#like when he smiles the glasses lift up because he has higher cheekbones

[wkemeup]

Gorgeous

summary: Steve Rogers is really pretty and it's hard to think straight when you look at his face; Based on the song Gorgeous by Taylor Swift (request by @bent-not-br0kenn and anon) pairing: steve x reader word count: 4k warnings: steve is one fine man 😏 a/n: this was written for the wonderfully amazing @msmarvelwrites's Taylor Swift lyric inspired writing challenge ! hope you enjoy my surprising attempt at fluffy cheesy steve goodness 💕Congrats on 2k!!!

Ocean blue eyes looking in mine I feel like I might sink and drown and die

Steve Rogers stands at the head of the conference room with the smudge of dry erase marker on his hand and a bullet point list of names on the whiteboard behind him. You know he must be talking about something important because he’s got one hand on his hip, the other holding up his weight against the table. His features are stern, his brows forming a low line as he speaks, but you can't hear a word of it.

No— you're too focused on the way his hair lifts away from his face, combed back and reminiscent of his youth in the Army. Formal and dated, but it’s light and airy and begging to be messied through the tips of his fingers. It’s darker than when you first met him, a shade away from the perfect blonde painted on posters at the Smithsonian, of the Captain America in the wartime movies. His cheekbones are high, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and his lips— lips so full and pink, you watch every shape they take with each word he speaks.

But it's his eyes that take you under. Ocean blue so effortless in their current, they draw you in with the belly of an undertow and you know without hesitation you would drown gladly if he would just look at you a moment longer. Allow you the privilege of water to your lungs.

Steve Rogers is just simply... gorgeous.

He straightens his back, his lips pressing into a short pout and he’s no longer speaking, you realize. His brows narrow, his gaze fixating on you and his lips move again. They take the shape of your name and you’re so lost on the way his mouth curves around your syllables you don’t realize how quiet the room has become.

Steve shifts then, a smile pressing on his cheeks; the right corner of his lips curve ever so slightly higher than the other as he lets his chin fall to his chest. He shakes his head, shoulders bouncing subtly. He's the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. The sunlight from the open window casts in and touches over his skin, illuminating him in an ethereal glow as if he wasn’t already built of the heavens themselves. He starts to laugh to himself and you bite on the edge of your lip to keep yourself from mirroring his grin.

“You still with us, Y/n?” Steve’s voice breaks through and it’s like whiplash as you’re suddenly jolted from your trance.

You spring up in your chair, brushing a hand over your hair to push down the loose ends that had sprung up in your daydreaming slouch. Your heart beats terribly as you look around the room to find the other agents watching you with a curious look in their eyes. Only Sam Wilson wears a devious smirk and he manages a wink at you before you can kick his shin under the table. He grunts, leaning down to massage the muscle and narrows his eyes at you in warning. You bare your teeth.

Then, embarrassed, you turn back to Steve. “Sorry. I’m here.”

Steve doesn’t take any offense as he simply waves you off and returns to the debrief as if nothing had happened at all. The marker squeaks as he rights another name on the list, circling it three times until the color begins to fade to a subtle grey. It’s not the first set of words you’ve exchanged with Steve, but it still feels like you've just taken a dive out of the quinjet. It feels that way any time he so much as acknowledges your existence.

Most of the agents you know straighten their spine when he walks by. They put more weight on the machine or run a little faster around the track. They’re eager to impress him, to appeal to the well decorated war hero and earn their rank in his presence. They idolize Captain America, may even be a little afraid of him.

But it’s the man behind the shield that scares you the most.

It’s the way he smiles to himself when he doesn’t think anyone is watching, how he sometimes hides it behind the wall of his coffee mug but the lines by his eyes still give him away. It’s how he jogs a little to catch the door before it can close, just so he can hold it open for you as you walk by. It’s because he’s an impossible man built of unparalleled strength and power and he still blushes when Natasha teases him, still draws in his little notebook on the bench down by the lake, still has the same compassion and selflessness he carried in his youth.

It’s not Captain America you see when you look at him. It’s Steve Rogers.

You only realize you stopped paying attention again when the room starts to clear out and you look across the table to find Sam’s lips pursed together in a knowing look. You nearly kick his shin again before he jumps up away from your reach and quickly skirts out of the room.

“Here’s the highlights,” Steve chuckles, sliding a folder down the table to you.

You reach out and catch it before it can slide off the end. You open the folder and quickly browse through the bullet notes Steve must have written for himself. The most you can gather while you’re not distracted by the near cursive delicacy of Steve’s handwriting is that there’s a new arms dealer taking root near Philadelphia.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Steve adds as he finishes gathering the rest of the reports. “I’ll fill you in if Fury ends up putting you on assignment. I know you’re usually more of the search and rescue type than stakeouts and organized crime, so I doubt you’ll end up with the case anyway. Fury just thought we should make everyone aware if we have a new Kingpin on our hands.”

You nod, your lips parted just slightly. You didn’t know Steve had any idea what you did within SHIELD, let alone your area of specialty. Sure, you were Natasha’s primary point of contact when she dug up the information that eventually led him to find Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, but you don’t expect he knew that.

“Thanks, Captain Rogers,” you say, the waver in your voice giving way to the nerves shaking under his gaze.

“Hey, come on. It’s Steve.” That charismatic charm returns to his face as a smile etches up into his cheeks. It’s genuine and a little shy and made entirely of the scrawny kid in Brooklyn that your heart starts to beat tenfold.

“Thanks... Steve,” you try again and at the sound of his name in your voice, he manages to smile a little wider.

The room falls silent around you and for a moment, you find yourself drifting into the shades of blue in his eyes, unable to form another word as long as you’re lost in the waters. Rising and flowing. Pulled by the current and drifting out to sea. Steve doesn’t make an effort to turn away and you nearly forget to breathe entirely, water filling your lungs, when you hear a short knock on the door.

In the doorway, a woman stands wearing a visitor pass around her neck, the tag hanging near her waist where taunt skin peaks through the top of her jeans. She’s stunning – the kind of beautiful one only sees airbrushed in magazines, but there she is, under harsh florescent conference room lighting, and she looks like she was born of Olympus.

“Ready, Steve?” she calls sweetly and your heart drops through the floor.

He gives her a short nod as he crosses the room to her, drawn to her as if his body moves of its own accord. Her hand touches his forearm; perfectly manicured as her fingertips press into the muscle and they grin at one another as if you weren’t there at all. You try not to let your heart fracture, but you could feel the edges begin to crumble.

“Hey,” Steve says, grabbing your attention. He grins, laughing so sweetly is starts to mends the fractures in your heart. “Don’t get too lost in that head of yours, alright? I’ll see you around. Have a good night, Y/n.”

He says it so sincerely that you can’t help but smile, even with this impossibly beautiful woman on his arm.

“You too, Capt— Steve.”

The woman tugs eagerly on his arm and he gives you a final wave before they disappear from the room. When the silence takes over again, there’s a near buzzing in your ears. Mocking you. Taunting you.

Steve Rogers is a daytime fantasy – a man you know you have no unearthly chance with. So, you settle to admire him from your distance where it’s safe and protected and your heart can’t be broken. At least not any more than it already had. You try not to allow yourself to want more.

But still— it creeps in.

***

You don’t know why you bother going to Carter’s show. You can barely hear yourself think over the thump of the loudspeakers and the base resonates deep into your chest; an unsettling vibration in time with the electronic beats from Carter’s turn table.

You glance up at him from your position at the bar and he doesn’t so much as glance in your direction. He’s too busy catering to the group of women at the center of the dance floor. You have half a mind to be jealous before you remind yourself that it’s not Carter’s attention you really care for anyway.

Carter was the DJ at the party Tony had thrown for a very reluctant Bruce Banner the previous week. You met him at the bar during his break and he offered to buy your next round, not realizing how plainly you’d been staring at Steve Rogers from across the crowd for most of the night. Carter was nice enough and you were still pining over an Adonis way too out of your league to so much as notice your existence, so you halfheartedly agreed when he asked you to come see his set.

As you adjust your stance against the bar, wincing at the tug of the sticky club floor against your shoes, you find yourself regretting your decision to come. You signal the bartender for another whiskey on ice as you set the empty glass on the counter. There’s more than just a slight buzz in your head and you’re thankful that even SHEILD Agents get a day off every once in a while.

Another hour goes by and Carter is far too enamored with the woman shouting up song requests from the dance floor, so you set some cash on the bar and leave. It makes you question why you even bothered with him, but then an image of Steve crosses your mind and you remember. You can't get that man out of your head and it’s starting to feel borderline pathetic.

The wind hits you worse than a brick wall and it takes a moment to adjust your eyes to the darkness. The club had colorful strobe lights and neon signs hanging on the walls so it’s almost jarring to be surrounded by the quiet comfort of brick walls and a starless night. When the door closes behind you, you can still hear the vague thump of the music through the cracks. You rub at your temples.

It takes a few steps towards the subway before you realize how many drinks the bartender had replaced before you found the nerve to leave. Your ankles wobble a little on your heels and you quickly grab onto the banister at the end of a brownstone's stoop. Your vision starts to double, swaying in circles, and you clench your eyes tight enough to see the stars missing from the sky.

“Y/n?” a voice calls from across the road. “Is that you?”

You look up, but the figure it too far away. All you can see is a vague outline of a man as he quickly jogs across the street, holding up a hand to an oncoming car to block his path. You chuckle to yourself. What little patience he must have to demand a moving vehicle to break for him.

When he approaches, his hands quickly easing you upright and holding you steady, the air nearly leaves your lungs entirely.

Steve Rogers has his hands cupped on the sides of your face; his brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes roam over your exposed skin. His lower lip is tugged between his teeth, full and pink, as he slowly returns to your gaze. There’s concern in his eyes, you realize – a beautiful drop of caution amongst the rippling tide of blue.

“M’okay,” you tell him and you wince at how slurred your voice comes out.

He sighs, relief pressing a smile to his lips. There’s a slight indent from where his teeth had been. “Having a good night, huh?”

You think about lying to him—perhaps, telling him about Carter and the promise of his early rise to fame. You think about pretending like Carter was interested in you for more than a quick distraction at Bruce’s party and that he hadn’t forgotten that he invited you to his show tonight. You wonder if maybe Steve will care at all.

Maybe he won’t. Maybe, you should tell him that it’s been miserable and all you want is a cone of ice cream piled high enough that it would be statistically impossible to eat the whole thing before it melts all over your hand. Maybe, you should tell him that you want him to come with you, that you think about him all the damn time, that he’s so unfairly pretty that you can barely think when he’s around. Maybe—

“Y/n?” Steve chuckles, tapping you sweetly on your forehead. “You’re zoning out again.”

You groan, throwing your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s not my fault. You're just—you're just so—”

Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

You start to pace, a little off balanced, but Steve is never too far away and you can sense him watching your every step, ready to catch you if you start to fall. The alcohol has long made its way to your head and you can feel the warmth of it burning in your skin. It’s comforting and freeing and a momentary thought crosses your mind to stop talking but you push it aside.

“You’re just— so gorgeous!” you practically shout. “I can-- I can barely say anything to your face because—look at your face, Steve! You’re gorgeous!”

He starts to laugh. His arms fold over his chest as his head falls and you realize then that he thinks you’re teasing him, that you are not so impossibly serious you can feel the intensity of it down in your bones. He presses himself off from the wall he’d been leaning against and reaches for you.

“Alright doll,” Steve grins. “Let's get you home.”

You jump out from his grasp and he gives you a strange look. You pout your lips, feeling mildly childish but he wasn’t listening to you.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” you quip and Steve can’t help the smile that won’t seem to leave his cheeks. It starts to ache.

“Me?” he challenges teasingly. “Why?”

“Because you did this to me, Steve,” you reply sternly through your drunken haze. “You made me feel this way.”

Steve pauses. “What way?”

“This way!” you tell him though you offer no further explanation.

Steve doesn’t seem to understand, but he gives you a short nod as if he does and he starts to guide you towards the taxi you hadn’t noticed he’d flagged down. The weight of your body starts to feel too heavy for your bones and you sink into the back seat with ease. Steve climbs in behind you and instructs the driver as he carefully adjusts your seatbelt for you.

The alcohol lulls you easily to sleep. You barely register the shoulder you lean upon or the hand gently brushing the hair from your eyes. It blends into the distance along with the blur of bright city lights as you drive home.

***

You feel the pulse of a blinding headache before you even dare to open your eyes. You groan, turning over on your bed, covering your eyes with your forearm to block the stream of sunlight in from your windows.

When you finally allow yourself to face the light, you’re surprised to find a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on your nightstand stable. You don’t recall having the energy to put it there the night before and—well, you don’t recall much of anything after you fell asleep in the cab next to Steve.

Wait.

Steve.

“Shitshitshit--” You quickly throw the blankets off the side of the bed, only to find you’re dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The breeze of the AC unit hits your exposed skin and goosebumps begin to prickle on your thigh. You groan, a heat of embarrassment burning through your chest as you stumble into the hallway.

As if on cue, you find Steve standing in the kitchen pouring his coffee. He smiles as he sees you emerge from your bedroom and he raises the cup for you, setting it on the counter. Reluctantly, you follow the intoxicating smell until your hands are wrapped around the base of the mug and you offer him a short nod.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he grins, taking a sip from his own mug as he leans against the counter.

“Humiliated,” you grumble. You miss the way Steve’s smile falters slightly, his brows narrowing in concern. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “It was nothing. I just got you home is all. You were pretty entertaining before that. Wanda was the one who got you to bed, helped you change... if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh,” you reply, though it doesn’t seem to lessen the weight on your chest. You sigh. “I imagine your girlfriend wasn’t too happy about you having to deal my drunken mess last night.”

“Girlfriend?” Steve raises an eyebrow.

You shrug. “Yeah, the uh... Aphrodite incarnate from the debrief last week...”

Steve laughs, a wash of relief on his face though you still feel tight as stone. He sets his mug on the counter. “Lainy’s not my girlfriend. She works for the VA. She was helping me with a speech the mayor roped me into giving on for Veteran’s Day. She’s just a friend... trust me.”

Steve shifts in his position, his smile softening as he looks at you. You can’t help but feel examined under his gaze and you're certain you look absolutely terrible. You don’t have to look in a mirror to know your cheeks are imprinted with the pillow case folds, your hair is uncombed and disheveled, and there’s dark circles under your eyes. Not exactly the picture of beauty, and still—Steve won't stop looking at you.

“There’s been someone else, anyway,” he says simply and you try not to let it show when your heart clenches.

“Oh, that’s um... that’s nice.” It’s halfhearted and barely believable, but you say the words anyway because you know it’s the right thing to do. You know there was never a chance in this world that Steve Rogers – carved from the marble of the Gods – would so much as look in your direction. You know this. Still, it hurts.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs dreamily. “She’s incredible. I can’t stop smiling when she’s in the room and it’s becoming a real pain for me, you know. It’s like everyone can see how enamored I am except her, but I wasn’t sure how to talk to her before. I didn’t know if I was crossing a line or making assumptions or abusing my rank, but I think I’ve got an idea of how she feels now. I think she likes me, too, so maybe it’s worth a shot, right?”

You nod through the sharp clench of your jaw. It burns terribly and you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. Instead, your gaze fixates on the countertop, counting the lines and scratches in the surface.

“I mean,” Steve pauses, “she’s— she’s just so—gorgeous.”

Your eyes snap up to Steve’s and he’s grinning impossibly wide, but all you can feel is the drop in your stomach. You barely notice how the lines form so sweetly by his eyes, light brightening through the ocean blue waves, sun reflecting on the water’s crest. You don’t see how adoringly he watches for your reaction, his growing anticipation as he bites on the edge of his lip, still unable to ease his smile for even a minute.

“Are you making fun of me?” you ask slowly, nervously, but he shakes his head.

“Quite the opposite actually.” Steve reaches for your hand and you watch, stunned, as your fingers effortlessly mold into his, like liquid to one another, perfectly made. He sighs, almost as if the feeling itself is made of relief in his body. “I like you, Y/n. I really like you. And I’d- I'd like to take you out. On a date. If you’d- uh- if you’d let me.”

You blink, certain you must still be asleep.

“Please say something before you get lost in your head again,” Steve begs and you can hear the nerves in his voice. He's still smiling at you, but there’s a hesitation there, an anticipation. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced. His gaze flickers quickly between your eyes and to your intertwined hands. He’s actually... nervous.

“Y-yeah. Okay.” It’s all you can say. Your heads spinning too quickly for anything else and you know it had much more to do with Steve’s hand wrapped in yours than the wicked hangover you’re currently nursing.

“Great!” He leans in and quicker than you have a moment to process, presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. It's warm and soft and lighter than air, but it lingers. It takes the breath from your lungs and you barely notice as he lets go of your hand. “Eight tonight, okay? I’ve got a place in mind. Best Rocky Road ice cream you’ve ever had, I swear it on my life.”

You laugh, nodding along. You’d happily sit on the couch in the living room with him if he asked. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. Still—all you can do is nod helplessly. Your cheeks start to ache and you realize it’s from how long you’d been smiling. You touch your fingertips to the worn muscle and Steve watches with such pride on his face, it catches you by surprise.

“Eight,” you confirm and it makes Steve’s eye light up.

Somehow, he’s more beautiful this way. Nervous and sweet and adoring.

And still— gorgeous.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[imaginingsoftly]

Apartment 352 Pt. 2 - Erik Johnson

Type: strangers-lovers

Requested: no

Warnings: blood, cuts and scrapes

A/N: Hopefully this redeems Erik a little bit for you guys :)

Day two of unpacking was marginally better than the first, if only because Emma’s giant of a neighbor hadn’t been around to witness her trip on the top step yet again that morning. She was still nursing a slightly sore and bruised knee a few hours later, when the next big dangerous task came up; hanging a couple of pictures. The task itself shouldn’t have been dangerous, but the frames were big enough she was going to need to stand on a chair to hang them up high. Emma took a deep breath, hauled up the heavy frame, and took a step onto the chair.

It took seconds for things to go wrong. Her back foot caught on the arm of the chair as Emma stepped up, and she immediately slipped sideways into the shelf right next to her ribcage. The frame smashed on the wall, and Emma felt pain in her forearm as a shard of glass nicked her.

There wasn’t time to do anything except brace herself. The shelf crashed to the ground, taking the ugly-ass plates from her aunt and a framed picture of her best friend with it. Emma wobbled on the chair, but kept her balance. “Shit,” she mumbled to the wall. Shards of glass from the picture frame and pieces of the ceramic plates littered the ground around the chair, and the radius of the shards was too far to jump. There was maybe enough space for her to step around them, but in bare feet Emma wasn’t looking forward to the prospect.

A pounding at Emma’s door almost made her fall off the chair. A muffled voice came from behind the door. “You good?” She heaved a sigh. Of course Erik would be the one to find her like this.

“Door’s unlocked! Come in!” He was inside before she’d even finished talking. It took a full ten seconds, she counted, before he moved from the entryway. Emma shifted uncomfortably on the chair as he took in her appearance, from her bare feet to the disheveled mess of her hair. It was only when he looked in the direction of her legs that she realized they were bare except for where the hem of her oversized t-shirt just covered her underwear. For approximately the thousandth time since she’d met Erik, Emma cursed her clumsiness. She shifted uncomfortably as Erik continued to stand completely still. It wasn’t until she began to step down from the chair gingerly, looking for a safe space to put her bare feet, that he moved.

No giant should be able to move as quickly as he did. Erik took three long strides to reach her, glass and ceramic crunching under his sneakered feet. “Don’t you dare.” His words were a warning, and Emma froze. Huge hands, warm and strong, slid around her shoulders and behind her knees. Erik lifted her into his arms gently, and she automatically clenched her arms around his neck. “Angel, I think I’m gonna have to wrap you in bubble wrap to keep you safe.” Erik’s voice, low and gravelly as it was in the moment, rumbled through his chest and Emma could feel it against her torso where their bodies touched. She wasn’t even going to think about the way her stomach fluttered at the nickname.

Erik carried her clear of the mess on her floor, only placing her on the ground once they were several feet away. For a split second it felt like he pulled her tighter into his chest, but then her feet were on the ground and he was stepping back slightly. “You okay?” Erik’s hands settled on the tops of her arms as he spoke, and his eyes scanned her body quickly. She opened her mouth to confirm that she was fine when his gaze settled on her forearm. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding.” Emma looked down, and sure enough the nick she’d felt was actually a sizeable cut. Blood ran down her arm at a slightly higher volume than a trickle. It probably should have been more concerning than it was, but Emma’s thoughts were more on the fact that Erik hadn’t ever actually called her by her name. It was always ‘sweetheart’ or ‘angel’. Come to think of it, maybe she hadn’t ever actually told him her name. Who does that? He had been in her apartment, for fucks’ sake.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Erik’s voice cut through her thoughts, and Emma pointed mutely. He caught the hand on her good arm in a gentle grip and pulled her across the living room. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Emma felt like putty in Erik’s hands as he moved her around, gently lifting her onto the counter and maneuvering her arm under the faucet. The water ran pink, and Emma closed her eyes. Of all the things to defeat her, it just had to be blood. A cool hand settled on her cheek as her brain went a little fuzzy. “Hey. Stay with me sweetheart. You good?”

Emma shook her head. “Don’t like blood,” she rasped through a bone-dry throat. “I’m okay.” The cool hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her head, and Erik put gentle pressure there.

“Lean on me. Don’t look, I’ll clean you up.” Emma followed the press of Erik’s hand, leaning her forehead into his shoulder. “Atta girl. I’ve got you.” His voice rumbled through his chest, and Emma felt it where her shoulder and good arm touched his side.

Any of the lingering irritation she’d felt towards him over yesterday was gone. If anything, Emma now had a soft spot for her next-door neighbor. “It’s Emma.” Erik’s hands stilled from where they were rinsing out her arm for a split second before starting up again. “I just realized I never actually told you my name.”

The sound of a bottle opening and liquid splashing registered seconds before Emma felt a slight sting on her cut. “Emma.” She shivered at the sound of Erik’s gravelly voice saying her name. “Short and sweet. Suits you.” She felt his smile against the top of her head. “I don’t think you need stitches, but I am going to put a band-aid and some bacitracin on this. Don’t want you to get an infection or anything.”

Emma nodded into Erik’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Erik said nothing as he finished patching up her arm, but then she felt an arm come around her back and tug her torso closer into Erik’s chest. “Don’t mention it, Angel. Just promise me you won’t hang things barefoot anymore?”

That was an easy thing to agree to. Emma nodded. “You keep seeing me at my worst,” she mumbled into Erik’s chest grumpily. At this rate, he was going to see her drastically injure herself by the end of the first week. She stiffened against his chest at the thought. What was next? A grease fire? Falling down the stairs? Cutting a finger off while cooking?

Her doomsday thoughts were interrupted by a slight tug on her hair. “Hey. Your thoughts are so loud I can practically hear them. If this is your worst, I’m almost afraid to see how incredible you are at your best.”

Emma leaned back to see Erik smirking at her. “Are you flirting with me?” His smirk became a full-on grin.

“Been flirting with you the whole damn time, Angel, you just didn’t catch on.” Emma gaped at her neighbor as he stepped back, instantly lamenting the loss of his warmth. “Now that you’ve got that figured out, dinner Saturday?” She cocked her head at him choosing a day three days in advance, and he shrugged. “Figured I’d be a good guy and let you get settled before I sweep you off your feet.”

That was it. Emma barked out a laugh, and Erik looked far too proud of himself. “Yeah, Casanova, you can take me out Saturday.” Not that she’d ever let him actually get somewhere with her. She slid off the counter, and Erik was immediately there with an arm out to steady her when she stumbled slightly. As infuriating as her new neighbor was, she couldn’t help but find him adorable too.

He walked out of the bathroom, and Emma took a second to settle her legs before she tried to walk. The blood really had thrown her off, and she needed to take a couple of deep breaths. By the time Emma made it back out into her living room, Erik was already picking up the large chunks of glass littering her entryway. “You don’t have to-” Emma stopped when he held up a hand.

“I don’t mind helping you clean this up. Besides, some of this stuff has blood on it. I don’t want you to get woozy and step on glass.” His words were slightly domineering, but also sweet. “You’re still barefoot; can you grab me your vacuum without stepping near the glass?” Erik glanced backwards at her, nodding when she gestured in the direction of her bedroom. “Grab that for me, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Emma took a deep breath as she stepped into her bedroom. It had been a long time since she’d had anyone looking out for her, especially a potential romantic interest. Her last boyfriend hadn’t even cared when she spent a night in the hospital, let alone if she stepped on a piece of glass.

She stepped back out of her room with her vacuum in hand. “I can vacuum this stuff up, Erik, you don’t have to worry about it.”

Erik looked over from where he stood by her trash can and pinned her with a glare. “I said I’d help you clean this shit up, and I’m going to do what I said.” Emma opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “I know you don’t need my help and you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself, but I want to do this for you.” His face softened. “Sweetheart, in the two days I’ve known you you’ve fallen up the stairs at least once, taken out a shelf, and sliced the shit out of your arm. It seems like you’re having a rough week, and I want to make it a little easier. Can you let me do that?”

Damn him, he was saying everything right. Emma sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. He smiled gently and reached out a hand for the vacuum. “Thank you, Angel.”

She stood back and watched Erik vacuum up the area around her chair, carefully lifting the chair and the corner of the area rug to make sure he got everything. He even wrapped up the cord when he was finished. “Thank you,” Emma mumbled. Her neighbor flashed a smile in her direction before stalking towards her.

“Saturday.” He ran a thumb across her cheekbone, smiling again. “Try not to end up in a hospital or anything before then, yeah?”

Emma smacked Erik’s arm as he let out a bark of laughter. He was still laughing as he strode towards her front door, and Emma could hear him chuckling to himself even from the hallway.

[tearsofsyrup]

peckish

— It’s Seungkwan’s birthday and you want to surprise him with breakfast in bed. But when he wakes up, there’s a different kind of hunger rumbling in his stomach.

pairing. boo seungkwan / female reader

genre. established relationship au; non-idol au; fluff; smut

word count. 2k

warnings. brief sexually explicit content; domestic af; blonde kwan-ah, now with glasses; poorly proof-read

notes. (belated) happy birthday, uri boo. i wasn’t sure whether to post this or not but here we are and here you go! feedback is ardently appreciated!

-

It isn’t often that you find yourself awake before Seungkwan. But your subconscious must have known that today is special. Not that it makes awakening any easier.

Eyes barely open and limbs stirring sluggishly beneath the duvet, you glance towards your boyfriend. His hair is nothing short of messy against the pillow, recently dyed a warm blonde that you won’t admit exactly how much you enjoy on him. A natural pout puckers his lips, emphasized by how his one cheek is squished beneath him. His skin shines with a golden tan under the shy rays of this morning’s sun. Slow, relaxed breaths leave his nose and you can faintly feel them graze your face. It makes you smile.

But you need to get up before those eyelids of his creak open.

You've always wondered why your body feels ten times heavier when getting out of bed, as if an invisible force is begging you to stay put. And it’s a tempting notion to give in to, despite it only being forged by your own mind. However, the unfortunate nature of breakfast is that it doesn’t cook itself. Not even on birthdays.

So, you rise, the heel of your hand rubbing one eye while the other tries to stay open, balance off as you stand. You don’t bother looking for a pair of pants, aware that you only have so much time before the peace of an asleep Seungkwan will run out, and wander around the bed on wobbly legs and only half your vision with nothing but a pajama shirt and panties on.

You make sure not to stumble into the closed door of Vernon’s room as you pass it, rounding the corner into the kitchen with a long yawn. Eyes blinking tightly and frequently, they scan the poverty of your fridge, not containing much other than an almost empty carton of milk, leftover pizza from a week ago and two bottles of ketchup because Vernon accidentally bought an extra one. And the eggs and bacon you sneaked in yesterday.

As you begin preparing Seungkwan’s meal, you try not to make too much of a racket, in an effort to keep your boyfriend unknowing, even when you accidentally hit your head against the cupboard door that you have a bad habit of leaving open. But it seems to be either that or the fact that you might have jumped with a vocal yelp when the frying pan unexpectedly spit hot oil on your hand, that coaxes consciousness into Seungkwan before breakfast is ready. Because you think you can hear faint footsteps through the hissing heat that your poking with a spatula.

Your lips are already pursed when Seungkwan clears his throat of some post-slumber grogginess.

“Shit, go back to sleep!” You haven’t even turned to look his way before you speak, tone chalky from lack of use and eyes focused on positioning the bacon in a needlessly neat order.

Seungkwan snorts. “That didn’t sound like ‘good morning, honey’ to me.” His voice is even more gritty than yours, something he also seems to notice as he begins clearing his throat again.

You scoff, throwing him a scornful look past your shoulder, secretly delighted by the sight of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Like you violently shaking me out of bed while trying to shove vitamins down my throat every day is a form of ‘good morning, honey’.”

Coincidentally though not surprisingly, he is reaching for his bottle of vitamins as you finish speaking. “It’s not my fault you can’t wake up on your own,” he protests, filling a cup with water. “And vitamins are important.”

You try not to roll your eyes too far back into your head when you resume monitoring the bacon. “Anyway, I was gonna make you breakfast in bed, so go back to sleep.”

Seungkwan gulping down his vitamins sounds from behind you and when you turn your head, there is curiosity in the look he gives you. Your focus shifts back ahead as he comes closer. He sniffs from beside you, eyeing the pink strips of meat.

“You’re not burning down my kitchen, are you?” That earns him a side-eyed glare.

“Hey, three people own this kitchen, actually.”

“Ha! When have you ever seen Vernon make anything except cup noodles?”

The lower of your lips juts outward in a pout, unable to argue with that point. But you struggle to maintain the expression wholeheartedly when Seungkwan smiles, brown eyes dripping with amusement before you. You look away, the corners of your mouth itching.

“Breakfast in bed?” he recalls.

“Mhm.”

“What for?”

You huff a laugh. “Shut up. Go sleep.”

Seungkwan giggles, moving away toward the electric kettle. “Eggs and bacon in bed? Could get grease stains on the sheets.”

“Then stop eating like a child or put a bib on.”

Seungkwan makes a sound of offence and his eyes are wide and accusatory behind the large lenses of his glasses when you twist your neck to shoot him a victorious grin. He scoffs, shaking his head before filling the kettle with water.

“No need to roast me. I’m not a piece of that bacon, you know...”

“Pfft.” Your eyes roll again, the bacon in question slowly turning crisp.

Seungkwan meets you with a low-lidded glance. “You shouldn’t be so mean. Especially on my-”

“No, shhh! Not yet, go back to sleep!”

Seungkwan’s laugh is hearty then, while you keep yourself from being infected by it. He turns the kettle on, placing two mugs on the counter next to it before turning and leaning back with loosely crossed arms.

You squint at the pursed smirk he gives you. “You’re not making coffee, are you?”

His eyebrows jump upward. “I am... Like every other morning.”

You exaggerate the deflation of your posture, pout thrice as dramatic as earlier. “But, you can’t go back to sleep if you’re all caffeinated...”

“Well, I’m not gonna fall back asleep either way, baby,” he says with a grin, the curve of his cheekbones rising higher and accentuating the charming arch of his smiling eyes.

With a heavy drop of your head, you huff. Your plan has officially failed. Staring at the darkening bacon feels demeaning, one hand landing on your forehead where it banged against the cupboard door.

A sudden weight settles atop your right shoulder, making you jump a little before realizing it’s Seungkwan’s chin. The warmth of his chest engulfs your back through the fabric of both of your shirts and makes you realize that you are cold with your bare legs out. He peers over you, watching the sizzling bacon below.

“Sorry, baby. For ruining your plan.”

Your free shoulder shrugs. “It’s fine. Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

He chuckles softly, warm in your ear. “Right.”

Seungkwan’s heat leaves you as he goes to handle the water that’s boiled and you try not to shiver, beginning to lift the now crisp strips of bacon onto a paper towel. While Seungkwan prepares coffee, you reach for the eggs, needing both hands to crack them safely into the frying pan.

You watch Seungkwan with a secret glance, quietly admiring the sharp corner of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose. When he catches you, you admire the smile that grows across his lips too.

No more words are exchanged in the comfortable silence between you, until Seungkwan has placed two cups of coffee on the counter next to the stove and his chin is back in your shoulder. Instinctively, you lean into his warm body and decide not to comment on what you can feel is left of his morning wood against your backside. Seungkwan’s palms run softly over your bare hips and you shudder at the contrasting temperature.

“Why aren’t you wearing any pants, babe? It’s cold,” he murmurs, voice gentler next to your ear.

“I was too tired to care.” You poke slightly at the sunny-side-ups.

“Want me to go get you some clean ones?”

A small smile creeps its way up the corners of your mouth. “What, you don’t like me half-naked?”

Seungkwan laughs. “I like it a little too much, I think.”

With a quirked brow, you wonder if it isn’t a case of morning wood after all.

“I see,” you start. “In that case, I think I’m happy just like this.”

Seungkwan snickers quietly, arms lifting to curve around your waist and hold you tighter against him. Bulge poking at your lower back, he hums a soft melody you cannot place as he watches you move the cooked eggs onto a clean plate and push the pan away from the stove. In an attempt to escape Seungkwan’s embrace, you wiggle a bit and receive a long sigh that brushes across the skin of your neck in return. But he doesn’t relent, simple moving the both of you over with a steadfast grip around you, making you laugh.

“Hey, breakfast in kitchen is ready,” you giggle.

“So, feed me,” he says, grin apparent through his tone.

For a third time, your eyes roll upward, yet you oblige and cut a piece of bacon and eggs for your boyfriend before lifting it into his mouth. He chews it next to your ear, humming with content.

“Wow,” you smirk, arms resting over Seungkwan’s where they hug your stomach. “It’s like live ASMR.”

Seungkwan chuckles. “Thank you, baby. It tastes great.” A sweet kiss is puckered against your cheek.

You twist your neck to meet his face, snuggling into him like he’s a blanket covering you. His eyes meet yours through his glasses and he smiles, wide and pretty, thumbs rubbing against the soft fabric of your shirt. You lean forward, placing your mouth over his and moving it slowly. He reciprocates easily, adding more pressure and quickly turning the kiss more fervent. You feel him hardening behind you, causing a familiar heat to begin aching within the confines of your underwear.

It is first when his fingers sneak up to begin unbuttoning your pajama shirt that you detach your lips from his, lids heavy over your eyes as you watch him. He dives downward and starts pecking and licking at your neck instead.

“Kwannie,” you say with a hushed tone, hand gripping Seungkwan’s wrist weakly. “What if Vernon wakes up?”

Seungkwan huffs into your skin, breath warm. “He won’t,” comes his mumble. “Unless you bang about, like earlier.”

You unsuccessfully suppress a disdainful grunt. “Fuck, I did wake you up when I walked into that damn cupboard door again...”

Your boyfriend grins against you before lifting his head, too amused with the pout you sport. “I’m just teasing, baby. I was already awake by then.”

His giggles are met with disappointed glare. “Bully...”

A quick peck tickles your nose. “Is your head okay, though?”

You shrug. “I’ll live.”

And that is when you notice that your shirt is completely unbuttoned, Seungkwan’s gentle touch pulling it open before placing warm palms over your breasts. You sigh, thighs subconsciously tightening to try and relieve the increasing heat between them.

“Since your first plan didn’t work,” Seungkwan whispers against the shell of your ear and you lean into his erection behind you, “how about we do something else for my-...” Your eyebrows jump at his pause. “Wait, can I say it yet?”

A happy guffaw escapes you, meeting his round eyes with a delighted grin. Gripping his wrist, you guide his slender fingers beneath the cotton of your panties and watch his pupils dilate in real time, his eyelashes dancing with the ends of fluffy, blonde hair. Your hips tense when his skin meets your heat, sensitive with a need for attention.

“Yes, Kwannie,” you finally reply, biting your lip through your wide smile. “Happy birthday.”

...

Later, when the taste of Seungkwan’s release is coating your throat and your knees are aching, he asks if you want to take your vitamins yet. Your incredulous laugh is so loud that you are sure it makes even Vernon wake up.

[babbushka]

Hello my beautiful friend! I’m super emo about the “I’ve loved you all my life” from the friends to lovers list. Just picturing Clyde saying that to me? I’m dead. Love you so much! ✨❤️

11, The thought of Clyde coming in home sweaty during the summer after a hard day, his hair tied up, exhausted and needy?? PLEASEE 🧎‍♀️

(2.1k, fluff & NSFW (handjobs, fingering, come-shot, messy sloppy sweaty outdoor semi-nudity/indecent exposure lol)

When Clyde’s heavy footfalls creak onto the front porch, you have to throw a concerned glance at the clock hangin’ up on the wall. He’s ain’t even been here for an hour, you had just put down the big tray of ice cold lemonade and fresh made sandwiches, surely he can’t be leavin’ already?

You turn to look at him when he pats one of the support beams of your porch, and your heart races, because no no no, you’d just started to settle in and watch him cut your lawn, watch him get all sweaty and glistening in the sun, you don’t want him to go yet.

“All finished darlin’.” His deep voice is shy as he pulls the trucker cap off his head, runs his fingers through his hair. He’s smilin’, and you don’t know why, when him bein’ finished means he’s leavin’.

“Wait really? Already?” You protest just about right away, and that smile only grows wider, more confident. It’s a good look on him, on Clyde, a real good look.

“It’s real hot out there today, I figured I’d finish up quick as I can so…” Clyde shrugs, looks away and scratches the back of his neck.

“So?” You encourage, unprepared for the heat behind his eyes when he replies,

“So I could come over here and be with you.”

Clyde has been mowin’ your lawn ever since y’all were teenagers. You two were childhood best friends and you’re pretty sure that Clyde’s the only boy you’ve ever held onto after all these years. All the other ones turned into asshole preteens and even meaner adults, so slowly one by one you cut them out of your life, blamin’ growin’ apart. You and Clyde never grew apart, and in fact, the years have been good to y’all, made you grow together instead.

It’s been about fifteen years since he started comin’ over on Sunday mornings, strikin’ up a deal with your folks to mow your lawn for some honest cash. Especially after the stint in juvie, Clyde felt it was the most important thing in the world to prove to them he was a decent man, one worthy of spendin’ your time with.

Even when you moved out of your parents’ house and got a little home of your own – a home closer to Clyde’s own trailer no less – he kept comin’ to cut your lawn. He stopped acceptin’ your money, and instead traded that for payment of lunch.

But recently…he ain’t even been eatin’ your lunch. Just a glass of lemonade and then back home he would go, these past few weeks. It had started to break your heart, why he was actin’ so strange, so distant. Clyde ain’t distant now, not with how he’s standing on your porch.

“You look thirsty.” You swallow around a suddenly dry throat of your own, blinkin’ real fast when he clears his throat and nods.

“I’m parched, baby.” Clyde replies, and something, something about that does something to you. It gets your hopes up, gets your heart racin’, because he’d called you a lot of thing over the years, but never that.

“Call me baby again.” You say, standin’ up from the porch swing, taking a step closer to him.

Clyde follows you, takes the invitation and strides across the porch until he’s merely inches from your face.

“Baby,” Clyde presses his good hand up to your cheek, rubs his thumb along the ridge of your cheekbone, “Baby girl. You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I dreamin’?” You blurt out, but Clyde only chuckles, the most handsome sound in the world.

He kisses you, instead of answering.

You had thought a million times, about what it would be like to kiss Clyde, and none of them ever could’ve amounted up to this; to the sweet salty tang of sweat on his tongue, his goatee soaked through and scratching against your smile, his eyelashes brushing against your cheek where his eyes are closed, his arms wrapped around you tight.

He makes the softest sweetest sounds when he kisses you, grunts and groans low in his throat as he backs you up up up against the wall of your house. Your arms have wound themselves around his neck, and you could cry – maybe you are crying – because if this is a dream, well it’s one you don’t ever want to wake up from.

“Touch me.” You demand, because you’ve wanted to say it for so long, and he’s quick, so quick to oblige.

Clyde hikes up your breezy skirt enough so that he can shove his hand underneath your panties, and he groans when he finds your pussy already slick, already wet and wantin’ him. Of course it wanted him, all of you did, have been for the past however many years you’ve been pinin’ for him.

One of your legs immediately lifts to hook around his waist, and he swallows your moans when those fingers of his wriggle between your folds and push up into your cunt, your head thudding back against the wall. He sucks on the expanse of your throat, bites and bruises it.  

“Ah – ah, Clyde, oh that feels good.” You breathe, careful not to be too loud. You’re outside, right there on the front porch, and even though you got some pretty trees to shade the house and give some cover, ain’t nothin’ was there to stop the noises y’all made.

“Damn darlin’, I wish…wish I had both hands to touch ya with.” Clyde kisses you with a frown, his hips rutting against your thigh.

“That’s okay, shh, it’s okay let me, can I…?” You don’t even think about it before you’re poppin’ open the buttons on his jeans, wantin’ to get your hands on him the same way you’ve imagined every night.

Clyde nods, so eager, lickin’ his lips and suckin’ the sweat off your cheek when it rolls down to your jaw. You pull out his cock and damn it’s big, even bigger than you imagined, you feel dizzy, feel overheated, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Spitting into your palm, you slick up his cock and stroke him up and down up and down, firm grip twisting right at the head and makin’ his knees buckle. He braces himself against you, moves his fingers in time with yours, rubs lazy circles at your clit and crooks three of his huge fingers inside you, searchin’ for that spot he knows will make you come.

“That’s real good baby, y-you can go faster if you’d like.” Clyde kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, and you gasp and moan and sigh around his tongue, mindful of the noise, but consumed with pleasure. He’s smelly, covered in bits of grass and sweat, and you wouldn’t trade it for anythin’ in the whole world.

“I’m burnin’ up in this thing Clyde I-I’m gonna take it off.” You pant, your blouse stiflin’ from the lack of breeze.

Clyde does pause then, making you whine loud enough for him to smile at you and keep goin’ real slow.

“Out here?” He asks, lookin’ around. The big trees block the view from the neighbors, but that don’t mean no one could drive by, or walk their dogs, or or or --

“Uh-huh, would you like that? Wanna see my tits in the sunshine?” You bite your lip, bat your lashes at him, wantin’ him so desperately. You don’t know if a chance like this will ever come again, you don’t know when you’ll wake up from this dream, you want to take advantage of it while it’s here.

“Anyone could see, anyone could look and see you.” Clyde nods anyway, and his eyes go wide as dinner plates when you swiftly undo all the little buttons, down to where your blouse is tucked into the skirt that Clyde’s got his hand shoved up under. Your bra is front-claspin’, and you undo that too, until your breasts are exposed fully for him.

“Then you’re gonna have to cover me big bear, cover me – yes!” Your eyes fall shut and your mouth drops open, grindin’ your hips down onto his hand.

“Ohh fuck,” Clyde’s fingers up your pussy fuck you a little harder, a little faster, and you grin, wrappin’ your hand around his cock once again and matching his rhythm stroke for stroke.

You’re both so sweaty that you have to constantly readjust yourselves against the wall of your house so that you don’t go slippin’ and slidin’ down. Clyde looks like he’s almost in pain, so overwhelmed with the way you feel, how your pussy clenches and drips and drools all over his hand, his wrist.

He sucks and kisses at your breasts, licks up the sweat that runs between them, your nipples so sensitive and stiff when he tugs them between his teeth. You want him to fuck you properly, want him to shove that cock of his into your pussy and fuck you on the wooden floor of the porch right there, but he grunts and sighs and groans, pressin’ his body as close against yours as he can.

“I’m gonna come,” He whines, not wantin’ it to be over just as much as you, not wantin’ this to end.

“On me, I want it on me, all over. Please give it to me, please?” You beg, soft gentle whimpers as you hike your leg up higher higher higher, until it’s slung over his shoulder, your body stretched out all over.

He nods frantically, before he lets out a shaky moan and paints your tits with his come. It’s hot and sticky, landing on your skin in thick ropes. Your hand that isn’t around his cock leaves Clyde’s hair and rubs through it, smears it into your flesh, across your stomach, over your tits. He has a big load, comes some more, it hits your chin, and you swipe it up with your fingers, sucking the taste of it away.

“A-are you close?” Clyde blinks the sweat out of his eyes, rubs harder, faster, thrusts and presses and pinches and rolls and your lids are snappin’ open just in time to watch him stare love-sick at you, big brown eyes.

“Yes, yes I’m – oh I’m – !!” You come and it feels like your body is on fire, a hot wire snapped up, pulled real taut, before you’re meltin’ into his arms, chest heavin’, pantin’ out words that you never thought you’d get to say in a million years, “I love you, Clyde – fuck I love you!”

All at once, he goes real still.

“What?” Clyde blinks, lookin’ like he’s been struck by lightnin’.

He carefully, gently, lowers the leg that’s been thrown over his shoulder.

“I’ve loved you all my life.” You’re still blissed out, still on cloud nine, have no qualms about bein’ truthful, not with your Clyde, not when now you ain’t so sure this isn’t a dream. “Surely…well surely you knew that.”

“I…no I – ” He stammers and stutters and the cold drip of rejection begins to fill you with dread.

“Shit, I’m sorry I – ” You’re painfully aware of the way you’re both standin’ there on your front porch, your tits out and his dick out, covered in come and sweat and you feel like you’ve just royally monumentally ruined everythin’, until he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

“I love you too.” Clyde confesses, and suddenly it’s as if all the fear in the world leaves at once.

“You do?” You whisper, searchin’ his gaze and findin’ only honesty.

Clyde smiles, one of those rare smiles o’his, and tucks your blouse back into place, puts his dick away and buttons himself up.

“Why d’ya think I kept agreein’ to cut your lawn?” Clyde asks softly, so quietly, and you’re slammed with the realization that maybe…maybe he’s loved you for just as long.

“Thought I made real good lemonade, that’s all.” You reply, and the two of you laugh, because damn, how could love make y’all so blind? With the glow of orgasm fading, and the reality of this bein’ real life setting in, you reach for Clyde’s hand askin’, “What do you suppose we do now?”

“I don’t know about you darlin’, but I’m in sore need of a shower.” He says, smilin’ at you and makin’ you smile right back, before squeezin’ your hand and sighin’ real content-like, “And after that…let me love on you some more, and make up for lost time.”

You kiss him, and he kisses you back, until you’re pullin’ him into your house and up through to your bathroom, more glad than you’ve ever been that he finished cuttin’ your lawn early.

[sserpente]

Synopsis: After his lucky escape, the Tesseract takes Loki on new adventures--but unfortunately, his journeys through space do not go unnoticed and he soon ends up on TVA’s radar. The deal is a simple one: Become a recruit and help the Time Variance Authority fight time crimes to earn your freedom again eventually or die. Loki accepts the challenge. It would not be long until he could use their own weapons against them, after all. If only that, however, were his only concern. Least of all did he expect that with his reluctant arrival at TVA, a woman would step into his life and wreak havoc in his heart. He does not know what it is about her that he seeks her presence like a bee hunting for honey--but he is determined to find out.

A/N: Gaaaah, I haven’t nearly pre-written as many chapters as I would like to have pre-written before starting to post but I just can’t wait any longer! I finally want to share this story with you guys, I am so hyped about it! So, without further ado--enjoy the first chapter of “Pastel Blue”! I hope you like it! ♥

Chapter 1

Tick Tock. That clock on the wall was driving her crazy, it had been ever since she had been assigned to this dull office. She spent most of her time in the lab, working in midst of dangerous and highly sensitive equipment and delicate devices.

Tick Tock. She was going to smash it—with a big hammer, perhaps, or even better, a jackhammer. It was ugly too. Made of wood and obviously antique, late 18th century probably. What had Mobius been thinking?

Oh yeah, him. Mobius M. Mobius, her I-am-not-your-father-but-I-will-treat-you-like-my-daughter supervisor and babysitter, thank you very much. Granted, he was old enough to be her father, taking into consideration that in her mid-twenties, there wasn’t much need for a parental figure in her life anymore.

Tick Tock. She sighed. The pile of paperwork she had been handed this morning had seemingly not shrunk by even an inch. She could swear she had not been stalling today. Breakfast, work, lunch break, work… Tick Tock. She rolled her eyes. No. This was unreasonable. Grunting a few not so decent swear words, she gathered the spreadsheets and dozens of handwritten notes, sending the calming ruffling of paper through the air and exited the room without so much as thinking about what Mobius would think about her wandering places around the TVA during work hours again.

Besides, the kitchen and common room right around the corner of her desired destination was equipped with the best coffee machine modern technology had to offer. Hot chocolate with mint and a hint of vanilla? Oh yes, please!

At this time of the day, the lab in question was deserted. Pens, pliers and other small tools lay scattered all over the metal tables as if someone had just finished their work for the day. Some of the devices in here could cause major damage if activated accidentally or even at the wrong time. Now there was the thrill, the proximity to endless possibilities.

After turning a few laps around the tables to see if anything had changed or improved at all since the last time she was here (which would be yesterday), she eventually made herself comfortable at the huge desk fully equipped with a cup holder, sockets and a fancy table lamp. The chair was the best part, enabling her to swirl around whenever she felt like she needed a refreshing spin.

She had just pulled out her burrow from her hair, having twirled it around one of the lighter strands. Her guess was the sun had bestowed its warm kisses upon her chocolate brown hair in the summer. Leaning over her papers, she got back to work.

But it was only five minutes until she heard the heavy metal door with the see-through glass panel being pushed open, followed by someone clearing their throat.

“Jess, do you have a moment?” Mobius asked. Jess tilted her head, the slightest frown accompanied by a gentle smirk decorating her face. What, no chastising for changing work locations today? She swirled around on her chair, expecting to see the man in question in his grey suit and the signature scar across his nose stare her down with arms akimbo. Instead, he was holding on to the door tensely, right next to him, seemingly out of place in the threshold, a man with raven hair and the most stunning pair of blue eyes she had ever had the pleasure to lock her gaze with. Her eyes were blue as well—Loki’s, however, seemed to shimmer green in the artificial light of the lab. She didn’t get much daylight, all the way down here.

“M?” Jess smiled. She rose, ignoring the slight trembling of her knees as she approached the two, keeping a safe distance. Her heart skipped a beat with every single step, her chest resembling a magnet pulling her towards Loki like a powerless needle.

“I’ve told you, repeatedly, to stay in your own office.” Ah, there it was.

“I have asked you, repeatedly, to re-locate my office here.” She retorted with a smug expression, eyes darting over to Loki. Mobius shook his head. “An introduction is probably redundant. Jess, this is Loki.”

He was wearing the orange prison clothes TVA had manufactured a few years back. She had to admit, orange suited him rather well, bringing out his cheekbones and the dark hair framing his flawless face. His lips were thin, his jawline to die for. She would be lying if she denied his attractiveness. Loki was a god, after all. Most prominent to his appearance, however, were the shackles around his naked wrists and the metal collar hiding most of his long neck—a chunky but firm reminder his powers were all but a myth as long as the light was blinking bright red like a traffic light screaming stop at him like a sleep-deprived police officer.

Loki lifted his chin, allowing pride and confidence to flood his aura. Out of all the people he had encountered in this strange place so far, alterations of his very own self on an old-fashioned projector included, she was by far the oddest. Jess, so he learned, wore a colourful choker around her neck as well as two bracelets of the same kind. They reminded him of sugar pearls. If he had asked her about them, she could have revealed to him that they were indeed candy necklaces—and that she wore them because Mobius had stressed there were no edible snacks allowed at work. The elegant pieces of jewellery hanging down her earlobes, however, appeared to be non-edible. Two delicate silver charms, holding what Loki identified to be moonstones. They suited her, complementing the long brown hair and the outstanding colour of her eyes. Blue—just like his.

“The God of Mischief.” She completed, the fraction of a second after he had studied her conspicuous appearance. She added a court but polite nod. “I was kind of hoping to meet you one day.” And so she was. The rumours had spread across the entire facility like wildfire, reaching even the Minutemen based in different timelines. Loki, the Norse God of Mischief, had stolen an Infinity Stone and escaped his respective timeline—a timeline reaching all the way back to 2012—creating a new branch of reality entirely. Unsupervised, he could have caused serious damage to the very fabric of time and the multiverse. He had to be stopped, had to be captured, had to be persuaded.

Mobius had expressed his interest in getting the infamous Trickster to work for him frequently. Loki was skilled, intelligent, witty, a talented fighter and most of all, one of the most capable users of magic the multiverse had to offer. His stories of victory and defeat were known to most of the TVA and yet, they resonated with her to an extent her colleagues could never fathom. Above everything Loki had had to experience—above all Loki will have had to experience—there was a thick layer of loneliness clouding his aura like a blanket of ice-cold snow. It was a suitable comparison, given his heritage.

“I didn’t just hear that.” Mobius intervened. He sized her up like an unpredictable teenager. “The God of Mischief has retired. Loki here has just agreed on working for us.”

“With you,” Loki interrupted. “Not for you. Reluctantly.” That would leave her wondering what exactly it was Mobius had offered him in return.

Jess chuckled. “Now that is a matter of opinion, trust me. I would know.” Raising an eyebrow, she gave Mobius a challenging glare.

“I need you to cover a shift.” He responded matter-of-factly. Jess’ eyebrow rose even higher. “Reese just jumped back from 1792.”

“And?”

“He almost made his personal acquaintance with the guillotine. They’re patching him up in the hospital wing right now.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jess took a step back, realising just what kind of favour, no, requirement Mobius would ask for. Reese had been in the TVA for more than three decades—he had not aged a day since his accession as a matter of fact—and his experience and excessive excitement over the Avengers had made him the perfect candidate to keep an eye on Loki while he was still not to be trusted—if he was ever going to be trusted, that was. He was the God of Mischief, after all.

“I’m on probation, remember? What makes you think I should cover for him of all people?” Loki rolled his eyes and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for excluding him from a conversation that was clearly about him.

“Call it an experiment. Prove to me that we can rely on you and I’ll end your probation.” Jess resisted the urge to shake his hand off her shoulder when he leaned forward to touch her in a fatherly manner.

“Sir, do you have a moment?” A Minuteman had appeared behind them. Jess had never quite figured out how they moved so quietly. Their shoe soles must have been made of feathers. In turn, the stilettos she usually wore to smuggle a few more inches to her height were loud and made satisfying noises ricocheting through the hallways when she walked, emitting confidence and even smugness. She needed that boost every once in a while.

Mobius nodded. As he released Jess’ shoulder and pushed past Loki—who did, much to her amusement, not move an inch for the senior manager—he pointed a finger at him. “Behave.”

The lab door fell shut behind him, drowning all noises from the outside like a soundproof recording room. Jess gaped at Loki for a second, her body once again threatening to overwhelm her with the magnetic pull she felt towards the Trickster, fascination setting her veins ablaze.

“You do not look human.” Loki suddenly said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Jess pouted.

“Excuse me? I am hoping you meant that as a compliment, I am as human as I’ll ever be.” Loki frowned, then responded with a hum.

“I take it you hop timelines for him too then, fixing the damage others have done.”

“Me? No.” Jess shook her head. “I am not a Minuteman. I wish I was, trust me, but I have got nothing to do with that, unfortunately. I work in the linguistics department, spending all day translating protocols and time recordings from all sorts of languages. Now I know what you’re thinking. With its technology, shouldn’t TVA be able to translate everything using a smart computer program?” She shrugged. “Well, technically you’re right. But there’s a bunch of languages out there that simply don’t exist either here on Earth or any other known realm. We’re only human—and a computer program is only as smart as its creator. It can’t translate a language that does not consist of words, for example, that would go against the very human comprehension of its programmer.”

“Then how do you speak them?” Loki probed.

“That’s my superpower. I don’t know why I can understand them, I just… do. And what did it get me?” She raised her hands in a dramatic motion. “Paperwork. Lots of paperwork. The only way for me to get in on the real action is this place here. Take a look at this.” Loki watched her move towards what resembled a toaster, shaped like a metal suitcase that had been left open. Smiling, she reached for a shining red apple on the table and placed it on the black surface before activating the switch. She had seen the scientists do this dozens of times before. In fact, she was sure she could handle most of the devices in here in her sleep. As the small machine hummed to life, it sent a deafening vibration through the room and then, just like someone had hit fast-forward with a remote, the apple shrivelled and rotted.

“Pretty cool, huh? It works the other way around too once it recharged. They haven’t figured out how to make it work for living beings, including humans, just yet, though. This is just a prototype anyway, the real thing is supposed to help re-animate the dead for a short amount of time to solve time crimes and shit. I swear I’d get a major in science if I lived another life. My father was one. Before he died, that is.” Jess wasn’t quite sure what made her open up to the God of Mischief and tell her about her personal family drama. She usually babbled when nervousness got the better of her but this was a new level of openness entirely. They all knew her story, after all, but apart from Mobius, they all pretended they didn’t. “You see? TVA is not all bad, even if it may seem so at first. M can be an arsehole sometimes, I know. He calls our main timeline in which everything began,” Jess continued with a dramatic voice, “the Null-Time Zone. I never figured out why and he won’t tell me.”

“Because you don’t listen, Jess.” Mobius answered, holding the door open with the Minuteman who had asked for his advice impatiently but mutely waiting for his turn again behind him.

“So?” She probed, pointing at the God of Mischief with her chin, her arms crossed. “If I am to play babysitter for a while, where am I staying? Where is Loki staying?”

“Your place.” Jess blinked, incredulousness spreading on her face like a clean swipe of butter on warm toasted bread.

“My place?”

“Your residential unit is supervised and equipped with modern alarm systems, just in case you decide to make trouble again, remember? We’ll position security outside the door in addition to that, killing two birds with one stone. Besides, it’s only temporary. Reese should be up and on his feet again in no time. The blade only grazed him before he made the jump back.”

“That does not sound reassuring!” Jess stood up straight to prove her point and yet, even compared to Mobius, she was nowhere near tall enough to make an impact with her body language at this time.

“You can take the rest of the day off as compensation. Show Loki to your unit. Make yourselves acquainted. I’ll send security to collect him in five minutes—to the second!”

 ~*~

She seems familiar almost… like part of me has known her forever. It was a thought which jumped into Loki’s mind and implanted itself in his head like a parasite. A mere mortal, how could there possibly be a connection between them? But it wasn’t just magnetic fascination and intrigue. Loki felt a need to keep her in his presence much like she was about to be his cherished bride. Irritation crept up the back of his neck as he followed her through the branched corridors and back to the modern lift he had had to use upon his arrival.

He would only love to know just what it was that had gotten her on probation. Abuse of machinery for her own selfish purposes, perhaps? A prank which had gone too far and done damage to the organisation? Murder? No. Despite her toughness, he could not imagine the delicate mortal standing next to him in the elevator being capable of killing anyone.

When the elevator doors slid open again, the young woman gave him an almost sheepish smile. She hardly appeared worried by having to escort him all on her own, across empty hallways which were only too inviting to overpower her and escape. Something held him back. She did, so he realised with another wave of irritation electrifying his body.

“…the most dangerous missions they usually leave to Justice Peace and Death’s Head. Ever heard of them? They are like celebrities around here.” He heard her say just then. But Loki couldn’t possibly take less interest in this so-called Time Variance Authority. All he needed to know was that it was yet another, partially human-led secret organisation imagining with the naivety of a child that they held power over him. SHIELD had made this mistake in the past and they had paid the bitter price. TVA would be no different.

“The units here are labelled with our initials and the department number. This one.” Jess pointed at the first door coming into sight to their right and quite apparently, Mobius had not made any empty promises concerning Jess’ safety and surveillance. As they turned around the corner, they were greeted by a grimly looking security officer clutching one of those small devices Loki identified as a Taser, one which of the like Darcy Lewis had once used on his brother. He kept a straight face even as Jess unlocked the residential unit using her fingerprint and entered but gave him a provocative smirk before following her.

His own chambers back on Asgard—another life entirely, so it seemed now—were a reflection of who he was with their green accents, the countless books, the tidiness and the ancient parchment rolls on his dark mahogany desk from Vanaheim. If anything, analysing her personal living space to the very last grain of dust would satisfy his need to learn just why he felt so drawn her, perhaps.

The first item of furniture he took in was the long bookshelf towering all the way up to the ceiling, every inch filled with clearly read books about as thick as his wrist. He made a note to study the titles later. A coffee table full of empty peanut shells and a new package of peanuts still sealed neatly in their plastic bag, a caramel sofa on which he found more sealed peanut bags as well as a golden cushion with cheesy pom-poms. A drawer, a TV with large speakers and another electronic gadget resembling a fridge and two separate doorways which led to a bathing area, so he presumed, and her bedroom. Even with the overall lack of more furniture in the room, Jess had somehow managed to add her very own personal touch to the sterile residential unit.

“The bathroom is to the right, you’ll find refreshments and snacks in the fridge next to the TV. My bedroom is out of bounds. I hope you enjoyed the tour.” She chuckled, grabbing a blue leather jacket from the hook on the entrance door behind them. “Big meals are eaten in the cafeteria at certain times of the day though. Mobius wants to strengthen the team spirit but the cooks never say no to a late breakfast or a midnight snack if you ask them nicely.”

Loki narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t you feel like a prisoner in this place?” A lackey for someone else to take the credit for your hard work, he added silently. He knew two of that kind—one being his brother, the other his alleged father. Loki suppressed a begrudged growl. Just in that moment and before she had a chance to reply to his provocative remark, there was a vigorous knock on the door.

“That’ll be your cue.” Jess announced. Loki had to force himself not to turn his head and catch one last glimpse of her as the grimly looking security man escorted him back to Mobius and, other than Jess, kept pushing him forward like cattle and yet, he was convinced he could feel her curious gaze resting on his back long after he had turned back around the corner, stepped into the elevator and even when he was reluctantly reunited with Mobius near the lab where they had first picked her up.

He was speaking to the same Minuteman who had interrupted them earlier—quietly, vividly and so engrossed in the seemingly heated conversation that he noticed Loki and his new bodyguard approaching only after his exceptional hearing had picked up shreds of information he made another mental note of using against them, sooner rather than later.

“You do realise that they’ll come after us with a vengeance, right? That could be the end of TVA once and for all, you know very well what he is capable of.”

“Let that be my concern. This is just a temporary solution—one which I am very curious about.”

“But it already—“

“I realise it already happened and that’s exactly why I’m doing this. All we need to do is stop it from happening again by observing the situation intently, stitch up the loop and we’ll be safe. This isn’t my first rodeo, Dave, you of all people should know this.”

“And what about the Tesseract? Wouldn’t it be smarter if we—“

The security officer cleared his throat, announcing their arrival.

“The Tesseract,” Loki interrupted with a glare, strutting towards them like the king he was born to become and despite his shackles, “belongs to me. It called out to me, it is mine.”

“You’ll find a lot of people in this facility who will disagree with you on that. Trust me. We’ll make sure you won’t get your hands on that cube again.” Dave snorted. “I hope you like your new lodging. Now come on, mischief maker. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

~*~

A/N: And Scene! So what do you think, what do you think, what do you think? 🤯 I’m so excited to dive into this story! I literally recorded myself on my phone in the middle of the night a while back when all the ideas I had finally came together so I hope I’ll be taking you on an exciting journey with me!

Chapter 2

[fangirlandiknowit101]

Here's the sad pining sasuke i wrote last night... it's not finished and who knows when/if i'll finish it. university AU, not edited and there's some naru//hina and sasuke//OC bc i couldn't think of a canon character that fit. The texting part is also weird bc i wrote it all very fast lol. i'm sharing bc why not *shrugs*

xxx

It hurts, to look at them.

Sasuke can’t help himself. Naruto is his best friend, after all, and he’s not yet so desperate that he’ll avoid him. It’s worse, somehow, that he can’t even dislike her.

She’s good for him, he thinks, when he’s feeling particularly self-deprecating. Her hair is dark and her skin pale as porcelain, and that’s where the similarities end between him and Hinata.

Sweet, and so patient with Naruto. Soft-spoken, but not a pushover. Impeccably dressed, always, no make-up needed to outshine any girl beside her. A picture perfect couple, that’s what they are. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have to watch it unfold from the front row.

How her shyness turned to surety, how her eyes would catch on Naruto and look away before, but now – now she looks at him like he belongs to her, soft smile on her plump lips.

Sasuke can’t even hate her, and he wishes he could.

It’s not her fault that Sasuke is the way he is. She doesn’t know, isn’t doing it on purpose. And yet, there’s a stab to Sasuke’s chest every time she takes his hand, every time Naruto tucks her silky hair behind her perfect ear.

Naruto will kiss her cheek and Sasuke will be looking, always looking. His face devoid of emotion, his voice carefully neutral. He can’t be mean to Naruto’s girlfriend, though he wishes he could. Maybe if Naruto got mad at him and pushed him away, Sasuke would be free to move on.

It’s more likely that Sasuke would apologize and do better, and he’d rather spare himself the embarrassment.

Sometimes he imagines that Hinata will find out, that she’ll start treating him with suspicion, watch his every move with her wide eyes. Feel threatened by him. But Sasuke is no threat. He’s tired and hurting, but he’s not a homewrecker. It would be a lot easier if Naruto didn’t keep nudging him in Sakura’s direction.

It’s not Sakura’s fault, either. She’s dreaming of something she can’t have, and the similarities make him sick to his stomach.

Sometimes he thinks he’ll date her, live the lie to the fullest. Give her what she wants, since he’s doomed anyway. He doubts he’d last long, though. If he had even the slightest bit of interest in women – but when he looks at her, there’s just no attraction. He’s not sure how no one’s noticed yet. It’s not like he’s that good of an actor. He thinks the only reason no one’s figured it out is because he’s so deep in the closet, and they’re all so heterosexual. Why would they suspect he’s gay? It suits them better if he isn’t.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was that late already,” Sakura says beside him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

The bar is lively around them, but the music is at a bearable noise level. She’s looking at her phone, frowning. On the other side of the small table, Naruto pouts.

“It’s not late!” he objects, the beer in his glass sloshing around as he waves his hands around. “We just got here!”

“We’ve been here for three hours, I think,” Hinata says, leaning her cheek on his shoulder.

Sasuke wonders how she manages, the way he moves around so much. Perhaps her body is as soft as her voice, easily following him.

“I told you I have to get up early tomorrow.” Sakura sighs, irritated. She fishes her bag up from the floor, putting her phone inside it. “I really have to get going.”

“I’ll walk you to the station,” Sasuke offers. Not because he particularly wants to, but he’s not in the mood to subject himself to third-wheeling Naruto and Hinata. “I should get going, anyway.”

“What?” Naruto looks disappointed, more disappointed than when Sakura announced her departure. “I thought you were free tomorrow.”

Rolling his eyes, Sasuke swallows down the last of his drink.

“Doesn’t mean I want to stay up all night,” he counters with, easing out of the booth. “I still have to study.”

“You study too much,” Naruto mutters, giving Hinata a smile like an afterthought when she squeezes his arm.

“Maybe if you studied at all you wouldn’t need to panic before every exam,” Sakura nags at him, coming around the table to wait next to Sasuke. “Some of us care about our grades.”

“Nerds.” At least Naruto looks a little happier, and Sasuke hates to think that it’s because he thinks anything’s going to happen between him and Sakura. “Don’t get lost, you two!”

They say their goodbyes, and Sasuke tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how Sakura’s cheeks fill with color when they step outside the bar. She’s put a jacket on, but Sasuke’s fine in his sweater. It’s not cold enough that her blush can be blamed on the weather.

“Thanks for walking me,” she says, hefting her bag higher up her shoulder. She’d joined them straight from the library, researching her latest paper. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” he tells her, hands tucked into his sleeves.

He doesn’t want to run the risk of her attempting to reach for his hand. As much as he dislikes her attention, it’s safer if she thinks he’s just playing hard to get. He won’t have to explain, then, why he hasn’t outright told her to give up. He should, he knows. But Naruto would just nudge him towards some other girl, would bother him about it until Sasuke started going on actual dates. It’s touching, how worried he is over Sasuke potentially being lonely.

Too bad Naruto himself is the cause of it.

“You’re not doing anything tomorrow, then?” Sakura asks, stepping aside as they meet a group of half-drunk businessmen. “I’m working until five…”

It would be so easy to invite her out. To suggest a movie, or trying out that new café near campus. To watch her eyes light up with hope, watch her mouth stretch into an excited smile.

“I really do need to study,” he says. “And I’m almost out of clean clothes.”

None of it is a lie, technically. He’s just not sure he’ll actually do either of those things tomorrow.

“Oh.”

She tries to hide her disappointment, and Sasuke is an expert by now at pretending he doesn’t notice. They walk the rest of the way in silence, waving a quick goodbye at the ticket gates as Sakura’s train is due to arrive in just two minutes. Sasuke buys a drink from a vending machine and takes small sips as he waits for his own, mindlessly scrolling through social media. He almost ignores the text Naruto sends.

> Wanna hang out tomorrow?

He contemplates it. On the one hand, yes, of course he wants to. On the other, having an entire day to himself has its appeal.

> I’ll be busy

> Ooh, with sakura?

The train arrives, and Sasuke snags a seat next to a couple too caught up with each other to pay attention to him.

> No

> Got studying and laundry to do

The reply is instant.

> That’s too boring!!! I’m coming over for lunch

> Whatever

He pockets his phone, and stares down at the bottle in his hands for the rest of the trip. It doesn’t help against the warmth rising in his chest. At least he doesn’t do this to Sakura – doesn’t invite himself into her space, ignorant of her feelings. It doesn’t make him feel better.

xxx

Sasuke doesn’t have a lot of friends. He’s got Naruto, and then there’s his small group of friends from high school. Naruto is the only one who still lives nearby. Rather, Sasuke had ended up staying in Konoha like him. It’s a big enough city that most of his classmates are strangers, although slightly less so in their second year. He stayed with his parents for his first year, but when one of his cousins moved abroad for work he took the opportunity to stay at her apartment instead. It’s closer to his university, and if he, potentially, wanted to bring a guy home then no one would know.

He doesn’t think his parents would mind, but there wouldn’t be any privacy. He relishes in it, and Naruto does, too.

“I should just move in with you,” Naruto groans, spread out on his couch. “You wouldn’t believe how annoying my mom was this morning.”

“I think I can believe it,” Sasuke tells him, cleaning up after their lunch. “And just to be clear, I’ve never said you’d be welcome to live here.”

“Stingy,” Naruto grumbles. “How long is your cousin gone, anyway?”

Shrugging, Sasuke dries off the counter just for something to do with his hands.

“A year at least. We’ll see. So it’s not like I’ll be living here forever.”

“But still!”

“Where would you even sleep?”

Naruto happily pats the couch. When Sasuke scowls at him, he simply grins.

“Come on,” Naruto says. “I want to watch a movie.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I need to study.”

Still, he gives in too easily. Naruto lifts his legs to give him room, dumping them all over Sasuke’s lap once he sits down. It’s things like this that makes Sasuke’s heart refuse to give up. He leans his elbow on the back of the couch, cheekbone pressed to his closed fist. He doesn’t say anything when Naruto picks a drama at random, letting him comment on the plot as much as he wants. Watching movies with Naruto is certainly never quiet, and he winces as Naruto kicks his legs as he shouts his anger at the main character.

When the movie ends, Naruto doesn’t start a new one. Instead he chews on his bottom lip, playing with the remote. Sasuke considers getting up to use the toilet, maybe suggesting going to the corner store for snacks, but then Naruto clears his throat suspiciously.

“What?” he asks, irritated when Naruto takes his time.

“So, how are things going with Sakura?”

He resists the urge to pinch his nose. He still lets out a heavy breath, not quite a sigh but close enough that Naruto frowns.

“I mean,” Naruto continues, “you could just ask her out. She’s definitely going to say yes.”

Sasuke shifts, uncomfortable. Naruto’s legs are still on top of his. His socks have little frogs on them.

“I’ve told you I’m not really into the idea of a relationship right now.”

“Uh-huh.” Naruto rolls his eyes, pushing himself up and finally removing his legs, crossing them at the ankles instead. “Sounds like excuses to me.”

“Just drop it, Naruto.”

“But if you get together things will be so much easier,” Naruto insists, poking at his arm. “We can go on double dates, and stuff.”

Sending him a glare, Sasuke pulls a leg up to his chest. It won’t prevent Naruto if he decides to get comfy on his lap again, but it might make him think twice at least. Naruto’s only wearing shorts, and all that naked skin isn’t good for his heart. It’s definitely too cold for it, but Naruto’s never been one to care about the weather.

“We already go places together.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same!”

Sasuke pinches his lips, looking away. If he’s not careful, those large blue eyes will convince him to cave in, and then he’ll find himself with a girlfriend. He does a lot for Naruto, but there are limits.

“I’m not going to ask her out,” he mutters, knowing it will only lead to more questioning.

Sure enough, Naruto makes a noise of protest.

“But you haven’t rejected her either!”

“She hasn’t asked me out either.”

“It’s obvious she likes you.”

“That’s her problem.”

Naruto kicks at his thigh, using his heel. He looks properly annoyed now, as if Sasuke is a petulant child, refusing to do what’s best for him.

“If you got over yourself for a minute, you’d realize what a catch she is!”

He doesn’t reply. Let Naruto think he’s just stubborn, or an asshole, or whatever. Let him think Sasuke’s just stringing her along, keeping her attention while refusing to commit. It’s better than the alternative.

“Leave it, Naruto,” he warns, getting up and moving to the kitchen. “We’re not talking about this.”

At least Naruto doesn’t follow him, though it doesn’t make much of a difference. The apartment is small, no wall separating the kitchen from the living room. He searches through his cabinets, locating a forgotten bag of wasabi peas. He throws them at Naruto’s head.

“Eat these and shut up,” he says.

To his relief, Naruto does as told.

xxx

He picks up the call from Karin half-distracted, mind still stuck on a question for tomorrow’s seminar. As usual, she doesn’t wait for him to say hi, making her wince with the volume of her voice.

“Do you have any idea how tiring it is to listen to Naruto whine about you?” she starts with, the background noise suggesting she’s outdoors. “Can’t you just tell him you’re gay and put me out of my misery.”

“No thanks.” He drops his pen on his desk, rubbing at his eyes. He regrets not going to the university library, at least then he wouldn’t have been able to pick up the call. “Was that all? I’m kind of busy.”

“You know, this is exactly why I moved away,” she continues, ignoring him. “I thought I could get away from all the high school-level drama. Just get yourself a boyfriend, and go on those stupid double dates my cousin is so desperately yearning for. How hard can it be?!”

He can feel a headache incoming, and he rubs his fingertips between his brows. Naruto had sulked for hours the day before, until Sasuke got sick of it and threw him out. It was definitely backhanded of him to call Karin and complain.

“If you really wanted to be left out of it, why are you calling me? That’s the opposite of not getting involved.”

“Because it’s really painful and I’m morally obligated as the only person with functional brain cells to tell you to move on. Juugo’s too nice to say it and Suigetsu would give you terrible advice and sit back and watch. I’m being nicer to you than you deserve.”

“By telling me to move on,” Sasuke deadpans, wondering why his parents couldn’t have settled down somewhere else.

“Well, someone has to do it! Clearly I’m the gay cousin in the family, so you’re screwed. Might as well get over it and get laid.”

“I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

She huffs at him, traffic and broken conversations filtering through the phone. There’s the jingle of a shop’s door, and the noise cuts off.

“Your pining is just getting sad,” she eventually replies, distractedly. “Trust me, I know my cousin. He’s not worth it.”

Something unpleasant churns in Sasuke’s stomach. He wants to argue with her that he is worth it, but he doesn’t want to land himself in an hour-long lecture if he can help it. He rolls his neck, making a face. She’s got a point, but he doesn’t enjoy hearing it. His life would be a lot simpler if he could find someone who made him forget about Naruto. He’s just not sure it’s fair to expect someone to instantly replace a lifetime of friendship.

“I don’t think I should have to come out just because Naruto irritates you,” is what he says instead, leaning back in his chair. “What if my parents find out and disown me? You want to be responsible for that?”

“Sasuke,” she sighs, “your brother is literally gay and your parents love his boyfriend.”

“So?”

“Stop. Making. Excuses.”

He bites his cheek, holding back a denial. He’s not worried about his parents, he’s worried about Naruto’s reaction. That things will change between them. That he’ll think Sasuke has feelings for him, which would be correct but would also ruin absolutely everything.

“I’ll… consider it,” he concedes, after a long silence, during which Karin has finished buying whatever it was she needed.

“Really? Because I’m going to hold you to that.”

He sighs.

“Next time I’m not picking up when you call me.”

xxx

A few weeks pass, and not much changes. Naruto still takes up too much space in his head and life, Sakura continues to drop hints but refuses to make the first move, and Hinata is still as lovely as ever. She doesn’t seem to have much of a personality other than being Naruto’s girlfriend, but to be fair Sasuke hasn’t precisely paid attention or tried to get to know her. Naruto’s birthday is drawing closer, and he can’t bring himself to do anything to break the status quo before then.

He’s been considering it, though. It would be a relief to stop pretending. He can’t imagine himself finding a boyfriend, though, because where would he even meet someone? It’s too awkward to use a dating app, and he’s not precisely social. He doesn’t have any experience, either, if you don’t count those childish games they played sometimes when they were younger. And that one time Naruto kissed him by accident when they were twelve.

Because of this, he’s really not expecting it when one day in class, just as the lecture ends, his eyes fall on the messenger bag that the guy next to him has just finished packing. There’s a rainbow pin on it, and Sasuke blurts out his question before he can stop to think about it.

“Are you gay?”

He only lifts his eyes from the pin when the surprised silence stretches out a bit too long. Their eyes meet, and the other boy is staring at him like he’s not sure how to react.

“Uh,” he says eventually, fingers clenching around the bag’s strap. “I mean, yes? But if you’re thinking about the pin it’s just a regular rainbow…”

He trails off, and Sasuke feels his cheeks heat up a bit. He can’t believe he just asked, when he himself has gone to such lengths to make sure no one made such assumptions about him.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine.”

Maybe he should know the guy’s name, but he doesn’t. He’s pretty short, hair dyed a light brown and glasses perched on his nose. Cute, but Sasuke’s not sure he’s his type. He’s not sure he has a type, other than Naruto.

“Are you gay?” the guy asks him, eyebrows rising above the frame of his glasses.

Sasuke licks his lips. He could say no, but to what end?

“I am,” he forces out, breathing in a deep breath.

“Oh.” There’s red color blooming on the other boy’s face, his eyes flickering to the side for a moment. “I was kind of hoping, but, um… I mean, hoping sounds weird! Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to ask outright.”

When Sasuke stands up, he realizes he’s almost a head taller than him.

“I’m Sasuke,” he offers, clicking his laptop shut and slowly sliding it into his bag.

“I know. I mean! I’m Hiroshi. Nice to meet you.”

Sasuke nods, and awkwardly turns to leave. Hiroshi stops him with a hand to his arm, though, and Sasuke swallows nervously as the turns back. He’s not interested in Hiroshi, not really, but he’s never been asked out by a boy before and the novelty of the situation is getting to him.

“Do you, um, are you busy right now? We could have lunch?”

He weighs the pros and cons in his mind. As nervous as Hiroshi looks, there’s a determined glint in his eyes that sways Sasuke over.

“Okay,” he says, and just like that he’s doing what Karin told him to do.

He’s trying, at least.

xxx

Over the course of a week, including having coffee together and a visit to the aquarium, Sasuke learns a lot about Hiroshi. Or Hiro, as he likes his friends to call him. They don’t have too much in common, but they’re both gay and studying agricultural economics. Once Hiro gets over his initial shyness, Sasuke finds he’s got a great sense of humor and won’t hesitate to poke fun at him.

It’s a breath of relief, to spend time with someone who doesn’t know him from before. He didn’t realize how much he needed it – just being able to be himself, without constantly keeping himself in check.

He can’t fool himself to think it’s enough to replace Naruto, but maybe he doesn’t need to replace him. Maybe it’s enough that Hiro seems to like him. He doesn’t really think about it, when he invites Hiro over on a Saturday night, after they’d had dinner at a nice udon place.

“Oh, wow,” Hiro says as he steps into Sasuke’s apartment, making an impressed face. “Nice place.”

“It’s my cousin’s, so no need to sound so impressed.”

Hiro rolls his eyes, taking off his shoes and jacket and following Sasuke inside.

“Alright, I’ll try to keep it in,” he teases, sitting on the couch when Sasuke motions him towards it. “But it must be nice, to have your own place like this. The dorms are fine, but I can’t exactly bring guys there.”

Humming his agreement, Sasuke grabs two cans of soda from the fridge, handing one of them to Hiro when he sinks down on the couch next to him.

“Want to watch something?”

Hiro nods, and Sasuke brings the TV to life. He’s not expecting anything to happen – they’ve only known each other a week. He’s still coming to terms with having a friend other than Karin he can talk to like this, and she doesn’t really count since there was never the potential for anything to happen between them. Hiro is… potentially someone Sasuke could date. At least there’s nothing wrong with him, not yet, and Sasuke’s easing himself into the idea of getting to know him better.

He finds a movie at random, some sci-fi that doesn’t look terrible. The movie turns into background noise as they talk, Hiro’s eyes watching his face more than the screen. It’s nice, in a new, exhilarating way, to have a guy’s attention on him like this. He’s not sure what to do with it. When Hiro moves closer, knee touching Sasuke’s thigh, hand resting on the back of the couch and occasionally touching his neck, Sasuke can’t find it in him to move away.

It feels like a secret, shared between the two of them. He thinks of Naruto for a long moment, allows himself the pain lacing through his chest as he imagines light brown hair replaced with blond, dark eyes replaced with blue. Then, he pushes it away, tells himself he can have this. The emotions are only his own.

It’s all happening too fast when Hiro grows bold, leaning in to press their mouths together, but he doesn’t care. It’s no one’s business if he spends the evening on his couch with a boy in his lap, a boy who isn’t his best friend.

The pain is easier to swallow if he tells himself that he’s the only one hurt.

[minaslittleone]

Fission & Fusion (Part 4)

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

Summary: How did the refined and proper Wilhemina Venable end up working for two coked-up tech bros out of the back of a van?

An origin story of sorts, dedicated to the amazing @lucyintheskywithxanax  who has developed such a beautiful and nuanced depiction of Mina. This was inspired by her incredible story “And I failed to climb the mountain”.

Word count: ~3300

Wilhemina woke lazily the following morning to the warmth of sunlight on her face as it peaked through delicate lace curtains. It took her a few moments to remember where she was and to identify the source of the insistent scratching which had roused her. As she rolled onto her right side towards the bedroom door she caught sight of Miko's white dipped paw batting beneath it, scrabbling and scratching at the obstacle that dared to impede his free reign. An affectionate smile pulled at her lips as she watched his antics as she sleepily scrubbed at her eyes. His scratching stilled as she let out surprised gasp as her knuckles made contact with her bruised cheekbone, which was now undoubtedly swollen and probably a fetching mottle of red and purple. Now aware that she was awake, Miko's insistent scratching was replaced by a disgruntled meow. Wilhemina tried to ignore him, not really sure if he was allowed in the bedroom to begin with, but she was powerless to resist him once his meows were replaced by what could only be described as plaintiff cries. Who could resist that?

As she eased herself to her feet the full effects of the previous two days began to make themselves known. Her back was undoubtedly stiffer than usual but whether that was the result of two nights in unfamiliar beds or from crashing face first into concrete she couldn't be sure. Likely a combination of the two. The throbbing ache in her right wrist and hand as she supported herself on her cane was definitely a result of the concrete she rued, as she transferred the loathesome object to her uninjured left hand, her back complaining instantly. Today was looking like such a promising day.

Miko continued to make his displeasure known as she slowly made her way towards the door, his cries becoming increasingly insistent now that he could hear her moving. The moment she cracked the door the slightest distance ajar a flash of grey fur shot past her, heading directly for the patch of sunlit warmth at the centre of her recently vacated bed.

She tried valiantly to keep her features schooled as she scolded the cheeky feline who was currently in the process of kneading the covers into an acceptable state of comfort.

"Are you really meant to be up there, Miko?" The grey tabby cat shot her a questioning look as if to say "really human? You're the guest in my house and you're going to question if I'm allowed on the bed" before promptly turning his back on her and curling into a ball on his appropriately fluffed portion of the quilt.

She shook her head fondly, slowly making her way back towards the now occupied bed. Miko raised his head to study her as she gingerly lowered herself back onto the mattress, easing herself forwards to retrieve her book bag from beneath the bedside table. With practiced ease she flipped the lid on the amber pill bottle, dispensed two pills and threw them back dry. Normally she would muscle through the discomfort while the pills took effect but today, she reasoned, she had nothing to do and nowhere to be so for once she could actually listen to the pleading ache in her bones. It also helped that there was no one to witness her indulgence, other than Miko who had made his way across the bed to her and was currently standing about a foot away from her with his head cocked to the side, still not entirely sure what to make of her.

As she returned the pill bottle to her book bag she noticed the glass of water, which had evidently been left for her earlier that morning, and the handwritten note peaking from beneath the coaster on which it sat. She relished the way the cold glass dulled the ache in her hand as she raised it to her lips, pointedly ignoring the way her stomach churned at the tenderness behind it. Miko seemingly sensed her unease, trotting over to her and curling into a cosy ball against the side of her thigh. Her left hand rested against his tiny head, thumb stroking absentmindedly against the side of his chin, while her right hand returned the glass to the bedside table and retrieved the hand written note. She still could not place the feeling of unease it produced in her but she was emboldened to push past it by the comforting warmth of Miko pressed against her thigh, his rhythmic purring easing her nerves.

Good morning dear, I wanted to let you know I was leaving but I didn't have the heart to wake you, you looked so peaceful. I hope you slept well, I'm sure you needed it. I should be back around 6 baring any disasters but help yourself to anything in the meantime. And don't worry about Miko, he has been fed though I'm sure he will try to convince you otherwise. My office number is by the phone if you need anything. Try to take things easy today and be kind to yourself my dear. - Elizabeth

Wilhemina silently tested the shape of her adviser's given name, lips tentatively forming around the sounds. Of course she had seen the name Professor Elizabeth Thompson written for years but the explicit use of her christian name felt scandalously personal. A voice in the back of her head chided that thought - you spent last night in her guest bedroom and you're worried about using her given name? Ridiculous. Evidently in her preoccupation her left hand had stilled for Miko let out a sleepy chirup of annoyance, drawing her attention away from the complexity of her current relationship with her Professor. Elizabeth she reminded herself.

Having already disturbed Miko she took the opportunity to reposition herself to lay back down. The grey tabby was initially unimpressed to have his pillow so rudely removed but forgave her in short order, gently clambering up onto her chest as soon as she was laid flat. Miko stretched himself languidly, face contorting in a gigantic yawn that Wilhemina couldn't help but chuckle at. His little face came to rest upon her sternum, head cocked to the side, eyes watching her intently. Gently he lifted one paw, tiny pink toes pads coming to rest against Wilhemina's unmarred cheek, tenderly inquiring "more scritches, please." She happily complied, arm draping loosely across the little ball of fur who had wormed his way into her heart and her bed. As she began to scratch affectionately under his chin Miko craned his necked back in contentment and began purring again in earnest. Wilhemina smiled to herself as she allowed her eyes to close, the warm weight of the purring feline ensconced upon her chest lulling her to sleep. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to rest, just for a little while. Besides it would be cruel to disturb Miko when he looked so comfortable.

It was several hours later when she awoke again, judging by the way the sun no longer shone directly through the bedroom but instead created a bright indirect glow from further overhead. Wilhemina's stomach let out an indignant growl at the late hour, rousing Miko in the process who glared at her from beneath half lidded eyes. She scratched behind his ears in an apology which was evidently accepted as Miko began to nuzzle into her hand in response.

As she tentatively began to lever herself from the mattress Miko jumped down onto the bed and began to stretch out the kinks from his nap. Wilhemina looked on jealously as his spine extended as she slowly convinced her own vertebrae to support her weight. As she brought herself upright for the second time that day she noted gratefully that the painkillers seemed to have worked their magic, leaving her only slight tender even after the events of the past few days.

Navigating her way down the stairs proved to be somewhat challenging not merely from coordinating her balance with her cane in her left hand but also because Miko refused to leave her side, wending his way between her legs as she focussed intently on not breaking her neck. Having successfully reached the landing she made her way into the kitchen in search of breakfast, or whatever meal this now constituted. She noted gratefully that an assortment of cereals had been left on the kitchen counter, alongside a bowl and the necessities for tea and coffee, saving her from rooting through her professor's cupboards. She set the kettle to boil before preparing herself a bowl of muesli. As she set her tea to steep she couldn't help but roll her eyes at the mug Elizabeth had selected for her which proudly displayed the figure of Little Miss Stubborn, she couldn't really argue with the assessment but for once felt like such a gesture was meant as an affectionate jibe rather than an outright condemnation.

Miko stayed pressed against her ankles throughout the entirety of breakfast and whilst she cleared her dishes afterwards. He trailed behind her as she made her way back up the stairs, intending on changing out of her loungewear and into some proper attire. And he stopped beside her as she caught sight of contents of the room beside hers peaking through the door which had been left slightly ajar. The walls were painted with the most tender depictions of rabbits, squirrels, owls and deer, each peaking from amongst a lush forestscape. She found herself magnetically drawn to the scene, fingers ghosting across the hand painted figures on the plaster. Unfazed by her exploration Miko made himself at home on one of the two child-sized beds clothed in crisp white linen. An old oak bookself sat in the far corner of the room, practically bursting. Wilhemina's eyes skipped over many of the brighter, more modern spines, instead drawn to a shelf higher up full of older, more battered volumes whose titles she recognised from her own childhood. Familiar names jumped out to her like old friends - Blyton, Potter, Milne, Dahl. Far too many hours had been spent alone save for their company, whether alone and immobilised in a hospital bed or hidden beneath her bed clothes by torch light trying to block out her parents arguing, these had been her constant companions. She tenderly retrieved Matilda from the shelf, thumbing through the well worn pages, allowing the little girl she kept so securely locked away a moment to breathe, smiling fondly at the words which had given her hope in those moments of darkness.

So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.

She remembered vividly the delicious taste of revenge the first time she had partaken in Matilda's retribution against all those adults who had tried to squash the precocious young girl. More than once she had allowed herself to imagine what it would have felt like to exact similar vengeance against her mother. How sweet it would have felt to bleach her perfectly coiffured hair, to place newts in the punch at one of her horrendous soirees or terrorize her parents with ghostly reminders of their failings. How she longed to make her mother feel an ounce of the pain to which she herself had been subjected.

Still clutching the much loved volume she curled up next to Miko and allowed herself to retreat to a world of childhood comfort in which the underdog could triumph, in which I'm big, you're little could be usurped, in which Miss Honey might reach tenderly from the pages and adopt her too.

That was where Professor Thompson found her several hours later, relishing in the climax of the novel as Matilda vanquished Ms Trunchbull. She smiled fondly at the young woman she had always known to be so controlled and regimented curled lazily against the wall on her granddaughter's bed, Miko lounging against her thigh and contented smile playing across her lips behind a curtain of firey red hair. The floorboards creaked beneath the older woman's feet alerting Wilhemina to her presence. Her cheeks flushed furiously as she sheepishly met the older woman's gaze but found only genuine affection in her grey-blue eyes.

"Don't even think about apologising, my dear. I told you to make yourself at home and I meant it."

In spite of Elizabeth's assurances Wilhemina still felt the need to explain herself. "I didn't mean to end up in here" she began, "I saw the paintings and I only meant to look at them but then I saw the books and -"

"Wilhemina," the older woman cut her off kindly, "stop apologising. You've done nothing wrong, you needn't justify your every action. Not to me at least" she added knowingly. "My daughter will be flattered that you liked her paintings, though I really should show you photos of the masterpiece she created in the children's room back east. She works as a children's illustrator, though I think she would much prefer to do larger pieces like these if there was the work in it."

"I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful" Wilhemina whispered reverently. "Their little faces are just so sweet."

"I'll be sure to tell her you think so. Now, I should leave you to finish with Matilda, dinner should take me twenty minutes or so which, knowing the speed you read at, should be ample time."

"Oh no, it's fine" Wilhemina interjected, "I know how it ends, I've lost count of how many times I read it as a child. I should come and help you."

The older woman sighed, of course Matilda would be a favourite of hers. "Nonsense dear, finish your book. I'll call you when it's ready." And with that she was gone.

Wilhemina was indeed finished with the book when the older woman called her for dinner twenty minutes later, her voice floating up the stairs as if Wilhemina's presence at her dinner table was the most natural thing in the world. The simple meal of pasta Alfredo was passed in companionable silence between the two women, with Miko dividing his time equally between them. He remained under their feet as they cleared the dishes, with Wilhemina bracing her weight against the kitchen counter through her left hip to grant herself two free hands with which to dry the clean dishes as the older woman handed them off to her. Elizabeth shook her head fondly at the young woman's stubborness, once she set her mind to something there really was no stopping her.

Wilhemina was drying and putting away the last of the cutlery when the older woman disappeared momentarily, only to return with a manila folder which she placed atop the freshly cleaned kitchen table. Wilhemina eyed it warily. The older woman placed two cups of tea beside it and gestured for Wilhemina to join her. She did so cautiously.

"No need to look so nervous my dear, it's nothing bad. I just brought home the list of available casual positions from the careers centre on campus, I thought you might like to take a look to see if anything interested you."

Wilhemina froze. Of course it was too good to be true. Of course the kind older woman had grown sick of her already. Why wouldn't she, when she was nothing but a useless burden? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. How could you think that anyone would actually put up with you?

Professor Thompson caught the way Wilhemina's shoulders stiffened and how her jaw tensed, as if preparing herself for an attack. She reached out and took the younger woman's hand in her own.

"There is no pressure dear. This is not about me getting rid of you. I simply thought you might be interested, I know you must be anxious about what comes next, you've never been one to be without a plan." Wilhemina suddenly felt very small and seen in a way she never had been before. It was simultaneously terrifying and yet so, so safe.

"It can wait as long as you like" the older woman continued, "but I'll leave it here for whenever you're ready."

"No, I mean, I'm ready now" Wilhemina blurted, "I just thought you meant-"

"I know my dear, I know" the older woman cut her off with a firm squeeze of her hand, earning her a shy smile from the younger woman. "Would you like me to stay or -"

"Stay" Wilhemina affirmed, "please?"

"Of course dear, now where do you want start?"

"Well, I suppose law or business makes the most sense" Wilhemina sighed, "at least I have some experience there."

"I didn't ask where you should start dear, I asked where you wanted to start - there's a difference. You said your parents chose law for you, what would you have chosen? If you could start over and choose for yourself what would you do?"

Wilhemina froze at that. She had accepted so long ago that she would simply follow the path her parents had set out for her that she had almost managed to convince herself that she wanted it too. It did no-one any good for her to pine after a future that could never be hers.

"I don't know" she stared at the older woman, eyes wide with the realisation.

"What do you miss from highschool then?" the older woman tried. "Is there a subject you enjoyed that you had to give up?"

She considered that for a moment. "Science, maybe?" she added shyly, "I liked that it was predictable, that I could know what to expect."

"Ok" the older woman prompted, fingers rifling through the folder, "any particular area?"

"Electronics or computers, maybe?" She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, as if waiting to be punished for daring to express her own desires.

"Ok, there are a couple here that could fit." The older woman traced her finger through the list of positions. "This one looks interesting. A couple of graduate students from the engineering faculty are looking for someone to help with data management and organisation for a start-up. They seem to be interested in bionic limb development" she added, sliding the paper towards Wilhemina, finger marking the appropriate notice.

Wilhemina scanned the brief description greedily, trying to temper her expectations. It sounded perfect but she daren't allow herself to even begin to hope that it might be possible.

"I think you would be perfect for it."

Wilhemina scoffed in response, "I don't know the first thing about robotics."

"But they aren't asking for that dear, they're asking for someone to help with organisation. They want someone who is meticulous and logical to help keep track of their data - that is you to a T. You would be brilliant at that. And it would allow you to see if it's an area that you like and maybe later you could transition into a more technical position, or go back and study more about it if you wanted."

"Look" the older woman reached out to tap the paper in front of Wilhemina, "it even says they have patents filed and a company formed. It seems to have all the makings of a long term prospect."

Wilhemina could feel her heart start to flutter at the possibility, that maybe, just maybe it wasn't too late for things to change. She scanned through the notice again, Elizabeth was right, it did sound perfect. And try as she might she couldn't help but look at the company name printed at the end of article with the hope that maybe it also inscribed her future.

Kineros Robotics

A/N: there is one more part to come after this, though I think I will likely dip back into this universe as one-shots from time to time to explore some of the key moments between here and apocalypse. If there are any particular things you would be interested to see feel free to hit me up

[libradusk]

Touch Starved | Commander Wolffe

Word Count: 3,088

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Reader

Summary: You hadn’t meant to touch his thigh, honest.

A night of drinking at 79′s quickly turns into something much warmer when your fingers wander where they shouldn’t have.

Warnings: Sinker, Boost and Comet get shitfaced, but the reader and Wolffe remain sober despite the presence of alcohol. This gets pretty suggestive with plenty of heavy petting.

a/n: Wolffe can get a little saucy, as a treat.

You’re beginning to regret your decision as soon as your foot crosses the threshold. 79’s was packed tonight, even more so than usual, and the one empty booth you and the Wolfpack had managed to find and cram into was tiny. You had barely managed to yell your order out to Sinker before both of you had your words stolen, cut off by the screaming bassline of another high-energy dance song. Whatever the indistinct chart-topper was, it was certainly well received by the bar’s inhabitants, as you barely had time to blink before Sinker was swallowed up into a crowd of whooping clones and other civilians. Ah yes, part of the main speaker system was positioned directly behind where you all sat, that certainly explained why no one had claimed your seat before Comet had all but thrown himself into it from across the dance floor. Great, hello approaching hangover and tinnitus.

At least Boost’s awful jokes still managed to carry over the noise, perhaps with some hope, they could distract you from reflecting on how much of Wolffe’s sarcasm had rubbed off on you until your alcohol arrived.

It had been thanks to his silver-haired brother that you had even been persuaded, or rather worn down, into joining the group tonight. The irony of Sinker being chiefly responsible for dragging you here, yet also being the first to peace out on drink duty wasn’t lost on you. You should have ordered something incredibly specific and difficult to remember, just to see if he could get it right and keep him from getting distracted.

Ok, maybe that would have been a bit too mean.

You cringe a little at the way the worn leather cushion beneath you feels almost sticky to the touch, hoping to the love of Maker that it was just the crowded atmosphere making it seem so clammy against your palms. It didn't help that Commander Wolffe wasted no time in sliding in effortlessly next to you, effectively caging you between the connecting wall and the heat of his body.

Well, now you certainly couldn't just blame the club’s atmosphere for your sweaty palms.

It's a bit of a squeeze to fit three fully-armoured men and yourself into the confined space. In the back of your mind, you can't help but wonder how Boost, Comet and Sinker all plan on cramming into one side of the worn couch when the latter returns. The way that Wolffe has already looped his arm dominantly over the top of your shared headrest indicates quite clearly that he is not prepared to share the space anymore than he already is, and you certainly don’t mind getting the Commander all to yourself either, even if its under circumstances that aren’t exactly optimal to your ever-growing yearning. You try to further hone in on the glint of Boost’s grin to distract the growing unrest bubbling low in your stomach, praying that Sinker hurries back quickly with your drink, you were going to need it.

It really does feel like your prayers have been answered when a familiar flash of silver finally slips back through the dancing crowd. Sinker’s smirk is victorious as he successfully hauls the tray of drinks to the tabletop and makes quick work of sliding each of them to their desired recipient. His smile quickly fades however, when he attempts to nudge Boost further down the seat and is instead met with the resistance of the latter’s armoured hip. His finesse all but evaporated, you can only look on and cringe as Sinker is subsequently angled awkwardly towards the floor with a shove from his brother. It sends him barrelling down inelegantly in a flailing mess of limbs that nearly take down several other nearby patrons alongside him, the newly empty drinks tray circling around his crumpled form almost comically.

You can’t help joining in with the erupting laughter that follows as Sinker attempts to heave himself up from the ground without disturbing any more of the glaring dancers around him. Your glass bounces with the force Boost slaps his hand against the table with, and you quickly reach out a hand through your own giggles to stabilise it, already anticipating the headlock that Sinker no doubt plans to capture his brother in. You're so distracted however, that you fail to notice how your free hand has come to rest against Wolffe’s thigh until hard, plastoid plating kisses your fingertips. You both freeze at the contact and his knee knocks against your own leg reflexively, the heat slipping from between his leg plates feels hot and electric as it seeps across your flesh like smoke.

To your side, you hear him exhale a long breath through his nose. The milky-white of his cybernetic eye is trained purposefully straight ahead, but you can tell that his focus is no longer on the squabbling clones across the table.

What now?, you almost speak the words aloud before you catch yourself, lifting your drink with a trembling hand to your lips in a desperate attempt to mask the rising heat prickling across your nerves. Wolffe seems to mirror your thoughts because there's a pause that falls over him then, the only movement he gives being the thoughtful tap of a fingertip against the top of the table.

You almost choke on your cocktail when the warm, vast surface of his right hand suddenly abandons its post behind the headrest to spread across the top of your own, trapping it atop his thigh before you can think to draw it away. His touch is gentle, light, easy for you to slip out of or shake off - deliberate and questioning. Your nerves settle a little at that realisation.

Your eyes dart back to his profile again then, and you find the cybernetic trained strictly on your face now, searching for an answer to an unspoken question - one that's been drifting between you both and pushed away for a while now.

With an inward breath, you stroke your hand higher in a languid answer. The sharp lines of his jaw tighten in time with his grip around you.

What a happy little accident this was turning out to be. You couldn't even blame the alcohol, considering you weren't even halfway through your first drink. Carefully, you slip your fingertips through the gaps in plating concealing his thighs, gliding them across the heated apex of his inner thigh and stroking them in lazy little circles, as though the movement came thoughtlessly to you. Through the material of his blacks, you can feel his muscles twitch with each scrape of your nails and the reaction emboldens you, nurturing your confidence but still continuing to spike the blood flow in your ears. Your eyes are locked onto him, glittering with challenge in the low lighting as you bat the question to him once more.

What now?

If the pigment still danced in his right eye, it would be as dark and dangerous as the growl that rumbled from his throat at that moment. You hold your breath and note that the tapping of his free hand has ceased now, as if it anticipates his next move as much as you do. Across the table, the Wolfpack continue to bicker, still none the wiser to the dangerous little dance their Commander is partaking in under the table. Quickly and without warning, the hand that was previously resting atop your own moves to silently strike. It digs itself into the flesh of your thigh and tugs you even closer towards his body. It's a calculated movement on Wolffe’s part, one that is easily disguised to any watchful eyes as a simple adjustment to your posture to something more comfortable, and it's enabled further by your own attempts to keep your expression as inconspicuous as possible despite the surprise widening in your eyes. His grip is firm now, and he takes great care to draw out the pressure of his thumb against your flesh, dragging it across in a burning path before squeezing all five of his digits in tandem. It's possessive, as though he's marking you with his fingers alone. You’re suddenly incredibly grateful for the leather seat supporting your body, because his touch is quickly devouring any strength supporting your muscles.

He's smirking now, all too aware of how he has affected you.

Your turn.

Damn him.

This game has dragged on for far too long for you to just sit back and let him win.

“Commander Wolffe,” your voice shocks him into a start, as if he wasn’t expecting you to break the charged silence bleeding out between the two of you, “you appear to have a stray hair on your cheek.”

The pretty white lie dances from your lips, it's sticky and wet, dripping with the remnants of your cocktail and something much more playful. Despite his gruff demeanour, Wolffe never wears a hair out of place in his cropped crew-cut, yet he follows along all the same.

He’s twisted to face you completely now and you’re finally granted confirmation of how his good eye has caramelised in colour with the way you’re affecting him. The Commander isn't as ahead of the game as he thinks he is. Satisfaction and excitement bubble within you as you lean closer to him, releasing your touch on his thigh to instead make a private flourish of ghosting curled fingers across the right side of his jaw and cheekbone to wipe away the ‘stray hair’. You have to bite back a chuckle at the sight of his pulse jumping in his neck the moment your skin makes contact with his own. Your unfinished drink stands forgotten now, your grip around its rim abandoned to tuck itself under your own chin and prop your head up in a casual act of defiance.

Wolffe says nothing as you slowly begin to trace the lines of the scar that forks beneath his right eye, but leans into the touch ever so slightly. You had always wondered what it would feel like beneath your fingers, it shines a delicate pink each time the lights catch over it. His gaze softens then, contrasting with the way his hand grips your thigh even tighter for a moment before releasing and mimicking the movement of your touch with his own. A shiver passes down the arch of your spine at the gentle strokes against your inner thigh, and you almost lose your composure once more.

“...Thank you.” His tone is as formal as it always is, but you’re certain his words aren’t simply aimed at playing along with the little charade you’re putting on for the people around you, his voice is far too soft and heavy amidst the noise blanketing around you. It weaves through the lust clouding your thoughts to tug at your heart. Before you can check yourself, you’re threading your fingers carefully in his dark locks and marvelling at the thickness of it as his stare pulls you ever closer towards him.

Oops.

Two out of three pairs of eyes burning into your skull remind you that you aren’t alone in the booth. Sinker has raised a groomed eyebrow knowingly, Comet looks downright scandalised and Boost is… thankfully none the wiser as he jabs a finger in his Sergeant's direction, desperate to retrieve his vod’s attention to continue whatever petty argument he had left stranded between them. Your hands fold back down into your lap as you lean backwards into the embrace of the leather, wishing that somehow it would drag you down into its cushioned depths and away from the embarrassment currently cutting through you. The weight of Wolffe’s leg hooked around your own yanks you back to reality before you can fully give into it.

Oddly enough, it's Sinker that's the one to rescue you and Wolffe from the situation.

He slams a gloved fist down onto the tabletop, brown eyes snapping away from your flushed cheeks to flicker between the soldiers crammed into the seat next to him. Comet jumps at the sudden charged atmosphere and rushes to snatch his drink away from Sinker’s loosely clenched fist. Boost’s expression however, sours as both his hands lift in indignation at his brother’s erratic action.

“Why the kriff did you do that for Sinker, you great-”

“Shut it. We’re settling this with a drinking competition at the bar side. Comet, you’re coming too, Boost’s as good at cheating as he is at going without a bath, so you’re in charge of judging.”

Before either of them can utter another word of protest, Sinker has them both hauled to their feet and drags them across the dance floor towards where the bar sits, obscured by hordes of inebriated dancers and rowdy clones picking arm-wrestle matches with their squad mates. You have to blink a couple of times to reassure yourself that you’re not dreaming after all, not quite sure how you managed to get out of that situation with the rest of your dignity intact. Owing Sinker for life was nowhere near as daunting as the thought of being teased by Boost for the rest of the war was. Had you have had half your wits about you, you would have thought to slip him a few credits in thanks.

A frustrated sigh to your left grabs your attention before it can drift ever further away. In your peripheral, you catch Wolffe pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and a flustered chuckle slips past you at the sight.

“Sorry.” Your apology is as rosy as your face, and you fight in vain to keep down your smile as you gaze at him. It coaxes the curve of his lips into one of his own at the sight, mismatched eyes darting across your warm expression. There's another gentle period of silence that falls between you then before he begins to draw circles across the tense muscle of your thigh once more.

“Don’t be.” He pats your leg once before swinging his own out from under the table and rising to stand, unceremoniously yanking you to your feet in one fluid movement. You stumble against him in surprise, grabbing at his chest and shoulders in an attempt to keep upright and not charge headfirst into the pool of people carelled behind you both. A chuckle vibrates across his shoulders and you glare up at him to see him smirking victoriously down at you, one dark eyebrow cocked in challenge.

They should have nicknamed him Snake instead of Wolffe, you think, because that was a dirty move.

His fingers slip from your wrist to curl amidst your own, lacing the two of you together and running softly across the bones of your knuckles. This constant contrast between rugged dominance and surprising tenderness was going to be the death of you, it was becoming ever harder to keep up with each action he lavished upon you. Touch alone was steadily becoming no longer enough, your self control was frantically untying itself with each pound of the music in your ears.

You needed to taste him - certain at this point, that you would melt away without the press of his lips against your own. The bob of his throat where the armour failed to hide it signified that his thoughts seemed to mirror your own. One last squeeze of his hand is all it takes for him to begin dragging you both away, past the crowds and curious faces with little better to do, and far away from where the Wolfpack were currently slumped knocking back shots on Republic credit.

79’s seems to stretch a lot wider when you have need coursing through your veins, and at this point the air is clinging to you in such a way that you feel positively dizzy with excitement. Wolffe navigates the crowded space with the deftness of a dancer, weaving quickly through the crowd faster than you can properly register their faces. As you both approach the refreshers, the thought crosses your mind that he must be planning to whisk you away in there to continue your tryst, but Wolffe keeps on moving. Eventually you stumble out the back of the building, and the sensation of stepping out into the clear night air is reminiscent of emerging from underwater with the way your ears pop with relief. The atmosphere around the back-end of the club is so peaceful it almost feels eerie to think you’re still on Coruscant. You have all but three seconds to appreciate the coolness drifting over your skin before Wolffe pins you up against the closed door.

His hands are on you immediately, clawing over your torso with a desperation he can no longer hide and the promise that their touch will continue to haunt your memories long after they pull away. They linger on the curve of your hips for a moment, before digging into the meat of your thighs and backside to clumsily hoist you closer towards him still. You let go then and give into his hunger, your own teeth scraping against the exposed sliver of his throat as you choke back a moan at the half growl, half purr he emits at your response.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now,” The words are low and rumbling against your jaw, choked out between the sloppy, biting kisses he plants there, “wanted - ah - wanted you for a long while now-”

He was going to ruin you, and you plan to fully revel in the way he does it.

“The feeling is very much mutual, Wolffe.” You smile as you angle your head to finally slot your mouth against his own, groaning as he presses back in an open-mouthed clash of tongue and teeth, his confession warming you in more ways than one. You keen as he presses his hips harder into your own, the ridges of his codpiece grazing you almost bruisingly, and making you wish that you had the strength to reach out and strip him bare to the moonlight right there and then.

It all feels so naughty - like you’ve been hunted, cornered and devoured by him, even when you had been orchestrating it all just as much as he had. Deep beneath the haze that has settled over your mind, a tiny part of you wonders how this evening will affect your working relationship.

A strong squeeze to your rear quickly shatters that thought and lets it drift away with the shared moan that sounds through the air.

[woodstockbtswriter]

Valentine

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 1.87K

Summary: Jungkook happily cares for you when you’re sick on Valentine’s Day.

Author’s Note: I tweaked the request a tiny bit so you just have a fever, hope that’s okay! And wouldn’t we all love to have a Jungkook to take care of us? I know I would! Anyway, please enjoy! 💕

Requested by @animeenthusiastxoxo​

Valentine

You could hear someone saying your name, but you found it difficult to open your eyes. Then a strong hand was on your shoulder, gently shaking you.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” A playful voice teased.

You slowly peeled your eyelids back, and Jungkook’s kind face came into focus in front of you.

“Hi.” He grinned, showing all his teeth. “Did you have a nice nap?”

Taking a second to orient yourself, you realized you were sprawled out on your couch, and Jungkook was kneeling on the floor next to you.

You moaned, covering your face with your hands.

“What time is it?” You asked.

“Just after 6:00.” Jungkook replied, poking your side. “We need to leave soon if we want to make our reservation.”

You uncovered your face, and your eyes were drawn to the bouquet of flowers in Jungkook’s hand.

“Oh, no.” You groaned.

Reservations, flowers… He’d really gone all out for your first official date. He was even wearing a sleek new suit. And here you were, still a lump on the sofa.

Mustering all your strength, you pulled yourself up into a sitting position. You felt unusually weak, and your head was throbbing, but still you were determined to apologize.

“Jungkook, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to rest for a minute, then I was going to start getting ready, but I must have fallen asleep-”

“It’s okay.” Jungkook’s nose scrunched as he smiled. “You must have been tired. I’m glad you were able to rest.”

You shook your head, despite how heavy it felt.

“No, it’s not okay. I’m not ready. I’m not even dressed.” You said as you ran a hand over your hair, sure it was in knots. “I’m a mess.”

Jungkook gave you a cursory glance, then met your gaze, smiling softly.

“You’re beautiful.” He disagreed, his voice small and shy. “You’re always beautiful.”

A faint pink colored Jungkook’s cheeks, and your own face felt warm, too.

“Thank you.” You looked to your lap to hide your blush. “But I can’t go out to dinner in my sweatpants.”

“I don’t mind.” Jungkook argued. “Really, I don’t care what you wear. I just want you to be comfortable. But we have a few minutes, you can get dressed if you want.”

“I don’t want to make us late.” You protested. “We’ll lose our reservation.”

Jungkook sat the flowers down and grasped both of your hands, pulling you up with him as he stood. A wave of dizziness rocked you as you reached your feet, but Jungkook didn’t seem to notice you sway.

“Don’t worry about it.” He tried to reassure you. “I’ll call the restaurant and tell them we’re on our way. You just go get ready. I’ll wait.”

“Okay.” You agreed, willing your knees to not give out beneath you.

You closed your eyes, trying to clear the fog from your head before you headed to your room to change. After a long moment, you felt Jungkook squeeze your hands.

“Yah… Are you okay?” He asked.

You opened your eyes, and saw Jungkook’s bunny smile was replaced by a small frown. He swept his fingers across your forehead, brushing your hair back, and you felt like your heart might beat out of your chest - though only partially because of Jungkook’s touch.

“Are you still groggy from your nap? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you-” He paused, his fingers still on your brow, and his frown deepened. “Yah, you’re really warm.” He observed, flattening his hand to press his entire palm to your skin. “Actually, you’re hot. You’re burning up. I think you have a fever.”

You blinked slowly as Jungkook moved his hand from your forehead to cup your cheek.

“That would explain a lot.” You admitted feebly. “I’ve felt kind of off all day.”

Jungkook’s thumb gently stroked your cheekbone.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t feel well?” He sighed. “We could have rescheduled.”

You leaned into Jungkook’s hand.

“I don’t want to reschedule.” You whined. “It’s our first date! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this day? And it’s Valentine’s… I’m sure you have a whole incredible night planned. I don’t want to miss it. Just let me throw some clothes on-”

You attempted to take a step, but Jungkook’s arms encircled you, holding you still.

“Your health is more important.” He said gently, his eyes full of concern. “Everything else can wait.”

“I’m fine, JK, really,” You tried to move again, but this time your legs didn’t cooperate, and you slumped in Jungkook’s hold.

“Okay, come on. Let’s go.” Jungkook huffed, and before you could object, he swept your legs out from underneath you and scooped you up into his arms. You wanted to be indignant about being manhandled, but it felt too nice to be so close to him.

Cradling you against his chest, he crossed the living room and reached your bedroom in several long strides. He then laid you gently in your bed, pulling the covers up over you before he sat down next to you on the edge of the mattress.

“Do you have any other symptoms?” Jungkook asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket and typing something in. “Coughing, sneezing, nausea, pain?” He elaborated, his gaze fixated on his screen as he scrolled.

Your eyes fell shut as you tried to think, but you couldn’t concentrate. Your thoughts were too jumbled and fleeting. You took a deep breath, then shivered when a chill ran up your spine. You might be burning up, but you felt freezing.

“I’m just tired.” You grumbled, pulling your covers up higher. “And cold.”

You felt Jungkook lay a hand on your arm.

“You just rest.” He said quietly. “Leave everything to me.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” You exhaled, willing yourself to relax and allowing your drowsiness to catch up to you.

You were just starting to doze when you felt the mattress shift. Not bothering to open your eyes, you heard Jungkook whisper, “I’ll be right back,” as he climbed off the bed and snuck out of the room.

What seemed like a millisecond later, you felt him sink down next to you again, but this time he touched your face.

“I found a thermometer.” He said gently when you looked up at him. “I’m going to take your temperature, okay?”

You gave a small nod, and he slid the instrument across your brow. There was a small beep, and you watched Jungkook’s face, concentrating as he read the display.

“Definitely a fever.” He muttered, setting the thermometer aside. He then produced a small bottle of pain relief medicine and poured two tablets into his palm. He held the medicine out to you with a glass of water. “Here,” He told you, “Take these. They should bring the fever down.”

After you swallowed the pills, Jungkook took the glass from you and helped you lay back down.

“If you’re not feeling better in the morning, I’ll call the doctor,” He explained, fluffing your pillows, “But in the meantime, you should rest. I’ll stay here and get you anything you need.”

“You don’t have to stay.” You said without thinking. You did want him to stay, but you felt guilty. “I don’t want to ruin your night. I’m sure you’d rather go home, and I don’t want to get you sick. Really, I’ll be fine if-”

“No, no, no,” Jungkook shook his head, chuckling, “I’m not going anywhere. We agreed to spend Valentine’s together, and that’s what we’re going to do. And besides,” His gaze softened as he found your hand and squeezed your fingers, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

A feeling of relief washed over you, and you couldn’t hold back the smile that was blooming on your face. You were touched, and so grateful.

“Thank you, Jungkook.” You breathed. “That really means a lot to me.”

Color tinged his cheeks again, spreading to the tips of his ears, but he shook his head.

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s the least I can do.” He replied, then quickly changed the subject. “So, can I get you anything else? Are you hungry? I could order food. Or do you want some ice cream?” He started talking fast. “It’s supposed to help with a fever. Well, popsicles specifically, but you don’t have any in your freezer. But ice cream should probably do the same thing, right?”

“Probably.” You agreed. “But how do you know that?”

Jungkook cast his face down, his expression a little self-conscious.

“I looked up what to do when someone has a fever.” He confessed.

You smiled to yourself, and squeezed Jungkook’s fingers in return.

“I don’t really have much of an appetite…” You told him, and he lifted his face, his large eyes wide, “But ice cream sounds good.”

Jungkook’s bunny grin lit up his face again.

“Coming right up.” He beamed.

Jungkook returned carrying two bowls piled high with your favorite ice cream a few minutes later, and helped you sit up to eat. He then removed his suit coat and kicked off his shoes before crawling over to sit next to you on the bed. Once he was settled, he turned on your TV to play your favorite show, picking an episode you both had memorized. You ate together in comfortable silence, and though you were still chilly, the cold treat seemed to help you feel a little better.

When you finished your ice cream, your mind felt clearer, but the exhaustion that had overwhelmed you earlier was still looming. Jungkook noticed your gaze becoming unfocused, and turned off the TV before pulling you into his arms and laying your head on his shoulder. He encouraged you to close your eyes, and you happily complied, warmed by his body heat and lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Rubbing your back rhythmically, he began singing your favorite song, his clear voice hushed and soothing.

“Jungkook?” You murmured into his shirt after only one verse, already half-asleep.

“Hmm?” He hummed back, pausing his song.

“I really appreciate you taking care of me.” You sighed, your voice fading. “Sorry for being a lousy date. I hope I didn’t ruin your Valentine’s.”

“You could never ruin anything for me.” Jungkook exhaled, his breath tickling your face.

“Okay, good.” You sighed again, sinking deeply into his embrace, your heart full. “Mmm, goodnight, Jungkook. I love you.” You mumbled, your unspoken feelings escaping you just as you drifted off to sleep.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, and his hand froze on your back, but when he noticed your breathing evening out, he relaxed. Tightening his hold on you, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I love you, too.” Jungkook whispered, relieved to feel the skin beneath his lips was already cooler.

He then closed his eyes, gently resting his head atop yours, and smiled to himself, his heart soaring. He didn’t mind at all that nothing had gone according to his plan. As long as he was with you, he was happy. And though he felt bad that you were sick… he couldn’t deny that tonight had been a truly memorable first date.

And the best Valentine’s Day he’d ever had.

[seijohsfairy]

𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁

sometimes you meet a stranger on a windy balcony in the middle of the city, and sometimes you fall in love with him too.

.wordc. 4k+ tw yandere, implied noncon, toxic relationships, older meian, daddy kink, cunnilingus, brief drug use, fluff ??

+

If the light hits you right, you look infinite. And even if it doesn’t, you still look about a million miles out of his league for what he’s concerned. All bright smiles and quiet apologies when passing by people. He should be a waste of free time to you for all intents and purposes. A face in the crowd. The thought makes his chest feel a bit tight though, because despite the irrationality of it, he still wants to be here. With you, bathed in the glow of the sun and resting so peacefully beside him.

He doesn’t like feeling like just another guy, reminds him too much of his past disaster relationship. Which is why you’re so different, so perfect. Other people judge, you don’t. You never judge him, so he thinks the least he can do is the same in return. His ex-wife still has the keys to his place, though she doesn’t have the intention of using them ever again. She’ll lose the keys long, long before he changes all the locks. You still have to get settled into his bed first, but if you were to ask for the keys he’d let another set be made instantly.

Because he’s known you for only a little while and you already have his heart beating erratically. No longer overcome with the sense of longing. If anyone were to ask, and his friends do on occasion, he’d tell them this is it.

Now, there’s you. A stunning, young thing, beaming warmth and goodness from the seams. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here, truth be told, because as much as he stares at you through thinly veiled casual curiosity, there’s no changing the fact that he could be twice your age and you should most likely be disgusted by him.

He’d been coming to that quiet balcony staring out into nothing everyday for months. But you’d walked up to smoke beside him, resting your chin on the railing and looking so fucking small and vulnerable. Maybe it’s the way you don’t even spare him a second glance, not gawking at the huge, hulking attraction of a guy he finds himself being looked at so often, or the little tears that glisten at the base of your lashes as you take a deep pull and let the drug filter in. He guesses that to you, most people are big and overwhelming, considering.

He’s no longer in his prime. He knows it better than most, is confronted with it every time his reflection catches him. He’d thought it then, still thinks it now. Older, divorced and between being busy with work and his growing collection of dropped hobbies, there’s hardly anything he can offer you. He’s at least lucky he’s not balding, but he knows he looks pretty much his age with the thin lines here and there, slightly greying temples and stubble that doesn’t stay away long when he shaves. God, he feels old.

It’s a fucking miracle and a half that he managed to keep his usual wit, entertaining you in your nightly loneliness and carefully offering to walk you back to your street for safety. It’s difficult not to seem like a threat when you’re— him, but he’d been genuine. You were too tiny and kind to be out by yourself. You’d taken it, too sure that he was out for no harm. Looking back, that young naivety is something he should be worried about.

He didn’t buy his way into your pants that night, but you’d clearly been some level of upset, so that first time had been a lucky lay. A one off, he’d thought. The way you creamed around his cock and moaned so softly, so beautiful when digging your nails into his shoulders. You could’ve told him it was a dream, slipped out like nothing ever happened.

He’d forgive you. At this point he’s almost certain he’d do anything for you. If you asked him to seriously injure your asshole boss for you, he wouldn’t think long. You’re too kind to ask that though, too forgiving too. He takes a few deep breaths as he thinks, finally tearing his eyes away from your cute, sleeping pout to look out the window.

There’s some noise from the waking city outside, he still worries it’s gonna wake you badly and you’ll curse him for one of the many mishaps he’s committed against you and walk right out. You could’ve, probably should’ve. But you’ve ended up in his bed a few times now, and every time it gets harder to just let you go with a coffee and a quick kiss that doesn’t promise much of anything. He’s not even sure that you have his number. But as long as you keep showing up to that balcony, he’ll give you whatever you want.

An almost unnoticeable tap comes to his shoulder. When he turns, you’re up, barely. Eyes open just the tiniest sliver, shuffling a little closer to his warmth. Fuck. You’re so fucking tiny compared to him, his huge, burly body sticking out like a sore thumb from the blankets while you’re buried deep in them. He stays on his back when he reaches over and runs a thumb along your cheekbones, letting the soft skin warm under it. You snuggle into his chest with the last of your fruity, soft perfume that clashes so violently against his.

It makes his chest feel like it’s caving in, pulling the air out of his lungs with each move you make. And he’s always had a bit of a possessive streak, but this is on a whole new level. He doesn’t want you to leave. He shouldn’t let you.

“Mornin’,” he offers, voice too deep and a bit raspy. You hum. Your palm presses to his chest, not hard enough to push, though that is what he thinks at first. Only just enough pressure to be present, to feel his skin under yours. Hesitantly, he rests his hand on your hip under the blankets, running the calloused pads of his fingertips over your exposed side. You mumble something about the light and the curtains, slurring the words and making him utterly weak once again. “Yeah, s’my bad.” He takes a deep breath, and you make no effort to get up.

“Have breakfast with me?” You look utterly content in his arms. Say yes. Say yes. “Or ya can use the shower, I think ‘m gonna take a day off.” He knows, actually, because he’ll at least drive you back home if nothing else. You’re not taking a tram all the way back to your apartment, he won’t let you. He doesn’t feel the need to tell you that right now though.

Doesn’t need to tell you how jealous he feels when he sees you text someone in the morning, but it’s only because he knows how lovable you are. It’s every soft breath, every time you talk or wrap your lips around your straw and each time you adjust your bra or panties or prance in with skirts that should be too fucking short to wear outside, or say his name in that lower, softer rhythm that has him going entirely crazy.

And with a mumbled agreement, he pulls you close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, as you let out a sleepy giggle and kiss his neck.

+

It’s been almost two months of unspoken routine. You don’t always show, but most nights you do. At least once a week for sure. You know the way to his place, hid out from the rain once. You know where he stashes the fresh towels and you’ve flipped through the pictures of him in the national hall with his arms thrown around his team, drenched in sweat. You talk over a glass of champagne that you admit to bringing to impress him with hot cheeks. It takes a little coaching but you let him in too, the few times he visits your apartment, your roommate out for the night.

But you look more at ease in his house, he thinks. Giddy being swayed in his strong arms and being lifted off your feet to reach the higher shelves. He guesses two months in you reach the honeymoon phase, though you’ve still yet to label it, which admittedly, gnaws at him. You don’t seem like the type to leave his house and run into someone else’s arms, but sometimes he thinks the one mark over the row of other splotches on your tits doesn’t look familiar enough to be his.

Sometimes he walks you to the tram and some guy sneaks a good look at your ass, and you don’t flinch. You smile at the next door neighbor, a guy frustratingly close to your age, and he smiles back. Maybe, maybe you’re fucking them too, it does seem to come naturally to you. He doesn’t resent you for it, but that guy— you wince when his fingers dig too hard into your hip. That’s when he has to soften, apologize and lean down to kiss you, which at least you don’t shy away from.

One Saturday you come to the balcony late.

Nervously picking at the elbows of your sweater, he takes a long look at you. You walk up closer after a breath of silence, before slowly wrapping yourself around his side. Your breathing is shaky when you cling on. “I’m glad you waited for me, I don’t— wanna be alone right now.” He knows he shouldn’t, but he tilts your head up into view to watch your teary eyes clench shut, you’re shaking. He might be too, but for different reasons.

You’re so perfect. An angel, his angel, no one should so much as look at you wrong.

“Who did this?” he breathes, and you flinch at the harshness of his voice. But he could never hurt you. Ever. There’s a sprouting seed of anger growing with each passing second though. He lets out a trembling breath. “Tell me who did this to ya.” He’ll kill them, he’ll kill them, whoever hurt you, he’ll—

“No,” you say. Why? His mouth is already opening again, but you tug at his shirt collar and look at him so sadly that for a moment he forgets all about anything else. Nothing beside you matters anyway. “Leave it, Shugo.” You all but pull yourself toward him by the fabric to make a little kissy pout, and fuck, there it is. His little baby. He kisses you, gently and slowly a few times as you whisper it to him again. You can sense that he’s mad, but there’s no way you know just how much.

He lets you kiss him deeper, tongue melting with yours and pull you up against his body for safety, lets you pretend that everything is okay and eventually laugh it off as you two stumble into his apartment with heavy pants, biting down on the skin of your neck hard. He throws your legs over his shoulders and buries his head between your legs and makes you cum, and cum and cum. Lets you fall asleep right after, brushing his fingers along your shoulder and so close he’s scared his heartbeat will wake you.

It’s an hour or so after that your phone shakes, lighting up with a message. Someone named Alex apologizing about the fight and about making you cry. More messages come, a group chat of your “friends” this time and how they should have been more understanding, that they too are sorry. The timing is too neat not to have been talked about too. Would you really miss a bunch of gossip like that?

The light shuts off again after a few seconds, and he stares down at you sleeping so peacefully. Is it so wrong to just want you to be happy like this all the time, not worrying about any of them? You’re safe in his arms. Other people are unpredictable. They cause issues.

You’re too sweet to see it though, but he’s got some years of experience on you.

After a shower early in the morning he goes out for coffee, back again before you wake up. He smiles a bit wider when you do wake and your troubles from last night seem to have evaporated with the sun. His innocent, perfect little flower. He’ll never let you feel like that again.

Shugo watches you sit on the counters and talk as you lick at the whipped cream moustache, kisses you until you melt in his hold too. He asks you to be his girlfriend with a deep rumble of his morning voice, and you say ‘yes’, eyes wide with surprise but happy nevertheless.

He doesn’t tell you it when pushing your hair away from your face, kissing down your neck and feeling your legs wrap around his waist. But he really loves you, you know?

+

Your friend Alex is declared missing six days after your fight with him, and you’re inconsolable for a few hours when the police calls. He understands that, though the tears in your eyes are a bit too much for him. Your friend hurt you, wounded you, you shouldn’t be this sad. What comes around goes around, doesn’t it? But he understands that you’re too kind and naive to see it. However, he doesn’t understand when you tell him you need a few days to be alone.

It won’t do you any good, you’ll just be lonely and he tries to tell you as much, but you just get more upset at his touch. You push his hands off when he tries to pull you back, and he’s gotta admit, that stings.

“He’s just missing,” he ends up mumbling, “it’s not like he’s dead.”

Your eyes go wide, and you stare at him for a few moments, before getting off the couch and walking over to the hall and when he tries to ask where you’re going, you’re basically shooting him lightning, your tears running in crooked lines down your face. “I can’t believe you just said that like it’s no big deal that he’s gone,” you hiss, and maybe it’s that youthful fighting spirit that breaks out next when he tries to comfort you again. “Don’t fucking touch me, I’m going home.” The clock is so loud as it ticks. Oh, so that’s how it is. You’re attached to your friends like that, yeah?

He watches you stomp around his house as you collect your stuff, whispering curses under your breath when you can’t find your shoes fast enough. He stays quiet. You pause before leaving, tell him you’re going to your best friend’s place, and that he shouldn’t worry. He might have responded before you slam the door, he’s a bit too lost in thought.

You’re perfect for him, one little fight won’t change that, you’re not to blame here. But it becomes glaringly clear that he’s right. Your friends are no good.

+

Sometimes you feel like you’re here too often, considering it’s only been three months and a bit. You like Shugo a lot though, he’s as sweet as he’s big and you think it’s the former Captain in him that always seems to know you before you know you. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s so attractive it makes you dizzy. But despite all his best efforts, it’s been a bit lonely. And quiet. This isn’t necessarily a strange thing in itself, if not for the way you left it off with your friends.

Dropping off your radar so slowly it’s barely noticeable, the people you talk to everyday don’t start conversation anymore. Your messages go unread for days at a time, and when they’re finally opened it’s the same short response. ‘Super busy, no time to talk.’ You in comparison have never had this much free time, but ever since the fight Shugo’s been on his best behaviour. He even made sure to move his work home so you wouldn’t be too alone while you’re still on break. His idea too, said the stress has clearly been taking a toll on you.

He’s not entirely wrong either. With everything changing so suddenly, you’ve never felt smaller. You feel fragile. Shugo’s good company though, never bothered by your attention being on him. You let out a breath, drumming your fingers on your knees, deciding it’s been a bit. You get off the bed and tiptoe into the living room where he sits with his eyes aimed at the screen, hair loose and dress shirt two buttons lower than it should be to keep you sane.

You walk up behind your big hulk of a boyfriend to put your chin on his shoulder, hugging him close. Shugo makes a soft noise of agreement, and you rest your nose at his cheek. “Are you hungry? I can make you a snack.”

“S’alright, baby. ‘M gonna finish up ‘ere and pay attention to ya.” With a few clicks more he closes the laptop, getting up from the chair and sweeping you up into a bridal lift so quickly it makes you hick, giggles breaking out after.

“You’re already done?”

His pretty eyes are aimed down at you with a kind of shine you rarely see with other people. It’s so intense, sometimes it’s almost a bit scary. But to have been a top level athlete for years does take a ton of dedication, so it’s no wonder he’s dedicated in other areas as well. “No, just realized I’ve got a hunger for somethin’ else.” He easily carries you back to where you came from, tossing you down on the bed and kneeling over you. His lips curl a little when you blink up at him, before he nods at your chest. “Take that off for me.”

The flimsy top you’d thrown on comes off just as easily at the order, pulling the few bows and shrugging it off. You smile at him sweetly as you grab your tits, pushing them together a little. “Like this, daddy?” He grunts some agreement when he lowers himself, but you roll over before he can use his mouth on you like he so obviously wants to, grin slipping on. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you down on the bed more by your shorts and you squeak when his palm instead traces along your back, settling at the top of your spine and wrapping around your neck. The bed shifts when he sits down over your legs.

“You’re gonna be testy?” It barely takes a second for him to have you back the other way, yanking your legs up and pulling your shorts along with your underwear over the curve of your ass and up your legs. “I don’t fuckin’ think so,” he says, pushing one knee to your chest and you quickly hook your arm around it. He dips down to press a few kisses down your chest, then licking a stripe up the underside and taking your nipple into his mouth. You don’t think you’ll ever grow tired of how easy it is to let him take the lead, his fingers slipping between your legs to dip into your little cunt and rubbing your clit.

“Mhm, wet already?” He chuckles, sucking harder until you mewl under him and spread your thighs more. Tugging him a bit closer by his hair, he slips a finger inside and pushes his palm up to your sensitive nub, sucking marks all over the last ones. You shake under him, rolling your hips to meet the precise, practiced way his finger curls into you before he adds another. With a loud pop he disconnects from your other nipple to squeeze your tits together, then kneeling at the side of the bed. “C’mere.”

Your hips angled up to give him better access, he fucks his fingers into you faster and deeper, now instead starting to lick and suck at your pussy and your oversensitive clit. He lets you rub against his tongue and beg for more, giving into you so easily. And you moan louder as the feeling builds, being driven crazy. “Daddy.” You push softly at his head once you’re close, looking at him so blissed out between your legs. “I’m gonna-”

“Y’taste so fuckin’ good.” The short sentence is enough to have your head spinning, definitely when he dives back in again and fucks his fingers right into that spot.

“Ahng, I’m gonna cum. Please don’t stop.” You know he has no intention to. Sucking over and rubbing his tongue along your clit until your vision goes white and your toes curl, back arching from the bed. “Holy — fuck, fuck, ah- daddy, daddy, thank you.” You cum so hard your head pounds, and only when you twitch from overstimulation does he pull away.

You sit up right away to pull him onto the bed and towards the headboard so you can ride him, but a flash of light catches your eye.

On the bedside table, your phone’s ringing. Only, it’s not ringing so much as it’s lighting up. And normally you wouldn’t care, but a thought worms it’s way out of you. “Is my phone on silent?” You didn’t do that. You wouldn’t have, considering you’ve been waiting for people to ring you back for ages. So… Shugo must’ve.

You reach for it, but his arms are longer and he snatches the device right from under you, something that makes your brows furrow. “Daddy, give it back, I wanna know who’s calling,” you pout, watching a bit absentmindedly as he turns the screen away and taps something.

“No one’s calling.”

Your brain whirls. “Yes, it was. Give it to me, I want to talk to my friend.” You would’ve let it ring, you’re still hot and bothered and Shugo’s very hard in his shorts, but you can’t make sense of it. “Shugo, give me—”

He holds it away when you reach for it again, and this time your brows furrow hard enough to look like a glare. But he doesn’t give in, frowning back at you. “It’s not gonna be your friends, ya know that, it’s a wrong caller.” You know that. Your head pounds harder, and another thought makes it’s way up, but you try to squash such an ugly thought. No way your boyfriend would have something to do with the radio silence.

He taps away as you try to make sense of it, you never once hesitated giving him your phone, you never had anything to hide. But the blocked numbers, the opened messages, all your calendar notes vanishing. You thought your phone was old, that the apps were freaking out. “There, ’s gone.”

“My friends—”

“Stop talkin’ about your stupid friends,” he snaps, wrapping his arm around you and pulling your vunerable, naked body into his lap as he tosses the phone aside in some laundry, “they’re no good. I’ll take care of ya.” And you try to pull back to look at him, really look at him, in hopes that this is some kind of joke. But he stares down at you like he’s making total sense, and you’re too confused and surprised to do much of anything. “They won’t bother us anymore, promise. I took care of ‘em.” With that he kisses you again, and you feel like the world crumbles around you.

He pulls you closer, rocks his hips into you and it’s almost automatic when you kick at his thigh to get out of his reach, falling back onto the bed. Part of you wants to ask, but a larger part of you just wants out of here. Far away from him for a while. Your stomach is so heavy, you don’t know what to make of any of this. Just that it isn’t right, the way he’s looking at you with such intensity isn’t all there. You start climbing off the bed, quickly fishing your clothes from the ground. But two strong arms wrap too tight around you, a hand coming over your mouth as he yanks you back into him. Grip painfully tight on your face.

“You can’t leave.” He pries the clothes from your grip, ripping them in half in the process. And you trash against him, tears welling up as you realize how terrifying this is. “You’re mine,” he coos it sickeningly sweet, grip loosening for only a second when you kick at his shin and claw at his arms. “Just—” It’s no use, he’s so, so much bigger than you. He drags you back and bends you over the bed, holding you by your neck and pressing his shin over your legs before he uses his entire body weight to keep you in place.

“You’re still mine, right?” The kisses he plants on the side of your neck are so cold now, they make you sick. He rubs himself on your hip, hard cock twitching. Like this is just some lover’s spat to him, like you aren’t crying your eyes out right now. He presses a kiss to your head. “Ya don’t have’ta be upset, it’s only ‘cause I love ya.”

[andawaywego]

Your fics are my favorite! Could you write one where some guy hitting on Dani too aggressively and won’t leave so Jamie has to step in? Maybe punches him, Dani takes care of her hand after and has a lot of feelings

okay! so i also got a more recent prompt for someone asking for Jamie to defend Dani, so this is for both of you guys. i hope you like it!

(check it out in my prompt collection for a bonus ending written by my hilarious bud, Julia)

..

Growing up, the storybooks always made Dani think that heroes come in suits of armor. Broad-shouldered, tall, handsome strangers who wait for you at the bottom of the tower asking you to let down your hair, give them your heart, just let them save you and they’ll love you forever, promise. And there was something about that she never wanted—she’s never seen herself in that throne room or glass coffin or anywhere else where a princess might need saving.

Because, no. She doesn’t need any saving that she can’t provide for herself. And she knows that. Really, she does.

But then again, she’s never had anyone knock a guy on his ass for her. At least, not until—

_____________________

Rewind.

The last night of Owen’s visit, they go to a bar in Burlington for drinks. It’s not a place they frequent, no, but it’s nearby and always seems busy. Certainly that can’t mean it’s unliked.

And it is nice enough. Clean booths, even if the benches are cracked vinyl, nice enough waitresses, good lighting and, importantly, not too loud. It’s a Friday, so it is fairly packed and it’s late, too, what with them having decided to come last minute after letting Owen cook them one more meal (“You’ll have plenty of leftovers,” he’d said, “so you won’t have to do take-out for a bit”; always trying to take care of them, even when he lives on the other side of the ocean).

He and Jamie are trying to outdrink one another, though neither of them had said this aloud. Dani sits beside her girlfriend, arm around her waist, and watches them fondly as some of Jamie’s beer dribbles down her chin. Somehow, she manages to finish before Owen does, and then she’s slamming her glass back down on the table in front of her, liquid spilling into her lap and Dani laughs.

“Oh my god,” she says, reaching across the table for the napkin holder. “You’re a mess.” She grabs a handful of them and turns Jamie’s head her way, mopping her face up while Jamie smiles and laughs at her own ridiculousness.

Owen stops drinking with just a splash left and sets his own mug down, shaking his head as he makes himself swallow. “I refuse to look like that,” he says, gesturing to her beer-stained flannel. “You win.”

“You refuse to look like what? A winner?” Jamie counters, a triumphant gleam in her eye that makes Dani sort of feel like swooning, even though that’s silly.

“A wet winner,” Dani amends and Jamie must be buzzed because her smirk only gets wider and she wiggles her eyebrows at Dani. “Stop.” Dani pretends to push her away as Jamie darts in quickly to plant a kiss on her cheek. 

“God, stop being so bloody happy,” Owen complains, not an ounce of animosity in his voice or his expression. “You’re making me ill.”

“That’s probably because of the beer you just guzzled down,” Dani tells him and Jamie cackles.

“She’s got your number,” she says. She lifts her hand up then, burping into her fist and then apologizing and Dani rolls her eyes.

Sometimes, it’s a wonder that this is the same woman who could make her weak-kneed with just a look. More than anyone Dani has ever known in her life, Jamie contains multitudes.

“I’m gonna get you two some water,” Dani says, getting up. 

Jamie throws her a happy grin and Owen gives a sincere, “Thank you,” that Dani waves off. She’s only a foot away from the two of them resume their childish bickering. 

Slowly, Dani weaves her way through the other patrons and makes her way to the bar, keeping to herself as much as possible. It isn’t as if she’s been in many, but it seems strange, almost, how the atmosphere of the place can change with the types of people who choose to inhabit it. When they first arrived, the place seemed warm and friendly—lots of clean lines and light greys. A modern-looking chandelier strung above the main tables past the bar. An exposed brick wall beside the booths. Without too many people in it, the space had seemed almost bonhomous. Welcoming.

Now, as the evening grows later and people are getting more and more into their cups, it’s begun to lose some of what made it convivial. 

So she tightens up her posture, holds her shoulders and head higher, and finds an empty space beside the bar to wait while the bartender assists someone else. There’s a song playing from the jukebox in the corner, but she can’t make out any of the words or even tell what key the melody is in. All she can hear is the distant, seemingly random scatter of an asynchronous beat.

“What have I done to deserve this?”

It takes Dani a moment to realize that, despite the phrasing, the question is being asked in relation to her presence. There’s a man sitting on a stool beside where she’s standing and he’s looking at her with dark eyes that make her feel even more on display. He’s smartly dressed, like he’d come to the bar directly from his office, and his tie is loosened around his neck, the top buttons undone in a blatant show of after-hours leisure. 

There’s something to the way he’s looking at her—the parting of his chapped lips—that makes her feel trapped. Makes her heart speed up in her chest.

“Excuse me?” she asks. Wanting to ignore him. Knowing in her heart of hearts that he will likely only persist even if she does.

“What brings a girl like you to a place like this?” he asks, eyes dancing with slight intoxication. Leering at her. 

Dani taps her fingers against the bartop, a quiet prayer of, “Come on, come one, come on,” escaping her lips as she stares down the busy bartender. Wanting a rescue. Wanting a way out.

“Did you hear me?” the man asks, and there’s a quality to his voice now that makes her feel even more on edge than before. 

Dani decides that the best course of action is to simply play dumb. “Sorry?” she asks, turning his way again with a stiff smile. 

He smirks. “I asked what a girl like you is doing in a place like this.”

“Um…” She clears her throat. “Waiting for the bartender.”

“Why don’t you sit down and stay a while.” He gestures at the empty stool beside him. “Let me buy you the next one.”

Dani presses her lips together. Takes a deep breath. “Thank you, but I’m uh...here with people.”

His expression darkens even further somehow. “Boyfriend?” he asks.

Her immediate reaction is to deny it because no. There is no boyfriend. Just her beautiful, silly, and very, very far away girlfriend. But then she thinks of Owen, also with them. Not necessarily intimidating, no, but another man at least. 

She grits her teeth. “Yes, actually. Right over there.” She points to the booth where Owen and Jamie are still talking amongst themselves. The man follows her gaze and stares them down. As he does, Jamie perks up, frowning at the sight of him and catching Dani’s eyes.

If there were a way to send for an SOS, Dani would have done it already. Instead, she has to settle for hoping that, after three years together, Jamie might be able to simply read her mind.

“Him?” the man asks. He turns back around and fixes Dani with a hard look that makes her skin crawl. 

“Yes,” Dani says. “Him.”

“He looks a little busy with your friend, wouldn’t you say?” He leans a little closer, and Dani jumps when she feels his hand touch her waist, trying to pull her in. “Come on, baby. One drink.”

“No, thank you.” Dani pulls away from him, anger flushing up her neck and chest. “And don’t call me that.”

He grips her arm next, a little too tightly, and Dani’s certain her heart is going to pound directly out of her chest. “What?” he asks, showing his teeth in a way that is so, so different than a smile. “Baby?”

Dani wrenches herself out of his grasp and pulls away. “Yes,” she says, a note of slight hysteria tinting the word. “Now—”

“Somethin’ the matter, Poppins?” 

It’s as if her lungs can finally expand when Dani hears Jamie’s voice, feels her warm, gentle hand on her waist. Immediately, she leans into the touch and turns to meet the worried, heated gaze of her girlfriend. She opens her mouth to say something, to ask for Jamie to please, please get her out of here, but she’s cut off by an irritated, “Oh,” coming from the man on the stool.

When she turns, he’s looking between them knowingly, eyes tracing the way Dani has turned herself into Jamie’s touch. 

“I didn’t realize you were one of them,” he spits.

Something hot and panicked shoots through Dani’s chest at his words, like lightning, like a bullet. She feels rather than sees Jamie stiffen beside her, pull herself up to make herself seem taller.

“What’s that?” Jamie asks, teeth bared and feral, already pushing herself in front of Dani to stand between him and the man.

He scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have wasted my time on a d—” 

Thankfully, he doesn’t even have time to finish the thought. Instead, there’s a sickening, fleshy thump as Jamie’s fist collides with his cheekbone. 

Hard.

Caught off guard, the man falls off his stool and lands on the floor with an even louder noise. As he does, his arms flail out and knock his glass off the table, and it lands beside him, crashing as it breaks apart upon impact. 

Immediately, the entire bar goes quiet as everyone turns to stare at what’s just happened. Owen is standing by the booth, mouth agape and wide-eyed as he looks between a seething Jamie, fist still cocked, and the man on the floor clutching his face.

Dani is clutching Jamie’s other arm, pulling at her and trying to let her mind catch up with the quickly-unfolding events that have just taken place. 

“You bitch!” the man yells. He turns to look at the shell-shocked audience around him. “She hit me! You crazy bitch!”

“You’re lucky that’s all I did you fucking dickhead!” Jamie shouts back. “When a girl tells ya’ no thank you, keep your greasy fucking hands off her or I’ll—”

“Jamie,” Dani says softly, tugging at Jamie’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s just—”

Jamie is wild-eyed when she turns to look at her, as unhinged as Dani’s ever seen her and she looks so angry and beautiful that it’s a wonder Dani keeps standing at all. “He fucking—” she begins, but Dani shakes her head.

“I know, I know.” She throws a look at Owen who is already making his way towards them. “We need to leave, okay? Please.”

It’s the final word, perhaps, that finally brings Jamie back into herself. Her expression softens and she lowers her fist, nodding and letting herself be pulled toward the exit before anyone wises up enough to call the police. As they go, whispered conversations start trickling through the crowd again, muffled shock cupped behind hands as the man begins to pull himself to his feet, deflated and looking very much like a child.

The front door squeaks loudly as they step out into the bitter, November air. It’s shockingly sobering, despite the fact that Dani hasn’t had a drop to drink all night. Her cheeks are flushed with the emotion of the last few minutes and she realizes that she’s trembling, even as she’s gripping Jamie’s wrist.

Fortunately, it seems to have the same effect on Jamie, who’s begun to calm herself down and breathe normally again. The normal sounds of the evening feel otherworldly now—the rush of cars and voices and regular life crashing down on each of them.

The door squeaks again and then Owen is there, coming towards them with a still-surprised gleam in his eye. But there’s something else there, too. Something that Dani thinks might be pride.

“What happened?” he asks, looking between them both.

“Bloody wanker grabbed Dani,” Jamie mutters and she’s inspecting her punching-fist now, eyebrows furrowed.

Owen’s eyebrows raise in even more surprise. “You okay, Dani?” he asks, turning his worry her way.

Dani nods. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Yep,” Jamie says. “It’s broken.”

“What?” Dani squeaks and Jamie looks up at her with a wry smile, clutching her hand to her chest.

“My knuckle. It’s broken.”

“Oh my god,” Dani breathes.

“It’s okay.”

“You broke your hand. How is that—”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I—”

“Jesus, Jamie, why did you have to—”

“What was I supposed to do, Dani?” Jamie asks. “Let him touch you like that when you were trying to get away from him? You looked so scared and he was just...I just...I’m sorry.”

Dani blinks. Tries not to cry. “You big, dumb hero,” she says softly and Jamie looks hurt for a moment until she realizes that Dani is smiling. “You broke your hand defending my honor.”

For a moment, she forgets that Owen is there at all. It’s just her and Jamie and Jamie’s battle wound, wrapped up in a bubble of their own design. Jamie smiles a little, clearly in pain as her adrenaline drains away.

“So out of character for me,” Jamie breathes, laughing a little. “I’m sorry that I—”

Dani cuts her off again, but differently now. Leaning in, she cups Jamie’s face and kisses her, hard and heart and i can’t believe you did that. Jamie lifts her good hand, resting it on Dani’s shoulder as she kisses her back. It lingers for a moment, just long enough for Dani to feel like the earth has stopped spinning beneath her feet. 

When she pulls away, Jamie breathes shakily against her lips, resting their foreheads together as they each try to settle down.

Owen clears his throat, bringing them back into the moment. “If you two are done, I really think we should get her to the hospital.”

Reality washes over Dani like an icy ocean wave. “Oh my god, Jamie, your hand.”

The last evening of Owen’s visit, they end the night in the emergency room; Owen buys them food from the vending machine, Jamie makes too many jokes about being temporarily handicapped (“Handicapped,” she says, smiling at herself. “Get it?”) and Dani holds her good hand, remembering all of those heroes she never wanted to be rescued by.

Jamie’s nothing like them. She isn’t a knight or a prince or anything like that. She’s the hard-headed, unbelievable, wonderful love of Dani’s life. And that’s better than any hero she could have ever wished for.

..

[turningtummyrubs]

Could you write one Ryek and Ark maybe on a mission together? They are arguing a lot and annoyed with each other until Ryek starts feeling sick with a stomach ache. Then Ark has to take care of him with tummy rubs and cuddles. This would make me so happy! Love these two. 😊

Love this prompt!

———

“What are you doing?”

“Figuring out where the hell our target went off to after you let him get away,” Ryek says. Growls, really. His face is illuminated only by the blue light of his phone screen. Ark looks like a mere smudge in the shadows of the storage closet they’ve been forced to duck into.

The two of them have been trailing Leonard Corhz for nearly 24 hours now. They’d started early in the morning and now it’s so dark the air feels heavy with it.

Ryek had started off calm and professional as always, but as time wore on and Ark began to grow grumpier, so did he. They’ve been bickering meaninglessly for the past hour.

The building they’re in, a higher-end office, is supposed to have been locked up for the night. Instead, there are still three people inside. Arkane, Ryek, and target 89, Leonard Corhz.

“There!” Ryek suddenly exclaims, shooting down the hall silently and quickly as a bullet. Ark follows close on his heels, grumbling to himself.

There’s a flash of silver, Corhz’s jacket, and then Ryek’s somehow, impossibly, sprinting faster. Ark doesn’t bother trying to catch up. While he may best Ryek in hand-to-hand combat, Ryek is undeniably the quickest and quietest.

There’s a faint, almost imperceptible, tumbling sound and a muffled scream and just as Ark thinks they’ve finally caught him, he hears a soft curse. And that voice isn’t Corhz’s. It’s Ryek’s.

He speeds up into a full-on sprint and rounds the corner to see Ryek, jaw clenched tight and leaning heavily against the wall. When Ryek spots him, his eyes go narrow and dark and he makes a face like he’ll kill Ark if he says anything.

Ark is quite used to that face though, so he says, “What the hell happened? He was right there! You could’ve caught him! This could’ve been over by now!”

And Ryek blinks once, expression slipping into something bland and woozy, and murmurs, “Sorry,” which is... wrong. Very wrong.

“What the hell?” Ark steps closer, frowning. “Why’re you... what’s going on?”

Ryek blinks again then shakes his head, expression clearing. “Nothing. Corhz managed to slip away. He can’t have gotten far. I’ll take this hallway, you take that one. Don’t make a sound until he’s pinned beneath you. Understood?”

“We’re a team, you know,” Ark says. “It’s not up to you alone to give off all the orders.”

Ryek raises a single dark eyebrow, expression unimpressed, and monotonously repeats, “Understood?”

Ark’s scowl twists his whole face but he nods once and takes off down the hall.

Ryek watches his receding back and takes a deep breath, hand hovering anxiously over his stomach. It’s been mildly upset for the past hour or so, but sprinting through the halls and tackling Corhz has pushed his stomach ache past the point of vague discomfort. God, he just wants to get this over with quickly.

He rubs a hand lightly over his middle once in an attempt to settle it, but when it proves futile, he takes another heavy inhale and sets off in the other direction.

It’s a relief to see that Ark has Corhz cornered when he arrives, but all that ease dissipates, replaced by a lurching horror, as he sees that it might be the other way around. Corhz has a gun pressed to Ark’s stomach. Ark doesn’t look too frightened. He actually doesn’t look frightened at all, with a leering smile and easy set to his shoulders, but Ryek knows. Ryek always knows.

Ryek reaches into his jacket, searching for his own gun, when he realizes with a sinking feeling that the gun Corhz is holding must be his. Lost in the tussle. Ryek’s stomach stirs a bit, sending a heavy thrum of nausea curdling through his unsettled insides, and he swallows hard before rushing forward and tackling Corhz to the ground. The gun slides out of his grasp, knocking against Ark’s shoe. And that shoe is the last thing he sees before colorful spots of light assault his vision and he’s lost to a sea of dark.

He wakes up ten minutes later to someone gently shaking his shoulder. He springs up, scrambling back until he hits the wall behind him. Ryek’s breaths shake as his head thuds back and he scans the hall wildly.

“It’s me!” Ark exclaims, hands up. “It’s me.”

Ryek inhales sharply, head lowering as his fingers flex into fists. How embarrassing to have reacted that way. Of course it was only Ark. Of course, all that embarrassment vanishes rather quickly as the ache in his stomach makes itself known once more. A low, twisting cramp groans through his guts and he crouches down on the ground, almost hyperventilating.

“Ryek?” Ark says, moving beside him. His voice is pitched high, like he’s worried. It’s disconcerting.

Ryek waves a dismissive hand, murmuring, “I’m fine.” It’s not very convincing.

His entire body feels sluggish and warm in a strange way, like it’s shutting down. As his insides churn and swirl, his head begins to spin with static. He can’t think past the buzzing. Nothing feels solid or real except the painful tensing of his abdominal muscles as they seize with cramps.

What might be a moment or an eon later, he feels himself being lifted into the air, which is weird because the only other people here are Ark and Corhz. And Corhz is gagged with his hands tied in the corner... Which means, this must be Ark. But Ark can’t carry him. Can he? Ryek tries to open his eyes, but he can’t. Or maybe they’re already open and he just can’t see. He lifts a hand instead and tangles it in the shirt of whoever’s carrying him. Then he turns his face and inhales deeply, confirming it’s Ark when he smells that heady scent of apple cobbler and sweat.

“What are you doing?” Ark asks, and there’s a hint of laughter in his voice. Almost hysterical.

“Wha... Corhz,” Ryek slurs, trying to think clearly. “Where is he?”

“Some other agents picked him up. You’ve been knocked out for a bit. I’m taking you home.” And suddenly Ryek can see again as Ark leans down and peers closer at his face. “Are you sick?”

Ryek shakes his head, at first just instinctively but then confirming it to be true. “No, my stomach just hurts.” Annnndddd he hadn’t meant to say that part. Great job, Ryek, admitting weakness to your greatest rival. Your greatest rival who is currently carrying you in his arms like you’re a helpless baby. Because you are currently a helpless baby.

“How long has it been hurting?” Ark asks, brow pinched.

Ryek shrugs and allows his eyes to flutter shut as he shifts to a more comfortable position in Ark’s steady arms. His stomach gurgles unhappily and he suppresses a small whimpering noise. What has gotten into him? “A while...”

Ark’s arms tighten a bit around him. “You should’ve said something.”

Ryek just shakes his head.

There’s no more talk until they reach the car. It’s a company mandated car, but Ark doesn’t think they’ll mind too much if he drives it to Ryek’s and returns it in the morning. He sets Ryek down in the passenger’s seat and feels his face heat as Ryek clings to his sweater a bit before letting go.

Worry gnaws at Ark’s chest as he drives. Ryek, whom many would consider the most formidable person on planet Earth, looks devastatingly small. He’s curled up a bit, cheek pressed against the cold glass of the window and eyes closed. An arm is wrapped firmly around his stomach.

When Ark pulls into Ryek’s massive driveway, he ever so gently shakes Ryek’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says in a soft voice he hasn’t used in ages. “Time to wake up.”

Ryek’s eyes open blearily and he rubs at them with his fingers curled into a fist like a little kid. Ark swallows, something protective tightening dangerously in his chest.

“Do you need me to carry you again?” Ark asks. Ryek’s expression seems to clear at that and he firmly shakes his head. He somehow manages to make it into his house, but once inside, he nearly collapses onto the couch.

Ark, feeling like somewhat of a mother hen, moves quickly to his side. Instinctively, he smooths a dark curl behind Ryek’s ear, the pad of his thumb grazing his cheekbone. Ryek makes a soft sort of mewling noise and leans into the gentle touch. Ark wonders how often people touch him like this. He suspects probably never.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” Ark asks, voice a low murmur. “Or anything at all?”

Ryek shakes his head once, fingers closing around Ark’s wrist as his face suddenly goes intensely grave. “Don’t. Don’t leave.”

Ark’s face flushes with heat. This isn’t like them. Not at all. “I won’t.”

Ryek’s stomach makes a low grumbling noise and he moans softly and shifts onto his back, palm splayed over his abdomen. Little gurgles and squelches sound from low in his tummy, and Ark watches as his brow creases further and further with pain.

Almost without thinking, Ark slips his hand beneath Ryek’s on his stomach and rubs a gentle circle. Ryek inhales sharply, muscles rippling beneath Ark’s hand, before his entire body relaxes.

“Is this... okay?” Ark asks quietly, and it feels like maybe he’s talking about the whole situation.

“Yeah,” Ryek murmurs. “More than okay.”

Ryek leans his head back against the armrest of the couch as Ark’s hand rubs slow circles into his stomach—gentle at first, and then with a bit more pressure as his abdominal muscles clench and spasm with unrelenting force. A low rumbling has begun to gurgle through his lower stomach, and Ryek exhales slowly as Ark smooths the heel of his palm back and forth over the aching area. Ark’s warm, callused fingers chase away every grumble and twinge plaguing Ryek’s middle.

As the pain dwindles down to a low feeling of discomfort, Ryek tugs on Ark’s wrist and pats the small area beside him. He doesn’t even think about it before doing it.

Ark also doesn’t think as he wordlessly climbs onto the couch next to Ryek and fits his arm around him. Doesn’t think as their bare ankles slide against each other. Doesn’t think as Ryek buries his face in the crook of his neck.

With thinking comes regrets, and whether they’ll admit it or not, they both want this too badly for that.

———

AHHH OKAY I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS SOME OF THE WORST WRITING I’VE HAD IN A WHILE and I don’t know why lol

I just cannot get in the groove :/

BUT I hope you still enjoyed it and hopefully this is temporary :)

[chnat0wn]

The Heat that Drives the Light

words: 2, 622

warnings: language, violence

a/n: A few of you wanted a Raymond fanfiction so there it is! I’m not sure where it’s going, but have fun and feel free to share your thoughts!! 

summary: (...) “To pick up Jane. From some filthy pub, I presume?” saying that, Ray felt his hands itch. Not only because of the mentioned dirt, but the thought of her – of Jane – was making him slightly angry.

Of all the people, Ray always has to take care of the person he can't stand the most. And he does that without blinking, because the person is close to his boss.  

(the gif owner)

1.

The night was peaceful and quiet. There was no rain or wind, and the phone hadn’t rang since nearly two hours, which allowed Ray to read a bit. It was too late for a book – Ray’s eyes were sore after all day of work, and his head seemed to be too heavy to think properly. A short article in a newspaper, which wasn’t requiring much attention, felt like a perfect idea to Ray. But the sweet calmness hadn’t lasted for long. When Ray was in a middle of the article, reading about some woman, who was convinced that she is able to contact her deceased husband through their cat, someone called. Ray didn’t want to pick up, but the title “boss” crossed the screen, so he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Ray,” Michael spoke before Ray had a chance to. “I need you to do something for me.” he was talking slowly, but Ray could sense that he wasn’t as relaxed as he sounded.

“Is everything alright, boss?” Ray asked, fixing his gaze in the empty space in front of him.

“Everything is alright,” Michael repeated, again in his own pace. In his mind, Ray was able to see Michael rubbing his fingers one at another. “I just need you to pick someone up from... some place.” he said casually.

Ray closed his eyes, and shaking his head in disappointment, he sighed heavily. He knew who Michael was talking about. He could guess the place as well. “To pick up Jane. From some filthy pub, I presume?” saying that, Ray felt his hands itch. Not only because of the mentioned dirt, but the thought of her – of Jane – was making him slightly angry.

But there was no reaction from Michael to Ray’s words. He had enough of their battles, and the way they were acting around each other. “Can you do that for me, Ray?” 

“Of course, boss. I will take her home.” Ray rubbed his eyelids, slipping his fingers under the glasses he had on. Michael muttered something that sounded like a word of thanks, and then he hung up. The depth, the low volume of his voice meant that Michael was stressed, and probably wanted to keep a secret. Jane was the secret. “Fuck...” Ray sighed deeply, right after his boss got off the phone.

 *

 The pub was, indeed, filthy. And nearly dilapidated. The floor was sticky from the ages of spilled alcohol, and there were scrapes and unidentified stains all over the walls. The scent of sweat, smoke, beer and grease mixed in one, was in the air and sat heavily on every present person, then stayed on them for a long time. But despite all of this, Jane was feeling freely in these surroundings. Not because of the filth or the smell – it was a problem at the beginning, but there was nothing she could not get used to. She liked old bars and pubs for one particular reason; no one cared. All these modern clubs were too much about paying attention on appearance or behave.

“Hey,” Jane heard a voice coming from somewhere behind her back. She turned her head and saw a tall, pale man with a tufts of hair under his nose; she couldn’t tell if it was a moustache, or just an attempt to have one. “Can I buy you a drink..?”

“Thank you,” Jane shook her head. “but I’m good.” she pointed on the almost full glass in front of her. Then she grabbed and brought it to her mouth, looking away from the stranger. The thought of drinking more for someone’s money was tempting, but she knew she had enough of alcohol.

The tall man was still standing next to her. He was looking at her with his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with ya, huh?” he asked with a higher tone. It seemed like all the politeness from the minute before had disappeared now. “I’m offering you a drink and you’re saying ‘no’?”

Normally, they weren’t brave or stupid enough to act like that, and even though he was certainly drunk, Jane saw no excuse for his behavior. In that case, she decided to ignore him.

“I’m talkin’ to you.” he put a hand on her shoulder. Jane reached for an empty bottle, which was standing near, and clenching her fingers tightly around the bottleneck, she hit the edge of the bar counter with it. Right after that, she lifted the sharp-edged part to the man’s face. 

“Exactly,” Jane said, raising her eyebrow. She smirked, but the expression of her face changed immediately; from kind of amused to a serious and a bit angry one. “And if I say ‘no’, I mean the same. Not ‘ask me again’. Just ‘no’.” she explained slowly to be clear. “If I cut you, will it help you to understand that?”

The man must have had much more alcohol in his system which had been giving him bad ideas. He was scared and confused at first, but after a moment he pushed Jane’s hand away and reached to a pocket in his jacked. He got out a small knife. Her mind was slightly dazed from all the portions of beer she had, though her body was acting fast. She leaned back, avoiding the man’s weapon, but when she stood upright, he attacked again. And this time, he succeed. Jane felt sharp pain on the left side of her face, which started to radiating all over with a hot weave. Then, everything stopped. Jane touched the sore place, her cheekbone, and there was blood left on her fingers. She looked up slowly, and fixed her gaze in the man’s face.

“I’m going to fucking strangle you with my bare hands.” Jane said angrily, rather like a little girl than a serious adult. 

As she was about to smash the rest of the bottle on his head first, she suddenly felt a strong grip around her free wrist. Turning around with irritation, she bumped into someone’s chest – hard as a stone. She looked up, and the last thing she had expected was Ray’s face. He seemed unbothered, maybe a little uncomfortable due to being in that specific place and the fact that the bottle was close to his throat now.

“Oh,” Jane opened her eyes wider. “Hi, Ray.” a broad smile was lightening her face, but at that moment Ray couldn’t be as enthusiastic as her. He paid attention to her cheek, but hadn’t said nothing about that.

“What are you doing?” Ray asked. He didn’t want her to answer; he just wanted her to acknowledge that whatever she had planned – it was wrong.

“At this point, I am trying to survive.” she shrugged carelessly.

Ray shifted his gaze from Jane to the man behind her. The man was tall, but not as tall as Ray. He was also much slimmer; Jane hadn’t knew a lot about that, but Ray appeared to be considerably stronger. Even so, Ray crushed that man with a look on his face alone. He seemed unimpressed, but at the same time it looked insanely dangerous – like the calm before the deadly storm. Ray was watching him, as the man was slowly backed down. When he left the building, Ray’s gaze wandered lower. He was still giving the impression of being completely calm, but Jane noticed his heavy breath and clenched lips. “If you want to survive, don’t come to places like this one.”

“Great advice. Impossible to follow, but great advice.” she nodded firmly. She could go like that the whole night, but she felt Ray’s hand tightening on her wrist. She was silent for a moment, watching the unmoved, yet irritated expression of his face. “Real moustache!” she yelled in some kind of excitement.

Ignoring her comment, Ray looked around. He placed his sight on the half-empty glass of beer. “How many of these have you had...” he sighed. He wasn’t even disappointed, just tired. He wished this night to end. “I’m taking you home.”

“That’s very sweet, but-”

“I don’t want to. I have to.” Ray interrupted her gently; he didn’t intend to be rude. He was just a little severe by nature. “Don’t make it any harder.”

Jane was capable of making it harder. But by the look on his face, she didn’t have the heart to annoy Ray more. She was able to appreciate his commitment, even if she didn’t need to be saved.

She stepped back, as Ray let her wrist go. She set the destroyed bottle on the counter, and looked up on the barman who was standing behind it. “Sorry for that, Bobby...” she rubbed the cape of her neck.

“That’s alright, kid. He clearly deserved that.” the barman smiled warmly, so Jane did the same.

She checked if her phone still was in the back pocket of her jeans. “Right. We can go now. I’m getting the front seat!” she added quickly, and then started to run toward the exit.

“No, you are not.” Ray replied, and he went after her much slower, in his own deliberate pace.

“I can’t hear you!”

 *

 Jane looked out the window, when the car stopped. It was dark, but she was sure that she had never seen that area before. They were in a strange place, and even if Jane didn’t feel the fear, she was a bit concerned. “Where are we?” she looked at Ray. He was already out of the car, so she had to do the same to hear the answer.

“I don’t like to leave my work undone.” he said simply. Without revealing more, he went forward.

Jane closed the car door. “If you want to get rid of me, I wouldn’t advise it.” she raised her eyebrows. “I’ll fight back, you know it.” she added, but Ray didn’t stopped.

With a little smile across her face, Jane lifted up her chin to look at the dark sky. The little lights placed on the coping were gleaming with a silver glow. In the center of the city, it was almost impossible to see the stars because of all these street lights. But being here, all it took was to look up.

She could sense that Ray had disappeared somewhere. She wasn’t panicking; she saw the lights in the windows of a near building, she saw Ray’s silhouette as well. She decided to join him, mainly because it was getting colder outside.

Jane walked into a big, definitely old house that must have belonged to Ray. Not because it was old, but he had brought her here. The first room with a high ceiling, apparently the holl, turned out to be so interesting that Jane doubted for a while that Ray was living there. The walls were covered in a cold, subdued shade of turquoise, but the colour still looked too vivid for Ray. Beside that, there were also frames with rather photographs than paintings; one of them depicted the front of a car, the thing on the other one looked like a plane.

“Why...” Jane whispered to herself with some kind of disgust. Then, she looked around. She immediately fell in love with the chandelier that looked like a calmer version of a crystal ones from the twenties. And the persian, maybe russian patterned carpet.

Jane heard a loud grunting, so she turned around quickly. Ray was standing in the doorway placed between those two, ugly photographs. “Are you lost?”

“I was just...” she pointed her finger in random direction, but then she realised that Ray wasn’t interested in her explanations. He wanted to get his work done, as he said earlier. “I’m fine.” she rolled her eyes.

Ray disappeared again, and Jane followed him. They were in the kitchen, and with that lightning, Jane couldn’t tell whether the walls were purple or brown. And this, on the other hand, matched to Ray – to his personality.

“Sit there.” Ray nodded his head at the different room. As dark as the kitchen, but this time the walls were covered with a deep shade of blue. But what caught Jane’s attention were thick, plaid curtains and the dinner table. There were a lot of furniture and decorations, but all of that seemed to be hidden in the dimness.

Jane beheld a first-aid kit in Ray’s hands, so she chose to sit at the dining table because of the best lightning.

“You don’t have to do this.” Jane said, watching Ray as he was unpacking the things he intended to use. “It’s not like I’ll bleed out to death...”

“We have talked about this, haven’t we?” he raised his eyebrows. “I will take you home safely, when I’m done.”

Knowing that Ray would do whatever he had to do anyway, Jane decided to give up. All she could do was to sit there without making a sound. Ray sat down to her left, to be closer to her cheek. Jane wanted to note that it was just a scratch, but she knew it was pointless. So her eyes were wandering all over the surface of the table, trying to find something interesting enough to stick to it for longer.

“Are you going to throw up?” Ray asked. Jane looked at him and shook her head. “In that case, what is it, Jane?”

She was watching him preparing himself. He put a disposable rubber gloves on, which seemed like too much effort for Jane, and he took a cotton pad and a bottle with some fluid in it. “I’m just thinking.” Jane shrugged.

“About what?” his voice was quiet, almost soft. Focused on his task, Ray took a quick look on Jane’s cheek. He might haven’t been interested in her thoughts, but he was still waiting for the answer.

“Who brings a knife to a bar fight...” Jane narrowed her eyes, and Ray closed his own in disappointment. “Unsatisfied with the answer?” she tried not to smile, but failed. “Sorry. I will be quiet.”

Ray applied a few drops of the fluid, which turned out to be a disinfectant, on the cotton pad and brought it to her face. He pressed it gently, and moved across the entire length of the scratch. “Does it hurt?”

“No, I’m a big gir- OH FUCK!” she screamed, when the disinfectant started to working.

Ray smiled slightly with amusement. He put the pad away and leaned towards her a bit, then he blew on the scratch to ease the pain with the cool air. “It that better?”

Jane nodded. She was too tired to talk, and too afraid of it. She thought if she open her mouth, the pain would appear again. She had enough pain for that day.

Ray took the gloves off and started to putting everything back into the first-aid kit. Watching his movements, Jane frowned in confusion. “Wait, won’t we put a dressing on that?”

“No, we won’t.” Ray replied, getting up from his seat. “We will let it breathe, so it can heal faster. If it is alright.”

“It is. You don’t have the ones with animals anyway, so...” she shrugged. She stand up and decided to change the spot. She sunk back into the brown, leather couch in the other part of the room. It was creaking with every movement of her, so Jane just stopped to move. “All these walls are so dark... Why?” she spoke a bit louder so he could hear her.

“Because I painted them that way.” from where he was standing, Ray answered after a while. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?” he stepped out of the kitchen and went to the living room. He found her on his couch – sleeping peacefully with the hair cascading down her face. “Great.” Ray gasped. 

[artemisspelledits]

Yea or Nay?

Word Count: 3,600

Description: A short story I wrote for a college writing class that I’m super proud of. It isn’t related to any fandoms, so any similarities are coincidental. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: It gets pretty graphic at one point, so just be aware.

................................................................................................................................

Sophie was hosting a tea party. She had six guests sitting at her rich mahogany table, all of whom had complimented her hosting and tea making abilities. She was an attentive hostess, refilling cups and supplying more biscuits as needed.

Charlotte peered through the thick one-way window, watching the six year old play. She chuckled as Sophie lifted her imaginary teapot to offer more delicious tea to “Mr. Green.” Mr. Green laid propped up against a wad of clothing, wooden face frozen in an exuberant smile. Sophie had insisted on making all her toys herself: popsicle sticks tightly wound in strips of her bed sheets, originally eliciting a scandalized gasp from the maid who maintained the wing. For the faces of her toys, Sophie had requested specific colored markers in order to scrawl their features. She had constructed more than the ones she was currently playing with; extras were stashed under her mattress. When Charlotte had asked why she didn’t play with them, Sophie giggled like it was the most obvious answer. She explained, “I’m gonna play with them someday, I just haven’t met them yet!”

 Touching the smooth glass, Charlotte felt wistful, but not for herself. Sophie had started from nothing but had so much potential. Sophie radiated power; anyone who was in tune with the magic of the world could feel it. Charlotte herself first felt Sophie’s aura before she even met her.

It had started as a scream, echoing though the street like a shockwave. Charlotte cocked her head, instantly aware that something was not right. Another scream followed the first, more desperate this time. She started running towards the sound, feet pounding though stinking puddles and through piles of trash. As she rounded a corner, she felt an impact that felt physical. She stumbled, sprawling into a mound of debris, under the impression some hard object had struck her in the chest. Reeling from the impact, Charlotte recognized the minty flavor of magic.

Slightly stunned, she saw a man in a grimy green sweater viciously dragging a small girl. She was screaming, and rightfully so, as he had her by the hair and was ferociously twisting his fist. Before Charlotte could regain her footing and help the child, the girl ceased her wailing. She had stopped thrashing and was looking directly at her captor. Confused by the sudden lack of struggle, the man looked down at the girl. Her neck twitched to the side, briefly touching her rag-covered shoulder. His neck followed suit, just at a much more violent pace. An arc of blood spurted from the spot his vertebrae had ripped through his skin, his eyes bright with shock. His grip loosened on the girl and she stood. His body had not yet realized this was the end and remained upright for much longer than Charlotte would have anticipated. As his body collapsed into a rubbish heap, Charlotte heard the girl let out a small chuckle. The girl then swayed, knees buckling, and joined the man in crumpling to the ground.

Now in a panic, Charlotte rushed to the scene, horrified at the sight of a large pool of blood blooming from the man’s mangled neck.

“Gone. He’s gone,” Charlotte whispered, hyperventilating at the display.

Adrenaline gushing through her system, she hastily removed her outer jacket and crouched to wrap the girl in it. She was so small, so frail, like a baby bird. Her matted hair was packed with dirt, her cheekbones so prominent it was clear she was malnourished, and her clothing threadbare and disintegrating. The girl moaned softly in obvious pain.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’ll help you, I’ll get you help.”

The words tumbled out of Charlotte’s mouth without her realizing what she was saying, only hoping to provide some kind of solace to the child. Quivering, she rose to her feet. Briefly glancing at the dark figure of the dead man, Charlotte turned and dashed away, clutching the small form of the girl to her chest.

That was two months ago. Charlotte brought the girl to her place of work, The Headquarters of Magical Testing and Enforcement, to have her tested, seeing as the girl had abilities. The Headquarters of Magical Testing and Enforcement, or HMTE, regulates, tracks, and trains magic use and magical families. Charlotte knew the HMTE would provide answers to the mystery girl she had found that day.

However, it was a bit of a debate as to whether they were legally allowed to perform testing on this girl. Seeing as she was a minor and could not legally give consent, as well as no family had come with her, it was a topic of heated discussion as to whether or not to test her. The Board of Directors came to the agreement that they would do rudimentary testing, just to lay the foundation of knowledge and to see if there were any blood relatives to notify.

The results of this simple test baffled the lab workers. The sample of blood extracted from the girl came back AB negative: exceptionally rare. The only recorded people to have AB negative blood were part of three powerful bloodlines, all of which have been extinct for at least seven generations. The HMTE owns the most extensive and detailed histories of family bloodlines, so it was unheard of for the company to have a shock like this. Obvious questions were raised: Who is this girl? Where did she come from? How is she here? Who are her parents?

More extensive tests were ordered, including a comparison of her DNA to the three bloodlines to which she could potentially belong. She was found to be a match with the most imposing of the three, the Drakter bloodline. Descendents of this particular lineage were more likely to have multiple powers, abilities that were not seen in other family members, as well as an overall increase in control and force of their magic.

With this knowledge, HMTE and Charlotte both knew they were dealing with something extraordinary. No one had interacted with the girl while she was conscious, seeing as she was still unresponsive from her encounter with the man in the alley. Charlotte stayed by her side as much as she could, waiting as the days turned into a week since she brought the girl in.

Finally, the girl awoke. She was initially frightened by her surroundings, panicked breath filling her tiny lungs. Charlotte was there in an instant, attempting to soothe the frightened child. Eventually, Charlotte became the only one who could calm the girl when she was having a fit. Charlotte learned the girl’s name was Sophie, not Sophia. Charlotte had accidentally said “Sophia” one day and paid the price by being hurled into the wall, all while Sophie was screaming and crying. From then on, Charlotte respected Sophie’s choice of name.

Charlotte began teaching Sophie how to read and write, and it was clear the child was exceedingly bright. Sophie squealed in delight when she first scrawled her name in squiggly six-year-old writing. She loved arts and crafts as well as singing along to songs Charlotte taught her, eventually falling asleep to the tune.

Charlotte smiled at the memories. A tap on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie. Turning from the serene picture of the tea party, Charlotte greeted the interruption.

“Benjamin! I’m glad you could make it! How long has it been?” Smiling widely, she shook his hand.

“Long enough for me to finally have gotten my PhD! So five, six years now?” He laughed, curly hair bouncing with the movement.

“Well then, I should use your proper title,” doing an over-the-top genuflect, she declared, “Doctor Benjamin Lewis!”

“Why thank you, Miss Charlotte Moone,” he returned with an equal amount of flair. “Now, what is your proper title? I hear you’ve risen through the ranks as well!”

Clearing her throat from her fit of giggles, she managed to reply, “Head of the Department of Magical Enforcement, member of the Board of Directors, and Senior Operations Consultant, although I get mislabeled enough that one would think I’m just a desk worker!”

“So serious. And so much! That’s a lot for even you, and I remember you taking so many classes in college that you had to talk to the higher-ups to get your schedule permitted!”

“Yes, well I think my mental state has improved since college, so I’ve progressed,” she chuckled. “Anyway, now that we’ve caught up, to the subject at hand!” She clapped her hands and gestured to the girl. “This is Sophie, I’m sure you’ve heard about her and her power, seeing as you’re the resident nerd on this topic.” Charlotte snuck a sly look in Benjamin’s direction that he returned by sticking out his tongue. “She’s been fundamentally tested to measure her abilities, and the results came back like none we’ve ever seen. It turns out she’s a part of the Drakter lineage.” This statement elicited a small squeal of excitement from Benjamin. “Seeing as she’s a Drakter, little Sophie is one of the most powerful beings on earth, and as an adult, she will indubitably be number one. She seems to not understand or know her strength, having lashed out and accidentally hurt people before.” Charlotte thought back to the man in the alley and the bruise she sustained after being thrown against the wall. “She’s happy enough, enjoying make-believe games and normal six year old activities. You have been called because as an expert in the old bloodlines and their abilities, we need a more thorough examination in order to properly understand her future.”

More to himself than to Charlotte, Benjamin muttered something about being able to taste the magic through the walls and how that was impressive, especially for such young magic, scribbling on his clipboard of notes as he went. Nodding, Benjamin looked over the information and addressed Charlotte. “No parents? No known relations or anything that might help me?”

“Nope, she says she can’t remember her parents and we have scoured both records and the field for evidence of relatives. She’s as orphan as you can find them,” Charlotte paused, flexing her foot. “Will that be a problem? Should we run tests over again to see if anything new is found?”

“No, no, it’s just more of a challenge for me. Like a puzzle,” He looked up from his notes. “And boy do I love puzzles! I’ll do my usual questions; asking about interests, see how long she can use her magic, how long she’s known she’s magical, all that fun stuff. See if I can piece some things together to give HMTE something more to work with.”

Grinning at his childlike excitement, Charlotte felt reassured. Finally, answers. Benjamin grinned at his clipboard, then sharply sighed through his nose, as if to steel himself for his interaction with Sophie. Voice slightly giddy, he turned to Charlotte. “I’m like a six year old myself - I get to interact with a Drakter! Well, I better go in and do my examination!”

As he reached for the door handle, Charlotte remembered. “Ah ah ah, wait a moment. I forgot one thing. Do not call her Sophia. It’s the one thing she hates and will respond accordingly.” Answering the question carried by his gaze, she continued. “Sophie must have a negative relationship with the name ‘Sophia,’ enough to fling me into a wall for misnaming her. So just….don’t.”

“Duly noted.” Benjamin nodded curtly and pulled open the door.

Charlotte watched as he sat on the ground next to the girl. He introduced himself, shaking Sophie’s miniscule hand. She seemed to like him, seeing as she had offered him an imaginary teacup, from which he was taking a dainty sip.  

Sighing softly, Charlotte turned to the pile of busy work sitting on one of the chairs. She had brought these documents to pass time during the examination, and she did not want to leave Benjamin alone in case he had more questions. Charlotte resolved herself to her fate. Minutes passed as she marked form after form, signing here and initialing there.

Sudden motion and a muffled thump made her flinch. Looking up from her lap, Charlotte leaped to her feet, papers flying.  

A scene of chaos had erupted behind the glass. Benjamin had thrown himself onto the one-way mirror, palms splayed wildly against it. It was clear he was howling at the top of his lungs, yet Charlotte could hardly hear his screaming through the thick glass. His eyes wild with fear behind his skewed glasses, he pounded his fists upon the glass, breath fogging up the clear surface. Behind him, Sophie was looking straight up, eyes closed and face twisted into a smile. Slowly but with purpose, Sophie rose from the bundled up sheet that was her tea party table. Still smiling, she brought her head down, leveling her gaze on Benjamin that held the seething power of a wildfire.

“Oh no. Oh God, no!” A scream clawed its way from Charlotte’s throat, the sound enhanced by the barren white walls of the hallway. She was answered by shouts and the commotion of many pairs of feet charging towards her position.

Charlotte had seen that look on Sophie’s face but once before: the day she met her. Charlotte knew what was coming, but was incapable of moving. She mentally screamed for her muscles to budge, to let her intervene, but she had been fixed there against her will, not a nerve fiber twitching. Realization and horror crashed down on her. She was being forced to watch the scene unfold before her.  

The taste of magic hit her tongue as she became aware of this. Sophie was still standing motionless, mirroring Charlotte’s inability to move. Suddenly, Sophie warped her body, neck twisting up while her back arched and coiled to the left. Like some kind of morbid puppet, Benjamin copied her movements, fear still palpable in his eyes as he stared helplessly at Charlotte. He was lifted off the ground by the force of his body’s contortion. His neck suddenly became much too long, accompanied by a crack that Charlotte could hear through the glass. His spine followed, snapping in the middle of his back so that when he landed he was folded in half, nape of his neck touching his heels.

Charlotte felt herself regain control of her body, like an icy grip had released her muscles, yet she still couldn’t move. Eyes wide with shock, she let out a shriek of pure fear and revulsion. How could she have…why did she…? What happened? Charlotte lurched to the door of Sophie’s room, fumbling with the handle.

Flinging the door open, she rushed to Benjamin’s side, knowing it was folly to hope he was still alive but needing confirmation. His body was crumpled and broken, with a dark splotch of blood beginning to ooze from his abdomen and onto his shirt. What looked like splinters of rib poked through the fabric.

Retching at the sight as well as the overpowering acrid taste of mint that clung to the air, Charlotte turned her attention to Sophie. She skipped to her bed and thrust a small hand under her mattress, pulling out one of her extra popsicle stick characters. Returning to her tea party, she propped up the new guest next to Mr. Green.

“Thank you for joining us, Dr. Lewis, would you like some tea?”

Charlotte blanched. Dr. Lewis? She numbly strode to Sophie’s side, placing a quivering hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Who did you say your new friend was?” She couldn’t keep her voice from trembling.

“Dr. Lewis!” Sophie replied, looking up at Charlotte with a cheerful smile. Nothing like the psychotic smile she wore moments earlier when controlling Benjamin’s movements.

Time seemed to slow down. Behind Charlotte, people were pouring into the room, clamoring to see what had happened and why they had heard screaming a minute before. But Charlotte did not hear or heed their questions. It felt as though her heart and intestines had flipped places in her body. Her breath hitched as she realized the meaning of Sophie’s words. All her tea party guests…“Mr. Green”…that man who had been dragging her was wearing green. Oh God. This child, this six year old child, was a killer. Not just a killer, but a cold-blooded murderer.

Voice breathy with dread, Charlotte tried her best to remain calm. “Why did you do that to Dr. Lewis?” She gestured to Benjamin’s unmoving heap.

Her face darkening, lips pulling up into a snarl, Sophie spat her response.

“He called me Sophia.”

Dammit, Benjamin. Charlotte closed her eyes in a grimace, clenching her jaw. I told you not to…. But that was it? That was all it took for her to be pushed over the edge? To murder someone? The thoughts ran through Charlotte’s head as Sophie’s face betrayed no signs of emotion or regret for her actions.

“Do you feel bad about what you did to him?”

“No, he called me Sophia. And I didn’t want to talk to him anymore.”

Her answer was startlingly nonchalant, like she was discussing lampshades or the color of a house. Charlotte searched Sophie’s expression for a hint of remorse, finding none. Starting to hyperventilate, Charlotte clasped a hand over her mouth, attempting to fight the nausea that threatened to overtake her. She backed away from the child, colliding with co-workers as she fled the room.

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

Every time Charlotte closed her eyes, those images would play against her eyelids. Benjamin’s crumpled body, his neck, Sophie’s maniacal grin, the new popsicle toy named Dr. Lewis. She couldn’t get them out of her head. It had been six days, but the memories were still fresh and crisp.  

An impatient voice cut through her thoughts.

“Miss Moone. I understand you have been through a traumatizing ordeal this past week, but you must focus on the task at hand.” It was the president of the company, irritation plainly visible on her plump features.

“Yes Mrs. President, I understand. I am sorry.”

“As I was saying, a problem has emerged that must be addressed. As members of the Board of Directors, it falls on us to make the appropriate decision, even if it is an unpleasant one.” She sighed, clasping her hands on the polished tabletop. “The girl in question. Sophie Drakter is extremely powerful, yes; however that power has only been observed to be used for nefarious purposes. If we are correct in believing Miss Moone’s deduction concerning Miss Drakter’s toys, she has taken the life of seven people. If this assumption is incorrect, the record still stands that Miss Drakter has killed two people.”

She looked around at the assembled six members. She sighed again. “It has come to this: we must vote. The options are as follows: exterminate the girl now to stop further destruction, or endeavor to control her abilities and hope she does not go down a dark path. There is justification for both arguments, including her age, the fact she is a Drakter, cost versus benefit analyses, time, and of course the overall impact of her power if she reaches adulthood. You will have ten minutes to arrive at your decision. You may talk amongst yourselves.”

Charlotte had known it would come to this. She had been thinking about her choice for the last six days. She desperately conferred with her fellow council members, and sooner than she thought possible, the president regained their attention.

The president cleared her throat. She did not look like she was going to enjoy this vote. “Say ‘yea’ if you agree with termination and ‘nay’ if you oppose.” She collected herself before continuing. “Yea. Ms. Lang?”

 “Nay.”

“Mr. Simmons?”

“Yea.”

“Mrs. Dunne?”

“Yea.”

“Mr. Barclay?”

“Nay.”

“Mr. Holcomb?”

“Nay.”

“Miss Moone?”

“…nay.”

This single word was followed with gasps of relief and fear. “She’s dangerous! How could you – She’s just a girl! Six years – She’s old enough to know – She’s a killer!” The president pounded a fist on the table top, calling for order.

“She is just a girl and she is a killer!” Charlotte’s voice had reached a pitch that couldn’t be ignored. “She lashed out in a way that was wrong, yes, but there was a reason for it!” A scoff came from across the room. Charlotte flung out a pointer finger and continued. “Yes! Laugh at me! But I know what it’s like! All the women on this council know what it’s like! To be mislabeled! To be belittled! To be brushed over! Sophie only reacted that way because she wasn’t given the proper respect! ‘Sophie’ not ‘Sophia’ was all she asked! Did Dr. Lewis know? Yes, I told him myself! Should he have died because of it? No! But she’s six! That means she’s malleable and can be changed! We can work on her anger and violence, but the lack of respect for her name is not something she can change.”

Drawing in a shaky breath, Charlotte hated that she had to validate her decision. Her fellow board members had gone silent, half staring at her through slits for eyes, half nodding in agreement.

“I apologize. It’s just…she has so much potential. And I know there are changes that she needs to make, but so does our society. Mrs. President…” Charlotte deferred to her superior.

“Thank you, Miss Moone for your insight.” An eyebrow cocked, the president ended the meeting, addressing the gathered council. “Thank you for your attendance. You are dismissed.”

Charlotte exited the board room, filing out with her fellow board members, praying she hadn’t made the wrong decision.

[salamanderskin]

Cold Hands, Warm Tea (Caduceus)

Cr//iti/cal R/o/le fanfiction m/m Fjord is becoming aware that his feelings for Caduceus are beyond ‘platonic healer friend who mentors him in a new faith’. It’s harder to hide it when Caduceus is sick and miserable.  A fluffy getting-together sort of sickfic. This one got away from me into 4k of plotless snz and fever because I will go down with this fjucking ship.  Someone please give this a title. 

It’s still strange to have a home to call their own. Strange, but nice. Their own sitting room where they can drink as much as they want, as late as they want, without the intrusion of strangers. Caduceus’ cooking is better than their usual fare on the road. Fjord likes that he can take his boots off and armour off and feel as safe as he ever feels. 

It’s late. The fire is low, the lamps are lit and the remains of dinner on the dining room table have been pushed aside for a game of cards. The only real early bird of the group is Caduceus, who has long since turned in. Caleb is in his room with  a book, Jester is in her room with the Traveller. That leaves Beau, Yasha, Fjord and Nott around the table with some time on their hands, for once, and a lot of shit to talk.  This suits Fjord just fine. He needs a distraction from the changes in his life, something to occupy his thoughts from the Wildmother, and from Caduceus. When he’s giving as good as he gets with Beau, he’s less likely to ask a stupid, revealing question like, “Have you ever been in love? How did you know?” 

They glance up as one when they hear feet on the stairs- a distinctive tread that speaks of a heavy frame that moves lightly. Fjord knows it intimately and looks up with a smile as Beau calls “Caduceus, that you?” 

 “Yeah, it's me.” The firbolg’s voice is deeper than usual and soft. Fjord feels his heart warm at the sound of it. It is a voice that always brings kindness. 

It is unusual to see Caduceus wearing more than a light jacket over his silk shirt. Right now he is wearing a blanket from his room around his shoulders like a shawl, gathered in one fist around him although it’s barely cold in the house. His long hair is loose and mussed, making an untidy, rose-coloured halo. 

“I'm not disturbing anything, am I?” Caduceus asks, ever polite. 

“Not at all. What are you doing up?” Yasha inquires.

The firbolg sighs and sits down on the remaining empty chair. “I'm having a hard time sleeping. I think I might be getting sick.”

Before Fjord can query, the firbolg draws a deep, unsteady breath and gifts them with an expression that is uncharacteristically uncertain- brows lifted, lips parted and gaze hovering near the ceiling-  followed by a soft miserable,. “Uuh- ishhhoo!” of a sneeze. He directs it over his shoulder and returns his attention to them with a sheepish sniffle.

This earns a  “Whoah, alright, we believed you already,” from Beau and a “gesundheit” from Nott. 

Fjord rises and comes to look at him, arm on his shoulder. “What kind of sick, 'Duceus?”

“I don't know, it doesn't matter. I just thought some company would be better than lieing in bed awake.”

“Why don’t you ask Jester for some healing?”

Caduceus wrinkles his nose. “Oh, no need to interrupt her tonight. I’ll see if it develops into any-” His voice goes airy and a tone higher as he tries valiantly to finish his thought “into-anyth-ii-ng-ISSHoo! Heh, excuse me.” 

Fjord cringes and averts his eyes as Caduceus whisks out a bit of cloth and turns to wipe his nose with a sorry sounding sniffle. 

“You sound shitty.” Beau pats the firbolg firmly on the back- a little too firmly, since it makes Caduceus start and cough. This is high sympathy and affection coming from her, and they all know it.

It makes Caduceus smile at least. With his blanket shawl and his long limbs tucked into the slightly too-small chair, he looks worn and sleepy. Fjord watches him shiver, swallow, wince as though his throat is sore. Then Fjord feels like a creeper for watching so closely. It’s been getting increasingly hard not to stare at their companion, no matter what state he’s in. 

“This is medicinal.” Nott holds out her flask of liquor. “And it’ll knock you right out. Best thing if you can’t sleep.” 

 “No thanks.” Caduceus shakes his head, predictably. “Maybe just some water.”

That Fjord can do. He manages not to leap to fetch it, but he’s glad he’s the one who moves first because that means he’s the one who gets to brush his fingers against Caduceus’ as he passes the glass, he’s the one who gets “thanks, Fjord,” and a grateful smile directed his way.

What he’d like to do, when Caduceus sniffles again and rubs his eyes in sleepy discomfort, is to bring him to bed and lay with him until the shivers ease. To give him the same warmth Fjord had received from him when Uk’Otoa’s nightmares raged. Fjord hadn’t felt shy then, but he feels shy now. So instead opens another bottle of ale and deals the cards between himself, Nott and Beau while Yasha chats to Caduceus. Eventually Caduceus clears his throat. “Think I’m going to turn in now. Thanks for the company.”

“Sleep well,” Yasha says. 

Fjord ads, “Night, ‘Deuces. I, uh, hope you feel better.” 

“Hah. Me too."

………………….

Fjord pauses at the door of Caduceus' dwelling, straining his ears for sounds of movement. He doesn't want to wake his friend if Caduceus has managed to drift to sleep. 

Jester, in full cleric mode, has already come and gone this morning, having given Caduceus a healing spell, a potion and a plate of cookies which remain uneaten. Fjord recalls her face scrunched in a pout of disappointment that her spell didn't immediately return to their friend to fighting fitness .She reported that his fever is down from blazing to merely uncomfortable, leaving him drowsy and restless 

"And I was gonna sit with him and read, and sing to him and stuff, but I could tell he didn't actually want me too. He's just suuuper tired right now so if you go see him you gotta be quiet," she told Fjord, eyes serious. "He might like to see you though, you could talk about Wildmother stuff."

"I think I can manage that." Fjord agreed. "If he gets worse, I'll definitely let you know."

So here he is, feeling a little awkward hovering on the threshold of Caduceus' bedchamber.

Fjord has been spending a lot of time in the tower garden but has never had cause to step into the little wooden shelter Caduceus prefers to an actual bedroom in the house. He doesn't want to invade his friend's privacy, but is desperately curious nonetheless. He wants to know everything about Caduceus. 

He knocks very gently and waits for a response.

"Hey." A soft voice and the sound of a body rolling over. 

"Don't get up-" Fjord begins, but the door opens for him.

Caduceus Clay greets Fjord with a pleased smile that is at odds with the gaunt look of his face. Fjord's not sure how someone with fur can be pale, but Clay has managed it, with the exception of a flush of colour high on his cheekbones. His eyes are over-bright and his poor nose looks chapped and sore from rubbing. 

"Fjord!" Caduceus says fondly. "What can I do for you?"

That selfless, innocent question is so utterly Caduceus that Fjord is stopped in his tracks. It's a lucky thing because when Caduceus wavers, suddenly lightheaded, Fjord is right there to catch him with both arms and bring him in for a hug which is more about keeping him upright.

"Whoah!" Fjord stumbles and swears, straightening them both. "I got you"

The Firbolg takes his own weight back but doesn't disengage from the embrace. His head drops to Fjord's shoulder as he takes a deep breath. The warm huff of air makes Fjord shiver. 

"Oh- sorry- think I stood up too quickly." "Looks like it." Fjord agrees. "Fuck. Come on, sit down." 

The firbolg has only a low futon mattress on the wooden floor, as simple and spare as the rest of the room. The rest of the space is filled with the pots containing seedlings he had determined required a little extra nursing- a sentiment that today describes Caduceus himself. Fjord lowers them both onto it and turns to give his companion a closer look.

He pushes the firbolg's hair from his face and feels fever heat radiating through his fingers and where their bodies touch. Jester's right, he's not in any danger, but he looks miserable, an expression so unfamiliar on his good-natured face that all Fjord can do is hug him again. 

"Mm. S'nice." 

It's more than nice. Fjord closes his eyes, breathing in Caduceus' scent and savouring the moment. They rest in the embrace for a long minute until Caduceus sniffles softly and first and then more insistently.

"Uh oh.." he murmurs, pressing a hand under his muzzle.

"You okay?" Fjord queries.

"Yeah- just-" His expression goes vague and then crumples into a fit of sneezing.

"-ISSHoo-!! hhisSShww!- ISSHwww!" Soft and with hardly a breath between them. 

All Fjord can do is watch and feel the tug on his heartstrings as Caduceus sneezes and sneezes, shuddering hard as he smothers them into his elbow.

He surfaces, apparently finished, and manages to murmur a "ugh, scuse me-" before he is overtaken again. 

Eventually he is able to blow his nose and stop the fit, giving Fjord a sheepish look over the handkerchief followed by an exhausted groan.

"I'm so sorry. Looks like Jester's spell is -snf- wearing off."

"Bless you." Fjord sighs. "You sound rough."

"Yeah." Caduceus agrees softly. That's typical Caduceus, too, neither dissembling nor seeking sympathy, merely accepting the fact. 

"Can I do anything?" 

"Hmm, I don't know." He shakes his head. "I can't think." 

"What about some tea? You always drink tea." 

His ears perk up a little as he considers. "Yeah. Good idea. I- I might need you to heat the water. I don't have any spells in me at the moment."

Fjord agrees at once. He notices Caduceus' tea set and kettle on a little stand but without any means to set a fire underneath. Fjord doesn't have any warming spell himself so he takes the kettle down to the kitchen to heat it the old fashioned way.

When he returns he is surprised to find his friend wandering the garden. He has put on a knitted sweater but his hunched posture still speaks of chill.

"'Duceus?"

"Hey." And a smile.

"What are you doing up?"

The firbolg clearly needs a second to think, visibly reaching through the fog of fever. "Getting some herbs. For the tea." 

"Oh. Can't I do that for you?" 

Caduceus nods vaguely. "Got to get the right ones. For healing. I'll get them. I'll teach you for next time."

Something irrational in Fjord's chest says there won't be a next time, because I'm never gonna let you get sick again. He doesn't know how he'd manage that, of course, but the sentiment remains. That said, it might be good to learn some healing herbs. If nothing else it'll give him a reason to spend more time up here.

Caduceus turns away from his harvesting to sneeze weakly into his cupped palms. He finishes with a whole-body shudder that makes his teeth chatter with cold.

"You should be in bed." 

Thank the Wildmother, Caduceus doesn't argue the point but gathers the handful of leaves into his palm and looks towards his room. "Yes. Yeah. Sorry, I got- distracted- there." 

"It's okay. Come back inside and we'll make that tea." 

Fjord loops his arm around the firbolg's waist to lead him back. He feels Caduceus lean on him in a way that suggests dizziness or maybe just fatigue. He feels the heat bleeding through the layers of their clothes. If it's making Fjord uncomfortable from the contact then Caduceus himself must be miserable with it, even if he's currently in the shivering phase. 

Fjord adds the herbs to the teapot, while Caduceus seems very glad to settle on the bed once more. He collapses all the way down and curls in on himself as he shakes with chills. Even with his hands in his armpits and his legs tucked up like a child's, he can't seem to get warm. Fjord pulls the blankets around him and that helps a little, but he still lets out a soft whine as a wave of chills passes over him. 

It just about breaks Fjord's heart. He goes to sit on the bed as if drawn by a tether, his arms going to Caduceus' back and rubbing heat into him through the blankets. 

"Hey. Hey. It's okay. What do you need?"

"M'okay. M'just cold." 

"The tea's ready. Can you sit up and drink some?"

Caduceus Clay and his family make tea not exactly for a living, but as a byproduct of their profession and their faith. Under normal circumstances Fjord would never dare to make a cup for him, but these are far from normal circumstances. It's not that he thinks Clay would judge his tea-making, exactly, but he wants so badly for the firbolg to think well of him. 

It seems unlikely that Caduceus can taste anything at all right now. He sits with his back leaning against the wall and their thighs touching on the bed. He holds the cup under his nose and breathes the stream. His slender, slit nostrils flare slightly, like a cat's, snuffling more and more rapidly, until he has to pause between sips to scrub the heel of his hand underneath his muzzle. It doesn't seem to be helping much. 

"Can you h-hold this for me?" 

He thrusts the cup at Fjord with a waver in his voice that makes Fjord take it automatically. 

"Thadks-" it's an octave higher than Caduceus' usual bass, drawn tight by a flurry of panting breaths. "heh… ehh…. heh'ISSShooo!"

"Bless you!" 

Caduceus waves a hand vaguely, pressing the other up against his nostrils. "Scuse-" He manages. Oh, his eyes are watering. He looks desperate and sniffly and full of cold, and Fjord can't do very much about it but watch as his breath hitches- hitches- 

"Chiiishhhoo!" And again, eyes slamming shut as his body jackknifes forward. If he'd been holding the tea, it would have been everywhere, that's for sure.

"hah-CHIIShhoo!" 

He surfaces with a watery, apologetic sniffle and takes the teacup back. "Nggh. Thanks, Fjord." 

"Bless you." It seems inadequate for how tired Caduceus seems. 

"Thanks." He says again. He drains the rest of the tea before any other mishap can befall it, and slumps tiredly to one side. This leaves him with his head leaning heavy against Fjord's shoulder. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course it's okay." Fjord soothes. He can feel the fever heat from the firbolg's brow and the back of his neck as he shivers. It's not unpleasant, he just wishes he could will it away. What he can do is reach his hands around and smooth the back of his fingers against the firbolg's cheek. He hopes for it to be soothing but his friend jumps in his arms, pulling away with a soft whine. 

"Sorry! Sorry!" 

"Your hands are c-cold."

"They're really not." Fjord sighs. "Come on. Lie down again now." 

With a little hauling and shifting of blankets he is able to settle Caduceus back on the mattress. It's not that 'Duceus is resisting, he's just lax with fever, and seven feet of Firbolg is a lot to manhandle. It's worth the effort to see him sigh in relief, even if it is punctuated with sniffles as he rolls over to bury his face in the pillows. 

Fjord steps back for a moment and takes stock of his patient. Caduceus lies on his belly, smothered by blankets that are not too thick to hide the occasional shudder running through his form. All that beautiful hair is vibrantly, ridiculously pink against the white cotton, tangled from all the commotion. His ears peek out from the strands, low against his head in misery. 

Another set of sniffles from within the covers, then an uneasy "uh oh-"  heralding another sneeze. It doesn't come at once but teases, leaving Caduceus to scrub his face miserably into the pillow and make soft, frustrated sounds on each exhale until he finally works up to a cleansing, "HeYSSSShhuh!" that makes Fjord cringe for his poor throat. 

"Fuck…" Fjord sighs, and tries not to listen as the firbolg blows his nose. It's a sniffly, uncomfortable sounding affair. He tries not to think of Caduceus' physiology as animal, exactly, but his slit nostrils are somewhere between a cats' and a cows', and hardly seem designed to handle the congestion.

"Ugh, I'm sorry Fjord. I'm no good to anyone like this." 

That's the last straw for Fjord's beleaguered heart.

Before he knows what he is doing, he finds himself crawling the length of the mattress and gathering the firbolg into his arms. There is a rush of heat and sweat from the lifted blankets but it is more than worth it to get Caduceus' head cradled against his chest, the weight of his body draped slack across Fjord's legs and curling into the warmth of him with another shiver. 

It feels so Goddamn good that Fjord's chest gets tight. 

Caduceus has gone very still.  The shivers stop as their shared body heat blossoms under the blankets.

"This is… new" He says tentatively. 

"But good, right?" 

"Yeah. It's nice. It helps a lot, actually. I think I needed a hug." 

Of course he does. Caduceus has always been tactile, ever ready with a hug and a kind hand. He never pushes it on anyone else, meaning that Jester gets the bulk of his physical affection. He grew up a big family and then has been alone for a long, long time. No wonder he craves a little comfort when he's not feeling good. Fjord feels like an ass for not recognising it before. 

In a bid to make up for lost time, Fjord presses a kiss to the crown of his forehead. Caduceus shivers again, but perhaps not with cold.

Inevitably, Caduceus’ sickness intervenes again, lest they forget what had brought them together this way. 

"Uh, Fjord…" 

Fjord has seen this cycle enough times to correctly interpret that hazy, ticklish squint and groping hand. He passes a clean hankie just in time for Caduceus to tuck it over his muzzle and shiver a soft, miserable "hhisSShww!"

He can feel Caduceus shudder with it, feel how much it takes out of him in this fevered state. 

The firbolg recovers more slowly now and his eyes remain unfocused. Gods, his pupils are like coins. 

“I think my fever’s up again.” Caduceus adds helpfully.

Fjord snorts. He may not be a healer but the heat radiating from the firbolg's skin is like sitting beside a brazier.

"Shall I call Jester?" There must be more magic they can pour at this problem, surely?

"Needs to save her spells. In case something happens." Caduceus explains. "She's coming this evening."

"Okay." Fjord doesn't like that much but apparently there is nothing to be done. Caduceus is selfless but he isn't a martyr or a fool. If he says there's no quick cure, Fjord believes him. It just really fucking sucks. 

He wishes he had picked up some healing magic along the way, but that wasn't what his patron had in mind, so he does what he knows how to do. 

That involves a cold cloth for the firbolg's brow and another to wipe down his neck and chest. Plenty of water to drink and another cup of tea, cold this time. Ensuring Caduceus always has a handkerchief to hand and a fond blessing when he sneezes. 

Caduceus lies placidly through all of this, a ghost of a smile on his lips in spite of it all. How he remains so good-natured, Fjord will never know. 

Fjord considers leaving him to get some sleep, but when he makes the suggestion Caduceus manages a very good impression of a wounded puppy even as he says, "Oh. Sure." 

So they end up together in the bed again. 

Caduceus is far too warm to snuggle in, but he lies on the mattress with his head resting on Fjord's arm so that the half-orc can smooth his sweaty hair back from his neck. It's almost perfect. Almost wonderful. It's been a long time since Fjord has lain with anyone like this. He watches the Firbolgs eyes weigh shut with a deep tenderness he hardly knew he was capable of, and presses another kiss to that burning brow. 

"You comfy? As you can be?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I-" Caduceus raises his head, looking up at Fjord with big pupils, fever flushed cheeks and a peculiar determination. Looks like Caduceus is steeling himself for something. 

" 'm far too loopy to think now." The firbolg begins, placing each word as if he has to retrieve them individually from the fog of fever and they lay them out before him. "But this is really nice. We should do this again...so I can… enjoy it properly." 

A long speech from someone hazy and half-asleep. Fjord feels his lips tilt into a delighted, probably goofy, grin. He is very glad Caduceus can't see it from this position.

"Yeah. I'd like that too." 

No reply this time. Caduceus Clay is asleep and snoring softly on his chest, and Fjord couldn't be happier.

[wintersongstress]

All I Dream and Have

1 ❧ 

Summary: Bereaved and evading the clutches of a family tragedy, you leave behind the pain of your past to marry your fiancé and seek out your dreams, for the dawn of a new century holds the promise of a fresh start with the man you love.

But, if you knew anything about life, it was unpredictable and unkind, and when your plans for the future fall apart and you start running from the law, nothing could prepare you for the path ahead. One that lead to dark places and hard choices. One where everything you believe about right and wrong is tested.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: This is 30 years late but I’m posting it anyway!

Chapter 1: A Field on Fire  ❧

May 25th, 1899.

Dear Lenora,

I am the happiest I have been in a long, long time.

This letter is awfully overdue—for that I must foremost apologize to you. These past few months have been both the longest and the most fleeting in the course of my life. In my relentless grief, I lost my sense of self in pursuit of burying the past, believing that would be in my best interest. I see now the errors in that thinking. There is no forgetting, and part of the suffering is how you endure. It was the least of my intentions to leave my closest friend behind in the ashes of what was. All I knew for certain was that I needed time—to heal, and I needed Matthew—which brings me to my news and the reason behind my renewed hope in life.

He asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

I desperately wish to tell you all of the beautiful details of those simple words in person, so I ask that you forgive my brevity. Regretfully, this letter is not a wedding invitation. We have decided to have a small ceremony, only the two of us at a scenic little chapel. The swiftness of this life-altering affair may seem imprudent, but I have never been more sure of any decision in my life.  I know it will be perfect—because it is him, and because it will mark the beginning of the rest of our lives together.

At this moment, I write to you from our private suite on a ferry docked in Blackwater for the evening. Traveling across the country has been tiresome, however Matthew has hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency to protect my inheritance while we travel, so all is safe and sound. Tomorrow, we board a train bound to our new home in New York. Originally, I shunned the notion of using my parents’ money to support to my future, but I recognized that was what they left it for, and who am I to spit back their last gift to me?

Now the time has come for me to focus on what I have to gain, not dwell upon what I have lost and all of my misfortunes. In that sentiment, I found my new love: for my work, and for my fiancé. And I believe that will be enough.

I wanted to express my gratitude for all that you have done in settling the matters of my family’s estate. I was not strong enough to go back and see what was left, and I surmise I never will be.  

Please, write to me soon; I wish to clear the air between us. I miss you terribly, and, above all, I hope that this letter finds you well. Do not hesitate to let me know of anything you need of me. Take care.

Sincere—

The pen in your hand stills as the softest whisper of a kiss blooms against your neck, leaving the finishing stroke of your letter promptly forgotten. Your breath hitches in your chest, and the chill that tingles down your spine infringes on the solid warmth of the presence at your back. A spell of quiet and alone had fallen as you began writing beneath the green desk lamp this evening. One imbued by the gentle breeze flowing through the windows opened to a twilight sky.  It all broke with a soundless sigh as you melt into the pair of slim shoulders behind you, sinking into a different kind of peace.

That touch—it belongs to him . You would know it anywhere. The trepidation of his hands, how slow they are to indulge as they travel, his fingertips trailing down the curve of your shoulders. Only he was capable of speaking of such soft wonder and considering you so thoughtfully without the sweetness of words.

What also unquestionably belongs to him is the whiff of cologne that follows his nearness. A sweetly dark scent of spice and musk, one that often clings to your skin with a simple passing brush of his sleeve. During the long months apart, he would leave you a scarf to remember him by, something to hold close. On the lonelier nights, you would gaze upon the moonlight glowing through your bedroom window and hold it against your heart. Every memory of him rose in your mind with that scent, and all of them were filled with fondness.

An unthinking smile lifts your cheeks.

“You know, it’s incredibly rude to sneak up on people,” You chide lightly, the teeter of a laugh sweetening your voice as your eyes lull to a close. A beat passes, and you both linger in the silence. His mouth glances your skin with the delicate grace and indecision of a butterfly as it drifts upwards with light, teasingly chaste presses.  

Metal clatters, rolls across the mahogany desk and lands on the carpet with a thud. All the while, your head falls back as you yield a contented sigh and nest your hand into a familiar crown of dark hair, lacing the waves between your fingers.

A mischievous smile touches your ear. Matthew smooths his elegant hands down the sleeves of your gown, indulging in the emerald shade of satin encasing your arms. The silken sound has your teeth tugging your bottom lip, and a horripilation of delight prickles the skin beneath your dress .

“I’m sorry, I forget all my manners when I’m around you, Mrs. Cornwall.”

“Soon to be,” You correct, breathless at the low tone of his voice.  

His thumb tips your chin to his, and in that fleeting space he murmurs, “Not soon enough.”

And with that, your lashes brush along his cheek as his mouth seeks to capture yours.

Matthew’s kisses are always languid and warm. In the blurred space between eyelids, his hands find their rightful place along your neck, holding you still at the perfect angle as his lips press into yours. Time gloriously eludes you both in those few moments as your hand slides farther into his hair, and you forget. You forget about the letter and the circumstances that brought you to write it in the first place. You forget where you are, no longer listening to the lap of water against the boat or the chirp of insects in the spring evening.

To forget all but who you are with is an elusive feeling, one that grants an immeasurable relief that leads you to forget the worst of all that has happened. Like a flower to the rain, you open yourself up to it freely. The brief tastes of it you had with him in moments like this kept you sane, and to know that they were never far was the reason why you smiled every day when you woke instead of sobbing to sleep each night. Yes, to forget was what you needed most desperately, and in Matthew’s embrace you forget about the worst thing of all.

You forget about the past.

His kisses were also easy to get lost in, dismissing all of your thoughts and clarity until you opened your eyes to find his in a haze. In the soft, warm lighting from the globe sconces of your suite, a fortune of silver glitters in the gray of his gaze, and a slow smile blooms between you. He was as lost as you were.

You thumb over his freckled, pale and prominent cheekbone, trailing down the hollow of his cheek to trace the line of his smile. With the tragedy that had befallen you, you subconsciously began to memorize his features, as if you might lose him, too, one day. The thought is too frightful to water, and it makes your hand drop.

As a part of you, a shadow was never far, and despondency shared its loom in equal. One fugitive glance behind was all it took to draw you back, and before long that woeful song filled with emptiness lured beckoned, calling out to you like a siren at sea to drown in the cold, dark waters of grief.

Matthew notes the way your eyes fall away, spotting the sadness doubtlessly lurking within them, and he clears his throat.

“I have something for you.”

“You’ve given me enough gifts, Matthew. What more could you give me?”

The back of his finger strokes your cheek, softer than a snowflake’s falling. A small, hidden dimple winks briefly at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see. Keep your eyes closed.”

He curiously withdraws, and you do as he bids.

His footsteps shuffle away towards the bed where his travel case is and you sit patiently, eyes closed and excitement unfurling in your chest. After a few moments of rummaging he returns, and the cold weight of gold settles upon your neck delicately.

“Open.”

A silver mirror is placed in your hand and your jaw drops as you raise it towards your neck. Dozens of tearful peridot droplets glimmer back in the reflection, matching the twinkle in Matthew’s eyes as he watches you. The cloudless facets are cool to the touch as you admire them speechlessly.

“Matthew—”

“I thought it matched your dress when we were in town earlier. I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s beautiful,” You breathe. Matthew’s fingertips skim along the pendants sparkling over the smooth skin over your heart, absently trailing down to the glass buttons of your bodice.

“Not as some things…” He whispers dazedly, and the allusive warmth that brews in his downcast gaze has you swallowing tightly.

“Still, you shouldn’t have. As lovely as this is, I don’t want to display our wealth so ostentatiously...” And yet, as you voice your opposition to this show of lavishness , your sight remains fixed on the captivating stones. They do compliment the peacock feather embroidery along the flounce of your sleeves, and the jewel tones of the silk. Part of you chastises your budding inclination towards the extravagant frivolities Matthew had begun to spoil you with, and the other half…the other half of your sensibilities hesitates. Wearing this made you lift your chin higher and refine your posture to accommodate the elegance it demanded, as if it were a sense of purpose resting over your heart rather than a necklace.  

“You can have nice things. You can allow yourself this,” Matthew says after a moment of watching you deliberate. His words are veiled in understanding, knowing your silent doubts and why you waver.  He caresses the line of your bottom lip in an attempt to bring back your smile. “I want you to have it.”

You glance up, catching the softness in his eyes, and the tactile persuasion of his touch works.

“Thank you. I—” He swiftly cuts you off with a capricious kiss, one you grin and acquiesce into blissfully.

When he breaks away, he strokes your cheek with his thumb once more, and your eyes are slow to open. “No gratitude is necessary. I just want to spoil you,”

Reassured, you set the mirror down beside a letter opener atop a shambolic stack of research notes.

“We should—” you pause to clear your throat, stuck on your own words. “What time is it?”

Your pocket watch gleams on the desk, and you retreat from his embrace.

It was a gift from your mother for when you graduated from medical school. As always, you were reluctant to accept the indulgence of the timepiece. The gold face was engraved with two birds circling a flower, one whose center was a brilliant ruby that glittered like a star. She had insisted that it was a reward for your diligence, and looking back, you were glad that you ultimately conceded.

How often you thumbed the face of it, on that train platform on that autumnal day, fondling the last piece of her you had.

Your fingers close around the watch and flip the cover open.

“Dinner will be served soon, we should get going,” You announce. With a golden click the reverie is broken and you return your attention to the letter, signing it with a hastened scribble.

Matthew huffs a small laugh, “Now I remember what I originally came here to tell you.” He sighs, resigning his fond hold of you with one last, lingering caress to the back of your craning neck. The growing number of those light and leisurely touches he thoughtlessly gave reminded you of his unabated affection, and the fact that they made your heart flutter each time revealed how steadfast yours was, as well. You averred the realized possibility of you finding this kind of sincere and undying love on luck, an astronomical chance—like a shooting star in a barren sky.

Dazed with happiness, you sift through the contents of the desk’s side drawer in search of an envelope with a sweet hum. Matthew has stepped away in pursuit of making himself more presentable for the evening—although his outfit alone is more than passable. In your opinion, it is debonair.

After sealing the letter, you take a moment to admire him in his finery and the motions of his body as he searches for a suit jacket in the wardrobe. His shoulder blades shift gracefully beneath the raven dark silk of his vest, the material dimpling around the ornate buckle cinched at the small of his back as he leafs through his options. As he turns, the light of the room catches in the threads of gold embroidery swirling around the front of the garment.

Matthew presses his lips together as he holds two neckties up to his black collared shirt in the mirror next to the wardrobe, switching between a gold and a rose red puff tie. His brows alternately rise as he considers each choice. The sight twitches the corner of your mouth up and threatens a laugh, especially as he comes no further to reaching a decision each time he pauses between them.

Rising from the plush chair, the fabric of your gown rustles from the movement as you swivel around the desk to join his side. He calmly asks for your opinion.

You snake the red tie around and underneath his collar, tucking it in and smoothing the enamel pin in its place at the center afterwards. His Adam’s apple bobs as your hands slowly proceed down his chest, and your lips idly press a kiss to his clean-shaven jaw.  

“I thought you didn’t want to be late?” He teases. A hand curves around your waist, and his nose traces down your temple playfully. As he pulls you into the circle of his arms, your hands drift up to his shoulders, and you slant your mouth to hover over his, calculated in your distance.

“I don’t. That’s why—”the word drags along with your bottom lip as you  impishly sweep it over the seam of his expectant mouth. When the tips of your noses bump,  a fleeting pause simmers as you slink your tortuous path upwards. “We should go,” you finish. You kiss his cupid’s bow deviously, unable to hold back your grin.

“After you,” he hums while hooked on the edge of your lips, amusing you by forbidding himself from purloining another kiss. Another laugh comes easily to you as he chases the distance between when you pull away.

In the space of an hour after sunset, the evening has grown cooler. Gliding across the carpet, you retrieve your shawl and drape the silken sapphire blue fabric around your shoulders for warmth. The beaded fringe sways as you swipe the ivory envelope off of the desktop. Matthew offers his elbow to you, all chivalrous and patient as he smiles softly. He leads the both of you outside and the door clicks shut.

The stars had come out, and as they twinkled, the developing town of Blackwater sat sleepily at the water’s edge. Far beyond the rooftops rose the Grizzlies mountain range, their cloud-haloed peaks standing sentinel against the backdrop of the wide and rolling golden-yellow plains.

When the ferry first docked earlier this afternoon you enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the bustling streets in the sunshine, more than glad for the change of scenery and the breath of fresh air. Men wearing caps and suspenders toiled under the sun all day, constructing the new town hall and trundling carts of freight down the dusty docks alongside the draft horses whinnying down the cobblestones. They created a din with the ringing of their hammers and mallets and shouting.

Music drifted outside of the Oriental Theatre and women admired the storefront window displays beneath the brim of their hats. The barber propped his door open to invite business in. Fresh red and glossy apples formed a neat pyramid outside of the general store, and men on their lunch breaks smoked cigars and dangled their worn shoes over the balconies.

Children played with their dogs inside their picket fences at the edge of town, the parents lounging on the porch in the shade with a lemonade. When the sun went down, the men trickled into the saloons for a round of poker or back home to their families.

The people in Blackwater were no different from the rest of the budding civilizations of America. They worked hard for an honest life to sustain an honest dream. They enjoyed the simple pleasures that came their way, and they welcomed you to do the same.

The heat was much drier and more bearable than the thick, humid air of Savannah. Although, you found that you missed the vibrant greens of the seaside city you called home for the past few years. You would spend your Sunday mornings on a blanket in the park with your textbooks, hidden by bushes of blue hydrangeas and glancing up at the wizardly beards of Spanish moss hanging down from the vast trees. In this dry part of the country, the dirt blown in from the plains dusted the ground and clouded the air from the high traffic, leaving you eager for a bath in the mid-afternoon. That must have been when Matthew purchased the necklace.

Your fingers fondle the droplets, a nervous habit, as if rubbing the coolness from the stone would ease the worries that always swirl below the surface of your happiness.  

Along the waterfront, the street lamps glow yellow into the blue night, bleeding their luminance onto the lake and wavering. With the shimmer of starlight on dark water, the whirling of colors across the ripples resembles a field on fire, burning bright and stretching onwards greedily.

The low murmurs of conversation drifting out from the open dining room interrupt your thoughts mercifully. Your footsteps no longer creak across the wood of the deck, instead clicking on a floor buffed to a high polish.

The sighs of a violin and the musical clink of ice in crystal glasses fills the air, lifting your eyes to the warm atmosphere around you. Men in lavish suits with slicked-back coiffures and ornamental gold-topped canes swirl their amber drinks and mingle. Prim, staid women cling to their sides or sit at the dining tables, their golden hair coiled and twisted in place with jeweled pins while they pick at their nails with keen interest. Tall, potted jungle plants with scalloped leaves decorate the walls between the windows curtained off with red velvet. A fire burns in a hearth on one wall, keeping back the chill of winter’s end and spring’s beginning.

An usher stands near the door and you briefly speak with him, handing him your letter and an ample amount of cash for fulfilling a special errand. The older gentleman assures you he will see to it promptly after leading you to your table.

A woman wearing ivory elbow-length gloves cools herself with a lace fan stolidly. Her gown dusts the floor with white lace and elaborate ribbons and gatherings decorate her petite waist. A strand of pearls adorns her swan-like neck, and dangling from her ears glimmer drops of diamonds. She has a chiseled, elegant, oval face, with a small set of brows and lips and a slender nose she lifts at the sight of you. The beating pass of her fan slows distractedly.

Your gaze passes over her for all of a second, paying no heed when she puffs her chest to draw your attention to her jewelry, her wealth, her social standing. Instead you smile up at Matthew, and he catches it instantly, his hand falling to the small of your back as you lean closer to him.

A server in a vest and tie pulls out a cushioned chair for you, gesturing for you to sit before draping a napkin in your lap. Matthew settles in at the seat across from you and orders a bottle of Cabernet while the man lays a menu over your table settings. With a humble incline of his head, he leaves you to your conversation.

You drum your fingers against the pattern of the tablecloth, perusing the menu’s entrees for a few moments before coming to a decision. Matthew has gone curiously silent.

Candles glow between you, letting time pass unknowingly in the spell they cast as he gazes upon you softly, his eyes alight. Bemused, you pluck a grape from a silver platter laden with ripe fruit, watching him watch you as you taste its pleasant sweetness.

The corner of his mouth lifts.  

An uncontainable laugh blooms from your chest. “What is it?” you demand half-heartedly.

He shakes his head, clearing the fog of his thoughts with a chuckle as he lifts his chin from his propped fist.

“I still haven’t wrapped my head around it. Us,” his hand reaches for yours, and the mood shifts from light laughter to sincere tenderness in a blink as you wordlessly accept his touch. “Finally running away together,” he trails thoughtfully. A thumb runs along the ring on your finger and the stone sparkles darkly. His ring. His promise to you. Your commitment to each other.  “Like we always dreamed.”

A part of you struggled to believe your life was falling into place at last. All of these years of diligence and sacrifice, thriving off of letters alone while you both worked towards your dreams. The hardships that obstructed you, the grief, the doubts of finding happiness again because of everything that happened. In the darkness of the past you told yourself he was enough. After all of it, he had to be. He was all you had left.

You cling to his hand. To you, his ring shone with the brightness of the future.

“We’re hardly running. In fact, I’d say our pace is quite leisurely,” you say cheerfully, lacing his fingers between yours. Hope floods your heart when he squeezes your hand back. “We have all the time in the world.”

Silverware clatters and a shrill laugh breaks your reverie. Matthew loosens his hold respectfully when the server returns with a bottle of wine, clearing his throat as to announce his presence politely. He pours the drink smoothly into your empty glasses. Meanwhile, you fix your attention to the embossed leaves floriating the baroque wallpaper. You twist your fingers in your lap as the liquid sloshes against the crystal before settling in a dark crimson pool.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to tell your father?” A harmless question, but one you have both been avoiding.

You always understood that Matthew had a complicated and strained relationship with his irascible father, Leviticus. As his only son, expectations were put upon him to live in his shadow and carry on his legacy. But Matthew was nothing like him, and that was precisely the problem. After his wife, April, died, whatever kindness he afforded his flesh and blood atrophied. Like she did. Matthew was her reflection in every way: her eyes, her dark hair and elegant face. In the years that passed since her death, he became a source of resentment for his father, reminding him of the limitations of his money in the face of his dearly beloved perishing.

Matthew’s expression hardens and his shoulders tense. Shrinking back, you swallow the knot in your throat and gnaw your lip, dipping your head in supplication at how thoughtlessly you brought up such a sore subject. The only shared trait you witnessed between him and Leviticus was his temper, and though its occurrence was rare, it still twinged to recognize where it came from.

“He knows what he needs to. No more, no less. I don’t need his money or his blessing,” he grumbles bitterly, eyes shuttered. His anger is directed elsewhere, and for you, that assuages your guilt. You quietly shun yourself for fearing his reaction in those brief moments. He would never direct his anger towards you.

The gentle touch of your hand atop his flutters his lashes, and his brow softens. Warm lighting and drifting music surrounds you and instills nothing but peacefulness and calm.

“We’re leaving all of that behind and starting anew.” you remind him, helpless to caress the coldness from his hand. The tenseness in shoulders loosens and his palm turns up.

He lifts your knuckles and presses an apologetic kiss upon them. His breath tingles down your wrist as he lingers.

“How about a toast?” you propose when he releases you.

“To us?”

“To us.”

With a crystalline clink, your glasses meet. The smooth and sour taste of the wine slips over your tongue and you savor its richness. As you close your eyes, you open your mind to more than appreciating what you have in this moment. You accept the idea that this is the moment when you leave the past behind for good, that it changes for the better. And with that, the disquiet of your thoughts settle with your glass against the table, silenced in the light of Matthew’s smile and the happiness it speaks of.

A loud crash sounds from behind the dining room doors, and a collective gasp ripples through the room as the are doors kicked in. You whip your head towards the clamor, your heart seizing as your body jerks upwards with a flight instinct.

Silver barrels of raised shotguns and rifles gleam in the lighting and a formidable group of men burst inside, their black duster jackets chasing their tall and imposing forms. Saddlebags are draped over their shoulders and masks conceal their faces, though not their intent.

Outlaws.

Your throat dries, your muscles freeze.

Matthew finds your arm in the uproar of screams and gunshots, plaster raining down as he pulls you against him.

“Ladies and Gentleman, this is a robbery! Get down on the ground!”