

Patton hummed, his fingers scratching through Remus’ hair. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“You didn’t have to bring me, if you thought it was gonna be bad.”

“I wasn’t worried because of you! I was worried because of me. Things have been… a lot for me, lately.”

“Oh,” Remus angled his head to the side, looking up at him. “Yeah. I feel ya.”

“But they were all so much more patient, weren’t they,” Patton’s eyes went a little misty, the way they always did when he talked about his family. “Everything’s different now, and I guess that scared me, but I think that now… it’s a good different, you know?” 

“Like us, right?” Remus laughed, “This is the craziest difference, if ya think about it.”

Patton chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest so that Remus felt it more than heard it. 

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten through with today without you, you know that?” 

It was deeply honest. There was a beat. 

“I-” Oh fuck, Remus was choked up, when did that happen? “I wouldn’t have even had a day like today, without you, so. Do with that what you want.” 

Remus buried his face in Patton’s sternum, just to avoid the sad understanding in his eyes. 

He- he wasn’t exactly made for the care he was getting, not the kind of softness in that face. Not when Patton was still patiently untangling his matt of hair while they hovered in the stillness of the dark, empty kitchen, and Remus desperately didn’t want to cry. 

Patton gave him a minute to breathe, at the very least, before:

“They like you, though. Janus loves you.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not-”

“I know how you feel,” said Patton, and did. “Like they couldn’t actually care about us, even though it doesn’t make sense for them not to. It’s one of those things that’s easy to forget,” Remus could hear the smile in his voice. “So it’s good we have each other, when we need to get out of our own heads. At least, it’s like that for me, I don’t know if you even-”

“No,” Remus curled his claws in the back of Patton’s shirt, something dark and emotional flooding like tar through his chest. “Nah, you’re right, Morey. This is good for us.” 

Remus shook his head at nothing in particular. He forced his hands unballed, pulled back, and wormed his way out of Patton’s hug after way too long. 

His skin felt like paper from the affection, like he’d been electrocuted, and while that was fun- was amazing- for a while, he didn’t think he could handle much more in one sitting. 

Patton let him go, smiling warmly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes were shiny and wet, but he was content. 

“Thanks,” Remus said.

“What for? The hug?”

“No- I mean, that too, but I was saying ‘thanks, for caring’. For giving enough of a shit about me to try and help.”

Patton smiled, solemnly.

“I told you so,” he breathed, “I promised I would like you when I got to know you, and then I did. I do!” 

Remus felt a grin returning to his face, sliding across his lips more naturally than anything else he’d had to deal with that night.

“Yeah. You aren’t too bad yourself, Pat.”

Chapter Seven

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls  @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[raffinit]

21. "Don’t worry, I would never touch you.” with fucking tasty Sylvaina

I see you have chosen...useless lesbians

The rules and dynamics that governed their marriage were clear ones. Perhaps it would have been something more than just a necessary evil in another life. More than a compromise between their factions for the sake of peace. Perhaps they wouldn’t have needed a peace treaty at all. 

But like many things, Sylvanas saw no use in dwelling.

Of all the things she had expected out of the marriage, she certainly didn’t expect kindness.

Despite the expected bullheadedness and self-righteous indignation at times, Jaina was friendlier than she could have ever imagined. Wry and quick-witted with a quiet sort of bookishness in the late evenings.

Proudmoore was a tolerable spouse for what she was. Outside of her incessant need for books stacked high on every surface she saw, the multitudes of coffee cups scattered around her study, and the infuriating habit of walking around in little more than her slip — the Lord Admiral was not the most terrible choice of a wife.

If only she’d wear more clothes around Sylvanas.

Though they kept separate studies on opposite ends of the Keep, their private apartments were a shared one. It meant little to Sylvanas at first. Though they shared a bed, they did not touch — only sat some nights, each on their own end. Jaina with a brush in hand to tame the wildness of her mane and she with pen and parchment in hand. They talked of things beyond war room conversations; idle and stilted at first, with gradual ease the more time passed.

She needed no sleep; wanted no proximity between them in the first few months and years of their marriage. Jaina settled comfortably into the space in the meantime but she cared little. Humans had needs. Living beings had needs.

She did not.

Within their apartments, there was a larger, airier room meant for an adjoining living space. They furnished it as something close enough to a shared study and private library; broad desks and tall shelves pressed against the walls and plush chaises in front of the fireplace. It was where Jaina spent most of her time, and before long — inescapably, it seemed — so did Sylvanas.

What galled her the most about having a wife was the general state of undress Jaina seemed to enjoy parading around in front of her in. It didn’t seem malicious; not really. The Lord Admiral, when in the privacy and comfort of their chambers, was almost absent-minded. There were days she would walk into the living room and find Jaina sprawled out on the chaise, bare of her skirts and coat and boots. Unravelled down to her slip or nightgown made of linen that was far too sheer.

“I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t hang a sock on the door,” she drawled.

Jaina looked up over the top of her book, leant back comfortably against one of the overstuffed pillows of the chaise. Her hair spread out over the pillow in a blanket of white and gold, unbound from its usual braid; a look Sylvanas was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing her with. “I’m allowed to dress how I like in the privacy of my own chambers.”

“Our chambers,” Sylvanas corrected her stiffly. “I imagined you being a little more...conservative with your attire. Especially around me. Whatever will Greymane say?”

Rolling her eyes, Jaina replied dryly, “I didn’t think you cared so much about his opinions of you, Warchief.”

Sylvanas scowled. “I care that your familiarity with me is unbecoming of a woman of your station.”

“We’re both women,” Jaina replied patiently. The patience annoyed her. “But if it makes you so uncomfortable, I’ll put on a robe.”

The thought of Jaina changing to accommodate her sensitivities made Sylvanas’ irritation flare all the more. Her desire for Jaina to be appropriately dressed was now at war with the loathsome thought of being coddled.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she said, with an unfortunate undertone of petulance. “Wear what you like. Prance about naked for all I care.” 

Jaina dropped her book flat against her chest as she sat up to regard Sylvanas curiously. “I never thought you'd be so shy, Warchief.”

Shyness had very little to do with it, but the tone of her wife’s words was enough to rankle her nerves and boil her temper. “I’m not shy —”

Jaina let out something like an incredulous, if confused laugh. “Then what is it?” she asked. “If you’re upset about something, I’d much rather you tell me instead of having to walk on eggshells around one another all the time. Was it a bad day?”

“Don’t make this about me,” Sylvanas replied indignantly. “This is about you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re practically naked.” Sylvanas wrinkled her nose mildly and gazed at Jaina over it. “The eggshells can stop after you stop prancing around in your linens. I can see parts of you I rightly shouldn’t.”

“My ankles??” Jaina made a show of looking down at herself dramatically. “How dare I expose myself so.” She gave Sylvanas a droll look. “Here I thought elves were a lot more liberal. You do seem to enjoy running around half-naked on the battlefield.”

“That’s entirely different,” she said.

“How??”

“It’s not a question of virtue out in public.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to be worried for my virtue when I decided to dress comfortably in front of my wife,” Jaina retorted snidely. “Does it really bother you so badly to just...tolerate me? Sit by me? Touch me?”

Sylvanas glared frigidly, her tone like shards of ice. “Don't worry. I would never touch you.”

There was a flickering look on Jaina’s face then; hurt that morphed into something like surprise, realisation, then a very shuttered look of self-consciousness. “Oh,” she said quietly, pulling the garment about herself, as if to shield from Sylvanas’ sight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise —”

A strange, coiling tension festered in her gut. “Proudmoore, wait —” She stepped forward, then caught herself, rocking back onto her heels as whatever it was that burned in her chest rose further into her throat.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” Jaina said coolly. “I wouldn’t have made you suffer through looking at me for so long.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, and there was a strange, pleading sort of edge she couldn’t understand. “I spoke without thinking. You’re —” she floundered for a moment. “You’re —”

Jaina rose from the chaise, snatching up her coat and pulling it about her shoulders.

“You’re very beautiful,” Sylvanas blurted.

Jaina froze in place, staring at her dumbly.

Sylvanas found herself equally stunned in place. “I — I just mean —” She clenched her hands into fists and gritted her teeth. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” Jaina murmured, turning slowly to peer at her. “Sylvanas...do I make you uncomfortable because of how I dress...or do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she insisted.

“That’s not an answer.” Jaina gave her a considering look, hedging carefully. “It’s not...wrong...if we were to be more friendly with each other. We’re married. We can touch each other without being disgusted with one another. Even if it’s just to hug.”

“...I am the Banshee Queen. I do not hug.”

“A pity.” The smile she gave Sylvanas was an indecipherable one, but the bright spark of coyness and challenge in her eyes were clear enough. “I suppose there are other touches we can explore.”

[grapesodatozier]

Tunnel Vision

this is a stenbrough fic I wrote for @angrysimplist !! thank you so much for requesting this!!

rating: explicit

words: 6k

tags: established relationship, smut, jealousy, daddy kink, bondage, spanking, slapping, choking, degradation, subspace, aftercare

notsfw under the cut!!

Bill Denbrough had always been a zero or one hundred kind of guy. He was either super mellow and in his head, or he was so intense it could make even his closest friends shut their mouths. Whether he was off in some other world or focused on one person, whatever held his focus had all of his attention. 

This week, he’d been a little too in his head, inattentive. He’d been busy, and he’d had some new story ideas, which kept his attention off of his boyfriend for far longer than Stan could handle. To make matters worse, they had agreed to spend their Friday night at a bar with their friends when all Stan wanted was to get Bill alone, to get his tunnel vision back on him.

As the week went on, Stan’s neediness gradually shifted into brattiness. Sure, he was composed on the surface, but on the inside he was already stomping his foot. He wanted Bill's attention, and he was set on having all of it by the end of the night. 

Stan was hot and he knew it. He had rich, dark brown curls and deep green eyes framed by long, dark lashes that both intimidated people and drew them in. Normally, he wouldn’t flaunt it, content to be privately pleased with himself. But he knew how to turn it on when he wanted to, and with the way Bill was so quick to disappear with Bev, Richie, and Eddie into the throng of bodies on the dancefloor, Stan had made up his mind. 

He didn’t have to try hard. Stan could be intimidating, he knew that, but he also knew how to soften the seeming coldness into a look that simply said, “I’m out of your league,” a look that he knew from a number of unfortunate experiences drew in just the kind of guy he was looking for: the kind who would be all over him. The kind that would send Bill from this infuriating zero to the hundred Stan needed him at. 

Sure enough, as Stan sat at the bar on his phone, disengaged from the conversation flowing between Ben and Mike, it only took a minute or two before some guy came up to him. Stan’s body was angled a bit toward the dancefloor, not facing it head on, but enough that he could glance at Bill and Bill could see what he was up to. So that Bill could see him giving this guy a flirtatiously challenging smile. Nothing over the top, but enough to be suggestive, enough that it would have Bill’s blood boiling as soon as he saw it. It took longer than he would’ve liked for Bill to notice—this guy had his hand on Stan’s knee for fuck’s sake—but just as Stan was about to accept an offer of a free drink, he felt Bill’s hand on his bicep, pulling him to his feet. Stan went easily, looking Bill in the eyes as their noses brushed together. It was forceful and rough in tense in just the way Stan loved. “Having fun, baby?” Bill asked, not bothering to hide the way his voice seethed.

“Yeah, I am,” Stan answered. His voice was even, but he knew Bill could hear the bite.

The guy who had been flirting with Stan began to stand, but he froze in his tracks when Mike cut in with an exasperated, “Can you guys save the kinky shit for your bedroom?”

Bill kept his eyes locked on Stan’s for a moment, then tugged on his arm, wordlessly leading him out of the bar. Out of Bill’s sight, Stan sent Mike and Ben a wink, a satisfied smirk on his face as he happily let himself be manhandled. Their faces of playful disgust were gone from his mind as soon as the cool night air hit his skin, then the wall of the bar hit his back. He smiled as he felt Bill sucking harshly on his neck. That was one of the many things he loved about Bill: he was so impulsive, so immediate with what he wanted. He never hesitated to show how he was feeling, never wasted any time when it came to showing Stan how much he wanted him. “You think flirting with other guys is cute?” Bill demanded as he nosed along Stan’s jaw.

Stan shrugged. “It’s fun.”

Bill backed up a bit and looked him in the eye. His eyes were dark, and intense, and they weren’t looking anywhere but right at Stan. It made a pleased warmth spread through Stan’s chest. “We’ll talk about this when we get home,” Bill said, his voice leaving no room for argument. Stan clung to him as he ordered an Uber, and Bill never took his hands off Stan as they waited.

They behaved themselves relatively well in the Uber, but Bill kept a firm grip on Stan’s thigh the entire ride, and it had him struggling not to shift in his seat, his pants already feeling tighter. They were silent, and the tension was so thick it could’ve been cut with a knife. Sneaking a glance over at Bill, Stan saw that his jaw was clenched. Good. Let him feel the frustration Stan had been feeling all week.

The elevator ride up to their apartment was excruciating. Bill kept one hand on the small of Stan’s back, but it wasn’t enough; all Stan wanted was to feel Bill’s hands all over him, grabbing him, taking him.

Once inside their apartment, Stan began to walk toward the living room, but Bill grabbed him by the wrist and pressed him against the wall of the entryway. Stan’s breath caught as Bill crowded up against him. His blue eyes were blazing, and though he was only a couple of inches taller than Stan, he seemed to loom over him. It made Stan shiver in the best way. “What the fuck was that?”

“Oh, now you wanna pay attention to me,” Stan scoffed. He crossed his arms, all of the frustration and petulance and dejection that he’d been bottling up bubbling to the surface. He knew he was pouting, he knew because he could see Bill’s eyes going soft.

“Aw, baby,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose under Stan’s ear, pressing him further against the wall. He pressed a kiss under Stan’s jaw, eliciting a small whimper from him. “Is that what all this is about? You just wanted a little attention?”

“You haven’t paid attention to me all week.” Stan let his voice sink into a whine, breaking down the way he always did for Bill. 

Bill brought his lips to Stan’s, a firm presence. Showing Stan he had all of Bill’s attention now. “Daddy’s here now, baby.” Stan softened at that. He was helpless to Bill referring to himself like that, to the voice he used, the way he kissed the column of Stan’s throat. The tension slowly began to lift from his body, but he didn’t want to give in so easily. He’d been waiting and waiting all week for Bill, couldn’t he make Bill wait a little longer? The more he thought about it, the more stubborn and indignant he felt. Bill pulled Stan away from the wall, guiding him toward their bedroom. Stan resisted just a bit, his arms crossed, but Bill easily spun him around and guided him forward by his hips. “If you want daddy’s attention, all you have to do is ask. You don’t have to act like such a little whore.” Stan gasped as he felt Bill’s hand come down on his ass, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. “You know how to use your words, don’t you?” Stan moaned at the condescension in Bill’s voice, at his warm breath cascading over the sensitive skin of his neck. 

They were in the bedroom now, and Bill had spun Stan back around, was now backing him up against the bed, looking into his wide eyes. “Hmm, no? We don’t know how to use our words tonight? You were being such a brat a minute ago.” He ran his thumb over Stan’s bottom lip. Stan’s eyes fluttered at the sensation, so light but so electric. His cock throbbed in his pants as he wrapped his lips around Bill’s thumb, the draw of submission pulling at him. Stan couldn’t think of a single thing to say; he’d been thinking and composing himself all week, and now all he wanted was to fall apart in Bill’s hands. “But you just wanted daddy’s attention, didn’t you?” Bill pushed down on Stan’s shoulders, and Stan went easily to the bed, sitting up with his head tilted back. His face was tantalizingly close to Bill’s crotch now. “I think daddy should remind you who you belong to. Don’t you think, angel?” 

Stan’s blood was rushing through him, his head getting light as his cock throbbed in his pants. Bill’s words, his voice, his fingers in Stan’s mouth, all of it made him so hard to resist. Stan went slack as soon as Bill grabbed him by his jaw. 

“Use your words, baby.”

“Daddy,” Stan finally whimpered.

Bill loosened his grip just enough to run his thumb over Stan’s lips. His blue eyes darkened as they tracked the movement, making Stan’s skin burn under the attention. “Yes, angel?”

Stan barely knew how to ask for what he wanted. “Take me, please.”

Bill smirked and raised an eyebrow. He stroked Stan’s hair and crowded in closer, making Stan have to crane his neck back as Bill pressed against him. “Aw, so sweet for daddy, remembering your manners now,” Bill teased, making him flush. “You want me to take what I want?” Stan gasped as Bill tugged harshly on his hair. “So desperate for me. You’ll do whatever I want? Let me play with you however you like?” Stan nodded slightly, a blush in his cheeks. Suddenly, Bill tugged him to the floor, and he landed on his knees, his face now right up against the hard on that was straining through Bill’s jeans. “You want me to treat you like the pretty little whore you were acting like back there?” Stan squirmed, but didn’t answer. “I think I should. Think I should show you what happens to little sluts like you.” Stan whimpered and pressed his face into Bill, kissing at the outline of his cock as he hid his face. Pleasantly and unsurprisingly, Bill quickly pulled Stan off by his curls. “No fucking touching until I say so.” Stan went pliant at his tone. Sensing this, Bill loosened his grip and stroked Stan’s hair. Still, his voice was firm as he said, “Tell me our safeword, baby.”

“Giraffe,” Stan answered obediently.

Bill smiled down at him. “Good.” Just as Stan was smiling back, Bill surprised him with a strike to his cheek. It wasn’t all that hard, but it still left a pleasant stinging that had Stan breathless. “Now strip. Then get back on your knees with your hands behind your back.”

Stan stood and began undoing the buttons on his shirt. Bill backed up as he did so, just barely out of reach, and started stroking at his cock through his jeans as his eyes shamelessly roamed over Stan’s body. Stan folded his shirt and placed it on the dresser, followed by the rest of his clothes. Though the air was cool on his bare skin as he knelt by the bed, Bill’s unwavering gaze made him burn.

Once Stan’s hands were behind his back, Bill made quick work of unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out. He stroked it lazily as he walked up to Stan, whose lips fell open just a bit as Bill ran the head of his cock over them, making them shine with precome. “Open.” Stan did so quickly and was rewarded by Bill slapping his cock against Stan’s tongue. “Good boy,” he purred as he pressed his cock past Stan’s lips, “so pretty for me.” Stan wrapped his lips around Bill’s cock and let out a satisfied little hum as he bobbed his head. Bill let this go on for a moment or two before tangling his fingers in Stan’s hair to hold him in place. Barely giving him time to adjust, Bill thrust his hips forward with a few slow drags before setting a steady pace, rocking his hips, his cock sliding smoothly in and out of Stan’s mouth. Stan choked a bit at first, caught off guard, but he soon relaxed his throat and jaw and pursed his lips as pleasure coursed through his body. He loved when Bill fucked his face like this, he loved the feeling of Bill’s cock on his tongue, the smooth glide of it over his lips as he got it wetter and wetter. Mostly, he loved Bill’s reaction; he loved the noises he made, the way he held so tight to Stan’s hair, desperately chasing his own pleasure. “God, that’s it, baby, take daddy’s cock, just like that.” His movements forced a small whine out of Stan as his eyes began to water. Still, he kept his hands to himself, happy to be used, happy to have Bill’s eyes on him, to be making him feel good. “Aw, poor baby,” Bill taunted as he continued to fuck Stan’s throat. “It’s really deep, isn't it, angel? Feels so fucking good, love fucking your tight little throat. Love using you like the desperate toy you are.” Stan let out a desperate sound, part moan and part choking. “You think you can play with daddy, huh, baby? Just going around letting other guys touch you as a little game? That’s not how it works, baby. I play with you. You’re the toy. Understand?”

Stan sputtered as Bill pulled his cock out of his mouth. As Stan gasped, catching his breath, Bill ran his thumb over his lips, admiring the mess he had made as he wiped it up, knowing Stan didn’t like to be messy for long. Then he brought his hand down against Stan’s cheek once again. 

“I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“What are you?”

“I’m your toy.”

“That’s right, baby.” Bill slid his hand along Stan’s neck before wrapping it around his throat, his fingers pressing under his jaw, cutting off the blood flow as he slowly, slowly pressed down. As Stan gasped, his head going pleasantly fuzzy, Bill said, “You’re mine. Mine to play with.” He squeezed harder for just a moment before loosening his grip to run his fingers over Stan’s collarbones. “Mine to touch.” He tweaked Stan’s nipples, making him gasp. “Mine to do with as I please. Got it?” Stan nodded and smiled to himself secretly when it resulted in Bill slapping him again. “Come on. Even dumb little sluts need to use their words.”

“I understand,” Stan answered, his voice broken and coy. 

Bill stepped back abruptly, making Stan whine and lean towards him, naturally seeking his touch. Bill smiled a bit before jerking his chin. “On the bed, hands and knees.” 

Stan was already shaking as he stood up and climbed onto the bed, positioning himself the way Bill told him. As he did, he heard Bill rifling through their dresser. He felt so exposed, and not being able to tell when Bill would touch him set him on edge, like a live wire. After what felt like forever—listening to Bill’s clothes fall to the floor, then a prolonged silence—Stan’s breath caught as he finally felt the mattress dip behind him. The tension flooded out of his body as he felt Bill run his hand gently over the curve of his ass. “Aw, you’re being such a good boy now, aren’t you?” He gave Stan’s ass a possessive grab. “So sweet. Still too late though.” His hand came down hard on Stan’s ass, sure to leave a mark. Stan shivered under the pain, his cock achingly hard between his spread legs. “Daddy still needs to punish you for being a needy, bratty little slut.” His hand came down again twice, his other hand gripping Stan’s hip to keep him in place. He grabbed at Stan’s ass, giving him a quick break before giving the other side of his ass three hard smacks in quick succession. “Aw, baby, you’re already shaking,” Bill cooed. It was true; the pain and pleasure had Stan’s body buzzing, and he could already barely hold himself up “That’s sweet.” The next spank had Stan crying out. As Bill kept up a pattern of spanking him red and grabbing at his ass, Stan could feel the precome dripping down the head of his cock before falling to the sheets beneath him, making a mess. He couldn’t help but squirm, trembling, his body both trying to escape and chasing the pain at the same time. “I know, it hurts, doesn’t it, baby?”

“Yes,” Stan cried. And it did. It was exactly what he’d been craving.

“Good.” Stan yelped as Bill’s hand came down hard on a spot he had surely already bruised. “Wanna make sure you’re fucking covered in my handprints. Want you to feel it for days so you don’t forget who you belong to.” Bill slapped his ass one more time before grabbing him by the hips and flipping him over onto his back. Stan fell back onto the mattress with a small smile, his eyes wide and already beginning to feel far away. His muscles sighed with relief, his body trembling pleasantly, the mattress and the sheets unbelievably soft beneath him. He took a moment to drink in the sight of Bill on top of him, of his bare chest and his hard cock hanging so temptingly between his legs. But he only had a second or two to look before Bill’s hand was wrapped around his throat again, guiding his gaze up to meet Bill’s. He pressed firmly down under Stan’s jaw, and Stan couldn’t help the dreamy smile that painted his face as his head went a little fuzzy again. Bill kissed the corner of his lips, a tease. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you tonight, baby.” A jolt of pleasure shot through Stan’s body as Bill ghosted his fingertip along the length of Stan’s cock. 

“Daddy,” Stan gasped as Bill released his grip on his throat. He moved to run his fingers through Bill’s hair, to hold onto his shoulder, but Bill grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. He then saw that Bill had not only grabbed lube from their dresser, but a black silk ribbon as well. 

“Keep your hands here, baby.” Stan did as he was told, sighing when he felt the soft, smooth fabric against the sensitive skin of his wrists. He loved feeling Bill loop it around him and pull it tight, just the way Stan liked. Bill sat back and admired his work as Stan tugged a bit at the restraint, both of them pleased to find that he couldn’t move. “So pretty,” Bill murmured, running his hands reverently over Stan’s chest, his stomach, his thighs. Stan moaned when Bill forced his legs apart. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” Bill smirked, his eyes dark. “You love spreading your legs for daddy. Such a slut.” Stan whimpered and squirmed a bit, his cock leaking precome onto his stomach. Bill swiped his fingers through the mess. “God, you’re already so wet for me and I haven’t even touched you,” Bill said, making a show of the way Stan’s precome stretched between his fingers as he spread them. Bill spread the precome around Stan’s hole and smirked at the way he whined and bucked his hips. There was a delighted derision in his voice as he told Stan, “Fuck, you’re so easy.” He leaned up and pressed messy kisses to Stan’s chest, making Stan’s skin warm. He loved watching Bill, loved how Bill’s hands roamed over him as they pleased. He loved that he was completely under Bill’s control. He loved that Bill was touching him, that he had all of Bill’s attention. He loved that Bill was clearly enjoying himself as he teased Stan’s nipples, which were hard and pink and perky as Bill dragged his tongue over them. 

“Oh, fuck,” Stan whined. He pulled at the silk, desperate to get his hands in Bill’s red waves, but it was futile. Still, he kept it up; he knew that as much as he struggled he wouldn’t be able to do anything Bill didn’t want him to, and that thought had his cock throbbing where it sat neglected between his own stomach and Bill’s. 

“Aw, what’s wrong baby?” Bill teased. “Does that feel good?”

“So good, daddy,” Stan nodded, his voice slightly higher than normal. “Please, please touch me.”

“Aw, yeah, you’d like that.” Bill once again teased his hand over Stan’s cock, making his hips lift up. “But only good boys get what they want.” Stan whined in frustration as Bill pulled his hand away, but his whines were cut off with a sharp gasp when Bill slapped his hand across Stan’s cheek again. Suddenly he couldn’t even remember what he wanted, his entire body glowing as his mind blanked for a minute. He was vaguely aware of the small, slack jawed smile on his face as he looked up at Bill. “Are you ready to be a good boy for me?” Bill asked, rubbing his thumb gently over Stan’s cheek where his skin still ached.

“Yes, daddy,” Stan answered, his voice dripping honey.

Bill rewarded him with a kiss. “Good boy. Now spread your legs.” Stan eagerly complied, though Bill did most of the work, easily arranging Stan’s legs where he wanted them. It made Stan melt. He loved this, loved how pliant his body was for Bill, how Bill knew just how to play with him to make him feel good. Stan wriggled his hips a bit when he heard Bill uncap the lube and watched as he spread it around his fingers, warming it up before bringing his hand between Stan’s thighs. Stan let out a small moan when he felt Bill touch him, his finger gliding over Stan’s hole in smooth, small circles. 

“Daddy, please,” Stan whined when Bill continued to tease him. “Please, please, please.” The tension was so tight in his body; he needed Bill inside of him, he needed to be touched, to be fucked. He needed Bill to take him. 

“Aw, you sound so pretty when you ask nicely.” Bill slid his finger in just slightly, just to the first knuckle, then stopped. “Beg a little more.” Stan whimpered and looked down to find Bill watching him, his gaze making Stan shiver. 

“Please,” Stan cried. “Please, please, daddy, I need you so bad. Please fuck me, daddy, please.”

“That’s a good slut,” Bill praised, a satisfied grin on his face. He swiftly slid his finger into Stan, nestling into him as far as his finger could go. Stan let out a sound that was somewhere between a shout and a moan, instinctively trying to grab onto something only to be reminded of the silk around his wrists. “Fuck, you open up so nice for me, baby.” Bill slowly pumped his finger in and out, getting Stan used to the stretch. His skin grew hot under Bill’s attention, his eyes burning and intense as they watched his finger pump in and out of Stan’s slick hole. Stan gasped when Bill kissed the head of his cock and pressed a second finger inside of him. “You look so pretty with my fingers stretching you out like this.” Stan moaned softly and let his eyes flutter shut, sinking into the feeling of Bill’s fingers inside of him, stretching him out, brushing against him just so. It made his toes curl, made his breath come shorter and shorter as Bill worked him open. There was something so erotic about Bill fingering him; the way Bill could watch, up close, as he made Stan come apart. The way his mouth teased over Stan’s cock, just enough to make him squirm and whine just the way Bill wanted him to. 

“Daddy,” Stan whined mindlessly. Everything felt so amazing—he wanted to live in this moment forever.

“What is it, baby?”

“Feels so good.”

Bill chuckled, the sound full of adoration, and pressed a kiss to Stan’s hip. “Aw, but baby, daddy’s just getting started.” With that, suddenly there were three fingers inside Stan and a vibrator pressed against his cock.

“Fuck!” Stan cried, his wrists jolting uselessly. “Oh my god, oh my god, holy shit.” His body couldn’t decide if he wanted to squirm away from the intensity of it all or chase it, and chase it, and chase it until it sent him over the edge. He could barely get his mind together enough to whine, “Daddy, please, don’t wanna come yet.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Bill said. “You’re gonna come on daddy’s cock like a good slut.” But he didn’t let up on the vibrator, and he still had three fingers buried deep inside of him, thrusting fast and curling at just the right time to make Stan see stars.

“Fuck!” Stan was near tears now, the pleasure so intense and all-encompassing. “Daddy, I ca-can’t, fuck, fuck!”

“Yes you can, baby. You can handle it.” Bill’s voice was reassuring, but it was also commanding in a way that made Stan shiver. “I thought you wanted this, thought you wanted me to pay attention to you. Thought you wanted me to play with you like a toy.” Bill curled his fingers again, making Stan’s cock throb and twitch desperately against the vibrator. “Don’t you like being daddy’s little fuck toy, baby?”

“Yes,” Stan cried brokenly. Tears streaked down his cheeks from the effort not to come. “Use me, daddy. Use me, use me, please, fuck me, I need you so bad, daddy.” 

“Aw, that’s a good toy,” Bill praised. Then, abruptly, both the vibrator and Bill’s fingers were gone, leaving Stan crying for more, aching to have Bill close again. “Shh,” Bill soothed, kissing the tears on Stan’s cheeks. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Just lie back and let daddy take care of you, yeah? Gonna fuck you so hard, just the way you need. Daddy knows what you need.” Bill always knew how to calm Stan down. While he was still shaking, still horribly empty, his sobs quieted, and he managed to take in some deep breaths as he watched Bill stroke his cock, covering it in a generous amount of lube, getting it nice and slick. Stan moaned at the sight and rocked his hips eagerly. Bill’s hand held him still. Slotting easily between Stan’s legs, he teased the head of his cock over Stan’s hole. Stan bit his lip and tried to stay still, but he needed it so bad. “Fuck, love seeing how desperate you are for it,” Bill groaned as he pressed inside. Stan let out a small moan at the feeling, at the blunt pressure of Bill’s cock, the stretch. He loved Bill’s cock, loved feeling it stretch him open as Bill pressed inside of him. But Bill didn’t give him time to adjust this time, didn’t drag it out; he thrust hard into Stan, making him cry out from the sudden pleasure.

“Daddy,” Stan gasped, his voice blissful and begging and breathless. 

Stan could hear the smile in Bill’s voice as he teased him, “Aw, you like that, baby?” He pulled back slowly before thrusting back in, hard and fast and deep, punching out another moan from Stan. “You like it when daddy fucks you hard?”

“Yes,” Stan moaned. He opened his eyes and trailed them over Bill, over his broad, freckled shoulders and his toned chest, finally flickering up to his face. Stan loved seeing Bill above him. He loved the way Bill gripped his hips and spread his legs, like Stan really was just a toy for him to use. It was such an amazing release, submitting to Bill, knowing Bill would make him feel amazing, knowing he was making Bill feel good. Stan gave a hazy little smile as he looked up into Bill’s eyes and blinked slowly. Whereas Stan’s eyes were hooded and unfocused, Bill’s were intensely trained on Stan, trailing down from his face to where they were connected. 

“Fuck, that’s gorgeous,” he murmured. Stan whimpered when Bill pulled his hair, forcing him to look down his own body. “Look. Look at the way daddy fucks you.” Past his cock, which was leaking all over his stomach and nearly purple from how hard he was, Stan could see Bill’s cock thrusting in and out of him, disappearing and reappearing, could hear the sound of Bill’s hips against his ass ringing out in the room.

Stan let out a little, “Fuck,” as he watched, his voice high and breathy. Bill eased up on his grip, letting Stan’s head fall back to the pillow. “Daddy,” he whined again, “more, more, please.”

“You want it faster, baby?” Bill’s voice was dark and challenging and mischievous in a way that made Stan’s breath catch in excitement. Sure enough, Bill dug his fingers into Stan’s hips, surely hard enough to bruise—a thought that made Stan’s cock ache in the best way—and began fucking Stan even faster. Stan threw his head back, his back arching off the bed for a moment as pleasure overtook him. He hooked his legs around Bill, encouraging him. “Yeah, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Stan cried. “Yesyesyesyesyes, shit, oh my god.”

“I know, baby, I know. Always such a desperate little slut for daddy’s cock. Fuck, you take it so good, baby.” Bill was rocking Stan’s body back and forth with the force of his thrusts, and Stan went easily, happily. Everything felt so good, he could feel his mind getting fuzzier and fuzzier from it all. “God, fucking made for my cock, aren’t you? My perfect little personal fuck toy, all for me, isn’t that right?” Stan moaned and nodded. He gasped as Bill pressed down on his stomach. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel daddy’s cock fucking you, baby?” Stan moaned at the feeling, at the obscenity of it all. Bill slid his hand up Stan’s chest, his fingers ghosting over his nipples, making Stan whimper.

“H-harder,” he begged. “Fuck me, fuck me harder. Hit me, hit me, hit me, please, daddy, please.” He was near tears again, chasing his pleasure all while he couldn’t touch his desperately aching cock. 

Bill cupped Stan’s jaw with his hand and laughed darkly. “Yeah, you know how to use your words now, huh? God, you sound so good when you’re begging for it. So pretty, and all. Fucking. Mine.” He punctuated each word with a smack to Stan’s face, just like he’d asked for. Stan moaned the whole time, a blissed out smile dancing over his lips even as he felt tears run down his cheeks. Bill was fucking him so hard, so fast, and the pleasure of getting fucked melted in with the amazing pain blooming in his cheeks as Bill hit him once more. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, daddy,” Stan slurred, barely able to open his eyes to peer up at Bill. He was vaguely aware of red hair, of his blue eyes, but mostly all he knew was pleasure, all he knew was Bill’s cock inside of him, Bill’s voice running over his skin. He was barely aware that he was letting out a constant string of moans, punctuated with little gasps every time Bill brushed up against an especially nice spot inside of him. 

“That’s a good slut,” Bill praised. “So fucking cute when you get like this. You love getting fucked stupid, don’t you?” All Stan could do was nod, his body nearly completely lax as he trembled in Bill’s hands, in his restraints. “Fuck, you wanna come with daddy, baby?” Stan nodded and whined desperately, rocking his hips weakly. “I got you, baby,” Bill murmured as he buried his face in Stan’s neck, kissing his soft, sensitive skin. Stan mewled as he felt Bill’s hand wrap around his cock. “Daddy’s got you.”

“Daddy,” Stan cried as he felt his pleasure building, and building, teetering just on the edge. “Gonna come.” His words were nearly a hiccup, his voice was so breathless and small.

“Fuck, me too, baby. Come on, be a good slut and come on daddy’s cock.”

Stan cried as Bill groaned in his ear, stilled his hips, and pushed Stan over the edge with him. Stan’s entire body convulsed with it as he came all over Bill’s hand, all over himself. He was only vaguely aware of the warmth that filled him as Bill came inside of him, as everything he knew was warmth. All he knew was warm and fuzzy and pleasure, the embodiment of yesyesyespleasefuckmore. 

Stan tended to go somewhere else when Bill made him come that hard. He felt perfectly floaty and spacey as he began to gradually become aware of Bill kissing his hair and murmuring to him. “So good for me, baby. Can you come back for me? Such a good, perfect boy.” Stan gave a small sound as he came to, then became aware of the warm washcloth Bill was swiping over his stomach and between his legs. “That’s it, baby, so good for me.”

“Daddy,” Stan croaked groggily, pulling at his arms. Bill shushed him soothingly and set the washcloth aside.

“I’m here, Stanny baby. Let daddy help you down.”

Given that Stan’s limbs were still complete Jell-o, it was easy to let Bill untie him and massage his arms as he gently, slowly let them down. “That’s right, angel, so good. How are you feeling?”

“Amazing,” Stan sighed contentedly. The aches in his arms were dull and pleasant as they helped bring him back to consciousness. He smiled blearily up at Bill and pulled him down to cuddle into his side. Bill laughed softly and held him close, pressing kisses all over his face and hair. It made Stan’s body hum in the best way, joy and love setting every nerve gently alight.

“I love you so much,” Bill said softly, pressing a kiss to Stan’s forehead.

“Love you, too.” Stan’s words were still a bit slurred, but he was gradually coming to as he nuzzled his face into Bill’s chest.

“Can you drink some water for me, baby?”

Stan gave a small groan. “You have to help me sit up.”

Bill chuckled fondly at that. “I think I can manage that.” He slipped his arms around Stan and gently hoisted him up so that he could lean up against Bill, who reached over to the night stand and handed Stan his glass of water. He sipped it slowly, his eyes opening more and more with every sip.

“You back to Earth yet?” Bill asked with a grin.

“Mhm, think so,” Stan hummed. He kissed Bill’s cheek and leaned into him with another happy sigh, thanking him as he put the now empty glass back on the nightstand. “I’m hungry.”

“You wanna lie on the couch while I cut up some fruit for you?”

“Could you?” Stan looked up at him with wide eyes.

Bill beamed down at him and pressed a long, soft kiss to his lips. “I’d do anything for you.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Bill ended up practically carrying Stan to the couch. He was back mentally, but his body was still boneless, and he leaned heavily into Bill as he ate his fruit. Bill was stroking his hair and pressing light kisses wherever he could. After a bit of comfortable silence, Bill said quietly, “I’m suh-sorry if I didn’t p-pay enough att-t-ttention to you this week.”

Stan melted at the softness in his voice, at the faint stutter he always got when he was saying something that was important to him. With a grin, he said, “You more than made up for it.” Then he turned in Bill’s arms and kissed him. “Seriously, it’s okay. And I’ll make sure to let you know how I’m feeling next time.” 

Bill smiled at him and kissed him again. “I love you,” he whispered into Stan’s lips. 

Stan grinned and nuzzled his face into Bill’s. “I love you so much.”

“You wanna watch Planet Earth?”

“Only if you can turn it on without leaving the couch.”

Stan spent the next minute laughing his ass off as Bill attempted all sorts of gymnastics to reach the remote that was just out of his reach. He kissed him once he got it, unable to resist the proud way he beamed at his accomplishment. Ultimately, though, they spent the night too wrapped up in each other to pay the movie any attention anyway.

[lordnochybaty]

DRAGON AGE, working title: “Inquisitor!Cullen”, current word count: ~1000 words.

“There you are,” he heard suddenly, the voice snapping him out of his thoughts. “I swear this ship has only so many sides, yet you always find a new one to vomit over.”

Cullen smiled slightly, not bothering to raise his head as it hanged heavily between his shoulders.

“We all need some variety in life.”

“You can say that again. Maker, I can’t wait to get off this ship.”

“I thought you were faring quite well?” Cullen glanced at Carver questioningly.

“Well, I’m not marking our way in half-digested food, so that’s something.”

Cullen barely bothered to offer a short-lived glare. It seemed Carver was fairing as well as usually, complaining about everything mostly for the sake of it, but there was some additional nervousness to him. Tension tightly coiled in his arms and clenched jaw.

The usually difficult task of handling more personal conversations smoothly and confidently enough to peek at what was bothering his companion now seemed more daunting than ever. The sluggishness of his own thoughts barely allowed consideration of those of another. He turned towards the horizon, carefully trying to avoid looking at the constantly moving water and giving Carver space to tell him anyway if he felt like it.

“Last time I’ve been on the ship I was stuck in cargo with so many refugees there was hardly any air to breathe."

“I see why current accommodations are suiting you better.”

“Eh, I don’t know. Few dozens cramped refugees or Varric in a chatty mood. It is a rather hard choice between two evils.”

Cullen chuckled and Carver smirked at him with satisfied glee. The kid really liked being the witty one in any conversation, Cullen always suspected it was one of the reasons why they worked so well together - he provided little competition there.

“I almost pity Seeker Cassandra’s duty," he admitted.

“You’d think, right? She interrogated him for weeks. Yet she’s still eating those stories up.”

“I would hardly say so. It is clear she is losing her patience with him but I think she takes her duty very seriously.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But I hardly see why  Divine Justinia would care about a story of my brother’s mabari playing cards. He’s literally just telling her everything by now. Hawke’s horrible jokes that, Hawke’s awkward flirting this…”

Carver fell silent, not meeting Cullen’s gaze.

“It must not be easy for you to hear.”

Carver shrugged and crossed his arms trying to seem unaffected and yet looking more like a petulant child than ever.

[need-a-fugue]

We Grow Together (29)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tessa Sullivan (OFC)

Chapter Summary: Tessa finally learns what Lobe has in store for her people...

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right?

“That smells awful,” she tells him as he takes a seat across from her, setting down his mug in the process.

“It’s peppermint tea,” says with a smirk.

Tessa scrunches up her nose. “That’s disgusting. Be a man and drink some coffee.”

Cal lets out a smooth sort of chuckle as he leans back in his chair. “Nah. I gave up coffee a while ago. Too many jitters.” He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Maybe you should try tea too.”

She gives him an odious look. “I’m not jittery.”

“Okay,” he drawls out amid a sardonic laugh.

“I’m not,” she protests. “What the fuck?”

“See that?” he points at her. “That is irritability. Still working too much and never sleeping?” he asks with a knowing smirk. “You should at least try to stop drinking coffee after four.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she deadpans.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. In a low voice, he asks, “Want some more advice?” She simply stares ahead at him. “Back out of this meetup with Lobe.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head, dropping his eyes to avoid her glare. “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Cal – ”

“No,” he interrupts, looking up and jerking his hands into a silencing posture. “What are you doing?”

There’s a very real, very palpable tension in the air that throws her off. She’d been trying to block out his energy ever since he sat down, not at all interested in reliving old times by pulling in his… essence. But she couldn’t block out the unease he was putting out now. It was a sort of anger and apprehension in one, perhaps a bit of hostility too. She looks up at him with confused eyes. “Why are you so mad?” she asks without thinking.

“Mad?” he repeats, face turning stern. He leans in even further and hisses out, “I know you’re not looking for another job. I know that Stark just asked you to run some new division.”

Taken aback, she asks, “How do you know that?”

He scoffs. “People talk, sugar.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’m taking it. I figure, now’s a good time to look around and see if there’s anything… better out there.”

“Better than being on the board of what is arguably the single most powerful corporation in the world?” He gives her a skeptical stare. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t know me,” she replies, sounding every bit the petulant child. “Not anymore.”

He simply smiles in return. “Yes I do.” His eyes narrow as he continues to stare her down. “Now what are you up to?”

She looks away, leans back with her coffee cup in hand, and turns her gaze out the window to the passersby on the street. With a long sigh, she mutters, “How bad is it?” When Cal doesn’t respond, she turns her eyes back toward him, sees him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “What’s he doing, Cal?”

“He’s trying to create the Third Species,” he says without preamble.

For the briefest of moments, Tessa’s breath is taken away. The Third Species. It’s something that Xavier had taught them all about. When she was still a child, she had read John Sublime’s bizarre manifesto about worthy humans who could attain special powers by reaping them from enhanced individuals. These men and women could choose the abilities they believed they deserved… and then steal them from others. From mutants. In Sublime’s mind, mutants were nothing more than some sort of crop, something to be harvested and broken down and consumed for the benefit of others. It had turned her stomach that someone would think that way. And it had given her nightmares to realize that his ideas had sparked a sort of cult following.

During her time in the X-Men, there were at least two instances when they encountered these followers. They’d dubbed themselves the U-Men. And while they certainly played the part of dangerous, radical extremists, they did not ever seem to have any sort of special powers, despite claiming that they one day would. But what if they were right? What if they could harvest mutant powers and use them to enhance themselves. That sort of thing wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility. After all, Dr. Sublime had been a participant in the Weapon X program that had turned Logan into the Wolverine… and the Super Soldier program that had successfully created Captain America from a sickly, spindly Steve Rogers.

“He’s part of the U-Men?” she asks hesitantly.

Cal almost laughs. “Those lunatics? No way. This guy… he’s way more dangerous than a bunch of dorky zealots.” He raises an assessing brow. “He’s a businessman. And he recognizes an opportunity.”

“To give people… super powers?” Her voice goes high at the end, taking on a disbelieving and almost fearful tone.

“Look around, sugar,” he says, falling back into his seat. “Ever since aliens invaded our planet and your boss put together a band of merry gentleman with superpowers of their own to fight it… everybody wants to be… better.”

Her brow furrows as she states, “That’s not true.”

“Okay, not everybody. Some people want everyone with super powers to be eradicated.” She gives him a horrified look and he smiles at her gently. “What happens every time there’s another mass shooting in this country?” he asks. When she doesn’t respond, only twists her face in confusion, he goes on. “People either want to ban all guns… eliminate the threat. Or they want to arm themselves to the teeth so that they can fight fire with fire.” He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of hers. “People are scared. And they want to be able to protect themselves. Now more so than ever. And in this day and age – when aliens attack and robots plan a genocide and the number of mutants born everyday is on the rise… and now inhumans? People are looking for more than just a conceal and carry license to protect themselves and their loved ones.”

She sits with that for a long moment before shaking off his hand and sitting upright. “So he’s taking Sublime’s plans for creating the Third Species and he’s going to try to make it a reality. And then he’s going to sell it,” she states, no question in her words.

Calvin nods. “He’s already got a team of four scientists working on it. Two geneticists, including Scofield. And two bioengineers. The plan is to attack the problem from both sides.”

“Because Sublime believed that tissue transplantation would cause the genesis of mutant powers in the host,” she extrapolates.

“And there might be some validity to that,” he continues. “At least that’s what the bioengineers are saying.”

“But really, the best option would be gene therapy.”

“Which Sublime was unaware of in his day,” he supplies. “So Lobe’s thinking that between the two disciplines he can accomplish what that other lunatic couldn’t.”

Her features darken and her hands wrap so tightly around the mug in front of her that her fingers go white. “Where is he getting the… materials?”

Cal breathes out slowly. “I’ve brought him a few black market items. Ones I’ve managed to acquire through old contacts.”

She closes her eyes and tries to fight off the sudden swell of nausea. “Because you’re in acquisitions.”

“Everything’s still just getting started,” he assures her. “They’re only running preliminary tests… or something. I know they aren’t into any trials yet.” He pauses and a shadow flits across his face. “It’s only a matter of time before they start looking for candidates.” She looks up at him and he hesitates before saying, “For harvesting.”

Tessa nods her head, the movement growing more insistent as she thinks about what’s been said. And what needs to be done. “So we have to shut him down,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. “We have to make sure it doesn’t get that far.”

He reaches across the table and takes hold of her wrist. With his other hand, he wrestles the coffee mug from her grip and then holds tightly to both of her hands. “I promise you I won’t ever participate in anything like… that.” With a serious look and a more intense squeeze, he says, “But I don’t know that you or anyone else can stop this train.”

She pulls away harshly, her eyes suddenly shooting around the café cagily. “How can you say that?”

“It’s the times we’re living in, sweetheart. Look around you.”

“So I should just stand by and do nothing? Just let some… some human use my people for profit?”

He laughs bitterly. “Your people? Give me a fucking break.” He gives her a disgusted look. “When was the last time you even talked to your people? To your family?”

“That’s not…” she starts, losing the words to defend herself almost immediately.

“You’ve been hiding and denying who you are for so long…” He scoffs loudly. “At this point, I’m more in touch with mutants than you are.”

“God help them, then,” she issues out angrily.

“Look, you want to finally stop pretending you’re something you’re not, great. Go for it. I, for one, think the world could use Supernova right about now.” She visibly flinches when he uses the name. Supernova. An alias she hasn’t heard nor spoken aloud in years. “But I’m telling you, for your sake, stay away from Lobe.”

She leans across the table, positioning herself mere inches from him. “I won’t let this go,” she says. “I will bring him down. So I’m telling you, for your sake, stay out of my way.” And she rises and storms out of the café.

[ipaintmylipsred]

she’s more of an artemis in muddy laces. than a venus in furs.

day 4. jonrya week 2020. teacher/student au. rating: M title from boys by henry jamison link to gifset by @youcancalllmequeenjane :)

“Stop staring at me,” Arya grumbles in the dark room. She’s on her back, eyes glued to the overhead light that’s off, trying to focus on something, anything other than the man to her left, and the look of pity he’s directing her way.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression” Jon responds, his attempt at simultaneously feigning sleep while secretly gawking at Arya for the last half hour, finally forgotten. Of all the things he could have said, this has got to be the worst.

“Please, just stop,” Arya snaps, turning her neck to face him. She had meant to give him a glare, the kind her mother uses to shut her up. She must fail at it miserably, there’s nothing stern in the way her bottom lip quivers or how tears have crept in the corners of her eyes. Jon doesn’t look subdued but sympathetic, and the hopeful chance he might keep quiet dissolves when he opens his mouth.

“Arya,” it’s slightly louder than a whisper, letting in more emotion than he’d ever normally allow. The soft way he says her name warms her like the heat of a summer sun, it’s a familiar feeling and a dangerous game when she’s already been burned. She chooses to ignore both it and him.

“Arya,” he repeats louder. There it is, the authoritative tone she’s used to. The sharp edges of his voice pulling her out of this air-conditioned hotel room and into the stuffy, off-white walls of his classroom.  

“Mr. Snow” Arya barks back, making Jon’s face fall. She doesn’t know if it’s from the cold formality or the fact he’s always hated his surname, or rather, the lack of one. His ability to remain unaffected being called by it daily, after years of despising it, still surprises her.  

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, raking a hand through his hair. Arya wants to reach across the inches that separate them and do it herself. Over the last decade, Jon made a habit of mussing her hair, it’s an affection she’s always on the brink of trying to return. Instinctively, her fingers twitch, but she busies them with the white sheet tucked around her waist instead. She’s embarrassed herself enough for one night.

“Let’s just pretend it never happened,” she adds, her attempt of sounding calm and composed thwarted by the lump in her throat.

“Arya, listen, I care about you, but-”

“If you cared about me, at all, Jon, you would stop right there, because I’m willing to bet my left tit, that I’m going to hate whatever else comes out of that stupid mouth of yours,” Arya retorts, relieved for how quickly that shuts him up.

“I’m just going to get some sleep then,” Jon states resolved. The only remnants of their disagreement are displayed by the soft fabric that remains tightly held in Jon’s fisted hands and the steady pull of the comforter toward his side of the bed.

“Thank God,” Arya bites back, petulant, jerking the blanket back to cover herself, and turning her backside to him.  

“I knew this was going to be a bad idea,” Jon mumbles, turning to face the wall.

“How prophetic of you”.

“Can you stop being such a smart-ass?”

“I could” Arya quips back. A satisfied smirk spreading on her lips when she hears Jon groan in response.

“Let’s just get through tonight please”.

“Yeah alright, because after tonight we will only have to see each other for the plane ride tomorrow, where we’re sitting side by side, the next three months where we’re sitting in the same room, and the rest of our lives, where we will be sitting many places, I hope for my sake, that John Krasinki’s face will be one of them,” She can feel the bed shake from the vibration of Jon’s laughter, it’s rhythm unsteady and unwilling to be contained. A smile creeps onto her own face, always pleased with herself at getting Jon Snow to smile, but then she remembers what he said, what she did, and what he didn’t, and the smile is gone.

“So, yeah, let’s just get through tonight then, yeah?” Arya says, reiterating Jon’s earlier proposal.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jon counters, flipping onto his back.

“I’m sorry,” Arya begins, craning her neck to look behind, Jon’s right hand is crossed awkwardly on his chest, hovering above his left arm like he jerked it back quickly only seconds before. “Understanding what you meant hasn’t exactly been my strong suit tonight”.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” he doesn’t sound cruel, not that he ever would, it’s never been Jon’s way. She can feel his eyes on her, soft and lonely, like they always seem to be. It’s how he had been looking at her earlier, when he’d said those damned words, convincing Arya to act on the affection she hides and play the fool by kissing him.

“I don’t,” Arya huffs out in frustration.

“Alright then, goodnight Arya”.

After ten unsuccessful minutes and the inability to think of anything other than Jon’s words, rejection, and eyes, Arya gives up on trying to sleep. She reaches out, flicks the bedside lamp on, and sits up in the bed, arms crossed at her chest.

“Why did you say that?” Arya asks, giving in to her own selfish need of knowing. Curiosity has always left her with far more wounds than anything physical and she knows tonight it will add another cut.

“Say what?” Jon asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and turning to look at her.

“Don’t make me say it,” Arya whispers, biting her lip. Jon sits up in the bed, the closeness of their bodies heightened in the shared space. He raises his hand, scratching lightly at his beard, deciding. Deciding on the best way to take them back, most likely.

“Because it’s the truth,” he resolves. Arya can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes her throat when he says it, because of all the reasons, she had not expected to hear that.  

“Then, why-?”

“Because it’s a truth that doesn’t exist.” Jon says, tearing his eyes away from Arya to focus on his hands.

“That’s weird, I was here talking to you and then I blinked myself into a calculus lesson,” Arya says scooting closer to him.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” Jon says, finally meeting her eyes. Arya drops her gaze downward, a disappointed oh slipping from her lips. “Not because it’s not the truth,” Jon says, reaching for her left hand. Holding her breath, Arya watches him stroke his thumb against her own, and it feels, right. She knows that this is right. Everything about her and Jon always has been. When she looks to Jon’s face, his eyes are concentrated on where their hands are joined, the barest of smiles on his lips, and she knows he must feel the same, even as he pulls his hand away and leaves the bed. “You’re my student, you’re seventeen years old, and you’re my best friend’s little sister” Jon finishes, pacing the floor like a trapped animal.

“So,” Arya responds, crawling to the edge of the bed, knees folded beneath her. Her one word response ceases Jon’s pacing, and he’s standing in front of her, a look of shock straining his features.

“So?” he says, sounding almost offended. Arya wants to laugh, but she doubts Jon finds anything about their situation funny. She reaches out and grabs his hands instead, pulling him closer to the bed, and finds herself surprised he’s allowing it.  

“Yeah, so? I’ll graduate in three months and turn eighteen in even less”.

“You’re still Robb’s little sister” Jon says, his voice holds guilt, but his hands still hold her.  

“Is that the only reason?” Arya asks, understanding while simultaneously trying to understand. She pulls him down to sit beside her, and is relieved at how easily he allows this too.

“Reason?” Jon mumbles in confusion. If Arya weren’t so on edge about his response, she’d call him daft, but he looks almost ready to flee so Arya falls back onto something she has a limited use for, patience.

“Is that the only reason you didn’t kiss me back?” Arya asks, watching Jon for a reaction, she’s still holding onto him with one hand, her knee nearly touching his thigh, but his eyes are fixated somewhere on the floor.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” he sounds lost, and Arya thinks that if he allows it, allows this, allows her, he might be found.

“Look at me Jon,” she commands, the uncertainty of her nerves hiding within the confidence of her voice. He complies, lifting his gaze, hovering on the bareness of her thighs before meeting hers. Arya has never been good with boys, she’s never been conventionally pretty or anything close to delicate. She’s competitive and her skills with sports natural, but the game-playing mentality of dating has always seemed boring and her ability to read signals impossible. She’s inept at knowing if and what a boy wants from her or what she wants from them. Or maybe none of that’s true. Maybe it’s that she’s never wanted anything from any of them to begin with. Maybe she’s only ever wanted what’s right in front of her. Because when his eyes do reach hers, there’s a warm, hungry feeling in her stomach and a sensation of novelty as it travels, stills and burns between her thighs. She knows with absolution what it is that Jon Snow wants, by looking at him. He wants nothing less than to touch, taste, and devour her. And all she wants, is to let him.

“You want me,” Arya voices, sounding breathy and foreign even to herself. It’s not a question, but Jon nods all the same. It’s almost trance-like, the way his jaw tilts up to fall down, it’s the slightest transfer of movement, and when the AC starts up like an uncomfortable bystander in the room witnessing lines on the cusp of being crossed, it’s broken.    

“We should get some sleep,” Jon’s deep voice sounds especially hoarse and Arya refuses for tonight to end this way. The space has grown cooler, the tension has been cut,  but the goosebumps on her arms, sharing skin with freckles and scars, come from the heat of her want and not the chill of  the room. Tonight can end in a dozen different ways, some she would prefer more than others, but she refuses for it end like so much of life is and will always be, unfinished.

“No,” Arya says easily, it’s a familiar word from childhood, perhaps the first one she’d ever spoken. It’s voiced when people ask less of what she is and more of what she is not. Jon blinks at her, unmoved, just watching her, pupils blown wide. She reaches out a hesitant hand, offsetting the harshness of her defiant mantra with the softness of her palm against his jawline. He shudders from the contact, and Arya knows she would give Jon anything, if his breathing continues to remain contingent on her touch. Jon has been in her life for over a decade, filling her years with sarcasm, affection, and unwavering acceptance. Jon knows her, and right now, being here with Jon, and choosing to be soft, doesn’t feel like much a choice, it doesn’t feel like coming home, it’s like remembering you were always there.

“You want me,” Arya begins, letting her hand slip from his face, a smile tugging at her lips from the frown that forms on his when she does so. “Even though I’m your student,” Arya continues,  placing her hands on his shoulders, “and seventeen,” she throws a leg across his body, sitting down on his lap. “and Robb’s little sister,” His hands grip her hips roughly and she moans from the surprise and satisfaction. “you want me” she can feel his hardness, hardly contained in his sleeping pants and rocks against him, seeking friction for the wetness that’s formed in the fabric of her cotton underwear.

“We can’t,” Jon’s forehead falls against her neck and he places a chaste kiss against her heaving chest. He still holds her hips in his hands, his finger curling into the flesh of her ass. He’d been using them to guide her movements, now he was using them to keep her still.

“Tell me,”Arya says, fingering his curls and pulling him backwards forcefully. “Do you?”

“Arya,” Jon whispers, lifting one hand to wrap around her slender waist.

“I want you to say it,” Arya pleads, letting her hand fall, growing tired of being the only one wanting and fighting for it.

“This is a bad idea,” Jon counters, his grip remaining tight.

“No, not that, you’ve already said that,” Arya replies sardonically, squirming above him, wondering how someone can grow both sullen and harder at the same time.

“It is,” Jon says, defeat prevailing in both tone and the way his hands drop back to his side.

“I do,” Arya says resolute. More for herself at this point. He can dress it up, assuage his honor code, and call himself a hero, but beneath her sits a coward. “For years, I’ve wanted you” Jon watches her mouth, transfixed, as if just now realizing the source of Arya’s actions. Had he thought it sudden, her want of him? Did he think it was a few kind words and not the overwhelming attraction she’s been hiding for years that catalyzed this between them. “You were my first crush, Jon,” Jon releases a deep exhale, and Arya’s fascinated by her words, and  the affect they are having on him.

“The first time I touched myself I thought of you,” Arya can hardly believe the what she’s saying at this point. Too caught up in the feel of Jon’s body between her legs and the incredulous look on his face.

“I thought it would be the tall guy from that show you’re always watching,” Jon says, finally finding the ability to speak.

“So you’ve thought about it, have you?” Arya asks coyly, making Jon’s pale face redden. It’s an unfamiliar and pretty thing, to watch him blush and not brood.

“Obviously, Jim Halpert has made a few appearances over the years, but now, the only way I can get off, is when I think of you, just last night, I pictured us in your classroom, I was sitting at that black, leather chair behind your desk, with your face between my thighs, you whispering that I’m your good girl,” The irises of Jon’s eyes have gone entirely black, and at some point his hands have wandered back along the contours of her body, one slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, the other playing with drawstring of her sleep shorts. “and then there’s no more whispering, just me, screaming your name”.

“Arya,” he breathes out,pulling her against him, and crashing his mouth hard against her own. A smile forms on her lips and Jon uses this to his advantage, slipping his tongue between them. The sensation is heady, and raw, and right, and Arya wants more. She wants everything.

“Touch me,” Arya whimpers, she will worry over how weak willed she sounds tomorrow. Tonight the moon could crash into the ocean, and while the waves consumed them, she would still be begging for him to touch her.

“I am touching you,” Jon whispers playfully, between kisses, twining his finger into her messy, brown hair.

“I’m glad you find this all humorous,” Arya groans out, pulling back to pout. “But if your fingers do not find their way into my inside of me in the next five-,” Arya keens, feeling Jon’s thumb at her clit, his index finger probing at her wet entrance, before she can even finish speaking.