#he will never return there so those secrets are allowed to be perused

[vyragosa]

really about to put on self-inflicted achromatic and be very normal about it

[ussgallifrey]

(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 25

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Avengers: Age of Ultron, demisexuality on full display, language, mentions of minor character death, baby can you taste the foreshadowing in this chapter?

✦ Word Count: 5.2k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

[Master List]

Tony has absconded your rotary phone and secluded himself in the living room, calling numerous numbers on a list he keeps waving around in his hand as he paces back and forth. You watch him go, catching only a few words of his rapid-fire conversation before you move to join the others at the back of the house.

The three rooms at the rear of the home had once been an office, a ladies’ parlor, and a dining area. You had them all converted to be one large library. While the archways remained in place, separating the three areas, they looked nearly identical. Emerald wallpaper covered the tiny slivers of walls that weren’t obscured by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Clint is sitting on the chaise lounge with his legs kicked up over the powder blue fabric, his head dangles over the edge. Steve is respectfully listening along to whatever Bruce is working on. The doctor had found an old chalkboard of yours and was currently writing down several things with a small stub of white chalk.

Looking to your left, you see the assassin currently perusing the shelves in the first room - where your oldest items were held. While, ordinarily, you wouldn’t want anyone to be anywhere near those books and scrolls, you knew you could trust the redhead with the precious items. 

Wordlessly, you slide past the archer.

Natasha is hunched slightly as she stares at a framed document on the wall.

“Wow, an MA from Cornell?”

Her eyes flicker up as you move to stand beside her. Crossing your arms, you stare at the old degree.

“Mhmm.”

“It’s a good forgery,” she comments. “Did you get Brandon or Nadia to do it?”

Back in your SHIELD agent days, those two were the best when it came to making forged documents: passports, ID cards, certificates, you name it.

But you merely shake your head, chuckling as you lean your weight down onto the edge of the small wooden desk, “No, that one’s legitimate.”

She’s silent for just a moment before she hums, “That makes sense.” And then she’s turning to look at you, snapping a ball of evergreen gum, “How many more you got hiding around here?”

“Oh,” you smile, easing up from your spot. 

Crossing the room, you bend down to pick up a stack of frames, all lying on the carpet beside an olive-green velvet armchair. You flip through them, old memories pulling up to the surface as you view the degrees for the first time in a long while.

“I have nine here,” you say as you hand them over to Natasha, one by one. “University of Sydney, Art Institute of Chicago, Royal College of Arts, University of London, uh… Bedford - that was my first medical degree, Göttingen, Washington University.”

She smiles that secretive little smile of hers as she inspects each one. Holding up the last frame, she states, “This looks pretty old.”

You snort, “Near ancient really. That was… Cronus, 1794? They started allowing women into their lectures just a few years before that. Actually! My oldest one is from Bologna, in Italy. That was…1431?”

Her brows arch, “They gave women degrees in the 15th century?”

“13th. Professoressa Gozzadini was one of the first to graduate and teach at the university. I sat in for a few of her lectures, but law was never really my interest.”

She lets out a low whistle, “Look at you. Probably the most educated out of the group.”

With a shrug, you take back the frames - returning them to their rightful spot in a pile on the floor, “I’m not the one who went to MIT, I don’t have any degrees in engineering or mathematics. I certainly wouldn’t call myself the most educated.”

She reclines back on the desk across from you, “Why did you bother?”

“Pursuit of knowledge, mostly. And, back then, before a government-appointed forgery artist, you had to have an MA to be a museum curator. I mean, once I started working for SHIELD, I had a few made up just to give me access to other places. It tends to raise a few brows when you show up with a degree marked thirty years older than what you look, you know?”

Natasha offers you a gentle laugh.

“I imagine so.”

“So, even though I have fake degrees from Yale, and Harvard, and U of M, and Cambridge, I’ve only ever actually attended about ten universities?”

“More than me. The KGB didn’t really hand out degrees for… my training.”

Your smile fades as you watch the flicker of something distant dance in her green eyes.

While you had checked in on everyone earlier that afternoon, Natasha had been with Clint when you came in. He had assured you that they were both fine then and she had nodded in agreement. But you could tell, there was far more under the surface than she was willing to let see the light of day.

“You doing okay?” you ask, voice hesitant as you move closer to her.

She glances up, back down, and then up again, “Mhmm.”

“Hey,” you draw closer, enough to gently nudge her arm with your elbow. “It’s honestly no one's business, but… if you did want to talk to someone other than Barton about it… I mean, we’re the only two women here and I imagine, even though you guys are friends, it might be harder to talk about some of these things. I don’t know, I’m not great at the whole friend thing these days.”

She snorts, a smile playing on her lips as she looks over at you.

“You’re doing fine, Seven. And you know, me and Clint aren’t just friends. I can tell him pretty much anything and he’ll listen. Even if he’s got his aids out.”

There’s a nod of understanding as you breathe out, “Yeah, I guess you two have been through a lot together. Budapest and all that, right? Hard to shake a friend like that.”

Natasha pauses, dropping a hand to your wrist as she meets your eyes.

“We’re more than friends. I mean, don’t go… talking about it to everyone. But, wow, I thought we were a little more transparent?”

Your line of thinking pauses, resets, and starts moving again before you’re able to get any words out that sound even remotely coherent.

“Oh… you’re… together?”

She nods, offering a little humming sound.

“I did not know that.”

The redhead laughs, “Well, welcome to the party. Everyone else has been pretty… respectful about it actually.”

You shake your head, “No, I honestly had no idea. That whole… realm? That’s kind of beyond me.”

She blinks.

“Relationships?”

Looking toward the wall of shelves where medieval manuscripts and musty age-worn books reside, you take a steadying breath.

“Romantic relationships. Eros, if you will.”

She lets the words sit for a minute before she says anything further.

“I mean, I didn’t want to perpetuate the virgin goddess stereotype, but…”

“Hey,” you shove her arm. “I got enough of that kind of talk from Sharon. I don’t need you jumping into it too.”

“Carter?”

You hum in reply.

It may have only been a year since you last encountered the blonde agent. But your short time on Olympus with the humans had been cemented in your mind for some time now. You could recall the young woman’s words, her inquiries into your… past love life, or lack thereof.

Humans spoke so freely about that topic these days. But… that was not for you. And though you understood their curiosity when it came to you, they had to know that the way you existed was far different than the way they did when it came to love. 

You knew the worlds of agápē and philia. Even storge, philuatia, and xenia. But eros… that had always remained far from your reach, slipping through your fingers like wispy mist. And that was just the way it was; the way it had always been.

The way it would likely remain.

“Hey.”

The two of you turn to see Clint resting in the doorway.

  “Whatcha talking about?” he grins.

You and the redhead share a look before simultaneously replying:

“College.”

“Relationships.”

Your eyes seek out Natasha’s but she merely winks at you before returning her attention to the archer.

“Right…” he drawls, itching the back of his head for a moment before he continues, ”Stark says he can’t get through to Cho’s lab. He’s trying to get someone on Hill’s team to go look into it, but…” he ends with a vague shrug.

Feeling the pull of the previous conversation fall to the wayside, you blink, “She was working with regenerative tissues, right? Oh, that is so obvious I want to smack myself!”

“Okay?” Clint calls as you breeze past him into the central room of the library.

Steve stands from the lounge as soon as you walk in, moving to stand alongside Banner as you peer over his shoulder at the chalkboard.

“If I was looking to evolve, as an artificial intelligence, why would I need living tissue?”

Bruce nods, juggling the chalk between his hands, “Exactly what I was thinking. Vibranium is more than enough.”

“So, why would you want a humanesque body if you believe you are the superior life form?”

The others circle into the room as the two of you begin to brainstorm.

“Uhm… relatability? You know, a friendly face to the humans you’re trying to protect?”

You shake your head, “No, he’s artificial he can’t care about that. I’d say maybe he’s trying to circumvent the Laws of Robotics in some way, but that seems like a far fetch.”

Steve stands beside Bruce, tilting his head to look down at the current list of theories the doctor had written out.

“Would he be able to convert vibranium to be like a form of skin?” he wonders aloud.

You both let the idea simmer for a moment before reaching the same conclusion.

“Anything’s possible, I suppose,” Bruce admits, looking to you for a differing opinion.

With a nod, you add, “And if anyone could accomplish that, it would be Helen. Her work in the field is above anything else to date.”

“Bet she wouldn’t be doing it willingly,” Natasha points out as she browses through your literary collection.

The supersoldier lets out a breath, realization dawning, “That’s why he needed the scepter.”

“And a million distractions,” Clint huffs.

As the idea rests upon your consciousness, Tony finally makes an appearance. Surveying the gloomy atmosphere, he whistles.

“Wow, brainstorming without me. So… got in touch with my contacts at Nexus. Looks like we were right, someone’s been scrambling the launch codes. Faster than Ultron can figure them out, I might add.”

Natasha perks up, “We have an ally?”

You offer her a look, “Ultron has an enemy. We can’t assume that’s the same thing as an ally. All things considered.”

Your eyes land on Steve and he seems to give a small nod, agreeing with your sentiment.

“So,” Tony begins. “I think I want to head to Oslo, see what’s what.”

Steve crosses his arms, “And Dr. Cho?”

“I think we can safely assume we dropped the ball there as well,” the billionaire gestures a small explosion with his hands.

The supersoldier’s eyes harden.

“We’re not abandoning her.”

“Is that what I said?” Tony clips, squinting at Steve as he moves to cross the room.

Natasha knocks her head back against the bookshelves, “What happened to not splitting up?”

Tony turns to look at her, “What are we? The Mystery Gang? Zoinks, Scoob, let’s go fetch the metal man.”

“Hey, look,” Clint moves to stand between the two men. “No offense, but as someone who’s been on the other side of that damn scepter, I wish I had someone running to come undo it.”

Beside you, Bruce tugs off his glasses and gives a slight sigh.

Observing the room, watching the team begin to tear themselves apart once again in the span of a single evening, you finally step forward.

“If you - ” you address Tony, “ - head to Oslo and track down this entity or person or whatever, the rest of us can go to Helen and figure out what exactly Ultron might have needed from her.”

“Or, we can trust that Hill and her agents have it in hand and we figure out where the bastard is hiding out,” Tony suggests with a knowing smile.

Before you can even ask why he would consider that option, your landline begins ringing its shrill bell tone. You stare at the billionaire for a moment more before you push your way out of the room to answer the call.

“Hello?” you ask into the receiver.

“It’s Hill,” comes the instant reply. “Stark was right. I’ve got people at the labs right now and she’s still coming out of it. It sounds like Ultron made out with something of hers - hell if I know what, right now. Give me some time and we’ll get an answer out of her. She’s… pretty shaken.”

“But unharmed?” you question, glancing back as you notice someone coming down the hall.

“Luckily, yes.”

There’s a beat of silent static, but you sense there is something more she wants to say.

“What is it?”

“We… uhm, we intercepted an image before it was broadcast to every major news network.”

Tony’s, surprisingly, the one standing beside you. His eyes are wide and imploring, but you merely wave your hand at him.

“What was the picture?”

“Strucker. Dead.”

“His usefulness ran out,” you surmise.

“Pretty graphic stuff, honestly. But we’re keeping it from the airways for now, so.”

It made sense, of course. For the perfect peacekeeper to remove a threat once it was no longer helpful to him.

“Any idea on the location?”

“Funny you should ask,” she says. “It was taken in the mutants’ cells, back at his hideout.”

Now that, was interesting.

“Okay,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead as you glance back over at the billionaire. “Well, I’m going to hand you back to Tony before he forcefully rips this out of my hand.”

Before you can even hear her reply, Tony does in fact take the receiver out of your hand.

“Talk to me,” he says, offering you a wink as you shake your head before he dips into the living room to continue the call.

When you walk back to the library where the others are still conversing, Steve looks toward you with a questioning look.

“Well, I hate to say it,” you huff. “But Stark was right. She’s in good hands right now and yes, she’ll be fine. We might have a location though, for Ultron.”

Bruce’s eyes brighten as he looks over at you, “Where?”

You offer them all a tight smile.

“Sokovia.”

The house is bathed in the hushed tones of evening. The halls are painted with the cool hues of starlight and the feint ambiance of a lone lamp in the library. 

After Maria’s revelation, the team had a quick conversation before it was admitted that they would need at least a few hours of sleep before anyone was in any condition to go anywhere near a robot hell-bent on your collective destruction. So, you bid goodnight to Clint and Natasha - now understanding why the two were sharing a room. As well as Bruce, who was guided up to a room on the third floor.

Tony was determined to head to Oslo as soon as humanly possible. He had taken his suit and decided to fly to the internet hub after his last call with Hill.

That only left…

“Are you just incapable of sleeping?” you ponder as you lean against the wooden archway of the library’s main entrance.

Steve blinks up at you before offering a tired smile, “To be fair, I’m not sure if I could sleep even if I wanted to right now.”

He’s sitting on the blue lounge with a book in his lap. A black-bound story with lettering so faded on the cover you’re not immediately sure which book it is. You take a few steps into the room before you drop down beside him on the chaise.

“From fear of our possible demise or… from that vision?” you ask, tone soft as you begin to tread difficult waters.

The supersoldier’s mouth gapes before he snaps the book closed.

Ah, Treasure Island.

“Little of both?” he answers honestly.

You give him a nod before taking a breath for yourself.

“Do you, uhm, want to talk… about it?”

He looks at you before he drops his gaze to his hands. His silence makes you think you’ve waded out too far into the unknown, but after another stretch of quiet, he says:

“I saw my Ma, actually.”

“Really?”

With a nod, he places the book on the end table beside the lounge. Leaning against the back of the chaise, he entwines his hands into a fist in between his legs. His eyes are locked on the ceiling.

“Everything before that was… hell,” at that, he glances over at you, before almost immediately pulling his gaze away. “And then… I saw her. She looked just like she did before…” he gives a sigh.

“It didn’t feel like the beginning of the vision. That felt like I was completely at the mercy of the nightmare. This part, with her, it was… I don’t know, different.”

Your hand finds purchase on his right forearm, silently imploring him to continue.

“She verbally snapped me out of it, I guess you could say.”

“Must be one powerful woman,” you comment with a small smile.

Steve’s left hand rests comfortably over your own, his thumb rubs at the area just above your wrist. You find yourself leaning into his side, your head coming to rest on his shoulder.

“She was.”

And then, he gives a warm chuckle.

“She, uh, actually used to read me this,” his hand lifts from yours to gently pat the book on the table beside him.

“Oh, such a classic,” you smile.

You can feel him nod, “Honestly got me thinking I was going to grow up to be a pirate one day.”

Pulling back, you fix him with an incredulous expression, “You? Seriously?”

He grins, “What, can’t see it?”

“The rule-breaking and lawlessness? Oh, absolutely. Pillaging and treasure-taking, not so much. You don’t seem the type.”

Steve gives a low-belly laugh.

“I’ll concede to that.”

“Though, now that I think about it,” you pull away just to appraise him. “Captain Rogers does have a certain ring to it if we’re dealing in the realm of piracy.”

He shakes his head, looking down at the book for a long, quiet moment.

“God,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve read this since I was a kid, actually.”

“You want it?”

His head whips back to look at you, an immediate shake of dismissal, “Nah. No, Athena, it’s yours. And it looks, truth be told, older than even me.”

“Well, that’s not much, considering,” you schmooze.

Pushing up from the chaise lounge, you swipe up the book for yourself. The raised leather feels familiar in your hand as you trace your index finger over the embossed green letters.

“It’s a signed copy, you know.”

You flip open the front cover to reveal the signature.

He blinks.

“You’re shitting me.”

“No,” you laugh, collapsing back on the lounge next to him with your legs tucked in under you. Shoving the book in his direction, you point to the dedication.

To Minnie, Wishing you a wonderful adventure. - Robert Louis Stevenson

“I was his nurse for about three months in 1884. Real sweet guy once you got him relaxed and comfortable. I think I have his copy of Jekyll and Hyde around here somewhere…”

Steve’s still staring at the words written in ink, so you carefully deposit the book into his lap. You lean back onto the opposite end of the lounge, waiting for him to say something.

“Minnie?” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, however.

“Oh, yeah. That.” Rubbing at your arm, you look toward the shelf of books across from you. “Athena’s not too common of a name for most of history. I ended up going by the name the Romans gave me: Minerva. Minerva Polias; Minnie, for short.”

He nods, still a little transfixed.

“Do you still go by that, or…?”

You drop a hand on his arm and he immediately turns his attention toward you with wide blue eyes.

“Steve. Please. Never call me Minnie. I gave you my real name three years ago with the intention that you would use it. There’s no need for aliases between friends.”

He lets out a small breath as a sweet smile comes to his lips.

“Good,” he settles on. “Almost had me worried for a minute there.”

“Hey,” you bump his shoulder with your own. “Can I convince you to try and get some sleep? It’s almost two in the morning and I’d like you to be in top condition if you’re throwing that shield around tomorrow. Don’t need to have you taking off Clint’s head.”

“I wouldn’t - ” he starts to say, but the look on your face settles him. “Okay, fine. You too though.”

“Me too what?” you question with a tilt of your head.

“Sleep. You have to sleep sometime, I’m sure of it.”

With a shrug, you stand from the couch and offer him your hands, “If it’ll get you to try, I’ll do it.”

Steve chuckles, setting the book back down on the table before he pulls the drawstring on the lamp, pulling you both down into the heavy darkness of night.

“Guess it’ll have to,” he says, voice low as the embers of light fade away.

His hands slip into yours and you don’t really have to pull him up, but he allows your fingers to stay entwined all the same. Up the stairs you go, walking slowly to avoid the creaking steps, a hand still held in his.

On the third floor, you can hear the very gentle breaths of Bruce’s snoring from down the hallway. In the sliver of moonlight drifting through the stairwell’s window, you can make out Steve’s features. They’re chiseled like Grecian marble, his eyes are ablaze with the lonely dots of shimmering starlight.

You stop outside of his room, your hand slipping free from his hold.

“It’s a deal then?” you ask in a hushed tone. “You’ll try and sleep if I do the same?”

He nods as he looks down at you. His hands are shoved into his jean pockets.

“Can’t make any promises,” he admits with something somber in his words.

Unable to help yourself, you reach out your hand to cup his cheek. His skin is warm under your touch and you can feel him dip his head down into your palm. Dark eyelashes flutter closed.

You offer the supersoldier a sad smile.

With everything that had happened today and everything that was still to come, it would surprise you if Steve was able to even drift into a light sleep, let alone keep his thoughts at bay long enough to fall asleep.

You’re a little surprised when the man in front of you turns his head ever so slightly. His lips gently press against your open palm before his eyes blink open to look down at your surprised face.

“Get some sleep, Rogers,” you murmur, letting your hand drift back to your side, feeling a ball of tension building in your stomach. “I’m just across the hall.”

His eyes lift from your face to peer at the door directly behind you. A small smile appears on his lips.

Without another word, but several long looks, Steve goes into his guest room and you move across the hall to the room you had long ago claimed as yours. Your door clicks closed first, followed a moment later by the sound of his.

You do not sleep that night.

Your mind is a labyrinth of thoughts, and plans, and ideas that may or may not come to pass. Working through imaginary strategies well into the morning light. You do not feel the draw of exhaustion that you imagine your mortal friends do.

So, as the glimmer of orange and magenta light drifts over the horizon, you take hold of your pendant - still resting comfortably, if not heavily, against your bosom. You offer a silent prayer to whoever wishes to listen before you begin gathering your things.

Coffee is running in the pot for the others, though you have no real food to offer them. You knew Clint and Steve kept a well-stocked snack pouch in their go-bags; mostly granola bars and the like. But it would have to be enough for today.

The others emerge at their own pace, starting with Bruce and then Natasha. Followed by Clint and eventually Steve. The plan had been made the night before, when all six of you were still present, that no matter what, the five of you would leave on the quinjet this morning - regardless if Tony got into contact or not.

Which, he did, sometime just around 6:30.

“I found our ally. Had to pick up the pieces and reassemble him back together.”

“JARVIS?” someone had asked.

“He didn’t even know he was in there, that he was fighting back Ultron. He was still following protocols from within.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Still working on that,” he had said.

After placing the last coffee mug onto the drying rack, you take one final look around the house. It would be some time until you returned, you were sure of it.

Pallas is perched on the porch rails when you finally close the front door.

“Hey,” you coo with a soft sigh. “It’s gonna be a while till we see each other. I want you to head back home and stay there. Where we’re going is going be no place for you, bud.”

He bites your finger for good measure before he ruffles out his feathers and soars up into the early morning sky. Celestial blue starlight drifts behind him like a fluttering veil before he pops out of existence.

Steve’s waiting for you at the ramp, already dressed in his uniform - free of his helmet and shield for the time being.

“Once we’re twenty miles clear, we’ll open up the channels again,” Clint says, already behind the controls.

Tony had said there was a bag full of intel that Hill was waiting to tell you all. Settling into the seats behind Clint, you watch as the house grows smaller and smaller, and eventually, gives way to a projection of a forest canopy. And then you’re zipping across the landscape, ascending into the cloud coverage.

Only ten minutes out and they get their call from Hill. Steve watches as you begin to pace the length of the jet.

Right now, you were still down two players. Tony was wrapping things up in Oslo and Thor was still… nowhere to be found.

The public’s understanding of the entire situation was about as bad as it could be. Marking the team as the true villains of the day with endless coverage looping clips of the Hulk destroying Johannesburg and the two Gods going blow to blow in a debris-ridden New York street.

There were countless interviews with eyewitnesses and civilians who had been in the crossfire who praised the help they received from the Ultron bots. There was no mention of you or Sam in London, or Tony’s efforts to aid the people in South Africa.

For all the world knew right now, Ultron was their promised savior.

“What else?” you had asked, voice clipped as your head lay heavy in your palm.

Hill reported CCTV footage of the mutants in multiple locations across Sokovia’s capital city - seemingly hiding in alleyways and shadowy areas. As if trying to avoid detection.

“They flip sides?” Clint had questioned with a note of hope in his voice.

“Unknown,” was all Maria could offer you.

At least they had an answer for what Ultron had been seeking from Dr. Cho. For better or worse.

“A living body?”

“Well, that’s fucking terrifying.”

While they had been split across two continents, fighting mindless battles, Ultron had entered South Korea, otherwise undetected. He had used the scepter on not only Helen Cho but her entire team. Her precious cradle had been corrupted for his nefarious means.

She reported that the mutants, Pietro and Wanda she recalled, had left quite suddenly. And that it had been the girl who released Helen from her forced state. Ultron had escaped with the cradle right after. Helen and her team had been left completely unharmed.

As they crossed the Atlantic, only more questions lay heavy in the air. Multiple unknowns for what they might be walking into. While everyone appeared for all the world to be ready to face whatever lay ahead, Steve knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Just getting the wings fixed, Sam had texted him. Give me some coordinates and I’ll be there.

Steve had shown you the message, noticing a look of relief drifting across your features. He had almost forgotten how close of a call it had been at the Tower, thanks to everything else going on at the time. Between his own nightmarish memories and his need to get you and the God of Thunder away from each other before the city was destroyed any further.

“Only the Abomination could destroy something made out of Adamantine,” you had said with a slight shake of your head.

But as they draw closer to the country, Steve can feel the physical tension hanging in the air. So, when Clint calls out an ETA, the supersoldier stands up to address the team. If not to quell the anxiety in them, then perhaps to help with his own.

“Ultron likely knows we’re coming,” he starts, letting his hand fall onto the back of your chair. “Odds are we’ll be riding into heavy fire. And that’s what we signed up for. But the people of Sokovia, they didn’t. So, our priority is getting them out. We find the cradle and we clear the field. Keep the fight between us.”

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Ultron… he thinks we’re monsters. That we’re what’s wrong with the world. It’s not just about beating him. It’s about whether he’s right.”

His eyes drift over to your face.

They all had been rattled by Bruce’s confession last night. And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying part of it all. He completely understood where the doctor was coming from. They were a rag-tail group of people from supremely different backgrounds who were supposed to be the elite protective force for the entire Earth.

And yet, there they were arguing over dinner, in a helicarrier with a scepter three feet away, in the middle of Manhattan.

Steve wouldn’t deny the fact that the team wasn’t perfect.

But the fact that Ultron propped himself up as the better option. An inhuman supercomputer who could decide the fate of everyone on the planet. No, even with all their imperfections, the Avengers Initiative was the best - the only - true option out there.

You nod, darkened eyes meeting Steve’s. And then a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I’m still not ghostwriting your speeches,” you mouth.

Steve looks down with a chuckle before he grips your shoulder. Staring out the window, he watches as the distant stretch of land peeks past the waves of rolling blue ocean.

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[merakiui]

Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat. 

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances. 

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?” 

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?” 

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus. 

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?” 

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist. 

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells. 

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary. 

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting. 

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions. 

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color. 

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.” 

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast. 

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

[pleasantanathema]

The Witcher’s Woes

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: bruising/marking, rough sex, dirty talk, light degradation, mentions of blood/injuries, very mild angst, porn with plot

Word Count: 10k

A/N: This is a collab piece for the Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab hosted by myself, @present-mel, and @linestrider​ 

You can find all the other wonderfully creative and smutty pieces on our masterlist!

P.S.: This is a long one, if you feel like only reading smut, feel free to jump down to the second line break and begin there. 

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         A Witcher: someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals, which take place within Witcher schools such as the Wolf, Cat, and Griffin in their respective hidden Kaers, or home castles, in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. (source: fandom.com).  

          The storms were raging on the coast, salty waves crashing into the shore like heavy hands attempting to crawl out of the sea, only to get dragged back into the abyss. The winds were howling, lightning crashing, yet the storm was the last thing on your mind as you opened the door to your lowly estate.

           Ushijima of Velhad still had his arm raised from where he knocked on the wood, his yellow eyes glowing against the darkness of night. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, his chestnut hair tousled, lines of rain water dripping down his nose, his cheeks pallid. Even still, The Witcher looked to be a living memory, no new wrinkles or scars that you could detect when the rumbling flashes lit the sky. If it wasn’t for the rain, he would’ve looked entirely the same since you last saw him years ago, smiling in the evening glow of the countryside before departing for a new journey.

           You ushered him in quickly, silently, your instincts for hospitality taking over before you could begin to think of questioning him about his sudden arrival. His armor was damp, heavy, sloshing and clinking as he undid the leather and meteorite laced straps from his shoulders. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. You rushed to grab towels from a chest, blanketing him in warmth as he sat before your rolling fireplace. He uttered a quiet thanks, never one to use words out of place.

           The tea you had been brewing above the fire began to boil. You quickly poured two cups, adding a dash of the alcoholic white gull to his and using a burst of fire magic between your palms to keep the cup warm. You settled into the chair beside him, noticing how his gaze leered into the sparking fireplace.

           “Ushijima,” you finally called him, after time had passed and his hair began to dry, “are you hurt? Is that why you’re here?”

           He grunted from beside you, moving the hand you noticed had been clutching his rib cage.

           “Yes, but not badly. I needed refuge from the storm more-so than a potion.”

           “How did you know where to find me?”

           He was quiet for a moment, perhaps pondering if he should simplify the truth.

           “A sorceress, even in hiding, is never hard to find. The townsfolk talk, you know. I knew you were nearby before even beginning my hunt.”

           “You could have asked for more than the tea I gave you, you know I’m here to help.”

           He leaned back in the chair, his thick, long legs spreading out before the fire, his socks still damp and clinging to his toes, a big cat uncurling his weary limbs.

           “It would have been rude to barge in begging for assistance.”

           Ah, yes. He was still as courteous as always, his Griffin School teaching still ingrained in his mannerisms. Most Witchers were not so polite, but that school in particular valued traditional teachings. You knew you’d have to indulge his small conversation before getting more answers from him; he always played the chivalrous game, after all.

          “Tell me, what brings you to the shores of Blaviken? Last I saw of you, you were riding north, returning to what is left of Kaer Seren.”

           “There is nothing left,” he sighed, both arms now resting on the chair, the last remnants of tea staining his cup, “everything was destroyed, save a few books I found amongst the rubble.”

            “What a shame, that library was a marvel. I would’ve liked to visit it myself.”

             The story of the destruction of Kaer Seren was only well known to those acquainted with the last remaining Witchers. The keep was tucked away amidst the edge of the sea and the snowy mountains of Kovir to the north. The Witchers of that school, all of Ushijima’s kin, were well acquainted with magic and kept a vast library of mystic tomes within their home. But they were secretive, protective of their knowledge. Witchers, men created by magic to become the monsters they killed, were guarded for good reason. Years of persecution had left their numbers in ruin.

            A group of mages felt scorned by the Witchers’ refusal to share their wealth and toppled the castle of Kaer Seren in an avalanche, leaving bodies and crumpled books in the wake, all never to be used again. You could almost picture the blood and ink that stained the snowy graves.

           You’d only heard this story from the mouth of Ushijima himself, one night after too many scuffles and too many drinks.

            “I brought some for you,” he smiled then, warm and soft, full lips on display, “that’s the real reason I’m here.”

            His eyes were especially luminous in the firelight, gold irises reflecting the flames like the most precious of coins. His cheeks were flushed now, color regaining across his skin. Freckles smattered his cheeks like dried blood; you had to hold yourself back from reaching to him, from caressing his skin to see if the marks were lost war paint or new stories etched into his skin. He was tanned from all his time spent meditating in the sun, truly a unique specimen to behold. It was rare to see someone so brutal be so beautiful.

           You were excited at his words, your fingers digging into the grooves of your cup at the mention of magical books awaiting you to peruse them.

           He could see the eagerness behind your eyes and he laughed, then coughed, but continued his soft chuckling again. You paused, realizing he must be in more pain than he was letting on. His arm had returned to his torso, the thickly corded muscle clutching and protecting whatever injury was lying beneath.

           “They’re in my bag by your door, you should go look at—.”

           “Ushi, you’re hurt. Let me take care of you.”

            Before becoming friends with the valiant hunter, you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to read hidden knowledge. But years of acquaintance with the hardened man had your heart tugging in another direction; suddenly, Ushijima was becoming more important than all your years of study and practice in sorcery.

            He had a habit of breaking everything he touched: monsters, glass cups, weapons, he had a very powerful grip, and perhaps you were just the next thing in line to come undone by his hands.

            You stood from your place by the fire, strolling over to a cabinet where you kept all the alchemy ingredients you had collected from your years living alone here by the sea. Many travelers had come by, having heard of the witch by the shore, bringing elements and components to sell at a high price. And you had taken them all, emptying your purse at even the faintest glimpse of a rare material peeking from their bag. You loved your craft, you had perfected it, almost, and every day you spent toiling away finding new ways to create potions and expand your magical knowledge.

          “I need to know what you were hunting earlier.” Your fingers began rustling within the crowded shelves, grabbing an empty bottle as you heard him sigh behind you.

          “A Hym,” he said softly, “it scratched my side, it’s deep, but not fatal.”

           You stilled, eyes darting across all your ingredients. He said the word so easily, so nonchalantly, like he didn’t just battle a demon.

           “A slice from Hym’s ethereal claws drains the life force from their victim, the longer that wound sits untreated, the worse you will get.” You mentally cursed at him, blaming his chivalrous nature for hurting him for longer than he deserved to be in pain. If he had said something when he came in your front door, you could have had him on the mend already.

           “I know that, but a small potion to get me through most of the pain until now.”

           “You’ll need more than that. You’re lucky, I just went to town last week and managed to find vitriol. I can make you a superior swallow drink, just…stay still.”

            Quiet mumbles tumbled from your lips as you worked: measurements, ingredients, small musings as you set aside all the components to begin assembling them upon your alchemy table. Plants like white myrtle, celandine, crow’s eye fell into the bottle of enhanced swallow you already had on hand; you added fruit, nothing too exotic, just the common berbercane, and finally the blue tinted vitriol powder.

           You eyed the hunter as you mixed the potion, swirling the now red liquid within the high neck of the bottle, speeding up the mixing process with a little magic of your own. Only he would have such insouciance concerning a fight with such a wicked creature. He was talented, perhaps not as much as the more legendary Witchers that roamed the lands, but Ushijima was strong, sturdy, nimble and smart when in battle. His stoic nature allowed him to distance himself from the horrors of his life, a life you knew he had not chosen.

           He was an orphan, brought up by the Griffin School and transformed into a monster hunter without much consent, though you knew he had none to give. But he wore his profession like a badge of honor, looking at his life through a lens of helping those who could not help themselves in a world infested with demons, ghouls, and humanoid monstrosities.

           You’d always wanted to admit how admirable you found him, but you knew he was never one to take compliments.

           Standing next to where he was patiently sitting, you offered him the small bottle, the glass precariously dangling in your fingers.

           “Take this,” you pulled the flask away just slightly as he reached for it, “but only after you tell me what the hell you were doing fighting a Hym.”

          “You said it yourself, I get worse every moment I don’t drink that.”

          “You’ve lasted an hour, Ushi,” you chided, “I think you can take a few moments to tell me why there was a Hym near Blaviken.”

           You sat the bottle back on the table, moving to stand behind him and press the towel around his shoulders a little tighter into his neck. He gave you a contented sigh, eyes closing. He never liked to talk about his work, but you always pressed him. You lived in this monstrous world as well, had killed a few drowners while walking along the sands, aided an earl with a botchling, once even made friends with a rather tempting succubus. Everyone in this world was plagued by wretched creatures, he was just more qualified to kill them with his training and silver swords.

          Your fingers pressed into the soft cloth around his neck, picking up the fabric and using it to brush against his hair and continue drying the damp spots still lingering around his ears, the back of his neck. You normally weren’t so blatant with your affection for him, but you knew you had him as a captive audience within the chair. He’d have to tell you his story before earning what he desired, but you might as well humor him with soothing touches while he did.

         “Hyms are nasty things, you know. Demons that feed off the guilt of others.” He began.

         “I found a note from a daughter in distress about her father on a notice board not too far down the road. He was going mad, she wrote, she thought perhaps he had become possessed. I did some searching in their house, found love letters tucked away under the old man’s mattress addressed to his sister-in-law. He wanted her, he loved her, so he killed his own brother to have her. But then she threw herself into the sea from her own grief; I think the Hym could’ve gotten to her first, then transfixed itself onto the man.”

         “Hm, the things we do for love.” You mused, hands coming to rest on his shoulders once again.

          Somehow, he felt stronger, broader than the last time you’d touched him. You sunk your fingers into the sinews on display in his damp shirt, humming to yourself. You’d thought about this before, about having the strengthened hunter sit vulnerably before you, only your thoughts involved the two of you in much less clothing and talking of much less rotten things.

          You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the sketches you’d seen of Hyms in bestiaries. They were murky, shadowy beings, devilish horns upon their faceless heads, long black claws dripping from their hands. You would have cowered at the sight of such a creature, yet Ushijima sought out to destroy it.

          His gruff voice continued on, “I confronted the man, called out the Hym, and it began to attack. Its claws are long, it scratched me from the very beginning. But it’s gone now, perhaps banished to the dark realm from whence it came.”

          You plucked the bottle from its resting place, handing it to Ushijima over his shoulder. He took it with a simple thanks, head tipping back as he drank the entirety of its contents. You watched almost gleefully at his thick, irresistible neck on display. Everything about him was so strong, so well kept, even as he sat before you dampened from a storm.

         “You know, Ushi, I could listen to you talk like that for hours.”

         “Oh yeah? Then maybe I’ll stick around for a bit this time, let you listen to all my seedy tales.”

         “Mhm, they’re only seedy when that bard friend of yours is around. Is he still alive? Tendō, that is.”

           A flash of red hair and a catlike smile flashed before your mind’s eye as you thought of the dangerous, yet comical bard who often clung to the Witcher’s side.

           Ushijima laughed, clutching at his stomach as you circled his chair and came to stand before him, arms crossed delicately in front of your body. Your figure cast a silhouette across his own, making you seem larger than life in the firelight. He was enraptured in the inky vice of your shadow.

          “Yes, somehow he is still alive. Last I heard of him, he’s off singing songs in the capital of Redania to some rich heiress.”

          “Good to hear,” you shrugged, “I always liked him.”

          “No, he always liked you.” He wiggled his eyebrows, the action sending you into a fit of giggles as well. “And I can’t blame him.”

          Your laughter subsided at his words, a warm tingle spreading across your body. Normally Ushijima was not one to flirt without the aid of alcohol; perhaps you’d given him more than you thought in his tea earlier? You watched him relax in his seat, lifting his shirt to reveal a quickly fading wound upon his tawny skin, the old blood sinking back into the muscle where it belonged.

           Thunder rumbled outside the walls, a heavy boom resounding from the gods above.

           “You should bathe, Ushi.”

           “What, do I smell?”

           He was suddenly so playful, so charming, his grin making you feel flustered.

           “You will soon, I’m sure. Go beyond those doors,” you pointed over your shoulder, “It’s a heated pool, one of the reasons I chose this god forsaken estate.”

           “Will you join me?”

           You took a pause. This man was always making you pause, making you step back and evaluate your words and actions around him. Surely, he was joking. But the gleam in his bright eyes told you a different story, there was more lingering behind his words that you did not yet understand.

           “I will, but only after I take a peek at those books you brought me. Now, off with you.”

           You brushed by him as he stood, arms stretching above his head, his body shifting as he evaluated the healing wound upon his flesh. His heavy boots clunked against the floorboards as he followed your command, the sound of an enhanced predator marking his path. He slid through the door at the back of the great room and left you alone once more.

           You would’ve been ashamed if he saw how quickly you rushed to his bag, gathering the cold, dusty books in your arms before setting them gently on the table. They were relics, ancient, undoubtedly hiding secret runes and magic within their spines.

           Your fingertips brushed over the titles of the four books he brought you, but despite being entranced by the knowledge lying in wait for you, you were imagining your fingers to be elsewhere. You flipped one book open, your nails following the lines of ink, but your mind took in no words you read.

You were somewhere else; you were mentally with Ushijima, your fingers back in his hair, your hands exploring places unknown to you on his skin. He was the well-guarded book you desired to read, to hold, to explore.

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           Ushijima was astounded by your bath. He knelt to the stones on the ground, using his keen senses to feel the heated rocks and look for their source. There were some offshore vents that were connected to this place, feeding in warm water to the bath. He took in a deep breath, smelling the lingering hint of salt in the air, but the scent didn’t entirely match the ocean.

           He dipped his fingers in the water, finding it smooth, warm, unsalted. You must have put magic in place to filter all the sediment from the pipes. You always were clever, even in the smallest of ways. Your wit was something he admired about you.

           He took his time undressing, his ears perked as he heard you rustling paper in the other room. He had felt embarrassed at first about being so sentimental towards you; he had known from the beginning of his journey that any tomes he found would be placed into your care for you to enjoy. He’d read them, of course, the journey from Kovir and Poviss still a long one to the border of Redania where you lived. As he divulged himself in the ancient knowledge of his Witcher school, he always pictured you reading the same words he did; he felt your presence nestling into his skin, enveloping him like a magic spell. He liked to imagine how you’d react to the pages, how many notes you would scribble down from certain intriguing sections.

           Ushijima thought about you more than he cared to admit.

           Naked, he stepped into the bath, his screaming muscles finally silenced under the hot press of water against his body. The bathing pool had a ledge around its border, and he took a seat at the back, arms spreading out like heavy wings along the rocky edge. He sat where he could watch the door; it was instinct, he told himself, to always be aware of his surroundings, but he knew he was just waiting to glimpse your figure appear before him.

           Some nights, when preparing his tent under the stars, he would think of the first time he met you. He had traveled with Tendō to some opulent gathering in Toussaint, one filled with wine and vampires he knew were hidden amongst the crowds, but any thought he had of a hunt had vanished when he saw you. You were delightful, enchanting, eye-catching amongst the throngs of people. It didn’t take long for his friend to seek you out, to gain your friendship, and Ushijima watched patiently from the sidelines, watched how you held yourself with such poise and dignity. But all the while, he was aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to know you.

          You had become his guilty pleasure over the years, a fantasy he envisioned as he lay alone at night. Even when he was meditating, he was hard-pressed to not find himself seeing your skin behind his eyes, imagining how your body would feel within his hands. The hands of a killer, a fiend, hands that crushed whatever he held all too easily. But you, you were so powerful, so seemingly untouchable, and he found himself unworthy to behold you. He was just another creature, a man turned monster, someone wholly undeserving of a divine sorceress.

          He huffed to himself, a shy smile pulling at his cheeks as he thought of your words from earlier.

         “The things we do for love.” He repeated the words to himself, sinking a little deeper into the water.

           He didn’t have to wait long for you to enter. He was unexpectedly aware of his nakedness as you entered, fully clothed still in your corset and trousers. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, spreading down across his belly, at the prospect of watching you change; it would be impolite to ogle you. He turned his gaze instead to the water, watching how the surface lapped at his skin as he shifted his weight.

           “Are you comfortable?” You called out to him from across the room. He could hear your clothing shuffling, hear the laces coming undone one by one from your body. The room felt quiet, the air smothering. He’d felt so bold earlier, but now he felt almost ashamed that he had asked you to join him.

           “Ushiwaka,” you implored with a little more strain to your voice, “don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me.”

           His gaze shifted up for only a moment, catching a glimpse of your naked back as you peered over your shoulder at him, your hands ready to pull down your breeches and become fully naked. He couldn’t help himself, he gawked at your beauty, tracing every curve, line, and dip across your splendidly sculpted skin. You looked more beautiful than any constellation he pointed out with his finger in the night sky. He unabashedly gazed at the planes of your shoulders, the gentle slope of your spine. He imagined taking his time to map the uncharted waters of your body, of discovering every hidden cosmos tucked away within your curves.

           “Yes,” he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve become even more comfortable at the sight of you.”

           He held his breath for a moment, waiting for your reaction. Upon seeing you smile and turn your face away, he sighed, sinking deeper into the pool, arms barely keeping him afloat from where they rested on the edge.

           He heard splashing as you waded into the water, submerging yourself up to your neck before you came to sit just a few feet away from him. From here, he could study you more closely, see the elegant slope of your neck into your shoulder. He was pleased to note that he could still make out the form of your breasts in the water, the lovely globes just barely dipping out of sight.

           “I must say, even in the given circumstances, you’re still a sight for sore eyes.” He always loved how silky your voice was, always melodious to his ears. He always worried he’d forget how it sounded, but your timbre matched the tone he had been playing in his head since he last saw you.

           “I haven’t heard the name Ushiwaka in a long time,” he confessed, “it’s always Witcher now, or Ushijima of Velhad since that’s where I did most of my work.”

           “Well, you lost that name—Wakatoshi—a long time ago when you were picked up by the Witchers, but I know it is sentimental to you still. If you prefer, I can just call you Ushijima.”

           “You know I don’t mind it.” He felt like he said the words too quickly.

           “Hm, well, I’ll call you anything you let me, Ushiwaka.”

           A shiver hit his body at your words, he was keen enough to know there was innuendo laced behind them.

______________________________________________________________

           You closed your eyes, head leaning back against the warm stone as you allowed the steamy water to wash away the grime of the day. You moved your hands over your body, feeling the sticky sweat melt away. You reached for a small towel, tossing one in Ushijima’s direction and watching how he caught it so effortlessly, like a cat swatting at a shadow on the wall. He received a small bar of lavender soap with the same ease, his nose wrinkling at the flowery scent.

           You both took a moment to wash, you humming an old tune, Ushijima remaining silent aside from the sloshing of water made from his heavy limbs beneath the surface.

           You’d never been in such an intimate space with him before. A bath is time of solace and cleansing, but also one of exposure and susceptibility. Water intentionally brings forth feelings of intimacy and ambivalence. You knew he was there, watching, his heightened senses attuned to every sound, smell, every minimal movement around him. You couldn’t take his silence any longer.

           “I—,” you began quietly, “can I ask you something?”

           His movements ceased, those radiant eyes now focusing entirely on you. You instantly felt heat spread across your chest, climbing up and darkening your ears with blush. You wondered for a moment if he could see through you, in you, see how fast your heart was pounding blood through all your veins. His intense stare made you feel like he was closer, his deadly hand wrapped acutely around your heart, aiding it as it struggled to beat harder, faster.

           “Of course.” His words were direct, poignant, the deep vibrations almost tingling the water itself.

           “When you were facing that Hym, at any moment, did you fear it would sense your grief?”

           You could tell he was taken aback by your words. He placed the wet cloth to his chest, his long fingers digging into the fabric as he pondered what you said.

           Once again, he wasn’t sure if he should simplify the truth. He mulled over your question, let the words seep into his consciousness as he looked up to the ceiling. He should’ve known you were astute enough to see through him.

           “Yes,” he stated, “I did.”

           He didn’t wish to elaborate any further, but he could tell his curt response didn’t satisfy your internal reasonings.

           “I see.” You noted somberly.

           “How did you know?”

           He watched you slink farther under the water, searching for cover, searching for a way not to express your thoughts. He noticed how your legs crossed beneath the surface, the light from the hanging candles glittering through the water.

           “I know you didn’t choose this path, didn’t choose to be a Witcher. That was forced upon you; you were lucky you even survived the Trial of Grasses that made you into what you are—.”

           “A monster.” He interjected flatly.

           “You’re not…” you sighed, dipping your head into your wet hand, “you’re no monstrosity, Ushi, not even a miscreation.”

           He tensed at your words, catching how you regarded him with a solemn look.

           “I didn’t choose a life of sorcery, you know. I was torn away from society when I was a girl, taught to use my source of magic to heal wounds, but also how to kill someone in an instant. People…powerful people used me to their advantage. It’s why I stay hidden now, I’m running from my past misdeeds. I know what it is like to have regrets; to grieve.”

            He only nodded in understanding, afraid of using the wrong affirmations.

            A heavy silence fell between you once again. You plucked the soap from its resting place behind you, thoughts tumbling through your mind like the waves crashing at the shore outside. So many words were desperate to leave your mouth, to be birthed and said and made into reality between you, but you dared not.

           If anyone understood the weightiness, the hidden meaning behind silence, it was Ushijima.

          But even he couldn’t bear it much longer. He grunted, running his wet hands over his face as he contemplated his next move.

         “Well, tell me this. What would you be if not a sorceress?”

         “Hm? Oh, I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve just…always accepted my fate.”

          “I’d have been a sportsman,” he declared, a slight uplift in his voice.

          “Oh really?” He watched as a grin pulled at your cheeks, the heaviness of the conversation before dissipating. “And what sports are you good at, Ushiwaka?”

          “Anything with a ball,” he shrugged, “some kids down south play games with poorly strung nets, and they do their best to keep the ball from hitting the ground as they toss it back and forth. I think I’d be quite decent at it; I am agile, after all.”

          “Powerful, too.” You remarked.

          “You think so?” He teased.

           He eyed you carefully as you set the cloth and soap aside.

           You began to move... towards him. His eyes narrowed, his hands mimicking your actions and setting his bathing instruments to the side, freeing his hands.

           You were ethereal in the water, gentle waves lapping at your skin, the ebb and flow of it shimmering around your body.

          “Now that I think about it, I know what I would at least be proficient as if not a sorceress.”

           The smirk that tugged at your lips intrigued him. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for you, taking your arms and pulling you towards his chest.

          “And that is?”

           Time stopped for a moment as you settled yourself into his lap, the sound of your breathing, the feeling of skin upon skin, touch upon touch, the only increments of time needed.

           His body was so hot, so willing to accept yours upon it.

          “I’d be a wonderful whore.”

          Golden eyes flickered up to you, lashes low, his lips parted.

         “Care to show me?”

          Your skin was cold to his warm touch, his hot breath fanning across your cheeks. He was so close, so eager, you could feel hardness begin to form between where your thighs cradled his.

          Your hands slid across his shoulders, feeling the grooves and puckers of scars pass under your touch. You settled your grasp onto his neck, steadying yourself above him. His hands played against your skin under the water, the heavy fingers finding your hips and sinking into the smooth flesh he found. You gasped aloud at the feeling; his grip was strong, iron-clad, daring to leave marks behind. You wanted to break under his touch, collapse against his chest and allow the water to pull you both under into euphoria, but you secured your inner desires. Your back straightened, your fingers clawing into his thick skin.

          “Ushiwaka,” you whispered it like a humble prayer, your lips brushing his, “kiss me.”

         He groaned, pulling you a little closer, spreading your thighs a little wider.

        “Why don’t you kiss me, little temptress? Show me how much you want me.”

         You felt bewitched, wondering for a moment if he had placed you under a mind control spell with his words. Your thoughts were jumbled, but they were still yours: kiss him, touch him, read the hidden words on his inky pages like you had long desired.

         Your lips met his tenderly, hesitantly, tasting the salt of water and sweat against his awaiting mouth. He breathed through his nose like he was exhaling life into you. He moved his mouth against yours, testing you, pushing at you, and effortlessly you gave in. Your eyes were closed, but you felt like you could still see him, felt like you knew every step in the dance he was leading you in. It felt so natural, so smooth, and you found yourself clinging to him with every press of his lips against yours.

          Then his mouth fell open; an invitation. You followed him, sliding your tongue in, finding his own past his teeth. He felt like true sin, his tongue tempting yours to reveal its secrets to him. It was slow, methodical, a mutual exploration of tastes and pleasures you had both long craved to discover.

          Your chest fell to his, your breasts meeting the hard planes of muscle found there. You moaned, the sound of water moving igniting your hunger as one of his hands meandered up your back, fingers lapsing into your soft muscles. He offered you a groan, and you took it desperately, hastening your kiss and plunging you both deeper into one another. One of your hands wandered from his neck, slipping down his chest, pressing him back against the edge of the pool. Your nails pulled at his flesh, wanting, needing, unknowing how to gain purchase against such solid muscle.

          He tasted like tea leaves: earnest, alluring, but also like the earth, like something natural and primal. It was a taste that was familiar, enticing, and every time he took a moment to breathe, you found yourself diving back in for another taste, another glimpse of what lay hidden beyond his lips.

          “Mhm,” he moaned as he finally pulled away, chest rising and falling, “perhaps I’ll mold you into my own personal whore.”

          “I’d like that, Ushiwaka.”

           The blood within his veins rushed to his cock at the sound of his name, of that personal name, falling from your sweet voice. Fuck, he would give anything to have you, but it seemed that he didn’t have to. He could feel by the way you clung to him, by the way you kissed him with such fervor, that you desired him all the same. It was thrilling to know you wanted him, and he wondered how far he could take you.

           His hand glided away from your back, circling around to your chest. He cupped one of your breasts in his hands, holding back a groan as he felt the weight of it within his palm. He watched how the water lapped at your skin, the ripples from his movement brushing against a hardening nipple. The small sound of delight that left your lips had him refocusing his gaze to your face. You wore a sly smile, your own hand upon his neck tightening in anticipation of his next move.

           “I’m a dark man, my love. Hardened.”

           He was toying with you, but his words offered some truth. Ushijima had been envisioning you like this for far too long; there many devious things he wanted to do to your body.

           You leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to his ear, your voice low, “hardened indeed…I can feel you between my thighs.”

           He smirked at your words, taking your nipple between his fingers and listening to you gasp as he gave it a simple tug. Your teeth found his ear in response, nipping tenderly.

          His eyes fluttered at the feeling; a groan caught in his throat. He wondered if you could sense it. You pulled back slightly, angling your head to give him another kiss. He accepted it gladly, tongue ready to find yours again.

         “You can be an obedient little whore, can’t you?” He rumbled against your lips; his words being lost inside your mouth.

          You ate the words like you were starved, a hot moan swallowing them down as you felt a shock of pleasure race down your spine. He grunted at your action, the hand upon your breast squeezing in response.

         “Yes,” you said softly, as he allowed you to escape his kiss, “where did all your chivalry go, Ushiwaka?”

         He smirked as you teased him, his lips dipping to your neck, tongue tracing the lingering water droplets that fell down your skin.

         “It’s waiting between your legs.”

          It was a growl, the sound of a predator marking his prey, the sound of a man holding back his lusts.

��        You sucked in a breath, eyes closing as you dipped your head back and allowed him more access to the length of your throat. The hand at your breast squeezed harder, his thumb and forefinger rolling languidly across your straining nipple. You felt like you were lost at sea, the weight of the water around your bodies feeling heavier as Ushijima pulled you into his tides. He was the moon, pushing you, pulling you; he always has been. For so long he kept you at arm’s length, toying with you, teasing you, bringing you so close to him but never close enough. But tonight, the moon was waning, his control faltering as he finally gave in and allowed himself to fall into the calling sea.

         He held you back on his thighs, but you could feel the heat radiating from his body below the surface. One of your hands trailed down his chest as he sucked dark red marks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, staining your skin with colors from his own making. He bit your skin especially rough when your wandering fingers found the hard lines of his stomach.

        You were tentative, taking a moment to feel if his wound was finally gone from the magic bestowed upon him. You could only feel scars underneath your palm, though one felt particularly puckered and new. But his stomach wasn’t your goal, it was what was straining against it.

        He cursed into your skin when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers pumping against the silken skin within the water. His lips fell lower, his eyes closing as he littered open-mouth kisses against your chest, now using both hands to cup your breasts and bring a nipple within his mouth. You moaned loudly, a rush of ecstasy coursing through your veins. He pulled you forward, forcing your hand away from his cock. Instead, he shifted to where his cock was nestled between your pussy and his stomach, allowing just enough friction to keep you wanting.

        He needed to keep his head clear if he was going to please you in all the ways he had dreamt of. He was going to taste you, tease you, earn the right to claim your body as his own.

        “Ushi—,” you went to whine, but a calloused pinch to your nipple ripped his name away from your mouth.

        “Be quiet.” He demanded against your breast, teeth lightly tugging at your hardened bud.

        You only gasped in response, hands smoothing across his broad shoulders as he worked his way to your other breast, hands needy, mouth exceptionally hot. Your hips pressed down and you felt the length of his thick cock against your aching pussy. You experimentally slid yourself against him, desperate to feel more touch against your most sensitive flesh, against the place that had wanted him for so long.

        His hands moved to your hips to still you, his vice-like grip returning.

        His mouth left your breast, his chin tilting up to look at you. Those glowing eyes were dark, ravenous; perhaps there was something monstrous sleeping inside of him, ready to awaken.

        “Stop tempting me. You’ll regret it.”

         His reflexes snapped as your lips parted to speak. Two thick fingers slid onto your tongue, pressing it down, the taste of water and leather swirling in your mouth. His taste was a mixture of his worn gloves and the floral soap he’d cleansed himself with. You groaned, head tilting back as you let him have his way, your mouth suctioning around his fingers for some kind of relief.

        He eyed you carefully, watching the sinews in your neck come on display for him. Bruising marks of his design were blooming on your skin, little fragments of memories coming to life before his eyes. Your mouth felt like sin and he could already imagine how it would feel to have his cock sliding against the supple lips wrapped around his fingers.

        Ushijima twisted your nipple again, a little harder, a little tighter, feeling pleased with himself as he heard and felt the grumble of a groan against his skin. A small drip of saliva trickled down your chin and he used his thumb to smear it into your cheek.

         He could’ve held you like this for all eternity, had you pressed against his cock, his fingers padded against your tongue, your beautiful breasts on display as he groped one, watching the flesh mold into his hand. He had you subdued, compliant, a wondrous creature caught in a dangerous trap. He could do anything he wanted to you right here and now, and the realization had his cock twitching against your cunt.

         For his own enjoyment, he was going to mark you, leave something behind on the picturesque pallet of your body.

         You would never be allowed to forget him, as he knew this vision of you would forever live inside his mind.

         He took his time, each bite and suck carefully and meticulously placed. Ushiwaka was never one to use his mouth without purpose, whether it be for his words, or his kisses. Your shoulders, your chest, your breasts, nothing was forgotten, and you felt like you had been sitting on his lap for eons. Each time his mouth curled into your flesh, his hair tickling you, you felt hotter, more alive than before. You pressed down harder against him, searching for some kind of release to the pleasure he was building inside of you. But he had you pinned, a strong arm encircled your back and kept you exactly where he wanted you.

         When he sucked your nipple back into his mouth, you cried out against his fingers, your tongue darting between the digits as you sucked a quick breath in through your nose. He paid you no mind, his own tongue licking meticulously at your nipple, up and down, slow and steady. The bliss that erupted from your breast was almost mind-numbing. Your thighs clenched around his, your head lolling back even farther than before. You needed more, you were desperate to feel that talented mouth back on yours, to feel his fat cock slip inside you were you needed it.

         Finally, he released you, his mouth leaving your breast as he slipped his fingers from your mouth. You took a moment to catch your breath. He splashed his drool covered fingers in the water, bringing the wet digits back to your face to wipe you clean, his thumb tracing your lips with care.

        “See what being quiet gets you?”

         You nodded your head in agreement, your nails finally releasing his shoulders where they had been clawing into his skin.

         “I need you,” your arms wrapped around his neck, your mouth finding his in a tender kiss, “please, Ushiwaka.”

         “You beg so prettily, my love. Perhaps I should have you beg a little more.”

         “No! Fuck, please…” you entangled yourself around him, legs curling around his toned waist, your face nestling into his shoulder. You brushed the skin found there with your mouth, hungrily moaning against him. You were frantic; you had already waited for him for so long, thought about him for too many nights, too many years.

         His strong arms enveloped your back and he lifted you easily from the water. You adhered yourself to his body, ready to have your muscles clench around him to assist, but he needed no such help. Your weight was effortless to him.

         Ushijima used the ledge of the pool as a step, faultlessly exiting the pool like a nautical divinity coming to soft shores. He was cautious as he laid your wet body upon the heated stone, careful not to crush you under his weight. He watched your eyes alight as you took in the sight of him out of the water, now hovering above you. Your gentle fingers traced over his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, finding the constellations of scars upon his skin, his own physical galaxy for you to explore.

         He took your face in his hand as one of his muscled thighs spread your legs. You were entranced in his gaze, finding yourself lost in the molten amber of his eyes as his pupils danced across your face. He was taking in every bit of you that he could, burning this vision of you below him into his memory. You were flushed, lips parted, slightly swollen from his ardent kisses. Your delicate hands moved to rest beside your head, palms facing him, submissive.

        “Please,” your voice broke him from his trance, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

         He nodded in response, eyes tracing down across your body. He relished having you before him like this, back arching towards him, breasts falling, your hips shifting against his legs. The hand on your face trailed away, making a path down your torso, fingers swirling against the lost dewy droplets against your skin. And then he finally peered down farther, having to steel himself from groaning as he found your awaiting pussy.

        Your skin was prickling from the cool air meeting it, gooseflesh creeping up your legs, down your arms. Your heart was pounding in your ears as you watched him, waiting for him. You could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, though you wished you could know them. What was he thinking? Was he hesitant?

        Your own contemplations vanished when his warm, wet fingers spread your pussy, two fingers deftly sinking along the sides of your lower lips. You moaned, eyes fluttering closed, heat pooling within your belly. He took his time exploring you; he was a man of patience, after all.

        You could feel his weight shift back as he sat on his knees, spreading your legs across his thighs. He curled one leg back for him, opening you up more for his viewing pleasure. His finger slowly traced up the center of your cunt, finding your sticky wetness coating the digit as it carefully curled against your clit. You let out a quick gasp, hips twitching, and he repeated the motion, watching you slowly come apart from the simplest of touches.

        His other hand found his cock, fisting it as he played with you. You could hear the slick pumping of his hand against himself, and you moved your weight upon your elbows to sit up and watch him. Even on his knees, Ushijima of Velhad was intimidating, all broad shoulders and heavily corded muscle across his body. You admired how his arm flexed as he stroked himself, how his toned stomach was clenching with need. Your mouth fell open as you glimpsed his thick cock within his palm. It fit so perfectly in his big hand, throbbing, thick veins calling out to be inside of you.

         You wanted to beg for him again, but your words were lost when one of his fingers slid inside of you, stretching your walls to fit around him. You dropped back against the warm stone, mouth falling open.

         “So tight,” he said it like a fact, like he expected it, “you’ll feel so good stuffed with my cock.”

          You bit into your lip in a whimper as he curled the digit inside of you, pumping it once, twice, with agonizing slowness. But soon, he added a second finger, the thick digits spreading you, testing you. His pace was calculated, fingers pleasurably systematic. You moaned at every twist and plunge, hips arching off the floor to meet his pace. His thumb began to circle your clit and you swore that stars overtook your vision, bursting in the corners of your eyes as you tried to focus on the ecstasy churning deep within your stomach. His long fingers were stroking your velvety walls just perfectly, each plunge feeling deeper and deeper than before, fanning the flames beneath your skin even hotter.

        “Ushi, please…”

       “Please what, my love? Tell me.”

        He was particularly cruel, electing to rub your clit faster, harder, making your words choke in your throat. You cried out, feeling the orgasmic coil begin to tighten in your belly. You were already so strung out for his love, for his touch, and you knew your little death was just around the corner.

       “Make me cum, p-please!”

        You felt his heavy body come back to yours, the hand on his cock ceasing its movements and instead finding your hand beside your head. His strong fingers wrapped around your flesh, curling into your forearm, thumb tactfully pinning down your wrist to the stones below.

       He repositioned the hand between your thighs, now using the palm of his hand to press against your aching clit. His fingers found the soft patch of flesh inside of you, petting against it skillfully, like he already knew exactly what you needed, knew exactly what made you fall apart to his immoral hands.

       His face dipped to yours, causing your eyes to flicker open to find his adoring gaze above you. He pressed a lazy kiss to your lips, muffling your moans as your legs began to press against his forearm, thighs begging for the release he could bring you. His mouth matched the rhythm of his fingers within you, his body in harmony with your own, pulling you tightly like the strings on a well-played lute. You were so ready to snap, so ready to sing songs of praise up into him, but all too soon his mouth and his hand left your body.

        He could read the bewilderment on your face, feel you try to press back against him, but he held you down easily with the weight he forced onto your wrist.

        “I want to feel you come undone on my cock,” he whispered against your lips, “are you ready?”

        His hand, now slick from your pussy, pushed your thighs apart wider, curled your legs back farther, his own thighs pressing into your soft flesh. You felt his cockhead brush between your dripping folds.

       “Yes! Take me, for the love of all things hol—!”

        His hips slammed into yours, his throbbing cock filling you, stretching, pressing you far beyond what you expected. He hushed your cry with his mouth, his hand cupping your thigh and urging your body to move with him as he began to thrust within you. Your hand that he pinned to the floor fisted in on itself, your nails threatening to break your own skin as your mind struggled to catch up with your pleasure. You were so full, so fucking full, so overwhelmed by him.

        His dewy, tawny skin felt so sinful against yours, the lingering moisture on your bodies bleeding into one another. His hips were strong, fast, each plunge of his cock going deep, deep, deep into your awaiting depths, finally uncovering every hidden place on your body to have as his own. You gasped and moaned into his mouth, and his sighs melded with yours, his kiss desperate, lips crashing into yours with more fervor than the storm that raged outside.

        You felt so utterly lost, yet so wholly encompassed by him, by his earthy scent, by the weight of his body against yours. Your breasts slid against his chest, nipples pebbling as they brushed against his downy hair. Your back was skating against the warm stones below, the pressure against the hard surface enough to make you ache, but it paled in comparison to the jolts of pure pleasure that resounded through your body with every thrust of his massive cock inside of you.

        “More,” you pleaded softly, lips peppering him with ardent kisses, “more, more, more.”

         You felt him place more pressure on your trapped wrist and you gasped, worried for a split moment that your bones would splinter under his power. But he was cautious, moving your arm gently to rest above your head. The hand on your thigh crept up your body, stopping for only an instant to grope at your bouncing breast. But his fingers quickly moved on, skimming up your other arm, palm smoothing against your dampened skin. He soon found your wrist, now using both his mighty arms to pin your own above your head, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

         “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

          His words were a dare, a wicked promise.

          At the nodding of your head, he smirked, lips coming to your ear.

         “Tell me to stop if it becomes too much, you promise?”

          His thrusts had never faltered, the air in your lungs still hot from all your heavy breaths. You closed your eyes again, finding your voice.

          “I promise.”

          The primal sound that left his chest startled you; you could feel the rumbling spread across your body like aftershocks of an earthquake. His hands around your wrists tightened, arms tensing. He shifted forwards, pushing your hips up, legs wider.

         And then he began to pound mercilessly into your body. You screamed, the high-pitched shrill echoing within the room, rebounding off the walls, soaking into his naked skin. Every fantasy he ever had of you suddenly came alive inside his mind, burning like a roaring fire, making his vision go blind as he pounded himself inside of you. You were so warm, so god damn tight, your pussy sucking him in with every unbridled thrust that he felt like he would break open from all the euphoria that was crackling within him.

        He called out your name, over, and over, and over again, reminding himself who he was with, who he finally had coming undone below him. He was still holding back, too afraid of breaking you, but even still his hips moved faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing in his ears like the constant moans and praises that feel from your mouth.

         “Ushi, fuck, fuck, yes!”

         He was being cruel, he knew it, slamming into you like this, making your body bow into the floor, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel that coil that was tightening inside of you earlier come to fruition on his cock, he needed to spill his seed inside of you.

         You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel what was happening to you. All your focus was upon his cock stretching your pussy, filling you so perfectly that you knew you’d never want to feel another again. It was like you were made for him; all your limits were being pushed at once. Your wrists ached within his grip, surely bruising under such an immense hold, but you felt secure, safe underneath his power.

         Your knees were bent to their threshold of flexibility, your ass now well above the floor as he curled you to fit him. His cock was so deep, his thrusts now remaining almost entirely inside of you, pounding away at your insides like a man gone mad. You were at the borders of your composure.

         “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, eyes watering, mouth open, body stinging, longing, begging for him, “g-gonna, gonna, cum!”

         “That’s right,” he murmured, tongue daring to skim the shell of your ear, “cum on my cock, baby, cum for me.”

          Your nails finally pierced the flesh of your palms as you came completely undone around him, orgasm bursting forth and blooming around you in euphoria. All your senses came crashing down, every small detail becoming more alive and ever present than ever before. It was all so much, the pleasure pooling in your belly and spreading across your body faster than lightning that raced across the sky. His hot breath was against your neck, your legs aching, blood dripping down your palms, water still cooling against your skin, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. You could hear every sound: your screams ringing against the stone, his grunts into your hair, the wet suck of your pussy around his cock, even the still water resting in the pool.

          Your body was wrecked with tremors as he continued his ruthless assault, sweat beading at the nape of his neck. Your orgasm drenched his cock with thick, wet slick, encouraging him to drive a little harder, push a little deeper. He heard little pained gasps from your mouth, but he warned you he was corrupt, told you to stop him, yet you were taking him so fucking well, so fucking perfect like he knew you would. He was so close, so painfully close, his cock throbbing, his rigorous pace becoming unsettled as he felt your sweet thighs wrap around him.

          Then there it was, the sound of your voice, the sound of his goddess calling to him.

          “I want your cum, n-need it, please, fill me up, make me yours.”

          He finally crashed, your words like the irresistible call of a siren. Hot cum filled your tight pussy, his cock thumping deep inside your womb. You felt like you could breathe again, his inhuman strength finally laxing upon your ruined body.

          His mouth found yours again, his lips tender and now so familiar and welcoming. The tension in your body washed away, his loving hands tracing over your body as he allowed your legs to finally rest. Your heart was hammering in your chest; you could feel every beat inside your rib cage as you finally calmed down, mind returning, body waking up from its lust.

         Ushijima slid himself from inside of you, leaving your body with a groan of satisfaction. He watched his cum pool between your thighs, pearl white and stark against the stones. He looked up at you, all of you, admiring your spent body below him. He watched how your breasts heaved with breaths, how your eyes were blinking mindlessly up at the ceiling as you came down from your high.

        But then he recognized the bruises on your arms, the bites on your chest, the indentions of the stone upon your sides, the bloody nail prints in your open palms. He cursed himself, cursed his monstrous hands—he knew he was never meant to hold you, that he was unworthy.

        “I hurt you.”

         His simple words brought you back to reality.

         You sat up then, stretching your body as you came face-to-face with him once more.

         “Oh please.” You chided, a smile forming on your face as you cast a simple spell within your torn hands. He eyed you curiously as the blue tinge of magic twisted within your palms, your small wounds closing, even the marks upon your chest healing to a more reasonable color. They were still there, the small reminders he created, but they would fade on their own in a few days.

         You took his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his handsome cheeks.

         “No more grief, Ushiwaka. Please, for me?”

          He only drew you closer in response, cradling you in his arms.

          A few words of thanks came forth from his mouth, but you paid them little mind, too caught up in his embrace. You remained entangled in one another for a moment longer, both at ease in the company of each other’s breaths, your heart beats, the feeling of fingers skimming over skin.

        “Stay with me awhile?” You questioned softly into his chest.

        “Did you think I was going to leave after that?”

        “You always leave, you know, at some point.”

        “Not this time, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”

         You both felt the pull then, the same tug that you had both longed to feel for so long.

         You were at home.

         Ushijima pulled you to your feet, wordlessly leading you to get dressed and follow him back into your great room. You saw the books still open on your desk, forlorn and nearly forgotten.

         He settled back into the chair after stoking the fire in your pit, bringing the flames back to life. He stretched out, yawned, and appeared wholly comfortable there, magnificent arms crossed upon his chest.

         You could get used to seeing him there, and you knew little by little, he’d allow you to read his pages, too.

_______________________________________________________________________

Note: I don’t own anything from Haikyuu or the Witcher Universe. 

Taglist: @badtimechara​ @present-mel​ @sgoldberg1997​ @donica95​ @hi-itsbonny​ @linestrider​ @shoutosplaything​ @kyberhearts​ @dhyaena​ @heyybrittannia​ @thisisthehardestthing​ @presmiic​ @kittifer​ @lemonsqueexx​ @iwaizumi-chan​ @kitten-on-ecstasy​ @dekulover​ @thatpeachybandgirl​ @skincrepe​ @whats-her-quirk​ @littlewhitefairy7777​ @unboundbnha​ @tinitimesims125​ @disasteren​ @misfitgirlwrites​ @tsum-samu​ @pineappleinmyass​

[spasmsofthought]

flashes. (dick grayson x reader)

I’m not really well-versed in DC, at all, but I wanted to give this a shot. let me know what you think! It’s a bit of a mess, so please take this with a grain of salt and some grace. sorry if he feels ooc; I tried my best but I am by no means an expert or even an amateur. please be kind. idk if i’ll write anymore for him, but i wanted to try. it might be trash but it’s out there now xo

-- 

It’s not like Gotham is known for being a walk in the park. The city is all alleys in the middle of the night, dark vapors rising from sewers, and secrets in the shadows. At least, in your experience. 

There were no gated communities or fences to keep the darkness out in the apartment complex you lived in with your family. Only survival and common sense keeps you returning to your bed and food on the table.

So, when your younger (genius) brother is offered a scholarship to Gotham Academy on what feels like a whim, the world shifts. 

When your mother still works, though, it means you are the de-facto adult during the day. Your job keeps your busy in the mornings, hers during the afternoon and night. You’re just getting into learning what it’s like to handle a job and bills of your own, even though you’re still living with your family (part of it is to save money, part of it is because you just don’t want to leave). Your family is the only real home you have ever known. Why leave to only find inadequate housing where you have to worry about your safety and theirs separately?

So, like every month, you swap out of your work clothes, put on your newest (at least 2 years old) pair of jeans on, the only blouse you own that hasn’t faded or stretched or shrunk from countless wash cycles, and grab the bag you’ve stored in its own special place in the cabinet by your family’s loud, old, run-down fridge. 

You chance a ride on the bus, hopeful for no public catastrophes today. You listen to your small, but loved, playlist through the one earbud that works during the ride and you almost want to leap with joy when you step back down on concrete like this is what it is like everyday.

The architecture is a thing to behold. There is no wonder why this is acclaimed as the most prestigious private school in Gotham. Light is everywhere, and it’s like the outside world doesn’t exist. Every month you step on this campus it’s like you’ve never seen it before.

The grounds are meticulously groomed, everything in lines and straight edges. Concrete and nineteenth century buildings both cast heavy, sharp shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are some students lingering about, all grouped up and chattering in their similar uniforms. Compared to public art, haphazard graffiti, and buildings of all shapes and sizes, this place feels foreign. Different. It makes you feel strange and unwelcome; like entering a different world altogether. 

When you enter the pristine, elegant office, the entrance door propped open, there’s two figures you immediately spot: the secretary and the man standing in front of her. Your brother is yet to be found. He’s running late again. 

“Hi, hun, take a seat,” Grace’s sweet voice soothes from her position behind the desk. “He should be here any minute.” The man standing in front and a little to the right of her glances behind for second, casually swiping a look at you, before he turns forward again. 

“Thanks, Grace,” You exhale as you sit down. 

The chairs are nice, soft fabric and cushioned, but small. You so desire to bring up a leg to draw close to you, but it’s impossible without making yourself a human pretzel. And you don’t want to dirty it with your less than perfect shoes so, instead, you chose to bring the bag onto your lap and you pick at your cuticles, resisting to bring your nail to your mouth and chew on it anxiously. 

There’s never been anyone else in here when you’ve come before. Grace can make polite chatter, but then she leaves you in relative silence. It makes you feel anonymous. The man uttering sweet words to the secretary and then glancing at you again before sitting down next to you does not. You stop fidgeting with your hands and intertwine them together instead. 

A flash of the ceiling’s fluorescent lighting on glass against your eyes is what you first get a taste of, then all polish and silver, or something like it, cradling a wrist. The watch looks heavy, expensive. It looks like it could buy your family a newer, safer, apartment in a suburbia far away from here. 

“Hey,” Smooth as honey it drips out, and you are drawn to blue eyes and ebony hair. There’s a softness to his face and his eyes are warm. It would only take an hour, you think before you stop the thought from going any further. An hour to do what? You’re not sure, but the list expands the longer you take him in.

The first thing you ever learned on the streets when you walked by yourself to work was how to be aware, vigilant; on guard. Men were unpredictable creatures who were driven by greed or lust or power, and any of the good ones were swooped up and carried away to better things or dead before any second glances could take place. Or carrying on just fine behind their high fences and impenetrable walls. Just because this one introduces himself first does not mean he has proven otherwise. 

“Hi,” is all you can offer, a quirk of lips to his gesture of kindness.

You glance towards to door before your eyes make their way back to him. The gesture doesn’t offend him. There’s a familiarity to his face, but you decide to not spend time right now trying to figure it out. It already only tells you one thing: this guy is way out of your league. 

Grace gets up from her seat, rounds her desk, and makes her way out of the office, leaving you two alone. You watch her the entire time. 

“You waiting for someone?” 

“Yeah,” You nod even as the word comes out, “My brother.” 

He leans back like he’s got all the time in the world, and there’s a perusal that makes you taste butterflies and gulp down caution at the same time. You wonder if he saw the scuff marks and stains on your worn-out sneakers, or if he notices that you still haven’t had the chance to wash your three-day old hair and that’s why it’s up and back, and that your blouse is definitely from the clearance rack at Goodwill.

“Your favorite one?” 

Out of self-preservation, you try to hide the reaction to the humor you feel, “My only one.”

“I think that’s the same thing.” You almost want to roll your eyes. But there’s a genuineness in his conversation, like he means the words he’s saying to you. Like this isn’t a game. 

“Sure,” You shrug, “You’re allowed to be wrong.” 

“My name’s Richard.” It’s old-fashioned. It’s something you don’t really hear rolled off of tongues in your neck of the woods, that’s for sure. A hand comes out and rests halfway between you and him, and it’s one of the most graceful things you’ve ever witnessed in your entire life. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” You smile. Your hands stay clasped in your lap. 

“You gotta earn a handshake from my sister,” A voice pops up from the open door way. You swing your head around and watch for a moment as your brother makes his way towards you.

“Hi, J,” Your stand, open your arms wide, bag moved from your lap into one of your hands. His solid presence allows a brief hug before he steps back again. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude--” 

The man sitting next to you has chosen to rise as well and you’re closer than you thought you would be when you turn back to him. You notice now that your height means your eyes literally meet his lips straight on. There’s a curve of a smirk there for a flash of a second before it straightens back out into the smile you saw at first. The rest of your sentence is forgotten. He takes one, two, three steps back.

“You got them all?” The question saves you. Your brother pulls you back to him as you hand him the brown plastic bag. In it? His favorite snacks from the liquor store on the corner (the nearly sold-out, hard-to-come-by ones). 

“Every last one,” Your hands come to his cheeks, turning his face to each side.

You have to reach up now and it strikes you just how much he’s grown even in the past month. You both spend much of your time on the phone with one another. These monthly meetings set-up frequently enough for deliveries and some quick face-to-face time and seldom enough to avoid embarrassment (that’s what he says anyway). 

He brings the chip bag out and holds it up, “You even got these.” 

“Geraldo got them special order just for you.” 

“Tell the old man I said thanks,” He smiles like he’s seven again, spoiled and self-indulgent. “Richard” is still standing behind you and to the side, silent. You can feel his eyes flipping back and forth between the two of you. 

“Of course,” Your hands smooth over his shoulders and brush away imaginary dust. “Mom sends her love and says she’ll try and call you on her lunch in a few hours.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’ll make sure I answer.” 

“Thank you.” You exhale an affectionate sigh. 

Avoidant loner that your brother can be, there’s a reason you both want him here. He’ll be able to do the things you only dreamed of when you were his age. And one day, hopefully, you’ll all be out of this hellhole, onto better things. 

“I gotta go, but thanks for these. Even though you should be saving every penny,” He chides, holding up a finger like his words are somehow a threat. 

“Okay,” You chortle like you wouldn’t give everything up for your brother in a heartbeat. There’s another quick hug before he’s looking back at the man behind you, who is still standing there like some sort of stealth ninja. 

“Like I said man,” He nods and there’s something in his face that changes as he looks at “Richard”, “You gotta earn it.” 

It’s with those parting words that he begins to walk out. You stay stock still for a second before you leap after him, “I wanna hear all about what happened last week with Cara tomorrow on the phone!” 

Your brother, a mile away already on longs legs, shouts something indistinguishable back at you from down the hallway, his figure turning a corner.  

“Who’s Cara?” The voice brings your back to reality. 

You sweep your palms against your jeans and turn back to face the man with a three-piece suit and a watch that probably costs more than 20 years of your salary. Oh God. 

“This girl my brother asked out the other week. I bribed him with some of his favorites so he would tell me what went down.” You shrug your shoulders, not worried about spilling the tea about your brother’s romantic life. 

“Does he know that?” His arms seem to relax a little more and you think you could stare at him all day. 

“Eh,” You say, creeping back towards the open door. Your small crossbody bag is already on you and there’s no reason to sit back down. Richard follows you as you, apparently, both start to make your exit from the office. Nothing about it feels unnatural. “Sometimes you got to persuade instead of demand.” 

“Ha,” There seems to be something you are missing based on the way his mouth curves and his eyes spark, “That’s the truest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” 

“You’re welcome. That’s the only one that comes for free!” Your arms swing back and forth. “Anything else is gonna cost you.” 

The hallways usually feel like a labyrinth here, but you don’t feel lost this time. 

“What forms of payment do you accept?” You pretend to be thinking, but really you’re just glancing between the different features of his face. You’re not sure you’ve ever met someone like him. You’re not sure you ever will again.  

“The bank’s closed right now, actually,” The wariness is back. This guy walks like he’s used to treading on perfectly paved gold streets in his shoes. All you’ve ever known is cracked cement and rusted pipes that burst underground. “But I think it’ll be back up and running soon.” 

He doesn’t falter and there’s no anger or hurt in his expression at the metaphorical rejection. Instead, it looks something like silent patience. Maybe even acceptance. This guy could totally not be interested and you could just be being (too) ambitious. The door to the open courtyard, and your way home, is already before you both. 

“It was nice meeting you Richard,” You say as you begin to take steps forward. Your hands nervously hold the strap across your torso. You take a few more steps before his words turn your head back to him. 

“You can call me Dick,” He says with ease. The tone makes you feel like he’s speaking a language you don’t really understand. His blue eyes seem like they’re on fire; a contradiction, you know. There’s something about him that almost makes you catch your breath. You’ve never been been winded by just looking before. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” You offer, hands squeezing your bag strap. 

“I look forward to earning that handshake next time!” He calls out when you’re several feet away. 

I think you’ll earn a lot more than that, you almost say, but refrain. 

Instead, you wave back to him once before making your way out of the courtyard, caught between staring at your shoes and looking ahead to make sure you’re going to right way. You smile and daydream the entire bus ride home. Blue becomes your favorite color. 

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 5 - ao3 -

The Nightless City was like nothing Lan Qiren had ever seen before in his life.

It was grand and glorious, everything writ large on a massive scale – the number of people, the number of buildings, the size of the buildings…it was said that Lanling City was more crowded and full of people, but that was because it had a smaller scope, shoving all those people into a small area, while the Nightless City never ran out of space because any time it did it would just expand its borders further.

For someone like Lan Qiren, who longed to travel to the strange parts of the world and see all sorts of things for the first time, it was a dream come true –

Or rather, it would be, if only he had the ability to give it the attention it deserved. Which he didn’t.

The issue had initially arisen in the week leading up to their departure from the Cloud Recesses. Like all the other disciples, especially those nominated for their musical talents, Lan Qiren had spent a great deal of time in the library pavilion, perusing score after score in search of the one that they would present as their own individual selection.

He’d found one he rather liked: an exceedingly complicated piece, composed for the guqin, meant to signify the orderly chaos of nature and winning mastery over the internal chaos within. It had been a challenge to master the complex finger work, not to mention the necessary qi fluctuations required to properly showcase the song even if he had no plans to wield it as a spell – no one actually needed roots to leap up from the earth to try to trap his enemies in the middle of a musical demonstration – but he’d accomplished it, meeting even his own stringent standards for excellence. He’d been very proud, and eager to display it at the discussion conference.

His brother, in conjunction with the teacher that would be accompanying them, had rejected it.

They hadn’t even let him demonstrate that he’d adequately mastered it – their teacher, the swordfighting master that his brother liked so much, had taken a cursory look at the score and deemed it too eccentric; his brother had judged it too flashy, and thus too risky. They had recommended he perform one of the more traditional Lan sect songs that they knew he had mastered perfectly: Inquiry, perhaps, or Evocation.

Lan Qiren had decided to ignore them.

He hadn’t told them that, of course. He’d kept his decision hugged close to his chest, buried beneath a façade of calm that was easy enough to keep in place since most people couldn’t tell his stressed expression from his regular one, and his tone never really got that far from a monotone anyway.

He’d kept that secret, turning it over and over in his head, unable to think of anything else, unable to enjoy the distant travel (well, unable to enjoy it as much as he should), unable to really appreciate the grandiose opening ceremonies, the sect leaders of the Great Sects seated together on their platform, the smaller sects beneath them…

Luckily, the music competition was scheduled for the very first day of the conference, right after the opening ceremony. First there was the technical challenge, in which they all played together – that made it especially difficult, because a single wrong note by your neighbor could knock off your own playing if you weren’t focused, while the judges were all cultivators powerful enough to sharpen their hearing and pick out any discordant sounds even out of the large crowd of them all going at it together – and then the individual performances.

Lan Qiren had the honor of going fourth.

He went out there, saluted the judges, saluted the audience of sect leaders, sat down on the platform and played the song he wanted to play. If perhaps he had his heart in his throat because of a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, if perhaps his gut churned, feeling unusually full of spite and rebelliousness – he put it all aside in favor of the music.

Nothing mattered when he played but the music. Nothing.

When it was done, he stood and saluted again – the judges, then the audience – and retreated back to the area where the Lan sect was standing. As he’d expected, his teacher was waiting for him, hands behind his back and apparently calm on the surface; a small jerk of his head, and Lan Qiren knew to obediently follow him.

They couldn’t leave, of course, since that would be rude, but they went a little ways off to the side to a more secluded corner of the field where they could be safely ignored - everyone’s attention was on the performances.

“Do not tell lies,” the teacher said, a censure, and Lan Qiren dropped into a deep salute.

“I did not lie, honored teacher,” he said, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “According to the guidelines set out when the event was announced, each disciple has the right to select his own music for the independent portion of the competition, provided that they can perform their selected composition to an adequate degree of mastery. Although you and my brother recommended that I select Inquiry as my performance piece instead, I did not accept your recommendation, and have never said that I would.”

His teacher’s frown deepened. “I would have expected better of you,” he said, and Lan Qiren’s shoulders curled inwards a little, the words cutting as deeply as any knife. “Quibbling over such a technicality with your elders – do not forget, arrogance is forbidden.”

Lan Qiren held the salute in place. “I understand, honored teacher.”

“Have you anything more to say to yourself?”

Lan Qiren thought about simply accepting the punishment that his teacher’s tone warned was inevitable, but – he really, truly did not believe he deserved it. And so, even though it might only make it worse, he opened his mouth and stumbled clumsily through the argument he had written out in advance, citing the rules and prior interpretations of the rules that he believed supported his actions. He was very confident of his grasp on the rules, but less sure of his persuasive powers and altogether despairing of any oratory skill, and yet...he had to try.

His teacher listened in stony silence. When Lan Qiren was done, he said, “I had never supposed you to be born with a lawyer’s tongue,” which was an insult – the Lan sect, like most cultivation sects, were gentry and thus had no need to seek employment in the magistrates’ courts. “Do you intend to continue on this rebellious path?”

“No, honored teacher,” Lan Qiren said emphatically. “In all other respects, I will listen to your orders, and my brother’s, as if they were carved on the Wall of Discipline.”

His teacher huffed disbelievingly, but he flicked his sleeves and went back to the crowd of Lan sect disciples currently spectating the next player in sequence without imposing any immediate punishment. That was an implicit concession to Lan Qiren’s argument: if he had failed to be convincing, a punishment would have been imposed at once.

Lan Qiren straightened himself out of his salute – his teacher had not granted him permission to rise throughout his recitation, and he hadn’t wanted to make his rebelliousness worse by presuming – and allowed himself a brilliant smile.

His teacher’s departure did not mean that he would escape all censure; his brother, sitting up at the sect leader’s pavilion, would undoubtedly have his own views on the subject, and of course simply disrespecting age and authority in public was reason enough for discipline. But Lan Qiren had done it. He had maintained his own position despite adversity and remained true to himself; he had not yielded, even if only in such a small matter, and he had persevered. Truly, it was as the rules said: have a strong will and anything can be achieved.

He looked around to check to make sure that no one had noticed their little interchange, mindful of his promise and his brother’s instruction that he not lose face, but it didn’t seem to be that way. Even on the sect leader’s pavilion, the sect leaders were all watching the performance – Wen Ruohan even had his head tilted to the side as if sharpening his hearing so as to listen more intently, which Lan Qiren supposed was further evidence that he wasn’t as disinterested in musical matters as others had speculated, and also that whoever was playing (he wasn’t paying attention) must be quite good.

It didn’t matter. Lan Qiren hadn’t played his selection because he’d been obsessively determined to win; he had only wanted to display some part of himself sincerely, and he had done so. Whatever else happened, that was sufficient.

He took a moment to find his calm once again, allowing his face to return to an expression of neutrality – gloating was unseemly, and forbidden by the rules, if other lose to you, don’t look down on them, even if the victory here was minor – and then at last returned to his place among the other Lan sect disciples.

He watched the remaining performances calmly, and without incident.

After the competition was done, the judges began to debate their rankings. Musical competitions were generally not favored at discussion conferences because of the need for careful consideration before victory or defeat could be determined – unlike in a contest of martial strength, when the contestants were near to each other in strength there was no immediate understanding of who had won – but Wen Ruohan had apparently planned ahead for that.

He announced that the contestants and audience would be dismissed while the judges’ deliberations were ongoing – in order to allow them to begin enjoying the wonders of the Nightless City, he explained with a supercilious smirk – and that the results of the competition would be announced shortly before the banquet planned for dinner.

Lan Qiren was not surprised when the sect leaders largely stayed behind, at least initially, to continue conversations; he was only relieved that he had a small reprieve before his brother came to scold him. Similarly, he was unsurprised when his fellow disciples immediately split into groups to go out to explore the Nightless City, and when those groups did not include him – even the ones that he would have otherwise expected to invite him, the ones he was more friendly with, cast fearful glances at their stone-faced teacher and apologetic ones at him; no one wanted to be associated with a troublemaker lest they be dragged into the mire alongside them.

It was fine.

Lan Qiren nodded at them, indicating that he understood, to their evident relief, and turned to look at his teacher in silent question. It was not unthinkable that he could go out alone…

“Perhaps you should stay behind,” his teacher said icily. “You can use the time for contemplation.”

Lan Qiren had promised himself: one rebellion, and nothing more. He raised his hands into a salute.

“As you say, honored teacher.”

Instead of following the others out, as he might have otherwise wanted to do, he turned his feet instead to one of the internal gardens in the Nightless City, brightly lit and shining, with a bench for him to sit and observe the designs, seeking calmness and clarity.

Maybe he could meditate a little. At least that would help pass the time -

“Congratulations on your victory.”

Lan Qiren raised his head, surprised out of the trance he’d settled info.

He had not expected anyone to find him in the garden where he was lurking, least of all Lao Nie.

“What victory?” he asked, and the older man grinned at him.

“Your imminent one, of course,” he said, gesturing for Lan Qiren to move over on the bench and settling down next to him once he complied. “That was a fantastic performance you gave earlier, and it wasn’t like we weren’t all expecting the Lan sect to win the music competition anyway.”

“Expecting the Lan sect to win doesn’t mean that I would be the one to win,” Lan Qiren mumbled, feeling his cheeks and ears go hot. “Arrogance –”

“Forbidden? Big surprise,” Lao Nie teased, and Lan Qiren ducked his head.

Technically, as a junior, he shouldn’t be acting overly familiar with sect leaders from other sects, but Lao Nie – no one ever called him Sect Leader Nie, and it wasn’t disrespect but fondness that drove them – was an exception to most rules. His Nie sect was longstanding allies of the Lan sect, and he himself was effortlessly charismatic, charming and gregarious. Even Lan Qiren’s brother admired him.

Lan Qiren also admired him.

It had been Lao Nie’s occasional intervention that had convinced his brother to take Lan Qiren along on some night-hunts when he’d been younger, and while they weren’t especially close by any means – Lan Qiren suspected he was currently simply too young to interest Lao Nie as an equal, as opposed to a junior in need of mentoring, and he longed to get old enough that that to no longer be an issue – Lao Nie was one of the few people Lan Qiren knew that had never minded indulging his eccentricities.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Lao Nie remarked. “With all your talk of travel, I would’ve thought you’d be out exploring the city.”

Lan Qiren’s mood, which had been starting to improve, plummeted.

“Hmm. Sore spot?”

Lan Qiren’s shoulders were up by his shoulders. “I shouldn’t complain.”

“That just means you want to,” Lao Nie said wisely, and nudged him a little with his shoulder. “Did you get ordered to stay behind? You? You never break the rules.”

“I didn’t break the rules! My teacher made a strong recommendation that I reconsider my selection for the independent performance portion of the competition…”

“And you didn’t take the suggestion?” Lao Nie was smiling. “What a show of rebellion.”

Lan Qiren flushed red again. He was being teased, he knew.

“Since you’ve already had one rebellion, why not another?”

Lan Qiren frowned, not understanding.

“Go out,” Lao Nie clarified, still smiling. “There’s still at least half a shichen before dinner; you could see some of the city, apologize later – no? Why not?”

Lan Qiren was shaking his head. “I promised I would listen to my brother,” he said simply. “He instructed me to listen to the teacher, and the teacher said to stay, so I’ll stay. Perhaps tomorrow he will yield and allow me to explore by myself.”

“By yourself?”

“It would trouble the other disciples to be associated with me until there’s been an appropriate opportunity to review my behavior and determine if punishment is required –”

Lao Nie shook his head. Presumably things were different in his Nie sect, as they often were.

“Well, if you really need some company to go out, let me know,” he said.

“I couldn’t presume –”

“I’m offering,” Lao Nie said firmly, and this was why he was Lan Qiren’s favorite sect leader other than his father. Sometimes, secretly, even more than his father. “Really, I don’t understand your sect sometimes. What’s the point of keeping you so restricted? You’re already an adolescent, you’re old enough to join your own night-hunts…you can go night-hunting, right?”

“I can,” Lan Qiren confirmed, because he really was old enough to have gone on his own - old enough to night-hunt and swear oaths, that first formal stage of adulthood - but then conceded, “With company, and permission from the sect. Otherwise, disciples are only permitted to leave the Cloud Recesses to visit family.”

“…your family is the Cloud Recesses, Qiren.”

Lan Qiren shrugged.

“Don’t you feel stifled by it?”

Most of the time, he didn’t. Lan Qiren truly loved his home: he loved the routine of it, the rules; the peacefulness, the predictability, and all the familiar people; he loved the comfort of knowing where everything was and why. There was no place in the world he would rather call home, not even if he had the rest of it placed at his feet.

Still, sometimes…

He shifted a little in his seat, and decided to be a little daring. It was only Lao Nie, after all. “Well, knowing I’ll be able to leave one day helps.”

Lao Nie laughed and reached out to pat Lan Qiren’s head. His hand was large and warm.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t consider a little adventure, earlier on…?” he asked, trailing off.

“No, Sect Leader,” Lan Qiren said, and he wasn’t even that regretful. “I promised my brother. It’s important to him, you know, that I not lose face for him and the sect, and that means it’s important to me. So I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to him.”

Someone cleared their throat.

Lan Qiren looked at the doorway even as Lao Nie pulled back his hand: it was Wen Ruohan, standing there with his hands behind his back, a false smile on his lips and his eyes glittering with some strange and inexplicable emotion. “Several of the other sect leaders are demanding that you come and settle a dispute,” he said to Lao Nie. “Assuming you’re not too busy.”

Lao Nie chuckled. “For my fellow sect leaders? Never. I’ll be along momentarily.”

Wen Ruohan nodded, surveying them both briefly – Lan Qiren felt strangely vulnerable beneath his gaze, and he didn’t know why – before turning away in a swirl of robes.

“He seemed angry,” Lan Qiren observed, wondering why, but Lao Nie was already shaking his head.

“Oh, Hanhan’s more bark than bite,” he said confidently, and Lan Qiren nearly choked. Hanhan? Who would call Wen Ruohan by a diminutive? And anyway, since when did Lao Nie do that – had their relationship changed since the Lan sect conference or something? “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him. Enjoy your upcoming triumph, Qiren!”

Lan Qiren didn’t bother to remind him once again that he was not sure to win, watching him go after Wen Ruohan with long, loping strides that Lan Qiren could only envy, his own frame gawky and still uncoordinated.

He sighed.

“ – such a fuss!” He could still hear Lao Nie in the distance, the older man’s voice carrying a little too far as always. “Really, Hanhan, haven’t you done enough already, with all those rumors that are always going around since last time…?”

A brief pause, murmurs in lower voices.

“ – more honored in the breach. Even in the Lan sect!”

And then there was laughter.

Lan Qiren wondered what Lao Nie meant by that. Was he talking about Lan Qiren? To Wen Ruohan?

Surely not.

[hd-fan-fair]

THE MASTERLIST OF H/D SEX FAIR 2020 FANWORKS

View the full list on [AO3] or under the cut below!

( Fanwork posted in chronological order by type )

ART

1. How hard can it be? (Digital Comic, Mature) Summary: 

Harry and Draco have to stay over at their friends' places for a few weeks, since the renovation of the Grimmauld Place hadn't been completed by the time they were back from their honeymoon. That creates a slight issue with being intimate but the newlyweds are nothing if not creative...

2. Revelio! (Digital, Teen and Up) Summary:

It's that time of year again for Witch Weekly's annual charity event! By popular demand, this year they have prepared a calendar featuring the sexiest studs in the Wizarding World. Gracing the cover in style, the Hogwarts staff is represented by none other than DADA Professor Harry Potter and Potions Professor Draco Malfoy. Grab one before they're gone! Reserve your copy by owl today!

3. Handling Dragons (Digital, Teen and Up) Summary:

Harry brought over dragons to Hogwarts for a new Triwizard Tournament or for a class. Draco is hopelessly turned on by the resident Professor or Hogwarts Medic. Draco wants his dragon tickled by Harry. Unknown to him, Draco is the only dragon Harry wants to manhandle.

4. I plan on getting very wet. (Digital, Mature) Summary:

When they arrived at their private beach holiday, they didn't expect it to rain all the time. Oh well, boys can still find a way to have fun.

5. The Dragon's Boy (Digital Comic, Explicit) Summary:

Harry is chosen to be the next sacrifice to the dragon, but it turns out this dragon is interested in Harry for entirely different reasons.

6. The Art of Trust (Digital, Mature) Summary:

One piece of rope offers what Harry and Draco seek the most from each other.

7. (Intimidating) Brand New World (Digital Comic, Mature) Summary:

Draco's nervously perusing a sex shop for the first time when he sees a flash of dark hair across the store. He'd know it anywhere, but why is Potter here? And what on earth is in that box he's buying? Years of uptight parenting from his parents have left him woefully lacking in knowledge about his newfound interests. Potter's always been rather uncaring of public opinion, perhaps he could be the one to help Draco figure it all out...

ART & FIC

8. as much a light as a flame (6303, Explicit) Summary:

His mother paints a wolf on his chest, its eyes bracketing his heart, and its muzzle pointed towards his groin. His aunt fills in the spaces around his waist and ribs with symbols he's lost the meaning of in the wash of whatever plant had been mixed in with the steam. They move after her brush leaves his skin, turning from incomprehensible marks to his name to wolf to home to hunt and then back to misunderstanding again.

His legs are painted in patterned bands, starting from his ankles and ending at his upper thighs. His groin is left unmarked, the pale and empty skin meant to leave no doubt of the Claim once he makes it.

9. Starkissed (32631, Explicit) Summary:

“Your tattoos!” The intruder says, boldly stepping over Ron’s chaise and crossing in front of Hermione to get to Harry, eyes wide and hungry. Harry immediately sits up, pulling the towel draped across the back of his chair down over his shoulders.   “No! Don’t cover them. They’re beautiful.” Harry hopes an indulgent trip abroad will help shake him out of the doldrums of his life. What he finds once he gets to Venice is more than he ever expected.

  PODFIC

10. Infuse With Affection, Enchant With Love by bafflinghaze (1.5 Hours, Teen and Up) Summary:

It starts with Draco making protective pendants for himself, his parents, and his friends, after the war. Something that would watch their backs—and their fronts—as people spat on them in the streets and hexed them in the alleyways. Draco gets better at it, does a course on it, and takes enough commissions for charmed jewellery that he eventually opens his own shop.

But Harry doesn’t know any of this. So when he sees Malfoy in a shop of charmed necklaces, he immediately tries his best to uncover Malfoy’s machinations.

11. Things Worth Paying For (1.5 Hours, Explicit) Summary:

After leaving post-war Britain for Paris, Draco is finally happy, with friends and a job he loves, But then his newest client turns out to be Harry Potter, and everything changes.

  FIC

12. Three Wishes (10161, Explicit) Summary:

Draco meets his fairy godmother and is granted three wishes. Unfortunately, they all keep coming back to the same thing.

********** Pop! 

"Oh, wow," Vince says, and is that sarcasm Draco hears? "I never saw that coming."

"What?" Draco opens his eyes. He's prepared for the theatrics of the puffs of smoke—Vince, despite the sudden career change, was never blessed with an overactive imagination—but what he was not prepared for was the sight of Harry Potter, bare-chested and dressed in arseless chaps, his hands bound and mouth wrapped around a ball gag while lying face down on Draco's sofa.

13. H.A.G.S. (Hogwarts Alliance for Gender and Sexuality) (9517, Explicit) Summary:

When Hermione decides Hogwarts needs a LGBTQIA+ club, of course Ron and Harry are roped into helping. After a rocky start, Harry begins seeing the club as an opportunity to educate students and celebrate diversity and sexuality at Hogwarts. He also starts seeing it as an opportunity to snog Draco Malfoy.

14. You Don't Know Me (Like You Used To) (33106, Explicit) Summary:

"Buy me a drink as compensation for maiming me?" he asks.

"And why the hell would I do that?" It’s a perfectly valid question. A drink invitation from Harry Potter is about as likely of a scenario as me streaking down Piccadilly in broad daylight. Consider me completely thrown off.

Sometimes it only takes a week to change everything. The story of how twenty-five-year-old Draco Malfoy hit one Harry Potter with a door and knocked both of their lives into somewhere entirely new.

15. the best treasure is up Harry’s arse (2891, Explicit) Summary:

Harry and Draco probably had a tumultuous time getting together, filled with angst and denial and pining and brooding. However, this is not that story. Here, Draco makes Harry come (more than once).

16. Breakin' the Rules (3146, Teen and Up) Summary:

Harry and Draco are Auror partners. They're in a relationship that they've been forced to keep secret due to relationships between Aurors being forbidden. Harry is okay with this, as he hasn't come out to anyone other than Draco, but after a mission goes awry, their relationship is exposed.

17. The HogShagMan (31685, Mature) Summary:

Professor Potter is called upon to teach the first-ever official course on Magical Sexual Relations at Hogwarts and, in the process, must navigate the pitfalls of relationship-building, the nefarious schemings of those entrusted with school funding, and the uneven tempers of his boss and several co-workers. Clearly, only ‘the’ Harry Potter can pull it all off.

18. Let's not wait for France (17714, Teen and Up) Summary:

All Harry had wanted from his Eighth year at Hogwarts was a little peace and a little privacy but, from the moment that he stepped onto Platform 9 3/4, it was obvious that nothing was ever going to be that easy.

An accidental bond with Malfoy that resulted in them having to stay together at all times was the final straw.

Things couldn't be worse. So much to a quiet year in Hogwarts.

19. Take All That You See (19666, Teen and Up) Summary:

Draco Malfoy has only two goals for his eighth year are Hogwarts: 1) stay as invisible as possible, and 2) get enough NEWTs to be accepted at a university abroad and get the hell out of the UK. Everything is going according to plan until he is unceremoniously outed by the Daily Prophet and subsequently disowned.

Finding himself the unexpected focus of unwanted attention and harassment, he is suddenly dependent on the good will and protection of the last people he would have expected — Harry Potter and his gang of do-gooder Gryffindors (plus Luna Lovegood). With his world turned upside down, how will Draco make it through the rest of the year? And worse still, as he grows closer and closer to Harry, how will he get out with his heart intact?

20. True Children Still (34240, Explicit) Summary:

After years of dancing around each other, Draco and Harry have finally begun to date, though they're taking things slow. They've got enough to figure out as it is, and the last thing Harry needs is an unexpected introduction to desires he's not quite ready to face.

21. Asking For A Friend? (13734, Explicit) Summary:

Asking for a friend? Don't be shy! I'm Genna Russ with advice! Draco Malfoy, drag queen and agony aunt for the Daily Prophet, is very happy with his life. He loves his job. He loves his drag queen persona. And he loves the fact that the wider Wizarding world doesn't know who is offering them sassy advice with their morning news.

When he starts receiving letters from one Harry Potter – letters that are too racy to publish – he does the only thing he can do: he replies. His carefully constructed secret life is at risk of being blown wide open, but he just can't help himself. Draco never did have any self-control where the Prat Who Lived was concerned.

22. All I Have to Do (9575, Explicit) Summary:

The Patented Daydream Charm (Adult Edition) allows you to enter a top-quality, highly realistic thirty-minute sexual fantasy. Solitude and privacy spells advised.

Or: Draco finally has some alone time; Harry just needs to nip in for a book.

23. Take My Wonder (3949, Explicit) Summary:

Harry Potter is the author of very well-written children's text books. Joshua Starkweather is the author of not-so-well-written erotic fiction. Only one person knows that they are one and the same.

24. (There Is Nothing) More Than This (5431, Explicit) Summary:

Harry Potter returns home past midnight, distressed and anxious about the multiple murder case that he is leading. His husband Draco looks after him, comforting Harry with his hands, his mouth and his unwavering love.

25. the space between (what you want and what you need) (13601, Mature) Summary:

As a specialist Healer in dark magic, Draco has had his fair share of difficult cases and awkward patients. Still, nothing has prepared him for a curse-paralysed Harry Potter.

26. Walk in the sun (18233, Explicit) Summary:

Harry is perfectly content with the life he built for himself; simple and private, it helps him heal the wounds from the war. He then accepts to go out with one of Neville’s acquaintances, never expecting that decision would bring him back to his obsession for Draco Malfoy.

“That was his cue. Had Harry stopped to think about his situation, he could have left. Malfoy was nibbling at his neck, he had his hand down his pants. All things considered, a disaster incoming. And yet, his feet still refused to move. After all, he was not the stop-to-think-of-consequences kind of guy.”

(Features drunken confessions, bathrooms, a lot of smut, sexy pictures, panties, cats and only one bed)

27. You Need to Just Do Whatever You Want (7998, General) Summary:

Draco's confused when he receives a manual explaining his magical inheritance. Being a veela would be good (at least he would be prettier), and a vampire would have been fine (another excuse to hide himself in the Manor). But a descendant of the God of Love, complete with arrows and a love quota? Now that's just bonkers.

A story in which Draco is Cupid (sort of).

28. Under my Skin (8258, Explicit) Summary:

One year after the war and after Hogwarts restorations, Harry is back at school to finally finish his education. He wasn't expecting McGonagall to assign him to protect Draco Malfoy, in case he was bullied during the classes. Although really just wants to relax on his last year in Hogwarts, he'd seen how Draco had changed at the trials. He knew being around him would be easy enough... Wouldn't it?

29. Glory, glory! (16898, Explicit) Summary:

It's 2005 and Harry has recently purchased a new mobile phone so he can easily keep in touch with his friends. Little did he know that the Muggle technology would lead him down a path of self discovery and safe exploration that would lead him into the soft recesses of the last person he ever expected. As it turns out, very good things can be found in the dark.

30. Husbandly Duties (2108, Explicit) Summary:

Draco and Harry leave their wedding after-party early for some quality one-on-one time.

31. Sex, Relationships & Love (3873, Mature) Summary:

Draco Malfoy runs an anonymous sex advice column in the Witch Weekly magazine and gets hundreds of letters asking him for advice on sex, love and relationships. How was he to know that the advice he had given in response to one of those letters would result in Harry Potter showing up at his flat at 6 in the morning?

32. Disparate (6022, Teen and Up) Summary:

Ever since he went to Hogwarts, Draco realized that he wasn't quite the same as the others.

Or: Draco Malfoy over the years as he tries to understand and accept his sexuality.

33. Silver Scales in Pools of Green (26603, Explicit) Summary:

Draco is one of the last sirens of the seas, who escaped to the human world looking for friendship and food, but captivity found him instead. For seven years, he's gotten used to his life as human entertainment, and prides himself in his ability to make humans fall in step to his song.

That is, until everything falls apart when he has an audience with green eyes...

34. It's So Hard (9170, Explicit) Summary:

Draco has posed for some interesting photos, and it is currently making things very... hard for Harry.

35. On Your Shore (35113, Mature) Summary:

Clearing out a remote house full of cursed collectibles in the Outer Hebrides? Not a problem for an experienced curse breaker like Harry Potter. Spending a week with the straight, happily-married man that he’s starting to have feelings for? And sharing a bed with him at night? Surely Harry can handle that, too. But both the house and Draco Malfoy have secrets to uncover, and Harry might be in deeper water than he thought.

36. A Little Less Broken (6417, Mature) Summary:

After the war Draco thought he would never feel again. But a mix of revenge gone wrong and Harry Potter, might help him to feel just a little less broken.

37. Always (20147, Explicit) Summary:

In which Draco is the (in)famous erotica writer H.J. Belladonna, writing successful scandalous novel after successful scandalous novel and hiding his true identity, and Harry is questioning his sexuality after reading one of Belladonna’s books. Until ten years after the war their paths cross again, and Harry doesn’t only question his sexuality, but also the meaning of his obsession with Draco Malfoy.

“You look like something my cat dragged in,“ Blaise said from the sofa. Draco’s sofa, in Draco’s tiny flat. “You don’t have a cat, because you’re too vain, Blaise. A cat would get hair all over your expensive clothes,“ Draco replied and then ignored Blaise in favor of going into the kitchen to get some hot sweet tea into his system. Maybe that would make his day better, even if it had just started and the potential for disaster was high. Blaise followed him. “I’ll take one too.“ “You can’t use my home as your personal hotel, Blaise,“ Draco said, but he was already grabbing two cups out of the cupboard. He was too tired to use magic, after writing the whole night, he felt like all the magic had been absorbed by his parchment. Some of his sanity maybe too.

38. Absurd. (3773, Explicit) Summary:

When Draco discovers a kink that Harry's been hiding from him, he has no choice but to explore said kink, right? Right.

39. For Want Of Five Minutes (And a Locked Door) (4333, Mature) Summary:

It’s hard enough to get five minutes to yourself in a house of five kids, nevermind getting five minutes with your boyfriend for anything else.

40. Let Out the Beast (9649, Explicit) Summary:

In the wizarding world where alphas are looked down upon for their lack of control and unseemly aggression, it is generally accepted that they are not allowed to work in places like schools and hospitals where their nature could risk the people there. When Draco Malfoy suddenly shows up at Hogwarts smelling strongly like an alpha, Harry is beyond baffled. The fact that no one else seems to catch his scent only adds to his confusion. But, of course, the most puzzling part is how Harry’s body reacts to that scent.

41. Flowers, Dildos and Other Courtship Gifts (15853, Teen and Up) Summary:

Harry Potter is the Ministry's star auror trainee, and Draco Malfoy is the cute florist in Diagon Alley who Harry stares at through the window during lunch breaks and leaves. That's all they are and all they would ever be. (Really.) Until Harry accidentally mails Draco an autumn themed dildo (among others). Cue: bad planning, owl kidnapping, and flangst.

Or two emotional gay disasters fall in love in the middle of autumn.

42. he touched me, so I live to know (4729, Mature) Summary:

Five times Harry Potter is unsure about touching someone and one time he isn��t.

43. cut my name into your lip (6321, Explicit) Summary:

Harry can't take it anymore. Seriously. If Malfoy chews on the end of his quill/licks his spoon/sucks on the papercut on his finger one more time, Harry's going to put an end to it.

44. Realities, Unfurling (45487, Mature) Summary:

Draco Malfoy is released from Azkaban into a changed world.

45. The Delicate Balance of Light and Shade (13288, Explicit) Summary:

With the war finally over, Harry tries to find his own path in a world where he is free to make his own choice. On a holiday in France, he unexpectedly falls in love with art and painting. Returning to Hogwarts to help rebuild it, he is paired up with Draco Malfoy to restore the Room of Requirement - and unexpectedly falls in love with Draco. When the rebuilding efforts are done, Harry disappears.

Years later, Draco goes to Muggle London at Pansy's suggestion to visit an art gallery. The name of the Muggle artist is unknown to Draco, but the subject of the erotic paintings is shockingly familiar: it's Draco himself. It's time to confront the past and make some long-due confessions.

46. Tonight's the Night (Gonna Be Alright) (9181, Explicit) Summary:

Sex is hard to come by when you're 40 and have kids.

Or: Five times Harry and Draco tried and failed to have sex and one time they were successful.

47. The Spoiling of Sex From Enthusiastic Ignorance (6079, Explicit) Summary:

Draco is going to lose his virginity, so help him god, and he's going to lose it to one Harry Potter. Why? Because of his big cock, his status as The Top Five Quidditch Players in England, and Witch Weekly's Most-Eligible Bachelor for eight years straight. At least that's what he tells himself. Too bad first times rarely go as one plans, and now Harry is looking miserable and Draco doesn’t understand why.

48. you killed me on the moon (4906, Explicit) Summary:

'You barely know me. We do not know each other.’

‘Beyond this overwhelming need to submit to you, completely and utterly?’ Potter raises his eyebrows, stretching his scar. ‘Beyond this bone-deep awareness that you are made for me, and I for you? That our destiny was written in the stars, in the very foundation of our known world?’

An A/B/O Royalty!AU wherein a desperate Slytherin prince faces a proposal from the conquering Gryffindor king.

49. i just want your extra time and your... (9058, Explicit) Summary:

Ron should know better than to speak Latin in a magical library. If he’d just left well enough alone, instead of trying to badger Malfoy for the details of his newest novel, Harry wouldn’t have to listen to all of this chatter about how bloody decent Malfoy is, and he wouldn’t be dealing with all of these...feelings. Really, it’s all Ron’s fault that Harry’s mind is stuck on Malfoy like this again.

50. The Kisses Don’t Count, If No One Else Knows (41492, Explicit) Summary:

Minister for Magic Harry Potter does not love his job. The one bright point in his life is his secret relationship with Quidditch Super Star Draco Malfoy. When they're 'outed' by a peeping tom with a camera, Harry has to decide what's really important.

51. You Do Your Body Work, I Feel My Pulse Working Overtime (1627, Explicit) Summary:

Harry did not have an addiction to watching Draco masturbate on camera. He could stop any time he wanted to. Really.

52. Right Romantic Setting (6266, Explicit) Summary:

On the twelfth day of their romantic relationship, Draco and Harry take Albus, Scorpius and Rose on a weekend trip to Muggle London that Ron and Hermione were supposed to lead. At the fully-booked hotel where they'll be staying for the night, they're surprised to discover that their rather plain room has only one bed. It's definitely not the right romantic setting for their first night together but, as Draco comes to realise, there's good in taking things slow.

53. Portrait of a Marriage (130627, Mature) Summary:

Harry didn't want to marry Malfoy, he really didn't, but he also does want this house and Malfoy looked so smug and well - now they are married, and the house still doesn't like him, and Malfoy only looks more smug.

Draco didn't want to marry Potter, he really didn't, but he also does want this house and he never seems to be capable of escaping Potter anyway, so if he is already doomed to being married off he might as well decide for himself what he is worth, sign the papers and ignore everything wrong with that plan until physically no longer possible.

54. Regardless of desire, life hands you who you are (29803, Explicit) Summary:

When Draco finds himself wrongly accused – of course it's Potter who swoops in to save the day. Isn't it always Potter?

[yoonia]

[Teaser] Blurred Lines

➬ Title | Blurred Lines

➬ Pairings | Kim Seokjin x reader

➬ Genre | Smut, Sexual Tension!au, Teacher!Jin, Teacher!reader, Tattooed Biker!Jin

➬ Summary | A new place to live, a new job, a new beginning. Six months have passed and everything has been going well for you in starting over. The warm welcome from your students and peers have quickly made you feel at home, yet you still long to have one calm day where you wouldn’t have to walk into the school with a heavy weight on your shoulders and the air thick with tension. Blame it on him—the strict English teacher who keeps giving you cold shoulders no matter how many times you try to play nice. One night out with your girls and a drunken dare ultimately lead you to uncover what he’s been trying to hide. People do say that the quiet ones always keep the biggest secret.

↳ Ratings | +18 / M for Mature

↳ Warning | Slow burn, mutual pinning, mention of alcohol consumption, hard dom!Jin, bondage, big cock!seokjin, dirty talk, mild degradation, cum play, creampie, tattoos and dick piercing, idk I might add more as I write this

↳ Estimated word count | 10k-15k words

↳ Estimated posting date | Dec 2nd, 2020 Dec 4th/5th, 2020

↳ Excerpt

“I’m not so sure about this,” you complain as your two friends barge in through the front entrance of the bar. Though you know that you are losing the fight when they keep pulling you along with them and you have no other choice but to give in when the drinks you had taken so far slowly begin to sink in their claws in you.

Holli wraps her arm around yours so she can drag you with her. “Oh, come on. Our goal tonight is to try on as many bars as we could get and none that we’ve been into looks like this one.”  

Of course, they haven’t, since none of the bars you went to had looked anything like a bikers’s bar. And even under the state of tipsiness, you can still recognise this place as the one that you would usually avoid whenever you walk past down this road.

Both of your girls seem like an expert as they wave through the crowd, heading straight to the seating area to find yourselves an available booth.

The bar is nearly packed wherever you look. Only a few empty seats seem to be available, even with many of the patrons standing up, either crowding the pool table, lining up at the bar counter, or gathering in groups on the dance floor. Except that nobody appears to be dancing.

God knows how Holli can manage to snatch a seat at all through all of this, but she does it with ease. Taking one last look around as you take your seat, you are glad to have gotten a few drinks in from the previous bars. You would have never been brave enough to step foot into this place if you had been sober when you came in. Wherever you look, you see big, burly men drinking beer and laughing. Their muscles stretching out from beneath their tops—some wearing tight black T-shirts, some wearing white sleeveless muscle tops, either one had made their bulging muscles look like they are about to burst out of them—their ink work peeking out from either their sleeves or their necklines, and they are all wearing matching leather vests with silver studs on the shoulders, with a logo resembling a girl sitting spread-legged on top of a motorcycle and the name “Howlers” embedded at the back of said vests. You can even see that some of the men are sporting matching tattoos on their skin, though not all of them have them on the same spots—some on their necks, their upper arms, or at the back of their hand that is holding a glass of beer.

There are a few girls hanging out with them, some are simply sitting or standing close, while others are practically clinging on their men’s muscled arm. They are all wearing matching leather vests as well, suggesting that they are either members of their motorcycle club or they are here as their lovers, though the vests look much smaller in size and are a bit tight around the chest.

Waitresses with crop tops and tight plaid miniskirts walk around the room with trays that are never empty. They are always filled with glasses of beer that are filled to the brim, almost spilling as they weave their way through the crowd. The girls would occasionally stop on the tables they are tending to in between trips, chatting along with the patrons as if they are all old friends. And even through your drunken haze, you are pleased to find that none of the men are acting like sleazy bastards that might be disrespectful around these working ladies.

Damn, even those strong drinks Holli gave you still couldn’t get you out of your proverbial teachers’ shoes, it seems?

You look up just as one of the waitresses comes to your table, all warm smile and polite greetings. The lack of judgement in her eyes as she looks between the three of you sort of eases you down a little, and the apprehension you have been feeling upon entering the foreign place slowly fades away.

“Welcome to Anchor Roadhouse, what can I get for you ladies?”

Jennie leans forward over the table to make the order. “Cold beer for three, please. Oh, and with double shots of tequila on the side for each?”

The waitress nods. “You got it. Be right back.”

“We’re going a bit over the top, aren’t we?” you ask the girls as the waitress turns to make her way towards the bar to retrieve your orders, and Jennie only shrugs.

“This place looks like way more fun than the ones we’ve been before,” she says, looking around as she admires the sight she is seeing at all corners. You would have never thought that your best friend would have a liking to tattooed, burly men, but you are finding out all the new things about your friends tonight.

“It sure is. So might as well have fun,” Holli agrees with her, before turning to glance at your way. “But most importantly, we still have someone between us who has yet to do the dare.”

Ah, yes. The dare. You refrain from rolling your eyes as you are reminded of it. You have hoped that choosing to be the last one to do it would be able to safe your ass from actually doing it, thinking that your girls would have been too drunk to notice that you are skipping it by then.

You look around again, perusing the field and making plans, when you suddenly feel the heat of someone’s piercing gaze burning on your back, only to see that nobody is actually paying attention to any of you. But the quick scan around the room has you feeling quite intimidated all the same. Just how on earth are you supposed to get one of these burly bikers to buy you a drink?

You look at all the girls around you and consciously begin to compare yourself to them. Unlike these girls who are confident enough to flaunt their skin while wearing leathers and tight tops, you feel like everyone could look your way and figure out instantly that you are no more than a mousy high school teacher. Not even the mini black dress that you are wearing—no matter how tight and revealing it is—and the killer heels could hide it from the world.

The waitress returns just as you are about to give a closer look at the bar, to find your way in on finding a lone biker to talk to, and you are surprised to see her carrying not just three glasses of beer as requested, but a whole pitcher of it.

Everyone at the table looks at one another in confusion, yet the waitress simply sets down the pitcher and the clean glasses around the table, along with the tequila shots, and sets them all up as if there is nothing wrong with the order.

“Um—I’m sorry—” you try to cut in, “We didn’t order the whole pitcher.”

The waitress keeps her smile on her face when she raises her eyebrows. “Oh, don’t worry, Doll. It’s in the house. The owner wants to welcome you girls properly.”

You look at your friends again before asking, “The owner?”

The waitress cocks her hips once she is done setting up the drinks and tilts her head towards the bar. “Yeah, see the sweetheart standing right behind the counter over there? He’s watching over you girls to make sure you’re having a good time.”

You turn back to look at the bar as the waitress walks over to the next table right after Holli thanks her almost too excitedly. As if the night hasn’t gone any weirder yet, the crowd slowly parts way to give you the full good look at the bar counter.

And that is when you see him.

Standing behind the counter the way the waitress had described him is a familiar face. The same face that has your spine rigid and your muscles growing tense whenever you step foot into the school in the morning, knowing that your schedules will allow you to cross path with each other. He is now looking at you almost the same way he does it at school, the same way his gaze is locked on every move you make to have you feeling terribly self-conscious in everything you do when you are around him. Like every single move may end up as a mistake.

And now he is there, looking at you closely, though you are surprised to find him doing so without any judgemental look in his eyes when he finds you. He had discarded the ivory-rimmed glasses he normally wears, and instead of wearing his usual long sleeves dress shirt, he is wearing a black tight sleeveless top that puts his perfectly toned arms and shoulders on display, showing off the ink work that marks the length of his arms and all the way up to his neck, presenting you all the drawings and scribbles of words that you have never seen on him before. His fancy velvet coat has been replaced with a leather biker vest which looks exactly the same as to what everyone here is wearing.

You can barely get over the shock of not seeing the usual scowl that he normally wears at school, when his smile slowly grows upon noticing that you are looking straight at him, making your jaw drops even further.

This must be a dream, you wonder to yourself.

Because there is no way you are seeing Kim Seokjin—the strict English teacher that everyone is afraid of—standing behind that bar as if this is his own home.

But there is no mistaking the smouldering gaze he is giving you now, the same one that has been quite intimidating that you always avoid seeing him in the break room at school. Except that his gaze no longer causes fear inside you when you return the look in his eyes.

And he just bought you a whole pitcher of cold beer.

— © 2020 Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. translations are not allowed.

[possiblyimbiassed]

Ships and Cars - The Sign of Code

There have been lots of discussions about code in BBC Sherlock, and the possible metaphorical meaning of different things that appear frequently in the show, such as coffee/tea, water/fire, dogs/cats and many more. This show indeed seems filled with ciphers, code and secret messages. In this meta (X) I tried to decipher the encrypted name of the fishing boat that Sherlock and John hijacked in TFP, when it was called upon from Sherrinford: “Golf-Whisky-X-ray”. 

The Ship coding

At first I thought this was referring to the international spelling alphabet for wireless communication (X, X) where there’s a word for each letter. “GWX” didn’t make much sense to me, though, until I stumbled upon something deeper: ‘Golf’, ‘Whisky’ and ‘X-ray’ are also part of the marine Code of Signals (X) that was established in Britain around 1850. It’s still used by water vessels to communicate important messages regarding safety of navigation and such, and the signals can be sent by, for example, flaghoist, signal lamp or flag semaphore. Conan Doyle worked on a ship at least in 1880 and 1881, so the signals could totally have been known to him already in Victorian times. And since Sherlock and John are on board a boat in TFP, 

I think it’s reasonable to assume that the marine code is the relevant one here. In this signal code, the flags for “Golf”, Whisky” and “Xray” mean the following:

Golf = “I require a pilot.” 

Whiskey = “I require medical assistance.”

”Xray = “Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals.”

Which in other words could be read as:

I need a pilot (a maritime pilot to help me navigate)

I need a doctor

Pay attention to code

But is this use of marine signals something that only appears in BBC Sherlock? Is it Mofftiss’ own idea to use them, or could there possibly be any canon references to them? In the discussion that followed my meta (X)  @frailtyofgenius​ pointed out to me that ACD’s canon actually does mention “Naval signals” in His Last Bow (LAST), which I think might be very significant. And the one who uses the naval signals is Holmes himself.

Continued under the cut, because this is reeeally a long ‘transport’... ;)

So I took to read LAST and realized that there are several ’naval’ references (my bolding) in this story by Conan Doyle. In the beginning, as a romantic landscape framework, we’re told about the surroundings of the German spy Von Bork’s house:

Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.

LAST takes place on the English east cost, near the port of Harwich. The spy Von Bork is chatting with Baron Von Herling, a German diplomat, bragging about the intelligence he’s gathered for his country, and then he shows the Baron the contents of his safe:

And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

But apparently the naval authorities have changed the code: 

“But you have a good dossier there already.” “Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed.”

So Holmes, posing as the Irish-American spy Altamont, is supposed to bring new ones. I think the real ‘feature of interest’ in this story, however, is the coding that Holmes/Altamont uses in his telegram to the German spy:

“Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs. ALTAMONT.”

And the conversation between Van Bork and the Baron continues:

“Sparking plugs, eh?” “You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

So here in ACD canon we’re explicitly told that the spark plugs, the ignition of the car’s engine (which generates an explosion in the engine’s combustion chamber) actually represents code - marine code. And other car references, according to Van Bork, are also marine code. I can’t help wondering if water was actually meant to represent emotions already in canon? ACD canon is packed with references to water: sea, coast, lakes, ponds, rivers and waterfalls but also ships, steamers, boats, submarines and such. Some of the criminals in canon are seamen and the navy is mentioned in some cases. And in two stories (NAVA and BRUC) the ‘naval’ issues contain secrets of national importance. 

I’d love to try to analyse all the water and boat references in ACD canon and see if/how they tie into emotions, but that’s for another meta. :) But what if something similar is done in BBC Sherlock; what if Mofftiss have used not only canon’s water metaphors for emotions but also the same general secret cipher as Holmes used in LAST? But maybe Mofftiss also took the cipher one step further, interpreting anything car-related not as general metaphors for emotions, but specifically as code for sexuality.

In TFP there’s a great explosion at 221B, and next thing we know, Sherlock and John are aboard a fishing boat, which is called upon with naval signals. But there’s actually very few ships in BBC Sherlock (while canon, as mentioned, is full of them); the fishing boat in TFP is one of very few boats in the show. As for seamen, there’s also very few in the show. Except for the fishing father and son in TFP, there’a also Sherlock’s deductions about the unemployed fisherman and his mother in THoB. @sagestreet​ has written an excellent meta suggesting a significant symbolic meaning of ‘fishing’ in this case (X).

In this self-censored post on John’s blog, however, there’s a cruiser mentioned in the title: Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror. But we never get to know anything about this case; the post is taken down entirely since, according to John, “the ship’s owners are launching an appeal”. 

Why is this post even there, if no one is allowed to read it? Every other blog post from John has some kind of content in it - at least since he met Sherlock. But this one only has a title (and a teaser in the post before: “I'm going to tell you about a couple of the smaller cases we've been involved in. What really happened on the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise.” (X))  

So the supposed ‘pleasure cruise’ was turned into a ‘cruise of terror’ and then deleted. Maybe it’s just me, but I strongly suspect this is a clue from the show makers telling us that a certain ‘ship’ is not allowed in BBC Sherlock, for ‘legal’ reasons having to do with the ‘owners of the ship’ (ACD Estate). 

Actually, there’s more info than this about the ship even in ACD canon, although it’s scarce. In The Sussex Vampire (SUSS) “Matilda Briggs” is mentioned in a letter to Holmes from the company Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd: 

“As our firm specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.” 

After Watson has read it, Holmes explains to him (my bolding): 

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.” 

If this is an allusion to a possible relationship between Holmes and Watson, indeed the world would not have been ‘prepared’ in Victorian times, since homophobia was prevalent and same-sex couples illegal. 

Source: (X)

Directly after this, while perusing his lexicon for ‘Vampires’ (the actual topic of the letter), Holmes also mentions another ship that was associated with Victor Trevor’s father’s secret past as a mutinous convict:

“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business. I have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I was unable to congratulate you upon the result.”

Indeed this voyage in GLOR was a ‘bad business’; it ended in mutiny and disaster. The ship Gloria Scott exploded and sunk in the Atlantic, and most of the crew and passengers died.

So, not many ships appear in BBC Sherlock. But instead, there’s plenty of cars in the show. What if all these car references actually somehow actually refer to a ship - a very particular ‘shipping’? ;)

The Cars

So, might these cars code for some hidden secrets? And/or is it possible to tie the car references to ’naval code’, as Holmes claims to do in LAST, assuming that naval = water = emotions but also sexuality? 

Returning to canon, please note that Holmes and Watson (both in disguise) arrive in a car to the scene of this story in LAST. This is one of the very few cars that appear in canon, since they weren’t yet very commonly in use by those times. Holmes’ and Watson’s car is modestly described as “a small car” and “a little Ford” (as opposed to Baron Von Herling’s car, which is a huge limo). But at the end of the story, Holmes says about the little Ford: “Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on our way.” And there they go, happily together, with the criminal tied up in the back seat, heading for Scotland Yard. Sweet, isn’t it? :) This is the very last we see of Holmes and Watson in canon. (Unfortunately, I can’t find any illustration of it).

BBC Sherlock, however, is full of cars. So, if we apply this analogy to BBC Sherlock, what car references can we find that could be translated into marine (= emotional) terms? Well, the first thing that comes to mind is the cab, the taxi, which is Sherlock’s preferred means of transport. 

A taxi has a driver, which is the word that the little girl on the plane in TFP uses instead of ‘pilot’. But we don’t see any taxi boats in the show, do we? In the Unaired Pilot, however, the cabbie drives Sherlock home to Baker Street (not to Roland Kerr’s), and there he tries to ‘kill’ him. One could even assume he makes a kind of sexual innuendo when Sherlock is sprawled face-down on the floor and the cabbie says “I could do anything I wanted to you right now, Mr ’olmes.” 

As I explained in my other meta about marine code (X), a marine pilot is someone who leads a ship through dangerous waters. Mofftiss haven’t included any marine pilots in their show, but they do use aircraft pilots, even if they’re not labelled as such: 

But if ‘driver’ should be read as ‘pilot’, then Jeff Hope - a John mirror - in the Unaired Pilot, the ‘driver’ of the show, guides Sherlock home emotionally and sexually, doesn’t he? ;) 

But there’s more about the signals in LAST. This is what the counter-agent Sherlock ‘Altamont’ Holmes says when he arrives at Von Bork’s place:

“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m bringing home the bacon at last.” “The signals?” “Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi – a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too dangerous.”

This seems very similar to Wikipedia’s explanation of the Marine Code of Signals, as I quoted above: apart from flag hoist, the signals can also be transmitted by, for example, flag semaphores, radio communication or signal lamps. We do have radio communication in TFP, when Sherrinford receives the message from the boat ‘golf-whisky-x-ray’. But are there any signal lamps in BBC Sherlock? Yes, in fact there are - and they’re tied to a car! 

A blinking, grinning Peugeot, no less, in THoB. And it’s definitely connected to sex, because that’s what’s happening inside. ;) Even if we’re lead to believe that this isn’t actually code, John does try (unsuccessfully) to decipher the blinking lights from this car as Morse signals and gets “U M Q R A”.

Apparently this code is not referring to the Marine Code of Signals. But @bug-catcher-in-viridian-forest​ has written an excellent meta (X) deciphering the possible code “UMQRA” as meaning “TORCH”, using the Ceasar cipher, which Sherlock refers to on his website (X) in combination with another cipher. In my opinion this does make a lot of sense. John does indeed use a torch to try to decipher this message, and there are also lots of other possible metaphorical meanings of ‘torch’ in the show. 

So I think it would still be wise to pay attention to code, wouldn’t it?

As for Holmes’ quote from LAST above, “a copy, mind you, not the original”, I’d interpret this at Holmes pointing out that these signals can be copied (’mirrored’?) and also that they can vary in type (I imagine that ‘Marconi’ stands for radio transmission (X)). All in all, these naval signals are of national importance in canon, just like the Bruce Partington Plans and the Naval Treaty. And these are all military top-secrets clearly connected to the British navy. At some point in LAST, believing he has won the spy game, the Baron says:“There may be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place!” Seems like the East Wind is coming. ;)

But back to the marine codes and cars: in canon (LAST) the car references hide secrets of national importance, connected to Britain’s naval defense, and some of those secrets, in turn, are encrypted with naval signals. That’s double coding, right? Also: the navy defend British waters and water = emotions.

As for cars, there’s a lot more of them in the show, while canon has very few; cars weren’t in use during most of Holmes’ career. I think LAST is the first time that cars appear in ACD canon? And the spare parts that Holmes/Altamont talks about as code in LAST never actually appear in the story, only the Baron’s limo and Holmes’ little Ford, where Watson is the driver.

But in the modern show there’s plenty of cars, of course; they’re literally everywhere. Many people have long ago pointed out that cars represent transport metaphorically, which is how Sherlock views his bodily needs in the unaired Pilot. Which ties in well with the assumption above that cars also represents sexuality, which is related to emotions even if it’s not the same thing.

But let’s also try to decipher the car references with Holmes’s code in LAST in mind, shall we? Where can we find water and/or possible hints about emotions and/or sexuality?

Apart from the taxis, which run like a red thread through the episodes (ASiP, TBB, TGG, ASiB, TRF, HLV, TST), and the abundance of police cars and ambulances, I can think of the following:

Mycroft’s black governmental car which is used to kidnap John in ASiP (and other episodes).

If Mycroft represents Sherlock’s brain, this might be about Sherlock trying to examine and test John with his intellect, to get an idea of who John is and what to expect from him. But this task is driven by his car - bodily needs - and behind them there’s still emotions, if we apply Sherlock’s code in LAST.

The first hostage’s car in TGG, where she is wrapped up in semtex.

This woman is literally trapped inside her car and metaphorically trapped inside her bodily needs, which are threatening to explode (remember Holmes’ ’sparking plugs’ in LAST?) if Sherlock doesn’t solve the puzzle about Carl Powers. And in this screen cap she is literally juxtaposed to Sherlock:

So it seems like Sherlock is now trapped inside his ‘transport’, yes? Still driven by emotions rather than intellect. And he probably sees this as very dangerous.

The finding of The ’dead’ man’s car with (fake) blood in TGG.

This ill-treated transport device (John calls it ”an abandoned sports car” on his blog X) leeds to more cars - Janus cars - and it turns out that the driver - Ian Monkford - isn’t dead; he’s just on ’vacation’ in Colombia (with the real purpose of cashing in his life insurance money). Sherlock figures this puzzle out and the poor fellow wrapped in semtex can breathe out; he’s not going to explode, either physically or emotionally. And no-one is dead in this case, but the driver faked his own death to avoid exposure and get his ‘security’.

The car with a dead body in the boot in ASiB

Licence plate: PYO3 HYN. The dead man in this car was destined for Germany according to his tickets - another ‘vacation’? But he never reached there; his plane crashed but he wasn’t in it, because he was already dead - trapped in his transport a car. Now, this case seems intimately connected with Sherlock in the boot of Mrs Hudson’s Aston Martin in TLD (see below). Except that Sherlock was being transported alive in that boot, but this guy is dead.

The client’s back-firing old SAAB in ASiB

The client stops near a wetland area and a stream because of problems with his engine. The driver - a John mirror? - tries to fix his ‘engine’, but the old car just won’t start. Sherlock analyses this case in his (drugged) Mind Palace together with his libido Irene Adler.

People have pointed out long ago (sorry for not remembering who - was it LSiT?) that the back-firing SAAB engine in the hiker case in ASiB might represent John’s dysfunctional sexlife with women; Sarah in specific and probably their trip to New Zeeland after TGG. (Maybe this is also why Sherlock in TSoT, when John has just been married to Mary, deduces that one of the wedding guests - a doctor - has ‘erectile dysfunction’?)

Irene’s black car in ASiB

Licence plate: SKO8 ZYL. This black car, which has a private driver, is used to transport John to the Battersea station on New Year’s Eve in ASiB. In spite of being in midwinter, Battersea seems to be flooded with water. And this is the place where Irene exposes John’s sexual relationship with (or at least interest in) Sherlock while Sherlock is listening to the conversation from another room, but John declares that “I’m not actually gay”. This car is so similar to Mycroft’s black car (see above) that John thinks this is Mycroft who kidnaps him again. If Irene represents Sherlock’s libido, what does her black car stand for?

Sherlock’s and John’s hired Land Rover in THoB

Licence plate: OEI0 HFK. The Land Rover is a British car, known for its four-wheel drive and vast off-road capacity. Sherlock drives this car to “deepest, darkest Devon” with John in the passenger seat, so it seems like they were prepared for a ‘bumpy ride’. And this car actually has a visible spare part; an extra wheel in case of emergency:

And their journey really became ‘bumpy’ - at least on an emotional level, since they were both dosed with a fear-inducing gas, had a quarrel, and the gay couple who were running the Inn where they were staying took for granted that they were indeed a couple too.

John’s and Mary’s car in HLV and in TST

Licence plate: SP56 LJY, black Audi. Mary is the driver in HLV. (By the way, why has this car the steering wheel to the left, in a country with left-hand traffic?). Here we’re presented with the interesting idea from the billboard that “Information is the power to change 1895″. In HLV we actually do see something like a spare part for this car; John’s tyre lever. ;) (which looks more like some sort of pipe key, if you ask me, but whatever; it’s still a spare part - or at least a ‘tool’ - associated with John’s transport car):

So this would be consistent with Holmes’ cipher in LAST. And this spare part is treated with very sexual overtones in HLV, so I think the influence of Sentiment and Sex is pretty clear here.

Mrs Hudson’s red Aston Martin in TLD

License plate: APIS CXJ. Now, this is a really interesting and beautiful car I think, and it shows its capacity when it goes speeding in TLD. Mrs Hudson has more resources than some people might believe. But John is only allowed to use her sports car - the ultimate symbol of male virility - when he’s off to rescue Sherlock. ;) 

The license plate reads APIS, which I’m sure is a reference to bees and bee keeping, because Apis mellifera is the scientific name of the honey bee. Holmes’ main occupation as retired in ACD canon is bee keeping, which is shown in LAST, where his secret ‘sparking plugs’ turn out to be the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. ;)) So Holmes stood by his words in his telegram to Van Bork; he did “come without fail to-night” (he came together with Watson) and he did “bring new sparking plugs”. It’s just that the ‘spark’ wasn’t maybe of the sort that Van Bork had expected... 

Anyway, in this scene in TLD, Sherlock is being kidnapped and handcuffed by Mrs Hudson and transported in the boot of that sports car; he’s literally trapped inside the rear end of his transport, which has John as its direct destination. 

Sadly for all of us, however, John refuses to ‘examine this body’, and this is instead done by the John mirror Molly (inside an ambulance), who tells Sherlock that he’s dying and that “it’s not a game”. 

The next time we see this red sports car, however, John is the driver, and he’s using its great capacity as it should be used: to come to Sherlock’s rescue. ;)

Come to think of it, there’s actually at least one more car spare part mentioned in the show, even if it might not be meant as this specific part:

This car has a steering wheel nevertheless, and Sherlock is sitting in the car while saying this. And yes; this show is indeed repetitive when it comes to certain topics. Like ‘transport’, emotions and bodily needs. But I do hope we’ll finally see some new turns on this topic in the next series. ;)

Thanks for your patience in following this marathon meta to its end! Tagging some people who might be interested (please alert me if you don’t want to be tagged):

@raggedyblue​ @ebaeschnbliah​ @gosherlocked​ @sarahthecoat​ @lukessense​ @therealsaintscully​ @thewatsonbeekeepers​ @sagestreet​ @tjlcisthenewsexy​ @thepersianslipper​ @loveismyrevolution​ @shylockgnomes​ @frailtyofgenius​

Screencaps in this meta are in some cases borrowed from this site (X). 

[joyfulhopelox]

"Right now i don’t know if i want to kiss you or shove you off this building" End

A/N: welp i delayed it as much as possible because life happened and i had no time to do this, but i have managed to finish it whilst procrastinating at work (i advise against that to be honest), part 2 (or the end of this library saga) was meant to be out earlier :( i am pretty sure i wrote most of this high on sleep deprivation but i still hope it is enjoyable to read <3

Picture not mine but i cannot find the owner to credit ><

Part 1 | Part 2(end)

genre: fluff (x100) a tiny bit of angst if you use a binocular, University! au/ College!au

Copyrights @joyfulhopelox do NOT repost

Pairing: J-Hope x reader (College!AU/ University!AU can also call it idiots2lovers au?)

Word count: 4.3k words

Warnings: there one bad word towards the end, if you find libraries to give you a panic attack (i know i did when i was in the midst of exams) be warned and i’m still bad at writing fluff but here we go

-

“I’m Y/N by the way” you looked up in time to see him smile.

“I know”

Ever since that night, you and Hoseok have developed a pattern, you would meet in that spot at odd times in the night and work quietly.

That pattern went on for the last few weeks of your exam period, day after day, or should you say night after night you would rush to the library, albeit telling yourself it was not for the sake of the handsome man with sunshine in his smile and stars in his eyes.

You had to study, and the space that he had revealed to you was convenient and quiet, tucked away from the rest of the prying eyes. Just you and him on that windowsill under the night time sky. As much as you wanted to berate yourself for becoming so mushy, you knew that from the moment he grabbed your hand and took you to that spot trying to carry a conversation with you but immediately going quiet under your glare that your heart had given in. Bit by bit, even if sitting in silence quietly doing your own work your heart had warmed up under his blinding smile. The warmth of his eyes as they would catch your wandering ones did nothing but make your breath catch in your throat and your heart beat at a thousand miles per hour.

You knew you had it bad.

How could you not? After the first few minutes of him having taken you to that spot your annoyance had disappeared into the night below you, leaving room for the feelings of companionship and comfort that Hoseok’s presence brought with him. A week later, as you had started sharing information between the two of you, hushed and secretive as if anyone would be able to hear it, those feelings were replaced by something warmer and softer than companionship and comfort, something akin to safety and friendship. Now as the calendar marks the monthly mark of having met him you realise as you stare at the empty space near the window that it has bloomed into a full fledged....crush.

With feelings of panic raging inside of you, unsure whether they sparked because of your discovery or because the man in question was missing from his usual spot again. The first time even though you had felt the small stab of disappointment you did not think much of it. After all he was not tied to being there every night, maybe he had places to be, other people to spend time with. For a second you allowed a slither of jealousy to pass through your heart thinking that someone else was getting that warm smile for the night, and in the next second you told yourself you are stupid and shrugged it off. That feeling of jealousy never returned, instead it was morphing more and more into worry. The second night he did not appear you wracked your brain for any information that he may have given you that you may have missed about him not being able to come anymore but you could not find anything. In fact, you could not even recall if he has told you what he does outside of your impromptu study sessions. Worry starts gnawing at your stomach after the third and fourth day that he doesn’t come. Even worse is the desperation that takes over when you not only realise you knew very little about Hoseok, but you did not even have a way of contacting him. Briefly chatting about likes, dislikes, dreams and wishes is nothing tangible, nothing that could give you any information on how you could reach out to him and check he is alright.

The fifth and sixth night you start giving up and assume that he has finished his exams and he does not need to study anymore. With a heavy heart you tell yourself he did not owe you anything, he more than made up for stealing your seat that one time. The time you two spent together in silence studying or the times you would secretly bring your heads closer together so that you could whisper random things and share jokes with one another in the silence of the night.

This created an intimacy which you couldn’t lie to yourself, it made you feel fuzzy inside. That elatedness of being so close to this person however, once they had removed themselves from you switched to an empty feeling as if you’ve lost something that you held dear. And maybe you did hold him dear. No, you definitely did.

But he did not arrive, by day seven you had steeled yourself against the tumultuous feelings inside your chest. He was not coming and your exams were not going to pass themselves. The seat by the window did not seem as magical or appealing anymore and thus you also removed yourself from it. Being the end of exam period, multiple departments had already finished theirs and so you found copious amounts of spaces that you did not hesitate to occupy. Trying to get your mind off of the now lonely seat by the window upstairs you threw yourself into your work but once in a while you could not stop yourself from wondering if he ever came back to check whether you were still there or not.

And so, another week has passed and with that it added to another two weeks you had not seen Jung Hoseok. But that was ok.

Until that one fateful day where you had finished your exams and were preparing to finish writing your last assignment which was due in the late afternoon. It was not a night time study session but instead a daytime one. Today would also be the last day you set foot inside the library for the foreseeable future. After today you would have another few days until your break and you had been planning to head home to visit friends and family. Next term you would switch accommodation as well on a different campus which housed its own library. So all in all, today marked the last day of you being in this library for the next year. It also marked the last day you may possibly ever have the chance to see Hoseok again. That thought made you pause in your step and your heart clench for a second. That just did not seem right. It doesn’t matter, you told yourself and kept walking towards the back of the second floor.

Just as you’d finished that thought, as if life had been trying to prove to you that it did matter, or maybe it had been your heart that had conjured him in front of you, there stood Hoseok. Talking with another guy with similar striking features, and yet the total opposite. Whereas Hoseok had dark hair and sharp features this guy had ash blonde hair, was a bit shorter and had a soft look about him. And yet he seemed broodier than Hoseok who seemed to be smiling and laughing at something. You wanted to be angry, and you were, but seeing him smiling so freely released the fist that seemed to have been holding your lungs and it felt like you could breathe easier. He was fine at least, nothing’s happened to him. That did not mean that you would acknowledge his presence. After all, he’s decided that your friendship and companionship was not something he was interested in anymore so you would not force it on him. Steeling your nerves for when you would pass by him, you tried to keep your gaze ahead of you as much as you could, but luck would not have it and his friend’s chuckle made you pause in your step and your brain to react. And so your eyes turned involuntarily towards the two.

You knew that when you had asked him to sit with you on the first day that you had met, you would either make the best decision of your life or the worst. As soon as your eyes locked onto his widened ones, you had decided- it had been the worst mistake of your life.

The clench in your chest is a reminder of the feelings you developed for this person. With his cheerful personality a great contrast of the seriousness with which he treated heavy issues and listened to your problems, it did not take long for your heart to warm up to him.

Eyes locked onto each other it felt like an eternity when in reality it had just been a couple of seconds, before you got pulled out of your thoughts by Hoseok’s friend calling for his attention. Quickly looking away from him as to not rouse suspicion in your own group of friends you missed the furrowed brows and pained look he gave you before his smile took over as he turned towards his companion.

“Is everything ok?” you heard his friend ask. You wish you had not been as close to them as you had been, you had no intention of hearing Hoseok’s reply, but it rang loud and clear in your head.

“Yeah, i just remembered something important.”

That had been a couple of hours ago, and yet his words still rang in your head. You could not understand what he had meant by that. Did he mean you? Did he suddenly remember something else and he did not recognise you? As impossible as you knew that to be, your confused heart kept yelling that the latter was the case. Sighing for the hundredth time you tried to pull your attention back to the last piece of work that kept you away from freedom but it proved to be impossible.

‘I am going to look for a book’ you told your friend who shooed you away, if only for her own piece of mind and quietness. You had been sighing so loudly that you had annoyed everyone around you.

Walking through the shelves perusing for a book- any book, reminded you of that night from weeks ago. Right now that night seemed quite distant and the elated feeling you used to get whilst browsing the shelves was no longer there anymore. Now you were lost in thought, your eyes not focusing on anything really. Randomly grabbing a book without even glancing at the title you prepared to move along and return back to your friends.

You were so lost in thought you almost missed the low whisper of someone calling your name. Your daze now broken and assuming it was one of your friends who’d decided you had been missing for too long, you turned around. Only to discover that it had not been one of your friends- well he was, but you did not know if you had the right to call him that anymore. Most importantly you did not know whether or not your heart had the courage to call him that anymore. Wishing you’d ignored him but now being too late you hummed in acknowledgement praying that you sounded disinterested instead of hurt.

“Hey” he whispered.

“Hello”

After the awkward greeting he did not carry on talking to you and you made no move to carry on with pleasantries. Instead he stood on the spot, his ebony eyes scanning your defensive form. You tried to reciprocate his stare if only to make up for the fact that your shoulders involuntarily hunched and your chin started to slightly quiver. You thought you could act in a civil manner and yet, your body language was saying something completely different. Unable to hold his inquisitive gaze any longer you lower your head and sigh. You were not in the mood to try to chat to someone who clearly has no interest in your person, and pretending would only cause more harm. And yet, when a low indiscernible sound made its way out of his mouth, your eyes snapped back onto him as quickly as they could, hoping and praying that this was it. He would finally say something to you.

He smiled at you uncertainly. ‘Here we are again’ he cleared his throat. You did not know if it was the tone of his voice which read nothing or if it was the way he kept gazing at you. Gentle and sympathetic, as if you would break if anything short of a breeze would touch you. Maybe you would break, if the anger that took over your system was any indication of your haphazard feelings. Looking at Hoseok incredulously you tried to reign your anger in.

“What?”

“You- uhm you stole my book” he motioned to the book you had been carelessly swinging around in an attempt to protect yourself from any attempt of his approaching you. His change in attitude and uncertain tone almost made you miss the reference he was trying to make.

Instead of coming back with a witty reply, as he’d been expecting, your brain frazzled. You did the only thing you could do in this situation. You sputtered an i’m sorry and immediately handed the book to him preparing to leave his immediate vicinity.

Sensing your hesitancy and seeing your distraught face made his heart drop. Had he done something wrong? As hurt as he was for you ignoring him, he cared so he worried about you more than he did about his feelings.

“Hey, you ok?” he inquired and your body froze on the spot. You could have very easily chosen to ignore him and his question, keep walking, out of the library, out of his life. And yet, something stopped you. You needed an explanation, it was killing you on the inside. You would have tried to carry on without thinking about him for months before you’d manage to go back to some semblance of normalcy. But why waste those months wallowing in what ifs. Why not hear it straight from him.

“Where were you?” not one for pleasantries still you turned around and grimaced at his confused expression.

“What do you mean where was i? I told you where i would be” he responded, his brows furrowing. “No you didn’t” you insisted crossing your arms in front of you as if in an attempt to cover your weakness. “I haven’t got a clue what you are talking about, i haven’t seen you here in weeks” trying to tone down the desperation in your voice you blurted out the first words that came to mind, only to regret that decision a moment later.

“That is because i have not been in here in weeks” he had the nerve to look sheepish.

“And you have the nerve to tell me i would know where you were?” he opened his mouth to reply but you carried on, not trusting yourself to be able to get your thoughts and feelings out in the open at a later date. “ I waited to talk to you, i wanted to talk to you….no, i needed to talk to you. And because of that my past few weeks of exams have been spent thinking about whether or not i should go look for you or if i should just give up and leave a….”

Note!

Realisation dawned on you, he had tried to reach out to you. In the only way he could, considering that you had not shared any personal contacts with each other. He had left a note, just as you have done. And just as before, the note had probably fallen down in a place where you had completely missed it. Not responding to him, you grabbed his hand trying to ignore the feeling of coming home that it gave you and headed for the lifts. Pushing the button towards your tower you shushed him as soon as he tried to say your name.

“Where exactly are we going?” you would have laughed at the repetitiveness of the situation if not for the slight anger at your own stupidity and embarrassment at the fact that you had not let go of his hand and you did not intend to. It seemed like neither was he.

Reaching the tower, you headed straight for the window you had called yours and Hoseok’s up until a few months ago. Coming to an abrupt stop, causing Hoseok to bump into your back you turned around and finally addressed him. “We’re both idiots” you chuckled to yourself.

He observed you for a few seconds, his dark eyes taking in every little detail of your features as if committing them to memory before finally coming to settle onto your own eyes. Staring at each other you couldn’t take his gaze anymore so you turned around, figuring that you may just as well look for the note that had been left for you to miss apparently.

Scouring the area and only turning around once you found the crumpled piece of paper in between the foot of the desk you had been using and the wall. “What are you doing?” he tried again taking steps closer to you until he was a step away from bumping into your form. Looking around he motioned behind him, “I thought you said you’d never come back here” then he looked back at you pleadingly, “or talk to me again” he whispered the last part as if it was the biggest of his fears. And maybe it was, for you it definitely was. You did not need to tell him you’d made a huge mistake in anger when you’d said that.

Waving the note around you smiled at him. “We’re idiots” you motioned to the note and finally opened it. As your eyes skimmed through you could feel the smile slipping off your face and the sting of the gathering tears. “Idiot” you whispered to yourself.

“Ah” he was so close to you now, if you tried hard enough you could feel the heat emanating from him. As he talked, his breath fanned the hair that had fallen onto your face. He was close enough that you were sure he could hear the pumping of your heart, your breath hitched. Not daring to look at him, you stared at the note, your hands starting to tremble.

‘Dear Y/N,

I have tried my best to write the best confession I could, but i am afraid i am not able to express myself in the ways i wish i could. These past few weeks have been a struggle for me to not blurt out something that could have prematurely ended what friendship we have formed over a stolen study space. I do not have the courage to say this to your face so i will write it down here in hopes that by the time i meet you again the embarrassment would have passed.

I told you i cannot express myself properly, as i am writing this my hands are sweating and my mind is in chaos. I find it very difficult to not act like an idiot when i think about you, let alone when i see you or speak to you. To be able to convey my feelings in person seems impossible so here i go….

I like you. I like you a lot.

There it is, but please give it a few days. I will stop coming here for now so that i can gather myself for your response and lets meet again in the cafe next to the library in 3 days.

Yours,

Jung Hoseok’

“So you did not find it in the end” he mused not moving away from you. “ That is understandable considering that we seem to have been in this situation before” he softly chuckled. You would have stopped to consider how lovely that sound was if not for the fact that you were still frozen on the spot, your brain calculating how long it’s been since that note had been left there. A sense of excitement then washed over you. He liked you! He shared your feelings. But that was to be washed soon by the sense of dread, it’s been weeks. And you had not fulfilled his request of meeting him, has everything changed now? Would things be different? Would he resent you for not meeting him there in the first place?

“Hey- look at me” he softly tried to coax you, noticing the slow trickle of tears running down your face. Refusing to do so, you shook your head trying to get yourself together. You would face this with your head up, not crying and taking responsibility for missing his note.

“Look at me, please” a gentle finger lifted your head up by the chin. Your stubbornness prevailed, your refusal to look at him still strong. You closed your eyes tightly, willing your tears to subside. A soft touch underneath your eyelids made you gasp softly, the warmth of his fingertips trailing over the tracks your tears have made. The fleeting touch coaxed your eyes to finally open, your blurry vision taking in the affectionate look on his face.

“There you go” he smiled fondly, never in a million years had he thought he’d get the chance to be so close to you in such an intimate manner. The late nights you had shared together, whereas you were sitting closely together you were always divided by a desk. He tried his hardest throughout that period of time to not blurt out his feelings for you, if only to not make it awkward. Unfortunately, as nights went by and you two got closer and closer together, it became too much for him. He knew he had to say something before he imploded and blurted out how cute you looked when you were struggling to not bite the end of your pen in concentration. He tried to be brave and do it in person for a couple of nights in a row, only to chicken out every time you would share a smile with him or laugh at one of his jokes. So he decided he’s not going to tell you in person, he is going to write you a letter and leave it on the desk, in the memory of the first time you’d met.

He should have known though, the first time you’d met was because of a note disappearance disaster. And whereas that had worked in his favour, this time it had not. He’d written- if you could call that blurb writing, the note and waited for a couple of days to prepare himself for your response. He knew it would not be a positive one. And when he ended up waiting in the cafe the whole day with no word from you, he became even more uncertain. Sadness came first, then panic. Not once had he considered that maybe, maybe you haven't seen the note. Really stupid of him.

He could not go back to the library after your refusal to meet him in the cafe, or what he thought was your refusal. That decision seemed to further the misunderstandings between the two of you. You thought he was avoiding you and he thought you did not want to see him at all after finding out about his feelings. Right now though, staring at your tear ridden face he knew your answer, there was no doubt about it.

Laughing in relief he cupped your face. “We have indeed both been idiots, should have known history would repeat itself”

You knew it was now or never. “Is it too late?” Your meek voice reached his ears and he tried his best not to laugh and present you with the most serious face he could muster. Whilst still cupping your face he rubbed the remnant tears that were threatening to leave salt marks on your cheek. Your focus now solely on him and on his expression, you gulped. He was going to say…

“Yes” you closed your eyes again, suddenly feeling a cold shiver gripping your whole body. You had feared that would be the answer, but hearing it from his mouth whilst his eyes were giving nothing away but a mirror of your own pained eyes. You told yourself you would be brave and take the responsibility. But being faced with the decision of having to let him go for good you could not stand it. “I’m sorry” you whispered, lowering your head in shame. “Is there nothing I can do?”

A last desperate attempt but you had to try.

Feeling him move a step away from you, your heart clenched in panic.

“Yes, we lost too much time. You could give me an answer now?” He tried, this time confident in your response.

A myriad of feelings cursing through you at the same time. Shock, relief, happiness; and all from his words. “Idiot, right now I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you of this building” you gave out a short laugh.

Hoseok was slowly closing the distance between the two of you once again. A shit eating grin plastered all over his face he cupped your face once again and lowered his head to yours until all you could see were his soft lips and all you could feel was his warm breath on your face. Slowly descending onto yours, lips finally meeting in a brief kiss only making you crave more. But as you went to respond he pulled away, the grin still present.

“How about I make that decision for you?”

You laughed and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket pulling him to you once again this time in a longer kiss.

A/N: I am not going to lie i think i struggled at the end but thank you for reading this if you have reached this point :) when work stops killing me i will try to post the moodboard i created for this and for future fics that i will be writing, i'm treating my journal as my moodboard for writing inspo instead of actual journalling and i find it more fun and enjoyable that way

Main Masterlist

[seasidewriter1-writes]

I would love to see pre-confession Regnecy!Obi-Lara with something like this: “Flirting is a woman’s trade, one must keep in practice.” How though they are very close and friendly, there is still teasing behind the scenes (since it is ever so inappropriate to do so in public), And Elara is flirting more so than usual, if she hadn't really done so much before.

I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get Regency!Obi-Lara into this situation, and this gave me the prefect chance to do so. The Regency period really gets me writing long-windedly, so I hope you’re ready for a read; hope you enjoy it, and the borderline cheap romance novel level innuendos! :)

The estate that Mr. Kenobi looked after was admittedly remarkable. The house was grand, the grounds lush and respectably large. It would be the perfect place to host a ball, but, unfortunately, he had never offered. The home was not open to the public for gawping; and it was rare anyone outside of Mr. Kenobi’s small social circle ever received an invitation to visit. No one got to see his vast collection of artwork. No one was allowed to peruse the titles in his impressive library. He enjoyed his privacy, that was no secret. And though the rooms were large and well furnished, they felt markedly empty. The halls were too quiet. For the only inhabitants of the home were Obi-Wan himself, and the small staff that saw to the upkeep of the estate, who were quiet as field mice as they went about their work. For a place of momentous beauty, there was a remarkable air of sadness about it.

Elara Skywalker was one of those lucky few that had been invited to the estate. She and her brother Anakain––Obi-Wan’s protégé––were often invited over for tea, or to take the air in a turn about the gardens. Those occasions had allowed Elara to admire the lavish paintings and life-like statues, and upon learning her of her love of reading, she’d been invited to peruse the extensive titles housed in the library. And on those rare nights Obi-Wan had decided to host small, private parties, her name always proceeded her brothers on the list of invitations. This, of course, became source of gossip around town. Though, Elara had learned it was the innocent sort––whisperings of courtship and marriage, which were rampant at this time of year, anyways. They did not bother her; and they did not appear to bother Obi-Wan either. If anything, they were a perfect source of amusement.

On this particular occasion, however, Elara was not at Mr. Kenobi’s estate to admire the swaths of paint brushed over canvas. She wasn’t even there to return the last book he’d allowed her to take from his shelves. Instead, she was there to meet her brother, who’d been engaged in fencing practice with Obi-Wan all morning. She was led by a kindly butler to a room at the back of the lavish house, which faced the sprawling green lawn and flowering garden at the estate’s rear. Its large windows allowed for natural light to spill across a warm hardwood floor, and caused the white walls and gold moulding to glow. It was the sort of room perfect for a ball; but it had been reserved, almost exclusively, for the practice of fencing.

This fact was made perfectly evident by the sound of boots harshly trodding on wood, and the tinny sound of blades meeting. This noise only grew louder when the door was opened, and Elara was allowed a glimpse of the activities inside. As the butler slipped through the door, she spotted Anakin making a tactical retreat as Obi-Wan advanced with a swift sort of grace. The rapid racket of blade meeting blade snapped through the air, and only stopped when the blunted tip of Obi-Wan’s sabre pressed into Anakin’s chest. The blade bowed in a gentle arc at the impact. There was a sigh from Anakin, who lowered his own blade in conceded defeat.

“Sir,” interrupted the butler. Both men snapped their attention towards him, breathing hard in the conclusion of their exercise. “A Miss Skywalker has arrived, sir.” Obi-Wan righted himself at the mention of her name, and she couldn’t help but smile softly down at her feet, still mostly obscured by half-open door. “Shall I have her wait in the parlor?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you, she may enter.”

“Of course, sir.”

The butler stepped aside, pulled the door open fully, and gestured for her to enter. Elara offered her thanks as she stepped past him, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Ah, sister!” Anakin brightly greeted from the opposite side the room. “Just in time as always.”

A gentle, though slightly crooked, smile pulled across her face. “Yes, just in time to see you get absolutely thrashed by your teacher.”

The grin that had sat on Anakin’s face dissolved just as one on Obi-Wan’s grew. The older man slapped his protégé on the shoulder with a fond chuckle.

“I wouldn’t call it a thrashing. Not this time, at least,” he assured.

Anakin snorted. “How grateful of you to say so.” He moved to the rack at the side of the room, which supported an array of fencing swords. He replaced the one he’d been using and made his way towards his sister. “Allow me but a moment to refresh and redress,” he said.

As he passed Elara on the way out of the room, he placed a hand on one of her cheeks and bent his head to kiss the top of hers fondly. A half-laughed, half-displeased sound hummed at her lips––his hand was sweaty and he didn’t smell particularly rosy. Before Anakin left the room he darted his eyes between his sister and mentor with a silent teasing: I shall trust you alone together just this once.

It was with that that Elara and Obi-Wan were left alone. There was a brazenness in both of their silences. They were both unmarried, which meant that one or both of them should have insisted she be escorted to the parlour to wait for her brother. But neither of them did. This, of course, would have been cause for salacious gossip, especially given Obi-Wan’s state of dress. He was in a state of undress, sans his stock and his jacket, which left him in just his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. This was a state she’d seen her brother in many times; it was, of course, a quite relaxed style gentleman wore at home. But Obi-Wan Kenobi was not her brother. And he looked disarmingly handsome in such a state of undress. His face was pleasingly flushed, his hair a becoming disarray. The collar of his shirt had slouched open to reveal the naked column of his throat and a blush-inducing sliver of his chest. Not to be one caught staring, Elara proceeded to direct her attention to the tall windows, which she then strolled towards.

“I’m afraid your brother must have wished to catch me off guard. He did not mention you would be coming by today,” Obi-Wan admitted. With sword still in hand, he moved to the sideboard where a pitcher of water and a set of glasses waited for him. “If I had known, I would have dressed more appropriately.”

“We shall blame my brother for your impropriety then, Mr. Kenobi. We wouldn’t wish to besmirch your flawless reputation,” Elara replied. She stopped at one of the windows, dutifully observing the garden beyond it. “I shall forgive you, in this instance. I cannot be insulted by your state of dress, for one does not expect a gentleman to fence in the restriction of his jacket.”

“I thank you for your kindness, then, Miss Skywalker. It is most becoming of you.”

With the starts of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Elara proceeded to meander towards the sword rack. Once there, she delicately reached out to gently brush gloved fingers over the pommel of one particular foil. It was elegantly crafted, a subtle sign of the wealth that Obi-Wan did not care to flaunt. Perhaps, she realized, that was why the estate was never open to the public. He was a humble man; he did not wish to flash his good circumstance in the faces of those who were left wanting.

“Are you... familiar with the blade, Miss Skywalker?” asked Obi-Wan from across the room. There was a lilt of something in his voice, which had her turning her attention on him. There was a sly gleam in his eye, a slight up-tick to the corner of his mouth. The aspect that had entered his voice was teasing, almost, bordering on a kind of boldness that would have made others quietly tut.

The smile on Elara’s face grew widely, but she then forced it back into something coy and small. With a demure little shrug, she turned her attention back to the sword rack. “Not as intimately as others may be, but I have been made aware of the many uses and techniques of the sabre. I have always found myself rather intrigued by them.”

There was a slow plodding of boots against flooring as Obi-Wan crossed the room. It was only when they came to a stop beside her that Elara looked up. A light, roguish smirk played at the corner of his mouth. He pointed to the sword that she’d been admiring.

“That, my dear Miss Skywalker, is a foil. This,” he lifted fencing implement in his hand pointedly, “is a sabre.”

Its hand-guard had been elaborately engraved and burnished, and there were a number of scratches and scuffs marring its once pristine metal. It was clearly well looked after and well loved, but it had seen many practices, and likely many showcases. Elara smiled, a demure little look, and tipped her chin in a means to incline her head.

“Thank you for the correction, Mr. Kenobi. It’s a lovely sabre, the detail work is impeccable.” She turned her attention out the window again, a coyness entering her expression. “Perhaps one day you might allow me to handle it.”

There was a shock of silence between them, interrupted only by a quiet, amused chuckle from Obi-Wan.

“If I didn’t know any better, I might say you were daring to attempt a flirtation,” he drawled.

Elara turned a coy smile on him, which glowed in the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sun. “Flirting is a woman’s trade, one must keep in practice.”

[teamhook]

Chaste Love :|: CSMM

This is my first submission for the @captainswanmoviemarathon

Thanks to everyone in the Discord for letting me bounce ideas and for all the help.

Thanks to @xhookswenchx for Beta services :)

The story is loosely inspired by The 40 Year Old Virgin it will not be a retell of the movie. I hope you guys enjoy reading it.

~~

Summary: True love is hard to find. Especially when you're a socially awkward virgin who's thirty-five and has an action-figure collection.

When Killian's friends discover his secret, they try to get him laid. But while all their efforts fail, Killian is already smitten by a blonde single mother who shows up at his doorstep one day.

After he finally musters the courage to take her on a date, Emma is quick to get her "happy ending," but Killian is too much of a gentleman to take things too fast. Especially since he's reluctant to tell her he's a virgin.

AO3 or FFN

Chaste Love

The Italian restaurant was quaint with amazing pasta to wood-fired pizza that his brother found online and  recommended. The eatery's kind owner, Marco Geppetto. greeted his patrons at the door.

Killian sat nervously as he waited for his date to return from the loo.

His brother Liam had begged him to try to meet someone, a nice young lass. 'Killian just try a dating app. Isn't that what all the young kids are doing?' His brother had joked on their weekly call.

He promised his brother for peace of mind he would, and here he was. He was a man of honor after all. The girl's profile seemed nice enough on the website but sitting in front of him was the complete opposite.

What was her name? Bloody hell, he couldn't remember. It was something like Laney.

He only smiled as he heard her talking about work and her coworkers.

The date soon came to an end. “So, can we go back to your place?” She asked as she bit her bottom lip. “Since I saw your profile I've been wanting to go home with you.” she purred as she rubbed his foot underneath the table.

Killian paled as he stammered. “Isn't it too soon? It’s only our first date after all.”

"Come on, let's go to your place and we can work out the food we just ate." She smiled.

“I think we should get to know each other first. You are a lovely lass and I’m not saying I’m not interested” he blushed “I’d be a fool not to be but-” he was interrupted.

“Look I don’t need you to be all gentleman-y. I’m a big girl and I know what I want. So take me home with you.”

She was persistent. “I live nearby, I walked here.”   

He had insisted that they should meet at the restaurant. He had walked from his place since it was a block away.  

“My car is outside but walking would be nice.” She didn’t want to mention the little fact that it had an ignition interlock device. 

He paid for their dinner and soon they were out the door. She grabbed his hand “lead the way.”

The walk had been nice. There was small talk but the closer they got to his place the more his nerves rose.

They arrived at his apartment and he quickly unlocked the door. She entered the clean space. She looked around the living room. 

“Please make yourself comfortable.” Killian indicated.

He rushed towards the bedroom to ensure it was clean. Killian slowed his breathing and went back to the living room. 

“Lass, would you like a beverage?” He still couldn’t be sure of her name.

She turned to look at him and smiled. “I didn’t know you had kids, your profile didn’t say so.” 

“I don’t have kids, why would you think so?”

“Oh, I just assumed since there are so many dolls.”

Killian blushed with embarrassment. “They are not dolls lass, they are action figures, collectibles.”

“Why do you keep calling me lass? My name is Lacey. I mean we were about to have sex for crying out loud.”

“We were?”

She laughed. “You are not seriously thinking we still are? What kind of man your age still plays with dolls?”

“I do not play with them. They’re collectibles. You are not exactly who you claimed to be in your profile, lass.” 

Lacey scoffed at him and eagerly left him home alone.

The day after his disastrous date he woke up with a common affliction most men do. The morning wood. He sighed and debated if perhaps a strenuous workout would free him from the need and make it go away. It didn't. A cold bracing shower finally did the trick, he was able to enjoy a healthy breakfast then finish getting himself ready for work. 

There was a sudden knock on his door and was surprised since he was not expecting anyone. He opened the door to be greeted by long luminous blonde hair, red leather jacket, tight jeans, black boots, sheer white blouse, and bright green eyes met his blue ones, once his perusal ended. He blushed as he realized what he had been doing.  

“Sorry to bother you but I’m looking for Lacey French.”

“I’m sorry lass but why would she be here?”

“I know there was a date last night. Is she in the bedroom?” She tried to push her way inside his place.

Killian stiffened and didn’t allow her entrance. “Lass, no one is here. I’m on my way to work and I’m running late now.”

“Look, your little girlfriend jumped bail and I’m just doing my job.” She forcibly pushed her way in.

“She’s not my girlfriend, I just met her.” He shuffled his feet nervously as she raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Fine, you don’t believe me. Look around but make it fast. I’m really late now.” His heart pounded fast as he scratched behind his ear while she looked around his place.

The lass nodded as she made her way through the tidy place. “Wow, you have a lot of dolls for a grown man.”

Killian’s jaw clenched. “They are not dolls.”

She laughed as she had made her way back from inspecting the rest of the place. “I know they’re not. I was just teasing you.”

Killian raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Sorry to have bothered you, here’s my card. Please, call me if Lacey reaches out to you. Her dad put up her bail, and he is really worried about her.”

Killian grabbed the card and read her name out loud, “Emma Swan.” He couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on his face. 

He was late to work. He was the last one to arrive and rushed to his little section. 

He worked at the local electronic/appliance store in the small town. They sold everything from appliances, computers, and TVs. They even did special orders for their customers. The owner was an older woman that got the business from her dying mother’s estate when she passed away from a freak attack by her dogs. She was a decent looking woman but she was his boss. She would use any excuse to touch him and flirt with him. His coworkers teased him endlessly because she was into him and that he should go for it. That maybe if she got lucky they would all get lucky with a pay increase or a bonus. Ah, but he knew it wasn’t just him. It was all of them. She was handsy and inappropriate. She really enjoyed seeing his cheeks redden by her comments.

It was going to be a long day. He walked into the store and headed to the back room. Maybe his tardiness would go unnoticed. He had almost made it, he was so close.

“Hey, Killian. So I want to hear all the dirty little details about your date. Was she hot? Please, tell me she was a naughty librarian…” 

“Arthur,” Killian paused for a second as he interrupted his coworker, “I’m a gentleman and a gentleman never tells.”

“Come on! I want details, I saw her profile and you know what they say about the quiet ones.” Arthur’s eyebrows wiggled.

Killian grimaced at his coworker when a voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hello darlings,” Killian and Arthur cringed at the purr in her voice. 

Arthur forced a smile for their boss, “Cruella, lovely as ever but I really should be getting to work.” 

“Oh darling, please don’t rush on my account.” She blocked him from leaving. “You know, I wouldn’t object to getting caught in the middle of this stubble sandwich.” She waved her hand between the two of them. 

Arthur glanced at Killian as they shared an uncomfortable look. Killian cleared his throat. “Good morning, Cruella. I’m a little behind on my work.” He pointed at his workstation.

“Oh, my darling Killian, you work too hard. Besides I’ve told you many times before that if you need to put in an extra hour or so, I’m willing to stay later to keep you company.” She inched closer to him. 

Arthur had made his escape, as Cruella’s attention was completely focused on Killian. 

The day is like any other day. He is so consumed by his work he misses his lunch break. Rushing out of his workstation to leave for the day, he tries to swiftly sneak out without notice. The upside was that Cruella was a creature of habit. It was a known fact that she locked herself in her office the last hour of the workday. While she was distracted in her office, he escaped. 

When Killian finally arrived home, he ate his dinner. He followed his usual routine to the “T”. His thoughts briefly drifted to the bounty hunter and wondered if she caught her prey.

The days seemed to blend together. On one of those very typical days, he was surprised by his co-workers’ invitation. “Jones, come here,” David called out to him. There were some whispers and murmurs from the rest of the men.

He cautiously approached them. “Hello, Dave.” When his eyes drifted to Arthur, Leroy grumbled his protest. Robin smiled, “Mate, we were wondering if you would like to join us for our weekly poker game? My cousin, Will, is our regular but he finally found a girl that puts up with him so he can’t join us. How about it?” 

Killian looked at the group and knew he should decline. He was about to decline when he noticed Robin and David giving him an encouraging nod, and somehow the wrong words came out of his mouth. “Sure, I’d love to.” He was going to have to look up youtube videos on how to play poker or pick up a copy of Poker for Dummies. “When is game night?”

“We know it’s a bit of a short notice,” David sighed. “But it’s tonight.” 

“That’s okay,” Killian said with a smile. “I’ll be there.” 

David and Robin smiled and Arthur nodded begrudgingly. After giving Killian all the details, they went back to work. Killian went home and did some fast research about poker. Youtube was truly a lifesaver. After viewing too many videos on how to play poker for dummies, he felt like he was ready. Granted, it didn’t make him an instant expert, but he believed he could handle himself.

He looked in the mirror and freshened up. After finding a stain on his shirt, he made the last-minute decision to change it. A thought crossed his mind; he should stop at the store for some lager and crisps for his friends. Liam would be horrified if he arrived empty-handed. 

They played for hours and his coworkers didn’t seem to mind he wasn’t any good. They were playing for money, so there was that. His loss was their gain. Sadly, there had been liquor, which got the men talking about their loves…

David mentioned his high school sweetheart and hoped to marry her soon, Arthur still pined for his ex, Gwen, Leroy is happily married to a nice woman, Astrid, and Robin is married with a small son. That’s when they turn their attention to him.

Killian nervously shifted in his seat, his face coloring a bright shade of red. 

Arthur laughed mercilessly. “Please, tell me you’re not a virgin.”

Robin, David, and Leroy stared at Killian. 

“Of course not, I’ve had many dalliances before,” Killian answered as fast as he could.

Arthur stared at him. “Prove it.”

This time, David couldn’t stay quiet. “Please, ignore him, Killian. He’s drunk.”

“I’m just teasing. You and Robin are too overprotective. It’s not a big deal. If you are, we can take you out and get you laid, and if you’re not, well good for you.” Arthur smiled wickedly at him. 

The night ended in awkward silence.

@hookedonapirate @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @seriouslyhooked@profdanglaisstuff @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87@snowbellewells@hollyethecurious@kymbersmith-90@branlovestowrite@thejollyroger-writer@shireness-says@ilovemesomekillianjones@thisonesatellite@thesschesthair@winterbythesea@stahlop@resident-of-storybrooke@superchocovian@lfh1226-linda@artistic-writer@thislassishooked@shardminds@winterbaby89@xhookswenchx@ultraluckycatnd@gingerchangeling@laschatzi@wellhellotragic@xemmaloveskillianx@courtorderedcake@pirateherokillian@optomisticgirl@darkcolinodonorgasm@sherlockianwhovian @andiirivera @djlbg @nikkiemms @jennjenn615 @scientificapricot @officerrogers @imlaxdris71 @therealstartraveller776 @kday426  @lassluna

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dec 10- hot chocolate- clark/lois

Title: love is (a warm cup of cocoa) Fandom: Smallville Pairing/Characters: Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Jonathan Kent, Martha Kent Rating: G Word Count: 1697 Summary: Clark learned to make hot chocolate from his dad.  A/N: previous days HERE 

AO3 link

When Clark was six years old, he learned how to make hot chocolate from his dad. His mom had been looking tired for the last day or so, and even he had noticed.

“How about we cheer mommy up?” his dad suggested, after he had sent her off to get some much needed rest.

“Yeah!” Clark said enthusiastically, and accompanied his dad into the kitchen.

“What do you say we make some hot chocolate?” Jonathan said, and Clark’s blue-green eyes grew wide, nodding quickly.

“I like hot chocolate!” he declared. He frowned a little as he watched Jonathan take out ingredients that seemed different from what his mom used, including a chocolate bar. “That’s not how mommy makes it.”

“You like mommy’s hot chocolate?” Jonathan asked.

“Yeah, it’s the best,” Clark confirmed happily.

“Mommy does everything the best, doesn’t she?” Jonathan replied, fondly, letting out a chuckle at Clark’s very serious nod. “Well, we’re going to try something a little different.”

“Okay,” he said, a little reluctantly.

“This is a secret family recipe,” Jonathan explained. “My dad taught me how to make it and now I will teach it to you.”

“Is it hard?’ Clark wanted to know.

“No,” Jonathan replied. “This takes a little longer, so you can save it for special occasions, but let me tell you something, son: when you love someone, it won’t seem like work at all.”

Clark took that all in. “How do we make it? Can I help?”

“You sure can,” Jonathan agreed, as he chopped the chocolate into small pieces. “Do you know where the marshmallows are?”

“I do!” Clark ran off, only slowing down at Jonathan’s reminder, and retrieved it from the cabinet where he remembered his mom putting it the last time. Bringing the bag to him, he saw that Jonathan was distracted, so he opened it and popped one in his mouth. And then another. After that, a third. Definitely good.

“I hope you’re saving some for the cocoa,” Jonathan remarked, and Clark’s eyes widened. How did he know?

Swallowing, he grinned. “Yeah, I did.”

Jonathan looked over and smiled. “All right, now let’s get you up here.” He lifted up Clark and placed him on a free spot on the counter. “Now, this is the trick. First you have to microwave the chocolate, so that we don’t get any lumps. Cocoa powder is fine but nothing beats a good chocolate bar. You have to chop it up and melt it slowly though, so it doesn’t burn-”

From there, Jonathan went on to explain the recipe and how to make it. Clark watched, mostly quietly, though he did throw out a question here and there, which Jonathan was more than happy to answer.

When they were finished, he separated it into three mugs, mixing in a few more ingredients, what Clark would later learn was half and half, vanilla, and for the adults, bourbon. He let Clark add the marshmallows, before topping it off with whip cream, and sprinkles for Clark.

“What did you add in for you and mommy?” Clark asked curiously.

“That, I will tell you when you’re older,” Jonathan said, lifting him up to set him down once more. “I think you’ll like the sprinkles more.”

“I like sprinkles,” Clark said, still wanting answers, but willing to let it go, because he wanted his drink more. “Do we drink it now?”

“It will be hot,” Jonathan responded, setting the cups on a tray. “How about we take these to mommy?”

Clark readily followed him out of the kitchen into the living room, where it turned out Martha now was, sitting on the couch with a magazine.

“I thought you were going to lie down,” Jonathan said, eyebrows furrowing, as they approached her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Martha explained. “What do you have there?”

“Hot chocolate!” Clark was eager to say. “Daddy made it. I helped!”

“I’m sure you did a great job, sweetie,” Martha said, smiling warmly, as she accepted the cup Jonathan gave her. Clark got his own cup as well, and eagerly took a sip, wrinkling his nose as he got whipped cream on it, causing his parents to laugh.

“What do you think?” Jonathan asked.

“It’s good, daddy,” Clark confirmed, wiping his nose. Different than his mommy’s, but it tasted yummy and Clark did like it.

“It’s very good,” Martha agreed. “Just what I needed.”

“Looks like we did a good job,” Jonathan said, offering his hand for a high five. “We make quite the team, buddy.”

“Yeah!” Clark said, meeting his hand, with his own. “The best team!” Seeing his mommy smile again made his chest feel all warm and happy.

It was a feeling and a memory Clark would always look back on fondly in the years to come, though it happened less and less as he got older. After his dad’s death, it was bittersweet to think about it at all.

Only when he was in his own apartment, one he shared with Lois, and perusing through the old cookbooks trying to figure out dinner, did he find that old scrap of paper, and in his dad’s familiar scrawl, he saw a hot chocolate recipe, and it brought him straight back to his childhood. All he could feel now was happiness as well as gratitude to have had those memories and such a loving family, because he knew that it all could’ve been much different.

Hearing a door slam, he set the book down, and headed towards the sound, immediately greeted by his annoyed looking wife.

“Ugh, what a day,” Lois said, visibly exasperated as she kicked off her heels. “You are lucky you got out of there earlier. If I hear one more ‘no we can’t’ or get a story canned because some asshole has enough money to cover up evidence, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Please don’t do anything to get arrested,” Clark requested, amusement evident in his tone and expression.

“No promises,” Lois replied. “Will you come help me escape if I do?”

“Always,” Clark told her, as he leaned forward to kiss her quickly. “Why don’t you take it easy?” I will go order some takeout. Chinese?”

“Please,” Lois said, taking a seat. “I need some kung pao chicken in my life stat.”

“I will get some extra dumplings too,” Clark promised, enjoying the way Lois’s face lit up.

“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” Lois proclaimed.

“I do my best,” Clark responded, amused, and went back to the kitchen, reaching for his phone and a menu to Lois’s favorite Chinese restaurant. Once the order was placed, his eyes drifted back toward the book thoughtfully, as he suddenly had an idea.

“Just going to step out for a second, Lois,” he called out. “I think I heard something.” When he heard her acknowledge it, he quickly left, using the excuse to go out the side window, and making sure to return as quickly as possible, bag full of necessary ingredients.

Consulting the recipe and what he had of the memory, he worked to make the hot chocolate. His dad has made it a few times over the years, but Clark had never tried on his own or had made it for anyone else.

It wasn’t very hard after all, but even if it was a slow process, he had definitely found someone who was worth it anyway. Hopefully, she would like it. Adding the bourbon and the toppings, Clark tried to make it look as appealing as possible.

“Something smells good in there, Smallville,” Lois called out, and he hid a smile. Taking the two cups, he made his way to her, handing her one when they were face to face.

“What is that?” Lois asked, accepting the mug.

“Hot chocolate,” he replied.

“Looks great,” Lois said, and once she took a sip, she made a noise of appreciation. “Tastes better. Where did you learn to make this?”

“My dad taught me,” he said, sitting next to her, with his own cup. “He used to make it for my mom when she was feeling down.”

Her expression softened, holding a touch of wistfulness at the mention of his dad. She had always gotten along with his parents, and he knew that Lois probably missed Jonathan as well. Sometimes, he wondered what his dad would’ve thought of the two of them ending up together; more often than that, he wished Jonathan would’ve been there to see it. He would’ve loved to have Lois as a daughter in law.

“And my whining inspired you to make it?” Lois teased, returning him to the present. She “mmm’d” as she continued to drink from her mug, and Clark felt pleased at her obvious enjoyment.

“Something like that,” Clark chuckled.

“What’s your secret?” Lois wanted to know. “I always get lumps with the cocoa powder.”

“No cocoa powder in it,” he replied. “I can show you, if you want.”

“It’s not some secret family recipe?” Lois joked.

“Actually, it is,” Clark admitted. “But you’re family, so I think it’s allowed.”

Her eyes went bright. “Yeah, that is true.” She paused for a moment. “Then again, if I don’t know how to make it, I can have you continue to do it for me.”

“As if I wouldn’t do that already,” Clark countered, grinning as she let out a laugh in agreement.

“And you can also be responsible for passing on the recipe when we have kids,” Lois added, snuggling closer and resting her head on his shoulder once she had finished.

His heart skipped a beat at the ease Lois talked about potential children; it wouldn’t be the first time, but the certainty always made him feel good.

“That I can do,” he agreed, setting aside his own cup once he was done as well. “Do you feel better?”

“Yup,” Lois said, closing her eyes. “You always make me feel better.”

“I’m glad,” Clark commented, pressing a kiss on top of her head.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Lois murmured.

“Any time, Lois,” he replied softly. “Any time.”

To make her happy, it was the least he would do.

And she was always worth it.

[writefinch]

The Prince’s Offering, Pt.2 (”Historical,” bondage, harems)

The Prince, the Brigand and the gift followed their host through to a sitting area, and all three visitors sat down on plush cushions indicated to by their host, though Thom had to guide the woman-gift into place, grabbing her chest roughly as he pushed her down.

Davai looked around and took in his surroundings. A low, square table, barely an inch off the floor, occupied the center of the room, with four plush cushions placed around it, upon which the three visitors and their host currently sat. The table was laid out with a selection of pastries, fruits and sweetmeats, as well as a heated bronze pot for the decanting of tea.

The floors were strewn with fine rugs and more cushions, and upon some of those cushions lazed serving girls, bronze skin visible under impossibly sheer gauze, their necks, wrists and fingers weighed down with a fortune's each of intricate jewelry. They all seemed in possession of an ethereal beauty unlike anyone the young lord had ever seen, and when one glanced his way with the briefest of sultry smiles, Davai felt his cheeks glow pink.

In one far corner a small pool was recessed into the floor with a gauze-clad attendant lounging beside it, in another corner was a set of bookshelves where one girl perused a scroll by lamplight, and the back of the room on a raised dais sat an empty throne, flanked by four hounds on each side.

As Davai peered at the dais, he realized that it was not a true throne, and they were not true dogs. The throne was a frame, empty underneath the seat and strewn with scraps of fabric, and the dogs were cast-iron statues with golden engraving, draped in many layers of the same gauze that the serving girls wore. It did not take a scholar of the arts to adduce the meaning of this display: The Old Duke had overseen eight fiefdoms, each ruled by a Lord Knight, and the symbol of the knights was a black wolf. In the Mughal display, the Old Duke's throne was hollow and worthless, his proud wolves were dogs and whores, and they would be nothing more than a near-forgotten backdrop to a new age of Imperial rule.

Finally, his eyes settled on his host. He was a man of Turkish stock, roughly two-score years of age, with a square jaw, a full moustache, and a day's growth of stubble across the rest of his face that did nothing to hide the thick white scar on his chin. He was tall, with several inches on Thom and a full foot over Davai, and carried himself with the bearing of a fighting man. His eyes were warm and his smile warmer, and Davai watched as the man bought a cup of hot tea to his lips and sipped at it, before setting the tea down and looking right at him.

"Heated floors," blurted Davai, and felt profoundly stupid for having done so. Their host chuckled graciously.

"Indeed, heated floors. Technology of the ancients, something the General had fitted into this castle by one of the finest engineers of Persia. Water is heated in a great vessel elsewhere in the castle and carried by pumps to an intricate series of pipes underneath the tiles, and a web of chimneys within the walls pulls away sweltering air and foul humors. Rather ingenious," he said, before furrowing his brow, "though of course this keep was never built with such a thing in mind, hence the damnable whistling. Pasha, play a tune for us."

Davai's ears perked up, and he could still hear the shrill cries of the vents until one of the serving girls placed a wooden flute to her lips and began to play. A soft, calming tune carried forth, and it seemed to have been composed in a manner that utterly masked the noise underneath.

"Thank you, my dear," said the man. "Now, Thom, I have met you before, yes?"

"You have sir, indeed," replied Thom. "I was delivering tithes from some of the nearby holdings, and you were receiving them. An honour to meet you again, sir."

"And a pleasure to see you, sirrah. Would you do me the favour of introducing your employer?"

Thom nodded. "I present to you Lord Davai of the line Kestrel, representative of the Houses of the Amber Plains, next in line to the Barony of East Barleycorn."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lord Davai. My name is Sir Karim the Acquirer, and I am a... hm, how would I say... a scrivener, yes, a scrivener for the Great Empire."

"A pleasure in kind, Sir Karim," said Davai.

"Mhmm." Karim opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. "As we are to conduct our business on behalf of the Great Empire, the necessary ritual must be undertaken beforehand," he said, lifting his robes enough to stand up before pointing to a clear patch of rug beside the table. "From this spot, Karakorum lies in the direction of the pool."

Davai said and did nothing for a moment until he was poked in the ribs by Thom, who did not even have to mouth the word before Davai remembered the need to kow-tow. The three men each took kneeling positions facing east and touched their foreheads to the ground repeatedly in the correct display of respect, with both Thom and Davai making two more bows than Karim. With the ritual complete they returned to the table, where Karim bade them to eat.

They partook of crisp apple slices dipped in honey, black bread slathered in butter, almond sweets filled with pomegranate jam and strong black tea while Karim made light conversation. They spoke of the approaching harvest, of the last and next tournaments, of the advances in astronomy, and of playing companies.

Karim placed his empty teacup on the table, and a serving girl refilled it the moment he loosed his grip on it. He paid her no mind, and looked across at Davai instead. "I understand you have traveled some distance to join us here. How was your journey?"

"It was a straightforward one," said Davai carefully. "The new roads are smooth, and there is no worry of bandits." He aimed to acknowledge the benefits of Imperial rule, but was keen to avoid overt fawning.

"Yes, mhm. And, Lord Davai, might I ask why you have traveled all this way? As smooth and safe as our roads are, I assume you did not come all this way to merely test them."

Lord Davai fought the overwhelming urge to swallow and instead cleared his throat, but could not avoid nervously brushing a curl of hair out of his face. "Baron Vadim has sadly passed away, and as he was tragically bereft of heirs, some of his holdings stand to be inherited by the Houses of the Amber Plains. A great many of his holdings, in fact, and though the Great Empire graciously consented to oversee the Amber Plains in their stead in exchange for fealty and fair tithe, they did not offer such consent with holdings twice that size in mind.

"In light of this change, we wish to reaffirm our loyalty, to demonstrate our awe and fear of Imperial might, to give our gratitude for the Great Empire's mercy, to offer new gifts and tribute in line with our resources, and to beg counsel on the Great Emperor's desires in how his holdings should be overseen, should he deign to allow us to continue our stewardship." Now he swallowed, and quickly sipped tea to sate his suddenly dry mouth.

With a broad smile, Karim nodded. "Well, I cannot speak to everything you have mentioned yet, but I can say this: the Houses of the Amber Plains have made a wise choice in sending a well-intentioned emissary. Had every noble in every city in my homeland made the same choice in light of the Grand Empire's overtures..." He trailed off, and then grinned darkly. "Suffice to say there would be a great many more cities remaining in my homeland."

Davai nodded. "It behooves us to learn from the folly of others, and never more so than when the cost of folly is so dear."

"Indeed," said Karim, and there was a momentary and uncomfortable lull in the conversation. Davai looked to Thom for counsel, and the ruffian looked at him and then to the scroll case by his side.

Clearing his throat again, Davai held up the scroll case. "Sir Karim, I bear a written pledge of fealty from the Houses of the Amber Plains, alongside details of our holdings, and a new offer of tribute."

"My deepest thanks, Lord Davai," said Karim, taking the case. He called over the serving girl by the bookshelves and lectern, who took it from him in turn. "I will review it with our scriveners in due time."

Davai looked nervously to his companion once more and then said, "We would also humbly offer some gifts, as the Great Empire has shown us favour by simply offering this meeting." He looked to the bound girl, loaded with bags and boxes like a beast of burden, and felt a cold stab of regret, but continued nonetheless. "With your consent, Sir Karim, I would ask Thom to present these gifts."

Karim laughed warmly. "It would be my pleasure and honour to receive your gifts on behalf of the Emperor. Please, proceed."

"Yes," said Davai, wiping some of the sweat from his brow that had appeared from the warmth of the room. "Thom, sirrah, if you would."

With a flourish, Thom the Brigand unstrapped a finely-carved cypress box from the woman-gift, flipped it open, and began to display the contents.

"Among the first box of gifts is an engraved silver tin filled with a powder of mushrooms and antimony which is known to induce waking dreams, an enameled brooch which was made by the Gauls in ancient times, an alchemical treatise on that which can create a solution of gold, a relic of Saint Peter..."

Thom continued in this vein for some time, methodically displaying the contents of the dozen-odd containers attached to the woman-gift until she was bound but unburdened. He displayed jewels and gems, potions and tinctures, ancient heirlooms and war trophies, spirits infused with the essence of cherries, lambskin-bound tomes filled with painstakingly translated works from the Ancient Romans, old and secret maps.

The collection had been pulled together over months at great expense, and had already led to strife and bloodshed between the noble houses. A dark grin almost spread across Davai's face at the thought: such a collection would pale against the curiosities room of a moderately successful merchant of Mesopotamia, and to the Mughals these items would mean little more than children's toys.

Karim watched the display with mild interest, and clapped his palms together at the conclusion. "Lord Davai, I am an honest man, and I eschew mistruth wherever my fealty does not demand it," he said, "so I am afraid you must know this: my masters will most likely treasure the spirits more than anything else in this collection."

"I cannot fault their taste," said Davai wryly, "I am rather partial to them myself."

A belly-laugh from Karim carried around the room. "Quite so! In truth, you have provided one gift without knowing it--you have outdone several local rulers who claim more wealth than your noble houses but delivered a more impoverished offering than this. Such knowledge may earn favour with my masters, though I am not sure it will help your popularity among the wider local nobility, and as I said before, they will be glad to indulge in your spirits!"

Thom openly leered at a serving girl as she brushed pastry crumbs away from Karim's lap, and licked his lips. "I can think of some things they would prefer to indulge in."

"Yes, you spoke of them at great length on the journey here," said Davai acidly. "I'm not sure there is a single foul desire in your heart that didn't pass your lips over the course of the week."

Thom glared at him contemptuously. "I beg your pardon then, had I known you were not a noble lordling but instead a novice from the abbey, I would have been more circumspect."

"Address me as my station demands, brigand!"

Thom bared his teeth for a moment, and then muted his expression. "I apologize, Lord Davai. I spoke out of place."

"Yes. Remember that place, Thom the Brigand, or I will remember to make you remember."

They stared at each other for a moment before a noise returned them to their surroundings, and they both looked to see Karim snickering at them. Thom coughed awkwardly, and Davai's guts twisted with embarrassment. "My dear guests, please," said Karim, gesturing grandly, "I am keenly aware of the boredom and stresses inherent to long journeys. I implore you to accept a neck massage from the serving girls, you will feel like new men afterwards." He snapped his fingers. "Tabitha, Bahar, Mido, if you would."

Before he finished speaking, three serving girls appeared and slunk behind the men. Davai could not help but give a start as he felt soft hands on his shoulders, a gentle breath in his ear, and warm bosoms pressed against his back.

"I am Bahar, my lord," purred the girl, in a thick Persian accent. "May I begin your massage?"

Thoughts of continence, piety, and guilt swirled within Davai, and he froze. "Ah--"

"Dear guests," groaned Karim, already enjoying his massage, his voice so deep it was almost a croak, "my delightful girls are skilled beyond reproach, and they will take care of you completely. Take any offer from them as freely you would from me."

Davai did not need to be reminded to accept all and any hospitality from their host. He turned his head until he could see Bahar's veiled face out of the corner of his eye. "Yes--" he swallowed, "--yes, you may begin."

With a soft giggle, she ran her palms along the width of his shoulders, pressed, and Davai felt a shiver of warmth quite unlike anything he had felt before. Fingers played over his muscles and the sensation grew stronger still, a buzz of pleasure that seemed to both relieve his muscles and invigorate them. He bit his lip, stifling the urge to moan, but as he noticed Karim's contented humming and some kind of... gurgling coming from Thom, he let out a coo of delight and fell back into Bahar's skilled hands.

Pleasure mixed with pain in a way that seemed to intensify both at once as she worked her thumbs over a spot by his shoulder blade. "Were you injured, lord?" she murmured in his ear.

"Mhm." He had closed his eyes without even realizing it. "A jousting tourney."

Her lips brushed his ear for the briefest of moments, and he felt it glow red with heat. "Do you joust, lord?"

He nodded, his neck feeling unusually smooth as he did so. "Poorly."

The girl giggled and resumed her work. Davai worried that he would fall asleep, but as the massage continued the deep relaxation turned into something light and springy, and he felt more awake than he had done in several days at least. He opened his eyes again to take a drink of tea, which another girl had refilled at some point, and saw the two other men with dazed, slack expressions. Karim wore it well, appearing deeply contented, but it made Thom look quite demented.

As the three men roused from their dazed states, they each found their eyes drawn to the one person sitting at the table who did not have a serving girl behind them. Karim looked upon the woman-gift and observed, "I have travelled far and wide, but I do not recognize this breed of pack mule you have brought along."

"Mhm!" Thom jolted himself to attention. "Sir Karim, I lost myself so deeply in displaying the gifts she carried that I missed one gift entirely. She is to be yours, to serve the Great Empire in whatever way is most pleasing."

Karim appeared to mull this over. "I see. Might I ask who she is?"

"Her name is Justyna, and she is the fairest and most beautiful woman in all our lands," said Davai. The sensations of the massage could not touch the hollowness he felt inside as he spoke, and he hoped at least that the hollowness had not crept into his tone.

"A delight indeed, then." Karim ate a slice of apple, and then said, "I admit, such a heavy veil had me expecting something rather plain. Might I gaze upon her?"

With a nod, Thom moved behind the bound woman and untied the ropes that fixed the veil to her head. He removed the veil without ceremony, and returned to his seat. He grinned, Davai felt something ache inside his chest, and Karim beamed at the sight.

The sweat on her brow nor the tears on her cheeks nor the grease in her hair could detract from her beauty. Her eyes were a pale blue, her cheeks full and dotted with freckles, her copper-red hair was soft as any silk, and she had an unearthly air to her, like a captured nymph. She remained silent; a second, smaller gag had been underneath the cleave gag formed by the veil and rope the entire time. This gag was formed of two pilfered silken handkerchiefs, one balled up and stuffed between her lips, the other wrapped around her head and mouth to keep the first in place. Unbeknownst to all but the woman and Thom the Brigand, the handkerchief in her mouth had been doused liberally with Thom's male seed before being forced between her lips. She stared forward into space, exhausted on every level.

For the first time since the meeting began, Karim appeared genuinely impressed. "A true beauty indeed," he said softly. "Pray tell, is she of noble birth?"

Davai shook his head. "There are many striking noblewomen in the Houses of the Amber Plains, but none so enchanting as her."

"I see." Karim straightened up and looked directly at Davai. "I must inform you, if you intend to give this woman over as a gift, she will be received as a slave."

Davai opened his mouth to speak, but Karim held up a hand. "I beg you, heed me well before you speak further. To sell a slave is one matter, but to gift someone into slavery is another matter entirely. It is the custom of my people that before a slave can be given away, the giver must be wholly aware of what such slavery will entail."

For a moment Davai said nothing, and then he nodded. "What, then, would such a thing entail, Sir Karim?"

"The first detail is that she will become a serving girl for a harem. This is without question. The second detail is that this will require training and induction, both of which will be severe and intensely taxing. The third detail is that any serving girl--but especially one of such beauty--may be bartered on to another harem. She might never see her homeland again." Karim sipped his tea, set it down, and continued. "Finally, I counsel you to ask the girls how they became part of the harem. If your Justyna becomes a slave, her experience may be different in the detail, but not in the broad strokes."

The hollow feeling grew stronger, but Davai willed himself to push it down inside him. He heard a high giggle, and looked at the serving girl who had draped herself over Karim's shoulders. "Lord Davai, I am Tabitha,” she said. “Would you like to know how I became a serving girl?"

(Part 3 here: https://writefinch.tumblr.com/post/641949398777102337/the-princes-offering-pt3-cn )

[batbirdies]

Writing prompt, #23!

@im-the-punk-who

Prompt 23! - “You have a picture of me? On your fridge?” Featuring Jason and Tim!

Word count: 1766

Pairing: None/Gen

Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Rating: G

________

“Hey, you got any beer?” Jason climbed up from the couch, stretching his shoulders back.

Tim glanced up at him from where he was bent over a pile of photographs, an exasperated look on his face. “Not sure at which point this will get through your head but, I’m 18.”

Jason snorted. “Hey, never stopped me.”

Tim paused, setting a photo down and giving Jason his full attention. “Shocking.”

Jason snorted again as he moved out from behind the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “Well what do you have?” He asked as he reached the fridge and pulled it open.

“I think I have some soda, there might be juice or something...but check the expiration.”

Jason grumbled to himself and squinted at the inside of Tim’s fridge. The light had gone out, which was ridiculous. You’d think someone as capable, not to mention as rich, as Timothy Drake-Wayne would at least get someone else to change the light bulb in his fridge but no. It didn’t matter much as the contents were meager.

He pulled out a can of Coke and popped the top, letting the fridge door close. Sugar and caffeine would definitely not have the same effect as alcohol but now he just wanted it. Something caught his eye just as he was about to take his first drink.

Tim’s whole fridge was covered in scattered, random stuff. WE memos, a calendar with messy writing scrawled over different days, a note from Stephanie with a little bat drawing that Jason though must have been Cass.

But those weren’t what caught his eye. No, that would be the little magnetic cork board pinned full of photographs. One in particular snagged Jason’s attention.

“You have a picture of me? On your fridge?”

He heard sudden fumbling in the living room and then Tim came around the corner, relaxed, like he hadn’t just scrambled up off the floor in a panic. He looked casual but his eyes were a little too wide and he kept darting them to the corkboard like it was a loaded gun.

“Yeah, why?” He asked in that same false, casual tone. Jason wanted to drawl back oh, I don’t know, maybe ‘cause I tried to kill you? But he kept that one to himself. He was trying to steer away from those particular types of jokes. Instead of answering at all he just kept looking.

The picture of Jason was almost intimately casual.

He was sitting on the couch in what he recognized as Dick’s apartment and he was talking on his cell phone. He was leaned back, splayed out a little on the cushions, one arm hung over the armrest, the other pressing his phone to his ear. There was half a smile on his face, like he thought something was funny but he was trying not to laugh.

No one else was in the picture and Jason struggled to remember what day it had been…

Tim cleared his throat. “Dick told us he needed help with a case, but turned out he just had us over for a zombie movie, Damian was at the Kent’s.” Tim had shuffled over finally, looking at the picture with Jason. His posture had relaxed to something a little more authentic, like he’d decided Jason wasn’t gonna freak out so it was ok to come out of hiding. “Bruce called you in the middle, when Dick was making popcorn.”

Jason darted his eyes away from that picture.

“Where’d you even keep the camera? Down your pants? Cause i certainly don’t remember seeing one.”

Tim scoffed, offended. “Excuse me, there are plenty of ways to be discreet. Not that any of the rest of you would know that,” he grumbled the last bit, stuffing his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt.

“So you just go around taking sneaky pictures of everybody, like some kind of creepy stalker?” Jason was joking, of course, but Tim scowled.

“No.”

“Kinda seems like you do,” he goaded back, eyes drawing over other photos on the board. Tim shifted, like he was uncomfortable again.

“If it bothers you, I can take yours dow-“ Jason waved a hand, taking a sip of his coke.

“It’s fine kid.” Jason was distracted and did not acknowledge the weirdly soft feeling in his chest as he perused the rest of the pictures. There was one of Dick balancing a spoon on his nose. Cass and Stephanie painting each other’s nails. Another of Stephanie passed out on the couch in the den. One of Bruce chugging a bottle of water in the kitchen after what must have been a workout. Another of him pouring over papers in the study with his reading glasses propped on the end of his nose like an old grandma.

There was one of Alfred with his sleeves rolled up, apron on, baking something in the kitchen. Another of Cass, standing on her head in the middle of her own mattress, blankets a mess and blocking her eyes. Nothing of her face showing but her upside down grin.

There was one that was a surprise though. “Shit, you’ve got one of the little gremlin. And he’s not even trying to kill anyone.” The picture was of Damian, sitting on the floor somewhere in the manor, sun from the window shining across him while he bent over a sketch pad. Titus was folded up on the floor with his head in the kid’s lap and he looked serious. Or not so much serious as….studious.

Tim cleared his throat, moving in front of Jason to quickly pluck the magnetic board off the fridge.

“Hey, what are you-”

“I’m putting it away.”

“What? Why?”

Tim flushed a little, tucking the board to his chest. “I meant to take it down before you got here, I just forgot.”

Jason frowned, clutching the can a little tighter. “Because why? That’s not an answer.”

“Because I don’t need this spread around. You’re not allowed to tell Dick.” He shuffled a little closer to his bedroom door but took a moment to give Jason a stern look. But Jason just blinked back at him in confusion.

“Why? You’re acting like this is some kind of weird secret picture stash. I don’t know if you know this but usually it’s the explicit type of photos that people are hiding.”

Tim flushed, not loosening his grip or relaxing one bit. He looked honestly embarrassed and Jason was a little bewildered.

“Dick doesn’t know because he would make some stupid big deal out of it-”

“You mean of the sweet, little pic of Damian-”

Tim pointed a finger at him, scowl firmly in place. “That picture was deliberate. I need a reminder sometimes that he’s not actually a monster.”

Jason snorted, setting his soda on the counter. “Don’t we all.”

There was an awkward pause as Tim started to shuffle backwards again toward his bedroom door. Jason turned toward him, palms up and empty. “Timbers, don’t put it away. I’m not gonna tattle on you for having pictures on your fridge.”

Tim stopped, looking at him with a minor glare. “And you’re not going to make fun of me?”

“Why would I make fun of you?” Jason was baffled, but Tim just rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know, you just would.”

Jason sputtered, putting his hands on his hips and then thinking better of it, dropping them before he looked like Bruce. “Hey, I’m not some kind of grade school bully here. Besides...it’s uh...it’s nice.” He scratched at his chin for a second, feeling awkward. Jason hadn’t been planning on any personal conversations here.

Tim swallowed and stared at him for an extended moment, looking wary before he finally heaved a sigh and stomped back into the kitchen to reattach the board to his fridge.

He stepped back and Jason stared at the collection a little longer, a weird unidentifiable feeling in his gut. “They’re good.”

Tim scratched at his arm. “Thanks,” he said back, voice hushed.

“Why no costumes?” Jason asked, casually, grabbing his soda back up off the counter and taking a swig. There was, of course, the obvious - just in case. But Jason thought for some reason there was something more to it than that.

Tim shrugged.

“I don’t know, sometimes I like to pretend we’re a normal family, I guess?” It was said in a self deprecating tone, like he was laughing at himself. Which, yeah, but while Jason had come a long way from where he had been. Had worked through untangling complicated feelings the likes the world had never seen - the casual referral of him being family still caught him off guard sometimes. He clutched his soda a little tighter, his palms felt suddenly sweaty.

“Normal huh?” Jason worked to keep any emotion out of his voice as Tim glanced up with a smirk.

“A guy can dream right?”

“Yeah, yeah he can…you might not have to dream that hard though. I mean, we all know a thing or two about normal families.” Jason shuffled closer, bumping his shoulder with Tim’s and throwing an arm around him a little haphazardly, making him stumble.

“I guess...” He gave Jason a narrow eyed, suspicious look.

“I mean, brothers are known for a few things I’m sure we could perfect.”

“Jason.” Tim said, voice devoid of all tone.

“Yeah Timbers?”

“If you try to give me a noogie right now I will punch you in the groin.”

The laugh that startled out of him was loud, enough to make Tim flinch and scowl, trying to duck out of the circle of his arm.

“Can we get back to work please?”

He hummed in return, tapping a finger to his lips with his spare hand. “Not until you say uncle.”

“Jason-“

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 20

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Angst, Swearing

Words: 2,616

A/N: Special thanks to @ithinkimawriter​ for beta-ing this chapter! She’s awesome and you should check out her blog if you haven’t already!

The doctor at the hospital met with them in his office. Penny had had an ischemic stroke, which weren't uncommon in women of advanced age, especially if they had a history of smoking. It was unknown if the lobotomy had increased the risk. The left side of her body was experiencing severe paralysis, and she could barely stand. She was also having trouble speaking and understanding speech. But she did appear to know she was in the hospital.

Y/N observed Arthur's face as the doctor rattled through the information. The expression he wore was neutral enough, but she saw his neck tighten on and off, and his eyes remained downcast. He was also chain smoking more than she'd ever seen. When the doctor would pause for a reaction or ask a question, Arthur's responses were curt.

"There isn't a need to keep her here much longer," the doctor intoned. "Her life isn't at risk. She should be discharged by the end of the week."

At that, Arthur closed his eyes. Y/N could guess what he was thinking: that he'd be stuck with Penny, again, except now he'd have to do more for her. That assumption must have hit harder than usual, given what he'd learned three days ago. His posture became rigid the longer they sat there. After he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the doctor's wide desk, the doctor stood and told them to take their time, giving Y/N a soft look as he left. As soon as the door shut, she put her arm around Arthur.

He started laughing humorlessly and rubbed the back of his neck. "It'd be easier if she'd died."

"You don't mean that," she said.

"Yes, I do."

She pressed her lips together. "It's normal to have mixed feelings."

“I don’t have mixed feelings,” he replied.

Kneading his shoulder, she chose her next sentences carefully, not wanting to unduly influence him. But she hoped could lift some of the weight he carried. "There are options for her care."

Lighting up again, he furrowed his brow and stuck his pack of cigarettes back in his pocket. "I don't have any money, Y/N," he said tersely.

"There are programs you can apply for."

He scoffed and looked at her skeptically. "They cut all those."

"Federal programs, not Gotham services. They won't be cut because the Waynes or whoever else in this city doesn't want to pay taxes." That made him smile crookedly. "We should be able to get the paperwork from the hospital social worker - they deal with this all the time. We'll fill it out and you can decide whether to submit it or not." At his nearly imperceptible nod, she leaned into him. "You've taken care of her twenty years, Arthur. You've given her enough."

After speaking with the social worker and completing the applications, they walked by Penny's room. He stopped outside, his grip on Y/N's hand tightening. She watched his narrowed eyes, the way he worried his lip. "Do you want to go in?" she asked gently.

Anger flashed across his face, his nostril twitching. But after a few minutes, he released a long breath and shook his head. "No," he rasped. "I don't need to."

~~~~~

After leaving the hospital, Y/N had gone back to her apartment to get her notes and presentation. A lick of excitement went through her as she walked into Matt’s office. What she was about to go over was the culmination of hours and hours of off-the-books work, and she was relieved she'd no longer have to keep the information secret. With all the evidence she'd collected and put together, she thought there’d be a good chance she'd be heard.

She sat on the other side of Matt's desk, wearing her best skirt suit and modestly ruffled blouse, and explained everything she'd found so far: the properties' lack of disrepair; the corresponding dates of the Wayne Foundation's motions and Renew Corp.'s letters; the matches of employees listed on the foundation's tax returns and registered agents of the corporation; and the ridiculous conversation she'd had with one Anthony Mancuso at the gala.

It took awhile. When Y/N was done, she leaned back against the chair she was perched on, unbuttoning her top collar. "So," she said when Matt didn't answer. "Are you going to stop this shit?" She ducked her head slightly to study his expression. He was squinting. And she thought he looked a little glum.

He continued to peruse his copy of her notes, tapping his pen on each line as though it meant something. "Your work is very impressive, Y/N. You put a lot of effort into this."

She smiled widely and let out a long breath. "Thank you."

"But I already explained that we can't simply drop this case."

The initial resistance didn't come as a surprise, but frustrated her nonetheless. "I'm not a lawyer," she said. "I don't have any duty to these people or their organization or foundation or whatever."

His gaze was weary when their eyes met. "They have us on retainer-"

She leaned forward. "Do you really want the Waynes to be able to own more of this city?” As her indignation grew, she stood and stepped behind her seat. "I've looked it up, Matt. Both directly and indirectly, they're the largest landowners here."

"What do you know about the Waynes?" Matt countered. It was one of the few times he had ever sounded annoyed at her. "You're a transplant. Gotham owes them a lot."

Rapidly, she was losing any hope that reasoning with him would affect anything. But she continued to try. Maybe changing her tack would help. "Let's say it wasn't the Waynes," she started, putting her elbows on the high-back. "It's some other temporarily benevolent billionaire. If we win this case, it's going to set a precedent for property to be seized and shoved into private hands. It'll be easier for anyone to do this in the future, again-"

"Y/N, stop."

"-and again." Y/N huffed, gesturing towards him with an upturned palm. "I've always thought you were a good person, Matt. I can't believe you approve of this!"

"It's not that simple. You're experienced enough to know that," he said, raising his voice slightly. "The Wayne Foundation is our largest client. Without their money, we wouldn't exist.” Counting on each finger, he continued. “They're buying your groceries, keeping you in your apartment, allowing you to dress as nicely as you do."

Y/N felt the hair on her neck stand up at the idea she would be "allowed" to do anything. "You're scared of them."

"No,” he breathed. “I'm being pragmatic."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Yeah, well, your pragmatism is going to hurt a lot of people."

Matt stood and leaned forward onto his desk with his hands. It wasn't a threatening posture, but a tired one. "This was the first Wayne case you were entrusted with. You were so damn happy about it." Shaking his head, he sighed. "The other lawyers here didn't think you were ready, but I knew you were. Turns out you were too ready." He chucked sadly. "I'm sorry."

Y/N stilled, her mouth opened slightly. "Are you... Are you firing me?" As she waited for his answer, she mentally went over her financial situation. A couple months of pay were in her savings account, her checking had about a thousand dollars in it. She thought she'd be able to get unemployment, but there was a waiting period, and-

"No. The work you do on the family cases is excellent. I like you. And Patricia would never forgive me." He gestured towards her with his pen. "But other people in this firm would let you go. If you breathe a word of this to anyone else, you will wind up losing your job. Do you understand me?"

Gulping, she looked down at the floor and nodded. "Thank you," she said meekly. A sense of defeat, mixed with relief at still having work, settled in her stomach. It caused her to feel like the smallest person on Earth.

She exited the office before he dismissed her and sat at her desk. She still had her copy of her notes at home. But she didn't know what do to with them. Trying to distract herself, she dug out the list of upcoming family court dates and corresponding files, sinking into the routine of them until her mind went numb.

~~~~

It had been close to seven when she'd gotten to Arthur's, later than she'd told him. She hadn't wanted him to see her upset, thinking he had enough to worry about. He'd kissed her at the door and frowned when she hadn't responded enthusiastically. After a quick sorry, she'd kicked off her shoes and said, "I had a really shitty day and need some time." Then she went straight to the bedroom and lay down. She'd left the door open, though, not wanting to shut him out.

She hadn't been laying long, maybe fifteen minutes, when she heard him approach. Wondering what he would do, she pretended not to notice he was standing behind her, next to the bed. It only took a couple minutes for him to climb in next to her. "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Amish."

God, she could tell this was going to be terrible. She rolled her eyes, the corner of her lips turning up. "Amish who?"

"Amished you."

Unable to help herself, she chuckled. When he nuzzled at her face, she twisted her torso to look at up him and drew him down to her mouth. One of his arms went around her head as she kissed him deeply, his other hand holding himself up. "Thank you. I needed that," she said. "Was that an old joke?"

"No, it just came to me. It happens sometimes." He stood, then. "Spaghetti's on the stove."

Stretching, she sat up and followed him to the kitchen. He already had a plate out for her, so she served herself, listening as he continued to talk. "I mailed the forms we filled out."

She scooped sauce out of a second pot. "If you change your mind, you can reject the funding."

"I won't," he scoffed as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

Turning around, she looked to see if he had dried parmesan somewhere on the counter. She didn't find any, but what she did see stopped her. There, in his pile of mail on the breakfast bar, was an unopened red letter. That same terrible feeling of disappointment that Arthur had helped her through returned.

She reached out for the envelope, biting her lip. There was no return address, but she recognized the font Penny's name was printed in. It was definitely from Renew Corp. She wasn't ready to talk with him about this, to admit she'd failed everyone, failed him.

But, she supposed, she was being pushed into doing the right thing. She had a seat at the breakfast bar and patted the stool next to her. He followed eagerly, a puzzled expression on his face. She went over a simplified version of the same explanation she'd given Matt. It came easier this time, having had that earlier practice. Mid-way through, Arthur lit a cigarette and rested his forehead on the side of his hand, elbow on the counter. He seemed to understand well enough, but became quieter and quieter as she went on, staring at the letter threatening to kick him out in ninety days.

"You're going to keep getting these letters. They're trying to bully you." She felt her patience with the situation slip away the more she spoke. "But what they're saying isn't true. It'll take a long time before they can do anything. It has to go through the cour-"

"Is this why you're seeing me?" he interrupted.

Holding the fork just under her mouth, she stared at him. "No. Of course not," she said as she took her last bite of dinner. "That doesn't make sense. This is a legal issue." It was a logical answer, but apparently not the one he wanted. When she reached to touch his bicep, he pulled away from her, taking her plate and going to the kitchen. "Arthur, I found out your building was involved last week."

He started rinsing her dish. "Before or after we-"

"After." Y/N stood but didn't follow, remaining on the far side of the counter.

He wasn't looking at her when he turned around and took a drag off his cigarette. "You should have told me."

She leaned onto the bar with her forearms. "And give you more shit to deal with? Are you kidding?"

"I've dealt with worse," he bit out, flicking ash into the sink.

Her tone was snappier than she meant it to be. "I’ve been working on it for weeks. It's not like I’ve been doing nothing." She shook her head, knowing she wasn't only upset at his stubbornness and refusal to see she’d been trying to shield him. But also at all the time and energy she had put into caring about this case. She was irritated at her powerlessness. And heartbroken at the whole damn thing. Dropping her head to look at the counter-top, she sighed. "Dammit, Arthur. Why can't our first argument be about what restaurant to go to, or what movie to see, or whose apartment we're spending the night at?"

There was no answer to her attempt at cutting the tension between them. He simply stood, unmoving except for the twitch of his fingers as he fiddled with his cigarette. His voice was low when he finally said the wrong thing. "Penny lied to me all my life. I never thought you would."

The cut of those words went deep. Heat went up her neck and face, and she knew she was turning red. "If I had shown up at your apartment, soaking and in the state you were in, telling you to get rid of a razor, would you have told me?"

He flinched at that, but she continued anyway. "No, you wouldn't have." Stepping to the entrance of the kitchen, she threw up her hand. "And don't act as if you've been completely honest. You must have done more than drop off a letter for Thomas Wayne to tell you about Penny's file."

Arthur nodded stiffly, then narrowed his eyes as he smoked. "I need you to leave," he said. "I have to practice."

She folded her arms over her chest. "You're doing this again?" At his lack of response, she slipped on her shoes and started putting on her coat. "Fine. Be angry at me for trying to protect you." Even as the words left her, she knew she didn't mean them. But his obstinacy pissed her off. When she picked up her canvas bag, he went to her and opened the front door.

As she stepped out she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. This entire argument was stupid. They were both wrong and right, in their own ways. And they'd hurt each other. She’d been waiting to see him all day and was loathe to end the evening on a sour note. She turned around to face him. "Hey," she said, consciously softening her voice. His eyes bore into hers as he set his jaw. “Arthur, we’re being idiots.” Then she set her bag down and tried to put her arms around his neck. “Let’s not be angry. At least, not at each other.”

He caught her, gently but firmly, mid-embrace and pulled her arms away from him. "Just go," he said, then turned around and closed the door.

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss​