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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

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Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

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gureishi · 4 years

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day 4: first time in the longest time

Here’s day 4 of the Human Again prompts. For the master list of all the ficlets, click here.

SaeyoungXReader, T (innuendo and general flirty shenanigans), words: 1790

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

You can’t sit still.

The hotel room is excessively large—more of a suite, really, with its own little dining nook nestled against a bay window. It’s objectively larger and nicer than anywhere else you’ve lived recently—or maybe ever. But it’s still very much a hotel.

When was the last time I stayed somewhere that felt like home?

You pace the perimeter of the room several times. You sit on the bed, stand again, smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket. You go to the window, open the curtains, look out, close the curtains.

You wonder how much time has passed. You check your phone. Ugh. Three minutes.

Perching on the edge of one of the chairs, you stare at nothing, trying not to chew your nails or look at your phone again.

Any minute now.

The last time you saw him was breathless, desperate, fleeting. He came unexpectedly, early in the morning, and he didn’t tell you what he was planning to do, but of course you knew.

“We might not get to see each other for a while,” he said then.

“It’s okay,” you responded, because what else were you supposed to say? You kissed him hard, and he kissed you back like he was trying to absorb you.

It feels like forever ago.

Thanks to Jumin, you’ve been living in this almost uncomfortably lavish hotel instead of the apartment, which—though now free of bombs—is full of confusing memories.

And the hotel really is nice. The rest of the RFA has been coming to see you. Things are peaceful. But…

But you’ve been going, going, going for so long that the idleness feels unsettling. And you’ve missed him. Oh, how you’ve missed him.

He’s protecting everyone, as always—keeping Saeran safe from the emotional burden of seeing you, keeping you safe from whatever danger Saeran still presents to you. He calls a lot, sometimes in the middle of the night. But you’ve gotten so used to feeling his body curled against yours at night, and the hotel bed feels gigantic. You keep thinking you see his reflection in the windows.

Your phone buzzes in your hand, and you promptly drop it.

“Here,” his text says, followed by a string of hearts.

You trip over yourself trying to get out of the chair and can’t help but laugh. You can only imagine what you look like, hopping on one foot as you try to get on your other shoe, stuff both arms into your coat, and grab your bag all at the same time.

The trip downstairs in the elevator (packed with people in suits—Jumin did pick this hotel, after all) feels like it takes an eternity. You force yourself to cross the lobby at a measured pace and push open the heavy door to the outside. You scan the street and, amidst all the taxis and black luxury cars, there is his insane souped-up silver Lamborghini.

You take a few careful steps and then think, oh, screw it, and break into a run. The driver’s-side door opens and you catch a momentary glimpse of his mop of red hair before you catapult yourself into his arms.

He laughs gleefully, and the familiar sound fills you up like a warm drink. He easily scoops you up and you wrap your legs around his waist and bury your head in his shoulder.

“Hi,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Mmph,” you say in response, your mouth pressed against his neck. You drink in the scent of honey and salt and that special sweet-spicy aroma that isn’t anything in particular, just Saeyoung scent.

He giggles and, one arm around your waist, nudges your face up with his other hand. He’s got on some unnecessarily fancy sunglasses, which you push up on top of his head before pressing your lips firmly against his.

He kisses you back fervently, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist and pulling you into him; your feet still haven’t touched the ground. You part your lips the tiniest bit and he bites your bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth. Your heart does a somersault.

Finally, you pull away to catch your breath and take him in: his cheeks are pink and he’s got this hazy look in his eyes, like he doesn’t quite know where he is. You know the feeling.

Saeyoung lets you down, giving your thighs a tight squeeze as you slide out of his arms and onto the sidewalk.

“Miss me?” he asks, flashing you a brilliant smile.

You smack his arm. “What do you think?

“I think you missed your God Seven soooo much,” he sings, bending over to kiss the tip of your nose. “What’s a poor girl to do without her Defender of Justice at her beck and call?”

“Slowly disintegrate into a pile of goo,” you say seriously, holding onto his hoodie strings. He nods sagely.

“A common side effect,” he replies, his hands skating over your hips.

“Mmmm.” You close your eyes and lean in for another kiss and he meets you eagerly, pulling you into his chest with both hands on your waist.

It’s easy to get lost in him. Everything about him is intoxicating to you—his scent and his grip on your waist and the concrete evidence that he’s real and he’s here and he’s holding you.

Loud honking breaks the spell, and you reluctantly pull away, panting.

“Awww,” Saeyoung whines, gazing down at you. “I could make out with you in the street all day.”

“We can make out any day, anywhere, babe,” you respond, casting a self-conscious glance around you. There are a lot of people here.

Saeyoung leans down, and you automatically rise to your tiptoes, expecting another kiss. Instead, he nuzzles your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he whispers. Then he bites your earlobe.

You squirm, your body responding instantly. Heat pools in your belly, and you relinquish your self-restraint, reaching for him. He grins wickedly and dodges you, skipping around the car to hold open the passenger-side door.

“Patience, my darling,” he sings, and you want to smack him again or possibly tackle him to the ground right there.

Instead, you follow him around and slide into the polished leather seat as gracefully as you can.

“You better drive fast,” you say, and his face breaks into a wide grin.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

Saeyoung drives on the highway one-handed, his other hand resting on your thigh. He plays the radio loud and sings along, and you watch the particular way the afternoon sun hits his jawline.

“It feels kind of nostalgic, being in the car with you,” you say, leaning back into the sun-warmed leather.

“I was thinking that too,” he says, squeezing your leg.

You reach over and brush a stray curl from his forehead.

“I really, really, really missed you,” you say.

He swallows. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you can practically see the thoughts buzzing around in his brain. “I don’t wanna ever be apart again,” he says firmly. “Is that okay?”

Easy question. “Yes.”

He beams. “I mean it.” He wiggles his eyebrows, which makes you laugh.

“Even when I’m going to the bathroom?” you ask.

“Yep, even then,” he says.

“What if I’m doing my taxes?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Clipping my toenails?”

“Clearly a group activity.”

“Um, doing laundry?”

“I’ll be on the other side of the room, but I’ll be watching.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I like this idea,” you say. “But Saeyoung, I’m going to have to go back to the hotel at some point, you know.”

He glances at you, and there’s a complicated look in his eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

“Um.” What? “Well, I don’t actually have another place that I’m living, you know. And I can’t exactly just stay at your house forever. Saeran—”

“May not be ready for that yet, I know,” Saeyoung says. His fingers restlessly tap against the steering wheel. “But he’ll get to know you. And I—I mean, eventually, I—” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Would you want to—” He cuts himself off, groaning in frustration. “Never mind! I didn’t mean to bring this up while I was driving. Let’s just…can you forget I said anything?”

“You haven’t really said anything yet, babe.” You toy with the cuff of his sweatshirt. You’re fiddlers, both of you. More so when you’re nervous.

“Can we please talk about it later?”

You sigh. “I kind of want to know what you were going to say now.”

Tap tap tap. Saeyoung takes a deep breath, and his grip on your leg tightens.

“Okay. So, listen. You and Saeran need to get to know each other, and I don’t know how long that will take. But he’s ready to try, and I—I’d really like it if—what I mean is, in a little while…would you want to move in? Uh. With us?”

Oh my god.

It’s not like his awkward preamble wasn’t a bit of a tip-off. But, given everything, you haven’t even allowed yourself to fantasize about this. You’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to your reality, never quite settling in anywhere. Recently, you’d felt that you’d feel at home anywhere (a car, a cabin, a campsite) as long as you were with him.

You hadn’t thought, yet, about what it would be like to actually have a home with him.

“Um. What do you think?” Saeyoung peers at you out of the corner of his eye.

Another easy question. Way too easy.

“Of course I wanna live with you, dummy,” you say, grinning.

“Really?! I wouldn’t live with me if I were you!” He talks fast, stumbling over his words. “I live in a super high security bunker. It doesn’t even have windows! I have really weird decorations. I’m messy! I don’t sleep at normal times. I have terrible eating habits! I even—”

You cut him off, reaching over to place a finger on his lips.

“It’s approximately two minutes too late to change my mind,” you say.

“Thank god,” he says, sighing. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d said no.” Then he bites your finger.

You yelp, and he cackles, effortlessly guiding the car off the freeway and onto a tree-lined road.

“It still might be a little while,” he cautions. “Saeran’s doing really well, but still—”

“I know.”

“If it were up to me, you’d move in today.”

You giggle. “Me too.”

Saeyoung’s fingers dance over your thigh. “You really want to—?”

“Saeyoung.” You put on your sternest voice, and he quiets. His lips twitch—he’s trying not to smile. “Please take me home.”

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mysme #mm #human again prompts #saeyoung choi #707 #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #ficlet #this is set in the weird nonspecific time between the last two chapters of the secret ends #really it's all just a fantasy about jumping into saeyoung's arms #i mean #just imagine

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babbushka · 4 years

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Long Night

Flip Zimmerman x Reader

2k; N S F W (mentions of public shenanigans, d/s themes, spanking/impact play, temperature play, sex cuffs, hogtie bondage, ropes, temperature play/ice, dirty talk/name calling)

--------------

You’re at a house party, one of Flip’s friends at the station. It’s perfectly respectable, a lovely dinner party which you contributed a delicious dessert. Everyone had moved to the living room now, were indulging in drink and drugs, indulging in one another. The lights are turned low, music is playing loud, and you’re on Flip’s lap, his hands tight on your middle.

The other husbands of the other wives keep looking at you, and Flip doesn’t like it one fucking bit, doesn’t like how they’re eyeing you. It doesn’t help that you’re dressed so nice, a dress too short and with straps too thin, your platform heels and stockings elongating your legs.

You’re on his lap, and every so often you roll your hips to the beat of the music, moaning around a strawberry that’s been dipped in chocolate as you bite into it, and Flip has to clench his jaw, because he knows what you’re doing.

“Behave.” He mutters under his breath, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, glaring at you.

It’s a game you both play, who can get the other to crack first, who can get the other to snap. Flip’s pretty fuckin’ close, pretty close to snapping. You turn to him and loop your arms around his neck, hands smoothing across his shoulders as you pluck the cigarette out of his mouth and kiss him, suck down the smoke he breathes out.

“No.” You grin.

His frown twitches.

So does his cock.

You can feel it, and you only smile wider.

“I mean it ketsl,” He warns, pinching your cheeks in his big fucking hand, pouting your lips from the force of it. “Ease up, or I’m going to do something drastic.”

“Mmm, but I like when you’re drastic.” You lick hot and thick against his palm, eyes looking up at him through your thick lashes as you say lowly, “I like when you use your big muscles on me.”

“Say your goodbyes, we’re going.” Flip stands up then, taking you with him.

He doesn’t let go of you, not until you get to the car, and then when you’re in the passenger seat, he still doesn’t take a hand off of you. He’s quiet the whole way home, and you’re practically bouncing with anticipation.

He doesn’t even let go of you when he parks in the driveway. He hoists you up over his shoulder, smacks your ass hard before unlocking the front door, pushing it open and kicking it closed with his cowboy boots. You’re laughing, eager and excited, and his cock is so hard he’s almost angry about it, desperate for you.

“I’ve had it with your attitude, honey-bunny.” He says, mostly posturing, filling the air as he takes you up the steps, smacks your ass again.

“What are you gonna do, tie me up?” You ask with faux-innocence, you sexy little mix, clever girl.

He dumps you on the mattress, turns away from you and takes his hands off of you just for a moment so he can rummage in the dresser for the red ropes he likes best.

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, whore.” He pulls them out of the dresser, snaps them in his hand, does it again. You’re wide eyed and excited, biting your lip, hands already tugging your clothes away before he can say, “Strip.”

As soon as you’re naked, he sets to work. Thankfully, you don’t make this part difficult for him, otherwise he’d probably have to fucking blindfold and gag you, and he loves seeing your pretty face, loves hearing your gorgeous voice. No, you lay nice and still for him as he winds the rope in diamonds around your body. He ties knots where knots need to go, loops it around your breasts the way it has to so you’ll be secure, comfortable.

You’re already moaning, already squirming, because the robe goes between your legs, splits and digs into the inner crease of your thigh right where your pussy is begging for attention. You try and press your thighs together to give you some release, but he only yanks on the rope and you moan loud, and you get the memo to stay still.

Once the full body harness is done up, Flip leans back and admires his work. Your curves are accentuated with the knots and diamond shapes of how the ropes wind around you, your tits each outlined, your pussy nice and free for him.

“Your ass is so soft,” He smokes his cigarette as you roll yourself over onto your front so he can check the ties and knots against your back. He doesn’t have plans for you being on your back tonight, not yet anyway. But he wants to check, and he can’t help but stare at how soft you are. “Imagine how pretty it’ll look with my hand print on it.”

You only moan in response, your hips already moving, already seeking something – friction, tension, pleasure-pain, anything. Flip takes his clothes off then, wanting to be naked with you, wanting to feel your skin on his.

“Count.” He grunts, watching as your back moves and rolls, hips swaying, thighs shaking from anticipation.

He rubs one of your ass cheeks with a palm, before cracking down on it hard, hard enough to shove you forward a little.

“One -- oh fuck,” You moan, and he does it again, hits you hard, slaps your ass so hard that he can see the ripple of it all the way up your back. You suck spit back into your mouth from where it’s trying to drip out of you, voice breathy and high when you moan, “Flip!”

He makes you count for all of them, no real number in mind. You’re so good, and he tells you, tells you how good of a girl you are for him, when you count. He doesn’t stop until you’re starting to get little welts where his fingers were, until he can see them. You shout out every time, hiccup moans into the pillow where your face is shoved.

“Does it sting?” Flip asks, bending over your body, murmuring in your ear.

“Uhhuh, but I – I can take more, give me more.” You’re nodding, even as you’re already slurring your words from the pleasure. There’s a big wet spot on the pillow where you’re drooling, and Flip knows you want to be fucked soon, he’ll fuck you soon.

For now, he smooths a hand over your ass, rubs it gently, trying to soothe the angry skin there.

“Oh I’ll give you something alright.” He mutters, smoke pouring out of his mouth.

He leaves for a minute, grabs a glass of ice from the kitchen as fast as he can, coming back through the door with his cock hard in his other hand. Your knees are shifting on the mattress, your body wrapped up in rope so beautifully for him. He sets the glass down, grabs the rope that’s wound around your inner thigh and pulls hard, drags your body closer to him.

“You’re so hot ketsl, let me cool you down.” He says, his voice deep deep deep as he grabs an ice cube from the glass.

“Flip!” You gasp, as he rubs one against your pussy.

Your knees are spread, and your cunt is so slippery as it is, he has no issue sliding it between your folds. Your body is so hot that it melts the ice immediately, the little cube not standing a chance. He grabs another one, makes trails over your ass, calming it, stinging it in an altogether different type of way.

The stimulation is too much for you to be still, and your whole body shudders and moves, but he can’t have that, can’t have that at all.

“You keep squirming like this I’m going to have to cuff you.” He says, taking another cube of ice and dropping it onto the dip of your lower back.

“Yes, please, please – !” You immediately whine, and Flip smirks, glad to see that you’re in the mood.

“Beautiful fucking slut, fuck I love you.” He kisses the spot in between your shoulder blades, leaving you for a moment to grab the hogtie, letting the ice melt against your back, letting the icy water drip down your sides.

It’s a special bit of bondage, the hog tie. A steel ring with four leather straps that have hooks on the end. The hooks connect to leather cuffs, and he grabs them all from the dresser. He comes back to you, manhandles you how he likes on the bed, and you go easily, happily.

“Hands, now.” He orders, in his commanding tone that makes you moan.

And you do moan, and you do give him your hands. He loves the body harness with rope because it leaves your arms and legs free, leaves them free for shit like this. He fastens the cuffs around your wrists, draws them under your body and between your legs, resting on the mattress. He fastens the ankles next, makes sure they’re nice and tight.

He doesn’t want you slipping out of these.

You’re breathing heavy when he pulls your body taut, clipping the hooks of the hogtie onto the rings on the cuffs. Normally he’d have your arms behind your back, but bent like that he can’t fuck you, and god he wants to fuck you.

His cock is so hard it’s a flushed deep red, cut head leaking pre-come all over his thighs. He can ignore it for now, just for these few moments, because he wants to make sure this is done right, doesn’t ever want to hurt you.

“Back okay?” He asks sweetly, gently, as he has your ankles and wrists bound together.

“Yeah, love you.” You turn your head, and he kisses you, kisses you because he’s addicted to the way you taste when you smile like that at him.

“Say it again.” He demands, lining his cock up from behind, sticking just the tip in.

“I love you – oh!” You wail out hard when he plows in with one sharp thrust, one that knocks all the air out of you. “Oh – Flip.”

“Again.” He grips your hip with one hand, wraps the other hand tight around your hair.

“I love you honey, fuck me hard.” You beg, “Fuck my pussy hard.”

He’s got you facing towards the big mirror across the room, and with a gentle tug of your head by your hair, he makes you watch yourself, makes you watch yourself get fucked. His cock slams into you, and the whole bed shakes, rattles, creaks.

Your cunt yields to his big cock, and from the way your legs are bent up like this, the way your body is pulled tight like a string, he can get deep, so fucking deep inside your cunt that it makes him sweat. He fucks you rough, knows just how you like it, until your toes are curling in the sheets, your moans harsh and loud and music to his ears.

“You – I – d-don’t stop – please – I – yes!” You beg, losing the ability to form words as his dick punches them out of you. “Y—y—yes – ah!”

He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t slow down. He’s too hopped up, too wound up, wound up from all your teasing. He gives you want you want, because he always does, gives it to you until you’re coming on his cock, coming so loud and hard that your body writhes and tugs against the restraints.

“You’re so fucking spoiled, you know that?” He hasn’t come yet, but that’s okay, he’ll have his turn. It’s easier like this anyway, when you’re pliant and soft, easy.

“Mhm.” You grin, moaning and sighing around his huge cock, as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Lucky you’re pretty.” He grunts, and you only laugh, because you knew exactly what you were doing, what you were getting yourself into.

You’ve got a long night ahead of you -- and you can’t wait.

---------------

Tagging some pals: @steeevienicks @heldcaptivebychaos @solotriplets @formerly-anonhamster @lookinsidemyhead @candycanes19 @adamsnacc-kler @whiskey-bumblebee @magikevalynn @tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov @romancedeldiablo @helloimindelaware @elfieboxcat @autumnlovesadam @peterisparker @goodboybensolo @the-marvelatic @miasera @emily-strange @proxyfoxy @disaster-rose @hazydespair @yosoymuyloca @1-800-choke-that-snoke @ktellmeastory @anongirl007 @zimmerxman @okk--maaan @flapjacques @aweirdlookingtree @callmemania-pls @theold-ultraviolence @og-selene @pinkmoontribe-blog @schopenhauerdeathsquad @nekonaomitard @feminine-machinegun

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman/you #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman imagine #my writing #blackkklansman #adam driver character #flip/reader #flip/you

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everything-withered · 4 years

Note

Prompt "Flowers for a dead girl" Ichigo is SOFT, he did this literally since the beginning of the manga

I hope you don't mind an AU take on this!

Rukia knows for a fact that someone is stealing flowers out of her garden. She knew it had to happen some time. Her window opens almost directly into the pavement, and placing anything on the window sill is just asking for it to get stolen.

The grandmother that was staying at the apartment before Rukia had offered that warning lightly, before gifting her with the aforementioned flowers.

"You can't even keep cacti alive," Renji reminded her with a snort to which she'd pinched him and said, "Shut up, there's a first time for everything."

And while the flowers weren't anywhere near as healthy or full as when she'd received them, they were still in bloom! Which made their theft even more upsetting, and didn't get better once she'd realized that it probably wasn't the first time either.

I knew I wasn't imagining the flowers looking a little thin, she thinks both vindictive and resentful as she pets the leaves in apology. Whoever has been taking them plucks them straight from the stem, like a monster.

"I think it would be worse if they'd been clipped," Hisana tells her, "that would imply premeditation."

Rukia scowls. "So I should just be grateful that whoever's been kidnapping my violets is doing it because it's convenient?"

"Well," she trails, "maybe you shouldn't leave your flowers in a place where they can be easily kidnapped."

"That's victim blaming and I will not stand for it." Which is not the reason Rukia doesn't move the flower pots -- her apartment is a closet at most, and the window is the best place to keep plants anyway -- but that doesn't mean she'd refuse to move it out of spite. It's for the continued wellness of her flowers, Hisana, will you please be a good sister and just let me complain??

"Where's your sense of romance, Rukia-chan?"

She scoffs.

"Just picture it," Hisana continues, starry eyed, "a thoughtful lover on their way to be with their beau when they see your flowers and think, what a lovely gift to give their love!"

"I'm sure their love would appreciate it more if they didn't dig it out of someone else's garden," Rukia deadpans.

"It's the thought that counts."

"I think they're cheap."

"Rukia!"

Refusing to move the flowers from its perch, however, doesn't mean Rukia is taking the continued theft of her violets lying down, romantic reasons or not. No, sir. She borrows Renji's Go-Pro and points it at the window for a couple of days.

For awhile, there's no bite, and she gets several hours worth of footage of her window sill: people walking past as they carry on with their day as the violets in their planters giggle in the breeze and stretch in the sunshine before drowsily drooping off to sleep at dusk. It's pretty soothing to watch played back. But Rukia is not convinced. Her thief will be back.

Almost a full two weeks have passed before she's proven right.

The guy in the footage looks like trouble; unfriendly and scowling, Rukia isn't surprised at the appearance of her thief. While she wouldn't have pegged a guy with a leather jacket, too many rings and a leather cuff wrapped around his wrist to steal flowers, Rukia isn't going to judge him for that. Oh, no. She's too busy being incensed that this...this...asshole took way more violets than he did last time!

She has no idea if he's going to show up on the same day as before, but Rukia prepares for it. She sets up camp far enough from the window that she won't be seen, and waits.

Almost to the minute, a shadow lingers, and Rukia is ready! She throws the windows open with a dramatic flourish and shouts, "Gotcha!"

A white butterfly, having been innocently resting on the petals of the flowers, is startled by her sudden presence and almost flies into her face. Fortunately, the guy, to Rukia's satisfaction, recoils anyway, almost to the point of falling over as he yells back in surprise. "What the hell?"

"Caught you red handed, thief," she declares which he promptly doesn't approve of because the orange haired jerk is arguing, "I'm not a thief."

"Oh yeah, then how do you explain taking my flowers?"

At that, he splutters, "Your flowers?"

"Yes, my flowers," Rukia tells him, scowling. "I live here."

"No, you don't," he has the audacity to say. "Akiko-san lives here."

Realising it was the grandmother who'd been letting the apartment before her, Rukia's anger cools. "Not anymore. She moved out. She left me the flowers you keep stealing."

The guy's face goes through an impressive array of emotions before settling on a fine combination of disgruntled and embarrassed. "...ah..."

With a considering look, Rukia says, "I assume if you know the grandmother by name, you must've had an arrangement."

"In not so many words," is his vague reply, and though it should make her suspicious that he's lying for all that he's still blushing to his ears, Rukia decides that it's no real harm done. Just a misunderstanding.

Although, if this guy's been stealing flowers for his girl for as long as it would take to be acquainted to a grandmother he's not related to, he clearly needs help sealing the deal. Nodding to herself determinedly, course of action decided, Rukia tells him, "You can take the flowers."

That startles him, and to her relief he's not nearly as grumpy when he isn't frowning. In fact, now that she's actually looking a him, he's pretty handsome. High cheekbones, defined jaw, full lips, brown eyes. Yeah, this should be easy, she thinks with a huff. "But I'm meeting whoever you're giving them to."

"What."

Hmm, Rukia thinks. Maybe that's why he hasn't gotten a date yet...though, instead of telling him that, she poses, "Do you want the flowers or not?"

Which is how Rukia ends up meeting her thief on the sidewalk five minutes later.

"My name is Ichigo, not thief," he corrects.

"And I'd tell you it was nice to meet you, but one of us shouldn't be a liar," Rukia sniffs, and while this makes him scoff, he's also smirking a little the next time she glances at him.

"Who are you anyway?" he asks, and she thinks, rude.

Though that thought doesn't stop her from replying shortly in kind, "Rukia." Then, just for good measure, "And you could be a little less rude, I don't know how you expect to get a date with that kind of attitude."

He makes a noise of disbelief but flushes all the same.

As they walk, he eventually asks, "Why do you want to meet her anyway? The girl I give your flowers to."

"To make sure she's worth it," Rukia says. "Is she?"

There's no hesitation, "Yes."

She hums, and she could pry into Ichigo's relationship with this mystery girl, but instead she asks, "So you couldn't just buy her flowers?"

And at that he looks embarrassed, though he hides it with the same disgruntlement as before. "I always forget, and your window is on the way there. It was just...convenient."

"Nice," Rukia snorts. "I hope you don't tell her that, nothing makes a girl feel more special than stolen flowers."

After a thoughtful pause, he asks, "You're not from around here, are you?"

Her eyes narrows. "Not originally." Before, "Why?"

At that, Ichigo shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, gaze pointedly at some middle distance. "Because this is probably gonna get uncomfortable."

Rukia's brows are still furrowed in disbelief when she finally realizes where they're headed. "Oh."

Opening the gate, he lets her through first before following after.

He doesn't explain, and she doesn't ask as they walk together through the gardens. Despite his earlier decree, he seems uncomfortable too; shoulders drawn to his ears, frown deepening and eyes going distant.

Rukia almost wants to turn back around, but there's something volatile in his fragility, and she doesn't want to be the thing that shatters it. It isn't until they've come to a stop that he speaks, telling Rukia sardonically, "Well, you wanted to meet her."

And there's a lot of things a normal person could say when faced with a headstone, things like I'm sorry for your loss, and I can't believe I was a jerk to you. Along with other things like why would other people be so aware of the loss of your mom that you had to ask if I was from around here to know of it? and I'm sorry people think of you in relation to whatever tragedy caused your loss.

Except Ichigo looks like he's already preparing to block it out after too many years of too many people being too aware of his grief, "You're not from around here, are you?"

So what Rukia does instead is bow, and say, "Kurosaki-san, I'm sorry your son is cheap."

Ichigo is so surprised by her that he doesn't even think to be offended, instead spluttering in denial. His mask of nonchalance cracked, Rukia continues earnestly to his mother, "If I'd known he was relying on my subpar gardening skills, I'd have tried harder to make sure the flowers he got you were in better shape."

"Shut up, I don't know what you're talking about. Your flowers are fine," he argues.

Then, in a hiss out of respect for Kurosaki Masaki's final resting place, Rukia says, "They're for your mom, Ichigo, oh my god." Aloud, she tells his mother, "I'm so sorry, I know you raised him better. I'll make sure he gets you proper flowers next time."

"You'll make sure of that, huh?"

"If you insist on taking flowers from my window, yes, next time," Rukia tells him with crossed arms and a haughty look. "I can't believe you were stealing flowers for your mom."

"Hey," he defends, "you asked if she was worth it, was I lying?"

She rolls her eyes and persists, "Next time, we're bringing her something better."

"Fine, it's a date."

"Fine," Rukia huffs in return.

It's only after Ichigo's walked her home after a detour to a convenience store to replace her violets, and a reminder that he'll pick her up next week, does Rukia realize what she's agreed to.

To her newly purchased sunflowers, she shakes her head and says, "I can't believe he stole a date right from under me!"

#ichiruki #deathberry

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jaydcstories · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 13

It wasn’t too bad to begin with. They were just rubbing stuff into his skin, making it shiny and smooth and giving it a light healthy sheen.

All the same Sam didn’t find it easy standing astride with his arms spread out like some great marble statue, while the toad’s clammy little fingers rubbed ointment into his broad back and buttocks, and the little barefoot boy massaged his thighs, and Master Jack smoothed oil into his torso. It didn’t feel natural — especially as it stirred undesirable and dangerous urges in him. He blushed with shame when a rush of heat to his groin forced his cock to edge outwards and rub up against Master Jack’s leg.

Jack didn’t seem to mind. He was delighted with the result of the body rub. It rendered the slave’s flesh smooth and tactile and added extra bulk to his impressive array of muscles.

They fitted steel bands to his upper arms to emphasise the roundness of his biceps and tried a similar thing with his calf muscles — but that didn’t look half so good so they took them off. Instead they fitted permanent steel cuffs to his wrists and ankles. They were small, neat and heavy, with clips built into them so that they could quickly and easily be connected to rope or chains or whatever was to hand.

Jack was a little more hesitant when they came to discuss body attachments. He wanted to preserve the slave’s naturally rugged physique and didn’t want to spoil it with too many ornaments, but the rep showed him how a few carefully positioned and scarcely visible studs could be inserted into the slave’s flesh enabling rings, chains and other attachments to be added whenever desired.

“The most popular locations are the ears, nose, tongue, nipples and penis,” he explained “ and I have an interesting gagging device that allows the tongue to be pinned to the floor of the mouth. And of course we must discuss what we’re going to do with the genitalia — ball stretchers, maybe? Or even a chastity cage if that’s what you have in mind.”

Sam tried to pretend they were talking about someone else but the toad’s fat fingers were all over him prodding and squeezing.

“We need to get cracking, if you want the slave ready for this evening” he said, once Jack had made his selection from the catalogue. “We’ll use needles because they cause less damage to the surrounding flesh and healing is quicker, but we need to keep them red hot to avoid infection — we don’t use sanitary or numbing agents on slaves, so we need to hold him steady or it could turn messy.”

There were three eager volunteers on the sofa who were only too willing to grab hold of the slave while a small flame burner was lit and the needles heated up.

The earlobes came first. They were easy and though the needle stung as it burrowed its way through the soft flesh, it was quite bearable and Sam reckoned he could probably cope if it was all going to be at this level of discomfort, even though he wasn’t sure he really wanted his body messed about with in this way.

He even managed to contain himself when the needle was jabbed through his nasal cartilage, although it made his eyes water and he had to fight back a sneeze which he thought was going to split his nose wide open.

It was when they got to his tongue that the trouble started. The initial piercing was quick and easy enough — though it stung like hell and he had to hold his tongue out so far it choked. But the clever device for screwing his tongue to the inside of his mouth meant his jaw had to be forced open and held in position with a metal clamp. It was clear to everyone this was going to hurt — especially Sam who flew into a panic. The three volunteers tightened their grip, but Sam had had enough. He’d decided he didn’t want his body ripped apart like this, even if it was just to please his Master.

With one mighty heave of his powerful arms he flung the three startled volunteers across the room, grabbed the toad by the wrists and tried to wrench the instruments of torture out of his hand — and would have succeeded if the little barefoot boy, who’d been trained to deal with just such an event, hadn’t jabbed him in the small of the back with an electric slave prod.

Sam went rigid, dropped to his knees and toppled forward onto the rubber sheet.

It was a simple matter now to pull his wrists and ankles back and bind the shiny new cuffs together with rope.

Securely hogtied and still stunned from the shockwave, he was lifted onto his knees, his head pushed back and his mouth forced open. There was a sickening taste of metal and blood as the toad worked on him and although Sam couldn’t move he could feel the needle scraping about inside his mouth and fingers squeezing down on his tongue.

By the time it was over, Sam’s faculties had returned, but he still couldn’t move. Somebody had got an arm round his neck. His jaw ached and he couldn’t loosen his tongue. He wondered for a moment if his tongue hadn’t been cut out altogether but then it began to throb and he realised it was pinned to the bottom of his mouth. He panicked again and nearly choked when he tried to swallow. The clamp was still holding his jaw open and saliva was dribbling down his chin and onto his chest. No wonder he hardly noticed the toad drilling needles into his nipples and his cock and God knows where else.

Jack suggested they take a break while they discussed what to do next, so he and the Kerkermann rep retired to one of the sofas where they talked about things to do to Sam’s genitalia while the house boy served them tea. They’d pushed Sam over onto his side, facing away from them, still bound hand and foot. A mountain of heaving muscle, Jack thought, mute and obedient, a prize catch for him to mould and exploit for his own personal pleasure and fulfilment. He was enjoying this.

Sam on the other hand was fighting off the pain, his body torn and bruised, wild images of disfigurement and contortion infiltrating his imagination. It felt as if his whole body had been pierced through with needles and studs, all itching and tugging at his flesh — he wasn’t even sure how many or where they all were. They’d taken the jack out of his mouth, but his jaw ached and he couldn’t move his tongue. He moaned and took deep breaths. What were they turning him into? Some kind of monster? The reflection he’d seen in the shower room mirror — he’d looked so proud and magnificent then — it had been too good to be true.

The conference on the sofa over, it was time to get Sam back on to his feet, but when they untied him he simply lay there, curled up like a foetus, too ashamed and fearful to reveal himself. They had to kick him a few times to get him to move, and as he gradually rose, first onto his hands and knees then slowly one foot at a time, his strength and his courage returned.

Not daring to look down at his body convinced it was all bloody and covered in scars (which it clearly wasn’t judging by the calm look of approval on Master Jack’s face), he stretched to his full height, flexed a few muscles and taking a deep breath drew all the soreness and discomfort out from wherever he could sense it and relaxed wholesome and complete and feeling strangely aware of his own heightened physical presence — an awareness that manifested itself most visibly in the massive erection that was now the focus of everyone’s attention — an erection that was driven and sustained by the weight of a shiny steel ring jutting out of the tip of his bulging cock head. The sight of it alarmed him at first — how did he not feel them do that? But with a few more deep breaths he had that under his control as well — even though Master Jack was dragging his fingers lightly up and down the length of his shaft triggering spasms of such intensity that Sam was fearful his cock was going to explode.

“Now let’s get to work on those gonads,” said the toad, “while they’re still loose and pliable.”

Sam’s legs were kicked apart and he was bent forward, with his hands on his ankles and his arse in the air. The little bare foot boy crawled underneath and grabbed hold of his testicles, pulling them down while the toad clipped a heavy steel collar round the root of his scrotum. When the boy let go, Sam’s balls hung low and heavy under the weight of the steel collar and the little barefoot boy tested them by flicking them several times with his knuckles making them swing from side to side.

“And now while we have him in this position, we can fit this useful little gadget,” said the toad, proudly presenting an oddly shaped rubber plug with a series of tiny buttons worked into its base. “It’s our number one internal control device with adjustable dimensions so that it can fit comfortably inside any slave without fear of slipping out or being removed without the owner’s knowledge or consent. And it’s operated by this neat little owner’s remote device with switches for stimulation as well as for control. It’s state of the art!”

Jack was intrigued and told the rep to go ahead and fit it.

Still bending forwards, Sam was told to reach round with his hands and spread his cheeks. He could feel the toad’s fat fingers probing and poking.

“I can tell this arse has been put to good use,” he heard the toad say. “It should slide in quite easily.”

Sam braced himself. He’d grown accustomed to being fucked by cocks of all sizes while he was in the ruined cottage but this was something quite different. It was solid, heavy and lifeless. The toad had to give his buttocks a few hard slaps to get him to open up enough to let it in. It seemed to fill his whole gut and once it was in it just hung there aching to be pushed out again. Then suddenly he felt it shift and tighten inside him as the toad showed Master Jack how to use the remote control to adjust its size.

“You must remember to give the slave a good flush out before fitting it for any length of time,” warned the toad, referring Jack to the device’s manual, “and to keep him off solid food while it’s in there, otherwise,” he whispered, “ there could be unfortunate consequences when you pull it out.”

Sam was told to stand up straight and that’s when the full impact of the intrusive plug took effect, forcing him to grip his arse muscles and tighten his buttocks causing the solid rubber to press against his prostrate, making his cock jut out as stiff as a rod.

“Very impressive,” said Jack approvingly, inviting the lads on the sofa to come and have a feel of it.

“If you like,” said the toad with an obsequious grin, “we can prolong that magnificent erection with the help of this little angel.”

He held up a phial of green liquid and mischievously waved a hypodermic needle in the space around Sam’s cock.

“It’s extremely effective and can last up to four hours with the correct dosage. It’s been fully tested and is quite harmless.”

He read out from the leaflet before demonstrating how to make the injection, then handed the hypodermic needle to Jack, who was keen to give it a try.

Sam held his breath as Master Jack loaded the needle and plunged it deep into the fleshy root of his penis. For a moment there was nothing , then Sam felt a dull ache where the needle had bruised him and his stomach began to quiver and his groin to tingle and burn and his rock hard cock to dance about clutching wildly at the air as his balls bulged and shifted and bolts of lightening shot through his thighs making his whole body tremble and his cock head to twitch. He sucked in air, clenched his muscles and tried to control the force that was surging through his veins, setting his nerve ends on fire.

“Magnificent,” murmured Jack with a thrill of satisfaction as he stroked and petted the hard edgy hunk of slave muscle that stood nervously at attention in front of him.

The Kerkermann rep sorted out a few remaining items, including a lotion to rub into the slave’s ball sac to keep it smooth and hairless, lubricants for the butt plug and an assortment of ornaments, clips, chains and trinkets with which to adorn the slave’s body. He gave Jack a payment form to sign and handed over a receipt and that was it. He shook hands while the little barefoot boy rolled up the rubber mat and put it back in the suitcase, and the pair of them left the room..

“We’ve just got time to test this thing,” said Jack, picking up the remote control, “and then we really must get ready for dinner. The Brigadier won’t appreciate us being late.”

He and the three occupants of the sofa watched with interest as the slave’s body twisted and squirmed while Jack tried each of the controls in turn. He discovered how to induce a gentle vibration that instantly set the slave moaning and his already rampant cock twitching, a short sharp shock that made him straighten up, alert and ready for command and, best of all, a crippling blow at full power that had him on his knees clutching his arse and howling as best as he could with his tongue pinned to the bottom of his mouth.

The three fellows on the sofa were delighted with this and they all wanted to have a go, so they played around with it for about half an hour, until at last Jack said it really was time to get ready for dinner and led the newly adorned slave out by a lead he’d attached to a ring in his nose.

JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVE STORIES OBEDIENT SERVICE GOOGLE GROUP

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years

Note

#7? NSFW? Sternclay? Pretty please 🙇‍♀️

7: It’s our one year anniversary fuck how does one celebrate an anniversary of rivalry and one-sided devotion?

Joseph Stern, alias Agent M, has accomplished what no other member of the National Hero Control Task Force has been able to: he has captured a member of the elusive Pine Guard.

The guard has been causing chaos for the better part of two years, bringing important projects such as oil pipeline development, ICE facilities, and start-up construction to catastrophic halts.

Stern isn’t invested in those projects, but he believes in the greater good, in law and order.

One member of the guard in particular has caught and held his attention since he first laid eyes on him. Bigfoot, or so he’s called, has eluded most of their security tapes in a way his compatriots haven’t, and has been reported as more than once saving civilians and bystanders from danger.

He also once stayed behind to ensure Stern stayed conscious after sustaining a head injury. Stern has never been able to get an explanation as to why. But after that day, puzzling out Bigfoot’s motives, his past, his personality has become Sterns true goal.

Convenient, then, that the man is currently strapped, standing up, to a holding table in his base.

“I knew word of those files would get your attention.” He stands toe to toe with Bigfoot, who growls but says nothing.

“There’s no call for that. Besides, even if you’d managed to infiltrate here without alerting me, there wouldn’t have been anything to steal. All the information on the identity of the pine guard members is up here. I haven’t shared it with my superiors yet.” He taps his head.

“So, you’re bluffing.”

“Not at all. Barclay.”

Dark brown eyes go wide with concern.

“Okay, so you got me. That doesn’t mean you got the rest of us.”

Stern sighs, counts off on his fingers, “Mothman is Indrid Cold, Jackalope is Aubrey Little, Cactus Cat is Dani Coolice, Champ is Duck Newton, Hodag is Ned Chicane, Jersey Devil is Arlo Thacker, and Echidna is Madeline Cobb.”

Barclay sags in his restraints.

“What do I have to do to keep them safe?”

“Nothing. You’re eco-terrorists, Barclay. Even if I wanted to I can’t keep the information I gained secret from my superiors.”

“You could. Like, literally. Just don’t tell them.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” The apology doesn’t come out as hollow as he needs it to, and Barclay arches an eyebrow.

“Ahem, anyway, you won’t be needing this anymore.” He lifts off Barclays blue mask (one that compliments his coppery beard), not surprised at all by the face underneath yet delighted at seeing it. He’s thought it handsome since the first time he laid eyes on it

The spell is broken by Barclay biting his hand. He yelps, dropping the mask on the floor.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Neither was unmasking me. Jesus, you never struck me as some gloaty douche but obviously I was wrong.”

That stings, and so Stern turns on his heel with a flourish.

“Careful, or I won’t share dinner with you.”

“Oh no, no gruel or power bars or whatever you joyless fucks eat for me--do you smell saffron?”

“Yes.” Stern wheels out the small cart, covered platter glistening atop it and a vase that’s too small for the bouquet sitting in it trying valiantly not to tip over. “I made us saffron rice with lamb, and red wine dark chocolate cupcakes.” He removes the cover, feeling rather smug.

“Shit that looks good.” Barclay whispers, licking his lips. Then he looks up, “Wait, made us?”

Oh lord, the confusion on Barclay’s face sends pangs through his chest. What he wouldn’t give to kiss it away.

“I, well, it has been exactly a year since we met. And I was trying to think of ways to mark the date, and I know you like cooking and food and so this seemed like a good gift.”

“...Did you make us a fucking anniversary dinner?”

“Technically? Yes.”

“Alright, Mister special agent, how am I supposed to eat it when I’m strapped to a fucking table?”

“I could, um, feed it to you? I shut off the cameras in this room so that I could do so without embarrassing either of us.”

“This what you do every Friday, strap random guys down and feed them? Sounds pretty kinky.” Barclay smirks.

“I enjoy being helpful, something a so-called ‘hero’ should understand. And I didn’t choose a random guy; I strapped you, specifically, down.”

Barclay fixes him with an amused look before shrugging as much as his bonds allow, “Fine, you clearly worked hard on dinner. May as well make the most of it.”

Stern slices a chunk of lamb, offers it to Barclay who parts his lips without hesitation.

“Holy shit, that’s good.” The blissed out look on his face is one of Sterns favorite views in the world. He hates having to pretend like he hasn’t seen it before.

As he cuts another piece Barclay asks, “You make the bouquet too?”

“Yes. I took some classes on flower language and arranging a few years back, and I like doing it.”

Another bite, and this Barclay sighs happily before cocking his head, “You just not gonna eat?”

“Guests eat first.”

“I’m a hostage, agent, not a guest.”

“My point stands.”

“Y’know, if you just undid my hands, we could eat at the same time. Make it a real anniversary dinner instead of some repressed man in black feeding me my last meal as a free man.”

“I’m not just any man in black, I’m your main rival. You said so yourself, once. And the answer is no to the unlocking.”

“Well, there goes that option.”

Stern sees him tug the strings of his woven bracelet a moment too late. He braces for an explosion or a weapon flying at him.

Instead, reality warps for a nanosecond, and then Barclay isn’t in front of him anymore. Staring down at him is what he can only describe as a Bigfoot. And honest to god, fur-covered, claw-handed Bigfoot.

A Bigfoot that is no longer restrained.

“You’re, you’re really-”

“Yep.” Barclay lunges, but instead of grabbing Stern he reaches for the cutlery, tossing it up and over the rooms computer center and far out of range.

Then he grabs Stern by the back of his neck, slamming him against the restraint table. Stern retaliates, jumping up and landing his feet against Barclay’s chest. There’s an “oof” but nothing else. Stern tries to catch him with his stunner, but Barclay avoids him easily, twisting his hands behind his back and letting go as he launches Stern into the window. Mercifully it's made of bullet-proof, triple strength glass, so he doesn’t plummet fifty stories to his death.

He’s simply pinned by his nemesis, the city lights thousands of eyes watching his defeat.

“Are you, ow, all monsters?”

“Nope, just some of us. And you’ve put me in a real bad situation, agent.” Barclay growls in his ear, “first by blabbing that you, and only you really did know our secret identities, and then leaving me no choice but to take off my disguise.”

“I, I’m sorry your poor problem solving skills caused you to reveal that Bigfoot is not merely a codenameOW.” Barclays claws pierce his suit, “Go ahead and kill me. I won’t give up any information to the Pine Guard. I’m prepared to die in the service of my agency.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” He lies

“Nothing you’d miss?”

“No.”

A rumbling purr in his ear this time, “Not even me?”

“N-no, what, where on earth would you get that idea?”

“Flowers gave you away. Red carnations are admiration, daffodils mean unrequited love, and orange roses are fascination.”

“That’s a coincidence.” He grits his teeth to prevent the truth spilling out.

“Not for a guy who admitted he knew their meanings. And you know what else?” He clips Stern’s hands behind his back in cuffs designed to hold the super-strength of Duck Newton, making escape impossible for Sterns normal-human abilities “you put some wild grasses in their to fill the whole thing out.”

“So?”

“Grass means submission. You put all your feelings for me in a vase and gave me plenty of time to take them in, probably thinking it a clever in-joke to yourself. But that one? I’m betting that one was accidental, subconscious. You want to submit. Whether that’s in general or to me I have no clue.”

“Just you.” He may as well confess it. One less secret to carry to his grave.

A low, dangerous chuckle fills the room as he’s spun away from the window and shoved to his knees.

“That what you want, agent?” Barclay replaces the bracelet, becoming human before his eyes, “Want to be a good boy for me?”

He nods, cheeks hot and gaze locked on the floor until Barclay yanks it up by his hair, tearing strands loose from their carefully gelled hold.

“Aw now, no need for that.” Barclay traces the path of the blush with his thumb, voice mockingly sweet, “know your overlords like everyone to be emotionless, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting a good fuck, even if half the city can probably see it from here.”

“Oh lord.” He moans, the image sending his thoughts, his dignity, his blood, south.

Another laugh, his head yanked sideways to take in the view, “Damn, you like that too, huh? Like the idea of everyone watching while one of America’s finest begs me to fuck his face. Your superiors finding out their best agent is so needy he’d do anything for me to touch him?”

The tears pricking his eyes are from want, not shame, when he chokes out, “yes.”

Barclay turns his head forward, then up.

“Please, Barclay, please.”

“Please fuck you?”

“Yes.” He whimpers.

“Nope. Sorry, agent, I don’t sleep with the enemy, even if he gives me the worlds bluest puppy dog eyes. Not to mention, threatening the people I love is the opposite of being a good boy. But since it’s our anniversary, I think you do owe me a gift.” His fingers touch the edge of Sterns mask, “let’s see who’s been tracking me for a year.”

“Wait, don’t-” The mask tears off. The two men stare at each other, frozen, one in surprise and the other in fear.

“Joseph?”

“Hello.” He wants to look away, to see literally anything other than the betrayal on Barclay’s face.

“I, uh, I imagine this will lose me the title of ‘favorite customer’ at the Coffee Lodge.”

“You, you’ve been spying on us. You’ve been at the Lodge almost every fucking day since June, and you’re Agent fucking M, I, I can’t-” Barclay paces, fingers running through his hair, “Did you start coming just to stake us out?”

“Yes. I tracked your movements, Barclay. I’m ashamed to say I accessed the medical records of anyone in the target area who had top surgery to narrow down my suspects, and eventually identified you as Bigfoot. Once I started getting coffee at the lodge everyday it was easy to piece together who else was on the team.”

“Yeah, and flirting with me probably helped a lot.”

“Uhhhhhhhhm.”

“Oh, come on, don’t try to pretend that wasn’t part of your investigation.”

“It isn’t. Wasn’t.” He lowers his head meekly.

Barclay stops moving, sighs heavily, “Is there anywhere in this damn place that’s smaller and doesn’t have cameras?”

“My bedroom only has one. Just take down the smoke detector on the right hand side as soon as we go in.”

Barclay easily lifts him over his shoulder and trudges down the hall and into the bedroom. Rips the “smoke detector” from the wall, sparks crackling when he does. Then he deposits Stern on the bed and turns his desk chair to face it.

“We’ve got about forty-five minutes before my ride gets here. Talk.” Barclay sits down, crosses his arms while Stern attempts to sit up straight.”

“Wait, how can you know that.”

A mild smile, “You really think I’d walk into such an obvious trap without an escape plan?”

“No.” He mutters, dejected, “what do you want me to say, Barclay?”

“The truth, genius.”

“You seem to know most of it already.”

“Yeah, but one big piece is missing; why the hell didn’t you write down our identities somewhere the higher ups could find them if something happened to you? Shit, why not just sic a bunch of agents on us when we were all at the lodge making, or drinking, coffee?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Because the lodge was my haven too, alright?” Stern snaps, “I felt understood there, safer than I did in any secret base. And every time Dani laughed at something Aubrey did, or Duck told some corny joke, or you smiled at me, I understood more and more why you all do what you do. I felt my commitment to my work waning. I had to do something to reiterate my belief in it. This was that something.”

Barclay is silent for a moment, taking Stern in bit by bit.

“You want to leave the NHCTF, don’t you?” He leans forward in quiet shock.

Stern nods, defeated, “I’ve been questioning our methods for some time, but always thought that what we did was in the service of keeping people safe. I’m still not fully convinced the Pine Guard is going about it the best way, but from what I’ve seen, you do a far better job of it than we do.”

“So join us. Help us figure out how to be even better.” Barclay reaches for him, takes his hand.

“You’d ask me to just like that?”

“Most of us like you, Joseph. We’re not super into Agent M, but it’s not like we haven’t noticed you’re not chasing us down as much as you used to. Also, I’d be a really crappy superhero if I didn’t at least try to recruit the smartest man I know to our side.”

Stern blushes more than necessary at the compliment.

“Okay. I’m in. I’m ready to try being a different kind of good guy.”

“Welcome to the Pine Guard.” Barclay presses the secret hinges on the cuffs, and they drop to the floor.

A fit of giggles in Sterns throat pours out into the space between them, “Jesus, I didn’t think betraying the government would feel so liberating.”

“Always knew you were a good guy, deep down.”

Another blush has him cursing his capillaries.

“Heh, you do like it when I call you good.”

“Yes. Though as you observed, I have a weakness for humiliation as well.”

“Y’know, we’ve got a little bit of time still.” Barclay leans back, and Stern perks up when his hands hit his belt.

“And it is our anniversary.” Stern sinks to the floor, covers a few inches on his knees to rests his head on Barclays thigh.

“Shit, you really are a needy little thing.” Barclay shifts and wiggles awkwardly in order to get his close low enough to give Stern the access he needs. Stern nuzzles his inner thigh, skates his hands along muscular legs, making a mental note to discover what they feel like naked and tensing in time with their owners moans.

“You’re rather, uhm, slick already. Is this where you tell me you got into heroics because you get off on fighting?”

“Nope, just on manhandling you. And you’re in no position to comment, agent.” The growl he puts into that last word has Stern melting forward. Which is helpful, in that Barclay shoves him down the rest of the way. He licks and sucks eagerly at him, moaning messily when Barclay tilts his hips up, pressing and rutting against him.

“Like I, fuck, said babe, you’ve got no room to feel smuggAH--shit that felt good--amazed I didn’t walk in on you in the lodge bathroom with some dudes dick down your throat while another one fucked that tight ass.”

Stern would like to point out that a) he would never do such a thing in a business he respected and b) there’s only been one dick he’s wanted anywhere near him in months. But he doesn’t dare pull away. Instead he whimpers, shakes his head and takes all of Barclay’s cock into his mouth.

“Hnnnshit, maybe I got it wrong, maybe you, fuck, were one smile away from falling to you knees and begging me to fuck you over the counter.”

Stern nods emphatically, pawing at any exposed skin he can find on Barclay stomach and hips, and the larger man laughs.

“Fuck, much as I wanna hold you down and come all over that handsome face, got something else I wanna do even more.” He lets go of Sterns head, nudges him back so he can join him on the floor.

“Wha-ohshit’ He gasps when Barclay rips the front of his pants off, wrapping one large hand around his cock. But when Stern tries to thrust up into the warm, tight fist, Barclay pins his hips down with one hand. There’s such easy strength in the movements that Stern tilts his head back to rest on the spotless bedspread, because baring his throat feels like the only suitable response.

Teeth just sharper than they ought to be sink into the base of his neck, but even as he arches and thrashes in response, he can’t get any stimulation on his cock. Coarse coppery hair tickles his skin as Barclay laughs, “Cute how you think that’s enough begging to get what you want.”

“Barclay, please, I, I’ve wanted this for months, it’s all I want, I will do anything.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Poor special agent, so desperate.” Barclay’s tone is cruel as he drags his hand up in one long, slow stroke. Stern eagerly awaits a downstroke that doesn’t come.

“Well? Gimme one good reason to indulge my pathetic new plaything.”

“I, I, I’ll be good, so good for you, let you do whatever you want, fuck.” The barest movement of Barclays hand and he sobs, “please, I just want to be good, I just want you to use me, god, please just tell me what you want.”

“Admit you’re a needy fucker who likes the fact the other cameras in this building can probably hear him begging me to-”

“I am, I need you so badly, I need this, I want you so much, I need youOHyes, yes.” He groans happily as Barclay switches to rapid strokes and drags one of Sterns hands between his legs. He keeps his fingers outside for the time being, focuses on circling his thumb and dragging the other digits in tight patterns.

“C’mon handsome, jack me off, show me how much you like your reward oh fuck, fuck, Joseph, that’s it babe, fuck that’s good.” His head drops to mouth at Stern’s neck with a moan as he grinds against Sterns palm, “shit, shoulda asked you out last week like I was planning to, coulda been doing this every night, yeah, ohyeah.” As he comes his grip on Sterns cock tightens, and even as he rides out his orgasm he’s growling, “come on agent, lemme see you ruin those fancy clothes.”

Stern comes with what sounds, to his ears, like a pathetic cry. Yet as soon as he spills onto his stomach and Barclays hand, the larger man kisses his chest, whispering sweetly, “You’re so good, did so good for me baby, you’re amazing.”

With unsure fingers, he brushes a strand of loose hair from Barclays cheek. Barclay looks up, smiling so tenderly Stern worries he’s dreaming. Then Barclay sits up, cupping his chin and drawing him into a gentle kiss, sighing happily when their lips meet.

“Is it selfish to be happy that you joining the team means I get to see you everyday?”

“Not in the least. Though you see me most days at the coffee shop anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I get to do this” another kiss, somehow twice as tender as the first, “when I do.”

Stern curls into his arms as he continues, “guess we oughta get you a codename now.”

“You know, I’ve actually given that some thought. Given that only some of you drew your names from cryptids or, um, I suppose your true forms, I think there’s room for a codename that reflects my history with secretive government agencies while staying on theme?”

“I think so too.” Barclay smiles expectantly.

“In that case,” Stern grins back, future brightening ahead of him for the first time in years, “just call me Roswell.”

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #super hero au #prompt fill #TAZ Amnesty

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fangirlxwritesx67 · 5 years

Text

Pushing Buttons (au kale!Sam x Rowena)

A/N: This is called fan fiction for a reason. In real life, this whole scenario would be sexual harassment. Condoms and consent, kids. Tags: 18+, sex, smut, no condoms, sex at work, teasing, lingerie, descriptive sex

Sam Winchester fidgeted in the elevator. He was a founding partner at this tech law firm, successful, rich. He had even recently given a hugely popular TED talk. And he was nervous. He took a long swallow of his morning kale smoothie. Before he entered his outer office, he gathered his wits around him for his first challenge of the day: greeting his secretary, Rowena. The petite redhead was already at her desk when he walked in the door, wearing a simple white button down shirt. As usual, her eyes were decorated with big sweeps of glittery jewel tones, and her sharp little nails were painted to match. "Good morning," he said. "Good morning," she simpered. "Oooh, which black shirt is it today? Is it black shirt with black cuffs?" Sam pursed his lips. "I've told you, Rowena, it's like my uniform." Rowena rolled her cat-like green eyes. "Or maybe you're just boring." Wow, so bitchy so early. "Well, it's not like your shiny white shirt is anything... fancy," he managed to say. The problem was, he had looked at her in that shirt- the satin fabric stretched perfectly across her round breasts, the tiny peek of cleavage above the buttons. Since when did his secretary have cleavage?! Rowena didn't even answer, just smirked. Unable to think of anything to say, he walked into his inner office and closed the door. He walked behind his wide wooden desk and sank into his chair.

Damn, not even 9 o'clock and Rowena had already gotten to him.

Sam Winchester could swear some days she had come all the way from Scotland for the sole purpose of tormenting him. Rowena was whip-smart with a sharp tongue, feisty and temperamental. He could swear, sometimes, Rowena had forgotten who was the boss and who was the employee. She did what she needed to, and honestly did a great job. But she seemed to love pushing him around. All it took was a word from her, a look to make him feel small. And when she laughed -damn, the way she laughed, her head thrown back to show her white throat- his blood rose hot. Rowena knew how to push his buttons like no one ever had. He would go to her with the simplest thing, and she would find a way to turn on him. It was as if she specialized in finding his weakness and then leaning into it. She seemed to delight in needling him until he snapped. When he tried to turn the tables and get a rise out of her, she just raised a perfect eyebrow and refused to be baited.

Sam hated Rowena. That's what he told himself, at least, to keep from admitting how much he wanted her. She irritated him and it made him hot. Sam hated Rowena and couldn't stop looking at her at the same time. He stared thru his glass door at her, sitting at her desk, head bowed over work. Her hair was a riot of red curls that she kept clipped up, but wayward tendrils had a way of escaping to curl against her slim neck. Every so often, he caught her quickly unclipping it, letting it cascade down her back in a wave of red silk. Just as quickly, she would gather it in her hands and began to twist it back up. Rowena was utterly different from any woman he had ever known, and she was bewitching. He hated how much he wanted her, hated how easily she could get a reaction out of him, hated how much he loved to see her laugh. ... For someone so big, Rowena thought, Sam Winchester sure was easy to push around. When she took this job, she expected to be bored- secretary, big-name lawyer, blah blah. That was before she laid eyes on her boss. What a magnificent man! He towered over her, at least a foot taller, and his body had that lean strong look of a man who took good care of himself. And his face! Gods, all angles and strong lines. Rimless glasses perfectly framed his radiant eyes. In fact, she had more than once found herself lost in his gaze when she was supposed to be listening. It sounded ridiculous, but she would swear that his eyes were blue with a golden sunflower pattern and flecks of green. She didn't usually care for long hair on a man, but she had to admit, it looked good on him. When he was nervous, he tucked it behind his ears, and it gave his handsome face a boyish look. Oh, how much Sam Winchester thought of himself. He was rich, successful, handsome- and he knew it. He practically oozed privilege. Rowena liked him but also liked hassling him. He no idea how fragile he was, how needy, how easy to mock. Any challenge to his perfect ideal of himself sent him running. Most of the time, she didn't have to do much to get him wound up. In fact, doing nothing at all was the easiest thing. Nothing seemed to annoy him so much as her not reacting. She took a secret impish pleasure in keeping a straight face, no matter what he did. She could count on pushing him to act ever more ridiculous in hopes of getting her to break. But she had poise, and years of practice. One handsome lawyer was no match for her flinty will. ... "Honestly, darling, get your shite together!" Sam walked out of his office just in time to hear the tail end of Rowena's phone conversation. A tiny shiver ran up his back, hearing her curse in her lyrical Scottish accent. This was exactly the sort of feisty behaviour that was inappropriate for a law firm partner's secretary. Sam walked over and placed one big hand on Rowena's desk. "Did I just hear you tell someone to get their stuff together?" Rowena looked at him, her lips pouting out just a little. "Samuel," she said, "please go back away." "Please go back away?" Sam repeated in disbelief. "It's 10 o'clock in the morning. You've already told someone to get their shit together and told your boss to please go back away?!" Rowena tossed her pretty head, red curls shaking. "And yet ye' think its a good idea to stand here and torment me?!" Her accent was getting thicker. Sam knew he was in trouble. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught of Rowena's words. But she surprised him. Instead of saying anything, Rowena picked up a stack of file folders and flounced off to the wall of filing cabinets. Sam watched her go, watched her graceful walk. Her high heels gave her hips a pronounced shimmy. Of course these files went in the bottom drawer. Of course Rowena had to bend all the way over. Her dark skirt pulled across her round, juicy ass and exposed more of her shapely calves. Sam could barely tear his eyes away. Damn this woman. He finally turned and stalked back to his office.

Sam Winchester was in meetings most of the afternoon so he managed to avoid Rowena's teasing. When he finally entered the outer office late in the day, she was still there, just as fiery and radiant as he remembered. He had caught her halfway thru applying a new coat of bright gloss on her already shiny lips. She tossed him a vaguely irritated look. "Busy, Rowena?" He joked lightly, his smile pushing dimples into his cheeks. She answered slowly without putting her pocket mirror down. "Nooo." Damn, the things he thought about when her lips rounded like that. Things a man should not think about his secretary, especially not a secretary he hated so much. "Are there any messages for me?" Rowena rolled her eyes, her wide green cat eyes, and fluttered her thick dark lashes as she turned back to her computer. Without looking up, she reached out her hand and pushed a piece of paper towards him. Her small white hand was warm, her nails were sharp and bright. Sam took the paper, sighing, and walked back into his inner office. Why did his secretary have to be so damn irritating? He sank into his chair. Sam's phone rang. It was Rowena, calling from the outer office.

Sam buried his face in his hands and shook his head. Running a hand over his stubbled cheeks, he looked up thru the glass. Rowena was looking directly at him. "No," he said in the empty room. "I need you," she mouthed back. Without ever answering the phone, Sam threw open the door and closed the space to Rowena's desk with a few long strides. "What?" he asked, trying to keep his anger in check. "What do you want, woman?!" Rowena looked at him, the picture of innocence. As if she wasn't doing this to him on purpose. As if she wasn't winding him up all day every damn day. As if she didn't live for pushing his buttons. "I have a question about this client file." She pointed to something on her computer screen that he couldn't see. "Can you come look at this?" As Sam walked around the desk behind Rowena, she reached up and unclipped her hair. She had never done that when he was standing so close. A sweet spicy smell rose off her hair as it slipped between her fingers. With a practiced twist of her slim wrist, she gathered it back up.

One long red curl had escaped Rowena's grasp. Without thinking, Sam reached out and twirled it around his finger, his hand brushing her shoulder. Her hair was as soft as he had imagined, bouncy and magic. Faster than he could see, she whirled to face him, her hand upraised. Her small palm made contact with his high cheekbone. Startled, he grabbed her wrist. For a moment they both seemed to freeze. Then Sam pulled Rowena towards him and kissed her, hard. She gasped, then kissed him, harder. Sam wrapped her in his arms. She pressed into him, warm and eager. He had never noticed before how tiny she was, how her body was tight and curvy at the same time- but she fit perfectly under his hands. This close, he noticed her creamy pale skin and a sprinkling of freckles over her cheeks. He wanted to be angry but truth was, she was gorgeous.

Next thing Sam knew, Rowena's arms were sliding around his neck, so slim and so strong. She was kissing him as much as he was kissing her. Sam had no idea until this moment that he wanted Rowena, and now she was literally the only thing he wanted. He wanted to take her, own her, teach her a lesson for teasing him. He wanted to make her beg for him. He wanted to be the reason she fluttered her eyes and smiled and laughed. He wanted to push her buttons like she pushed his. Everything he wanted, Sam took from Rowena in kisses. They had started off hard but soon grew deep and hot. Their lips met and parted and met again. Every kiss was a question and every kiss was an answer. Sam slipped his tongue into Rowena's mouth. Her tongue was quick against his. He should've known. He tangled his hand in Rowena's thick red hair and pulled her head back so he could trace a line of kisses down her elegant neck, across her fine collarbones. She moaned. It was the first sign of weakness she had ever shown. He continued to kiss down into her cleavage. She moaned again when his hot mouth made contact with her soft warm breasts. Then he was pulling her legs around his waist, so shapely and flexible. His hand lingered around her tiny ankle. Her hips ground into him. Even thru all their clothes, he could feel the heat between her thighs. He rose unbidden, hard, so hard. "You little witch," he murmured against her creamy skin. He had no idea he had wanted her so much but she was irresistible. Every time he had been irritated with her, every time she had pushed his buttons- all that anger spilled over into desire now. He wanted her, damn he wanted her- hot and angry and fast. Then he picked her up entirely. She was weightless, warm and strong. How was she even real?? He carried her into his inner office, kicking the door shut behind him. Sam set Rowena on his wooden desk. "Take off your boring black shirt," she cooed in his ear. ... "Why are you so irritating?!" Sam growled, tossing his shirt aside and pushing his hair back behind his ears. Gods, it had taken so long and so much work to get him here. All these days of teasing him, pushing his buttons, keeping herself composed when she wanted to laugh, making herself appear beautiful and flawless at every turn- this had better be worth it. Just seeing her boss hot and bothered like this filled Rowena with a heady sense of her own power. She threw back her head and gave in to the laughter that bubbled up from deep inside her. ... Rowena was perched on the desk invitingly, her white satin shirt halfway open, her breasts rising with every breath. Sam had never wanted anything as much as he wanted her right now. With one sweep of his big hand, he ripped open the rest of the buttons on her shirt. Her bra was white, too, and lacy. Her breasts spilled over the top, peaches and cream. Sam jammed his hands into her bra and cupped their soft weight. He flicked both thumbs and her nipples rose to his touch. He lowered his face and took one breast in his mouth. Damn, she had freckles there too. Above him, Rowena sighed softly. Keeping his right hand inside her bra, Sam cupped her waist with the other. She was so tiny that his hand spanned the entire space between her hips. He lifted her, pressed her to him as he kissed down the soft skin of her stomach. "Let your hair down," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. He swirled his tongue in her bellybutton and watched her shiver. Rowena obeyed, reaching up to undo her hair. Her dark red curls fell around them like a curtain. The smell of flowers and spices filled the air as she tossed her head. Sam raked his fingers thru her hair, grabbing it in glossy handfuls. His hand brushed her skin and his eyes followed his touch to her waist, on that perfect spot where it dipped in and then curved out again over her ass. He kissed her there, eagerly, and then more hungrily. She tasted sweet and salty at the same time under his tongue. He wanted her, all of her. He bit her, soft skin yielding to his sharp teeth. Rowena yelped. Sam lifted his face and kissed her, cupping her beautiful high cheekbones in his hands. He slid one hand up into her hair. She slid her arms back around his neck, tangling her fingers in his chestnut hair at the back of his neck. "Ro," he murmured. She sucked on his bottom lip and then bit him, sending shivers down his legs. Sam slid his hands quickly down her neck and over her shoulders, stroking her back before letting his fingers splay out over her hips and round ass. His hands wandered down to her knees. He slipped long fingers under the hem of her dark skirt and then slid them up her velvety thighs. His hands pushed her skirt up, up around her trim waist. At the touch of his warm skin on her hips, Rowena sighed and arced towards him. He could feel that her panties were lace too. He hooked a finger in the waistband to pull them down and off her legs. Damn, the lace panties were sopping wet. Somewhere in his lust-inflamed mind, it registered that she had wanted this, planned this. "You want this too?" He whispered, teeth grazing her earlobe. "Oh yes, Samuel," She moaned. "This is what I wanted." She reached for him where he strained against his pants, hard and needy. Sam realized then that he had been utterly played. This tiny Scottish redhead had been planning this all along. Images flooded his mind- moments he thought he had hated her but -now he realized- he had wanted her. Every look, every touch, every laugh had been for this.

Sam's breath was coming in hot short pants. "I hate you, Ro" he gasped "I hate you too, Samuel," she sighed. Damn, that voice. When she called him Samuel, he would do literally anything. Sam wrapped one long arm around Rowena's waist and then slid his hand up her back. She was so small that he could hold her entirely in his arms with his fingers at the base of her neck. He dug his fingers in at the base of her beautiful, elegant neck -right on her collarbone- and she turned her head into his touch. Holding her still, he pushed into her. Rowena groaned. Oh damn, she was so wet, so hot. He thrust again and again as she writhed underneath him, wanting to go deeper, wanting to get completely lost in her. Her depths were warm and muscular, closing in on him. ... Rowena shifted her hips as Sam pounded into her, trying to take him all in. She didn't know if she could. Maybe, just maybe, she had gotten more than she bargained for. He was so long and so thick. He was pushing her- stretching her- filling her. She tried to hold on to him with her heels around his waist and dug her fingers into his back. Sam was so angry and needy- and she loved it, wanted it. Gods, what a magnificent man he was! So tall and strong, she felt weightless in his grasp. Every muscle on his chest and arms was tense. His body was slick with sweat and his face- his beautiful face was alight with desire. His green blue eyes blazed gold with animal lust. Rowena let all of her pent up frustration go and gave into him. Rowena knew she was moaning but she didn't care. Finally she was getting what she wanted, all of her efforts coming to fruition. Sam's big hands curled into the base of her neck, gripping her hard. She needed to be needed like this. She was used to being underestimated, treated gently because she was small and a woman. But she wanted- no, needed- to be taken in hand. Sam was was giving her exactly what she wanted- to be held close and fucked hard. Her vision dimmed as her entire world shrank between her legs, to the point where she was connected to Sam, where they needed each other. It was intense, it was angry, it was hot. It was exactly what she needed to lose herself in her body. Then she was coming, pushed to her orgasm hard and fast by Sam's relentless fucking. Pleasure blazed thru her like cords of hot light. She threw her head back and moaned as wave after wave of hot ecstasy washed over her. ... Rowena curled into Sam and whimpered as he kept going, not pausing for a moment the pace or depth of his thrusts. Damn, he had wanted her, just like this, falling to pieces under him. He was panting hard, pushing himself and her still farther. Then Rowena shuddered and came again, wrapped around him, and he felt it deep inside. "Ohhhhh," Sam groaned and felt his knees give way. He was lost, absolutely unmoored by this woman. Rowena cried out and raked her nails in long slashes on his back. He was coming, helplessly, held in her. His vision blurred and he fell forward onto his elbows.

When his eyes could focus again, Sam looked down at Rowena. Her orgasms had left a pink flush thrown over her soft breasts and sharp collar bones. She seemed almost translucent with heat. He could see bruises forming on the fine skin at the base of her neck and around her waist where his hands had gripped her. "Oh, no, Ro!" He sighed, replacing his fingers with kisses. She sighed softly and leaned into the warmth of his mouth. She trailed her nails lightly over his shoulders and every scratch on his back flamed hot. They had both left their marks on one another. "Oh, yes, Samuel," she cooed. He kissed her, satisfied and irritated and hungry all over again. "Damn you woman," he sighed. Her only answer was to throw back her head and laugh.

I owe this entire fic to @marril96 who first of all provided the GIF that inspired it, then pushed me in the direction of teasing hate sex, and then patiently read and reread. Her spot-on feedback and suggestions helped me flesh this out. Thanks hon. And I guess I’m tagging @idreamofplaid when I publish now? Hope you like

#samwena #samwitch #pushing buttons #kale!sam x rowena #fangirlxwritesx67

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dictionarywrites · 6 years

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ready?

Rinch. 1.6k. Complete. First kiss. Set directly post S2.06: The High Road. Seeing John in a suburban setting has set Harold's mind turning over and over.

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Harold sits in front of the computer, listening to Zoe speak with the wife. “That one moment changed your whole life,” Connie Wyler says quietly, and Harold hears Zoe’s soft, rueful laugh. It is quiet in the library without Bear here, bringing him his tennis ball or slobbering over the doughnuts he’d bought, without John hovering over his shoulder. The suburbs… So close, and yet so far away.

“I can honestly say I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” Harold feels his lip twitch as he lays his chin on his hands, feeling something tug in his gut. Zoe is right, of course. She wouldn’t be here were it not for John, and yet…

Well. Nor would any of them.

♠ --- ♣ --- ♠

Harold doesn’t say a thing when John slips into the passenger seat next to him, after the heist is through.

He doesn’t say anything as he drops John back off at this apartment.

He keeps silent until John comes back from meeting with the Wylers and overseeing the pack-up of the objects in the house. Bear rushes into the library, launching himself at Harold’s lap, and Harold lets out a sharp sound of almost-pain as his lower back twinges at the sudden lunge. Bear whines apologetically, and Harold gently pats his neck as he leans back in the seat.

John smiles, adjusting his cuffs where they settle on his wrists, and Harold glances down at John’s hands, steady and strong.

“He missed you,” John says, sotto voce. There is a quiet significance to the words, and Harold smiles shakily, patting the dog’s warm flank before Bear pulls back and skitters across the wood floor, dropping heavily onto his bed and sprawling on his back. Harold can see him shift on the soft cushioning, pressing his scent back into it where it has faded in the few days he’s been gone.

“I missed him too,” Harold replies in an equally quiet tone. John’s thin lips quirk into a smile. Why is it so easy, Harold wonders, to use Bear as a surrogate for the affection they wish to level at one another? Why is it so difficult to do it directly?

“I wondered—” Harold stops. Inhales. Better to remain silent. John’s silver brow furrows slightly as he takes a step forward, tilting his head marginally to the side.

“Wondered?” John repeats.

“It’s of no great import,” Harold says, turning his chair away, but John’s hand catches tight on the back of the chair, turning it back toward him. At a glance, Harold knows, someone could easily mistake the dynamic of their unique relationship. So many times, he has seen the subtle shift of understanding in someone’s eyes as they realise Harold is the “boss” and John his employee (such a soft word, so meaningless, truly), but it is more than that. John might subtly push upon Harold’s boundaries, attempt to draw closer where Harold has laid out a clear map of his own territory, but—

In truth, John takes his little increments because Harold allows them to slide. And Harold – Harold knows this, unimpeachably, irrevocably, irreconcilably – that John is content under Harold’s command.

“Wondered?” John repeats again in a delicate tone, as if Harold hadn’t said anything at the first repetition. John’s hand has slid from the chair to Harold’s shoulder, his thumb tracing through the fabric of Harold’s jacket, and like this Harold can smell the slightly sweet, musky scent of the cologne Harold had bought him last Christmas, the cologne John wears every day. Harold’s breath hitches in his throat as he furrows his brow slightly, doing his best to hide his uncertainty.

“I told you,” he says, sharpening his tone. “It is of no import, Mr Reese.”

“Why do you lie to me, Finch?” John asks softly.

“I never lie to you,” Harold replies.

“Tell me what you were wondering, then.” Harold hardens his stare, and he doesn’t think he imagines the way John shifts back slightly, his shoulders loosening, his chin tipping a fraction back. Harold sees even more of his neck than he already can, given that John is standing and Harold is seated before him. Such a strong man, and yet… Such subtle submission. Harold is abruptly aware of precisely how dry his mouth is.

“Mr Reese,” Harold says, very quietly. “What, precisely, do you think you’re doing?”

“Playing the suburban husband,” John replies. He moves to adjust the set of Harold’s collar, smoothing away an imaginary crease. “I was thinking. Playing poker with Zoe. Flirting. Walking the dog. Nothing you couldn’t have done.”

“Providing back-up as you rob a bank?” John shrugs.

“Okay. Maybe one thing.” Harold laughs, unable to stop himself as the chuckle whispers out from beneath his lips. John is… Warm. Harold doesn’t have the greatest circulation, and he is almost glad to settle within this library when the New York summers settle in, where every room is stuffy and warm because they cannot open the windows, but now, in the autumn, where a slight chill settles upon the air? “You don’t think we could have pulled off the married act?”

“You don’t think we’re a little… Heterosexual for that?” John stares down at him, his expression completely neutral. Then, he exhales a short, sharp laugh.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, and he draws his hand away. Harold finds himself astonished by how cold he feels without John’s hand invading his space, John’s hand lingering on his shoulder, and before John can walk across the room Harold’s own hand shoots out without his permission, gripping tightly at John’s wrist. He feels John’s pulse under the flesh there, a slow and steady thrum of blood beneath the surface of his skin, and John’s fingers slide over Harold’s own wrist, dragging over the sensitive flesh where the veins are so close to the surface. Harold swallows.

“You’ve… Before, then?”

“There’s a verb missing from that sentence,” John says lowly, and Harold feels heat rise in his neck and his cheeks, where capillaries vasodilate under the stress of the situation, the excitement, and blood rushes to the surface of the skin, leaving it tinged pink and sensitive.

“Who’s Mr Vocabulary now?” John’s lips quirk up at the edges, and then the hand not clasped awkwardly against Harold’s own reaches out, two of his fingers ghosting featherlight against Harold’s cheek. Harold thinks of Grace, alone in her home, grieving him even now— Harold’s eyes close.

“I don’t have to. If you don’t want me to.”

“I never said I didn’t want you to.” Harold murmurs.

“Good,” John says. Harold can hear his trousers and his shirt rubbing against one another, can feel John’s body lean in closer and toward him, feel John’s hand cup Harold’s cheek properly. He feels the callouses and small scars on John’s palm and fingers, his hand so warm, and Harold cannot help but gasp as he feels the other man’s breath against his own. Harold’s lips are sensitive, and in many ways, he is careful about his sensitivities – Harold is a patient man, and he knows it is best to be temperate, to shy away from hedonism. He is a man tended to little pleasures, small indulgences – pastries in the morning, ice cream in January. John is an indulgence, but he is anything but small. Yet here Harold’s heart beats fast in his chest, pounding underneath his skin, and he lunges a little too fast, adjusting his posture and leaving a tingle of dull pain dragging across his left hip, but he ignores it.

The hand not entwined with John’s tangles itself in the other man’s white shirt, and he presses his lips chastely but hard against John’s mouth, feeling the sting of his stubble against his own bare chin. John’s lips part slightly, inviting him in, and Harold lets out a soft groan of sound as his tongue slides over John’s own, feels the heat of it, the clever, wet smack of John’s mouth against his own. Harold is embarrassed by the heady whine of noise that escapes him, and then—

“Bear,” John chides, and Harold laughs as the dog presses between them, nuzzling his nose against Harold’s belly. Concern shines in those intelligent brown eyes of his, and Harold laughs softly, scratching at his ears.

“Stupid dog,” Harold murmurs with affection.

“It takes him a while,” John murmurs. “But he gets there in the end.” Harold’s lips twitch, dragged sensitive with the other man’s stubble, and Harold reaches up with one hand, touching his finger to his lower lip. It feels flushed with blood, bruised just slightly by the force of Harold’s movement.

“We should walk him,” Harold murmurs. “Together.”

“You want to go for a romantic walk in Central Park, huh?” John smiles, thinly. “See? We can both do the suburban husband act.”

“You don’t belong in the suburbs,” Harold murmurs.

“Nor do you. Let’s go belong somewhere else.” He mutters a short command, sending Bear raring across the floor to run and collect his leash, and Harold watches John as he crouches on the ground, taking the leash and gently clipping it against Bear’s collar. Do you think we’ll ever have kids? He remembers the day like it was yesterday, remembers standing outside that sweet little girl’s new home, with John at his shoulder. He remembers how strange the words had felt, how startlingly domestic, and equally how relieved he was that it was all over. He’d never expected a dog. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Harold says softly. “I’m ready for anything.” John glances up from Bear, and he smiles, softly this time. His blue eyes glitter in the light that streams in through the dusty windows, and Harold feels another twist in his gut, a leap of his own stomach.

“Let’s go,” John says, and Harold smiles as he stands.

#rinch #harold finch #john reese #bear the dog #person of interest #fanfic #dictionary writes

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onlymorelove · 7 years

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Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4)

Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. Notes: You can read Chapter 1 here. You can read Chapter 2 here. This also takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise and Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning). These stories are all set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together. Word Count: 4574 Rating: T Chapter Title: Bring your secrets; bring your scars. (From Phillip Phillips' Unpack Your Heart.) Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @extasiswings, @grey-haven, @gwennieliz, @qqueenofhades, and @uglybusiness. (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)

If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcome.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4]

A Google search for a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe turned up a five-ingredient one Lucy was confident even their sleep-deprived, emotionally-drained threesome could handle. Butter, flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips. Today they’d be eating the sweet and chocolatey breakfast of champions. It would be worth it because all of them still had healing to do, and this, acknowledging Iris Flynn’s birthday, was another tangible step in that process.

She’d just pulled a stick of butter out of the refrigerator and set it out to soften on the kitchen counter behind her when two sets of footsteps sounded—one slow and measured, the other pounding down the stairs at a rapid clip. Garcia and Wyatt rejoined her in the kitchen. Wyatt wore a long-sleeved tee. It had seen better days; the cuffs were frayed, and the shirt clung to Wyatt’s back and shoulders after too many trips through clothes dryer. It was an aesthetic she deeply appreciated.

Lucy tapped Wyatt’s shoulder with her index finger and bumped him with her hip. When he focused on her, she turned a mock pout on him. “Excuse me.” She arched an eyebrow.

Wyatt’s forehead crinkled in consternation, and his eyebrows drew together. “Yeah?”

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

“Agreed? Ha. You're a funny woman.” Wyatt smirked. “More like you tried to give me a direct order, and I took it as a suggestion.” He gave an exaggerated shiver, causing her to roll her eyes at his dramatics. “It’s chilly down here, Doc. Besides”—he winked and stepped into her space, his body radiating delicious heat, and wound his arms around her—“I’m still gropeable with clothes on.” His words were followed by his hands, which proceeded to knead the curve of her bottom with gratifying enthusiasm.

Tilting her head to the side, Lucy flashed Garcia a questioning look. “What do you think, Garcia?” She traced nonsensical doodles on Wyatt’s shoulders while she waited for a response.

Flynn leaned back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other, slanting a considering glance at her and Wyatt. Only a few feet separated them. Amusement flared in the depths of Flynn’s moss-green eyes, chasing away some of the shadows that still lingered there. “I think opening a thoughtfully-wrapped present is half the fun of receiving a present in the first place.”

Though Wyatt’s busy hands stilled, Lucy was grateful he kept his arms looped around her. “So, in this metaphor of yours, am I supposed to be the present?” Wyatt asked. She leaned into him, a cat searching for a good scratch; he responded by running his nails over her back through her thin nightshirt. Pleasure sparked through her, chasing Wyatt’s sure fingers, until Lucy nearly hummed from it.

Garcia’s observant gaze tracked the path Wyatt’s hands traveled over Lucy's back, and his lips ticked upward a millimeter. “You, Wyatt Logan,” he said, sidling closer to them, his voice lit by humor but lacking any sardonic edge, “and all that West Texas charm, are the gift that never stops giving.” He finished with a smacking kiss to Wyatt’s cheek.

“Damn straight,” Wyatt replied. “About time you figured that out.”

Garcia’s full-throated laugh rang through the kitchen. For a second, Lucy forgot her exhaustion. Instead, she focused on the warmth that fizzed in her chest as Garcia bent and kissed them—first tilting Wyatt’s face up with one long finger on his chin—and then her.

Warm lips grazed her temple; strong arms surrounded her. Lucy’s eyes slid shut, and she inhaled deeply. She couldn’t catalogue the individual scents that filled her nose, though she dearly wanted to. Was it Garcia’s deodorant? Wyatt’s skin?

All Lucy knew as she tried to freeze the moment, to preserve it in amber for eternity, was that those scents signified something important to her. Comfort. Them. Home.

“I’ll tell you what, Lucy.” Wyatt nodded and folded his arms over his chest. I’ll make a deal with you.”

The mischievous expression that rolled over Wyatt’s face immediately put her on guard, but she decided to humor him anyway. “Okay…I'm listening. What are your terms?”

“Since you seem oh-so-interested in me being shirtless right now, I’ll agree to that, but—”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“ —only if you take off your shirt, too.”

A beat passed. Lucy blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing several times, but no words came out. Finally, she reached out and thwacked Wyatt on the forearm. “Wyatt!” Lucy knew both men were very aware that she rarely slept wearing a bra. Though she was pretty comfortable in her own skin at this point in her life, that didn't mean she wanted to bake while topless.

“What?” He cringed away and slung her a look that was all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not the only feminist here. It’s all in the interest of equality and fair play.”

“I think you mean foreplay,” Garcia chimed in, dark eyebrows raised. He curled an arm across Wyatt’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“You would take his side.” She narrowed her eyes at him, silently promising Garcia future retribution.

Garcia lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking anybody’s side,” he protested, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that made her insides feel loopy and effervescent.

“Ready, Luce?” said Wyatt. His hands gripped the bottom of his shirt and started inching upward, revealing a sliver of skin at his stomach.

“No. Stop. Let’s all just...keep our shirts on.” How had their morning taken such a turn for the absurd?

Garcia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Oh, he might be laughing now, but she would remember this moment and make him pay later.

“Deviants,” she said under her breath.

“Hey! I heard you,” said Wyatt. “Just so you know. That is unfair.” Looking not at all put-out, he wagged his finger at her. “And inaccurate. Yeah. You’re the one who started it. So pot, kettle, black.”

She heaved a gusty sigh. “Fine, Wyatt.” With a shrug, she clapped her hands against her legs. “You win. You’re right.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” Wyatt cupped a hand to his ear. “Could you please repeat that?”

Her lips twitched, but she bit back the smile that threatened to appear. She would not encourage his theatrics. “I said, ‘You’re right.’”

“Thank you for admitting that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” He paused and lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It's about as rare as a unicorn sighting.” Wyatt and Garcia exchanged telling looks.

It made her skin itch to imagine letting him have the last word. But she would let his very last comment slide. “So I guess we’re equal opportunity perverts.”

“Lucy, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the human body.” Garcia rubbed his hands together as if warming up to the current subject. “It is, after all, a marvelous creation.” With his hands tucked into the pockets of his pajama pants, he strolled the length of their small kitchen. Then he reversed direction, ambling back toward them, studying her and Wyatt in turn, an air of deep reflection about him.

Sensing the beginning of a world-class lecture, Lucy caught Wyatt’s gaze and made a face. He grinned and shook his head. “You are such a brat,” he mouthed.

Lucy widened her eyes at Wyatt and casually scratched the corner of her mouth...with her middle finger.

He snickered at the vulgar gesture and shook his head at her antics. Though his mouth didn’t form any words, Lucy easily parsed the naked affection on his face.

“Consider da Vinci’s exploration of geometry and proportion in his Vitruvian Man drawing—”

Wyatt turned toward Garcia. “You mean the naked guy?” He drew a circle in the air. “With the circle around him? And the square?”

Garcia nodded in approval, a wide smile tempering the otherwise severe lines of his face. Lucy instinctively wanted to smile back, though her stomach tightened painfully at the knowledge of how isolated this man, who had become utterly irreplaceable to her, had been for so long, with no one to talk to about his thoughts. No one to share the minutiae of daily life with. No one to ask him, “How was your day?” and care enough to listen with full attention to his answer.

“Yes! Exactly, Wyatt. I wasn’t sure if you'd catch the reference.”

“Always happy to live down to your expectations, Flynn.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to underestimate you. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Nah. Okay, maybe a little. You can make it up to me.”

Wyatt hooked his fingers in the waistband of Garcia’s pants. “So how about we all get naked. In honor of da Vinci?”

Garcia’s face twisted in a rather quizzical expression. “While I appreciate the sentiment, that is altogether convoluted logic, Logan.”

As much as she appreciated their good-natured banter, she knew they had gotten sidetracked from their original objective. She rolled her eyes and yanked Wyatt’s hand away from Garcia. “For the love of... Listen, we’ve gotten completely distracted. We are supposed to be baking.” She clamped one hand over Wyatt’s mouth and one over Garcia’s. “And no, don’t even say it: We are not going to be doing naked baking.”

Bracketing a hand around her wrist, Garcia tugged her hand away from his mouth. “Half-naked, to be precise,” Garcia said, eyebrow quirked. He gave her fingers a playful nip before releasing them.

Wyatt and Garcia both laughed, deep smile lines radiating out from the corners of their eyes like little sunbursts. The combined effect dazzled Lucy with its radiance. Her breath stuttered in her chest. A second later she blinked, and the spell was broken. “Oh my god,” she said, recovering her voice. “Please, I beg you, both of you. Just forget I said anything about being shirtless.”

“So what'll it be, boys? Dark or milk chocolate chips?”

“Milk,” said Wyatt.

“Dark,” said Garcia.

“But Lucy,” Wyatt said, tugging at her sleeve, “dark chocolate’s gross. It’s too bitter.”

Garcia aimed a scathing look in Wyatt's direction. “No, you're mistaken: milk chocolate is too sweet. Too cloying. Too much of a good thing. In dark chocolate, however, the sweetness is balanced by the hint of bitterness. Balance, Wyatt.” He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arms. “In all things, seek balance.”

“Yeah, okay, Jedi Master Flynn.”

A startled laugh flew from Lucy’s mouth. When Garcia cut her a glare to rival Medusa’s stony stare, the laugh morphed into a cough. “Okay, well then.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll compromise and do half and half,” she said, her tone placating. “Happy now?”

“No,” Garcia and Wyatt replied in unison.

Lucy smiled.

“Here,” Lucy said, and handed Garcia a worn wooden spoon. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and they shared a glance, neither speaking. Gentle heat spread from that point of contact, eventually settling in Lucy’s cheeks. She curled her hand around Garcia’s upper arm. “Make good use of those muscles and beat the flour and sugar together.”

“Whatever you say...ma’am,” Garcia said, a hint of mischief glimmering in his smile as he applied himself to the task she'd set for him.

“Uh uh. No way.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest and shook her head decisively. “I refuse to have you both call me that.”

He nodded in acquiescence, hair slipping over his forehead. “Then I will have to think of something else.”

“Anything but ‘ma’am.’”

Garcia continued stirring, eyes distant, expression thoughtful. The spoon tapped the edges of the steel mixing bowl with every turn and made a dull clanging sound. “Yes.” He looked at her with a half-smile, then nodded. “Whatever you say, dušo moja.” His voice altered on the unfamiliar words, deepening, the tenderness in the foreign syllables nearly tactile. A brush of velvet against her skin...

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flicked away from hers. “Perhaps I’ll tell you...someday.”

To her surprise, Lucy swore she saw a hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Garcia…” She knew she sounded whiny, but she didn't care. “Tell me now.”

He paused in his stirring to pat her hip. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy.”

An unfortunate side effect of intimacy was that they all knew a thousand and one ways to infuriate each other. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy,” she retorted, mimicking him.

He smiled broadly, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Insolence will get you nowhere.”

Wyatt sniggered; Lucy kept her features blank but added him and Garcia to her mental shit list.

“Hey, I’ve got muscles, too.” Wyatt flexed his right arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and placed it on his biceps. “Check out these guns.”

“Very impressive,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to Wyatt’s mouth.

“Don’t think I can’t tell you’re humoring me.” “I’m not humoring you, Wyatt.” “Are too.” “You’re right: I am.”

“Your honesty is killing me, Lucy.”

“My honesty is one of my finest qualities.” His eyebrows quirked in confusion. “You have qualities?”

“Smartass. Just for that, you get to take the cookie sheets, and everything else, out of the oven. Then preheat it to 350.”

Wyatt opened the oven door, bending to retrieve the items stored inside that black hole of kitchenware. “Holy shit.” When he stood up, his hands held a mountain of baking sheets, muffin tins, wire cooling racks. Moving slowly so as not to drop anything, he stepped to the right and placed everything on the small square of counter space next to the stove. That done, he turned to look at her reproachfully.

“Don’t you look at me like that.”

He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Lucy, you promised us you’d organize this crap.”

She swallowed, feeling a little guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Her packrat tendencies and general messiness were a sore point between the three of them. “I meant to...I mean I will…” She wrung her hands. “It’s just, we don’t have space for it all.”

“Exactly. So get rid of some of it. Donate it.”

“But I need it.”

“You need all of it?” Wyatt shot back, skepticism evident in his voice.

“Well…”

Lucy’s attention shifted as her eyes caught movement. The wire rack that had been perched at the summit of the mountain of items Wyatt had just hauled out of the oven, crashed to the floor. “Oh no!”

The three of them leapt to catch the remaining objects before they went the way of the rack. A few items still clattered to the ground in a cacophony of sound, but they were able to salvage most of the stuff. Disaster thus mostly averted, Wyatt and Garcia simply looked at her, irritation so clear on their faces that they didn’t have to say anything.

She deserved that; she’d attempt to be graceful. Lucy gave a sheepish shrug. “Um...Sorry?”

“OK, Wyatt, now it’s your turn. You add the egg and mix it up completely,” Lucy said.

She checked the recipe on her phone, then pulled a canister out of the freezer. “Garcia,”—she pointed at the canister—“we need 1 and a ¼ cups of flour. Don’t pack it too tightly, and level it with a dinner knife.”

Garcia rummaged in a lower cabinet, then stood up, holding a glass measuring cup.

Wyatt cracked a large egg on the edge of the mixing bowl and poured its contents in. He walked to the trash can and tossed the broken shell pieces in there. “So tell us something about your daughter,” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “What was she like?”

Lucy pulled a container of salt from the pantry and brought it to the counter, eyeing Garcia without comment. Would he answer Wyatt’s question? Garcia froze in the act of pulling a spoon from the cutlery drawer, blinking rapidly. Pin-drop silence surrounded them. “She...I…” He sighed and shook his head, hand trembling as he dropped the spoon in the measuring cup and closed the drawer with a soft click.

Something inside Lucy twisted. “We could take turns. Share one memory—talk about our...Talk about the people we’ve lost.” She slid her hand over Garcia’s, squeezing gently. “Um. I’ll go first.” She released his hand and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. A deep breath. She could do this. “Amy is...I mean...Amy was…” A laugh escaped her lips, and Lucy cringed at her own nervous behavior. “Wow, this is hard.” She stared down at the counter in front of her, vision blurring, until an arm closed around her shoulders.

When she looked up, blinking back tears, she discovered that it was Garcia who’d wound his arm around her. His eyes met hers unflinchingly, and the silent compassion she saw there gave her the strength to continue. She closed her hands into fists, then concentrated on loosening them slowly. “Amy’s seven years younger than me. When she was little, Mom would put her in my lap, and I’d read to her. I’ve always loved books, and my parents, they fed that love. So we had a ton of books at home. At first, I used to decide what to read to Amy. But when she got to be two, maybe three-years-old, she started pulling books off the shelf and bringing them to me to read.

“She loved this series of books about a giant dog. Clifford the Big Red Dog. He was twenty-some feet tall, and...Anyway, at one point, her absolute favorite book was Clifford’s Kitten.” An ache started in Lucy’s chest; she pushed it away and continued. “I think I read it to her every day for like a month straight; I basically had it memorized. I got so sick of that damn book, but Amy would bring me that book, plop down in my lap, and say, ‘Read.’”

The ache increased, widening its geography, and stretched to her throat. There it sat, like a malignant growth. Lucy shook her head, once, clutching the locket that still cradled her sister’s picture, and allowed Garcia to fold her in his arms. Eyes shut tight, she pressed her cheek to his chest until the ache receded enough that she could breathe freely again.

After they put the cookies in the oven to bake, Lucy set a timer for nine minutes. Turning to Wyatt and Garcia, she took them each by the hand and pulled them to the living room. “Let’s sit while we wait for the cookies to bake.”

Lucy snuggled into one corner of the larger sofa; Wyatt claimed the other one. Though Garcia moved to sit on the small sofa adjacent to the one they sat on, Wyatt shook his head and motioned him closer. “Sit here,” he said, patting the empty spot between him and Lucy. Garcia perched on the edge of the sofa. Wyatt sighed in exasperation. “Like this, genius,” he said, and pulled Garcia down until he lay flat on his back with his head in Wyatt’s lap. They must have made a comical picture. Garcia was so tall that his butt pressed against Lucy’s hip, and his legs bent, bridging her lap, his feet tucked next to her other leg.

Lucy smiled, watching Wyatt card his fingers through Garcia’s dark hair. She knew just how hypnotic that resulting sensation could be, given that Wyatt had done the same to her earlier that morning.

Careful to keep her touch gentle, Lucy worked her hand under the hem of Garcia’s sweats and pressed her fingertips into his calf. Garcia sighed, and Lucy’s smile widened.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep,” Garcia murmured, eyes closed, voice curling in the air like a wisp of smoke.

Wyatt chuckled, then stopped abruptly. Lucy turned her head to look at him, curious. His hand continued to glide through Garcia’s hair. “Jessica loved to knit, especially when I was deployed. She said…” He cleared his throat. “She said it helped, especially when she missed me, knowing that she could fill a need for someone else. She had needles in all different sizes, and she made all kinds of stuff—scarves for soldiers and vets; blankets for homeless shelters; little hats for newborns at the hospital.

“I think she was always working on a half dozen projects at a time.” He smiled, and it was just a little one, but it was real. Then the smile seeped away, and his hand stilled in Garcia’s hair. “After she was killed, I was sitting on the couch one night, just nursing a beer, and I felt something poke me. It was one of her knitting needles, sticking out from between the cushions. I went a little crazy then. Threw out all her stuff. Her knitting needles, her half-finished charity projects, her huge stash of yarn. All of it. I wish...Now...I wish that I hadn’t done that.”

Lucy’s eyes met Garcia’s; he laced his fingers together with Wyatt’s and laid them over his heart.

Silence reigned until the kitchen timer buzzed.

Once the cookies had cooled, Lucy scooped them all onto a pretty platter and set them in the middle of the dining table.

Wyatt grabbed one and raised it to his mouth.

Lucy snatched it away from him and put it back on the platter.

“Why’d you do that? You promised me chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Lucy.”

“I did. But not until we sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Let me see if I can find a candle.” After rummaging around in various cabinets and drawers, Lucy finally found one in the junk drawer. “A-ha!” she said, holding it up in triumph. She also found a pack of matches in the same drawer.

“How many candles are there in total, Lucy?” said Garcia.

“Let me look… I see three. How come?”

“Oh. Well, I was thinking, maybe we could light one in honor of each person we’ve...lost. But if there are only three…” His voice trailed off.

Lucy nodded. “I think that’s a lovely idea. We’ve only got three candles, but we’ll light all three. It’s supposed to be the thought that counts.” She couldn’t very well stick the candles in a cookie, so she grabbed a small bowl, filled it with salt, and placed the candles, one red, one blue, and one purple, in there until they were all standing, albeit a bit crookedly. She stepped back, tilting her head to admire her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but the effect was charming. Somehow it worked—just like their patchwork family.

“Here,” Lucy said, handing the matchbook to Garcia. “Why don’t you light the first one?”

Garcia accepted the matches with a nod. He tore off one match and drew it across the striker. The odor of sulfur hovered in the air as the match head flared to life, glowing brightly in his hand. He held it to one candle wick until the flame caught. With a brisk shake of his hand, he put out the lit match and handed the matchbook back to Lucy.

She did as Garcia had moments before, and when her candle flame flickered merrily, she passed the matchbook to Wyatt.

When all three candles were lit, Lucy reached for both Wyatt and Garcia’s hands. She started the song. “Happy Birthday to you,” she sang, and if her voice was a little shaky, no one commented on it. Two baritones joined her on the next line. “Happy Birthday, dear Iris. Happy Birthday to you.”

They all seemed to hold their breath as the last few notes hung in the air, fading by slow degrees even as the trio of flames still danced.

“Why don’t you blow them all out for us?” Lucy whispered, face turned toward Garcia, loath to disturb the fragile peace that encompassed them.

“Do you mind?” Garcia asked. His eyes lingered on Wyatt, not Lucy.

“Not at all. You do it.” The candlelight reflected in Wyatt’s eyes. “Please,” he added.

With a silent nod, Garcia closed his eyes. After perhaps a minute, he opened them again, then leaned forward and blew out all three candles.

Lucy released both men’s hands, smiling when Wyatt seized four cookies, two in each hand.

He bit into one cookie. “Oh my god,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. “These are so fucking so good.” He groaned, the sound simultaneously filthy and exquisite. “Guys, I think we’re going to need to bake about three dozen more.”

Lucy snatched one cookie out of Wyatt’s hand, quickly taking a nibble before he could protest.

“Hey, no stealing! That was mine.”

She munched on her cookie until she realized Garcia was standing there, silent and cookie-less. “Don’t you want one?” she said.

“In a minute. First, I wanted to say thank you. Both of you. For all this. For being you. For putting up with me. I know I can be...difficult.” Wyatt snorted. “Massive understatement there.”

Lucy used her free hand to swat him on the butt.

“I’m a prickly bastard, aren’t I?” said Garcia.

Wyatt lips curled up in a megawatt grin that could have melted a glacier. He winked and tossed Garcia a wry look that clearly said, “You don’t actually want me to answer that, do you?”

Garcia laughed, long and hard. When he finally quieted, he pulled out a chair and sat down. His hands came to rest on the table in front of him, fingers threaded together tightly. “I should probably talk about Iris now. You both shared a memory. I should do the same.” Lucy brushed her hands together, clearing off cookie crumbs, then squeezed Garcia’s shoulder. “There is no ‘should.’ You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“The thing is, I think...I think maybe I want to. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Then we’ll listen,” Lucy replied.

“I don’t believe in God anymore, but...” His voice trailed off. “My daughter, she...” He paused again to clear his throat. “My daughter was magical. To me. To my wife. And she believed in magic—fairies, mermaids, dragons, and all those mystical things we adults sneer at. There’s this drawing she did for me years ago. A drawing of three mermaids. I’ve carried it with me, in my wallet, all this time, everywhere I’ve gone. After every horrible thing that I’ve done, I’ve taken out that tattered drawing and looked at it, reminding myself why I had to do those things. And for what? I’ve paid my pound of flesh—and then some. And for what?

“Do you know she wanted to change her name?” he said, abruptly changing topics.

He laughed quietly, and the sound hurt Lucy because it echoed with the vast ocean of longing, grief, and dusty dreams that each one of them held for their dead loved ones.

“She wanted to change her name to Arabella Sweetwater,” Garcia continued. “That, according to Iris, was a name fit for a mermaid like herself. We promised her, Lorena and I, that if she still wanted to change her name when she grew up, she could do so. She's never going to grow up, though is she?”

Neither Lucy nor Wyatt answered, recognizing the question was rhetorical.

“She's gone. Really gone. They both are. And the part that scares me the most, is that I think I’m starting to move on. Wyatt...Lucy... I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to forget them.”

“Oh, Garcia,” Lucy said. “You don’t have to forget them. Neither of us would ask you to do that.”

Author’s Note: So, I think these guys had more to say than I initially expected. That means there will be one more part after this, and then we should be done. The last bit will be short.

#garcyatt #nbc timeless #lucy preston #garcia flynn #wyatt logan #ot3 #garcia x lucy x wyatt #polyshipping day #timeless fanfiction #poly fic #polyshipping #you can pry this ship from my cold dead hands #my fic #ibkihsbimy #onlymorelove writes fic #garcyatt fic

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Are beauty boxes worth the hype?

I’ve been told by way of several guys inside the beyond that a box may want to make me higher searching – not certain this changed into the kind they had been referring to, thoughts.

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Lovely containers

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