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scuttling · 3 years

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Impure

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 4,557 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Priest kink, Religion, Confessional, Masturbation, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Unprotected sex, Somehow also sweet Summary: Hotch is a hot priest and steamy, smutty stuff happens. That's it, that's the fic. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. Link to A03 or read below! When Sophie Cortes moves to Whitehall, Virginia in the hopes of starting over, she expects it to be difficult. Removed completely from her family, her friends, the job she loved, and the only way of life she’s known for 28 years—it’s hard, and she prays for strength every day for a week before she passes a small Catholic church on her way to the post office. She hadn’t noticed it before, and she smiles, makes a vow to attend mass the following Sunday, and feels for the first time in a long time like God might actually be on her side.

She feels that way for a very, very short time, because the moment she lays eyes on the priest—Father Aaron Hotchner, the sign by the door says—she realizes she’s doomed.

He is not at all what she’d expected in this sleepy, pseudo-Southern town, in that he is hot like burning: he’s in his forties, tall, and kind of beefy, actually, with arms that fill out his clerical shirt a little too well, and a handsome face, dark hair, a kind smile. She takes a seat in the back, the first week she attends, but when he looks out at the congregation, she feels like his eyes are on her and only her. It makes her sweat more than the July heat, and she wets her lips, feels every bit the sinner she is.

The second week isn’t any better, or the third, fourth, fifth. Each time, she enters hopeful and leaves a horny, desperate mess. The sixth week, she confesses.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been... a while since my last confession. I’m new to town—you probably haven’t even noticed me—and I’m trying to start a new life. I was taking a walk around the neighborhood, and I found your little church, and I thought maybe it was God’s way of trying to help me on my journey.”

“It was. He brought you here for a reason,” Father Hotchner says through the lattice of the confessional booth, and Sophie exhales, leans her head back.

“No, Father. It wasn’t God who led me here, it was the Devil himself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the moment I saw you standing there, tall, strong, your hands wrapped around the edges of the pulpit, I began having impure thoughts, and they haven’t gone away. The moment I step foot in those doors, my core aches; I try to rub discreetly against the pew for some relief, but there are too many people around me, so I just sit there, hot and swollen, dripping wet, listening to your voice. When I kneel, I kneel for you, not God.” She breathes slowly, in and out of her nose, tries to calm herself down. “You talk about sin, Father, and while you do my body begs for yours; sometimes you pause to swallow, and I watch your throat, and I wonder if that’s you feeling me wanting you.” He is quiet for a moment before speaking again.

“You are right: Lustful thoughts are the work of the Devil. But you can overcome them.”

“I can’t, Father. I’ve tried. I’ve prayed for God’s guidance. I’ve been coming here for six weeks, and each time I see you I crave the touch of your hand, your mouth on my body. I always leave quickly when your sermon is over, because if you saw me, flushed, my nipples hard, my eyes wide, you would know what I’ve been thinking, Father, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You were made by God in His image. You couldn’t disappoint me.”

“It doesn’t disappoint you to know I’m thinking of it right now? Of how the only thing between us is this partition, and how if I could get into your lap, maybe I could rub myself to climax, feel your hands on my hips, urging me on, until we both come, here in His house? Because that’s all I can think about, Father.” Tears well up in her eyes, but his voice is soothing.

“That’s okay. It’s alright. I’m not disappointed. I can help you through this.”

“How? Please tell me how, Father. I’ll do anything.”

“First, I want you to recite the Act of Contrition each morning. I want you to talk to God and tell Him you’re sorry, and then I want you to forgive yourself.”

“Forgive myself?” The idea seems insane, after everything she’s confessed to him.

“Yes. You deserve compassion as a child of God. And you should give yourself credit, for despite the heat of your flesh, you haven’t acted on your impure thoughts. God will have mercy because of your resistance. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”

“Good. May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” Sophie leaves, and her hands are trembling. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. I’m not sure you’ll remember me…” The priest shifts a little, Sophie can see it through the barrier that separates them.

“I remember you. Have you forgiven yourself? Have you spoken to God?”

“I’ve tried, Father. I’ve done my penance, I’ve prayed, but I’m still so weak. Today, I watched a bead of sweat drip down your neck, and I wanted to run my tongue over it, follow it into your clothes and taste you, warm and salty. I’m soaked and throbbing even now, just recalling how my body reacted. It hurts.” He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry you are in pain, both mental and physical. But with God, you are strong. With God, nothing is impossible. You will get through this.”

“I didn’t just have impure thoughts this week, Father. I—I touched myself, and I imagined it was your hand. Your fingers inside me, filling me. I came to the thought of you, Father. Will I be forgiven?”

“God forgives you, and I forgive you.” She closes her eyes tightly, sighs.

“Thank you, Father. What is my penance?”

“I want you to spend one hour a day sitting on your bed, completely still and silent. I want you to think of all of the blessings God has given you, all of the ways He has made you strong. I also want you to donate your hands to a good cause; you know the nursing home on Fifth Avenue is always looking for volunteers. Maybe, if your hands are occupied doing God’s work, the temptation to use them in an impure manner will leave you.”

“Thank you, Father. I will.”

“May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”

“Have you done your penance, my girl?”

“Yes, Father. I meditated and volunteered until I was so exhausted each night that I fell right to sleep.”

“And what was the outcome? Do you feel better?” She feels shame for what she is about to say.

“I didn’t think of you, but I dreamed of you.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I dreamed of laying beneath you, Father. I dreamed of being taken by you. I dreamed of you filling me up with come and whispering in my ear that it was God’s will.” The priest exhales deeply.

“Did you have the same dream every night?”

“No, Father. One night I dreamed of kneeling to pray, but then taking you into my mouth, performing an act of service on you. You came in my mouth and gave me five Hail Mary’s for worshipping at an altar that was not God’s.”

“Is there more?”

“Yes, Father. I dreamed of your head between my legs, tasting me. I called out your name in pleasure, and you held me tightly and pushed your tongue inside me until I cried, it felt so good. Then you spilled on my skin and—and praised me for fulfilling my duty to God.” His voice is soft when he responds.

“I think it may be time for private counseling.”

“Here at the church, Father?”

“Yes, with me. Once a week.”

“Father, I don’t know if—” She can barely look at him without moaning; how can he expect her to be counseled in his office, just feet from him… alone?

“Trust me. I will help you talk to God. We will find a way to remove these impure thoughts from your mind so you can live in God’s image as intended.”

“Yes, Father, thank you, Father.”

“Amen.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.”

“You didn’t come to counseling.” He sounds disappointed, and she takes a trembling breath.

“No, Father. I’m sorry. You were giving communion, and I opened my mouth for you, and you placed the body of Christ on my tongue, and I… Forgive me, Father. I went into the bathroom and I touched myself. I couldn’t face you after that.”

“You touched yourself… here?” Shame makes her face heat, her eyes water.

“Yes, Father, I’m so sorry. I tried to resist, I did.”

“Did you have an orgasm?”

“Yes, Father. A strong one. That’s the closest you’ve gotten to me, and I couldn’t help the way my body reacted.”

“It’s okay. God forgives you, and I forgive you. Please come to counseling this week, no matter what.”

“Yes, Father. What is my penance?”

“Five Our Fathers, and I want you to wear a rubber band on your wrist and snap it every time you think of me. Maybe the pain will be a reminder to keep your thoughts pure.”

“I will, Father, thank you.”

“Amen.” “Father Hotchner. My name is Sophie Cortes, I…” He stands from his desk, nods stoically.

“I know. Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to two armchairs in the corner of the room, and when she perches on one, smoothing her sundress beneath her, he takes the other. His eyes linger on her legs, and she instantly feels shame for the way she’s dressed, even though she’d felt confident and beautiful when she left the house. “You’re here because of impure thoughts that won’t go away. We’ve tried meditation, and service, and praying, but nothing seems to be working. I see you’ve been wearing the rubber band.” He nods to her wrist, and she swallows.

“Yes, Father, but I’m sorry, it’s complicated things further.”

“How so?” he asks with a tilt of his head. It’s so much harder for her to concentrate now that she can see him, now that he’s more than just a shadowy figure in the confessional box. And so close...

“It turns out, I find pleasure in the sting. It’s made me imagine other pleasurable, painful things.”

“Such as?” She sighs deeply, feels dirty, hopes it won’t make him look at her differently.

“Receiving spanking as penance, Father. Your strong hands hitting my thighs and behind until I’m a panting, dripping mess, begging for God’s forgiveness, and yours.” He wets his lips, leans in a little closer.

“Do you think that would help?” She can smell his after-shave, just like she could at communion, and she shifts in her seat, crosses her legs.

“I don't think so, Father. I would… want you even more, afterward.” He nods, pushes a hand through his dark hair.

“I’ll admit, I’ve been struggling, trying to decide how to go about counseling you. I’ve thought of reading scripture to you...” She squeezes her legs together, knows that wouldn’t work. She would only be turned on more, and that’s part of why she feels so messed up in the head. “I’ve thought of kneeling beside you, praying with you, your hands in mine, so we can talk to God together.” Her breath comes quickly at the thought, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think any of that will solve your problem, though, do you?”

“I don’t know, Father. I don’t—I don’t think so.”

“I think there’s only one thing that will help you, Miss Cortes, and I want you to know I don’t recommend this lightly. I have spent many nights talking to God about you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. And I remembered that sometimes, rules aren’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes, we are allowed to bend them, in the right circumstances, and I think this situation is one of those circumstances.” He sits back in his chair, and he’s breathing heavily too, she notices. “Come here.”

Her mind goes abruptly blank.

“Come… there?” she asks, and he swallows, nods.

“Yes. In my lap. If you want to.” She wants to—that’s the whole reason she’s here—and he’s telling her she can, so she stands, takes a shaky breath, and settles on his thighs. He runs his hands carefully over her legs, then up her arms, caresses her cheeks. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she answers, breathless, and he slides his hands down her throat, over her breasts, and she moans at the touch.

“I think the only way to resolve the problems you’re having, Miss Cortes, would be to satisfy you. To give you what you’ve been thinking of since the first time you entered my church. Do you want me to do that?”

“Yes, Father.” She closes her eyes, and he gently cups her breasts, squeezes them in his hands. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“Give me a Hail Mary,” he says, and she would do anything he asks in that tone of voice. She nods.

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee.” His hands move to her waist, and she sighs. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” His hands move to her thighs, and he pushes up her dress, rubs them up until his fingers meet the hem of her panties. She swallows hard. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen. Another,” he instructs gently, and he rubs his fingers against the soaked crotch of her panties, earning a soft moan.

“Hail Mary Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” He pushes her panties to the side, his fingers gliding over her aching, wet heat, and she moans again, recites faster. “Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen,” he says, breathless. He guides a finger inside her and she skims her own hands along her body, trembles in his grasp. “Another.”

“Hail Mary Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—Jesus,” she sighs, when he slips another finger inside, and his other hand rests on her ass, putting pressure there, encouraging her to move. She lifts her hips and sinks back down against his hand, and he wets his lips, blows out a long, measured breath.

“Keep going, Miss Cortes.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She gasps, grips the arms of the chair with her fingers and rides his hand, looking down into his deep, dark eyes. He squeezes her ass.

“Good girl. I want you to come on my fingers. You’ve imagined them inside you—does this feel better?”

“Yes, Father.” She rides faster, moaning, and he fists her dress in his hand, lifts it so he can watch her take him in, which makes her shiver. “Oh, please.”

“What is it? What do you need?” he asks, dropping her dress to touch her cheek.

“Another finger, Father? Please?” His brow furrows, determined, and he adds another; she pumps her hips four times, whines, and comes, clutching his shirt at his shoulders. When she’s spent, she sags against him, panting, and he holds her close, rubs a hand up and down her back.

“That was perfect. You did exactly what I wanted. Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you, Father,” she murmurs, sitting up in his lap, and though she would love to kiss him, or run her fingers through his hair, she’s fairly certain that’s not what this is.

He offers her a tissue to clean up, slides his fingers out carefully and cleans them off as well, and she sits back in her own chair, legs crossed again. He looks at her seriously, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I hope that helps you, Miss Cortes. I know you don’t want to have those impure thoughts.”

“No, Father. Thank you, I… I hope so too.” He nods, takes her hands in his, closes his eyes.

“Amen.” He opens his eyes.

“I’ll take your confession Sunday, and then see you for counseling next week. We’ll see how you feel then.”

“Okay. Thank you again.” They both stand, and he walks her to the door; his eyes linger on her face, and she ducks her head, walks down the hall.

That night, she dreams of hands on her hips, holding her down, and helping her move. She wakes to a puddle in her panties. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.” She knows she sounds tired when she speaks, and he sighs at the sound of her voice.

“Tell me your sins, Miss Cortes,” he says low. She shivers.

“It didn’t work, Father. If anything, I think it made it worse. I dreamed of you again.”

“I dreamed of you, too.” She sits in silence, shocked, and her heart races. “Did you know I make house calls? For counseling. If a member of the congregation is in need.” She hums, shifts where she sits.

“I didn’t know that, Father. I might… I think that might help me. Will you have time tonight?”

“Yes. I can be there around seven, if that works for you. We can try again.” She gasps softly, presses her thighs together.

“Yes, please, Father.”

“Okay. Five Hail Mary’s for me, Miss Cortes. May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of his love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, by his power given me, forgive and absolve you from all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen.” When Father Hotchner arrives at her apartment that night, he looks like a completely different man—all because of his eyes. They are smoldering, stormy, and the way they sweep over her body when she invites him in, offers him coffee… It makes her mouth water.

She pours a cup for each of them, but they never get a chance to drink it, because he takes her face in his hands and kisses her deeply, passionately, leaving her breathless. When the kiss breaks, she walks them back to the bedroom, and his broad hands grope at her, pulling her dress over her head and tugging her close for another kiss.

“Sophie,” he murmurs, and she puts her hands on his belt, fingers on the clasp.

“Please, Father, may I?” He nods, kisses her again, and she opens it, then his pants, and he guides her back against the bed; he begins at her throat, kissing her hot and wet, and he trails his mouth down her body, over her breasts, her stomach, down to her panties. He mouths at her soaked core, and she moans, arches up off the bed. “Oh, yes.”

He looks up at her, eyes hooded with lust, and he guides her panties off, presses his lips against her pussy in a deep kiss. He flicks his tongue a little, so she’s squirming, whining, and then slides back up her body to lick at her throat. “You taste like sin,” he whispers in her ear, and the moan that passes her lips is pornographic and filthy.

“Forgive me, Father,” she pants in return, touching his throat while he kisses her, and his hands press hard against her waist.

“No need, my girl. This is what God wants—I wouldn’t have dreamed of you if it wasn’t.”

She’s not entirely sure that’s how it works, but she’s not about to argue, not when he’s crawling back down to eat her pussy like it’s a feast he can’t resist, his hands on her thighs spreading her open for a gentle but unrelenting tongue.

“Oh, yes. Yes, right there, please,” she whimpers, and when her hands fall to his shoulders, he picks them up and puts them on his head, encouraging her to tug at his hair. She tips her throat back, moans, and tightens her fingers there, so his tongue is focused just where she wants him, and when she comes she comes wildly, arching up off the bed and clutching his head and nearly screaming her pleasure.

He kisses a path back up her body while she catches her breath, sinking back against the bed, and his tongue in her mouth is hot and dirty, tasting of her. It makes her head swim.

“Can I press inside you, Sophie? Can I make love to you and come inside you like you dreamed?” Her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

“Oh, yes, please, Father.” He pushes down his underwear and takes his cock in hand, presses the wet head inside her slowly; her hands move to his waist, fisting in his shirt, pulling him close, and he groans deeply when he slides fully inside. He kisses her, messy, frantic, and begins thrusting.

“I knew you were sent for me the moment I saw you,” he pants, and she moves beneath him, eyes focused on his gorgeous face and the expressions he makes when he glides in and out of her. “It was the first time you came for mass—you thought I hadn’t noticed you, but you caught my attention on that first day and never let go.” He nibbles her throat, and she rubs her hands over his shoulder, his head, pulling his hair and urging him deeper. “The version of me you dreamed of was right, Sophie; this is God’s will.”

She moans, her head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed, so much pleasure rushing through her body it feels like she’s floating, and she holds him close while he comes inside her, while he moans her name.

They stay there, arms wrapped around each other, hands sweeping over their bodies, and he pulls her close for a series of slow, passionate kisses that make her hum.

When they shower together, he washes her body, his hands careful and reverent, and he helps her dry off just as gently, with a soft, pleased smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?” he asks when they climb back into bed, their limbs entwined, his hand smoothing over her back, and she smiles too, a little shy.

“I feel good, Father, though I am wondering if you make these particular kinds of house calls often.” He laughs lightly, brings his hand up to caress her cheek, and he presses his lips gently against hers.

“This is a house call I’ve never made before,” he assures her, and he sweeps his thumb over her lips. “And one I’ll never make for another woman, I can promise you.”

“Will you make more for me?” she asks, truly curious, and his face softens, he nods.

“Yes, for as long as you’ll let me. I find it hard to condemn our thoughts as merely lustful and impure when I also feel a tenderness for you that’s impossible to ignore. I think you are a gift for me,” he murmurs, kissing her, “and I trust that God has reasons for bringing us together the way He did.”

They lay together a little longer, touching and kissing, and she moans when he presses a hand against her ass.

“May I make a confession, Father?” she asks, licking her lips, and he nods, pulls her closer. “I had one dream I didn’t mention to you, and I would like to see if we can replicate it. Can you come again?” He grinds his hips against her, and she feels him stiff and hot, sighs against his shoulder.

“Anything for you, my girl. What did you dream?” With an innocent smile, she pulls him close, whispers in his ear, and he leans back far enough to roll her onto her stomach—taking her breath away—and press his cock into her. He props himself up on one hand, runs the other over her ass and hip as he pumps inside, and she is swiftly ready to come again, moaning and gripping the sheets.

“Yes, yes,” she whines, and she guides his hand to her breast, where they squeeze together. “Harder, Father, please,” she begs, and he drapes his body over top of hers, mouths at her shoulder, and pounds his hips against her, leaving her an eager, wanton mess.

“You are perfection personified. My gift from God,” he whispers, and when he leans down to kiss her neck, she grips his hair in her fingers, moans.

“If I’m yours, come inside me again so I never forget it.” His hips move faster, less rhythmically, and when he spills inside her, she shudders, comes too; his hands are gentle again while they come down, and for the first time since she set foot in Father Hotchner’s church, she actually feels satisfied.

The next time he gives her communion, she looks into his eyes and offers her mouth; she offers it again later, and she can safely say that she prefers his body to the body of Christ.

#tw religion #aaron hotchner/original female character #priest kink #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader

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fear-before-valor · 3 years

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AU Ficlet: Jim, who was raised by the Order from the age of five, attends Arcadia Oaks High, for his first day of human high school. Weird things happen in Arcadia, though, and his appearance seems to be one such weird thing to the residents in this small, strange town...

Aka: How an Order-raised Jim met Toby and Claire

Words: 2939 II Warnings: none II ok to rb --

Jim dropped his backpack at the empty desk next to one Tobias Domzalski’s, one of the only people at school who’d been properly friendly to him so far. It was Jim’s first day of mortal high school, and he’d been vetted mercilessly by every student group but Tobias’s, though he was beginning to suspect that said group consisted of only Tobias.

Of course, Jim had been screening his peers right back, but it was still exhausting. He thought he’d been ready after the Order’s… extensive lessons on humanity, and how to fit in with the mortals like himself, but already, everything he’d done felt like it must have been a social faux pas of some kind.

Act quiet around the quiet kids? Then no one speaks, until the silence grows so long that it’s awkward, and starting up a conversation makes it feel painfully forced. So, okay, maybe find some louder kids and try to blend in with them. Except, they start to grow obnoxious, and at some point, the headache simply stops being worth it.

Jim wasn’t even going to dare try and bond with the overly studious; he wasn’t here to vie for valedictorian, nor was he all that interested in making grades that separated him from the pack. Not to mention, he much preferred whatever lessons the Order could teach him anyway. They were very practical things, going over philosophy, strategy, combat, computations. He was already conversational in Bellroc and Skrael’s original languages, and though he knew Spanish would be equally valuable, the Spanish teacher seemed… intense, in a way that Bellroc and Skrael, who could likewise be rigorous sometimes, were not.

In fact, the only class he was indeed eager to take was history—and, okay, perhaps physical education didn’t sound horrendous, so long as he was careful about holding back in certain areas—because while he could learn plenty of history from his very ancient guardians, to hear of human history from the mouths of humans, like himself… it sounded unique, in a way that he hoped was amenable, at the very least, if not genuinely interesting or entertaining.

As he sat down in the chair beside Tobias, the boy seemed to light up, beaming over at Jim, a reaction that he hadn’t expected from his peer. He’d thought he’d rather botched his first conversation with Tobias in homeroom that morning, as he hadn’t known anything about anything that Tobias had referenced (what on earth was Gun Robot?). But, evidently, he must have done something well—or at least, acceptably— because Tobias was leaning over and excitedly holding out his hand to show Jim something which clattered in his palm as he moved. Politely, Jim glanced over to see what it was, and—oh.

Oh no.

That was definitely the remains of a troll.

Tobias was holding out small, grey pebbles for him to see, on which Jim could just make out hints of tattoos that had been etched into the troll while they were alive.

Holding back his mild panic, he gave a tight smile and a nod, as his classmate diagnosed them incorrectly as gneiss—which, admittedly, Jim thought wasn’t a bad guess, really. It’s not like the other boy had any reason to think that the rocks he was holding were anything but an average metamorphic stone.

Tobias was looking to Jim for a response, though, so he opened his mouth to speak, breathing in—

—magic.

Jim froze once more. The distinct tingle of magic had just washed over his senses, keen and undeniable, unlike anything else he’d felt that day.

It was raw, underdeveloped, not yet bolstered by the right teacher, but it was there, and it spoke in tones of purple, pulsing with potential.

Jim was no wizard himself, much preferring combat to the arcane arts, having not a strong penchant for it or its intricacies and delicate, temperamental nature, but even still, he’d been raised with the three most powerful magic-users in the known world. They’d taught him from youth how to recognize when magic was present, how to glean as many clues as he possibly could about it, or who might have cast it, might be walking in it, based on its style and scent, its intensity, or its intentionality. He wasn’t quite the best at sensing the finer details, nor could he find it when it was masked, but when it was open, unhidden, he could feel it like a mild electric shock that one might get when touching a door handle in dry weather; he could sense it like the faint scent of ozone during a storm, or like a prickle on the hairs on the back of his neck, when lightning was about to strike.

What’s going on? He thought, as he turned his head in the direction of the epicenter of the magic. First, there’s troll remains in the hands of a classmate with the same schedule as him, and then there’s—the girl, there. The girl with the blue streak in her hair.

The witch.

She’d caught him staring, as she set her books down on a desk in the front row, a couple columns over from his. Beside her plopped down two more girls—her friends, Jim noted, as they chattered familiarly, cheerfully.

The girl gave him an awkward smile, then, and Jim realized that he must have been staring for a few moments too long, so he rapidly flicked his eyes back to the surface of his own desk, trying not to think about the flush he could feel splash across the back of his neck, or the tips of his ears.

Tobias did not grant him such grace.

“Ooh,” he grinned, smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “That’s Claire Nuñez. President of the drama club, valedictorian candidate, great actress. She’s tied with Seamus Johnson and Shannon Longhannon for top of the class right now, I heard. She’s wicked smart, and—Jim?” Tobias huffed, “Are you paying attention to me?”

Jim’s eyes darted back to his new friend, from where they’d been briefly studying Claire Nuñez’s back, trying to get a more in-depth read on her arcana. He nodded distractedly. “Yeah, yeah, smart, a president; I heard you.”

Tobias sighed, shaking his head. “Jim.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, indicating that he was listening.

“She’s out of your league.” He deadpanned. “She’s super popular, and you’re, no offense, definitely not.”

Jim shot Tobias a confused look, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

The boy stared openly at Jim. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? Do you really not— Oh my god.”

Jim blinked. “What?”

Tobias shook his head. “Jim, you’ve kinda… scared a lot of the people in our class today. They don’t know what to think about you. You’re like a giant question mark! No one even knows where you came from—”

“Ohio.” Jim recited his cover story, which Skrael had helped him pick the night previous. They’d chosen a city that started with a c… right. “Columbus, Ohio.”

Tobias shot him a deadpan look. “Okay, fine, Jim Lake from Columbus, Ohio. Why’d you suddenly move to Arcadia, then? Why not L.A.? Why not Burbank?”

Jim frowned. “Do you interrogate every newcomer like this? My parents got a good job opportunity here.” He held up one hand, “And before you ask—real estate.”

“Oh yeah? How come I haven’t seen them put up ads, then?” Tobias crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, dude; I think you’re cool, but you freak a lot of people out with that brooding, silent thing you do.”

Jim snorted. “I do what?”

“Y’know—”

“No, I don’t know—”

“You act, like, all silent and mysterious when people try to talk to you.” Tobias shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing, but some people don’t seem as ready to brush it off as me. I’m only telling you so that you can make more friends here.”

“Well, I have you, don’t I?” Jim’s head canted.

Tobias blinked, floundering at that. “Well—y…yeah, I guess so, but—”

“I mean, we are friends, aren’t we?”

It was Tobias’s turn to go a bit pink, shaking his head in bewilderment. “If you want, yeah, but—”

“Then there we go. I have a friend.” Jim smiled.

Tobias tried to protest, “But—” only to find himself cut off as Mr. Strickler strode into the classroom at that moment, placing a leather briefcase on his desk with a decisive thump. Cacophonous voices incrementally petered out, as attentive heads turned to the front of the classroom, where Mr. Strickler had pulled out a stack of syllabi, handing them to the student nearest the door, with the instructions to “take one and pass them,” spoken precisely to the class.

Tobias looked like he wanted to say something when Strickler turned his back to write his name on the chalkboard, but Jim shushed him from the corner of his mouth, opening a fresh, blank notebook as he did so. This was the only class he’d bothered to buy a separate notebook for, and, to be frank, was the only class he’d even intended to take notes in at all.

Tobias looked chagrined, but not angry, as he rolled his eyes and went to fetch a pencil from his own bag. Might as well have something to do with his idle hands for the next hour.

—

As his first day was winding to close, Jim had to admit, having a friend at school did end up making it a little easier.

The rest of his time there had passed largely unremarkably, since a rather thrilling start to the history curriculum. Jim’s hand had shot up just as much as the apparent reigning top of the sophomore class, one Miss Claire Nuñez’s, had— a fact which had, according to Tobias, already begun to percolate across campus.

The lesson had only briefly covered the basics of ancient Rome, going over a bit of easy, more widely known trivia, to see what the class already knew about their oncoming first unit, but, nonetheless, Jim had been eager to jump in, to talk almost directly to Mr. Strickler, going back and forth in the form of a discussion. He’d spoken quietly, quickly, and he’d felt the eyes of his peers glued to his desk, but had ignored the sensation altogether, in favor of listening to what his teacher had to say about aqueducts, instead.

When the hour had finally come to an end, in fact, he’d packed up slowly, most of his classmates abandoning the room as quickly as they could—the lunch period was about to begin—though Tobias was kind enough to wait for him. As such, Tobias was the only other person present to hear Mr. Strickler stop Jim after class, paying a brief compliment to his performance that day, and accompanying his words with a poster for the history club. Jim didn’t think his furtive smile had gone entirely missed by the teacher, but as they’d exited into the now mostly empty hallway, he forgot to worry about it further, as Tobias wasted no time in asking him how the heck his new friend knew so much about history already?

Jim had shrugged it off, saying that it was his favorite subject; and besides, didn’t Tobias— “Seriously, dude, it’s Toby, by the way”— know more about geology than anyone else in their class? The compliment had made Tobias—Toby— preen, and he’d promptly dropped the topic, instead launching into an enthusiastic lecture meant to coach Jim through the cafeteria process. Jim, who had tried to jump in to say that he’d heard this at orientation the week prior, but Toby had shot him an appalled look at that, swiftly informing him that orientation did nothing to help the social side of things. Sure, he knew the motions, but did he know how to do them without standing out in the crowd? Absolutely not—in fact, the thought was almost laughable, according to Toby.

So, Jim had grinned, followed Toby’s lead, and had just barely survived the ever-important lunch line waltz.

The rest of the day had passed mostly the same way, in the end. Toby, having warmed up to Jim, took him through the whole rest of the day, guiding him through the intricacies of Arcadia Oaks High, and by the time the final bell was ringing, Jim almost felt like a normal student. Some of his peers had even started waving to him in the hallways; he’d broken the ice, after all.

Well. He’d thought so, until Toby had said goodbye, peddling away on his bike toward home, leaving Jim alone in the courtyard by the bustling lockers, surrounded by students eager to either go home, as Toby had, or to dive into after-school clubs and sports.

Jim opted to take his time, though, to enjoy the Southern California sun, as he strolled casually across the campus, toward the front of the school grounds.

As he rounded the corner, though, intending to head toward the Arcadia Oaks sign, where he’d stop and shoot off a text to the Order that his first day had gone well, and that he’d be home soon, he felt a tap on his shoulder, instead, and heard a throat being cleared behind him.

He knew who it was before he even turned to face her; her magic had given her away as soon as she’d reached a hand for him.

Despite this, Jim whirled as if she’d caught him by surprise, schooling his features into something startled but friendly, relaxing his shoulders as a polite smile crossed his face, upon seeing her. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting—” he rethought his words, shaking his head. “Never mind. …It’s, ‘Claire,’ right?”

She nodded, returning his smile. “Yeah! And you’re ‘Jim Lake’, hm?”

Something about the way she asked that question sent up a warning bell in the back of Jim’s mind, but he tried not to look unsettled; it was probably just nerves.

“Yup; just Jim is fine, though.” He added with a casual laugh.

Claire tilted her head, continuing. “So, you’re quite the history buff, huh?”

Jim’s hands dropped to his pockets, as he glanced at his shoes, then back up to her. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess?” She teased. “You were on fire in class today.” She lifted her chin, to look at him head on. “Do I need to worry about you unseating me, Jim Lake from Columbus, Ohio?”

Jim snorted, shaking his head. “No, no; it’s not like that. History’s just a hobby.”

“Pretty intense hobby, if you know half as much as you seem like you do.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

Jim grinned. “Intense? Like being the president of drama club, the vice president of debate, and the supposed shoe-in for the lead in the play this fall?” he recited, much to Claire’s surprise, who shot him an impressed look.

“Huh. You sure do pay attention, don’t you?”

He glanced around, making it a leisurely movement, concealing the way he was searching for anyone who could overhear, before his eyes met hers again, as he said, “Only to certain people.”

Claire blinked, cheeks reddening, mistaking his meaning. “Oh, yeah? What kinds of people?”

Jim rolled the dice. “Well, people who seem nice, or kind, who I could make friends with. People who do things I wanna do, too, so I can have an ‘in’. Like clubs, and things.” he clarified.

“And, uh…” his voice grew hushed, “Magic-users in the human world.”

Claire’s face fell. “What was that last one?” Her nose scrunched with the skeptical look that overtook her features.

Jim’s eyes darted to look for an exit, realizing coldly—fearfully— that he had grossly miscalculated.

“Uh…” Stupid. He chided himself. Think of a lie before you go backing yourself into a corner. Skrael would be disappointed in him if he were here.

“Did you just say ‘the human world’ like you… aren’t human?” She stared at him suspiciously.

Jim blinked. “What? No. I’m human. Of course I’m human.” He gave a strained laugh. “What else would I be?”

“…Someone who thinks they aren’t?” Claire’s brow furrowed.

“It was a rhetor- well. I mean, I guess that’s true. But I’m not!” He smiled weakly, and then froze for a split-second, rapidly adding, “Someone who thinks they aren’t human! I know I’m human!”

Claire’s eyes shot to the street, where, to her poorly hidden relief, her dad had just pulled up to the curb, there to pick her up. “…Right. Well, Jim Lake from Cleveland, Ohio, my dad’s here, so I need to go, but this has been… interesting.”

Jim nodded rapidly, shooting her one more smile— a sheepish, apologetic one— as he gave her a shy wave. “…Yeah.”

Claire hoisted her backpack onto one shoulder, giving him a half-hearted wave back. “…Bye, Jim.”

“Bye, Claire.”

As she turned to leave, Jim frowned to himself. He wasn’t sure why, but something felt wrong. He supposed it could have been the awkward manner in which he’d acted, but in a flash, he decided that wanted to see her again, just in case that wasn’t it. He couldn’t be too careful.

So, before he missed his chance, he called after her retreating back, “See you around?”

Claire stopped, hand poised on the handle of the passenger side door, freezing there for a heart-pounding pause.

Then, she shot him a look over her shoulder, one of interest, meeting his eyes deliberately. Jim got the sense that he should heed it carefully.

“Yeah. See you around, Jim.”

#(why yes I did mean to have claire say 'cleveland' the second time)#hopefully the next fic in this is how jim becomes the trollhunter but!! for now I hope y'all like this piece!#i may make an au introduction post as well but brain tired from editing so that'll come soon!#trollhunters au #trollhunters fic #trollhunters fanfic #jim lake jr #the arcane order #toa #toa fic #toa au #ok to rb

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minithefutureawaits09 · 3 years

Text

To follow up on an earlier post

Link to AOS:

❤️Absolutely Smitten❤️

- TOS Spirk edition

A/n:

It gets pretty angsty so hold on.

Also know in this Fic, Bones doesn’t know the details about Tarsus IV that info is extremely classified and really, only select people know about it. So it’s really been swept under the carpet in this particular fic.

Spock heads down the hallway and to Jim’s quarters. Buzzing in as he always does.

....

No response.

So he tried again.

...

No response.

Now things were getting a little concerning. So when he buzzed for a third time and got no response he types in the override code for Jim’s quarters. Absolutely worried sick, and he realized standing there that...

Spock can’t feel their bond.

That prospect alone sends his heart racing even faster than his normal resting heart rate. Yet he swallows his panic as the doors open with their familiar squeak and he’s engulfed into a warm dark room. The doors squeak again as they closed behind him.

“Jim? My Jim, where are you? Are you alright?”

The worry while he can control it physically, slips into his tone. Eyes already adjusting for the darkness of the room, a small tribute to his Vulcan biology. His eyes adjust much quicker than a humans does.

“Go away Spock.”

Came the sharpest reply the Vulcan’s almost positive he’s ever heard. While the words themselves were not super harmful, the tone punctured.

On the bed was a small heep of blankets, he can only assume that huddled in all of those blankets was his Husband. He allows himself to frown and his brows to furrow. Jim never wanted him to leave whenever he was upset, always wanting him to hold close and not let go. So something, although going through his eidetic memory he doesn’t see anything.

“Jim, My-“

“I said Go. Away. Commander. Consider it an order from your Captain.”

Something was really wrong then. Yet he would not leave Jim’s side. Whatever it was, he had made a vow until death did they part. He wasn’t leaving.

“Then you will need to fill out the insubordination paperwork shortly.”

He sees the blankets move, and he can only assume he is being looked at.

“I am not leaving K’diwa. I am your bond mate, and I am worried about you. You did not answer your door, I cannot feel our bond, and your tone is enough evidence that there is something bothering you. I vowed to care for you and I intend to get to the bottom of it, so if that means facing insubordination charges then I will.”

More ruffling of sheets and blankets, and now he can see his bond mate. The dark brown hair, and make out his eyes in the darkness. Hand reached out towards him, and the pain is so sharp at the horrible broken voice his beloved uses. Their bond floods open and he can feel all of the jagged edges of self hatred attacking Jim’s mind.

“S-Sp-ock-”

His feet move on their own and in moments flat Spock had Jim in his lap still wrapped in a couple of blankets but held firmly. He sobs begging apologies from his lips and promises to never leave him. Every broken sound that leaves him makes the Vulcan’s heart ache, and wanting to tear apart whoever caused these precious tears to spill.

He assures Jim that he did no wrong, that he did not feel any hurt emotions at his words. That there was nothing there other than his overwhelming concern for the person he values the most. That he will always be there. Always.

He sends all of the pure intense love he feel for the brunette in his lap and reassurance through their bond to Jim. Using their physical proximity as an easy way to tap into his beloved’s head in gentle attempts to soothe the hurt he can feel. Whatever caused this got him good, where it hurt.

Eventually he calmed and Spock whispers gently resting his forehead against his human’s,

“K’diwa, My James, will you tell me now what is wrong?”

... There’s hesitation showing in those hazel eyes staring up at him,

“I promise you, no matter what you say, I will listen to every word.”

...

“Is there a problem with how I eat, Spock?”

What? That was such an odd question. Yet with those hazel eyes hanging onto his every moment for his reply he placed a gentle kiss to his forehead and answered,

“I have never seen it vary from normal that would produce the need for comment or medical intervention.”

...

“Do I hoard food, Spock?”

Spock instead of answering taps into their bond and catches just the thought of one event.

Tarsus IV

“Ha’su, does this have to do with Tarsus IV?”

He asks and Jim looks away ashamed- he knows he’s ashamed because he can’t hide it this close to Spock. Yet using one hand he guides his beautiful hazel gaze back to his own.

“My K’diwa, Tarsus IV is an indescribable horror you had to face at such a young age. I know you have tried your best to heal some of those wounds. I know this trauma will haunt you for the rest of your life, and it will always affect how you eat. A famine and genocide. Yes, I do notice you have a few non-perishable items around your quarters. However, I simply attributed them to the fact Humans need to eat more frequently.”

He runs a hand through those brown locks he loves so, so very much. He watches as those lips, a little swollen from his cries open,

“When food became such a struggle and for so long...I-I just—”

“Shh. You need not explain yourself to me. Your trauma and struggle with food is not invalid. It will never ever. Ever. Be invalid.”

This brings back a smaller wave of tears as his husbands arms wrapped around his neck rather then around his middle as they were originally.

“Did someone bring this up?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Bones. Though he didn’t bring Tarsus itself up, he just made a comment on my eating habits and it well...Lead to an argument. He doesn’t know the full story though. I just haven’t told him yet because I haven’t been ready to. He only knows what my records say. Which isn’t much because the federation wanted to keep it hush hush.”

Spock nodded. So he would have to make a trip to Medbay and have an informative discussion with Dr. McCoy.

“Please don’t be mad at Him. He doesn’t know,”

“I am not mad because he did not know. However, I will be having a conversation with him if you are amenable to that to inform him of it so you will not have to.”

He feels a gentle nod at his words. Agreeing with him

‘I love you, and thank you for not leaving me alone and being willing to talk to Bones for me.’

‘I love you too, my Jim. I am absolutely smitten for thee, and I wish you to never forget that. Sleep now,’

‘I won’t, I promise I will never forget...’

Sleep the brunette does. It’s almost mere moments and he feels their bond gently going dormant. It’s still several moments before he gently rests his husband down and goes to speak with McCoy.

—

(Bonus scenes because I feel like it)

—

“Oh my god,”

Leonard’s hand his over his mouth. He was sitting at his desk as Spock had advised him to do so. Shock and guilt coated over himself.

“I didn’t know, I swear-”

“He informed me of such. I am not mad Dr. McCoy. I simply wished for you to understand.”

“I need to go apologize-”

“He is resting, however I am willing to let you know when he wakes.”

“Yes. Right. Thank you, Spock. I promise, I never would of said anything if I’d known. The only thing in his files says is he’s a Tarsus IV survivor. Nothing more. I never even knew what it was until now.”

“I understand Dr. McCoy.”

And he does.

“I will leave you to process this, and to go attend to Jim when he wakes.”

Leonard nodded as Spock exited.

Spock was holding Jim as he yawns and those Hazel eyes open. He doesn’t say anything but he can feel the gentle buzz in his head from seeing that his husband was still here just as he promised he would be.

“Commander Spock to Medbay,”

“Medbay here, What is it?”

“The Captain is awake if you wish to see him,”

“Alright. Be up in 15 minutes.”

“Noted. Spock out,”

The transmission was cut.

His partner seemed confused, so Spock relayed the message.

“He wishes to apologize directly, and I said I would inform him of your awakening.”

A simple nod comes from Jim.

...

It was actually less than 15 minutes when Bones shows up. Normally Leonard would say something to get them apart, but given what happened he isn’t going to say a thing about Spock holding Jim.

“Jim?”

The brunette’s head turns to look at his best friend.

“Hey, I wanted to apologize for what I said.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed. Spock watches as those hazel eyes follow him.

“Jim, god. I never, I never would have said any- any of that if I had known. I promise you. I had no idea what sort of demon you deal with every time you go to eat in your head.”

“It’s alright-”

“It’s not though Jim. I shouldn’t have said those things in-”

“Leonard.”

The doctors name makes him fall quiet.

“Leonard, You didn’t know. I hadn’t told you...Yet now that you know, could we schedule an appointment to maybe..do something about it?”

“Maybe try some anti-anxiety medications?”

Jim nodded.

“You got it kiddo. Whenever you’re ready you just let me know alright?”

“Alright.”

Bones gives a nod to Spock who had been silent for this whole time. He knows that means to gently and lovingly encourage him to do so in the near future. He leaves but not before Jim surprised them both by pulling the doctor into a hug. They held on for just a few moments and even Spock could tell the world was alright once more. The doctor then left, and Spock went back to holding his partner. Humming as he gently guided him back to sleep, and shortly drifted off after.

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stiltonbasket · 3 years

Text

chancellor of the morning sun: burdens, mingjue (youth)

In which being a woman in the cultivation world is difficult, and Nie Mingjue comforts a friend.

On the night after the welcoming banquet, Nie Mingjue wakes to the sound of someone crying outside his door.

This was by no means unusual when he was younger; Huaisang often had night terrors after his mother died, and refused to sleep without Nie Mingjue for the next three or four years. But A-Sang is thirteen now, far too old to come crying to his da-ge after dark, and the person on the other side of his door seems to be a woman.

“Who’s there?” he calls, lighting one of his dream lanterns before getting out of bed. “A-Sang, is that you?”

“No, it’s me!” a familiar voice shouts, nearly sending Nie Mingjue to the ground as he scrambles to keep his footing. “A-Jue, let me in!”

Nie Mingjue drops his lantern and tries not to panic. The crying is still going on, but the person who called his name was Lan Xichen, without a doubt; and if she had come to his chambers this late, with the Unclean Realm full of foreign cultivators who would gladly take any chance to see her reputation ruined, then she must have come to seek his help with some kind of emergency.

And Nie Mingjue has not forgotten that the son of his father’s murderer is sleeping under his roof, or that Wen Ruohan openly sought Xichen’s hand in marriage for Wen Xu, and would have forced the two to meet if Nie Mingjue’s own fuqin had not intervened.

“I’m coming!” he says frantically, throwing the door open and grasping Lan Xichen’s arm the moment she crosses the threshold. “Lan Huan, I’m—”

And then he looks over Lan Xichen’s shoulder, blinking at the miserable line of young maidens trailing down the corridor behind her. Jiang Yanli is standing at Xichen’s side, crying into her sleeves, and Qin Su and Jin Zixuan’s first shimei are there, too; and Wen Ruohan’s young niece is standing in the back, holding Qin Su’s arm to keep her from falling over. All five girls smell of liquor, even Xichen, and Nie Mingjue gapes at them in bewilderment as Xichen fists her hands in his tunic and shakes him from side to side.

“Jiang-jie won’t listen to us!” she complains, sobbing drunkenly into his chest: which sets Jiang Yanli off again, and then Luo Qingyang starts weeping, too. “A-Jue, tell her!”’

Mingjue frowns. “Tell her what, A-Huan?” he says gently, wiping his intended’s face. It will be ruin for them both if anyone spots her here in the middle of the night, let alone with four other girls in front of his private quarters, but Nie Mingjue would rather cut his own hands off than turn the girl he loves away in such distress. “What’s wrong?”

“Jiang-guniang thinks she’s not worthy of Zixuan,” Luo Qingyang wails. “But just look at him! He prances around like a prize stallion, and he keeps making a fool of himself everywhere he goes! It’s pathetic! And he keeps talking about how wonderful he is, almost as much as Zixun! Nie-zongzhu, I have to beat him up twice a month to keep him in line, and it’s not even working!”

“Not worthy of Jin Zixuan?” he snorts. “Jiang-guniang, it’s Jin-gongzi who isn’t worthy of you. A-Huan, didn’t you tell her so?”

Jiang Yanli only cries even harder, and Xichen gives him a reproachful look and pinches his stubbly cheek. “She won’t listen to us when we tell her she’s more than enough. Yanli thinks we have to say so, since we’re her friends, so I brought her to you so you could tell her instead!”

“Jin-gongzi should count himself lucky that a maiden like Lady Jiang would give him the time of day,” Nie Mingjue says promptly. “He’ll get over himself in time, and Luo-guniang will beat him into the ground if he doesn’t. Right, Luo-guniang?”

Luo Qingyang nods fervently before listing straight into one of the walls. “I will!” she yells, as Wen Qing reaches over and puts her back on her feet again. “‘N then I’ll put itching powder in Jin Zixun’s pants, and, and…”

“Steal his wine again,” Qin Su suggests, letting out a loud burp. “That peach-blossom brew was delicious. Don’t you feel any better after drinking it, A-Li?”

“No, I don’t,” Jiang Yanli murmurs. “Good night, Nie-zongzhu. I’m going back to bed now.”

“Yanli!” begs Xichen, throwing herself at the shorter girl and almost knocking both of them backwards onto the floor. “Yanli, don’t go! You’re worth a hundred of Jin-zongzi, you—A-Jue, help!”

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks, thoroughly bewildered. “I can go challenge Jin-gongzi to a duel myself, if you like. Would that cheer you up, Jiang-guniang!”

But to his surprise, Jiang Yanli only goes to her knees and trembles like a kitten left out in the cold, sobbing about her fears for her future at Koi Tower and her dread of being bound to a man who will never respect her, her terror at the prospect of having no allies past her wedding day save for her mother-in-law, and then about having to spend the rest of her life within reach of Jin Guangshan.

“Mother keeps telling me that I should try to do better, so that Jin-gongzi likes me,” she chokes. “And one of my Yu aunties told me once that Jin-gongzi has to like me, since that’s going to be the only thing keeping me safe from—from—”

“Why haven’t you spoken to your parents about this?” Nie Mingjue demands, aghast. He knows very little about how his own engagement was settled on Xichen’s side; but not long after his ascension, he discovered that neither she nor her uncle were consulted on the matter, and that the sect elders only informed Lan Qiren of his niece’s engagement after the betrothal papers were sealed and signed and the bride price was already paid.

Nie Mingjue’s father made the agreement believing that Lan Qiren was amenable, and would have dissolved the betrothal in a heartbeat if Lan Xichen ever said she was unhappy with it—even in the months just before his death, when his greatest regret was that he would likely not live long enough to see his grandchildren. But he never disapproved of Lan Xichen’s decision to remain unwed until Wangji was at least eighteen, though the wedding was originally set to take place just after Xichen turned eighteen, and he would even have accepted a divorce if his daughter-in-law initiated it.

And Jiang Fengmian is widely known to dote upon his daughter, just as Nie Mingjue’s father doted on Lan Xichen, so why would he not offer the same choice to his child that Nie Huangyin gave to A-Huan?

“Father would break the engagement if I asked, but Jin-furen is mother’s best friend,” Jiang Yanli weeps, in answer to Nie Mingjue’s unspoken question. “It would make things so difficult between them if Jin-furen ever knew I felt this way. And A-Xian and A-Cheng already hate the idea of me marrying into Lanling, Nie-zongzhu. It would be so much worse for them both if they found out I was afraid.”

“It is better out now, than ten years from now, when you are wedded into that house and bound there by a husband and children,” Nie Mingjue says somberly. “Jin Zixuan is not a bad sort, but if he can look upon a maiden who spends her days tending to her family and teaching in orphanages and finding apprenticeships for street children, and call such a girl unworthy because of her looks and low cultivation—then he is not worthy of any wife, let alone one like you, and I pray he will come to recognize it without some great tragedy to bring him to his senses.”

“But—”

“If A-Huan were to lose her cultivation, I would still count myself as the luckiest man in the world to be her husband,” he declares. “And if she were not beautiful, that would be nothing to me. Whatever the strength of her golden core, and whatever she looks like—her heart has nothing to do with either her face or her jindan, and I love her for that above all things.”

Jiang Yanli’s jaw drops open, and she stares up at Nie Mingjue in open disbelief. Xichen is far too drunk to register what he just said, and Wen Qing seems to have stuffed bits of cloth into her ears to keep herself from listening to anything Jiang-guniang would not have confided while sober—but the word love still burns on his lips like the hot filling from Lan Xichen’s sweet bean cakes, flooding through every inch of his body until he can think of nothing else, and he spends a good two minutes in a kind of stricken trance before wondering if saying such a thing before Maiden Jiang might have hurt her feelings.

“It didn’t,” she says softly—because apparently, Nie Mingjue said that last aloud. “I think I see now, Nie-zongzhu.”

Nie Mingjue opens his mouth to ask what she means, but a small purple blur interrupts him before he can get the words out. The blur skids around the nearest corner, screeching in indignation at the sight of Yanli’s tearstained face, and then it turns upon Nie Mingjue and demands an explanation.

“What did you say to my Shijie?” Wei Wuxian cries. “Shijie, did he bully you?”

“Silly A-Xian,” Jiang-guniang smiles, ruffling Wei Wuxian’s hair. “Nobody bullied me, but Nie-zongzhu made me feel much better.”

“By making you cry?” Wei Wuxian says doubtfully. “Should I get Suibian?”

“A-Xian, no!” Jiang Yanli is giggling now, kissing her brother all over his puffy cheeks. “Come on, let’s go back.”

Wei Wuxian drags her off down the hallway, casting suspicious glances over his shoulder, and Wen Qing charges herself with the duty of escorting Luo Qingyang and Maiden Qin back to their own quarters. However, she declares in no uncertain terms that managing three drunk girls is beyond her, and that leaves only Nie Mingjue to look after Lan Xichen.

“Your uncle’s going to kill me if he finds us,” he whimpers, as he struggles up a flight of stairs with his betrothed yawning in his arms. “And then A-Sang will spend the rest of his life on birds and fans, and never catch up with his lessons in time to attend your clan lectures.”

“Shufu likes you,” Xichen assures him, patting the tip of his nose. “He would never do such a thing.”

“He would if he thought I’d been improper towards you,” Nie Mingjue groans. “A-Huan, have you had anything to eat after you started drinking?”

“Mm, A-Su brought snacks. And Wen Qing kept slipping headache medicine into my wine.”

Nie Mingjue sighs in relief and hugs her a little tighter. “Good. Will you try to drink a little water after we get back to your room?”

Xichen nods drowsily, nearly stopping Nie Mingjue’s heart as she nuzzles against his shoulder, but he manages to get her up to her bedroom in one piece and helps her get into bed, making sure she lies on her side to prevent choking in the morning. He also puts a few pieces of rice candy on her nightstand since he always carries a handful in his pocket for Huaisang, and fetches a glass of water for her to drink when she wakes.

Lan Huan is fast asleep by then, breathing quietly in her nest of blankets with her hand tucked under her cheek, and Nie Mingjue makes it as far as the door before remembering that she is still too drunk to be left alone.

But she doesn’t have a maidservant, Nie Mingjue thinks desperately, staring wildly out of the room as if one might climb out of the nearest cupboard. And Wangji didn’t come along this time, and I can’t wake Lan Qiren—

Oh, no.

Oh, this is very bad.

Anything could happen to Lan Xichen with so much alcohol in her blood, and she might even stop breathing during the night and smother. But there is no one to fetch except for Lan-xiansheng, and that means Nie Mingjue will have to stay with her until she wakes. And given the fact that Lan Qiren will be looking for his niece by mao hour tomorrow, while Lan Xichen will probably sleep a shichen longer than usual—

Nie Mingjue sinks down beside the bed and puts his head in his hands.

Well, that settles it, he despairs, pulling the thick blankets away from Xichen’s face. Lan Qiren is definitely going to kill me.

But he would be lying if he said that the sight of Xichen’s peaceful face was unworthy of death by uncle-in-law, so Nie Mingjue accepts his demise with grace and starts planning his funeral instead.

___

When Lan Xichen opens her eyes, the first thing she notices is the dull pain in her head.

The second thing she notices (after gulping down the water and candy on the nightstand) is that someone seems to have left a heap of something dark near her bed; probably a bag, or a pile of clothes, though she can’t see well enough to tell what it could be.

And the last thing is that her uncle is sitting on a chair by the door, tapping his foot loudly enough to make her head pound.

“Shufu,” she croaks, struggling upright with the aid of one of her pillows. “What are you—”

“Disciples of the Lan clan must not consume alcohol,” he says, strangely calm despite the enormity of her transgression. Her clothes still smell like Baling mead, sweet and spicy and fruity all at once, and she nearly dies of shame at the thought of how shocked Shufu must have been when he found her. “They must not go out of doors after haishi. And they must never share chambers with any member of the opposite sex to whom they are not married, unless they are a relative.”

Lan Xichen freezes. “What?”

“Should I not be asking you that?” her uncle reminds her. “What is Nie-zongzhu doing in your bedchamber?”

Thunderstruck, Lan Xichen stumbles out of bed and stares at the dark heap on the floor, which yawns at her touch and stretches like a cat before springing up in horror.

“Lan-xiansheng, it’s not what it looks like!” Nie Mingjue cries, making Lan Xichen shrivel at the memory of how shamefully she must have behaved last night. “I only wanted to make sure Xichen was safe, I would never—”

“And you did not think of waking me?” Lan Qiren lifts his eyebrows at them. “Even if you wanted to ensure that my niece was well, how could you risk being seen leaving her rooms in the morning? My own quarters are just on the other side of the hall.”

Mingjue ducks his head in shame, and Lan Xichen suddenly wants nothing more than the comfort of his hand in hers. “I didn’t want her to get in trouble, xiansheng,” he mumbles. “She only came out last night for someone else’s sake, and I couldn’t have borne to see her unhappy just for that.”

“You are a sect leader, Nie Mingjue. Don’t look down when you speak to me,” Shufu scolds. “As it is, I am glad that you did not leave her. But as her uncle, I must order you to go now before the breakfast bell, lest you ruin both of your reputations at once and force her to marry before she is ready.”

Mingjue takes the hint and flees, leaving Xichen and her uncle alone. Shufu says nothing more for a while, merely studying the ceiling as if the laws of the Lan sect were inscribed there, and then he clears his throat and points to the stack of parchment on her desk.

“Copy each precept you broke, a hundred times each. The tenth, eighteenth, and seventy-first laws. Go.”

And then, after a moment’s lull:

“I think he will be a good father someday, A-Huan,” Lan Qiren reflects. “Your little ones will want for nothing, what with how he cares for you and how much he coddles Huaisang. I could not have found you a better husband if I chose for you myself.”

Lan Xichen drops her paintbrush.

“Shufu!”

#nielan #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #chancellor of the morning sun #nielan arranged marriage au #my fic #long time no update #it's been 84 years

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todisturbtheuniverse · 3 years

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FIC: Adjacent Truths

Rating: M Fandom: Stardew Valley Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer, Shane & Jas Tags: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Friendship, Pre-Relationship Word Count: 1900 Summary: Jas overheard something Shane can't take back, and it's eating him alive. The farmer notices. Also on AO3. Notes: Post-4 Heart Event—a direct sequel of it, if you will. Content warning for suicidal ideation.

When Jas had still been just a baby, Charlotte had told Shane that something changes in your brain after you have a kid. Hormones, chemicals, neurons firing, all fine-tuning, honing in on the sound of the baby's cry, making interpretations on an instinctual level. He'd panicked when Jas had started crying apparently unprovoked in his arms, but Charlotte hadn't even twitched. "She's just hungry," she'd said, with her tired-happy smile.

"She seems mad about it," Shane had said, looking down into the scrunched-up, red face, the tiny mouth open in a hiccuping wail.

"She gets that from Patrick."

But Shane wasn't, had never been, Jas's parent. By the time he'd learned to sort her hungry-crying from her tired-crying and everything else, she'd been nearly out of babyhood.

And there was no easy fix, anyway, for the way he'd made her cry this time.

She avoided him after what she'd overheard. He didn't blame her. She was a smart kid; it was a good time to cut her losses, free herself of any emotional attachment she had to him. Marnie would be a better guardian than he was, anyway. Maybe the ranch wasn’t doing all that great, but no one in the valley was, and they all managed to keep limping along somehow. Once he was gone, they'd probably be just fine, lightened by the absence of his dead weight.

But he kept hearing her. That was his brain's special talent: replaying, over and over again, the bad moments, so that he wouldn't forget how terrible he was. The sound of her sobbing echoed around in his head with the hundreds of other unpleasant things that repeated themselves there: the song he’d been using as a ringtone when he got the call about Patrick and Charlotte; the stuffed pig that Jas wouldn’t let go of that first week, the one that made the most obnoxious oinking sound; the disinterested scratch of the social worker’s pen on paper, changing the course of their lives forever.

“You want to talk about it?” Lydia asked.

Jas still went to the farm with him on Saturdays. She just didn't make conversation during the walk. The first words she spoke were to Archimedes, and then she waded into the woods, heading for the treehouse, silent.

He didn’t talk much, either, but that was how it had always been. Lydia would tell him about whatever project she was working on; she would remind him again that he could come back later for Jas instead of helping; and then, inevitably, they would get to work. Because he still wasn't enough of an ass to pawn his goddaughter off entirely on someone who hardly knew her.

It was a low bar, but it was what he could clear.

“Talk about what,” he said, and swung for the tree again. He was glad that the damn sprinkler system hadn’t had another crisis since last weekend. If Lydia had put him to that kind of fiddly work today, maybe he wouldn't have cleared that bar.

“Whatever it is,” Lydia said. She watched the tree, eyes darting between trunk and canopy, waiting for the moment it began to tip so that she could warn him out of the way. “I can’t read your mind, but obviously something’s been eating you the last few days.”

He swung the axe again. She hadn't traced his mood back to The Incident. Maybe she didn't want to bring it up if she didn't have to, or maybe other people just didn't spend as much time thinking about how much of a loser he was as he thought they did.

Sounded fake.

“I don’t know,” he said. Thud. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Lydia was no saint. Sometimes, just like everybody else, she got impatient. Usually it was because of the sprinklers. But those sometimes were rare, and she wasn't taking the bait today, as usual.

“Maybe,” she said amenably, and lapsed into silence again.

After a few more strikes, the tree creaked warningly. “Now,” she said, and they both hustled out of the way of the trunk. It fell slowly at first, then faster, faster, until it hit the ground thunderously right in the space they’d cleared for it.

Lydia was the mastermind, but at least Shane wasn't terrible at brute force labor.

She picked up a second axe; they both positioned themselves along the fallen tree to start chopping. She needed a fair amount of lumber to get that barn built before winter hit. It was hard for him to imagine thinking so far ahead. The farm was just overgrown enough that she could probably collect all the lumber she needed right here, instead of having to buy it. He didn't need to ask if she'd be able to afford it, if it came to that.

“But maybe I’m not,” she said, picking up the conversation after five minutes, like it’d never been dropped. “I mean, you’re cutting up this tree like it’s personally offended you, so there’s a chance. Just saying. I know you think I talk too much, but I’m a good listener.”

Shane took a deep breath. He fully intended to let out a heavy, annoyed sigh, the kind that usually sent anyone who’d dared take an interest scuttling.

But, as happened too often with Lydia, a stream of words came out instead, like he was powerless to stop them. One more thing he couldn't control.

“Take your pick,” he said, and went on dicing up the tree like it deserved the cutting. “Morris is on my ass about saying the catchphrase whenever I spot a customer.” Thwack. “Gus is on my ass about my tab, which is nowhere near as bad as Pam’s, but apparently it’s a problem when you’re not best friends.” Thwack. “Marnie is on my ass about looking for a better job, like there’s a lot of options in Pelican Town.” Thwack. “Jas won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

They'd established a pleasant kind of rhythm. Lydia’s axe fell not far behind his, creating a rhythmic one-two-beat, one-two-beat.

“Jas,” Lydia said after a moment.

His axe fell out of rhythm. “What?”

“You told me to take my pick. I say Jas is the item on that list that’s really bothering you. The other stuff happens all the time.”

It was no use telling her it was just a figure of speech. It was, but at the same time, she was right. All that other stuff was background noise, compared to Jas.

He hated when she was right. Except when he didn't mind. It was always hard to tell which it was until much later, which didn't help a lot with in-the-moment reactions.

He settled for hitting the tree again.

“Why do you think she’s not talking to you?” Lydia asked, taking up the rhythm again behind him.

“You know why.” He said it to warn her off, in case she’d forgotten—but he didn’t think she had. He wasn't that lucky.

“Maybe. But tell me again.”

Lydia didn't believe in hiding things, letting them fester. She was completely fine wearing most of her bruises out in the open, cheerfully admitting that something had gone wrong and she was working on it—again, most of the time. She had a couple secret bruises that he'd poked, accidentally or intentionally.

But he was all secret bruises, or at least, he'd have liked to be. As long as he kept hanging around her, though, she'd keep digging them up to air out. The obvious solution was to stop hanging around her. He wondered, again, why he hadn't done that yet.

“She overheard something she shouldn’t have,” he said, “because someone dumped a canteen of water on me and made a scene.”

Lydia actually laughed, a little breathless, in the middle of her swing. “Oh, I see. It’s my fault.”

She was kind of refreshing, was the thing. Everyone else at The Incident had taken it so damn seriously. Granted, that was exactly two other people—Marnie and Jas—and one of them was seven, so maybe that wasn't surprising. But still. It was nice that someone had heard the thing he said and wasn’t afraid to talk about it.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I panicked,” she admitted. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. They went back to the beat, one-two, one-two. In the distance, Archimedes barked.

“So she knows you meant it,” Lydia said, after a moment.

His axe hit a little crooked, and the rhythm stuttered again. He looked up at her. She realized he'd stopped, and she stopped, too, returning the look.

It wasn't that she didn't look sad, or worried. It was just that those things seemed secondary to a kind of openness, a thoughtfulness, like she was solving some kind of puzzle. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, or whether he liked it or not.

“Haven’t told her otherwise,” he said.

He expected a lecture. He gave one to himself more or less every hour. Put on a good face for Jas, or Just tell her you were having a bad day and didn’t mean it, or Tell her you’re going to be around for a good, long time, even though you don’t know, even though it might be a lie. The kid had already been through hell. He should've figured out some way, any way, to keep her from going through more by now.

He just couldn't. He didn't know why.

But she didn’t lecture. She said, “You don’t want to lie to her.” As if she understood.

He went back to his wood-chopping. “I don’t know how to lie to her.” He wished he did. That would have made this a lot easier.

But then, if he lied, she wouldn’t see the inevitable coming before it hit, which would make it all the harder for her.

Lydia went back to chopping, too. “I don’t think you need to, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah? You got an age-appropriate way to explain wanting to die?”

Finally, she hesitated, but only for a one-two beat of the falling axes. “Not really,” she said. “But Jas has already been through a lot. She knows stuff that most kids don’t at her age. So you can tell her adjacent truths.”

“Lotta syllables.”

Finally, she gave an impatient little sigh. “I mean things like—you’re sorry that she had to hear that. That it has nothing to do with her, and doesn’t mean you don’t love her. That things are just hard for you right now.” She breathed heavily on the next swing, more exasperation than effort. “She gets that you’re grieving, too, Shane.”

Trust a person like Lydia to paint it in such nice strokes. Like his best effort, which fell far short of winning any prizes, would be sufficient to a needy little kid.

But maybe...well, saying something could always make things worse, but the idea hadn't come from him. It was a start.

“I’ll plagiarize,” he said. “Thanks.”

It seemed like she was going to let it lie there, but then she spoke up again. “Like I said, I’m a good listener, so. You need an ear, I’m here. Day or night. I mean it.”

She wasn't wrong. She was a good listener. But she had some kind of future ahead of her, still, and he'd poisoned enough people with his failures. It was out in the open now; it didn't need to be rehashed. Next time, he would keep his mouth shut.

#sdv shane #sdv farmer #shane/female farmer #universe writes #depression cw #suicidal ideation cw #friendship #pre-relationship

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athina-blaine · 3 years

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MoMM Chapter 4 - The Storm, Part 1 (Preview #1)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured is subject to edits or deletion!)

Chapter 3: The Empty Corridors

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I deserve that. Your friendship. After everything I’ve done since…”

“Of course you do. Listen to yourself; it’s not like you wanted to frighten me.” An inch of space sat between their hands. “Is this …? Um. Is this okay …?”

The winds continued to howl, and Martin's hand lay limp on the bed sheets. His face grew hot, and he started pulling back. Stupid idea. But then Jon slid his hand closer until their fingers brushed. Emboldened, Martin wrapped his hand around Jon's, his burn scar grazing the soft skin of Martin's palm.

He squeezed gently.

“No one deserves to be lonely, Jon.”

Jon had no response, staring out to the storm that continued knocking on their windows. He stared, and he let Martin hold his hand.

Chapter 4 - The Storm, Part 1

Martin was an optimist. He had to be. Anything else would have been utterly unbearable.

That being said, he was… relatively confident things would get better. Jon had confided in him the terrible secret of Magnus Manor and the truth of this hellish storm. The Lonely. And understanding a problem meant you were one step closer to solving it, right? It meant one step closer to getting out of the cursed estate you’d found yourself trapped in.

Most importantly, though, the two of them were talking again. Above all else, that gave him hope.

Jon was waiting for him in the foyer the next morning. His nose was buried in a book, but when Martin approached, he looked up, and Martin liked to think he looked pleased.

“Good morning,” Martin said, hoping he didn’t sound too flustered.

“You as well. Would ... would you be amenable to sharing some morning tea? If ... if you're still offering ...”

“Y-yes, of course.” So yesterday hadn’t been a fluke; Jon wasn’t going to leave him alone again. “That sounds great. Um. English Breakfast, then?”

Jon smiled, nodded, and fetched them both a pot and one cup apiece. The porcelain warmed Martin’s aching fingers, a refreshing respite from the chill that crept so subtly through the halls.

They drank, and they talked about very little. Martin’s tongue burned with questions (–what’s it like living with these entities? How do they manifest? Will we get out of here soon?–), but he restrained himself; the age lining Jon’s face had soothed as he sipped his tea, and when he asked Martin how he’d slept, there was a shy twist to his mouth.

Right now, Martin wanted to enjoy himself. Enjoy Jon and a warm cup of morning tea. There would be plenty of time to agonise later.

In the meantime, he’d just need to keep busy. Now was as good a time as any to give cleaning the manor another chance. Masochistic, maybe. Impossible, certainly. But at least this time he didn’t have to worry about being reprimanded. Probably.

One of the many study rooms that littered the estate would be a good place to start. Small as it was, its sooty fireplace and dusty couch was enough of a time sink for his purposes.

He was in the middle of battling a particularly stubborn stain when the door opened and Jon peered inside. Despite everything, Martin couldn’t help his trill of anxiety, made all the worse when Jon kissed his teeth.

“Must I iterate that it’s not necessary for you to – ”

“I want to.” It was still such a shock to just see Jon, to have them talking, that the words came out in a breathless, jumbled mess. “I promise. I-I like cleaning, honest. It keeps my mind off … you know, things.”

Jon paused mid-stride. For a moment, Martin thought he was going to be chased off anyway, and then he’d have to actually beg to clean, because the thought of spending another minute with nothing to do but contemplate their situation–

“I–” Sighing, Jon brought a hand to the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Yes, fine, if you insist. So long as you understand that it is absolutely not an expectation of you.”

Martin’s shoulders sagged with relief. Another hurdle crossed.

He’d just convinced himself to relax and finally let his mind wander, soothed by the familiar, tediousness of cleaning a fireplace, when Jon unclasped his cloak, lying it over the sofa.

“What are you doing?”

“Assisting you, obviously. Having you clean it in my stead when I’m the one responsible for it falling into disrepair doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Doesn’t bear thinking about. What didn’t bear thinking about was a man of Jon’s stature doing menial work like this in the first place. But Martin was hardly about to refuse his help … or his company, so freely given. “Um. Thank you. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, though. There’s literally no way you could have kept this place clean all by yourself.”

“I appreciate the reassurance, but the point is moot.”

Well, if Jon wanted to roll up his sleeves and work at a grimy fireplace, Martin wasn’t about to stop him. When Jon literally rolled up his sleeves, he bit back a smile. The skin of his forearms was paler than that of his hands and face, smooth and free of blemishes. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a bit of sunshine without his shirt buttoned up to the chin?

Not that Martin had any business considering a thing like that in the first place. God, his face was burning again.

“I hate cleaning,” Jon murmured as he dunked the spare cloth in the water bucket. “Nothing ever stays clean.”

“Yeah. Gotta do it, though. Oh, you should keep your elbow up. You won’t tire out your arm as quickly.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Jon sighed. “Perhaps the fault lies with me. I’ve never been particularly good at domesticity, after all. The rare times my grandmother was home, the only thing we talked about was how untidy my room was.”

Martin’s ears perked. The opportunity to learn more about Jon and his past? It was too enticing to resist. “Your gram wasn’t home much, then?”

“Not often. She was the matriarch of our family, so important business kept her in the capital most days.”

Oh. How … odd. Martin didn’t know anything about how noble families handled representing themselves, but … “I figured your mom or dad would take care of that sort of thing after a while. Did your gram just enjoy the work?”

“Both of my parents passed when I was a child.”

Martin’s stomach plunged to his feet. What a stupid blunder to make. “I’m … I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Jon said, waving him away. “I was barely more than a baby at the time. I simply don’t remember enough of them to mourn their loss.”

Martin wasn’t sure if that made it worse. For all that Martin mourned the absence of his father, at least he had fleeting memories of warm hands and a deep voice to prove he’d existed at all. That he’d had a father once. “Still, that must have been … a bit lonely.”

“Not at all. I always had my governess’ supervision. She provided the structure and discipline I required.” Jon laughed, a wistful, breathy thing, and lowered his head. “I was … a rather troublesome child.”

That did even less to make Martin feel better, because he suddenly had this image, unbidden, of a little boy with big eyes and gangly knees, head hanging as his grandmother told him off in clipped tones, before leaving once again to the bustling capital. No hugs, or gentle forehead kisses. Just a scolding about his messy bedroom.

I’m sure you were wonderful, he wanted to say. I’m sure you deserved better than that.

But he was probably just projecting again.

“I’ve always liked cleaning,” Martin said, instead. “Makes me feel useful. My mum, she’s … she’s been sick most of my life. Nothing too serious,” Martin added quickly as Jon turned his head. “She just gets tired a lot. You know, hard to stay upright most of the time. There wasn’t a lot I could do to make her feel better, but keeping things clean helped.”

“I … I’m sorry to hear your mother is ill.”

“We were really lucky, actually. We lived in the same town as a really good doctor. He was really generous with us, but eventually … I-I couldn’t keep up with the bills running the farm all by myself, especially after our last goat died. We had to sell a few years ago, and I had to find work in the city.” Even after all this time, his throat tangled at the memory of leaving his childhood home. “Managed to land a really good job at the lord’s castle, so I always had money to send home. Every month. Haven’t been late once, yet. Until …”

“… Until now.”

Martin opened his mouth, because, well, he wasn’t late yet. There was still time for Martin to send his letter: about a week or so. That was plenty of time. But he refrained, because saying as much to Jon felt … dangerous. Like he was tempting fate.

Things were going to work out. They had to. The storm was going to clear, they were going to get out of here, and then …

“Your devotion to your mother is admirable,” said Jon.

Warmth ballooned in Martin’s stomach, spreading to the tips of his ears. It was an absurd thing to receive praise for (oh, you love your mother, really going above and beyond), but … well, it was still nice to hear, every once in a while. Or at all. “Thank you.”

It took most of the morning, but, with their combined efforts, they managed to restore the fireplace to an off-colour white. Martin stepped back, basking in the glow of a job well done. Jon, however, didn’t appear quite as chuffed as Martin felt. Rolling out his wrists, the man collapsed onto the couch, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process and triggering an intense coughing fit.

“Break time?” Martin asked, taking a much more gentle seat. His only answer was more coughing. Poor thing looked utterly done with the whole enterprise, if the curl of his nose was any indication. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah. Unless you really intend to help me clean this room all day?”

Jon laughed, turning away sheepishly. “I … yes, um … Well, this and that, I suppose. Reading, mostly. I’ve always had a penchant for it, and I’ve yet to make my way through the library. Um. Music, although it’s been quite some time since the gramophone worked. I took to baking for a time. I like to think I’d gotten rather good at it.”

“Wait, so you did bake that bread? When I first got here?” Martin thought back on it, how crispy the crust was, the soft and tasty inner dough, how fresh it had been. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten fresh bread. “That’s seriously amazing.”

“It’s hardly a complex task. But … yes, thank you.” Martin wasn’t sure if it was the haze of the dust, but Jon’s face looked a bit darker, a bit flushed. But then, the good humor in Jon’s eyes fell away. “And then there was the garden, of course. It was … well. A disaster, to put it mildly.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I killed everything, didn’t I?” Jon’s eyes dropped to his lap, shoulders sinking. “Not a single bulb flourished under my care. I … I eventually figured it was more merciful to give up than keep trying.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Would be better to start with anything but roses, he wanted to suggest. You’re just setting yourself up to fail. But that would certainly come across as annoyingly patronising. “Maybe I can lend a hand?”

“Pardon?”

Wait. No. What business did Martin have making an offer like that? It wasn’t as if he knew any better about keeping things alive. But something about the resigned nature of Jon’s tone tore at him; his mouth had fallen open of its own accord.

“I-I mean … Well, it might be fun, yeah?” Martin tried. “Personally, I’ve always wanted to learn how to garden.”

“Is that so?”

Martin nodded, intending on leaving it there, but Jon was watching him, waiting. Oh.

“W-Well, uh, when I was a kid,” Martin said, face warming, “I’d always dreamed of having a, um, like a little cottage? That I owned? With a great big plot of land in the middle of a forest somewhere. Would get married, settle down, grow flowers and all kinds of food together. It’s … it’s a bit silly.”

“Not at all,” Jon said, eyes softening, and Martin’s heart fluttered something fierce. “I think that’s lovely.”

He smiled, hoping it didn’t come out as a grimace, because it had been a long, long time since he’d indulged in that particular fantasy. It just wasn’t feasible, these days, having a little cottage of his own or … or finding someone who’d want to marry him when he’s never even had a serious relationship before.

“Thank you, though, for your offer,” Jon said, cutting through Martin’s thoughts. “I’ll … be sure to consider it.”

The tight knot in Martin’s stomach unwound just a bit. “‘Course.”

By that point, the dust had become utterly unbearable, and they were forced to evacuate.

The brass of the door handle glimmered under the lamplight, rusted with age and disuse. How long had Martin been standing here, knees locked and shivering beneath the thick chill? Ages, by now. Griffiths was going to have his skin peeled for shirking his responsibilities like this, and the head butler would be perfectly within his rights.

But every time Martin tried to remind himself, that he still had so much work to do –

“… Hello?”

That voice. Still out there, somewhere behind the old door. Distant, but not beyond Martin’s reach. If Martin had already been here for ages, then that voice …

Wasn’t anyone coming for them?

If he opened the door, he could just take a quick look. Call out, see who needed help –

“And what do you think you’re doing, young man?”

Martin yanked his hand back, hand burnt on the molten brass.

“M-Mum?”

“I always knew you’d leave for good someday. I could see it in your eyes, you know. You couldn’t bear to take care of your poor, sick mother, and now you’re off to traipse about the countryside with some invert.”

“I didn’t leave.” Tight pressure strangled Martin’s throat, the back of his eyes burning. “I’d never do that. Where are you? I’m coming, I-I’ll find you–”

“And what, pray tell, would be the point of that?”

“Mum, please, just tell me where you are, I’m coming–”

“You’ve always been a wretched liar.”

Martin lurched upright, sucking painful gasps through his aching teeth, his sleep shirt sticking to his sweaty skin. No light permeated the windows— he may as well have been in a tomb, for all that he could see.

Jon was out there somewhere. Alone. As was his mother.

I’m coming back to you. I’ll find a way out of here. I’m doing everything I can–

Liar.

Martin curled up onto his side, wrapping trembling arms around himself. Even though there was no one else to hear him, no one to stifle himself for, he drove his teeth into his lip until his mouth filled with the dull taste of copper.

Check out the Monster of Magnus Manor here!

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fanfiction #fic #[air horn noises]#yes chapter 4 will now be officially two chapters #their love just could not be contained #momm

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johnkrrasinski · 4 years

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Daylight;

full masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 1,721

Warning: FLUFF!!!! just two people being in love!!! but a little angst on bucky’s part though. (dont worry it’s got a happy ending)

Summary: bucky has his own unhealthy ways to deal with his demons but your love heals and changes him.

a/n: this one was inspired by @promptlywritingideas‘s prompts and i just immediately thought of bucky because i’m a soft ass bitch when it comes to bucky barnes. also! yes, i did use a lyric from daylight by taylor swift bc this song is literally everything alright, please listen to it if you haven’t. it’s the most reviving song ever. also, credit to @seedaylight for this lovely picture!

The bead of sweats rolled off Bucky’s forehead to his neck, his shirt and the floor, constructing small ponds of indignation that was left masked, unspoken and obliterated. At least that was what he had been aiming for as long as he could remember. The battered punching bag stayed robust and resilient despite the vigour of Bucky’s punches. The bleeding on his knuckles cracked through the split skin due to the brutal strikes.

But he couldn’t stop. The pain from the wounds still couldn’t compare to the demons haunting his mind. The ghosts in his dreams that refused to let him have his peaceful rest at night are the reasons why he was in the empty gym room at 3 am in the morning instead of being curled up in the warm sheets with the divine figure snoring next to him.

The silence of the solitude eased his mind, feeling like he was given the space and seclusion that he always yearned for. He was certainly grateful for what he had been given now; a lavish compound with excellent amenities and exceptional technologies, a ragtag group of people that had welcomed him with open arms and accepted him as part of their cluttered makeshift family, a much higher and noble purpose that allowed him to utilize his cursed, undesired superpowers for good and lastly, the foremost one out of all; you.

You, a blessing in his life that he never once imagined he’d ever get have in his long, agonizing life after all the wickedness he had committed. You, who loved him and believed in him anyway, even when he had lost faith in himself centuries ago. You, who permitted him to touch you in the most intimate manners and you, who were willing to be devoted to him even when he felt absolutely undeserving of your goodness and loyalty.

Bucky was a grateful man. He should’ve been. He was, it’s just- there was still a part of him that didn’t return and died in the ages of his Winter Soldier days. The days where he was merely a damaged soldier, a fractured puppet doll on a string, just waiting to be torn apart and stitched back together again just for the sake of more murders and more crimes.

He was slowly recovering though, each day, when he got a taste of your lips, when he watched you slowly wake up in the morning light, when your limbs were tangled within each other, that you couldn’t figure out where he began and you ended. But just because he was happy and he was grateful, doesn’t mean that all the sins of his past catching up to him would spontaneously combust in the blink of an eye.

He had his own baggage and he was going to deal with them. Most days, especially when he was surrounded by the love of his life and his makeshift family, he would pretend that all is well and healing was all there was. But at night, he’d slowly lift her arm that was circled around his waist off of him and quietly snuck out to his favourite place to be at midnight.

So that’s how he ended up in this sweaty state in the middle of the night. His mind recalled the fragments of memories during his Winter Soldier days that he fought to forget but they were stronger. It was faint and distant but, it still lingered in his mind like it was just yesterday.

The faces of his victims before he shot a bullet right through their skulls loomed. Their begs for mercy echoed in his ears. And the guilt consciously devoured his heart alive, like a cobra swallowing its feeble prey.

“Bucky…?” The delicate voice alerted him out of his tumultuous daze.

Bucky halted and turned his body around to the entrance, where you were standing in a plain white tank top and your bottom shorts with a wool cardigan hugging your form daintily. You looked so endearing in your half drowsy state, as you rubbed your eye, whilst trying to adjust to the brightness of the room. You always preferred being in the dark, after all. Beaming lights always hurt your sight.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing up?”

“I was looking for you. I got cold and I wanted to cuddle.”

He approached you deliberately with his boxing gloves still on, “go back to bed, alright? I’ll be up with you in a minute.”

“No, I’m not going back to bed without you.”

“I can’t, y/n.”

“Why?” It was a futile rhetorical question. You knew better than anyone why he was here.

“Y/N, I-”

“Oh God, Bucky, I love you. But this has to stop.”

“Y/N, it’s not that- I’m sorry but… what?” He was uncertain whether he got the last part right.

The truth is, Bucky knew he loved you since the first moment you courageously approached him like he wasn’t one of the deadliest assassins in history. He loved you the grace of your smile, he loved the way you mindlessly danced to your favourite song and the way you’d make silly jokes that he rarely understood to comfort your dearest teammates.

But within the six months you had been dating, you and Bucky hadn’t said the three special words yet to each other. You were taking it slow, knowing that you could trust and be honest with each other, and that you’d always have each other’s backs, whether it be on missions or in secret moments. So you didn’t feel the need to rush what you had, fearing that one might scare the other and destroy the precious plants that you both watered until they turn into an entire garden together.

“What?” You were just as puzzled as he was. You somnolent state of mind didn’t realize that you had just blatantly declared the most potent three words to him when all you intended was to break him off his deleterious habits.

But the truth was, you really did love him. You had loved him before you even realized it. It took you a while to fall in love with him, but before you and Bucky finally stopped playing around and acting coy with your real emotions around each other, you had possessed this profound affection for him like a lifelong childhood best friend.

The way his kind baby blue eyes always nudged your soft spot… It always pulled you in like you were walking into a house and you just suddenly knew that you were home. Familiar and warm. That’s what you always felt with Bucky around you. Long before he was even yours.

So when you mindlessly uttered those words, it felt like second nature. Something that just felt so natural to your lips. Bucky walked into your life with such rare sincerity and your heart welcomed it with wide, open arms.

“Those three words… Say it again.”

“…Has to stop?” You shot him a questioning look. It took you a few seconds to realize what you just said. You were starting to panic despite your sluggish state. It’s like Bucky’s question was a wakeup call and it jolted you awake like icy water thrown right onto your face without a warning. You could not believe you were clumsy enough to let the three worlds roll out of your lips.

Oh God, alright, quick, think of something clever, something rational, something that could undo what you just recklessly spurted-

“No no, the words before that.” Bucky quizzically assessed your face.

“Pretty sure I said ‘this has’ before that. I mean, I don’t know,” you scratched your forehead like a kid lying to her teacher about forgetting her homework. “I don’t really remember much, it doesn’t matter anyway, I was half asleep and I was just babbl-”

And then, you felt silky plump lips slamming yours in the most jovial way. He deepened his kiss with his massive hands grabbing your face so delicately as if he was holding a fragile china doll. He caressed your cheek with his thumbs as if he was memorizing every feature on your seraphic face.

He retreated and stared lovingly into your widen eyes. It’s not like it was the first time he surprised you with a kiss, but it’s the unheralded reaction that you thought would’ve been the doom for the two of you. You thought you might’ve frightened him away but it was rather the exact opposite. From the smile on his face, he seemed rather fond. “I love you too.”

Your lips were slightly agape. “You do…?”

“Yes, I do. It took me a while to say that because I thought you weren’t ready to hear it or say it back and I don’t wanna scare you or make you feel guilty so I thought I should wait. But I guess, I don’t have to anymore, now.” His eyes sparkled.

“But we still need to address one thing though, you can’t keep doing this. Every night, you’d sneak into the gym and break your knuckles instead of talking to me. I want you to be honest with me. I want you to trust me. And if we don’t have those then, love is just an illusion.”

His face that was gleaming turned into a frown. There was that sealed off look and hesitation on his face again.

“I’m not asking you to cut yourself open and let me see everything. I just need you to try to let me comfort you instead of hiding in the dark and bleed yourself out every midnight when you should be in bed with me.”

“I’m a work in progress doll, but for you, I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And you made a vow to your heart as well that you would walk with him in the murk, no matter how excruciating and dull the road to recovery is. And you would hold his hand and guide him every step of the way. Because there’s no one else you’d rather share the torturous nights and the mundane days with than him. You would rather share countless arguments and overflowing tears with him than to spend a single peaceful night with someone else.

Because that was the love of your life. And you didn’t wanna look at anything else now that you saw him.

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dailyaudiobiblechronological · 3 years

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11/2/2021 DAB Chronological Transcription

Luke 18:15-19:48

Today is the second day of November, I'm Jill. Welcome to Daily Audio Bible Chronological where we are walking through the Word of God every day in chronological order until we get through the entire Bible in a year and we're well on our way. And we're within the two months countdown of being to our one year goal. So great to be here with you. So great to be on this journey with you. And I hope you're having a fantastic day. Today, we're reading the Book of Luke, chapter 18:15, and we'll be reading through chapter 19, verse 48. This week we are reading the English Standard Version, Luke 18:15.

Commentary

Let's refer to The God of Your Story today to talk about what happened. When Jesus Ministry began, he left the Jordan River and traveled through the Judean wilderness on his way back to Galilee. In Luke's gospel today, we found Jesus taking the same path in reverse. Jesus was making his way to Jerusalem for the final time before his arrest, and the path led through the ancient city of Jericho. A blind beggar had been sitting along the road, when he heard the commotion surrounding Jesus upon inquiry, he realized that a healer was passing by. Obviously, the blind man had no idea the weight on Jesus shoulders. No one really understood what was about to take place. The blind man began to yell, Jesus Son of David, have mercy on me. The crowd shunned him, but he yelled even more to get above the noise. He was desperate to get Jesus attention, despite the ridicule and it worked. Jesus had the man brought to him in a beautiful exchange take place. What do you want me to do for you? Jesus asked. Lord, the blind man said, I want to see. And Jesus said, all right, receive your sight. Your faith has healed you. The beautiful collaboration that took place on this dusty desert path outside of Jericho should affect us all on many levels. First, Jesus stopped. Jesus was on his way to a brutal death. And if we were on the same path with the same for-knowledge, we would probably be more than just a little preoccupied. Second, Jesus invited the blind man to articulate his desire. And last, Jesus response to the man's healing wasn't self aggrandizing. He acknowledged the collaboration between the human and the divine, saying, Your faith has healed you. From this simple story, we see that God is not too preoccupied for us. He wants us to articulate our desires and share our hearts. And he intends to collaborate with us and our restoration. What makes you desperate enough to cry out? Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me. He's listening.

Prayer

Father, thank you that you listen to us. Thank you, that you are not too preoccupied. I don't know how that can be, but there it is. We just saw in your word, Jesus was not too preoccupied for a man who was desperate, who knew his need and you on your way to your death, took the time for him. Thank you for such love. Thank you for such kindness. Thank you for utter compassion. And when we hear this, when we hear this story, when we hear these words and we are now aware that you took the time, which means you will take the time, may we internalize the longing within us. May we examine that to see if we are being as intentional, making time, spending time being with you, articulating our need, allowing you the freedom to come. We love you. We thank you. We are thankful. We are grateful today and every day. I pray that in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen.

Announcements

Daily Audio Bible that's Home base. Take a look around. If you haven't. That's the website. You can check it out. Plenty to do. Take a little peek at the store. There's a prayer wall if you are less comfortable calling in, but you really need prayer, just know it's available and it is just within the click of your fingertips that you can access and utilize that if you would like to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, thank you so much for your partnership for every contribution. We could not do this without you. And that is the truth. If you're giving by mail DAB PO Box 1996, Spring Hill, Tennessee 37174. Or you can hit that Give icon. It is up at the top right hand corner of your mobile device. Or look for the Give icon at the website as well. If you have a prayer request, if you'd like to call in and pray over someone that's previously called in, you can do so 800-583-2164. Or you can hit that red circle button it's up at the top right hand corner of your mobile device as well. Make sure you hit submit and then turn that little wheel to Chronological and it will get to the right place. That's it for me today. I'm Jill. We will turn the page together tomorrow and I look forward to it until then. Love one another.

Community Prayer Line

Hello, this is Faith Walker of Tennessee. I am calling in today with a prayer request. I guess you will call in a Mother's Heart of prayer for my two sons who are needing employment. One of my sons was released from his job and he has a family and he's been seeking employment. Just as you pray for him, that he will find the job that God has for him so that he can provide for his family. And my second son, who is trying to go for a promotional move, another position in Ministry that he really believes this is a season for him to apply for. And he was very encouraged about until just this week and it just seems impossible because of the competition that he's up against. So we're just believing God, that what you have said will come to pass. And this is your will that we, whatever your will is that we will be able to walk in that I have that faith to believe the impossible. And he's standing as well. He's encouraged me. I'm trying to encourage them, but I need encouragement today. So please pray with me for my family. As a mom, it can be really happy when you're praying for your children. I love you guys. I appreciate this community. Appreciate that. I can call and I can ask for prayer because I know this community. Prayers move mountains, God bless. Have a good day.

Hey, DABC family, this is Justine. I just asked for you guys to pray for a friend of mine. His name is Gabe. He's undergone some surgery for a dissected aorta that occurred this evening. He's got two younger girls and a wife, and you guys would pray for healing for him and safety and also for comfort for his family. I just asked that you would lift him up from prayer and he would be okay. Thanks again. Hello.

This is Hallelujah even here, from Nebraska. This prayer is for Kelsey from North Carolina. Kelsey, dear friend, I fervently pray for you for your addiction that you are trying to overcome, that you have been struggling with for years. I know, Kelsey. I know the Lord is with you. He's with you now, and that's who will be waiting for you on the other side. Kelsey, you can do this. Surrender it all to him. Not every day. Every moment. Every moment you're struggling with that addiction. Kelsey, he will be there for you. He is there for you. I pray, dear Lord, and I lift Kelsey up to you. You are with her. Give her strength. Give her someone who will help her bring someone into her life. Lord, Kelsey, I lift you up. Dear friend. Amen.

Hi, this is Creative child in Texas and I'm calling on behalf of my father. He is 87 years old and at the age where he signed out live his generation of the family. Last month he lost his favorite cousin due to a heart attack, and this Sunday he lost another cousin that was raised as a brother for him. His grandmother had three children, one died at a young age with no children, and the other two only had one son each, and they were raised as brothers. So, I am asking for prayer for my father to be able to deal with the situation at hand and to be able to survive and be able to deal with the loss of his family members as they get older. I'm hoping that he stays alive as long as his mother did, which was 103 years old and she saw the whole generation leave and still kept a sun shiny disposition. So I'm praying for the same for my father. If you can just give him shout out in your prayers. I truly believe that it would help him. I ask this name of Jesus Christ. Cecilia Emmanuel. Thank you very much. Thank you, Jill, for this Ministry. And I'm praying for the rest of you all. Bye.

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marveloussupernerd · 3 years

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I loved the platonic Zen one so much! Would you want to wrrite it from Zen's pOV and he is in love with MC? He would be just staring at her and in love with her but MC is too drunk to notice? Thanks!

Uhm this is literally such a cute idea !? I’ve never written from Zen’s POV and first person makes me feel silly... but let’s throwback to English terms I’m going to use third person limited to him :)) I hope that works for you

Wtf is this POV. Idk. I always refer to the lovely reader as “you.” Today you are “she/her.” If you want something gender neutral feel free to request ! Also I’m sorry if this sucks I’m playing around with points of view

Clubbing - Zen (Zen’s POV)

Warnings: alcohol (duh)

Summary: you’ve had a long day at work. Zen has been meaning to take you to some of his favorite clubs. You’re so pretty... even when you’re drunk, even more so when Zen is drunk. He’s caught feels

She had had the worst week ever, or that’s what it had sounded like. She was texting Zen everyday after work giving her update: “People were extra shitty today,” “working late,” “Friend’s being a real bitch.”

This week had sucked for her. Zen was determined to make it better though! She sounded so tired over the phone. Just exhausted of all the shit she had to put up with. So he recommended they go out clubbing, get super wasted together and let it all out. He knew it’d be therapeutic for her and, heck, maybe with a few drinks in him he’d forget how bubbly and hot he felt around her all the time. That’s the last thing she needed tonight.

He knew she was in desperate need of a fun night, so he picked the bar that he frequented that was right by a college campus. The scene was always lively and the people were nice. It’d be a good pick. His Uber arrived to the spot first. He had to look cool while he waited for you. He had dressed the part! Ripped jeans, a plain white shirt that was slightly fitted to give a little taste at his muscles, and the leather jacket he had pulled out from the back of his closet. He looked pretty cool, and definitely hot. His fans would have a heart attack seeing him in this ensemble, leaning against the wall, a smirk on his face.

When she got out of her Uber, though, that whole persona fell flat. He felt like an idiot. Why was he leaning against the wall! That was so stereotypical. His smirk had definitely changed, hopefully to a smile instead of a grimace. He was being an idiot.

But wow. She looked so good. She had on a skirt that looked so soft and her legs looked so pretty and he was staring at her legs for way too long. And her shirt was a high-necked, slightly cropped top. Not enough to show off her stomach, but just enough to hang there where a little bit of skin would peek out when she moved. She was so so beautiful. She didn’t even have to try. Of course, she had. She looked amazing. Ahhh how long had he been staring!? Say something! Say anything!

“Hey!” It was supposed to sound way cooler than that, way more chill. It came out as more of an exclamation. He was just so excited to see her.

She walked closer to him, a smile on her face. “This better be worth the commute,” she teased. It was a long Uber ride here, but he’d just have to make the trip even more worth it. The pressure was on.

He pushed himself off the wall so that he could better face her. “Oh it will! I’ve been so busy I haven’t been here in a while, but I doubt it’s changed.” He made his way into the building, staying close to her side. It often got pretty busy here. “It’s right outside of a college so you get all the fun college students here.” He had to raise his voice to speak over the music, but she seemed to be listening thoughtfully, a smile on her face as she nodded. God, that smile! Look anywhere else, Zen.

“Sounds messy,” she commented, her eyes scanning across the college students already getting drunk. Her gaze focused on a group of sorority girls in super high cut crop tops and high-waisted shorts. She pulled down her shirt subconsciously to cover up more of her stomach. It shot a pang to Zen’s heart. Did she really think she was any less attractive than these girls? She was so much more beautiful than them.

He chose not to comment on it though, instead following their conversation, explaining how all the students here were fun, as compared to regular bars where there were always people moping mixed in the crowds. He only ever came here when he wanted to get completely hammered and have a good time, but considering that’s what she needed, this was the perfect spot.

She was gazing at him for a little too long; Zen felt his body heat up under her gaze. What was she thinking about? Hopefully only good things. She continued on the conversation as though nothing had happened. “So, what do you typically start with here?”

“Shots. Classic move, especially for the med school students. You’ll see them soon enough. They start off with fireball then make their way down to the cheapest vodka as they get more drunk and can’t actually taste it.” It sounded like he had been here too much; he hoped he didn’t sound like an alcoholic.

But she didn’t judge him. She never had. She was so sweet. She just smiled, suggesting they follow their influence.

Zen offered to go get the drinks, heading up to the bar and placing their order. His eyes caught his own in the reflection in a mirror on the back wall. Why did he look so nervous? He’d need more alcohol to get through tonight. He requested another round of shots.

She seemed surprised to see the four shot glasses he balanced back. “Do they normally do two at once?” She asked, not bothering to hide the surprise in her face.

He shook his head. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. “Nah, they’re too broke for that. But I thought” that I didn’t want to be fawning over you all night. That I can’t look at you without thinking how pretty you are. That alcohol would help. “It’d be fun,” he finally mustered out. He handed her the shot glass, IGNORING how he felt as they brushed hands when they clinked their glasses against each other’s. He downed it smoothly, the burning feeling at his throat deliciously taking his mind off of her. That is until she had her mouth puckered and was shaking her head, holding back a cough. She looked cute even while doing that. “Good?” He asked her, still taking in her reaction.

“Perfect.” She grinned. “Round 2?”

“Already?” Thank God. More alcohol equals less strange feelings.

She laughed. His heart fluttered. “Well, it’s here isn’t it? The faster we can get drunk the better.”

Amen. He clinked the second glass and downed it even quicker than the first.

They got drunk fast. Zen had a constant stream of alcohol flowing through his body, begging it to stop thinking of her in that way. She tried to keep up with him, though, which got her drunk as well in no time.

“Will you sing karaoke with me?” He asked, his face heating up the second he realized what he had asked. What a strange question. One she’d never agree-

“Sure!” She laughed out loud. “I’ll even let you pick the song.”

Any song. Any song. A song he could remember the words to. A song you definitely knew. Maybe something a little romantic? No. Probably not. He settled on “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” A perfect duet. It’d show off his voice well, everyone knew it, it was cute without being too lovey.

He clicked the wrong song. “Before He Cheats” started playing. Not what he intended at all. He stumbled up to the stage and grabbed the microphone, desperate to pull attention away from such an odd choice of a song. “Hey, I’m Zen and this is my...” he blanked into the microphone. NOT girlfriend. Friend. Friend. “Best friend!” He introduced, announcing her name for the audience before the song had begun.

She took the song in stride. In fact... she probably got too into it? “This is for my asshole ex!” She cheered at the instrumental break. The crowd went wild.

Say something say something say something. “A-and all my old managers who told me I’d never make it,” he added. Everyone cheered again.

She made her way over to him, time seeming to slow as he watched her foot catch on the microphone cord, leaping to action to catch her before she could hit the ground, arms around her back as she had one on his chest to steady herself. His body felt like it was on fire.

“That would’ve hurt like a bitch,” she commented, laughing. She was drunk drunk, huh? He helped her up, grasping her hand firmly and guiding her over the wire to his side of the stage. They finished the performance hand-in-hand; he hadn’t wanted to let go.

Once they got off the stage, they didn’t get a moment of relieve, a man calling her name. Why did he introduce her? Nobody had the right to cat call her like this. He whipped around to face the man, blinding white anger in his eyes. She had such a shitty week, she didn’t need this. “If you so much as look at her right now I swear to God I’ll knock you into-“ his eyes widened as he took in the startled blonde boy in front of him. “Yoosung?”

Yoosung didn’t move, unintimidated by drunk Zen. “Hi!” He greeted. She turned to face him, her skirt fanning as she moved. Zen snapped his eyes away from her and back to the man in question. “You guys are kinda drunk.”

They burst into laughter. Duh!! Wasn’t that obvious. “What are you doing here?” Zen asked, ignoring the previous comment.

“Oh, well I live right down the street.”

Her eyes lit up in enlightenment. “Oh my goodness you are a college student!” She seemed very proud of this discovery.

Yoosung went on about playing LOLOL but Zen was more focused on her, the smile on her lips, not reserved as it sometimes was, but in full form, nothing held back. The way her eyes sparkled under the light and... back to the conversation at hand.

“Oh! I have a great idea!” He interrupted Yoosung’s very boring story, focusing the conversation on her.

“I’d love to hear it.” She was always so nice.

“Why don’t we just crash at Yoosung’s place tonight? We won’t have to pay for an Uber.”

Yoosung seemed shocked. “But-“

“That’s pretty smart,” she butted in, nodding. “What do you think Yoosung?”

She could get anyone to listen to her. She was so damn charming. Yoosung didn’t stand a chance. “I- I guess that’s okay. As long as I can play LOLOL.”

“Yay!” She cheered, clapping excitedly. “We can go now. Lead the way.”

As the three headed out of the bar, Zen noticed her walking was shaky. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder to steady her and she followed suit. They weren’t much more stable walking down the street, but he felt better having his arm around her to keep her safe. Yoosung had unlocked the door for them and they shuffled in.

“I only have like... a bed and a couch,” he explained. “But we can figure something out.”

She let go of Zen’s body, leaping out of his grip to look around the place. “Wow Yoosung! This is cute as hell.” She was cute as hell.

Zen made his way to the couch, plopping down on it at the same time as her. His legs banged into hers clumsily, but he shifted so that she could lay on top of his. Were they really going to sleep in the same place?

“Is that really comfortable?” Yoosung asked, directing his attention to her. “You can take my bed.”

Zen glanced over at her, pouting. He was not sharing a couch with Yoosung, especially after almost getting to share it with her. She seemed to get the hint. “Nah, this is great. Will you get us a blankie though?”

As Yoosung left to get the blanket, Zen shrugged off his jacket, tossing it to the floor. She ran her hand through her hair, the locks falling messily around her face. Yoosung came back and draped the blanket over the two of them. “Is this okay?” He had asked.

Zen chuckled, cozying up to the blanket. “Perfect. Thanks Dad,” he teased. Yoosung blushed more. She giggled.

“Night Yoosungie! Don’t stay up all night.” She called. He wanted a nickname. Not fair. Yoosung set down some Advil and water on the coffee table and wished them good night. The room was suddenly silent.

“I want a nickname too.” Zen whispered.

“Zen isn’t even your real name,” she retorted.

He groaned. “I want a cute name like Yoosungie. Why don’t I get a cute name.”

“You’re plenty cute already,” she muttered, clearly tired. “Goodnight Zenny,” she giggled, blowing him a kiss. He fake-caught it, pinning it to his chest. Maybe tonight wasn’t all that bad after all.

#mystic messenger #mysme #zen

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rovewritesit · 4 years

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Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 2) John Deacon x Reader Series

Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction, and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 1 - PART 3 - PART 4

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Cursing, duh. Feelings of anxiety.

Chapter Notes: A wild Deacy appears! Reader was supposed to meet him in this chapter but it got a bit long. I may have awkwardly stuffed in some backstory as well, but I wanted to get through it before we start having more interactions with the members of Queen. I’m a hoe for Hot Space and Cool Cat is such a vibe so I had to throw it in here. If you haven’t heard the original demo with Bowie you should take a listen. The music video concept was sparked loosely by Mitski’s “Happy” video (it’s gory af, be forewarned). I’m aware that the MTV of the 80s definitely would’ve banned anything like that, but it’ll come back around in the plot later on.

Songs Mentioned:

Heart of the Night - Juice Newton

More Than A Feeling - Boston

My Best Friend’s Girl - The Cars

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute

- - - - - - -

February 1982 - Orpheum Theater, Boston

It’s noisy in the cramped green room backstage at the Orpheum Theater in Boston. Gone were the days of grand arenas while tagging along with Hall and Oates. Now only around 2,000 bodies lined the seats out in the house, but you still feel that familiar bubble of nerves as Dawn busies herself around your hair.

Dawn, your best friend from your two short years at NYU, had agreed to tag along for the short tour to help with your “look.” Not that you ever really had a problem with your usual jeans and t-shirts, but this rock type of glam proved to be a different beast, and Dawn certainly had an eye for style. Her voluminous hair always streaked blonde and crimped to perfection. She’d tried to convince you many times to do something chemical with yours but you held firm to your virgin hair, causing your pre-show routine to run well into an hour and a half to get the desired popular style. You smile up at her as she curls part of your bangs away from your face, truly grateful to have another woman around.

“Babes, please stop moving your head. I’ve had to do the same piece 3 times already.” She tuts at you. “And Eds, I’ve asked you how many times to watch your elbows, jesus christ.”

Eddie tries to cram in even tighter against the wall, keeping to the five tiny spots you’d all wrangled against the mirror. “Ay, I’m trying over here. It takes some effort to get all this together.” He smirks, running his fingers through his already perfectly coiffed hair. A shame really, that it would be utterly destroyed within 15 minutes of being on stage.

“Have we picked a city song for tonight yet? I want to go over it in my head a few times before we go on.” Lawrence calls out, trying to tug on a pair of pants that look a size or two too small for him.

The Limbs had taken to playing one song per show by a famous local artist from the city they were in. Since they only had the one album out, it was a chance to get the audience singing and moving together; to change up the pace. A modified tip from a certain mustached rock legend that the band had started to implement.

“I thought we decided on More Than A Feeling?” Eddie says as he tears his eyes away from his own reflection.

“That’ll be what they expect. I think Bun sounds better on My Best Friend’s Girl,” Rich says simply. He’s attempting some form of stretching routine in the back corner of the room, his extremities bumping up against the walls.

“So Y/N’s taking this one?” Steve asks, lounging across a small loveseat against the wall, his legs dangling off of it delicately. He looks up from whatever song he’s been working on.

“You heard what the label said. They want Y/N more center stage, so to speak, for marketing reasons.” Rich tries folding his body into some sort of pretzel shape. A light “oof,” escapes his lips as he falls backward slightly.

“Ah yes, we need to give the public what they want,” you huff, wanting to roll your eyes if not for Dawn covering your head in a cloud of Aqua Net.

Eddie starts pacing, or at least tries to, “I just don’t get why they’re trying to make her into some Debbie Harry.” He scoffs, “Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

Dawn glares at him. It was a bit of a low blow, but Eddie was still getting used to sharing the spotlight with you, with him singing lead on almost every other song.

You were still struggling to find your presence on stage and were more than happy to take a back seat to the boys for the most part. And while some of the band’s other singles were gaining traction, none were close to catching up to Heart of the Night, which was now getting steady airplay and record sales thanks to the absurd music video that hit TV screens everywhere a few weeks back.

“That’s true, Y/N’s much more of a Linda Ronstadt type if we’re throwing out names,” Lawrence grunts out. Finally able to close the button on his skin-tight pants.

A cold laugh erupts from Eddie. “Exactly. It’s the Eighties now if you haven’t noticed. It’s all about edgy sex appeal, and let’s be honest, even Steve has a better chance of-”

“Enough!” Dawn’s voice sliced through the air, the daggers thrown from her eyes flying towards him. She leans down to your level to examine her masterpiece. “You look as sexy as a goddamn playboy bunny, hun. No pun intended.” Her voice softens as she pinches your cheeks.

The room goes mostly quiet for the next few minutes as the local opening band starts to close out their set with their last two songs. Only Rich’s deep breathing, fitting in time to the beat.

You chew your cherry painted lips, mulling over Eddie’s words. You knew full well that you weren’t exactly the frontwoman the label or the public dreamed of. Hell, you weren’t even supposed to be a frontwoman at all. When you’d finally given in to Rich’s insistent pestering to come have some fun with the boys, you’d been at NYU for two years. You loved your film classes but felt the hole that was left from the absence of playing any type of music. In high school, you’d all show up to a party with a variety of instruments in your grasps. It almost always resulted in a crowd gathering around to listen, joining in with your voices, clicking their beer bottles in time with the beat. It was when you had felt most carefree, and you had ached for that feeling again.

But playing locally turned into recording an album, for which you wrote a song for some dream of a man that only existed in your thoughts. Next thing you knew you were scooped up by Columbia Records, missing classes to attend photoshoots or album release parties. People were listening to your voice, your song, and wanting more. You dropped out of college to the dismay of your parents but were immediately enveloped in your friends' glee, finally reaching the precipice of something they’d only dreamed of. You hated the thought of letting them down in any way but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a fluke, that you had nothing else to give. Destined to fade out as a one-hit-wonder and a disappointment to your best friends in the world. The weight hit your shoulders as you slumped in your seat.

None of this was supposed to happen, you tell yourself. It never happens like this.

You’re broken out of your daze when there’s a rap at the door and a muffled “5 minutes” from the stage manager behind it. You all stand, waiting for Rich to spread his wings and engulf you in your usual pre-show pow wow. You slide Dawn in next to you in the now group of 6, needing someone steady as an anchor.

“If you’d please, Reverend.” Steve probes, cheekily.

“We’re gathered here today” Rich begins and Dawn giggles. “To bring immense joy to those 2,000 idiots out there, who so willingly sold out our show for us. They deserve a performance played to 200,000, so that’s what we’re going to give them. In the name of our fathers, John, George, Paul, and Ringo. Let’s go give em’ hell.”

“Amen!” you all shout and disband.

As you follow the boys into the dingy hallway leading to the stage, Eddie catches your wrist. He looks at you through his long lashes with an uncharacteristically shy smile that almost never sees the light of day.

“I’m sorry for being a prick, Bun. I shouldn’t have said all that,” he mutters as you continue to walk, not wanting to miss your cue.

“No worries, Eds. You were right though. I’m definitely no Debbie,” you force a chuckle at yourself while a roadie slips your guitar strap onto your shoulders.

“It’s not alright. And no, you’re not,” he says catching your downturned eyes. “You’re Y/N fucking L/N, and you’re just gettin’ started, baby. All you gotta do is take a little bit of the love we all have for you and give some to yourself once in a while, alright?” A grin forms, showing his adorably asymmetrical teeth as he reaches out a hand to ruffle your painstakingly perfected hair. “That’s better. Now let's get out there so you can show the world exactly what kind of frontwoman you are. And don’t be scared to show them a hint of Bunny while you’re at it.” You move your guitar out of the way to pull him in for a close hug. You hear Steve start banging his snare and pull Eddie on to the stage with you, feeling a bit lighter than you had been minutes ago.

You approach your mic and take a look out at the packed, hazy theater.

“Well hello, Bawston!’ Your accent rings out to the faceless figures before you. “Aren’t you all looking fuckin’ fabulous tonight!”

- - - - - - -

March 1982 - Musicland Studios, Munich

“No, I didn’t say it’s bad, just that it sounds tinny,” Brian argues, crossing his spidery arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.

“And it’s as if you’ve shoehorned Bowie in there just to mumble in the background incoherently. A waste, really.” Roger tacks on from beside him.

John sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch in the studio. “Just because it’s not your precious red special or your own magic fingers at work, doesn’t mean it’s tinny,” he counters calmly. Trying his best to keep the annoyance from seeping into his voice, knowing that Brian already had anger stemming from John’s earlier composition for the album.

It was the first time this week that all four men were in the studio together. Finishing up Hot Space was proving to be a strain on all of them and the growing rift had caused the men to nearly finish their songs separately instead of in their usual group dynamic. John’s experimentation into different styles, such as funk and disco, had not been willingly received thus far.

“Well, I sound rather fabulous, if I do say so myself. I’m very proud of us, Deacy.” Freddie states, getting up from his own place on the couch and stretching.

“It’s not that, Fred. It just doesn’t sound like us.” Brian sighs, already sensing the escalation of a row coming along.

“Oh please. Not this again...” Freddie huffs.

“That’s because it’s not us. It’s me and Freddie.” John cuts in with a roll of his eyes, landing them on Mack, their producer, who just shrugs and trains his gaze back to the board.

“That’s for sure.” Roger murmurs out. Now it’s John’s turn to cross his arms as he levels their pointed gazes. He’d worked with Fred for days putting together “Cool Cat,” hoping that the additional vocals from David Bowie would be a selling point for the other two.

With a clap of his hands, Freddie moves about the room. “Why don’t we take a quick break and then give it another listen?” Roger groans. Freddie pats his shoulder as he makes his way over to a radio beside Mack.

John rubs his tired eyes before pushing himself off the couch, eager for a break from the energy in the stale room. “I’m grabbing a coffee,” not offering one to the others as he brushes past Brian on his way out, quickly retreating down the hallway as fast as his legs will carry him.

The remaining three startle a bit as Freddie flips on the radio, Lo & The Limbs hit single pours from it, louder than expected.

“Oh! Oh, yes! Simply marvelous,” he exclaims, jumping up and down lightly. Roger and Brian raise their eyebrows in silent questioning. “This is the band of rascals I was telling you about the other week. They must’ve just broken out here.”

“The yanks you met while in the States?” Roger questions, turning his attention to the song, eager to judge any brimming competition.

“Yes, yes, the wild young lady who swears like the devil and her band of merry giant trees.”

“We have one of those!” Rog nods in Brian’s direction, voice muffled by a cigarette now dangling from his lips.

“Hm, Brain’s more of a willowy spruce, if you will. These ones are giant redwoods. You know American’s. And they have these thick New York accents. I could barely understand a word they were saying at first. What a riot they were.” he remembers fondly.

“I feel as if I’ve heard this before, but I can’t place it.” Brian ponders, almost to himself.

John appears in the doorway, blowing lightly on a steaming mug.

“Probably from that shocking video of theirs, darling,” Freddie waves his hands about. “Oh, you must’ve seen it. They’re all dressed up like they're in Grease or something, and this square of a girl is pinning after the bad boy. But he’s with this slutty little thing. And oh, I can’t recall the details, but in the end, she ends up murdering the slut!” He slaps the table for effect. “But for some odd reason the boy is okay with it all and they run off into the night together, covered in blood.”

“Sounds… spooky?” Roger shrugs. John stifles a chuckle.

“It’s dramatic! And sexy. And obviously working for them.” The wheels already turning in his head.

John tunes out their chatter and trains his ears to said song, which is about halfway through. The instrumentals seem a bit basic for his taste. The soft strum of an acoustic guitar, a slightly heavier electric over it, with a simple bass line. A female voice flits in.

Cool city moon lays its touch on the room,

Your eyes reach to me

It has a rasp to it. Akin to Stevie Nicks, he thinks.

Two shadows fall saying nothing at all,

We know what we need

No, not quite. It’s entirely it's own if he’s being honest. He can feel the soul pulsating through words and the power that’s beneath it. One that could probably fit with any genre it should choose. His interest peaked.

In the release, two prisoners are free from the darkness

One more escape surviving the heartache and madness

The raw emotion erupting from the speakers and the lyrics start to paint a picture in his mind, scrambling to fill in the faceless voice.

In the heart of the night

The chorus starts and picks up steam quickly. Male voices begin to fill in on background vocals, blending together seamlessly.

We run like bandits

Two hungry hearts under the gun

Her voice cracks a bit, in a charming way. It must be radiant when heard live.

In the heart of the night

When we find each other

Were stealing love on the run

In the heart of the night,

Heart of the night

A small smile plays on John’s lips as the song fades out. They’re good, he muses to himself, a bit intrigued by the song and Fred’s colorful description of the accompanying video.

“A great voice indeed. They’ve got a strong sound going.” Brian chirps up.

“That’s her first swing at writing, too. Wish it had been that bloody easy for us.”

“Is she a looker, Fred?” Roger wags his brows.

“Oh please, they’re practically babies! Although that drummer of theirs is certainly something to write home about… Even with the head of hair he has. A bit like a mushroom. A cute one.” Freddie ponders, stroking his full mustache.

John reaches up and pats the tight curls atop his own head, wondering how it would look if he ceased from trimming his current short perm.

“I do hope they catch on here. What fun that would be.” John readily nods along without realizing it.

Freddie switches off the radio and turns back to the other three men. “Alright back to it then. Queue it up, Mac,” placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and raising his eyebrows. “Shall we?”

- - - - - - -

March 1982 - Columbia Records, New York City

“Why are the undersides of my knees sweaty? I’m not a back of the knee sweat kind of guy, alright?” Lawrence fidgets, adjusting his collar for the fourth time in two minutes.

You casually gulp down your third glass of water while staring at the wood-paneled walls of the office. Attempting to avoid the gazes of a number of gold discs lining the walls, the echoes of your musical idols. They seem to be laughing at you.

Steve partakes in his trademark bouncing routine, the chair underneath him squeaking in a violent rhythm. “Do you think it’s the video? It has to be the video or we wouldn’t be in this office. I knew we shouldn’t have taken that big of a risk right out of the gate.”

“You gotta be kidding me. You basically doused yourself in the blood when Eddie pitched it!” Rich cuts in, his usual calm demeanor nowhere to be found.

“What! It was your idea for the--”

The door behind where the group is gathered swings open and in strides a stocky man with a full beard and tinted aviator sunglasses still covering his eyes.

“What are we all standing around for? Sit, sit, sit, c’mon.” His gruff Brooklyn accent ringing out as he moves to sit behind a large mahogany desk.

The Limbs scramble to fit on the couch across from him, with you ending up perched on the armrest, gripping Rich’s bicep for support.

The man, Walter Yetnikoff, CEO and Chairman of Columbia Records, grunts as he eases into a leather chair, finally removing his glasses, revealing surprisingly kind eyes, “Jeez louise, look at you kids. You look as if a nun just caught you all playing with each other’s junk. What’s with the faces?”

“Mr. Yetnikoff, we’d like to sincerely apologize for the backlash that has come from our video. We should’ve known better than that. We could’ve toned it down… a lot.” Eddie rushes out. He wipes his hand over his too-snug tailored pants, probably leftover from days of youth choir.

Walter barks out a laugh. “I’ll admit I was a little shocked to find out that’s what you needed a high school gym for, but relax a little, will ya? You’re not here to be scolded. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have fought so hard to get it airtime.”

The Limbs visibly relax- a tad, but their eyes all stay wide.

“Well aren’t ya gonna ask why you’re all here then?”

“W-why are we here?” Rich asks quietly. “Sir.” He adds.

“It seems that the slight PR crisis of a video you made has made its way across the pond,” Walter smirks.

“You mean…” Steve trails off in a voice two octaves higher than usual.

“You kids better like air travel because there’s gonna be a lot of it in your near future. The hit has broken into the London airwaves and they’re not as god fearing as viewers here seem to be. We’re sending you over there next week now that you’ve wrapped up the tour.”

“Holy shit!” Lawrence yells. You feel yourself falling back off your perch as your large friends all jump to their feet. Rich’s gangly arm luckily catches you and pulls you immediately into a suffocating hug. “You did this, Bunny!” He screams in your ear. “You did this!”

“Alright, alright, you can all go celebrate and drink your faces off in a second,” Walter calls out over the group who immediately shut their mouths. “We have a few details to iron out but I’m hoping to send you over there for a full press tour. Photoshoots, interviews, talk show appearances. The works, you got it.”

Steve lets out a squeal of delight, his voice not yet returning to its usual bass.

“You.” He points a stubby finger in your direction. “I’m waiting to hear back about a last-minute cancelation on some game show out there. We’re gonna try to get you in. You know your shit?”

“W-what kind of shit, sir?” You ask from the bear hug that Rich still holds you in.

He holds up his hands, gesturing to the gold discs that surround him. “Music, my dear.”

All you can do is nod, not wanting to think about what that even entails.

“That’s what I like to see. Now get outta here so you can all combust somewhere outside of my office. We’ll call you in a few days. Get those bags ready, you hear me?” He waves you all off.

Before you have a chance to say anything, the boys are sweeping you out of the room. And off to the start of whatever comes next, you guess.

#queen fic #queen fanfiction #queen fanfic #john deacon #john deacon fic #john deacon imagine #john deacon x reader #john deacon series #deaky fic #deaky x reader #deacy fic #deacy x reader #angelofmydreams

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ariibees · 3 years

Text

Amen

Mais c'est aussi en français !

I enjoyed doing Birth to My Creation and went ahead and translated Amen into French as well! I was more busy/distracted while doing this one and didn’t put as much effort into matching the syllables, mostly just translating something that vaguely worked (so it’s harder to sing along to), so don’t take this as a legitimate French version haha. But I had fun with it. Proper comments on the lyric/word choices at the bottom, and French lyrics and an English translation of those just under the cut!

French Lyrics:

PROFESSOR #1: Frankenstein, nous trouvons vos idées choquantes, dangereuses, et un affront à tout ce qui est moral et décent

PROFESSOR #2: C'est de l'insanité ! Seul un fou ou un hérétique oserait jouer avec la vie et la mort comme vous le proposez

PROFESSOR #3: Votre obsession avec les charlatans discrédités et leur science douteuse est une pure folie

PROFESSOR #4: L'université ne tolérera pas vos expériences bizarres et non autorisées

PROFESSOR #5: C'est de la folie totale !

ALL: C'est... SOTTISE... FOLIE... INSANITÉ !

PROFESSOR #1: Les morts n'ont rien à vous dire

CONDEMNED MAN: Je maudis le jour où je suis né Dans un monde noir de haine

Cette vie, je la quitterai En sachant que le ciel offrira La paix et non la peine

Je nierai pas que je suis un homme Et en tant que tel, j'ai du pécher Un Adam, j'ai mangé la pomme Mais mon sang innocent, vos mains, il va tacher

EXECUTIONER: Pour vos crimes contre le peuple-

MOB: Vous ne méritez que de mourir

EXECUTIONER: Le magistrat d'Ingolstadt vous condamne-

MOB: Votre âme, on peut pas la convertir

EXECUTIONER: Être pendu jusqu'à ce que mort s'ensuive-

MOB: Le diable va vous punir

EXECUTIONER: Le seizième jour de septembre, dix-sept cent et…

MOB: Vous ne méritez que de mourir

CONDEMNED MAN: Qui est mal ? Qui est bon ?

MOB: Votre âme, on peut pas la convertir

CONDEMNED MAN: Et qui répond ?

MOB: Le diable va vous punir

CONDEMNED MAN: Qui ose jouer à Dieu ?

MOB: Un homme n'oserait- Un homme n'oserait- Un homme n'oserait pas jouer à Dieu…

VICTOR: Une autre âme... une autre lumière... Une autre flamme s'est éteinte Un moment ici, après, parti Et un cœur bat, puis il finit La mort est si succincte

Un ancien mystère : qu'est-ce que la vie ? Qu'est-ce qu'il faut croire ? Une question de philosophie ? Ou peut-être de biologie ? Je suis le seul à savoir...

J'ai trouvé ce qui était impossible Cela va laisser tout le monde pantois Créer une vie, c'est faire l'impossible Et tout le monde... m'entendra !

MOB: Nous suivrons Dieu !

VICTOR: J'entends sa voix... le gantelet…

CONDEMNED MAN: Qui est mal ? Qui est bon ?

VICTOR: ...Crie les demandes du sort

MOB: Il mourra !

CONDEMNED MAN: Et qui répond ?

VICTOR: Le destin de l'humanité…

MOB: Finissez-en maintenant !

VICTOR: Cet esprit répond...

CONDEMNED MAN: Qui ose jouer à Dieu ?

VICTOR: ...Avec ces mains

MOB: Le jugement est ici!

CONDEMNED MAN: Oh mon créateur, écoute-moi Libérez-moi de ce cauchemar

Et si aucun homme ne me pleure Je suis à vous Amen

EXECUTIONER: Qui s'occupera le corps ? Je répète: qui réclame ce corps ?

VICTOR: Moi !

English Translation:

PROFESSOR #1: Frankenstein, we find your ideas shocking, dangerous, and an affront to all that is moral and decent

PROFESSOR #2: This is insanity! Only a madman or a heretic would dare to play with life and death as you propose

PROFESSOR #3: Your obsession with discredited charlatans and their dubious science is sheer madness

PROFESSOR #4: The university will not tolerate your bizarre and unauthorized experiments

PROFESSOR #5: It’s total madness!

ALL: It is foolishness...madness...insanity!

PROFESSOR #1: The dead have nothing to say to you

CONDEMNED MAN: I curse the day that I was born In a dark world of hatred

This life, I will leave it Knowing that heaven will offer Peace and not sorrow

I will not deny that I am a man And as such, I have sinned... An Adam, I ate the apple But my innocent blood, your hands it will stain

EXECUTIONER: For your crimes against the people-

MOB: You only deserve to die

EXECUTIONER: The magistrate of Ingolstadt condemns you-

MOB: Your soul, we can't save it

EXECUTIONER: To be hanged by the neck until dead-

MOB: The devil will punish you

EXECUTIONER: The sixteenth day of September, seventeen hundred and...

MOB: You only deserve to die

CONDEMNED MAN: Who is bad? Who is good?

MOB: Your soul, we can’t save it

CONDEMNED MAN: And who answers?

MOB: The devil will punish you

CONDEMNED MAN: Who dares to play God?

MOB: A man wouldn’t dare- A man wouldn’t dare- A man wouldn’t dare to play God…

VICTOR: Another soul... another light... Another flame has been extinguished One moment here, the next, gone And a heart beats, then it finishes Death is so succinct

An ancient mystery: what is life? What is to be believed? A question of philosophy? Or perhaps of biology? I am the only one to know...

I found that which was impossible It’s going to leave everybody stunned To create a life is to do the impossible And everyone will hear me!

MOB: We will follow God!

VICTOR: I hear its voice... the gauntlet...

CONDEMNED MAN: Who is bad? Who is good?

VICTOR: ...Crying the demands of fate

MOB: He will die!

CONDEMNED MAN: And who answers?

VICTOR: The fate of humanity...

MOB: Finish it now!

VICTOR: This mind answers...

CONDEMNED MAN: Who dares to play god?

VICTOR: ...With these hands

MOB: Judgement is here!

CONDEMNED MAN: Oh my creator, listen to me Free me from this nightmare

And if no man mourns me I am yours Amen

EXECUTIONER: Who will take care of this body? I repeat: who claims this body?

VICTOR: Me!

Comments:

I made a bunch of unintentionally funny translation errors while writing this (and there are probably some more I haven’t caught) including writing “to fish” instead of “to sin” and referring to human remains as trash instead of a corpse.

When writing for some reason I thought that the “who dares to act as god” lines were supposed to rhyme with “what’s wrong, what’s right, does man decide” and ended up with something along the lines of “Qui est le Dieu des moribonds?” (who is the god of the dying?) to refer to Victor. Fun!

I did at least get to slip in more “Victor is god” fun through “Who answers?” “This mind answers.” Also, another biblical reference with Adam and the apple; that wasn’t originally intended, but it fit the rhyme I had going so I kept it. I also specifically chose “playing god” to sort of emphasize that Victor is never really a god, he only imagines himself to be; he’s instead still young and believes himself greater than he is.

I’m also aware that the formality/flowery-language level jumps all over the place here. At times I dropped “ne,” other times I kept it, the tense changes depending on the rhyme I needed, and so on. So, once again: don’t take this as a genuine translation lmao

#frankenstein #frankenstein: a new musical

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Text

Track to the Future

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (explicit sexual content) Word count: 7675 @spideychelleweek

Spideychelle Week Day 6: Only One Bed

Summary: Peter and MJ board the train to the academic decathlon tournament in New Orleans as friends, but after the booking company messes up Mr. Harrington's sleeping car room assignments and they're forced to share a compartment for the night, Peter hopes there's a chance they'll be more than friends by the time they have to, ahem, get off.

“…and if anyone needs anything at all during the night,” Mr. Harrington said, finally wrapping up his thorough Spending the Night on a Train Protocol, “Mr. Dell and I have compartments at either end of the car you’ll be sleeping in while your co-captains’ shared compartment is the first in the next car. Sometimes it’s easier to reach out to a peer if you’re experiencing any feelings of homesickness or stress ahead of tomorrow’s tournament. But remember, Mr. Dell and I are here to support you.”

“Nah, don’t knock on my door,” Mr. Dell said with a quick negative slice of his hand. “I’m taking a sleeping pill, you know the drill. I’ll also be putting my headphones on and turning the volume way up to sleep in a cocoon of music. I’m trying to spend as much of this trip as possible listening to jazz. By the time we roll into New Orleans, I’ll be fully immersed in the atmosphere.”

Peter’s eyes darted between the team’s chaperones as their group of ten sat crowded into adjacent booths in the dining car. The one person he was careful not to linger on was MJ. Things had been normal between them since boarding that afternoon―meaning they’d gotten in lots of quality moments of smiling at each other and looking swiftly away―until Mr. Harrington sprung on them the fact that they’d be sharing a sleeping cabin. Apparently, the train had double-booked a room, leaving the Midtown Academic Decathlon contingent one short. Their teachers (mostly one of them, after Mr. Dell begged not to be dragged into ‘this snafu’) had decided the best course of action was to pair up the captains. Surely, these were their two most responsible individuals. That’s what Peter assumed Mr. Harrington had been thinking. That and he probably hadn’t noticed the way Peter and MJ had been dancing around each other the past few months; as long as students were present, still breathing, and had all their limbs attached, he seemed satisfied. But Peter knew that he and MJ were going to have to be the real adults here and eventually confront the fact that they’d be spending the night on top of each other. Because bunk beds.

“Yeah, come find me or Peter if you need us,” MJ chimed in. Though her expression told Peter she was reluctant, the same instinct for leadership that made her a good captain was forcing her to speak up now. “Or text or something. I’ll keep my phone on.”

“Did you pack a phone charger?” Flash asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes.”

“Can I use it?”

“I’m offering you emotional support, not access to my belongings. Some things are sacred.”

“Pfft,” Flash scoffed. “You just don’t want me showing up to ask for it. Scared I’ll interrupt something while you and Penis are shacked up together?”

Ned laughed loudly.

“MJ and Peter?” he asked doubtfully. “Are you kidding? Those two aren’t into each other at all.”

Peter appreciated that his best friend was trying to cover for him (he’d kept Ned abreast of his crush on MJ as it developed), but this was verging on overcompensation and it’d only make Flash more suspicious. Subtly, Peter shook his head to tell Ned to cut it out and his friend fell silent.

“Please, everyone, just go to your rooms,” Mr. Harrington implored. “I’ll be around to check on each of you over the next twelve to fifteen minutes. Don’t switch rooms, don’t get up unless you’re using the bathroom or asking for help, and please, please do not fall off the train.”

“How do you think they’re going to manage that?” Mr. Dell wondered.

“Things happen, Julius. Be thankful you haven’t seen what I have.”

“I was there for that Mysterio nonsense in Europe, remember? I’ve seen plenty.”

“But not everything…” Mr. Harrington trailed off hauntingly. Peter and Ned exchanged a look that said, is this guy ok?

On that note, everyone trooped to the sleeping car with their bags and said goodnight to each other. By the end of the car, there were just Peter’s footsteps ahead and MJ’s behind. He touched the door to open it and the two of them stepped into the vestibule between cars. There was a loud rattle of the train in motion, not muffled like it was in the cars, and it suddenly felt as though they were very much separated from everyone else. Now would probably be a good time to break the ice over them sharing a room. When Peter turned around, MJ was right there, waiting for him to press the other door and let them into their car. His mouth opened, but he froze. Giving him a look like he was being a weirdo, she reached around him and opened the door herself. Peter laughed awkwardly and proceeded.

“So, this one, I guess,” he said as they came to the door of the first room. “Should we…” He glanced at the floor, then quickly up into his co-captain’s difficult-to-read face. “MJ, should we talk about how strange this is? Us sharing this tiny room?”

She nodded slowly, giving him a tight smile.

“I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Peter continued.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” MJ promised quickly.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, ok. Great.”

They were still looking at each other, still standing in the corridor instead of either one of them moving to open their door.

“It’s relaxing,” MJ offered after a few seconds of silence.

Peter perked up a little, pushing his shoulders back.

“Sharing a room with me?”

“Being on a train. Quiet, you know? Hey, you ever read Murder on the Orient Express?”

“No, but I’m guessing somebody gets murdered?” Peter ventured.

“That’s the gist of it,” she agreed.

Was she afraid that was going to happen to them? Had she only taken the step of reaching out to their teammates because she was the one who was scared?

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured her.

MJ sighed.

“You’re probably right. We’re not that lucky.”

Peter was still puzzling over that comment―was MJ saying it’d be unlucky for all of them to reach Louisiana alive?―as she let them into their room. He looked around her to take it in. There really wasn’t much of it to take in. She’d said she wasn’t uncomfortable, but he was sure his instinct to lighten the mood wasn’t misplaced. Should he joke about the small space being cozy? No, that sounded like he was trying to imply something romantic. Talk about the tournament tomorrow and completely ignore their forced intimacy? No, he was too tired to keep that up for long, especially if she offered to run through practice questions with him. Maybe rock-paper-scissors to choose bunks? Yeah, that was an immediate and practical problem that needed to be solved.

He was looking around for an out of the way spot to shove his bag as he asked, “You want top or bottom?”

“Uhhhh,” MJ replied.

“You can think about it while I go brush my teeth,” Peter offered, finding a spot for his bag, then reaching in for his pajamas and toiletry kit.

“Oh, that’s not indecision you hear in my voice. Look.”

He straightened up at her instruction. She was pointing at the wall, where what he’d taken at a glance to be the second bed, ready to fold down, was placed. He looked closer. Oh shit. It wasn’t a bed. Or, it didn’t exactly look like one. Peter would’ve investigated further, but MJ was already kicking her shoes off and climbing up to stand on the bottom (only?) bunk for a closer inspection. She flipped what was supposed to be the top bunk down and it came with a clatter and a cascade of straps.

“It’s for luggage,” she informed him.

Oh, he heard her, but he still heard himself ask, “What?”

“Like a thing you put your bag on and, I don’t know, strap it down so it doesn’t land on your head while you’re sleeping.”

“So, it’s not a bed.”

MJ clipped the not-a-bed into place, dropped back to the floor, and rolled her eyes at him. Yeah, that had sounded pretty stupid, but the comment hadn’t really been for her; it was more Peter’s way of verbally processing their current circumstances. Those being: two co-captains and one bed that looked proportionate to the room. But the room was tiny, which meant the bed was narrow as hell and probably not intended for two people, even when those two people planned to share it, because physical contact was no big deal for them, because their relationship was at that stage, because they didn’t have to look away from each other whenever they started to hold the stare just a little too long. Fuck, Peter was freaking out.

“Um,” he told MJ, flailing his pajamas and toiletries around, “why don’t you… and I’ll…” Peter jerked his thumb towards the door and, nodding like there’d been some kind of agreement made, exited their room while his co-captain gave him an odd look.

In the corridor, he almost screamed.

“You guys are first up on my bedtime check-ins list!” Mr. Harrington announced, looking up from a clipboard.

“Oh,” Peter replied.

“Yep, no pressure, but I came to you and MJ first because I’m counting on you to put me at ease. Please don’t tell me there’s anything wrong with your room,” he added, voice turning desperate.

“What room? Oh, our room? The room MJ and I are sharing? Well, it…” He swallowed. “It’s great. Small, you know, but, um, definitely has two beds.”

“Do you want me to take a quick peek inside?” his teacher offered. “I’ve led dozens of student trips and I’ve gotten pretty darn good at spotting damaged amenities, traces of bedbugs… Not that I could really do anything for you at this point. The room’s already booked and there isn’t another one the two of you could switch to. I suppose you could take my room while I slept in a seat on one of the cars, but of course, mine only has the one bed.”

“That’s ok. Everything’s good. Nothing’s broken or bedbuggy.”

Mr. Harrington was still looking at Peter like he was waiting for him to stop putting on a brave face and let the adult do a quick sweep. He should probably let him. MJ had put the luggage rack back the way they’d found it and they could pretend they hadn’t discovered it wasn’t a second bed yet. That would be the honest thing to do, and very possibly the thing MJ would want him to do. It was just that instinct was telling Peter to protect this secret opportunity. This very innocent chance for them to… bond and stuff. He wasn’t really sure, he didn’t have a plan, but all of his plans that involved MJ involved figuring out how to get closer to her, not how to run away. Figuring out how to share a single bed in a cramped room with an entire night ahead of them was basically the Chance for Closeness jackpot. If she disagreed, she could easily storm out and go to Mr. Harrington. Or slap Peter right across his opportunistic face. Or pretend to be cool with it, wait ‘til he fell asleep, and get her revenge by squeezing his entire tube of toothpaste into one of his shoes, or cutting holes in all his boxers. (He was ready to swear that one wasn’t sexual; he’d just had some very specific nightmares when their entire acquaintance was about him being wildly intimidated by her, before they became friends and he evolved to being only moderately intimidated.)

“It’s no trouble,” Mr. Harrington promised.

“MJ’s changing in there right now,” Peter blurted. It was the perfect excuse and came to him on the spot. “You could come back after you check the other rooms, but we’ll probably be fine. Anyway, MJ and I are both, um, mature enough to ask for help if we need it. No need to worry about us.”

He gave his teacher a tense, closed-lipped smile. Mr. Harrington seemed relieved.

“See you both in the morning then.”

“Yep, no problem!”

The second their chaperone was gone back into the other car, Peter opened the door and saw a flash of MJ’s stomach.

“What are you doing?” she yelped.

“What are you doing?” he shot back, hastily turning away and shutting the door of their little compartment.

“Putting my pajamas on! You just told Harrington I was in here changing!”

“Yeah, well, if you heard that then you know I told him a lot of things I didn’t think were true!”

“The presence of more than one bed may be a blatant lie, but didn’t you consider that I might actually be changing? I’m done, by the way,” she concluded in a less indignant tone.

Peter turned back around. Before he could stop himself, his gaze zoomed down her body. Her oversized t-shirt read ‘MICHELLE OBAMA’S ARMS BRAIN’ and her loose turquoise shorts just about disappeared under its hem. With wide eyes, he forced his gaze back to MJ’s face.

“Put yours on,” she suggested, eyes flicking to his and away.

Ok, this was it. This wasn’t the way he’d expected it to go. He’d though there’d be some kind of conversation first, or at least an acknowledgement of their feelings. Carpe diem, Peter guessed. He took a deep breath―probably the deepest he’d ever taken when he wasn’t dressed as Spider-Man and attempting to lift something heavy―and peeled his t-shirt off.

“Oh my god, nerd, in the bathroom, not here! Don’t make me regret staying quietly in this room while you lied to our teacher’s face.”

Flustered, Peter threw on the shirt he’d brought to sleep in and left the room without picking the other one up from the floor. In the bathroom at the far end of the car, he brushed his teeth, then stared at his face in the mirror for a minute, pausing for comprehension that didn’t come. What was happening? What had happened in that room? What would happen when he went back? It would probably have been helpful to talk this through with Ned, but MJ was waiting for him to let her know the bathroom was free. She was also most likely waiting for him to explain what the fuck his thought process had been in assuring Mr. Harrington that there were two beds, since she obviously had not been expecting Peter to start taking his clothes off in front of her. Though she’d definitely looked when he had. He’d noticed that.

This time, he knocked before entering.

“You’re done with the bathroom?” MJ checked, folding her toothbrush and toothpaste into a facecloth.

“Brushed my teeth and everything. You wanna taste the mint? Smell,” Peter corrected, blushing ferociously. “Smell the mint. Never mind. You don’t wanna do that.” He started to raise his hands apologetically as she slipped past him to open the door. “Forget I―”

He shut up instantly when his rising hand brushed her breast through her t-shirt. Shit. His eyes locked on hers as his lips parted to apologize, but MJ fisted the front of his shirt and tugged him into a quick, firm kiss. She broke it and released him.

“Probably a good idea if we talk about this when I get back,” she muttered and fled.

Alone in their room, Peter would’ve done a backflip if he’d had the space. Option B was repacking his bag and mentally cataloguing the potential lab injuries listed on his Chemistry class WHMIS test as a method of subduing the erection that had started to perk up when MJ grabbed his shirt like that. So maybe her reaction to him undressing had been more shock than anger or violation. She’d certainly repaid him for that; Peter was still a little stunned and his lips tingled like he’d been punched in the mouth. Punched very softly. By the mouth of the girl he had a huge crush on. He ran a finger across his lips as he zipped his bag back up. Then, there was nothing to do but… stand? Lean against the wall? Was sitting totally out of the question, since the one logical spot he could sit was on the bed they had yet to fully address? What the hell―he gave it a try. Immediately, his bare foot was jumping against the floor. Crap, should he have left his socks on? Was the floor of a train compartment as ready to give him nefarious foot diseases as the college residence showers May had already started warning him about, almost an entire year early? He wedged his bare feet back into his sneakers and stood with his arms anxiously crossed. MJ didn’t take long.

“Counter proposal,” she suggested as she stepped into their room and set her things on a teeny ledge that Peter didn’t know the purpose of.

He would’ve asked what was being countered, but MJ had him pushed against the wall in a second, her mouth planted back on his. Now they both tasted like mint. She was seriously not helping with his efforts to not have a boner right now. The fact that he was utterly amateur in the issue of how to hold a girl in a passionate embrace, and the evidence that she didn’t have any more experience kissing than he did (she kept catching his lip with her teeth and he wasn’t sure either of them knew whether it was intentional), didn’t actually seem to matter that much. His hands ended up on her hips, which wanted to tilt naturally towards his, and the fervour of her kisses calmed to something more enjoyable and bite-free when she appeared to overcome the way she’d surprised herself by kissing him in the first place.

“No,” she said, breathless as she drew back―his mouth might’ve chased puppyishly after hers for a second. “No, we should probably talk. I was right the first time. Counter proposal withdrawn.”

“Uh, withdrawal accepted,” Peter replied. He was dazed, his heart was kicking against his ribs, and if MJ looked down, she would see that part of him was still in favour of proceeding in a way that didn’t involve speech.

She huffed out a breath, fluffed a hand exasperatedly through her hair, and started packing away her bathroom paraphernalia. Meanwhile, he stood against the wall with a hard-on and watched her carefully seal her wet facecloth into a Ziploc bag. His brain was horniness and confusion. Finally, crouched on the floor by her luggage, MJ twisted to look up at him.

“I let you tell Mr. Harrington that there were two beds in this room,” she recapped. It wasn’t quite a question, but Peter nodded just in case she wanted the confirmation.

“You can go tell him something different.”

“Nah, I don’t really want to.”

“I could leave and you could keep this room, or maybe you could share with Betty, or―”

“I said I don’t want to,” MJ repeated. She moved to sit on the bed.

“So… what do we do?”

Peter was very curious about what her solution might be, mostly because he wasn’t 100% clear on what the problem was. If neither of them was bothered by the absence of a second bed and both of them had avidly participated in that tragically curtailed make-out session… well. He felt there were certain courses of action that would seem reasonable. But he didn’t trust himself to have a solid grip of what was going on, not when he remained semi-hard in his pajama bottoms and stared at MJ’s mouth as frequently as into her eyes.

“We… would have to share?” This time it was definitely a question and Peter nodded more slowly to acknowledge that question, rather than to agree with it outright.

“If you want both of us to stay, then, yeah. I don’t really want to sleep on the floor and I can’t stay awake all night with the tournament tomorrow.”

“And how would you feel about sharing?” MJ’s eyes darted to his face and down to her lap where she pulled her t-shirt down her thighs. It looked like she was doing it more for something to do than out of any inclination towards modesty. Also, the eye-contact avoidance said she was a little insecure about what his answer might be.

“I would feel, I would feel really good about it,” Peter stuttered out. She met his eyes.

“I like you,” MJ blurted.

“Me too. You.”

He smiled and she patted the bed at her side with an awkward, sarcastic expression. He took her invitation and stepped forward with a lurch to sit next to her. His gaze trailed down her arm to witness her gripping the edge of the bed with both hands. Her shoulders hunched, then shrugged back down.

“We’d be in pretty deep shit with a lot of people if anyone knew this was happening right now,” she speculated.

Peter laughed.

“Definitely.” He cleared his throat. “And, uh, what exactly is happening?”

MJ looked at him. Slowly, she reached for his face, turned and angled it to her liking, then gradually leaned in and, very softly, kissed him for the third time.

“Oh, ok,” he said as she drew back. “So the talking didn’t mean the kissing wasn’t going to continue.”

“I was trying to be responsible first.”

“Right. Co-captains.”

“There are expectations for our conscientiousness. And I will drop you like a hot potato if you threaten anyone’s belief in my conscientiousness.”

“You will?”

MJ smiled in a familiar way.

“You’re messing with me,” Peter realized, also smiling and rocking back slightly to scan the ceiling.

“About everything but the hot part.”

He straightened up immediately, completely focused on her.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. That’s really going to be a problem,” she said thoughtfully. Peter frowned. “For when we lie down on this thing―” MJ swatted the bed. “―and see what happens if we keep kissing.”

“I’m sorry my attractiveness is such a drawback for you,” he joked.

“I’d be better at resisting temptation if temptation didn’t have ridiculously chiseled abs.”

He puffed out a laugh and presented her with a lopsided smile, struggling between feeling embarrassed and really fucking thankful that he appealed to her in such a shallow way. For self-congratulation, he gave himself two whole seconds of side-eyeing the peaks of her boobs through her t-shirt.

“Actually, I’m not that clueless about what would happen,” she confessed. “I think it’d be pretty impossible for me to lie beside you and be chill about it.”

“That’s fine with me,” Peter promised eagerly, “but we don’t have to lie down right away.”

He reached over and let his hand hover above her knee until MJ grasped it and brought it down to rest on her cool skin. It took the shortest glance to make him lean into her space and kiss… her cheek, chickening out a little after all the talk about the obvious proceedings from the second they were horizontal together. Peter wanted that―he definitely wanted that―but he also really liked sitting in this moment with her, knowing that she wanted that too. And that she would be alright with him kissing her, if that was another thing he wanted. He did. The hand he didn’t have on her knee lightly cupped her face as Peter skimmed his lips down to her mouth. There, that was better, he thought, as MJ sighed against his lips.

Slipping his hand from her cheek around to the back of her head, he secured his fingers in her hair and pulled her mouth harder to his. She made a small sound that seemed to plunge straight down his throat and echo around in his stomach. Then, it plummeted even farther, stirring his groin. His hand tightened on her knee. Less tentatively than he would’ve expected (or had expected, in his fantasies of what kissing her would be like), MJ snuck her tongue into his mouth. At the feeling of their tongues gliding past and around each other, she became the one grabbing for him, hand low on the back of his neck. When she mirrored him by gripping his knee, Peter jumped, then smoothed his hand up her thigh as she twisted into him.

They were at an impasse for a second, or at least he was, fighting the urge to ease MJ onto her back and cover her body with his. No lying down; not yet. There was so much tension in their postures as they leaned into each other, gripping legs and necks and barely breaking the kiss long enough for a deeper inhalation. Even to Peter, it felt abrupt when he swung his legs up onto the bed. Though he had to swing them away from her, MJ understood―just like he’d expected―and climbed over to sit astride his thighs―just like he’d hoped. He was breathing stupidly hard as her eyes locked on his and she shuffled forward. His hands seized her hips, then her ass, and then he closed his eyes as they rolled back in his head because she was pressed right up against him and his fingers couldn’t trace the lines of any underwear through her cotton shorts. Something primal surged up from deep inside him and he narrowly managed to not start grinding into her.

“However this goes,” Peter panted, opening his eyes, “swear you’re not gonna murder me on this train. Or open our door to a murderer while I’m sleeping.”

“I swear. Strangely, this is better.” She smiled.

He didn’t know what was so strange about preferring feeling each other up over solving/committing a homicide. Then again, they did both kinda have a thing for violent crime.

“That’s reassuring,” he told her, hands hot on her butt. She shifted against him and he grunted.

“Sorry,” MJ said immediately. Peter choked out a laugh.

“That wasn’t a noise of pain.”

“Oh.”

Her smile returned―broader, slyer. She folded her arms around his shoulders and rocked her hips against his. When he gasped, MJ looked the most delighted he’d ever seen her. She kissed him and rolled her hips again, but this time, his hands on her ass kept her in place and he rolled his hips back, groaning as his erection rubbed against her through their pajamas. Somehow, she wriggled even closer, thighs clamped on either side of him and seemed to consciously and minutely reposition her hips. The next time they ground against each other, she went, “Unnh!” and he understood. His whole body flushed with heat.

Hastily, they started trying to take each other’s shirts off at the same time. MJ already had both hands up under the fabric and pressed to his chest by the time Peter had gotten a single hand past the drapey folds of her oversized choice. They were stuck again, neither able to proceed with the other’s hands on them.

“You want me to go first?” Peter asked.

“Better do mine first,” she said. “You’re going to have a tough time prying me away once your shirt’s off.”

He blushed at how matter-of-factly she’d said that.

“I have no idea why you think I’m going to do any better.”

“So I shouldn’t take mine off?” she checked.

“Definitely take it off.”

“You’re such a moron.”

“Mhmm,” he agreed absently, lifting the hem of MJ’s shirt as she wriggled her arms out of the sleeves. Once her hands were tucked away inside the big t-shirt, Peter tugged the whole thing straight off.

“Now you,” she said quickly, grabbing his shoulders so he couldn’t immediately tip forward and begin kissing all over her chest.

She couldn’t prevent him from staring though. He did that until MJ jerked the neck of his shirt up over his eyes and he was forced to help her divest him of it or else be blinded to anything that might follow. And he definitely wanted his sight, wanted his eyes wide open.

In the end, she didn’t let him stare that long; she got this overwhelmed look in her eyes and hugged herself to him, their chests flush. Peter imagined a kind of surface-level vibration, like what was holding them together was static cling and with every little brush, they were recharged. What to do with all that waiting energy? He put his hands back on her ass―roaming more now, curving to shape her hips and her backside―and guided her purposely against him. MJ’s thighs tensed around him as she took control of the movement until Peter was grasping without pushing or pulling. As her eyelids drifted down, he exhaled and listened to the wispy sounds of her moan-toned breaths and the clatter of the train around them, always in southward motion down the track. It was dark outside and the light in their sleeping compartment was low without an assist from the sun. Probably because, in a room this small with mysterious ledges and misleading luggage racks, they’d had a hard time figuring out where to put a lamp or a pot light that emitted a decent wattage. Whatever. This railroad mood lighting wasn’t the worst.

MJ’s fingers skated along his jaw for almost a full minute (any longer and he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from twitching away out of ticklishness) before they stilled with his face in her hands and she kissed him. Their mouths bumped and slipped, hungry and gentle. There was a note of distraction, Peter thought, thanks to their minds skipping ahead to the next part, making the kiss the bridge rather than the destination. Pressing his lips to hers was no longer the ultimate joy he could hope for. Suddenly, there could be more.

Her hands caressed down his neck, a slight quaver in her fingers, and dragged through his collarbones like she was scooping them out. She could’ve been. She could’ve run a finger along the length and blown after it, sending up blustery sawdust. Peter was no longer 100% certain that he’d had a clavicle before MJ had touched him. Moving his hands up to her waist because it felt like a more respectful place to let them rest on her and because bare skin beneath his fingertips, he kept up his end of their abstracted kissing as she explored across to his shoulders. His cock throbbed against her, impatient with her leisurely hands and lazy hips, only shallowly swaying now. When she broke the kiss with a hot pant against his lips, it was to look in his eyes while she discovered his chest, then pressed against it. He laid back like she wanted. His hands sailed down her thighs and squeezed right above her knees. Bizarrely, that was the action that woke him up to what was happening. There was no way to look up at MJ―mostly naked, straddling his lap, doing her best to keep her hair out of her face as she looked straight back down at him―except with more than a little bit of awe. He swallowed thickly.

She rocked a few times without breaking their stare, then said, “Should we get under the sheet?”

“Ok.”

It was less fumbling than it could have been, mostly because they moved so quickly. Peter was practically shaking with adrenaline after forcing himself to be still as MJ mapped him with her hands. Suddenly separate and next to one another, suddenly between two sheets like the flap of an envelope was about to be licked and sealed down over them. Send us anywhere, Peter thought. The room looked bigger like this, lying on his side with his back to the wall, but he only glanced. MJ swept across the bed like a shooting star in the sky for a kiss and they rapidly shed their bottoms. Her toes touched his, right after they’d gotten fully nude, and his abdomen clenched up, ready to support a thrust or to defend him from whatever was making him flinch like that. Well, screw that.

They kept kissing, making contact only up to their ankles, until Peter laid a cautious hand on her stomach.

“You want to keep going, right?” MJ asked, pulling back for a second. She’d tucked her arm beneath his neck and was systematically scratching her nails across every bit of his scalp, which was both comforting and erotic.

“For sure, yes, if you still do,” he babbled. He could feel her pulse hopping under his hand. He wanted to follow it down so bad.

“Alright then,” she said with a brisk nod, and grabbed his wrist to make his fingers stumble south.

Peter’s mouth fell open and part of him wanted to snatch his hand back because her expression was petrified. But then, it might’ve been that way because she was worried that he didn’t want to touch her like this, in which case removing his hand would make her feel way, way worse. It would’ve been good for him to ask for verbal confirmation here, but the part of his brain that put words together and held their hands until they’d successfully departed his mouth was broken right now. Because MJ had put his hand between the warmth of her thighs, allowing his fingers to graze and his palm to cover the intimate texture of hair. He could feel the questioning look on his face and, apparently in response to it, she piloted his hand a little lower, into the realm of the arousal she must’ve worked up grinding against him. His other hand clenched into a fist as his drive to be inside her swelled like his restless erection.

It was nerve-wracking, so much pressure not to touch her too lightly or too rough―and besides that, to make it somehow feel good for her. That he wanted very badly. Peter was out of his depth. That was when, as usual, MJ swooped in to lend him a literal hand without fuss. Her thighs parted further for him and, with her fingers directing his, he felt the soft creases and curves start to make sense. Gradually, he moved faster, dipped deeper, and nearly shouted victoriously when he accidentally flicked something that, by MJ’s sharp breath and the buck of her hips, was her clit. He ran his fingers across her entrance to wet them and flicked again, slowing to a tap, then a knead when she responded well (death grip on his wrist). Working up the nerve to probe his middle finger gently inside her came with a wealth of rewards: hitched breathing, her hand sliding precariously far down his abs, and a tight heat that his dick was longing for with more urgency than ever now that he knew precisely what it felt like.

Lying so that both his hands were down where he needed them to be wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but the way MJ gasped and then quietly moaned his name when he had the dexterity of extra fingers to offer her made it worthwhile. He could now continue fingering her from the inside while also pressing fingertips to her clit. Rewetting them after every few swipes made her gasp and writhe against his hands all over again. When she abruptly said, “Faster,” the finger inside her froze and he worked her clit double then triple time as she folded into him, forehead on his chest, and unceremoniously grasped his dick.

“You can’t do that right now,” he laughed, lightheaded. MJ’s fingers, fully around his erect penis. Avengers fucking assemble because this was not a drill.

At his plea, her hand darted to his hip instead, gripping even more firmly as, incredibly, Peter Parker (aka Spider-Man on a Train, aka Friendly Neighbourhood Third Baseman) brought her to orgasm. Her hips jerked and she made muffled hiccupping noises from where he couldn’t see her face and he thought to introduce a second finger to give her something to, holy shit, ride? He guessed? This was insane. Had the feeling of freedom from a school trip made this happen? Did people just get extra horny on trains? He was so glad the train company had fucked up Mr. Harrington’s ticket reservation to stick Peter and MJ in a single room for a night.

“We should,” she began, lifting her head with a blush of warmth and maybe self-consciousness after she’d sagged into herself and he’d removed his hands uncertainly, “discuss logistics.”

“Oh,” Peter said, surprised. “Oh, I guess, yeah. Logistics. Right.”

“What I mean is―”

He cut MJ off with a short kiss of determined pressure. Going straight into talking about logistics actually didn’t feel right, not when he’d just had her in his hands like that. This shouldn’t feel like business; it was affection. He really cared about her. Seeing and feeling and hearing what Peter had just seen, felt, and heard was monumental. Would she be his girlfriend after this? Should he ask her right now?

“Go ahead,” he urged with a smile, foregoing mention of the other stuff for the moment. It wasn’t business. They didn’t require a pause to agree on the parameters.

Plus, MJ was flustered now, which was amazing and adorable.

“I…” She trailed off when he found her hand under the sheet and held it. With a resolute tilt of her head, she took another run at her sentence, “I did not happen to pack condoms. Did you? Also, I’m not on birth control. I didn’t really know this was, um, going to happen.”

Peter kissed her again, for longer, at the vulnerable expression on her face.

“Me neither,” he promised. “Definitely a surprise.”

“So, you are equally ill-equipped?”

Instantly, he frowned.

“Technically, but it’s so harsh to say it like that! I’m not sure you would’ve been super thrilled if I had had condoms.”

“I would’ve been suspicious,” MJ confirmed, looking suspicious of him even as she spoke the words.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do you think they sell them on the train?” Apparently, they were switching gears.

“I don’t know. Do you really want to be wandering around trying to buy condoms and have Mr. Harrington catch you though?”

“Hmm. Good point. So, what are our options?”

He was cooling down after the frenzy of getting her off and reflexively shifted towards her. The move made them both instinctually awkward, unsure where to touch and hyper-aware that their faces had never been this close before tonight. They were just existing with their faces close now, like this was their normal. Peter kept tight hold of her hand and basically willed himself to wade forward into talking this out.

“We could just not do anything else,” he suggested first, internally pleading with her not to go that route.

“Obviously, we can stop if you want to, but I’m kind of dying to see what you look like when you, you know.”

Peter was speechless for a moment.

“Uh, well, I mean…” He scratched the back of his head. “I could pull out?”

“And just… on the sheet?” She asked, avoiding his eyes (he assumed―he was kinda avoiding hers too).

“Yeah, then I’ll take it off and rinse it in the bathroom, we sleep on the top sheet and get that blanket―” He pointed to where one was tucked against the wall, ready for use. “―to put over us.”

MJ snorted a laugh.

“What is it?” he asked uneasily.

“I totally forgot we’re actually going to sleep together after this. You’re not missing the joke. That shouldn’t be funny, it just is for some reason.”

He grinned.

“Yeah, it kind of is.”

“You really bold-faced lied to Mr. Harrington, huh? The team should admire you. What a rebel leader you are. Don’t―” she added, raising a finger to his lips as he started to reply. “―say anything about Star Wars. I will definitely never have sex with you on a train again if you do.”

Peter shook his head.

“I’m not risking that.”

For a quiet minute, they adjusted their bodies to bring them even closer. He liked her eyelashes and how her mouth sloped naturally down at the corners; she seemed to be tracing the path of freckles across his cheek and over his nose.

“Do any of the people in that murder book have sex on the train?”

“Who cares?” MJ said. “They’re not real. We are.”

Their fingers slipped, only loosely entwined now, as their concentration returned to yielding kisses, lips moulding effortlessly together. Peter’s free hand stole up the back of her neck and when he shifted his weight subtly into hers, not even completely aware that he was asking, she answered, tipping onto her back.

“I’ll pull out,” he reaffirmed as her thighs were parting for his hips and he was positioning himself at her entrance by hand.

“I trust you, Peter,” she said in a nonchalant tone.

“I trust you.”

“It’s not a competition,” MJ complained and he let her have the last word because she’d probably said it out of the same nerves he was feeling as he eased the head of his dick inside her.

They both shifted slightly and settled. She laughed when he swore out of sheer bliss, pitching forward a little and drawing back, then he laughed at the sound of her laughing. Somehow, in all that, he ended up completely inside her and she pressed her hands to his back like maybe she really needed him and didn’t want him to go anywhere, even after the sex and the happenstance of a shared room. That would be really, really great.

The sex wasn’t perfect: for all MJ’s evident enjoyment, Peter didn’t have the inherent, untested talent or beginner’s luck to see her climax again and, of the two times she tried to kiss him while he was thrusting, she bonked their heads together on the first and brutally clicked their teeth on the second. They laughed some more. They were a mess. They were, possibly, each other’s.

He finished on the sheet like he’d promised and it felt wrong and gross enough that he’d be buying condoms before they did this again, but it also felt sort of hot the way MJ watched him pump doggedly through the circle of his own fingers until he groaned her name. The follow-up logistics were another mixed bag of sexy and unsexy. Peter threw his pajamas back on, bundled the sheet to his chest with the wet part deep in the center, and bolted to the bathroom to give it a hasty dip in the sink. But he returned to the sight of MJ remaking their bed in her PJs, complete with her sleepy smile. He figured out the light switch and crawled in beside her. Something unexpectedly tender in his chest squeezed when he learned that this tall, coolly critical girl took obvious comfort in being the little spoon. Her body went soft with his arm around her; he fell asleep with his nose and mouth resting against the back of her neck.

The alarm MJ had set on her phone got them up half an hour before they had to meet their team and teachers the next morning. First, Peter let his arm go slack so she could roll over to face him without leaving his embrace.

“Hey,” she said with her eyes barely open.

“Will you be my girlfriend now?”

He could only guess that she’d have given him a look that more clearly called him an idiot if they hadn’t just woken up.

“Yeah, ok.” was the response MJ went with instead.

Peter shook his head with bleary exasperation at how lukewarm her words were, but then she snuck her hand into his pajama pants and really damn quickly worked out how to give him a handjob. Long story short, they desecrated another sheet and were still on time for breakfast (only because they ran).

After everyone had finished eating and Mr. Harrington had delivered a heartfelt-yet-underwhelming pep talk for the day, they were sent back to their rooms to pack up their stuff. They’d be arriving in New Orleans within the hour.

“Are you disappointed there weren’t any crimes last night?” Peter asked with a smile as they repacked their luggage side by side.

“Well, I could say I stole your virginity,” she pointed out, nearly making him catch his hand in the zipper as he closed his bag. MJ gave him a sly sideways glance. “But virginity is a construct. And you were more than willing to give it up.”

She mercifully interrupted his ensuing stuttering with a kiss that he hoped would become a habit. (The kissing, not the stuttering.) His head was hazy with the idea as he jerked the clasp of their door and slid it open for the last time. To find Flash standing in the hall.

“’Sup, Penis, or should I call you ‘Big Easy’ after you two were somehow allowed to share a room?”

Peter stiffened, but he was hellbent on not giving anything away. He rolled his eyes and assumed MJ did the same as they pushed past Flash with their bags and opened the door to the vestibule. He sincerely, stupidly believed that dickhead was following them and that they were in the clear. But as he went to close the door behind them, he noticed Flash hadn’t followed. At Peter’s alarm, MJ joined him in glancing back into the car they’d just left. Flash had his hands braced on the doorframe of their compartment, leaning into the room.

“Wait a second! That other thing’s not a bed!”

The door closed. They stared at each other.

“Oh man, Flash is gonna tease the crap out of us. Do we run?” he asked.

“That’s a dumb plan.” She paused. “And I don’t have another one.”

Their oblivious classmates were emerging from their rooms and Peter and MJ jostled them thoroughly as they booked it down the corridor towards the front of the train.

#my writing #spideychelleweek2k20 #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

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bumblybeebounce · 4 years

Text

Sweet Music

So I was the guitar anon in @rzrcrst 's asks a while ago, and thought hey, why don't I try to practice a bit more on writing Ezra? Ssso I made this. Hopefully it's at least tolerable? :'D I just wanted to write something sweet, maybe it will cheer someone up a bit! I am actually trying to learn how to play guitar, but please consider: I am a dumbass. It's a slow going thing. VERY SLOW. So apologies if I got something wrong! Anywho, the song in this one is "I Belong To You" by Brandi Carlile.

Rating: E Pairing: Ezra x Reader Warnings: None

Taglist: @rzrcrst @tarrevizslas @equalstrashflavoredtrash

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Sometimes, for all the advancement made in space travel, the waiting was a purgatory of boredom you just HAD to get through one way or another. Like right now. With you and Ezra in your ship, docked to another carrier on the course for another possible payday. And as much as you could appreciate it when your companion decided to leave you alone for a bit and have some quiet time with a book, this was one of the times where you actually kind of wanted him to talk. Of course if he did he wouldn't shut up for a few hours but listening to him would've been vastly preferable to the sheer amount of mind-numbing boredom you were going through right now.

"If you don't mind me saying so, birdie, going by the frequency and continuous nature of your fidgeting, it truly sounds as though you're preparing to climb the walls." And then he simply turns the page. Like he's not even bothered by the fact that all the daily tasks are finished and there's no reason to go out anywhere because the carrier has sweet fuck all in it and gah!

"Astute of you." It comes out grumpier than you really intended, but going by the lopsided smirk Ezra flashes at you while looking at you knowingly from behind the book is kinda worth it. He seemed to take a lot of pleasure when at any time you either used a fancy word, or spoke in a similar long-winded way he did. Which, let's be fair, was kind of growing on you after spending enough time in his presence. Stupidly charming... Smart-ass. With a nice ass.

"Well. If you are feeling amenable today-" He started after a while and laid his book against his knee, finger between the pages. "I can't help but recall you to be musically inclined, and that you have an instrument hidden in that there locker." Ezra nodded at the locker underneath the bench you were on, causing you to automatically look down at it too.

"Ah. So you noticed." "With this little space to work with, birdie, it's very difficult not to notice such things. Now, that is not a reproach in any way, shape or form, calm yourself-" He leaned forward a little and straightened his leg as you opened and closed your mouth, swallowing the apology you were about to give. "I merely mention it because I do believe you haven't played your guitar in my presence before and I am nothing if not a man who appreciates the arts, as difficult as those may be to find here among the constantly moving stars. So if you would indulge me this once, I believe I would appreciate immensely to hear whatever you deem fit to share with me."

Ezra did have a point, you had been making sure to practice mostly when he was out of earshot for one reason or another, a little convinced that he didn't much care to hear the music. Granted, that could've just been a mix of modesty and self-consciousness, but it honestly hadn't come up before now. You scratched your head a bit and shrugged.

"I mean. If... If you don't mind..." Actually, playing the guitar sounded kind of nice right now. "Oh, I insist."

And with that, you got the bag out and pulled out the acoustic guitar. It had been a bit since you last did so a while went by with just checking that it was still in tune and and just testing that everything sounded right. Your partner kept looking at you with a small smile from his side of the ship as you did, and begun strumming the chords in no particular tune, just to feel it out.

"I must confess, I am mildly disappointed I haven't suggested this earlier. It is a privilege to witness living art produced by a living work of art." Ah, and there was the blush back on your cheeks. You gave a nervous titter and raised a brow at Ezra. "Really, Ez? You're going with that?" He inclined his head in good humour, while keeping his voice serious. "Birdie, have you ever known me to be untruthful about your considerable skills or your considerable charms?" For once, he was very bad at keeping that smirk off his face and you shook your head, telling him to enjoy and keep reading his book.

And so the time passed, with Ezra reading his book and occasionally glancing your way warmly, and you strumming the instrument, playing old songs you half remembered or just nothing in particular. It was surprisingly easy to just get lost in the act of playing, the notes in the air, filling the little pod with something other than mechanic beeping.

Still, now that you had the approval of your partner to practice more freely, it didn't feel like that big of a step when you decided you wanted to sing a bit. Reaching into one of the pockets of the bag, you pulled out a capo and clipped it to the fretboard, tested out the strings, and began. The notes flowed wonderfully and familiarly, like an old friend returning as you took a breath and sang.

“Last night I had the exact same dream as you I killed a bird to save your life and you gave me your shoes You said clip my wings and walk my miles And I said I would too Then I woke up But I wasn’t gonna tell you.”

“Today I sang the same damn tune as you It was ‘Lady in Red’, I hate that song and I know you do too You didn’t catch me singing along But I always sing with you Nice and quietly 'Cuz I don’t wanna stop you”

Alright, so your voice wasn't at it's best but it was fine. It felt nice to be singing again, you thought, even if it was a bit shaky.

“I know I could be spending a little too much time with you But 'time’ and 'too much’ don’t belong together like we do If I had all my yesterdays I’d give 'em to you too I belong to you now I belong to you”

“I see the wo-”

The sound of something dropping startled you and made you look at the source of the sound. It had been Ezra’s book, that much you could see but it was more the look he had on his face that gave you pause.

“Songbird.” Ezra breathed the word out like it was the sweetest word in existence, like it was the culmination of all the wonders of the worlds delivered to him at once, and combined with the look of stunned awe on his face, he sounded like he had just witnessed something indescribably glorious.

The blush creeping up your neck wasn’t that strange in Ezra’s company, the man seemingly lived to fluster you, but in this instant it felt different somehow. The changed term of endearment didn’t escape your notice either.

“… What?” You shifted on your seat, suddenly overwhelmed by the weirdly irrational feeling of doubt and embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ll stop-”

“No, no no no, songbird, please don’t mistake this interruption as a request for cessation, Kevva forbid-” Ezra got up, his book forgotten as he hurried his way to sit in front of you, still looking like he was witnessing the birth of a galaxy while he was given all his birthdays at once.

“I apologize for my clumsiness that distracted you from your practice, and forgive my presumptuous request, but I implore you to finish your song if there is still some of it left.” His voice had grown unusually hushed as he peered at your now very warm face, practically on the edge of his already precarious seat.

The silence stretched for a bit as you tried to respond. This was quite possibly the most captivated and enthusiastic audience you had had in a very long time and it was poking at your nervousness more than you would have guessed.

“Um. Well, okay, uh, just…” Fingers back on the strings and the fret, you counted from where you were and started again.

“I see the world the exact same way that you do We lend our hands, and take our stance In tandem when we do But I lied and said I knew the way And I hid my eyes from you I still don’t know why I probably didn’t wanna scare you”

You could feel Ezra's gaze on you, though you were trying your best not to let your brain psyche you out and just kept going.

“I’m gonna die the exact same day as you On the golden gate bridge I’ll hold your hand and howl at the moon Scrape the sky with tired eyes, and I will come find you And I ain’t scared 'Cuz I’m never gonna miss you.”

“I belong to you now I belong to you.”

You looked up at Ezra, and had barely enough time to draw a breath before he was kissing you sweetly. You let out a surprised squeak and he lifted his hand bringing it to the back of your neck, caressing your skin as the kiss went on, somehow passionate while remaining warm and almost chaste, considering how his kisses usually were.

He pulled back, pressing his forehead against yours as he smiled with his eyes closed. He huffed a laugh as his hand slid over to cup your cheek, almost reverently.

"All the words in the language at my disposal and I cannot find a single one to describe what I am feeling at this very moment, songbird."

It was a little strange how easily he could summon a flock of butterflies into your gut while making your heart squeeze in delight. And all you could offer him back was a delicate "Oh.".

And then he kissed you again, brushed your cheek like you were a miracle and suddenly words felt incredibly superfluous. You wove your hand into his hair and carded your fingers through it, enjoying the affection he was giving you. When you broke the kiss, you bit your lip shyly.

"So I take it that I should play more?" "Songbird, the day I refuse the pleasure of hearing you serenade again is the day I am long dead and turned to dust." "Do... You want me to play something else?" "There is nothing that would please me more."

And who were you to deny such an earnest request?

#ezra x reader #ezra (prospect 2018)#prospect movie #fanfic

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silverlysilence · 4 years

Text

Destinations Better Left Forgotten

Okay, this was an AU I’ve had rattling around in the back of my mind for some time now and I finally decided to just get it down. Please tell me what you think because this is something I might come back to. There is a lot of potential for further world building and it’s different enough from both fandoms that it is unique.

Jack gazed through the thick-doubled plated glass window of his compartment, not seeing the scenery at all. The white stone walls and gleaming stained-glass windows had long since passed, giving way to lush green fields full of crops and dotted with large majestic trees that towered over the lands. The tracks even went through the pastures where a heard of wild horses ran alongside train and keen eyes caught sight of a small regal foal in the mix, the white of her main only outdone by the glimmering purity of her golden horn.

But as the day wore on and night creep closer, the lands they crossed faded. The colorful wildflowers gave way to weeds and the greenery washed away to wilting yellows and then barren browns. The chirping of songbirds turned to screeches of scavengers and more than a few red eyes gave the steam engine a second look. However, with the wards freshly renewed, even the foolhardiest of monsters thought twice at the power emanating from the train.

Many of the passengers had rushed to the side and stare out the windows in awe as they passed by a gaggle of giants who’d rethought their plan to ambush the train and instead chose to turn tail. It was the closest most of the people had ever gotten to a monster without fearing for their lives. Jack, for his part, had enjoyed listening to the children chatter on in excitement, unaware of the very real danger they could have been in if the fraying wards hadn’t been updated hours prior.

Regardless of how the luxury train’s amenities were and the attentive catering of their staff, they were far from the safest travel as they’d advertised. Something the conductor was well aware of and despite his many pleas to the higherups for funds to update the wards and various safety enchantments throughout the compartments, they’d spent the money on charms that made the gas lamps burn different colors and expanding spells to increase the room sizes of their VIP compartments, one of which Jack was upgraded to.

The conductor had taken only look at his fine silk robes, embroidered with the finest silver thread and adorned with sapphires and had pulled him aside. His economy seating was given away to a grateful woman and her granddaughter in favor of the luxurious sleeper cabin, all in exchange for a renewing the wards.

Jack would have done it for free, he intended to when he took one look at the despicable deteriorating state of the ward the luxury line boasted as the best protection money could offer and knowing where they were headed, he didn’t want to put the lives of the people on board at risk. Any other time, he would have reported the infraction to the magistrate and charged the company an exorbitant price for the services. However, the Crown had already paid his guild an exorbitant fee in advance for their services and booked the first available train out for them. Going so far as to pay an extra fee to get the job done quickly and with such a hefty sum, he could not be the cause of any type of delay.

He’d already tried getting out of this particular assignment, but he was the only one available on such short notice. Not only that, but Manny, the current Master of the Guild, had assigned him the mission. Jack couldn’t say no to him. Not after the man had taken a chance on a no named peasant and brought him into the folds of one of the most revered guilds in the lands that people had killed for just to get a chance at an opportunity to join.

Maybe, if he had been a little bit more open and honest with the master, Manny would have found someone else. But Jack had never told a soul of his past, not even when it meant the difference between becoming a part of the guild or not. He had held firm when Guardian North had questioned him and it was his resolve not to give in despite the alternative that gained him permeant membership in the guild.

If Master Manny or any of the head Guardians knew they were sending him back to the very place which gave him the nightmares that terrorized him most nights, they would never forgive themselves.

Burgess. A hardy settlement that had managed to survive for decades in spite of being near the Dark Forest. The people there were strong-willed—they had to be living where they did—and very superstitious. There were those there that had kind hearts, but the kindness usually bled out of them—sometimes literally—over the years.

As a child, Jack saw the place as home. Life was hard, but he and his family made due. His sister and he had been out foraging through the nearby woods with his father, a supposed safe zone when a monster attacked. It clung to the shadows but razor-sharp teeth and claws tore viciously into flesh. His father had held it off, screaming for Jackson to take his sister and run which he did. Never looking back.

However, they’d fled across the frozen pond and while the ice was thick enough to hold their weight, it splintered underneath the weight of the large creature came after them. Jack didn’t know what happen, one moment he was pushing his sister forward, the next he was cold—cold—cold and water filling his lungs. He vaguely recalled seeing icy blue eyes as he sunk further into the water then nothing.

He awoke on the side of the bank, frozen to the core and shivering and yet, alive. The pond was destroyed, spears of jagged ice splintering up and outwards as if something exploded from beneath before freezing solid an instant later. There were black fragments of what looked to be sand from a distance—Jack had not attempted a closer look in fear of what he might find the sand to actual be—encased in the ice and blood.

Jack had taken a good long look at the ice before pulling himself to his feet and making the journey back to the settlement. Shivering all the way from the cold and the fear that his home had become a desolate battlefield in his absence. He should have been more worried for himself because as soon as he stepped foot in what would be his former home, all eyes turned on him and the whispers started.

He had stood there, not knowing what to do until his mother and sister made their way to the front of the gathered crowd. Flee had made to run for him but his mother had held her back, horror on her face. For when Jackson had left the settlement that morning with his father and sister, his hair and eyes had been that of earthly tones, but now standing before them was a boy as pale as the night, hair white like the moon and eyes of glaciers.

Jack didn’t know how he survived the next three months in the settlement. Whispers followed him everywhere, his mother exiled him from the house but completely from the property in fear. Instead, he lived out in his father’s tiny storage shed and feed scraps. Though, to be fair, there wasn’t that much food to be had as the Dark Forest creatures grew ever bolder, creeping closer than they’d ever come before to the settlement.

The whispers became louder and fear gripped the people. It was only when the whispers stopped when he strolled through town that the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. Something was coming. Something big and he shouldn’t have been taken by surprised as he’d been when the lynch mob had come for him.

The people of Burgess were superstitious after all, and he’d come back from a watery grave with the hues of winter right as the monsters became more brazen. It was not hard to figure out what their intentions were when he saw the rope and chains. Jackson had fought tooth and nail, but he was a mere boy and they were many.

Tears had stained his faces, mixing with blood as they bond him with chains and rope to a stake near the edge of the Dark Forest. His sobs muffled by the filthy gag that had been brutishly tied, pulling out more than several strands of hair. Not a single one looked back as they left him there.

A blood sacrifice to appease the monster in hopes of leaving the rest of them alone.

Jackson hadn’t known how long he sat there, crying well into the moonless night but his eyes never left the forest’s edge, which was why he immediately noticed movement as the most dangerous of monsters crept forth.

That was the night Jackson Overland died.

“I see you haven’t moved for quite some time,” a rough voice drew glacier eyes away from the darkened horizons and towards the cabin’s opened door where a tall man casually leaned up against the frame as if he owned the place. Unlike the delicate silks that draped across his body, the man before him wore thick dark leathers well-worn and scarred from use. A trained eye such as his could easily identify the various inauspicious trinkets and gems as the weapons and arsenal they were. If it wasn’t for the black markings partly hidden by auburn hair on his forehead he knew was there and the unnatural shade of vibrant green eyes, Jack might have thought he was just another hunter.

“Lord Haddock,” Jack nodded to the man as a pair of pretty ladies in their finest attire slow meandered down the corridor. Their light giggles and hushed whispers a clear indication they were listening in and more likely than not had been following the lord for some time. “Please do come in.”

The lord didn’t grace him with a response. Instead, he crossed the threshold with one large step and slid the door close, drawing the curtains closed for good measure before taking a seat. Vivid green eyes narrowed as they took in his paler than normal features and slightly trembling hands before darting over towards the small cart still laden with untouched food.

Jack saw the look and attempted to deflect. “Hiccup—”

“You didn’t eat,” the lord shut him down before he could get any further. Grabbing a cup, Hiccup poured the now room temperature cocoa and held the delicate china out to Jack. After a moment, steam began to rise from the cup and the white-haired man finally relented, taking the now hot cup with both hands to prevent his trembling from spilling any of the exotic beverage and bringing it to his lips.

“Thank you.”

Hiccup didn’t say anything as he poured a second cup and stared the liquid down until it was boiling, only then did he drink.

“You need to eat, renewing the wards took a lot of energy,” the lord spoke once Jack finally finished his cocoa and his hands were no longer trembling.

“I wasn’t hungry, what with the giants still being as close as they are,” Jack shrugged, setting the cup aside.

“You don’t need to worry about them, they’ve been taken care of,” Hiccup grinned, revealing two sharp fangs. In an instant, the lord was across the cabin and in Jack’s space, a rough thumb trailing down the sharp lines of his cheek causing eyes blue eyes to flutter shut. “After all, my pretty little gem, the prized piece of my hoard, is on this gods’ forsaken piece of garbage and I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him now. Even if he won’t allow me to rain fire down on the pathetic excuses for fleshbags that tossed aside such a precious treasure.”

“Hiccup, no. They tried to sacrifice me once, but they won’t be able to again.”

“You’re right. They can’t, after all, dragons only accept virgin sacrifice and you far from qualify anymore,” Hiccup smirked.

“And who’s fault is that?” Jack glared up into eager green eyes with no effect. The red flush that spread from his face down his neck only made those vivid eyes darken as dark black plates appeared a crossed the lord’s cheeks. “Damn horny dragon.”

Hiccup sealed the distance between their lips, ravishing the white-haired man’s mouth and thoroughly exploring the moist cavern with his tongue, only pulling away when air became an issue. “Just for you, my pretty little gem, just for you.”

Not sure if i got this across correctly, but the world I envisioned is like a combination of D&D with its fantasy elements, RWBY with the dark creatures running about and the need for Guilds and hunters to keep the people protected, and Fullmetal Alchemist..

This also stems from the fact that dragons have hoards and Jackson is a precious gem that needs to be loved and draped with the finest of things because his dragon won’t see him in anything less than the best. If his gem wants to learn magic from the best Guild out there, Hiccup will make it happen damnit, even if they don’t realize he’s one of the creatures they’re supposed to be hunting down. But hey, it’s not his fault the fleshbags haven’t figured out dragons can do more than breath fire.

#Guilds #Dark Creatures #Magic #SilverlySilence's Fanfics #Fanfic #Hiccup Haddock #HiJack #Dragon!Hiccup #Jackson Overland #Jack Frost

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yakocchi · 4 years

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(Eisuke) The King’s Training – “Try to Satisfy Me” // Episode 1

A bit of context for what this is from: otona love is their mature hub for existing Voltage series and their original adult series. So it’s just essentially 100koi+ (Love 365) except you have to play it on a shitty web browser and also pay more monies per story. technology

For a while I thought I imagined seeing this story in the site, but actually voltage just got lazy and didn’t tag this story with anything. Legit, you can type “eisuke” and “suite room” in the search and it doesn’t show up. it shows up on the kbtbb store page but… whack. almost reminds me of how useless the 365 app search can be

Episode 1 is free (!!!) so if you wanna follow along with a portrait of eisuke (bc I didn’t post further screencaps) then… there you go

this ep is… not adult-adult, but eh. It’s the later eps that do the adult content or w/e

eisuke nonsense behind the cut

…

At the penthouse, where it seems like I’m always being summoned to come over… Within seconds I was already thrown into bed, and I weakly pushed against him.

[MC]: “N-No, don’t…” [Eisuke]: “Stop trying to hide every single little thing.” [Eisuke]: “Do you intend to make me say that over and over again?” [MC]: “Even then, doing this all of a sudden is a bit embarrassing…” [MC]: “Can you at least turn off the lights?” [Eisuke]: “Will that be all from you?” (This is bad… his mood quickly went sour.)

When I shrink away from the icy gaze above me, the sheets are then mercilessly torn away. [MC]: “Ah-” [Eisuke]: “Are you not in the mood to entertain me?” [MC]: “ah… Please, wait-” (As it is - it’s impossible!) Tightly shutting my eyes, I brace through my shame and-

(He shut them off for me!) [MC]: “Thank y–“ [Eisuke]: “…” In that split second I sigh in relief, he suddenly grabs onto my ankles. [MC]: “!” [Eisuke]: “From here, I won’t let any more complaints come out of you.” He forces himself between my knees, a smirk on his face. (Seems like it’ll be a long night…)

…

The next day – (I’m dead… dead tired…) (I only had resisted him for a little bit, and yet I was punished until morning…) I groggily continue to make the bed when I stagger a step and bang into the cleaning wagon. [MC]: “Aaah-“ [Erika]: “MC, hold it. What are you doing?” [MC]: “I’m sorry for causing more unnecessary work for you!” Waking up to tidy the massive heap of fallen amenities, Erika hands me the new sheets with a thud. [Erika]: “You know, you’ve been slacking off too much lately.” [Erika]: “Even if you’re Mr. Ichinomiya’s girlfriend - let’s not get too carried away now, hm?!” [MC]: “Of course not!” [Erika]: “As punishment, please do the rest of the cleaning by yourself!” (So that I can keep up with Eisuke, I’ve been working my hardest.) (‘Getting carried away’, I haven’t done anything like that…) Erika leaves the hotel room, and I was left alone to continue cleaning.

…

That night–

(If I don’t hurry, I won’t make it on time!) Flying out of my dorm and dashing through the hotel lobby, two figures then intercept my path. [Ota]: “Oh cool, perfect timing.” [Ota]: “We’re going up to the penthouse, so come and serve us some coffee.”

the… the main lobby where they all hang out is called the penthouse too, right in jpn they use “organizers’ room” which… that aint it in engl i remember that much. right??? oh no look what you’ve done voltage, this is what happens when you make 1 kbtbb update a month

[MC]: “Uh, right now?” [Baba]: “Ota, you gotta call that off for now. If she’s in this much of a rush, you should just sympathize with the dear.” [Ota]: “Ahh, gotcha.” [Ota]: “So, you were peacefully relaxing in your room after work when you got a call?” [Baba]: “Something along the lines of ‘Get to the penthouse, you have 5 minutes’, as they say?” [MC]: “It’s just as you say! Well, I have to-“ [Ota]: “Looks like Eisuke’s ‘training’ has wrapped up with flying colors, huh?” [Baba]: “Then, how many minutes do you have left on the timer?” (Oh, no- by just talking to them for a moment, my five minutes have passed!) I cut the conversation short and jump onto the penthouse elevator.

…

[MC]: “-So, I’ve kept you waiting!” [Eisuke]: “You’re late.” [MC]: “?!” Opening the door - Eisuke was right there, leaning against the immediate wall. He approaches closer, apparently irritated. (Th-That scared me… It couldn’t be that he was actually sitting around waiting for me, right?)

season 1 mc u will soon realize he has no hobbies despite having billions of dollars to invest in any hobby ever

(I should apologize for now) [MC]: “Sorry,” [MC]: “Before I got on the elevator, I was occupied talking to the others…” [Eisuke]: “I didn’t permit you to give me excuses and the like.” (No matter how you look at it, he’s clearly in a bad mood.) I feel a chill run down my spine before he grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. Trapped between the door and his body, I timidly ask, [MC]: “Are you… angry?” [Eisuke]: “I’m going to retrain you.” He leans his face a breath closer before licking my lips. Instinctively opening my mouth, he slips his tongue through and caresses inside. [MC]: “…Mmn-“ [Eisuke]: “…” Every time he bites the tip of my tongue, the wet sound echoes through the silent room. (Eisuke’s kisses are always so sweet, as if to melt me-) In these kisses filled with his desire that yearns down to the core, my mind grows hazy. …thump, thump… (Footsteps?!) [MC]: “Um, isn’t there someone coming up the stairs?” [Eisuke]: “And what’s the matter with that?” With a devious smile, he had snapped off a few of the buttons on my blouse. [MC]: “Please wait, someone can come in and see us…“ [Eisuke]: “Don’t kick up a fuss.” [MC]: “Ah... S-Stop…” -Knock, knock! [Soryu]: “Eisuke. Are you in?” [Eisuke]: “Yeah.” [Soryu]: “I’m opening the door.”

MA BOI SORYU DUN DESERVE to be part of ur sic voyeuristic ways u eggplant lookin ass

lol idk if the engl version has this yet but remember the eisuke story where he swaps bodies with soryu and then soryu was pretty much like “no TOUCHIN MY BODY IS SACRED” and that was like season 17 my season 1 boy dun need this

(Th-This is a problem…!) Rattle, rattle-

[Soryu]: “…Are you in the middle of something?” [Eisuke]: “I’m busy right now.” [Soryu]: “Then I’ll ask you from out here.” (Th-Thank goodness…At some point Eisuke had locked the door.) As I finally let out a sigh of relief – While Eisuke normally conversed with Soryu, he began to further undo my clothes. (He’s opening up my blouse, and my bra is…) (But if I make a sound here, it’s likely that Soryu will find out what’s going on.) I twist my body in a subtle attempt to resist, but with a great force I was pressed even harder against the door.

[Eisuke]: “…” [MC]: “…guh…” His teasing fingertips sneak under the hem of my skirt and stroke the inner side of my thighs. Lightly biting my lip, I desperately keep my voice from leaking out. [Soryu]: “There will be a change in the items up for the upcoming auction.” [Eisuke]: “And this item is?” [Soryu]: “A painting. Ota is currently appraising it, but it’s almost certain to be a forgery.” (What should I do, the current situation is…) I also could hear lively chatter from the penthouse lobby below. In this situation where it seems that if I get even a little careless I’ll be discovered - my heartbeat wildly beats faster. [Soryu]: “Baba is currently looking for an alternative piece, but…” [Eisuke]: “But I thought there was a sculpture in the warehouse?” [Soryu]: “Isn’t that one supposed to be the centerpiece for the following auction?” Eisuke is discussing business matters with his usual expression… as he pulls down the straps of my bra. [MC]: “….Hh…” [Eisuke]: “…” His fingertips glide along to skim against the tip of my breast. (Even though Soryu’s on the other side of the door,) (He’s purposely… on the places where I’m likely to cry out…) [Eisuke]: “I don’t care if we put that one up earlier.” [Eisuke]: “Report that to Baba.” [Soryu]: “I don’t mind that, but…” More and more, the core of my body blazes hotter and I want to lose all of myself to him. (I know that wanting something like that right now is out of line,) (But…) Even if I’m aware of how inappropriate this is, I can’t escape the comfort of the sensations Eisuke gives me. [Eisuke]: “Is there a problem?” [MC]: “…kgh-” Though his words are directed to Soryu, his irises are directly captured on me. When I slightly lean my relaxed body towards him, he strokes my hair in a toying manner. [Soryu]: “…It’s quite difficult to talk about.” [Soryu]: “I’ve had enough of this - Can I at least open the door now?” [MC]: “!” I return to reality upon hearing Soryu’s voice laced with suspicion, and I shake my head to signal my resistance. But Eisuke, without letting go of my body, puts his arms to the back of my knees. (Huh?) (As usual, this is where it ends, right…?) [Soryu]: “Eisuke, are you listening to me?” [Eisuke]: “I do believe I told you that I’m in the middle of something.” When I look at him, my heartbeat picking up - With an amused smirk carved on his face, he presses these lips against my earlobe. [Eisuke]: “Spread your legs wider.”

(End of Episode 1)

If you’re interested in the rest, please consider buying the other episodes! or not. ( ´_ゝ｀) save up ur monies for the things to come, idk. ive been holed up for weeks drinking me choccy milk i dun not got the energy to be voltage pr

#kbtbb #eisuke ichinomiya #kissed by the baddest bidder

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