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warmblanketwhump · 3 years

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Idk if its too late to send this in but if it isn't, how about ⬤ and ✿?

✿: feeling so out of it, they need constant attention

⬤: being called soft things like baby, sweetheart or honey

(note: this MIGHT be cheating but my poor brain was stuck on ideas SO this is a part two to this prompt fill! would recommend reading that first for context, but pretty sure you can enjoy them independently :)

To any other person, the remote cabin would have looked like any old shack – slightly dilapidated, covered in moss, nested away among the trees. But to a lost, soaked, chilled-to-the-bone A, the cabin looks like a warm little slice of heaven, and it takes all they have not to run up the stairs. Instead, they slide an injured B off of their back and help them hobble to the small porch.

The pair limp across the threshold of the cabin and leave the pattering rain behind them, entering a small, spotlessly clean living room that smells of cedar and pine. A large, squashy-looking couch faces a dark fireplace with a tall stack of split logs nearby, and to the right of the doorway is a small kitchen. In the back, A spots a darkened bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and a linen closet. The cabin's rustic, so there's no electricity or hot water - just a single spigot and a gas stove for cooking.

They set a trembling B on the couch, pushing away the guilt of yelling at them earlier, of making them come out here in the first place.

“I’ll find us some towels and blankets. Can you start getting your wet clothes off?” Amid their violent shivers, B nods and starts shedding A’s raincoat and their own denim jacket with pruned, fumbling fingers. The sight nearly crushes A, but they know someone has to go find blankets to help them both get warm.

A pushes into the bathroom and locates several clean, threadbare towels, then heads to the linen closet. They nearly burst into happy tears when they see the large bundle of hideous plaid blankets and a couple piles of flannel and thermal clothing stacked neatly in the corner (forgotten by whoever rented it last, they guessed) and grab as much as their numb fingers can hold.

When they return to the couch, they find B in nearly the exact spot they left them - denim jacket off one arm, on the other, rain jacket fallen to the floor. They're hunched over, stiff with cold, arms crossed tightly.

“Oh sweetheart.…” A sighs, dropping the blankets on the couch and rushing to them.

“T-tried to ch-change. F-fingers won't-t work-k. I’m s-sorry-”

“B, you have nothing to be sorry about. I should’ve helped you in the first place.” A unthreads the soaked clothing from B’s shaking frame, gently patting their wet skin dry and lightly squeezing the water droplets out of their hair with a towel.

B’s eyes are bleary and unfocused, but they respond to A’s simple commands as they dress them in a pair of warm red flannel pants and a grey thermal long-sleeve. A casts a glance towards B's swollen ankle - it's not the worst injury they've ever seen, but it's definitely got to hurt. They dart back to the bathroom and locate a small first aid kit with a cloth bandage, and tenderly wrap up the sore ankle to immobilize it.

When they’re finished, they wrap B in two blankets: one around their legs and elevated ankle, and the other over their wet head and trembling shoulders. B sneezes, cinches the blanket tighter and groans.

“Look-k like a Russian p-peasant woman.” B grumbles, and A can’t help but let a chuckle escape. They really do look like a grandma, with only their face sticking out of the blanket cape.

“Alright, then, babushka. Let me get a fire started, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

Mercifully, it only takes a few minutes for A to get a roaring fire going. A drapes another blanket around B's shoulders and gives them a quick, reassuring rub.

“I’m gonna change, okay? You just worry about warming up.” B moans weakly and pulls the blanket over their nose, edging closer to the flame’s heat.

A peels off their wet clothing in the drafty bedroom, hurriedly drying their own cold skin and pulling on their own warm clothes - a cream thermal and blue flannel pants. The brief exposure makes them shiver, and they chafe their arms and legs to rub away the goosebumps and the damp chill that sinks into their marrow. For just a moment, they acknowledge how cold they are, too. God, they wish this place had hot water.

The adrenaline of the moment begins to fade, and several facts strike them at once. They were freezing. They were stuck in a remote cabin with no electricity for the weekend. This whole weekend was their idea - and all their fault. And they felt guilty as hell about it.

Squeezing their wet hair, they shove the intrusive thoughts from their mind and grab a blanket from the bed to wrap tightly around their own shoulders, along with a couple pillows from the bed for B.

On returning to the living room, they see B managed to hop on their one good leg over to the fire, leaving a trail of two of their other blankets behind. They’re huddled as close as possible to the warm glow, head resting on the hearth. A drops the pillows on the couch and kneels down, running their fingers through B’s damp hair, now exposed by the fallen blanket.

“Feeling any better, love?”

B gives a small, wan smile that fails to light up their peaked face and shakes their head, turning to cough. When they’ve finished, they shudder weakly, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Can’t shake the chill in my bones.” B coughs again. A can see them rubbing their arms under the blankets. “Heat’s bouncing right off me. And I ache all over, not just my ankle.” Another chill rattles their teeth, and they pull the blanket up to their chin. “I just can’t warm up at all.”

A pulls a shivery B into a hug, rubbing their shoulders and trying to share the little body heat they’ve created - unlike B, the fire’s warmth is beginning to thaw them out. In the dim firelight, A can see a sheen of sweat on B’s forehead, and alarm bells go off. Instinctively, A reaches out to press their cold hand to it. It’s warm now. Too warm for someone who just spent two hours trekking through the cold rain.

"Sweetheart, you're feverish. That’s why you’re achy and chilled.”

“S’pose it makes sense. I’m just freezing.” A gust of wind rattles the cabin, and a draft snakes its way into the living room, making B shudder and curl up even closer to A. “I’d kill for a hot shower right now.”

“Don’t go all ‘The Shining’ on me yet - we just got here.” A grabs a towel to try and further dry B’s damp hair. It was probably an old wives’ tale, but they didn’t have many options to keep a sick person comfortable out here, and wet hair couldn’t feel good.

B had complained about feeling a cold coming on a couple days ago, and mentioned that they might not want to go this weekend. A had made fun of them for it, joking about how someone like B never let a little cold get them down. And now, thanks to them, B was even sicker. They really were the worst friend in history.

“Do you think you could manage some tea?" A asks quietly. B closes their eyes and nods, laying their head back on the hearth.

 It takes a few minutes, but A manages to light the gas stove and locate a kettle, along with a dusty box of herbal tea tucked away in a cupboard. Whoever they had rented from had stocked it high with all kinds of canned soups and dry goods, so at least they’d be prepared for the long haul.

A sudden glance out the window reveals that the rain has turned into fat, white snowflakes, whirling in the sky and dusting the porch. A rubs their hands together, holding their chilled fingers as close to the stove flame as possible. The kettle whistles and A pours two cups, reveling in the warm steam that tickles their nose.

Once the tea is brewed, they make their way back to the fireplace. B's too weak to lift their own head, so A sits behind them and props them up, holding the teacup and helping them take small sips of the warm liquid. Once the cup is empty, A helps B lay their head back on the hearth before adding a few more logs to the fire and starting on their own tea.

Despite the warm fire, A can feel the ambient temperature of the room dropping. There's no way B's going to stay warm enough in the bedroom, so they’ll just have to make do out here for now.

After pushing the couch until it's just inches in front of the fire, A sweeps B into their arms and helps them back to the couch, easing them gently onto the pillows they've laid and tucking a blanket back around them. Even this close to the fire, the brief movement had set off another round of bone-shaking chills in B, and they grip their blanket so hard A’s afraid they’ll tear it.

“A?" B's voice is weak.

“I’m right here.”

“A, can you hold me? Please?” The desperation is palpable. B’s breathing is hoarse and they're close to tears, arms wrapped tightly around themselves. “Shivering hurts, but I can’t stop. I know you probably don’t want to get sick from me-”

A’s heart breaks. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll keep you warm.” They slide onto the couch and wrap their own blanket around the both of them, pulling B’s fevered body to their chest. B clings to their body, and A can feel the shakes that ripple through them. A gently massages their arms and back in slow circles and B presses closer, the vulnerability almost too much to bear.

Finally, A says what’s been eating away at them for hours. “B, I’m so sorry for what I said on the trail. I shouldn’t have said it, and I didn’t mean it. I do want you here. And now we’re here, and you're sick and hurt and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry for that too.” The apology comes out in such a rush, and B is quiet for so long in their arms that they doubt B even heard it.

But then they feel B’s trembling arms squeezing their waist. “Nature’s not your fault, A. Besides, if being taken care of is a part of your apology, it's warm and I'll take it."

A grips B even tighter, fighting back tears. “Whatever happens this weekend, I’ve got you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do. You always have,” B mumbles as they slip into a restless sleep. In front of the warm fire, A reasons that the drafty bedroom was probably too cold for anyone to sleep in. No, they were perfectly content to stay right here with B - and not even the promise of a warm shower could lure them away.

#this is a damn novel but whatev #I loved it too much to stop #sickfic #sickfic prompt #whump prompt #cold whump #cabin whump #shivering #flu #fever #blankets #hurt comfort #lost in the woods #this was so fun to write #literally sat on this the entire holiday weekend #edited this SO MANY TIMES #this is what happens when you adore a trope #my writing

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iatethepomegranate · 3 years

Text

For now, they had this

So Shadowgast has finally made me write fanfic again. I started this a few hours after the finale, and then woke up to find Twitter confirmation for my reading of their epilogue. So here’s 2k of soft wizards confirming for each other what they already knew, in their quiet way. I’m playing with the timeline ordering of things, so my interpretation is not necessarily the Canon interpretation of how things went between them.

Demisexual Essek is addressed here, without saying it explicitly. I tried. Massive spoilers for the finale, obviously.

____

For now, they had this

As much as Caleb trusted Essek to handle himself, he had to admit he was nervous about leaving him behind in Aeor. But the longer they spent together, the greater the weight of things unsaid, and Caleb had to take care of something first.

He had to go home. Blumenthal.

So he did. Found his parents’ resting place. Buried his letters to them. Grieved.

He didn’t go back to Aeor right away, the weight of the Sending stone Essek had foisted on him heavy in his pocket. Essek didn’t need it; he could Send without expending too much of his reserves. Essek hadn’t said anything, but Caleb was keenly aware this stone was solely for his benefit.

Caleb lingered close to Blumenthal for a time, feeling the finality wash over him. He could sometimes feel the phantom weight of the letters as if they still hung from his book holster. It would take time for him to get used to not carrying them around anymore. Just like he had carried the weight of what he had done for so long. And likely always would. But he was more at peace with that now. He had a mission to prevent this from ever happening again. There were things he had done about it, and things he would continue to do for as long as he lived. Fixing his home would be a lifelong mission, but he was finally ready to handle it.

Essek left him alone for a few days, until he must have grown anxious. Well, more anxious than usual. Essek, Caleb had learned, was an anxious person.

“Caleb,” Essek’s voice appeared in Caleb’s head. Soft, but concerned. “I apologise for the intrusion. Are you all right?” The barest pause. “I am safe up here, but… I am concerned. But no rush. Please.”

“I’m all right,” Caleb replied before the spell could decay, losing the thread of the dome ritual he had begun to cast moments ago. “I will return tomorrow. Stay safe. And thank you.”

Jester would be appalled that he didn’t use all his words, but Caleb was… wrung out. Catharsis was, by its nature, exhausting. His response must have satisfied Essek, who did not Send again.

Caleb began to cast the dome once more, blending the exterior with the greens and browns of the woods, but transparent inside so he could fall asleep under the stars of his childhood one last time.

***

Caleb risked the teleport directly into Aeor the following morning, grasping the paper from the records room firmly in his hand. He mercifully landed exactly where he had intended, breathing the dusty air. His ribs expanded more freely than they had in years.

Essek floated cross-legged just above the floor in the corner, looking up from the pages of a ledger in his hands. He watched silently for a second, as he usually did while waiting for a wild magic surge in this place. When none materialised, he gave Caleb a soft smile.

“Welcome back. Come. I am sure you will find this interesting.”

Essek rarely pushed Caleb to talk when he wasn’t ready; he was grateful, especially now. They sat together on the floor for a time, smudges of salt and soot on their fingers as they dug deeper into the records of Aeor. Stacks of books, long-hidden information, and Essek’s steady, quiet company. Caleb had needed this.

It was only when Caleb threw off his coat to more comfortably crawl among the books, collecting fragments of a damaged volume that had fallen apart at the spine, that Essek said anything unrelated to the work.

“Uh, Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Your other book…”

Caleb followed Essek’s gaze to the empty side of his holster. “Ah.” He sat back, depositing the rescued fragments on the floor in front of him. “It was… time to let go.”

Essek watched him quietly, but did not press. But, mere weeks earlier, he had listened to Caleb lay out all his plans to save his parents. He had even offered to help him. And had been visibly relieved when Caleb instead destroyed the time travel device and all the notes that could have been used to replicate it. He knew enough to understand.

So Caleb explained. The letters he had written. His plans to give them to his mother and father after he had saved them. But he had to let go.

“So, I…” Caleb had to take a moment, the tears threatening to overtake him.

Essek silently looped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in, tucking Caleb into the hollow of his throat. Caleb breathed him in, and remained there.

“I teleported the book into the earth between their graves,” he murmured. “It's the closest I can… it’s with them now. Best I can manage.” Talking hurt too much, so he stopped.

“Caleb,” Essek said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Caleb let himself cry.

***

Essek was always gentle with him, but even more so in the following days. Passing of materials gave rise to held hands, lingering touches, lingering stares. Slowly, Caleb began to feel better. As much as he believed he could, at least for now. It was better than he had felt in a long time. With time, perhaps, the wounds would ache less. Never perfect, but better.

Having disturbed an absorber of an evening, the resulting scuffle left Caleb too tired to summon the tower. He instead set to conjuring the dome while Essek kept watch. They were a little far to retreat to the records room, but they had managed to barricade an entranceway with damaged furniture despite their pitiful strength. Essek, of course, had demonstrated he was more than capable of surprising everyone, including himself, in moments of great duress. Fortunately, Caleb had not gotten himself trapped under a tower this time.

So, Essek hovered close to Caleb during the ritual, keeping an eye on the door they had barricaded. He was tense, but Caleb had to get this dome up before he could address it. There was also a gash on his forearm that would need dressing… but later. Focus.

The dome popped into existence. Caleb put his spellbook away, feeling his shoulder protest. He would need Essek’s help checking the damage.

Essek ducked into the dome, sighing. “Let us not repeat the events of today.”

Caleb produced a set of clean bandages, a cloth and a waterskin. “Agreed.” He grabbed Essek’s arm and dabbed the dampened cloth against the cut. Essek hissed in pain, but didn’t flinch. He hadn’t in a while. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was a sign Essek was getting hurt far too much, or a sign of trust. Both, perhaps. Caleb bandaged the wound, and held Essek’s arm for a moment longer. He was okay. The fight had been tiring, but they had both come out of it. A cut on the arm was nothing in the scheme of things.

Essek extricated his arm from Caleb’s grip, and pushed Caleb’s coat off his shoulders. “Let me see.”

Caleb hadn’t spoken of the pain, but he also hadn’t tried to hide it. Essek carefully loosened the book holsters--a research journal, for the moment, filled the spot once occupied by the letters--and set them aside. He then ran his fingers gently across the front laces of Caleb’s shirt, until Caleb nodded his consent.

Essek gently tugged the shirt loose until he could pull one side off the sore shoulder. He frowned; Caleb couldn’t see the cause. Essek prestidigitated the washcloth clean and wet it, carefully draping it across Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb closed his eyes as the cool sensation took the edge off the pain. He heard a soft mumble, and sensed movement akin to the somatic components of a basic evocation cantrip. The cloth grew colder.

Essek placed his hand over the cloth, squeezing gently. “I think you pulled something. I will continue to ice it tonight.”

“Thank you,” Caleb whispered.

“Rest.” Lips on his forehead. “I will keep watch.”

Caleb opened his eyes. Essek was kneeling at his side, not floating. Too tired, perhaps. But his eyes were sharp, trained on the barricaded doorway.

“Essek.”

“Yes?” Eyes still focused outward.

“Relax a moment. This has been a hard day for both of us.”

Essek let out a long breath, turning his gaze towards Caleb. “I apologise. I… have a hard time seeing you hurt.”

Caleb’s keen mind kindly conjured for him all the times Essek had seen him hurt much worse than this, but he held his tongue. Frequency did not make these things easier. Least of all for Essek, who had been alive for over a century but had only been genuinely close to a small number of people. Caring was hard. Worth it, but hard.

“I know,” Caleb said. “The very nature of caring for someone… witnessing their suffering… it hurts.”

Essek frowned at the floor, but then lifted his gaze to Caleb. “I worried while you were away.”

“I know. And thank you.” Caleb pulled Essek in with his good arm, laying his head on his shoulder. He felt, not for the first time, the urge to talk about this thing between them. But, as he had felt many times before, now was not the time.

Caleb and Essek were not the kind of people to blurt out complicated feelings in a moment of distress or exhaustion. So he closed his eyes and rested against Essek instead. They were what they were to each other, and Caleb was confident this would not disappear overnight. Putting that into words could wait a little longer.

***

The next day was quiet, spent examining record books rescued from the rampage of yesterday’s absorber. Caleb and Essek needed a quieter day, and the slower pace was welcome. They rarely spoke while in the throes of research, always keenly aware of each other, passing paper and writing implements back and forth, smudging soot and salt against each other’s skin as their touches lingered.

It was everything Caleb had ever wanted.

Taking a moment to stretch his back and roll his aching shoulder, his eyes were drawn to Essek’s form in the corner. So engrossed in his reading and note-taking, he had stopped floating about an hour ago. Hunched on the hard, warped floor of this broken city, eyes intense as he scribbled feverishly. He was running low on ink again.

Caleb chuckled softly and crawled closer, gently nudging another inkwell into Essek’s reach. Essek paused in his scribbles, a small smile softening his features. He reached out, eyes retracing the notes he had just written, but instead of taking the ink, he caught Caleb’s fingers and laced them with his own.

Caleb had figured out he was in love with Essek long ago, but in this moment, those feelings swelled until he thought he would burst into tears. He squeezed Essek’s hand. Essek squeezed back.

And the words finally found their way from Caleb’s heart, and out of his mouth. “I love you.”

Essek tore his eyes from the papers, softening as he met Caleb’s gaze. “I love you, too, Caleb.”

Of course, the curse of a mind as keen as Caleb’s was the ability to have too many thoughts at once. He loved Essek. Essek loved him (Caleb had already known that, but it was beautiful to hear out loud). Caleb was human. Essek was an elf. Caleb probably had sixty years left to live, if he was lucky. Essek would likely live another six hundred or more, if he was careful. Essek was on the run from the Dynasty. Caleb had to return home, at least periodically, to root out corruption and make it the place he had once believed it to be. So many factors. So many barriers.

He wanted what time he could have with Essek, but it would be cruel to entangle him when Caleb’s lifespan was barely a speck of dust in the winds of time, when there were so many things they would have to do apart even before Caleb would succumb to his mortality. Caleb had hurt the people he loved too much already.

Essek’s free hand slid up Caleb’s neck and into his hair, cradling the base of his skull. “Your eyes are sad again, my love.”

“This will hurt you,” Caleb said, “in the end.”

“I know.” And it was Essek who pressed their foreheads together this time. “I will cherish the time we have together, and whatever comes after that. It is… rare for me to feel this way about anyone. I will not give you up so easily, even if I know it will end. I am who I am today because of you, and I will carry you with me long after you are gone.”

Caleb had tried to keep people at arm’s-length before, just as Essek had. But he felt emotions deeply, especially love, and it went against his nature to deny the love he felt. And Essek was the love of his life. It would hurt in the end, but they still had time. Decades, if they were lucky.

Essek and Caleb knew a thing or two about pulling luck in their favour.

The moment stretched beyond words. Caleb reached up to kiss Essek’s forehead. They were both reserved people, not given to grand gestures. It was not necessary. Their love bled into everything they did together, in dressing each other’s wounds, in defending each other in battle, and in their quiet moments--the shared silences, the passing of research materials, the touch of soot-stained fingers.

They were what they were to each other, in the time they had together. The joy would one day turn to sorrow, but, for now, they had this.

#cr spoilers #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #fanfiction #my fics #i wrote most of this at like midnight so it may be somewhat incoherent but I had a lot of feelings and no idea what to do with them #started making it had a breakdown bon appetit

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wincestismyguiltypleasure · 4 years

Text

The night John left for a hunt two states over in God Know's Where, Kentucky, Sam started acting strange.

Distracted, jittery. And before Dean could even ask him what the Hell was going on, Sam had locked himself in the bathroom without a word and turned on the shower.

Of course, Dean tried to wait him out. Eyes darting over to the old dusty clock that hung crooked on the motel wall every few minutes as he pretended to watch a little bit of television. He'd even gone out for a quick smoke with the benefit of his father not being there to shoot him a dirty (and outrageously hypocritical) look when he grabbed his cigarettes off the table. But after almost an hour of radio silence from Sam, Dean was on the verge of losing his cool.

"Dude, come on! You've been in there forever!"

Dean was just about to bang on the door again when it swung open to reveal his very agitated little brother.

"Jesus Dean, I can't have any privacy now?" Sam huffed as he pushed past the older boy and plopped down on the nearest bed.

He had gotten dressed in the bathroom, which was odd. Baggy light gray sweatpants sitting low (almost to the point of distraction) on his lean hips as he laid there, extremely pissed off, looking up at the ceiling.

The beads of water still rolling down his flushed bare chest making it perfectly clear to Dean that his little brother had wanted to avoid being naked in front of him.

What the hell?

"Since when do you need privacy? It's me, Sam."

"Since now."

Sam's response was quick and cold as steel. His sharp words nearly cutting Dean clean in half. The older boy so shocked by his brother's sudden outbrust that he couldn't even hide the hurt look in his pretty green eyes, despite the fact that his jaw was set.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I guess I'll just go fuck myself and leave you alone."

Dean was just about to grab his jacket off the end of the bed when Sam sat up and sighed loudly, like he was so over the conversation that he couldn't even manage to respond with actual words.

Little shit.

"Don't huff at me, Samuel."

"I was trying to surprise you, jerk!" the younger boy shot back, narrowing his eyes." Kinda hard to do that with you up my ass 24/7."

Well, wasn't that a kick in the balls?

"Shit...My bad, man," Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "You were just actin' so weird...I was worried."

Sam can't stop himself from rolling his eyes at that, but he does manage to let some of the tension out of his shoulders. Making it clear to Dean that he understood his concern and really didn't want to fight.

"It's okay, Dean- and I really am sorry that I snapped at you."

"S'cool, dude."

There's a brief awkward moment between them where Dean is shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his baby brother to give him the green light. Thankfully, Sam doesn't let him suffer for too long.

"C'mere, asshole." Sam laughs and smiles wide before motioning Dean over with a wiggle of his finger. The older boy going willingly, closing the distance between them in a matter of a few steps to sit beside Sam on the edge of the bed. Their shoulders pressed together tight as Dean's fingertips danced playfully across Sam's thigh before giving it a little squeeze.

"So, what's this surprise you were talkin' about, baby?"

Sam makes a hmmm noise like he's pondering whether or not he wants to go easy on his big brother. Bright eyes sparkling with mischief when he leaned forward to nose at Dean's jawline, reaching down to wrap his long skinny fingers around the older boy's wrist.

"Don't know if you deserve it, Dean," he mused; but still, Sam moves his brother's hand to settle flat on his stomach. Toned muscles flexing under the warmth of the older boy's touch. "You were kinda acting like a dick."

"Sammy."

The slow, teasing drag over Dean's nails over Sam's smooth sun kissed skin makes the younger boy let out a surprised gasp. Plump bottom lip caught tight between his teeth as Dean nuzzled against him, fingertips still lazily stroking his tummy.

"Please, baby?"

Sam makes a wounded sound and presses his forehead to Dean's. Breath warm and a little ragged against his brother's lips as he guided Dean's hand past the waistband of his sweats, not stopping until his rough fingertips met warm, delicate skin.

"Fuck," Dean whispered harshly, almost as if the word had been punched out of him. "You shaved?"

"Mmhm." Sam's reply was short and sweet, but the playful flick of his tongue over Dean's parted lips spoke volumes. "Do you like it, big brother?"

"Yeah, Sammy," the older boy all but moaned, lightly tracing zig-zag patterns over Sam's freshly shaved skin. "You're all soft and smooth...just like a girl."

The younger boy shivered at that, his grip almost painfully tight on Dean's bicep now, letting his brother take control. "Yeah," he agreed, peppering soft kisses across Dean's neck until he found his brother's pulse point. That wicked tongue of his darting out from between cotton candy pink lips for a quick taste; hot and filthy wet against his brother's throat before he bit at the salty skin hard enough to make Dean groan.

"What are you gonna do now, big brother?"

Sam rubbed their noses together playfully before leaning back to look at Dean with a sly smile. The younger boy hungrily licking his lips as his heated gaze trailed down to his brother's infuriatingly perfect mouth. God, he wanted Dean to kiss him so bad.

"What do you want me to do, Sammy?" Dean asked with a wicked grin as he scraped his nails lightly across Sam's sensitive skin. He leaned forward slowly, ghosting his lips over his little brother's, but refused to close the distance between them because he knew it would drive Sam insane.

"Dean please," his little brother mewled, breath hitching in his throat when he felt Dean's fingertips skirt softly around the base of his leaking cock.

"What, baby? Huh? You want me to touch you?"

"Please."

Dean let out a lighthearted chuckle when Sam shifted his hips and whined, all desperate and achy, like he was going to die if his brother didn't give him what he wanted soon.

"Here's what I'm gonna do, Sammy," Dean mused between light, teasing kisses along Sam's jaw. "I'm gonna throw those sexy legs of yours over my shoulders..."

Sam could feel his blood pressure rising as his brother's lips made their way up his neck; pearly white teeth eventually finding the soft, meaty flesh of his earlobe, dragging over the cool skin before he whispered, "and I'm gonna eat your cute little pussy out until you're soaking wet and screaming my name..." Another soft kiss and Sam has goosebumps, so wound up that he nearly comes on the spot when Dean adds, in the filthiest tone Sam's ever heard, "just like a girl."

#Wincest #weecest #Sammy always wants to be a good girl for Dean 💋

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hallospaceboyy · 4 years

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Hey. Although you wanted fluffy or smutty thing, I can't myself to an angsty Zelda x Reader request, I'm sorry. Reader gets cursed in front of the whole Spellman household and is turned to stone/a monster or anything. (I adore beauty and the beast, shushh.) The thing is: true loves kiss doesn't work and Zelds nearly loses her mind. You may decide if it works later on or not. Have a wonderful day, thank you for reading this and don't feel pressured to do it, 'cause it is quite specific. xo

Stone Cold

You hadn't told the Spellman's about the curse that was slowly taking hold of your body, coursing through your veins, sucking life from your every limb. Your pride stopped you, convinced yourself that you could handle it, find a way to reverse it. But you couldn't, and every hour it got worse, and when you barge your way into the mortuary, your hand is grey, the flesh hardening, and you can’t move it. You can feel your skin tightening, pain coursing up your arm as it spreads, faster by the second. Zelda marches in from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand, and she drops it abruptly, ignoring the shards of china that litter the floor, gasping in shock as she sees you stood there clutching your arm.

“Zel-Zelda...” You whimper, and she rushes to you, strokes her palm over your wrist, hand trembling at the roughness of it. It's stone - hard, grey stone.

“What-Y/N sweetheart, what's happening?” Her voice is urgent, shaking with panic, and her eyes are filling with tears, your legs are rigid now, and you can feel it spreading higher and higher, moaning in pain.

“C-Curse. Thought I could f-fix it.” You let out a strangled sob, and Zelda strokes your face, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’m scared.” Then, just like that, you’re gone, and all that remains is a statue, and Zelda releases an animalistic shriek, clutching at you and sobbing, shaking at your hardened figure, desperate for you to move. She falls to her knees, shaking profusely, unable to stop the noises bubbling in her throat, and then Hilda is beside her, tears in her own eyes as she takes in the scene, takes Zelda into her arms.

“We'll fix this Zelds, it’ll be okay.” She sniffles, and Zelda pushes her away roughly, standing on weakened legs, clutching at the rough stone of your arms, your shoulders, your face.

“Please come back to me, baby. C-Come back to me! I need you!” She screams, her whole body wracks with sobs, and she presses a salty kiss to your lips in desperation, crying against you. The stone is rough against her lips, but she doesn’t care, presses them there with a bruising force until Hilda gently pulls her away, and the redhead collapses in her arms.

Weeks go by, to no avail, book after book perused by all of the Spellmans, but nothing is found. They manage to move you to into the parlour despite the weight, and Zelda sleeps there when she does sleep, curled on the sofa with a single pillow and thin blanket. She barely eats, but Hilda brings her food anyway, chain smokes her way through the day, downs tumbler after tumbler of whiskey, savouring the burn in her throat.

She's weak, and exhausted. There are black circles beneath her eyes, her hair hangs limp, has barely washed it, let alone taken the time to style it to its usual perfection. She doesn’t bother to cover her pallid skin with makeup, her sallow cheeks, pale lips, and her clothes hang loosely from her body. She sticks to your side, talks to you as she skims through dusty volumes, ignoring paper cut after paper cut that stings at her fingers from the desperation of her page turning. She knows you're still in there somewhere, can feel you, and she won't give up, refuses to give up until she has you back.

With her refusing to leave your side for more than a few minutes, she sends Sabrina and Ambrose to the Academy to use the facilities there – they come home with arms piled high with books, handing them to the redhead and sit in silence, helping her with her research. Occasionally they glance at her, concern etched on their features. Zelda is making herself ill, constantly jittery, losing her mind in her search, and their worry for her far exceeds their worry for you, despite the circumstances. But they don’t say anything, can’t broach the subject with her, know they will only get their heads bitten off. Their Aunt's temper is unusually short, shorter than normal, and they don’t want to risk alighting her already short fuse.

It's late, and Zelda sits in the dark save a single lamp by her side, sitting rigidly on the sofa, eyes skimming the pages with lightning speed despite her bone tiredness. The book in her hand is old, so very ancient, and her hands shake as she finds the section on curses. It's there. The curse that turns someone to stone. The counter curse is there too. She let’s out a cry of relief, then a strangled sob, and Hilda was always close by, keeping an eye on her sister, and she all but sprints into the room, shuffling in her slippers. Zelda is hunched over the book, shoulders shaking.

“I-I've found it Hildie, I’ve found it.”

Hilda breathes a sigh of relief, sinking to the sofa beside her, and she wraps an arm around her sister, gently slides the book from Zelda's lap to her own.

“We'll do it now then, yeah? Let's get your girl back.” She sends Zelda a watery smile, kisses her temple, and Zelda lets her.

You crumple to the ground, gasping for breath, and air fills your lungs, sweet, musty air, and it feels so good to feel your lungs expand in your chest, to feel your heart beating again – to feel something, anything.

You look around the room, eyes unfocused, blinking rapidly, and then they do focus, and Zelda is lying on the floor, splayed there, eyes closed, and you crawl to her, tears gathering in your eyes.

“She’s exhausted, love. The counter curse took it out of her.” Hilda places a warm hand on your back. “She'll be okay, in a few hours.” Hilda gently moves her, lays her on the sofa, placing a blanket over her thin form. You move to sit on the floor beside her, resting a hand over hers.

“I'm here, Zelda. I’m not going anywhere.” Stroking her hair from her face, tears fall down your cheeks.

“You must be starved, love. How about something to eat.”

You nod, but remain gazing at the sleeping redhead. “I’m not leaving her, though.” You whisper, and Hilda hums, squeezing your shoulder.

“I didn't think you would. I’ll bring you something.” She hovers then, mouth opening as if ready to say something, and you look up at her, eyebrows raised. “She's barely left your side once, you know. We thought she was digging herself an early grave. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep.” Hilda blinks back tears, and you squeeze Zelda's hand, brings it up to kiss the back of it.

“I know.” You inhale a shaky breath, eyes searching Zelda's pale face. “It's my turn to take care of her now.”

“Well, don’t overdo it. You have been stone for the last three weeks.”

“I feel fine, Hilda. Strangely.” You send her a reassuring smile, and she nods, making her way to the kitchen.

Some hours later, you’ve eaten, and feel almost normal again, if a little achy, and you remain latched to Zelda's side, hand firmly clasping hers. Your eyes dart up as she squeezes back, and her eyes flutter open. She smiles tiredly, tears already filling her eyes.

“You came back to me.” She whispers weakly, and you grin through your own tears, stroking her cheek.

“Of course I did. Thanks to you. I hear you’ve been killing yourself over it, you silly witch.”

She chuckles, trying to blink away her tears, and you crawl onto the sofa beside her, and she shifts over to make room, draping an arm over your waist. Her face nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your scent, and you feel her begin to shake, hold her tighter.

“I thought I was going to lose my mind. It broke me, not being able to help you.” Her voice is thick with tears, and you stroke her back, shushing her comfortingly.

“It's okay, Zelds. I’m here now. You did so well.” You rock her slowly in your arms as she cries, kiss her temple, pepper kisses to her hair. She's so warm, feels so good against you, and you never want to let go of her again. You can’t help but think if you had just asked for help, swallowed your pride, this could have all been prevented, and you’re wracked with guilt. Zelda feels thinner, seems a shell of herself despite her relief, her happiness at having you back, and you vow to nurse her back to health – bring your Zelda back to you.

“I love you. I'm so sorry.” You bury your face in your hair, closing your eyes, and with a whisper you’re both lying on Zelda's bed, and the redhead clings to you, looks up at you with watery eyes.

“I love you too, my darling. You have nothing to be sorry for.” She presses a salty kiss to your lips, and you return it, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of your thumb.

“We’ll discuss that later. For now, you should get some more rest, and then eat something.”

Zelda nods, although there's concern in her bloodshot green eyes. She rests her head on your chest, and you can already feel her becoming heavier against you as she falls asleep, hand grasping at your waist.

#zelda spellman x reader #zelda spellman #zelda phiona spellman #caos fanfiction #caos #chilling adventures of sabrina #ik not caos pic #but same face #lol

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hoodoo12 · 4 years

Text

A Feather Touch (a Ménage continuation)

Read Ménage here, if you are so inclined. NSFW, Beetlejuice/Angel Dewey Finn, oral, massage, the properties of celestial feathers, false accusations, forgiveness

@thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @janitor-boy @ironmansuucks @beejiesbitch @dilfyjuice

“Oh god, Dewey baby that feels so good, that feels so good--”

His hips jerked erratically and his hand had to have tightened too painfully in his lover’s hair, but he couldn’t help himself; the angel had a wicked mouth and when his wingtips came up and brushed along his body from nipples to thighs, Beetlejuice howled and came in his throat.

He drifted in a sea of pleasure and couldn’t control some residual spasms, until Dewey pulled off him. Lazily he looked down his torso to see the angel wipe away a string of semen-opaque spit with the back of his hand from his lower lip. The angel’s eyes were blown dark with arousal. His lips were shiny and slightly swollen, and there was a flush high on his cheeks.

Instantly the lazy, post-orgasm haze was replaced with a predatory resurgence of lust.

Quick as a thought, he hauled Dewey atop him, holding him close, asking in a dirty whisper, “What do you want, baby? How do you want it? I’ll suck you off, you can fuck me--Dewey I wanna make you see stars, baby--”

The angel’s wings fluttered and stroked down his naked body again, and Beetlejuice moaned, clutching his lover even more tightly. When Dewey held his eyes and whispered huskily exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it, the demon managed to smile though his jaw was loose from the decidedly non-holy words that graced his ears.

Afterward, sated and pleasantly achy, Beetlejuice idly dragged his fingers through Dewey’s wings. The angel liked to cuddle and was snug against his side; his heat was welcome but even more so were the silky feathers under his hands. Dewey twitched like it was bothersome.

If he wasn’t so blissed out, he might have continued to do it because he liked it. As it were, he apologized and stilled his hand. “Sorry, baby.”

Dewey shook his head slightly. “No, no--Beej . . . it doesn’t hurt. It tickles a little, but . . . I like it.”

It had been hard for Dewey to open up about what he liked and preferred instead of simply allowing whatever happened to him to happen. Molly called it growth and encouraged it; Beetlejuice called it “finally giving in to the Dark Side” and “admitting he was a pervert, like the rest of us”. Out of earshot of course. He was routinely admonished by Molly about it.

With her words ringing in his ears that they needed to be supportive, but mostly because he wanted to continue, Beej said,

“You like it, huh? Like this?”

He dragged his palm flat against the white wings.

“Or this?”

Here he was more delicate, slipping his fingers gently between the individual feathers to stroke.

Dewey shuddered at each. “I like them both,” he admitted shyly.

Beetlejuice ran his hand down them some more, and each time the angel wiggled. He narrowed his eyes and noted that the area he petted had smoothed down a bit. He shrugged his shoulder, bouncing Dewey’s head, to get his attention.

“Hey. Do angels preen their wings? You know, like birds?”

Sure this was a set up for some kind of prickish comment, Dewey frowned and shook his head half-grumpily. “What are you talking about? We’re not birds. Do you have to routinely wet down those tentacles of yours, like some kind of sea creature?”

Immediately he regretted snapping. They’d been having a nice time, laying here; he’d liked the demon’s hands on him, and now he’d gone and ruined the mood. Guilt flooded him. Before he could apologize or throw himself off the bed and go hide so he didn’t have to face Molly’s disappointment in him being so rudely horrible, Beetlejuice gave a snort of a laugh.

“You’re gettin’ better at that, Dew,” he praised lightly, then mused a bit. “Prob’ly more accurate to call them arms than tentacles, though . . .”

He gave himself a bit of a shake and refocused on the angel beside him. He pressed a kiss into the shock of dark hair, ran his hands over his feathers again, and continued softly,

“I know you’re not birds. But you have feathered wings, and I wondered if you did any kind of grooming or something with them.”

That made Dewey feel even guiltier, Beetlejuice being patient with him. He apologized in a whisper, still fully expecting to be huffed at or for the soft atmosphere that had surrounded them to be fractured. The continued gentle strokes along his wings told him otherwise, though, and made him settle in closer again to the cool body that never seemed to warm beside him. He sighed and closed his eyes.

“Not really? I mean, I never have,” he admitted. “Why do you ask?”

Beetlejuice shrugged. “They just look smoother after I was running my hand down them. And I don’t know if this is normal, but one looks loose.”

Dewey’s eyes popped open and he twisted to look down his back as best he could. “What?!”

“This one. It’s loose. Hanging by a thread, so to speak.”

As Dewey continued to try and see what the demon was talking about, with only the slightest of tugs the feather came off in his fingers. It wasn’t a big one, just one that was medium-sized and moderately soft. Beetlejuice brought his hand forward and showed Dewey, whose eyes widened even more.

“Am I bleeding? Is there a gap where it was?!” he asked, horrified.

Now he had to calm a panicking angel back down.

“No. No! Dewey, baby, it’s all okay. Let me look again--” He made a show of gently lifting the wing and examining it underneath, then he got up on his knees so he could look at the back. “--there’s no blood. There’s no gap in the other feathers. I can’t even tell where it came from, baby.

“Okay? It all looks fine. Does it hurt?”

Dewey stretched his wing tentatively, as though he expected it to catch or ache, but when it didn’t, when he’d extended it fully and twisted it lightly, he had to admit that it did not. Sitting back on his heels, Beetlejuice watched this display. It was hard to keep his hands to himself, and when the wing was at its full extension over his head, he lifted his arm so his fingertips brushed against the canopy it’d made. Dewey shuddered again and kept the appendage outstretched like an umbrella.

With sunlight filtering through the feathers, the entire mussed bed was washed in muted white. Beetlejuice couldn’t help but smile and once again stroked along the feathers above.

“Beej . . .” Dewey breathed out.

The demon cocked an eyebrow at his bedmate. “I’m not looking for round two, baby. I just like the way they feel, and they’re laying more nicely after I pet them.”

Dewey glanced at the spot that had gotten the most attention. It was true; instead of looking disheveled, the feathers there were straight and smooth.

“Do you mind . . . eh, nevermind. Forget it.”

The angel’s brow wrinkled. “Do I mind what?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Beej. Tell me. It’s okay.”

For a moment the demon looked torn as to whether or not to clam up or continue, then he sighed. “Do you mind if I . . . continue to pet them? They feel nice, and if it smooths them out . . .?”

Dewey considered this. As long as he’d been adored with wings, he’d never given any real thought to them. He could move them and he could feel touch to them, which he’d discovered after sharing a bed with Beetlejuice and Molly was absolutely delicious, but he’d never thought about petting them for the sake of petting. Grooming, really. If that feather had been loose, maybe it needed to shed and he’d never known? He had to admit the area that Beej had stroked did look more tidy.

Finally he shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”

Beetlejuice perked up that his suggestion wasn’t immediately shot down. After some further discussion, they decided Dewey should lay on his stomach, like receiving a back massage, and that would give full access to at least the back of his wings. As he settled onto the mattress, he had to consciously remind himself to relax.

After the demon started, however, at first gently applying long sweeping strokes over the tops of the feathers as a group, Dewey didn’t have to tell himself to relax. It felt sublime to have them stroked, and when Beetlejuice began even more gently separating the feathers individually and straightening them, he moaned lightly. That earned him a soft pinch on his bare ass, which made him jump and chuckle self-consciously, but the return of fingers threading through his wings made him sink back onto the mattress and had him drift in the sensation of it all.

To his end, Beetlejuice worked on Dewey’s wings for over an hour. It was warm in the block of sunlight on Molly’s bed and quiet, with only his lover’s occasional moans to fill the air. He learned the feel of the different types of feathers that made up the impressive wings, from downy to stiff depending on their placement. Although he never pulled, a few others were loose enough to come off in his hands. He made a little pile of them and hoped Dewey wouldn’t be upset they were gone.

His hands were tingling by the time he had done most of both of them. There was no longer sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and Molly would be home soon. Maybe she’d appreciate having both of them relaxed in bed waiting for her, but maybe she’d be upset they’d spent the afternoon lazing away!

Beetlejuice leaned over and pressed a kiss to the nape of Dewey’s neck.

“I’m done for now, baby. Feel okay?”

Dewey stretched both his shoulders and then his wings gently. They felt lighter, somehow. More airy. He twisted to look at the wing, and although it hadn’t been dusty, per se, it did seem to be brighter. Sitting up and giving them a final shake ruffled the feathers, and they all fell back into place easily.

“I feel amazing. Thank you, sweetie.”

Beetlejuice looked smugly proud as Dewey kissed his mouth, but the angel couldn’t help but smile too. He announced he was going to shake them out one more time in the garden.

Beetlejuice watched him go, and gathered the shed feathers into his fist. He secreted them up to the warm spot in the attic he liked to lay, where Molly and Dewey rarely went.

⁂

He didn’t do anything with them. He just liked to hold them when he fell asleep on the dusty pillows that Molly had stored away. It was quiet up here, and the musty smell was comforting to him. That, plus the fact that it was oppressively warm made it one of his favorite places in the house when he wanted to be alone, or if he thought it might be a good idea to lay low after he and Dewey squabbled.

Beetlejuice discovered that the feathers retained warmth too, and never got dirty, despite the dustiness of the attic. They smelled like the angel too: a faint whiff of honeysuckle and ozone. It was comforting to run his fingers along the soft edges of them, or feel their minor warmth through his shirt.

In fact, he had most of them pressed to his neck and one to his cheek while he lay on his side, feeling logy in the warmth that surrounded him, when Molly entered the attic and found him.

He’d half heard her approach through the haze he drifted in. Her gasp startled him more awake.

“Beej! What have you done?!” she demanded sharply.

He jumped and looked around, confused and guilty. “Wh-what?”

“What have you done?!” she repeated.

It wasn’t like Molly to be snappish or angry, unless she had to reprimand him about something. He wracked his semi-sleepy brain as to what he might have done recently to deserve her ire, but nothing came to mind. He pushed himself up to a seated position, although he was still cowed. Laying down felt too vulnerable.

“Molly, baby, I don’t understand--” he pleaded.

“Where did you get those feathers?! Have you been pulling them out of Dewey’s wings? Have you been picking on Dewey?!” she interrupted.

Even as he looked down at the white feathers clutched in his hands he remained confused. “What? No, no I haven’t! Molly--”

She ignored him and shouted for Dewey.

He should be angry. He was a demon and he didn’t deserve to be treated this way; he hadn’t done anything wrong! This time! He should put her in her place and rain down holy terror for daring to raise her voice to him--but he was still muddled from being woken so abruptly and he didn’t want to throw his weight around with Molly; he liked her too much and he liked being her with her and Dewey and if he got too defensive it could ruin everything he had and then where would he be--

Dewey’s head popped up at the entrance to the attic. Being shouted for, to "get up here right now!", bewildered him. His expression became deeper befuddlement as he saw Molly with her hands on her hips glowering at the demon sitting in front of her on the faded cushions under the dusty window. Beetlejuice was in a tucked, defensive position with curled shoulders and a ducked head.

“Molly? Beej? What’s going on?” he asked as he came completely into the attic. He kept his wings tight to his back in the cramped space.

“Beetlejuice has feathers! From your wings!” Molly explained loudly.

Dewey didn’t miss the flinch the demon gave at the use of his full name, and he hurried to his side, brushing past the woman to sink down and hold him.

Molly scowled at what she thought was manipulated protection spurred by Beetlejuice. “Don’t do that! Don't coddle him! Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Are your wings okay? You’ve crossed a line this time Beetlejuice--this is unacceptable--”

Dewey could feel the second wince at the fully spoken name and now a steady tremble in the demon. He didn’t know if it was due to holding himself back from retaliating or if it was fear; the wide eyes and slightly opened mouth let him to believe it was the latter. He did see that Beetlejuice had several of his wing feathers now crushed in his fists and held to his chest. It dawned on him they must have come from when he was groomed. He hadn’t known they were missing, but it didn’t bother him. Very gently he opened a wing and folded the demon into it to reinforce the hug.

“Molly. Molly!” he said, increasing his voice with the repetition so she would stop and listen. She paused for a breath, her own fists tight at her sides. “Beej didn’t do anything! They were old feathers--they fell out! I didn’t know he took them, but it’s okay!”

Beetlejuice was used to being yelled at. Usually he was the one fighting! But this was different, this was out of the blue. He’d been startled and confused, and Molly was so angry she’d said his name twice, but Dewey was explaining, Dewey was holding him. He was sheltered under the angel’s wing and Dewey was standing up for him. He resisted the urge to duck his head further against Dewey; that’d only make his reputation crumble even more!

“Tell me the truth, Dewey!” Molly demanded.

“Molly goddamnit, listen to me,” Dewey retorted.

When her angel swore, when he blasphemed, it pulled her up short.

“Beej didn’t do anything wrong,” Dewey repeated, emphasizing each word. “He helped me groom my wings--you noticed that, you told me they looked nice!--and some feathers fell out on their own! It didn’t hurt. I didn’t even notice it. It’s not a problem to me that he’s got them up here. I understand why you were confused seeing them here, but you jumped to a very wrong conclusion!”

Molly opened her mouth, then shut it again. Dewey looked fierce, as a true guardian angel should, even if it was slightly odd that the one he was protecting at the moment was a demon. Said demon looked odd too, all small and cowed. As if he was afraid of her gaze on him and more accusations, he opened his fists and the feathers he’d been clutching drifted into his lap.

She wilted, seeing that. What had she done? Dewey said she’d jumped to a very wrong conclusion, but it was worse than that: she’d simply expected that Beetlejuice had done something mean and wrong, and her accusations showed that her trust in him was still low. Maybe he thought her trust was provisional! And she’d even said his full name twice! It wasn’t in a row, but she’d demonstrated she wouldn’t hesitate to use the ultimate power in her favor if she needed to.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she sank to the floor with them. Beetlejuice watched her with wary eyes.

“Oh fuck, Beej, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” Her apology was babbled. “Dewey’s right, I didn’t think, I just assumed and that was horrible. Horrible! I shouldn’t have done that, I’m so sorry, honey--”

Dewey reached for her, which was nice, but what was nicer was when Beetlejuice held out a trembling hand as well, although he did it slowly, like maybe she’d bite. Molly took both gratefully and scooted closer. The angel’s other wing came up to surround her too, as was typical.

“I was so wrong. I’m sorry, baby,” she continued to repeat, and stroked Beetlejuice’s cheek.

He nodded, a little. The loose feathers scattered in his lap were still warm, but he hesitated to pick them up again. Dewey must have sensed his reluctance, and did it for him. He straightened them and made them as neat as he could. It was obvious they meant a lot to the demon, to keep them up here when he was alone.

“There you go, baby,” he said softly, handing them back to Beetlejuice like a bouquet of flowers. “If any more come out, you can have them too, okay?”

The demon took the feathers with an involuntary glance at Molly. Her heart broke, and she dared to reach out and close her hand around his. It did make her feel better that he didn’t jerk away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated again. Then she was at a loss. She wanted to hug him, wanted to hug them both, but thought after what she’d done giving Beetlejuice some time was a better idea. Carefully she got to her feet. “I’ll give you some time, okay? I’m sorry I interrupted your nap. I’ll be . . . be out in the garden. Just so you know.”

She gave them a smile. Dewey returned it, and Beetlejuice tried, at least. She left the two of them in the warm attic, a demon with a handful of celestial feathers held tight in his fist, comforted by an angel, with dust motes swirling lazily around them.

⁂

Molly stayed outside through dinner, until dusk turned colors cool and fireflies started taking flight into the sky. She’d sequestered herself near her small gazebo, which hurt a little because of the memories of the three of them out here together, versus being by herself. Her eyes had dried but still felt hot.

“Molly? Baby?”

Dewey’s voice carried across the yard. She looked up to see him silhouetted against her backdoor, the light from the kitchen making a corona around him that was remarkably how he looked before he’d forsaken the other angels.

“It’s getting cold,” he continued. “Please come in.”

She had half a mind not to, but she had no one to blame but herself for her actions that afternoon, and it was getting chilly. Time to face the music. Time to find out if Beetlejuice was going to leave, and maybe Dewey was going to leave too of his own volition, since she showed she was unpredictable and potentially willing to banish without just cause.

Standing up and feeling stiff from sitting so long on a wooden bench, Molly sighed, hugged herself around her waist, and trudged in.

Dewey was still waiting for her when she got to the door. Nodding to the sink, he told her, “I started the water running so it’d be warm for your hands.”

Thoughtful. It gave her a pang to recall it was Beetlejuice who’d taught him that little nicety, since her water heater took some time to kick into gear. The angel stood by while she washed her hands of dirt.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” he said. “Beej is waiting to talk to you.”

New tears pricked her eyes, but she held her breath and held it together. It was only fair she talk to him and give him the courtesy of hearing him want to leave. Nodding, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.

She found Beetlejuice not in the living room as expected, but in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of her bed with his hands clasped in his lap, looking as nervous as she felt. She realized she hated seeing him reduced to something less than his loud, boisterous self, and it was even worse that she’d put him in that state.

He stood up awkwardly when he saw her in the doorway.

“Molly! I, uh . . .” He fumbled to a stop, like he expected her to be upset he’d even said her name.

Molly stepped into the room. Taking a breath to steel herself, she said exactly what she’d said earlier, and what she’d screamed internally the entire time she’d spent outside alone.

“Beej, honey, I am so very sorry. I was wrong, and I shouldn’t have yelled, and I don’t have any excuse for what I said to you! I feel awful, and I deserve to feel awful! I am so sorry.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she chanced to look up at him. Apparently he’d waited until she was looking before holding out his hand. Biting her lip, Molly moved to him and carefully took it. Beetlejuice sat back down then, and pulled her down beside him. It was less than what he would typically do--he liked to pull her into his lap at inappropriate times, just to hear her laugh--but at least it was something.

She worried at her lower lip, an old habit that had become less now that she had two housemates, while she watched him struggle with what he wanted to say. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she understood he’d want to go, that she understood he couldn’t trust her, but before she opened her mouth, he blurted,

“It’s okay. I forgive you.”

Instead of words, a sob left her. It’s what she wanted, right? For him to understand? But did she deserve it?

“B-b-beej, I accused you and said your name twice--”

He shook his head and spoke over her. “I understand why you thought I’d done something nasty. I would’ve. Before. But I wouldn’t now! Why would I ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me? And you said my name twice, but not in a row, so it didn’t count, really.”

She wanted to agree, she wanted him to understand that she understood that now too. She wanted to apologize again about his name, but he continued on.

“It was a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes, Dewey said. And when you l-l . . . like someone, you can forgive them. Dewey said that. He’s the expert on forgiveness,” he joked weakly. “So I wanted to . . . well . . .”

From his back pocket he pulled out a feather. One of Dewey’s of course. The shaft near at the quill end was slightly crushed, but the vanes had been smoothed together and its shape was intact.

“This is the biggest one that fell out,” he explained, twirling it slowly in his fingertips. “The best one. See how it kind of glows? They all do that. And it’s warm too. Here.”

It did seem to reflect more white light than expected, she saw. Molly expected him to draw the edge of it along her arm, which he did, before putting it in her hand and closing her fingers around it. The warmth he mentioned was real. It was the faintest sensation of heat in her palm, and it felt nice to hold it.

“You can have it.”

She looked up at him, startled. It occurred to her that her expression was probably the exact same that he’d had when she’d barked at him earlier. “What? Beej, no--Dewey said it was yours--”

“And I’m giving it to you. It’s comforting to hold, and I want you to have it. That’s okay, isn’t it, Dewey?”

For the first time Molly realized that the angel was standing in the doorway with a plate of food. She had no idea how long he’d been there.

“Yes, it’s okay,” he agreed easily, stepping closer to the two of them. “I don’t mind either of you having them.”

Forgiveness and a gift? Molly didn’t know what to say and her throat was too tight to allow words out anyway. She leaned into Beetlejuice, who slipped an arm low on her waist. Dewey was next to her then as well, with dinner. He planted a kiss first on the top of Beetlejuice’s head, then hers.

Forgiveness, a gift, food, and most importantly, the three of them together. Although maybe her heart had broken earlier, it was repaired and new tears fell, but of happiness.

fin!

#writing #fanfiction #Beetlejuice #Dewey Finn #Beetlejuice x Dewey Finn #AU

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hardyimagines · 5 years

Text

The Prison Guard’s Daughter

Drabble

Warnings: sexual

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“I think you need to be taught a fucking lesson.” He ground out roughly. His voice was deep and low, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest before rolling past his lips. The door behind him was bolted, locked and securing you away inside. You were trapped. It was your fault though, you’d been silly enough to wander down the corridor he was tucked away in and then even more foolish enough to converse with him.

Charles Bronson was very manipulative. Very attractive. He could be sweet if he wanted to be. And that was exactly how you’d wound up coming into his cell. The room was cold, grey, and dusty. It wasn’t welcoming at all and you found it quite difficult to get comfortable in the boring room. You perched yourself down on the edge of his bed before twisting your hands in the front of your blouse. He’d never hurt you. You knew that much. So then why was your stomach churning with nerves?

“Why’s that?” You whispered breathily. Your voice was flooded with the same nerves that tickled your tummy, dripping evidently with worry that a switch would flip inside him and the violence that he exposed to the guards would be thrusted upon you. Once again, you knew that he’d never ever harm you — but the worry was still present.

You were the Prison guard’s helper. His little assistant. His pride and joy. His daughter. He was so reluctant when he’d agreed to hire you because he didn’t want any of the men here to mess with you. For the most part, they didn’t. Nobody wanted time added on to their sentence or to be tucked away in a cell in a secluded part of the prison. Nobody except Charles Bronson.

He never bothered to bite his tongue or think about what he was saying when it regarded you. He’d made it clear to you on many different occasions that he had high intentions to fuck you silly, but you’d always brushed off his little comments because you knew there was no way that he’d ever get you alone. You were, in all truth, all for it. It was a bit thrilling to do something so forbidden...

“Prancing around here all day long, hovering outside my cell, sunshine.. if you wanted me, you know, all you had to do was open the fucking door.” He approached your knees, bent so your calves could lazily swing.

“I have duties, Mr. Bronson, and keeping a close eye on you alongside my other tasks are top priority. You’re the biggest threat here.” You informed him before slowly drawing your bottom lip in so you could suckle on it.

“How’s it feel?” He lowered his thick fingers to the belt that circled his waist. “To be stuck inside with me?” The fastening on the belt clinked softly, metal scraping metal as he undid it at a very slow pace. He wanted your mind to spin and your head to scream at you for being stupid enough to venture into his private space. He wanted you to know how absolutely idiotic you were for coming into his cell where he could feast on you and nobody in the prison would know.

Bronson was so much bigger than you. A boulder in comparison to a pebble. You swallowed thickly before slowly placing your fingers on knees. Smoothing down your trousers, you peered up at the threatening bloke who seemed to be growing cockier and louder the longer he looked at you. “You won’t hurt me.”

“It’s not about pain, sunshine. But you, yeah, you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of.” He whispered thickly before shrinking toward you. “Too much pleasure will become unbearable and you’ve just locked yourself away in here with me for god knows how long.”

“Maybe I did it intentionally.” You bit back before slowly standing. The bed creaked noisily at the loss of your weight being applied to the wood. Standing in front of him bravely, you stared up at him with a hardened stare before pushing past him.

“You intentionally locked yourself in a cell with me?” His stomach flooded with pride, a significant feed to his ego.

You rolled your eyes at his question. “Oh shut it.” You moved to the door. Your fingers grazed the cold handle before moving to the small hatch. Pushing it open, you called for someone to come and assist you, but it was silent.

“Guards don’t often venture down this far, now, do they? Seeing as I am probably their least favorite prisoner.” He bit his cheek roughly and watched the way your hips swayed.

“Their goal in life is to avoid you.” You murmured before letting out a breathy sigh as you rotated to face him. “And I’m not suppose to be anywhere near you.” You pouted childishly. He found it rather cute.

“Daddy’s not my biggest fan, eh?” He chortled before moving toward you, forcing you to step back each time. “Tell me, Y/n, why you spend so much time hanging around this area if you’re meant to avoid it at all costs?” The question didn’t need an answer. He saw the attraction you felt for him, simmering in your gaze. “And why did you intentionally put yourself in my cell?”

Your back hit the wall behind you, forearms folding over the front of your stomach as your eyes slid along the length of his face. “I..” It was hard to form a coherent thought when being so close to him and he seemed to relish in the affect he had over you. “came into your cell because you lured me in.” You murmured honestly. “but I wasn’t exactly worried about it. You’ve always been so harmless.”

Prison guards left with bloody noses, missing teeth, bruised cheeks and achy necks after getting into brawls with Bronson.

He laughed audibly, the shaky sound flooding the entirety of the room. “Harmless?” His fingers brushed along the navy blue tank top he wore. “You think I’m harmless?”

“When it comes to women.” You defended. “Not so much when it comes to men in charge..” The shakiness in your breath contradicted the words that left your lips. If he was so harmless, why did you tremble? You weren’t ever afraid of him before. Shaking as you stood before him. It was because you were alone.

When bringing him lunch or assisting him alongside other guards, you held your chin up, fluttered your lashes, flirted with him when he flirted with you. But this, this was a completely different woman stood before him.

“Then why are you shaking?” He whispered hoarsely as he approached you completely. Bronson lifted his hand and placed it on the wall beside your head. Trapping you once again. He stared down at you with an intense stare, urging you to open up. When you didn’t speak right away though, he took it upon himself to fill in the silence. “Is it because you’re not use to messing around with boys much bigger than you? Not use to being secluded with someone so.. threatening?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Bronson.” You informed him before letting out an audible sigh. Laying your hand against his belly in order to push him back, you halted at the tight skin that resided beneath the fabric. Letting your fingertips trace the muscles, your brows creased. “You’re running out of time, you know. You’ll only have me stuck in here with you for a limited amount of time. My father has someone checking on my whereabouts every thirty minutes.” Your eyes locked on to his own.

“Is that your way of telling me to get on with it?” He lifted his large hand to your cheeks. Pinching them tenderly, his hand stroked your warm skin before gliding down to your throat. He squeezed it delicately before leaning in so his hot breaths tickled your parted lips. “I don’t want to rush this. And I won’t. I don’t care who’s on the other side of that door.” Your head tipped back slightly, hum leaving your lips as you shut your eyes.

“You’re all talk. I’ve been in here for at least ten minutes and you haven’t done anything to me... I know the second the guards are lined up outside and my daddy’s stood at the back, demanding they come in and get me.. you’re fucked.” The word sounded so wrong leaving your lips. You drew the pink flesh in and nibbled on it before lifting your other hand to rest on his stomach beside the first one.

“It’s you that’ll be fucked and your daddy won’t be too happy about that, will he?” His hand fell to your wrist. Gripping it, he lifted it swiftly and drew it around his strong shoulders. “Peeking through the peephole to see if his babygirl is okay..” He leaned in and pressed his lips against your ear. “Only to find her slumped on the bed with her trousers around her ankles and her blouse torn open.” He let his lips graze your ear lobe, pinching it tenderly. “You’ll be a moaning, groaning, panting mess when I’m finished with you.”

Bronson tightened his grip on your throat before pulling you off the wall and pushing you toward the bed. He was firm. Forceful. But not causing any pain. You collapsed on the bed with a noisy swallow before laying down on your back. Watching him intently as he lowered his hands to his belt, you shivered excitedly. The sound of the leaky sink in the corner mixed with the dull tinking of his belt. He unfastened the strap much quicker than you’d expected, giving you no time at all to undress.

Bronson grunted heavily before moving toward the bed. He hunched over, palms finding your upper thighs so he could pry them open and lower himself down on top of you. He knelt between your legs, eyes trailing along the length of your face and then down the length of your body. You were beautiful. But he didn’t voice his thoughts. His fingers sunk into your skin, teeth gritting and jaw clenching as he held back the want to tear your clothes from your form and ram himself into you. It had been forever since he’d had sex so he knew he wasn’t going to be able to be too delicate with you. He was sure you knew that though.. he’d been in prison for what felt like forever.

Your fingertip lifted to his cheek, gliding along the soft surface lazily before you leaned up on your elbows and let your nose skim his own. Your lips parted slowly, residing centimeters from his own as your hot breaths mingled. You’d never ever thought you’d be given the chance to fool around with Charles Bronson. He was so dangerous. So watched. It was surprising to you that you’d been in the room long enough to have somewhat of a conversation with the bloke. You were sure someone was going to come knocking though, banging on the door as they demanded to know if you were in his room. They’d check all the rooms, of course, anxious to find your whereabouts.

“My daddy’s gonna have you transferred once he finds out what you’ve done to me.” You whispered quietly, attempting to bite back the little frown that pulled at your lips. Bronson lowered his head, purposefully avoiding your lips so he could instead assault your throat. His mouth was curious and careful, so different to his firm hands which continued to adjust your thighs, pushing and guiding as he dragged your legs around his hips.

“Will you miss me?” He let out a hoarse chuckle before letting his teeth playfully nip your flesh. His hands moved north, hooking in the waist of your trousers so he could pull them down and off of you. He struggled for a moment because of the position, but he managed to get the fabric down and around your knees before he moved his hands up to your blouse.

“No.” You lied breathily before placing your hand on the base of his bald head. Pulling his mouth back toward your own, you angled your head so your mouths could lock together perfectly. The warmth that flooded you was enough to draw a surprised whimper from your throat. You hadn’t expected to enjoy his touch this much.

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A/N: this is incomplete and I actually feel really shitty for just uploading it, but I will probably add a second part to it somewhere down the line — but right now I’m in a horrible place mentally, I can’t even form a coherent sentence when I try to write. I hope you enjoy what little of it I did get to finish ❤️

Tagged: @peakblogbecauseimweak @mollybegger-blog @morphoportis @ghost-of-student-sufferings @drippydownes2002 @ellar21 @sovereigngoth @willowick13 @pansexualginger @marvelgirl7 @heyitscam99 @wow-he-cute @haroldpain @justrepostandlove @emerald-bijou @multireality @innerpaperexpertcloud @goodiesintheclosetlove @giftofdreams @ihclipse @inkedfandom @thatsamegirl @doct0rstrange @jakechillenhaal @shanty-lol @centerhabit @clevertheoristpainter @jamierdr @favouritereadings @badmaax @thephuonganh @wewillfindourwaythere @uhhhemilyrose @scarrasco1325 @matoki-darkpanda @bignastyfan-nz @hot-and-spiceyyy @azayamari @shane-isa-shame @chimthighz @baliadelcuore @lonewolf471 @crldrr @keeleyella @overitall2018 @lovebitesimagines @eddieisasnack

#tom hardy x reader #tom hardy imagine #bronson fanfiction #bronson x reader

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livayl · 5 years

Text

dusty libraries are a wonderful thing

A very friendly hello to the Marya & Amaziah Anon and of course to everyone else too. :) This is a light, not very plot heavy allergy story. For me it´s kinda self indulgent because: The whole thing is basically a big sneezing fit (stifled and not) wrapped in a longer allergic prelude and accompanied by a more than slightly intrigued Marya. Hope you still like it and please only reblog to other sneeze-kink blogs, thank you. :)

Warnings: Some uncovered sneezing that does not hit a person but some books. No actual mess but lightly described spray. The little "bonus" dialogue at the end was more for my own weird self (my sense of humor sucks) but I kept it in anyways. * the gasped out part means something like “oh please not again”.

Normally the old and eerily quiet library wasn't a place Marya would choose to reside in for too long. It was a vast room with a high, dome like ceiling and up reaching walls that were buried by almost infinitely towering up shelves heavily burdened with ancient knowledge, weighted down by time.

Although every surface was meticulously cleaned, amber colored maple wood glossy and smooth, the air seemed to be infused with it as well: It had a really dry, chalky quality to it that was palpable in taste and sight: Even the smallest incidence of light illuminated finest dust particles in their infinite dance from one remote corner to the other. Sky blue eyes followed as they were floating teasingly between the maze like aisles shadowed by bookshelves.

In all it´s muted width filled with way too much in depth wisdom, the library seemed to be the perfect home for its dusty, antique occupants. The reserved, echoing silence was something that made the young Alchemist feel misplaced like an item stored in the wrong shop. Thus, she did her best to avoid the extensive premises as much as possible. But today Maryas uncomfortable stay seemed to be rewarded as it appeared that the spacious room had its own inconvenient effects on her companion despite all the carefully taken measures to avoid them.

With progressing time it became clear that Amaziah, usually fitting in perfectly with all her withdrawn wisdom and ancient power, seemed increasingly bothered by the dusted atmosphere. What had started as a fleeting discomfort and a swift scratch here and there had soon grown to a sensible irritation. Over time the Archmages senses had become increasingly itchy, her sinuses so vexed that her already narrow nose had swollen shut. It was hard not to pay attention to those softly parted, pallid lips. Not to listen to each wavering catch of breath.

Marya watched as her Lovers thick, raven lashes started to flutter and blur her sight that had lost its focus. Sharp, black laced knuckles came up to itch an already blushed nose that crinkled in distaste. A sudden inhale demanded a stalling press of fingers against a quivering septum followed by a shaky, relieved exhale. The elegantly structured, cloth veiled hand then rose even higher to rub another prickle out of teary, glassy eyes before it was lowered and placed mannerly again. That highly unusual display of softness was pure indulgence mixed with a present intimacy reserved and displayed solemnly to Maryas presence. It warmed her heart while making other things inside her flutter eagerly. Never-ending moments of quiet, concentrated reading later the intrusive particles started to take their toll on that handsome, refined nose again. Tear shaped nostrils widened and prolonged themselves even further, exposing the already shiny septum a little more with each irritated flare.

Marya shamelessly watched as Amaziahs contoured brows knit together almost angrily and her eyelids closed with all black feathery hairs resting on pallid skin. Then she swiftly brought her gloved hand up to pinch her trembling nose shut between thumb and index finger as the long overdue sneeze finally overtook her and turned an otherwise delicate mouth into a sharp snarl. Preluded by the most restrained inhale it was barely detectable in sound but seized and shook her whole frame forward. The mages knees almost bumped at the tables underside as her upper body crumpled over the lectures. Right after the first one came a sudden gasp that mingled with the still lingering achy aftermath. Nostrils stubbornly opened even further against silky fingertips as Amaziahs still sealed lips turned downwards on the edges. The Archmage shook her head in frustration, her breaths already deepening, shimmering obsidian strands of hair that had been loosened by the previous outburst followed the motion. Regrettably the pleasant view became obscured as Amaziah turned sideways to forcefully stifle against the crook of a shaking arm. "hhheh-kdnxxt-ugh" Not loud enough to produce a far reaching echo the failed restraint was still clearly audible, sounding strained this time as well as followed by a wet, productive sniff. "Gesundheit my dear..." Marya whispered while gently rubbing Amaziahs back.

"Pardon me... Would you- snfff- uh- mind if I blow my nose?" "Of course not, silly." Marya snickered and planted a kiss on a cool cheek. " Also, there´s no need to withhold yourself." She added. Her hand was still resting on her Loves body as she felt her take a deep breath to softly blow into an ironed handkerchief- genteelly silent and one side after the other. The action had been very polite, probably too much so because it did little to clear her sinuses of the persistent itch.

Amaziah could feel it travelling deeper, growing more urgent again and frowned in dismay. Her handkerchief clad fingers were already on their way towards pinching that misbehaving appendage again as a gentle grip around her wrist stopped it. "Hey! No hurting yourself again." Marya said sternly. "Y-youhh just want to listen and wa-haah- HA-DZSCH!" Amaziah tried but was interrupted by the too fast peaking sensation that resulted in an uncovered, barely stifled and spraying sneeze. "Aw... Gesundheit." Marya giggled in response, still captivating the mages hands. "Yes I like watching that. But I don´t like it when it´s painful for you." "And Ihhh- I don´t like or neheh-need everyone hearing me." Amaziah responded, face all scrunched up against the mounting sensation. "But I love hearing you very much." The younger elf whispered and pecked a playful, feather soft kiss atop her Loves twitching nosetip.

This small little provocation seemed to be enough to push the Archmage over the edge, deep into a much needed fit. Marya watched fascinated as Amaziah angled her upper body slightly to her unoccupied side, titled back her head and sucked in a deep breath- so urgent she could feel the tension bleeding through the enfolded hands. "AH-ERSSSCH-uh! HAH-ERRSCHHHiuh!" The double had been loud, creating an expressive echo, the second sneeze more unrestrained and wet than the first. The released translucent mist accompanied the fine clouds of dust languidly floating around in rays of sunshine. "Gesundheit! Oh- again?" "I´m sorry" came the gasped reply in an unusual quavery, high pitched tone that got almost drowned in the already starting build up. "HahEERSCHH-ue! Heh- HAH-AESSCHHh-uh! oh-*iyn var alnaiy - Huh-EEERSCHh-ah! -EHSCHUE!- EISSSCH!- ERSSCHh-iuh!" This time, the sneezes had started harsh, slightly drawn out and violent only to shorten to increasingly urgent outbursts that messily tumbled above each other towards the end. Marya had given up on holding hands and instead gently hugged and comforted the distracted mage.

"Aw poor darling... Many, many blessings to you, my sweet. Now you have me a little worried." She cooed while caressing Amaziahs side and tucking back hair that had now floated out of a loose bun completely. "Excudse mde..." Came a stuffy and hoarse whisper. "Shhh, it´s all good... But I think your medication is wearing off... How about I get you outside a little?" "I´m ndot dodne here..." "Oh yes you are for now... I can barely understand you. Come, get up. I´ll take the scribbles for you."

Amaziah blinked away allergic tears, her gaze wandering from the badly affected scrolls to Maryas warm and loving expression. "I´m snnrff really dreading to explain how and why I ruined those..." She mumbled embarrassed. "Pfft!" Marya could not help but laugh loudly. "Surely Cailean will be very understanding."

-----------

Unfortunately for Amaziah her normally timid and forbearing scholar and librarian did seem more shocked by that unusual incident than sympathetic. Cailean had already been drawn closer to the Archmages study by the unmistakable sounds resounding through his workplace often equated with a personal sanctuary. Turning around one of the narrow aisles he nearly stumbled into the two women. About to address his concerns Cailean had started to question Amaziahs well-being as his gaze located the sloppily rolled, stained ancient scrolls in Maryas arms. The sight made his green eyes widen incredulously behind delicate, gold framed glasses.

C: "What in- pardon my tone... Your grace, may you tell me what happened to those? They are all smudged, blurred and... Filthily wet?" M: *suppressed chuckling* A: "That... Was an unfortunate accident." M: "pffft *laughs*"

C: "Pardon me again but how? You always handle all books and exhibits with so much care. And never bring something to drink or eat with you." A: "Of course not, that would be neheh-negligent. Is the damage repairable or have I done a permanent ha-harm to the scrolls?" C: "I´m positive that I´ll be able to fix most of it easily but- " A: "Hah-kngxt-uh!- huh- apologies."

C: "Anvael ci na´eve, your grace. Are you- hold on. Did you sneeze on them?" A: "...No?"

M: "Maybe a little? But like, several times?" C: "..." C: "Well, I did overhear something a few minutes ago..." A. "..." C: "How inappropriate!-... Of me... To forget... Providing enough handkerchiefs next to your desk..." M: "Yes you really should be ashamed of yourself, Cailean." A: "..." <- is really ashamed of herself. C: "I really should..."

#my fic #my oc #Marya #Amaziah #elves #sneeze #female #snzfic #allergies

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lonelypond · 6 years

Text

Jingle Bell Jazz, Ch. 13

Love Live, NicoMaki, 2.6K, 13/?

Summary: Bibi, away from their instruments and each other.

Chapter 13

Maki played one, maybe two other pieces after Clair De Lune, but Nico couldn’t stop thinking about that mood, the look deep in Maki’s eyes, the sadness wrapped around just a tiny flicker of hope, the thought that somehow, in the magic of musician’s moods coloring the music that they vivify, Maki had played that because of Nico. And then the concert was over and people were clapping, politely, as if Maki hadn’t just produced music emotionally shattering. Nico leapt to her feet, hands clapping at bruising level, staring around her, wondering if everyone else in the room was actually as emotionally locked down on the inside as their Aqua Net hairdos made them seem. Maki’s parents were watching Nico and Nico spared them a quick smile, but she wanted to catch Maki’s eye. The redhead rose to her feet, slowly, not shy like Nico expected, but as if the music had armored her, bolstered her from the inside, emboldened her. She grinned at the audience and curtsied, lifting her head and finally looking at Nico. There was a quick wink and then people started heading toward the stage...not just grandmothers and people who were obviously her parents’ friends and colleagues, but young men, straightening their ties and missing the glares Nico was sending their way. Maki probably needed rescuing from the crowd growing around her, Nico decided, but first, the obligatory quick chat with the parental Nishikinos. Then sweep off with the daughter. She probably needed some French fries.

Dr. Nishikino was keeping an eye on the crowd clustering around his daughter, but his wife was watching Nico, who smiled as soon as she recognized the scrutiny, “You must be so proud of Maki. She’s got 18 karat chops.”

Look of confusion from the longhairs. Nico corrected for her audience, “Nico wouldn’t doze in her seat at symphonies if orchestras played like that.” Or looked like Maki, less reliable parts of Nico added.

And then Maki was there, behind her, having somehow dodged the crowd as Nico realized when Dr. Nishikino spoke to his daughter, “Well done, Maki. The audience seems pleased.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Nico whirled, once again confronted by the sections of Maki’s dress that had been left out by the seamstress. Nico swore she saw a few drops of sweat glistening on pristine skin, as Maki’s breathing started to calm. Nico forced her head up, to see Maki tilt hers to the side, a question shadowing brilliant amethyst.

Nico reached out hands, catching one of Maki’s between them for a brief squeeze. It felt so natural, the casual touch, “That was crazy good, Maki, so hot...it was too much for Nico, though, I think I’m a grandmother now, all the gray hairs, achiness, wanting to shuffle with my cane into symphonies to listen to music written by dead and dusty square cats.”

Maki’s laugh was bright and the world relaxed. She glanced pointedly at where the hem of Nico’s skirt barely broke her knee. “You don’t look like anyone’s grandmother.”

Nico twisted her hair up, nearly managing a bun. “Just imagine Nico with reading glasses.” She slid a finger up the bridge of her nose, shifting her imaginary specs. “Granny style will be the new fashion.”

“I look forward to it.” Maki said dryly, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

“You probably have the clothes for it.” Nico countered.

Maki rolled her eyes as she shook her head, then smiled at someone behind Nico. Which was a cue for Mrs. Nishikino to add herself into the conversation, “Maki, maybe Nico could stay for dinner, but there’s a few people I want to introduce you too right now.”

Maki nodded her head, “I’ll be right there, Mama. Just give me a minute.”

“Don’t be too long. We’ll see you soon, Nico.” Mrs. Nishikino drifted toward a group clustered around her husband.

Maki took a deep breath, “Can you stay? I’d like to talk to you…”

“Yeah, sure...Nico thinks maybe we can add in a few piano solos for you, the audience would love it, maybe you and Eli could knock out some fly version of Sugar Rum Cherry. Nico can see it now…We have to rehearse as much as we can even if Nico has to go back to her place and drag Eli out of bed.” Nico hands started to fly around her as she picked up the pace of conversation.

“NICO!” Nico heard Tsubasa’s voice, light, float through the crowd. Tsubasa. Nico already had a dinner date. Maki stiffened immediately, scraping her hands down the side of her gown, scowling, her gaze over Nico’s head.

“Don’t go.” Maki hissed.

“To dinner? It’d be rude...Nico’s stood up Tsubasa too many times…I’d love to stay but...”

“To Europe.” Maki shifted, now between Nico and the approaching bandleader.

Nico wasn’t prepared for this discussion, here, right now. Why was Maki so intense? “You’re heading there too, Maki. Your competition. Which you’ll definitely win. We’ll see each other again.”

Maki’s hand tightened around Nico’s forearm, “I want to keep playing together.”

Nico wondered if playing brilliantly for such a large crowd had flipped some switch in Maki, making the pianist daring. Nico still wasn’t entirely certain what this sudden mood change was leading to. She decided encouraging was a safe conversation choice. “You’re good, Maki, so good. Anyone would want you in their group. You’ll find other musicians to work with if you want to keep playing jazz.”

Away from her piano, Maki had always been aloof, unless angry, Nico thought, but now, confronting Nico, was a fully passionate Maki Nishikino, amethyst eyes with a fevered glow, ignoring all Nico’s reasonable points. “Tsubasa can’t make you sound as good as I can.”

“You’re great, Maki, but we have so much work to do. And you’re leaving. Tsubasa’s a pro, so is Nico. We’ll develop a rhythm. You’ll be impressed.”

Maki released Nico, head hanging down, “That’s not ...it’s not what I mean..I’m not lea…”

“Maki! Nico!” Tsubasa slid next to Maki and the pianist stepped to the side, yanking the skirt of her gown, neutral expression on her face. Nico took a breath to open her eyes wide and plaster her broadest smile on her soon to be internationally famous mug.

Tsubasa saluted Maki first. “You really stretched your audience, Maki. The people sitting next to me never expected to hear anything from this century. If you ever decide to seriously splash outside of the classical pool, Nico’ll give you my number.” Tsubasa offered Nico her arm, “I’ve got a reservation. Let’s jet.”

Nico didn’t take Tsubasa’s arm, caught by the mood of a slumping Maki where there should have been a triumphant one. Nico put a hand under Maki’s elbow, feeling the redhead tense, but not pull away. “Nico has to finish something up with the star attraction here. Can we meet up by the coats in five minutes?”

“You got it.” Tsubasa bounced off, giddy and confident.

“Are you okay, kid?” Nico asked quietly, hoping to spark a verbal parry.

Maki sighed, rubbing her hands together, before cupping them over her eyes. “Just tired. Enjoy your dinner, Nico. Mama needs me.”

No response to the ‘kid.’ Nico knew a Maki with no fight left sounded so wrong but had no idea how to fix it here, in the middle of the people crowding the Nishikino ballroom, with Tsubasa waiting in the wings.

Maki had her arms crossed over her chest, looking small. “Europe isn’t people.”

“Nico knows. I’ll send you a postcard. Heck, maybe I’ll even call.” Nico knew she was trying too desperately to coax a positive reaction from the redhead. “And there’s Paris. We can me..”

“I hate Paris.” Maki brushed past Nico, halfway into the crowd before Nico could respond.

###

Nozomi rolled over before she opened her eyes. No Eli in reach. She wasn’t surprised. Her blonde lover’s warmth had been missing for awhile. Nozomi yawned and stretch. Sometime in the early afternoon from the light at the window. Wrapping herself in her green and white robe, Nozomi stepped into the living room. Eli was cleaning the kitchen, in her sick day gray flannel robe.

“Eli-chi?” Nozomi asked softly.

Eli paused, baking soda box and sponge suspended above the sink, “Nozomi. Hi.”

“I wasn’t expecting to wake up alone....” Nozomi stretched again, not caring that her robe fell open over her nightshirt, “You usually just pass out.”

Eli sighed, putting down her tools, “Sorry. I was just restless. Went to the bathroom and Nico had obviously come and gone. So…”

“You miss her?” Nozomi pulled Eli to the couch, wrapping an arm around the blonde’s waist.

Eli’s mouth made the cutest pouts when she was trying not to tear up, Nozomi thought for the thousandth time, “I’m going to.” Eli dropped her head onto Nozomi’s shoulders.

Nozomi let her sniffle for a minute, “We’ll join Honoka’s band, Nico will stay in touch, she’s not disappearing.”

“It won’t be the same. We were going to play the best clubs on the East Coast and graduate together.”

“That’s Coco’s fault, not Nico’s.” Nozomi couldn’t help sounding chiding.

“I know.” Eli lifted her head and leaned against the arm of the couch, chin on her forearm, eyes staring out the window, “Nico makes performing so much fun.”

“But she hates classes and Tsubasa’s band will be really good for her.”

“I know that too.” Eli was drifting too far into her mopiest mood and Nozomi knew it was time to change the subject so she leaned forward, put both arms around Eli, and pulled back so the blonde yelped.

“NOZOMI!”

“We’re getting dressed, Eli. I’m taking you out for triple chocolate cake.”

“Don’t you mean lunch?” Eli was breathless from surprise and Nozomi’s tight embrace.

“No, I said cake. I mean cake.” Nozomi pushed Eli to her feet, “Let’s go, Gorgeous. I want to see you smile.”

###

Everyone had been sorted into their coats and cars, lauds given, plans made, and now it was time to check in on today’s feature attraction, her daughter. Mrs. Nishikino opened the door to the music room, but stayed silent as she observed her daughter, leaning against the wall, staring out the window into the grounds, looking like a John Singer Sargent portrait, black gown against pale skin, chin raised, eyes on thoughts even more distant than the view. Her voice was a whisper.

“She lives in such small places, Mama. I didn’t know anyone did that. And when she’s there, they don’t seem cramped. Just....right sized...a little small for her, maybe, but so was the ballroom, after…” Maki paused, “And then, she looks at me and it’s like we’re in the music room, alone, just Nico and the piano, I couldn’t even hear anyone else. How does that happen?”

That, Mrs. Nishikino realized, is a question her daughter would have to answer for herself, “Is Nico staying for dinner?”

Maki shook herself and stepped away from the window, “She had a business meeting.” The half smile flattened, “Nico is determined to conquer Europe.”

“She mentioned that. Is she taking another band?” There was no space in this mood to step any closer to her daughter.

“Nico wants Tsubasa Kira’s UTX Swing Orchestra to hire her. As a headliner, of course.” Maki started undoing her hair, “She was already mostly signed when I met her, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Maki shrugged, “I’m going to go change and lie down before dinner. Is Papa at the hospital?”

“No. He’s taking the overnight shift.”

Maki nodded, finished undoing the braids by touch, leaving her hair in disarray around her head, and slouched past her mother.

“Maki?” Mrs. Nishikino put out a hand.

Maki halted, “What, Mama?”

“Are you still planning to go to Lucerne?

Maki continued to the stairs, without an answer.

###

No answer at home. Nozomi and Eli were probably still at it, Nico thought. Or dead to the world from exhaustion. Next call, Maki, but Mrs. Nishikino said her daughter was resting before dinner and Nico didn’t want to disturb Maki so she left a message about maybe coming over with Eli to rehearse later, if Maki didn’t mind. Mrs. Nishikino once again invited Nico to stop by soon for dinner, an offer Nico demurred until she could talk to Maki. Hopping out of the phone booth, Nico practically fell into a Tsubasa who was watching her with an amused grin, having shamelessly eavesdropped.

“Scheduling is one of the biggest headaches as a bandleader, but it’s all worthwhile when you get everyone together, they all hit that sweet spot, and the audience just eats you up all night.”

Nico didn’t really feel like she could agree, since Bibi in its current incarnation had never managed to hit even a sharp single to the infield kind of a sweet spot but she nodded, to be polite.

“There’s almost as much of a thrill wrangling all those temperamental personalities into a single, working unit.” Tsubasa continued as she headed for the maitre d’, who smiled and greeted her familiarly.

“Bon jour, Mademoiselle Kira. Your table is waiting.”

“Merci.”

French. Tsubasa had chosen a French restaurant, which made Nico feel like her earlier attempts to impress Maki with French were coming back to taunt her.

“Nico hasn’t had that feeling in awhile. Coco was pretty pedestrian.”

“You wouldn’t describe Maki like that.” Tsubasa waited for Nico to be seated.

Nico pictured Maki behind the wheel of her car, gleaming eyes focused on the road ahead, perfectly pink lip curved up just a bit at the corner, the start of a daredevil grin, leaning forward as she shifted into the highest gear, hands expertly spinning the wheel just the right increment to pass slower traffic.

Nico rolled her eyes at all the fancy script French on the menu, describing sauces Nico couldn’t have guessed the color let alone the contents of.

They ordered, Nico choosing something she could order in English, Tsubasa several things that sounded more complicated. Tsubasa offered wine, Nico nodded. Not her favorite taste, but she could certainly have a sip.

“Maki’s an excellent pianist...when she’s rehearsed,” Tsubasa nodded at the sommelier pouring the wine.

No one who had heard Maki that afternoon would possibly disagree, and certainly not Nico. “Coco really left us in the lurch. There’s not enough time to get ready for the kind of performance Nico would like to do, even with Maki’s working so hard at it.”

“Plus, she gets so thrown the second you start to flirt with her,” Tsubasa let a scolding note color her voice for the first time in Nico’s presence, “I assure you my musicians are all pros. None of them will be thrown off if you flirt and play a little.” Tsubasa nodded at the sommelier after her first taste, “Merci. Tres bien.”

Was that what Nozomi meant? Did Maki think Nico was flirting with her just to play? Nico heard Nozomi in her head, “Stop petting the pretty pianist, Nico-chi.”

“It’s not like that. She’s just not used to other musicians in her space. Maki’s warming up to the idea with every rehearsal.” Nico took a sip of the wine, but it was far too sour for her palate, “So how much convincing to do you need for Nico to be your new headliner?” Nico paused, her voice sounded sounded bright enough, with just the right Nico Nico Ni sparkle, but Nico could feel her chest constrict as she spoke.

As Tsubasa’s shrewd green eyes met hers, Nico got the sense the bandleader was calculating something and wondered if hesitation caught in her throat had had shown on her face somehow. Then the waiter brought the pissaladiere Tsubasa had ordered for them to share to the table.

“Nico, let’s talk after appetizers.”

A/N: The Importance Of Being Earnest wrapped up well so here's another chapter. I'll have some NicoMaki time as I transition to my next project so if there's an AU you'd like a short in, drop me a comment or an ask. I'm also planning to get back to the Moonlight Becomes You chapter I've started, but I'd like some short distractions.

#nicomaki #Love Live #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #music #Jingle Bell Jazz #jazz #holiday #fanfic #nozoeli #Tojo Nozomi #Ayase Eli #period #60's #etc

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princessvicky01 · 6 years

Text

Silk Cushions

Part 7 of Happily Ever After - my self indulgent Annabel x Cullen epilogue, because they deserved one!

This part is SFW with lots of pregnancy fluff with Dad!Cullen to be just being adorable really. You can read it all on AO3 here or on tumblr Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 - hope you enjoy!

Cullen chuckles as his wife huffs and throws a blouse at him which he catches clumsily. That’s the third that no longer fits over the ever-growing bump of her belly and swell of her breasts. He’s not sure she’s ever looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the pink morning rays lighting her silhouette in dusty hues and highlighting every radiant curve. It's enough to make his groin stir to life. To think, he's gazing at his wife, carrying his baby - it's a gift that feels beyond divine. If someone had told him three years ago, that he would be here, right now, he would never have believed them.

His adoring gaze is broken by her heavy flop onto the edge of the bed, the contents of her trunk spread around her in a picture of chaos he's come to see for its natural beauty. Trying to make Annabel tidier had proven to be like trying to coax water uphill, so he'd quickly given up and come to accept the mess as a part of her. Proof she was close by, and now he finds it strangely comforting, even if he does have to clear a space before he can join her on the bed.

Resting her hand over her eyes, she shields out the light as she collapses onto her back, only to grumble, fishing under herself to pull a belt free. Despite the early hour and evident stress, she cracks him a little smirk with a raised brow. “Well, won't be needing that anytime soon.”

The little jest doesn't convince him that she's alright though, and sprawling on his side, he gently places a hand on her stomach. They should arrive at Mai’s in a few days, and even he must admit he feels a ball of nervous energy in the pit of his stomach about it. It's been so long... He pushes his own concerns to one side to focus on her instead, while he knows Annabel will fit in splendidly, she's already confessed several worries about the meeting. The latest of which was what she'll wear. Apparently, she didn't want to be too posh, and neither too common, although it now seems she would settle for anything that just fitted remotely comfortably.

“Stop fretting, my love.”

Annabel's eyebrows shot up incredulously. “I'm not fretting! You'd be annoyed too if you tried on your entire wardrobe and not a single thing fitted! I even struggled to put my socks on!” She raises her legs to wiggle her slightly wonky socks at him until he's smiling warmly once more. “Should’ve known I’d end up carrying some kind giant Rutherford baby. I mean look at me! It's ridiculous.”

With his calloused palm stroking over the soft rise of her belly he chuckles. She always managed to draw that sound out of him somehow, and he doesn't believe he's ever smiled so much outside her company. “I think you're beautiful just as you are,” leaning over he places a tender kiss against her belly, before dropping his head to rest his forehead against her. Against them. His little family.

“Yes, well you would, but I can hardly show up to meet your family in just my underwear. I don't want their lasting memory to be how I gave your grandma a heart attack.” There is a playfulness to her light scolding and his chuckle that follows. Contently resting against her, he soon feels delicate fingers toying with his hair as he continues to rub absent-mindedly at her stomach. When she twinges and grabs his hand, he all but shots upright with a jolt of panic.

"Now whose fretting?" She asks, taking his hand with one eyebrow cocked. "Here, can you feel?"

Cullen stares at her small hand pressed over his, still uncertain everything is alright. That is until he feels it, a small bump, a press, a jerk, even against his palm. His baby! Kicking! Wonderment renders him speechless, eyes glancing up at her's to see them full of warmth while his own are blown wide by the rush of excitement. It doesn't last long, and soon the babe settles down, but at that moment he could swear he already loved this child more than he knew was humanly possible. And that, in no small part, was down the woman who carried it. The fact that the babe would be the two of them, forever intertwined is entrancing and he knows represents a real chance for him to bring some good into the world. Perhaps he could not help all those he'd failed, could not go back and right wrongs, but he could raise this child to be a better person than him, and full of Annabel’s warmth it could light up the world. Or he could fail… but that is a thought reserved for only the bleakness of nights.

Cullen can't be sure how long he stays curled beside her, but its long enough that by the time he lifts his head she's deep asleep and the pink light has turned to bright sunshine. Kissing her belly once more he eases himself up. She won't thank him for waking her, and she did desperately need the rest, so instead, he slips from the room to make himself useful.

Waking confused and with an ache in her back, Annabel blinks her bleary eyes to try and clear them. The sun is well up now, and she groans as it blinds her. Stupid sun. A groggy corner of her mind tells her it means they're late setting off, again.

Perhaps Bryan had been right with his concern, this journey does feel like it's slowly killing her, never has exhaustion been at the forefront of her mind so often. After almost dangerously falling asleep in the saddle Cullen had insisted they stop for a few nights at an inn. Stubbornness told him that she was fine, although her eyes had said otherwise. Thankfully her husband knew her well. Sleeping in a real bed the past few nights had felt heaven sent, but they must continue unless she really did want to have her baby in the middle of nowhere.

Sitting up slowly with a groan she notes how the mess is gone, looking to her trunk she finds a small stack of garments neatly folded there. What's he been up to now? Holding her great swell of a belly, she pads over to investigate, finding a small note in Cullen's scratchy script.

‘Kindly donated by the innkeeper for saving the world. Love Cullen’

As always it's short, and she smiles faintly at the way he curls the ‘c’ of his name. She could be presented with a thousand versions of that name, but she’d know in an instant which had been done by his hand. It's much steadier than it used to be, but still unmistakable.

Placing the note to one side, she picks up the simple floral dress with thin stretchy leggings that no doubt would be far more comfortable than anything she currently owns. A kind gesture indeed. Then again, there had to be some perks to being Inquisitor and saving everyone.

She rubs the fabric between her fingers as worries begin to bubble up to the surface once more. Cullen had been right, she had been fretting, but with good reason. In all their discussion of his family, it had become clear they were large and close-knit, warm and welcoming, nothing at all like her own. With a sigh she sits back down to chew on her lip, she doesn’t usually worry about fitting in, as she never really had fitted anywhere, and she guesses that’s the reason she’s so concerned. She does somehow fit with Cullen… but if she doesn’t with his family? What then? What if she’s too brash, too loud, too exuberant? Or maybe just too noble?

For a long time, Bryan had been her own family, now to think she is about to be welcomed into the bosom of a much larger clan is a little intimidating. It’ll be nice though, she decides with a little-determined nod, being alone has never suited her, it leads to thinking like this, which is clearly to be avoided. Besides she'd been born a Trevelyan, and taught to be fearless in all things, so that is what she shall be.

Dressing is even more difficult thanks to the bump, but with much huffing and wriggling, she manages. Running her hand over the fabric, she smoothes it down, instinctively rubbing at her belly tenderly as she checks in the mirror. And for all her complaints, all her weariness and achiness, she wouldn't change a thing.

Slipping on her shoes is easier said than done but after some fiddling Annabel manages. Searching for her husband, she wanders the corridors then through the bar to be greeted by a fresh breeze let loose by wide-open doors. Several people appear to be hovering just outside, and she catches the deep baritone of Cullen’s voice although she can’t make out what he’s saying.

The sunlight is near blinding, but the weather is pleasantly mild, much to her relief, as she steps outside where the packed dirt path leads her eye to the grandest sight. A brilliant wooden carriage, adorned with sturdy but elaborately patterned iron decoration. As Scout Jim steps back, she catches sight of the freshly painted Inquisition symbol blazing proudly on the door. Her hand absentmindedly lifts to her mouth as she approaches, entranced by the way the structure dominated the road yet still looked so pretty.

She hears his boots crunch on the pebbles before she sees him, although her eyes can’t be dragged away from the carriage. “Cullen… how did you? It’s…” The truth is, it’s overwhelming. Maybe it's her hormones, or maybe its the lifting of the niggling worry about what the strain of the journey might be doing to the baby, either way, her eyes fill up. One of his hands steadies the swelling emotion before it can consume her and gives her arm a little squeeze to draw her focus to him.

“It’s what every growing family needs,” his smile is warm enough to light up the golden amber flecks in his eyes and the softness she finds there spills a tear down her cheek. “Although I was hoping for a slightly better reaction…”

Smile beaming she pulls him in as close possible so can nuzzle against his chest and wipe all the tears away on his mantle as she’s done a hundred times before. “Thank you, Cullen… I… I…”

“Shhh, I know,” his lips murmur the gentle words into her hair before she pulls back to reveal a glowing smile.

Like a child herself, she’s quick to hop inside, finding it cosy with plenty of cushions and blankets. With a giggle, she taps the space beside her, and his bulky frame soon climbs aboard.

“Not sure what the villagers will make of this turning up on their doorstep,” settling beside her, Cullen's forced to pick up a lilac cushion to make space. His family had moved back to Honnleath after the blight, and he’s certain the tiny settlement won’t have been graced with anything quite so grand before. “I should’ve known Josephine would only supply the best.”

Snatching the silk cushion, Annabel promptly rests it behind his head. “Of course! The Inquisitor and her Commander should arrive in style, don’t you think?”

Smirking he leans his head back against it. “Hmm… yes… although...it does feel awfully… Oreselian.” With that the pillow is whipped away so fast he bumps his head against wood. “Hey!”

“It’s an Ostwick design! My father had one when we were little… not sure what happened to it… But Josie has done her homework once again, bless that wonderful woman!”

“Hmm,” rubbing his head with a petulant frown Cullen sits up. “We'd best set off,” as he goes to move Annabel quickly grabs him by the collar.

“I don’t think so, I said the Inquisitor and her Commander were to arrive in style,” she gently places the fancy pillow in his lap with a little smile. “And before you argue, just know I’ll be ever so bored and lonely in here all by myself…” fluttering her eyelashes her fingernails toy with the frilly edge of the cushion perched precariously over his groin. Shifting she leans further into him, her thumb tracing down the edge of his jaw. “And I promise I’ll keep you entertained, Commander,” her voice drops with a deliberately inticing purr as she kisses him, hot but soft.

He hums into her lips, and she can feel a vibration run through him as their tongues slide sweetly over each other.

Suddenly sunlight floods their sultry moment. “Commander, sh-" Jim cuts off mid-sentence at the fierce glower both lovers cast him. “Sorry, Ser! I… You said too…” he shakes his head. “Never mind, Ser.” The door promptly closes once more.

Seems privacy is in as short a supply as ever. Likely only to be made worse by sharing a small cottage with Cullen’s extended family. Not that Annabel minded, in fact, she’s been looking forward to it from the moment the plans had been made. A chance to see where he's from and to meet the people who’d help shape him into the man she loved. Whether she fitted in well didn't really matter, what mattered was it was his family and a chance to him truly feel at home. With that in mind, she pulls back. He's right they really should get moving.

“Perhaps we can continue this later?” She offers a little naughty smirk his way as he sets about trying to leave once more.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” there is a richness to his baritone that betrays his arousal, but with a great deal of self-restraint, he merely pecks a kiss against her cheek. “In the meantime, however, I can think of a fellow who would love to keep you company.”

Annabel creases her brows as it takes a second for her mind to return from the gutter. When it does, she smiles and nods, and as Cullen climbs out, there's a sharp whistle. The carriage rocks and creaks in place as the great mabari bounds aboard. Tongue hanging out and stump wagging wildly, Prince leaps onto the cushions to sit upright, proud as punch beside her.

-----

Thank you for reading - hope you enjoyed it! Likes, reblogs and comments all help feed hungry writers <3

#happily ever after #cullen x annabel #my writing #cullen rutherford #silk cushions #cullen fanfic #sfw #fluff #she's about five to six months pregnant #annabel trevelyan #commander cullen #dad!cullen

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neganandblake · 7 years

Text

I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 88 - Cold Mornings & Rooftops

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she's certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit…

MASTERLIST

Chapter 88 - Cold Mornings & Rooftops

[After a night spent up on a cold rooftop, Negan and Blake awaken as stiff and sore, as expected...]

Blake gave a small groan as her eyes flickered slowly open.

It was early morning. So early in fact, that the sun was not yet up, and a strained white cloud sat heavy and pale across the sky.

Blake's entire body right now felt stiff and achy and utterly freezing, and it took her a moment or two to realise just why she was outside, her entire body shivering with cold.

She lifted her head a little, every part of her body, including her neck feeling sore and bruised now, as she turned to look at the soft body she was curled up neatly into.

There he was, lying on his back, eyes closed, his arm still thrown lazily around her, still in that dusty old leather jacket of his…looking far less-exhausted now than he had done last night.

But Blake's gaze soon flickered across to her own body. This morning, she had one edge of the tartan blanket pulled around her, but even that wasn't helping her to feel any warmer, as she gritted her teeth together just as they began to chatter.

Had the pair of them really been so stupid as to sleep out here all night?

Idiots.

Maybe a few months ago when she was sleeping in barns and broken down cars each night on the road, she would have managed a night on a cold roof, but not now. She had certainly grown accustomed to sleeping in a nice comfy, warm bed these days, that was for sure!

But Blake's thoughts were suddenly disturbed, by Negan stirring suddenly at her side.

She looked groggily over, to see a deep frown shifting its way between the man's dark eyebrows, a groan emitting from his lips.

"Jeeeesus fucking Chriiist…" he murmured in what was barely a growl, lifting his hand up and running it down his bearded face.

He too, blinked his eyes open, as Blake pulled herself up into a sitting position and running her fingers through her mussed-up caramel blonde hair, staring out bleary-eyed at the stark-quietness all around.

The kerosene lamp by the looks of it had long-since gone out behind them, leaving only a white early-morning chill to the entire rooftop.

Negan sat up beside her, groaning again and pressing a hand to his side scowling down into his lap.

"Fuck me, are you fuckin' tellin' me I put my goddamn back out and didn't even get laid doin' it?" he huffed, sounding severely irritable right now.

Blake wanted to roll her eyes, but still feeling a little delirious, merely blinked several times, attempting to pull her flannel shirt tighter around herself.

She wasn't quite sure if it was really that cold out here, or perhaps just the fact that her body temperature had dropped while sleeping? But either way, Blake was freezing, her skin almost icy to the touch.

And so, it was not a second later than she had pushed herself to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest, giving a wincing shiver.

She needed to go inside. She was certainly awake now….but could definitely go for perhaps a nap somewhere warm and cosy….mmmm…that definitely sounded good right about now.

Negan, who looked half-asleep himself, stared up at her with squinted eyes, before clambering stiffly to his own feet.

But, feeling wholly disoriented and a little dazed because of the cold, Blake barely noticed him eye her groggily.

And it was only a second later, drawing her attention up to him almost instantly, Negan placed his hands to her arms, frowning hard down at her.

"Shit, Sweetheart," he commented suddenly. "You're fuckin' freezin'."

Blake parted her lips, staring up at Negan properly for the first time and nodding.

"Yeah…uh…we should probably go inside…" she murmured quietly, giving a small yawn, wanting nothing more than that right now.

But Blake peered up to see Negan suddenly shucking his arms out of his battered old leather jacket.

What the hell was he doing now?

But Blake didn't have a chance to even question him on this, for less than a second later, she had her answer, as Negan in the blink of an eye, had dropped the garment down onto Blake's shoulders with a soft 'whump'.

The caramel-blonde woman instantly warmed at the contact….breathing in the musky scent that filled the heavy jacket.

It was like wood smoke and sex and whisky and just….well….Negan. And Blake wanted to almost bury herself in it….oh-so much…

But this was the tiredness and cold talking. It had to be.

But even so, she pulled Negan's jacket further around herself, slipping her arms inside the sleeves, greedily taking in every ounce of warmth the material had in it, before she looked up at Negan, tilting her head to the side softly.

The dark-haired man was stood there now in nothing but a t-shirt, pants and boots. But he didn't look that bothered, merely strolling causally over to where he had left Lucille the previous night, grasping her swiftly up and readjusting his grip on her a few times like a baton.

And it wasn't until he turned around, his chocolate eyes meeting with Blake's, did something catch in her throat…she finally remembering why she had come up here last night with him. Why she had fallen asleep wrapped up in him…wanting to be close to the leader of the Saviours.

He gave a sudden chuckle. His tired features curving upwards into a slick grin.

"Well, hot-diggity-dog, Doll-face," he remarked admiringly, shaking his head and biting down on his bottom lip. "That shit looks good on you."

Blake smirked slightly, taking a huge, sleepy intake of breath.

He took a step closer to her now…and another…and another, until he had closed the gap between them almost completely, staring down at her smiling.

Blake was too tired for his games now, but even so, she laughed as he tugged her suddenly forwards by the lapels of his jacket.

"I mean, not as good as it looks on me," he continued in a goading voice, raising a single dark eyebrow in her direction and revealing his line of perfect white teeth as he did so.

At this moment in time the pair of them were just a breath apart, and if Blake hadn't been so cold, she might have thought she was dreaming.

But suddenly, this time, giving a huge roll of her eyes, she eased herself from the Saviour's grasp, tutting lightly.

"Come on," she said, suddenly taking his hand in hers without really thinking. "I need a hot shower…"

She almost cursed herself at her own words and cations, but even so, she didn't relent, as her fingers entwined with Negan's, as she pulled him over towards the door leading back down onto the main building.

But true to his devilish nature, it was no surprise to her, that not even a split second later, with glee in his voice, Negan was at her side, looming over her and pressing his lips to her ear.

"That you fuckin' invitin' yourself to use my goddamn bathroom, Peaches?" he murmured in a sing-song voice, making Blake feel even warmer now…for reasons she did not want to think too much on, in the early hours of the morning.

They were friends, she reassured herself.

Just friends…

But she nudged him slightly with her hip as they walked.

"Mmmhmmm. I think I have a right to. Especially when you're to blame for bringing us up here in the first place…" she bit back playfully. "Or do I need points to use your hot water nowadays?"

With that, she glanced up at Negan, as he gave an appreciative whine of laughter, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Oh, Sweetheart," he growled again, arching his back slightly as they reached the door. "You know you don't need points for any damn thing in this fuckin' place. Especially when it comes to getting' naked in my fuckin' shower."

Blake rolled her eyes, smirking, as she pulled open the door, glancing over her shoulder and shooting Negan a look, and making to give him a snappy retort.

But as she looked up at the dark-haired man, she stopped suddenly before she could say a word, watching his face contort right in front of her...his brows slowly forming into a deep, dark and dangerous frown.

Blake stared up in confusion and horror...for there was only one thing that caused this look to pass over the dark-haired Saviour's face, noticing that his eyes were no longer on her now….but on something directly behind her instead...

And the caramel-blonde woman had just enough time to turn, seeing a tall figure suddenly leap through the door at the top of the steps ….…and, not even a second later, he lunged towards the pair of them, brandishing a large serrated knife in his hand…

And Blake's eyes could only widen into two large orbs, as her eyes took in the face of a man she recognised very, very well…..

…a man she had helped escape the Sanctuary just two short days ago…

And it was in that split-second, that Blake knew just how much of a big mistake she had made, as the large knife swept violently across her vision…

A very big mistake indeed….

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged/untagged in this fic. More coming soon…

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thought-42 · 7 years

Text

Breathe underwater (tune the radio dial)

Star Wars, 1000 words, Cody/Obi-Wan

It’s the fourth day of negotiations when things start going poorly.

No.

It’s the fifth day. Morning. His paper cup of tea is too bitter. Someone says, “We all knew this wasn’t going to work.”

Someone else yells. There’s a voice cutting in and out on the radio, choppy with static.

The sky is grey and there’s dry grass prickling his palms and someone crouched over him, black cloth where white armour should be. He tries to look at them but there’s a picnic table behind the face, incongruous to the point of parody, and when he opens his mouth everything tastes like metal.

Then, it’s dark, and someone is running and his stomach hurts. He thinks of a sack of potatoes. All the trees are upside down.

He falls asleep. He wakes up.

He can’t breathe. There’s a scratchy blanket pulled up to his chin and he can hear static, crackling and white and unbroken.

He says, “My lightsaber,” and someone – Qui-Gon? Anakin? – says,

"Here. I have it.“

If he can speak, clearly he can breathe. He supposes things can’t be too bad if he can breathe and he hasn’t lost his lightsaber. He supposes he’s safe.

Things come in flashes, signals breaking through the static then fading away.

The pavement under his shoes is cracked and dusty and he can’t seem to keep his feet moving properly forward. Every time gravity shifts there’s a hand there to catch him. It’s familiar. He doesn’t fall, but he knew this already.

The tea he drinks out of the paper cup isn’t bitter, but he coughs it up anyway, body curled in humiliation on a hard plastic seat while sounds bounce weirdly around him, engines and voices and music that is too loud and always the static.

Then, quiet, but too much movement and the smell of old coffee and sweat and he presses his face into a familiar shoulder and he can breathe so he is safe.

"Look at me. Just, focus. Just for a second. Look at me.” He trusts that voice with his life so he looks and the flash hurts his eyes but he keeps staring forward until a familiar hand touches his cheek.

"Ok. It’s ok. You can stop.“

So he does.

More movement, rougher, this time. Smell of smoke and something heavy in the air like an explosion and like Anakin but without the death. A child is crying somewhere behind him. It is very bright if he looks to his left.

"Sir? Obi-Wan?”

His name.

He looks to his right and the static snaps, crackles, screeches.

Obi-Wan wakes up on a bus, in the window seat. Everything is muffled and slightly out-of-focus, his head achy and his eyes hot and sore.

Cody is to his right, out of armour and he’s done something to his hair. Obi-Wan isn’t wearing his robes, and he doesn’t know how he got here.

"What–“

"Shh,” Cody says. “Shh, it’s fine, Obiika, we’re fine. I have our papers. Don’t say anything.”

Obi-Wan has never heard Cody like this, gentle and exhausted and soothing and Obi-Wan reaches out mentally in an attempt to understand and something is very wrong, because he has never felt Cody so deeply, helplessly terrified, either.

A woman in an unfamiliar uniform stops beside their seats and Obi-Wan closes his eyes before she gets a good look at him, pretends to be asleep as he listens to the click and hum of the reader when Cody hands over two green data cards. She doesn’t say anything. Cody’s fear doesn’t abate when she moves on.

"The Council,“ Obi-Wan says, quietly. "The Negotiator.”

"Communications are all down,“ Cody replies immediately. "They’ve probably forced the ship out of orbit. Everyone else on the team is dead. It’s been half a tenday. You were drugged. You reacted… poorly. I’m hoping if we disappear for long enough they’ll assume we’re dead and drop the comms jammers.”

Obi-Wan breathes out. “That’s good thinking. How many times have you had to tell me this?”

Cody laughs tightly. “Four, now.”

"I’m sor–“

"Please shut up,” Cody says, then, belatedly, “Sir. It isn’t your fault. The whole mission was a farce. They just wanted to catch a force user.”

"A rare and unique specimen,“ Obi-Wan says, dryly. It’s hard, keeping his head up, and he thinks all his words are slurring a bit.

"I’ve been awake too long for this,” Cody says. “Now I’m imagining a fishing line with a tea bag at the end.”

"There are days it would probably work.“

"I’m aware. You befriended a fish, didn’t you? And I mean an actual fish, that wasn’t meant to come out so speciest, I know you were friends with a mon Calamari.”

"I think it was technically a mammal,“ Obi-Wan says thoughtfully. He gets distracted remembering that mission, feels himself sliding out of the present but can’t muster the energy to care. He feels Cody’s fingers combing through his hair and when the static rushes back over him like water –mammal, it was definitely a water mammal– he lets it come because he knows that he is safe.

The next time he wakes up there is sand all around him and Cody is sitting a few feet away staring into the sunset, cleaning his gun by touch. Everything is silent for the first time in hours. Days. Years. The heat shimmers off the sand and for a moment the light reflects like there’s another sun, trailing behind the first over the horizon.

Obi-Wan says, "this is how the world ends.”

His throat is dry. Cody looks at him over his shoulder and for a moment his hair is almost grey and his eyes are hard and sad.

"I’m hallucinating a little,“ Obi-Wan says, mildly.

"I know,” Cody says. “You asked about the Council, earlier.”

The static comes back in a rush, a sandstorm this time. Obi-Wan can hear breathing in the white noise.

In and out.

Obi-Wan can’t breathe. He is not safe.

#codywan #Star wars why?#posting from my phone I hope the formatting works #commander cody #Obi-Wan Kenobi

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blame-canada · 7 years

Text

Quarter Rests: Change

The CMV Mutation Pandemic swept across the globe so quickly, society as they knew it was doomed to fall. While the world came crashing down around them, Craig and Tweek tried their best to survive, and to love endlessly, in spite of it.

Hello friends! For the September 2017 South Park Drabble Bomb, I’ve decided to use all five prompts to write for the Halfway universe- which means everything here is canon to that fanfiction and its timeline! I hope you’ll tune in to catch a few little tidbits here and there about this universe I’ve lovingly crafted into my own. Link to the fic on AO3 here!

Chapter Five: Change

He wanted most to be an optimist, but life was truly, honestly, not supposed to have gone this way.

Clyde liked to go with whatever life threw at him. It was something his father had taught him, to live in every moment, and something even further cemented by the passing of his mother. With life so fragile and short, he found meaning in taking what he was given in stride, and smiling at the obstacle courses he’d been subjected to in his many years since. This obstacle was proving hard to smile at, though, and in fact Clyde was finding it very difficult to smile at all, even in the metaphorical simulations buried deep in his brain.

His knees were achy from a day spent standing at work. They popped and ground together like they needed oiling, and he shook out his legs between steps for good measure as he dragged his feet out of the lab and toward the locker rooms. He hung up his lab coat- his name wasn’t even embroidered on it. It was printed on a sticker in the back. In this hospital, he was nameless.

He’d studied meteorology, actually. He had only just finished his degree by the time the virus began its destruction, and the cookie crumbled in such a way that when he ended up back at home, the hospital had dragged him in. They were taking anybody who knew anything about biology and was immune. He’d taken one or two courses in college, and they figured that was enough. The rest, he improvised and figured out along the way. It wasn’t where he wanted to end up- not by a long shot- but he’d do anything that might help. Nobody really cared about the weather, at that point.

South Park was always the town you ran away from. You left high school, found somewhere, anywhere else, and bolted for the door. Clyde had never really been a fan of that mentality. He didn’t want to run away; not when his father would be left behind. He didn’t like feeling like his father was completely alone in that shell of a house, made even emptier by the old picture frames that showed a family frozen in time more than a decade ago. They were all so dusty.

When Clyde came back to that empty house, he came back alone. His wife, a woman he adored whom he’d met in college, was buried in a small-town cemetery beside her parents in a family plot. It didn’t make sense for him to stay in their apartment when everything in it reminded him of her, and he packed up his essentials the day after the funeral and went back home. All throughout the funeral, his father kept patting him on the back, as though it was the only way he could ever express his sympathy and total understanding. He would never say he was glad Clyde didn’t have kids, but Clyde knew he was thinking it.

He pulled the lock out of his locker door, and took out his outdoor sneakers and carrier bag, slinging the sack over one shoulder before sitting down on the bench that ran along the middle of the row. He sighed, the bottom of his lungs feeling heavy and weighted. He overextended his arms to pull his muscles apart from their knotted up mess in his back, stiff from a day of staring into machines and computer screens. When the good feeling of the stretch faded, he sagged and hunched his shoulders, arms on both knees that were too tired to tie his laces.

God, he felt so old now. His father picked on him, for acting like a grandpa in his twenties, but it was wearing on him too. The Donovan men were very good at joking, and not very good at talking. He missed being the kid looking for laughs, ripped on by his friends in good fun and screwing around on the playground. Whenever he had to walk past the school yard, he had to look away now; the playground just looked so wrong to be barren and falling apart. Part of him still hoped the world would go back to normal, but part of him told him it would never be the same.

The door to the locker room swung open from around the corner. His attention snapped his head up, straightened his back, hoped it was who he thought it was. The squeaky sneaker footsteps walked along the aisle blocked by a row of lockers, and then their maker turned the corner into Clyde’s lane.

“Craig!” he exclaimed, a smile growing widely at the sight of a familiar stone face. Craig froze for just a moment, making brief eye contact, and he grunted in greeting before looking back down and stopping in front of his locker opposite Clyde’s. “Hey man,” Clyde continued, feeling a slight sting in his chest but forging onward anyway, “how’s it going?”

“Fine,” Craig replied tersely, and Clyde’s smile started to wane, try as he might to stop it. No, he wanted that smile so much. He wanted to be happy. He wanted his friend to talk to him, look at him with any expression besides annoyance or complete neutrality. He wanted a lot of things. With every day that passed, it seemed less likely he’d get any of them.

“How’s the fam?” Clyde asked, finally breaking his eye contact with Craig’s back to start lacing up his sneakers with new energy. Craig grunted again; Clyde’s smile lost another millimeter. His dimples started to fade.

“My dad was looking to part with some old junk you might wanna take a look at,” Clyde tried again, “friends and family discount? I mean, we’re not selling it or anything, but you can take first pick if you like.”

“Why would I want old junk you planned on throwing away in the first place?” Craig said, his voice somehow even flatter than usual, and Clyde officially lost the wind in his sails, slumping forward and cowering like a goddamn idiot. God, he was so stupid. Of course he wouldn’t. The air between them grew tense and awkward.

“Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point,” Clyde chuckled nervously, but when he realized he had nothing else to say, he let out the air he’d taken into his lungs to speak. Craig continued to unpack his things from his locker silently. He was hyper aware of the buzzing of the overhead lights, one of them sounding close to breaking and plunging them into the dark. It didn’t, though, and Craig left without another word.

Alone, with nothing but the ambient noise of a basement locker room to keep him company, Clyde mumbled, “Have a good one.” He didn’t like to let Craig leave without saying it. Maybe it hurt less if Craig wasn’t there to hear him. If he didn’t hear him, he couldn’t intentionally ignore him.

Clyde felt alone a lot, now.

He sang a song to himself as he walked home. He was never very good at singing, but it still felt good, and so he did. The empty streets made him feel much less self-conscious too, and the whistling winter winds provided an echo chamber to make any noise he wanted. Though it was an open street, in plain sight and broad daylight, it still felt private, and so he prayed.

“Hey, mom,” he started, putting a smile on his face for her. When Clyde prayed, he didn’t pray to God. “I’m pretty sad today.” He let the words hang around him, the words feeling wrong slipping past a grin. It helped though, to let it out, and so he did. “I’ve been sad a lot. I hope that’s okay.” Another pause. There was a snow pile that had caved into the walkway that was perfect for kicking, and so he did.

“This sucks, mom,” he admitted. “I wish Craig would talk to me. I wish people could smile more again. Am I not trying enough?” He used the silence as an answer. He turned the corner to start walking down his street. “I dunno. I think I’m doing okay. I think I’m proud of me.” The cold scratched his cheeks extra raw, and he shivered. “I hope Tweek gets better. I miss him, and Craig.”

The wind started scratching at his eyes too. “I miss Sarah,” he whispered. “I miss you. Dad misses you, too.” His next footstep hovered over its place, his will to move forward shattered. His shivering got worse. He doubted it was much warmer at home, the heat having been cut off over a month ago. There wasn’t much difference standing out here than standing in there, and maybe he wasn’t ready to say hello to his father yet. Maybe he needed his mom first.

“Please help them, mom,” he pleaded. Wetness made the wind hurt worse. “Craig needs your help more than I do. Help him first.” For some reason, the silence after his monologue felt much lonelier than usual. He wasn’t ready to fall apart yet though, not yet. He’d gotten this far. He’d watched his wife die, for God’s sake. He could handle his friend not speaking to him. ‘It’s more than that, though,’ the devil in his ear replied.

He stood there for a long time, the wind moving around him untroubled by his presence. His fingers grew numb the longer he stared at the snow, which was making his eyes water. It was the wind and the snow making them leak. He needed to believe that, or he wasn’t going to make it through.

“I love you,” he finally said, unsure who he was speaking to, and with resigned urgency prompted only by the stinging on his cheeks and in his fingers and toes, he trudged on.

#spdrabblebomb #south park #fanfiction #south park fanfiction #south park fanfic #sp fanfiction #sp fanfic #clyde donovan #craig tucker #one shot

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blackwatch-cowboy · 7 years

Text

Father and Son

Made with the help of: adeadlyspider

And alternate path in Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2 between Yondu and Peter Quill

"Yondu? Yondu wake up you idiot!" Peter begged, shaking the older man the moment they made it to the ship. Thank God for Rocket. Sonofabitch located them in record time. He could still make it. Yondu couldn't die here. Not after one Father's death. "Please....wake up."

He'd done a lot of bad things in his life. Broken a lot of rules and promises, but Yondu would have been happy to die with the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe he'd done something right for once. Peter had grown up fine. He'd grown up with his mind in the right place, and his heart too. He'd seen it in the fleeting moments before his vision had fled. Power like no other. So, floating in that dark place he thought maybe was death, the ravager found peace with his final choices. There were regrets, but Peter Quill was not one of them.

It did seem a little odd that he felt a burning sensation in his fingers though, or the desperate need to draw air. A shallow breath filled his lungs.

Oh, thank whatever God dared to show him mercy. The moment he saw the frost evaporating around blue sharp cheekbones, he let hope overwhelm him. But hearing the soft wheeze of air? Peter had no problems breaking down right then and there. Tears once again started to build in his watery blue gaze. Gently, like the boy he once uses to be...he tugged on Yondu's jacket, a silent desperation just to see his eyes open.

"Y-Yondu?" His voice was breaking, it sounded like a child, pleading for his Father. In many ways...he was. "C'mon you sonofabitch...y-you can't say that crap and die." Quill begged in a hitched whisper. "Wake up. C'mon."

The hushed whisper of voices echoed in the far reaches of his mind. Words that reverberated and bounced off the inside of his skull were almost enough to give him a headache. Another slightly bigger breath filtered between his filed teeth. He could almost make it out. Yondu could almost hear the words clearly. A small groan left him and his fingers twitched in displeasure. The feeling coming back to cold digits was far from pleasant. " Quit yer whining..." he mumbled weakly, eyes rolling behind his lids as they fluttered.

And just like that, Peter Quill felt utter and complete relief. With a shaky sigh, he dropped his head some, ignoring the relief filled tears starting to drop from his lashes. Goddamn Yondu.

"Pr-Prick." He grumbled out in a quiet voice. His hands never unclutched from the jacket he still held tightly to. Nothing had ever made him so terrified in all his years than this moment now. He didn't know if he wanted to slap the old man upside the head or hug him. "...God, I hate you so hard right now man." There was no real venom in his voice.

As consciousness came back, he realized that he wasn't dead. " Always have been, " he grumbled at the name Peter called him. When his eyes finally opened though he was graced with the sight of the man he'd raised like his own. A good man. better than Yondu ever had been. " And that wouldn't be the first time..." Oh Peter had said he hated him many times over. It had been something he'd accepted.

"Isn't that the truth." Finally, the younger looked up, his eyes still bright with emotion but filled with silent relief. That had been too close. Too close to a goodbye he wasn't ready for. Carefully he pulled away some to help the older man to sit up right, checking him over with concern.

"Are y-you.... you alright?" Quill asked cautiously, still a bit shocked they were able to save him in time. "You idiot!" He suddenly snapped once he was sure the Captain wasn't gonna die on him again.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Peter was mad. Very VERY pissed. "I could have lost-....I could've lost you dammit. Why would you do something so damn stupid?!"

Yondu winced as Peter helped him sit upright. Everything ached. He supposed he was lucky he wasn't suffering decompression sickness. Or something like it. Maybe it was something that would come up later. He let the younger man rage at him, head still a little fuzzy.

" Stop acting like you don't know why I did it," Yondu grunted. "You know damn well why. "

After a long moment, he glanced up at Peter. " I've done a lot of wrong, but out of all of it you're the one thing I can say I've done right. Besides. Your Rat would have had my hide..."

Yeah...Yeah he knew why. He just couldn't believe it still. The man he had been searching for all his life. His /dad/ had been right there this whole time. All he had to do was turn around. And Peter felt ashamed. Quill felt ashamed for the thought that it took Yondu to almost die to figure that out. The younger dropped his head like a shamed pup, his gaze staring down at where his hand still clutched the blue skinned Captain's jacket. Finally, he let it go.

"M'sorry." Was all Peter could murmur in return. "And...thank you." He confessed quietly, his eyes still downcast in shame.

" Don't be sorry," he stated quietly, working the stiffness out of his hand. "You didn't do anythin'." Yondu couldn't blame Peter for the choices he'd made. He had never actually told him why he kept him around. He didn't say that he didn't want Ego to kill him like he had the others. He didn't say that he'd become attached to the orphaned boy from Earth. None of those things had ever come out of his mouth. But through and through, Peter was family, and Yondu had been prepared to protect him with his life. Like any good father would. Because no matter where Quill went, or who he became, there would always be the wayward little boy playing havoc on his ship.

" It's not like they can do anything worse to me for goin soft on yah again..."

"I almost got you killed. " His voice wavered again, the flash of all his friends dying going through his head...the image of a freezing over Yondu still there in his head. He flinched and looked away, swallowing hard.

"I was an idiot. And you were a bigger one for caring about me." Without hesitation the younger grabbed his adoptive Father and pulled him in close, giving him the first hug he's ever given the grumpy ass old man since he was kid. He didn't care if any of his friends walked in on it. Peter was still horrified, still afraid...and he honestly needed to make sure this was reality.

"Sh-Shut up and take the goddamn hug just this once." The blond muttered against Yondu's shoulder.

Yondu grunted a bit when peter grabbed him and pulled him in. Affection had never really been his strong suit. He'd been hard on the kid. He'd wanted to make him stronger. He wanted to prepare him for staying alive in a place that wanted to do nothing but chew you up and spit you out. Still, He was reminded of a moment when Peter had been much smaller.

Still troubled by his mother’s death and he'd taken a quiet moment to try and bring some sort of comfort to the boy. After a moment, he returned the embrace, eyes a little glossy though he refused to cry. " You're family boy... We do what we can. "

Peter tried to hide the small sniffle that came after his Father's words. Knowing silently, they were family was one thing but hearing him admit it out loud made him realize just how much his rag-tag family slash team really meant to him...how close he came to losing them all.

He gripped the back of Yondu's jacket tighter, clinging to it like he had all those years ago when this grumpy hard ass had knelt beside his sobbing form and scooped him into a gentle hug. "Y-You will always be my dad." He whispered back firmly. Because Yondu had been right. Ego had been his Father but he was never his dad. And that was what made Yondu his family. Not that freak of a god.

He'd been sure that his chance at redemption had been given up as he'd gone numb and his vision had fled. That was changed now. He had all the chances he could hope for to make right the wrongs he'd done. The Ravagers were done with him. But that didn't mean he was going to just run off. He still had a ship. And the little team of misfits seemed good enough to him. " You've always been my Boy. Don't need no big shot asshole tellin’ yeh what matters. You follow your heart Peter. It'll point yah right. "

The younger chuckled softly as he pulled away enough to rub at his eyes. He'd blame this ship for being to damn dusty or whatever. He nodded though, giving a faint smile at words of wisdom. Youndu could be a prick sometimes but he always spoke with his heart when it came to his boy. "Yeah...I will. I promise. The only asshole I want around here? Is you." The younger confirmed with a smirk. He sighed some, looking back over his shoulder to the control room where he was sure all their friends were waiting for them. He stood, offering his hand to his Father with a reassuring wink. "C'mon you old fart. M'pretty sure Krag and Rocket will be happy to see you're alright. Haven't seen Rocket get along with someone so easily. He really likes you."

The smile that flashed across his face was brief, mostly because it made his skin feel too tight and it hurt still. Even so he grunted out, " That rat of yours might argue that..." Rocket, at least that's what he thought his name was, could be a right dick. Yondu was a hard ass yeah, but Rocket just seemed spiteful sometimes. Course, he wouldn't have blamed him.

Taking the offered hand, he heaved himself upright, incredibly stiff and achy but otherwise okay enough to walk.

"Raccoon." Peter corrected with a roll of his eyes. "He's like that with people he cares about. Trust me it's just a safety mechanism. Here I thought you of all people would get that." The younger jabbed, keeping an arm close around his adopted fathers side just in case he needed the help. Being the stubborn ass he was, Yondu would rather keel over than ask for help. He grabbed the elder by the arm some, hoping to grab his attention. "And hey...about what I said earlier. I mean it. Thank you...for everything."

Yondu was obviously being a jerk calling him a rat. He'd called the tree a twig. Whatever that thing was. Still. It was his way of showing affection. When he felt Peter grab at his arm he stopped, turning his head to look at him. " I've protected you as best I could all this time. I wasn't about to let him take you away from me after all of it. Not a chance in hell." He patted Quill on the back and shuffled forwards a bit.

That made his cheeks feel warmer than they should. He smiled fondly, his gaze warm and proud to have just a cool dad. Heh...he was lucky. ".... Thanks dad." Peter murmured quietly with a shy smile. With that he walked forwards too, a hand clapping his adoptive Father on the back gently.

Yeah...this family was alright. It was great.

#adeadlyspider #yondu udonta #peter quill #yondu #starlord #fanfic #gotg 2 spoilers #gotgvol2 #gotg #guardians of the galaxy #guardians of the galaxy volume 2

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