#sigh... future my good friend my wholesome pal

[sodistinctlyhuman]

quick n mild touch up on my FUTURE design :)

[hurricanerin]

Poise & Rationality Ch. 1: Chime

A profuse thank you to @hysteria87​ for being a solid pal and beta and making me a bomb graphic.  And shoutout to @liquor-belle​ for unintentionally signing on as my crisis management team and beta as well.  Annnnd to both of them for handling my 7 week long neurosis featuring this story.  Both of them are hardcore talented, please check them out.

Hi Dark!Steve Fandom!  Thanks for your patience!

Pairing: HYDRA!Steve x OFC

Rating: Explicit.  Always, always explicit.

Warnings: Rape/noncon/dubcon, smut, forced pregnancy, emotional manipulation, power imbalance.

Length: 5.5k.

Summary: Shield has fallen, leaving Eden at the feet of the villainous Steve Rogers, Hydra's newest recruit.  She walks on eggshells, trying to survive in a new reality where she’s at the mercy of her closest friend, one where she can keep her heart locked away from this mess.  The problem is that the ex-Captain’s flirting and gentle teasing has turned carnal and new intentions clear: she is his and he’s going to have her.

P&R Masterlist

Add yourself to my taglist.

It felt like a bad dream, really; the defunct Avengers held captive at the overtaken compound while the newly triumphant Hydra made themselves comfortable.  Shock collars, laced with gamma radiation and programmed to trigger in the event of excessive exertion, kept the fallen heroes docile as their minds rotted with hate and failure.  It would have been a kindness to use Loki’s scepter to cheat them into blissful unawareness as they knelt to their enemies.  

The newest of whom was Steve Rogers.

Captain America was dead.  The infamous shield rested amongst Hydra’s other freshly acquired treasures, his star spangled suit torn to shreds, and the righteous hero’s wholesome affect demolished beyond recognition.  In his place stood a hardened, jaded man, lied to and taken advantage of ten times too many by the entity he had believed in with every ounce of his being.  But, when government property and intelligence were held at a higher value than humanity again and again, when Shield repeatedly chose to prioritize the safety and preservation of weapons over the lives of civilians, Steve had finally walked away from everything: the scene, the victims’ bodies, Shield itself. Three days later, Hydra attacked the compound in upstate New York, led by the rogue First Avenger. All Avengers were taken alive and divided amongst the Hydra elite.  

Some higher ups chose more practical uses for their new playthings.  Hydra monitored Tony, even more volatile due to Pepper’s disappearance, with a team of twenty while they forced him to improve Hydra weapons tech.  Bruce, clad in a collar unique to his makeup and under the watchful eye of fifty of Hydra’s finest, was stuck in the lab conducting heinous experiments on future super soldiers.  Natasha, Clint and Thor also served in sectors reflective of their own talents.  Steve stuffed down the guilt twisting in his stomach and instead focused on the satisfaction of knowing that Shield’s puppets were neutralized.

The Captain’s personal vendettas didn’t end with the five originals; he spread his bitter anger throughout the extended squad of heroes. Save for a smattering of team members he recruited, the Avengers as a whole suffered.  He made certain that Eden, a recruit with only two years on the Avengers crew, endured a fate just as miserable as the rest.  She was his protegee and had been attached to his side since her first day on the team.  She deserved to be punished like the others, forced to watch the world they had worked so hard to protect fall to shambles.  

Eden had had Steve wrapped so tightly around her little finger by the time he left for Hydra that when she refused to change sides, she had …wounded him.  Badly. She deserved retribution, but Steve didn’t have time for petty discipline and the thought of anyone but himself marking or marring her skin made him see red.  If someone were to physically punish Eden, it would be his fingers pressing bruises into her arms, his teeth leaving angry red imprints on her neck, his lips pulling purple marks to the surface of her chest.  

No. The situation didn’t call for that. Not yet.  For now, he was content humiliating her; keeping her close to his side, as she had been since her first day at the compound.  Eden now served as his imprisoned assistant and glorified scullery maid.  A combat-trained scullery maid capable of absorbing and neutralizing the energy of a nuclear bomb, but a maid nonetheless.  Most importantly, she was his.  

 Of all the people in the world to be assigned, Steve Rogers was the last who required cleaning up after.  Even as Hydra’s Captain, he kept his rooms immaculate.  In doing so, he unintentionally maintained that air of humility that had made him Captain America, which infuriated Eden.  He would be so much easier to hate if he weren’t still Steve.

Smoothing the surface of the flat sheet over his mattress, she exhaled softly.  Like the disciplined soldier he was, Steve made his bed every morning, but he liked new sheets every other day.  Changing his linens provided a brief reprieve from the boredom of being confined to his apartment all day, for which she was grateful.  Humming absently to herself, she spread the slate-colored comforter over his bed.  She honestly wasn’t sure which she preferred: solitude; time wasted alone in his giant space where she was plagued by listlessness, or suffering his company, in which she was tortured by watching the man she revered so ardently betray his own credo.  

When a series of beeps and chirps sounded from the other room, followed by the thunk of reversing deadbolts, Eden’s heart pounded and she haphazardly dragged the bedspread over the mattress and tossed the remaining pillows onto the bed. Rushing from his bedroom, she didn’t bother with the lights as she hustled into the living room.  Steve discovering her in his room rarely ended well. He would stare at her, pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates as he made no effort to conceal the erection growing in his trousers.  He’d toy with her until the tension in the room grew unbearable, and then she’d break and find an excuse to flee.  Though they hadn’t acted on their mutual attraction prior to his betrayal, the power dynamic between them was vastly different now.  She wasn’t sure she was allowed to refuse his advances anymore, and she didn’t care to put herself in a position to find out.  So far, he had been lenient.

Trotting straight to a cart filled with decanters of alcohol and snatching the scotch, she paid little mind as she nearly missed the tumbler, hastily pouring as the front door released and Steve strode into the room. Wiping her wet hand on the skirt of her dress, Eden silently approached him and held out the crystal glass, neglecting to make eye contact.  Once in his grasp, she fled with as much subtlety as possible, taking refuge beside the antique cart.

A stack of papers muffled the clatter of his heavy P220 as he dropped them to the kitchen table.  Gaze flicking over her, Steve took a long draw, disappointed, as always, at the alcohol’s lack of effect.  Though Eden’s eyes refused to meet his, she did pay attention to the way his scruffy throat bobbed as he swallowed, which earned her a grin.  Her attempts at feigned disinterest were endearing. Actually, at the present moment everything about her was endearing.  Appealing. Fresh from a testosterone-filled debriefing meeting, an aching tension filled him from chest to groin, begging to be released.  However, their tango wasn’t simple.

Licking a drop of liquor from his lip, he nodded in her direction.  “How was your day, Eden?”

Her lip curled before she dropped her gaze to the ground, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face.  The simple act caused a pleasant throb in his lower abdomen.  The more she hated him, the more he wanted her. There had been a magnetism between them before the takeover, before his ultimate betrayal.  Back when he was good. As his altruism had faded while hers remained, as his world had darkened and decayed, Eden had stayed a small beacon of… not light, but comfort.  Someone he returned to at the compound and used to soothe the festering rage and simmering disappointment Shield fostered.

It was Eden who had coaxed him into sharing his doubts regarding Shield’s intentions and she had never judged him for it.  She had listened, challenging him with the occasional question or opinion.   He had never doubted her fidelity, but everything changed during the takeover. The expression on her face when she saw him flanked with Hydra soldiers that day of the attack made his stomach sink. Steve had trained her, made her what she was.  She was his confidante.  He thought Eden’s loyalty would survive something like his transition to Hydra, but he was sorely mistaken.  She had turned on him, just like almost everyone else.  

Eyes flicking over her body, clad in his designated 1940’s tea dress, Steve rested his hip against the leather sectional.  His face hardened as he drained the tumbler and tried again.

“How was your day, Eden?”

Once more, ignored him.

“Respond, Eden.”

Focused on her hands, she picked at the cuticle of her thumb.

Pursing his lips, Steve sighed and reached into his pocket to retrieve a slim remote.  He saw Eden freeze in his peripheral, but she still refused to look up.  With an exasperated exhale, he pressed one of the buttons, frowning as the woman cried out and crumpled to her knees, tugging at the collar around her neck and leaning into the wall for support.

“Damnit,” she panted.

“I don’t like it when you ignore me, Eden.”

“I don’t like it when you betray your family, humiliate and hold us prisoner, but here we are,” she grit.

Steve’s face softened as his gaze focused on something she couldn’t see.

Family.

The Avengers were his family.  Had been his family.  Hydra would never fill that void.  He knew that going in.  For as much as Steve Rogers had changed, that basal, primal need to create a family he could protect and provide for still ate at him.  It was the one thing in the world he wanted.  He had given everything to defend the earth and its inhabitants.  Was he not due what he desired most?  

Eyes focusing, they honed in on the seething woman bracing the wall.  Even incensed and in pain, Eden made his thick cock swell.  Family.  He had entertained the idea featuring her, of course.  It was impossible not to when they spent so much time together.  He had briefly substituted several of the women he worked with, but he always came back to Eden.  She fit all his requirements; wide hips, a hearty body, strong maternal instincts, and more than capable of defending herself.  How her superhuman talents would factor into her offspring had yet to be determined, but he doubted the results would be adverse.

Natasha would kill anything he planted inside her just to spite him.  She was self-destructive.  But Eden… Eden was flawed in a completely different manner, in harmless ways, such as stubbornly insisting she was always right or that her way was best, but he had sway over her.  She was headstrong with a temper, but both were easily tamed.  In training, she yielded beautifully to him.  Sometimes it took him physically besting her to get a point across.  If that carried over to their relationship, then so be it.

He knew Eden may try to escape with his baby because she feared for his or her safety, but that did not concern him.  He would prove to her eventually that once she submitted to him, there was nothing to fear.

With a tired, distracted sigh, Steve collapsed onto the sofa, discarded his glass on the cocktail table and absently rubbed his chin with a thumb.  Frowning, he tugged at the hair on his jaw, feeling the length.  He turned and examined himself critically in the mirror mounted on the wall behind him, running his fingers through the heft of his beard. He could feel the odd stray hair and the undefined neckline bordered on untidy.

“I want this trimmed,” he said without facing Eden.

Biting her cheek to keep from scoffing, she crossed her arms and raised a brow, only to be met with an austere glance in the mirror’s reflection.  Steve nodded in the direction of his bedroom.

“My shaving kit is in the bathroom, bottom left cabinet.  Go get it.”

Releasing an irritated sigh, Eden dropped her arms to her sides.  

“Yes, sir.”  

Her voice was demure but the ire in her eyes gleamed with disdain.  Pushing off the wall, she slipped into his bedroom and to the ensuite.  She knelt and rummaged through the cabinet, retrieving the worn bag.  Steve watched impatiently from a kitchen chair as she dropped her prize unceremoniously on his kitchen counter.  

“What are you waiting for?”

Gritting her teeth, she unzipped the leather pouch, fishing out its contents and laying them on the table: a plastic comb, a few guards, clippers, beat up disposable razor, and a tube of shaving butter.

Eying the pile, the corner of her mouth pulled upwards. Forgetting herself, she couldn’t stop the jibe from tumbling out from between her lips, “The traditional Captain America doesn’t have a straight edge?”

Steve’s body stiffened.  He inhaled sharply, releasing his breath through his nose.  Forcing his corded muscles to relax, he shucked off his long sleeved tactical shirt and held it out for her to take.  “I don’t have time for nostalgia.”

“Seriously?” Eden muttered to herself.

His movements froze and his gaze met hers.  Heat bloomed across her face and chest at the invitation in his eyes to provoke him further.  She held his stare for a moment longer before he called her bluff, and Eden looked away.  Suddenly very busy folding his uniform, she focused on her task until he stretched his arms behind his head.  With a loud, satisfied groan, he extended his hands into the air, then rubbed a palm against the skintight material of the thin, white cotton t-shirt plastered against his chest.

Aware of the nearly irresistible temptation to stare at Steve’s body, Eden set her jaw as she delicately placed his still-warm shirt on the counter.  Planting a hand on her hip, her eyes flicked back and forth between Steve, his beard, and his array of tools.  She motioned at the table.

“This is going to make a mess.  There will be trimmings everywhere.  Let’s do it over the sink.”

“Here is fine.  My maid will sweep everything up later.”

Gritting her teeth, she marched to the table, snatched the clippers and comb in one hand and wrenched his chin upwards with the other.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.  It may not be good,” she warned.

“I didn’t expect you to have done this at all.  Whose beard have you trimmed?”

She hesitated, running the comb down through the scruff on his cheeks to wrangle unkempt hairs, then turned on the clippers.  If his arched eyebrow wasn’t enough indication, Steve clearing his throat made his desire for a prompt answer abundantly clear.

“An ex owned a barbershop,” she said over the noise.  “I wanted to know what he did all day, so he taught me.”

At the mention of her being with another man, Steve visibly bristled.  

“I see.”

Using her fingertips to angle Steve’s jaw as needed, Eden couldn’t fight the blush staining her cheeks.  His eyes followed her everywhere as she guided the guarded clippers down in the direction of the hair growth on his cheeks.  His pensive gaze was overwhelming, and given the amusement in his eyes, he knew very well the effect he had on her.  She opted to ignore him.  

Confident that she had trimmed enough without taking away too much bulk, she flipped the switch off to change the guard.  She needed one that would leave more length for his neck and chin.  

Steve cleared his throat, breaking her concentration.

“Do you want kids, Eden?”

She froze, almost dropping the plastic piece in her hand. A deeply personal question from Captain America wouldn’t have warranted a second thought.  But, since the takeover and her accused betrayal, Steve had been cold, withdrawing from her completely.  Her heart ached at the naïve hope bubbling up in her chest that the inquiry was meant as an opportunity to connect.  That man didn’t exist anymore.  Giving herself a mental shake, she cleared her throat and frowned in thought.

“Um, well—I guess—I—”

“It’s not a difficult question.”

Shooting him a nasty glare, she snapped the guard onto the clippers and flicked the power switch.  With a huff, she positioned herself in front of him, yanking his chin upwards and running the clipper comb through his beard.

Eden pursed her lips.  “I don’t think I’d be a good mom,” she admitted.  “My career is so much more violent than I expected, I don’t think a child should grow u—”

“You’ll be a good mom,” Steve interrupted.

The conviction in his voice caused her to falter.  With an uncomfortable laugh, she shook her head.

“I don’t know anything.  While my friends had babies, I spent my early twenties learning how to control myself around sources of energy so I didn’t accidentally blow up a city. I learned to fight and devise exit strategies and collaborate with a team.  If I have been around them, the children I’ve seen have been victims of awful circumstances.  I wouldn’t know what to say to a kid I haven’t rescued.”

Steve was contemplative as she removed the plastic guard. Her thoughtful reflection only made him desire her more.  The urge to claim her, before another Hydra member did, before an opposing force banded together and stole her away, clouded his vision.  There was only one solution: He’d plant his baby in her belly now and tie her to him forever. Eden would never allow her child to be taken from her and if she ran from him with the baby, he would find her. No matter where she went, he would find her.  She would be his by right.  They would be his by right. Mother and child tethered to father forever.  His indestructible family.  Untouchable, with two gifted parents that would do anything to protect their children.

Steve shifted uncomfortably in the chair, tugging at his tactical pants as his erection grew at the thought of her swollen with their baby. For their first child, her movement would be restricted to the compound.  She couldn’t be trusted, not yet.  But by their second, he’ll have trained her by holding their firstborn over her as leverage to obey him.

Oblivious, Eden used the bare clipper to clean up his untidy neckline, neaten his scruffy cheeks, and trim around his lips.  When she brushed away clippings littering his mouth with her fingers, he fought the urge to take them between his lips.

Eden started to hum, and it was clear her mind was deviating from their future.

“I’ve seen you with them,” he noted.  “If you can handle traumatized kids during missions, you can handle your own.  Practiced or not, you have maternal instinct.”

Eden’s ears glowed as she finished his sideburns.  Whether Steve allied himself with Hydra or Shield, she knew he wanted a family.  His approval of her ability as a mother was significant, she just couldn’t figure out where he was going with it.  Opting to ignore his comment, she gingerly placed the clippers on the kitchen counter, as if doing so with little noise would allow her to slip away unnoticed.

“All done,” she said softly, casually brushing beard hairs off her dress as she backed away.

Eden yelped when he snatched her wrist.  It took everything in her not to react instinctually, the way Captain America had relentlessly trained her body to respond when attacked.

“You’re not finished,” he said tersely, lifting his chin and rubbing the pads of his fingers along the short, prickly hair at his Adam’s apple.  “There is still stubble.”

“I’m not using that rusty razor, I’ll give you tetanus,” she nodded at the disposable in his bag.  Though Steve was correct, using a straight edge or razor would give an even closer shave than the clippers, she was not going to be responsible for infecting Hydra’s newest member.

Steve noiselessly raised his pant leg and slipped a black combat blade from a hidden ankle sheath, then handed it to Eden handle-first. Not a straightedge, but just as sharp.

“I just cleaned it,” he nodded at the weapon.  “Don’t get it dirty.”

Don’t make him bleed.  It was the most impassive threat she’d ever heard, but as deadly as if he’d held the blade to her own throat.

Eden fingered the knife handle, watching Steve’s face uneasily. How could he careen from thoughtful parent to menacing so effortlessly?  Was this a challenge?  Did he want her to attack him?  He had trained her; Eden’s uncanny talent for disarming enemies in place of killing them had always made Steve proud.  He knew her every tell and every strategy in her repertoire.  Besides, he’d never actually kill her; he found too much satisfaction in toying with her.  He’d hurt her though.  He had the self-control to dominate her physically without causing her bodily harm.  The toll it would take on her heart was another story.  Whatever he was planning, she wanted no part of it.

She held the knife back out to him, shaking her head.  “It’s too hard to get the right angle.  I’ll cut you.  Do it yourself.”

Steve’s mouth twitched.  He patted his thigh.  “Sit. You can do it from here.”  He leaned back, arms spread along the back of the chair, lap open.  The epitome of inviting.

Eden’s face warmed as she set her jaw.  Hesitating, her eyes flashed before she abandoned the knife on the counter and stalked further back into the kitchen.  Immediately Steve reached for the remote, his thumb on the button to activate her collar.  About to press down for blatantly disobeying him, he stopped when all she did was snatch a hanging towel and meander to the sink to fill a bowl with hot water.

When she turned to face him her eyes widened, brows furrowing into an expression of saddened anger as she saw the device in his hand.

“Can I keep going?  Or should I put these down so you can zap me?”

Though he only felt a tinge of guilt, it was more emotion than he could afford.  Hardening his expression, Steve dropped the remote on the table and raised his hands in the air.  

“My mistake.”

Again, he had to display that wretched humility that had made him Captain America.  Why hadn’t Hydra purged him of it?  Why couldn’t he just be bad?  Breath stuttering as she exhaled, Eden stowed her items on the counter next to Steve’s shoulder, swapping them for the weapon.

Flipping the knife in her hand, she squeezed her fingers around the handle, inhaled and gingerly padded forward.  Her breath caught as Steve’s iron grip cupped her ribcage and hip, lifting her to perch sideways on his thighs.  She caught herself, one hand grasping at the thin white t-shirt he wore, the other plastered flat against his pectoral, the knife sandwiched between her palm and the solid wall of muscle.

Her fingers tensed when his chest rumbled beneath them with a laugh, goosebumps rising on her arms as his nose found its way against the hypersensitive skin of her neck.  Steve made no effort to mask his groan as he inhaled the familiar fragrance of her jasmine shampoo, mingled with the scent that was intrinsically Eden.  When she stiffened in his arms, he guided a warm palm up the expanse of her back, pulling her even closer as he used a knuckle to brush her hair from her face.  

“Things have always been easy between us,” he mused. “It feels good to be this close, doesn’t it?  

Swallowing hard, she kept her eyes lowered, focused on his chest.  

“Of course,” she shrugged.  “This is normal.  It’s no different than training,” she all but whispered.

Shit.

Between his voice in his ear and his hands on her body, her brain wasn’t functioning.  Eden needed space.  She hadn’t smelled his familiar Old Spice deodorant, that faint note of sweat, or the pure musk of Steve since before the takeover.  Her sole mission had been to convince her brain that the man working for Hydra who looked like Steve wasn’t Steve, at least not her Steve, so she could make it through each day.  If she did that, Eden could maintain emotional distance while interacting with his imposter.  She doubted sleep would ever come easily again, not with him in the next room, but she could at least survive the daylight hours without a complete breakdown.  But now he was touching her, talking to her like nothing had happened and she couldn’t ignore who he really was.  

Steve’s thumb nudged her chin upwards to expose the underside of her jaw.   Eden was caught so off-guard by act that the emotion bubbling in her throat froze and she sobered.  She swallowed hard as she felt him lazily trace the tip of his nose along her jawline, before creeping lower and pressing his lips against the sensitive skin of her throat.  She couldn’t breathe properly, but her head was painfully clear as his scruff burned her delicate flesh and his lips pulled gently against the tender skin of her neck, leaving a purple mark.  

The sound of her breath hitching was deafening, and in case she weren’t positive that it was, feeling his lips morph into a triumphant smile against her throat confirmed it. Steve easily pried Eden’s clenched fist from his shirt and looped her arm around his shoulder.  She was putty in his hands.

Neither of them missed how the position brought them closer yet, pressing her breast firmly against his sculpted chest.  Aside from the minor shiver that racked through her, Eden ignored the sensation of her pebbled nipple rubbing against his solid mass. Steve, however, did not let it go unnoticed.  He released a pleased grunt and nodded at the knife in her hand.

“You have a job to do, Eden.”

She hated when he said her name.  All it took was hearing those two syllables and her lower belly tightened, flooding with heat.  She clenched her teeth with enough pressure that something in her jaw popped.  Taking a deep breath, she regrouped, then studied his face, analyzing the best way to proceed.

Truly, she did her best to maneuver herself with as little friction as possible.  But in reaching to drag the shaving butter, steaming bowl and rag closer, she shifted and her bottom ground against the existing bulge beneath her, eliciting a hiss from Steve.

Eden froze in a mixture of terror, embarrassment, and arousal.  When Steve repositioned himself beneath her, it was her turn to stifle a moan.  She was fairly certain the way he ground his erection against her ass was payback. Unprepared for the retribution, the quiet gasp she uttered echoed in the silent kitchen.   Eden swallowed back a whimper, closed her eyes as she collected herself.  Straightening with mock confidence, she wrung out the steaming washcloth, smeared a dollop of shaving butter on the back of her hand and turned back to Steve with the utmost delicacy.  

His harsh exhale puffed against her cheeks and she disregarded his smoldering gaze, stubbornly setting to work.  It was impossible, however, to ignore the warmth radiating off his body. The contrast in their body temperature beneath her cool palms sent goosebumps rising up her arms as she twisted to face him.  Keeping her face blank, she wet his cheeks, upper neck, and sideburns with the cloth, then worked the butter between her palms and applied it using as little bodily contact as possible.  Unfortunately, she could only limit so much.  Her task required her to run her fingers along his Adam’s apple, cheeks and the neckline of his beard to massage the product into his skin, ensuring there was a lubricating layer of cream between his flesh and the knife.

By all accounts, her hands should have trembled too badly to wield the weapon.  She followed Steve’s gaze to the steady knife as she directed his chin once again with her hand.  The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smirk, but he couldn’t quell the regard in his eyes.  She realized he was proud that she had stayed as composed as she had.  Her lower half throbbed, trained like a dog to respond to pleasing him.  At this point, it was a visceral reaction.

Cold blue irises tracked her every move as she lifted the blade, frowning at it before pausing to study his face.  She had no more reason to dawdle.  It was time to use the knife.  Taking a sharp breath and holding it, she gently pulled the skin of his neck taut and dragged the edge of the knife through the layer of cream, only just scraping the surface of his flesh.  It slid easily against his skin, slicing away the rough stubble until it met the edge of his carefully shaped beard.

Eden looked to him for permission to continue, but he only raised an expectant brow.  Pursing her lips, she said a prayer to whoever was out there, thanking them for the fact that he was letting her work for the moment.  She moved an inch to the left, and repeated the act.  Mechanically she shaved Steve’s neck and jaw, moving towards his chin.  As she reached the center of his neck, she scraped the knife across his skin, and he swallowed.  The unexpected, fluid roll of his Adam’s apple beneath the weapon at an exaggerated degree hit the blade at just the right angle.  The skin split, blood welling at the shallow broken seam.  Steve didn’t so much as flinch, but Eden’s entire body froze, her breath leaving her lungs.  Her brain felt like a fuzzy TV channel.  She couldn’t think.  Only her eyes moved, darting towards Steve’s face as she tried to gauge whether or not she had just signed her own death sentence.

When his only response was to clear his throat impatiently, she shook her head.  Her thoughts were so loud her head was about to burst and her frantic inhalations sounded like those of an overheated dog.

“I can’t do this,” she said breathlessly.  “I can’t.  Please.”

He moved without warning, fortunate that she had the training to keep the knife steady this time.  In a blink, she straddled him full on, her hands once again bracing his shoulders in confusion as he settled her body over his lap chest-to-chest, this time with her core positioned over the bulging hardness in his pants.

“Oh,” she gasped as his erection aligned with the soft cleft of her center, her eyes glazing over.

Steve groaned, his head tipping back and exposing his neck even further.  At some level, Eden registered the dribble of crimson gathered at the site of the miniscule cut, but out of fear for her life, she only watched it gather idly.

After a determined exhale, Steve swiped at it, distractedly glancing at his thumb after he swept the blood away before refocusing his gaze on Eden.  Unfazed, he confidently settled his hands on her hips, squeezing to gain her attention.

           “Now, your angle is better.  Finish the job.”

She started to position herself towards him, then stilled. Even the slightest pressure forward pressed her center against him.  Fighting the urge to whine, she squeezed her eyes shut.  With an uneasy breath, Eden shook herself.  He wasn’t just going to allow her to leave his lap without finishing. Whether she was willing or not, he would make her complete the task.  

Refreshing the used dish cloth in the bowl of water, she used it to dab at his wound and clean the knife of stubble and excess shaving cream. She hesitated for a moment before adjusting the tension of his skin, then launched back into her chore quickly, more concerned with finishing promptly than the risk of inflicting another nick or two.  Her physical position was beyond precarious; the intimacy of touching his face was already overwhelming, but the feeling of his cock exactly where she wanted it when they were separated by mere barriers of fabric and fundamental ideological differences was unbearable.

Eden didn’t want to think anymore.  Retreating into her mind, she went on auto-pilot.  Scraping and wiping, she worked methodically until her assignment was nearly completed.  It wasn’t until then she that realized that once she did finish, she would be left straddling Steve’s lap without an easy way down and no work to occupy her.  Torn between the incentive of not having to endure the intimacy of touching his face and the dread of the unknown, Steve forced her hand when he started rubbing his thumbs back and forth against her thighs, buffered by the cloth of her dress. She stiffened, unable to squirm away in fear of upsetting or further arousing him, but incapable of staying stationary due to the threat of his wandering hands.  

The look of amused satisfaction that came over Steve’s face frightened her.  It also made her slick center throb.  Certain she resembled a panicked deer with wide, leery eyes, she wet her lip, eyes flicking to the weapon in her hand.

“This needs to stop,” she warned.

Silently he dared her to break his gaze as his fingers traced the hem of her dress.  Eden was keyed up on adrenaline, so focused on Steve and his predatory gaze that when his palms confidently made their way under the skirt of her dress and up her warm thighs, her reaction was instant.  Clutching Steve’s knife in her fist, she made a lightning-quick move to hold the weapon to his throat.  The clap of his palm catching her arm sounded before she felt his grip on her.

“Eden,” he sighed.  “I’m disappointed.”

Ch. 2 What a Shame >>

 Tag list: @whatsitgonnabeangelina​ @kakakatey​ @patzammit​ @maynay43​ @readermia​ @the-kinky-friend​ @monarchofallisurvey​ @averyrogers83​ @atthediscowithoutpanic​ @smollest-soybean​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @theofficialwifeeeofpietro​ @rania @suzieqsez  @liquor-belle @sophiria @titty-teetee @mcudarklibrary​

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.

Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)

Intersection: A Three Witches Story

Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.

To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:

“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)

Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.

And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.

But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.

“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)

“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.

“Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.

Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.

Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.

But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.

But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.

So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)

The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).

In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”

Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.

Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)

It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.

Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.

Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.

Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.

Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.

But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)  

But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.

“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”

“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”

“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”

“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Fraser. Jamie.”

He was huge. Like, mega huge. Like, he could probably eat her. He was also ridiculously attractive, which meant that if he did eat her, Claire would ask him to do it again. She most definitely would not mind being inside his mouth.

“So what’s it going to be this evening, Jamie? Tarot? Crystal ball? A pal—”

“My sister says as I should have ye read my palm.”

“Oh! Splendid. Is that your sister back there?”

“Aye, that’s Jenny.” Again, he looked over his shoulder at the woman, her eyes unblinking despite the tidal wave of dust. As if to explain her behavior, he said, “We just moved here from Scotland. Only been in Nayawenne County for a few weeks now.”

“Dear me,” Claire replied, and then cringed. Attractive, mega huge men made her nervous—and sometimes her nerves made her sound like a 50’s housewife. It was a problem, she now realized, she ought to fix. “I mean, like,” she continued, “bloody hell. That’s a long way.”

“Family orders.” He shrugged. “But yer not so close to home yourself. British, by your accent.”

Claire nodded. “I’ve been here for a while now. Packed my bags when I was 20 and moved for…” She floundered for a plausible explanation. “Well. A guy.”

This, like Claire’s palm reading, was not a total lie. She had, indeed, come to America for a man: Ray, one of her classmates, had sought her input on a new enchantment in ‘04. A healing spell—Claire’s specialty —prepared from some rare fungi found in the hills of Appalachia. But Claire had about as many romantic feelings for Ray as she would a toad. Too many all-nighters spent with his warty nose and her (she liked the think) perfectly attractive nose stuck in the same spell book.

She’d stayed, though, after that. Anything—even bumfuck Ohio—was better than going back to England, where every witch wanted to hex her…

But that was a story for another time. 

This story, right here, continued with a ripple of concern across Jamie’s face. Claire regarded him, wary, but glad Gillian wasn’t here to ruin their conversation with Words of the Day, beluga whales, or push-up bras. Jamie was, at the moment, only hers.

“He’s out of the picture now,” she said. “The guy, that is.”

“Sorry to hear that. I’m just out of a break-up myself. One of the reasons I was none so unhappy about leaving Scotland.”

“Oh, well…” She looked down as if expecting two beverages to materialize, waiting to be held aloft. Instead, she grabbed her bottle of eye tonic. Lamely spritzed it into the air. “Here’s to being single then!”

“Aye, to being single,” he said, the mist falling slowly between them. Claire had never heard a proper guffaw before, but the sound that came from Jamie’s mouth was what she’d always imagined a guffaw to be. Warm, kinda strange, totally hot.

“So,” she began, getting back on track. “You said your sister put you up to this? Any specific reason for that?”

“Dinna ken,” Jamie replied, smiling a little beneath his (also) perfectly attractive nose. “I dinna question Jenny when she tells me to do something. She’s into this kind of…” He looked at the crystal ball, the cards, the rather tasteless turban sitting lopsided on Claire’s head. “Weel, whatever you call this.”

“How wonderful,” Claire said, giving Jenny another once-over. Adorable, really, when Mortals got caught up in the craft. One minute they were watching Oprah, swallowing her New Age-y drivel, and the next thing they thought they were gods. Practicing divinations, performing séances in the streets with Glade candles and getting hit by Aramark trucks. (She’d read about it in the paper once.)

“Well, I suppose we should get on with it then. Will you open your hand for me? Palm up, please.”

Jamie laid his hand on the table. It, like the rest of him, was huge.

The last man Claire went out with had also had large hands. He’d taken her to the theater and—there was really no other description for it—had swallowed her with his bulk. Sucked her face, handled her boobs like a hungry squirrel might stockpile acorns. She could still taste his buttery-saltiness on her tongue, the little bit of crunched kernel that had slid from between his teeth to the back of her throat. She’d coughed, choking, and when he’d reached to pat her back, he’d decided to take a handful of her tit instead. Just held onto it, leech-like, while the fugitive kernel slowly killed her. (Luckily, his other hand—the one not squeezing her boob—handed her the Diet Coke, and she survived.)

Jamie wouldn’t do that, she thought. His big and gentle hand would pat her back first, then return, lightly graze her tit as if by accident. It would, quite possibly, be the most artful tit-graze in all of human history.

And sitting here, trying to read Jamie’s palm, Claire realized she wanted his hand, right there, quite badly. To have his thumb teasing her nipple through her shirt, maybe traveling a bit lower. Slipping beneath the elastic waistband of her panties, to her crotch, which Louise at Louise’s would’ve waxed just for the occasion. The noises she would make would disturb the other viewers, but Jamie, with those big and gentle hands, would not muffle them.

“D’ye see anything interesting?” Jamie asked now, and the image of his hand on her tit, while fingering her in the 13th row of the Regal Cinema, vanished. Was promptly replaced by worry.

“Well, it’s funny, really…”

The true answer was: nope, nada. Nothing. Not even a flicker of Jamie wrapped around a toilet bowl, vomiting bad cheeseburger on a Saturday night. Jamie Fraser’s palm was like one of those ancient texts she and Ray had pored over, all bizarre hieroglyphs and nonsensical syntaxes. But while they had managed a crude translation, this was something entirely different. Jamie Fraser’s palm, Claire knew, would never reveal its secrets—no matter how hard she tried.

Which was why Claire swooned a little bit, and why Jamie had to reach over to keep her from toppling to the ground. His hand, though it did not brush against that sacred spot of her breast, did find the small of her back, stayed there a touch too long. Through her fog of shock, Claire thought: There’s some sort of time etiquette for this kind of thing, right? A three-second max before it veers from a purely platonic gesture into something kinda sexual?

“That bad was it?” Jamie said, smirking.

“Sorry,” Claire replied, leaning into him. She lingered over his face but found no indication that he was feeling the same way, or even thinking, Blimey! That just veered from a purely platonic gesture into some thing kind of sexual!

“Fine. I’m fine. Peachy keen as they say!” Claire cleared her throat to keep her voice from cracking. “It’s just—your hand is a bit unusual is all. I’ve not seen anything like it.”

“Is ‘unusual’ a good thing or a bad thing?”

Well, Claire thought, that depended on what exactly was being called “unusual”. Because what she was feeling was really fucking unusual, and what she was feeling was a bone-deep, stomach-fluttering ache. Like Cupid had shot his arrow straight up her ass, punctured all her gory insides and skewered her heart like a shish kebab.

“I dunno, really. I guess it means—”

“I’m special?”

“You could say that.” Was she blushing? She was blushing. “Mr. Fraser…”

“Jamie.”

“Right. Jamie. I’m afraid—God, this is a little embarrassing—I can’t actually read your palm. There’s nothing there.” She slid the fiver across the table, feeling too frazzled to consider spinning one of her lies.  “These things happen from time to time. I’m, uh, probably just tired. But you can have this back. I won’t take your money.”

“‘Nothing,’ ye said? You didn’t see a thing?”

“Afraid so. Nothing to worry about though. It’s not necessarily a bad omen…It’s—it’s hard to explain.”

For a man being given a very sincere and full refund, Jamie’s face was abnormally pale. The color had drained from his cheeks, and his hands—so incapable of leech-like grabs!—began to tremble. Two crooked fingers beat a nervous rhythm into his pant leg, and he quickly got to his feet.

“Keep the money, lass,” he said, “You can pay me back later.” And if he wasn’t in such a rush, Claire would’ve been able to confirm that she had, in fact, heard him say, “I’ll see you soon, Claire.” That her name wasn’t a tacked-on politeness, but something he’d said with the utmost tenderness.

And if Claire had been an upstanding member of the Coven Coalition— a studious practitioner of spells—she would’ve been able to hear Jenny and Jamie’s conversation from 50 feet away. Instead, she was forced to define Jenny’s smug whoop as if it were Gillian’s Word of the Day.

Jenny’s Smug Whoop (n):

1) a victory celebration, i.e. I told ye so, did I no’?!

2) proof of a mutual understanding of Witch Tip #3, i.e. A witch cannot see her own future (yet another palm-reading glitch). If, for example, Claire read a client’s palm, and her reading was filled with blips of blankness, then she had likely stumbled upon a deep intersection. Or, rather: a point in time where her future and the client’s were so intertwined—beyond family, beyond friendship—that Claire could not see the specific event due to her involvement and the aforementioned glitch.

And so there was one reason—one very momentous reason—that Claire could not read Jamie Fraser’s palm. He had a future, no doubt about it, but every second was marked by a certain curly-haired, British witch. (Refer to: a deep, ongoing intersection.) She, Claire Beauchamp—who was not at all an upstanding member of the Coven Coalition but who would certainly enjoy having those big, gentle hands in her underwear for the rest of her days—was Jamie Fraser’s future. You could, if you were of the romantic persuasion, even say they were soul mates.

The discovery of one’s soul mate has adverse effects on one’s respiratory system, and so Claire found it hard to breathe. She scrambled through her purse, found her flask, and took a hearty pull.

“I take it yer off duty, then?” said an unfamiliar voice. “Claire, is it?”

Claire looked up to find Jenny Fraser, that same smug wash of victory tugging at her eyes.

“Aye, but of course it is. I ken that already.” Jenny cleared her throat, expanded her chest like a sermonizing Sally Bain. “You’re Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, born October 20th, 1989 in Oxford, England. Parents, deceased—verra sorry for yer loss, by the way—and an uncle, missing in action. Yer also currently broke, by the looks of it, which is why yer selling wee pebbles covered in shite.”

Claire, utterly speechless, simply said, “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” through a mouthful of gin.

“Christ, to be sure. Sadly, Mr. FDR is a bit worse for wear. Got a proper skelping back there.”

Claire looked around wildly and found Jamie watching them—albeit, still visibly flustered—by the freshly bludgeoned Roosevelt.

“Did the Coalition send you?” she asked, frantic. “Am I in trouble? Because…Look! I’ll stop selling the bird shit rocks, all right? Just please don’t report me.”

Jenny shook her head, laughing.

“Nay, it’s nothing like that. It’s only—weel, it appears you’ve just confirmed something I’ve suspected for some time now. About you and my brother.”

Witch Tip #4: Magical beings—witches, wizards, fairies, vampires, etc. etc.—are everywhere. The old woman throwing Reese’s Pieces at the ducks could very well be a shapeshifter. Your random client at the county fair could have a witch for a sister.

“If you’re referring to how I couldn’t read Jamie’s palm, then yeah, I—”

But Jenny interrupted, happily offered her hand for shake.

“I’d say that settles it,” she said. “If yer going to make a lovesick fool of my brother, then I think we should be friends, aye?”