#here. have a fucking page from my tome. don’t touch me

[remma-demma]

Selene is 10x more sociable than N’eph

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse ~ Chapter 10

A John Wick x Helen Fic

Masterlist / Chapter Map

Author's note: It's been a minute since I posted on this fic, I'm so sorry!! I lost a good chunk of this chapter to an untimely computer update (fuck you very much Windows) and I was so frustrated I just had to let it sit for a while. BUT I finally managed to re-write it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy! 💗💗💗 (Oh and the illustrations here are from the turn of the century version of Afanasyev's Russian Fairy Tales, the book John hid his marker in, in JW3...you'll see why.😉)

Times gets tough

Oh, they get tougher

Hold on to me

I got you, darling…

-I’ll be your man, The Black Keys

X.

The walls of his library were lined with built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim with antique and vintage books. A single leather reading chair sat in the corner with a lamp and a small table. A larger table took up the center of the room with a proper book cradle. Helen breathed in, reveling in the magical smell of old books. She realized that this must be where John gets some of that intoxicating scent of his, bottom notes of leather and parchment paper. The chair in the corner looked well-worn, and she imagined him spending hours of his downtime just sitting and reading away the day.

For the umpteenth time, it squeezed her heart to the point of pain.

Throughout the course of the tour, they did not let go of each other once. John didn’t seem to mind handling books with one mitt of a hand, the fingers of his left laced tightly with Helen’s.

“Do you still have your book of Russian fairy tales?”

“Yes.” Gingerly he pulled it from a shelf, resting it in the cradle on the table. 

They perused the book together, Helen leaning against his shoulder. He was warm, and solid as a tree, and for a heady moment it was difficult to concentrate on the antique tome, no matter how beautiful. The illustrations were utterly gorgeous, and she mentally kicked herself into focusing. She thought about a young John toting this beloved book around the world with him like a Lost Boy with his teddy bear, and the thought succeeded in tying her up in inextricable knots. 

John turned to a page of an illustration of a lovely peasant woman in the woods, holding a torch made of a glowing human skull. “Oh, who’s that?” asked Helen.

“That’s Vasilisa the Beautiful,” answered John.

She hovered her finger over the first line of Cyrillic, careful not to touch the paper. “What does it say?”

John read it aloud, his voice low and all for her, and she sighed a little, not understanding a syllable. For some reason hearing him speak another language so easily, and something about the lilting cadence of the language in his deep voice, the soft shh and musical ya sounds of the Russian words inspired a curl of lust in her belly, a small thrill zipping down her spine. She shuddered lightly, and prayed he hadn’t noticed.

He absolutely noticed, his pupils blowing wide with desire. Doggedly, he kept them fixed upon the page below.  

“Is that, ‘Once upon a time’…in Russian?”

“Something like that. This is a Cinderella story about a young woman who outsmarts her wicked stepmother and the Baba Yaga with her determination and the help of her magical doll. It’s one of my favorites.”

He’d seen a bit of himself in Vasilisa as a young man, straining under the yoke of his unforgiving masters. He turned the page to reveal a witchy old woman riding in what looked like an upright log. Helen couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh look, it’s you, Baba Yaga.”

John snorted at that. “I still don’t know what idiot started that damned nickname,” he groused.

Actually, he suspected it was Marcus, but he’d never found out for certain.

“It sounds fierce, at least.”

His lips twisted in a smirk, and he couldn’t help himself from turning to look at her, then. Their faces were torturously close. “Think I should get some flaming skull torches for out front?”

“Yes, I think the neighbors would love that,” she deadpanned, and more felt than heard John’s responding chuckle.

He turned the page to a new illustration of a strapping knight on a black horse. “Oh hello, handsome. Who’s this guy?”

John narrowly resisted the urge to ask if she had a thing for men in black, even as that telling warmth clouded his brain.

“That’s…Night.”

“The night Knight?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Her lips twisted in a cheeky smile. “Nice. I like him.”

“You would.”

“I have excellent taste, John.”

He found himself looking at her mouth again, thinking her taste would be excellent. For the umpteenth time, he managed not to kiss her by the skin of his teeth. By the way she was looking at him...maybe he didn't need to be exercising such restraint. But maybe that was the excellent wine talking

Maybe he really was an idiot.

“So...in reward for being clever Baba Yaga gives Vasilisa one of the skull torches. She takes it back to her house, and when she lights the candles her wicked step mother and awful step sisters burn up.” 

“Oooh. And she lives happily ever after?”

“Well...she marries the tsar, for what that's worth.”

Helen wrinkled up her nose, communicating her opinion on that. “Overall, I give it a nine out of ten.”

John couldn’t help it then. He actually grinned, showing teeth. “Glad you liked it.”

“Thanks for sharing with me.”

“My pleasure.”

She was still leaning on his shoulder, and was it him, or had she somehow sidled even closer, her body pressed to his side? Her eyes traveled leisurely from him to the book to the chair in the corner. It was then that she noticed that the bookmarked novel on the side table was a mass-market paperback she recognized quite well.

He’d taken her recommendation on the Codename Villanelle spy thrillers, despite teasing her about her taste in books, what felt like a lifetime ago that fateful night in the subway. The fact that he was on the second one touched her to no end, and she squeezed his arm.

“Aww, you’re reading about Eve and Villanelle,” she purred. “You like them?”

“Yes. You were right, they are fun.”

“Taking notes from Villanelle?” The Russian spy was wickedly clever at finding ways to kill her targets.

“Maybe. That poison hair stick was something. Think I could pull it off?” Helen reached up to curl a lock of his dark hair around her finger with a smile, and John couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of her touching his hair.

He was hopeless.

“Oh, definitely. You could so rock the man-bun.”

John rolled his eyes at that, reluctant to admit that he often did when training.

Helen looked back to the book, now with what John was learning to recognize as a sly glint in her eye. “I’m on practically the same spot in that book,” she noted. “Want to read me a chapter?”

John looked at his reading chair, the comfortable old soldier that it was. It was also the only place to sit in the room, and he went a little cross-eyed at the thought of Helen curled up in his lap in it.

There would be zero reading done, of that he was certain. He would debauch her for the first time in that chair, and maybe again on the table for good measure.

A virulent heat licked at his collar as he imagined it. Fuck him, but she was making him blush.

“Sure. Let’s take it to the living room,” he proposed, ignoring her lips pursed in a theatrical pout.

Minx. She knew exactly what she was doing to him—and he was increasingly unsure why he wasn’t just letting her have her way.

He scooped up the paperback book, her hand still firmly clasped in his other while he led them back to the recessed living room. He set the book down on the couch. “Want another glass of wine? I’m going to clear these dishes.”

He needed to clear his head, and he felt Helen look at him with some disappointment that felt a little bit like being stabbed.

“Can I help you?”

“No, this is your night off. Sit, relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” She seated herself on the couch with only the book for company.

She watched John practically flee into the kitchen, and wondered if she’d done something wrong.

Regaled by the sound of clinking dishes and the faucet running, Helen looked around at John’s shelves. They were rather bare, though she noticed he had a bit of a CD collection on display. It plucked at her nostalgia for the days before everything could be so easily accessed via the hand-held computers known as phones but so rarely used for actually talking.

Standing, she decided to be nosy and thumb through them. He seemed to favor classics, from classical music, to rock and blues. There was very little on the shelf dating from past the 90s, and that made her smile for some reason.

“See anything you like?”

She turned to find John with two freshly-filled wine glasses in tow. He set them on the coffee table, before joining her at the built-in cd tower.

“Some good stuff here,” she agreed with a Chili Peppers cd in her hand. The fiery pool with the ocean in the background on the cover tickled the nostalgia center in her brain for sure. “Who are these guys?” She pulled out a black and white album with a high contrast photo of a guy with glasses, and a bearded dude.

“Never heard of the Black Keys?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, honey.”

She chuckled. “Ok, do not pull the my taste in music is better than yours card. I will leave.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he defended with a sly close-lipped smile. “I reserve that card only for books.”

She snorted in answer, and found herself gravitating closer to him, even just standing there looking at his music. She just couldn’t help it.

That really was some good wine he served with dinner.

She watched as he popped open the jewel case, feeding the CD into the slot of his player. He hit a couple buttons, and the speakers erupted with a very bluesy distorted guitar riff. It was loud, and John laughed a little as she jumped—conveniently, into his arms.

“Sorry.” He turned down the volume slightly, his arms circling her waist almost of their own volition. It felt so easy, being with her. Maybe from the very moment they’d met, it just felt like she should be in his arms, and acting on it made something loud and uneasy always clamoring in the back of his brain to go quiet. She swayed her head and shoulders a little to the beat; it was impossible not to.

“John?” she asked from beneath his chin, brushing the soft scruff of his beard with her nose. It filled him with a tingling warmth, in the very marrow of his bones, a pleasure in this closeness that just seemed too good to be true. It was like a drug, better than cocaine or heroin or anything else he’d ever tried, and he didn’t know how he would ever let her go.

“Yeah?”

“They made you learn ballet at your…school, but do you like to dance?”

He’d spent so much time in night clubs, hunting, and acting as backup muscle for Tarasov while he closed business deals, but it wasn’t a setting he really enjoyed. He wasn’t sure he really classified the writhing and arm waving one engaged in at the club as dancing. He was familiar with other dance forms, but they didn’t come up often in his life.

 “I feel like you’re actually asking me a different question,” he teased, leaning into her to reach out to skip to a different track.

“I am?”

“You’re asking if I want to dance with you?”

The first metallic notes of Dan Auerbach’s guitar rang out, and John swayed to the beat, a hand on her svelte waist pinning her close. With a smile she moved with him, her other hand finding his.

“Do you?”

He looked down at her with a glint of mischief in those shining dark eyes, and so much warmth that a flood of heat washed through her from her hair follicles all the way to her toes. This man. She really would follow him anywhere. Maybe the wine they’d drank lubricated this thought process, but she knew that didn’t make it any less true.

John knew that his answer to any question that involved an activity with her would be a resounding yes. Groceries? Yes. The dentist? Fine. Just hold his hand. He was broken for her.   

 “Of course I do.” He lifted his arm to guide her in a turn before pulling her close again, and she simply couldn’t help it. The joy in her heart soared.

Then the vocals in the song began, and Helen couldn’t help the fuzzy warmth that spread in her chest. Need a new love? I’m ready. Want my time? I’m willing.

There wasn’t a huge amount of open space in the living room, but John was very good at making do, leading her in steps to the beat, throwing in fun checks and turns and behind-the-back maneuvers that made her giggle. She knew she sounded drunk. It was on him though, far more than the wine. He made her happier than any one had in a very long time. Maybe ever, if she was being honest with herself.

To make things even worse, the chorus of the song rang loud in her ears with the infectious guitar riff: I’ll be your man. Mmm, I’ll be your man. She didn’t know if he picked this song on purpose for the lyrics, or the intoxicating rhythm, but she felt it in her bones, and in her heart, and every cell of her being; she was so attuned to this man.

She almost tripped when he attempted to twist her up like a pretzel in a figure-eight step, but he caught her, laughing with her as he held her close.

“I’m not that good,” she apologized, clinging to him more than she really needed to. He was just…so solid, and if she was being honest all she really wanted to do was climb him like a fucking tree.  

His arm around her waist was like a warm band of iron, and he smiled gently down at her. She felt herself melting like chocolate in the sun, her knees gone weak beneath her.

“That’s ok. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped from her throat. Because, she knew it was true, and not just here being silly dancing in his living room. She realized she trusted him not to drop her no matter what they were doing, or what they were facing. That kind of faith in another person, much less a man, was a rare and precious thing.

“John…” she said softly, looking up into his warm dark eyes from so very close. She wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, or if she just needed to cite his name like a prayer, invoke him like a saint in her personal pantheon. Maybe it was madness, but wrapped up in his arms like this, he felt like something to believe in.

Her eyes drifted down to his mouth, those full lips she’d coveted since the moment they’d met, if she was telling the truth.

This was the moment that John’s will to fight it broke at last. He felt it inside, not like a hard snap, but a definite release, like a boat coming unmoored, being swept down a swift stream. There was no more resisting. He was lost to her.

Pulled like a magnet, he finally leaned in that fraction of distance to press his lips to hers. His kiss was like a sunrise in her heart; warm and bursting, soft and sweet. She couldn’t stop herself from standing on tiptoe with a low moan, looping her arms around his neck as she pressed her body against his. It won her something like a deep growl that thrilled her to her toes, and greedily she wanted more.

She teased the seam of his mouth with her tongue, begging entrance he gladly granted. She felt the tremor in his arms as he held her, so tightly that he nearly lifted her from the floor. He kissed her like a starving man offered a life-giving meal, and her fingers fisted in his hair at the back of his head, holding him to her, holding on.

His heartbeat a thundering timpani in his ears, John felt like Helen’s lips on his was the answer to a question his heart had been asking his whole adult life. She was the air he breathed, the sustenance necessary to live, and the desire to drink her down, to eat her up, was a dogged, insistent demand from the darkest depths of his soul.

He never wanted to let her go.

With a ragged breath he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers, his fingers digging into her sides. She might have bruises later.

She didn’t mind.

She wanted his hands, rough or gentle.

She wanted all of him, and if he didn’t return his mouth to hers she was going to scream.

“Helen,” he panted. “I—”

The tinny electronic sound of his phone ringing in his pocket interrupted what might have been a foolish—or a life changing—confession. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, knowing he had to answer it. That was the deal with the devil he’d signed, when he didn’t really have any better choice. He was on call all the time.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

She nodded, but did not extricate herself, leaning on his shoulder while he pulled the device from his pocket. It was Viggo Tarasov, and his heart dropped like a stone. It was rare that the boss Himself called. He absolutely had to answer it, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his pakhan had to say.

With a heavy heart he lifted the phone to his ear, his other arm still wrapped possessively around Helen.

“Da?”

“Good evening, John.”

John fought to keep the impatient snarl out of his tone, but feared he failed royally. “Evening, Viggo.”

“I’ve just heard some interesting things about your latest adventures about town. I think we need to talk.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

“When?”

“Now.”

Of fucking course.

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Good.”

Viggo hung up, and John clenched the phone in his fist, fighting not to throw it across the room. He knew Helen heard every word for the way she sighed with disappointment, snuggling into the bend of his neck. The sensation of her front molded to his was heaven, and he didn’t know how to let her go.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized with lips to her forehead. “I have to go.”

“I understand.” There was some consolation, in that she sounded as devastated as he was.

“You’ll be ok here? My house is your house. Help yourself to anything you want.”

She made a kittenish little sound that sent all his blood straight to his groin. “What I want is leaving,” she informed him with a pouting lip, tugging on the front of his shirt.

He couldn’t stop himself then from stealing another kiss, a deep and probing thing that left her breathless and starry-eyed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her.

“Promise?”

“Yes.” John wondered what Viggo had in store. If he was in trouble, or if his boss would send him out to teach the Medvedev boys a lesson tonight. He didn’t want to go hunting that night. Everything he truly wanted in the world, he realized, was standing right in front of him, looking up at him with melted toffee eyes. He cupped her cheek, memorizing every detail of her all over again.

He realized with a startling clarity that he could never get enough of her.

The intensity of his stare sent a thrill jetting down her spine. “John…” He worried her a little, when he got like this. She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly—but some little intuition in the back of her brain sang out that something bad might happen.

“It’ll be alright,” he told her, sensing her unease. “I have to change.” He kissed her forehead again, and disappeared up the stairs to his room.

Helen plopped down on the couch with a sigh, crushed with disappointment but knowing this was how it was, and she understood more than ever now that it wasn’t his fault or his choice. She picked up the Villanelle book, No Tomorrow, stroking her thumb over the cover, but not cracking it open.

When John stalked down the stairs he was wearing one of his slim-fit all black suits again, his hair slicked back from his face. He looked beautiful, and predatory, sleek as a panther stalking in the jungle, and fierce attraction warred with dread in Helen’s breast. She had a feeling that someone might die tonight, and it was so strange to think in those terms with such a sense of acceptance.

At least she knew John’s prey would be no one innocent.  

“Don’t forget you owe me a chapter,” she said in a sing song tone as he approached, waving the book, trying to lighten the pall that had fallen upon the room.  

The smile he paid her was filled with melancholy; she felt it like a knife between the ribs. “I won’t,” he assured her, taking her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. He paused, looking down at this beautiful woman seated on his couch, with her legs that went on forever and the warmth in her eyes all for him. There was nothing he wanted more, than to stay there with her. To lay her down and kiss every inch of her perfect flesh. He probably should have told her that, but he just sighed, and let her go.

“I’m going to leave this here, just in case,” he said, all business as he showed her a blocky black automatic pistol. “There’s one in the chamber. All you have to do is pull the trigger. It has a long trigger pull but please do not touch it unless you need it, and be very careful.” He stashed the Glock in a drawer beside the couch. “I’ll leave the alarm on. If it goes off I’ll get an alert on my phone.”

With wide eyes she nodded. “Do you…think the Medvedevs will come here?”

“No, or I wouldn’t leave you here alone.” He honestly thought this was the safest place for her. “But…” One never knows.

“Okay.” He could tell that he managed to scare her a little, and he hated himself for it.

“I’m being paranoid,” he tried to assure her. He dared add, “Because you’re precious to me.” She softened then, and stood to wrap her arms around his neck once more. Embracing her was as intoxicating as kissing her, and again John warred with himself as to how he was going to leave.

“Come back to me,” she demanded softly, kissing the soft scruff of his cheek.

“Always,” he answered without allowing himself to think about it, pressing his lips to hers in a long, gentle kiss filled with all the yearning in his heart.

Reluctantly, he slipped from her grasp, and didn’t look back.

She watched him go, admiring his tall dark form even as he was leaving her.

She heard the roar of the Mustang starting in the garage, and the trail of its growl as it prowled across the driveway, disappearing down the street into the night. She couldn’t help but feel like her heart sped away with it.

[bubblegumbeech]

The Librarian’s Trick

Day one Ectoberhaunt: Trick or Treat

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34213519

 1:

 Wes was certain this Cassius guy was a ghost. He had to be. Humans didn’t live on the outskirts of town in large decrepit clock towers that Wes was      pretty sure didn’t exist last week    .

 Humans didn’t have red eyes and white hair (unless they had a condition called Albinoism, Wes had looked it up. But Albinoism      also     meant they had no melanin      anywhere    and Cassius Dark was decidedly tan in an admittedly attractive but decidedly not Albino kind of way)

 Humans didn’t have fangs when they smiled but normal teeth whenever Wes tried to point out that      He had FANGS. They were right there!!!  

 Humans didn’t spend all their time either with Danny Fenton (who was Also very much a ghost!! Which should be in the list of proof but no one believes it so it’s seperate but still!) or mysteriously absent.

 And humans didn’t seem to know everything all the time but talk like a bad astrology website.

 So Wes was going to find a way to prove it.

 His first try had him sneaking a “ghost translator” he didn’t remember the stupid name Fenton’s dad called it when he bought it with his allowance, into the library where Cassius Dark supposedly worked.

 Supposedly, because while he could be found there, Wes had never actually seen him doing anything other than reading. And it was never a book Wes recognized, like, he wasn’t reading the Twilight series or anything. The last book Wes saw had been a large ancient looking tome written in a language Wes didn’t recognize. But Everytime he tried (subtly! He was super nonchalant about it!) to take a picture it ended up blurry!! And No Kyle, it wasn’t because he was      bad at taking photos    .

 But that didn’t matter because Wes had a different plan now. He was going to use the Fentons’ new version of their “ghost translator” thing, and see what happened. It was supposed to be both a translator and a truth decoder at the same time. So no matter what a ghost said, the device should say what they actually mean. Or something.

 With Danny, a bunch of innocuous stuff went off around him, but people always hand waved it as faulty tech. Wes wasn’t sure that was the case, in fact he was positive it wasn’t. But if he could get something useful to build up from, that would be a good start. And every good reporter needed a start.

 He stepped up to the Library’s front desk, where Cassius was sitting reading what was      clearly     a spell tome if the different summoning pentagrams in the open page Wes could see were anything to go by.

 “Welcome Young Weston,” Cassius said, the hint of a smile hidden behind his red eyes as he closed his book. Wes could swear they were glowing slightly. Geez did this guy get his ‘how to pretend to be human’ classes from      Fenton    ?

 … that would certainly explain why no one ever believed Wes, since that was a long beaten dead horse in his closet.

 He, very discreetly, had the device hooked up to one of his earphones, which he kept in one of his ears like any normal less than perfectly mannered teenager as he asked Cassius Dark his questions.

 “Excuse me sir? Do you work here?” he started with, it was a more or less innocuous question and one he actually wanted the answer to.

 Cassius Dark smiled. “I do.”

 My Job is all that was, is, and shall be. That which I set as my goal is beyond mortal comprehension and those I call master shall fall to my machinations. But yes, I get paid for sitting at this desk and answering questions sometimes. I am a ghost, fear me.

 Wes tried not to sweat too obviously. What the fuck?

 “Can you tell me where the journalism section is?” Wes decided to make a tactical retreat, at least his voice didn’t crack.

 “Straight back for eight shelves and then turn right. It’s next to the Non-fiction books.”

 I know what you’re looking for, I know why you are here. I know the exact time of your death and what will happen next. Your efforts amuse me though. I am a ghost, fear me.

 What Wes did next was not      exactly     fleeing. But it wasn’t      not     fleeing either.

 He’d have to try something else.

 2:

 The next thing he wanted to try was a bit riskier. If you thought about it a certain way. But it also wasn’t if you thought about it the way Wes did.

 He was going to use a phase-proof net.

 Genius, because unlike the translator machine thing, it would actually stop the ghost from attacking Wes if it got angered. Which it would, probably, since Wes was throwing a net at it.

 The plan was really simple though, he’d gotten a very large net, paid extra for the little aim thing, practiced half a billion times of his brothers before they went to the parents and got him grounded for a week, and then memorized the path Cassius Dark took in the mornings to go to his “job” at the library.

 Right now he was hiding in one of the leafier trees, right above the path that Cassius always used, waiting.

 And waiting.

 And…      waiting.  

 Honestly he was about to go home and was fairly certain this guy was going to be like, super late to work, when he finally appeared.

 Wes wasted no time aiming, making sure the trajectory was absolutely perfect, and firing the net off. He was just about to jump in celebration, watching the net as it curled slightly around its target, but before it could hit and wrap around him, Cassius was suddenly not there.

 Or he was, but just a little bit to the left, so that the net sailed harmlessly past.

 Wes cursed.

 3:

 The third one was fool proof. It had to be.

 Which was why Wes was staring at a large conspiracy board, covered in paparazzi-esque shots of the librarian and random notes he’d taken, all connected with a dizzying amount of red string.

 “Kyle, seriously. I need to figure out what kind of ghost he is or he’s always going to have the upper hand!!”

 Kyle just rolled his eyes and continued playing his video game, as if he didn’t care that Wes had set up his very important planning and plotting in the middle of the living room so long as it didn’t interfere with his own plans.

 “It has to be pretty powerful, he was able to dodge my net before it even touched him. And the translator thing clearly said ‘my goal is beyond comprehension’ or something,” Wes mused, “and he also said his job was like, everything?”

 Wes checked his notes, “yeah, ‘all that is was and shall be’. What could he mean by that?”

 His very annoying and clearly not taking this as seriously as he should brother just chuckled. “I don’t know Wes, maybe he can see the future?”

 That… no. That’s way too OP. Just the thought of it sent a shiver down Wes’ spine. There was no way a ghost could see the future right?

 Right?

 He had to test this theory.

 But how do you even test something like that?

 “Kyle, how would you test if someone could see the future?”

 “Throw something at the back of their head and see if they dodge?” He answered way too quickly.

 Wes thought about it for a moment. “No, what if they just have really good reflexes?”

 “Oh huh, I guess that could be true. No idea then.” He shrugged and Wes had to fight the urge to throw something at the back of      his    head.

 Whatever. He had to make plans.

 He’d tried just throwing things. It was risky, and kind of terrifying, but Kyle was right it      was     the first that came to mind.

 But Cassius never dodged. He was always just, not where Wes thought he was. Or Wes had      really bad aim,    which he didn’t!!! He was a basketball ace!! He had great aim! And great situational awareness!!

 So why couldn’t he hit Cassius Dark?

 Obviously it was because he could see the future. And the smug smile he always had when he knew Wes was looking reminded him an awful lot of a certain other Phantom.

 4:

 Ask him about his family.

 Easy enough. Especially without the Fenton’s weird translator because that might have been a bit terrifying. And also this time he had back up.

 He dragged Kyle by his sleeve into the library.

 “Mr. Cassius!”

 Cassius looked up from his book, removing the delicate reading glasses balanced on his nose. “Can I help you Mr. Weston?”

 “Yes!” He smiled broadly, taking out a small notebook that he had used to take notes on the suspicious and ghoulish things going on around town until it was mostly shreds of paper. “I’m writing an OP ED on the town library, and would like to know more about the librarian. Can you answer a few personal questions?”

 Kyle snorted and Wes had to elbow him in the side to get him to shut up. He was here as back up, not to ruin his plan.

 “So,” he began, “is Cassius a family name?”

 “No.”

 Wes nodded. And then frowned. Did ghosts have families? Supposedly they were alive once right? At least that was the general idea, Wes thought.

 “So what can you tell us about your parents? Like, what’s your father’s name?”

 Cassius raised an eyebrow, and had a soft smile filled with good humor. Wes felt it hit him like a threat. What was this ghost hiding?

 Well, other than the fact that he’s a ghost.

 “I can’t tell you much I’m afraid. My mother is long gone and I never had a father.”

 Kyle grimaced and elbowed Wes himself before saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

 “It’s no matter,” Cassius replied, still smiling, “I may yet see her again.”

 Ah, so either she wasn’t dead or he’s convinced she became a ghost too. That made sense. It could be his unfinished business as they say among the paranormal hunters. At least, the not fight-y and crazy ones.

 “So Dark was your mother’s name?” Wes asked, wondering if he could maybe find any records on her where he had failed to find them on Cassius himself.

 The smile slid right off his face. Wes and Kyle both felt the subtle chill in the air as Cassius leaned back and looked off to the side, as if to glare at something that wasn’t there. “No, I’m afraid Dark is my ex-husband’s name.”

 “Why keep it?” Kyle asked, completely ignoring the danger of the situation.

 The smile came back, except this time instead of soft and barely there as if he were indulging a child, it was sharp and twisted. He chuckled at an inside joke no one else in the room would ever understand and then he said, “Well, it’s not like      he     has any use for it now.”

 Wes paled. Had he killed his husband?!

 5:

 After a hasty retreat from the library Wes treated Kyle to a milkshake and fries at the nasty burger just as he had promised. Payment for going along with his ‘weird ghost theories’.

 But Wes couldn’t eat, he was too busy thinking. This one actually helped! He found information about the ghost’s previous life! He had a mother, but not a father, and had a husband.

 With the current politics it was one of two options. Either he was from a previous culture that allowed men to marry each other, or he was a more recent ghost than Wes had been expecting. He had already taken out his laptop and was scrolling through obituaries with the surname Dark, trying to think if he knew any off the top of his head that might have been in town when they died.

 Nothing particular came to mind.

 Wes’ thinking was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious slurping noise from his brother. He shot him a glare, but Kyle didn’t react. Wasn’t even looking at him. Instead he was looking out the window and watching one of the daily ghost attacks with Phantom playing hero as always.

 “You know, it’s kinda cool that they’re hiring actors to build the town’s lore like that,” he said, clearly ignoring the obvious evidence of ghosts right outside his window.

 “What the      hell     are you talking about?” Wes groaned, rubbing at his eyes. He needed coffee or something, it was a shame the Nasty Burger only served sludge no sane person would drink.

 Kyle finally looked away from the window, his eyes wide as if      he     was the one confused. “You know, how they got the librarian to say he was married to Pariah Dark? And then imply he’s the reason he’s a ghost?”

 Wes felt like the seat underneath him had suddenly disappeared. “Where did you get      That    from?!”

 “He said his ex-husband was named Dark! Pariah Dark’s Ghost Zone show is the first thing that comes to mind!” Kyle argued back. “Isn’t it?”

 Holy shit this guy was married to the ghost king.

 He thought back to the ominous answers he’d gotten that first day from the Fentons’ translator. Maybe he should leave this one alone.

 +1

 Wes was at the library, studying quietly and absolutely avoiding the librarian. Not that he’d seen him today, but it didn’t hurt to keep his head down. With any luck the guy had a short memory and would forget Wes had been trying to find a way to out him to the town.

 A portal ripped from the air in front of him, sending a static energy throughout the library and causing Wes’ hair to stand on end. It was a swirling purple, deeper and more… well      more     than most of the natural portals that Wes had seen appear around town.

 He wanted to scream, but years of living in Amity Park had fully trained that out of him. Screaming was the number one way to get a ghost locked on you as their first target. Especially if you were there when the portal opened.

 Before Wes could even think to duck under the table he was using a figure stepped out of the portal, poised and composed. He had a deep purple hood that seemed to swirl with the fabric of galaxies and a large ornate clock embedded into his chest. His skin was a rich blue and he had glowing red eyes.

 Wes recognized him immediately.

 “Oh, hello Mr. Weston, is there something I can help you with?” Cassius Dark asked.

[100hearteyes]

any more thoughts on 'clarke and lexa make a porno'?

🤔😏

Part 1 Part 2

“Last but not least, worry no more, citizens of Capitola: after a grueling week of searching, our very own superhero Jasper Jordan has finally found his cape. He was wearing it all along.”

“It’s so good to know that he will be able to go on keeping Capitola safe.”

“Yes, what would we do without Jasper Jordan here to protect us? And from now on, you’ll be in Lexa Woods’s hands. Also, such good hands those are. She’s got very long fingers.”

“Oh. Well, I never actually noticed, but I guess they are. Thanks, Clarke. And now, perk your ears for the new hit single from our very own global country star, Harper McIntyre. It’s called Call Me Harp-by. She’s a creative genius!”

-

Lexa’s first instinct when she hears the studio door open is to hide. She checks her options: Monty is holed up under his desk playing on his GameBoy Color, Octavia has barricaded herself in a corner with actual hand-carved sticks and is roaring at Bellamy in a strange language, and Murphy is probably peeing into a bin behind the pillar on the far side of the room.

She’s too slow to think of a solution in the end and she can’t do anything but flush when Clarke strolls in and heads over to her, smirk plastered on her face. Lexa only has time to save her miniature Baby Yoda from Clarke’s weapon of ass destruction before her coworker sits on the edge of her desk.

“Hey, Lexa.”

Lexa forces a polite smile, trying to focus on her outline for the day rather than the butt cheeks planted on her desk, the body attached to them, or the face looking down at her with a sly grin. “Hello, Clarke.”

“What do you think of Harper McIntyre’s new song?”

The topic confuses her, but she trudges on with a brave face. After all, she’s got opinions on Capitola’s Taylor Swift rip-off and if Anya is going to make it a point of leaving the room every time Lexa so much as mentions them, then she’s going to take this opportunity with both hands and pull out all the receipts. “Uninspired. Derivative. Oddly reminiscent of Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen.”

“Yeah...” Clarke nods pensively, letting the subsequent silence drag on for a few more seconds. “I like your fingers.”

Lexa starts at the sudden topic change and struggles to keep her blush under control under the brazen intensity of Clarke’s stare. “Yes, I- I noticed. You mentioned. On the radio, for all of Capitola to hear. Thank you, I guess?”

Clarke hums, before clicking her tongue and hopping off of Lexa’s desk. She roundabouts it until she’s right next to Lexa, thigh brushing Lexa’s arm.

Lexa tries and fails to swallow down the knot in her throat as Clarke sits on her desk again, this time on her side, crossing her legs so her feet touch Lexa’s leg.

“So a little bird told me we’re starring in a porno together.”

Lexa almost yelps, scrambling out of her chair to fasten both hands over Clarke’s mouth. “The whole world doesn’t need to know, Clarke!”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but Lexa can feel her smile under her hands. Their eyes lock, a tacit understanding passing between them. Clarke's eyes are a vivid blue, like a cloudless sky or the color of Lexa's highlighters before Anya dunked them all in a bag of manure, and it's hard not to drown in the depths of them.

"Glad to see you two getting intimate already."

They spring apart as though they were burned. Lexa sits back down on her chair, while Clarke takes a seat at her desk, which to Lexa's chagrin is right next to her own. Anya chuckles as she sinks into her own chair, propping her feet on Lexa's desk, crossed at the ankles.

"Anyway," she slams a hand over a stack of papers, making Clarke and Lexa jump in their seats, "can you guess what this is?"

Clarke and Lexa look at each other with raised eyebrows, then at Anya. Lexa shrugs.

"This is your fucking Bible," Anya says, not waiting for them to guess. "Your Dianetics.Your Loose Canon. Your gospel." At her companions' still expectant stares, Anya heaves a dramatic sigh, throwing her arms up. "It's the goddamn screenplay."

Oh.

Oh.

It's like the snap of an elastic band. Lexa and Clarke shoot out of their chairs to snatch the script from Anya's desk. Lexa gets there first (going to the gym does pay off after all), dribbling around Clarke, and lets out a triumphant cry before sinking back into her chair, thumbing through the pages of the heavy tome.

She stops on a random page and feels Clarke press closer to read over her shoulder.

-

INT. BLONDIE'S KITCHEN - TWILIGHT

Enter Lulu. Plumber by day, detective by night. She stops by the island and twirls a lead pipe in her right hand before sheathing it like a cowboy's pistol.

LULU

It seems it's time to read your...

Lulu puts on her shades. ZOOM IN.

LULU (CONT'D)

...Anya rights.

-

Lexa balks, peeling her eyes from the page to gape at Anya.

"Anya rights? Anya rights? You can't just... Arbitrarily rename the Miranda rights. They have that name for a reason."

Anya rolls her eyes like Lexa just said something obnoxiously stupid. "I didn't just rename them, you dumbass. I fucking changed them. If you'd read the whole thing, you would know that the suspect has the obligation to remain silent. No more fucking cry babies in cuffs."

"This is..." Lexa opens and closes her mouth like a fish, trying to find a thread of logic in the midst of... Whatever fever dream she's living in right now. "I thought we were filming a porno, not a sexy cop movie. Plumber by day, detective by night? That's- it's not even remotely realistic."

"Lexa... Suspend your disbelief."

"I think it's really good stuff," Clarke chimes in, her breasts still firmly pressed to Lexa's shoulder blade.

"Thank you, Clarke!" Anya exclaims, throwing her hands up and letting them fall on her legs with a loud clap. "At least someone appreciates my genius."

Lexa rolls her eyes, but fine. Fine. She will read more; she will give Anya a chance. She opens the book on a new page, several scenes ahead.

-

INT. BLONDIE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Blondie rubs her lover's love button like she's scratching at a turn-table, making Lulu scream louder than Saoirse Ronan in Ammonite when Kate Winslet was eating her out with her neck.

LULU

Oh, fuck! You're so good at this! Almost as good as my awesome best friend and mentor Anya, even though I've never had sex with her because that would be totally gross.

Blondie stops her ministrations to look up at Lulu and smirks.

BLONDIE

I know. After all, they don't call me DJ Diddles for nothin'.

-

Lexa stares incredulously from the two hundred-odd pages to Anya, wondering how grave a sin she must have committed in a past life to deserve this.

"What are you, a sex-deprived straight guy?"

Anya scoffs, yanking the script from Lexa's hands before she can do anything to stop it. "I can assure you there is no deprivation in that department."

"After reading that I am seriously starting to doubt that you've ever even seen a vagina."

"I thought it was good," Clarke pipes in once again. This time, Lexa turns to her with a raised eyebrow.

"Is she paying you to say that?"

Clarke tsks with a smirk. "I'm just smart enough to know better than to get on the lead producer's bad side."

Anya snaps her fingers and points at Clarke approvingly, and Lexa has never regretted a decision so deeply in her life.

"Anyway," Clarke resumes, standing up and grabbing her bag. "This has been fun, but I need to get going. Anya, stay classy. We'll work out the schedule this week. Lexa," she adds, her voice dropping a tone to turn into a seductive purr. She leans down, and it's all Lexa can do not to focus on how her breasts squish together and seem to become fuller and more inviting. She loses the plot when a pair of lips presses to her cheek in a kiss that is chaste, yet way too slow for propriety. "See you tomorrow."

Lexa's throat is dry as a desert as she watches Clarke leave, her hips swaying more than usual. She jumps in place when Anya clears her throat next to her. This time, she can't avoid her friend's shit-eating grin.

"No chemistry, you say?"

"Shut up, Anya," she grumbles, focusing back on her work. She has a full, five-minute newscast to prepare, she can't dawdle and joke around gossiping like some people. But then a thought pops up in her head and she turns to Anya, eyes narrowed. "Is this some elaborate plan to get us together? I refuse to be your little Love, Actually experiment."

Anya's stare is fifty shades of unimpressed. "Lexa. Don't take yourself so seriously. It's a bad look on you."

Lexa buries her face in her hands with a long-suffering sigh. Why is this her life? Why is this her best friend? Why is she hopelessly attracted to the worst, most unprofessional coworker on the planet?

"Why couldn't you find a normal hobby? Something that doesn't include me? Like baking. Baking would have been so much better."

"You know," Anya drawls almost nostalgically, "I actually considered that, but the criminally inclined baker niche was already taken up by Martha Stewart."

"She is surprisingly niche," Lexa says, intrigued.

"Indeed."

"But she's also able to appeal to a larger audience."

"Uh-huh."

"Fascinating."

"I know. It's like Punkya. You'd think a lesbian erotica magazine would only appeal to queer women and depraved straight men, but it's been selling surprisingly well amongst the straight female demographic."

Hm. Are all women secretly queer?

"Interesting," Lexa concedes, before veering the topic back to Anya's passion (and Lexa's torture) project. "So when does principal photography start?"

And there it is again, that nefarious gleam in Anya's eyes. It grows along with her Cheshire cat grin, curling and curling until it's pure, unbridled evil.

"Next week."

[mongooseblues]

Further Reading

A quick silly drabble thing with some OCs. (aka when u try to give a book to ur very cool grad student who you’re secretly mildly obsessed with but ur copy of ur boring philosophy book is really fucking dusty and that’s not good) — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — “Nooo, that’s such a big book,” Scotty whines, upon being passed something much thicker than a paperback novel.

“I-know-I-know-I-know, but trust me it’s worth it.”

They struggle to hold back a groan. “How many pages is it?” If they have to read a thousand more fucking pages of dense-ass moral philosophy for this stupid crush, so help them god.

Cal isn’t sure of the exact page count so he flips through, effectively fanning a plume of dust into his face.

“Can’t you just give me the sparknotes summary?”

They’re mid sentence when he freezes in place, eyebrows knitting together. He puts down the book, holds up a finger and says, “Sorry, I’m-hh!”

“Oh are you gonna sneeze?”

His face relaxes into false repose for a moment, and he looks up as if he’s debating the matter himself, but finally inhales a decisive “Yeah,” hurriedly plucks a tissue and falls forward into a loud, “AEHHHoo! ESSHHyoo!!”

“Jesus Cal,” Scotty laughs, “don’t hit your fucking face on the desk.”

He grins to the extent he can control his features between sneezes. “I al-h-” is as far as he gets before needing to double over into the tissue, this time angling the trajectory of his collapse more cautiously off to the side. “Hih-JIISSHH-shue! I almost did honestly.”

“God, bless you. What’s wrong with you?”

Cal gestures to the bookcase. “Just dust, snf! I guess I hadn’t touched that…” Oh, and apparently one more, caught last minute in the blur of a hastily raised elbow. “hehhh’YISHHOO!”

“Bless you!”

A clearing head shake as he collects himself. “Woo, thaank you. Hadn’t touched that bottom shelf in awhile.”

“Damn. I’d hate to see you in a library.”

“Oho you have no idea,” he says with a self-effacing smile and a quick sweep of his fingers to push the forward-tumbled lock of hair back from his forehead.

Scotty flips through the pages of the proffered tome themself and god does it look boring — Camus was one thing but this appears to be quite another. “I’m sorry to make you sneeze in vain but I kinda don’t… want this?”

Cal dramatically brings a hand to his chest. “You’re about to break my whole damn heart Scotty, snff! I hope you know.”

“Dude I seriously can’t get through a single sentence here, this is the densest shit.” They look up from a page to witness his expression change to one of unmistakable irritation. “Are you gonna sneeze again just to guilt trip me?”

He isn’t sure but he holds his crooked arm aloft either way. “No I think I’m done, snfff!” Yet he exists in a shaky limbo, trying to fend it off with a conciliatory curled finger held to his nose.

It’s clearly not working.

“Waitmaybe…” segues into a greedy inhale in ragged increments, each inward breath only deepening the need to expel the irritant.

Scotty’s getting sick of waiting for maybe. “Well, bless you in adva—”

“ihhh’IIZSSSYUE! Thank you.”

He sniffles sharply, reaches quickly for the tissue box again, raised eyebrows and impatience, the seam of his lips slowly coming undone — Caliph Chowdhury in the shape of catastrophe. For whatever reason there’s something very amusing about watching him unravel this way.

“Fanned a bunch of dust straight into your face when you flipped those pages, didn’t you?”

Cal swivels himself back to an angle where the desk won’t be an obstacle and it’s a good thing he does.

“I shih— hiih-h.. HIIHHSHHue! Sure did.” Another immediate inhale and a look of irritated disbelief (still?) and despite the fact that his elbows are already on his knees apparently it’s possible for him to fold over further. “Holy- hihYIIZSHHuue! Holy smokes, snffh! Excuse me.”

A sniffly disaster with a sheepish grin. A terrible idea hidden under the innocent dust jacket of what has evidently become a very challenging two person bookclub.

“Aight now I do feel guilty, I’m taking the goddamn book.”

He laughs as he scrubs aggressively at his nose with the dampened tissue. “You seriously don’t have to.”

“Stop talking, stop sneezing, I’m taking it.”

“You probably should skip the introduction though, snf! because admittedly that part kind of is needlessly dense.”

Pity the fool who falls for a fucking philosopher. 

[hb-writes]

Tidy Sums

Summary: Sophie Mason (OC) was John Shelby’s first friend and his first kiss. They’d never been in love, not in the way he’d been in love with Martha. Their relationship wasn’t quite so tidy, but that had never stopped them from loving one another in their own way and finding their own happiness in the mayhem. 

Characters: John Shelby and Sophie (OC)

Warnings: canon-content, mention of a sexual relationship, kissing/ touching.

--

If Sophie was being honest, and honest was something she usually was, the problem was quite simple. 

The numbers no longer made sense. 

They hadn't for some time now, the figures blurring together with the lines meant to keep each transaction separate, the columns and neat symbols representing the company's wins and losses jumbled in her mind although the tidy sums were somehow still accumulating on the bottom of every page. 

Sophie had been working with the betting shop's books for years now, more familiar with the content of the ledgers than she was with any other book she’d come across—the bible or the latest popular novel she’d taken out from the central library. She supposed the only other pages she knew as well as the ledgers were those of the children’s book John’s kids begged after anytime she sat for them, refusing sleep until they heard a tale from the old, worn tome that was so well-loved it was missing the cover page. Sophie could probably recite the story from memory, but she had no ideas about its proper title, not with the kids referring to it exclusively as “daddy’s story.”

Sophie had worked for the Shelby family in a somewhat official capacity since leaving school almost a decade earlier, but she had had her nose in their books for longer than that, ever since Polly realized the girl had a penchant for numbers. And it was Sophie who encouraged John to get involved with this side of the business when they were only fourteen, convincing him easily enough that the pair of them could get up to the same amount of fun in the betting shop as they got up to out on the lane. It was Sophie who had known, despite what his school records had to say on the matter, that John Shelby was good with numbers. 

But numbers were cleaner, less bloody, less exciting, and certainly more mentally taxing than playing at peaky boy, or at least mentally taxing in a different way. They had to generate their own sources of amusement within the walls of the betting shop. She and John had always been good at sourcing their own amusement though.

Sophie sat back from the books, taking a moment to rub her eyes with the heels of her palms. It was late. Scudboat and the twins had already gone, and John had locked her in when he went home to check on his lot, saying he’d be back to let her out and lock up once he got his kids down for the night. 

That was their routine these days. She’d spend an extra couple of hours each night with the books while John stole an extra couple of hours with his kids before putting them down for bed and coming back to number six to wrap things up for the night.

She startled a bit when John’s hands found her arms, his rough palms pinching and rubbing against the delicate fabric of her shirt. She settled as the warmth of his hands came through her thin sleeves and sunk into her skin, finally leaning her head back to rest against his stomach, tilting her eyes up to him briefly as the left side of her mouth pulled up. 

“Devils went down early tonight,” she said. 

He’d been gone for less than an hour. It was usually twice that before he made his way back and his return was usually accompanied with some sort of complaint about the kids’ behavior, about their refusal to go to sleep or eat the dinner he made them, something Sophie was always quick to remind him was simple coded behavior for them wanting more time with their father and being uncertain of a better way to go about it.

“Finn’s on devil duty for the night.” John shrugged. “Says he’s saving up for something, so he’s eager for the pocket money.”

Sophie hummed, tilting her head back down to the books as she picked up her pen once more. “A little devil put on devil duty,” she mused. “I’m sure that will turn out well.”

“I think you’ll find most of us Shelbys are devils,” John said.

“I don’t...” she started, pausing both her hand and her mouth as John’s fingers traveled up her arm, fingertips slipping across the smooth skin of her exposed collarbone and then her neck as he pushed her hair aside. 

She tried again. “I don’t intend...”

Sophie gulped, stilling for a moment as John’s lips found her neck. A deep breath came from her in a nearly involuntary capacity and her shoulders relaxed back. She was overcome by his slow focus, overcome by the simple way John could tease her. Despite his leisurely wandering, they both knew he was venturing towards the one spot he knew could have her entirely undone, have her forgetting her words and how to properly breathe, obliterating from memory the notion of responsibility and the company books entirely. 

“Don’t intend to what?” John mumbled the words against her skin as she tilted her head, exposing her neck as his fingers wound in her hair. 

“Fuck,” she breathed as his lips found her earlobe, his warm breath melting any remaining resolve as her back arched away from the chair. 

“No, John, stop.” 

John released her from his lips, straightening his back, and turning her face to his with the hand still entwined in her hair, the guidance gentle yet resolute. 

“You really want me to stop?” 

Her skin burned hot and her breaths had started to come a bit quicker, more shallow and less gratifying in meeting her need for air, her need for calm and control and the mysterious power she knew a steady cadence of breaths could hold. Sophie forced herself to deepen her inhale and pause before the exhale, forced herself to calm her racing heart and quell the more instinctual desire stirring inside of her, willing her mind and body to focus...on anything other than John.

“I want,” she started after a barely sufficient cycle of inhales and exhales, reaching up to wrap her hand around John’s forearm, “for you to let me finish these ledgers so your aunt doesn’t issue me a death warrant.” 

John sighed and rolled his eyes at the protest but removed his hand from her hair at the gentle nudge. 

“Or a boot. Or a smack upside the head,” Sophie continued, pulling a hair comb from her desk drawer and initiating some attempt at getting the hair out of her face, “or whatever retribution it is she’s offering us these days.”

“Pol won’t come after you like that,” John said.

“She’s done it before.”

“That woman hit you once, almost fifteen years ago, and we both deserved it that day. Scared the shit out of her playing in the Cut like that.” John rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment, thinking on the whiskey and cigars tucked away in his office before deciding to forgo both vices for now. “Anyway, we’re not kids anymore.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Aunt Polly smacked you upside the head just last week.”

“Well, that’s me, not you,” he said. “She’s got a soft spot for you.”

“All the more reason not to chance it, then. One go around with her was more than enough for me,” she answered, finally succeeding at securing the bulk of her hair up, the loose bits falling back into her face just a few seconds after she tucked them away. 

John laughed as he moved to sit against the desk, crossing his arms across his chest. “Well, what if—”

“No, John. No what-ifs…What-ifs and…” Sophie glanced up at him, regretting it even before she met his mischievous eyes, lamenting the decision as soon as she caught sight of his lips, swollen and reddened from his previous endeavors. “What-ifs and that fucking smirk are what made me fall behind to begin with.”  

John chuckled. “You’re behind because you like doing me more than you like doing the books.”

She sat back in her chair, arms folding across her chest as she looked at John, his body shaking slightly with the laughter he only half-heartedly tried to contain. “You think so?”

“Seems like it. You were very diligent back when you were stepping out with that dim bloke. The one with the sweaty hands?” 

Sophie leaned forward just an inch and John held up a hand. “Now, don’t you go smacking me, too. You can’t dispute it because you told me yourself.” 

“This has nothing to do with Phillip’s sweaty hands,” she said, smirking back at John. “Maybe I’m behind because my boss is a hard ass who has put too much on my plate and not enough on theirs?”

John nodded like he was considering her words. “You know, I wouldn’t let Aunt Pol hear you speaking ill of her like that if I was you.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “I'm talking about you and you know it. I’m here late every night and you leave early every day to go home to those kids.”

John shrugged. “If you don’t want to be here every night with the books, you’re more than welcome to go mother my lot and make us dinner.”

She frowned as he said it, sighing as his playful demeanor didn’t quite stick, the note of his words far too hopeful and desperate and longing. 

“I don’t want to be a mother, John,” she said. “And you know I’m a shit cook.”

Sophie had made that much clear to him over the last year, both the bit about the mothering and the bit about the cooking. She was good with the kids, and would gladly watch them for a few hours or so when he needed, but she had no desire to raise a hoard of children, or even one child. Not someone else’s, and not one of her own either. She had other aspirations and they didn’t involve being tied to a home and a child, or even to a man. 

“I’m perfectly content being an almost auntie. I’m good with children so long as they go back to their parents when all is said and done.” 

“And the cooking?”

“You really want me cooking for you?”

“No, you’re right. You’re rubbish in a kitchen,” he said before picking up the tube of lipstick set on her desk. “You’re their favorite auntie though,” John continued, fidgeting with the tube as he spoke. The thing went unused nearly every day now that she was working late, passing the bulk of her evenings at the shop with John instead of out at a pub or dance hall, but the thing still sat on her desk just in case, a gentle reminder of the types of nights she used to have. 

“They’re always fucking asking after you,” he said.

Sophie pulled her eyes away from his hands to observe his face. “Well, they take after their father then because you can’t seem to get enough of me either.”

Sophie pushed some strands of hair from her face, only causing more to come loose from the hair comb. She pulled the whole thing out and began twisting her tresses up again as she continued speaking. “Constantly bothering me… keeping me from my work… never ending nonsense and devilment.” 

John snorted and pushed himself off the desk, taking the hair from her hands. 

“What are you doing?” 

Sophie turned towards him and John planted his hands on her shoulders, twisting her so she faced away from him once again.

“Fixing your hair so you can focus on your work, so do us both a favor and sit still,” he said, combing his fingers through her hair to release the knots, the nails of his fingers grazing her scalp as he swept the hair back from her face. 

“That’s not going to help me focus on my work,” she muttered as he began weaving her hair, the ritual a calming one, nostalgic even, reminding her of her youth, reminding her of when she had someone to plait her hair. Sophie hadn’t worn a braid in years. She was skilled at braiding other people’s hair, but she had never learned how to manage her own.

“No?” John asked. “You’ve got two free hands and two working eyes while I’m doing this. No reason you can’t be adding and subtracting right now.” 

She shook her head and John tugged the strands between his fingers tight, eliciting a howl as she reached her hand back. 

“What the hell?”

“Sit still,” John said, smiling into the words as he continued with his work.

“Don’t pull my fucking hair.”

He pulled the strands tight once again, laughter spilling from his lips before she even had a chance to react.

“I told you to sit still. You’re worse than Katie. Never have to tug on her braid more than once to get her to settle.”

Sophie huffed but followed his directive, knowing there was less than a minute left of John’s undertaking, and knowing he would have no qualms about tugging her hair again.  

“Remember how we said we’d get married if we both weren’t married by the time one of us turned twenty-five?”

A part of Sophie wanted to look at him, wanted to turn her head and meet his eye, to see what kind of expression graced his face while he brought up the pact from almost fifteen years ago, a silly agreement made between two kids who knew absolutely nothing of life, but John had told her to sit still, so while she felt his hands still winding in her hair, she did just that. 

“You’re turning twenty-five next month,” he said, finally tying off the braid. John stepped to the side, resuming his seat on her desk.

“You’re very good at that,” she commented.

“Good at what?”

She pulled the braid over her shoulder, admiring its neatness. “The braid. You’ve gotten good. You used to be quite abysmal with it.”

“You taught me well, I guess.” John rolled his eyes. “You had more patience with me than Martha did.”

“Well, could you really blame her? You were a horrible student, all fumbling hands and that fucking cheeky mouth running the whole time for no good reason.”

John smiled. “And you’ve gotten quite good at that,” he said.

“Good at what?” she asked.

“Changing the fucking subject.”

She sighed as she dropped the braid and looked at him. “We’re not getting married, John. Not because of some silly pact and not because your kids need a mother.” 

“What if it’s because we like each other?” he asked, tugging her up to stand between his legs. “What if it’s because we love each other, eh?” 

She chewed on her bottom lip and looked away, fighting only a bit when his hand caught her chin and tilted it towards his face. 

“You do love me, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” she said, “but not like you’re asking. And you don’t love me like that either.” 

“Love is love.”

She shook her head. “We love like friends.”

“Friends love like this?” John glanced down and Sophie’s eyes followed his gaze to see how their bodies were wrapped up together. Her hand had settled on his thigh, his on her hip, with both of their fingers idly caressing clothing seams while they were each thinking of caressing the skin beneath.

“Attraction and romantic love are different things, John.”

Sophie was always saying it, and he liked to argue with her even though he knew it was at least a bit true. John knew they were friends who happened to be physically attracted to one another, and maybe, if he’d never fallen in love with Martha, or maybe if he’d never had kids, or if Sophie had not gotten so close with Martha in the years he’d been away, things could be different, but as it was, Sophie was right and John knew it. Because he didn’t feel about her the same way he’d felt about Martha and she didn’t feel that way about him either.

Their relationship was a combination of friendly care and sexual attraction and the type of love that came from knowing someone for as long as it was possible to know another person who wasn’t truly family, but there wasn’t a true bit of romantic desire between them. 

“And I don’t want to be what you need your woman to be. You and the kids deserve someone who wants that life.”

“And what happens when I find someone who wants that life?”

“What always happens,” she said with a shrug, “we stop this and I catch up on the books.” 

“Is that what you want?”

Sophie was telling the truth, but she hesitated anyway. This was the longest stretch they’d done this, the longest stretch during which she’d not bothered with dates, and if nothing else, it was habit now, their ritual. It was a comfort. But if John found someone he wanted to settle down with, Sophie knew they’d put a stop to things, same as they’d done all those years ago when he fell in love with Martha and same as they’d done earlier this year when she’d decided to go on a few dates with Harvey Johnson or a few months later when she’d agreed to see Phillip Miller a few times.

It hadn’t bothered Sophie when he was with Martha, and though John had teased her about the men she’d chosen to step out with over the last year, he hadn’t seemed too bothered by it either, more concerned with expressing what he’d do to the men if she came out of it hurt. Sophie knew from experience they could simply stop. 

Stop the flirting. 

Stop the kissing and the sex and the nonsensical talk of being anything more than friends. 

They could stop with the rest of it and still be friends.

John wrapped his hand around Sophie’s braid, giving it a small tug to pull her attention back to him.

“Quit pulling my fucking hair.”

“It’s the only thing that ever makes you listen,” he said, tightening his hold a bit. “And I know you like it.” 

“And the only thing that ever makes you listen—” 

John caught her hand before she could reach high enough to smack him upside the head. “I’m listening. Answer the question.” 

“I already told you what I want,” she said, nodding towards the open ledger beside him. “To spare myself a lecture, hell, probably two lectures if Polly decides to let Tom know we’re behind, too. Your brother’s in a right fucking mood lately.” 

“Is that what you want? The end of this?” John asked, glazing over her chastising him about pulling her hair and her concerns about lectures and the hand she’d raised to smack him upside the head. 

Sophie shrugged, pulling her hand loose from his hold and absently rubbing at her wrist as she leaned against his leg. 

“C’mon Soph, I’m being serious.”

She pushed her finger into the corner of John’s frowning mouth, forcing a half smile. “John Shelby doesn’t do serious.” 

John moved her hand away from his face. “I’m doing serious right now.”

“Fine, John. I want to be happy. And I want you and the kids to be happy,” she said, turning towards him straight on and resting both hands on his thighs. “And someday that may mean you have someone to go home to, and those babies won’t be looked after by another baby, but for now, that means we do this whenever we can.

“I have to finish this work first though.” 

Sophie kissed him on the cheek then, squeezing his thighs once before she moved to sit back down, but John caught her at the elbow, holding her there in front of him. 

“What about you?”

She tried to pull out of his grasp, but John only gripped tighter and drew her closer. 

Sophie rolled her eyes. “What about me?”

“I didn’t hear anything about getting you your happiness.” 

“I’m plenty happy, John,” she said. 

He raised an eyebrow.

“You want the truth?”

John nodded, his hands slipping down her arms to hold her hands. She sighed, looking down at their hands entwined there together. 

The truth was Sophie was happy. The truth was she had always been happy with what they were and what they weren’t, content with the sum of things though it was by no means tidy like the lines of the ledger books they spent their days looking over.

“The truth is I think if you don’t let me finish these books I might not know happiness ever again,” she said, slipping her hands from his and stepping out from between his legs.

John pulled her back to him before she could slip into the chair though, reaching his arms around her body and wrapping his legs around hers, trapping her against him. “Well, if that’s the case, we’d better make sure you get your fill of happiness now then, eh?”

[questionablygourmet]

hello! im not sure if anyone has asked this, as ive typed several keywords and searched it in your blog but i couldnt find it so here i am. i want to ask about your interpretation of will’s mindset or what he thinks of atm when he initiates the fall and what do you think the most plausible way s4 happens? ive seen people say they go all murder husbands, ive seen those who say it’s a slow journey bcs of will himself still feel conflicted about murder (hence the fall)? thank you so much!

Heya! This subject is one I've touched on before but never been asked about directly, I don't think.

One of the most consistent aspects of Will's characterization is that when it comes to Big Decisions, he tends to make them in the heat of the moment, rather than based on any careful deliberations. There's an aphorism that says "no plan survives contact with the enemy" (D&D variation: no plan survives contact with the player characters), and certainly in Will's case no plan survives contact with Hannibal Lecter.

I think it's fairly uncontroversial to say that Will goes into the final showdown with Dolarhyde being prepared to die. We also have seen repeatedly that he has a hard time killing Hannibal even when he both wants to and has the opportunity to do so - when push comes to shove, he just doesn't do it (specifically, in Hannibal's kitchen in Yakimono and at the pigpen in Tome-Wan, also arguably in the Hobbs house in Releves).

We also know Will's moral compass is not exactly fixed on true north, even in s3b, as he's willing to sacrifice a whole police caravan to Dolarhyde to set his own terms for this showdown.

All these things in mind, where I end up regarding the culmination of TWOTL is that Will is feeling Way Too Many Things at once, and still has a lot of internal voices that are loudly objecting to how he feels about having shared the experience of killing Dolarhyde with Hannibal. Meanwhile, from a more meta point of view, I'm reminded of something Bedelia says to Hannibal earlier in the season - "You no longer have ethical concerns; you have aesthetical ones." I think it would be entirely reasonable to at least in part view Will's own character arc as one of a battle between ethics and aesthetics - the foundation of his intimacy with Hannibal, is, after all, his ability to understand Hannibal's mindset, Hannibal's design, which is fundamentally based on aesthetic sensibilities.

Anyway, point being, Will still has all these conflicting influences going on, and there's a convenient cliff right there. It makes for an aesthetically tidy ending, and he doesn't have to suffer a world without Hannibal in it if they both go out together. It's also possibly the only way he has left to avoid going even farther down the corruption rabbit hole, personally.

(I hope all that makes sense. It feels like something I could write about for days, but lately I'm just glad to get anything coherent on a page.)

As for season 4... it really makes a difference to me whether you mean "how do I see these characters realistically moving on from the s3 finale?" or "how would I expect an actual fourth season of the TV show to handle it?" Because those aren't the same thing at all. Based on what things Bryan Fuller has said about his envisioned s4, it sounds (to me) like he was planning on some role-reversal mindfuck thing where Will's manipulating Hannibal to hell and back, though to what end, I have no idea. (If this interpretation of his commentary is correct, I hold to the unpopular opinion that the show's close to perfect as it is and doesn't need any more. :P) But my personal favorite interpretation of how things go after TWOTL, based on a combination of my understanding of the characters and general fandom optimism, is that it becomes sort of a.... "Okay, I gave God a blank check to kill us, and he didn't take it, so I guess this means I've got to deal with how I feel about you, now," on Will's part.

But honestly, just based on who the characters are and how fucked up their relationship is, I could see just about anything happening after the fall as plausible. Which is part of why the fic landscape in this fandom is as vibrant as it is!

[hongism]

the little things - k. hongjoong

↣ pairing: hongjoong x reader; ft. seonghwa, san, mentioned poly ot8 x reader ↣ genre: sfw, fluff, slight angst, fantasy au, witch ateez au ↣ wc: 3.8k ↣ summary: a job doesn’t go as planned for hongjoong, and you’re left to pick up the pieces ↣ warnings: mentioned illness and death

Hongjoong arguably has the hardest job out of anyone in the coven. You are well aware of that, and the pressure he feels from being the leader of the coven doesn’t help one bit, especially since the majority of the public eye’s judgment falls on his shoulders. He would never admit it out loud, but that pains him quite a bit, even if he is willing to take the judgment of others so his coven doesn’t have to. Seonghwa helps in those moments of weakness, lulling Hongjoong to sleep with a quick spell or trying a myriad of other things to calm the man, but it must be worse than usual for Seonghwa to call on you to help with the issue.

Hongjoong’s magic is draining mostly due to the fact that he is eclectic and likes to dabble in everything. Some spells take more out of him than others, some take no effort, and others require days if not weeks of recovery time. Now, however, there seems to be a different issue.

“A job went south.” That’s the only explanation you got from Seonghwa, but the small shake of his head told you all you needed to know. Because jobs don’t just go south for Hongjoong.

That is what lands you here — steps outside Hongjoong’s room with hand raised and ready to rap roughly against the wood several times. You aren’t sure what awaits you inside, but considering the very late hour, you are hoping to find Hongjoong asleep. The faint yellow candlelight filtering under the door tells you otherwise though, and that’s why you opt to knock rather than barging in unannounced.

“Come in.” Hongjoong sounds tired even in the two small words, but it isn’t the typical kind of tired you’re used to hearing from people. You are used to the exhaustion of the body, people coming to your door for sleep remedies, and nightmare potions meant to dispel the bad dreams that keep them up at night. The exhaustion in Hongjoong’s voice is one that resides deep in the body, one that eats away at the bones and muscles, breaks you down until you can hardly keep your head up. It’s nothing you can’t fix with a simple herbal concoction, but Seonghwa didn’t ask you to bring anything. He didn’t expect you to use your alchemy to fix Hongjoong, thus you’re going to have to rely on words and comfort instead.

You twist the handle as quietly as you can so that you don’t disturb the other sleeping men in the house. Sneaking in was hard enough, especially since Jongho was sprawled out on the couch with Yeosang’s lithe cat form curled up directly on his stomach, but you managed to get past the two of them with little to no disturbances. (And you delivered a few head scratches to Yeosang but that’s beside the point).

“Are you here to heat the tea again? I forgot all about it — oh.” Hongjoong’s thought falls short when he turns to face you, no doubt assuming that it was Seonghwa knocking for the umpteenth time tonight, but instead, he finds you with your hands tucked behind your back and lips stretched into a small smile. “What are you doing here? Did something happen back at the cottage? Did you come alone? Please tell me that you at least carried a ward or charm with you. That walk isn’t safe alone at this hour and I—”

“Hongjoong, darling, please.” Your smile stretches bit by bit as you move towards where Hongjoong is seated at his desk. Back hunched almost painfully, the man seems to be slaving over some old tomes, several books cracked open and laid bare before him, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest from the sight. There’s a barely touched mug of tea alongside the books, no doubt cold at this point, and the small lamp sitting on the corner of the desk illuminates the space.

The tension in Hongjoong’s shoulders remains even as you get within touching distance of him, and you dart a hand out to brush a few loose strands of hair off his forehead. The dark locks cave under your fingers, letting you tuck them back with little resistance. Hongjoong sighs from the gentle touches.

“Long day?” you murmur, despite already knowing the answer.

“Fucked up an important job,” Hongjoong sighs in response. He drops his head and faces forward again, staring down at the book before him. You take the opportunity to look in the same direction but you regret doing so a moment later because of what you see on the page.

Curing terminal illness with magic.

You tug at the back of Hongjoong’s chair, pulling him away from his desk with as much strength you can muster, but eventually he caves and assists you in pushing the chair back. You leave just enough room for you to slip between him and the desk before dropping your hands to his shoulders. No words come from your lips for quite some time; the two of you just remain in that position until tension begins to ebb away from Hongjoong’s shoulders. And the moment that begins to happen, you take advantage of it, dropping atop his lap with little effort and slipping your legs about his waist. Hongjoong’s hands secure at your hips.

Even the slight touch fills your body with energy — it’s weak and fragile, evidence of how much magic Hongjoong used today and how much he’s struggling to even stay awake right now — and you push yourself closer to him in attempts to offer at least some warmth and comfort.

Seonghwa would be better suited for this as a witch, or even San since the man is Hongjoong’s familiar, and yet you were called upon to help Hongjoong. You, the herbalist and alchemist with no magical ability in your bones. It’s a daunting task being asked to help Hongjoong without knowing what to do or having the skills that the others have. Still, you refuse to let that lack of confidence shine through in the slightest, bringing your hands up to cup Hongjoong’s sharp jawline and lift his head. He blinks back at you with wide eyes, dark orbs swirling with a mix of emotions that leaves a deep-seated pain in your heart.

“My love, what happened?”

Hongjoong blinks away from you. Before either of you know it, tears are springing to his eyes, welling them up with crystalline drops that glisten under the yellow lamplight. Not a single one falls quite yet; they still hold onto his eyelashes and waterline for the time being, but the moment he starts speaking, you know they’ll begin to fall. You wait as long as he needs you to, patient as ever as he collects himself and takes several deep breaths to calm down a bit before talking again.

“I promised his father that I would be able to heal him and fix him,” Hongjoong exhales against the exposed part of your neck. “I – h-he trusted me, and I… he died.”

Your arms tighten a bit around Hongjoong out of sheer instinct, and Hongjoong’s breaths tremble before he’s able to get his next words out. You don’t force him to continue the thought; you’ve heard enough to know how badly the job went and why Seonghwa was so concerned when he talked to you earlier. Your fingers brush over the base of Hongjoong’s neck, combing gently through the locks of hair the reside there in a desperate attempt to offer him some comfort.

You don’t need to ask what he’s talking about to understand. There can only be one patient he’s referring to – the young boy of about nine who suffered from a tragic terminal illness, one that left him bed-ridden for years before Hongjoong came along. It only took Hongjoong two weeks to get the boy out of his bed, and another three for the boy to walk around normally. Within two months, he could run and play outside once more, and in the third, the boy and his father were going on weekly fishing trips that always resulted in Seonghwa getting vast deliveries of black bass and rainbow trout. The young boy’s case has always been Hongjoong’s pride — the one job he never tires of, the one he would always return to, the most important one he’s ever had. There were no signs of things going south again.

“I-I wanted his father to be mad at me. Scold me and harass me and berate me. Call me a failure because that’s – that’s what I am, but h-he just… smiled. Told me not to take it too harshly. I was a last-ditch effort as it was. He didn’t expect anything to work and y-yet I was able to at least prolong his son’s death for a few precious months. He was grateful — grateful. Even though his son d-died. Even though I couldn’t save him.”

You pull back to look Hongjoong in the eye now. Dark eyes search yours, still glistening with tears that fall freely now, and they seek answers that you don’t have. All you can do is hold his face with the gentlest touch manageable and bring your forehead down to rest against his.

“Death… death is fickle, mio caro. She takes as much as life gives and is as elusive as a cloud on a clear day. We can’t control her no matter how much we try. While you have the ability to prolong her cold touch, no one can keep her away forever. You gave this boy months of life – a life he was able to cherish and use to the fullest. That was enough. You did enough.” You drag the pads of your thumbs over Hongjoong’s cheeks collecting the tears and brushing them away with ease. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as you trace faint patterns across his skin.

“I just keep thinking about the ‘what if’s. What if I had noticed the changes sooner? What if I had been quicker to help him? To find a solution or a spell or just… something – anything. Could I have given him more time? His father seemed ready b-but the pain in his eyes when I delivered the news is not something I could readily forget.”

“You don’t have to forget that pain, Hongjoong. No one is asking you to. But put aside the possibilities, and look at reality.”

“The reality is that he died.”

“But not because of you,” you counter with haste, gaze sharpening on Hongjoong a bit as he opens his mouth to protest. “Were you the cause of his illness?”

“…No.”

“Did you do everything in your power to help him?”

“Yes, but there is alwa—”

“Shush, darling.” You drop a hand to where one of Hongjoong’s rests against your hip, taking it in yours and lifting it to your chest. You place his hand directly over your heart and fall completely silent so that he can feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat. “Do you feel that?” You inquire once a few seconds have passed.

“Yes.”

“That’s life, Joong.” A soft smile overtakes your lips. “Where there is death, there is also life. And we cannot focus on the life before us if we are too consumed by the cold touch of death. As much as you want to hear that you’ve failed or made a mistake or deserve to be hated, it is not what you deserve because none of those things are true. You gave that man and his son the most precious gift of all for those months: time. Time they spent together whereas before they could not.”

“Notre petite étoile is right.”

You don’t need to turn to see who’s just stepping into the room; the little nickname is enough to tell you who it is since there’s only one man in the house who speaks French and calls you by that name. Hongjoong looks up though, arms squeezing around your waist as he looks to where Seonghwa stands at the edge of the room.

“Are you two ganging up on me?” Hongjoong grumbles. You and Seonghwa merely laugh in response, the latter man coming closer to the desk. He pauses at the edge to glance down at Hongjoong’s mug of tea and wordlessly traces small patterns against the side of the mug. Before you know it, small wisps of steam curl into the air above the liquid, and Seonghwa has once again heated the tea. The smile he wears signals that it’s something he’s done time and time again tonight, but he doesn’t make it seem like a chore or a burden at all, hand reaching out to comb through Hongjoong’s dark hair. Hongjoong sighs into the touch. There’s a gentle silence that drapes over the room next – one that Hongjoong relaxes under with your scent and Seonghwa’s intermingling under his nose.

Seonghwa doesn’t stop his rhythmic motions until Hongjoong’s shoulders have dropped all the tension stored in them, then he moves around the back of his chair and leans over it. You aren’t quite sure what he’s up to until two fingers curl under your chin and lift your head to greet his.

“My little star,” he murmurs before dipping closer to press a soft kiss against your lips. “One for you, and—” Seonghwa pulls back to glance down at Hongjoong, finding expectant and wide eyes blinking back up at him, then he parts Hongjoong’s bangs and places a second kiss to the exposed skin of his forehead “—one for you, my sweet starlight. The sun will rise soon, along with our darling sunrise to do the yard work. You two ought to get some rest before the chaos begins.”

“I should get home so I can prep the shop for morning opening,” you whisper, beginning to pull away from Hongjoong inch by inch. You half-expect Seonghwa to be the one to urge you to stay with pleading eyes and lingering touches that most definitely hold a bit of magic to them, but this time, he doesn’t say a word. Rather, it’s Hongjoong who tightens his hold on you and clings to you as though he might lose you if he dares to let go. You don’t realize it right away – perhaps you’re too distracted by the haziness of the late hour or by Seonghwa’s presence in the room – but when Hongjoong’s hands move up to brush over your shoulder blades, there is a sudden sense of desperation in his touch. Seonghwa smiles from off to the side.

“I’ll tell the younger ones not to bother you too much. Sleep as much as you need to. Yeosang and I will take care of the shop, étoile.” Seonghwa turns on his heel and walks towards the door again, leaving you and Hongjoong to watch his retreating form in silence. Just before he disappears completely, however, he shifts to look at the two of you once more. “I could get used to such a vision in our home.”

“Hm?” You echo, confusion evident on both your features and in your tone.

“You being here often, Hongjoong distracted from work long enough to focus on something else, San sneaking up the stairs behind me and hiding outside the door while we talk.” Seonghwa cracks a smile and pushes the door wide open. A startled San pops out from behind the wood, broad shoulders curling inwards in his momentary shame, but Seonghwa doesn’t let that last long and brings a warm hand to the younger man’s waist. He doesn’t say anything else, slipping out of the room behind San’s form and leaving the familiar in his place.

“Come, come, darling.” Hongjoong motions for San to come further into the room as he nudges you up, and you quickly slip off the man’s lap to stand on your own feet again. The breath leaves your lungs in a huff as a pair of arms suddenly wraps around your body, squeezing you in a tight embrace. The lines of sinew and muscle could only belong to San though you never saw him move in the slightest. Still, his hold is warm and inviting, enough to easily pull you towards Hongjoong’s bed, one that’s large enough to accommodate more than simply two bodies.

“Missed you,” San mumbles into the crook of your neck. His cool breath tickles the hairs on your skin, sending rows of goosebumps over you, and San kisses them away as best he can. “Been too long since you stayed the night.”

“Hm, Hongjoong needed me tonight,” you sigh, watching said man adjust the books and papers on his desk. He leaves the lamp lit for the time being, but it’s evident that he’s preparing to join you and San in bed, and that’s enough of a welcome sight to cause some of your worry to melt away. San sits up all of a sudden, tossing the sheets back to slip under them, although you don’t join him in doing so quite yet.

“His emotions have been volatile all day,” San says under his breath. The hush over the room is not nearly enough to conceal his tone though. Hongjoong most definitely can hear his words, but he neglects to mention it for the time being. “Couldn’t do anything to fix or help.”

San and Hongjoong share in a special type of relationship, one that is more interwoven and connected than most simply because of San’s identity as a familiar. Not just any familiar but Hongjoong’s familiar, just as Yeosang is Seonghwa’s familiar. It allowed the pair to share a deeper connection, sharing of emotional states – when one feels pain, the other does as well, just as with every emotion from happiness to rage. Hongjoong, however, prides himself on being able to cut off his emotions and keep them from affecting San too badly; so if San could sense the distress today, Hongjoong must be suffering a lot more than he’s letting on. Thus, it’s no surprise that San showed up when he did or that he’s here to stay the night with the two of you. The bond they share provides more than just physical comfort; the bond of a familiar and his master is one that bears great emotional weight and connection as well. It’s something you’ve been a bit insecure about when it comes to both men, along with Seonghwa and Yeosang, but they never let those doubts linger for long.

You’re halfway through taking off your second shoe when Hongjoong finally approaches the bed. He pauses before you, setting the chamberstick on the bedside table alight with a small flame, then he slips down to his knees. Deft fingers work the knots of your laces apart and push the shoe away from your foot. His touch is too warm to be normal, and you only realize what he’s up to when a sudden wave of drowsiness overwhelms you. Hongjoong’s soft touch is the only thing that keeps you awake as he works his way up, pressing a trail of ghosting kisses up the inside of your calf and stopping at your knee. You can hardly keep your eyes parted but manage to see – or at least feel – Hongjoong crawl over you to get onto the bed and slip between your body and San’s.

“No fair,” you murmur, words slurring together a bit. Hongjoong huffs out a laugh before leaning over you to puff the candle out. Small billows of smoke fill the air around your heads, along with a pleasant scent of lavender.

“Forgive me for wanting my star to get some rest,” he chuckles as he settles back against the mattress.

“That’s Seonghwa’s line.”

“Yes, well, Seonghwa isn’t here to say it, is he?”

“I’m telling.” Hongjoong rolls his eyes – a gesture you can barely make out through the darkness – then he leans forward to peck the tip of your nose.

“Childish.”

“Seonghwa doesn’t like it when people steal his nicknames.”

“Oh hush, you little brat. You’re worse than Wooyoung.”

“That’s more like it. Our dearest affectionate Joongie,” San laughs from behind Hongjoong, chin coming to rest on the length of the other man’s shoulder. His lips stretch into a grin, dimples flashing through the darkness, and you smile back at him softly. A hand touches your waist, and you almost think it’s Hongjoong but San grumbles something about you being too far away to cuddle properly and you know it’s him instead. You hum at the touch and settle into the warmth it provides. You nearly fall asleep right then and there, but you force your body to stay awake just a little while longer so you can press one last kiss to Hongjoong’s lips, then another to San’s.

“Okay, goodnight, my loves. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer thanks to Hongjoong.” You press closer to both men, wrapping yourself in the combined warmth of your lovers’ arms and the sheets, and Hongjoong tucks your head against his chest. His chin comes to rest on the top of your head. You’re already drifting off when you hear San’s next whispered words, ones meant only for Hongjoong’s ears but ones you hear nonetheless.

“I have a surprise for you tomorrow.”

“Hm? Is that your way of telling me to clear my schedule?” Hongjoong murmurs. The words send soft vibrations across your hair, and you instinctively tuck yourself further into his chest.

“Well, your schedule should be empty at night unless one of the others would be having you… preoccupied at that time.”

“As if you don’t intend to have me in that way yourself.”

“Only after the surprise,” San whispers, tone slightly offended, but you can also hear the affection in his tone.

“Then I’m all yours tomorrow evening.”

“Perfect.”

Those are the last words you hear out of either man; both fall silent after that and leave you with the soft heavings of their breaths above you, warm arms clinging to you as you drift off into a pleasant and peaceful rest. And as much as you protest the idea of intruding and living here with them, you have to admit that these moments make it worth it in the long run. The little things – the kisses and hugs, the sudden intrusions from your other lovers, the piling warmth, lingering gazes, soft smiles, quiet shared whispers. Perhaps you could get used to nights like these.

...

a/n: just another lil addition to the witchteez universe, i plan of having a drabble for each member then doing drabble requests after? i think? let me know if that’s something you want to see or if you have any ideas for the other members’ drabbles! i haven’t come up with anything yet so im quite open to suggestions!

[mattzerella-sticks]

“is scamming gay rights?” - Dean & Jack, DeanCas, Bi!Dean (ao3)

Jack tries teaching Dean about his latest obsession, TikTok, except a breakdown in communication teaches Dean that, sometimes, acronyms can mean more than one thing.

           Dean didn’t understand exactly what Jack rambled on about, but he passed the point of no return a few minutes back and couldn’t interrupt without revealing he had no clue what the younger boy prattled on and on about. As it was Jack currently kept pushing his phone in Dean’s face, gesturing at it and shaking it every ten seconds or so. Dean glanced between Jack and it; each time he did there was a new video on screen and by the time he shifted his focus back to his son the lecture had moved elsewhere along a road he had trouble following. By then, he let himself sink into the comfortable numbing cadence of Jack’s speech, sipping at his beer, surfacing only when he recognized a word before diving back under.

           His ears perked in familiarity as Jack used an acronym Dean recently learned, and so he tuned back in. Jack drew the phone closer to his side of the kitchen table, tapping on it. “There was this big problem with mlms actually, and even though I filtered my home page to avoid profiles like that, they kept popping up,” he said, “Luckily TikTok went ahead and basically blacklisted and deleted all mlm content. Now, I rarely see any of those kinds of content.”

           Dean’s features shuddered, mouth dropping slightly in fright. His ears echoed with the awful drumming of his heart, and a painful wheeze tickled his throat, demanding freedom. He released it on a sigh, slightly curling in on himself. “W-what?” he asked, “You… you didn’t like it?”

           Jack shrugged, “I mean, it was kind of annoying, but I learned to ignore them. When I learned how harmful the content was, however, I was very glad to hear that TikTok went ahead and took some sort of action – Hey!”

           On autopilot, Dean snatched the phone out of Jack’s hands. He slammed it, hard, on the table between them. Dean pointed a harsh finger towards Jack, snarling his next few words. “I don’t want to ever hear you talk like that again.”

           “What?”

           “Or!” he added, fist hammering Jack’s phone further into the wood, “use this, this damned app – if this is what it turns you into!” He huffed, hands retreating to steeple at his chin. “You think you’re raising a kid right… raising a kid to be accepting despite being so close to the Bible Belt… and one dumb app undoes all that hard work.”

           Jack, frozen in his seat, stared at Dean with concern shining in his comically wide eyes. “What are you talking about, Dean?”

           “Look,” Dean said instead, his finger extending once more to point at the younger boy. It was a less accusatory gesture, softened by the gentle tone Dean adopted. “I know I haven’t been the best role model with… with that kind of stuff. Hell of a lot better than my dad was, though… still not the best. But I’ve been getting better, especially after I…” His words bottlenecked on his tongue, and through great effort did Dean spit them out. “After I admitted my own attraction to… to men, especially one man in particular…” Dean’s head felt like it might erupt, magma-like blood swelling his brain to dangerous sizes. “Cas.”

           “Yes, Dean,” Jack nodded, “I know that. I’m… I’m confused what any of that has to do with this?”

           “What it has to do with…? Jack…” Dean pinched his brow, tense shoulders collapsing as the strain became too much, muscles snapping like bridge cables. “I might not be the most… the most out, or the most proud, okay? But I’m trying. Remember that bi flag pin I wore during that hunt one time? That was me… trying. And I’ll keep trying, because this isn’t something I’m ashamed of.” He reached for Jack, ensnaring his wrist to make sure his message was well received. “So you see, being gay isn’t – it’s not annoying. It shouldn’t be hidden, or… banned and it certainly isn’t harmful despite what some repressed shitheads might think.” Emboldened, Dean levelled a disappointing glare at Jack. His lower lip jutted out in fatherly disapproval. “And I’d rather be staked on some piece of rusty rebar than let a stupid app make you homophobic. No more… Ticking-tock. Period.”

           While Jack might not appreciate Dean’s ultimatum now, he will later on in his life. Dean imagined a future where he and Jack, much older than they were in this moment, sat on a porch swing talking about how good a job Dean did raising him to be a decent human being, as Jack’s partner, whose features he couldn’t distinguish from such a distance in their front yard, played with their son, named for the man who set Jack on the right path, obviously. He was knocked out of this fantasy, unfortunately, by the lumbering footsteps of his oafish brother.

           Sam entered the kitchen, Cas at his side with a tome held open in his hands. Their conversation withered as they took in the scene they walked in on. “Hey,” Sam said, shuffling his way to them, “what’s going on?”

           Dean opened his mouth, about to explain that he was dishing some serious parental law and wisdom. Except Jack hurriedly interrupted, rushing to speak first. “I have no idea,” he told them, “I was explaining TikTok to Dean, and suddenly he starts ranting about how it’s a homophobic platform?”

           “Because it is!” Dean argued. He grabbed Jack’s phone, waving it at the others. “Jack told me that they’ve gone full Russia – banning mlms and… and it was brainwashing him, making him hate gay people!”

           “Dean! I don’t hate gay people –“

           “Because I acted before any of the damage actually managed to take root,” he said, “If you used this any longer you would’ve had more harsh things to say about mlms than they’re annoying.”

           Jack groaned, scrubbing his face with twitching fingers. “They are annoying!”

           Dean gestured at Jack, asking with exaggerated brows and frown lines, what they should do about Jack’s denigration. Sam, for his part, seemed unbothered by Jack’s callous attitude. “I mean,” he shrugged, “Jack’s not wrong. Mlms are… pretty annoying.”

           Betrayed, Dean staggered to his feet. He faltered visibly, enough that Cas rushed over, dropping the yellowed book he held, and offered a hand. Dean accepted it, leaning on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The touch on the small of his back renewed his strength. “Sam,” he muttered, voice cracking, “how could you say that?”

           Sam mirrored the confusion noticeably present in Jack’s features. “Dean, why are you taking this so personally?”

           “Because, apparently,” Dean shouted at him, “you find me annoying!”

           “No more than I usually do,” Sam told Dean, “But that’s never bothered you before?”

           “Well, it’s pretty hard staying fucking unbothered when you think my sexuality is annoying.”

           “What?” Suddenly, something flashed behind Sam’s eyes, and the fog of bewilderment dissipated as pure rays of understanding shone from his smug expression and annoyingly struck Dean in the face. “Dean,” Sam sighed, “you… we’re not talking about gay people.”

           Dean snorted, “Of course you are. I’m not stupid.” Sam’s bitchy expression disagreed. “I’m hip, Sam. I know the lingo – better than you would, anyway… ‘ally’. Mlm… men loving men… What else could it be?”

           “Mlm is an acronym for multi-level marketing, Dean,” Sam explained, “that’s the kind of mlm we’ve been talking about this entire time.”

           “What?” Dean’s gaze bounced around the room, from Sam to Jack, then Cas, finally returning to Sam. “No, but I… the Internet, mlm is… it stands for…”

           “Things can have more than one meaning,” Cas supplied, appearing pained as he spoke, “especially acronyms.” He pressed a consolatory kiss upon Dean’s cheek, touch sparking a flame on his already burning skin. “It was nice to see how outspoken you’ve become, though.”

           “Yeah,” Sam agreed, “Like a modern-day Harvey Milk.”

           Dean refused to comment on Sam’s teasing, sinking into his seat again while his mind processed this new information. Cas joined him, continually rubbing soothing circles into his back. Sam sat next to Jack, across from them. Jack, sullenly tracing the cracks Dean made in his phone screen, asked, “Does this mean I’m not banned from TikTok?”

           “I just don’t get it,” Dean said, ignoring Jack’s question, “why would something that sounds boring like multi-level marketing even deserve its own acronym, let alone be banned from a whole app.”

           “Because it’s bad, Dean,” Sam explained, “multi-level marketing is, like, an evolved pyramid scheme, made more prevalent because of how easily social media disseminates misinformation and reaches impressionable people. Companies like TikTok are doing what they can to try and curb all these kinds of scams because, well… they’re annoying.”

           Adamant, Dean scowled and shook his head. “Mlm meaning that is what’s annoying.”

           “Too bad, Dean,” Sam said, “that’s probably the universally accepted meaning for it.”

           “No!” Dean said, “No, mlm is about gay people. It doesn’t have anything to do with scams.”

           Cas scoffed at Dean’s side, mumbling, “But what if scamming people is gay rights?”

           It was ridiculous, made in jest, and held no actual weight in a discussion, but Dean latched onto the throwaway line like it were the last life preserver on the Titanic. “You know what, Cas, you’re right!” he crowed, “Scamming is gay rights.”

           “It is?”

           “It should be,” Dean said, “I mean, do you know the number of times in my life I’ve scammed bigoted jerks for all they had? Scamming definitely feels like something that’s for gays only.”

           Sam rubbed his temples, battling an incoming migraine. “I don’t know why, but that take feels homophobic.”

           “Hush, Sam,” Cas told the other man, “I want to see where Dean goes with this.”

           Jack nodded, camera eclipsing his features. “Just let me hit record first, Dean. This could go viral.”

           Dean waited for the signal from Jack, a small thumbs up, and then he cleared his throat. “Okay, so here’s why scamming is a right for the gays and the gays alone…”

[jemmahazelnut]

More than friends (or two idiots)

Summary: Laxus and Freed act like two boyfriends, but they're the only ones who don't notice. [Freed/Laxus]

Links: AO3 - Fanfiction

I hope it is at least readable, sorry for all the mistakes, English is not my first language.

More than friends (or two idiots)

It’s time to find a girl

Makarov snorted loudly and the boys around him turned to understand what was wrong.

"Something wrong?" Mirajane asked politely.

"That idiot of my grandson" snapped Makarov. Mirajane raised an eyebrow as Bickslow and Evergreen leaned curiously towards him: when it came to Laxus they were always interested. "He's twenty-six now, it's about time he found a girl to marry" he muttered.

"He’s still young" Mirajane told him, and Lisanna leaned on the counter curiously.

"I've never seen him with a girl" she said, wondering what his tastes were.

"Of course not! Nobody could stand him" snapped Makarov and Evergreen and Bickslow giggled "He needs a wife, that's no doubt, a girl to look after him and stop him from bullshitting" he continued undaunted, at which Bickslow laughed louder.

"Master, don't worry, he already has a wife, or rather… a husband" Bickslow said amused and the old man turned to him, arching an eyebrow. Mirajane and Lisanna turned to them in amazement and Bickslow giggled even more. "I mean, Freed has been looking after him for years and stops him from doing shit every time" he said. Makarov's eyes widened.

"They are engaged?" he asked.

"No!" Evergreen immediately exclaimed "But it's only a matter of time, sooner or later they will get together" she added. Makarov frowned and thought about the two boys, in fact he had never thought that there could be more than friendship between them. But the more he thought about Freed and Laxus, the clearer many things became in his mind, and the more a smile spread across his face. Yes, Freed would have been the ideal person for Laxus. He worried about him, scolded him for bullshit, and he was actually the only person who could stand it without freaking out. And besides, the two boys were already spending a lot of time together, maybe even they were already in a relationship.

“Are you sure they're not having a secret relationship? I wouldn't be surprised by those two” he said. Evergreen and Bickslow, however, nodded with conviction.

"We too had doubts" he admitted. "So, we sent Peppe to follow them, but there is nothing between them... unfortunately. They are just two idiots”.

Laundry

"What are you doing here?". Laxus knew that Freed would occasionally walk into his house without warning, checking that the refrigerator was full and shopping for him when he forgot, which didn't happen as often as the rune mage insisted. But it never happened that he walked into his room without his permission and... that was embarrassing, because Freed was holding his dirty clothes. Laxus wouldn't be interested if it weren't for his underwear, including a pair of leopard-print briefs, on top of the shirts his friend kept.

"The laundry, how many days have you not done it?" Freed asked.

"Mind your own fucking business!" Laxus growled, blushing slightly and trying to get his clothes back, but Freed backed away.

"If you had asked me, I would have done it for you" he told.

"You don't have to do this to me" Laxus snapped. Freed smiled.

"You know it's not a problem for me". The blonde grunted, it was a problem for him. He crossed his arms in annoyance, while Freed quietly walked to the bathroom throwing the clothes into the washing machine. When he touched his briefs, he blushed slightly and a smirk appeared on his face, at which Laxus ordered him to move and Freed threw them in, then set the program and start the machine. He stood up, turning to the blonde.

"I've never seen you in briefs" he said and Laxus gave him an embarrassed look, he shouldn't have known. Freed smiled a little amused. "You don't have to hide it from me, you know I'm wearing them" Laxus looked at him for a moment stunned while his face was colored with a pink shade. He had no ideawhat Freed was wearing under his clothes. And was Freed telling him so quietly? His expression must have been eloquent enough, because Freed arched an eyebrow. "You've seen me in swimsuit several times" he specified and Laxus turned his gaze away.

"Anyway, I'll do the laundry myself" he said brusquely.

"Absolutely not. I saw how you reduced your clothes, a white shirt turned pink and the sweater Evergreen gave you shrunk. I'll do it for you from now on" he decided and his tone did not allow for replies. Laxus was about to argue, but he froze when he realized something.

"Did you rummage in my closet?"

"Of course, I also fixed it for you, it was a disaster" Freed replied and then gave an amused smile. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your questionable patterned briefs set" Laxus blushed even more. Damned Freed and damned the day he gave him the house keys.

"Now go out, I have to clean up" Freed said opening a bathroom cabinet and Laxus raised an eyebrow, that was his bathroom, he wouldn't get out of there. "You heard me? Look what a mess, I said go out” he repeated pushing Laxus into the corridor. The blonde growled nervously but let him, vowing to take back the keys he had left him.

A quiet evening

It was three in the morning and Freed had not yet fallen asleep. The reason was simple, he couldn't tear himself away from that book and he didn't feel tired in the slightest. That's why he was the only one still awake in the library, sitting on the floor in a corner while he leafed through the pages of that tome. He was so engrossed in reading that he didn't notice someone had entered until he heard a voice and jumped.

"Still awake?" Freed looked up to see Laxus approaching him. Freed blushed slightly, knowing full well that the next day the two would train alone and had decided to start at six in the morning. Or rather, Laxus had made up his mind, because he wanted to do a tough workout and didn't like wasting time.

"I was just about to go to sleep" he lied while a slight blush filled his cheeks, he hoped that thanks to the darkness his friend would not notice it, but in vain because the blond arched an eyebrow.

"Really?" he asked blatantly ironic with a grin and Freed snorted looking down at the book. He was close to it, just a chapter and he would finish it.

"Well..." he began, but did not finish the sentence because Laxus sat next to him leaning his head against the wall. Freed looked at him a little surprised, he had thought that he would scold him and that he would remind him of the next day's training.

"What book is it?" he asked instead.

"One on dark magic" Freed said.

“Mm… then I'll wait for you. Tell me when you finish it” Laxus said, putting the headphones to his ears. Freed gave him a curious look and smiled to see him close his eyes and move his fingers slightly to the rhythm of the music. They were sitting so close that their arms touched each other and Freed began to read the book again. He could slightly hear the music coming from the headphones but he didn't bother him, not with Laxus standing next to him. When he was missing a few pages, he suddenly felt a weight on his shoulder. He turned in surprise and saw that Laxus had fallen asleep on him. He felt the warmth flooding his face and a smile widening, while he observed the calm expression of the boy who had begun to snore slightly. He slept soundly and still had headphones on. Freed gently took them off and turned off the music without waking him. He stood watching him for a while and wondered if he should wake him up. In the end he decided that he would do it later, he could not allow the boy to sleep uncomfortably. Meanwhile, however, he could enjoy that closeness.

Intentional forgetfulness

"Have you forgotten it again?" Freed snapped and Laxus rolled his eyes, ignoring the looks of Bickslow and Evergreen, who were arranging their sleeping bags in the wood.

"I was thinking of something else" he grunted nervously.

"This is the third time this month you have forgotten him, can I know what’s wrong with you?" Freed said annoyed. Laxus crossed his arms.

"Last time you said you would take care of it. Besides, you are the captain "he blurted out. Freed took a deep breath.

"Well, take mine then".

"Oh my God, don't start again, we all know how it's going to end" Bickslow said and the two boys turned to their friends. Laxus tried to hide his embarrassment and glanced at Freed, who had a sharp expression on his face but you could also see a slight blush. "Freed will offer his sleeping bag, then Laxus will say he won't let him sleep in the cold, you will ask us to share our sleeping bags and we will say no, and in the end, you will fall asleep together like two lovebirds in love" he snapped the tongue. Evergreen continued:

"And now they'll say it's not true, it's just because you can't sleep in the cold this season, but as it happens neither of them remembered Laxus' sleeping bag". Laxus looked at them in annoyance. Well, maybe he did it on purpose not to carry the sleeping bag, but damn it, if Freed had bothered sleeping with him so much, he would have remembered it instead of him, right?

"It's not my job to remind me of all your stuff, it's hard enough to keep up with the two of you" Freed immediately defended. "And in any case, you can feel the cold for yourself, but if you prefer sleep without a sleeping bag and leave it to Laxus, I really want to see how you freeze" he said. "And just to clarify, it's not that if two people sleep together, they are two lovebirds in love, if you don't understand the value of friendship and don't intend to share your sleeping bag with Laxus, then you'd better review your principles".

"Whatever" Bickslow muttered exasperatedly and Freed slipped into the sleeping bag. Laxus mentally thanked him for answering for both of them and lay down beside him. Since the sleeping bag was for one person, the two boys were inevitably stuck together, and that did nothing but please Laxus, even if he would never admit it. He observed Freed who in turn was looking at him red in the face.

"Laxus..." the rune wizard whispered after a while "Why do you always forget your sleeping bag?". The blonde felt a vague sensation of unease and snorted.

“You know I forget everything. Night” he snapped. Freed didn't insist closing his eyes.

"Goodnight" he murmured and Laxus watched his face relax as he felt a sensation of warmth spread from his stomach. He smiled and after a while closed his eyes.

Gift

Freed hated when it didn't add up. He usually had enough jewels with him, because he always carried something extra with him just in case. However, that last mission had caused a lot of trouble and Freed had had to buy drugs that cost exaggeratedly. So, he found himself with the jewels flush and he was quite nervous. Sure, it was still a good sum, but Freed had come to that city to stock up on books and now he found himself having to choose which book to leave behind. A difficult choice, considering that they were all unique and extremely valuable copies. So, he had been in that library for hours, sitting at a table surrounded by about twenty books while he tried to rationally evaluate which one to leave there.

"You're still here?" a voice broke out above him and the rune mage looked up: Laxus was back from the music store.

"I'm almost done" Freed assured him.

"You've been in here for hours, even Evergreen finished shopping before you" said the blonde and Freed snorted. It wasn't an easy choice! Was he leaving behind the book on ancient curses or the one on white magic? Or maybe it was better to forget the one about runic writing, after all he already had some at home, but that one had so much more information... There was no right choice. But Laxus was right and he certainly didn't want to make his comrades waste any more time. With a bitter look he began to take the books and put them in the trolley from the most important to the least, but when he got to the last three books he stopped dubiously. He still hadn't chosen which one to leave there. Laxus frowned at him.

"What's the problem?" he blurted out.

"None, I just have to choose which book to get" Freed muttered and eventually took two, reluctantly leaving the one on runic writing there. His heart was crying to abandon him. "Enough, I have chosen" he said more to himself than to Laxus, and with the trolley he walked towards the cashier to pay. The woman seemed happy enough to sell all those books and Freed left the bookstore embittered.

"Finally!" Evergreen exclaimed. Freed gave her a dirty look, usually it was she who kept him waiting for hours, she couldn't really tell him anything.

“Why that snout? You bought yourself a lot of books” Bickslow observed. Freed snorted.

"Nothing, let's go" he cut him short.

"Now we have to wait for Laxus" Evergreen observed. Freed threw a surprised look inside the library, Laxus was actually buying a book. The blond came out shortly after with the tome on runic writing and stuffed it into Freed's bag, who immediately felt warmth in his face taken aback.

"L ... Laxus, you didn’t have to do it" he stammered.

"Now keep it, and next time tell me instead of wasting our time" grunted the blonde. Freed smiled running his fingers over the cover.

"Thanks" he said genuinely pleased.

"Tsk. Better for you that you take that muzzle off your face, come on, let's go” Laxus ordered and walked away, Freed happily joined him ignoring the giggles of his teammates.

Birthday cake

Laxus knew how to cook, he simply let Freed do it most of the time because his friend liked to do it. So, the teasing of Bickslow and Evergreen had no basis. So, after being teased by the two friends, more as a personal challenge than anything else, Laxus had made up his mind to cook the cake for Freed's birthday. The problem? The cake Bickslow told him to make was made from three layers of custard, with cream puffs and cream on top. That bastard had chosen something complex on purpose just to get him damned.

So now Laxus found himself with the cream puffs in the small oven, the cake in the large oven and the custard that he was preparing in a saucepan over the fire. He was nervous, there were too many things around and too many things to watch out for. Making that cake was turning out to be a nightmare. Laxus smelled the smell of burning, he didn’t initially understand what it was among all those things, so first he turned off the saucepan in which he was mixing the cream, then he took out the cream puffs and finally realized that it was the base of the cake that was burning.

"Shit". It was really burned on the bottom and sides. "Maybe I can cut off the burned part" he thought and took a knife and began to pull away, but the more he pulled away the more the cake took on a horrible shape, and finally Laxus threw it in the garbage can. "Fuck!" he blurted out irritably.

"Everything good?" Laxus turned suddenly realizing that this was Freed and had just entered the house. Shit. He had nothing to give him and the cake was gone.

"Laxus was trying to bake your birthday cake" Bickslow grinned from the living room. Laxus would have thrown the knife at him if he had been nearby, and he noticed how Freed's face turned red as he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh… you didn’t have to do it”.

"In any case, I burned it, so you won't have a shit" Laxus snapped irritably. Damn Bickslow, if he hadn’t chosen the cake to prepare by then it would have been ready. Freed smiled as he approached the stove.

"Can I taste?" he asked him pointing to the custard and Laxus motioned him to do what he wanted. Freed took a teaspoon and tasted. “It's good, and the cream puffs seem ready to be filled”.

"Then you'll have the cream puffs" Laxus grunted and Freed took the sack to start filling them. Laxus stopped him immediately. "It's your birthday. I'll do it” he said sharply, but Freed lifted his face and smiled softly at him, so much so that Laxus felt his stomach flutter.

"I like to cook, let's do it together?" he asked timidly. Laxus was unable to say no, and ended up holding the cream puffs while Freed filled them with cream, even though by now the blond could not help but look at the beaming smile on his friend's face. If it took so little to make him happy, perhaps he should have cooked more often for him.

A rose

Mirajane and Juvia had made up their minds to decorate the whole guild hall for Valentine's Day, Freed had been pulled in the middle -he didn't know how yet- and now he had the task of buying flowers. So that morning he found himself with two bunches of roses in his hand as he walked towards the guild. He passed Laxus's house and wondered if it would be a good idea to declare himself that day. In reality it seemed to him that he was already quite obvious, but perhaps with Laxus he had to be more explicit. The thought, however, agitated him, because even if he seemed to have a certain intimacy with Laxus, he was not sure that he had interpreted his behavior well. He didn't want to pressure him, or ruin what was going on between them, whatever he was.

He didn't realize he had stopped in front of his house until the door opened and Laxus walked out. Freed beamed at him but noticed that the boy's face was becoming perplexed and… was he blushing?

"Morning" Laxus said brusquely as he approached.

"Morning, I was going to the guild" Freed greeted him. He started to walk away but noticed that the blonde was looking at him as if he was expecting something. Freed frowned and following his gaze he noticed that he was staring at the roses he was holding.

"Flowers for Mirajane" Freed explained right away.

"Mirajane?" Laxus asked frowning and Freed realized how bad he had sounded.

"No! I mean, she has to decorate the hall and she sent me to buy them” he explained.

"Oh. Okay” Laxus said in surprise, putting his hands in his pockets. The two boys advanced in silence, while Freed occasionally cast a few curious glances at Laxus. He had seemed almost disappointed before, as if he had thought the roses were for him. Perhaps he would like to receive them. Freed blushed at the thought of giving him a rose and shook his head. Of course not, Laxus was not the type for flowers, nor for such romantic fuss.

But when he arrived in the guild Freed noticed how the boy watched the other couples exchange gifts. At that point he made up his mind. Even if Laxus didn't seem like the romantic type, he could always be wrong. Moreover, by giving him flowers he would finally express his feelings towards him.

So that evening Freed took courage and, with a single red rose in his hand, showed up at Laxus's house.

"Happy Valentine's Day" he said awkwardly, holding out the rose in front of him as Laxus opened it, feeling his cheeks ablaze for what he was daring to do.

"Tsk. Do I look like the type to give a rose to?" Laxus snapped and Freed blushed even more wanting to bury himself in embarrassment. He was about to put the flower aside, but Laxus took it between his fingers. "Come in, there's a good movie on the Lacrima" he told and Freed obeyed a little uncertainly. But when he saw how Laxus turned the rose in his fingers with a tiny smile on his face, he immediately relaxed. Laxus really liked the gift.

Two idiots

Freed and Laxus were sitting quietly at the guild when Makarov called out to them. The two approached immediately thinking that the Master had a mission to give them. Makarov actually had a huge smile on his face.

"Guys, I've booked a table for you at the restaurant on the corner, go there, it's my reward for all the missions you've done lately" he told them. Laxus raised a doubtful eyebrow, wondering when the old man was so kind, while Freed offered him a thousand thanks. In the end, however, they accepted, Laxus still a little doubtful about the old man's intentions, while Freed still deeply grateful to the Master.

"Well, go out on a date" Bickslow grinned next to him and the two looked at him stunned.

"It's just a thank you from the Master" Freed replied while blushing visibly. Bickslow didn't insist and finally Laxus and Freed headed for the restaurant.

"You say it's a date?" he dared to ask Freed all of a sudden, that he'd been thinking about it all afternoon.

"No" Laxus snapped immediately. "Bickslow imagines things, that's all" he said dryly. Freed didn't argue. After all, date or not, he was going to spend an evening with Laxus, and that was all he wanted.

"DEGENERATED GRANDCHILD!" they heard Makarov's scream and the two turned to see the old man waving his stick above him with Bickslow and Evergreen at his side.

"I told you Master, they're two idiots" Bickslow chuckled.

[youshouldhavepaidattentiondad]

Slow Descent: Chapter 3: Totally Wigging Out, Man (Why Don't You Take a Chill Pill?)

Day 3 entry for @hatchetober

Prompt: Fear

Ao3

Early morning sunlight streams through the big picture window. Arlen sits at his kitchen table, sipping from a mug. There may be a lot of coffee shops in Hatchetfield, but he prefers tea. He sets the mug down with a soft clack. The blank pages of a notebook stare up at him. He ignores them in favor of staring at his phone. He had sent Duke a text right when he had woken up and only received silence in return.

With a resigned sigh, he reaches for a pen. He supposes he can do some writing while he waits. As soon as he touches the pen, his phone lights up.  He snatches up the device instead, quickly opening his most recent text. It's from Duke, but all it contains is an address and a time for later that afternoon. Arlen frowns as he texts back see you then.

-

That afternoon, Arlen parks by the curb in what appears to be an abandoned subdivision. Again, he finds himself wondering exactly how big Hatchetfield is. Small towns don't have subdivisions.

As he steps out of his Corvette, Duke steps out of the station wagon parked in front of him. Duke nods in acknowledgement before he walks up the crumbling drive to an olive green house.

Arlen follows, glancing at the overgrown yard. "Who lives here?" He asks.

"Nobody anymore," Duke answers. He pulls a key out of his pocket and inserts it into the lock of the front door. The door creaks open and Duke walks inside.

That's sketchy. 

Against his better judgement, Arlen follows him inside. A thick layer of dust covers the carpet, muting its brilliant real color. The walls are mauve and covered in pop art pieces and band posters. He swallows nervously at how many dead houseplants there are, their leaves dry and brown. The couch and armchairs are brightly colored, segmented into random geometric shapes. "Uh, so the 80's called-"

"And Miss Holloway always picked up," Duke says with a fond sigh. "Come on." He leads Arlen down a narrow hall, past a corded wall phone, and into an office.

Well, office might be a bit generous. There's various glass tables around, stacked with thick tomes and piles of loose leaf paper. One table has some sort of tray on it. There's a chintz couch in the middle of the room. On the wall to the right, there's a collage of some sort.

"What is all this?" Arlen asks in a low voice.

Duke takes a deep breath. "This is what Miss Holloway was working on before…" he shakes his head.

Arlen walks over to the collage, eyes trying to take in everything at once. There's newspaper clippings too faded to read. There's handwritten notes and sketches. There's Polaroid snapshots littered amongst them. One near the middle catches his attention. Carefully, he pulls it off the wall.

There's three people in the shot. In the middle is a young woman with teased red hair, wearing a denim jacket with pins and holding on to the arm of the man to her right. The man she's clinging to has a kind smile and a crooked jaw, but something in his eyes makes Arlen uncomfortable. On the woman's left is a clean shaven man with shoulder length hair, a cigarette between his lips and a watch on his right wrist.

He stares at the picture for several long moments before looking at Duke. "I am completely lost," he admits, "Please explain."

Duke sighs as he settles on the sofa, seemingly not caring about the dust. "You have to understand all this information is secondhand. There are parts I don't even understand." He takes a deep breath before looking at Arlen seriously. "Miss Holloway was a witch."

"... okay." 

"I know it sounds insane, but she had this power. She could hypnotize people, enter your mind. I have no clue how she did it, but she did. She could probably even do more." Duke glances at the tray on its own little table. "Before she died, she told me there was a powerful entity at work, who had ill intent for the world as we know it. She said the entity's envoy was a man named Wiley, who wore all denim, like you said."

Ice cold fear pierces Arlen to his core. That would make sense, but does it really? "So what happened?" He asks as he walks over to the tray. It has a velvet inlay, with a knife shaped indentation, but it's empty.

"She said she had to fight Wiley and one of them would have to die." Duke lets out a shaky breath. "Her body was found in the Starlight Theater. The building had been closed for repairs. The work crew came in to find her body in the middle of the stage. They still don't know how it got there, the theater was locked when they arrived."

It feels like his veins are turning to ice. "So what does this Wiley bastard want with me?"

"I have no clue," Duke says.

That's reassuring. On a whim, Arlen flips over the Polaroid. On the back, in purple glitter ink, is written W. Cross, Me, J. McNamara, followed by a date some twenty odd years ago. There's a small heart next to Cross' name. 

"Maybe this stuff can help though!" Duke suggests, "Maybe-"

Arlen cuts him off with a laugh. "If a literal witch didn't stand a chance against this guy,  I doubt I do." He turns to walk out. "Thanks for telling me all this, Duke. Take care."

The entire drive home, Arlen feels numb. His head is swirling with thoughts, trying to connect the dots. Is any of this even real? Maybe Duke is fucking with him for asking about his dead friend. That's a possibility. Something deep in Arlen's gut tells him that's not what's happening though.

He parks in his driveway before climbing out,  still holding the snapshot. It feels important, even if he's not sure why yet. Like writing an amazing piece of dialogue and not knowing where in the story you're going to put it.

He flips on the light as he walks into the house. He heads to the kitchen, turning on the light there as well. He puts the Polaroid on the fridge, keeping it in place with a magnet, before opening the fridge to pull out a hard cider. He twists the top off and takes a long drink before turning around.

His heart drops, ice cold fear creeping through his body at the sight of a green apple sitting on his island counter.

Note: *baseball slides across the finish line* I made it! Arlen Mercier is my original character, please do not use without my permission

[ric0cheted]

distraction tactics (fic)

In which Geralt needs to sleep, Jaskier has no chill, and Yennefer is perfectly happy to take one for the team. 

(aka time for messy, shoddily-written witcher porn(ish)! all hedonism, zero redeeming qualities. all sorts of permutations of geraskefer. they’re all fucking in my world, lads.)

Upon returning to the manor house, Geralt managed exactly three things: getting undressed, bathing, and crawling into bed.

He wouldn't call the residence at which Yennefer had--temporarily--allowed himself and Jaskier to stay home, exactly. But it certainly beat out the ratty, shit-smelling inns that the nearest town boasted. 

Especially since Geralt's most recent hunt had lasted two days longer than it should've, the monsters had numbered threefold more than they should've, and the coin he'd been paid hadn't reflected either of those developments. Thank the gods he'd managed to, for once, convince Jaskier to stay back. 

All told, Geralt was looking forward to nothing more than sinking into the mattress and letting sleep take hold.

Which meant, of course, that barely three minutes of blessed silence passed before Geralt heard someone kneel beside the bed. He cracked an eye open, right in time to see Jaskier swoop in for a kiss. Geralt rolled his eyes and indulged it, winding his hand in Jaskier’s hair and moaning despite himself when Jaskier's tongue curled around his.

Jaskier pulled away, grinning. "Bring us back anything good?" Jaskier was feeling particularly agreeable, then, if he was referring to himself and Yennefer together like that. "Absolutely fine if the answer happens to simply be your lovely Witcher self. Because we missed you quite a bit." Without further ado, Jaskier slipped under the covers and plastered himself to Geralt, the distinct aroma of arousal wafting from him. 

Geralt had a tendency of forgetting how solid Jaskier was under his clothing, tailored as they were to lend a deceptive waifishness to his frame. Geralt was still taller, still broader, but Jaskier could drape himself across Geralt and cover a good stretch of his body. Much like he currently was. Geralt usually appreciated it, but this time his muscles ached in protest.

Geralt snorted. "Jaskier, I'm fucking tired. I don't even know if I could."

"I'll be good for you," Jaskier promised, kissing Geralt's throat. "Or be good to you. Whichever you'd like." His voice broke into a purr towards the end of his sentence.

"Jaskier," Geralt groaned. He wrapped his fingers around Jaskier's waist, the slimmest part of him, regretfully. He was a hair's breadth away from dislodging the bard himself when Jaskier yelped and jerked out of his grasp, nearly tumbling off the bed.

"You're insufferable," Yennefer told the bard from where she stood in the doorway. Jaskier sat up and rubbed the side of his head, which Geralt could only assume she'd magically slapped. "Now, come with me. I require assistance, and it seems as though yours will have to do.”

Jaskier sighed, deeply put-upon. "You never need my help, so I'm going to assume that you've finally decided to murder me." Jaskier gazed at Geralt with woeful eyes. "Geralt. Geralt. I expect at least a full year of mourning out of you. Also, I'd like my lute donated to a museum, possibly one devoted to the paraphernalia and personal effects of the continent's greatest artists."

Geralt didn't even stay awake long enough to roll his eyes, much less wryly ask why Jaskier would go with her if he was so convinced of his imminent demise.

***

Geralt awoke an hour later. He would've desperately liked more, but it seemed as though sleep would elude him for the moment.

It was all Yennefer and Jaskier’s fault, Geralt thought, grouchily, dragging himself out of bed to bitch at them. He hadn't seen where they'd vanished to earlier, but he didn’t need to guess at their whereabouts, given the overwhelming scent of lust and sex drifting from the library. He'd smelled it in his fucking sleep. It had woken him up. 

In retrospect, Geralt really, truly wished there was something that could've prepared him for what he was walking into.

Dressed in a soft, lace-trimmed robe that ended at her thighs, Yennefer lounged in an armchair, using one hand to page through a thick tome and the other to feed blackberries to Jaskier, handsome and unclothed at her feet. Jaskier was reclining against the chair, one knee pulled to his chest, tilting his head back to take the fruit from her with shocking obedience. His mouth closed around it and Geralt could see his tongue licking at her fingers. Jaskier's soft lips were berry-dark, but his chin and cheeks glistened with something else. His cock was hard, leaking, and untouched.

Geralt choked on his own saliva. Jaskier's eyes, half-closed with bliss, flew open. Their gazes met. Geralt blushed, and then, to his utter bewilderment, Jaskier blushed, scrambling to arrange his limbs in some semblance of modesty and opening his mouth to blurt something out. 

"Geralt." Yennefer said, calmly, twisting her fingers in Jaskier's hair to cut him off. "How was your rest?" Her hold was tight and kept Jaskier from looking away from Geralt. Geralt had no such excuse for failing to tear his own gaze away.

"Fine," Geralt wheezed. It was a terrible lie, but the blood that should've been making its way to his head was traveling decidedly southwards. 

"Good," Yennefer hummed, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. She relaxed her grip and petted Jaskier's hair instead. "Now, it took quite a while to get him like this, and I'd hate to see all of that time and effort undone. Do you intend to stay?" 

Jaskier tilted his head into her touch. There was a still touch of embarrassment about him, burning hotly in his eyes and cheeks, but a dizzy lust was starting to bleed into it. He relaxed his legs, just slightly, letting Geralt catch a glimpse of his cock. It was still very, very hard.

Geralt's mouth watered, his own cock making a valiant effort. But he'd been telling Jaskier the truth, about the degree to which he felt as though he was about to unravel at the seams and fall apart.

Besides, there were things that Geralt hadn't quite worked out about Yennefer and Jaskier, together, certain intricacies to their relationship that Geralt didn't feel equipped to navigate when exhaustion was making him feel the weight of each individual bone in his body. This seemed like one of those occasions.

"I'm going back to sleep." Geralt forced out, voice strangled. "Don't fuck each other to death before I wake up." Taking the coward's route, he turned and fled, Yennefer's peal of laughter following him out.

Geralt made it back to the bedroom and immediately started rifling through the chest of drawers. After a moment of searching, he found a vial of the sleep potion Yennefer had once specially brewed for him. He paused in consideration. It did work, but it was difficult to make, expensive, and usually only granted him a few extra hours, given how quickly his Witcher metabolism burned through it.

Distantly, he could just barely make out Yennefer's purred oh, good boy, followed by Jaskier's low moan. Without hesitation, Geralt downed the entire bottle and welcomed the sweet embrace of sleep. 

***

Geralt slept for three or four more hours before the potion wore off. It took the edge off, at least, bringing him firmly into tired from his previous death walking.

He was stretching, trying to ease the tightness in his muscles, when Jaskier slipped into the bedroom, freshly-bathed and smelling of Yennefer's various soaps and oils. He met Geralt's eyes and blushed. 

"Ah! So. About that." Jaskier rubbed the back of his head and flashed Geralt a charming, sheepish grin. The bruised look to his mouth spoke more of thorough use than of berries. "I--"

Rolling his eyes, Geralt looped his arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him down into the sheets, savoring his surprised yelp. After all, his cock was now very, very capable of participating. 

***

Geralt left Jaskier passed out and drooling on the bed to seek Yennefer out. It took a little longer without the ludicrous trail of arousal to follow, but he eventually found her in the alchemical workshop.

She'd traded the shimmering cream of her robe for one of her traditional black dresses. Jaskier probably could've waxed poetic about the finer points of this particular garment compared to the others. Geralt couldn't tell the difference between them like that; he just knew that she looked beautiful in all of them.

Geralt made his way to her and nuzzled at the hollow of her throat before tugging her in for a kiss. Yennefer wound her hands through his hair and deepened it, tilting his head for a better angle.

After a moment, Geralt pulled away. He'd come here to see her, but he figured he might as well ask. "So, about that." 

"Oh, that," Yennefer replied. There was a vaguely smug twist to her lips. "I've found that he occasionally benefits from a firm hand and something to keep him...occupied. For everyone's good, really." 

"For everyone's good," Geralt repeated, dryly, as though her comment didn't have his cock perking up.

"Yes, for everyone's good. It isn't my fault that you both woke up and turned us down." Her lavender eyes glinted. "Consider joining us next time. It'll likely be impossible to keep him behaved with you around, but there's fun to be had, regardless." 

"Next time," Geralt growled, sliding his hands down her body. He couldn't stop picturing it. "How about you wait until I'm awake."

"No promises," Yennefer purred, allowing Geralt to lift her up onto the nearest unoccupied table. "But maybe. If you're lucky."

[pressedinthepages]

Soft Light

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Ciri & Eskel (Platonic/Familial), Geralt/Eskel

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: @sometimesiwrite​ requested more uncle!eskel, so here ya go love!

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: mild language, fluff, first kisses,

Ciri confides in Eskel about her very first kiss.

    Eskel arrived at Kaer Morhen earlier than anticipated this year, still a few weeks off before the frost took hold. He was greeted by Vesemir being followed around by a bunch of young piglets, who had apparently fallen quite smitten with the Master of the keep.

    “So…” Eskel had smirked, “Guess we’re not gonna be eating any pork this winter?”

    Vesemir scowled, looking down at the four little babies around his ankles. “No. If you get to keep the damn goat, I get my pigs.”

    “Fair enough, good luck convincing Lambert though.”

    Vesemir hummed before leaving Eskel to brush down Scorpion, and Eskel could hear the contented snuffling sounds of happy piglets weaving between Vesemir’s feet. Li’l Bleater butted against his shin before settling in a bundle of blankets in the corner of the stables, hunkering down for a nap.

    A few days passed and Eskel found himself in the library, rebinding a few of the various tomes that have worn down with age. It was a peaceful task that Eskel always enjoyed, tamping down the leather, wrapping and knotting the thick twine neatly down the spine. He had just about finished the first stack of books when a sudden whooshing sound came from his left, followed by a gust of air and a violent shake of his medallion. 

    In a flash of blue light, Ciri appeared in the library, falling directly on her ass with a loud “oof.” Eskel sighed with a smile at the sight of his youngest family member, setting aside the book in his hands. 

    “Your aim is getting better, young Swallow,” Eskel said, standing up from his chair by the fire, “But your dismount still needs some work.”

    “Uncle Eskel!” Ciri sprung up from the floor and darted into his arms, catching him in a wild embrace. Gods, she’s growing up so fast, Eskel thought as he hugged her tightly before letting her go. Ciri is just about twenty now, having joined Geralt on the Path for a few months before venturing out on her own. Little did she know that the White Wolf had been tracking her the whole time, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

    The two of them sat back down in front of the fire while Ciri told him a few of her stories from the past year, including how she took down a slyzard by teleporting onto its back before it took flight. 

    “Ciri,” Eskel admonished, “that was incredibly dangerous!” Eskel was silently impressed, however, incredibly proud of the young woman in front of him. 

        Ciri scoffed, taking a sip from her tankard of wine. “Oh please, like you all haven’t done worse.”

    Eskel nodded, taking a drink of his own. “Sure, but you know what I always tell you. ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’”

    Ciri hummed, and they fell into a companionable silence for a few moments. The crackling of the fire was the only accompaniment to their rest, and Eskel noted the sun setting outside of the window. 

    As Eskel made to stand up Ciri coughed, looking a bit comfortable. “Uncle Eskel, can I talk to you about something before Geralt gets here?”

    Oh, fuck. Eskel sighed with a nod, standing to grab the copy of the Beastiary that used to have a flask of wine. About a year ago Eskel had traded it out for White Gull, knowing it would come in handy someday. And apparently, today was that day.

    He sat back down, crossing his legs beneath him as he regarded the young woman. Her bright green eyes were nervous, and she was fidgety where she was stretched out before the fire. Eskel took a sip of the spirit, letting the warmth of the liquor burn down his throat and settle in his stomach. 

    “So, I found myself in Skellige for a while over the summer,” Ciri started, picking at another loose thread. Eskel smiled, nodding along. 

    “And I met this girl there, her name is Sala…” Eskel hummed as she spoke, listening to her voice grow smaller and smaller with each word.

    “She is so special, Eskel. She made me laugh all the time, and everything just felt so right and warm when I was with her, and-”

    “And then?” Eskel murmured, listening intently.

    “And then she kissed me...we were up on a cliff, looking at the stars, and she just leaned over and kissed me,” Ciri said, smiling a bit at the memory. “I-no one has ever-”

    “That was the first time someone kissed you?” Eskel asked, a genuine grin on his cheeks. 

    Ciri nodded, closing her eyes as she continued. “Her lips were so soft, and she tasted like cider and fire, and I really, really liked it. I like her, and I miss her already.”

    Eskel stood, crossing to the spot where the bookbinding material was. He grabbed an empty bit of parchment and a quill before returning to Ciri, passing her the items as he sat back down. “Write her a letter. Or a bunch of letters. Gods know, between Yennefer’s familiar and her portals and such we should be able to figure out a way for the two of you to keep in touch. You need to keep people like that in your life, Ciri. Don’t let them fall away.”

    Ciri looked down at the paper in her hands, looking all the world like the little girl that Geralt had first carried through the gates all those years ago. Then she looked up at Eskel before throwing herself into his arms.

    “Thank you, Uncle Eskel. I mean it.”

    “I know, little one. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Geralt. But you should.” Eskel replied, feeling her heart speed up where it lay in her chest. “Don’t panic, he’ll be supportive of you no matter what. You know him, he loves you more than the sun loves the moon.”

    Ciri nodded before breaking the embrace, offering a small smile as she scooped up her papers and sped off to her room. Eskel sighed as the sun set fully below the horizon, wondering idly just how long it will take until Geralt would arrive. He knew the feeling well, that first fleeting glimpse of what love was like, and how it could wrap you up and make you dizzy with the blink of an eye. 

Eskel thought back to his own first kiss, deep in the dormitories of Kaer Morhen, Geralt tucked to his side, their lips pressing together with all of the nervousness of a newborn foal taking her first steps. And he knew how that love could fizzle out from neglect, years of the Path beating the both of them down and making them unrecognizable to their former selves. Eskel also knew how that same love could be rekindled with kindness and trust, letting themselves accept each other in ways that they had never been allowed. 

Fuck, he missed Geralt.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 25 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 24 here. Part 26 here.

Summary: All right, well, I guess no one's gonna go swimming in that pool, anymore.

Words: 6600

Warnings: cw--a kylorengarbagedump special: tons of graphic violence and gratuitous bloodplay

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HI, HELLO, what the fuck am I doing! I'd like to give thanks to @faestae and John Wick for this chapter. Without them, I'd be completely fucked. For some reason, I keep writing shit that demonstrates how little I know about writing anything other than sex. Please let me know what you thought! I'm interested to see what people think about this bit.

I love y'all so very much! Thank you for always offering kindness and encouragement. <3

You hadn’t taken your eyes off of your Commander since entering the car, hoping that, if you stared long enough, you’d be able to identify any hint of emotion, any flicker of feeling in his inscrutable expression. But Kylo Ren sat, back against the partition, hands at his sides, a veneer of distance cast over his face. The harder you looked, the further away he seemed--like a void, emptying itself, slowly, of vulnerability. 

“Do you know how long I’ve known your Commander?” said Snoke. You felt his spider-leg gaze crawling over your figure. “Since he was a boy.”

Unsure if you were supposed to respond, you dipped your head in the tiniest nod you could muster.

“And there was a period where he disagreed, you know. With the idea of Gilead. Did you know that?”

Ren was solid, unmoving, staring through the back windshield. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. Swallowing, you allowed yourself to peer over at Snoke. He was watching you expectantly.

“Um.” To be fair, you did know that--you just didn’t know to what degree, and for how long. “I didn’t know that, no.”

“Well, it’s true.” His focus drifted back to Ren. “He was so unsure of himself, back then. Couldn’t ever make a decision. Afraid to let himself achieve what he was truly capable of.” A dark, breathy laugh escaped him. “He was so sensitive, so scared.”

There, right below his nose, you saw it--a twinge of muscle.

“But, thankfully, he’s resolved those doubts, now.” A wicked smile twisted through his skin. “Haven’t you, Ren?”

His eyes, like slate, met Snoke’s for a millisecond. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Now Snoke turned his attention to you. “He believes, like I do, in the roles of society. In the order we can provide by enforcing them.” A glance at Ren. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

“Yes.” His back straightened. 

“He agrees with me that Handmaids are one of those unfortunate necessities of society,” Snoke said. “If we had a perfect world, we wouldn’t need you at all.” He shrugged. “For now, both of you have your roles. Separate and equal.” 

Not that nonsense again. It sounded just as repulsive as when it had come out of Ren’s mouth. “I think we’re both more than that.” You peered at your Commander, who observed you with guarded confusion. “More than our roles.”

Snoke’s eyes sparkled with some sick delight. “Really, now.” He looked to Ren. “We have to make sacrifices, don’t we. To ensure our vision survives to the next generation.”

He averted his gaze, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve made many sacrifices for Gilead, Ren.” 

Snoke’s hand laid on your knee, squeezing it, red fabric bunching in his skeletal grip. Your throat thickened with fear, your breath stolen. Ren’s chest filled with slow, tense air, his jaw tight. The knife in your sleeve seemed to sear you with its presence--you imagined whipping it out, swiping the button, slamming the blade right into the old man’s wrinkled neck. Instead, you sat there, watching his hand creep higher, your focus switching between his fingers and your Commander.

Do what you wish with it.

If you tried to attack him now, here, in his car, both you and Ren would end up dead. You shoved the urge into the bottom of your brain, chin trembling as the bony excuse for a hand grazed your thigh--Snoke’s eyes were trained on Ren, daring him to move. 

But he did nothing.

A whirr of a winding engine cut through the silence, and Snoke removed his hand--you sagged with relief. He rolled down the window, making a quick motion with his wrist, the limo stopping for a brief moment. Then it pushed forward, past a gated entrance staffed with at least two guards armed with rifles. Fear dug its claws into your chest. 

The limo coasted up a long, winding driveway, up to what you could only define as a mansion, and came to a halt. Snoke glanced at the both of you, popping the door open.

“We’ve arrived,” he said. “Come, now.”

Ren met your eyes for a brief, electric second before he exited the vehicle. Steeling your nerves, you followed, feeling significantly hampered by the rustling of your dress. As you clambered into the sun, you breathed the heavy summer air and glanced over the property.

A white stone gate with the pair of sentries encircled a ring of decorative topiaries, bushels of red flowers poking through the mulched landscape. The driveway looped like a racetrack through the yard, up to the bleached cement plaza that opened to a glittering fountain pond. The center of the fountain was dominated by a marble carving of Jesus on the cross, his head craned toward the sky, water gushing in clear, noisy rivers from his hands and crown. In front of you, the staired entrance led to a grand, columned pavilion that guided you toward the front door, a glass and iron arch with concentric rows of windows radiating out to the walls. 

All of this might have been beautiful, you thought, had you not been a slave, invited with your owner under the pretense of interrogation.

That, and the two guards coming to escort you to the entrance--also armed, of course.

They bookended you in a line--Snoke, Ren, and you--through the front door, into the vaulted foyer, ivory granite floors stretching out into a wide parlor room, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Through them, you spied the backyard, complete with a glimmering Tuscan-style pool, enclosed also by that same white stone. And more guards marching in assignment.  

Silent, you kept close to your Commander’s heels as you all climbed the one of the two curved staircases, ascending past an enormous chandelier, tiers of glowing crystal casting flakes of light onto your skin. Despite its warmth, at the last step, you fell cold--there were still more riflemen at the top. The guards ushered you down an empty hall to an open door. They stood at either side of the entrance, and, blood escaping your face, you followed Ren and Snoke inside.

Cherry wood-panelled walls wrapped the oval stone floor, a circular Persian rug rolled out underneath a huge teak desk. It was accompanied by a tall Chesterfield throne upholstered in red leather, two smaller, sister chairs attending the sides. Behind the desk, built-in shelves were lined with heavy, hardbound tomes, all illuminated by two sets of double-necked glass sconces at the two ends of the room.

You stood next to Ren, hands strangling each other as Snoke closed the door and wandered around to the head of his desk. His stride was slow, deliberate, crossing the room like it was slick with molasses. Arriving at his chair, he opened one of the drawers, carding through it before pulling out a folder and plopping it on the flat surface. With precision, he plucked a few pages from it, pushing them forward. 

“Do you remember signing these, Ren?” 

Kylo Ren’s eyes flicked between the paper and his superior. “Yes.”

“Your very first acceptance to the order,” Snoke said, gazing at it. “The evidence of your commitment.” He turned his attention to you. “You said that you think you’re more than your roles. But I know that isn’t the case.”

You cleared your throat, spine straightening. “And I know it is.”

“You’d be wrong,” Snoke said. “Because Kylo Ren is a facade. An identity--a role. Just like yours.” He paused, waiting for Ren to react. He didn’t. “Before he was Kylo Ren, he was a lost, lonely little boy. Always winding up in fights. Parents too busy to care.” 

Ren rolled his tongue along the inside of his teeth, but said nothing.

“But I saw potential in him. Didn’t I, boy?” Snoke offered him a small grin. “I could see the greatness, the cunning, the power you could have.”

“You did,” Ren muttered.

“And this is all you’ve become. Your heart hasn’t hardened. You’re soft. You could never hope to be Kylo Ren.” He sighed, and leered at him. “And I’m disappointed to see that this is the case.”

He was silent, chin raising, stare toward the floor.

“You’re still fighting it, aren’t you?” When he didn’t respond, Snoke’s entire face twisted in a frown. “Answer me, boy.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” Snoke opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a massive silver revolver, tossing it on the desk with a thunk. “Prove it,” he said. “Shoot her.”

Your heart shot between your ears, eyes darting between Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun. Kylo Ren was as unreadable as ever--he considered the revolver as if Snoke had thrown down a ballpoint pen. A tiny breath escaped him.

“Everything I’ve done has been for Gilead--my commitment has never wavered--”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Snoke’s gaze flashed with barely-leashed rage. “I see how you respond when I touch her, I can feel your weakness for her.”

Ren’s lip twitched. “Weakness. For a Handmaid.” 

“I know your mind, Ren. I know every little thought that goes through your brain. Your impulses are raw, you allow Gilead to suffer under your foolishness. This paper...” He held it up, pointing to the signature--beautiful, loopy letters that read Ben Solo. “The boy that signed it still lives. And he is weak.” 

Snoke pushed off the desk, stalked over to you--before you could even think to move, his hand gnarled in your hair, fingers scraping like screws over your scalp. You whimpered, thinking to scream, to fight, to beg--but worried Snoke would shoot you himself if you did. 

“Show me who you’re meant to be, Kylo Ren.” He ripped you to the floor, shoving you onto your knees near his feet. Then, at the back of your head--something hard. Cold. Another gun. “Or I’ll show you myself.”

In the back of your mind, it seemed strange--for all the scenarios you’d imagined being on your knees in front of your Commander, this had never been one of them. Terror shuddered you, but you stilled the quaking of your flesh, meeting Ren’s eyes, sticking your chin into the air. He stared into you and through you, hooking into your hidden fear, finding himself there. Your chests rose and fell with the same breath, lips parting with the same awful knowledge--there was no scenario where he could save you, no reality where your story could’ve had a different ending. For all of your emptiness, loneliness, wanton need, this was your destiny--two souls, desperate to know the other, denied for every unchangeable reason fate could offer.

Part of you knew that Ren had to kill you. Part of you hoped against hope that, somehow, he wouldn’t.

But then he moved. And he picked up the gun.

“Good,” Snoke said. “Good.”

Ren stepped toward you, face blank, and aimed the revolver until it was inches from your head. You gazed at him, thankful that you’d known relief at least once in the past few years, somehow more thankful that he’d been the one to give it to you. Heat stung your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not now. You’d wished for death too many times at this point to begrudge its arrival.

“Good choice, my boy,” Snoke said. He jerked your scalp. “Would you like to have a prayer for your last words?”

He scoffed. “What use does a dog have for prayer?”

A hearty chuckle. “Oh, I’m nothing if not a man of God.”

“Last prayer, then.” Ren blinked. “Do what you wish with it.”

In your chest, breath hitched, your pulse flying. The switchblade. Swallowing, you glanced at the floor to Snoke’s foot beside you, then back up, meeting Ren’s eyes. A spark, a crooked crackle of light--you were seeing them, seeing him, seeing yourself, a reflection, an echo, pure resonance in the emptiness of his mind--and in that moment, you knew.

You knew him.

Clearing your throat, you began, “O, Lord Jesus…” 

You pressed your palms together, bowing your head to conceal them as you used the heel of your hand to guide the blade up your sleeve.

“... pour into me the spirit of your love…”

The handle poked through the edge of fabric, the wooden scales cool and smooth. Your tongue was paper, scratching at your mouth.

“... that in the hour of my death…”

With the switchblade fully encased in your hands, your finger dipped to find the safety and flick it free. Perspiration had it slip in your grip, and you flinched for only a second, pinching it tight between your palms. 

“... I may be worthy to vanquish the enemy…”

Your thumb fumbled for the safety, now, finding it behind your sweaty skin.

“... and receive the heavenly crown.”

Pushing it up, you drew a long, deep breath through your nose. Ren cocked his gun. 

“Amen.”

The blade sprung free, and you drove it, a stake, straight into Snoke’s hapless foot. He screamed, his gun clattering to the floor--in that instant, Ren cocked a brow, raised the revolver, and fired. Snoke blew back, blood spattering your crown, a crimson spray cast over the desk, onto Ren’s face, and the body hit the floor behind you with a fleshy thud. 

You blinked, gasping, trembling, too terrified to look behind you, too anxious to not confirm he was dead. A quick peek--a massive crater in the lifeless facade of his skull--and you swallowed, looking to Kylo Ren, without breath, without speech, without pretense. His eyes were wide and wild, his chest heaving with something like excitement--then, outside the study, the guards stirred. 

“Commander Snoke?” one asked.

Ren glanced at the door. His pupils swallowed his irises, and at the corner of his lips, a smirk. He tore off his tie, tossed his suit jacket onto the floor, back and shoulders swelling like mountains underneath his shirt. 

“We’re coming in, sir.”

“Get down,” he muttered as he cocked the gun, aiming it at the door. “Come in.”

You scrambled to the side of the desk and tore off your wings so you could see, curling over your knees, and the door squeaked open. The moment the guard’s head breached the entrance, Ren fired, and you jolted--blood spurted, painting the wall, the body dropped. A second guard flung the door back, rushing Ren before he could reload, but Ren threw his elbow into the man’s chin, wringing his arm around his neck and shoving him to the ground. He drove his heel into the guard’s neck before cocking the gun and blowing a hole through his face.

Heart flying in your chest, you stared at him, mouth open, almost unable to believe what you’d just seen. In the recording, you’d heard Snoke call him a warrior--you just hadn’t known until now what that meant.

“We’re moving.” Ren stalked over and snatched your wrist, but you winced. 

“Hold on!” You tugged away and snagged the switchblade from Snoke’s foot, sheathing it and shoving it back up your sleeve.

“Come.” He grabbed you again, leading you over the leaking lump of the guard and into the hall.

As you breached the threshold and crossed the hall, two guards turned the corner--the ones from the top of the stairs. Kylo Ren shoved you behind him, gunshots spearing your ears, a body falling; then he slammed you against the wall, the trill of wide rifle bullets whizzing by your skull. You screamed, covered your head, and Ren reached out, wresting the barrel of the offending gun and wrenching the guard flush with his chest--he shoved the revolver up to his chin and fired, viscera erupting from the man’s eye sockets and coating you both. 

You gagged, mind whirling--but Ren was crazed, rippling with the heat of exhilaration. He ditched the revolver and tucked the rifle under his arm, shrugging the body off and grabbing you again. Ren hugged you tight to his frame as he marched through the halls; panting, you gazed up at him, futilely trying to process that he had not only murdered his leader, but now apparently planned to gun down the entirety of this estate--when he all he had to do instead was kill you.

He cursed when you reached the steps. A pair of guards was posted at both sets of stairs--and, seeing you, they shouted and charged. Ren’s attention darted between them, landed on the chandelier. He shouldered you back, running forward and leaping from the banister. You squeaked, hands clapping your mouth--but he grappled the chain, feet stumbling over the metal frame as the crystal behemoth swung like a sparkling pendulum in the foyer. The guards hollered, racking their rifles--but Ren fired first.

Using the chandelier like an assassination assistant, Ren pinned the gun to his body and pulled the trigger, spitting a storm of bullets into the staircase, littering pockmarks over the walls. The guards quailed, ducked--Ren jerked the fixture’s chain, rolling his legs down, and he spun, a carousel of death, firing next at the guards climbing the other steps. These two were not so lucky--you caught hot streams of blood splash over the balustrade, and then Ren swung again,  crystals clinking like chimes as the chandelier bowed in wide arcs. Face tight with frenzy, he fired, and you watched the bodies crumple like marionettes and tumble down the stairs.

Bobbing in the air, he cast his gaze around the room, back hunched, an animal starved. You grimaced, crawled forward, gripping the banister, and when he met your eyes, he shifted, making to swing.

“Stop!” came a voice from the back of the home. 

From underneath the balcony, you saw two guards run forward, rifles pointed up--before you could shout, they fired into the ceiling, clouds of crystal fragments spewing into the air. Ren wobbled, dodging with surprising grace, then flung the chandelier back. 

You watched him, lids wide, as he stepped, one foot, another foot, skating over the steel and lurching forward, yanking on the chain like a rope and throwing his legs into the air. His other arm, still occupied with the rifle, swung down, and as he launched himself toward the banister, he fired, sparks snapping, the chain severed. Ren connected with the railing as the chandelier exploded to the floor, crushing the two guards in a splintering spew of metal and glass. Without thinking, you scampered to him, clutching his arms, straining as you helped haul him onto the balcony. He stumbled to his feet and ripped you up by your wrist.

“Commander--”

“Quiet.”

Adrenaline coursed through him into you, absorbed like warmth through your skin. He dragged you down the steps, tossing his current gun and grabbing a new one while you fled over the ragdolled corpses covering your path. In your dress, it was difficult to maneuver, but Ren pulled you through, jaw set firm, ravenous fury dancing in waves from his body. His eyes were focused and feral, a predator, a true, live killer, consumed with a hunger you’d never before seen--not up close. 

He led you toward the front door--beyond the mottled glass, you could spy a pair of guards sneaking close, decked in armor, guns raised. Cursing, he doubled back, your arm popping while he hauled you toward the other end of the home. Then two more guards, also in armor, crept across the pool deck in the same formation, heading toward wherever the back entrance was. Grumbling, Ren tore to the right, wringing you forward--you’d been thrust into a huge kitchen, replete with white quartz countertops and oak cabinetry. You had little time to admire it before he shoved you under the hood of the breakfast nook. Breathless, you pulled your knees to your chest, trying to become as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed two long knives from the butcher block on the counter, sidling up to the wall next to an archway that opened to what appeared like a mudroom. The first sentry peered around the corner, and Kylo Ren snarled, driving the knife through the man’s throat. He choked, gasped, writhing as he fell to the ground, rivers of blood spilling over the floor. The second guard flinched, went to raise his rifle at Ren--but the second of hesitation sealed his fate. Ren jammed his foot into the man’s chest, knocking him onto his back, and stomped his face before shifting the rifle into his hands and ending him with a pop, pop.

Flustered with fear, you made to move--and then spotted that the two guards from the front had made their way into the home, crossing into the kitchen. Before you could warn Ren, one fired, a quick burst, striking him in the side. He roared, crumpling to the floor, a bloom of bright blood staining his side--your body burst with fear, with rage, your mind making decisions without a second of uncertainty. 

As the guards pushed toward Ren, you threw yourself into their path, a human speedbump; they tripped, stumbled over you, over each other, trampling you as they both collapsed to the ground. You craned your neck to see your Commander--he seethed as he stood, punching himself in his wound, each strike punctuated with a furious grunt.

Kylo Ren flipped the free knife into the air, caught it by the handle, and sneered, stabbing one of the guards through the eye--his body jerked, twitched on top of you, and Ren rolled the other man with his foot, aiming his rifle at his exposed face and riddling it with holes. You squealed as his frame jolted with the shots, trying to scramble free--but Ren caught you by the arm again, prying you to your feet. He started toward the back door, but you jerked away--he spun, hair tossed in choppy waves over his face, teeth bared, entire form trembling with the throes of bloodlust.

“The--the front,” you managed to eke out. “You’re injured, let’s get out of here.”

He growled, seizing your wrist and tugging you forward. “We’re not done yet.” 

You swallowed. This was no longer about escaping. It was about revenge.

Led through the mudroom in the wake of his wrath, Ren discarded you to the side of the door and shouldered it open. Two guards stood, anticipating, at the exit, two more chasing around the pool. Your Commander wrapped one of the guards in a headlock, using him as a shield while he surged forward, facing the closest guard while shooting over his arm at the other two. They shook, barraged with bullets, toppling back until they both splashed into the pool, crimson fog weeping into the water. The guard in his grip kicked back, and he faltered--the man closest to him took this as an opportunity to lunge, and smashed into Ren, knocking him and his hostage to the ground.

Chest tightening, you made to move, but hesitated--what would you do? Shoot them? Your brain raced with the possibilities--at this point, you’d picked up a pistol, but you’d never pictured yourself as someone who could end a life. You’d also never pictured yourself as someone who would speak back to the lead Commander of Gilead, get belted over a knee, have her pussy stuffed with a gun, or feel worry for the man who owned her.

That last one caught you by surprise--you weren’t just worried, you were terrified. And not for yourself, but for him. 

Kylo Ren rolled as the other guard approached, his rifle raised--he ducked behind his captive, using him like a barrier and reached down to the man’s side, stealing a handgun from his belt. The other guard went to dodge, but was blasted in the face with two shots, raining blood over the brick patio, crumpling to his knees and smacking the ground. 

Caught in a struggle, Ren went to shoot his final victim through the skull--but the man had already produced a knife from the other side of his belt, and slashed up, ripping Ren across the shoulder and slicing his face. He howled in pain, and the guard took the opportunity to tear himself free, scurrying to his feet, reaching for the gun in Ren’s hand.

Something possessed you--fear, indignity, affection, something--and you dashed through the door, grappled a gun from the corpse closest to you, and cocked it. Maybe, before Gilead, you weren’t a person who could end a life. But now, you were a survivor. And you would be damned if you or your Commander would die here.

Taking the pistol in both hands, you aimed at the guard’s torso. “Hey!” you shouted for absolutely no reason. He glanced over, confused. “Fuck you!”

You pulled the trigger, ears ringing--the bullet nailed his chest, and he staggered, jaw dropped, perhaps wondering if he had really just been shot by a Handmaid. Ren, face smothered scarlet, swung to his feet, swiping the knife from the ground. He snatched the man mid-fall, hoisted him into the air and, snarling, shredded his throat with the blade. A geyser of blood gushed from his neck, bathing Ren in its fever, soaking his shirt, coating the curls of his hair. His shoulders crowded with the desperate cycle of his lungs as he loosened his grip, letting the body hit the ground, crimson bubbles seeping from the wound.

Hands quaking, you lowered your arms, dropped the gun. You couldn’t find your breath, chest fighting for air. Ren turned, eyes tracing the bodies, until finally, they landed on you. Heat hit you, strangled you, wrapped you like wire in a suffocating, powerful, need. Both of you, sprayed with blood, panting, aching--everything you had done, you’d done for the other. His transgressions faded to shadows in your mind. Against every single governmental pillar and logical instinct, you were alive because of him. And you wanted nothing more, now, than to be in his arms.

The word fled your lips, a caged dove. “Kylo…”

Kylo Ren threw down the knife, rushing you, and your feet moved too, carrying you on feathers to him, until your bodies connected, his arms coiling around you, his mouth bruising yours, the taste of iron fresh between your teeth. He was damp with blood, his skin spilled copper into your nose--but despite it all, you groaned, flooded with passion, burning in his embrace. Ren’s tongue drove into your mouth, his hand cupping the back of your head, wetting your hair as he crushed you to his frame. Thighs thrumming with desire, you kissed him back, nipping his lip, threading your fingers through his sticky waves--he moaned, crumbling to his knees, his hold taking you with him. 

“You saved me,” you muttered against his lips. “You saved--”

Ren silenced you with a kiss. “Little bird...” He nibbled the line of your jaw, jerking a fistful of hair and burying his face in it, inhaling deep. “Get these clothes off.”

You shivered. “Yes, sir.”

Keeping his gaze, you gathered the hem of your dress and peeled it over your head, his eyes leaping over every bit of exposed flesh as it was revealed to him. You tossed it and your switchblade to the side, his hands grappling with your hips, sliding up your sides, smearing crimson over your skin. Whimpering, you reached toward your feet, pulling your boots off and throwing them to the side, attempting valiantly to remain kneeling while you inched your underwear down your hips and over your calves. Ren watched, trained on your naked cunt, as you finally flung it behind you.

When you went to begin the arduous task of unhooking your bra, Ren growled, your knees scraping across the pool deck as he yanked you into an impatient kiss. You whined in pain, soothed by his soft lips working yours, new blood from the wound on his face dribbling into your mouths and over your wrestling tongues. He wrested your tits from your bra, dying them red, thumbs skating delight over your stiffening nipples. Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until he was on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

A soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was, even (or especially) doused in blood--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. If he was in any pain at all from the gash on his face or the bullets in his side, it didn’t show--he rolled into you as if he cared for nothing other than the sight of your body over his own. 

“Are you okay?” You placed your hands on his, squeezing them. 

Ren frowned and swatted you off, gathering both wrists behind you in a tight vise. “Interesting question to pose while you’re already grinding onto me.”

You blushed. “I just wanted to make--” 

He shoved two bloodied fingers in your mouth, depressing your tongue, cranking your jaw open. “Ask me again after I’ve fucked that little cunt raw.”

Shuddering, you clenched, and nodded.

“There we go.” He released your tongue, popping your wrists back--your tits swayed from the movement, and he hummed in satisfaction, kneading and groping at the flesh, teasing your nipples. “You’re gorgeous…”

“Oh…” Submerged in desire, you could barely process his words. He twitched underneath you, drawing another spasm from your core. “Kylo…”

He sucked in air through his teeth, digging his fingers into your breast. “You want my cock? Hm?” He reached down, brushed his thumb over your clit, and you whined. “You want me inside you, slut?”

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Fuck, yes, please.”

“Good girl…” 

Ren kept his grip on your wrists, working at his pants until he’d managed to pull his long, heavy cock free. You ached at the sight of it, wanting to slide it between your folds, feel it pulse inside you, bask in its swollen heat. Ren slapped it against you and shifted his hips, pushing you higher, hand stroking his length as he guided it to your entrance. Stoked on adrenaline, on some sort of intoxicating infatuation, you were wet and wanting and warm with need--you sank onto him, crying out when he broke you open, letting him drive deep into your belly. 

“God,” you hissed, “you feel so good…”

He throbbed at the base, rutting up into you and popping your wrists again. “Shh.” His free hand clutched your hip. “I’ll tell you when to speak, little bird,” he muttered. “Be quiet and take this cock.”

Ren’s strength overwhelmed you--he slammed you from below, fucking up into you, forcing gasps and squeals from your lungs. Bliss blazed through your blood as the force of his thrusts throttled you, body quaking, breasts bouncing. His face was screwed in a twist of lust and effort, lip furled, strangled growls escaping his chest--he pumped hard, fast, pinching you in his hands as his own pleasure built. 

“Fuck,” he growled, “that’s right--do you like that?”

“Yes…” The words were as unfiltered as you were. “I love it…”

“Good--good girl.” His stare devoured you while you rode him. “So beautiful… so perfect…” A hand glided up your side, cupping one of your tits. “And all mine…” He grunted, punished you with a particularly hard thrust--you yelped. “Say it.”

A twinge in your heart, distant and irritating. “But I--”

He yanked your wrists, straining your shoulders, branding a bruise into your breast with his fingers. “Say it.” His pace switched, and he rammed your cunt with brutal, deep strokes, striking your cervix with white streaks of pain. “You’re mine.”

“Kylo--”

Ren seethed, throwing you off of him and onto your back, wincing when he loomed over you, and he pounded his side, hissing in pain. Your eyes widened--in seconds, he’d spiraled into mania, his face wrought with possessive fervor while his fist pummeled his wound. If he’d looked beautiful before, now it was sinful: dark hair matted in messy clumps around his crown, his brow drawn in focus, his shirt, torn from the knife, flopping over to reveal his bare chest, showered with blood. He peeled your legs wide, ankles in his fists as he lifted your ass from the ground--and, sneering, he split you, cock cleaving your cunt. In pleasure, you sobbed. 

“Fuck,” he growled again. “You’re so fucking tight…” Ren started fucking into you, slipping in to the hilt, hips hitting yours with loud slaps. “You feel so good around my cock…”

Whinging, you lolled your head on the deck-- his words sent a torrent of yearning through your flesh, and your clit screeched for attention, but part of you knew that touching it yourself would deny you release altogether. So you stared at him, chin tucked to your chest, each stroke bringing new, desperate breath to your lungs as your back scratched the smooth stone underneath you. 

“Nothing to stop me,” he said, “nothing to keep me from you.” He jerked you closer, and you wailed from the depth of his thrusts. “You’re going to be mine…”

“Kylo--”

“No,” he hissed. “Say it.” He propped one of your legs on his shoulder, his hand diving between your legs to rub your clit, covering it in blood--you cried out, clenching, convulsing, pleasure creeping into your vision. “Say you want to be mine.”

The earth turned beneath you. Everything, all of it had been for you, but not in the way that you had hoped. No, it had been to alter the universe to his own whims, to construct a galaxy where he could possess you, keep you, trap you in a tiny, wire cage. His little bird. 

You wouldn’t accept that--not after today. You couldn’t.

“Only if--ah--you’re mine, too,” you replied. “I can’t just be yours! You--you have to be mine!” 

“What have I told you?” Ren groaned, deep and low. “If that’s what you want…” He gathered some of the blood from his face onto his thumb. “Then you’ll want for nothing.” He slicked your clit while he fucked you, the fluid warm and wet and spinning you to the height of euphoria. “Say it.”

“I’m--I’m yours!” You shut your lids, awash in the elated reality of his admission. “I’m yours, Kylo!”

“Cum then,” he ordered, “cum on this fucking cock...”

You were drawn and quartered by ecstasy, spine arcing toward the sky as your core clamped his dick, limbs shuddering with the waves of your epinephrine-injected climax. Ren growled, leaning over you to hammer into your cunt, strangling his groan as he poured his cum into you, rolling his hips until he was empty--empty of rage, lust, and energy.

Swallowing, you heaved, eyes fluttering open, seeking out your Commander’s gaze. Not that his position mattered, in this hazy purgatory of existence. In this moment, the laws and regulations of Gilead didn’t apply to you and Ren. You’d defied them, destroyed them all. Together. 

Something, some emotion you’d wrestled into submission so many times before slithered out of its grave--like hope, but more poignant, more powerful, not just the faith that you could survive. No, it was the dream that you could thrive, that Gilead would crumble underneath both of your feet, that--maybe--you could take a canvas and paint a future with him in it. 

Locking eyes, you spied it there, too, beyond the lowered shield of his anger: a mirror of your mind. His hand fell between your breasts, his lip quivering, fingers skimming down your sensitive, starlight skin. How long you laid there, you weren’t sure, but it was after his soft cock had slipped out of you, after your breath had leveled. Sweat glazed you both. 

“Why did you do it?” you asked, finally. You fumbled for his hand, laid yours over it.

Ren paused, staring at the image of your hand--so much smaller--wrapped around his, analyzing it in his mind like a puzzle.  His jaw tensed, and he pulled away. A piece of your heart wilted.

“I told you,” he said, beginning to adjust himself to decency. “Gilead is flawed. My vision will perfect it.” He met your eyes. “You’ll be mine. And you’ll want for nothing.”

“But…” You narrowed your lids. “You’re mine, too, then.”

“I am.” He stood, gazing over the carnage of the yard--the bodies, the blood, the dyed-red water--all of it turning rancid in the summer heat. “Your Commander.” 

There it was. The mallet of his intention, shattering your dreams to disasters. It was as if you had been thrust into the pool yourself, drenched in cold, icy admonishment. How stupid, how foolish were you to imagine that Kylo Ren could consider bringing Gilead down? How short-sighted had you been to believe, for one moment, that he would ever renounce his ownership of you? How horrible, how awful were you that the tiniest, most foolish part of you wanted to accept this--agree to his terms, as long as he’d stay, somewhere, in that canvas.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your underwear and pulled it on. It seemed silly, getting dressed when half of your clothing would be muddied with blood. You glanced up at him, mapping the wounds in his body. He was hunched, but not hampered. 

“Are you really okay?” 

Ren still had his hand extended. “Yes.”

You frowned, slapped it away. His eye twitched, attention switching between you and his hand--and, to your surprise, he shoved it in his pocket. You grabbed your dress, tugged it on.

“Continue getting dressed,” he said. “I’ll contact my men and tell them--”

“Hello? Who’s out there?”

The voice, tight with fear, froze you both--Ren’s fists clenched, your heart falling somewhere into your ass. From inside the mudroom, a young woman cloaked in blue emerged, and you recognized her immediately. Snoke’s robot, er, Wife. Christine. She hadn’t spoken once at the dinner. 

Between the gloves, the hat, the heeled shoes, it was obvious she was just now returning home. As she surveyed the yard, her gaze fuzzied, and she tumbled into the threshold. Neither you nor Ren made a move to help her.

“What… what happened here?”

It was a fair question. But admitting you’d both participated in a coup likely wouldn’t go over well. You weren’t sure what Ren’s plan was, but you knew the Eyes could have you both killed if they learned this had been your doing.

“Commander Snoke is dead,” Ren said. “I killed--”

“The guard,” you said, glaring at him. “He killed the guard who killed Commander Snoke. After that, the entire place went up.” Looking back at her, you gestured to Ren. “You need to call an ambulance, he’s been injured.”

Christine, appearing dizzy, pushed off of the doorframe and nodded. “I’ll… I’ll get help. Just…” She waved her hands in circles. “Don’t move.”

With that, she stumbled into the home, the click of her heels growing distant. 

You sneered at Ren, pulling on your boots and stuffing the switchblade in your sleeve. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you as you stood, said nothing for a moment--a twitch of pain crossed his face. “When I’m taken to the hospital, you’ll be questioned,” he said. “Say nothing. I will handle this. And when you get home, bathe and get into bed.” His eyes raked over you. “Do you understand?”

You nodded. “Yes, Kylo. I do.”

Ren exhaled, drinking you in. “I’m going to contact my men before the ambulance arrives. They’ll have work to do here.” He reached out and cupped your face. “Be good, little bird.” He patted you on the cheek, and walked into the home. 

[highgaarden]

7+57+67 sounds like an interesting mix for one fic for the great if u could 🥺🥺

as a special treat for reading this, you are all allowed to suspend your disbelief for extra enjoyment. 

prompt: peter/catherine + “a kiss for good luck?” + “i’m tired, just cuddle me.” + “is that my shirt?”

green was the grass;

The Swedes decide to visit one summer that could only be described as vividly sweltering. Hugo and Peter spend long afternoons yelling ‘rabbit’ and shooting at nothing; Agnes and Catherine take a turn about her private library, commenting on this title or that. Their first ever royal couple friends bring along with them dogs and cats and acrobats; hallon and körsbär and jordgubbar; theatre and art and a brand new printing press of the latest model.

Peter presents the grand appetizers of their summer dinner: pan-seared foie gras spelling out KING HUGO, and a relatively smaller queenagnes. Hugo giggles in glee.

Hugo takes an immense liking to smash bottles. Agnes kisses his ball before he swings it back - all but three of his bottles go down.

Two turns later Peter gets the same idea. He rushes to Catherine, who looks bewildered to have been pulled out of her commentary with Orlo. With unpracticed swiftness Peter pulls her up to him and presses a kiss to her lips.

“For luck,” he says when he pulls back. He has the temerity to wink at her.

Catherine wills her fingers not to to graze the spot  on her lips that Peter had touched with his.

&

The days continue.

The days get cooler.

On the first day of autumn Hugo and Agnes leave in a crash and bang of fireworks that Peter had insisted on. Many of the court suffered singed wigs for that night, all but Peter, who had pulled Orlo in front of his line of fire.

Hugo’s brilliant smile had dimmed somewhat by the time he climbed into his carriage, but all in all it was a pretty good visit.

And finally, there is peace and quiet in the court.

More importantly there is a tree on the edge of the vast greens that Catherine has a particular fondness for. It reaches up into the sky with the vigour of a child excited for first snowfall. In the winter it looks especially  dashing, and she used to enjoy imagining it in battle-weary uniform, finally come to take her away from this madness.

Now she mostly comes here to read the days away when her study feels too stifling. Back home she always had the run of the garden whenever she had a new book; mother knew well enough to leave her lunch on the little table father had set up just for her, and she would lay nestled in the roots of their great oak tree, turning pages with enraptured focus.

She cannot quite tether her joy the same way anymore, not since coming here. But it remains a pleasant respite. For once, she does not have to think about anything more pressing than the new tome Volti - as she had come to calling him as well much to Peter’s delight - had written. He had sent it to her with nothing but a little caricature of his wink scrawled on the cover, that French fuck.

She is barely a quarter way through when she hears the sound of panting and leaves breaking underfoot. She shifts under the blanket she’d brought along and tries to peer behind the thick trunk of the tree. Craning her neck, she sees nothing.

Someone taps on her shoulder, and she screams.

“Wife!” Peter yelps back.

“What are you doing here!” she splutters. In my sanctuary, she adds, silently dismayed.

“I run here,” Peter says too casually.

“You run in the woods on the north of the palace,” she accuses.

Peter shifts his gaze to the leaves overhead. “I have decided to try a new route.”

“This path is utterly uninteresting for a run.”

“I dare not say the same. It led me to you, did it not?”

Catherine falls silent, struck.

“I suppose you will be on your way now,” she prompts once she finds her voice. She looks pointedly down at her book, barely broken in.

“Oh, is that the new Volti?” Peter asks with interest, and with no invitation whatsoever crawls into the space her blanket allowed and grabs the the note Volti had written, slipped from the middle of the book, from her hand.

“Interesting,” Peter muses.

“You’re studying the diagram upside down.”

Unperturbed Peter just flips the note over and nods as if impressed. “Even more so!”

Catherine chuckles. “You are ridiculous, husband.”

“ You are the ridiculous one, isolating yourself on such a beautifully orange morning.”

“Perhaps I wanted the solitude.” Her lips twitch. “The quiet.”

“Do you not want for company?” Peter asks, a little too quickly to be feigned as glibness.

Catherine looks at him closer. “Do you?”

Peter just huffs. “I am tired and cold from my run. Shift over so the blanket covers both of us properly, thank you very much.”

Their knees knock together. The blanket was barely big enough to cover one person, let alone two. She has to practically sit between Peter’s legs. It didn’t occur to her that maybe she could have just let Peter have the whole blanket, it was not that col--

Peter’s breath ghosts her ear and she gives a full bodied shiver.

Forget it, it was cold alright.

Peter clears his throat and solemnly announces, “ Results of the execution of Jean Calas.”

Catherine hides her smile as Peter attempts to read what must be to him ancient Latin. She rests her chin on his shoulder as she reads with him, and every so often laughs when Peter says something stupid like, “I don’t know about you, but Volti’s hair seemed a little phallic on his last visit, did it not?”

“Just turn the page,” she says instead of confirming her agreement.

&

At the end of Winter it starts to heat up miraculously quickly. Everyone rejoices, and Peter demands a bonfire. The fire does not survive as long as everyone wants with the ground still so damp from melting snow still, but does its job in cheering the court.

Perhaps too good a job, because with the screens to bear the harsh cold of their winter still secured to the windows, it became an obstacle for the sudden heat spell and for Catherine, who was trying to adjust to the sudden warmth of the night.

It was odd: all winter she’d longed for a burst of heat, for her bed to be placed right next to the fireplace. Her night gown was not suited for the occasion: all at once it seemed too thick, too long. She huffs out in frustration as it becomes clear she won’t be able to sleep until she’s cooled.

She wishes for the thigh-grazing hems of Peter’s breezy tunics.

Her mind made up, she creeps her way down the hall and turns corners until she finds Peter’s quarters. He is sleeping soundly which she is grateful for, and makes her way as quietly as possible to his wardrobe. It is a little deeper than expected, perhaps put away to make space for the thicker clothes this winter demanded, but she finds what she is looking for. Shucking her nightdress quickly in favour of her husband’s shirt, she sighs when the cool material skims the skin over her shoulders, her stomach. She is comfortable in an instant.

In fact, Peter’s room was a lot cooler than hers. She frowns and goes to investigate.

Her eyes land immediately on the gash in the screen of his windows. The obvious tool for the crime was in an axe lying on the floor amongst splinters. Had he really smashed his screen in, in a fit of rage? Was she really all that surprised?

Not really.

At any rate, it isn’t fair that he gets to sleep in comfort while she absolutely writhed in the heat - in her lack of sleep she may have, perhaps, exaggerated the details a little.

Peter wakes immediately when she clambers into bed beside him, dipping her toes into his bed which is devoid of any warming pans. Of course. She had forgotten about them, too used to them by now to think anything out of the ordinary.

“Mmm,” Catherine sighs contentedly as she burrows herself deeper into the covers.

“I see you are reaping the benefits of my hard work,” Peter smirks. “You are lucky I have just learned that intolerance is humanly unlawful, so I suppose you may stay.”

“You suppose,” Catherine coos mockingly, and Peter blinks in her change of demeanour. He remembers distractedly that she had received word from home today. She is always extra bouncy whenever that happens. He wonders if her father had sent her any trinkets like last time, when he’d found her turning a little chess piece in her hands over and over again, her eyes sombre.

Peter decides to say nothing about it lest he break whatever spell she is in, but does tug his share of the blanket back to his side. He had not been exaggerating earlier; Catherine was hogging the sheets and he did not abide that.

Catherine rolls her eyes and relinquishes her grip on his blanket, and Peter stumbles once again.

“What are you wearing?” he asks dumbly.

“A tunic.” She sniffs. “It is objectively unjust how men have far more liberating choice in clothes.”

The candles that usually lit his brain had all gone out at the same time.

“I petition for you to decree corsets unnecessary for the coming spring and summer.” She leans in conspiratorially. “It would be most progressive.”

“Indeed,” he repeats, not understanding one bit. “Shall we - shall we get to writing?”

“In the morning,” Catherine says, satisfied. “For now let’s sleep so spring comes faster.”

Peter nods. Their thighs press together. He smells her hair. They fall asleep.

&

On the first day of spring he finds Catherine waiting for him at breakfast, standing in the first rays of sun, haloing her hazy silhouette her hazy silhouette revealing the natural shape of her body. She turns and grins at him.

When he reaches for her cheek, she lets him.

leave me prompts from here  + i’ll write something for you!

[hobidreams]

Stay Quiet | JJK {M}

you think the library is only a place for studying. jungkook convinces you otherwise.

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x reader genre: smut, a dash of fluff words: 2.7k contains: college au, public place, condomless sex, oral (f), dirty talk, you almost get caught, but you kind of like it a/n: spawned from the drabble prompt that’s bolded in the text! reposted, thanks to tumblr being tumblr.

You have one goal for this term: a 4.0 GPA. Or as close to it as you can get. Grad school application deadlines are coming up, and you’re so close to the end you can practically taste the celebratory beer on your tongue. The library has become your new home, open twenty-four hours a day for all your studying needs. Your new routine is waking up early and leaving late. You don’t actually mind spending so much time here, not if it’ll get you to the marks you want and need.

Unfortunately, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to share that opinion.

“Jungkook, stop staring at me,” you mumble as you flip the page of your textbook. “Is there something on my face?” You’re eight hours into today’s stretch and it’s just nearing dinnertime, so the crowd has thinned out a bit, leaving just a few study groups occupying the tables.

“No, you’re just pretty.” Jungkook grins, handsomeness radiating off him in his casual black tee and slightly mussed dark hair. Single silver hoops hang from his ears, your birthday present to him last year. He never leaves home without them.

You can’t help but smile at his words. He always makes you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, even through the current exhaustion and grease and stress. You love him so much. Even though he’s totally distracting. “Thanks.”

“Aaagh, I’m bored. I’ve already browsed through all the Reddit threads and Facebook posts I can.” He throws his arms in the air in a stretch.

“You could just go home.”

“Home’s boring without you.”

You let your highlighter drop onto the table and meet his gaze. “If you’re going to stay, you should study.”

“I know all the material already.” He purses his lips as he taps his fingers on the tabletop to a quiet beat. “Plus… You’re wearing those sweatpants again.”

Your eyebrows knit. “What’s wrong with the sweatpants?”

“Nothing wrong, but it just… It makes me think of the last time you wore them.”

You try to wrack your brain for that particular memory but come up short. “What do you—"

“Can you please stop talking?” A person from the table next to you interrupts, annoyance in their squinted eyes and pouty mouth.

“Sorry,” you whisper, offering a raised hand in apology.

When you look back, Jungkook’s scribbling away on a scrap piece of notebook. Half a minute later, he tears it, hands it to you with a perfectly innocuous look on his face. You take the page, feeling a bit of high school nostalgia as you cast your eyes to his penned words.

Movie night. You wore them and your black thong, and I almost ruined ‘em when I stripped them off? Fuck. You came five times. It was amazing.

Are you blushing? You’re pretty sure you’re blushing, reading such filthy words in a public space. It’s coming back to you now, how you teased him by grinding your butt against him the entire night with subtle shifts. You had taken your delight in the way he became stiff in his jeans, emitting guttural grunts of frustrated arousal. He’d punished you (or was it a reward?) for it after, nice and slowly.

I can’t stop thinking about your pussy wrapped around me. So tight, so wet. If we were home, I’d already have my hands in your panties. Baby, I wanna touch you.

“Jungkook!” You whisper-hiss after finishing the second note he slips your way. “I have to study!”

He leans back, face infuriatingly neutral as he pushes away from the desk in the roller-chair. He adjusts his baggy top, your eyes drawn to his crotch as he pulls his shirt away and damn it, he’s half-hard. He knows what bulges do to you, especially his. You hate yourself for falling so easily for his seduction, heat already swirling in the pit of your tummy.

You suck in air through gritted teeth. You’re not going to get anything done like this; you need to set things straight. He’s already starting on his third note, amused by the faces you make as you read. You interrupt him. “Come with me.” You stand up.

Jungkook practically bounces to his feet, following close behind. He reaches for your hand along the way, sweetly lacing his fingers with yours. You’re heading for the very back of the floor among the stacks and shelves, where all the Old English books are stored, and no one ever goes. When you deem this to be as much privacy as you’re going to get, you whirl around.

“Jungkook, you can’t keep writing those notes.” You fight to keep your eyes on his, pointedly away from his crotch.

He’s not nearly as flustered as you. He calmly leans against the shelf with his arms crossed. “Why not? Are they affecting you?” That smirk. Ugh. All this time, and it still makes your heart flutter.

You don’t respond. Can’t, really, as he closes the distance between you with a few steps. His toned arms trap you in heat, breath warm against your forehead while he drops soft, promising kisses. Jungkook’s eager fingers start to trace the band of your sweatpants, just barely dipping inside to toy with the panties beneath. They’re plain, cotton, but still one of the hottest things Jungkook’s ever touched because they’re yours. “How wet are you under here?”

When he draws you closer, you can feel the outline of his full cock against your thigh. “Just let me have a taste, baby.” He palms your ass cheeks and if your pants weren’t in the way, he would hear the wet squelch of your soaked slit when he parts you.

You swivel your head, staring through the cracks of the books, hoping you won’t find another person among the tomes. “W-We’re in public, you know.”

“Please.” Jungkook licks his lips. “Don’t make me wait any longer to have you.”

You’ve lost. You know it by the flames that lick at your thighs, begging to be doused by his tongue. You know it by the knots tying themselves in the pit of your stomach, unraveled only by his touch. He drops to his knees and drags your pants down with him. You lean back against the surprisingly sturdy bookshelf and try to tell yourself that nobody comes back here anyway.

He flits that cute nose across your thigh, close enough to drink in the honey scent of your lust. “I’d say I’ll try to make this quick but... We both know I would be lying.” He trails a fingernail down your clothed slit. You shiver when he brings it back up, circling around your clit.

“We don’t have the time,” you mutter, too aware of the instinctual bucking of your hips to meet his fingers.

“You’re just impatient.” He whips his eyes up to meet yours, mirth clear in his dark irises as he gives you that mischievous bunny smile. But he’s nice to you, seeing as he’s in love with you and all. He eases your underwear halfway down your legs, enough to expose you to the stale library air and to his stare. He spreads you like he did before, this time the lewd noises clear and enticing.

Jungkook emits a low groan at the sight of your juices glistening, smeared all over the lips of your cunt. “You were gonna study while you were like this?” He dips his finger into you to gather droplets to use as lube for your clit. “You’re soaked, baby. Just from thinking about my cock?”

Your answer is a furtive whimper when he kisses your clit, tongue lavishing saliva and stimulation. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s addicted to your taste and how you twitch in response to the flicks, the licks. He can tell that you’re nervous right now, probably too aware that you could be caught as you keep looking around. But the fact that pleasure is burning away your fears? That turns him on.

Jungkook’s slim hands leave slight imprints on your thighs as he continues with coquettish strokes, flitting in and out. It’s an erratic rhythm to match your heart, twitching with fear at every slight noise or bump, afraid that someone will poke their head around the corner. But there’s a thrill with that too – one that you’ll probably never admit out loud but manifests itself in the jolts of bliss shooting through your nerves. It’s a high that Jungkook understands so well, adrenaline junkie that he is.

He can never hold out for too long after tasting your tangy sweetness. The tender exploration turns into something much more when he plunges his tongue into your cunt, shallowly fucking you as an infuriating preview for what his cock can do. If only he’d reward you with a finger. But he seems content to dart his tongue in and out, switching between that and a suction that makes your knees long to crumble. Your hands search for something to hold on to, eventually settling for a few dusty, thick-spined hardcovers.

“T-Too loud, Jungkook,” you stutter, sure that all his sucking and slurping is attracting too much attention among these confined walls.

“Can’t help it when you taste so good.” He smirks, looking filthy yet boyishly handsome with his lips all shiny, pink. “You know how much I love your pussy.” He presses a fond kiss to your clit, as if you wouldn’t believe him otherwise.

“Still… We have to stay quiet…” But you’re a hypocrite with the moans that tumble from your mouth, as unstoppable as the wetness drooling from between your thighs when he settles back in. If you were back home, you’d already be screaming his name and you both know it. You settle for burying your hands into his hair and raking your nails along his scalp.

“What if I want to hear you?” Jungkook grins because you’re grinding yourself onto his mouth. You can’t get enough of him despite yourself; his tongue’s just too convincing when it’s stroking its way up your heat. “Moaning like you always do when you come for me.” His hands grab palmfuls of your ass and squeeze. “Damn. Just thinking about it makes me so hard.”

When he lightly hollows his cheeks to add suction, every semblance of sanity slips from your mind. You tug his head higher as the shaking starts, but he doesn’t need your encouragement to keep his rapid pace. He’s seeking the reward of your whimpers as he draws out your climax until you’re too sensitive to go any further. At least, like this.

Jungkook surges to his feet. His belt and jeans clatter to the floor, pooling around his ankles before your aftershocks have had any time to subside. He spins you around, decisive hands not allowing any counterargument while your chest meets the shelf. All you can see through the musty books is the grey wall.

“S-Someone needs to keep a watch out.” You’re fretting, but the full, solid cock that nudges against your posterior demands your attention.

“Nah. Just focus on me.” One thrust, and he plunges the first delicious inch inside you. “Focus on how I’m going to fuck you, baby.”

It’s true – he makes it hard to think about anything else with the stretch of his cock, the girth addicting. His hands find purchase on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he snaps his hips upward. In three thrusts, he’s drenched himself wholly into your heat. He’s trying to control himself as best as he can but your walls cling eagerly to his shaft, spurring him on. The shelves slightly rattle against the concrete in reply.

“It’s been too long since I was inside you,” he growls, nipping at the column of your neck. “I missed this pussy so much.”

“Missed you too.” You’d forgotten how the pressure builds so furiously, racking up with each thrust that kisses your cervix. You try to adjust, wanting to staunch the slap of his hips against yours, but he’s pumping at a pace that refuses to be quieted. Hells, you’re close to just abandoning your inhibitions. It would be so much easier to just give yourself over to Jungkook, to let him fuck you both into moan-filled, sloppy orgasms among the silent audience of books.

Then you hear the footsteps.

Unmistakeable.

Padding across the carpet, steadily coming your way. Probably boots or something, judging by the heavy, noisy steps.

Your heart sputters. “Shit.” Cursing, you try to push Jungkook away so you can have some semblance of plausible deniability but his arms hold you still. His cock stays right where it is, plunged all the way to his balls. “Jungkook, someone’s coming!”

“Shhhh.”

“Oh god, they’re getting closer,” you whine. “They’re going to see.” Fear ripples through you but excitement is firmly alongside it – thrilling and obvious while your muscles tense.

Jungkook groans, a tortured, soft noise when your cunt cinches around his shaft. “Who’s my dirty girl?” He whispers against the rim of your ear. “Getting so tight. I think you want to be caught.”

“Jungkoook...” Now when you say his name, it’s in frustration. He’s only grinding his hilted cock, enough to make the slight friction agony.

“I think you want them to see you like this, so fucking gorgeous on my cock. Sucking me in so well.” A lazy crescendo of thrusts threatens to buckle your knees when they turn into deadly pumps, aimed right for your sweet spot. Your voice is higher than it’s ever been, high pitched and whiny in your need. It makes your boyfriend chuckle. “You’re not being quiet at all.”

Arching against him, you feel sweat trickle down your spine. “I’m t-trying...”

Suddenly, he slams himself all the way home. “Let’s put on a show, yeah?” You jolt forward, his grunts animalistic and low with each rut. One of his arms hooked around your waist, he moves like nothing else matters in the world except bringing you pleasure and taking it in turn. Every smack of his pelvic bone against your ass feels possessive and you can’t get enough, even though you can practically feel the new pair of an intruder’s eyes on you.

Your mingled lust drips in rivulets down from your cunt onto his balls, more trickling out with every stroke. He just keeps going, the stamina trained through hours upon hours at the gym put to fantastic use. Especially when he nudges your legs apart even more. He lowers two fingers to your neglected clit and starts to rub.

It’s not even a minute later that you’re coming helplessly, bucking your ass back into him in a carnal search for more. His fingers never stop sending pleasure through your veins. It’s a double-edged sword, bringing him crashing down with you seconds later. Jungkook shoves himself so deeply into you that it hurts, but it’s so worth it to hear his groans, to feel the hot burst of cum shot right against your core.

He doesn’t stop until your walls are thoroughly sodden with him, still spasming erratically in climax. You hang your head and just try to breathe through the humid air. Your cheeks burn, stroked by the hair fallen out of your ponytail. Having Jungkook pressed against you doesn’t help, for his temperature runs just as high.

A minute later, rationale returns to your addled brain as the spent cock slips from you. “Oh!” You spin, looking desperately around Jungkook and the shelves for any signs of your unwanted visitor. Your heart only calms when you confirm with your own eyes that there’s no one there. “Damn it, babe, we could’ve been kicked out if that person came any closer!” You lightly swat at his arm while he produces a tissue from a pocket, to soak up the leaking cum.

Jungkook laughs, thinking your glare is much more cute than intimidating. “I heard them leave a while back. You were just too distracted to notice.” He lightly touches your nose with his own – a soft, loving boop.

“Whatever...” Your cheeks flushed, you reach down for your sweatpants. “Will you let me study now?” You grumble. You’re not actually sure if you’ll get any work done though, not when your thighs and cunt are slick with pleasure’s mess.

Jungkook affectionately pats your butt. Then he buries his face in your hair for a kiss from a smirking mouth. “Maybe.”